I sit alone in this huge palace in which I have come to live—feeling that at last I have a home of my own, where no one can overlook my thoughts—I sit alone and think of the future; and it is rosy bright, if only I could forget—if only I could forget!
In all the world I am the sole guardian of the Secret. I shall be the most beautiful woman for years and years and years; blessed with such beauty that men shall know the tale of it is a lie, until they, too, come from far countries to look upon it; and they shall go home and be known as liars in their turn, and always dream of me. When I am old and gray, I will tell the world how Darmstetter died, on the eve of publishing his discovery. Perhaps I shall cling to it until I, too—
Ah, I can see that ghastly Thing, the dead, hideous eyes staring up at me! Shall I be like that some day? As ugly as that!
It was not my fault, dead, staring eyes; not my fault!
The Nicaragua, April 27.
I've been sitting for my portrait to Van Nostrand. It is an offering to the shades of Prof. Darmstetter. I must preserve some attempted record of my beauty for his sake; though the Bacillus couldn't have made, if he had lived, another woman as beautiful as I. It isn't conceivable.
I believe I'm a little tired with that, and with rearranging Mrs. Whitney's flat, and a little worried, too, about bills, the money from Father comes so slowly. Not that I need mind owing a trifle at the shops; half the women run accounts; but it's embarrassing not to have ready money. Why, I have to buy things to ward off gifts; Meg simply won't see me go without.
Perhaps I'm depressed too, because to-day has been a succession of petty squabbles, and I hate squabbling.
This morning came Aunt Frank. I knew she had returned from Bermuda, so I wasn't surprised to see her dumpy figure appear in Mrs. Whitney's parlour, followed by Uncle Timothy's broad back and towering head. I did with zest the honours of the apartment. It was sweet revenge to see Mrs. Baker's nervous discomfort at meeting me, and to watch her stealing furtive glances at my beautiful home.
"Well, Nelly, dear," she said, "you look very cosey, but we expected that, after your visit to Mrs. Van Dam, you would go to Marcia until our return."
"Oh, I couldn't think of troubling either of you," I said sweetly; "I have friends to whom it is a real pleasure to advise me."
That shot told.
"You don't know what anxiety you've caused, leaving us for—for strangers, that way," she retorted, bridling; "but since youwouldgo, I'm glad everything's turned out so—been having your portrait painted? Why, it's a—itisa Van Nostrand!"—She had spied the painting.—"It's like you, rather; but—doesn't he charge a fortune?"
Then she rattled on, about the rooms, about Bermuda lilies and donkey carts, trying now and again to pry into my plans and urging me, not too warmly, to return to her, until she had reached the limits of a call of courtesy. I think it was with real relief that she rose as she received my final refusal. Uncle, who had sat silent in kind, or blind, perplexity, was unfeignedly glad to go.
"Run in often, won't you?" she said, at parting. "I hear—but perhaps I shouldn't speak of that. Is—is Lord Strathay like his pictures?"
Fussy! She'd gladly wash her hands of me, yet thinks she has a duty. But I was glad, for once, to see her. It's not for nothing that I have run society's gauntlet; I can aim confetti with the best of them; innocent-looking but they hurt.
Scarcely had they gone when in rushed the General and my prim duenna, Mrs. Whitney; they'd been waiting until the coast was clear. It was with something like a scream that the two flew at me, crying in one voice:—
"Have youreallyrefused to be one of Peggy's bridesmaids? Why didn't you consultme?"
Peggy despairs of Mr. Poultney; she's going to marry some person in Standard Oil, and her wedding will be a function.
"Yes," I said, ignoring the latter question.
"But why—why—" Mrs. Whitney squeaked and panted, and her breath failed.
"Because—was it because Ann Fredericks was asked too?" Meg demanded.
"Yes, if you must know."
"But what has Ann done?" said Meg. She planted herself in front of me, her hard, handsome eyes blazing with impatience. "She's as homely as the Sunset Cox statue and as uncivil to you as she dares; but she's only a cousin oftheFrederickses, you mustn't mind her. What has Ann done, Helen?"
"She weighs two hundred and they call her 'Baby'! She's a fat slug on a currant bush! I won't talk about her."
I dashed into my room but Meg's staccato reached me even there.
"Just like Helen! Imagine Mrs. Henry's state of mind."
"And Ann's," said Mrs. Whitney.
"Oh, Ann's in mortal terror. But how can Helen expect pasty girls like Ann Fredericks—out last fall and already touching up—to forgive her beauty? Trouble is, every girl who comes near Helen knows she makes her look like a caricature."
Meg paced the floor a minute, then slapped herself into a chair.
"Oh, I've seen the women scowl at her," said Mrs. Whitney.
"Scowl?" said Meg. "Why, I've seen a woman actually put out her foot for Helen to trip over. Old women are the worst, I do believe; some of the young ones admire her. What do you think old Mrs. Terry said—Hughy Bellmer's aunt—at the last of her frightful luncheon concerts, where you eat two hours in a jungle of palms and orchids, and groan to music two hours more in indigestion. 'A lovely girl, my dear Mrs. Van Dam,' she said; 'a privilege to know her. Pity that so many of our best people fight shy of a protégée of the newspapers.'Thatfrom Mrs. Terry, with her hair and her hats—"
"And her divorce record," added Mrs. Whitney.
"She fears for her nephew; as if Helen would look at him! But the newspapershavehurt Helen. I wish she'd announce her engagement; she has the cards in her hands, but she's got to play 'em; and poor Strathay's so devoted!—Why didn't you shade the lights Tuesday at your dinner? In that glare we were all worse frights beside her than usual."
"I hate murky rooms!" I cried, breaking out upon them, for I couldn't stand it any longer. "It's your 'rose of yesterday' who insists on twilight and shaded candles. I enjoy electricity!"
Meg gazed at me in despair.
"Helen, are you really bent on making enemies?" she asked. "WhatdidAnn Fredericks do?"
I couldn't have answered; it would have been no answer to say that she angers me with a supercilious stare; but the trouble of replying was spared me, for Mrs. Henry appeared that minute in the doorway, greeting me in her nervous puffy voice:—
"Howwellyou look!" she said. "Sucha treat to get a peep at you! Peggy really must try your dressmaker—but she'ssodisappointed! Youmustlet me beg of you—justlike an own daughter and Peggy couldn't think more of a sister! Youwillreconsider—"
Something in the way she thrust forward her head reminded me of how her tiara slipped and hitched about, on the night of her dance, and how Ned and I giggled when it had to be repinned.
"I'm afraid Peggy should have consulted me earlier," I said with a spite born of the recollection.
