Her voice broke, her head sank. Mr. Master’s expression of boredom deepened into one of endurance.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked with weary patience.
“Come back. Don’t be angry. Forget what I said.”
She began to cry, shielding her face with one hand, the other still holding him by the sleeve.
He sighed, and glancing up, saw me. I expected him to drive me forth with one fierce look. Instead he made a slight grimace and reentered the room, she holding to his sleeve. He dropped heavily on the piano stool and she on the chair opposite, her hands in her lap, two lines of tears on her cheeks. Neither said a word.
The way was clear and I flew out with the wild rush of a bird escaping from a snare. As I ran down the stairs the silence of that room, four walls enclosing a tumult of warring passions, followed me.
It’s midnight and I haven’t got over the ugliness of it. What am I to think? The thing many people would think, I won’t believe, I can’t believe. No one who knew her could. That the unfortunate creature loves him is past a doubt—but how can she? How can she humiliate herself so? Where is the pride that the rest of us have for a shield and buckler. Where is the self-respect? To cry—to let him see her cry, and then—that’s the comble, as the Paris art students say—to call him back!
I feel sick, for I love her. If she hasn’t got a soul or temperament or any of the rest of it that they do so much talking about, she’s got something tucked away somewhere that’s good, that’s true. It looks at you out of her eyes, it speaks to you in her voice—and then Masters comes along and it’s gone.
I stopped here, and biting the end of my pen, looked gloomily at the wall and met the cold stare of my ancestors. I wonder what the men would have said if they had been there this afternoon. I’m not sure—men are men and Lizzie is beautiful. But about you ladies, I can make a guess. You would purse your mouths a little tighter and say, “Evelyn, you’re keeping queer company. Whatever you may think in your heart, drop her. That’s the wise course.” All but the French Huguenot lady, she’s got an understanding eye. She feels something that the others never felt, probably saw a little deeper into life and it softened the central spot.
No, my dears, you’re all wrong. You’re judging by appearances and fixed standards, which is something your descendant refuses to do. Go to sleep and try and wake up more humble and humane. Good night.