The long white road stretched smooth and bare to the water’s edge, she heard the tide lap the sand, and the sharp hoofbeats of her horse rang clear. It was almost deserted; some social function had drawn the tide of carriages and motors elsewhere; a few stragglers passed her, but she galloped on. Behind her the city dropped away into silence, the foliage in the open spaces of the park and the White House grounds almost hiding the public buildings and clothing the whole with a sylvan aspect. Some children paddled at the water’s edge; a boy cast his net; the prattle of their voices came up through the clear soft air.
Rose checked her horse and sat looking across the river, shading her eyes with her hand. The sight of Fox, the sound of his voice had unnerved her. She had thought herself strong enough to dismiss him from her mind, to live down that dream, that idle futile dream, but she found that she had not counted the cost, that she had suffered a serious hurt. Already Rose’s inner mind began to question her own judgment. She knew nothing of the circumstances; had she a right to condemn him? Secretly she blamed Margaret; what woman does not blame the other woman a little? What woman does not know that the other’s charming ways, her skill, her beauty, may have captured the unwary male creature almost against his will and certainly against his better judgment? Eve would never have blamed Adam in her heart if there had been any one for Adam to flirt with, but therein lay Eve’s profound superiority over her descendants—she was the only woman!
But Rose knew Margaret, knew her charm, her subtilty, her daring, and she battled with herself, trying to beat down her secret condemnation of the woman only. She was a stern little moralist, and she tried to be just; Fox must be to blame also, for was not Margaret married? The enormity of his offense could not be excused; besides, as she reflected, with a gnawing pain at her heart, of what avail to argue? If the divorce was granted—and it would be, beyond a doubt—Fox would marry Margaret.
Her lips tightened, her hands grasped the bridle again, and she galloped on, a wave of misery sweeping over her young soul, blotting out the bright contentment of her life, her natural cheerfulness. Suddenly she thought of that day a year ago, how happy she had been! She remembered it, a bright beautiful day, and she and Mrs. Allestree and Robert had driven out to Rock Creek Park and she had found some wood violets. A few months, and her old life had been blotted out, her happiness clouded; even her affection for her father seemed overshadowed, her whole being preoccupied and absorbed with this new misery. Was this then what men called love? Alack, she wished that she had never met the little blind god, or meeting him, had passed unscathed!
She turned her horse’s head and rode slowly back; the scent of flowers, of sweet new grass, of the fresh turned earth came to her, and the sweet treble note of a song-sparrow, but the world would never be quite the same again; she had met life face to face and learned one of its profound lessons. The young purity of her soul refused to accept it as a common lot, and it was characteristic of the sweetness of her temperament that, however she suffered, she did not blame Fox for having deliberately won her love, but she shrank, with almost physical repugnance, from the thought of him as the lover of a married woman. The judge’s lessons had gone even deeper than he knew.
XVII
GERTRUDE ENGLISH, with her hands clasped behind her, stood looking over Allestree’s shoulder and watching him as he worked, in a desultory way, at some details of Margaret’s now nearly finished portrait. It was good work, but it lacked the inspiration of his picture of Rose; it had been, indeed, well nigh impossible to convey the mockery, the uninterpreted mystery of Margaret’s glance.
“You haven’t made the face half sad enough,” was Gerty’s candid criticism, “and her eyes—do you suppose any one else ever had quite such eyes?”
Allestree smiled. “I was going to say that I hoped not, but I suppose you would construe that as a want of appreciation.”
Miss English opened her own eyes. “Of course I should,” she said promptly, “and I can’t see what you mean; her eyes are lovely!”