It would have been more than mortal not to take offense at that. Mrs. Henry's face grew red, and after a few perfunctory words she and Meg left, and Mrs. Whitney went out with them.
As Mrs. Henry backed into the hall, she almost collided with Kitty, who had just come up.
"Talking wedding?" that tease asked, following me back into the parlour and pirouetting before a mirror. "Chastening experience for once in a way to see mysel' as ithers see me. Big wedding, won't it be? Florist told Cadge he was forcing a churchful of peach and apple blossoms. You're a bridesmaid, ain't you? ThatwasMrs. Henry? Know I've seen her here. Looks apoplectic; and there's too much musk in her violet."
"That was Mrs. Henry, but I'm not on Peggy's list. How are the beastesses' noses and toeses?"
"Ambulance rung for." Kitty darted to another looking glass. "Regular hall of mirrors, ain't it? Helen, why are photo-engravers—but say, I've seen a list of bridesmaids; Ann Fredericks was one, cousin oftheFrederickses; great for Helen, we all said—Pros. and Cadge and—"
"Has the list been printed?"
Kitty looked puzzled.
"What are you cross about?" she said finally. "I don't wonder you get tired of such doings, tugging a ton of bouquet down a church aisle, organ grinding Lohengrin. If ever I marry, I sha'n't ask you to stand up with me; I propose to be the central figure at my own wedding; Cadge can do as she chooses."
"Why, Kitty! Cadge and—why, Pros., of course."
"In June. Came to tell you."
For a moment Kitty's eyes danced, then the mist followed the sunlight, and the poor little creature buried her head in my lap, sobbing.
"Oh, what'll I do," she cried, "when Cadge takes away my brother and my brother takes away Cadge, and you—they say you're going off with that Englisher to be a Countess—not that I ever see anything of you now."
"Oh, hush, child; don't you know you're talking nonsense?"
Kitty took me at my word.
"Earl's lady is a Countess, ain't she?" she asked, her voice still shaky. Then she sat suddenly upright and put back her red curls from her brow, winking vigourously. "Oh, if you do live in a castle, put in bathtubs and gas; and if you go to court, please, Princess, hide a kodak under your bouquet for me and—"
Crying and laughing by turns and tossing back her flaming locks, she started for the door.
"Helen," she said, turning as she reached it, "I have such bad symptoms! Am I really the only girl that's jealous of you?"
"The only one that isn't jealous, you—you dear!" I exclaimed; and I believe it's almost true!
Kitty paused in the hall, playing with the roses in a bowl upon the table.
"We hear something of how the dowagers adore you. But let 'em wag their double chins; you'll scat the old cats from their cushions!" she said.
At the impetuous outflinging of her hands, the floor was strewn with pink petals.
"Cats?" repeated Mrs. Whitney, who just then made her appearance, "are they a hobby with Miss Reid?"
"I'd drown 'em," cried Kitty, vanishing, "nine times!"
Oh, I'm weary of these bickerings; so womanish! Every creature whose rival I could possibly become is my enemy. I don't blame them. What chance have they while I am present? Women who agree about nothing else make common cause against one who surpasses them. They are like prairie wolves that run in packs to pull down the buffalo, and I shall pity them as I would pity wolves. They shall find that I have a long memory.
I have decided. I shall marry Strathay.
February—March—April—three long, long months, and still Ned doesn't come, does not write. Yes, it's time to act; thank God, I've still some pride!
While Darmstetter lived, I couldn't have left New York; but now, now that I am safe, why should I stay here, flatting with a shrew, provoking the Van Dams, to whom I owe some gratitude, wasting my life for a man who—who said he didn't love me?
Milly's at home again; let Ned return to her, if he chooses. I shall marry Strathay. Meg shall be friend to a Countess. Then I shall be quits with her and with Mrs. Henry and with Peggy. And the "best people" will no more fight shy of me—though they don't now; they don't need to. Except Mrs. Schuyler, who has snubbed me just enough to leave herself right, whatever happens, few of them have ever met me.
I owe no thanks to Mrs. Whitney, with her prunes and her prisms and her penny-pinchings. I must secure my future.
And there's only one way—Strathay. I've been foolish to hesitate. He tried to speak yesterday, after the flower tea—for that's the extent of my social shining now; I am good to draw a crowd at a bazaar!—and I should have let him; I meant to do so.
But I can't blame myself for being sentimental, weak, and for putting him off; I was tired out. What an ordeal I'd undergone! What black looks from the women! They'd rather have starved their summer church in the Adirondacks than nursed it with my help!
But he must have understood; I think he saw everything that happened. The girls at my stall were sulky because no one bought of them, while I was surrounded; and one, in lifting a handful of roses, drew them towards her with a spiteful jerk that left a long thorn-scratch across my hand.
I pretended not to notice. Then in a minute I cried:—
"Why, see; how could that have happened?"
And I laid my perfect hand beside hers, ugly with outstanding veins, that she might note the accident—and the difference. People giggled, and she snatched her hand away, blushing furiously.
I was in high spirits, with a crowd about me. I knew how tall and graceful I looked behind my flowers; and to tease Mrs. Terry, I pinned Bellmer's boutonniere with unnecessary graciousness, and smiled at her while he sniffed it with beatitude beaming from his moony face.
"Awf'ly slow things, teas," he said regretfully, as she bore him off'; "awf'ly slow, don't you think?" Really the man's little better than a downright fool; if he were poor, no one would waste a better word upon him.
As he went, I caught sight of a slight figure, a pair of jealous, worshipping eyes. Poor Strathay had seen the incident; had perhaps thought—
I took pains to be cordial to him, when he had made his way with Poultney to my side; and to Mr. Poultney, too; though I don't like him much better than Cadge does, with his cold eyes and his thin smile, that seems to say: "Hope you find my schoolboy entertaining."
An Earl is always entertaining!
Yet I ran away from him. I left the tea early. I wanted to think. All the way home in the carriage I marshalled arguments in his favour. I saw myself at court, throned in my brilliant circle, flattered by princes, consulted by statesmen, the ornament of a society I am fitted to adorn. I saw a world of jealous women at my feet and Ned convinced that I had been playing with him. I even rehearsed the scene we should enact when Strathay should speak; I foresaw the flush upon his face, the sparkle of his eyes when I should tell him that I would try to love him.
He must have slipped his cousin's leash, for he was at the Nicaragua almost as soon as I was. But there at home, with the boy's eyes fixed on mine, with the tremour of his voice telling me how much he cared, I couldn't listen.
I made talk with him, for him. I gave him no chance to speak, determined as I was that he should speak. I was conscious of but one desire—to put off the avowal.
