“What an ardent lover!” she said, her lips trembling, “I’m proud of you, William, you do famously, I—I—” she broke off and suddenly laying her thin white hands lightly on his shoulders she kissed his cheek, turned, evaded his touch, and bursting into uncontrollable weeping ran from the room.
IV
MARGARET, leaning a little on Gertrude English, stopped her with a slight pressure on her arm, and shading her eyes with her free hand stood gazing down the long vista of the sunlit avenue. A final recognition of the contrast between realities and the dreams which had changed and warped her life came upon her with a shock which made familiar objects seem strange and distorted. A shudder of anguish shook her slight frame and stole the blood from her lip; stripped at last of all illusions, facing the immutable laws of life, she felt as though she had been thrust out into the streets homeless, and naked, and ashamed; a wrecked soul to wander henceforth up and down on the face of the earth and find no place. How strange, how different from yesterday! The tremulous love, the hope half justified, the unscrupulous, unflinching desire for happiness—where were they? Gone, shrivelled, dead! And she was not dreaming, she was wide awake, this was life, life with its inexorable bonds, its laws, its justice, its cruel requitals, all else had been a dream! Happiness—what was it? A phantom of some man’s imagination, the flaming sword of the angel at the Garden of Eden.
Before her lay the busy, beautiful thoroughfare, alive with carriages and motor-cars, with gay people, children, old women and perambulators. The sun had already swept away all but a few vestiges of snow; it was one of those spring days which come to us in December. At her very feet were some pansies blooming hardily. Away at the north, between long rows of houses, across the intervening circle, she saw the street ascending the hill, caught the white outlines of the high buildings on the heights, the deep blue of the sky.
Yesterday and to-day, oh, God!
She walked on, unconscious of the curious glances which followed her slight, elegant figure, her small pinched face under the great hat with its toppling plumes; unaware, too, that women leaned forward in passing carriages, looked eagerly and sank back into the friendly shelter, glad to escape the necessity of recognition until some one should decide upon the proper course,—rehabilitation or oblivion.
Gerty, shrewd and watchful, saw and made mental notes. She decided swiftly who should be struck off the list when Margaret’s star rose again; no court chamberlain ever drew lines tighter than she at that moment because, in her pity and her affection, she resented every slight with bitter zeal.
Margaret, meanwhile, walked on, regaining her self control with an effort, her large, melancholy eyes gazing dreamily ahead of her. “Gerty,” she said at last, “do you suppose any one is ever really happy?”
“Oh, mercy, yes!” retorted that matter-of-fact young woman, in great astonishment, “I am often! There are so many nice things in the world, Margaret, and when one has money—” Miss English drew a long breath; it expressed her thought.
Margaret smiled bitterly. “Is that the sum total, Gerty? Is there nothing else?”