Initial commit of ebook 78640 filesHEADmain

9 files changed, 8011 insertions, 0 deletions

diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6833f05
--- /dev/null
+++ b/.gitattributes
@@ -0,0 +1,3 @@
+* text=auto
+*.txt text
+*.md text
diff --git a/78640-0.txt b/78640-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d60c419
--- /dev/null
+++ b/78640-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,3038 @@
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78640 ***
+
+
+
+
+                                THE OPAL
+
+
+
+
+  [Illustration: THE OPAL
+  _From a painting by J. H. Gardner-Soper._]
+
+
+
+
+                                THE OPAL
+
+                                 A NOVEL
+
+
+                  [Illustration: Riverside Press logo]
+
+
+                           BOSTON AND NEW YORK
+                          HOUGHTON MIFFLIN AND
+                          COMPANY THE RIVERSIDE
+                          PRESS CAMBRIDGE 1905
+
+
+
+
+
+              COPYRIGHT 1905 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY
+              ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PUBLISHED FEBRUARY 1905
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+    I DRAMATIS PERSONAE              1
+
+   II MERELY PLAYERS                 9
+
+  III A THOUSAND WOMEN IN ONE       40
+
+   IV ONE WOMAN IN A THOUSAND       63
+
+    V A DIRECTOR OF DESTINIES       84
+
+   VI A PUPPET IN TRAGEDY          103
+
+  VII THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW    150
+
+
+
+
+THE OPAL
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+DRAMATIS PERSONAE
+
+
+Mary Elton was a girl whom her friends called unusual, and her friends’
+friends, peculiar. She was young enough to be judged leniently by her
+elders on the ground of her immaturity, and old enough to be looked
+up to by her juniors as a clever woman whose character was past
+the formative period. An undisguised interest in her own character
+frequently laid her open to the charge of egotism, but she had never
+been accused of conceit. A sort of fundamental frankness, combined with
+a remarkably clear vision, was the basis of her nature. Seeing things
+without disguise made it possible to speak of things without reserve,
+and neither timidity nor politeness ever tempted her to call black
+white, or even gray, and a spade was given no less definite a name when
+she found it necessary to refer to that symbol of the unmentionable.
+
+Men discovered in Mary Elton certain masculine characteristics of mind
+and heart, an almost grim sense of humor and a readiness to see the
+man’s point of view, which, paradoxically enough, made her the more
+feminine, there being no quality regarded as so essentially womanly as
+intelligent sympathy for the superior male, and understanding of his
+complexities.
+
+But, as Mary acknowledged with equal openness to herself and to her
+friends, no man had ever been in love with her. Many had given her
+their warmest friendship, and had confided their affairs of the
+heart to her as to one of their own sex, but no one had ever faintly
+intimated that marriage could concern her in any more personal way
+than as a subject of abstract discussion.
+
+Among her clear-sighted and warm-hearted friendships there was
+none more sincere than that which bound her with mutual chains of
+comprehending sympathy to Philip Morley. There had always been good
+comradeship between them, their temperaments being sufficiently unlike
+to enable them to act and react upon each other to their common
+advantage and stimulus. He confided his small love affairs to Mary,
+and she gave them either the sympathy he craved or the scolding he
+deserved, as circumstances seemed to demand.
+
+To outward view he was tall, with a suggestion of latent power about
+him, which was in singular contrast with the superficial laziness of
+his manner. Mary used to tell him that it was a mere toss-up of chances
+whether he became a leader of men or a follower of women. Certainly
+hints of both tendencies lurked in his handsome features, the strength
+lying in his firm mouth and decided chin, the sentiment and love of
+pleasure looking out from his blue eyes.
+
+One morning, after a lapse of time longer than Philip usually allowed
+to pass without having seen Mary, he found a bulky envelope on his
+office desk, addressed in so boldly and blatantly masculine a hand that
+it instantly proclaimed the writer to be a woman. He glanced at the
+pile of letters it surmounted, with the constitutional indifference
+that extended even to his morning mail; then a slow smile brightened
+his features into an expression of half-amused pleasure.
+
+“Mary’s screeds generally deserve to be read first,” he said to
+himself. “She always insists that the length of her letters is in
+inverse ratio to their importance, by which token this must be a trifle
+of exceptional airiness.”
+
+With a slit of his finger he liberated two closely written sheets of
+letter-paper and read as follows:--
+
+  MY DEAR PHILIP,--I am sending cards to the rabble (and notes to the
+  elect) to bid them come here “very informally”--whatever that may
+  mean--next Wednesday afternoon, November twenty-seventh, to meet
+  Miss Edith Dudley. I am perfectly aware that every one hates teas,
+  and I know that nothing less than a personal appeal eight pages
+  long would bring you to one, but I do want you to come and see this
+  holiday novelty that I am exhibiting for the first time in Boston.
+  “Who under the sun is Miss Dudley?” I hear you inquire, “and why
+  did I never hear of her before?” Because, I reply sententiously,
+  like all Bostonians, your knowledge of men and women is limited to
+  State Street and the Back Bay; and this lovely creature, who is
+  a sort of step-cousin-in-law of mine, happens to be known only in
+  Europe and the southern and western portions of this continent.
+  Listen, my children, and you shall hear why she is what she is.
+  Don’t fancy that you are beginning a Balzac novel if I go into
+  her ancestry sufficiently to tell you that her mother was French,
+  her father Kentuckian, her education as cosmopolitan as her
+  inheritances, and her beauty as bewilderingly elusive as that of
+  the opal or the rainbow. Her mother died several years ago, and by
+  some strange inconsistency of temperament her hot Southern father
+  must needs marry the cold Northern cousin of my uncle. (Doesn’t
+  that sound Ollendorfian?) The alliance instantly froze him to
+  death; so this lovely wonderful daughter was left to the mercy and
+  justice of her stepmother. They went abroad together and stayed
+  two years, and now Edith has come to pay me a long visit on the
+  feeble strength of my relationship to the second Mrs. Dudley. She
+  will be in Boston most of the winter, first with me, and then
+  with the Warners. You are the only person to whom I have given a
+  word of preparation as to what to expect; but you may pass on the
+  information to those whom it may concern. As usual, my note has
+  grown into a foreign letter, the gist of which may be summed up in
+  the refrain, Come early and avoid the rush! November 27th. One day
+  only!! Beauty and the Beast!!!
+
+    Always faithfully your friend,
+    MARY ELTON (the Beast).
+
+“How exactly like Mary!” the young man exclaimed out loud. “Her voice
+gets into her letters in the most extraordinary way, and makes her pen
+talk instead of writing. Of course I shall have to go and meet this
+siren who has bewitched the most clear-sighted of her sex;” and he
+jotted down in his note-book the date of one of the few “teas” he was
+not glad to forget.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+MERELY PLAYERS
+
+
+Philip Morley ascended the steps of Mr. Elton’s house on the afternoon
+of the “very informal” reception, at the psychological moment between
+the hours of four and six, when the first reluctant black-coated
+figures began to give character to the steadily flowing stream of
+gayly dressed women. Having succeeded in fighting his way to the door
+of the drawing-room, the young man paused a moment to nerve himself
+for the plunge into a noise and heat that seemed almost tangible. The
+sharp, shrill voices of women buzzed in his ears like the trills of
+persecuting insects, and high mirthless laughs cut his nerves like
+little steel blades.
+
+“This is not civilization, it is barbarism!” Philip exclaimed to
+another timid male explorer into the wilderness of women. “Talk about
+giving the franchise to any class of human beings who take pleasure in
+assemblies of this sort! It’s preposterous! Women may be very charming
+individually, but collectively--O Lord!”
+
+He looked helplessly into the room to try and locate his hostess, who
+would be sure to straighten him out into his customary ease of body and
+mind with a grasp of her friendly hand.
+
+“Why are the men so thick in that corner?” he continued querulously.
+“Oh, I see.”
+
+The crowd had thinned a little at the entrance to the room, and between
+eager faces and nodding heads, Philip Morley caught sight of a girl
+standing beside Mary Elton. Her beauty, her extraordinary quality,
+defied description or comparison. To say that she was tall, graceful,
+dignified,--radiant in coloring and expression,--would have been
+to describe half a dozen other good-looking women in the room. She
+positively seemed to radiate light, and to give a dazzling impression
+of eternal youth and of the beauty that is in living, moving things;
+not the cold perfection of a statue, or any work of art, but the
+vitality of the work of nature,--the sparkle of running water, the
+changing wonder of a landscape played upon by sun and cloud and breeze.
+Her very dress seemed part of her, and to a man’s ignorant eyes gave
+a bewildering impression of misty gray, toning into a delicate pink
+that in turn melted into the color of pale heliotropes, as it caught
+different rays of light. Her own soft yet vivid coloring was opalescent
+like her dress, for her hair was of the warm brown that grows golden in
+the light, her eyes were so clear that they seemed to reflect blue,
+green, and gray shadows, and the delicate color in her cheek came and
+went as she talked. Nor was her wonderful beauty that of line and color
+only, for intelligence, sympathy, and humor shone from her speaking
+face. Assuredly Mary Elton’s guest was possessed of the kind of beauty
+one reads of in old-fashioned romantic novels, but with an added touch
+of indefinable modernity and subtle mystery. In contrast, Mary Elton
+looked plainer than usual,--which was saying much. She was so far from
+good-looking that no one but herself ever commented on it. Plainness
+of feature was simply one of her attributes, like height in a tower or
+strength in a fortress, and invited no comment.
+
+She caught sight of Philip standing by the door, and made a humorous
+face at him, signifying her own aversion to the hubbub around. Then she
+beckoned to him, pointed encouragingly at Edith Dudley, as to a goal
+that was worth much pushing and elbowing to attain. When he was within
+arm’s length, she held out her hand.
+
+“Quick, what do you think of her? Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she
+wonderful? Shouldn’t you think I was the last person in the world to
+get hold of such a drawing card? Aren’t we splendid foils for each
+other? Oughtn’t she to pay me to travel about with her? Why don’t you
+say what you think of her? You’re always so slow, Philip!”
+
+“On the contrary, it’s you who are fast,” he replied laughing. “I am by
+no means slow to admire Miss Dudley. She is certainly stunning, but I
+am not sure that I want to meet any one so lovely. She can’t fail to be
+a disappointment with such a face as a handicap to her brain.”
+
+“You just wait. She’s wonderful,” Mary exclaimed triumphantly. “Stop,
+look, and listen, as the railroad warnings say. Don’t meet her for a
+little while, but just stand on the outskirts, and watch her tact and
+grace and cleverness. Oh, she’s wonderful!” Mary repeated. Here Mary’s
+uncle came up to give to Philip the official greetings of a semi-host.
+
+Mr. Elton was a fair type of the average business man. His mental
+horizon seemed bounded by the wool in which he dealt, but he was kindly
+in disposition, and truly attached to the niece who had lived with
+him since she was left an orphan at twelve years of age. There was no
+intimacy between them,--perhaps the difference in their temperaments
+had helped to encourage the girl’s introspection, and forced her
+to find her best companionship in herself,--but there was genuine
+affection, even although Mr. Elton might be said to have cared for his
+niece with all his conscience, rather than with all his heart.
+
+“Our young friend seems to be meeting with a fair measure of success,”
+he stated, with the precision that characterized all his trite
+utterances. “It is not often that one finds so good an intelligence
+combined with so beautiful a face. I was really surprised at the
+knowledge she showed of the way in which a big business,--like that of
+wool, for instance,--is conducted. She seems to be well informed on
+many subjects, without being superficial; a rare quality nowadays.”
+
+Mary rescued Philip from the wearisome task of feigning an interest in
+her uncle’s dry and woolly comments, by sending Mr. Elton off to do
+the polite to a lady whose deaf smile was the index to her infirmity.
+“There, Uncle Charles, do go and scream at poor Miss Green. She won’t
+hear a word you say, but she is touchingly grateful if one merely
+recites the alphabet to her. Why _will_ deaf people come to afternoon
+teas, and why does every one who isn’t deaf assume that every one
+else is? I never heard such a cackling. The parlor is turned into a
+barn-yard. Oh, how do you do, Miss Milton?”
+
+Mary turned suddenly to greet a new arrival, who bore the hall-mark of
+a charitable spinster, from the neat little white path that divided an
+expanse of smoothly plastered hair, to the broad soles of her sensible
+shoes. She was the scion of a family which had many branches and was
+less conspicuous for its manners than its customs.
+
+She proved her birthright by staring across her hostess at Miss
+Dudley for a moment before answering Mary’s greeting, and then saying
+abruptly, “What an extraordinary-looking young woman to be a friend of
+yours! Who is she? Has she relations in Boston?”
+
+“Nothing nearer than myself. But she’s all right, Miss Milton. I
+shouldn’t have asked you to meet her if she hadn’t been,” Mary suavely
+declared, with an intentional humor that missed fire. “You’ll find she
+isn’t as frivolous as you think. She has an extraordinary insight,
+and will probably divine by intuition that you are more interested
+in the poor than the prosperous, and she will unquestionably give
+you the latest wrinkle in philanthropy. You just see. Come,” Mary
+continued, dragging her elderly victim after her by one end of her
+dateless mantilla. “Edith, I want you to meet Miss Eliza Milton. This,
+Miss Milton, is my friend--and cousin by courtesy--Miss Dudley. Be
+acquainted, as they say in the country.”
+
+Philip saw the girl turn from the young men surrounding her, and
+speak to the unfashionable aristocrat in a low rich tone that fell
+soothingly on the ear among the sharp staccato waves of sound that
+filled the room. The sympathy and kindly human interest that beamed
+from the girl’s face could not be the result of training alone. Even
+her double-distilled inheritance of Southern courtesy and French
+grace could not explain a responsiveness that had no touch of the
+professional veneer that glazes eyes and lips into a perfunctory
+assumption of interest. Miss Milton had not been talking to the girl
+two minutes before the conversation had veered from the general to
+the particular, and Edith Dudley was giving the charitable spinster a
+little account of an experience she had had among the poor in a New
+York college settlement.
+
+“I am very much interested in sociology,” Philip was astounded to hear
+the young girl glibly declare, “and I’ve been fortunate enough to have
+seen a little of the practical workings of various schemes for the
+regeneration of mankind.”
+
+Miss Milton drew herself up with pride at representing the One
+Perfectly Organized Body of Workers on Earth.
+
+“It is easy to dispose of a large subject with superficial
+catch-words,” she proclaimed.
+
+“Yes, isn’t it?” Miss Dudley agreed sympathetically. “Some personal
+experience, some knowledge from the inside, is necessary. I have had a
+little,--less than I should like,--but I should be so grateful to you,
+Miss Milton, if you would put me in the way of taking some small part
+in the special form of philanthropy in which you are interested. Of
+course I have already read and heard a good deal about the Associated
+Charities here in Boston.”
+
+“Naturally,” Miss Milton interposed.
+
+“I am immensely impressed by its aims and accomplishments,” Miss
+Dudley continued. “I wonder if I couldn’t do a little visiting for you
+while I am in Boston.”
+
+“We are always glad of intelligent assistance,” the Philanthropist
+guardedly admitted.
+
+“I don’t know about the intelligence,” the girl said smilingly, “but I
+speak Italian fairly well. I believe you always need some additional
+visitors in the Italian quarter, don’t you? I should be so glad if you
+would let me practice my Italian on some transplanted organ-grinders
+and fruit-venders.”
+
+Miss Milton acquiesced, with a slightly distrustful manner, in a
+suggestion that seemed to her as surprising as if a butterfly had
+suddenly offered to lead the strenuous life of a bee. Her frankly
+expressed astonishment was broken in upon by the introduction of a
+clerical young man, whose studiedly sympathetic smile seemed to preach
+the duty of cheerfulness to a quite professional extent, and whose air
+of worldly ease was the logical sequence to his ministerial waistcoat.
+
+“Ah, this does make me feel at home!” Miss Dudley exclaimed, with a
+cordial grasp of the ineffective white hand extended to meet hers.
+“I never expected to see anything so anomalous as a clergyman of the
+Church of England in Mary Elton’s drawing-room. I haven’t dared to
+breathe my sympathy for anything so conservative as--as you, in this
+hot-bed, no, cold-bed of radicalism.”
+
+“There are a few of us left, Miss Dudley, a few of us left,” he
+replied, with the easy reiteration of the obvious in which his calling
+had perfected him. He grasped an imaginary surplice with two delicate
+fingers. “May I hope that you will persuade Miss Elton to bring you to
+St. Matthew’s next Sunday, and see for yourself that Unitarians and
+Christian Scientists do not yet control all Boston,--not quite all of
+this fair city?” he eloquently preached.
+
+“Of course I’ll come, but my cousin won’t come with me. I feel sure
+that she secretly goes to some hall where Emerson is the Deity
+worshiped, although she pretends not to go anywhere. She is much too
+unconventional to attend any church that preaches legitimate doctrine,
+but I’ll come alone.”
+
+The little clergyman beamed unctuously, and expressed the belief that
+he should draw fresh inspiration from the sight of Miss Dudley in his
+congregation.
+
+“I really long to confess myself a miserable sinner,” the girl went on,
+with the blending of seriousness and lightness that is the ambition and
+admiration of young society clergymen. “These sincere, self-respecting
+Bostonians refuse to ‘cringe to the Almighty,’ as Mary calls it. They
+think on the whole they’re a pretty virtuous set of people, but for my
+own part I never feel so good as when I say I’m bad, so I’m coming to
+confess with the other sinners in your congregation next Sunday.”
+
+The young divine was reluctantly hurried by, his impressionable heart
+stirred by a remembered vision of a serious and spiritual face that had
+contradicted the lightness of the spoken words. By this time, one of
+the former satellites that had revolved about the new planet drifted
+again into the orbit of her smile. His coldly critical and clever face
+was stamped with the lines of fastidious modernity.
+
+“What an anachronism is presented by the sight of a parson at Miss
+Elton’s reception!” he commented, smiling somewhat sneeringly at
+the cordial shoulders of the clergyman that were writhing, with
+ostentatious sympathy, over an old lady’s confessions of rheumatism.
+“I am sure you agree with me, Miss Dudley, that the Church in America
+to-day is merely a picturesque ruin,--the only ruin in this terribly
+new land,--that we value merely for its traditions and associations.
+There is no longer such a thing as living faith. Occasionally we think
+we have found it again, but when we turn the electric light of modern
+science on its poor groping shape, we discover only the ghost of
+something that once lived ages ago.”
+
+Miss Dudley smiled with sad understanding. “You are right, of course.
+But I believe in ghosts, and that’s all right, isn’t it, as long
+as I don’t mistake them for their living counterparts? I know that
+faith is dead,--I mean the real vital faith that made martyrs of
+people,--but I like to play it’s alive. I really care for the forms
+of religion,--for its picturesqueness, its traditions; and therefore
+I prefer the Catholic Church to the Protestant. I like to recall my
+early associations with what my mother taught me, by going to church
+and getting into rather a slushy state of virtuous emotion, but as for
+a real reasoning belief”--
+
+She gave a little shrug,--the national gesture of her mother’s
+race,--and suddenly her eyes were veiled by a mist of sadness. “Don’t
+let’s be serious at an afternoon tea!” she exclaimed. “I should like
+to talk to you about all kinds of things sometime, Mr. Marston. I’m
+sure we should agree about a great many of them. You are cynical
+outside, and I am cynical inside. I have to drug myself with all these
+‘frivolous little anodynes that deaden suffering,’ in order not to lose
+my grip on life.” She signified the pleasure-seekers around her with a
+wave of the large bouquet of sweet peas that seemed part of her.
+
+Philip Morley, still an eye and ear witness to Miss Dudley’s
+variations, gave a curious little grunt of mystification, not untinged
+with contempt, but he drew a little nearer to the enigma, to hear what
+further contradictions she would reveal.
+
+A young Harvard student lounged up to Miss Dudley’s side, with
+overacted ease, and continued a conversation that had evidently been
+interrupted. “Then you will really dance the cotillon with me next
+Thursday night? You won’t forget?” he asked, impaling her eyes with a
+gaze of boyish admiration.
+
+“Forget?” she laughed, clasping her hands with mock intensity. “I am
+not likely to forget what I enjoy more than anything in the world,
+dancing with a good partner,--for I know you dance well; I saw you last
+night.”
+
+“What flowers do you care for? What color are you going to wear?” he
+asked with the blasé manner of an experienced society man.
+
+“Oh, I care for all flowers; I shall wear all colors,” she cried
+lightly; but then added, “you will please me best, Mr. Warren, by not
+sending me any flowers at all. It is one of my very few principles, not
+to let college men send me flowers. There are so many things they must
+want to get that will last so much longer. Please don’t send me any; I
+really mean it. Come and take me to walk some afternoon instead. Show
+me Bunker Hill Monument, and teach me some local history.”
+
+Her frank kindliness, just tinged with coquetry, was what the boy most
+wanted. “If you won’t let me give you flowers, you might give me one,”
+he said, stretching out his hand toward the variegated sweet peas that
+lay in the bend of her arm. She gave him a blossom, with a pretty
+little foreign gesture. “There. Now we won’t either of us forget our
+engagement for next Thursday,” she said in her softly Southern speech,
+and then turned with a radiant smile to bid good-by to a gray-haired
+lady, whose hand she held in both hers. “It has been worth my coming to
+Boston to hear what you have told me of my mother,” she said gently,
+her eyes softening with impulsive tears. “Each person who knew her
+contributes something to my own memory of her. It is like a mosaic,--my
+thought of her,--all made up of little stones of memory pieced together
+by different hands. _Wasn’t_ she beautiful, Mrs. Warner? Wasn’t she
+like a creature of another species beside the rest of the world?”
+
+“She was, indeed, my dear, and you are like her,” the lady replied
+gently.
+
+“It is so good of you to have asked me to stay with you, before seeing
+me,” the girl went on, “and still kinder now that you have seen me. I
+shall love to come when Mary is tired of me.”
+
+“That means I must wait a long time,” Mrs. Warner said, as she pressed
+her hand for farewell.
+
+“Will you please take these flowers?” the girl cried impulsively.
+“Sweet peas were Mamma’s favorite flowers. They will thank you better
+than I can,” and with the grace of perfect unconsciousness, she put the
+big bunch of fragrant blossoms into the old lady’s hands.
+
+Philip Morley turned to Mary Elton, who was vigorously denouncing
+afternoon teas to an amused clump of her guests. “Will you introduce me
+to Miss Dudley?” he asked rather formally. “You know I haven’t met her
+yet.”
+
+“You’re no better than an eavesdropper!” she declared. Then, “You are
+sure you want to meet her?” she asked earnestly, looking at him with
+the boyish straightforwardness that some men found disconcerting.
+
+“Naturally. What am I here for except to meet Miss Dudley from four to
+six?” he expostulated. “From the droppings that have fallen off the
+eaves into my ears I gather that Miss Dudley is all things not only
+to all men, but to all women, boys, and clergymen as well. I don’t
+wonder she enslaves every one, with her combination of extraordinary
+beauty and flattering sympathy with the point of view of the person she
+happens to be talking to.”
+
+“But it isn’t that she’s nothing,” Mary insisted, “she’s _everything_.
+She’s not a chameleon that sits on a piece of blue paper and turns to
+indigo,--she’s an opal: she’s blue and red and green and yellow, and
+good and bad and sweet and sarcastic and religious and skeptical and
+frivolous and serious! Come on and be introduced.”
+
+He followed her obediently, but Mary had no time to mention his name,
+for Miss Dudley met his look with one of recognition. As Philip Morley
+came under the direct personal fire of her compelling personality,
+he felt the overwhelming rush of admiring excitement that one feels
+in seeing and hearing the swift flight of a sky-rocket in one’s
+immediate vicinity. The comparison flashed upon him in a moment. She
+was like a wonderful firework. He was constrained to admire, with
+quickened pulses, the upward rush, the downward flight, the shower of
+many-colored stars. Would he later see the stick fall to the earth?
+
+“You are going to be Mr. Morley,--isn’t he, Mary?” the girl said,
+holding out a frankly cordial hand. “You see I have made Mary give
+me biographical sketches of all her particular friends, and her
+descriptions of you have been so vivid that you might just as well
+have your name scrawled over your face.”
+
+“I must plead guilty of being myself,” Philip assented. “It would be
+quite impossible to escape detection when Mary’s vigorous language has
+been employed on one’s behalf. You, also, Miss Dudley, have been duly
+catalogued. Perhaps you do not know that you have been called an opal.”
+
+“Opals crumble away to nothing; they are short-lived and rather
+sensational,” the girl answered. “Mary, there, is like a
+pearl,--staunch and unchangeable.”
+
+“I’m a black pearl, then,” Mary replied grimly. “They are fortunately
+very rare, and so ugly that they are considered beautiful by some.
+I myself would as soon have a boot-button set in a ring as a black
+pearl. If a thing is ugly inherently, its cost cannot make it valuable
+to me.” A note of bitterness was stinging her voice, but she cast it
+out with her customary tone of light banter. “At least I am grateful
+for not being called a moss-agate, Edith. Isn’t it just like me
+to have that for my so-called ‘birthday stone’? Good-by,--there’s
+Miss Grantley. I’d forgotten I’d asked her. She’s anti-all-existing
+conditions. Anti-vivisectionist, anti-vaccinationist, anti-imperialist,
+anti-everything. But of course you’ll cater to all her aspirations
+towards reform, Edith. Miss Dudley is a born caterer,” Mary threw back
+at Philip, as she left them, to resume her irksome duties as hostess.
+
+“I suppose ‘caterer,’ in Mary’s sense, and ‘opal’ mean much the same,
+don’t they?” asked Philip. “It is most refreshing to find anything so
+acquiescent as either name implies.”
+
+“I don’t think I can be like an opal, for it is my favorite stone, and
+my own character is the kind I most detest,” Miss Dudley said simply.
+“Mary Elton is the type of person for whom I have the most genuine
+admiration. She is splendid. Her strength and clear-sightedness and
+absolute sincerity and certainty of conviction are wonderful. If I were
+a man,--the kind of man I’d like to be, not the kind I should be,--I
+should strain every nerve to win that woman, and if I failed, why,
+I’d at least be thankful I hadn’t succeeded in winning any one less
+unusual.”
+
+Miss Dudley spoke with such simple sincerity that Philip Morley’s
+heart warmed to her. “Mary is indeed refreshing, and astonishingly
+satisfactory as a friend,” he heartily agreed. “One misses neither men
+nor women when one is with her. I confess I am too selfish to wish that
+you were a man, for if Mary married I should feel that I had lost my
+best friend.”
+
+For an instant Edith Dudley looked into the young man’s eyes with a
+glance of eager scrutiny, but all she saw there was half-indifferent
+amusement.
+
+“Perhaps I exaggerate Mary’s remarkable qualities,” she said quietly.
+“She is cast for so much better and bigger a part on the world’s stage
+than I, and acts it so much better, that I suppose I think of her
+with something of the same feeling with which a performer in private
+theatricals regards Bernhardt or Duse.”
+
+“I should have fancied you were a better actress than Mary,” Philip
+commented.
+
+“Oh, I am not speaking of consciously adopting a rôle and playing it
+consistently,” Miss Dudley explained. “I was merely speaking--tritely
+enough--of acting in the sense of living. ‘All the world’s a stage,’
+you know, ‘and all the men and women merely players.’” She spoke with
+the slightest touch of scorn for his literalness. “At all events,” she
+went on, “I thank whatever gods there be that I am still capable of
+feeling enthusiasm for people. You are, perhaps, lazily thanking the
+same indefinite deities for never being carried off your feet.”
+
+“Oh, but I am, if a strong enough person comes along,” he declared.
+
+“Is it irrelevant to own myself the weakest of my sex?” the girl asked
+with a challenging smile.
+
+“Not unless it is impertinent in me to hope I may have the opportunity
+of proving you otherwise. I have been listening to you talking to these
+people. You are not weak; you are daring, as only a person well armed
+can be.”
+
+For a second she looked at him beseechingly. “I hope that you will
+sometime understand Mary, and will never understand me,” she said with
+strange seriousness.
+
+“I already do one, and I intend to do the other,” he insisted, with
+his pleasant personal smile. “I am hoping to see you often while you
+are in Boston, Miss Dudley. I am almost like one of the family in this
+house, you know.”
+
+The girl was prevented from answering by the introduction of another
+young collegian by her recent sophomoric conquest.
+
+“Where do you come from, Miss Dudley?” was his correct opening, in the
+tone of a player of twenty questions.
+
+“Oh, I am like George Macdonald’s baby,” she smiled, shaking off her
+serious mood with a dismissing nod to Philip; “I come ‘out of the
+Everywhere into the Here!’”
+
+Philip turned away, his brows knitting with mystification. He was
+curiously interested by the dazzling inconsistencies and overwhelming
+beauty of the strange girl who had spoken to him of Mary Elton with
+an inexplicable emotion. He must see her again, and often. She was a
+riddle worth pondering over.
+
+He stopped in his flight to the door to say good-by to his hostess.
+There was in her eyes a strange look, almost of physical suffering,
+that he had noticed more than once lately, and her expressive ugliness
+seemed more than usually pathetic under its veil of humor.
+
+“Well, what do you think of her?” she said, with strangely vibrating
+intensity.
+
+Her small eyes seemed to swim in unshed tears for a moment, and she bit
+her under lip viciously in self-scorn as she waited for his answer. He
+looked over her head, and for a moment did not reply.
+
+Since speaking to the beautiful Miss Dudley, since her eyes had looked
+into his,--not boldly, not flirtatiously, but with a special intimacy
+and understanding,--Philip had felt almost as though he were under
+a hypnotic influence. Even to Mary he could not reply seriously, as
+to what he thought of her friend, for, if he spoke truthfully, his
+sentiments would sound exaggerated; so he spoke with exaggeration, and
+trusted that his words had the ring of truth.
+
+“My dear Mary,” he said, laughing as he shook her hand, “she is a
+thousand women in one; but you are what is far more satisfactory, one
+woman in a thousand.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+A THOUSAND WOMEN IN ONE
+
+
+Philip Morley’s imagination was not in the habit of being appealed to
+by individuals, so often as his mind and heart. But that he had plenty
+of imagination, waiting for the human touch, was proved by its response
+to all that was beautiful in literature, music, and the other arts.
+Perhaps the fault lay in an absence of the kindred quality in most of
+the people of his intimate acquaintance, for his particular circle
+was Bostonian in the narrowest limitations, as well as the broadest
+boundaries, of that indefinable term, and imagination was not the
+salient quality possessed by the inhabitants of his world.
+
+During his first glimpse of Edith Dudley, she had warmed his
+imagination, and after his second and third interviews she had fairly
+set it on fire. Her beauty changed but never decreased, and her
+sympathetic nature, with its wonderful responsiveness to each mood
+of her companion, was rendered the more fascinating to Philip by an
+inexplicable drawing back of her real self into its shell, when he
+probed for a deeper knowledge.
+
+He had formed the habit of dropping in for a frequent cup of tea at
+the Eltons’, and though Mary at first made a congenial third in the
+conversations with her two friends, she gradually made excuses either
+for coming home late or going upstairs to rest.
+
+Repose had not, until recently, figured on Mary Elton’s daily
+programme, but she had looked ill all through the autumn, and though
+she resented any inquiries, and snubbed all attempts to discover her
+malady, it was evident that physically she was not herself. She begged
+Philip to take her place in showing her guest the sights of Boston,
+and thus it happened that he became the envy of all his friends, by
+his constant attendance at the side of the beautiful girl who not only
+trod with him the conventional paths of the Back Bay, but explored the
+remoter ways of more unfashionable quarters.
+
+There were soon plenty of other men who talked with her and walked with
+her, who danced with her and flirted with her. She began to identify
+herself with the life of the people around her, and to interest herself
+in whatever most absorbed her new friends.
+
+She took an active part in various church clubs and organizations,
+under the guidance of her clerical conquest; she delighted her
+collegiate admirers by going with them to theatres and variety
+shows,--displaying all the unsophisticated enthusiasm of a child,--and
+she converted Miss Milton to a belief in the sincerity of butterflies
+by keeping a weekly appointment with five poor families in the North
+End. But in spite of these side-tracks for her interests and energies,
+it soon became evident to all that Philip Morley had appropriated the
+largest share of her time and thoughts for himself.
+
+Between the girl and Philip, Mary Elton was a frequent and absorbing
+subject of conversation, and whenever she was mentioned, Philip
+received the same impression of repressed feeling in his companion’s
+voice and manner.
+
+“I have never felt about any one as I feel about her,” Edith said
+to him one day. “You can’t understand what I mean. She knows me
+thoroughly, and when one’s character is very weak, and yet one is loved
+by a person of strength,--of one’s own sex,--it somehow gives one hope
+to keep up the fight.”
+
+This interesting stage of unformulated sentiments between Edith Dudley
+and Philip Morley was broken in upon by the unexpected arrival in
+Boston of an old friend of Edith’s from Baltimore,--a man whose manners
+soon made it evident to shrewd observers that he was a rejected lover,
+as well as an accepted friend. His appearance suggested the villain
+in a modern melodrama, and one almost expected to hear gallery hisses
+arise from protesting Philistines when he appeared. He was dark,
+handsome, scrupulously polite, suspiciously unvillainous.
+
+But from the moment Grant Lorimer appeared on the scene, Edith Dudley
+seemed to lose her poise and happy ease of manner. It was as if he
+exerted an influence which she could not resist, yet to which she did
+not wish to yield herself. Mary at once christened him Dr. Fell, for
+obvious reasons, and he seemed to justify the title if not the name,
+for he had seen her only once for a few moments, when he said to Edith,
+“Your friend Miss Elton is a very sick woman. I don’t mean nervous
+prostration and that sort of thing, but something really vital. I’ve
+been in hospitals. I know the signs.” Edith gave a cry of real pain.
+
+“Oh, don’t say so! You don’t know what it would mean to me,” was her
+first selfish word. “It would be like taking a crutch away from a
+feeble old woman, to snatch Mary out of my life. You know what I am,
+Grant; you and she alone in the world understand my weakness.”
+
+“Yes, and we both love you,” he stated firmly.
+
+“Please don’t say so,” she shuddered.
+
+A few days after this the two girls were in Mary’s room one morning,
+engaged in various jobs of leisurely domesticity, such as mending
+stockings, polishing finger nails, and running ribbons into sundry
+lace-trimmed garments. The conditions seemed to invite confidence,
+and Mary accepted the invitation by saying suddenly, “Edith, forgive
+my impertinence, put it down to my being physically upset, if you
+wish--but which do you mean to marry, Grant Lorimer or Philip Morley?”
+
+The girl flushed. “And must I marry one?” she asked.
+
+“I think you will have to. You see I know you.”
+
+“Then why do you care for me?” Edith asked impulsively. “Why do you,
+who are all strength and conviction, care for a blank like me?”
+
+“I don’t know,” Mary confessed. “I suppose it’s because you’re so
+extraordinarily pretty; and then you’re clever, too, and most
+good-looking women are fools.”
+
+“I’m not a fool,” Edith acknowledged, “but then I’m not anything.”
+
+“I know it, and it’s really refreshing in these over-strenuous days to
+find some one with no character at all. Excuse my frankness,--I love
+you just the same, Edith; that’s the funny part of it,--but it has only
+lately begun to dawn on me that you really might be said not to exist
+at all, unless there is some one with you to bring out some response,
+and then you are vivid as a rainbow. You are like that hero in Henry
+James’s story,--do you remember? They suddenly found that he simply
+melted into thin air, unless there was some other intelligence in the
+room to play upon his.”
+
+Edith’s eyes grew blank and expressionless. “Yes, I am like that,” she
+said in a dull monotone. “I have been brought up from the cradle to
+produce an effect. My mother and my father bent all their efforts to
+make me into what they wished me to become. All my natural passions
+were curbed, all my impulses checked. I was not created by God, like
+other people,--I was manufactured by my parents. I am like one of those
+toys labeled ‘made in Germany.’”
+
+“But it takes a long time to find you out,” Mary protested. “You’re
+a wonderfully good imitation of a human being. You don’t seem a bit
+mechanical.”
+
+“Oh, I have been well educated,” Edith acknowledged, dispassionately.
+“When I am with people, I do not merely reflect their ideas, I can
+furnish others in the same line, only not in opposition. I have some
+intelligence, but I have no character, no beliefs, no convictions.”
+
+“It is very strange,” Mary mused. “Are you happy?”
+
+“Happy? No, I don’t think so, nor unhappy. I like to be with you.
+You have so much character and force that it is almost infectious.
+But I like any one I am with. If a strong will is brought to bear on
+mine, it can control me utterly. I am not bad by nature, any more
+than I am good. I am simply what the other person wants me to be.
+It is my misfortune, Mary; not my fault, but my curse--the curse of
+my inheritance, my bringing up. I am not deliberately a turncoat, a
+caterer, as you called me once to Mr. Morley. I am simply a cipher,
+waiting for a definite figure to stand in front of me, and give me
+meaning.” The girl was pathetic in her unavailing self-knowledge.
+
+“You would interest the psychologists,” Mary said. “You are a living
+example of the power of suggestion.”
