What slender youth, bedewed with liquid odors,
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,
Pyrrha? For whom bindest thou
In wreaths thy golden hair,
Plain in its neatness? Oh, how oft shall he
On faith, and changed gods, complain,
To whom thou untried seemest fair?
HORACE, _Lib. I, Ode 5._
A fine spring afternoon. A dark-eyed, well-dressed young lady with an
attractive figure descends from a street car near the Don Bridge. She
crosses the bridge leisurely and proceeds eastward along the Kingston
Road toward Scarborough. Whatever her destination may be, the time at
which she arrives is evidently of no consequence. She does "belong" down
Kingston Roadway. The street car dropped her there, and one may come a
long way for ten cents on street cars. From the uninterested way in
which she views the semi-rural surroundings one can see that she is
carelessly unfamiliar with the region.
A fine horse, with his glossy coat and harness shining in the sun, comes
along behind her at a rate that would not be justified in a crowded
thoroughfare. Behind the horse a stylish dog-cart bowls along with its
plate-glass lamps also shining in the sun. Between this spot and the
city of Kingston there is no man on the road handsomer than he who
drives the dog-cart. The lady looks pleased as she hears the trap coming
along; a flush rises to her cheeks and makes her eyes still brighter.
When the horse trots over the sod and stops beside the sidewalk her
surprise is so small that she does not even scream. On the contrary, she
proceeds, without speaking, to climb into the vehicle with an expression
on her face in which alarm has no place.
In some analogy with that mysterious law which rules that an elephant
shall not climb a tree, symmetrical people in fashionable dresses, whose
lines tend somewhat toward convexity, do not climb into a high dog-cart
with that ease which may compensate others for being long and lanky. A
middle-aged elder of the Established Kirk stands on his doorstep
directly opposite and looks pious. He says this is a meeting not of
chance but of design, and reproof is shown upon his face. The lady wears
Parisian boots, and the general expression of the middle-aged elder is
severe except where the eyes suggest weakness unlooked for in a face of
such high moral pitch. Once in, the young lady settles herself
comfortably and wraps about her dress the embroidered dust-linen as if
she were well accustomed to the situation. They drive off, and the
middle-aged elder shakes his head after them and says with renewed
personal conviction that the world is not what it ought to be.
The road is soft and smooth, and the horse saws his head up and down as
he steps out at a pace that makes him feel pleasantly disposed toward
country roads and inclined to travel faster than a gentlemanly,
civilized, by-law-regulated horse should desire. The young lady lays
aside her parasol, which is remarkable--a gay toy--and takes up a black
silk umbrella which is not remarkable but serviceable. The good-looking
man pulls out of his pocket a large brown veil rolled up in paper, and
she of the Parisian boots ties it quickly around a little skull-cap sort
of bonnet of black beads and lace. The veil is thrown around in such a
way that the folds of it can be pulled down over her face in an instant.
Here, also, the lady shows a deftness in assuming this head-gear that
argues prior practice, and when this is done she lays her hand on the
handsome man's arm and looks up at him radiantly, while the silk
umbrella shuts out a couple of farmer's wives.
"Doesn't it make me look hideous?" she says, referring to the veil.
"Yes, my dear, worse than ever," says the handsome man. His face is a
mixture of careless good-nature and quiet devil-may-care recklessness.
Perhaps there are women who never make men look spiritual. It is to be
hoped that the umbrella hides his disregard for appearances on the
public street and that the farmer's wives in the neighborhood are not
too observant.
"For goodness' sake, Geoffrey, _do_ behave better on the highway! What
will those women think?"
"Their curiosity will gnaw them cruelly, I fear. They are looking after
us yet. I can see them."
"Well, it is not fair to me to go on like that; besides I am terrified
all the time lest the people may find out who it is that wears the brown
veil about the country. I have heard four or five girls speaking about
it. It's the talk of the town."
"No fear about that, Nina. I don't think your name was ever mentioned in
connection with the veil, but, in case it might be, I drove out Helen
Broadwood and Janet Carruthers lately, and, in view of the dust flying,
I persuaded them to wear the brown veil. We drove all over the city and
down King Street several times. So now the brown veil is divided between
the two of them. It was not much trouble to devote a little time to this
object, and besides, you know, the old people give excellent dinners."
