For some time Ida Mayhew neither heeded nor heard the choral music
in the parlor below, but at last a clearer, louder strain, in
which Van Berg's voice was pre-eminent, caught her attention and
she started up and listened at the window.
"He is singing songs of Heaven with Jennie Burton, and I--can there
be any worse perdition than this?" she said in a low, agonized
tone.
As if by a sudden impulse she quietly unfastened the door that led
to her father and mother's room. Perceiving that her mother was
not there, she stole noiselessly in, and turned up the lamp.
Mr. Mayhew reclined upon a lounge in the deep stupor of intoxication,
his dark hair streaked with gray falling across his face in a manner
that made it peculiarly ghastly and repulsive.
"This is my work," she groaned. "Jennie Burton made a noble-looking
man of him last evening. I have made him this." She writhed and
wrung her hands over his unconscious form, appearing as might one
of Milton's fallen angels that had lost Heaven and happiness but
not the primal beauty of his birth-place.
"Well," she exclaimed with the sudden recklessness which was one
of her characteristics, "if I have caused your degradation I can
at least share in it;" and she took an opiate that she knew would
produce speedy and almost as deep a lethargy as that which paralyzed
her father; then threw herself, dressed, upon her couch, and did
not waken until late the following day.
Stanton was sorely troubled over his rash promise that he would
meet Sibley at daylight on Monday morning. After Miss Burton's
words he felt that he could not keep his appointment, and yet he
shrank from the ridicule he believed Sibley would heap upon him.
His perturbation was so great that he hunted up Van Berg before
retiring, and told him of his dilemma. The artist greatly relieved
his mind by saying:
"I think we both have had a lesson, Stanton, in regard to quarreling
with such fellows as Sibley, although I hardly see how we could
have acted differently. But villains are usually cowards after
their passion cools and they become sober. The case in hand is no
exception. Burleigh tells me he has just learned that Sibley took
a late boat to the city, and so does not mean to keep the appointment
to-morrow. Therefore, sleep the sleep of the just, old fellow.
Good-night."
The throbbing pain in Ida's head was so great when she awoke on
Monday that she half forgot the ache in her heart. She found that
her father had gone to the City and that the day was well advanced.
Her mother sat looking at her with an expression in which anxiety
and reproach were equally blended.
The unhappy woman had learned from her husband's habits to know
what remedies to employ, and so was able gradually to relieve her
daughter's physical distress; but Ida's weary lassitude and reticence
were proof against all her questions and reproaches. It seemed as
if nothing could rouse or sting her out of the dull apathy into which
she had reacted after the desperate excitement of the preceding day.
She pleaded illness, and stubbornly refused to go down to dinner.
At last her mother, much to her relief, left her to herself, and
went out to drive with Stanton, hoping that she might hit upon some
plan of action in regard to the two difficult problems presented
in her husband and daughter.
Towards evening Ida slowly and languidly dressed for supper, and
then sauntered down to the main piazza for a little fresh air.
The poor girl did not exaggerate the shadow that had fallen upon
her association with Sibley, and her supposed grief and resentment
at his treatment. Two or three whom she met bowed coldly and
distantly, and one passed without recognition. Even Jennie Burton
had been indignant all day that one of her sex could be infatuated
with such a fellow; and in her charitable thoughts she would be
glad to explain such perversity as the result of a disordered and
uncurbed fancy, rather than of a depraved heart.
It was not strange, however, that she should suppose Ida's manner
and indisposition were caused by Sibley's ignominious ejectment from
the house, when her own mother and cousin shared the same view.
What an unknown mystery each life is, even to the lives nearest to
it!
As with slow, heavy steps, Ida approached the main entrance, she
noted the distant manner of those she met, and divined the cause;
but her apathy was so great that neither anger nor shame brought
the faintest color to her cheeks.
She stood in the doorway and looked out a few moments; but the
lovely summer landscape, with the cool shadows lengthening across
it, was a weariness, and she turned from it as the miserable do
from sights that only mock by their pleasant contrast.
The piazza was nearly empty, but before she stepped out upon it
she saw not far away a gentleman reading, who at last did cause
the blood to rush tumultuously into her face.
At another time she would have turned hastily from him; but in her
present morbid mood she acted from a different impulse. The artist
had not observed her approach, and standing a little back in the
shadow of the hall-way she found a cruel fascination in comparing
the man she loved with the low fellow whose shadow now fell so darkly
across her own character. She looked steadily at his downcast face
until every line and curve in his strong profile was impressed on
her memory. In the healthful color of his finely-chiseled features
there were no indications of that excess which already marred Sibley's
countenance. The decided contour corresponded with the positive
nature. The unhappy girl felt instinctively that if he were on her
side, he would be a faithful ally; but if against her, she would
find his inflexible will a granite wall against all the allurements
of her beauty. The face before her indicated a man controlled by
his higher, not lower nature; and in her deep humiliation she now
felt that even if he knew all that was passing in her heart, he
would bestow only transient pity, mingled with contempt.