+
+“Yes,” Edith continued earnestly, “I seem to have no Ego. There are
+hundreds of different individualities shut up inside me, waiting to
+pop out as they are wanted, yet none of them is _me_,--there is no real
+_me_. If I am suddenly asked, by a person I have never seen, what I
+think on a certain subject, I can’t answer till I feel what the other
+person’s point of view is, and then I express it as well as I can.”
+
+“You’re like a prism, waiting for the sun of outside personality to
+shine on you and scatter your colors. Well, I go back to my first
+question,” Mary insisted; “which of them do you intend to marry?”
+
+“How can you ask? I suppose whichever has the stronger will,--unless
+some outside influence or event is stronger than either,” the girl
+confessed hopelessly. “Mary, I tried--I mean I tried to try--not
+to let Philip Morley fall in love with me. But I couldn’t make the
+effort. I hoped that you would. You and he should have belonged to
+each other,--but you threw us together. I was utterly powerless and
+weak,--he is attracted by a pretty face and by a character that he can
+mould and influence. Mary, why did you not keep him for yourself? It
+would have been better for all.”
+
+Mary rose to her feet and stamped. “_Me?_ What are you thinking of,
+Edith Dudley? Any man--even the most sensible man--would rather marry
+a pretty fool than an ugly and embittered jade like me. Not that you
+are a fool, you poor dear lovely nonentity, you! You are as clever and
+intelligent as you are fascinating; and I truly believe that you--a
+non-existent being almost--will bring more happiness to a self-reliant
+man like Philip than any of the strong-minded women he might marry. The
+whole question comes down to one of love. He loves you; he does not
+love--us.”
+
+“Oh, why doesn’t he _feel_ what you are, Mary!” her friend exclaimed.
+But this was not a subject on which Mary cared to expand, although
+she always rose to the bait of her own character as a subject for
+discussion.
+
+“I am likable, but not at all lovable,” she explained, with her
+relentless self-analysis. “There is no charm or illusion about me.
+Besides, look at my face!”
+
+Edith Dudley did look at her friend’s small green eyes, indefinite
+hair and complexion, and too definite nose and mouth; but, with her
+never-failing desire to say the kindly thing, replied, “Some day some
+one will care tremendously for you. All men don’t fall in love with wax
+dolls. Besides, you are”--
+
+“Now, my dear Edith, don’t tell me that I am interesting-looking,
+or have a sweet face! That is always the final insult of beauty to
+ugliness. I know perfectly well that I am extremely plain. I am not in
+the least self-deceived.”
+
+“But there are so many more attractive qualities than mere flesh and
+blood good looks,” the beauty tritely suggested.
+
+“Are there? Well, I would give every virtue I possess in exchange for
+that mere physical beauty you carry so lightly,” Mary exclaimed, with a
+bitter little laugh. “People who are good-looking and charming ought to
+find it easy to be amiable and sweet. They are born in harmony with the
+world. Every one is predisposed in their favor from the start, while we
+ugly people can hope to call forth no more flattering sentiment than a
+half-contemptuous pity.”
+
+“What extreme statements you do make, Mary!” interposed Edith Dudley.
+“I don’t know any one who has more friends than you. What do they care
+whether you have a Grecian nose or not?”
+
+“They don’t care,--that’s the pity of it,--and they think I don’t care
+either. By some strange system of reasoning they imagine that because
+my hair is straight and thin I must find it easy to tell the truth;
+and they fondly believe that because my mouth is large, I must enjoy
+visiting in the slums. People associate certain physical attributes
+with certain mental qualities; but all I can say is, that in my own
+case my character and my features are in constant warfare.”
+
+Edith, having no comforting rejoinder ready, merely looked distressed,
+and Mary continued:--
+
+“Of course I know that Charity, with a very big C, is the generally
+accepted refuge of the plain,--and I am expected to enjoy philanthropy
+more than frivolity, and to prefer committee meetings to dancing
+parties,--but the truth is, my soul or spirit or whatever you choose to
+call the thing that makes me _me_, and not somebody else, is not ugly
+at all. It enjoys the pleasant and prosperous side of life; it would
+like to have admiration and love affairs and all the agreeable things
+that you attractive people are born to as your natural inheritance.
+But fortunately I have a saving leaven of common sense and humor,
+which prevent my reaching out my skinny arms to grasp at blessings
+that are not meant for me. Sooner or later, I suppose, I must accept
+my inevitable destiny of philanthropist, but incidentally I shall
+turn into an embittered, caustic old maid, unless an early death cuts
+me down in my prime. Then, my dear, you would find that I had given
+promise of being ‘a noble woman.’ Premature death is the only artistic
+end for souls and faces that are uncongenially yoked together.”
+
+Mary had worked herself into the state of rebellion that always
+followed any reference to her personal appearance.
+
+“Do let’s change the subject,” she said, abruptly. “Let’s talk about
+you again. One thing I don’t understand is why you haven’t succumbed
+before this, and married some of the men who must have been crazy to
+get you. If you are a mere pipe for fortune’s finger to touch what stop
+she pleases, why haven’t you yielded to the persuasions of some of your
+suitors?”
+
+“Because,” Edith explained with simple straightforwardness, “there
+has always been a stronger will brought to bear on me, before I could
+yield. My father was very ambitious for me, and he was a man of intense
+feelings. He always took me away before things reached a climax,
+and then some other man would come along, and he would feel more
+strongly than the last; and so it went, my father’s will controlling
+me more completely than that of any lover. Besides,” she explained
+ingenuously, “Grant Lorimer is the only one that knows I have no
+character. The others all thought me very strong; but they were mostly
+foreigners, and abroad, you know, the parents have so much more control
+over a girl. Mary,” she cried suddenly, “I am really afraid of Grant!
+Sooner or later he vows I must be his, and if that is to be, it’s
+better sooner than later, for later I may be married to some one else.”
+
+“Have you no will at all?” exclaimed Mary, passionately and with a
+touch of scorn.
+
+“Absolutely none,” Edith acknowledged sadly; “only the will to
+acquiesce in the strongest influence that touches me. My one safety
+from Grant Lorimer is to have Philip Morley show more strength of will,
+and make me marry him, yet I know I shouldn’t make him happy long. I
+can’t love any one, Mary. I feel everything a little, but nothing
+much. I can’t even cry, though I can shed tears. I would give all my
+good looks, that you admire so unduly, to be capable of feeling as
+strongly about _anything_ as you do about--your nose, for instance.”
+
+“Well, there seems to be no satisfying us, does there?” Mary commented
+with a short, cynical laugh. “My only hope is that I shan’t live to see
+the people I care most for--myself among them, of course--made unhappy.
+I can’t help feeling that if you married Philip Morley, the strength
+of his love would create a soul and heart in you, and if you once had
+the spirit of life and feeling breathed into you, you would be the most
+perfect wife a man could dream of possessing.”
+
+Mary closed her eyes a moment, and a spasm of pain passed over her
+face. “Heaven keep me from ever witnessing that happiness!” she
+groaned, too indistinctly for Edith to hear the words. Suddenly her
+tone changed abruptly, and she straightened herself up. “Edith, I may
+as well tell you that I’ve got something pretty serious the matter with
+me. I’ve suspected it for some time, but I only found out yesterday.”
+
+Edith gave a sharp “Oh!” of sympathy. “Tell me, dear,” she said softly.
+
+“No, that’s just what I don’t mean to do,--at any rate not yet. I do
+hate this modern fashion of having one’s insides the subject of general
+conversation. It positively makes me blush, when I stop to think how
+much I know about the organs of people with whom I am scarcely on
+bowing terms. I did hope I could escape this fad of being operated on;
+it’s worse than bridge whist.”
+
+That Mary was not in a mood for sympathy was very evident, and her
+friend’s genius for tact led her to do the right thing in replying,
+“You may trust me, Mary, to say nothing about your illness to any one
+till you wish me to, and you’ll please me immensely by letting me do
+anything I can to make the next few weeks easier.” This unemotional
+little speech was followed by a matter-of-fact kiss deposited on Mary’s
+sallow cheek, after which Edith obeyed her friend’s unspoken wish, and
+left her alone.
+
+During the week that followed this conversation, Grant Lorimer’s
+attentions to Edith redoubled in violence. It was unfortunate that
+Philip Morley should have selected this period of emotional storm
+and stress to declare his love and humbly ask for its reward. Edith
+Dudley’s will was temporarily dominated and controlled by that of her
+Southern lover, and to Philip’s pleadings she could only dumbly shake
+her head, and whisper painfully, “I can’t, I can’t.”
+
+What she would have liked to say was, “Wait a week till Grant Lorimer
+goes away, as he has to do for a time, and then try again;” but instead
+of that her refusal had the sound of finality to Philip’s inexperienced
+ears.
+
+The combination of Philip’s strong and genuine love, and Mary’s strong
+and genuine hate of Grant Lorimer, availed to keep the girl from
+actually yielding to the persuasions of the man who knew her weakness;
+but though the combined pressure of wills was sufficient to prevent her
+accepting one lover, it was not sufficient to keep her from refusing
+the other. Thus an equal balance was temporarily maintained.
+
+At this crisis in her love affairs Edith was invited to go with a party
+to the White Mountains for a week, and though she regretted leaving
+Mary in her poor state of health, the will of the invalid was so much
+stronger than hers, that she found herself constrained to accept.
+Mary had grasped the situation pretty correctly, and she rightly
+guessed that the best thing for all was her guest’s absence for a
+time. Fortunately Grant Lorimer’s mother was ill enough to demand his
+presence in Baltimore, and home he was obliged to go, with his campaign
+of conquest unaccomplished.
+
+Left to herself, Mary breathed a sigh of stoicism rather than
+resignation, gave up her fight with appearances, and acknowledged
+herself to be really ill.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+ONE WOMAN IN A THOUSAND
+
+
+Mary Elton lay on the couch in her room, thinking of the last words the
+doctor had said. He had been perfectly honest with her, partly because
+she was morally strong and desired absolute frankness, partly because
+there was no one else to whom he could speak, except her self-absorbed
+uncle, and Mary had taken charge of her own case from the first, and
+sworn the doctor to secrecy.
+
+The next day she was to be taken to the hospital, and there an
+operation was to be performed, which would be a matter of life or
+death,--probably of death. It was her only chance of life, but it was
+one chance out of a hundred. This she had made the doctor tell her,
+and this was the thought she faced alone, lying in the winter twilight,
+her mood well suited to the season and the hour that most suggest death.
+
+Mary had prepared herself for the news that the chances were against
+her,--had expected and had almost hoped for it. Without being morbid
+in temperament, she had a deep strain of melancholy in her nature, and
+though she possessed rather a spasmodic fund of animal spirits and
+a keen power of enjoyment, she was no lover of life, in the deepest
+sense. She feared what she herself might become, and dread of her
+future too frequently poisoned her enjoyment of the present.
+
+She lay silent in the dusk for an hour, thinking, thinking, screwing
+her courage to the sticking-place in a decision she had just formed.
+She rang the bell, which was close to the head of her couch, and, when
+the maid came, Mary asked to have the curtains drawn and the gas
+lighted. “And, Jennie,” she added, as the girl was about to leave the
+room, “if Mr. Morley comes to inquire after me to-night, I wish to see
+him. You may ask him to come up here.”
+
+“Up to your room, Miss?” queried the girl, in dignified surprise.
+
+“Yes,” responded Miss Elton, shortly, “and when my uncle comes in I
+should like to speak to him.”
+
+That afternoon the uncle and niece had a long talk together; and after
+the interview was over, Mr. Elton’s voice was husky with unaccustomed
+emotion. Not all the wool in the market could soften the blow that his
+brother’s only child, and his own companion of so many years, might
+leave him forever.
+
+Mary had said as little as she could about the probable failure of the
+operation, but a few plans had to be made, and her uncle had been
+astonished at the coolness and self-control with which she had spoken
+of her own death. He thought she seemed much older than twenty-five.
+
+As Mr. Elton went out of the room, she called after him, “By the way,
+if Philip Morley comes to ask after me to-night, I am going to see him;
+so don’t be surprised if you find him making himself at home to the
+extent of coming upstairs.”
+
+“Very well, my dear; I know you and Philip are great friends. It is
+quite natural that you should want to say good-by to him. I suppose you
+may be away from us a fortnight or more.”
+
+“Probably more, the doctor thinks,” Mary replied, laughing; “but I want
+to see Philip in any case.”
+
+That evening Mary looked more animated and stronger than she had for
+days. A faint color had brightened her sallow cheeks, and excitement
+burned in her eyes. When a knock came at her door, and Philip Morley
+tiptoed in, he uttered an exclamation of pleasure at seeing her look so
+well. He drew a chair up beside her sofa, and extended his long legs
+with a sigh of comfort.
+
+“We’ll be having you about again in a week,” he said, with his
+sympathetic smile. “I’ve missed our friendly disputes awfully. Since
+you’ve been ill, I can’t get any one else to fight with me, and it
+kills all ambition when one isn’t opposed; so you must hurry and get
+well.”
+
+Mary pulled with nervous fingers at the fringe of the shawl that
+covered her.
+
+“Philip, it seems absurd, but I’m not going to get well. You’ll have to
+find some one else to fight with you.”
+
+The young man started, and looked at her quickly. “What do you mean,
+Mary?” he cried. “Don’t joke about such things.”
+
+“I’m not joking. I am going to the hospital to-morrow, where the
+surgeons will do what they can to save my life; but they say there is
+very little chance of my recovery. I _know_ that I shan’t live, and
+that is why I wanted to see you to-night. _Don’t, don’t_ look like
+that,--as if you cared,--or I shall cry; and I don’t want to be a baby.”
+
+She looked at him piteously, but would not let him speak.
+
+“There is something I want to tell you, Philip. No, I don’t _want_ to
+tell it to you, but I want you to know it before I die. Doesn’t it seem
+ridiculous for me to talk of dying! But I’m not going to try to harrow
+your feelings like that horrid little May Queen, though I confess the
+dramatic side of the situation does appeal to my imagination, and I am
+secretly longing for a band to strike up some dirge outside.”
+
+“Ah, you’re just trying to frighten me,” said Philip. “If you really
+thought you were going to die, you wouldn’t joke about it like this.”
+
+“Wouldn’t I? Well, I always said you didn’t know me. Never mind. It
+certainly would be just like me to live, as an anticlimax, after
+getting off my last speeches--but for once, I really think I shall do
+the right thing.”
+
+“It wouldn’t be the right thing, Mary; don’t talk so. I _hate_ to hear
+you.”
+
+“Yes, it is the right thing, Philip, I’m perfectly sure of it. Now
+don’t keep interrupting me. I want to talk, as usual, and you are just
+here as audience. Now listen. I am perfectly serious when I say that
+the best thing I can do is to die. If I lived, I should become more and
+more hard and snappish and unreconciled to my lot every year. Handsome
+people say it is easy for ugly ones to be good because they have no
+temptations, but I know that it is a thousand times harder to keep
+your temper sweet, and your spirit unruffled, with eyes and nose and
+mouth like mine, than--like yours, for instance. There is the first
+compliment I’ve ever paid you.”
+
+Philip made a futile attempt to interrupt her flow of words, but she
+frowned him into silence and continued, “The trouble is, I am not good
+enough to be ugly. If I lived, I should have to turn into a woman
+with a mission,--a temperance lecturer or an anti-vivisectionist or
+something; and though I should look the part, I couldn’t act it. But if
+I die comparatively young, my bad qualities won’t have time to mature
+(or rather to decay), and perhaps half a dozen people will be able to
+squeeze out a few perfunctory tears at my funeral.”
+
+Through the veil of her levity, Philip could detect grim Truth looking
+him in the face, and his eyes fell before hers.
+
+“You’re only joking, of course,” he maintained insincerely.
+
+“No, no. I am altogether serious now, Philip. I can’t joke about it any
+more. Promise to feel badly about me for a little while,” Mary cried,
+with sudden wistfulness.
+
+“It wouldn’t be for a little while only, Mary,” the young man said,
+laying his hand on hers. “It would make a difference to me all through
+my life. But, Mary, this won’t happen. You’re morbid and unnatural
+to-night. You have the making of one of the finest women in the world.
+You know I’ve always said so, and you must live to acknowledge that I
+was right. Besides, I can’t possibly get on without you.”
+
+“Oh yes, you can; yes, you can!” she moaned, dropping the mock-heroic
+tone she had assumed at first. “Listen, Philip, I am going to tell you
+something which proves me to be unfeminine, unwomanly, and altogether
+shameless, but when I’m dead perhaps you’ll be glad to remember. Now
+don’t look at me, Philip, or I can’t say what I want to. Let me look at
+your nice straight profile, and then perhaps I can talk.”
+
+She laughed in her old way, and made him turn his face toward the fire.
+
+“Now don’t move, don’t speak,” she said, “till I have finished, and
+then I can tell whether you think me altogether contemptible. Philip,”
+she continued, with a queer catch in her voice, “I have loved you for
+two years! There, I’ve said it, I’ve said it,” she exclaimed, wildly.
+“No, don’t try to speak, don’t look at me. Now you know whether I
+am going to die or not. Do you think wild horses would drag such a
+confession from me if I didn’t _know_ I was speaking from the edge of
+the grave?”
+
+Philip had instinctively turned to look at her with bewilderment in
+his eyes, but if he felt doubts of her seriousness or of her sanity,
+they were driven away by the sight of her earnest and intense face. He
+gave a short, sudden groan, and dropped his forehead into his hand.
+
+“You mustn’t feel too badly about this,” she went on with calmness. “I
+know that you are as much in love with Edith Dudley as you can be with
+any one. It is because I know of your love for her, that I am able to
+talk to you like this. She may have refused you once; I suspect that
+she has, but that’s only because that wretched Dr. Fell came along and
+hypnotized her. If you love her enough, she will care for you in time,
+and you will be happy, but--oh, Philip, she will not love you as _I_
+have loved you; she will not make you happier than _I_ could have made
+you, if I had been beautiful and graceful and gentle and sweet as she
+is!”
+
+There was a ring of something that had never been heard in Mary’s voice
+before, as she gave herself up to the bitterness of longing and regret
+that filled her heart.
+
+“People talk of the power of affection to work changes in character,”
+she continued more quietly, “and that is another reason why I have
+chosen to tell you of my love. Philip, I don’t know whether I love
+you because I believe in you, or believe in you because I love you.
+My love and my belief are all tangled up together, so that I can’t
+tell which is cause and which is effect. You could be anything you
+want to be,--but I am so afraid you won’t want! Oh, I do wish that my
+love could be some little incentive to make you do and be all that
+you might if you only would! It seems as if it ought to be of _some_
+value,--a love like mine. There ought to be _some_ result from such a
+strong emotion. It would be so ridiculously easy for me to die, or
+live, or anything, if only your happiness, and success in the highest
+sense, could result from it! Of course it isn’t easy for me to say all
+this, though I seem to have got wound up to it somehow. I suppose I am
+fearfully lacking in a proper modesty of sex,--but this is my death-bed
+(figuratively speaking), and after all we are just two human souls,
+aren’t we?”
+
+“You are the sincerest, truest woman in the world!” cried Philip,
+turning towards her and seizing both her hands. “What does the purely
+conventional modesty you feel you have offended against matter, in
+comparison with a courage like yours?”
+
+“Oh, dear! If only my friends could have heard me making an unprovoked
+declaration of love!” cried Mary, laughing, with a sudden instinct of
+incongruous amusement. “They all think I’m a perfect old cynic, with
+no germ of romance or sentiment about me. Well, that’s what I should
+have grown to be, if I had lived. You see I already speak of myself in
+the past tense. Be thankful, Philip, that I have escaped the fate of
+becoming an unloved, unloving old woman, with bitterness and regret in
+her heart. You have shown me what life must be to people who have love.
+It’s the only permanent possession. But if I had to choose between the
+two, I would rather feel love than inspire it,--and this isn’t sour
+grapes either. Of course the perfect thing has to be reciprocal. And
+now about you, Philip. I am sure that Edith will come to care about you
+some day; but when you’re happy and prosperous, don’t forget that you
+must be something more, that you are worth something better, that you
+owe it to yourself, and to Edith,--and to me. And now there is just
+one more thing that I want to say. If I _should_ live,--I _can’t_ and
+I _shan’t_, but if I _should_,--you must let the memory of all that I
+have said be absolutely blotted out. I shall have killed our friendship
+to-night. However, all this is nothing, because I know that I shan’t
+live, and on the whole I’m not sorry. Please tell me honestly whether
+you despise me for my weakness, or whether”--
+
+“Despise you, Mary!” cried Philip. “I can’t possibly tell you what your
+brave, true words have meant to me.” His voice was choked with mingled
+emotion and embarrassment. “What you have said has meant more to me
+than anything else ever can. I feel somehow full of humility, and yet
+full of pride. What have I been or done, to win the love of a woman
+like you? Where have my senses been, not to give you some better return
+than my best friendship for a love like yours!”
+
+“Ah, my dear Philip,” said Mary, half laughing and half crying, “you
+_couldn’t_ have loved me, no matter how hard you tried. No man could.
+You see I am so dreadfully ugly. I should hate myself if I were a
+man,--in fact, I do as it is.”
+
+“You’re perfectly absurd about your looks, Mary. Why do you persist in
+exaggerating the importance of beauty? You have been a constant delight
+and refreshment to every one you know. As for me, I don’t believe I
+amount to much anyway; but if I ever turn out anything at all, it will
+be because of what you have been brave and honest enough to tell me
+to-night.”
+
+“Oh, no, it won’t,” said Mary, smiling and shaking her head. “If you
+do turn out to be anything more than a successful business man (which
+I sometimes doubt), it will be because of the love of a much sweeter
+and better woman than I. You see this humility on my part is really my
+most alarming symptom, and must mean approaching death.”
+
+She was her old self again for the moment, half mocking and half sad.
+
+“Mary,” said Philip suddenly, “I don’t believe I shall ever _like_ any
+one half so much as I do you. Love is different; it is outside our
+control, I suppose, but liking is somehow founded on fact,--it’s more
+deliberate.”
+
+“Are you trying to make out that friendship is more flattering than
+love?” Mary interrupted. “Perhaps you’re right. I dare say it’s more
+natural that you should like me than that I should love you,--however,
+go on.”
+
+“It isn’t altogether easy to go on, in the midst of your
+interruptions,” said Philip, laughing nervously, “and everything I
+say sounds artificial, when I only mean to be straightforward. What I
+want you to understand is that whether you die or whether you live,
+or whatever happens to either of us, our friendship is something
+permanent. Even if we have to meet as strangers after to-night, the
+real You and the real I will be friends just the same. I wish I could
+make you realize all that it means to me to be told what you have told
+me to-night. It will give me new courage and new self-respect, and I
+thank you with all my heart.”
+
+In answer to the look in his face, Mary’s eyes filled with sudden tears.
+
+“Now don’t let’s be theatrical, Philip,” Mary laughed in order not to
+cry. “I’m afraid I’ve made things horrid for you. It’s my fault. I
+ought to have been contented with playing the rôle I am suited for. The
+trouble is I have been cast for low comedy, and I insist on playing
+high tragedy. With my make-up I ought to be content with playing the
+fool, yet here I am striving to blend pathos and tragedy behind the
+mask of Harlequin. Now Edith Dudley can play _any_ part well. Her life
+is a series of wonderful impersonations, and her face adapts itself to
+the part she plays. Don’t make the mistake, Philip, of thinking you
+can walk through your part of innocuous-young-man-about-town without
+exerting yourself to _act_. I am enough of a fatalist to believe that
+we can’t alter the text of the drama of life; but I do believe that the
+seriousness of our impersonation is as important in result as the words
+we are set down to speak, and our acting is within our own control,
+even if our actions are not.”
+
+“If life is a play it’s a mighty badly written one, and I’ve made an
+awful botch of my part. I don’t know the text, Mary, and I need your
+promptings.” Philip looked at her with the look she used to call his
+“dumb animal expression.”
+
+“Life is just a tragi-comedy, that’s all. When we’re not shrieking
+with pain, we’re shrieking with laughter. Now go, dear,” she said
+brokenly. “I don’t think I can stand it another minute. This has not
+been easy for either of us. I won’t try to say anything else except
+good-by. Don’t ever forget that I am thankful to have known and to have
+loved you.”
+
+“Oh, Mary, Mary!” he cried, impotently. Then, realizing the futility
+of language to express all that he felt, he quietly stooped and kissed
+her. “Good-by,” he said very softly. Then he went out and closed the
+door. She held her breath till the sound of his footsteps had died
+away; then she burst into hysterical sobs.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A week later Edith Dudley was admitted to a room in the hospital, where
+a white form lay in a white bed. She went softly up to the figure, and
+kissed its pale face.
+
+“Dear Mary! So the operation was a success,” she whispered.
+
+“No!” replied the figure, opening its eyes with sudden energy. “It was
+a failure. I am going to get well.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+A DIRECTOR OF DESTINIES
+
+
+When Mary Elton was able to be out and about once more, she seemed to
+have undergone what she herself termed “a change of heart, from bad to
+worse.”
+
+“A peep inside Death’s door would soften and chasten most people,” she
+told her bewildered uncle, “but on me it has had just the opposite
+effect. I suppose it’s because I made all my plans for a death-bed
+repentance, and now that the Devil is well, the devil a nun is she. I
+always did hate to have my calculations upset, and this recovery is
+too much of a surprise for an old maid to adjust herself to all of a
+sudden.”
+
+But if the physical shock of a serious operation was hard to recover
+from, the mental torment caused by the recollection of her confession
+to Philip Morley was a thousand times more difficult to endure. She
+knew that the thought of it would poison her whole life. It had been
+hard enough before to bear the anguish of a kind of love known only to
+deep and undemonstrative natures, a love doomed to remain unrequited,
+but now added to biting sorrow was the sting of shame and humiliation
+that Philip should have heard from her own lips of her love for him.
+
+“I might have known I shouldn’t die,” Mary berated herself fiercely.
+“The Fates have too much sense of humor to lose the joke of my
+recovery. Well, Destiny has beaten me again; but my will is not
+defeated, and though I can’t die, I shall at least go abroad. When bad
+Americans can’t die, they go to Paris. Uncle Charles shall take me if
+the eloquence of one risen from the bed can move him to action.”
+
+On Edith Dudley’s return from the mountains she had gone directly to
+Mrs. Warner’s, feeling that her visit to the Eltons had better be
+shortened, in view of Mary’s unexpected illness. She came to see Mary
+every few days, and their friendship continued the same, although
+Mary detected a subtle change in Edith, the clue to which lay in the
+circumstance that Philip’s name had not once been mentioned between
+them.
+
+Mary’s clear vision and quick mind had jumped to a conclusion which
+made even the most tactful interference seem an impertinence, and
+yet she felt that she held, in a way, the reins of her two friends’
+destinies. She herself had seen Philip only in the most casual way, but
+she was not so utterly self-absorbed as to be blind to the difficulties
+and painfulness of his situation, which she interpreted thus: knowing,
+as he did, that she (Mary) was in love with him, he had determined not
+to persist in his courtship of her friend, who had already refused him.
+He was not so stupid as to greet Mary’s recovery with a proposal of
+marriage, but she knew him well enough to suspect the line of conduct
+he meant to pursue. Having accepted Edith’s refusal as final, he would,
+after she had left the house, resume his friendly visits to Mary, then
+slowly,--very slowly,--he would show her that not her declaration of
+love, but her own fine qualities, had magically touched his heart,
+transforming friendship into a more vital emotion.
+
+And, after all, Mary asked herself, might not the result bring
+happiness to both? Once married to him, Mary would _make_ him love
+her, for he would know by the revelations of daily life the depth and
+strength of her affection. She knew that no one else could make the
+man of him that she would make. All the latent sweetness of her nature,
+all the buried wealths of tenderness and unselfishness would blossom
+under his hand. Each would be the best for each, and yet--he did not
+love her.
+
+Mary’s qualities, good and bad, were vigorous. Capable of two extremes
+of conduct, she recognized the situation as demanding a great act of
+heroism, or an equally large act of selfishness. In the wakeful hours
+of many nights, her conflicting emotions met and fought bloody battles,
+till the final victory was won. Her irrevocable decision was made. She
+dispatched two notes, one to Edith Dudley, asking her to come and see
+her at four o’clock the next afternoon, the other to Philip Morley,
+summoning him half an hour later.
+
+Mary never indulged in the tentative tactics known as beating about the
+bush. Edith and she had hardly exchanged greetings when Mary made a
+bold attack. “Edith Dudley, now that your old Dr. Fell is out of the
+way, should you accept Philip Morley, if he proposed again?”
+
+Poor Edith looked vainly about for escape from the revolver of truth
+with which her friend was holding her up. The sight of her gave Mary a
+curiously complex emotion, in which scorn, admiration, pity, and wonder
+were blended. How was it possible that this beautiful, clever creature,
+who was neither good nor bad, and who was to all outside influences
+as the weathercock to the breeze, could yet subdue criticism to a
+blind acceptance of her with all her weakness and weaknesses, and her
+irresistible charm?
+
+“If Philip Morley should ask me now, I should accept him,” she said,
+her luminous eyes shining like mirrors of truth. “But it will be
+better for him if he does not ask me again.” Then, with a passionate
+gesture unusual to her, “Mary, Mary, don’t desert me! Don’t go back on
+me ever,--whatever happens!” she cried earnestly. “Let me feel that
+you are always here, firm and sure, a rock for me to cling to,--poor
+helpless seaweed that I am,--when the waves get too strong for me. No
+one else has ever made me feel as you do--that perhaps I have a soul
+and a will somewhere. I am generally conscious only of being _nothing_;
+a Laodicean, from whom the power to feel hot and cold and love and hate
+have been squeezed out by early training. I should like to be the wife
+for Philip. Perhaps, if he is strong enough, he can make something out
+of me; or if he is weak enough, he may never find me out. But I think
+he is neither. He is simply human. He loves me a great deal. I feel it
+even when I am away from him, and I don’t with every one,” she naïvely
+added.
+
+“I am quite aware of his affection,” Mary acquiesced grimly. “Let’s
+talk of something else,--me, for instance. One reason why I wanted you
+to come and see me this afternoon, is to tell you that I have at last
+succeeded in persuading Uncle Charles to take a holiday. He and I are
+going abroad next month, to be gone a year. Isn’t that splendid? You
+know how I’ve always wanted to see Paris and London, and this means
+Italy and Egypt added. Don’t you congratulate me?”
+
+“Oh, Mary, I do, I do!” cried Edith, instantly radiant with sympathy.
+“And I congratulate Europe! Won’t you say nice, funny, original things
+about everything, and make the antiquities feel that they’ve never
+been appreciated before? And, oh Mary, how you’ll _hate_ the traveling
+Americans,--and the traveling English, and worst of all the traveling
+Germans!”
+
+Her voice rose in a crescendo of amused horror. Philip was forgotten,
+she herself was forgotten,--she was living only in Mary’s prospective
+travels.
+
+They talked for some time, till presently the door-bell rang, and Mary
+jumped up saying, “I don’t want to see any one,--I’ll just tell the
+maid,” and with that she slipped out of the room.
+
+At the head of the stairs she met Philip Morley. He had not been in the
+house since the night before she went to the hospital, and for a moment
+the recollection of their talk that evening gripped them both by the
+throat. Then the girl recovered herself, and she smiled courageously.
+“Go in there. Tell her she’s _got_ to marry you,--don’t ask her whether
+she will or not,” she said rather incoherently, then turned and dashed
+upstairs, and Philip heard her chamber door slam after her.
+
+Feeling as if he were a puppet to which Mary held the string, he
+obediently went into the room she had just quitted. Edith Dudley stood
+by the mantelpiece, lightly touching a bunch of pink and white roses in
+an iridescent vase--suggestive of herself as was everything delicately
+lovely and changing. To Philip her beauty was so overwhelming that
+even his love seemed a sacrilege, yet the rush of warm emotion which
+filled him at the sight of her--even if unreciprocated--was something
+for which a man would give all other bliss. She was dressed in gray,
+except for a touch of blended colors in her hat and at her throat,--her
+“trade-mark,” she called this opal touch in which her nature seemed
+to express itself. She was waiting for the intruder to be dismissed,
+and for Mary’s return, and a sunny smile warmed her face as the door
+opened and Philip entered. She was not disconcerted, but she instantly
+realized that she was the victim of a plot. “How do you do, Mr. Morley!
+This is just where we first met, isn’t it? Did Mary send for you, too,
+to tell you her great news? Where is she?”
+
+“She went upstairs,” Philip said stupidly, still dazed by the part he
+was expected by Mary to play in the scene she had arranged.
+
+Miss Dudley sat down and motioned to a sofa with her muff. “We are
+evidently expected to entertain each other,” she went on lightly, “and
+I’m going to punish Mary for her rudeness in deserting us, by telling
+you her secret. She’s going abroad with her uncle for a year.”
+
+Philip’s handsome face was working with emotion like that of a
+girl. “It’s no use,” he burst out, hypnotized by her mere presence,
+and paying no attention to her words, “I didn’t mean to ask you
+again; I know it’s useless, you wonderful, beautiful creature,--you
+could marry any one in the whole world; but I’ve got to go away
+somewhere--anywhere--unless you can care a little for me. I’m too
+unspeakably wretched! You don’t know what it is,--this feeling I
+have about you. I didn’t know there were such feelings in the world,
+myself.” He saw her eyes looking towards him, softened with affection,
+and he jumped to his feet. He rushed to her, and grasped her hand.
+“Edith, you’ve _got_ to marry me!” he cried, the gentleman for once
+lost in the man. “You’ve _got_ to. I shan’t take no, again. I am mad
+with love for you, or I shouldn’t ask you this, here in this house. You
+don’t know what I’ve been through. I didn’t mean to do this again. I
+tried not to. It’s Mary’s fault. Edith, I love you with all there is in
+me of good or bad, and my love demands a return!” His gaze pierced her.
+
+Her face cleared into an expression of exquisite happiness. Oh, the
+peace of being told to do something so easy! She showed no instinct of
+the flirt, who likes to torture her prey. With childlike confidence she
+gave him both her hands, and her eyes spoke as eloquently as her lips.
+“Philip, I will love you. I will be to you as good a wife as I can be,
+if you are _sure, sure_ you want me. There were reasons why I could
+not say yes, the last time you asked me. Now I _can_ say it, indeed I
+_must_ say it.”
+
+Philip was too dazed with surprise and joy to do anything but foolishly
+kiss her hands. In a moment he burst out, “It’s no use. I can’t believe
+it. Tell me again. Are we really to be always together, you and I,
+after a little while?”
+
+“Oh, I hope not always,” the girl expostulated. “Married people who
+never get away from each other grow frightfully uninteresting. Listen,
+Philip,” and she laid a shy finger against his mouth. “This is all
+Mary’s doing. If we are unhappy it will be her fault. If we are happy
+it is her we must thank. She made this match.”
+
+“God bless her!” cried Philip fervently, but with a spasm of pain
+crossing his bliss.
+
+Then a sudden seriousness clouded Edith’s sunshine also. “Philip, I
+want to tell you something. You won’t believe me, but I shall tell you
+just the same. _I am nothing_, do you understand? The reason people
+like me--when they do--is because most people like themselves, and I am
+rather a flattering mirror, that is all.”
+
+“Then I must be an arch-egotist,” Philip interrupted her.
+
+“You are. Your affection for me proves the extent of your self-love.”
+She spoke with surprising gravity. “You see, Philip, I was brought up
+to seem, not to be, and my education was extraordinarily successful. I
+lost my life in childhood.”
+
+The young man threw back his boyish head and laughed. “Yes, you look as
+if you were not alive!” he cried. “You, whose every nerve and fibre
+are instinct with life. You are the epitome of sensation. You respond
+to every slightest emotion, to every touch of feeling. I would believe
+anything else you tell me, but not that you are unfeeling and dull of
+sensation. You are anything but a Belle Dame Sans Merci.”
+
+“Not sans merci alone,” she said sadly, “but sans _every_thing, like
+Shakespeare’s old man. I have warned you, you see. I have strength
+enough for that, because I know in my heart that it will make no
+difference to you, as you won’t believe me; but I haven’t the strength
+to refuse you, Philip. I will marry you as soon as you want.”
+
+Her personal charm surrounded him like a vapor, and obscured all else.
+Like two happy children they sat side by side, making plans for the
+future. All that she stipulated was, that she should be married from
+her stepmother’s house in Kentucky, and that she should have time to
+get a few clothes.
+
+“Please always have the rainbow motif in all your dresses,” Philip
+said, pointing to the opal hues at her neck. “It matches your
+temperament. I remember when I first saw you here in that wonderful,
+changing, pinky-grayish-heliotrope, crapy thing. You seemed to me like
+a woman that Hawthorne would have rejoiced in describing, with your
+dress the symbol of your nature. Then there is one more thing, dear, I
+want to ask. Will you let me give you an opal for an engagement ring?
+It is what I should like best, if you are not superstitious. It is my
+favorite stone, and I think you said it was yours. You are _my_ opal,
+you know, and I should like you to have one, beautiful as yourself,
+with a heart of fire.”
