I have with incredible eyes this instant read this cutting from the morning paper:
Miss Polly Boles married yesterday at the City Hall in Jersey City to Dr. Claude Mullen.
She must have been on her way when I saw her.
I have read the announcement without being able to believe it—with some kind of death in life at my heart.
Oh, Ben, Ben, Ben! So betrayed! I am coming at once.
BEVERLEY.
DIARY OF BEVERLEY SANDS
July 18.
The ferns have had their ironic way with us and have wrought out their bitter comedy to its end. The little group of us who were the unsuspecting players are henceforth scattered, to come together in the human playhouse not again. The stage is empty, the curtain waits to descend, and I, who innocently brought the drama on, am left the solitary figure to speak the epilogue ere I, too, depart to go my separate road.
This is Tilly's wedding day. How beautiful the morning is for her! The whole sky is one exquisite blue—no sign of any storm-plan far or near. The July air blows as cool as early May. I sit at my window writing and it flows over me in soft waves, the fragrances of the green park below my window enter my room and encircle me like living human tendernesses. At this moment, I suppose, Tilly is dressing for her wedding, and I—God knows why—am thinking of old-time Kentucky gardens in one of which she played as a child. Tilly, a little girl romping in her mother's garden—Tilly before she was old enough to know anything of the world—anything of love—now, as she dresses for her wedding—I cannot shut out that vision of early purity.