At last he said: "Sometimes I fancy you're not happy."
His voice was tense. He was leaning forward in his eagerness; he looked so zealous to be my champion—so honest!
I tried to smile. I really liked him.
Happy! Out of memory there came to me a picture: I was creeping to Ethel's bed at night, whispering to her that I was the happiest girl in the world; she kissed me sleepily, and said she was happy too, and then I groped my way back to bed, and lay there in the dark, smiling. That was years ago. Three months? Years, long, long years ago!
Now it flashed across me that Lord Strathay loved me as I had loved Ned. That gave me a measure of the gift he was to offer. I felt Ned's kisses on my hands, bidding me be honest.—I felt other kisses, too; I saw—good God, how long must I see?—a gray old face—the face of Darmstetter! Happy! I closed my eyes to shut out the vision. I shuddered.
"You—really, I'm afraid you're very tired," he said, after waiting a little.
"Yes; tired," I gasped; "that's all."
But I knew I must marry him. I controlled myself. I smiled; I waited. I wished him to go on, but he was peering into my straining eyes with anxious sympathy.
"I'm afraid you're too tired to talk with me to-day," he said; "but—you will let me come again?"
"Yes."
Such a relief! Though what was to be gained by waiting? What must be must be.
Indeed an older man might have seen the wisdom of speaking at once. But Strathay looked wistfully at me for a moment, then turned away with a big, honest schoolboy sigh; and something like a sob broke his voice as he whispered:—
"I—I would do anything to serve you."
Then he went away.
Perverse! Iwillmarry him. Other women take husbands so. I like him; I should like him even if he were not an Earl—and his name a career.
I shall make Strathay as fine a Countess as any cold, blonde English girl, and he'll be proud of me, and every man will envy him. I shall wrong him less than I should have wronged John Burke. I should have hated John if I had married him, for he'd expect love, where Strathay will be content to give it. Why, the one honest thing I've done was to break with John.
I wish I could afford to keep on being honest!
May 5.
Lord deliver me from the well-meaning!
Because of one pestilential dun, I've done what the weary waiting for money, money, money would never have driven me to do. I've been to Uncle, unknown to his wife, to ask advice. I might have known better.
It was with a wildly beating pulse that I entered the familiar little private office, thinking that Ned might be on the other side of the partition—near enough, perhaps, to hear me; that he might at any moment rap upon the door and enter the room as he used to do, upon such flimsy errands! I wondered how he would look, and what he'd say if he came; but he never did come, though the talk was long enough, mercy knows; long and profitless.
It was hard, with that cold sinking at my heart, to talk to the Judge, as he sat with his keen eyes fixed upon me, leaning back in his chair, at times frowning absent-mindedly.
"I've come to tell you—I've written home for money," I began breathlessly to explain. "But they don't understand, of course—it isn't half what I need, now. I really don't quite know what to do. And so I came to—"
My words died away into unintelligibility.
"Anticipated your allowance a little? Well, well, how much do you need?" he asked indulgently.
"I don't exactly know; not much," I cried eagerly, "I haven't asked Father to send it all at once. Two or three thousand dollars would be a great help—for the present."
"Two or three thousand! Is it little Nelly Winship who is talking about thousands? And what important scheme has she in mind?"
His tone was playful.
"To pay my bills.'"
"Bills aggregating thousands?" He dropped his paper cutter sharply. "Is it possible that in so short a time—if the recital be not too painful, pray explain."
"Oh, it's simple enough; the dressmaker would say: 'Do let me make you this, it's such a pleasure to fit you;' or, 'That would be the rage, if you'd introduce it.' And Mrs. Van Dam begged me to buy a hat from a protegee just starting in business, because it would be a help to have the beautiful Miss Winship for a customer. It did help the milliner, too, for I bought three and they were printed in the papers. But she wants her pay just as if it hadn't been worth the price twice over as an advertisement. And all the things for the flat—"
"Furniture?"
"Why, yes; we've rearranged the place and I've contributed a little. Uncle Timothy, you can see—I need more money than other women. I can't walk without attracting notice, and cab hire or a carriage by the month—and—and I can't shop for myself, you don't know what a difference that makes; and—oh, everything is different! Why, I've just had my portrait painted. But Father isn't a poor man." "He is poor, measured by New York standards. And he is sending you a great deal of money."
"Yes, but—I must have alotmore."
The Judge frowned slowly, considering what he had heard. Finally he said, slowly shaking his head:—
"Doubtless we should have warned you, upon your coming to New York, but I did not anticipate that one of your substantial Western stock would develop habits of extravagance; nor were they apparent while you were with us. I cannot think it was altogether our fault, and certainly it was not your father's. I am not unmindful of the recent unsettling experiences which furnish excuse for confusion of ideas; but, Nelly, I appeal to a head that should be logical, even if—I have never thought it giddy with adulation—to see the facts as they exist. You must yield to your aunt's wish and return to her or to Marcia—"
"Impossible!"
"—you must bring me your bills; doubtless we can give up the furniture—"
"Give it up!"
The coolly spoken words struck to my heart. Why, we had just finished arranging it! But he misunderstood my exclamation, and added:—
"I comprehend your reluctance, and I confess that I should little like to advise returning goods bought in good faith, if there were any chance of payment; but—let me see; are you of age?"
"Why, yes; just twenty-one."
"Is it possible? How time passes, to be sure! Yet—ah, the point is not important; the tradespeople should not have trusted you. Consider that you are unable to pay; the less of two evils is to return the goods as soon as possible, that they may be received undamaged."
"Oh, it's not so bad as that?" I said hastily. "Nearly everybody is willing to wait, and I—you know Aunt Frank doesn't want me, and I should be a—white elephant to Miss Baker. I must live somewhere. It's not my fault if my only friends are rich, and if I—but why can't Father—"
"I do not believe your father can pay your debts," he interrupted, "in addition to the generous sums he has already forwarded, unless—surely you were not suggesting that he should mortgage the farm in order to—pay for paintings?"
"I didn't mean that at all!" I cried; "I never thought of that. But howdopeople—"
"You and I must do what is to be done, if possible without distressing him," he said; "your father is not so young as he once was. If you have bought things for which your allowance will not pay, although"—he hesitated a moment, "—the situation is—ah—trying to Mrs. Whitney. I suppose her half of the common stock is secure?"
"Her half!"
"Has she been leaning upon your slender purse?" he asked not unkindly.
"Why—she saves money by me and I increase her social importance. Of course she had furniture, but it was old and—and—"
I could not find the words to explain to a man my horror of ugliness. He wouldn't have understood.