"That was nice of you to put it off on those girls and to take so much
trouble for me, but it can't last, Geoffrey, dear. We are sure to be
recognized some day. Helen and Janet will both say they were not on the
Indian road near the Humber the day we met the Joyces's wagonette, and
those girls are so stupid that people will believe them; and that bad
quarter of an hour when Millicent Hart rode behind us purposely to find
out who I was. That was a mean thing of her to do, but I paid her off. I
met her at Judge Lovell's the other night. It was a terrible party, but
I enjoyed it. I knew she expected to bring things to a climax with Mr.
Grover; she's _folle_ about that man. I monopolized him the whole
evening--in fact he came within an ace of proposing. Gracious, how that
girl hates me now!"
"I would not try paying her off too much, or she will think you have a
strong reason for doing so," said Geoffrey. "After all, her curiosity
did her no good. You managed the umbrella to a charm."
"The best thing you could do would be to have a linen duster for me to
wear--such as the American women travel in; then, as the veil covered my
head, I could discard the umbrella, and they would not recognize my
clothes."
In this way they rattled down to Scarborough, and then Geoffrey turned
off the highway through a gate and drove across a lot of wild land
covered with brushwood until he struck a sort of road through the forest
which had been chopped out for the purpose of hauling cordwood in the
winter. He followed this slowly, for it was rough wheeling. Then he
stopped, tied the horse, and Nina and he sauntered off through the woods
until they reached the edge of the high cliffs overlooking the lake.
This spot escaped even picnic parties, for it was almost inaccessible
except by the newly cut and unknown road. Solitude reigned where the
finest view in the neighborhood of Toronto could be had. They could look
along the narrow cliffs eastward as far as Raby Head. At their
feet--perhaps a hundred and fifty feet down--the blue-green waves lapped
the shore in the afternoon breeze, and on the horizon, across the thirty
or forty miles of fresh water, the south shore of the lake could be
dimly seen in a summer haze.
The winter had come and gone since we saw our friends last, and the
early spring was delicious in the warmth that hurried all nature into a
promise of maturity. Not much of importance had happened to any of them
since we last saw them. Jack was as devoted as ever, and Nina was not.
She tried to do what she could in the way of being pleasant to Jack, and
she went on with the affair partly because she had not sufficient
hardness of heart to break it off, and chiefly because Geoffrey told her
not to do so. He preferred that she should remain, in a nondescript way,
engaged to Jack.
Hampstead generally dined with the Mackintoshes on Sunday, and called in
the evening once or twice during the week. He also took Margaret for
drives in the afternoon--generally about the town. When this happened a
boy in buttons sat behind them and held the horse when they descended to
make calls together on Margaret's friends. This was pleasant for both of
them, and a beginning of the quiet domestic life which, after marriage,
Geoffrey intended to confine himself to, and he won good opinions among
Margaret's friends from the cheerful, pleasant, domesticated manner he
had with him when they dropped in together, in an off-hand, "engaged"
sort of way to make informal calls. And so far as Margaret could know he
seemed in every way entitled to the favorable opinions she created. All
his better, kinder nature was present at these times, and no one could
make himself more agreeable when he was, as he said of himself,
"building up a moral monument more lasting than brass."
But Geoffrey had his "days off," and then he was different. He smiled as
he thought that in cultivating a high moral tone it was well not to
overdo the thing at first; that two days out of the week would suffice
to keep him socially in the traces. He thought his "off" days frequently
made him prize Margaret all the more when he could turn with some relief
toward the one who embodied all that his imagination could picture in
the way of excellence. He despised himself and was complacent with
himself alternately, with a regularity in his inconsistencies which was
the only way (he would say, smiling) that he could call himself
consistent. If necessary, he would have admitted that he was bad; but to
himself he was fond of saying that he never tried to conceal from
himself when he was doing wrong; and, among men, he despised the many
"Bulstrodes" of existence who succeed in deceiving themselves by
falsities. He said that this openness with self seemed to have something
partly redeeming about it; perhaps only by comparison--that it possibly
ranked among the uncatalogued virtues, marked with a large note of
interrogation. He thought there were few brave enough to be quite honest
with themselves, and that there was always a chance for a man who
remained so; that the hopeless ones were chiefly those who, with or
without vice, have become liars to themselves; who, by mingling
uncontrolled weakness and professed religion, have lost the power to
properly adjust themselves.
This day of the drive to Scarborough was one of his "off" days. He found
a piquancy in these trips with him, because so many talked about her
beauty; and, as the majority of men do not have very high ideals
concerning feminine beauty, Nina was well adapted for extensive
conquest. No doubt she was very attractive, quite dazzling sometimes.
