“I will try,” said Martha. “I will do my best to be perfectly truthful. I do long for happiness; but—this may seem strange to you, and you may even think that I am pretending to be better or more unselfish than others—”
“That I never will! I know that isn’t so. Go on.”
“I was going to say that the craving of my heart seems somehow to be impersonal. I want happiness intensely, but the way in which I want it is to see the beings whom I love best have it. Now there are two creatures in the world whom I love supremely—my brother and you. You know that this is so. If I could see both of you happy, in the manner and degree that I want, I believe that I could then be perfectly happy, too. I believe all the needs of my own heart could be answered in that way; and indeed I almost think that my greed for joy is as great as yours at times. It has strained my heart almost to bursting, in Harold’s case, and I feel now almost the same about you. I have never spoken of this to any one; indeed, I was never fully aware of it, I think, until I put it into words now. It must seem quite incredible to you.”
“Not in the least. I believe it utterly, or rather it’s a stronger thing than belief with me. I feel that it is true. I admire you for it, and all the more because it is so different from me. I want happiness and love for myself—every ounce of flesh, every drop of blood in me longs for it as well as every aspiration of my soul. It is self that I am thinking of when I get like this—my own power to enjoy, and also—oh, God knows that this is true!—and also the power to give joy to another. Martha, I will tell you something,” she said, with a sudden change of tone, dropping her voice, and leaning forward to take both of Martha’s hands in hers as she spoke, with her eyes fixed intently on the girl’s. “I have known this joy. I have loved supremely, and been loved. You have never tasted that cup of rapture as I have; but then you have never known, as I have, the anguish of that renunciation. Which of us is the fortunate one? If you knew how I suffer you would probably say that it is you; but if, on the other hand, you knew what ecstasy I have had, I think that you might decide differently. Oh, if God would give me one more hour of it, I think I would be content! One more hour, to take it to the full, knowing that I must, after that, come back to what I suffer now! I think those sixty joy-absorbing minutes would make up to me for everything. But to have it never again!”
She broke off, and, hiding her face in her hands, turned away, and lay for some moments quite silent and still. She was not crying—Martha could see that; and when she presently turned, and looked at the young girl, holding out both her hands to her, although there was no smile on her face, it showed that she had conquered her dark mood, and was strong again.
It was a very gentle sort of strength, however, that was not too self-sufficient to feel pleasure in the words and looks and touches of quiet sympathy which Martha gave her now. They sat there, hand in hand, for a long time; and presently the princess said, with her own beautiful smile:
“You have done me a world of good, Martha. My headache is gone, and also its cause. Sometimes, do you know,—I’m going to let you see just how weak I am,—sometimes I succumb for days to a mood like this. Nobody knows that tears have anything to do with the headaches that I suffer from—at least nobody but Félicie, and she gives no information. My aunt loves me dearly, but is no more acquainted with the real me than if I were a stranger; and yet she adores me—perhaps for that reason. I tell her nothing, because the feelings that I have are quite outside her comprehension, while the headaches are quite within it. She recommends various powders and pellets, and is constantly getting new prescriptions for me. She says my headaches are of a very obstinate type, and I agree with her. To show you how completely you’ve cured me,” she added, rising to her feet, with an entire change of tone, “I am going to work this afternoon. You will stay and take your lunch with me, and then we’ll be there in time for the second model’s pose.”
“I can’t stay,” said Martha, rising too; “but I will meet you there promptly. I am keeping my cab below, so that I may be back at the atelier by the time the carriage comes for me. You know how very quiet I am keeping my little escapades with you.”
“Oh, to be sure!” exclaimed the other, smiling. “I had forgotten the necessity of that precaution. What would ‘mama and the girls’ say? I think I shall write them an anonymous letter, saying that if madame had been under the impression that her eldest daughter devoted herself wholly to the pursuit of art during the hours of her absence from home, it might have surprised her had she seen the aforesaid young lady this morning come out of the atelier, call a cab, give a number, go to a distant apartment (where she was evidently well known to the concierge, who passed her on to a servant in Russian livery, who as evidently knew her well), enter, by a special passage, a certain room, where she remained shut in for a long time, emerging finally in great haste to drive rapidly in the cab, which she had kept waiting, back to the atelier in time to meet her own carriage, and come innocently home to join the family circle at lunch! Couldn’t I make out a case? And what would the mother and the little sisters say?”
Martha, too, laughed at the picture; but in spite of some discomfiture of feeling to which it gave rise, she had no idea of changing her tactics. The very thought of her mother’s going to work to investigate the princess, and ascertain if she were a proper friend for her daughter, smote the girl to the heart, and she resolved to guard her secret more carefully than ever. She determined that she would ease her conscience for the deception by confessing everything to her brother when he came. This would make it all right.