"Well, well, it makes no difference now. I must arrange matters for you, and I think you will agree, upon reflection, that the first step must be to give up whatever we can."
"But, Uncle—" I tried to speak calmly, to show him the situation—"Mrs. Whitney is a Van Dam, and they befriended me when—why, they would never forgive me; it would be ruin. And even from the practical standpoint—you wouldn't like to have your lawbooks sold, would you? Well, people have introduced me—and pretty furniture and pretty clothes and not to have any scandal or any talk—oh, you can see!"
"In the light of reports that reach me," said the Judge, "I might suppose that you"—he hesitated a moment, then continued, in an attempt at a bantering manner, "that you refer to your luxuries as preliminary to—ah—matrimony, which is said to be the only gainful occupation that my sex leaves almost exclusively to yours, and in which fine clothing is undoubtedly an adjuvant. But observation leads me to think that it is a business less profitable than is often imagined. Hm!"
He drummed on the table, and when he continued, he seemed talking to gain time, considering what he wished to say.
"I grant you," he said with his cumbrous playfulness, "that the sensibility of flesh and blood to beauty is as broad a fact as the effect of heat or cold. It is so universally recognised that we take a pretty girl, like original sin or the curse of labour, as achose jugeé. Her sway must have begun with the glacial drifters and the kitchen middeners and the Engis skull man, when they and the rest of the paleoliths were battling with the dodo and the dinornis and the didifornis, and had no time for the cult of beauty except by proxy. Did it ever occur to you that we men drove a hard bargain with your sex when we compelled you to beauty, made you carry the topknots and the tail-feathers? Men propose marriage, women adorn themselves to listen. Let women choose their mates, and they might go as plain as peahens; and men would strut about, displaying wattles, combs and argus-eyed plumes."
"Women would be less beautiful if they proposed?"
"Some could not be, I fear." He pulled down his brows, considering the proposition, then shook his head positively, with a little sigh. "You will remember—was it not Darwin who said that women, in order to attract men, borrow the plumage of male birds, which these have acquired to please the females of their kind? Beauty must be the first law of life to the sex that has not the privilege of choosing. Under the circumstances, it is surprising how much of plainness women have preserved. Possibly because of the extraordinary directions which beauty culture may take. Burton asserts that the Somali choose wives by ranging the women in line for inspection; she wins a husband of note who projects farthesta tergo. Yet among famous Greek statues there is also a steatopygous Venus."
The office boy came to the door, and his knock woke Uncle out of his revery. He excused himself to his caller, and, returning to me, went on:—
"I have been—ah—I admit, rather evading the personal question. I wish, without seeking embarrassing confidences, to remind you that young people are apt to think bad matters—other than business matters—worse than they are. I am not asking questions, but, when I was younger, cynicism usually hid but ill the scars of heartache. Do not, I pray you, throw yourself away in the gloom of momentary unhappiness."
Did he guess—about Ned? That I was the one most hurt there? He should never know that I winced. I shrugged my shoulders, ignoring his fatherly glance, and faced him with a stare meant to be brazen.
"You do not at the present time believe in sentiment?" he said. "Then I shall adapt my argument to your whim of practicality, and speak of the rumours which connect your name with that of young Lord Strathay."
"Oh; that boy!"
"I presume you are right; he does seem to have fallen deeply in love with you. But—if indeed, you are dazzled by the glamour of a title—do not be too confident of his fealty. I know men better than you know them, my dear. Man loves beauty, but he does not always want to marry it. The rare white swan is admired, but the little brown partridge, clucking as she marshals her covey of chicks, is the type of the marrying woman. Again, no man is master of himself. That Strathay wishes to marry you, I can understand; but, perhaps, when he is not under the spell of your presence, he falls to wondering how you will pronounce the social shibboleths, and may let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.' It is idle to deny that, admitting as one must the existence of lines of social cleavage in modern life, it is often a mistake to overstep their boundaries in matrimony; though as to international alliances—"
"Oh," I said, interrupting his prosings with a light laugh, "you mustn't take the matterau sérieux."
"I take it so because it is serious." The Judge's eyes and his tone were very grave. "Forgive me if I remind you that theseobiter dictahave grown out of a discussion of your money affairs, wherein you are bankrupt. If—and I ask your pardon if the supposition does you wrong—if you are relying on a brilliant marriage to help you out of financial difficulties—"
He hesitated a moment, then went on slowly: "Perhaps I ought to warn you that, if at any time this does become a serious matter, you will have powerful opposition. I had not intended to tell you—though now I deem it best—that Mr. Stephen Allardyce Poultney has lately done me the honour to call; and—"
"Lord Strathay's cousin?" I thought he could hear the thrumming of my heart. This was why he had beaten so long about the bush! "Was he—was he speaking about me?"
I felt a sudden chill of apprehension, and almost feared to hear the answer.
"He was; he came to the point with a refreshing directness worthy of a business man, and said that he wanted to know all about you."
"And you—"
"I need not trouble you with our conversation. In view of the attentions which his Lordship has been paying you, his cousin felt it a duty, he intimated, to make inquiries. He did not care a button, I inferred, for your position here, as it could not affect Lord Strathay's in England; but he had read the newspapers with pardonable perplexity, and asked if you were really the only daughter of a bonanza farmer. I did not feel it necessary to enter into particulars, but informed him that your father was rich in honesty and in the possession of a daughter good and beautiful enough for any Lord that lives. He thanked me and said 'quite so,' as Englishmen usually do say when they disagree with one. He added that he would try to get the poor beggar—for so he referred to his kinsman—away fishing.
"You will note that, in the higher social strata, the choice of matrimonial partners has progressed beyond the personal selection so confidently assumed by the scientists, and has become a matter for relatives to—"
"And my only relative in New York," I said slowly, wondering how fatal was this unexpected news, "has made it impossible for me to achieve a success that was almost within my grasp."
I don't see that the remark was so very terrible, but he looked at me with an odd air of astonishment and consternation. Then he seemed to consider it best to treat my natural disappointment as a joke.
"Not very serious is this conversation, as you have reminded me," he said. "You don't wish me to tell that which is not?"
"Why, naturally—no." I was stunned, but I forced a laugh. "But itisfunny. Why—I was nearer landing the prize than I supposed, wasn't I?—that is, if I had wanted to land it?"
"Um—yes; it was rather close. But in this world you'll find strong men often dissuading weak ones from action briefly meditated."
He gazed at me solemnly, portentously, critically.