+
+She laughed gayly. “Philip, you are waxing poetic! Of course I’m not
+superstitious. We defy augury. I will have nothing but an opal. It is
+alive, though it is not as permanent as I should like the symbol of our
+love to be. Philip,” she said, a trembling wistfulness in her voice,
+“you know opals crumble and fall to pieces, and there is no mending
+them,--they just disappear, and their beauty is gone. Are you sure you
+want _your_ opal for better or worse?”
+
+“I am quite sure,” he said decisively. “And your opal shall be set in
+diamonds, to keep it from crumbling and guard its beauty.”
+
+“And so shall yours, Philip, for when I am married to you your opal
+will be truly set in strong and precious stones, to defend it from its
+own weakness.” Her little Frenchily sentimental speech did not sound
+artificial, as with the naturalness of a trustful child she lifted her
+face to his.
+
+Upstairs a very different drama was in progress. Mary Elton was
+pacing her room, with hands clenched and brows knit. Now that her
+self-appointed rôle of fairy godmother was played, she not only
+wondered how she had found strength to go through with it, but scolded
+herself for having been sensational. “After all, it was none of my
+business,” she told herself. “I wish I hadn’t interfered. If I had let
+things alone, Philip might have come back to me of his own free will,
+and Edith would have married some one else who would have made her just
+as happy.”
+
+At the end of half an hour she opened her door and listened. She heard
+the murmur of low voices, and once Philip’s laugh rang out,--confident,
+happy, proud.
+
+With a sob between clenched teeth, Mary closed her door again, and
+seated herself in front of her mirror. She watched the cynical,
+scornful face before her contort itself into lines of bitterness and
+grief. Relentlessly she stared at the slowly puffing eyelids, the
+quavering mouth. Never had she looked less attractive, less romantic.
+
+“A picture of unrequited love,--realistic school,” she announced
+mockingly, for her own amusement. And as a watery smile intruded upon
+the grimness of the tragic mask at which she gazed, Mary found herself
+wondering, irrelevantly, whether Edith Dudley looked pretty when she
+cried.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+A PUPPET IN TRAGEDY
+
+
+When Mary’s year of foreign travel was over she found herself so
+completely unprepared for the flatness of life at home, that she
+shipped her uncle off for Boston, and decided to remain abroad another
+year. She had made many delightful acquaintances during her travels,
+and had found it easy to map out twelve more months of traveling,
+visiting, “stopping over,” and “settling down.”
+
+When she considered the loneliness and helplessness of her uncle’s
+returning to an unkept house, she felt the sense of guilt that
+accompanies an act of unaccustomed selfishness, but a poor relation
+had been invoked from the shades of the “unexhausted West,” and
+Cousin Rebecca had gladly consented to supply creature comforts to Mr.
+Elton till Mary’s return. “I know I’m selfish,” Mary acquiesced to her
+accusing conscience, “but I can’t go home and see Philip and Edith
+yet” (they had been married a month after she left Boston),--“I’m too
+battered and bruised. My scars must heal, and my wounds grow callous
+before I can see their happiness. If I had died Uncle Charles would
+have got on somehow, and this will only be a year of desertion, and
+perhaps it will be the only vacation in my life.” So she quieted her
+qualms, and persisted, as usual, in the line of conduct she had laid
+out for herself.
+
+The second year passed as delightfully as the first, and Mary finally
+turned her back on the land that had fulfilled her desires and
+satisfied her senses, with a devout feeling of thankfulness that Europe
+still existed as a memory and a hope, even though it was rapidly
+fading from her natural vision. On the steamer that was bearing her too
+rapidly towards her undesired home, she found various acquaintances,
+among others an old school friend, Helen White, who was returning from
+a six weeks’ tour in France. She was familiar with Mary’s immediate
+circle in Boston, and able to give her much news and gossip that had
+failed to be recorded in letters from home. Naturally one of Mary’s
+first inquiries was in regard to the Morleys. How are they getting on
+together, and in society, and with the world? Mary had had frequent
+letters from Edith, full of her own peculiar aroma, containing amusing
+and shrewd observations on the people that formed the background to her
+new life, speaking often of Philip and his interests with affectionate
+understanding, but always ending with an appeal to “come home soon
+to the person who needed her most.” At the mention of Edith Morley’s
+name, Helen White’s rather inanimate face woke up. “She is a wonderful
+success in Boston!” she exclaimed. “There is not a more popular woman
+in society. Every one wants her all the time. She seems to be equally
+sought after by the smart and the stupid sets, and by all the unlabeled
+people in between. I declare Philip Morley is a lucky man!”
+
+“I suppose he’s as much pleased with Edith as the rest of the world
+is,” suggested Mary, as a “leader.”
+
+“How could he be otherwise? She is always perfectly lovely with him,
+and evidently doesn’t cross his wishes in the least particular. She
+is a model wife, and I must say--nice as Philip is--I think she
+deserves some one a little more--more--well, interesting and unusual
+and stimulating.” Mary grunted: “H’m. Well, if Edith is satisfied, I
+suppose _we_ must be. What effect has marriage had upon Philip?”
+
+“Between ourselves, I don’t think he has developed and broadened as
+much as you would expect,” said Miss White, with her confidential
+manner. “He is a little disappointing. He never seems to arrive
+anywhere, and at thirty-eight one expects a man to be something more
+than promising.”
+
+Mary’s heart gave a protesting throb that was a physical pain. She
+had dreaded to hear exactly what her unsuspecting friend had told
+her without knowing it,--that Philip had found Edith out, and that
+his nature, in order to expand to its potential capacities, demanded
+outside stimulus,--opposition even, and that it had met nothing but
+enervating echo and reflection.
+
+When Mary was alone her eyes filled with tears of self-reproach
+and suffering. “It was all my fault,” she accused herself, in her
+exaggerated consciousness of disaster. “I was fool enough to think that
+the hardest thing to do must be the right thing. The punishment for
+stupidity is harder to bear than the punishment for sin,--and it ought
+to be. The wages of folly is remorse, and that’s a good deal worse than
+death,” she added, with her usual impersonal relentlessness.
+
+During the thoughtful hours of the next few monotonous days, while
+Mary’s impatient eyes questioned the horizon line--that symbol of
+symmetry--for something visible beyond, she tried to persuade herself
+that she had been over-subtle in her interpretation of Helen White’s
+indifference towards Philip, and enthusiasm for Edith. Certainly no
+hint of an unhappy marriage had been put into the words, although it
+had been taken out of them. But she must possess her soul in patience;
+she should know enough soon.
+
+She knew two days after her arrival, when she and her uncle went to
+dine at the Morleys’. Edith was dazzlingly unchanged. Her embrace of
+Mary was the spontaneous hug of a child, who abandons itself to the
+present emotion. “You dear old thing!” she exclaimed. “You’ve got a
+French dress and an English accent, but I know you’re the same old
+sixpence underneath.”
+
+“Yes, I’m the same old nickel,--put me into American money,
+please,--for I never was a better Yankee than under this foreign
+veneer. The accent and the dress both come off, you know,--I only wear
+them on formal occasions. Hello, Philip!” she broke off suddenly, as
+he ran downstairs with unwonted speed to greet her. “Well, here we are
+again,” she rattled on. “Let’s be rude and all stare at each other,
+and then be polite and say we all look younger and more beautiful
+than we did two years ago.” Her unflinching gaze met Philip’s,--met
+it, passed it by, and penetrated to his inner self that lay hidden
+behind the lazily drooping eyes and the sensitive disillusioned mouth.
+He looked older, and, if wisdom implies a shattering of youthful
+ideals, wiser as well. His appearance was by no means unhappy, but his
+contentment showed too much of resignation, and Mary would have been
+more pleased to detect a gleam of divine discontent, kindling ambition
+into action. The pleasant and affectionate smile with which he turned
+toward his wife had in it the hint of almost pitying tenderness with
+which a grown person regards a child.
+
+“Well, Edith, what can we say about Mary that she won’t consider
+fulsome flattery?” he asked. “You are much cleverer than I. Put my
+feelings into words.”
+
+The girl turned her face--not towards the object of this discussion,
+but to her husband, as though to read his thoughts; then she slipped
+her hand through Mary’s arm and said, “You look just the way the real
+Mary Elton was always meant to look,--not sad but serious, not scoffing
+at life, but amused by it. You look like an embodiment of strength
+and sympathy, such as it rests weary eyes to look upon. And besides,
+Europe--or something--has put a funny little look of sweetness into
+your face that didn’t use to”--She was interrupted by Mary’s suddenly
+winding her feather boa around her mouth. “Keep still!” she commanded,
+with her old-time vigor. “I won’t be insulted. _Sweet_, indeed! Edith,
+you look thoroughly sour and bitter. You are a peculiarly ugly and
+disagreeable looking woman. Philip looks meek and henpecked, and as
+for poor old Uncle Charles,”--pulling her beaming uncle under the
+electric light,--“he has grown ten years younger since losing his
+business manager, and being allowed to shift for himself. Come and
+show me the house,” she went on, leading the way to the parlor with
+Edith trotting at her heels like a happy dog. “I haven’t seen your
+wedding presents yet. Oh, there’s the lamp I gave you, and a very
+decent looking one it is, too. Lamps can be so perfectly terrible when
+they really make an effort to be ornamental that I try to be guided by
+their purely utilitarian functions in selecting them. Oh, and there’s
+the portrait! How I have wanted to see it! I assure you its praises
+have echoed through Europe?” She paused in front of a picture that
+would have attracted the attention of any human creature, no matter
+how ignorant, no matter how wise. It did not need the signature of the
+greatest living portrait painter to proclaim it as one of the modern
+masterpieces of the world.
+
+It was Edith’s self--or selves, to be strictly accurate. She was
+standing with suddenly arrested movement, as though she had started to
+step out of the frame, a living woman, and then had quickly decided to
+remain a painted mystery. Firelight played on the rainbow-tinted satins
+which draped the exquisite figure, and a gleam from a hidden light
+brightened the gold-streaked hair. The background was a softly blended
+tapestry, and the general color scheme justified the name of “The Opal”
+left on it from a recent exhibition. But the woman’s face! In that
+lay the miracle of the painter’s genius, for never surely was such a
+marvelous blending of qualities,--such a symphony of harmonies in which
+discords had their place.
+
+Mary sucked in her breath with the “Oh!” of complete satisfaction.
+“He will be an old master a few hundred years hence,” she said,
+“and Edith will be the Mona Lisa of future generations. You have
+lived sufficiently,” she went on, addressing the portrait’s original,
+half-banteringly; “you may as well go upstairs and die this minute.
+Your destiny is completed. To have inspired such a work as that means
+genius in the subject as well as in the painter.”
+
+“It has been too funny to hear different people’s comments on it,”
+Edith said. “When it was first exhibited I put on three veils so as
+not to be recognized; and then I had the greatest fun listening to the
+criticisms of friends and strangers. I heard one lady say, ‘_There_ is
+a person capable of any crime!’ Another said, ‘She should have been
+painted as a Madonna. I have never seen such goodness in any human
+countenance.’ A man whom I did not know said, ‘There is the only face
+I have ever seen which expresses Browning’s line, “There’s a woman
+like a dew-drop, she’s so purer than the purest.”’ And a horrid man
+whom I _do_ know, said,--excuse my repeating such a remark,--‘What an
+extraordinary likeness of Mrs. Morley! She looks like a nun turned
+demi-mondaine!’”
+
+“What do you think of it, Philip,” asked Mary, while Mr. Elton was
+dryly commenting, “I consider it the portrait of a most intelligent
+woman.”
+
+Philip looked from the portrait to Mary, with his quiet smile.
+“When you ask me that, it is like asking what I think of Edith,” he
+explained. “It has all her moods and all her phases. It shows what she
+may be, no less than what she has been. It is endlessly suggestive and
+fascinating.”
+
+“I was almost afraid to be painted by such a mind-reader,” Edith
+confessed, “but I needn’t have been alarmed. If one has no mind it
+can’t be read; and it seems to me he has painted nothing. Every one
+reads something different into it, but the variations are in them, not
+in me. That is where the painter’s skill comes in. As I look at it
+myself, it is a mirror’s likeness of a dead face; yet every one else
+speaks of its marvelous vitality.”
+
+“It is well named,” Mary said softly. “Such changing living beauty
+belongs only to the opal.”
+
+“And to Edith Morley,” put in Mr. Elton, with a courtly bow.
+
+Dinner was announced, and Edith insisted that the survey of her
+possessions must be postponed or the soup would grow cold. During the
+first part of the meal Mary did most of the talking. “What is the use
+of being a Ulysses,” she protested, “if one can’t recite one’s Odyssey
+to bored Penelopes? I can see you all gaping internally, but you’ve
+got to listen to me for a while, and then I’ll give you a chance.”
+She regaled them with anecdotes of American human nature as revealed
+on foreign soil, and seemed her old merry self; but while her tongue
+wagged fast and gayly, her brain was working in opposition to her
+words. “There’s an immense change in him below the surface,” she said
+to herself, and the sense of it caused a sudden contraction of the brow
+which her laughing listeners did not comprehend. “Now _you_ talk,” she
+said abruptly. “What’s become of the Reverend Sylvester Rogers? How did
+Milly Lambert’s marriage turn out? Where is Marion Meridith? And what
+happened to Jack Hudson?”
+
+“Let’s see,” pondered Edith. “Mr. Rogers had a call to Kansas
+City--also incidentally to marry an heiress. Milly Lambert succeeded in
+getting a divorce from her wretched husband, though she knew exactly
+what he was when she married him; Marion Meridith is just the same nice
+girl that she always was,--too good for any of the men who want to
+marry her; and Jack Hudson,--well, they say he and his wife want to be
+separated, but they can’t seem to convince the lawyers that there’s any
+occasion for it.”
+
+“What do you think of divorce?” questioned Mr. Elton of Edith. It
+was the kind of direct inquiry she never liked, for no suggestion of
+the questioner’s opinion was evident, and his face had about as much
+expression as a brick house in a block. Edith glanced tentatively at
+her husband and Mary, but they offered her no assistance, so she said
+lightly, “What do I think of divorce? Why, I never think of it. I don’t
+have to, you see.”
+
+Mary brought her fist down on the table with one of her unregenerate
+gestures. “It is one of the greatest crimes of the day,” she
+exclaimed, “the attitude of Public Opinion on Divorce! I believe some
+of the churches are trying to do what they can to frown upon it,
+but till some fixed law is made which applies in every State in the
+Union, people will get divorced almost as fast as they get married.
+The trouble is, each couple fancies its own case unique, and women
+particularly seem to be incapable of giving up their own selfish
+happiness for the good of humanity or the community.”
+
+“I don’t suppose you’d ever marry a divorced man, Mary,” Edith
+suggested, and the others all laughed at her characteristically
+feminine way of turning an abstract argument into a personal question.
+
+“I don’t suppose I should,” Mary replied bluntly. “Nor do I suppose
+I’d marry a man who was not divorced,--nor do I think I shall ever be
+the cause of divorce in others. The opinion of an old maid like me is
+utterly worthless, of course, and I suppose ‘sour grapes’ would be the
+motive attributed to me by any one who knew my views. It is the pretty
+and foolish young married women who ought to be converted. I’m ashamed
+of Milly Lambert.”
+
+The intolerant Mary was speaking, but Edith brought back the new
+incarnation by introducing the subject of Sydney Eaton’s interest in
+politics. This gave Mary the chance to find out whether Philip still
+continued to identify himself with the Municipal Improvement Society
+and the Civic Club, and the various other reforming bodies in which he
+had formerly been an active member. Her evident interest in the subject
+loosened Philip’s tongue, and he began to talk as well as to listen.
+This was just what Mary had wanted,--to find out whether the new
+Philip had what was best in the old, and skillfully she cast her line,
+the hook hidden in good conversational bait.
+
+Mr. Elton unconsciously assisted, by judicious flourishes of the
+landing net, in the form of questions demanding answers, and
+statements requiring contradiction. Mary’s smile was that of the
+successful fisherman when Philip laid down his knife and fork and
+began to talk. His subject interested him, and Mary’s questions and
+arguments stimulated him. He threw back his head, and indifference and
+acquiescence shook off him like drops of water. His eyes lighted with
+the old fire of enthusiasm, and his voice vibrated with earnestness. A
+flush of almost triumphant success was reflected in Mary’s face. Edith
+may have lulled Philip’s spirit to sleep, but she had not killed it.
+As for Edith herself, she regarded her husband’s transformation with
+undisguised pleasure. “Now I see what you’ve been wanting these last
+two years, Philip!” she exclaimed, smiling joyously from him to her
+friend. “It’s just been Mary! It’s good to see you like your old self.
+Perhaps if I could only learn to quarrel and argue with you it would
+goad you into going into politics, as your friends want you to. What
+you need is a little opposition.”
+
+“He’ll get enough of that if he goes into politics with his present
+ideas of reform,” Mr. Elton chuckled. But Philip did not seem to
+heed the comments that were flying round his head. He looked at Mary
+and talked on, his mind quickened by her interested questions, his
+intelligence freed by finding its fellow. Edith leaned back in her
+chair and gave the satisfied sigh of a surfeited child. There was not
+the smallest tinge of jealousy or of envy in the delight she took in
+the pleasure of Philip and Mary in being together again. Her nature
+was light but not petty, and small thoughts were as alien to her as big
+ones.
+
+When dinner was over, Edith took possession of her friend and carried
+her off to the other room, calling back, “Now please smoke very long
+cigars, and pretend you have a great deal to say to each other. Mary
+and I are going to have a heart to heart talk, and we don’t wish to be
+disturbed by mere men.”
+
+As Edith stood in the firelight, Mary felt the rush of irresistible
+admiration that her presence always excited. In all the galleries of
+Europe, Mary’s eyes had rested on no more beautiful picture than this
+wonderful woman, dressed in soft shades of varying yellows that seemed
+to match their golden gleams with her sunshiny hair. Her engagement
+ring--Philip’s opal--flashed its sympathetic response to every hue of
+her gown and every variation of light, while a necklace of the same
+stones--his wedding gift--flashed fire, like a setting of colored
+lights encircling her exquisite head.
+
+“Now let’s talk, just the way we used to,” she said, settling herself
+in a corner of the big sofa, “which means that I will lay bare a few
+hearts and brains and things, and you will dissect them.”
+
+“Well, produce your material,” Mary commanded; “the surgeon’s knife is
+ready.”
+
+“I’ve got a splendid name for you!” Edith broke in. “It just came to me
+this minute. You’re the Critic on the Heart! You do so love to analyze
+emotions and criticise impulses.”
+
+Mary rewarded her friend’s bestowal of the title by flinging a sofa
+cushion at her, which Edith instantly tucked away behind her shoulders,
+saying, “My back thanks you,” and leaned forward, looking like a
+lovely daffodil in a calyx of green pillows.
+
+“_You_ have no heart for me to criticise,” Mary said rather scornfully,
+“and my own is a fossil. I am not a geologist, so I don’t understand
+it. Produce another.”
+
+“Philip’s!” Edith replied so promptly that Mary started.
+
+“Thanks. I’d rather not,” she said shortly. “I know nothing of it, and
+a man’s wife would surely not wish to discuss him in any private or
+personal way, even with his best friend--and hers.”
+
+“Now, Mary, you know it’s perfectly ridiculous to talk that way to
+me,” Edith expostulated. “My marriage is your doing. You can’t dismiss
+it that way with a grandiloquent generality. You’ve got to take the
+consequences of your own acts.”
+
+“And what are the consequences?” Mary forced herself to ask in a light
+tone which she felt would not fit the relentlessly frank attitude of
+the young wife.
+
+“Unhappiness on his side, indifference on mine,” was the laconic
+answer, that drew from Mary a sharp cry of “_Don’t_, Edith! Don’t say
+such a thing--in such a way. What are you made of!”
+
+“Sugar and spice and all that’s nice,” the girl sang gayly. “You
+always knew that was all I was made of, but you thought the power of
+my husband’s love would convert sugar and spice into heart and soul.
+I regret to say the strength of Philip’s love was not sufficient to
+perform that miracle,” she added, with an unusual touch of bitterness.
+But she instantly laughed it away. “I knew you’d see that Philip had
+found me out,” she said. “But he’s wonderfully good to me, he never
+shows that he is disappointed,--but--you know I _have_ intuition, Mary,
+if I haven’t anything else,--and I knew that he had ceased loving me
+before we had been married a year. Of course that means that I am
+adrift again,” and she sighed resignedly.
+
+Rage surged in Mary’s breast, rage against herself and Edith, and a
+rush of suffocating pity for Philip. But her anger, as usual, had to
+stand aside for admiration and amazement at Edith’s next words.
+
+“It was so fine in Philip,” the girl said slowly, her rich voice
+vibrating with feeling, “it was so much nobler of him to cease loving
+me when he found I was--nothing. Most men would have kept on caring for
+me. I was always good to him, always sympathetic and affectionate; I
+did everything he wanted me to, and, as you see,” she added naïvely,
+“I have not lost my looks nor grown stupid. How many men would feel a
+lack in such a wife? I have been the envy of débutantes and matrons,
+the admired and adored of men, yet Philip has proved his fineness by
+ceasing to love me. His nature is high enough to demand its equal.”
+
+“You are making him out as much of a prig as Tennyson’s King Arthur,”
+Mary expostulated, but Edith’s childlike laugh interrupted her. “Oh,
+no! Philip has far too much humor and sense to wave his hands over me,
+saying, ‘Lo, I forgive thee, even as eternal God forgives.’ Under such
+provocation I should feel tempted to elope with the nearest Launcelot.
+No, the good part of Philip is that no one but you and I knows that he
+is a bitterly disappointed man. _I_ know it because I myself am his
+disappointment, and you know it because”--
+
+“Oh, I _don’t_ know it!” Mary hastily interposed. “I’m sure he seems
+quite happy. You have too much intuition. You exaggerate. You may not
+be just what Philip thought you, but who is what any one thinks them?
+Besides, if he craves something different, you are surely adaptable
+enough to give what he wants.”
+
+“No, Mary,” Edith said sadly, “I cannot give leadership, advice,
+stimulus, incentive. I can give only responsive qualities, as you know.
+And there is danger ahead, Mary, danger for me as well as for him.”
+Restlessly she rose from her cushioned corner and walked up and down.
+“Do you still care for me, Mary?” she demanded earnestly. “I mean
+enough to make a fight for me? Can you exert a strong enough influence
+to overthrow a determined will pulling against yours?”
+
+Mary did not trust herself to meet the appealing and appalling
+clearness of the eyes waiting to disarm her. She was disgusted with
+the girl’s egotism, angry with the weakness that had disillusioned
+Philip. She cared too much for the man to feel pity for the woman. “I
+am afraid I am beginning to lose patience with a clear-sightedness as
+unavailing as yours,” she said, rather coldly. “If you and Philip are
+unhappy, I am more so, for I have an added sense of responsibility for
+your disappointment. I confess I do not feel like entering a tug of
+war for the prize of your soul. Where everything seems to the onlooker
+to be peaceful and serene, such strenuousness strikes me as being
+inappropriate.”
+
+Edith drew back a little, as if her friend’s sarcasm had hit her
+lightly in the face.
+
+“I have been dreadfully selfish,” she acquiesced with Mary’s thought.
+“I am going to try never to talk to you about myself again. I think you
+will make it easy for me to keep that resolution.”
+
+Instantly Mary’s impulsive heart smote her. “Edith, forgive me!” she
+cried. “I spoke thoughtlessly.”
+
+Edith was by her side at once, radiant and fascinating. “Forgive you?
+My dear old Mary, that word must never pass between us. I’ll try to be
+more what you would wish,--but I want to say one thing.” Her fingers
+twined together nervously. “I think--if I had had--a child--everything
+might have been different.”
+
+“I have so hoped that you would,” Mary murmured, with the half-abashed
+embarrassment shown by the unmarried when referring to the subject that
+is outside of their personal experience or prospects.
+
+“I feel that I shall never have children,” Edith said quietly, “and I
+am sorry for Philip as well as myself. He must turn to his work and I
+to”--
+
+“Mr. Grant Lorimer,” said the maid’s voice at the door. Mary started
+as if the little white-capped servant had fired a pistol at her. But
+Edith was halfway across the room, shaking hands with Mary’s old enemy
+and crying out, “You have spoiled everything, Grant! Miss Elton and I
+were having the first talk we’ve had for two years, and I hadn’t got
+round to telling her that you are in Boston again. See how surprised
+she looks!”
+
+Mary tried to assume a cordiality she did not feel. “How do you do, Mr.
+Lorimer? Yes, I am surprised to find any one drifting back to Boston
+who does not belong here.”
+
+If there were a dash of venom in her words he did not swallow it. He
+made a profound bow as he seated himself beside her. “I feel that I
+do in a measure belong here,” he said quietly. “Mrs. Morley always
+gives me a sense of being at home, and perhaps an old friend like
+myself brings with him a little different feeling of old times than
+comes with new acquaintances, no matter how congenial.” Their foils
+crossed in their opening greetings, as never failed to happen when
+these combatants met. Edith rushed in to separate them. “I’m going to
+treat you like the old friend you are, Grant,” she struck in, “and send
+you into the dining-room to have a cigar and some coffee with Philip
+and Mr. Elton. Then Mary and I can finish our feminine confidences and
+you will have all the charm of novelty when you return with the others
+fifteen minutes later. I know Philip wants to talk to you about stocks,
+and I hate the sound of the word. Run along like a good boy.” Her voice
+had the affectionate cadence of a mother giving wheedling advice to
+her child. Mary’s suspicious brain wondered what was Edith’s motive in
+thus summarily dismissing her friend. Was it merely that the electric
+sparks of discord were disagreeable to one who loved harmony? was it
+because Edith wished to speak to him alone, and could do it better
+when her husband was in the room to absorb Mary’s attention? or was it
+because she did not wish Mary to find out from her Southern admirer
+how constant had been their companionship of late? In another minute
+Mary was blaming herself for attributing false motives, for as Grant
+Lorimer left the room in obsequious obedience to his queen’s command
+Edith threw her arms around Mary, exclaiming, “I couldn’t have any one
+come between us this first night. I want to be with you alone. Talk
+to me, dear. Tell me all about you, what you’ve thought and felt and
+experienced these two years. I’m sick of myself. I want to get close,
+close in touch with you to-night. You always help me so much;” and
+Edith cuddled up to her austere and angular friend like a tired child.
+Mary never forgave herself for her next words. She gave a little hard
+laugh and said, “I’ll talk to you as much as you please about what I
+have seen, heard, and done, but I have happily outgrown the days of
+immodest exposure of heart and mind and spirit. If you are catering
+to what you think I want to talk about, you are making a mistake. I
+don’t wish to talk about either myself or yourself. Let’s compromise on
+Italy.”
+
+A queer, quiet smile crept into the corners of Edith’s lips, and she
+gave a little shrug, her frivolous submission to Fate. “Kismet. So be
+it,” she said lightly, drawing her hand out of Mary’s arm but still
+smiling with perfect amiability. “Italy is the subject of all others to
+be discussed by friends who have been separated two years. I hope you
+enjoyed Giorgione’s ‘Concert’ as much as I did, and felt like slapping
+the insipid faces of Carlo Dolce’s Madonnas!”
+
+When the men came in a little later, the girls were discussing the
+relative merits of Perugino and Lippo Lippi with the passionate
+interest frequently reserved for post-prandial confidences concerning
+the advantages of rival schools of underwear.
+
+Mr. Elton and Grant Lorimer took instant possession of their hostess,
+who was laughingly accused by Lorimer of “showing off” about Italian
+art.
+
+“What a wonderful memory Edith has!” Mary exclaimed to Philip, as
+he drew a chair up to the corner of her sofa. “It doesn’t seem fair
+for one person to have so much. All the fairies were present at her
+christening.”
+
+“Yes, she is wonderfully endowed,” Philip acquiesced. “A good memory
+knows what to forget as well as what to remember,” he added, and
+suddenly Mary’s mind flew back to their last interview alone together,
+when she had poured out the story of her love for him. She flushed
+scarlet at the thought, and an intolerable sense of embarrassment and
+shame flooded her. They talked of impersonal things, and no outsider
+would have been conscious of effort or strain; but while Mary was
+talking she was telling herself that their intercourse could never be
+natural or agreeable. Their past yawned between them,--a past too vital
+to be bridged with the commonplace,--while they chatted of friends, and
+things that had happened to people in whom they were both interested.
+Mary found herself watching Philip’s face with all her old affection
+and belief, but with an added ache of sorrow, not for herself but for
+him. “If he had only been happy I could have borne my own unhappiness,”
+she groaned inwardly, “but he is a disappointed man. He was once
+something, he could have been anything, and now he will be nothing.”
+Involuntarily she turned towards the cause of his failure. Edith, with
+her customary skill, was mixing oil and water in the persons of her
+two guests. Mary remarked on it to Philip, and then, adding abruptly,
+“A little vinegar has a wonderfully ameliorating effect on two alien
+liquids; I am going to supply it,” impulsively, almost to the point of
+rudeness, she quitted her seat and joined the group at the other side
+of the room. Edith instantly beckoned to Philip to come and sit by her
+side.
+
+“This is a great deal cosier,” she said comfortably. “There are too
+few of us to divide into groups. Mary is a wise woman to encourage us
+to hang together, isn’t she, Philip?” She smiled up at her husband’s
+rather baffled face with her winning air of confidence, but his
+answering smile touched his mouth alone, leaving his eyes unresponding.
+Mary instantly began firing questions at Lorimer, which he, bewildered,
+answered with the brevity of surprise.
+
+“Are you to be long in Boston?”
+
+“Why, really I don’t know. My plans are quite uncertain.”
+
+“Have you been here much during the last two years?”
+
+“No. At least only recently. My business demands occasional visits to
+other cities.”
+
+“Where did you spend last summer?”
+
+“At Northeast Harbor.”
+
+“Oh, how pleasant for you to be near the Morleys!”
+
+“Yes, indeed, delightful.” And so it went.
+
+Finally Mary rose to her feet, weighted down by a confused sense of
+failure, misunderstanding, and disappointment. “Come, Uncle Charles,
+you must take me home,” she said. “I’m not as young as you, and half
+past ten is the middle of my night. I haven’t my land legs or my
+land brain yet, and I feel a little watery at both extremities,” she
+explained to Edith.
+
+“You must look in to-morrow or the next day and see that all goes well
+in my absence,” Philip said, as he unfolded Mary’s wrap. “I have to run
+on to New York for a few days on business, and Edith will think it a
+good exchange if you will take my place.”
+
+“Oh, why don’t you take her with you!” Mary cried impulsively. He
+turned towards his wife, saying, “Well, Edith, what do you say,--will
+you come with me?”
+
+“Why, of course, if you want me,” she replied instantly.
+
+“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he said. “Good-night, Mary. It is
+like old times to have you back again. We’ve missed you tremendously.
+Good-night, Mr. Elton. I congratulate you on your return to slavery.”
+
+Grant Lorimer stood beside the handsome couple, bowing with scrupulous
+politeness. He looked mysteriously dark and enigmatic in the half
+light. Mary turned as she went down the steps, fascinated by the
+picture that Edith made, as she stood between the two men, gleaming
+like a tongue of flame in her shimmering yellows. Somehow at that
+moment her radiant beauty stamped itself on Mary’s consciousness more
+forcibly than ever before. “Good-night, Mary,” called Edith for the
+last time. “Philip isn’t going to take me to New York. I know him!
+Don’t desert me. Remember I shall be all alone. I shall depend on you.
+Don’t forget me.” Her voice vibrated with a tone of earnestness out
+of keeping with her words, but her pretty inconsequent little laugh
+trilled out. Mary saw Philip still standing by the open door, as Grant
+Lorimer turned towards Edith with one of his compelling glances and
+followed her into the parlor. Then a sudden gust of wind slammed the
+door, and the vision went out like the picture on a magic lantern
+slide.
+
+Mary spent the next few hours between the nightmares of waking and
+sleeping. As usual, she alternately blamed and justified herself for
+her repellent attitude towards Edith’s confidences and confessions. “If
+I am a critic on the heart, there is no heart for which I feel greater
+scorn than my own,” she told herself bitterly. “I don’t know that it’s
+any better to have a bad heart than none at all. I am blaming Edith for
+what she can’t help; she was made by her parents and I by myself.” She
+tossed restlessly on her pillows, jerking impatiently at the blankets.
+“It’s only the sight of Philip and the thought of him that make me so
+unjustly angry with poor Edith. If she had married a man whom I could
+regard simply as her husband, my sympathies would be hers along with
+my affection and my grudging admiration; but she has taken the will
+power out of Philip Morley,--she is making him into a mere drifting
+will-less creature like herself, and I _can’t_ forgive her when I care
+so much for him. Oh, how absurd,--how _wrong_ it is for me to love
+him as I do!” Warm tears fell on her pillow, and she turned it over
+angrily. She tried to look at facts without blinking, and she saw the
+shadow of something unavoidable darkening the radiance of Edith. “It’s
+that wretched cad of a Dr. Fell,” she told herself. “He has too much
+influence over her. I must exert mine in opposition.” Then she drifted
+into unrestful sleep, clenching her fist at the powers of darkness,
+vowing that she should save Edith yet, and murmuring “I was ever a
+fighter,” as her imaginings changed to dreams.
+
+The next day Mary was busied with her unpacking till late afternoon,
+when she took a breathing space and went to see Edith. The maid told
+her she had gone out ten minutes before, and that Mr. Morley had gone
+to New York that morning. Mary left a message of regret which she
+genuinely felt, and then made a long détour to get home, that she might
+fill her lungs with fresh air before again attacking the problem of
+sorting and distributing her spoils of travel.
+
+When she got back she was disappointed to hear that Edith had been to
+see her, and had waited half an hour in vain for her return. “I wish I
+had thought to leave word for her to come to dinner to-night. It must
+be lonely for her with Philip away,” Mary reproved herself, and several
+times in the course of the evening she exclaimed irrelevantly to her
+uncle, “I wish Edith were here!” The next morning Mary made amends to
+her own conscience by going early to the Morleys to try and persuade
+Edith to come back with her to spend the day. The maid recognized the
+visitor of the afternoon before and asked her to step in. “Mrs. Morley
+left a letter for you,” she explained. “Mr. Morley sent for her to join
+him in New York last night, and Mr. Lorimer saw her off on the midnight
+train. He told me about it while she was packing up her things.”
+
+Mary’s legs shook under her and she felt herself grow pale and cold.
+What did it mean? Was Philip ill? Was Grant Lorimer?--Tremblingly she
+opened the envelope. Between the closely written pages another note
+fell out addressed simply “To Philip.” Mary’s mind stopped thinking,
+her heart seemed to cease beating. Automatically she turned the
+enclosed envelope face down on her knee, and said to the maid in a
+voice which was not her own, “Very well. You needn’t wait. I will read
+Mrs. Morley’s letter here.” It ran as follows:--
+
+  DEAR MARY,--I am writing this while Grant Lorimer is waiting for me
+  to go away with him. This is not a letter of justification but of
+  explanation. I _can’t help it_, Mary, believe me, _I can’t help_
+  what I am doing. It had to be. It isn’t that I love him. Don’t
+  think I am just vulgarly bad. It is simply that he loves me more
+  than Philip, more than you, I am afraid, and that he has strength
+  to make me do what he wants. Don’t fancy that I do not think of
+  Philip,--of the disgrace--the humiliation--the bitter grief and
+  shame I am bringing him. But I cannot act otherwise. Perhaps if you
+  came in at this moment and defied the man downstairs and carried me
+  off with you, the battle would be won, for you know your influence
+  over me is hardly less hypnotic than his. Don’t ever blame
+  yourself, dear old Mary, for not having understood a little better
+  what I was going through. It is part of the tragedy that you could
+  not believe in such--weakness--as mine. Help Philip to understand
+  that I have never been anything but a puppet,--an irresponsible toy
+  with tangled strings pulled by many hands. I must write a few words
+  to Philip, and you must try to make him understand that there are
+  some events in life that are _inevitable_. I am not carried away by
+  passion,--I am not unhappy with Philip. I shall not be happy with
+  the other man. I am simply doing what I must do. Believe that, if
+  you can, and be good to Philip always, Mary, for my sake,--it is my
+  last request. I know that you will love me in spite of all I have
+  done and been, just as I shall always love you because you are your
+  own fine free self. And sometime, perhaps, I shall come back, and
+  then I know you will take me in.
+
+    EDITH.
+
+Mechanically Mary folded up the letter. Her strained eyes looked like
+those of a person in a trance. There was no look of comprehension
+in her face. She laid Philip’s note on the table, propping it up
+frivolously against a little match safe in the form of a red imp. Then
+she walked to the window and looked out at the passers-by. “How badly
+that woman’s skirt hangs!” she inwardly commented with the only part
+of her mind that was not dead. After a few moments she shivered and
+glanced at Edith’s letter, which her frozen fingers grasped. “I must go
+before the maid returns,” she muttered vaguely, feeling as if a body
+she had murdered lay by her side and would be discovered. She turned
+towards the door. “Philip must not be told like that!” she exclaimed
+angrily as she caught sight of the letter she had arranged for him, and
+she crumpled it into her pocket, with trembling hands. Edith’s portrait
+smiled at her with bewitching candor. “There’s a woman like a dew-drop,
+she’s so purer than the purest,” Mary murmured. Then a muffled cry of
+acute comprehension broke from her tightened throat. “Edith, forgive
+me!” she cried wildly. “Oh, my God, how shall I tell Philip!” She bent
+her abashed head, that she might not meet the generous smile of her
+sinning friend, and when she crept home, hugging her terrible secret to
+her heart, she looked like a guilty soul fleeing from justice.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW
+
+
+Three years had passed since Boston society was shaken to its depths by
+hearing of the elopement of one of its adored and admired favorites.