She was partly of the French type, perfect in its way, but not the
highest type; she was lady-like in her appearance, yet with the
slightest _soupcon_ of the nurse-girl. It amused him to hear men
discussing, even squabbling about her, especially after he had come from
a trip with the brown veil. If men had been more sober in the way they
regarded her, if her costumes had been less bewitching, he soon would
have become tired. But these incentives made him pleased with his
position, and he was wont to quote the illustrious Emerson in saying
that "greatly as he rejoiced in the victories of religion and morality,
it was not without satisfaction that he woke up in the morning and found
that the world, the flesh, and the devil still held their own, and died
hard." In other words, it pleased him that Nina existed to give
life--for the present--a little of that fillip which his nature seemed
to demand.
"What is a wise man? Well, sir, as times go, 'tis a man who knows
himself to be a fool, and hides the fact from his neighbor."
This was the only text upon which Geoffrey founded any claim to wisdom.
As they left the cliff and walked slowly back through the woods Nina was
leaning on his arm, and the happiness of her expression showed how
completely she could forget the duties which both abandoned in order to
meet in this way. But when they arrived at the dog-cart a change came
over her. The brown veil had to be tied on again. At many other times
she had done this placidly, as part of the masquerade. But to-day she
was not inclined to reason carefully. To-day the veil was a badge of
secrecy, a reminder of underhand dealings, a token that she must ever go
on being sly and double-faced with the public, that she must renounce
the idea of ever caring for Geoffrey in any open and acknowledged way.
To be sure, she had accepted this situation in its entirety when she
continued to yield to her own wishes by being so much with an engaged
man. But to be reasonable always, is uncommon. She resisted an
inclination to tear the veil to shreds. Something told her that
exhibitions of temper would not be very well received by her companion.
No matter how she treated Jack, was she not honest with Geoffrey? Did
she not risk her good name for him? And why should she have to mask her
face and hide it from the public? She--an heiress, who would inherit
such wealth--whose beauty made her a queen, to whom men were like
slaves!
The veil very nearly became altered in its condition as she thought of
these things, but she put it on, and smothered her wrath until they got
out upon the highway. Then she said, after a long silence: "Would it not
be as well to let Margaret wear this brown veil a few times, Geoffrey?
She has a right to drive about with you, and if people thought it was
only she, their curiosity might cease."
A farm-house cur came barking after the dog-cart just then, and
Geoffrey's anger expended itself partly on the dog, instead of being
embodied in a reply.
The whip descended so viciously through the air that a more careful
person might have seen that the suggestion had not improved his temper.
Except this, he gave no answer. She pressed the subject, although she
knew he was angry. "Don't you think, Geoffrey, that that would be a good
thing to do? It would quite remove curiosity, and would, in any case, be
only fair to me."
Now, if there was one thing Hampstead could not and would not endure, it
was to have a woman he amused himself with attempt to put herself on a
par with the one he reverenced. Margaret was about all that remained of
his conscience. She embodied all the good he knew. Every resolve and
hope of his future depended upon her. He could not as yet, he thought,
find it possible always to live as she would like; but in a calm way, so
controlled as to seem almost dispassionate, he worshiped her, as it
were, in the abstract.
His ideas concerning her were so rarefied that, in any other person, he
might have called them fanatical. He was bad, but he felt that he would
rather hang himself than allow so much as a breath to dim the fair
mirror of Margaret's name. At the very mention of her as wearing this
brown veil he grew pale with anger, and the barking cur got the benefit
of it, and at Nina's insistence his face and eyes grew like steel.
"Heavens above! Can't you let her name alone? Is it not enough for you
to raise the devil in me, without scheming to give her trouble? Do you
think I will allow her to step in and be blamed for what it was your
whim to go in for--risks and all?"
Nina was ready now to let the proposition drop, but she could not
refrain from adding: "She would not be blamed for very much if she were
blamed for all that has happened between us."
There was truth in what she said, but Geoffrey had looked upon these
meetings as anything but innocent. Argument on the point was
insufferable, and it only made him lash out worse, as he interrupted
her.
"Good God, Nina! you must be mad! Don't you see? Don't you understand?"
Nina waited a second while she thought over what he meant, and her blood
seemed to boil as she considered different things.