"Yes," I said, trying to speak with careless ease; "one Lord gone, but there are others. Don't be too hard upon Strathay, though. He's not so bad. His estates are not heavily encumbered, and he's as likely now to wed a music hall singer as a daughter of the Beerage. Perhaps such a marriage as he might have offered is not the best in life, but it is something that women who love their daughters as well as you love yours are glad to arrange for them. I should have made Strathay a very decent wife—"
But at the word I stopped; something in the sound of it shattered my cool philosophy.
"Of course, of course," Uncle assented. Then after a pause he went on, hesitatingly:—
"Nelly, these are not matters for a man to discuss with you. Why don't you run in and talk with your aunt?"
I hadn't the least intention of calling, but I answered him according to his folly.
"I must, some time; but I'm so worried—"
"Ah, yes; those debts. Could you not, if you are determined not to come home to us, seek less expensive apartments? You know that for any wants in reason your aunt and I—"
"I—I can't, just yet," I faltered, with a dreary vision before my eyes of such a boarding house as that from which Kitty rescued me.
"Very well, Nelly, but think about it; you will see that to go on as you are doing would be only throwing money into a bottomless pit. But bring me your bills to-morrow; I must have facts and figures, if we are to straighten your affairs. Now—you need money—"
He was fumbling for his check book. Badly as I needed help, instinctively I cried:—
"Oh, no; not that!"
"Quite sure? It is the situation that troubles you and not the butcher, the baker—"
"Quite sure."
"I desist. But sleep on what I have said. Remember that I am in your father's place, that I—your aunt and I—are very anxious about you."
He took my hand, seeming as perplexed as I am myself. He looked affectionate enough, but so futile.
So I came away heartsick. It's useless to argue with Judge Baker. He's a plebeian from his thick shoe soles to his thin hair; but he's honest. And yet—if he had been less ponderously precise—he might have said: "Why, really, I don't exactly know. Mr. Winship is a well-to-do man. It has been years since I knew, but I can ascertain and—"
Or he might just have told the plain truth—that Father has a large Western farm. Englishmen think all Western folks are rich. Why, I believe Meg Van Dam would dower me if I were to marry Strathay. I could make it worth her while. It wouldn't be the first arrangement of that sort in New York, either.
If only Strathay had seen me once more, no power on earth could have prevented an avowal; and marriage with a peer of England would have given me a station befitting my beauty.
But perhaps it's not too late. Strathay may not heed his cousin. If he comes wooing again, I shall not be so silly as I was the last time. Strange that I have not seen him. Can he have gone already?
I might do the London season by borrowing from Meg. It would cost a fortune, and—unless Strathay does propose—perhaps even she wouldn't care to finance me now.
I wish—-
Oh, I wish I could get out of my dreams the ghastly form of Darmstetter, as I saw him dead at my feet! He haunts me all day long, and all the night I dream of him!
And I wish I had not broken John Burke's honest heart—how wistful he looked, as he waited for me at the door of the office and helped me to my carriage! Perhaps Ned wasn't in the building; perhaps—he may have avoided me.
I wish I had not brought him sorrow, and I wish—
No, I don't! I just hope Milly is even more wretched than I am!
Father really might mortgage. I could easily pay it back. I wonder I never thought of that. I'll ask him. I will not take my bills to Judge Baker—to be lectured on the dodo and on lines of social cleavage—as if any man could be a match for me.
I'll never go back to Aunt Frank! There is Bellmer, now—and Strathay must soon return to New York, to sail.
May 20.
I wonder if I couldn'tearnmoney. For the last week—nothing but trouble. No check from Father. Hugh Bellmer I have not seen. Strathay has really gone, spirited away by that superior cousin.
And Mrs. Whitney has deserted me—oh, if it were not for money troubles, I wouldn't mind that, cruel as was the manner of it!
Of course the newspapers soon learned that Strathay had left town. Trust them for that; and to make sensational use of it! The first I knew of it, indeed, was when one day Cadge came bursting into the room.
"Isn't it a shame?" she began in her piercing voice; as ever at fever heat of unrest, she waved at me a folded newspaper.
"Emphatically; but what is it?"
"That fierce tale of theEcho; haven't seen it? We couldn't print a line. Big Tom says the chief has put his foot down; won't have stories about women in private life, you know—without their consent. But why didn't you—why can't you give us a whack at it?"
"Because there isn't a word of truth in the whole disgusting—what does it say?"
I had seized the sheet from her hands and rapidly glanced over the staring headlines. Eagerly she interrupted me:—
"Oh, isn't it the worst ever? But I see how it happened. They must have sent out a leg man to get facts, and when no one would talk, they stirred this up in the office. But—not to print, now—whatareyou going to do with His Lordship? Honest, Princess?"
"Nothing; there's absolutely nothing between us. He's a nice fellow, and I like him, and we're good friends; that's all. I—I knew he was going; fishing."
"Well, I'm glad of that. But so must I be going."
And she whisked out of the room, leaving in my hands this astounding outrage upon truth and decency:
BY EDWARD PEPPER.
Helen Winship is the most extraordinary woman living;
The most beautiful woman in the world;
A scientist of national repute;
She has just passed through a tragedy which has left an impress upon her whole life;
Most wonderful of all, she is the only American girl who has ever refused a titled lover.
This is her life story, told for the first time:—
Chapter I.—Death:
A woman's scream of agony!
A strange scene, like an alchemist's den, the light of falling day reflected from test tubes and crucibles, revealing in dark corners uncouth appliances, queer diagrams, strange odours. Upon the floor the inert figure of the foremost of New York's chemists; above his prostrate form, wild-eyed with horror at seeing his dramatic death, a beautiful woman, the most beautiful in the world.
This was the end of Prof. Carl Darmstetter;
This was how the legacy of science came to Helen Winship.
To carry it out, she has refused a title.
Chapter II.—Love:
Born upon a Western farm, Helen Winship's father is a yeoman of the sturdy stock that has laid the world under tribute for its daily bread.
Early she made the choice that devotes her life to science. She was the confidant of the dead chemist, whose torch of knowledge she took up firm-handed, when it fell from his nerveless fingers.
She is vowed as a vestal virgin to science.
Strange whim of destiny! Across this maiden life of devoted study came the shadow of a great name which for two hundred years has been blazoned upon the pages of England's history.
In the loom of fate the modest gray warp of Helen Winship's life crossed the gay woof of a Lord of high degree, and left a strange mark upon the web of time.
Love came to her—many times; but came at last in a guise that seldom woos in vain.
Chapter III.—Sacrifice:
Who has forgotten the memorable scene in the Metropolitan Opera House, when the beautiful Miss Winship took the vast audience by storm, causing almost a panic, which was exclusively reported in these columns?
It was followed by a greater sensation.