+Most people were left frankly baffled by the shock, and could offer
+neither excuse nor explanation. Mrs. Philip Morley was universally
+loved, and her husband was universally liked and respected, yet this
+inexplicable thing had happened,--and society slowly got on its feet
+again, dazed by the blow it had received, rubbed its bewildered eyes,
+and continued to love the wife and like the husband. Of course there
+were the inevitable few who “always suspected something queer about the
+girl.” Miss Milton expressed surprise only that Mrs. Morley had not
+disgraced herself and her poor husband sooner. “I have often noticed,”
+she proclaimed solemnly, “that girls who have not been brought up in
+Boston are very apt to do something queer sooner or later. That young
+woman had too good manners. She was unlike Boston people. I always knew
+she’d drag the Morley name in the mud.” The only people who did not
+discuss and wonder and exclaim were the two most interested,--Philip
+Morley and Mary Elton. After the long interview in which he was told
+the truth, Edith’s name was never mentioned between them. Philip had
+understood his wife, and did not need Mary’s assurances that Edith had
+not an evil trait in her nature. “Don’t I know that?” he had said,
+his tense face drawn with suffering. “The poor child was not like a
+human being, for all her lovable human qualities. She was like some
+wonderful and mysterious force of nature,--electricity, or the rushing
+torrent,--waiting for the hand of man to control and make the best use
+of it. Perhaps it was my fault that I did not know how to handle such a
+strange and subtle element.”
+
+“It was her parents’ fault that they made her what she was!” Mary
+cried, with an angry sob accentuating her scorn. “I am sure that she
+started life a human child like the rest of us, only with more goodness
+and sweetness and beauty than is the lot of most,--and what did that
+Southern father and Catholic mother do to her, but divest her of her
+individuality, tear out her soul and make her over again, a mechanical
+doll to obey the strongest will! She is not responsible for her acts.
+I can only thank Fortune, that having been deprived of the possibility
+of doing and thinking for herself, the power of suffering keenly and
+feeling deeply was taken from her also.”
+
+“Oh, what will be her end!” Philip had groaned, covering his eyes from
+the mental picture they had conjured out of his imagination.
+
+“I suppose--for her sake--you will divorce her,” Mary said, with
+evident disgust. “That hound will think he is showing Southern
+chivalry by marrying her. From my point of view it doesn’t matter one
+iota whether she is divorced or not,--whether she is his wife or his
+mistress. It is all the same. She doesn’t want to be either.”
+
+Philip pushed back his chair abruptly. “If you ever hear anything from
+Edith, or about her, please let me know, Mary. My life is broken in
+two, but that is not so bad as the feeling that I unconsciously broke
+hers. I did not understand--I loved her so tremendously at first,--and
+then, slowly, it came to me that there was nothing to love--nothing
+to hate.” His voice dropped. “It--it was terrible! Poor, radiant,
+beautiful Edith! My poor ill-omened opal! What a life,--Heavens, what a
+life!--and perhaps my fault.”
+
+Mary stood beside him, calm and white. “No, Philip, mine. I brought you
+together. I encouraged your marriage; and, worse than all, I refused
+to give help and sympathy when it would have saved her life. I have
+been wicked and stupid, and I deserve to suffer as I _shall_ suffer.
+Oh, I shall, never fear.” Her mouth quavered, but she bit her lips into
+subjection again. “I had more power over Edith than any other living
+creature; and I was selfish and blind and did not use it for her good.
+I shall be remorseful all my life; but some day she will come back,--it
+will be to me that she will come,--and then you’ll see whether I’ll
+help her!” There was courage in her voice, but hopelessness in her eyes.
+
+Philip had gone his way, and taken up his ruined life and tried
+to piece it together again. He faced the world, in silence but in
+strength, and the dignity of his life and the strenuousness of his
+work silenced alike whispers of gossip and whines of pity. He saw few
+people outside of his business, his politics, his family, and his one
+perfectly understanding friend. From her he received the old incentive
+to being and doing which he had thought was lost to him forever, and
+their friendship was too true and close to be heedful of the censures
+of Mrs. Grundy,--whose home is in Boston, though she sometimes goes
+away to pay visits.
+
+Mary, meanwhile, was taking a sardonic satisfaction in what she called
+“fulfilling her destiny.” She became absorbed in charities and immersed
+in good works; clubs, classes, and committees took most of her time;
+and in becoming the chief manager of a vacation house for over-worked
+shop-girls, Mary declared she had attained her apotheosis.
+
+She had heard once of Edith from a Boston friend who proved her right
+to be popularly considered a Bohemian by living in Charles Street,
+whence all but she had fled. This dauntless soul had gone to Italy soon
+after Edith’s disappearance, and had one day found herself in a small
+shop in Florence trying to make the man understand that she wished
+to buy a pair of smoked glasses, when who should come in but Edith
+Morley. “For a moment,” she wrote, “I stopped thinking, and in that
+moment I rushed up to the dear creature and kissed her, just from pure
+nervousness! She didn’t seem a bit surprised, nor a bit disconcerted.
+She was the perfect lady she always was,--and, if anything, prettier
+than ever. She asked with absolute naturalness about every one in
+Boston,--you particularly,--and might have been traveling with Cook for
+a chaperone, if it hadn’t been for one thing. She didn’t ask me to call
+on her, and when she walked out of the shop with her goddess step, that
+worm of a Lorimer crawled out of a crack in the pavement and joined
+her.”
+
+A condensed version of this meeting was sent by Mary to Philip; but,
+true to the vows in their first interview, Edith’s name was not spoken
+between them.
+
+So the first three years of Edith’s absence passed. One afternoon in
+January, Mary was sitting alone by the library fire. When her face was
+in repose it showed lines of grief and hopelessness sad to see in a
+woman of thirty. The mask of cheerfulness and courage with which she
+faced and deceived the unthinking portion of her world, was laid aside
+when she looked boldly into the past and future, as she was doing now.
+A blazing fire images sad pictures, even though its snaps and crackles
+are cheerful, and its warmth and light comforting. Mary’s meditations
+were interrupted by the entrance of Philip Morley, cold and brisk from
+a quick walk.
+
+“You’re just the excuse I wanted for a cup of tea,” she said, as she
+rang the bell. “I am feeling frightfully guilty over my failure to be
+at a committee meeting this afternoon, and I really hadn’t the face to
+reward myself with refreshments; but the case is different now. You
+look half frozen, and politeness demands that I share your tea.” He
+settled himself the other side of the fire, and waited silently till
+the tea was made and the servant had gone. Then he said abruptly,--
+
+“Why do you go in for so many charities, Mary? Do they really interest
+you, or do you drug yourself with activities merely to kill thought?
+You used to laugh so at the strenuousness of charity workers, yet here
+you are one yourself.”
+
+“Well, I laugh at myself,” Mary exclaimed bitterly. “Between ourselves,
+most of my good works bore me to death; but unfortunately I have a
+pretty good head for organizing,--so having failed in everything else,
+I naturally wish to do something I can succeed in.”
+
+“In what have you failed, Mary?”
+
+“In the greatest vocation there is in life,--in friendship.” Her
+face--with its disguise still thrown aside--retained its look of
+hopeless tragedy, and her straight brows almost met.
+
+“You must not say that!” Philip cried. “It is morbid and untrue. If it
+had not been for you I should have sunk to earth under my burdens, but
+I scorned to be a coward where a woman could show me such an example of
+courage.”
+
+“Don’t, Philip,--don’t, don’t!” Mary cried weakly. “I don’t deserve
+it. You make me feel dreadfully.”
+
+But Philip had risen, and stood in front of her, decided and relentless.
+
+“Mary, five years ago you made me listen to you without interruption.
+Now you must do the same for me. The time has come when I have got to
+speak.”
+
+She looked up at him, dreading and beseeching, but his expression of
+determination conquered hers of appeal.
+
+“Mary, five years ago you told me something that has affected my whole
+life and my whole character more than you can know, more than I myself
+realized at first. I would to Heaven you could tell me the same thing
+now, since I was blind fool enough then not to be able to say to you
+what I cannot help saying now.”
+
+She put out her hands in dumb protest, but he paid no heed.
+
+“Mary, I love you with all my heart and all my strength, and you
+must and shall learn to say over again to me now what you were brave
+enough to tell me once before. I have loved you, consciously and
+completely, for nearly three years, but I could not speak before. I
+know now that I have loved you always, but without realizing it. You
+are my second self,--no, my first self, my better self. Whatever I
+have done, whatever I may become, is _yours_, _yours_ utterly. I have
+no thoughts that are not due to you, no wishes, no ambitions that are
+not yours. When I was almost crushed to earth, and seemed to have
+lost the power not only to do, but to feel, it was your strength, the
+power of your principle that gave me a new start. Oh, Mary! The joy of
+finding a rudder when I was adrift! The satisfaction of being steered
+by conviction, instead of blown by every wind! It is to you I owe
+everything.”
+
+Mary looked up at him with trembling lips, the light of happiness
+transfiguring her face into the semblance of real beauty.
+
+“Are you speaking the truth?” she whispered. “You are not saying this
+because of--of what I told you five years ago?”
+
+The childlike appeal in her face made him kneel by her side and put a
+protecting arm around the self-reliant back that had never yet bent
+under its burdens.
+
+“Mary, my dearest,” he whispered gently, “my whole life shall prove
+that we were made for one another from the beginning. Perhaps we shall
+realize it all the more for the suffering we have shared in the past.
+We shall begin our lives over again side by side, happy and rich in
+accomplishment, if you can give me back a little of the love I give to
+you.”
+
+Mary closed her eyes for a second, as if to nerve herself for her
+reply. Then she rose, and clasped her hands behind her. “Philip, I
+should like to make you realize, if it won’t make you unhappy in the
+future, how my love for you has simply saved my life. It has been my
+absorbing passion, my dream, yet my one reality. I haven’t dared to
+think you cared for me--in the same way I have cared for you. It is
+incredible. I’m so ugly, you know,” and she laughed as she had done
+five years before. Then she looked at him with the motherly protection
+he loved. “You _dear_ boy,” she went on, “you dear blessed old Philip!
+You’ve given me enough happiness now to last me the rest of my life.
+It’s like an inexhaustible deposit in a bank,--the sense of your love.
+I shall keep drawing cheques on it,--and then perhaps some morning I’ll
+hear that I’ve overdrawn my account, and that I’m bankrupt.”
+
+“There’ll always be plenty more, dear,” Philip said tenderly. “My
+heart is wholly yours, and I never realized before what a large heart I
+had!”
+
+“Oh, but _I_ knew!” Mary exclaimed, laughing happily. Then she grew
+suddenly serious. “Philip, I’ve got to hurt you--I’ve got to seem
+Quixotic and unreasonable, but after a while you’ll understand and
+forgive, and perhaps even thank me.” She looked at him squarely but
+gently. “I have loved you since I knew what it meant to love any one,
+and I shall keep on loving you till my teeth drop out and my hair turns
+gray. I do believe, now for the first time--that you care for me, and
+the thought makes me inexpressibly happy, but I can _never_, _never_
+marry you.”
+
+Long experience had taught Philip not to exclaim at Mary’s vehement
+statements, so he said quietly, “I thought you were above conventional
+scruples. Besides, a legal divorce makes re-marriage with the--the one
+who has not broken any vows, entirely lawful and proper.”
+
+“Oh, I am not afraid of doing anything unlawful!” Mary cried, “and
+certainly I should be doing quite the conventional and usual thing in
+marrying a divorcé who is above reproach morally. I am not posing as a
+model for others. I am not laying down laws for society. I merely say
+that you are asking me to do something from which my whole moral nature
+shrinks as an act of selfishness and disloyalty, although the impulsive
+natural _me_ longs to jump into your arms and remain there always,
+without fear or reproach.”
+
+“Then follow your impulse, Mary,” he begged passionately. “Your heart
+is leading you right this time, your conscience has become morbid and
+diseased. There is not a living soul who could blame you for taking and
+giving the happiness we have both so nearly missed. Prove yourself a
+woman, dearest, not a thinking machine. Love is a matter of feeling,
+not of cold analysis. Forget that you are a Bostonian, and for once
+follow your inclinations, which are true and right.” He held out his
+arms, but Mary only shook her head dumbly, and her dry lips formed the
+words “I can’t.”
+
+“Ah, you don’t really know what love is!” Philip cried cruelly,
+striding over to the fireplace and turning his back on Mary’s quivering
+look of appeal.
+
+“Oh, yes I do. Love is the fulfilling of the law, Philip,” she almost
+whispered. “St. Paul was not a Bostonian, he was a man of the world
+and he knew what he was talking about. Oh, don’t you suppose I realize
+that any definition of love sounds sententious and unfeeling!” she
+interrupted herself stormily. “But by _law_ I don’t mean anything
+legal. I merely mean that the only love worth giving is the fulfilling
+of one’s own law of life, and if I married you I should be false to
+myself and treacherous to Edith. Try to understand me, Philip. Don’t
+make things harder than they _must_ be.”
+
+She sank wearily into a chair, and obedient to her mood, he took his
+old place on the other side of the fire.
+
+“If things were different, Philip, I would rather be your wife than
+anything else in the world,” she continued. “So far as we two are
+concerned, I should be glad to live with you on any terms, legal or
+illegal,--but you see the pity of it is there never _are_ only two
+persons concerned. If I married you, I should be doing just what I
+blame others for doing,--regarding my case as exceptional and making
+excuses for what should not be excused. If I married you, I should
+not blame any of the working girls I try to help and influence, for
+doing what would be the equivalent of such an act in their own class.
+My deed would give the lie to my words. It seems to me that mistakes
+should be as punishable as sins, and we ought to be just as unable
+to escape from their consequences. You committed the great error of
+marrying Edith Dudley. I made the greater one of encouraging you, and
+we must both pay the price of that error.”
+
+“We have paid it,” he broke in vehemently. “We have paid it with
+bitterness and sorrow. It is unjust for the consequences of a mistake
+to be everlasting.”
+
+“Philip, the consequences of a mistake _would_ be everlasting if I
+married you. I could not look at Edith’s picture, I could not even
+in imagination meet her loving smile and think, ‘She will come home
+some day and turn to me for help, and I shall be in her home, married
+to her husband, and shall have to close her own door in her face.’
+When friends should turn to me with raised eyebrows and with the
+unspoken comment, ‘I thought you did not believe in divorced people
+marrying again,’ I _could_ not be untruthful enough to say, ‘but my
+case is different. This is a moral marriage.’ Dear Philip, it is harder
+than you know to say all this--caring for you as I do. I feel like a
+drunkard delivering a temperance lecture. I long so to be completely
+yours, yet I know so well we should neither of us be happy in so
+selfish a union.”
+
+“Mary, you are wrong,--your ideas are twisted; trust your heart, and
+your judgment will follow.”
+
+“No. You are wrong, dear,” and she shook her head sadly. “You cannot
+escape from your marriage with Edith. It is part of your life, and by
+ignoring it you cannot forget it. I am bound by every tie of loyalty
+and remorse to remain true to her. I must be ready when she comes back.”
+
+“But who knows that she will ever come back?” Philip burst out. “Her
+husband is with her. You are sacrificing your life to a fanatical
+delusion. And even if you can stand this dreadful dead life you are
+leading, what will become of me?”
+
+Mary smiled and stretched out her hand to him. “You used to admire my
+clear-sightedness and to think I could see into the future as well as
+interpret the present. Let me be Cassandra for a minute.” She tightened
+her grasp on his, and met his gaze with a courageous smile.
+
+“I see you at first rebellious, then submissive, and finally triumphing
+with me in the sense that we care enough for each other to sacrifice
+our selfish selves to the highest truth in each other. You will care
+enough for me to be strong and vigorous in action. The conviction
+that you are doing what is right will be a living help and support,
+and you will make me prouder than ever of loving you,--proudest of
+all in being loved by you.” Her voice lowered. “I see our poor Edith
+drifting,--drifting,--tired of life,--her husband tiring of her, till
+some day she becomes conscious of my thoughts and wishes pulling and
+tugging her towards me; and then she will come back to me, and I
+shall try to make up to her for her ruined life, and I shall then at
+last feel worthy to be loved by you. As for me myself”--Mary suddenly
+dropped her head in her hands and burst into the uncontrolled sobs of
+a child. “Here I am talking like a dried-up old prig, when my heart is
+just bursting, and I can’t silence the voice inside that cries out for
+the right to love and be loved! Oh, my dearest,--it has been so many,
+many years!”
+
+Philip’s arms were around her, and she clung to him with the
+desperation of one who feels the waves closing over her. “This is the
+last time,--the _only_ time,” she whispered. “To-morrow we shall play
+our parts as usual. We shall face the footlights, and we shall forget
+that we have been behind the scenes. And perhaps, after we are dead,
+we may be able to wash off the paint and powder,” she added, trying to
+smile underneath her tears.
+
+“Is this really your final answer?” Philip asked, his eyes and saddened
+lips giving eloquence to his few words.
+
+“It must be, dear. You will come to see that it is the only end. It
+could have been different, but it is too late. ‘It once might have
+been, once only.’”
+
+Philip’s arms dropped to his side with a gesture of finality, as he
+said quietly, “I believe in you so absolutely that I may come to
+believe that you are right in this as in all else. If that time ever
+arrives, I will come back and take what strength and comfort I can from
+your friendship, and you may trust me never again to open the chapter
+you are now closing. If I do not return, it will be because I am too
+weak to trust myself,” and he turned away.
+
+“You must learn to have the courage of my convictions,” Mary said,
+with a trembling smile, “for I am a coward, though confident,--and you
+are brave, though unconvinced.” She held out her hand. “Au revoir. You
+will return, my friend. I hope it too much not to believe it.” He left
+the room, not trusting himself to speak again. She kept her control
+till she heard the front door close. Then she clenched her teeth with
+angry grief. “If I am doomed to act a part all my life, it shall be a
+melodramatic part for once!”
+
+She took from her desk a photograph of Edith, and gazed passionately at
+the passionless face. The girl’s thoughtful eyes were shaded by a large
+white hat; a soft feather boa fell back from her bare neck, on which
+lay Philip’s opal necklace. Suddenly Mary tore the picture across and
+flung it into the blaze. “You have ruined my life!” she ranted wildly,
+and flung herself on the sofa prepared to weep her heart out. But the
+doorbell rang, inopportunely enough, and by the time the maid came
+upstairs her mistress was idly poking at a piece of charred paper in
+the fireplace.
+
+“It’s a lady from the Associated Charities wants to know if she can
+speak to you a minute about Mrs. O’Connell,” the maid said tentatively.
+
+Mary gave her hair a quick smoothing with her hand and shook herself
+into shape like a dog. Then she faced the footlights once more. “Show
+her up,” she said, rather wearily.
+
+
+
+
+The Riverside Press
+_Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co._
+_Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: TOUT BIEN OU RIEN]
+
+
+_The following pages are devoted to notices of some recent successful
+fiction published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company._
+
+
+
+
+  The
+  AFFAIR AT THE INN
+
+  By KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
+  MARY FINDLATER
+  JANE FINDLATER
+  ALLAN McAULEY
+
+
+“An international comedy unfolded with a charm that is undeniable and
+irresistible. Each author’s account sparkles with conversations and
+forms a unique narrative.
+
+“Mrs. Wiggin’s portrayal of the alternate words of the fun-loving but
+sympathetic American girl is a strong bit of character writing which is
+deeply human.
+
+“It is a story unique in its construction, amusing in its situations,
+of easy and natural progression and sustaining one’s interest from page
+to page.”
+
+  _Boston Herald._
+
+Illustrated in tint by MARTIN JUSTICE
+
+  12mo, $1.25
+
+  HOUGHTON,      [Illustration:       BOSTON
+   MIFFLIN          TOUT BIEN           AND
+  & COMPANY         OU RIEN]         NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+  REBECCA
+  of SUNNYBROOK FARM
+
+  By KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
+
+
+“Of all the children of Mrs. Wiggin’s brain, the most laughable and the
+most lovable is Rebecca.”
+
+  _Life, N. Y._
+
+“Rebecca creeps right into one’s affections and stays there.”
+
+  _Philadelphia Item._
+
+“A character that is irresistible in her quaint, humorous originality.”
+
+  _Cleveland Leader._
+
+“Rebecca is as refreshing as a draught of spring water.”
+
+  _Los Angeles Times._
+
+“Rebecca has come to stay with one for all time, and delight one
+perpetually, like Marjorie Fleming.”
+
+  _Literary World, Boston._
+
+With decorative cover
+
+  12mo, $1.25
+
+  HOUGHTON,      [Illustration:       BOSTON
+   MIFFLIN          TOUT BIEN           AND
+  & COMPANY         OU RIEN]         NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+  THE REAPER
+
+  By EDITH RICKERT
+
+
+“So impressive are Miss Rickert’s accounts of the Shetland character,
+so vivid her pictures of their alternating happy and sordid lives, so
+faithful her study of the racial and personal influences that move
+them, that we may accept _The Reaper_ as one of the notable books of
+the season. It is something more than fiction--it gives a realistic,
+poetic, imaginative view of a wonderful and curious people.”
+
+  _Boston Transcript._
+
+“A powerful story, fresh, vivid, and of unusual character and tone.”
+
+  _Chicago Record-Herald._
+
+  Crown 8vo, $1.50
+
+  HOUGHTON,      [Illustration:       BOSTON
+   MIFFLIN          TOUT BIEN           AND
+  & COMPANY         OU RIEN]         NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+  BIDDY’S EPISODES
+
+  By Mrs. A. D. T. WHITNEY
+
+
+“It is full of life, full of fun, full of glisten, and distinctly up
+to date. The character of the story is well expressed by the title;
+it is a record of the sayings and doings of a very unconventional but
+very original young woman as given by Joanna Gainsworth, who is not
+only an old maid, but an old maid who glories in it. Then there is the
+most interesting episode which can enter into a young woman’s life, her
+courtship and marriage. The book is as bright as a dollar fresh from
+the mint.”
+
+  _Boston Transcript._
+
+“The story is sweet-spirited, bright, wholesome, interesting.”
+
+  _Chicago Record-Herald._
+
+  12mo, $1.50.
+
+  HOUGHTON,      [Illustration:       BOSTON
+   MIFFLIN          TOUT BIEN           AND
+  & COMPANY         OU RIEN]         NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+  The
+  PRIVATE TUTOR
+
+  By GAMALIEL BRADFORD, Jr.
+
+
+The love story of an Italian countess and a wealthy young American
+“cub.” An amusing comedy.
+
+“It is a readable, pleasant story, sprinkled with criticism of art and
+bright conversation, and bound to hold the interest of the reader.”
+
+  _Chicago Eve. Post._
+
+“It narrates directly, and with just enough philosophical reflection
+to show the author’s personal touch and feeling, the experiences of a
+party of Americans visiting and living in Rome.”
+
+  _Boston Transcript._
+
+“A book which has the distinction of intellectuality.”
+
+  _St. Louis Globe-Democrat._
+
+  Crown 8vo, $1.50
+
+  HOUGHTON,      [Illustration:       BOSTON
+   MIFFLIN          TOUT BIEN           AND
+  & COMPANY         OU RIEN]         NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+  DAPHNE
+  An Autumn Pastoral
+
+  By MARGARET SHERWOOD
+
+
+“In _Daphne_ we have a most delightfully refreshing story. In addition
+to a charming love-story of a young Italian for an American girl, Miss
+Sherwood has given us some rare descriptions of Italian peasant scenes,
+and some graphic pictures of Italian woods, mountains, and sunsets.”
+
+  _Review of Reviews._
+
+“The story of their love is simply and sweetly told, and with so
+exquisite a feeling and so masterly a touch that the story takes place
+in one’s mind beside the little classics that he loves.”
+
+  _Indianapolis Sentinel._
+
+Attractively bound
+
+  12mo, $1.00
+
+  HOUGHTON,      [Illustration:       BOSTON
+   MIFFLIN          TOUT BIEN           AND
+  & COMPANY         OU RIEN]         NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+  JOHN PERCYFIELD
+
+  By C. HANFORD HENDERSON
+
+
+“_John Percyfield_ is twisted of a double thread--delightful, wise,
+sunshiny talks on the lines laid down by the Autocrat, and an
+autobiographical love story. It is full of wisdom and of beauty, of
+delicate delineation, and of inspiring sentiment.”
+
+  _New York Times._
+
+“Its merits will rank it among the few sterling books of the day.”
+
+  _Boston Transcript._
+
+“A book of rare charm and unusual character ... fresh and sweet in tone
+and admirably written throughout.”
+
+  _The Outlook, New York._
+
+  Crown 8vo, gilt top, $1.50.
+
+  HOUGHTON,      [Illustration:       BOSTON
+   MIFFLIN          TOUT BIEN           AND
+  & COMPANY         OU RIEN]         NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+  A
+  COUNTRY INTERLUDE
+
+  By HILDEGARDE HAWTHORNE
+
+
+“The love story of a girl who learns through a summer in the country
+that life offers more than mere material comforts; as represented by a
+lover who can give social position and luxury of surroundings.... Miss
+Hawthorne manages her material with skill, and writes with charm and
+conviction of the beauties of nature.”
+
+  _The Outlook, New York._
+
+“_A Country Interlude_ is equal to any of the many stories put forth by
+her famous grandfather’s prentice hand.”
+
+  _Boston Transcript._
+
+“A charming little volume filled to the brim with happiness.”
+
+  _Chicago Evening Post._
+
+  With decorative cover. 12mo, $1.25.
+
+  HOUGHTON,      [Illustration:       BOSTON
+   MIFFLIN          TOUT BIEN           AND
+  & COMPANY         OU RIEN]         NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+  HEROES of the STORM
+
+  By WILLIAM D. O’CONNOR
+
+
+Wonderfully graphic accounts of the most famous rescues from shipwreck
+by the crews of the U. S. Life-Saving Service. O’Connor was a master in
+writing of the sea and its perils.
+
+“That his style was strong and smooth is shown by these descriptions of
+wrecks which undoubtedly are correct in every detail. The unflagging
+zeal and striking heroism of the life savers clearly is demonstrated,
+and a new emphasis is given to the perils of life on the ocean wave.”
+
+  _Boston Transcript._
+
+  With introduction by Superintendent S. I. KIMBALL        12mo, $1.50
+
+  HOUGHTON,      [Illustration:       BOSTON
+   MIFFLIN          TOUT BIEN           AND
+  & COMPANY         OU RIEN]         NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber’s Notes
+
+
+  In the .txt version, surrounding characters have been used to indicate
+    _Italics_, and small caps have been rendered as ALL CAPS.
+  Contractions written as two words have been joined into one.
+  Inconsistent hyphenation has been retained.
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78640 ***
diff --git a/78640-h/78640-h.htm b/78640-h/78640-h.htm
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a229e2f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/78640-h/78640-h.htm
@@ -0,0 +1,4957 @@
+<!DOCTYPE html>
+<html lang="en">
+<head>
+    <meta charset="UTF-8">
+    <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1">
+    <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no">
+    <title>
+      The opal | Project Gutenberg
+    </title>
+    <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover">
+    <style>
+
+body {
+    margin-left: 10%;
+    margin-right: 10%;
+}
+
+h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {
+    text-align: center; /* all headings centered */
+    clear: both;
+}
+
+p {
+    margin-top: .5em;
+    text-align: justify;
+    margin-bottom: .5em;
+}
+
+hr {
+    width: 100%;
+    margin-top: .5em;
+    margin-bottom: .5em;
+    clear: both;
+}
+
+/* for double hr use both; ebook compatible */
+hr.t {
+    width: 100%;
+    margin-top: .5em;
+    margin-bottom: 2px;
+    clear: both;
+}
+hr.b {
+    width: 100%;
+    margin-top: 2px;
+    margin-bottom: .5em;
+    clear: both;
+}
+
+hr.tb   {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;}
+hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%; margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;}
+@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} }
+
+div.chapter {page-break-before: always;}
+h2.nobreak  {page-break-before: avoid;}
+
+table {
+    margin-left: auto;
+    margin-right: auto;
+}
+table.autotable    { border-collapse: collapse; }
+table.autotable td,
+table.autotable th { padding: 0.25em; }
+
+.tdl      {text-align: left;}
+.tdr      {text-align: right;}
+.tdc      {text-align: center;}
+
+.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */
+    /*  visibility: hidden;  */
+    position: absolute;
+    left: 92%;
+    font-size: small;
+    text-align: right;
+    font-style: normal;
+    font-weight: normal;
+    font-variant: normal;
+    text-indent: 0;
+} /* page numbers */
+
+blockquote {
+    margin-top: 0;
+    margin-bottom: 0;
+    margin-left: 5%;
+    margin-right: 10%;
+}
+
+.center   {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;}
+
+.right    {text-align: right;}
+
+/* right-justify portion of line */
+span.inlinesig {
+  display:inline-block;
+  text-align:right;
+  white-space: nowrap;
+  float: right;
+  margin-right: 0em;
+}
+
+.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
+
+figcaption   {font-weight: bold;}
+figcaption p {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: .2em; text-align: inherit;}
+
+/* Images */
+
+img {
+    max-width: 100%;
+    height: auto;
+}
+img.w100 {width: 100%;}
+
+
+.figcenter {
+    margin: auto;
+    text-align: center;
+    page-break-inside: avoid;
+    max-width: 100%;
+}
+
+/* Transcriber's notes (includes pagebreak before) */
+.transnote {background-color: #EAFEEA;
+    color: black;
+    font-size:small;
+    padding:0.5em;
+    margin-bottom:5em;
+    font-family:sans-serif, serif;
+    page-break-before: always;
+}
+
+.right    {text-align: right;}
+.right5   {text-align: right; padding-right: 2em;}
+.rightb   {text-align: right; font-weight: bold;}
+
+
+/* TOC */
+.toc-container {
+	display: flex;
+	justify-content: center;
+}
+
+
+/* faux-h2 for front matter */
+.front {
+  font-size: x-large;
+  font-weight: bold;
+  text-align: center;
+  page-break-before: avoid;
+}
+
+/* faux-h2 centered */
+.fh2 {
+  display: block;
+  font-size: x-large;
+  font-weight: bold;
+  text-align: left;
+}
+
+
+/* misc text formatting */
+.small    {font-size: small;}
+.xl       {font-size: x-large;}
+
+
+/* illustrations */
+.illowp15 {width: 15%; max-width: 7.5em;}
+.illowp25 {width: 25%; max-width: 12.5em;}
+.illowp30 {width: 30%; max-width: 15em;}
+.illowp65 {width: 65%; max-width: 32em;} /* portrait image */
+
+
+    </style>
+</head>
+
+<body>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78640 ***</div>
+
+
+
+<p class="front">THE OPAL</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+<figure class="figcenter illowp65">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/frontis.jpg" alt="The Opal; From a painting by J. H. Gardner-Soper.">
+  <figcaption>
+    <p>THE OPAL<br>
+<i>From a painting by J. H. Gardner-Soper.</i></p>
+  </figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<h1>THE OPAL</h1>
+
+<p class="front">A NOVEL</p></div>
+
+<br><br>
+<figure class="figcenter illowp15">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/riverside.jpg" alt="Riverside Press logo">
+</figure>
+
+<br><br>
+<p class="center">BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br>
+HOUGHTON MIFFLIN AND<br>
+COMPANY THE RIVERSIDE<br>
+PRESS CAMBRIDGE 1905</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<p class="small center">COPYRIGHT 1905 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN &amp; COMPANY<br>
+ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PUBLISHED FEBRUARY 1905</p></div>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+  <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">
+    CONTENTS
+  </h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class="toc-container">
+<table class="autotable">
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdr">I</td>
+  <td class="tdl"><a href="#Page_1">DRAMATIS PERSONAE</a></td>
+  <td class="tdr">1</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdr">II</td>
+  <td class="tdl"><a href="#Page_9">MERELY PLAYERS</a></td>
+  <td class="tdr">9</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdr">III</td>
+  <td class="tdl"><a href="#Page_40">A THOUSAND WOMEN IN ONE</a></td>
+  <td class="tdr">40</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdr">IV</td>
+  <td class="tdl"><a href="#Page_63">ONE WOMAN IN A THOUSAND</a></td>
+  <td class="tdr">63</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdr">V</td>
+  <td class="tdl"><a href="#Page_84">A DIRECTOR OF DESTINIES</a></td>
+  <td class="tdr">84</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdr">VI</td>
+  <td class="tdl"><a href="#Page_103">A PUPPET IN TRAGEDY</a></td>
+  <td class="tdr">103</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdr">VII</td>
+  <td class="tdl"><a href="#Page_150">THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW</a></td>
+  <td class="tdr">150</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p>
+
+
+<p class="front">THE OPAL</p>
+</div>
+
+  <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">
+    CHAPTER I<br> DRAMATIS PERSONAE</h2>
+
+
+<p>Mary Elton was a girl whom her
+friends called unusual, and her
+friends’ friends, peculiar. She was young
+enough to be judged leniently by her elders
+on the ground of her immaturity, and old
+enough to be looked up to by her juniors
+as a clever woman whose character was
+past the formative period. An undisguised
+interest in her own character frequently
+laid her open to the charge of egotism, but
+she had never been accused of conceit. A
+sort of fundamental frankness, combined
+with a remarkably clear vision, was the
+basis of her nature. Seeing things without
+disguise made it possible to speak of things
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span>without reserve, and neither timidity nor
+politeness ever tempted her to call black
+white, or even gray, and a spade was given
+no less definite a name when she found it
+necessary to refer to that symbol of the
+unmentionable.</p>
+
+<p>Men discovered in Mary Elton certain
+masculine characteristics of mind and heart,
+an almost grim sense of humor and a readiness
+to see the man’s point of view, which,
+paradoxically enough, made her the more
+feminine, there being no quality regarded
+as so essentially womanly as intelligent
+sympathy for the superior male, and understanding
+of his complexities.</p>
+
+<p>But, as Mary acknowledged with equal
+openness to herself and to her friends, no
+man had ever been in love with her. Many
+had given her their warmest friendship, and
+had confided their affairs of the heart to
+her as to one of their own sex, but no one
+had ever faintly intimated that marriage
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span>could concern her in any more personal way
+than as a subject of abstract discussion.</p>
+
+<p>Among her clear-sighted and warm-hearted
+friendships there was none more
+sincere than that which bound her with
+mutual chains of comprehending sympathy
+to Philip Morley. There had always been
+good comradeship between them, their
+temperaments being sufficiently unlike to
+enable them to act and react upon each
+other to their common advantage and stimulus.
+He confided his small love affairs to
+Mary, and she gave them either the sympathy
+he craved or the scolding he deserved,
+as circumstances seemed to demand.</p>
+
+<p>To outward view he was tall, with a suggestion
+of latent power about him, which
+was in singular contrast with the superficial
+laziness of his manner. Mary used to tell
+him that it was a mere toss-up of chances
+whether he became a leader of men or a
+follower of women. Certainly hints of both
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>tendencies lurked in his handsome features,
+the strength lying in his firm mouth and
+decided chin, the sentiment and love of
+pleasure looking out from his blue eyes.</p>
+
+<p>One morning, after a lapse of time longer
+than Philip usually allowed to pass without
+having seen Mary, he found a bulky envelope
+on his office desk, addressed in so
+boldly and blatantly masculine a hand that
+it instantly proclaimed the writer to be a
+woman. He glanced at the pile of letters
+it surmounted, with the constitutional indifference
+that extended even to his morning
+mail; then a slow smile brightened his
+features into an expression of half-amused
+pleasure.</p>
+
+<p>“Mary’s screeds generally deserve to be
+read first,” he said to himself. “She always
+insists that the length of her letters is in
+inverse ratio to their importance, by which
+token this must be a trifle of exceptional
+airiness.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span></p>
+
+<p>With a slit of his finger he liberated two
+closely written sheets of letter-paper and
+read as follows:—</p>
+
+<blockquote>
+<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Philip</span>,—I am sending cards
+to the rabble (and notes to the elect) to
+bid them come here “very informally”—whatever
+that may mean—next
+Wednesday afternoon, November twenty-seventh,
+to meet Miss Edith Dudley. I am
+perfectly aware that every one hates teas,
+and I know that nothing less than a personal
+appeal eight pages long would bring
+you to one, but I do want you to come
+and see this holiday novelty that I am
+exhibiting for the first time in Boston.
+“Who under the sun is Miss Dudley?”
+I hear you inquire, “and why did I never
+hear of her before?” Because, I reply
+sententiously, like all Bostonians, your
+knowledge of men and women is limited
+to State Street and the Back Bay; and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>this lovely creature, who is a sort of step-cousin-in-law
+of mine, happens to be
+known only in Europe and the southern
+and western portions of this continent.
