Down deep in her heart of hearts, Nancy Warren knew that she was far more like her mother than that very lovely and very conventional woman dreamed.
She was a luxury-loving soul—things that were mere accidents to other women were absolute necessities to her. With a longing that almost amounted to a passion, she craved jewels, good gowns, laces and all the other dear, delightful pomps and vanities of this world, which only a plethoric purse can procure.
She reveled in the violets and orchids which, so sure as the day dawned, came down from the Thornton conservatories for the greater adornment of the house of Warren.
The rides in the fastest machines in the county, the cross-country runs on Mr. James Thornton’s thoroughbred hunters, all these were as meat and drink to her.
Yes, Mr. James Thornton’s offer was certainly tempting. It meant that everything in the world for which she most cared would be hers except—but that was singularly out-of-date. Nobody really married for that any more. To be sure, her sisters had, but she could not see that they were glaringly happy. And Mr. James Thornton was a good soul—everybody admitted that. And yet—for an instant the gray stone building in the distance, bathed in the golden radiance of the setting sun, grew misty and blurred. She saw another sunset, all pink and green and soft, indefinite violet, and above the deep, sweet, ceaseless sound of a wondrously opalescent sea she heard a man’s voice ring clear and true with a love as eternal as that same changeless sea. She felt again that strange, sweet, unearthly happiness that comes to a woman once and once only. She buried her face in her hands to shut out the sight of that gray stone house on the hill, bathed in the significant, mocking, golden radiance of the setting sun. She heard again that man’s voice, crushed and broken with a dull, hopeless despair. She saw his face grow pale as death as he heard her words of cruel, worldly wisdom. She felt again that same bitter ache at the heart, that horrible, gnawing sense of irreparable loss, as she had voluntarily put out of her life “the only good in the world.”
“But we were too poor,” she cried, passionately, jumping to her feet and throwing her head back defiantly. “It would have been madness—for me.” She looked out of the window again at the gray stone house on the hill, and laughed mirthlessly.
Then she walked slowly away from the window, and stood irresolute for a moment, in the center of the room.
“This horrid, beastly poverty!” she burst out vehemently. “I’m sick of it all—of our wretched, miserable makeshifts. I’m tired, so tired, of everything. It will be such a rest.” She rushed excitedly to the door, and ran, with the air of one who knows delay is fraught with danger, downstairs to her mother’s room.
“Mother”—Mrs. Warren looked up fearfully, as she heard her daughter’s voice—“I have thought it all over.”
“Yes?” said Mrs. Warren, weakly. The reaction was almost too much for her after the half hour of sickening suspense.