Rumour ran through the ranks of the Four Hundred, and the rustle of it was as the wind in a great forest. For one of the proudest titles from beyond the sea, before which the wealth and fashion of the city had marshalled their attractions, had passed them by to kneel at the feet of the lovely scholar.
The Earl of Strathay is the twelfth Earl of his house. He is twenty-one years old. His mother, the Countess Strathay, famous as a beauty, has been prominent in the "Prince's set."
Witley Castle, his seat, is one of the show places of England, though financially embarrassed by the follies of the late Earl.
It was Lord Strathay's intention, upon landing in New York to go West in a week; but he looked upon the fair investigator, and to look is to love.
He laid his title at the feet of the lovely daughter of Democracy, but with that smile whose sweetness is a marvel to all men, she shook her beautiful head.
She was wedded to learning.
Fretted by the pain, he plunged into the wilderness to hide like a wounded deer.
What shall be said of this beautiful woman, for whom men sigh as for the unattainable? That she is lovely as the morning? All New York knows it. That her walk is like a lily's swaying in the wind, her voice is the sweetest music that ever ravished ear, her hair a lure for sunbeams? It is the commonplace of conversation at every smart house.
For this lovely woman of science is no ascetic. She moves by right of beauty and high purpose, in the best society. This farmer's daughter walks among the proudest in the land, and none there is to compare with her.
Like the Admirable Crichton, no art is to her unknown, no accomplishment by her neglected. Her eager soul, not satisfied with dominion over the realm of beauty and of love, would have all knowledge for its sphere.
Amusing, isn't it?—to one who is not the heroine of the tale! The tragedy of Darmstetter revived, my scientific attainments—but oh, the worst—the worst of all—is the wicked lie that I am in the "best society."
Why, the very day before, we had been "at home," Mrs. Whitney and I, and hardly a soul that counts was here. Mrs. Van Dam had a convenient headache; I haven't seen her since Peggy's wedding. If she had not been so very civil—she and Mrs. Henry—I might think that even then she suspected that Strathay—
There were a few correct, vapid young men in gray trousers and long frock coats among our guests that day, but none worth serious attention. And the women!
One creature tucked tracks under the tea cloth, whereat Mrs. Whitney's pinched nose was elevated. Ethel saw the action—in spite of her mother and sister, the poor girl clings to me; I suppose it's natural thatsheshould love beauty—and hopping round the table at the first chance, she pulled out one, chuckling mightily.
"'Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain,'" she quoted in undertone; "oh, Nelly, take your share of the unco guid and the riders of hobby horses, and be thankful it's no larger."
Ethel doesn't know how great it is. There was the woman who insists on gloating over me as a proof of the superiority of her sex; the woman who had written a book, the woman who would talk about Karma, and the woman—there was more than one—who would talk about the Earl.
After they had gone, Mrs. Whitney's disgust was as plain as her horror of their appetite for cake and other creature comforts. But the storm broke in earnest a day or two later, after the last reception we shall ever hold together.
I can't describe it. I don't understand it. Women are fast leaving the city; it was too late for an "evening."
But that made no difference; I do not deceive myself. I am pressing with my shoulders against a mountain barrier—the prejudice of women—and it never, never yields. Active opposition I could fight; but the tactics are now to ignore me. In response to cards, I get "regrets," or women simply stay away.
Men—ah, yes, there are always men, and many of them like as well as admire me. But there is a subtle something that affects every man's thought of a woman of whom women disapprove. They don't condemn me—ah, a man can be generous!—they imagine they allow for women's jealousies; but deep in their hearts lies hid the suspicion that only women are qualified judges of women. They respect me, but they reserve judgment; and they do not wholly respect themselves, for in order to see me, they evade their lawful guardians—their wives and mothers.
It may have been the wine—I overheard two young cads making free of my house to discuss my affairs.
"Mrs. Terry really dragged Hughy out of town?" one of them asked, assuming a familiarity with Bellmer that I suspect he cannot claim.
"Guess so; he's playing horse with old Bellmer's money; always wrong side of the betting."
"Needs Keeley cure. Good natured cuss; wonder if the Winship'll get him."
"Lay ye three to one—say twenties—that he gets away, like that Strathay—"
I addressed some smiling speech to the wretches, but through the whole evening my cheeks did not cease to burn.
When the last guest had gone, tired and hysterical as she was, Mrs. Whitney began a long tirade.
"It must be stopped! It must be stopped!" she cried, pacing back and forth.
The blaze of anger improved her. She must have been a handsome woman once—tall and slender, with fine dark eyes that roll about dramatically.
"I don't see what there is to stop," I said, perversity taking possession of me, though at heart I quite agreed with her estimate of the evening. "The object of an entertainment being to entertain, why shouldn't the men I know come to ours? If they stayed away, you'd be disappointed; but when they come, as they did to-night, you're frightened, or pretend to be."
"I'm not frightened; I'm appalled. I don't mean Mr. Burke, though he's a detrimental—and, by the way, he was as much distressed to-night as I was. I mean the men who have families—wives and daughters! Why didn't they bring 'em—or stay away?"
"I'd thank John Burke to mind his own business," I cried hotly. "He doesn't have to come here unless he wants to."
"There is only one way," she went on, as if speaking to herself, pacing the floor and fanning herself violently—for her face, and especially her nose, was as red as a beet; she really laces disgracefully—"there's only one way; I must fall ill at once. I must have nervous prostration, or—it's nearly June. I shall leave town. Heavens! What a night!"
"You're assuming a great deal. Our arrangements were made by two, and are hardly to be broken by one. You can't agree to matronize me—let me buy furniture for you, and then abandon me, cut off my social opportunities—leave me—"
"Social opportunity! Social collapse! Disgrace! Why, your prospects were really extraordinary. But now! Where was Meg to-night? Where was Mrs. Marmaduke? Why did my own sister-in-law stay away?"
"I don't know; do you?"
Her harangue begun, she couldn't stop. "Where's Strathay?" she demanded. "Gone; and no announcement—what was the matter? Needn't tell me you refused him! And why is the letter box always full of duns? Can't you pay your bills? Why didn't you say so earlier? Would have saved us both a deal of trouble!"
"I didn't tell you I had money."
"You played the part, ordering dresses fit for a Duchess, and things for the flat. You spent enough on a wedding gift for Peggy—or was it a promise to spend?—to support a family a month—peace offering because you'd abused her!—Of course if you'd made the great success everybody expected, you'd be on the top wave, and so should I. I don't deny I thought of that. But now—an evening like this—no women worth counting and a horde of men—well, it's bad enough for me, but it's worse for you. No one'll say I brought 'em."