+Listen, my children, and you shall hear
+why she is what she is. Don’t fancy that
+you are beginning a Balzac novel if I go
+into her ancestry sufficiently to tell you
+that her mother was French, her father
+Kentuckian, her education as cosmopolitan
+as her inheritances, and her beauty as
+bewilderingly elusive as that of the opal
+or the rainbow. Her mother died several
+years ago, and by some strange inconsistency
+of temperament her hot Southern
+father must needs marry the cold Northern
+cousin of my uncle. (Doesn’t that
+sound Ollendorfian?) The alliance instantly
+froze him to death; so this lovely
+wonderful daughter was left to the mercy
+and justice of her stepmother. They went
+abroad together and stayed two years, and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>now Edith has come to pay me a long
+visit on the feeble strength of my relationship
+to the second Mrs. Dudley. She
+will be in Boston most of the winter, first
+with me, and then with the Warners.
+You are the only person to whom I have
+given a word of preparation as to what to
+expect; but you may pass on the information
+to those whom it may concern. As
+usual, my note has grown into a foreign
+letter, the gist of which may be summed
+up in the refrain, Come early and avoid
+the rush! November 27th. One day
+only!! Beauty and the Beast!!!</p>
+
+<p class="center">Always faithfully your friend,</p>
+<p class="right5"><span class="smcap">Mary Elton</span> (the Beast).</p>
+</blockquote>
+
+<p>“How exactly like Mary!” the young
+man exclaimed out loud. “Her voice gets
+into her letters in the most extraordinary
+way, and makes her pen talk instead of
+writing. Of course I shall have to go and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>meet this siren who has bewitched the
+most clear-sighted of her sex;” and he
+jotted down in his note-book the date of
+one of the few “teas” he was not glad to
+forget.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p>
+
+
+  <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">
+    CHAPTER II<br> MERELY PLAYERS</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>Philip Morley ascended the steps
+of Mr. Elton’s house on the afternoon
+of the “very informal” reception, at the
+psychological moment between the hours
+of four and six, when the first reluctant
+black-coated figures began to give character
+to the steadily flowing stream of
+gayly dressed women. Having succeeded
+in fighting his way to the door of the
+drawing-room, the young man paused a
+moment to nerve himself for the plunge
+into a noise and heat that seemed almost
+tangible. The sharp, shrill voices of women
+buzzed in his ears like the trills of persecuting
+insects, and high mirthless laughs
+cut his nerves like little steel blades.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span></p>
+
+<p>“This is not civilization, it is barbarism!”
+Philip exclaimed to another timid
+male explorer into the wilderness of
+women. “Talk about giving the franchise
+to any class of human beings who take
+pleasure in assemblies of this sort! It’s preposterous!
+Women may be very charming
+individually, but collectively—O
+Lord!”</p>
+
+<p>He looked helplessly into the room to
+try and locate his hostess, who would be
+sure to straighten him out into his customary
+ease of body and mind with a grasp of
+her friendly hand.</p>
+
+<p>“Why are the men so thick in that
+corner?” he continued querulously. “Oh,
+I see.”</p>
+
+<p>The crowd had thinned a little at the
+entrance to the room, and between eager
+faces and nodding heads, Philip Morley
+caught sight of a girl standing beside Mary
+Elton. Her beauty, her extraordinary
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>quality, defied description or comparison.
+To say that she was tall, graceful, dignified,—radiant
+in coloring and expression,—would
+have been to describe half a dozen
+other good-looking women in the room.
+She positively seemed to radiate light, and
+to give a dazzling impression of eternal
+youth and of the beauty that is in living,
+moving things; not the cold perfection of
+a statue, or any work of art, but the vitality
+of the work of nature,—the sparkle
+of running water, the changing wonder of
+a landscape played upon by sun and cloud
+and breeze. Her very dress seemed part
+of her, and to a man’s ignorant eyes gave
+a bewildering impression of misty gray,
+toning into a delicate pink that in turn
+melted into the color of pale heliotropes,
+as it caught different rays of light. Her
+own soft yet vivid coloring was opalescent
+like her dress, for her hair was of the warm
+brown that grows golden in the light, her
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>eyes were so clear that they seemed to reflect
+blue, green, and gray shadows, and
+the delicate color in her cheek came and
+went as she talked. Nor was her wonderful
+beauty that of line and color only, for
+intelligence, sympathy, and humor shone
+from her speaking face. Assuredly Mary
+Elton’s guest was possessed of the kind of
+beauty one reads of in old-fashioned romantic
+novels, but with an added touch of
+indefinable modernity and subtle mystery.
+In contrast, Mary Elton looked plainer
+than usual,—which was saying much. She
+was so far from good-looking that no one
+but herself ever commented on it. Plainness
+of feature was simply one of her attributes,
+like height in a tower or strength
+in a fortress, and invited no comment.</p>
+
+<p>She caught sight of Philip standing by
+the door, and made a humorous face at
+him, signifying her own aversion to the
+hubbub around. Then she beckoned to
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>him, pointed encouragingly at Edith Dudley,
+as to a goal that was worth much
+pushing and elbowing to attain. When
+he was within arm’s length, she held out
+her hand.</p>
+
+<p>“Quick, what do you think of her?
+Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she wonderful?
+Shouldn’t you think I was the last person
+in the world to get hold of such a drawing
+card? Aren’t we splendid foils for each
+other? Oughtn’t she to pay me to travel
+about with her? Why don’t you say what
+you think of her? You’re always so slow,
+Philip!”</p>
+
+<p>“On the contrary, it’s you who are
+fast,” he replied laughing. “I am by no
+means slow to admire Miss Dudley. She
+is certainly stunning, but I am not sure
+that I want to meet any one so lovely.
+She can’t fail to be a disappointment
+with such a face as a handicap to her
+brain.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p>
+
+<p>“You just wait. She’s wonderful,” Mary
+exclaimed triumphantly. “Stop, look, and
+listen, as the railroad warnings say. Don’t
+meet her for a little while, but just stand
+on the outskirts, and watch her tact and
+grace and cleverness. Oh, she’s wonderful!”
+Mary repeated. Here Mary’s uncle
+came up to give to Philip the official greetings
+of a semi-host.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Elton was a fair type of the average
+business man. His mental horizon
+seemed bounded by the wool in which he
+dealt, but he was kindly in disposition, and
+truly attached to the niece who had lived
+with him since she was left an orphan at
+twelve years of age. There was no intimacy
+between them,—perhaps the difference
+in their temperaments had helped to encourage
+the girl’s introspection, and forced
+her to find her best companionship in herself,—but
+there was genuine affection,
+even although Mr. Elton might be said to
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>have cared for his niece with all his conscience,
+rather than with all his heart.</p>
+
+<p>“Our young friend seems to be meeting
+with a fair measure of success,” he
+stated, with the precision that characterized
+all his trite utterances. “It is not often
+that one finds so good an intelligence combined
+with so beautiful a face. I was really
+surprised at the knowledge she showed of
+the way in which a big business,—like
+that of wool, for instance,—is conducted.
+She seems to be well informed on many
+subjects, without being superficial; a rare
+quality nowadays.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary rescued Philip from the wearisome
+task of feigning an interest in her
+uncle’s dry and woolly comments, by sending
+Mr. Elton off to do the polite to a lady
+whose deaf smile was the index to her
+infirmity. “There, Uncle Charles, do go
+and scream at poor Miss Green. She won’t
+hear a word you say, but she is touchingly
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>grateful if one merely recites the alphabet
+to her. Why <i>will</i> deaf people come to
+afternoon teas, and why does every one
+who isn’t deaf assume that every one else
+is? I never heard such a cackling. The
+parlor is turned into a barn-yard. Oh,
+how do you do, Miss Milton?”</p>
+
+<p>Mary turned suddenly to greet a new
+arrival, who bore the hall-mark of a charitable
+spinster, from the neat little white
+path that divided an expanse of smoothly
+plastered hair, to the broad soles of her sensible
+shoes. She was the scion of a family
+which had many branches and was less conspicuous
+for its manners than its customs.</p>
+
+<p>She proved her birthright by staring
+across her hostess at Miss Dudley for a
+moment before answering Mary’s greeting,
+and then saying abruptly, “What an
+extraordinary-looking young woman to be
+a friend of yours! Who is she? Has she
+relations in Boston?”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span></p>
+
+<p>“Nothing nearer than myself. But she’s
+all right, Miss Milton. I shouldn’t have
+asked you to meet her if she hadn’t
+been,” Mary suavely declared, with an intentional
+humor that missed fire. “You’ll
+find she isn’t as frivolous as you think.
+She has an extraordinary insight, and will
+probably divine by intuition that you are
+more interested in the poor than the prosperous,
+and she will unquestionably give
+you the latest wrinkle in philanthropy.
+You just see. Come,” Mary continued,
+dragging her elderly victim after her by
+one end of her dateless mantilla. “Edith,
+I want you to meet Miss Eliza Milton. This,
+Miss Milton, is my friend—and cousin by
+courtesy—Miss Dudley. Be acquainted,
+as they say in the country.”</p>
+
+<p>Philip saw the girl turn from the young
+men surrounding her, and speak to the
+unfashionable aristocrat in a low rich tone
+that fell soothingly on the ear among the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>sharp staccato waves of sound that filled
+the room. The sympathy and kindly human
+interest that beamed from the girl’s
+face could not be the result of training
+alone. Even her double-distilled inheritance
+of Southern courtesy and French
+grace could not explain a responsiveness
+that had no touch of the professional
+veneer that glazes eyes and lips into a
+perfunctory assumption of interest. Miss
+Milton had not been talking to the girl
+two minutes before the conversation had
+veered from the general to the particular,
+and Edith Dudley was giving the charitable
+spinster a little account of an experience
+she had had among the poor in a
+New York college settlement.</p>
+
+<p>“I am very much interested in sociology,”
+Philip was astounded to hear the
+young girl glibly declare, “and I’ve
+been fortunate enough to have seen a
+little of the practical workings of various
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>schemes for the regeneration of mankind.”</p>
+
+<p>Miss Milton drew herself up with pride
+at representing the One Perfectly Organized
+Body of Workers on Earth.</p>
+
+<p>“It is easy to dispose of a large subject
+with superficial catch-words,” she
+proclaimed.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, isn’t it?” Miss Dudley agreed
+sympathetically. “Some personal experience,
+some knowledge from the inside,
+is necessary. I have had a little,—less
+than I should like,—but I should be so
+grateful to you, Miss Milton, if you would
+put me in the way of taking some small
+part in the special form of philanthropy
+in which you are interested. Of course I
+have already read and heard a good deal
+about the Associated Charities here in
+Boston.”</p>
+
+<p>“Naturally,” Miss Milton interposed.</p>
+
+<p>“I am immensely impressed by its aims
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>and accomplishments,” Miss Dudley continued.
+“I wonder if I couldn’t do a little
+visiting for you while I am in Boston.”</p>
+
+<p>“We are always glad of intelligent assistance,”
+the Philanthropist guardedly
+admitted.</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know about the intelligence,”
+the girl said smilingly, “but I speak Italian
+fairly well. I believe you always need
+some additional visitors in the Italian
+quarter, don’t you? I should be so glad
+if you would let me practice my Italian
+on some transplanted organ-grinders and
+fruit-venders.”</p>
+
+<p>Miss Milton acquiesced, with a slightly
+distrustful manner, in a suggestion that
+seemed to her as surprising as if a butterfly
+had suddenly offered to lead the strenuous
+life of a bee. Her frankly expressed
+astonishment was broken in upon by the
+introduction of a clerical young man,
+whose studiedly sympathetic smile seemed
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>to preach the duty of cheerfulness to a
+quite professional extent, and whose air
+of worldly ease was the logical sequence
+to his ministerial waistcoat.</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, this does make me feel at home!”
+Miss Dudley exclaimed, with a cordial
+grasp of the ineffective white hand extended
+to meet hers. “I never expected
+to see anything so anomalous as a clergyman
+of the Church of England in Mary
+Elton’s drawing-room. I haven’t dared to
+breathe my sympathy for anything so
+conservative as—as you, in this hot-bed,
+no, cold-bed of radicalism.”</p>
+
+<p>“There are a few of us left, Miss Dudley,
+a few of us left,” he replied, with the
+easy reiteration of the obvious in which
+his calling had perfected him. He grasped
+an imaginary surplice with two delicate
+fingers. “May I hope that you will persuade
+Miss Elton to bring you to St.
+Matthew’s next Sunday, and see for yourself
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>that Unitarians and Christian Scientists
+do not yet control all Boston,—not
+quite all of this fair city?” he eloquently
+preached.</p>
+
+<p>“Of course I’ll come, but my cousin
+won’t come with me. I feel sure that she
+secretly goes to some hall where Emerson
+is the Deity worshiped, although she pretends
+not to go anywhere. She is much
+too unconventional to attend any church
+that preaches legitimate doctrine, but I’ll
+come alone.”</p>
+
+<p>The little clergyman beamed unctuously,
+and expressed the belief that he should
+draw fresh inspiration from the sight of
+Miss Dudley in his congregation.</p>
+
+<p>“I really long to confess myself a miserable
+sinner,” the girl went on, with the
+blending of seriousness and lightness that
+is the ambition and admiration of young
+society clergymen. “These sincere, self-respecting
+Bostonians refuse to ‘cringe to
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>the Almighty,’ as Mary calls it. They think
+on the whole they’re a pretty virtuous set
+of people, but for my own part I never feel
+so good as when I say I’m bad, so I’m
+coming to confess with the other sinners
+in your congregation next Sunday.”</p>
+
+<p>The young divine was reluctantly hurried
+by, his impressionable heart stirred
+by a remembered vision of a serious and
+spiritual face that had contradicted the
+lightness of the spoken words. By this time,
+one of the former satellites that had revolved
+about the new planet drifted again
+into the orbit of her smile. His coldly critical
+and clever face was stamped with the
+lines of fastidious modernity.</p>
+
+<p>“What an anachronism is presented
+by the sight of a parson at Miss Elton’s
+reception!” he commented, smiling somewhat
+sneeringly at the cordial shoulders
+of the clergyman that were writhing,
+with ostentatious sympathy, over an old
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>lady’s confessions of rheumatism. “I am
+sure you agree with me, Miss Dudley, that
+the Church in America to-day is merely
+a picturesque ruin,—the only ruin in this
+terribly new land,—that we value merely
+for its traditions and associations. There
+is no longer such a thing as living faith.
+Occasionally we think we have found it
+again, but when we turn the electric light
+of modern science on its poor groping
+shape, we discover only the ghost of something
+that once lived ages ago.”</p>
+
+<p>Miss Dudley smiled with sad understanding.
+“You are right, of course. But I
+believe in ghosts, and that’s all right, isn’t
+it, as long as I don’t mistake them for their
+living counterparts? I know that faith is
+dead,—I mean the real vital faith that
+made martyrs of people,—but I like to
+play it’s alive. I really care for the forms
+of religion,—for its picturesqueness, its
+traditions; and therefore I prefer the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>Catholic Church to the Protestant. I like
+to recall my early associations with what
+my mother taught me, by going to church
+and getting into rather a slushy state of
+virtuous emotion, but as for a real reasoning
+belief”—</p>
+
+<p>She gave a little shrug,—the national
+gesture of her mother’s race,—and suddenly
+her eyes were veiled by a mist of
+sadness. “Don’t let’s be serious at an afternoon
+tea!” she exclaimed. “I should like
+to talk to you about all kinds of things sometime,
+Mr. Marston. I’m sure we should
+agree about a great many of them. You
+are cynical outside, and I am cynical inside.
+I have to drug myself with all these
+‘frivolous little anodynes that deaden suffering,’
+in order not to lose my grip on
+life.” She signified the pleasure-seekers
+around her with a wave of the large bouquet
+of sweet peas that seemed part of her.</p>
+
+<p>Philip Morley, still an eye and ear witness
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span>to Miss Dudley’s variations, gave a
+curious little grunt of mystification, not
+untinged with contempt, but he drew
+a little nearer to the enigma, to hear
+what further contradictions she would
+reveal.</p>
+
+<p>A young Harvard student lounged up
+to Miss Dudley’s side, with overacted ease,
+and continued a conversation that had evidently
+been interrupted. “Then you will
+really dance the cotillon with me next
+Thursday night? You won’t forget?” he
+asked, impaling her eyes with a gaze of
+boyish admiration.</p>
+
+<p>“Forget?” she laughed, clasping her
+hands with mock intensity. “I am not
+likely to forget what I enjoy more than
+anything in the world, dancing with a good
+partner,—for I know you dance well; I
+saw you last night.”</p>
+
+<p>“What flowers do you care for? What
+color are you going to wear?” he asked
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>with the blasé manner of an experienced
+society man.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I care for all flowers; I shall
+wear all colors,” she cried lightly; but
+then added, “you will please me best, Mr.
+Warren, by not sending me any flowers at
+all. It is one of my very few principles,
+not to let college men send me flowers.
+There are so many things they must want
+to get that will last so much longer. Please
+don’t send me any; I really mean it. Come
+and take me to walk some afternoon instead.
+Show me Bunker Hill Monument,
+and teach me some local history.”</p>
+
+<p>Her frank kindliness, just tinged with
+coquetry, was what the boy most wanted.
+“If you won’t let me give you flowers, you
+might give me one,” he said, stretching
+out his hand toward the variegated sweet
+peas that lay in the bend of her arm. She
+gave him a blossom, with a pretty little
+foreign gesture. “There. Now we won’t
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>either of us forget our engagement for next
+Thursday,” she said in her softly Southern
+speech, and then turned with a radiant
+smile to bid good-by to a gray-haired lady,
+whose hand she held in both hers. “It has
+been worth my coming to Boston to hear
+what you have told me of my mother,”
+she said gently, her eyes softening with
+impulsive tears. “Each person who knew
+her contributes something to my own
+memory of her. It is like a mosaic,—my
+thought of her,—all made up of little
+stones of memory pieced together by different
+hands. <i>Wasn’t</i> she beautiful, Mrs.
+Warner? Wasn’t she like a creature of
+another species beside the rest of the
+world?”</p>
+
+<p>“She was, indeed, my dear, and you are
+like her,” the lady replied gently.</p>
+
+<p>“It is so good of you to have asked me
+to stay with you, before seeing me,” the
+girl went on, “and still kinder now that
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>you have seen me. I shall love to come
+when Mary is tired of me.”</p>
+
+<p>“That means I must wait a long time,”
+Mrs. Warner said, as she pressed her hand
+for farewell.</p>
+
+<p>“Will you please take these flowers?”
+the girl cried impulsively. “Sweet peas
+were Mamma’s favorite flowers. They will
+thank you better than I can,” and with the
+grace of perfect unconsciousness, she put
+the big bunch of fragrant blossoms into the
+old lady’s hands.</p>
+
+<p>Philip Morley turned to Mary Elton,
+who was vigorously denouncing afternoon
+teas to an amused clump of her guests.
+“Will you introduce me to Miss Dudley?”
+he asked rather formally. “You know I
+haven’t met her yet.”</p>
+
+<p>“You’re no better than an eavesdropper!”
+she declared. Then, “You are sure
+you want to meet her?” she asked earnestly,
+looking at him with the boyish
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>straightforwardness that some men found
+disconcerting.</p>
+
+<p>“Naturally. What am I here for except
+to meet Miss Dudley from four to six?”
+he expostulated. “From the droppings
+that have fallen off the eaves into my ears
+I gather that Miss Dudley is all things not
+only to all men, but to all women, boys,
+and clergymen as well. I don’t wonder
+she enslaves every one, with her combination
+of extraordinary beauty and flattering
+sympathy with the point of view of
+the person she happens to be talking to.”</p>
+
+<p>“But it isn’t that she’s nothing,” Mary
+insisted, “she’s <i>everything</i>. She’s not a
+chameleon that sits on a piece of blue
+paper and turns to indigo,—she’s an
+opal: she’s blue and red and green and
+yellow, and good and bad and sweet
+and sarcastic and religious and skeptical
+and frivolous and serious! Come on and
+be introduced.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p>
+
+<p>He followed her obediently, but Mary
+had no time to mention his name, for Miss
+Dudley met his look with one of recognition.
+As Philip Morley came under the
+direct personal fire of her compelling personality,
+he felt the overwhelming rush of
+admiring excitement that one feels in seeing
+and hearing the swift flight of a sky-rocket
+in one’s immediate vicinity. The
+comparison flashed upon him in a moment.
+She was like a wonderful firework. He
+was constrained to admire, with quickened
+pulses, the upward rush, the downward
+flight, the shower of many-colored stars.
+Would he later see the stick fall to the
+earth?</p>
+
+<p>“You are going to be Mr. Morley,—isn’t
+he, Mary?” the girl said, holding
+out a frankly cordial hand. “You see I
+have made Mary give me biographical
+sketches of all her particular friends, and
+her descriptions of you have been so vivid
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>that you might just as well have your
+name scrawled over your face.”</p>
+
+<p>“I must plead guilty of being myself,”
+Philip assented. “It would be quite impossible
+to escape detection when Mary’s
+vigorous language has been employed on
+one’s behalf. You, also, Miss Dudley, have
+been duly catalogued. Perhaps you do not
+know that you have been called an opal.”</p>
+
+<p>“Opals crumble away to nothing; they
+are short-lived and rather sensational,” the
+girl answered. “Mary, there, is like a
+pearl,—staunch and unchangeable.”</p>
+
+<p>“I’m a black pearl, then,” Mary replied
+grimly. “They are fortunately very rare,
+and so ugly that they are considered beautiful
+by some. I myself would as soon
+have a boot-button set in a ring as a black
+pearl. If a thing is ugly inherently, its
+cost cannot make it valuable to me.” A
+note of bitterness was stinging her voice,
+but she cast it out with her customary
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>tone of light banter. “At least I am grateful
+for not being called a moss-agate,
+Edith. Isn’t it just like me to have
+that for my so-called ‘birthday stone’?
+Good-by,—there’s Miss Grantley. I’d
+forgotten I’d asked her. She’s anti-all-existing
+conditions. Anti-vivisectionist, anti-vaccinationist,
+anti-imperialist, anti-everything.
+But of course you’ll cater to all her
+aspirations towards reform, Edith. Miss
+Dudley is a born caterer,” Mary threw
+back at Philip, as she left them, to resume
+her irksome duties as hostess.</p>
+
+<p>“I suppose ‘caterer,’ in Mary’s sense,
+and ‘opal’ mean much the same, don’t
+they?” asked Philip. “It is most refreshing
+to find anything so acquiescent as
+either name implies.”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t think I can be like an opal,
+for it is my favorite stone, and my own
+character is the kind I most detest,” Miss
+Dudley said simply. “Mary Elton is the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>type of person for whom I have the most
+genuine admiration. She is splendid. Her
+strength and clear-sightedness and absolute
+sincerity and certainty of conviction
+are wonderful. If I were a man,—the
+kind of man I’d like to be, not the kind I
+should be,—I should strain every nerve
+to win that woman, and if I failed,
+why, I’d at least be thankful I hadn’t
+succeeded in winning any one less unusual.”</p>
+
+<p>Miss Dudley spoke with such simple sincerity
+that Philip Morley’s heart warmed
+to her. “Mary is indeed refreshing, and
+astonishingly satisfactory as a friend,” he
+heartily agreed. “One misses neither men
+nor women when one is with her. I confess
+I am too selfish to wish that you were
+a man, for if Mary married I should feel
+that I had lost my best friend.”</p>
+
+<p>For an instant Edith Dudley looked
+into the young man’s eyes with a glance
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>of eager scrutiny, but all she saw there
+was half-indifferent amusement.</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps I exaggerate Mary’s remarkable
+qualities,” she said quietly. “She is
+cast for so much better and bigger a part
+on the world’s stage than I, and acts it so
+much better, that I suppose I think of her
+with something of the same feeling with
+which a performer in private theatricals
+regards Bernhardt or Duse.”</p>
+
+<p>“I should have fancied you were a better
+actress than Mary,” Philip commented.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I am not speaking of consciously
+adopting a rôle and playing it consistently,”
+Miss Dudley explained. “I was
+merely speaking—tritely enough—of
+acting in the sense of living. ‘All the
+world’s a stage,’ you know, ‘and all the
+men and women merely players.’” She
+spoke with the slightest touch of scorn
+for his literalness. “At all events,” she
+went on, “I thank whatever gods there
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>be that I am still capable of feeling enthusiasm
+for people. You are, perhaps,
+lazily thanking the same indefinite deities
+for never being carried off your feet.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, but I am, if a strong enough person
+comes along,” he declared.</p>
+
+<p>“Is it irrelevant to own myself the
+weakest of my sex?” the girl asked with
+a challenging smile.</p>
+
+<p>“Not unless it is impertinent in me to
+hope I may have the opportunity of proving
+you otherwise. I have been listening
+to you talking to these people. You are
+not weak; you are daring, as only a person
+well armed can be.”</p>
+
+<p>For a second she looked at him beseechingly.
+“I hope that you will sometime
+understand Mary, and will never
+understand me,” she said with strange seriousness.</p>
+
+<p>“I already do one, and I intend to do
+the other,” he insisted, with his pleasant
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>personal smile. “I am hoping to see you
+often while you are in Boston, Miss Dudley.
+I am almost like one of the family
+in this house, you know.”</p>
+
+<p>The girl was prevented from answering
+by the introduction of another young
+collegian by her recent sophomoric conquest.</p>
+
+<p>“Where do you come from, Miss Dudley?”
+was his correct opening, in the tone
+of a player of twenty questions.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I am like George Macdonald’s
+baby,” she smiled, shaking off her serious
+mood with a dismissing nod to Philip; “I
+come ‘out of the Everywhere into the
+Here!’”</p>
+
+<p>Philip turned away, his brows knitting
+with mystification. He was curiously interested
+by the dazzling inconsistencies
+and overwhelming beauty of the strange
+girl who had spoken to him of Mary Elton
+with an inexplicable emotion. He must
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>see her again, and often. She was a riddle
+worth pondering over.</p>
+
+<p>He stopped in his flight to the door to
+say good-by to his hostess. There was in
+her eyes a strange look, almost of physical
+suffering, that he had noticed more than
+once lately, and her expressive ugliness
+seemed more than usually pathetic under
+its veil of humor.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, what do you think of her?”
+she said, with strangely vibrating intensity.</p>
+
+<p>Her small eyes seemed to swim in
+unshed tears for a moment, and she bit
+her under lip viciously in self-scorn as she
+waited for his answer. He looked over
+her head, and for a moment did not reply.</p>
+
+<p>Since speaking to the beautiful Miss
+Dudley, since her eyes had looked into his,—not
+boldly, not flirtatiously, but with a
+special intimacy and understanding,—Philip
+had felt almost as though he were
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>under a hypnotic influence. Even to Mary
+he could not reply seriously, as to what he
+thought of her friend, for, if he spoke truthfully,
+his sentiments would sound exaggerated;
+so he spoke with exaggeration, and
+trusted that his words had the ring of
+truth.</p>
+
+<p>“My dear Mary,” he said, laughing as
+he shook her hand, “she is a thousand
+women in one; but you are what is far
+more satisfactory, one woman in a thousand.”</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p>
+
+
+  <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">
+    CHAPTER III<br> A THOUSAND WOMEN IN ONE
+  </h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>Philip Morley’s imagination was not
+in the habit of being appealed to by
+individuals, so often as his mind and heart.
+But that he had plenty of imagination,
+waiting for the human touch, was proved
+by its response to all that was beautiful in
+literature, music, and the other arts. Perhaps
+the fault lay in an absence of the kindred
+quality in most of the people of his
+intimate acquaintance, for his particular
+circle was Bostonian in the narrowest limitations,
+as well as the broadest boundaries,
+of that indefinable term, and imagination
+was not the salient quality possessed by the
+inhabitants of his world.</p>
+
+<p>During his first glimpse of Edith Dudley,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>she had warmed his imagination, and after
+his second and third interviews she had
+fairly set it on fire. Her beauty changed
+but never decreased, and her sympathetic
+nature, with its wonderful responsiveness
+to each mood of her companion, was rendered
+the more fascinating to Philip by
+an inexplicable drawing back of her real
+self into its shell, when he probed for a
+deeper knowledge.</p>
+
+<p>He had formed the habit of dropping in
+for a frequent cup of tea at the Eltons’,
+and though Mary at first made a congenial
+third in the conversations with her two
+friends, she gradually made excuses either
+for coming home late or going upstairs to
+rest.</p>
+
+<p>Repose had not, until recently, figured
+on Mary Elton’s daily programme, but she
+had looked ill all through the autumn, and
+though she resented any inquiries, and
+snubbed all attempts to discover her malady,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>it was evident that physically she was
+not herself. She begged Philip to take her
+place in showing her guest the sights of
+Boston, and thus it happened that he became
+the envy of all his friends, by his
+constant attendance at the side of the beautiful
+girl who not only trod with him the
+conventional paths of the Back Bay, but
+explored the remoter ways of more unfashionable
+quarters.</p>
+
+<p>There were soon plenty of other men
+who talked with her and walked with her,
+who danced with her and flirted with her.
+She began to identify herself with the life
+of the people around her, and to interest
+herself in whatever most absorbed her new
+friends.</p>
+
+<p>She took an active part in various
+church clubs and organizations, under the
+guidance of her clerical conquest; she delighted
+her collegiate admirers by going
+with them to theatres and variety shows,—displaying
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>all the unsophisticated enthusiasm
+of a child,—and she converted
+Miss Milton to a belief in the sincerity of
+butterflies by keeping a weekly appointment
+with five poor families in the North
+End. But in spite of these side-tracks for
+her interests and energies, it soon became
+evident to all that Philip Morley had
+appropriated the largest share of her time
+and thoughts for himself.</p>
+
+<p>Between the girl and Philip, Mary Elton
+was a frequent and absorbing subject of
+conversation, and whenever she was mentioned,
+Philip received the same impression
+of repressed feeling in his companion’s
+voice and manner.</p>
+
+<p>“I have never felt about any one as I
+feel about her,” Edith said to him one
+day. “You can’t understand what I mean.
+She knows me thoroughly, and when one’s
+character is very weak, and yet one is
+loved by a person of strength,—of one’s
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>own sex,—it somehow gives one hope to
+keep up the fight.”</p>
+
+<p>This interesting stage of unformulated
+sentiments between Edith Dudley and
+Philip Morley was broken in upon by the
+unexpected arrival in Boston of an old
+friend of Edith’s from Baltimore,—a man
+whose manners soon made it evident to
+shrewd observers that he was a rejected
+lover, as well as an accepted friend. His
+appearance suggested the villain in a
+modern melodrama, and one almost expected
+to hear gallery hisses arise from
+protesting Philistines when he appeared.
+He was dark, handsome, scrupulously polite,
+suspiciously unvillainous.</p>
+
+<p>But from the moment Grant Lorimer
+appeared on the scene, Edith Dudley
+seemed to lose her poise and happy ease
+of manner. It was as if he exerted an
+influence which she could not resist, yet
+to which she did not wish to yield herself.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>Mary at once christened him Dr. Fell, for
+obvious reasons, and he seemed to justify
+the title if not the name, for he had seen
+her only once for a few moments, when he
+said to Edith, “Your friend Miss Elton is
+a very sick woman. I don’t mean nervous
+prostration and that sort of thing, but
+something really vital. I’ve been in hospitals.
+I know the signs.” Edith gave a
+cry of real pain.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, don’t say so! You don’t know
+what it would mean to me,” was her first
+selfish word. “It would be like taking a
+crutch away from a feeble old woman, to
+snatch Mary out of my life. You know
+what I am, Grant; you and she alone in
+the world understand my weakness.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, and we both love you,” he stated
+firmly.</p>
+
+<p>“Please don’t say so,” she shuddered.</p>
+
+<p>A few days after this the two girls were
+in Mary’s room one morning, engaged in
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>various jobs of leisurely domesticity, such
+as mending stockings, polishing finger
+nails, and running ribbons into sundry
+lace-trimmed garments. The conditions
+seemed to invite confidence, and Mary
+accepted the invitation by saying suddenly,
+“Edith, forgive my impertinence,
+put it down to my being physically upset,
+if you wish—but which do you mean
+to marry, Grant Lorimer or Philip Morley?”</p>
+
+<p>The girl flushed. “And must I marry
+one?” she asked.</p>
+
+<p>“I think you will have to. You see I
+know you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then why do you care for me?”
+Edith asked impulsively. “Why do you,
+who are all strength and conviction, care
+for a blank like me?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know,” Mary confessed. “I
+suppose it’s because you’re so extraordinarily
+pretty; and then you’re clever,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>too, and most good-looking women are
+fools.”</p>
+
+<p>“I’m not a fool,” Edith acknowledged,
+“but then I’m not anything.”</p>
+
+<p>“I know it, and it’s really refreshing
+in these over-strenuous days to find some
+one with no character at all. Excuse my
+frankness,—I love you just the same,
+Edith; that’s the funny part of it,—but
+it has only lately begun to dawn on me
+that you really might be said not to exist
+at all, unless there is some one with you
+to bring out some response, and then you
+are vivid as a rainbow. You are like that
+hero in Henry James’s story,—do you
+remember? They suddenly found that he
+simply melted into thin air, unless there
+was some other intelligence in the room
+to play upon his.”</p>
+
+<p>Edith’s eyes grew blank and expressionless.
+“Yes, I am like that,” she said in a
+dull monotone. “I have been brought up
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>from the cradle to produce an effect. My
+mother and my father bent all their efforts
+to make me into what they wished me to
+become. All my natural passions were
+curbed, all my impulses checked. I was
+not created by God, like other people,—I
+was manufactured by my parents. I am
+like one of those toys labeled ‘made in
+Germany.’”</p>
+
+<p>“But it takes a long time to find you
+out,” Mary protested. “You’re a wonderfully
+good imitation of a human being.
+You don’t seem a bit mechanical.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I have been well educated,” Edith
+acknowledged, dispassionately. “When I
+am with people, I do not merely reflect
+their ideas, I can furnish others in the
+same line, only not in opposition. I have
+some intelligence, but I have no character,
+no beliefs, no convictions.”</p>
+
+<p>“It is very strange,” Mary mused. “Are
+you happy?”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span></p>
+
+<p>“Happy? No, I don’t think so, nor
+unhappy. I like to be with you. You
+have so much character and force that it
+is almost infectious. But I like any one
+I am with. If a strong will is brought to
+bear on mine, it can control me utterly.
+I am not bad by nature, any more than I
+am good. I am simply what the other person
+wants me to be. It is my misfortune,
+Mary; not my fault, but my curse—the
+curse of my inheritance, my bringing up.
+I am not deliberately a turncoat, a caterer,
+as you called me once to Mr. Morley. I
+am simply a cipher, waiting for a definite
+figure to stand in front of me, and give
+me meaning.” The girl was pathetic in
+her unavailing self-knowledge.</p>
+
+<p>“You would interest the psychologists,”
+Mary said. “You are a living example of
+the power of suggestion.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” Edith continued earnestly, “I
+seem to have no Ego. There are hundreds
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>of different individualities shut up inside
+me, waiting to pop out as they are wanted,
+yet none of them is <i>me</i>,—there is no real
+<i>me</i>. If I am suddenly asked, by a person I
+have never seen, what I think on a certain
+subject, I can’t answer till I feel what the
+other person’s point of view is, and then I
+express it as well as I can.”</p>
+
+<p>“You’re like a prism, waiting for the
+sun of outside personality to shine on
+you and scatter your colors. Well, I go
+back to my first question,” Mary insisted;
+“which of them do you intend
+to marry?”</p>
+
+<p>“How can you ask? I suppose whichever
+has the stronger will,—unless some
+outside influence or event is stronger
+than either,” the girl confessed hopelessly.
+“Mary, I tried—I mean I tried to try—not
+to let Philip Morley fall in love with
+me. But I couldn’t make the effort. I
+hoped that you would. You and he should
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>have belonged to each other,—but you
+threw us together. I was utterly powerless
+and weak,—he is attracted by a
+pretty face and by a character that he
+can mould and influence. Mary, why did
+you not keep him for yourself? It would
+have been better for all.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary rose to her feet and stamped.
+“<i>Me?</i> What are you thinking of, Edith
+Dudley? Any man—even the most sensible
+man—would rather marry a pretty
+fool than an ugly and embittered jade
+like me. Not that you are a fool, you
+poor dear lovely nonentity, you! You are
+as clever and intelligent as you are fascinating;
+and I truly believe that you—a
+non-existent being almost—will bring
+more happiness to a self-reliant man like
+Philip than any of the strong-minded
+women he might marry. The whole question
+comes down to one of love. He loves
+you; he does not love—us.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p>
+
+<p>“Oh, why doesn’t he <i>feel</i> what you
+are, Mary!” her friend exclaimed. But
+this was not a subject on which Mary
+cared to expand, although she always rose
+to the bait of her own character as a subject
+for discussion.</p>
+
+<p>“I am likable, but not at all lovable,”
+she explained, with her relentless self-analysis.