"Yes, I do understand. You need say no more," cried she, with her eyes
blazing. "You want me to realize that I am so much beneath her--that she
is so far above me--that, although I have done nothing much out of the
way, the imputation of her doing the same thing is a kind of death to
you. You go out of your way to try and hurt me--"
"No, no, Nina," said Geoffrey, controlling himself, "I do not want to
hurt your feelings. If we must continue speaking on this unpleasant
subject, I will explain."
"That will do, Geoffrey Hampstead," she exclaimed in a rage; "I don't
want to hear your explanation. I hate you and despise you! I have been a
fool myself, but you have been a greater one. I could have made a prince
of you. I was fool enough to do this, and now," here Nina tore the veil
off her head, and threw it on the road, "and now," she continued, as she
faced him with flashing eyes, "you will always remain nothing but a
miserable bank-clerk. Who are you that you should presume to insult me?
and who is she that she should be held over my head? I am as good in
every way as she is, and, if all that's said is true, I am a good deal
better."
Geoffrey listened silently to all she said, and to her blind imputation
against Margaret. Gazing in front of him with a look that boded ill, he
reduced the horse's pace to a walk, so that he need not watch his
driving, and turned to her, speaking slowly, his face cruel and his eyes
small and glittering.
"Listen! You have consciously played the devil with me ever since I knew
you. You have known from the first how you held me; you played your part
to perfection, and I liked it. It amused me. It made better things seem
sweeter after I left you. It is not easy to be very good all at once,
and you partly supplied me with the opposite. I don't blame you for it,
because I liked it, and I confess to encouraging you, but the fact
is--you sought me. Hush! Don't deny it! As women seek, you sought me. We
tacitly agreed to be untrue to every tie in order to meet continually,
and in a mild sort of way try to make life interesting. Did either of us
ever try by word or deed to improve the other? Certainly not. Nor did we
ever intend to do so. We taught each other nothing but scheming and
treachery. And you thought that you would make the devil so pleasing
that I could not do without him. This is the plain truth--in spite of
your sneer. Recollect, I don't mind what you say about me, but you have
undertaken to insult and lay schemes for somebody else, and that I'll
not forgive. For _that_, I say what I do, and I make you see your
position, when you, who have been a mass of treachery ever since you
were born, dare to compare yourself with--no matter who. I won't even
mention her name here. That's how I look upon this affair, if you insist
upon plain speech. Now we understand things."
It was a cruel, brutal tirade. Truth seems very brutal sometimes. He
began slowly, but as he went on, his tongue grew faster, until it was
like a mitrailleuse. Nina was bewildered. She had angered him
intentionally; but she had not known that on one subject he was a
fanatic, and thus liable to all the madness that fanaticism implies. She
said nothing, and Hampstead, with scarcely a pause, added, in a more
ordinary tone: "It will be unpleasant for us to drive any further
together. You are accustomed to driving. I'll walk."
He handed the reins to Nina and swung himself out without stopping the
horse. She took the reins in a half-dazed way and asked vaguely:
"What will I do with the horse when I get to the town?"
"Turn him adrift," said Geoffrey, over his shoulder, as he proceeded up
a cross-road, feeling that he never wished to see either her or the trap
again.
Nina stopped the horse to try to think. She could not think. His biting
words had driven all thought out of her. She only knew he was going away
from her forever. She looked after him, and saw him a hundred yards off
lighting a cigar with a fusee as he walked along. She called to him and
he turned. The country side was quiet, and he could hear her say, "Come
here!" He went back, and found her weeping. All she could say was "Get
in." Of course he got in, and they drove off up the cross-road so as to
meet no person until she calmed herself. After a while she sobbed out:
"Oh, you are cruel, Geoffrey. I may be a mass of treachery, but not to
you--not to you, Geoffrey. Having to put on the veil angered me. I have
been wicked. We have both been wicked. But you are so much worse than I
am. You know you are!"
As she said this it sounded partly true and partly whimsical, so she
tried to smile again. He could not endeavor to resist tears when he knew
that he had been unnecessarily harsh, and he was glad of the opportunity
to smile also and to smooth things over.
As a tacit confession that he was sorry for his violence, he took the
hand that lay beside him into his, and so they drove along toward the
city, each extending to the other a good deal of that fellow-feeling
which arises from community in guilt. Both felt that in tearing off the
mask for a while they had revealed to each other things which, being
confessed, left them with hardly a secret on either side, and if this
brought them more together, by making them more open with each other,
both felt that they now met upon a lower platform.