"It is always Mrs. Bannert. I do not in the least know what you mean, but—it is always Mrs. Bannert. What did he say about her?"
"Of course I can not tell you, Helen. But—I really thought it was you."
"What should I have to do with it? How you play at cross-purposes, Crystal! Is it possible that during all this time you have not discovered how infatuated our Gregory is with Rachel? Ward is only amusing himself; but Gregory is, in one sense, carried away. However, I doubt if it lasts, and I really think he has a warm regard for you, a serious one. It is a pity you could not—"
Anne stopped the sentence with a gesture.
"Yes, I see that little ring," said Helen. "But the world is a puzzle, and we often follow several paths before we find the right one. How cold your hands are! The nights are no longer like summer, and the moon is Medusa. The autumn moon is a cruel moon always, reminding us of the broken hopes and promises of the lost summer. I must go, Crystal. You are pale and weary; the summer with the Llama has been too hard. I believe you will be glad to be safely back at Moreau's again. But I can not come over now and tell you romances, can I? You know the personages, and the charm will be gone. To-morrow I am going to ride. You have not seen me in my habit? I assure you even a mermaid can not compare with me. Do you know, I should be happy for life if I could but induce Rachel to show herself once on horseback by my side: on horseback Rachel looks—excuse the word, but it expresses it—sploshy. The trouble is that she knows it, and will not go; she prefers moonlight, a piazza, and sylphide roses in her hair, with the background of fluffy white shawl."
Then, with a little more light nonsense, Helen went away—went at last. Anne bolted the door, threw herself down upon her knees beside the bed, with her arms stretched out and her face hidden. There had been but this wanting to her misery, and now it was added: Helen loved him.
For she was not deceived by the flippant phrases which had surrounded the avowal: Helen would talk flippantly on her death-bed. None the less was she in earnest when she spoke those few words. In such matters a woman can read a woman: there is a tone of voice which can not be counterfeited. It tells all.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"What is this that thou hast been fretting and fuming and lamenting and self-tormenting on account of? Say it in a word: is it not because thou art not happy? Foolish soul! what act of Legislature was there that thou shouldst be happy? There is in Man a higher than Happiness; he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessedness. This is the everlasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is solved."—Carlyle.