She wondered, with a smile, why they talked so much cant about marriage and divorce? Had they suffered as she had suffered they would rejoice, as she did, at the thought that there were divorces, that one could be free again!
Free—good heavens! Not to see him every day, not to hear his voice, with that mean, trivial rasp in it, not to be one of his chattels!
And Rose? Margaret did not allow herself to dwell too long upon that vision of the girl’s young figure, her fair, animated face against the background of the cedars and the sky. Was she jealous of her? That was an ignominy too deep to contemplate without bitter self-abasement; she refused to believe it! The shuddering certainty which had drained the life-blood from lip and cheek became now, on reflection, a fancy of her feverish brain. Such a raw, simple creature as Rose was no mate for William Fox; that indisputable attraction of opposites, which is one of the laws of nature, for a moment lost its significance in her eyes; she would not believe it. It was not quite natural for her, though, to take this view, even for a moment, for a woman, as a rule, has less faith in the endurance of a man’s love than he has in it himself, because she has usually discovered that the heart of the ordinary male creature is uncommonly like a pigeon-cote!
She was determined to forget all these things; she walked to and fro battling with herself, her restless hands sometimes at her throat and sometimes clasped behind her head. The strong passion of rebellion which shook her being amazed even herself. She would never give him up! She could not—to Rose or to any one; her starved heart cried out against surrender and defeat, he was hers—hers.
Her maid’s knock at the door startled her, she stopped short and passed her hands over her eyes, her face burned; she no longer lacked color, her cheeks had the flush of fever. The girl, coming in to dress her, was surprised by her high colored beauty, the brilliance of her eyes, and began to lay out the gown and its accessories with nervous fingers, half expecting one of Margaret’s wild bursts of temper. But her mistress seemed only concerned with her toilet; one gown after another was tried on and rejected until at last she was arrayed in a shimmering dress of violet and silver which was as delicate as the tints of the sky at moonrise. She allowed no ornament on her white neck and arms except a single diamond star which clasped the ribbon around her throat.
Nothing could have been more perfect than her manner to her guests. It was one of those occasions, growing constantly more rare, when White had no reason to complain. She was charming to all, from the most distinguished to the most socially obscure, she forgot her prejudices, she even forgot to snub her husband’s political protégés—to their infinite and undisguised relief—and to her own particular coterie she was the old, charming, inimitable Margaret. As on the occasion of her musicale, men predominated, and among those men were all the notables at the capital. Speaking several languages, Margaret had made her house a Mecca for all Europeans; it was an open secret that she espoused the cause of the Russian ambassador against his secret enemy, Lily Osborne, and espoused it with a zeal which caused a whispered sensation in official circles. It was an anxious question what Mrs. White might not dare to do, for it was believed that she would pause at nothing in her determination to defeat Mrs. Osborne. Yet it was never hinted that she concerned herself even remotely with White’s devotion to the fair divorcée. Her indifference to her husband was a fact too generally accepted to cause even a ripple in the stream.
There had been much secret comment on her changed and haggard looks, but her dryadlike loveliness to-night silenced every whisper, and her gayety, her ease, her clever, reckless talk proclaimed her the same Margaret they had always known and loved and feared, whose wit was as keen as it was cruel.
Mrs. O’Neal was the first to bid her good-night. The old lady in her gorgeous panoply of silk and velvet tottered on, like an ancient war-horse answering the bugle call, her white head vibrating as she talked. Still athirst for social power and success, no one was a keener judge of achievements, and she patted Margaret’s hand.
“My dear,” she whispered, “you’re the most charming creature in the world when you choose! I’m old enough to tell you.”
“I can never equal you,” Margaret retorted lightly, “even when I choose!”