Gerome had for me somewhat of a circumstantial love. We had always known one another. We had been constantly thrown together. It would have been a pre-eminently proper arrangement. It would have been the alliance of the two influential and wealthy families. Therefore, his mother wished it and ordered it to be so. But an unexpected disappointment awaited her honorable ladyship. It had not occurred to her that a woman could be so foolish, so neglectful of her own interests and of her own happiness, as to refuse in marriage the hand of her precious son. My evident hesitation—for at heart I loved him—surprised and somewhat alarmed her. I was invited to dine with the family. I was treated as a prospective member. With the soup, the fish, and the heavy meats, they dealt out the virtues of their Gerome, seriously and earnestly. With the sweetmeats and the coffee they smilingly touched upon his lightest and most pardonable faults. My heart trembled for its safety. It was a well planned effective process. That night he told me of his love with the air of a man who fully expects a warm response and affirmative answer. Both were bravely denied him. I told him that he was mistaken; I told him he did not, and never would, have for me the grand passion of his life. He said—what else could he say?—"You are wrong; you deeply wrong me. You are plunging my young life, hitherto so full of hope, down into a depth of bitterness and regret from which it may never rise again!" This was said in a tragic, somewhat stilted, but impressive manner. I was touched; it was my first experience; it was the first time that I had ever heard a man talk about his broken, blasted hopes and his empty, ruined life. But it is all a very old story now. I know just how much to believe—in truth, precious little. Nothing dulls the edge of a woman's sensibilities more quickly than frequent proposals. His rejection was a relief to Gerome; he was tired of making love to women especially selected by his mother; he did not fancy the process. Thus far he had always been unsuccessful. I had told him no—but, womanlike, I did not mean it; I did not want him to go out of my life. In a vague way I was conscious of a desire to win his love, but it was during my social formative period when every thing was vague. I was unconscious of my power, yet I did not know how to accomplish my end. So Gerome left me. I was unable to keep him. But, somehow, I did not consider it a finality; it was simply an awkward pause. I hoped for his return and a renewal of his protestations. I had heard women say that if a man really cared for a woman he would easily brook the first refusal and speedily return. So I thought, but I was mistaken; he did not return.
Two moons had not waxed and waned before he was having what now I am sure must have been the one passionate love of his life. This was unexpected; a blow in the dark to my pride, and, alas! I fear, also, to my heart. It was the death-knell to my better nature. It gave direction to the formation of my social life. From that moment I am conscious of a change, and for the worse, in my hitherto attractive nature. It was attractive on account of its sweetness and its purity. It was a nature which, until then, had known nothing of the hot, passionate love of the world and of all things worldly. The formative period was gone, and with it most that was good.
It was hard to have a man court me, not exactly for my money, but because I chanced to be the nearest fruit in reach and because his crafty mother thought it would be an excellent arrangement! Especially hard, because in spite of myself I had for him a very tender feeling. My sudden loss and quick appropriation by another created within me an unjust resentment; my resentment was silent and unnoticed, but it filled me with a desire for revenge. This was the evil which crept into my life; this was the element which warped my better nature, made me grasping, worldly, hard to please. This sudden desertion placed me in a false position. People said that Gerome had never loved me—simply trifling. The friends of that other woman, a great brown-eyed beauty with the subtle charm and fatal fascination of a devil most lovely, made it appear that of course Gerome Meadows had never loved me—why should he? He cowardly held his peace and let them prattle; he was kneeling low before the shrine of his own selection; he was in open rebellion against his irate mother, who did not approve of this brown-eyed beauty.
I was left alone and let alone. But fate was not altogether against me. Death did me a friendly service. He called to her last resting-place an ancient dame who had severely played the role of grandmother and mother-in-law in our large establishment—unloved, tyrannical, unregretted. But custom bade us mourn. Then was my opportunity. Our doors were closed, but I was not idle—I studied myself, and, retrospectively, all of my friends. After several months of hard training and much serious thought I found myself ready. I had established my little theories about life, and their intricate relations to myself, and cast about carefully for something upon which I might with safety and good results practice upon. Most of my friends were tame, uninteresting, and none of them just then my lovers. I resorted to many of the little airs and tricks of social trade. I soon found myself doing quite a brisk little business in a quiet way; quite quiet, for I still wore light mourning and, of course, was not going out; we all thought it best to pay the highest possible respect to the late but unlamented grandmother. I soon gained the reputation—which I bravely sustained—of being far above the idle, cruel dealer in human hearts; I was said to be full of old-fashioned coquetry, but not even flirtatious; that I was gracious, had pleasing manners, but was the very soul of sincerity, and would never be guilty of leading men on and on. I was frequently contrasted with that devilish brown-eyed beauty—a recognized flirt, ready to sacrifice any man on her crowded altar. A man once said to me of her:
"Such kings of shreds have wooed and won her,
Such crafty knaves her laurel owned,
It has become almost an honor
Not to be crowned."
"Hush! hush! she is my friend," I said, for I knew him to be one of her rejected lovers. In a month I had gently told him nay. But he was innocent, he did not know that I had played my cards for him. He thought me cold, but he thought me kind. He advertised me in desirable places and with most desirable people. I captivated several other desirable men. It is so easy for a woman to fool a man. But I was eager to try my powers on better metal—some man of the world. A victory in such a quarter would fully establish me, and it would bring the very best men to my side, for they, like sheep, readily follow the well-known leader. And perhaps—Gerome might return.
One winter's night late, after I had gone to my room, two men called. Ordinarily I should have excused myself, but something—we call it fate, I believe—prompted me to see them. One was an old friend—a friend of the family. The other a thorough man of the world, and—I knew it intuitively—my desired victim. He was an idle, indifferent, Social Drifter. He was an artist by profession; his inclination—and his leisure—made him more of a diletante than any thing else. He was more notorious than famous. He had done nothing to give himself fame, but he had done many odd things which gave him notoriety. I have always had a secret but deep-rooted love of notoriety; it makes my blood tingle with a most delicious sensation. I knew that he could give me a great deal of quiet notoriety which was the one thing needed to make me a success—notice, notice, constant notice! The surgeon may be ever so skillful and yet if his skill be not known his instruments, rusted with disuse, will cling to their unopened cases and his hand will forget its cunning. So is it with the flirtatious maiden; she must hang forth a sign which may be read, and quickly, even by those who run.