+“There is no charm or illusion
+about me. Besides, look at my face!”</p>
+
+<p>Edith Dudley did look at her friend’s
+small green eyes, indefinite hair and complexion,
+and too definite nose and mouth;
+but, with her never-failing desire to say
+the kindly thing, replied, “Some day
+some one will care tremendously for you.
+All men don’t fall in love with wax dolls.
+Besides, you are”—</p>
+
+<p>“Now, my dear Edith, don’t tell me
+that I am interesting-looking, or have a
+sweet face! That is always the final insult
+of beauty to ugliness. I know perfectly
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>well that I am extremely plain.
+I am not in the least self-deceived.”</p>
+
+<p>“But there are so many more attractive
+qualities than mere flesh and blood
+good looks,” the beauty tritely suggested.</p>
+
+<p>“Are there? Well, I would give every
+virtue I possess in exchange for that mere
+physical beauty you carry so lightly,”
+Mary exclaimed, with a bitter little laugh.
+“People who are good-looking and charming
+ought to find it easy to be amiable and
+sweet. They are born in harmony with
+the world. Every one is predisposed in
+their favor from the start, while we ugly
+people can hope to call forth no more
+flattering sentiment than a half-contemptuous
+pity.”</p>
+
+<p>“What extreme statements you do
+make, Mary!” interposed Edith Dudley.
+“I don’t know any one who has more
+friends than you. What do they care
+whether you have a Grecian nose or not?”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span></p>
+
+<p>“They don’t care,—that’s the pity of
+it,—and they think I don’t care either.
+By some strange system of reasoning they
+imagine that because my hair is straight
+and thin I must find it easy to tell the
+truth; and they fondly believe that because
+my mouth is large, I must enjoy
+visiting in the slums. People associate
+certain physical attributes with certain
+mental qualities; but all I can say is, that
+in my own case my character and my
+features are in constant warfare.”</p>
+
+<p>Edith, having no comforting rejoinder
+ready, merely looked distressed, and Mary
+continued:—</p>
+
+<p>“Of course I know that Charity, with
+a very big C, is the generally accepted
+refuge of the plain,—and I am expected
+to enjoy philanthropy more than frivolity,
+and to prefer committee meetings to dancing
+parties,—but the truth is, my soul
+or spirit or whatever you choose to call
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>the thing that makes me <i>me</i>, and not
+somebody else, is not ugly at all. It
+enjoys the pleasant and prosperous side
+of life; it would like to have admiration
+and love affairs and all the agreeable
+things that you attractive people are born
+to as your natural inheritance. But fortunately
+I have a saving leaven of common
+sense and humor, which prevent my
+reaching out my skinny arms to grasp
+at blessings that are not meant for me.
+Sooner or later, I suppose, I must accept
+my inevitable destiny of philanthropist,
+but incidentally I shall turn into an embittered,
+caustic old maid, unless an early
+death cuts me down in my prime. Then,
+my dear, you would find that I had given
+promise of being ‘a noble woman.’ Premature
+death is the only artistic end for
+souls and faces that are uncongenially
+yoked together.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary had worked herself into the state
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>of rebellion that always followed any reference
+to her personal appearance.</p>
+
+<p>“Do let’s change the subject,” she said,
+abruptly. “Let’s talk about you again.
+One thing I don’t understand is why you
+haven’t succumbed before this, and married
+some of the men who must have been
+crazy to get you. If you are a mere pipe
+for fortune’s finger to touch what stop she
+pleases, why haven’t you yielded to the
+persuasions of some of your suitors?”</p>
+
+<p>“Because,” Edith explained with simple
+straightforwardness, “there has always
+been a stronger will brought to bear on
+me, before I could yield. My father was
+very ambitious for me, and he was a man
+of intense feelings. He always took me
+away before things reached a climax, and
+then some other man would come along,
+and he would feel more strongly than the
+last; and so it went, my father’s will controlling
+me more completely than that
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>of any lover. Besides,” she explained ingenuously,
+“Grant Lorimer is the only one
+that knows I have no character. The
+others all thought me very strong; but
+they were mostly foreigners, and abroad,
+you know, the parents have so much more
+control over a girl. Mary,” she cried suddenly,
+“I am really afraid of Grant!
+Sooner or later he vows I must be his,
+and if that is to be, it’s better sooner
+than later, for later I may be married to
+some one else.”</p>
+
+<p>“Have you no will at all?” exclaimed
+Mary, passionately and with a touch of
+scorn.</p>
+
+<p>“Absolutely none,” Edith acknowledged
+sadly; “only the will to acquiesce in the
+strongest influence that touches me. My
+one safety from Grant Lorimer is to have
+Philip Morley show more strength of will,
+and make me marry him, yet I know I
+shouldn’t make him happy long. I can’t
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>love any one, Mary. I feel everything a
+little, but nothing much. I can’t even cry,
+though I can shed tears. I would give all
+my good looks, that you admire so unduly,
+to be capable of feeling as strongly about
+<i>anything</i> as you do about—your nose,
+for instance.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, there seems to be no satisfying
+us, does there?” Mary commented with a
+short, cynical laugh. “My only hope is
+that I shan’t live to see the people I care
+most for—myself among them, of course—made
+unhappy. I can’t help feeling that
+if you married Philip Morley, the strength
+of his love would create a soul and heart
+in you, and if you once had the spirit of
+life and feeling breathed into you, you
+would be the most perfect wife a man
+could dream of possessing.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary closed her eyes a moment, and a
+spasm of pain passed over her face.
+“Heaven keep me from ever witnessing
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>that happiness!” she groaned, too indistinctly
+for Edith to hear the words. Suddenly
+her tone changed abruptly, and she
+straightened herself up. “Edith, I may
+as well tell you that I’ve got something
+pretty serious the matter with me. I’ve
+suspected it for some time, but I only found
+out yesterday.”</p>
+
+<p>Edith gave a sharp “Oh!” of sympathy.
+“Tell me, dear,” she said softly.</p>
+
+<p>“No, that’s just what I don’t mean to
+do,—at any rate not yet. I do hate this
+modern fashion of having one’s insides the
+subject of general conversation. It positively
+makes me blush, when I stop to
+think how much I know about the organs
+of people with whom I am scarcely on bowing
+terms. I did hope I could escape this
+fad of being operated on; it’s worse than
+bridge whist.”</p>
+
+<p>That Mary was not in a mood for sympathy
+was very evident, and her friend’s
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>genius for tact led her to do the right thing
+in replying, “You may trust me, Mary, to
+say nothing about your illness to any one
+till you wish me to, and you’ll please me
+immensely by letting me do anything I can
+to make the next few weeks easier.” This
+unemotional little speech was followed by
+a matter-of-fact kiss deposited on Mary’s
+sallow cheek, after which Edith obeyed her
+friend’s unspoken wish, and left her alone.</p>
+
+<p>During the week that followed this conversation,
+Grant Lorimer’s attentions to
+Edith redoubled in violence. It was unfortunate
+that Philip Morley should have
+selected this period of emotional storm and
+stress to declare his love and humbly ask
+for its reward. Edith Dudley’s will was
+temporarily dominated and controlled by
+that of her Southern lover, and to Philip’s
+pleadings she could only dumbly shake her
+head, and whisper painfully, “I can’t, I
+can’t.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p>
+
+<p>What she would have liked to say was,
+“Wait a week till Grant Lorimer goes
+away, as he has to do for a time, and then
+try again;” but instead of that her refusal
+had the sound of finality to Philip’s inexperienced
+ears.</p>
+
+<p>The combination of Philip’s strong and
+genuine love, and Mary’s strong and genuine
+hate of Grant Lorimer, availed to
+keep the girl from actually yielding to the
+persuasions of the man who knew her weakness;
+but though the combined pressure of
+wills was sufficient to prevent her accepting
+one lover, it was not sufficient to
+keep her from refusing the other. Thus an
+equal balance was temporarily maintained.</p>
+
+<p>At this crisis in her love affairs Edith
+was invited to go with a party to the White
+Mountains for a week, and though she regretted
+leaving Mary in her poor state of
+health, the will of the invalid was so much
+stronger than hers, that she found herself
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>constrained to accept. Mary had grasped
+the situation pretty correctly, and she
+rightly guessed that the best thing for all
+was her guest’s absence for a time. Fortunately
+Grant Lorimer’s mother was ill
+enough to demand his presence in Baltimore,
+and home he was obliged to go, with
+his campaign of conquest unaccomplished.</p>
+
+<p>Left to herself, Mary breathed a sigh of
+stoicism rather than resignation, gave up
+her fight with appearances, and acknowledged
+herself to be really ill.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span></p>
+
+
+  <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">
+    CHAPTER IV<br> ONE WOMAN IN A THOUSAND</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>Mary Elton lay on the couch in
+her room, thinking of the last words
+the doctor had said. He had been perfectly
+honest with her, partly because she
+was morally strong and desired absolute
+frankness, partly because there was no
+one else to whom he could speak, except
+her self-absorbed uncle, and Mary had
+taken charge of her own case from the
+first, and sworn the doctor to secrecy.</p>
+
+<p>The next day she was to be taken to the
+hospital, and there an operation was to be
+performed, which would be a matter of life
+or death,—probably of death. It was her
+only chance of life, but it was one chance
+out of a hundred. This she had made the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>doctor tell her, and this was the thought
+she faced alone, lying in the winter twilight,
+her mood well suited to the season
+and the hour that most suggest death.</p>
+
+<p>Mary had prepared herself for the news
+that the chances were against her,—had
+expected and had almost hoped for it.
+Without being morbid in temperament,
+she had a deep strain of melancholy in her
+nature, and though she possessed rather
+a spasmodic fund of animal spirits and a
+keen power of enjoyment, she was no lover
+of life, in the deepest sense. She feared
+what she herself might become, and dread
+of her future too frequently poisoned her
+enjoyment of the present.</p>
+
+<p>She lay silent in the dusk for an hour,
+thinking, thinking, screwing her courage
+to the sticking-place in a decision she had
+just formed. She rang the bell, which
+was close to the head of her couch, and,
+when the maid came, Mary asked to have
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>the curtains drawn and the gas lighted.
+“And, Jennie,” she added, as the girl was
+about to leave the room, “if Mr. Morley
+comes to inquire after me to-night, I wish
+to see him. You may ask him to come up
+here.”</p>
+
+<p>“Up to your room, Miss?” queried the
+girl, in dignified surprise.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” responded Miss Elton, shortly,
+“and when my uncle comes in I should
+like to speak to him.”</p>
+
+<p>That afternoon the uncle and niece had
+a long talk together; and after the interview
+was over, Mr. Elton’s voice was
+husky with unaccustomed emotion. Not
+all the wool in the market could soften
+the blow that his brother’s only child, and
+his own companion of so many years,
+might leave him forever.</p>
+
+<p>Mary had said as little as she could
+about the probable failure of the operation,
+but a few plans had to be made, and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>her uncle had been astonished at the coolness
+and self-control with which she had
+spoken of her own death. He thought she
+seemed much older than twenty-five.</p>
+
+<p>As Mr. Elton went out of the room, she
+called after him, “By the way, if Philip
+Morley comes to ask after me to-night, I
+am going to see him; so don’t be surprised
+if you find him making himself at
+home to the extent of coming upstairs.”</p>
+
+<p>“Very well, my dear; I know you and
+Philip are great friends. It is quite natural
+that you should want to say good-by
+to him. I suppose you may be away from
+us a fortnight or more.”</p>
+
+<p>“Probably more, the doctor thinks,”
+Mary replied, laughing; “but I want to
+see Philip in any case.”</p>
+
+<p>That evening Mary looked more animated
+and stronger than she had for days.
+A faint color had brightened her sallow
+cheeks, and excitement burned in her
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>eyes. When a knock came at her door,
+and Philip Morley tiptoed in, he uttered
+an exclamation of pleasure at seeing her
+look so well. He drew a chair up beside
+her sofa, and extended his long legs with
+a sigh of comfort.</p>
+
+<p>“We’ll be having you about again in
+a week,” he said, with his sympathetic
+smile. “I’ve missed our friendly disputes
+awfully. Since you’ve been ill, I can’t
+get any one else to fight with me, and
+it kills all ambition when one isn’t opposed;
+so you must hurry and get well.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary pulled with nervous fingers at the
+fringe of the shawl that covered her.</p>
+
+<p>“Philip, it seems absurd, but I’m not
+going to get well. You’ll have to find
+some one else to fight with you.”</p>
+
+<p>The young man started, and looked
+at her quickly. “What do you mean,
+Mary?” he cried. “Don’t joke about
+such things.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span></p>
+
+<p>“I’m not joking. I am going to the
+hospital to-morrow, where the surgeons
+will do what they can to save my life; but
+they say there is very little chance of my
+recovery. I <i>know</i> that I shan’t live, and
+that is why I wanted to see you to-night.
+<i>Don’t, don’t</i> look like that,—as if you
+cared,—or I shall cry; and I don’t want
+to be a baby.”</p>
+
+<p>She looked at him piteously, but would
+not let him speak.</p>
+
+<p>“There is something I want to tell you,
+Philip. No, I don’t <i>want</i> to tell it to you,
+but I want you to know it before I die.
+Doesn’t it seem ridiculous for me to talk
+of dying! But I’m not going to try to
+harrow your feelings like that horrid little
+May Queen, though I confess the dramatic
+side of the situation does appeal to my imagination,
+and I am secretly longing for a
+band to strike up some dirge outside.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, you’re just trying to frighten
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>me,” said Philip. “If you really thought
+you were going to die, you wouldn’t
+joke about it like this.”</p>
+
+<p>“Wouldn’t I? Well, I always said you
+didn’t know me. Never mind. It certainly
+would be just like me to live, as an anticlimax,
+after getting off my last speeches—but
+for once, I really think I shall do
+the right thing.”</p>
+
+<p>“It wouldn’t be the right thing, Mary;
+don’t talk so. I <i>hate</i> to hear you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, it is the right thing, Philip, I’m
+perfectly sure of it. Now don’t keep interrupting
+me. I want to talk, as usual, and
+you are just here as audience. Now listen.
+I am perfectly serious when I say that the
+best thing I can do is to die. If I lived, I
+should become more and more hard and
+snappish and unreconciled to my lot every
+year. Handsome people say it is easy for
+ugly ones to be good because they have no
+temptations, but I know that it is a thousand
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>times harder to keep your temper
+sweet, and your spirit unruffled, with eyes
+and nose and mouth like mine, than—like
+yours, for instance. There is the first compliment
+I’ve ever paid you.”</p>
+
+<p>Philip made a futile attempt to interrupt
+her flow of words, but she frowned
+him into silence and continued, “The
+trouble is, I am not good enough to be
+ugly. If I lived, I should have to turn into
+a woman with a mission,—a temperance
+lecturer or an anti-vivisectionist or something;
+and though I should look the part,
+I couldn’t act it. But if I die comparatively
+young, my bad qualities won’t have
+time to mature (or rather to decay), and
+perhaps half a dozen people will be able to
+squeeze out a few perfunctory tears at my
+funeral.”</p>
+
+<p>Through the veil of her levity, Philip
+could detect grim Truth looking him in
+the face, and his eyes fell before hers.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span></p>
+
+<p>“You’re only joking, of course,” he
+maintained insincerely.</p>
+
+<p>“No, no. I am altogether serious now,
+Philip. I can’t joke about it any more.
+Promise to feel badly about me for a little
+while,” Mary cried, with sudden wistfulness.</p>
+
+<p>“It wouldn’t be for a little while only,
+Mary,” the young man said, laying his
+hand on hers. “It would make a difference
+to me all through my life. But, Mary, this
+won’t happen. You’re morbid and unnatural
+to-night. You have the making of one
+of the finest women in the world. You
+know I’ve always said so, and you must
+live to acknowledge that I was right. Besides,
+I can’t possibly get on without you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh yes, you can; yes, you can!” she
+moaned, dropping the mock-heroic tone
+she had assumed at first. “Listen, Philip,
+I am going to tell you something which
+proves me to be unfeminine, unwomanly,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>and altogether shameless, but when I’m
+dead perhaps you’ll be glad to remember.
+Now don’t look at me, Philip, or I can’t
+say what I want to. Let me look at your
+nice straight profile, and then perhaps I
+can talk.”</p>
+
+<p>She laughed in her old way, and made
+him turn his face toward the fire.</p>
+
+<p>“Now don’t move, don’t speak,” she
+said, “till I have finished, and then I can
+tell whether you think me altogether contemptible.
+Philip,” she continued, with a
+queer catch in her voice, “I have loved
+you for two years! There, I’ve said it,
+I’ve said it,” she exclaimed, wildly. “No,
+don’t try to speak, don’t look at me. Now
+you know whether I am going to die or
+not. Do you think wild horses would drag
+such a confession from me if I didn’t <i>know</i>
+I was speaking from the edge of the
+grave?”</p>
+
+<p>Philip had instinctively turned to look
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>at her with bewilderment in his eyes, but
+if he felt doubts of her seriousness or of
+her sanity, they were driven away by the
+sight of her earnest and intense face. He
+gave a short, sudden groan, and dropped
+his forehead into his hand.</p>
+
+<p>“You mustn’t feel too badly about
+this,” she went on with calmness. “I
+know that you are as much in love with
+Edith Dudley as you can be with any one.
+It is because I know of your love for her,
+that I am able to talk to you like this.
+She may have refused you once; I suspect
+that she has, but that’s only because that
+wretched Dr. Fell came along and hypnotized
+her. If you love her enough, she
+will care for you in time, and you will be
+happy, but—oh, Philip, she will not love
+you as <i>I</i> have loved you; she will not
+make you happier than <i>I</i> could have made
+you, if I had been beautiful and graceful
+and gentle and sweet as she is!”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p>
+
+<p>There was a ring of something that had
+never been heard in Mary’s voice before,
+as she gave herself up to the bitterness of
+longing and regret that filled her heart.</p>
+
+<p>“People talk of the power of affection
+to work changes in character,” she continued
+more quietly, “and that is another
+reason why I have chosen to tell you of
+my love. Philip, I don’t know whether I
+love you because I believe in you, or believe
+in you because I love you. My love
+and my belief are all tangled up together,
+so that I can’t tell which is cause and
+which is effect. You could be anything
+you want to be,—but I am so afraid
+you won’t want! Oh, I do wish that my
+love could be some little incentive to
+make you do and be all that you might
+if you only would! It seems as if it ought
+to be of <i>some</i> value,—a love like mine.
+There ought to be <i>some</i> result from such
+a strong emotion. It would be so ridiculously
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>easy for me to die, or live, or anything,
+if only your happiness, and success
+in the highest sense, could result from it!
+Of course it isn’t easy for me to say all
+this, though I seem to have got wound
+up to it somehow. I suppose I am fearfully
+lacking in a proper modesty of sex,—but
+this is my death-bed (figuratively
+speaking), and after all we are just two
+human souls, aren’t we?”</p>
+
+<p>“You are the sincerest, truest woman
+in the world!” cried Philip, turning towards
+her and seizing both her hands.
+“What does the purely conventional modesty
+you feel you have offended against
+matter, in comparison with a courage like
+yours?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, dear! If only my friends could
+have heard me making an unprovoked
+declaration of love!” cried Mary, laughing,
+with a sudden instinct of incongruous
+amusement. “They all think I’m a perfect
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>old cynic, with no germ of romance
+or sentiment about me. Well, that’s what
+I should have grown to be, if I had lived.
+You see I already speak of myself in the
+past tense. Be thankful, Philip, that I
+have escaped the fate of becoming an unloved,
+unloving old woman, with bitterness
+and regret in her heart. You have
+shown me what life must be to people who
+have love. It’s the only permanent possession.
+But if I had to choose between
+the two, I would rather feel love than inspire
+it,—and this isn’t sour grapes
+either. Of course the perfect thing has to
+be reciprocal. And now about you, Philip.
+I am sure that Edith will come to care
+about you some day; but when you’re
+happy and prosperous, don’t forget that
+you must be something more, that you
+are worth something better, that you owe
+it to yourself, and to Edith,—and to me.
+And now there is just one more thing that
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>I want to say. If I <i>should</i> live,—I <i>can’t</i>
+and I <i>shan’t</i>, but if I <i>should</i>,—you must
+let the memory of all that I have said be
+absolutely blotted out. I shall have killed
+our friendship to-night. However, all this
+is nothing, because I know that I shan’t
+live, and on the whole I’m not sorry.
+Please tell me honestly whether you despise
+me for my weakness, or whether”—</p>
+
+<p>“Despise you, Mary!” cried Philip.
+“I can’t possibly tell you what your brave,
+true words have meant to me.” His voice
+was choked with mingled emotion and embarrassment.
+“What you have said has
+meant more to me than anything else ever
+can. I feel somehow full of humility, and
+yet full of pride. What have I been or
+done, to win the love of a woman like you?
+Where have my senses been, not to give
+you some better return than my best
+friendship for a love like yours!”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, my dear Philip,” said Mary, half
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>laughing and half crying, “you <i>couldn’t</i>
+have loved me, no matter how hard you
+tried. No man could. You see I am so
+dreadfully ugly. I should hate myself if
+I were a man,—in fact, I do as it is.”</p>
+
+<p>“You’re perfectly absurd about your
+looks, Mary. Why do you persist in exaggerating
+the importance of beauty?
+You have been a constant delight and
+refreshment to every one you know. As
+for me, I don’t believe I amount to much
+anyway; but if I ever turn out anything
+at all, it will be because of what you have
+been brave and honest enough to tell me
+to-night.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, no, it won’t,” said Mary, smiling
+and shaking her head. “If you do turn
+out to be anything more than a successful
+business man (which I sometimes doubt),
+it will be because of the love of a much
+sweeter and better woman than I. You
+see this humility on my part is really my
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>most alarming symptom, and must mean
+approaching death.”</p>
+
+<p>She was her old self again for the moment,
+half mocking and half sad.</p>
+
+<p>“Mary,” said Philip suddenly, “I don’t
+believe I shall ever <i>like</i> any one half so
+much as I do you. Love is different; it is
+outside our control, I suppose, but liking
+is somehow founded on fact,—it’s more
+deliberate.”</p>
+
+<p>“Are you trying to make out that
+friendship is more flattering than love?”
+Mary interrupted. “Perhaps you’re
+right. I dare say it’s more natural that
+you should like me than that I should
+love you,—however, go on.”</p>
+
+<p>“It isn’t altogether easy to go on, in
+the midst of your interruptions,” said
+Philip, laughing nervously, “and everything
+I say sounds artificial, when I only
+mean to be straightforward. What I want
+you to understand is that whether you
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>die or whether you live, or whatever happens
+to either of us, our friendship is
+something permanent. Even if we have
+to meet as strangers after to-night, the
+real You and the real I will be friends
+just the same. I wish I could make you
+realize all that it means to me to be told
+what you have told me to-night. It will
+give me new courage and new self-respect,
+and I thank you with all my heart.”</p>
+
+<p>In answer to the look in his face, Mary’s
+eyes filled with sudden tears.</p>
+
+<p>“Now don’t let’s be theatrical, Philip,”
+Mary laughed in order not to cry. “I’m
+afraid I’ve made things horrid for you.
+It’s my fault. I ought to have been contented
+with playing the rôle I am suited
+for. The trouble is I have been cast for
+low comedy, and I insist on playing high
+tragedy. With my make-up I ought to be
+content with playing the fool, yet here I
+am striving to blend pathos and tragedy
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>behind the mask of Harlequin. Now Edith
+Dudley can play <i>any</i> part well. Her life
+is a series of wonderful impersonations,
+and her face adapts itself to the part she
+plays. Don’t make the mistake, Philip,
+of thinking you can walk through your
+part of innocuous-young-man-about-town
+without exerting yourself to <i>act</i>. I am
+enough of a fatalist to believe that we
+can’t alter the text of the drama of life;
+but I do believe that the seriousness of
+our impersonation is as important in result
+as the words we are set down to speak,
+and our acting is within our own control,
+even if our actions are not.”</p>
+
+<p>“If life is a play it’s a mighty badly
+written one, and I’ve made an awful botch
+of my part. I don’t know the text, Mary,
+and I need your promptings.” Philip
+looked at her with the look she used to
+call his “dumb animal expression.”</p>
+
+<p>“Life is just a tragi-comedy, that’s all.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>When we’re not shrieking with pain,
+we’re shrieking with laughter. Now go,
+dear,” she said brokenly. “I don’t think
+I can stand it another minute. This has
+not been easy for either of us. I won’t
+try to say anything else except good-by.
+Don’t ever forget that I am thankful
+to have known and to have loved you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, Mary, Mary!” he cried, impotently.
+Then, realizing the futility of language
+to express all that he felt, he quietly
+stooped and kissed her. “Good-by,”
+he said very softly. Then he went out
+and closed the door. She held her breath
+till the sound of his footsteps had died
+away; then she burst into hysterical sobs.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>A week later Edith Dudley was admitted
+to a room in the hospital, where a
+white form lay in a white bed. She went
+softly up to the figure, and kissed its pale
+face.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span></p>
+
+<p>“Dear Mary! So the operation was a
+success,” she whispered.</p>
+
+<p>“No!” replied the figure, opening its
+eyes with sudden energy. “It was a failure.
+I am going to get well.”</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p>
+
+
+  <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">
+    CHAPTER V<br> A DIRECTOR OF DESTINIES</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>When Mary Elton was able to be out
+and about once more, she seemed
+to have undergone what she herself termed
+“a change of heart, from bad to worse.”</p>
+
+<p>“A peep inside Death’s door would
+soften and chasten most people,” she told
+her bewildered uncle, “but on me it has
+had just the opposite effect. I suppose it’s
+because I made all my plans for a death-bed
+repentance, and now that the Devil is
+well, the devil a nun is she. I always did
+hate to have my calculations upset, and
+this recovery is too much of a surprise for
+an old maid to adjust herself to all of a
+sudden.”</p>
+
+<p>But if the physical shock of a serious
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span>operation was hard to recover from, the
+mental torment caused by the recollection
+of her confession to Philip Morley was a
+thousand times more difficult to endure.
+She knew that the thought of it would
+poison her whole life. It had been hard
+enough before to bear the anguish of a
+kind of love known only to deep and undemonstrative
+natures, a love doomed to
+remain unrequited, but now added to
+biting sorrow was the sting of shame
+and humiliation that Philip should have
+heard from her own lips of her love for
+him.</p>
+
+<p>“I might have known I shouldn’t die,”
+Mary berated herself fiercely. “The Fates
+have too much sense of humor to lose the
+joke of my recovery. Well, Destiny has
+beaten me again; but my will is not defeated,
+and though I can’t die, I shall at
+least go abroad. When bad Americans can’t
+die, they go to Paris. Uncle Charles shall
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>take me if the eloquence of one risen from
+the bed can move him to action.”</p>
+
+<p>On Edith Dudley’s return from the
+mountains she had gone directly to Mrs.
+Warner’s, feeling that her visit to the Eltons
+had better be shortened, in view of
+Mary’s unexpected illness. She came to
+see Mary every few days, and their friendship
+continued the same, although Mary
+detected a subtle change in Edith, the clue
+to which lay in the circumstance that
+Philip’s name had not once been mentioned
+between them.</p>
+
+<p>Mary’s clear vision and quick mind had
+jumped to a conclusion which made even
+the most tactful interference seem an impertinence,
+and yet she felt that she held,
+in a way, the reins of her two friends’ destinies.
+She herself had seen Philip only in
+the most casual way, but she was not so
+utterly self-absorbed as to be blind to the
+difficulties and painfulness of his situation,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>which she interpreted thus: knowing, as
+he did, that she (Mary) was in love with
+him, he had determined not to persist in
+his courtship of her friend, who had already
+refused him. He was not so stupid as to
+greet Mary’s recovery with a proposal of
+marriage, but she knew him well enough
+to suspect the line of conduct he meant to
+pursue. Having accepted Edith’s refusal
+as final, he would, after she had left the
+house, resume his friendly visits to Mary,
+then slowly,—very slowly,—he would
+show her that not her declaration of love,
+but her own fine qualities, had magically
+touched his heart, transforming friendship
+into a more vital emotion.</p>
+
+<p>And, after all, Mary asked herself, might
+not the result bring happiness to both?
+Once married to him, Mary would <i>make</i>
+him love her, for he would know by the
+revelations of daily life the depth and
+strength of her affection. She knew that
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span>no one else could make the man of him that
+she would make. All the latent sweetness
+of her nature, all the buried wealths of tenderness
+and unselfishness would blossom
+under his hand. Each would be the best
+for each, and yet—he did not love her.</p>
+
+<p>Mary’s qualities, good and bad, were
+vigorous. Capable of two extremes of conduct,
+she recognized the situation as demanding
+a great act of heroism, or an
+equally large act of selfishness. In the
+wakeful hours of many nights, her conflicting
+emotions met and fought bloody battles,
+till the final victory was won. Her
+irrevocable decision was made. She dispatched
+two notes, one to Edith Dudley,
+asking her to come and see her at four
+o’clock the next afternoon, the other to
+Philip Morley, summoning him half an
+hour later.</p>
+
+<p>Mary never indulged in the tentative
+tactics known as beating about the bush.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>Edith and she had hardly exchanged greetings
+when Mary made a bold attack.
+“Edith Dudley, now that your old Dr. Fell
+is out of the way, should you accept Philip
+Morley, if he proposed again?”</p>
+
+<p>Poor Edith looked vainly about for escape
+from the revolver of truth with which
+her friend was holding her up. The sight
+of her gave Mary a curiously complex emotion,
+in which scorn, admiration, pity, and
+wonder were blended. How was it possible
+that this beautiful, clever creature, who
+was neither good nor bad, and who was to
+all outside influences as the weathercock
+to the breeze, could yet subdue criticism
+to a blind acceptance of her with all her
+weakness and weaknesses, and her irresistible
+charm?</p>
+
+<p>“If Philip Morley should ask me now, I
+should accept him,” she said, her luminous
+eyes shining like mirrors of truth. “But
+it will be better for him if he does not ask
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>me again.” Then, with a passionate gesture
+unusual to her, “Mary, Mary, don’t
+desert me! Don’t go back on me ever,—whatever
+happens!” she cried earnestly.
+“Let me feel that you are always here,
+firm and sure, a rock for me to cling to,—poor
+helpless seaweed that I am,—when
+the waves get too strong for me. No one
+else has ever made me feel as you do—that
+perhaps I have a soul and a will somewhere.
+I am generally conscious only of
+being <i>nothing</i>; a Laodicean, from whom
+the power to feel hot and cold and love and
+hate have been squeezed out by early
+training. I should like to be the wife for
+Philip. Perhaps, if he is strong enough, he
+can make something out of me; or if he
+is weak enough, he may never find me out.
+But I think he is neither. He is simply
+human. He loves me a great deal. I feel
+it even when I am away from him, and I
+don’t with every one,” she naïvely added.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span></p>
+
+<p>“I am quite aware of his affection,”
+Mary acquiesced grimly. “Let’s talk of
+something else,—me, for instance. One
+reason why I wanted you to come and see
+me this afternoon, is to tell you that I have
+at last succeeded in persuading Uncle
+Charles to take a holiday. He and I are
+going abroad next month, to be gone a year.
+Isn’t that splendid? You know how I’ve
+always wanted to see Paris and London,
+and this means Italy and Egypt added.
+Don’t you congratulate me?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, Mary, I do, I do!” cried Edith,
+instantly radiant with sympathy. “And I
+congratulate Europe! Won’t you say nice,
+funny, original things about everything,
+and make the antiquities feel that they’ve
+never been appreciated before? And, oh
+Mary, how you’ll <i>hate</i> the traveling
+Americans,—and the traveling English,
+and worst of all the traveling Germans!”</p>
+
+<p>Her voice rose in a crescendo of amused
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>horror. Philip was forgotten, she herself
+was forgotten,—she was living only in
+Mary’s prospective travels.</p>
+
+<p>They talked for some time, till presently
+the door-bell rang, and Mary jumped up
+saying, “I don’t want to see any one,—I’ll
+just tell the maid,” and with that she
+slipped out of the room.</p>
+
+<p>At the head of the stairs she met Philip
+Morley. He had not been in the house
+since the night before she went to the hospital,
+and for a moment the recollection of
+their talk that evening gripped them both
+by the throat. Then the girl recovered
+herself, and she smiled courageously. “Go
+in there. Tell her she’s <i>got</i> to marry you,—don’t
+ask her whether she will or not,”
+she said rather incoherently, then turned
+and dashed upstairs, and Philip heard her
+chamber door slam after her.</p>
+
+<p>Feeling as if he were a puppet to which
+Mary held the string, he obediently went
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>into the room she had just quitted. Edith
+Dudley stood by the mantelpiece, lightly
+touching a bunch of pink and white roses
+in an iridescent vase—suggestive of herself
+as was everything delicately lovely
+and changing. To Philip her beauty was
+so overwhelming that even his love seemed
+a sacrilege, yet the rush of warm emotion
+which filled him at the sight of her—even
+if unreciprocated—was something for
+which a man would give all other bliss.
+She was dressed in gray, except for a touch
+of blended colors in her hat and at her
+throat,—her “trade-mark,” she called
+this opal touch in which her nature seemed
+to express itself. She was waiting for the
+intruder to be dismissed, and for Mary’s
+return, and a sunny smile warmed her
+face as the door opened and Philip entered.
+She was not disconcerted, but she instantly
+realized that she was the victim of a plot.
+“How do you do, Mr. Morley! This is just
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>where we first met, isn’t it? Did Mary
+send for you, too, to tell you her great
+news? Where is she?”</p>
+
+<p>“She went upstairs,” Philip said stupidly,
+still dazed by the part he was expected
+by Mary to play in the scene she
+had arranged.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Dudley sat down and motioned to
+a sofa with her muff. “We are evidently
+expected to entertain each other,” she went
+on lightly, “and I’m going to punish Mary
+for her rudeness in deserting us, by telling
+you her secret. She’s going abroad with
+her uncle for a year.”</p>
+
+<p>Philip’s handsome face was working with
+emotion like that of a girl. “It’s no use,”
+he burst out, hypnotized by her mere
+presence, and paying no attention to her
+words, “I didn’t mean to ask you again;
+I know it’s useless, you wonderful, beautiful
+creature,—you could marry any one
+in the whole world; but I’ve got to go
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>away somewhere—anywhere—unless
+you can care a little for me. I’m too unspeakably
+wretched! You don’t know what
+it is,—this feeling I have about you. I
+didn’t know there were such feelings in
+the world, myself.” He saw her eyes looking
+towards him, softened with affection,
+and he jumped to his feet. He rushed to
+her, and grasped her hand. “Edith, you’ve
+<i>got</i> to marry me!” he cried, the gentleman
+for once lost in the man. “You’ve
+<i>got</i> to. I shan’t take no, again. I am mad
+with love for you, or I shouldn’t ask you
+this, here in this house. You don’t know
+what I’ve been through. I didn’t mean
+to do this again. I tried not to. It’s Mary’s
+fault. Edith, I love you with all there is in
+me of good or bad, and my love demands
+a return!” His gaze pierced her.</p>
+
+<p>Her face cleared into an expression of
+exquisite happiness. Oh, the peace of being
+told to do something so easy! She showed
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>no instinct of the flirt, who likes to torture
+her prey. With childlike confidence she
+gave him both her hands, and her eyes
+spoke as eloquently as her lips. “Philip, I
+will love you. I will be to you as good a
+wife as I can be, if you are <i>sure, sure</i>
+you want me. There were reasons why I
+could not say yes, the last time you asked
+me. Now I <i>can</i> say it, indeed I <i>must</i> say
+it.”</p>
+
+<p>Philip was too dazed with surprise and
+joy to do anything but foolishly kiss her
+hands. In a moment he burst out, “It’s
+no use. I can’t believe it. Tell me again.
+Are we really to be always together, you
+and I, after a little while?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I hope not always,” the girl expostulated.
+“Married people who never get
+away from each other grow frightfully uninteresting.
+Listen, Philip,” and she laid a
+shy finger against his mouth. “This is all
+Mary’s doing. If we are unhappy it will
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>be her fault. If we are happy it is her we
+must thank. She made this match.”</p>
+
+<p>“God bless her!” cried Philip fervently,
+but with a spasm of pain crossing his bliss.</p>
+
+<p>Then a sudden seriousness clouded
+Edith’s sunshine also. “Philip, I want to
+tell you something. You won’t believe me,
+but I shall tell you just the same. <i>I am
+nothing</i>, do you understand? The reason
+people like me—when they do—is because
+most people like themselves, and I
+am rather a flattering mirror, that is all.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then I must be an arch-egotist,” Philip
+interrupted her.</p>
+
+<p>“You are. Your affection for me proves
+the extent of your self-love.” She spoke
+with surprising gravity. “You see, Philip,
+I was brought up to seem, not to be, and
+my education was extraordinarily successful.
+I lost my life in childhood.”</p>
+
+<p>The young man threw back his boyish
+head and laughed. “Yes, you look as if
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>you were not alive!” he cried. “You,
+whose every nerve and fibre are instinct
+with life. You are the epitome of sensation.
+You respond to every slightest emotion,
+to every touch of feeling. I would
+believe anything else you tell me, but not
+that you are unfeeling and dull of sensation.