"Oh, no," I assented.
"It comes to this, then," she went on at full heat, flushing and fanning herself still more violently; "either you or I must leave this house, and at once."
"Well, I sha'n't."
And so she did!
Whose fault was it that we were left in such a predicament—that of the inexperienced girl, or the chaperon's? What is a chaperon for? Mrs. Whitney has treated me shamefully, shamefully! Here I am all by myself, and I don't know what to do.
Ah, well, I must play my own hand. She shall regret this night's work, if I marry rank or money.
It is so strange how every one prospers except poor, baffled, loveless me, who have the greatest gift of all. I wonder if it is really Nature's law that the very beautiful must suffer; if this is her way of equalizing the lot of the poor and plain and lowly; her law of compensation to make the splendid creatures walk lonely and in sorrow all their days while plain ones coo and are happy. Was Uncle Tim right about the little brown partridges?
If I were superstitious or easily disheartened, I should say—but I am neither! I shall succeed. I will take my place by right of beauty or die fighting! If I see Lord Strathay again, he shall marry me within a week. They shall call it "one of those romantic weddings."
I can't live here alone. I have nothing to fall back upon; nothing but a father who doesn't answer my letters, and Judge Baker who lectures me in polysyllables, and John Burke—poor old John; what a good fellow he is!—who simply loves me; and Mrs. Van Dam, who was my friend as long as she hoped to rise by my beauty to higher place, but who has headaches now; and Mrs. Marmaduke—
I don't understand her desertion.
Ah—yes, there is another, my constant companion now.
He is an old man, thin and sallow. He lies prone on the floor, staring at me with dead, sightless eyes. He whispers from muted lips "Delilah!" and the sound of it is in my ears day and night; day and night!
My God! It will drive me mad!
May 29.
I've revised my opinion of the newspapers. The Star has done me a good turn, a great service.
I had tried to borrow money of Cadge, for the third time, and she told me she had none—which was true, or she would have let me have it. Then she said:—
"Why don't you sell a story to some paper—either something very scientific, or else, 'Who's the Handsomest Man in New York?' or—"
"I think I ought to get something from them, after all the stuff they've printed; but how? To whom do I go?"
"Nobody! Heavens!" cried Cadge. "Want to create an earthquake on Park Row? You're a disturber of traffic. Let me manage. I know the ropes and it helps me at the office to bring in hot features. They might give you fifty for it, too."
And I actually did get $50 for digging out of the text books an essay on Rats as Disseminators of Bubonic Plague; they only used a little of it, but the pictures and the signature and the nonsense about me as a scientist were the real thing, Cadge said.
The money, the money, the money was the real thing to me! It has given me a breathing spell—. that and the hundred for signing a patent medicine testimonial; but I had to sacrifice more than half I got from both sources to pacify greedy creditors. And a month between remittances, and so little when they come! Fathercan'trefuse to mortgage; why doesn't he write to me?
The day I took the article to Cadge I had a long talk with her and with Pros. Reid, who spends at the eyrie every hour he can spare. One must have some society or go crazy, though perhaps they aren't exactly what I'd choose if my kingdom had opened to me.
Pros. has shrewd eyes that inspire confidence—gray eyes with the tired night work look in them. He talks amazing slang at times, at others not at all; and I wish every one might be as kind and thoughtful.
I could think of nothing all the evening but my bills, and at last I was moved to ask him abruptly:—
"What can a girl do to get money, Pros.?"
"'Pends on the girl."
"This girl; a somewhat educated person; and grasping. One who wants much money and wants it right now."
"Princesses don't earn money; they have it."
"Suppose the Princess were enchanted—or—or something? Oh, you may not think me serious, but I really don't know what I shall do, if my ship doesn't come in pretty soon."
He looked quizzically at me; he thinks I plead poverty as a joke; Cadge would never tell him how I have tried to borrow.
"'Twould be a hard case, supposing it possible," he said, "because you would want a good deal of money, and because you'd be a bother to have 'round—too beautiful. You couldn't sell many newspaper stories, because you'd soon cease to be a novelty as a special, and would get a press ticket to City Hall Park. Reporting's another coloured horse altogether—poor pay, and takes training to get it. Beauty's a disadvantage even there; too much beauty. Tell you what you could do, though, if ever youshouldwant to earn money—go on the stage."
"Girl I knew," said Cadge, "made a pot of money going round to summer resorts, giving women lessons, energizing and decomposing; kind of Delsarte; said it made her 'most die—to see 'em rolling on the floor like elephants, trying to get lean, and eating 'emselves fat four times a day, with caramels between—and not be able to laugh. Might try the Barnard girls. It can't be sure beauty to be up there; I've seen some of 'em. Say now; that's not so bad—'How to be Helen; in Twenty Lessons.' Or say, Princess; answer the great question: 'Does Soap Hurt the Skin?'"
She grinned. Cadge fancies, I suppose, that by any mail I may get a big check from home.
"You display almost human intelligence," said Pros, admiringly; "stage's better, though."
"But, Mr. Reid, that's too public."
"Inherited instinct; no more public than—than being a beauty." He gazed at me with mild audacity,—"Money getting's prosaic, off the stage. Most girls who want cash become tiddlety-wink typewriters at eight per; bargain price; fully worth four. Now that isn't your class; if $8 a week would satisfy you, which it wouldn't, do you suppose there's an office in town that'd have you? Men won't subject their clerks to the white light of beauty; wives won't stand for it, either. There are places where no girl can get work unless she's pulchritudinous. Catch the idea? A pretty London barmaid can't draw more beer than an ugly one, but draws more custom. What's a Princess to do with such jobs? You'd be like the man who wouldn't be fool enough to marry any woman who'd be fool enough to have him—in getting work, I mean. This is the other side of all that rot about Woman's Century and Woman's Widening Sphere. Never go into an office, Miss Winship; my wife won't, when we're married."
"'Cause she'll be in one already," interrupted Cadge; "why, if I had to mope 'round all day in a flat, I'd be driven to drink—club tea. Imagine it; Cadge Bryant a clubwoman!"
"Clubwomaning is exciting enough, election time."
"But men get money," I persisted. "Isn't there anything a girl can do?"
"I've a sister," said Reid, "—other sister out in Cincinnati—who wants a profession; law's the one I'm recommending. It's so harmless. Course she'll never have any practice; she won't get out and hustle with the greasy Yahoudis who run the bar now-a-days. No, so long as my sister has the career fever, I say law, every time. Cadge, why don't you study law?"
"The dear boy does so enjoy talking nonsense," Cadge explained indulgently.
