“No,” said Sylvia, “nor marriage. He was married to a devil. A reputation never brought a woman comfort. You never say to yourself ‘I am respectable!’ You do not feel as if respectability were a new frock in which to rejoice. Would you, Launa, have received me if I had been—what would my label be?”
“There are no men, there is no man, who is worthy of a woman giving up everything for him.”
“There is love, love, love. I will go to see Mrs. Herbert to-morrow. It is so easy to call men unworthy, but life is dreary when one tries to be good.”
CHAPTER XXI
Lily Herbert had accepted her fate—one must, no matter how rebellious the heart may be. The days were long and black and endless; the nights were worse, and full of spectres. The path of life behind her shone with the brilliancy of past happiness, which is often imaginary; before her the path was dark, with the gloom of hopelessness and despair.
Sylvia’s sympathy was a light to her. They frequently talked about Launa. How happy she was! How fortunate! Loved by the gods and by men. The love of men they put last; it was first in both their minds. The love of the gods is death, the love of man life. They had both wilfully thrown it away.
“Once he told me I should live with him as his sister,” said Sylvia. “I hated him for it. I would have been his mistress, but not his sister. He was too good, and I was willing to risk all for him. He gave me credit for so much goodness.”
“Why did you not try it?” asked Lily. “Men do not care for the brotherly pose very long. Their resolutions are momentary.”
Sylvia looked at her. Then she had felt sure men mean what they say after they have said it, as well as while they are saying it—she had changed her mind now.