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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. 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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 & 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 & 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 & 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>& 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>& 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>& 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>& 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>& 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>& 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>& 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>& 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>& 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 Binary files differnew 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 Binary files differnew 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 Binary files differnew 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 Binary files differnew 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. 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