"In ordinary business," Reid went on, "pretty women are only employed as lures for men. Swell milliners have 'em to overawe with their great grieving eyes the Hubbies who're inclined to kick at market rates for bonnets. Now there's dry goods, chief theme of half the race. You'd think there'd be a show there for a pretty girl; well, there ain't. It's retail trade; one girl can sell about as many papers of pins in a day as another."
"Some pretty cloak and suit models get big wages," said Cadge.
"Yes, in the jobbing houses. That's wholesale trade, and every dicker counts. Have to corset themselves to death, though."
"It's a fact," Cadge put in. "Many's the filler I've written about it. Girl has to destroy her beauty to get a living by her beauty."
"Sure! Fashions not made to fit women, but women to fit fashions. Then those girls have an awful time, if they're careful about their associates. Why, it's getting so a model is expected to sell goods herself—held responsible if she doesn't. No sale, no job next week. See the situation," Pros. added, "—on the one hand the buyer, a vain man away from home, with thousands to invest; on the other a girl who must get that money for her firm. Well, of course it's not so bad as that, but——"
"ButIwouldn't corset myself Redfern shape and go into such horrid places for the world," I cried.
No more than Judge Baker, or Father, or any one else, could Reid see my situation. What do I care about earning $8 a week—or $80? I must have a great deal of money, at once; to pay my debts and to live upon. Men get money quickly—in Wall Street or by inventions or——
"Course not," said Pros. "You're the Princess; and Princesses may be Honorary Presidents and ask questions and take an interest, but they don't do things."
"Pros. is right about the stage," said Cadge; "that's the best sort of wholesale business. You sell a chance to look at you to fifteen hundred people at once; and folks can't paw you over to see how your clothes fit, either. I'd like it myself, but I'm too—well, after all, I might do; I'm at least picturesquely ugly."
And so the antiphony of discouragement ended in a laugh.
I wonder—women on the stage do get big sums, and they often graduate from it to society. If even a music hall singer can become a duchess——
Bellmer's father made his money in sugar, they say. If I had it, I could storm any position. I suppose Mrs. Terry has shooed him off on that automobile tour I heard about; but he must come back—and so must Strathay.
I can't wait long, I'm not safe an hour from human vultures hungry for money, though I've none to yield them.
I must do something. No sooner had Mrs. Whitney vanished from the flat in a whirlwind of tears and reproaches than in came the furniture man, as if he had been watching the house, to threaten that, unless I pay at once, he will take away everything. He was not rude in words, but oh, so different from the oily people who sold me the things. His ferret eyes searched the apartment; he seemed counting every article.
"The furniture's safe," I said; "it won't walk away."
"Of course it's safe," he answered with a suspicion of a sneer; "but when'll it be paid for?"
"I don't know; go away!" I said. "I've written to my father."
The fellow looked at me with open admiration.
"Better 'tend to this thing; better write again to—your father," he said and walked off, leaving me cold and tremulous with rage.
I must have imagined the pause, the inflection; but he has me under surveillance. Like a thief!
I flew to the dining-room and swallowed a glass of sherry, for I was faint and quivering; but before I had turned from the sideboard Cadge bounced into the room, tearing through the flat to find me, and stopped to stare, open-eyed.
"Drop that!" she cried.
"Oh, don't preach! I've just been having such a time!"
"Everybody has 'em; I've had fifty a year for fifty years. And I don't mind your drowning sorrow in the flowing bowl, either. But do it like a man, in company. Honest now, Helen."
She changed the subject abruptly to the errand that had brought her; but, before she went away, she looked curiously at the sideboard and said:——
"Helen, you really don't——"
"Mercy, no! Scarcely at table, even. Why I used to be shocked to see how things to drink are thrust upon women, even in department stores. But they're not all deadly; there's 'creme de menthe' now—the pep'mint extract Ma used to give me for stomach-ache."
Cadge laughed with me, but she turned quickly grave again.
"Mind what I tell you, Princess," she said, "and never, never drink even 'pep'mint extract' in the house like that, alone; if you do, I see your finish; reporters learn a thing or two."
She's right—for ordinary women. But I told her the truth; I don't care for wine. I've seen girls flushed at dinner, but I know too much of physiology, and I care too much for my beauty.
Still, in emergencies——
Emergencies—oh! I could have named to her the very day I first tasted wine. It was here in the Nicaragua, the day Darmstetter——
Well, well,—I mustn't think about that. I can't understand why I don't hear from Father. Impossible to make him see how different are my present tastes and pressing needs from those I brought from home. I hope he won't delay long about the money.
My position is becoming intolerable. I owe the butcher, grocer, furniture dealer, photographer—and the milliner is the worst of all. The money I got from theStaris filched from me by people who need it far less than I. Why, I even owe money to the maids, and I can't discharge either of them, because I'd have to pay her. But they must somehow be sent away.
I wonder if Father couldn't sell the farm. That would bring more than a mortgage; but it might take months, and even then I need in a single year more than all he has in the world.
Will any woman who reads the story of my life—the real story which sometime I shall write, leaving out the paltry details which now harass me—will any woman believe that the most beautiful woman in the world in the wonderful year, of the finding of the Bacillus actually thought of tramping the streets, looking for work, like a story heroine seeking her fortune? I shall have to do something—anything!
But I can't work; I'm not calm enough, and it would ruin my beauty.
The luck must change!
Sometimes I see more clearly than the sordidness of this horrible existence, a big palace with a terraced front and a mile long drive straight to the park gate, past great trees and turf that is always green; and long rows of stately ladies looking down on me from their frames on the lofty wall beside soldiers that have stood silent guard there three hundred years. I can see a beautiful woman courtesying to a Queen and all the world reading it in the morning paper; and a big town house with myriad lights blinking through the fog outside, where shivering wretches watch the carriages drive up to my door. For twenty—no thirty years—I might be the one inimitable and wholly adorable being, clothed with rare garments, blazing with jewels, confidant of statesmen, maker of the men who make history. History! I shouldbehistory!
I could do it all myself—I have never had a chance, never yet the glimmer of a chance, but I could do anything, conquer anything, achieve anything!
It is so little that I ask—the money to live upon, and a chance, only the chance—it is maddening to be denied that!—and fair play to live my life and carry out my destiny.
There was a time when I wanted less, expected less; like Cadge with queer, devoted Pros. or Kitty Reid, her hair blowing about her face, happy with her daubs, messing about in the studio. Was I happier when I was like that? I would not go back to it! I would not barter my beauty for any other gift on earth. I shall fight and fight to the last ditch. I don't propose to be a pawn on the chess-board.
If it comes to that, I shall know what to do!