+You are anything but a Belle Dame
+Sans Merci.”</p>
+
+<p>“Not sans merci alone,” she said sadly,
+“but sans <i>every</i>thing, like Shakespeare’s
+old man. I have warned you, you see.
+I have strength enough for that, because I
+know in my heart that it will make no
+difference to you, as you won’t believe
+me; but I haven’t the strength to refuse
+you, Philip. I will marry you as soon as
+you want.”</p>
+
+<p>Her personal charm surrounded him
+like a vapor, and obscured all else. Like
+two happy children they sat side by side,
+making plans for the future. All that she
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>stipulated was, that she should be married
+from her stepmother’s house in Kentucky,
+and that she should have time to
+get a few clothes.</p>
+
+<p>“Please always have the rainbow motif
+in all your dresses,” Philip said, pointing
+to the opal hues at her neck. “It matches
+your temperament. I remember when I
+first saw you here in that wonderful,
+changing, pinky-grayish-heliotrope, crapy
+thing. You seemed to me like a woman
+that Hawthorne would have rejoiced in
+describing, with your dress the symbol of
+your nature. Then there is one more
+thing, dear, I want to ask. Will you let
+me give you an opal for an engagement
+ring? It is what I should like best, if you
+are not superstitious. It is my favorite
+stone, and I think you said it was yours.
+You are <i>my</i> opal, you know, and I should
+like you to have one, beautiful as yourself,
+with a heart of fire.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p>
+
+<p>She laughed gayly. “Philip, you are
+waxing poetic! Of course I’m not superstitious.
+We defy augury. I will have
+nothing but an opal. It is alive, though it
+is not as permanent as I should like the
+symbol of our love to be. Philip,” she
+said, a trembling wistfulness in her voice,
+“you know opals crumble and fall to
+pieces, and there is no mending them,—they
+just disappear, and their beauty is
+gone. Are you sure you want <i>your</i> opal
+for better or worse?”</p>
+
+<p>“I am quite sure,” he said decisively.
+“And your opal shall be set in diamonds,
+to keep it from crumbling and guard its
+beauty.”</p>
+
+<p>“And so shall yours, Philip, for when
+I am married to you your opal will be
+truly set in strong and precious stones,
+to defend it from its own weakness.”
+Her little Frenchily sentimental speech
+did not sound artificial, as with the naturalness
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>of a trustful child she lifted her
+face to his.</p>
+
+<p>Upstairs a very different drama was
+in progress. Mary Elton was pacing her
+room, with hands clenched and brows knit.
+Now that her self-appointed rôle of fairy
+godmother was played, she not only wondered
+how she had found strength to go
+through with it, but scolded herself for
+having been sensational. “After all, it
+was none of my business,” she told herself.
+“I wish I hadn’t interfered. If I
+had let things alone, Philip might have
+come back to me of his own free will,
+and Edith would have married some one
+else who would have made her just as
+happy.”</p>
+
+<p>At the end of half an hour she opened
+her door and listened. She heard the murmur
+of low voices, and once Philip’s laugh
+rang out,—confident, happy, proud.</p>
+
+<p>With a sob between clenched teeth,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>Mary closed her door again, and seated herself
+in front of her mirror. She watched
+the cynical, scornful face before her contort
+itself into lines of bitterness and grief.
+Relentlessly she stared at the slowly puffing
+eyelids, the quavering mouth. Never
+had she looked less attractive, less romantic.</p>
+
+<p>“A picture of unrequited love,—realistic
+school,” she announced mockingly,
+for her own amusement. And as a watery
+smile intruded upon the grimness of the
+tragic mask at which she gazed, Mary
+found herself wondering, irrelevantly,
+whether Edith Dudley looked pretty when
+she cried.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span></p>
+
+
+  <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">
+    CHAPTER VI<br> A PUPPET IN TRAGEDY
+  </h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>When Mary’s year of foreign travel
+was over she found herself so completely
+unprepared for the flatness of life
+at home, that she shipped her uncle off for
+Boston, and decided to remain abroad another
+year. She had made many delightful
+acquaintances during her travels, and
+had found it easy to map out twelve more
+months of traveling, visiting, “stopping
+over,” and “settling down.”</p>
+
+<p>When she considered the loneliness and
+helplessness of her uncle’s returning to an
+unkept house, she felt the sense of guilt
+that accompanies an act of unaccustomed
+selfishness, but a poor relation had been
+invoked from the shades of the “unexhausted
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>West,” and Cousin Rebecca had
+gladly consented to supply creature comforts
+to Mr. Elton till Mary’s return. “I
+know I’m selfish,” Mary acquiesced to her
+accusing conscience, “but I can’t go home
+and see Philip and Edith yet” (they had
+been married a month after she left Boston),—“I’m
+too battered and bruised.
+My scars must heal, and my wounds grow
+callous before I can see their happiness.
+If I had died Uncle Charles would have got
+on somehow, and this will only be a year
+of desertion, and perhaps it will be the
+only vacation in my life.” So she quieted
+her qualms, and persisted, as usual, in the
+line of conduct she had laid out for herself.</p>
+
+<p>The second year passed as delightfully
+as the first, and Mary finally turned her
+back on the land that had fulfilled her desires
+and satisfied her senses, with a devout
+feeling of thankfulness that Europe still
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>existed as a memory and a hope, even
+though it was rapidly fading from her
+natural vision. On the steamer that was
+bearing her too rapidly towards her undesired
+home, she found various acquaintances,
+among others an old school friend,
+Helen White, who was returning from a
+six weeks’ tour in France. She was familiar
+with Mary’s immediate circle in Boston,
+and able to give her much news and
+gossip that had failed to be recorded in
+letters from home. Naturally one of Mary’s
+first inquiries was in regard to the Morleys.
+How are they getting on together,
+and in society, and with the world? Mary
+had had frequent letters from Edith, full
+of her own peculiar aroma, containing
+amusing and shrewd observations on the
+people that formed the background to her
+new life, speaking often of Philip and his
+interests with affectionate understanding,
+but always ending with an appeal to “come
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>home soon to the person who needed her
+most.” At the mention of Edith Morley’s
+name, Helen White’s rather inanimate face
+woke up. “She is a wonderful success in
+Boston!” she exclaimed. “There is not a
+more popular woman in society. Every one
+wants her all the time. She seems to be
+equally sought after by the smart and the
+stupid sets, and by all the unlabeled people
+in between. I declare Philip Morley is a
+lucky man!”</p>
+
+<p>“I suppose he’s as much pleased with
+Edith as the rest of the world is,” suggested
+Mary, as a “leader.”</p>
+
+<p>“How could he be otherwise? She is
+always perfectly lovely with him, and evidently
+doesn’t cross his wishes in the least
+particular. She is a model wife, and I must
+say—nice as Philip is—I think she deserves
+some one a little more—more—well,
+interesting and unusual and stimulating.”
+Mary grunted: “H’m. Well, if
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>Edith is satisfied, I suppose <i>we</i> must be.
+What effect has marriage had upon
+Philip?”</p>
+
+<p>“Between ourselves, I don’t think he has
+developed and broadened as much as you
+would expect,” said Miss White, with her
+confidential manner. “He is a little disappointing.
+He never seems to arrive anywhere,
+and at thirty-eight one expects a
+man to be something more than promising.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary’s heart gave a protesting throb
+that was a physical pain. She had dreaded
+to hear exactly what her unsuspecting
+friend had told her without knowing it,—that
+Philip had found Edith out, and that
+his nature, in order to expand to its potential
+capacities, demanded outside stimulus,—opposition
+even, and that it had met
+nothing but enervating echo and reflection.</p>
+
+<p>When Mary was alone her eyes filled
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>with tears of self-reproach and suffering.
+“It was all my fault,” she accused herself,
+in her exaggerated consciousness of
+disaster. “I was fool enough to think that
+the hardest thing to do must be the right
+thing. The punishment for stupidity is
+harder to bear than the punishment for
+sin,—and it ought to be. The wages of
+folly is remorse, and that’s a good deal
+worse than death,” she added, with her
+usual impersonal relentlessness.</p>
+
+<p>During the thoughtful hours of the next
+few monotonous days, while Mary’s impatient
+eyes questioned the horizon line—that
+symbol of symmetry—for something
+visible beyond, she tried to persuade herself
+that she had been over-subtle in her
+interpretation of Helen White’s indifference
+towards Philip, and enthusiasm for
+Edith. Certainly no hint of an unhappy
+marriage had been put into the words,
+although it had been taken out of them.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>But she must possess her soul in patience;
+she should know enough soon.</p>
+
+<p>She knew two days after her arrival,
+when she and her uncle went to dine at
+the Morleys’. Edith was dazzlingly unchanged.
+Her embrace of Mary was the
+spontaneous hug of a child, who abandons
+itself to the present emotion. “You dear
+old thing!” she exclaimed. “You’ve got
+a French dress and an English accent, but
+I know you’re the same old sixpence
+underneath.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I’m the same old nickel,—put
+me into American money, please,—for I
+never was a better Yankee than under
+this foreign veneer. The accent and the
+dress both come off, you know,—I only
+wear them on formal occasions. Hello,
+Philip!” she broke off suddenly, as he ran
+downstairs with unwonted speed to greet
+her. “Well, here we are again,” she rattled
+on. “Let’s be rude and all stare at
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span>each other, and then be polite and say we
+all look younger and more beautiful than
+we did two years ago.” Her unflinching
+gaze met Philip’s,—met it, passed it by,
+and penetrated to his inner self that lay
+hidden behind the lazily drooping eyes
+and the sensitive disillusioned mouth. He
+looked older, and, if wisdom implies a shattering
+of youthful ideals, wiser as well.
+His appearance was by no means unhappy,
+but his contentment showed too much of
+resignation, and Mary would have been
+more pleased to detect a gleam of divine
+discontent, kindling ambition into action.
+The pleasant and affectionate smile with
+which he turned toward his wife had in it
+the hint of almost pitying tenderness with
+which a grown person regards a child.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, Edith, what can we say about
+Mary that she won’t consider fulsome flattery?”
+he asked. “You are much cleverer
+than I. Put my feelings into words.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span></p>
+
+<p>The girl turned her face—not towards
+the object of this discussion, but to her
+husband, as though to read his thoughts;
+then she slipped her hand through Mary’s
+arm and said, “You look just the way the
+real Mary Elton was always meant to look,—not
+sad but serious, not scoffing at
+life, but amused by it. You look like an
+embodiment of strength and sympathy,
+such as it rests weary eyes to look upon.
+And besides, Europe—or something—has
+put a funny little look of sweetness
+into your face that didn’t use to”—She
+was interrupted by Mary’s suddenly
+winding her feather boa around her mouth.
+“Keep still!” she commanded, with her
+old-time vigor. “I won’t be insulted.
+<i>Sweet</i>, indeed! Edith, you look thoroughly
+sour and bitter. You are a peculiarly ugly
+and disagreeable looking woman. Philip
+looks meek and henpecked, and as for
+poor old Uncle Charles,”—pulling her
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>beaming uncle under the electric light,—“he
+has grown ten years younger since
+losing his business manager, and being
+allowed to shift for himself. Come and
+show me the house,” she went on, leading
+the way to the parlor with Edith trotting
+at her heels like a happy dog. “I haven’t
+seen your wedding presents yet. Oh,
+there’s the lamp I gave you, and a very
+decent looking one it is, too. Lamps can
+be so perfectly terrible when they really
+make an effort to be ornamental that I
+try to be guided by their purely utilitarian
+functions in selecting them. Oh, and
+there’s the portrait! How I have wanted
+to see it! I assure you its praises have
+echoed through Europe?” She paused in
+front of a picture that would have attracted
+the attention of any human creature,
+no matter how ignorant, no matter
+how wise. It did not need the signature
+of the greatest living portrait painter to
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>proclaim it as one of the modern masterpieces
+of the world.</p>
+
+<p>It was Edith’s self—or selves, to be
+strictly accurate. She was standing with
+suddenly arrested movement, as though
+she had started to step out of the frame, a
+living woman, and then had quickly decided
+to remain a painted mystery. Firelight
+played on the rainbow-tinted satins
+which draped the exquisite figure, and a
+gleam from a hidden light brightened the
+gold-streaked hair. The background was
+a softly blended tapestry, and the general
+color scheme justified the name of “The
+Opal” left on it from a recent exhibition.
+But the woman’s face! In that lay the
+miracle of the painter’s genius, for never
+surely was such a marvelous blending of
+qualities,—such a symphony of harmonies
+in which discords had their place.</p>
+
+<p>Mary sucked in her breath with the
+“Oh!” of complete satisfaction. “He
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>will be an old master a few hundred
+years hence,” she said, “and Edith will
+be the Mona Lisa of future generations.
+You have lived sufficiently,” she went on,
+addressing the portrait’s original, half-banteringly;
+“you may as well go upstairs
+and die this minute. Your destiny
+is completed. To have inspired such a
+work as that means genius in the subject
+as well as in the painter.”</p>
+
+<p>“It has been too funny to hear different
+people’s comments on it,” Edith said.
+“When it was first exhibited I put on
+three veils so as not to be recognized;
+and then I had the greatest fun listening
+to the criticisms of friends and strangers.
+I heard one lady say, ‘<i>There</i> is a person
+capable of any crime!’ Another said,
+‘She should have been painted as a
+Madonna. I have never seen such goodness
+in any human countenance.’ A man
+whom I did not know said, ‘There is the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>only face I have ever seen which expresses
+Browning’s line, “There’s a
+woman like a dew-drop, she’s so purer
+than the purest.”’ And a horrid man
+whom I <i>do</i> know, said,—excuse my repeating
+such a remark,—‘What an extraordinary
+likeness of Mrs. Morley! She
+looks like a nun turned demi-mondaine!’”</p>
+
+<p>“What do you think of it, Philip,”
+asked Mary, while Mr. Elton was dryly
+commenting, “I consider it the portrait
+of a most intelligent woman.”</p>
+
+<p>Philip looked from the portrait to Mary,
+with his quiet smile. “When you ask me
+that, it is like asking what I think of
+Edith,” he explained. “It has all her
+moods and all her phases. It shows what
+she may be, no less than what she has
+been. It is endlessly suggestive and fascinating.”</p>
+
+<p>“I was almost afraid to be painted by
+such a mind-reader,” Edith confessed,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>“but I needn’t have been alarmed. If
+one has no mind it can’t be read; and it
+seems to me he has painted nothing.
+Every one reads something different into
+it, but the variations are in them, not in
+me. That is where the painter’s skill
+comes in. As I look at it myself, it is a
+mirror’s likeness of a dead face; yet every
+one else speaks of its marvelous vitality.”</p>
+
+<p>“It is well named,” Mary said softly.
+“Such changing living beauty belongs
+only to the opal.”</p>
+
+<p>“And to Edith Morley,” put in Mr.
+Elton, with a courtly bow.</p>
+
+<p>Dinner was announced, and Edith insisted
+that the survey of her possessions
+must be postponed or the soup would grow
+cold. During the first part of the meal
+Mary did most of the talking. “What is
+the use of being a Ulysses,” she protested,
+“if one can’t recite one’s Odyssey to bored
+Penelopes? I can see you all gaping internally,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>but you’ve got to listen to me
+for a while, and then I’ll give you a
+chance.” She regaled them with anecdotes
+of American human nature as revealed
+on foreign soil, and seemed her old
+merry self; but while her tongue wagged
+fast and gayly, her brain was working in
+opposition to her words. “There’s an
+immense change in him below the surface,”
+she said to herself, and the sense
+of it caused a sudden contraction of the
+brow which her laughing listeners did not
+comprehend. “Now <i>you</i> talk,” she said
+abruptly. “What’s become of the Reverend
+Sylvester Rogers? How did Milly
+Lambert’s marriage turn out? Where is
+Marion Meridith? And what happened to
+Jack Hudson?”</p>
+
+<p>“Let’s see,” pondered Edith. “Mr.
+Rogers had a call to Kansas City—also
+incidentally to marry an heiress. Milly
+Lambert succeeded in getting a divorce
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>from her wretched husband, though she
+knew exactly what he was when she married
+him; Marion Meridith is just the
+same nice girl that she always was,—too
+good for any of the men who want to
+marry her; and Jack Hudson,—well,
+they say he and his wife want to be separated,
+but they can’t seem to convince the
+lawyers that there’s any occasion for it.”</p>
+
+<p>“What do you think of divorce?” questioned
+Mr. Elton of Edith. It was the kind
+of direct inquiry she never liked, for no
+suggestion of the questioner’s opinion was
+evident, and his face had about as much
+expression as a brick house in a block.
+Edith glanced tentatively at her husband
+and Mary, but they offered her no assistance,
+so she said lightly, “What do I think
+of divorce? Why, I never think of it. I
+don’t have to, you see.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary brought her fist down on the table
+with one of her unregenerate gestures.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>“It is one of the greatest crimes of the
+day,” she exclaimed, “the attitude of Public
+Opinion on Divorce! I believe some
+of the churches are trying to do what they
+can to frown upon it, but till some fixed
+law is made which applies in every State
+in the Union, people will get divorced
+almost as fast as they get married. The
+trouble is, each couple fancies its own case
+unique, and women particularly seem to be
+incapable of giving up their own selfish
+happiness for the good of humanity or the
+community.”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t suppose you’d ever marry a
+divorced man, Mary,” Edith suggested,
+and the others all laughed at her characteristically
+feminine way of turning an
+abstract argument into a personal question.</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t suppose I should,” Mary replied
+bluntly. “Nor do I suppose I’d marry
+a man who was not divorced,—nor do I
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>think I shall ever be the cause of divorce
+in others. The opinion of an old maid like
+me is utterly worthless, of course, and I
+suppose ‘sour grapes’ would be the motive
+attributed to me by any one who knew
+my views. It is the pretty and foolish
+young married women who ought to be
+converted. I’m ashamed of Milly Lambert.”</p>
+
+<p>The intolerant Mary was speaking, but
+Edith brought back the new incarnation
+by introducing the subject of Sydney
+Eaton’s interest in politics. This gave
+Mary the chance to find out whether
+Philip still continued to identify himself
+with the Municipal Improvement Society
+and the Civic Club, and the various other
+reforming bodies in which he had formerly
+been an active member. Her evident
+interest in the subject loosened
+Philip’s tongue, and he began to talk as
+well as to listen. This was just what Mary
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>had wanted,—to find out whether the
+new Philip had what was best in the old,
+and skillfully she cast her line, the hook
+hidden in good conversational bait.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Elton unconsciously assisted, by
+judicious flourishes of the landing net, in
+the form of questions demanding answers,
+and statements requiring contradiction.
+Mary’s smile was that of the successful
+fisherman when Philip laid down his knife
+and fork and began to talk. His subject
+interested him, and Mary’s questions and
+arguments stimulated him. He threw back
+his head, and indifference and acquiescence
+shook off him like drops of water. His
+eyes lighted with the old fire of enthusiasm,
+and his voice vibrated with earnestness.
+A flush of almost triumphant success
+was reflected in Mary’s face. Edith may
+have lulled Philip’s spirit to sleep, but she
+had not killed it. As for Edith herself, she
+regarded her husband’s transformation
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>with undisguised pleasure. “Now I see
+what you’ve been wanting these last two
+years, Philip!” she exclaimed, smiling
+joyously from him to her friend. “It’s
+just been Mary! It’s good to see you like
+your old self. Perhaps if I could only learn
+to quarrel and argue with you it would
+goad you into going into politics, as your
+friends want you to. What you need is a
+little opposition.”</p>
+
+<p>“He’ll get enough of that if he goes
+into politics with his present ideas of reform,”
+Mr. Elton chuckled. But Philip did
+not seem to heed the comments that were
+flying round his head. He looked at Mary
+and talked on, his mind quickened by her
+interested questions, his intelligence freed
+by finding its fellow. Edith leaned back in
+her chair and gave the satisfied sigh of a
+surfeited child. There was not the smallest
+tinge of jealousy or of envy in the delight
+she took in the pleasure of Philip and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>Mary in being together again. Her nature
+was light but not petty, and small thoughts
+were as alien to her as big ones.</p>
+
+<p>When dinner was over, Edith took possession
+of her friend and carried her off to
+the other room, calling back, “Now please
+smoke very long cigars, and pretend you
+have a great deal to say to each other.
+Mary and I are going to have a heart to
+heart talk, and we don’t wish to be disturbed
+by mere men.”</p>
+
+<p>As Edith stood in the firelight, Mary
+felt the rush of irresistible admiration that
+her presence always excited. In all the
+galleries of Europe, Mary’s eyes had rested
+on no more beautiful picture than this
+wonderful woman, dressed in soft shades
+of varying yellows that seemed to match
+their golden gleams with her sunshiny
+hair. Her engagement ring—Philip’s opal—flashed
+its sympathetic response to
+every hue of her gown and every variation
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>of light, while a necklace of the same stones—his
+wedding gift—flashed fire, like a
+setting of colored lights encircling her exquisite
+head.</p>
+
+<p>“Now let’s talk, just the way we used
+to,” she said, settling herself in a corner of
+the big sofa, “which means that I will lay
+bare a few hearts and brains and things,
+and you will dissect them.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, produce your material,” Mary
+commanded; “the surgeon’s knife is
+ready.”</p>
+
+<p>“I’ve got a splendid name for you!”
+Edith broke in. “It just came to me this
+minute. You’re the Critic on the Heart!
+You do so love to analyze emotions and
+criticise impulses.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary rewarded her friend’s bestowal of
+the title by flinging a sofa cushion at her,
+which Edith instantly tucked away behind
+her shoulders, saying, “My back thanks
+you,” and leaned forward, looking like a
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>lovely daffodil in a calyx of green pillows.</p>
+
+<p>“<i>You</i> have no heart for me to criticise,”
+Mary said rather scornfully, “and my own
+is a fossil. I am not a geologist, so I don’t
+understand it. Produce another.”</p>
+
+<p>“Philip’s!” Edith replied so promptly
+that Mary started.</p>
+
+<p>“Thanks. I’d rather not,” she said
+shortly. “I know nothing of it, and a
+man’s wife would surely not wish to discuss
+him in any private or personal way,
+even with his best friend—and hers.”</p>
+
+<p>“Now, Mary, you know it’s perfectly
+ridiculous to talk that way to me,” Edith
+expostulated. “My marriage is your doing.
+You can’t dismiss it that way with
+a grandiloquent generality. You’ve got
+to take the consequences of your own
+acts.”</p>
+
+<p>“And what are the consequences?”
+Mary forced herself to ask in a light tone
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>which she felt would not fit the relentlessly
+frank attitude of the young wife.</p>
+
+<p>“Unhappiness on his side, indifference
+on mine,” was the laconic answer, that drew
+from Mary a sharp cry of “<i>Don’t</i>, Edith!
+Don’t say such a thing—in such a way.
+What are you made of!”</p>
+
+<p>“Sugar and spice and all that’s nice,”
+the girl sang gayly. “You always knew
+that was all I was made of, but you thought
+the power of my husband’s love would
+convert sugar and spice into heart and soul.
+I regret to say the strength of Philip’s love
+was not sufficient to perform that miracle,”
+she added, with an unusual touch of bitterness.
+But she instantly laughed it away.
+“I knew you’d see that Philip had found
+me out,” she said. “But he’s wonderfully
+good to me, he never shows that he is
+disappointed,—but—you know I <i>have</i>
+intuition, Mary, if I haven’t anything else,—and
+I knew that he had ceased loving
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>me before we had been married a year.
+Of course that means that I am adrift
+again,” and she sighed resignedly.</p>
+
+<p>Rage surged in Mary’s breast, rage
+against herself and Edith, and a rush of
+suffocating pity for Philip. But her anger,
+as usual, had to stand aside for admiration
+and amazement at Edith’s next words.</p>
+
+<p>“It was so fine in Philip,” the girl said
+slowly, her rich voice vibrating with feeling,
+“it was so much nobler of him to
+cease loving me when he found I was—nothing.
+Most men would have kept
+on caring for me. I was always good to
+him, always sympathetic and affectionate;
+I did everything he wanted me to, and, as
+you see,” she added naïvely, “I have not
+lost my looks nor grown stupid. How
+many men would feel a lack in such a
+wife? I have been the envy of débutantes
+and matrons, the admired and adored of
+men, yet Philip has proved his fineness
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>by ceasing to love me. His nature is high
+enough to demand its equal.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are making him out as much of
+a prig as Tennyson’s King Arthur,” Mary
+expostulated, but Edith’s childlike laugh
+interrupted her. “Oh, no! Philip has far
+too much humor and sense to wave his
+hands over me, saying, ‘Lo, I forgive thee,
+even as eternal God forgives.’ Under such
+provocation I should feel tempted to elope
+with the nearest Launcelot. No, the good
+part of Philip is that no one but you and
+I knows that he is a bitterly disappointed
+man. <i>I</i> know it because I myself am his
+disappointment, and you know it because”—</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I <i>don’t</i> know it!” Mary hastily
+interposed. “I’m sure he seems quite
+happy. You have too much intuition.
+You exaggerate. You may not be just
+what Philip thought you, but who is what
+any one thinks them? Besides, if he craves
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>something different, you are surely adaptable
+enough to give what he wants.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, Mary,” Edith said sadly, “I cannot
+give leadership, advice, stimulus, incentive.
+I can give only responsive qualities,
+as you know. And there is danger ahead,
+Mary, danger for me as well as for him.”
+Restlessly she rose from her cushioned
+corner and walked up and down. “Do you
+still care for me, Mary?” she demanded
+earnestly. “I mean enough to make a
+fight for me? Can you exert a strong
+enough influence to overthrow a determined
+will pulling against yours?”</p>
+
+<p>Mary did not trust herself to meet the
+appealing and appalling clearness of the
+eyes waiting to disarm her. She was disgusted
+with the girl’s egotism, angry with
+the weakness that had disillusioned Philip.
+She cared too much for the man to feel
+pity for the woman. “I am afraid I am
+beginning to lose patience with a clear-sightedness
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>as unavailing as yours,” she
+said, rather coldly. “If you and Philip
+are unhappy, I am more so, for I have an
+added sense of responsibility for your disappointment.
+I confess I do not feel like
+entering a tug of war for the prize of
+your soul. Where everything seems to
+the onlooker to be peaceful and serene,
+such strenuousness strikes me as being
+inappropriate.”</p>
+
+<p>Edith drew back a little, as if her
+friend’s sarcasm had hit her lightly in the
+face.</p>
+
+<p>“I have been dreadfully selfish,” she
+acquiesced with Mary’s thought. “I am
+going to try never to talk to you about
+myself again. I think you will make it
+easy for me to keep that resolution.”</p>
+
+<p>Instantly Mary’s impulsive heart smote
+her. “Edith, forgive me!” she cried. “I
+spoke thoughtlessly.”</p>
+
+<p>Edith was by her side at once, radiant
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span>and fascinating. “Forgive you? My dear
+old Mary, that word must never pass between
+us. I’ll try to be more what you
+would wish,—but I want to say one
+thing.” Her fingers twined together nervously.
+“I think—if I had had—a child—everything
+might have been different.”</p>
+
+<p>“I have so hoped that you would,”
+Mary murmured, with the half-abashed embarrassment
+shown by the unmarried when
+referring to the subject that is outside of
+their personal experience or prospects.</p>
+
+<p>“I feel that I shall never have children,”
+Edith said quietly, “and I am
+sorry for Philip as well as myself. He
+must turn to his work and I to”—</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Grant Lorimer,” said the maid’s
+voice at the door. Mary started as if the
+little white-capped servant had fired a pistol
+at her. But Edith was halfway across
+the room, shaking hands with Mary’s old
+enemy and crying out, “You have spoiled
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>everything, Grant! Miss Elton and I were
+having the first talk we’ve had for two
+years, and I hadn’t got round to telling
+her that you are in Boston again. See
+how surprised she looks!”</p>
+
+<p>Mary tried to assume a cordiality she
+did not feel. “How do you do, Mr. Lorimer?
+Yes, I am surprised to find any one
+drifting back to Boston who does not belong
+here.”</p>
+
+<p>If there were a dash of venom in her
+words he did not swallow it. He made a
+profound bow as he seated himself beside
+her. “I feel that I do in a measure belong
+here,” he said quietly. “Mrs. Morley always
+gives me a sense of being at home,
+and perhaps an old friend like myself
+brings with him a little different feeling
+of old times than comes with new acquaintances,
+no matter how congenial.” Their
+foils crossed in their opening greetings, as
+never failed to happen when these combatants
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span>met. Edith rushed in to separate
+them. “I’m going to treat you like the
+old friend you are, Grant,” she struck in,
+“and send you into the dining-room to have
+a cigar and some coffee with Philip and
+Mr. Elton. Then Mary and I can finish our
+feminine confidences and you will have all
+the charm of novelty when you return with
+the others fifteen minutes later. I know
+Philip wants to talk to you about stocks,
+and I hate the sound of the word. Run
+along like a good boy.” Her voice had the
+affectionate cadence of a mother giving
+wheedling advice to her child. Mary’s suspicious
+brain wondered what was Edith’s
+motive in thus summarily dismissing her
+friend. Was it merely that the electric
+sparks of discord were disagreeable to one
+who loved harmony? was it because Edith
+wished to speak to him alone, and could
+do it better when her husband was in the
+room to absorb Mary’s attention? or was it
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span>because she did not wish Mary to find out
+from her Southern admirer how constant
+had been their companionship of late? In
+another minute Mary was blaming herself
+for attributing false motives, for as Grant
+Lorimer left the room in obsequious obedience
+to his queen’s command Edith threw
+her arms around Mary, exclaiming, “I
+couldn’t have any one come between us
+this first night. I want to be with you
+alone. Talk to me, dear. Tell me all about
+you, what you’ve thought and felt and
+experienced these two years. I’m sick of
+myself. I want to get close, close in touch
+with you to-night. You always help me
+so much;” and Edith cuddled up to her
+austere and angular friend like a tired
+child. Mary never forgave herself for her
+next words. She gave a little hard laugh
+and said, “I’ll talk to you as much as you
+please about what I have seen, heard, and
+done, but I have happily outgrown the days
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>of immodest exposure of heart and mind
+and spirit. If you are catering to what you
+think I want to talk about, you are making
+a mistake. I don’t wish to talk about
+either myself or yourself. Let’s compromise
+on Italy.”</p>
+
+<p>A queer, quiet smile crept into the corners
+of Edith’s lips, and she gave a little
+shrug, her frivolous submission to Fate.
+“Kismet. So be it,” she said lightly, drawing
+her hand out of Mary’s arm but still
+smiling with perfect amiability. “Italy is
+the subject of all others to be discussed by
+friends who have been separated two years.
+I hope you enjoyed Giorgione’s ‘Concert’
+as much as I did, and felt like slapping
+the insipid faces of Carlo Dolce’s
+Madonnas!”</p>
+
+<p>When the men came in a little later,
+the girls were discussing the relative merits
+of Perugino and Lippo Lippi with the
+passionate interest frequently reserved for
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>post-prandial confidences concerning the
+advantages of rival schools of underwear.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Elton and Grant Lorimer took instant
+possession of their hostess, who was
+laughingly accused by Lorimer of “showing
+off” about Italian art.</p>
+
+<p>“What a wonderful memory Edith
+has!” Mary exclaimed to Philip, as he
+drew a chair up to the corner of her sofa.
+“It doesn’t seem fair for one person to
+have so much. All the fairies were present
+at her christening.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, she is wonderfully endowed,”
+Philip acquiesced. “A good memory
+knows what to forget as well as what to remember,”
+he added, and suddenly Mary’s
+mind flew back to their last interview
+alone together, when she had poured out
+the story of her love for him. She flushed
+scarlet at the thought, and an intolerable
+sense of embarrassment and shame flooded
+her. They talked of impersonal things,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>and no outsider would have been conscious
+of effort or strain; but while Mary
+was talking she was telling herself that
+their intercourse could never be natural
+or agreeable. Their past yawned between
+them,—a past too vital to be bridged
+with the commonplace,—while they chatted
+of friends, and things that had happened
+to people in whom they were both
+interested. Mary found herself watching
+Philip’s face with all her old affection
+and belief, but with an added ache of
+sorrow, not for herself but for him. “If
+he had only been happy I could have
+borne my own unhappiness,” she groaned
+inwardly, “but he is a disappointed man.
+He was once something, he could have
+been anything, and now he will be nothing.”
+Involuntarily she turned towards
+the cause of his failure. Edith, with her
+customary skill, was mixing oil and water
+in the persons of her two guests. Mary
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>remarked on it to Philip, and then, adding
+abruptly, “A little vinegar has a wonderfully
+ameliorating effect on two alien
+liquids; I am going to supply it,” impulsively,
+almost to the point of rudeness, she
+quitted her seat and joined the group at
+the other side of the room. Edith instantly
+beckoned to Philip to come and sit by her
+side.</p>
+
+<p>“This is a great deal cosier,” she said
+comfortably. “There are too few of us to
+divide into groups. Mary is a wise woman
+to encourage us to hang together, isn’t
+she, Philip?” She smiled up at her husband’s
+rather baffled face with her winning
+air of confidence, but his answering
+smile touched his mouth alone, leaving his
+eyes unresponding. Mary instantly began
+firing questions at Lorimer, which he,
+bewildered, answered with the brevity of
+surprise.</p>
+
+<p>“Are you to be long in Boston?”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p>
+
+<p>“Why, really I don’t know. My plans
+are quite uncertain.”</p>
+
+<p>“Have you been here much during the
+last two years?”</p>
+
+<p>“No. At least only recently. My business
+demands occasional visits to other
+cities.”</p>
+
+<p>“Where did you spend last summer?”</p>
+
+<p>“At Northeast Harbor.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, how pleasant for you to be near
+the Morleys!”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, indeed, delightful.” And so it
+went.</p>
+
+<p>Finally Mary rose to her feet, weighted
+down by a confused sense of failure,
+misunderstanding, and disappointment.
+“Come, Uncle Charles, you must take me
+home,” she said. “I’m not as young as
+you, and half past ten is the middle of my
+night. I haven’t my land legs or my land
+brain yet, and I feel a little watery at
+both extremities,” she explained to Edith.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span></p>
+
+<p>“You must look in to-morrow or the
+next day and see that all goes well in my
+absence,” Philip said, as he unfolded Mary’s
+wrap. “I have to run on to New York
+for a few days on business, and Edith will
+think it a good exchange if you will take
+my place.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, why don’t you take her with
+you!” Mary cried impulsively. He turned
+towards his wife, saying, “Well, Edith,
+what do you say,—will you come with
+me?”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, of course, if you want me,” she
+replied instantly.</p>
+
+<p>“We’ll talk about it in the morning,”
+he said. “Good-night, Mary. It is like old
+times to have you back again. We’ve
+missed you tremendously. Good-night, Mr.
+Elton. I congratulate you on your return
+to slavery.”</p>
+
+<p>Grant Lorimer stood beside the handsome
+couple, bowing with scrupulous politeness.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>He looked mysteriously dark and
+enigmatic in the half light. Mary turned
+as she went down the steps, fascinated by
+the picture that Edith made, as she stood
+between the two men, gleaming like a
+tongue of flame in her shimmering yellows.
+Somehow at that moment her radiant
+beauty stamped itself on Mary’s consciousness
+more forcibly than ever before.
+“Good-night, Mary,” called Edith for the
+last time. “Philip isn’t going to take me
+to New York. I know him! Don’t desert
+me. Remember I shall be all alone.
+I shall depend on you. Don’t forget me.”
+Her voice vibrated with a tone of earnestness
+out of keeping with her words, but
+her pretty inconsequent little laugh trilled
+out. Mary saw Philip still standing by the
+open door, as Grant Lorimer turned towards
+Edith with one of his compelling
+glances and followed her into the parlor.
+Then a sudden gust of wind slammed the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>door, and the vision went out like the
+picture on a magic lantern slide.</p>
+
+<p>Mary spent the next few hours between
+the nightmares of waking and sleeping.
+As usual, she alternately blamed and justified
+herself for her repellent attitude towards
+Edith’s confidences and confessions.
+“If I am a critic on the heart, there is no
+heart for which I feel greater scorn than
+my own,” she told herself bitterly. “I
+don’t know that it’s any better to have a
+bad heart than none at all. I am blaming
+Edith for what she can’t help; she was
+made by her parents and I by myself.”
+She tossed restlessly on her pillows, jerking
+impatiently at the blankets. “It’s only
+the sight of Philip and the thought of him
+that make me so unjustly angry with poor
+Edith. If she had married a man whom I
+could regard simply as her husband, my
+sympathies would be hers along with my
+affection and my grudging admiration;
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>but she has taken the will power out of
+Philip Morley,—she is making him into
+a mere drifting will-less creature like herself,
+and I <i>can’t</i> forgive her when I care so
+much for him. Oh, how absurd,—how
+<i>wrong</i> it is for me to love him as I do!”
+Warm tears fell on her pillow, and she
+turned it over angrily. She tried to look
+at facts without blinking, and she saw the
+shadow of something unavoidable darkening
+the radiance of Edith. “It’s that
+wretched cad of a Dr. Fell,” she told herself.
+“He has too much influence over
+her. I must exert mine in opposition.”
