My artist lover was not the ideal slender, pale-faced youth; he was not beautiful, he was not good looking. But perhaps I should have loved him if he had been the one, and tolerated him longer if he had been the other. He was aggressive; he was open, direct always; he was not blunt, yet he was free from the all-prevalent use of the preliminary. He loved me! And he very soon told me as much and more. He made no concealment of the fact to me, or indeed to others. He loved me, was proud of it, and glad to have all know of it. Of course this was just what I wanted, for he was not a susceptible man. He had not been in love for years. His declarations meant something, and people knew it. Thus was I brought into notice. "Who, pray, is this Mary Lee Manley?" they began to ask. "Is she the same scrawny, ugly girl who was such a flat failure in society two years ago?" "What has she done to herself? She is certainly not a beauty but she has improved, just how we are unable to say."
The men began to find me, hunted me up, and were unable to realize that I was that self same individual whom they had so diligently avoided her first season out. All the while my affair went on, systematically artistic, with that Social Drifter. No man will ever love me again as I was loved by that man. I wantonly played with his openly avowed affections. I was deliberate, artistic. I was cold. I led him on blindly. I calculated every move with mathematical accuracy. I left nothing undone. I skillfully covered my tracks. I always told him sadly, gently, that I did not love him, and that I never could. Yet I told him in such a manner that, almost breathless with a new hope, he refused to believe me, refused to listen. He was always considerate and I hated him for his consideration. He was always thoughtful, unselfish, and alas, always loving. Finally, after I had successfully played him for all that he was worth—which was a great deal to me—I told him to go. I dismissed him with scorn and without reason. Of course there had been no love in my heart for this man, but his delicate attentions were always intensely flattering. And once, just once, I might have yielded, but my family, my own judgment, every thing, was against the man, and to the end he continued to be simply a trial for my untried and newly discovered powers. And then, perhaps the more potent reason of all, Gerome Meadows gave uneasy indications of a desire to return. I, and immediately, made arrangements for the full gratification of his desire. Now was my chance. Revenge, when delayed, is all the sweeter for the delay. The world must know of my power, and through Gerome Meadows! I had waited long and patiently, but I had not wasted my time. I had gone through a severe social training, and with the best results. I was an accomplished flirt, but I was not trammeled by the always dangerous reputation—it was not known. It was simply a rumor about town that I might be somewhat of a trifler, but it had not been affirmed, and few believed the idle, unauthorized rumor; it had not even reached the ears of Gerome Meadows. He had hotly quarreled with his devilish, brown-eyed beauty. She had dismissed him after a highly tragic scene. The details were highly sensational—as told by her devoted partizans, and warmly denied by his and his outraged family (principally irate mother). They sound like the fragments of a romance written by Bulwer, and with a liberal touch of Lucile. It was the talk of the town, and many things were said, and a few were done. I was silent and hopeful. My triumph was near! She had done with him, and forever. He did not cut his handsome throat! He did not do any of the thrilling but uncomfortable things done by the usual rejected lover in the average novel—but he came back to me! Once more Gerome Meadows was my recognized lover, and the people—the fickle people—began to whisper it about (greatly to my satisfaction), that perhaps this very uncertain Mr. Meadows had always loved me from the time his sister Kate and myself were school-girls together. And furthermore, he had for a while yielded to the manifold fascinations of that devilish brown-eyed beauty. In fact, he himself told me a goodly number of just such little speeches; discoursed on the difference between real love and mere fascination. He told me that I was the only woman he ever could really love, and that he had for me a pure and warm affection. Ah! how sweet were those declarations to my ear. But not to my heart—it was closed against him.
I was not the woman he had known and halfway loved before—for I had eagerly tasted deep and long of the Egyptian flesh-pots, and I refused any other kind of social sustenance. I allowed him to believe that his tardy return had routed all rivals from the field. I forced him to fancy me to be so different from that other woman. I was, in truth, a cool, quiet reaction. I coaxed him into believing me to be full of a gentle, womanly purity. I made him blind to the fact that I was a worldly woman, conscious of and ready to unhesitatingly use my worldliness. I measured my powers aright—I could at my own sweet will allow him, force him, coax him, make him do any thing. I cunningly wove a web in and around the heart of Gerome Meadows—his rejected, torn and dejected heart. I gently soothed him into not quite a forgetfulness, yet a strong and healthful calm. He was grateful. Reactions are always dangerous; he wondered why he had not known me before as he knew me then. And while he wondered I charmed him into a new love fever. It was almost a touch of real passion. It was a skillful drawing together of the scattered ligaments of that other and violently broken love. I had labored hard, and not altogether in vain. He was mine for the taking. Would I take him?
We stood together late one afternoon in a rich oriel window which overhung the street. We were silent. The rustle of the light summer drapery filled the air with a faint but melodiously tender undertone. We looked out of the broad open window down the street. It was near the close of a superb summer's day. I was in a mood to yield. My old nature seemed to rise out of its former self. It was the one golden opportunity for the man by my side. The old tender leaning toward him came back again, stronger, more subtle than ever before. It was—for the while—love, or something very like unto love. My nature, my soul was at its utmost flow, but no one touched the flood-gates. Gerome was passive, silent. One word, a hand-touch, and I would have loved him and bound myself to him for weal or woe! Little things are every thing in a woman's life. Robert Fairfield passed by beneath the window; he briefly paused, politely looked up, lifted his hat, smiled, and—innocent of what he had done—went on his way. He had simply done what was the proper and usual thing, but his conventional smile had come into my life at a strangely opportune moment—or, was it opportune? My heart had been laid bare, the flood-gates had been touched, and they had slowly opened beneath the magic influence of a smile. Gerome Meadows had been silent. He had lost his one golden opportunity. I told him so, and sent him away. I fired upon him a volley of ridicule and contempt; my revenge was complete. He was angry, surprised, disappointed. The old wounds were torn open afresh; but he was not easily undone. He immediately made peace with his irate mother. He placed himself in her charge. He promised to try again, but under her direction and according to her selection. In a few days more he goes to the altar with this new and latest love. But, ah! Gerome, your charming, susceptible self never loved but once! Where is that devilish brown-eyed beauty? It is well that she is silent! One word from her and—but, go marry. And pray, take with you my conventional wishes for your peace and happiness. On your wedding day I will write you a dainty card and send you a trifle.
What shall it be? What would be, under the "existing circumstances," the most appropriate thing? Perhaps a little Cupid, somewhat weather-beaten and with an empty quiver might do, or, best of all, a lock of golden-brown hair stolen from the rich, heavy tresses of that devilish brown-eyed beauty. What say you? But au revoir, Gerome Meadows.
There is to be a reception—a most elegant affair—the night of the wedding. It is to be given by that now well-satisfied lady, Mrs. Gillespie Meadows, the mother of my dear, dear Gerome. My escort: Robert Fairfield. The beginning of another end! What will it be?