+Then she drifted into unrestful sleep,
+clenching her fist at the powers of darkness,
+vowing that she should save Edith
+yet, and murmuring “I was ever a
+fighter,” as her imaginings changed to
+dreams.</p>
+
+<p>The next day Mary was busied with her
+unpacking till late afternoon, when she
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>took a breathing space and went to see
+Edith. The maid told her she had gone
+out ten minutes before, and that Mr. Morley
+had gone to New York that morning.
+Mary left a message of regret which she
+genuinely felt, and then made a long
+détour to get home, that she might fill
+her lungs with fresh air before again attacking
+the problem of sorting and distributing
+her spoils of travel.</p>
+
+<p>When she got back she was disappointed
+to hear that Edith had been to see her,
+and had waited half an hour in vain for
+her return. “I wish I had thought to
+leave word for her to come to dinner to-night.
+It must be lonely for her with
+Philip away,” Mary reproved herself, and
+several times in the course of the evening
+she exclaimed irrelevantly to her uncle,
+“I wish Edith were here!” The next
+morning Mary made amends to her own
+conscience by going early to the Morleys
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>to try and persuade Edith to come back
+with her to spend the day. The maid recognized
+the visitor of the afternoon before
+and asked her to step in. “Mrs. Morley
+left a letter for you,” she explained. “Mr.
+Morley sent for her to join him in New
+York last night, and Mr. Lorimer saw her
+off on the midnight train. He told me
+about it while she was packing up her
+things.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary’s legs shook under her and she
+felt herself grow pale and cold. What did
+it mean? Was Philip ill? Was Grant
+Lorimer?—Tremblingly she opened
+the envelope. Between the closely written
+pages another note fell out addressed
+simply “To Philip.” Mary’s mind stopped
+thinking, her heart seemed to cease beating.
+Automatically she turned the enclosed
+envelope face down on her knee,
+and said to the maid in a voice which was
+not her own, “Very well. You needn’t
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>wait. I will read Mrs. Morley’s letter
+here.” It ran as follows:—</p>
+
+<blockquote>
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mary</span>,—I am writing this while
+Grant Lorimer is waiting for me to go
+away with him. This is not a letter of
+justification but of explanation. I <i>can’t
+help it</i>, Mary, believe me, <i>I can’t help</i>
+what I am doing. It had to be. It isn’t
+that I love him. Don’t think I am just
+vulgarly bad. It is simply that he loves
+me more than Philip, more than you, I
+am afraid, and that he has strength to
+make me do what he wants. Don’t fancy
+that I do not think of Philip,—of the disgrace—the
+humiliation—the bitter grief
+and shame I am bringing him. But I cannot
+act otherwise. Perhaps if you came
+in at this moment and defied the man
+downstairs and carried me off with you,
+the battle would be won, for you know
+your influence over me is hardly less hypnotic
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>than his. Don’t ever blame yourself,
+dear old Mary, for not having understood
+a little better what I was going through.
+It is part of the tragedy that you could not
+believe in such—weakness—as mine.
+Help Philip to understand that I have
+never been anything but a puppet,—an
+irresponsible toy with tangled strings
+pulled by many hands. I must write a
+few words to Philip, and you must try to
+make him understand that there are some
+events in life that are <i>inevitable</i>. I am not
+carried away by passion,—I am not unhappy
+with Philip. I shall not be happy
+with the other man. I am simply doing
+what I must do. Believe that, if you can,
+and be good to Philip always, Mary, for
+my sake,—it is my last request. I know
+that you will love me in spite of all I have
+done and been, just as I shall always love
+you because you are your own fine free
+self. And sometime, perhaps, I shall come
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>back, and then I know you will take me
+in.</p>
+
+<p class="right5">
+  <span class="smcap">Edith.</span>
+</p>
+</blockquote>
+
+<p>Mechanically Mary folded up the letter.
+Her strained eyes looked like those of a
+person in a trance. There was no look
+of comprehension in her face. She laid
+Philip’s note on the table, propping it up
+frivolously against a little match safe in
+the form of a red imp. Then she walked
+to the window and looked out at the
+passers-by. “How badly that woman’s
+skirt hangs!” she inwardly commented
+with the only part of her mind that was
+not dead. After a few moments she shivered
+and glanced at Edith’s letter, which
+her frozen fingers grasped. “I must go
+before the maid returns,” she muttered
+vaguely, feeling as if a body she had murdered
+lay by her side and would be discovered.
+She turned towards the door.
+“Philip must not be told like that!” she
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>exclaimed angrily as she caught sight of
+the letter she had arranged for him, and
+she crumpled it into her pocket, with
+trembling hands. Edith’s portrait smiled
+at her with bewitching candor. “There’s
+a woman like a dew-drop, she’s so purer
+than the purest,” Mary murmured. Then
+a muffled cry of acute comprehension broke
+from her tightened throat. “Edith, forgive
+me!” she cried wildly. “Oh, my God, how
+shall I tell Philip!” She bent her abashed
+head, that she might not meet the generous
+smile of her sinning friend, and when
+she crept home, hugging her terrible secret
+to her heart, she looked like a guilty soul
+fleeing from justice.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p>
+
+
+  <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">
+    CHAPTER VII<br> THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>Three years had passed since Boston
+society was shaken to its depths by
+hearing of the elopement of one of its
+adored and admired favorites. Most people
+were left frankly baffled by the shock, and
+could offer neither excuse nor explanation.
+Mrs. Philip Morley was universally loved,
+and her husband was universally liked and
+respected, yet this inexplicable thing had
+happened,—and society slowly got on its
+feet again, dazed by the blow it had received,
+rubbed its bewildered eyes, and
+continued to love the wife and like the
+husband. Of course there were the inevitable
+few who “always suspected something
+queer about the girl.” Miss Milton
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>expressed surprise only that Mrs. Morley
+had not disgraced herself and her poor
+husband sooner. “I have often noticed,”
+she proclaimed solemnly, “that girls who
+have not been brought up in Boston are
+very apt to do something queer sooner or
+later. That young woman had too good
+manners. She was unlike Boston people.
+I always knew she’d drag the Morley name
+in the mud.” The only people who did not
+discuss and wonder and exclaim were the
+two most interested,—Philip Morley and
+Mary Elton. After the long interview in
+which he was told the truth, Edith’s name
+was never mentioned between them. Philip
+had understood his wife, and did not need
+Mary’s assurances that Edith had not an
+evil trait in her nature. “Don’t I know
+that?” he had said, his tense face drawn
+with suffering. “The poor child was not
+like a human being, for all her lovable
+human qualities. She was like some wonderful
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>and mysterious force of nature,—electricity,
+or the rushing torrent,—waiting
+for the hand of man to control and
+make the best use of it. Perhaps it was
+my fault that I did not know how to handle
+such a strange and subtle element.”</p>
+
+<p>“It was her parents’ fault that they
+made her what she was!” Mary cried, with
+an angry sob accentuating her scorn. “I
+am sure that she started life a human child
+like the rest of us, only with more goodness
+and sweetness and beauty than is the
+lot of most,—and what did that Southern
+father and Catholic mother do to her, but
+divest her of her individuality, tear out her
+soul and make her over again, a mechanical
+doll to obey the strongest will! She
+is not responsible for her acts. I can only
+thank Fortune, that having been deprived
+of the possibility of doing and thinking for
+herself, the power of suffering keenly and
+feeling deeply was taken from her also.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p>
+
+<p>“Oh, what will be her end!” Philip had
+groaned, covering his eyes from the mental
+picture they had conjured out of his
+imagination.</p>
+
+<p>“I suppose—for her sake—you will
+divorce her,” Mary said, with evident disgust.
+“That hound will think he is showing
+Southern chivalry by marrying her.
+From my point of view it doesn’t matter
+one iota whether she is divorced or not,—whether
+she is his wife or his mistress. It
+is all the same. She doesn’t want to be
+either.”</p>
+
+<p>Philip pushed back his chair abruptly.
+“If you ever hear anything from Edith,
+or about her, please let me know, Mary.
+My life is broken in two, but that is not
+so bad as the feeling that I unconsciously
+broke hers. I did not understand—I loved
+her so tremendously at first,—and then,
+slowly, it came to me that there was nothing
+to love—nothing to hate.” His voice
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>dropped. “It—it was terrible! Poor, radiant,
+beautiful Edith! My poor ill-omened
+opal! What a life,—Heavens, what a life!—and
+perhaps my fault.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary stood beside him, calm and white.
+“No, Philip, mine. I brought you together.
+I encouraged your marriage; and,
+worse than all, I refused to give help and
+sympathy when it would have saved her
+life. I have been wicked and stupid, and
+I deserve to suffer as I <i>shall</i> suffer. Oh, I
+shall, never fear.” Her mouth quavered,
+but she bit her lips into subjection again.
+“I had more power over Edith than any
+other living creature; and I was selfish
+and blind and did not use it for her good.
+I shall be remorseful all my life; but
+some day she will come back,—it will be
+to me that she will come,—and then you’ll
+see whether I’ll help her!” There was
+courage in her voice, but hopelessness in
+her eyes.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span></p>
+
+<p>Philip had gone his way, and taken up
+his ruined life and tried to piece it together
+again. He faced the world, in silence but
+in strength, and the dignity of his life
+and the strenuousness of his work silenced
+alike whispers of gossip and whines of
+pity. He saw few people outside of his
+business, his politics, his family, and his
+one perfectly understanding friend. From
+her he received the old incentive to being
+and doing which he had thought was lost
+to him forever, and their friendship was
+too true and close to be heedful of the
+censures of Mrs. Grundy,—whose home
+is in Boston, though she sometimes goes
+away to pay visits.</p>
+
+<p>Mary, meanwhile, was taking a sardonic
+satisfaction in what she called “fulfilling
+her destiny.” She became absorbed in
+charities and immersed in good works;
+clubs, classes, and committees took most
+of her time; and in becoming the chief
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>manager of a vacation house for over-worked
+shop-girls, Mary declared she had
+attained her apotheosis.</p>
+
+<p>She had heard once of Edith from a
+Boston friend who proved her right to be
+popularly considered a Bohemian by living
+in Charles Street, whence all but she
+had fled. This dauntless soul had gone
+to Italy soon after Edith’s disappearance,
+and had one day found herself in a small
+shop in Florence trying to make the man
+understand that she wished to buy a pair
+of smoked glasses, when who should come
+in but Edith Morley. “For a moment,”
+she wrote, “I stopped thinking, and in
+that moment I rushed up to the dear
+creature and kissed her, just from pure
+nervousness! She didn’t seem a bit surprised,
+nor a bit disconcerted. She was
+the perfect lady she always was,—and,
+if anything, prettier than ever. She asked
+with absolute naturalness about every one
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span>in Boston,—you particularly,—and might
+have been traveling with Cook for a chaperone,
+if it hadn’t been for one thing.
+She didn’t ask me to call on her, and
+when she walked out of the shop with her
+goddess step, that worm of a Lorimer
+crawled out of a crack in the pavement
+and joined her.”</p>
+
+<p>A condensed version of this meeting
+was sent by Mary to Philip; but, true to
+the vows in their first interview, Edith’s
+name was not spoken between them.</p>
+
+<p>So the first three years of Edith’s absence
+passed. One afternoon in January,
+Mary was sitting alone by the library fire.
+When her face was in repose it showed
+lines of grief and hopelessness sad to see
+in a woman of thirty. The mask of cheerfulness
+and courage with which she faced
+and deceived the unthinking portion of
+her world, was laid aside when she looked
+boldly into the past and future, as she was
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>doing now. A blazing fire images sad pictures,
+even though its snaps and crackles
+are cheerful, and its warmth and light
+comforting. Mary’s meditations were interrupted
+by the entrance of Philip Morley,
+cold and brisk from a quick walk.</p>
+
+<p>“You’re just the excuse I wanted for a
+cup of tea,” she said, as she rang the bell.
+“I am feeling frightfully guilty over my
+failure to be at a committee meeting this
+afternoon, and I really hadn’t the face
+to reward myself with refreshments; but
+the case is different now. You look half
+frozen, and politeness demands that I share
+your tea.” He settled himself the other
+side of the fire, and waited silently till the
+tea was made and the servant had gone.
+Then he said abruptly,—</p>
+
+<p>“Why do you go in for so many charities,
+Mary? Do they really interest you,
+or do you drug yourself with activities
+merely to kill thought? You used to
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>laugh so at the strenuousness of charity
+workers, yet here you are one yourself.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, I laugh at myself,” Mary exclaimed
+bitterly. “Between ourselves,
+most of my good works bore me to death;
+but unfortunately I have a pretty good
+head for organizing,—so having failed in
+everything else, I naturally wish to do
+something I can succeed in.”</p>
+
+<p>“In what have you failed, Mary?”</p>
+
+<p>“In the greatest vocation there is in
+life,—in friendship.” Her face—with its
+disguise still thrown aside—retained its
+look of hopeless tragedy, and her straight
+brows almost met.</p>
+
+<p>“You must not say that!” Philip cried.
+“It is morbid and untrue. If it had not
+been for you I should have sunk to earth
+under my burdens, but I scorned to be a
+coward where a woman could show me
+such an example of courage.”</p>
+
+<p>“Don’t, Philip,—don’t, don’t!” Mary
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>cried weakly. “I don’t deserve it. You
+make me feel dreadfully.”</p>
+
+<p>But Philip had risen, and stood in front
+of her, decided and relentless.</p>
+
+<p>“Mary, five years ago you made me
+listen to you without interruption. Now
+you must do the same for me. The time
+has come when I have got to speak.”</p>
+
+<p>She looked up at him, dreading and beseeching,
+but his expression of determination
+conquered hers of appeal.</p>
+
+<p>“Mary, five years ago you told me
+something that has affected my whole life
+and my whole character more than you
+can know, more than I myself realized at
+first. I would to Heaven you could tell
+me the same thing now, since I was blind
+fool enough then not to be able to say to
+you what I cannot help saying now.”</p>
+
+<p>She put out her hands in dumb protest,
+but he paid no heed.</p>
+
+<p>“Mary, I love you with all my heart and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>all my strength, and you must and shall
+learn to say over again to me now what
+you were brave enough to tell me once
+before. I have loved you, consciously and
+completely, for nearly three years, but I
+could not speak before. I know now that
+I have loved you always, but without realizing
+it. You are my second self,—no,
+my first self, my better self. Whatever I
+have done, whatever I may become, is
+<i>yours</i>, <i>yours</i> utterly. I have no thoughts
+that are not due to you, no wishes, no
+ambitions that are not yours. When I
+was almost crushed to earth, and seemed
+to have lost the power not only to do, but
+to feel, it was your strength, the power of
+your principle that gave me a new start.
+Oh, Mary! The joy of finding a rudder
+when I was adrift! The satisfaction of
+being steered by conviction, instead of
+blown by every wind! It is to you I owe
+everything.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span></p>
+
+<p>Mary looked up at him with trembling
+lips, the light of happiness transfiguring
+her face into the semblance of real beauty.</p>
+
+<p>“Are you speaking the truth?” she
+whispered. “You are not saying this because
+of—of what I told you five years
+ago?”</p>
+
+<p>The childlike appeal in her face made
+him kneel by her side and put a protecting
+arm around the self-reliant back that had
+never yet bent under its burdens.</p>
+
+<p>“Mary, my dearest,” he whispered
+gently, “my whole life shall prove that
+we were made for one another from the
+beginning. Perhaps we shall realize it all
+the more for the suffering we have shared
+in the past. We shall begin our lives over
+again side by side, happy and rich in accomplishment,
+if you can give me back a
+little of the love I give to you.”</p>
+
+<p>Mary closed her eyes for a second, as if
+to nerve herself for her reply. Then she
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>rose, and clasped her hands behind her.
+“Philip, I should like to make you realize,
+if it won’t make you unhappy in the
+future, how my love for you has simply
+saved my life. It has been my absorbing
+passion, my dream, yet my one reality. I
+haven’t dared to think you cared for me—in
+the same way I have cared for you.
+It is incredible. I’m so ugly, you know,”
+and she laughed as she had done five years
+before. Then she looked at him with the
+motherly protection he loved. “You <i>dear</i>
+boy,” she went on, “you dear blessed old
+Philip! You’ve given me enough happiness
+now to last me the rest of my life.
+It’s like an inexhaustible deposit in a
+bank,—the sense of your love. I shall
+keep drawing cheques on it,—and then
+perhaps some morning I’ll hear that I’ve
+overdrawn my account, and that I’m bankrupt.”</p>
+
+<p>“There’ll always be plenty more, dear,”
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span>Philip said tenderly. “My heart is wholly
+yours, and I never realized before what a
+large heart I had!”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, but <i>I</i> knew!” Mary exclaimed,
+laughing happily. Then she grew suddenly
+serious. “Philip, I’ve got to hurt
+you—I’ve got to seem Quixotic and unreasonable,
+but after a while you’ll understand
+and forgive, and perhaps even thank
+me.” She looked at him squarely but
+gently. “I have loved you since I knew
+what it meant to love any one, and I shall
+keep on loving you till my teeth drop out
+and my hair turns gray. I do believe, now
+for the first time—that you care for me,
+and the thought makes me inexpressibly
+happy, but I can <i>never</i>, <i>never</i> marry you.”</p>
+
+<p>Long experience had taught Philip not
+to exclaim at Mary’s vehement statements,
+so he said quietly, “I thought you were
+above conventional scruples. Besides, a
+legal divorce makes re-marriage with the—the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>one who has not broken any vows,
+entirely lawful and proper.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I am not afraid of doing anything
+unlawful!” Mary cried, “and certainly I
+should be doing quite the conventional
+and usual thing in marrying a divorcé
+who is above reproach morally. I am not
+posing as a model for others. I am not
+laying down laws for society. I merely
+say that you are asking me to do something
+from which my whole moral nature
+shrinks as an act of selfishness and disloyalty,
+although the impulsive natural <i>me</i>
+longs to jump into your arms and remain
+there always, without fear or reproach.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then follow your impulse, Mary,” he
+begged passionately. “Your heart is leading
+you right this time, your conscience
+has become morbid and diseased. There
+is not a living soul who could blame you
+for taking and giving the happiness we
+have both so nearly missed. Prove yourself
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>a woman, dearest, not a thinking
+machine. Love is a matter of feeling, not
+of cold analysis. Forget that you are a
+Bostonian, and for once follow your inclinations,
+which are true and right.” He
+held out his arms, but Mary only shook
+her head dumbly, and her dry lips formed
+the words “I can’t.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, you don’t really know what love
+is!” Philip cried cruelly, striding over to
+the fireplace and turning his back on
+Mary’s quivering look of appeal.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, yes I do. Love is the fulfilling of
+the law, Philip,” she almost whispered.
+“St. Paul was not a Bostonian, he was a
+man of the world and he knew what he
+was talking about. Oh, don’t you suppose
+I realize that any definition of love sounds
+sententious and unfeeling!” she interrupted
+herself stormily. “But by <i>law</i> I
+don’t mean anything legal. I merely mean
+that the only love worth giving is the fulfilling
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>of one’s own law of life, and if I
+married you I should be false to myself
+and treacherous to Edith. Try to understand
+me, Philip. Don’t make things
+harder than they <i>must</i> be.”</p>
+
+<p>She sank wearily into a chair, and obedient
+to her mood, he took his old place
+on the other side of the fire.</p>
+
+<p>“If things were different, Philip, I would
+rather be your wife than anything else
+in the world,” she continued. “So far as
+we two are concerned, I should be glad
+to live with you on any terms, legal or illegal,—but
+you see the pity of it is there
+never <i>are</i> only two persons concerned.
+If I married you, I should be doing just
+what I blame others for doing,—regarding
+my case as exceptional and making
+excuses for what should not be excused.
+If I married you, I should not blame any
+of the working girls I try to help and influence,
+for doing what would be the equivalent
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>of such an act in their own class.
+My deed would give the lie to my words.
+It seems to me that mistakes should be as
+punishable as sins, and we ought to be
+just as unable to escape from their consequences.
+You committed the great error
+of marrying Edith Dudley. I made the
+greater one of encouraging you, and we
+must both pay the price of that error.”</p>
+
+<p>“We have paid it,” he broke in vehemently.
+“We have paid it with bitterness
+and sorrow. It is unjust for the consequences
+of a mistake to be everlasting.”</p>
+
+<p>“Philip, the consequences of a mistake
+<i>would</i> be everlasting if I married you. I
+could not look at Edith’s picture, I could
+not even in imagination meet her loving
+smile and think, ‘She will come home some
+day and turn to me for help, and I shall
+be in her home, married to her husband,
+and shall have to close her own door in
+her face.’ When friends should turn to me
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>with raised eyebrows and with the unspoken
+comment, ‘I thought you did not
+believe in divorced people marrying again,’
+I <i>could</i> not be untruthful enough to say,
+‘but my case is different. This is a moral
+marriage.’ Dear Philip, it is harder than
+you know to say all this—caring for you
+as I do. I feel like a drunkard delivering
+a temperance lecture. I long so to
+be completely yours, yet I know so well
+we should neither of us be happy in so
+selfish a union.”</p>
+
+<p>“Mary, you are wrong,—your ideas
+are twisted; trust your heart, and your
+judgment will follow.”</p>
+
+<p>“No. You are wrong, dear,” and she
+shook her head sadly. “You cannot escape
+from your marriage with Edith. It is part
+of your life, and by ignoring it you cannot
+forget it. I am bound by every tie of
+loyalty and remorse to remain true to her.
+I must be ready when she comes back.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span></p>
+
+<p>“But who knows that she will ever
+come back?” Philip burst out. “Her
+husband is with her. You are sacrificing
+your life to a fanatical delusion. And even
+if you can stand this dreadful dead life
+you are leading, what will become of me?”</p>
+
+<p>Mary smiled and stretched out her hand
+to him. “You used to admire my clear-sightedness
+and to think I could see into
+the future as well as interpret the present.
+Let me be Cassandra for a minute.” She
+tightened her grasp on his, and met his
+gaze with a courageous smile.</p>
+
+<p>“I see you at first rebellious, then submissive,
+and finally triumphing with me
+in the sense that we care enough for each
+other to sacrifice our selfish selves to the
+highest truth in each other. You will care
+enough for me to be strong and vigorous
+in action. The conviction that you are
+doing what is right will be a living help
+and support, and you will make me prouder
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span>than ever of loving you,—proudest of
+all in being loved by you.” Her voice
+lowered. “I see our poor Edith drifting,—drifting,—tired
+of life,—her husband
+tiring of her, till some day she becomes
+conscious of my thoughts and wishes pulling
+and tugging her towards me; and
+then she will come back to me, and I
+shall try to make up to her for her ruined
+life, and I shall then at last feel worthy
+to be loved by you. As for me myself”—Mary
+suddenly dropped her head
+in her hands and burst into the uncontrolled
+sobs of a child. “Here I am talking
+like a dried-up old prig, when my
+heart is just bursting, and I can’t silence
+the voice inside that cries out for the
+right to love and be loved! Oh, my dearest,—it
+has been so many, many years!”</p>
+
+<p>Philip’s arms were around her, and she
+clung to him with the desperation of one
+who feels the waves closing over her.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>“This is the last time,—the <i>only</i> time,”
+she whispered. “To-morrow we shall play
+our parts as usual. We shall face the footlights,
+and we shall forget that we have
+been behind the scenes. And perhaps,
+after we are dead, we may be able to wash
+off the paint and powder,” she added,
+trying to smile underneath her tears.</p>
+
+<p>“Is this really your final answer?”
+Philip asked, his eyes and saddened lips
+giving eloquence to his few words.</p>
+
+<p>“It must be, dear. You will come to
+see that it is the only end. It could have
+been different, but it is too late. ‘It once
+might have been, once only.’”</p>
+
+<p>Philip’s arms dropped to his side with a
+gesture of finality, as he said quietly, “I
+believe in you so absolutely that I may
+come to believe that you are right in this
+as in all else. If that time ever arrives, I
+will come back and take what strength and
+comfort I can from your friendship, and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>you may trust me never again to open the
+chapter you are now closing. If I do not
+return, it will be because I am too weak
+to trust myself,” and he turned away.</p>
+
+<p>“You must learn to have the courage
+of my convictions,” Mary said, with a trembling
+smile, “for I am a coward, though
+confident,—and you are brave, though
+unconvinced.” She held out her hand.
+“Au revoir. You will return, my friend.
+I hope it too much not to believe it.” He
+left the room, not trusting himself to
+speak again. She kept her control till she
+heard the front door close. Then she
+clenched her teeth with angry grief. “If
+I am doomed to act a part all my life, it
+shall be a melodramatic part for once!”</p>
+
+<p>She took from her desk a photograph
+of Edith, and gazed passionately at the
+passionless face. The girl’s thoughtful eyes
+were shaded by a large white hat; a soft
+feather boa fell back from her bare neck,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>on which lay Philip’s opal necklace. Suddenly
+Mary tore the picture across and
+flung it into the blaze. “You have ruined
+my life!” she ranted wildly, and flung
+herself on the sofa prepared to weep her
+heart out. But the doorbell rang, inopportunely
+enough, and by the time the
+maid came upstairs her mistress was idly
+poking at a piece of charred paper in the
+fireplace.</p>
+
+<p>“It’s a lady from the Associated Charities
+wants to know if she can speak to
+you a minute about Mrs. O’Connell,” the
+maid said tentatively.</p>
+
+<p>Mary gave her hair a quick smoothing
+with her hand and shook herself into
+shape like a dog. Then she faced the
+footlights once more. “Show her up,”
+she said, rather wearily.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<p class="center small">The Riverside Press<br>
+<i>Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton &amp; Co.</i><br>
+<i>Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.</i></p></div>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"></div>
+<figure class="figcenter illowp30">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/toutbien.jpg" alt="TOUT BIEN OU RIEN">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+<p class="xl"><i>The following pages are devoted
+to notices of some recent successful
+fiction published by Houghton,
+Mifflin &amp; Company.</i></p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+<p class="fh2">The<br>AFFAIR AT THE INN</p></div>
+<hr>
+<p class="rightb">
+  By KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN<br>
+  MARY FINDLATER<br>
+  JANE FINDLATER<br>
+  ALLAN McAULEY
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<p>“An international comedy unfolded with a charm
+that is undeniable and irresistible. Each author’s
+account sparkles with conversations and forms a
+unique narrative.</p>
+
+<p>“Mrs. Wiggin’s portrayal of the alternate words of
+the fun-loving but sympathetic American girl is a
+strong bit of character writing which is deeply human.</p>
+
+<p>“It is a story unique in its construction, amusing in its
+situations, of easy and natural progression and sustaining
+one’s interest from page to page.”</p>
+
+<p class="right"><i>Boston Herald.</i></p>
+<hr>
+<p>Illustrated in tint by <span class="smcap">Martin Justice</span></p>
+
+<p class="right">12mo, $1.25</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+<table class="autotable center">
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdc">HOUGHTON,<br>MIFFLIN<br>&amp; COMPANY</td>
+  <td class="tdc"><figure class="figcenter illowp25">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/toutbien.jpg" alt="TOUT BIEN OU RIEN">
+</figure></td>
+  <td class="tdc">BOSTON<br>AND<br>NEW YORK</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+<p class="fh2">REBECCA<br>of SUNNYBROOK FARM</p></div>
+<hr>
+<p class="rightb">
+  By KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+
+<p>“Of all the children of Mrs. Wiggin’s brain, the most
+laughable and the most lovable is Rebecca.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Life, N. Y.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“Rebecca creeps right into one’s affections and stays
+there.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Philadelphia Item.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“A character that is irresistible in her quaint, humorous
+originality.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Cleveland Leader.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“Rebecca is as refreshing as a draught of spring
+water.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Los Angeles Times.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“Rebecca has come to stay with one for all time, and
+delight one perpetually, like Marjorie Fleming.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Literary World, Boston.</i>
+</p>
+<hr>
+<p>With decorative cover</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  12mo, $1.25
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<table class="autotable center">
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdc">HOUGHTON,<br>MIFFLIN<br>&amp; COMPANY</td>
+  <td class="tdc"><figure class="figcenter illowp25">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/toutbien.jpg" alt="TOUT BIEN OU RIEN">
+</figure></td>
+  <td class="tdc">BOSTON<br>AND<br>NEW YORK</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+<p class="fh2">THE REAPER</p></div>
+<hr>
+<p class="rightb">
+  By EDITH RICKERT
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+
+<p>“So impressive are Miss Rickert’s accounts of the
+Shetland character, so vivid her pictures of their
+alternating happy and sordid lives, so faithful her
+study of the racial and personal influences that move
+them, that we may accept <i>The Reaper</i> as one of the
+notable books of the season. It is something more
+than fiction—it gives a realistic, poetic, imaginative
+view of a wonderful and curious people.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Boston Transcript.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“A powerful story, fresh, vivid, and of unusual character
+and tone.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Chicago Record-Herald.</i>
+</p>
+<hr>
+<p class="right">
+  Crown 8vo, $1.50
+</p>
+
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<table class="autotable center">
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdc">HOUGHTON,<br>MIFFLIN<br>&amp; COMPANY</td>
+  <td class="tdc"><figure class="figcenter illowp25">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/toutbien.jpg" alt="TOUT BIEN OU RIEN">
+</figure></td>
+  <td class="tdc">BOSTON<br>AND<br>NEW YORK</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+<p class="fh2">BIDDY’S EPISODES</p></div>
+<hr>
+<p class="rightb">
+  By Mrs. A. D. T. WHITNEY
+</p>
+
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<p>“It is full of life, full of fun, full of glisten, and
+distinctly up to date. The character of the story is
+well expressed by the title; it is a record of the sayings
+and doings of a very unconventional but very
+original young woman as given by Joanna Gainsworth,
+who is not only an old maid, but an old maid who
+glories in it. Then there is the most interesting episode
+which can enter into a young woman’s life, her
+courtship and marriage. The book is as bright as a
+dollar fresh from the mint.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Boston Transcript.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“The story is sweet-spirited, bright, wholesome, interesting.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Chicago Record-Herald.</i>
+</p>
+<hr>
+<p class="right">
+  12mo, $1.50.
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<table class="autotable center">
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdc">HOUGHTON,<br>MIFFLIN<br>&amp; COMPANY</td>
+  <td class="tdc"><figure class="figcenter illowp25">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/toutbien.jpg" alt="TOUT BIEN OU RIEN">
+</figure></td>
+  <td class="tdc">BOSTON<br>AND<br>NEW YORK</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+<p class="fh2">The<br>PRIVATE TUTOR</p></div>
+<hr>
+<p class="rightb">
+  By GAMALIEL BRADFORD, Jr.
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<p>The love story of an Italian countess and a
+wealthy young American “cub.” An amusing
+comedy.</p>
+
+<p>“It is a readable, pleasant story, sprinkled with criticism
+of art and bright conversation, and bound to hold
+the interest of the reader.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Chicago Eve. Post.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“It narrates directly, and with just enough philosophical
+reflection to show the author’s personal touch and
+feeling, the experiences of a party of Americans visiting
+and living in Rome.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Boston Transcript.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“A book which has the distinction of intellectuality.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>St. Louis Globe-Democrat.</i>
+</p>
+<hr>
+<p class="right">
+  Crown 8vo, $1.50
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<table class="autotable center">
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdc">HOUGHTON,<br>MIFFLIN<br>&amp; COMPANY</td>
+  <td class="tdc"><figure class="figcenter illowp25">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/toutbien.jpg" alt="TOUT BIEN OU RIEN">
+</figure></td>
+  <td class="tdc">BOSTON<br>AND<br>NEW YORK</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+<p class="fh2">DAPHNE<br>An Autumn Pastoral</p></div>
+<hr>
+<p class="rightb">
+  By MARGARET SHERWOOD
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+
+<p>“In <i>Daphne</i> we have a most delightfully refreshing
+story. In addition to a charming love-story of a young
+Italian for an American girl, Miss Sherwood has given
+us some rare descriptions of Italian peasant scenes,
+and some graphic pictures of Italian woods, mountains,
+and sunsets.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Review of Reviews.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“The story of their love is simply and sweetly told,
+and with so exquisite a feeling and so masterly a touch
+that the story takes place in one’s mind beside the
+little classics that he loves.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Indianapolis Sentinel.</i>
+</p>
+<hr>
+<p>Attractively bound</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  12mo, $1.00
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<table class="autotable center">
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdc">HOUGHTON,<br>MIFFLIN<br>&amp; COMPANY</td>
+  <td class="tdc"><figure class="figcenter illowp25">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/toutbien.jpg" alt="TOUT BIEN OU RIEN">
+</figure></td>
+  <td class="tdc">BOSTON<br>AND<br>NEW YORK</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+<p class="fh2">JOHN PERCYFIELD</p></div>
+<hr>
+<p class="rightb">
+  By C. HANFORD HENDERSON
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+
+<p>“<i>John Percyfield</i> is twisted of a double thread—delightful,
+wise, sunshiny talks on the lines laid
+down by the Autocrat, and an autobiographical love
+story. It is full of wisdom and of beauty, of delicate
+delineation, and of inspiring sentiment.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>New York Times.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“Its merits will rank it among the few sterling
+books of the day.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Boston Transcript.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“A book of rare charm and unusual character ...
+fresh and sweet in tone and admirably written
+throughout.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>The Outlook, New York.</i>
+</p>
+<hr>
+<p class="right">
+  Crown 8vo, gilt top, $1.50.
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<table class="autotable center">
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdc">HOUGHTON,<br>MIFFLIN<br>&amp; COMPANY</td>
+  <td class="tdc"><figure class="figcenter illowp25">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/toutbien.jpg" alt="TOUT BIEN OU RIEN">
+</figure></td>
+  <td class="tdc">BOSTON<br>AND<br>NEW YORK</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+<p class="fh2">A<br>COUNTRY INTERLUDE</p></div>
+<hr>
+<p class="rightb">
+  By HILDEGARDE HAWTHORNE
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+
+<p>“The love story of a girl who learns through a summer
+in the country that life offers more than mere
+material comforts; as represented by a lover who can
+give social position and luxury of surroundings....
+Miss Hawthorne manages her material with skill, and
+writes with charm and conviction of the beauties of
+nature.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>The Outlook, New York.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“<i>A Country Interlude</i> is equal to any of the many
+stories put forth by her famous grandfather’s prentice
+hand.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Boston Transcript.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>“A charming little volume filled to the brim with
+happiness.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Chicago Evening Post.</i>
+</p>
+<hr>
+<p class="right">
+  With decorative cover. 12mo, $1.25.
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<table class="autotable center">
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdc">HOUGHTON,<br>MIFFLIN<br>&amp; COMPANY</td>
+  <td class="tdc"><figure class="figcenter illowp25">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/toutbien.jpg" alt="TOUT BIEN OU RIEN">
+</figure></td>
+  <td class="tdc">BOSTON<br>AND<br>NEW YORK</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+<p class="fh2">HEROES of the STORM</p></div>
+<hr>
+<p class="rightb">
+  By WILLIAM D. O’CONNOR
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+
+<p>Wonderfully graphic accounts of the
+most famous rescues from shipwreck by the
+crews of the U. S. Life-Saving Service. O’Connor
+was a master in writing of the sea and its perils.</p>
+
+<p>“That his style was strong and smooth is shown by
+these descriptions of wrecks which undoubtedly are
+correct in every detail. The unflagging zeal and
+striking heroism of the life savers clearly is demonstrated,
+and a new emphasis is given to the perils of
+life on the ocean wave.”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+  <i>Boston Transcript.</i>
+</p>
+<hr>
+
+<p>
+  With introduction by Superintendent <span class="smcap">S. I. Kimball</span> <span class="inlinesig">12mo, $1.50</span>
+</p>
+<hr class="t"><hr class="b">
+
+<table class="autotable center">
+<tr>
+  <td class="tdc">HOUGHTON,<br>MIFFLIN<br>&amp; COMPANY</td>
+  <td class="tdc"><figure class="figcenter illowp25">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/toutbien.jpg" alt="TOUT BIEN OU RIEN">
+</figure></td>
+  <td class="tdc">BOSTON<br>AND<br>NEW YORK</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="transnote">
+  <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes">
+    Transcriber’s Notes
+  </h2>
+<p>
+  <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">Contractions written as two words have been joined into one.</span><br>
+  <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">Inconsistent hyphenation has been retained.</span>
+</p>
+</div>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78640 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
diff --git a/78640-h/images/cover.jpg b/78640-h/images/cover.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a8876b4
--- /dev/null
+++ b/78640-h/images/cover.jpg
diff --git a/78640-h/images/frontis.jpg b/78640-h/images/frontis.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..29c2096
--- /dev/null
+++ b/78640-h/images/frontis.jpg
diff --git a/78640-h/images/riverside.jpg b/78640-h/images/riverside.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ca12b65
--- /dev/null
+++ b/78640-h/images/riverside.jpg
diff --git a/78640-h/images/toutbien.jpg b/78640-h/images/toutbien.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..c9f3342
--- /dev/null
+++ b/78640-h/images/toutbien.jpg
diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6c72794
--- /dev/null
+++ b/LICENSE.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..de11925
--- /dev/null
+++ b/README.md
@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #78640
+(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78640)