She believed she could hope for nothing from him; and yet, did not
that belief leave her hopeless? To what else, to whom else could
she turn? Nothing else, no one else then seemed to promise any help,
any happiness. Her wretched experience had come as unexpectedly as
one of those mysterious waves that sweep the sunny shore of Peru.
Whither it would carry her she did not know, but every moment separated
her more hopelessly from him who appeared like an immovable rock
in his quiet strength.
She was turning despondently away when she heard Jennie Burton's
voice, and a moment later that young lady mounted the adjacent
steps and said to Van Berg:
"See what a prize I captured at this late season. Roses early in
August are like hidden treasures. See, they are genuine hybrids.
Have I not had rare good fortune?"
Van Berg rose at once, and met her at the top of the steps; and
Ida, who still remained unseen in the hall, now stepped forward
into the doorway, so that she might not seem a furtive listener,
as he was standing with his back towards her.
"Had I my way, Miss Burton," said the artist, "you should have this
rare good fortune every day of the year."
She blushed slightly, and said, rather coldly, "Good evening, Miss
Mayhew," thus rendering Van Berg aware of the latter's presence.
The artist only frowned, and gave no other recognition of Ida's
proximity.
"Since you can't have your way, I shall make the most of my present
good fortune. Is not that a beautiful cluster?"
"It is indeed, with one exception. Do you not see that this
defective bud mars the beauty of all the others?"
"A 'worm I' the bud fell on its damask cheek.' I took it out and
killed it, and was in hopes that if I placed the injured flower in
water with the others it might still make a partial bloom. You will
think me absurd when I tell you I felt sorry for it, and thought
how many roses and lives would be more perfect were it not for some
gnawing 'worm i' the bud.'"
"The 'worm' in Shakespeare's allusion," said the artist, lightly,
"is redeemed by its association and symbolism; but the one that
has been at work here was a disagreeably prosaic thing that you
rightly put your foot upon. The bud, as it now appears, suggest
the worm more than anything else. So, please, let me cut it out;
for art cannot tolerate anything so radically marred and defective.
Its worm-eaten heart spoils the beauty of the entire cluster."
"I fear you artists become too critical and exacting. Well, cut
it out. I will submit to art in roses, but feel that marred and
defective lives should have very different treatment."
"That depends. If people persist in cherishing some worm of evil,
they cannot expect to be held in the same esteem as those who are
aiming at a more perfect development. There, now! does not our
cluster appear much better?"
"Yes; and yet I cannot help feeling sorry for the poor little bud
that has missed its one chance to bloom, and all will wither unless
I hasten to my room and put them in water."
In her prejudice against Ida she had not looked towards her while
talking with Van Berg, but in passing, a hasty glance almost caused
her to stay and speak to her, for she thought she saw her eyes
full of unshed tears. But her glance was brief and her prejudice
strong. Miss Burton had not a little of the wholesome feminine
intolerance for certain weaknesses in her sex. She would counsel
a wife to endure a bad husband with a meek and patient spirit. But
gentle as she was, she would scorn the maiden who could be attracted
by a corrupt man, and almost loathe her for indulging in such
an affinity. She could pity Ida--she could pity any one; but the
poor girl's unfortunate association with Sibley, and her seeming
interest in him, would subordinate pity to indignation and contempt.
Her thought was this:
"Miss Mayhew is still a maiden free to choose. Shame on her that
she chooses so ignobly! Shame on her that she turns her eyes
longingly to fetid pools, instead of upward to the breezy hills.
What kind of nature is that which prompts such a choice?"
The artist was more capable of Jennie Burton's indignation and
contempt than of her pity; and although he knew Ida still stood
in the doorway he did not turn to speak to her. His very attitude
seemed to indicate to the unhappy girl a haughty indifference, and
yet she was so unhappy, so in need of a kind word or reassuring
glance that she could not turn away.
"What a wretched mystery it all is," she thought. "I ought to hate,
yet I love him. Proud as I have thought myself, I could kneel at
his feet for one such word and glance as he just gave Miss Burton.
For contempt I return him honor and admiration. I cannot help
myself. By some strange perversity of my heart, I have become
his very slave. How can he be so blind! He thinks me pining for
a man that I despise and hate more than he ever can, though the
fellow attempted his life. Sibley has come between me and that
which is more than life--my chance for happiness and right living.
I shall become desperate and bad, like him, if this continues.
How strange it is that some sense, some instinct does not tell him
there that the girl who stands so near is lavishing every treasure
of her soul upon him!
"That poor little rose-bud represents me to his mind. How ruthlessly
he is pulling open its heart! Will he see anything else there save
the work of the destroyer? Can it not awaken a thought of pity?
I will--I must speak to him."
She took a hesitating step or two towards him. She could almost
hear her heart beat. Twice, thrice, words died upon her lips.
When was she ever so timid before! If he would only give her an
encouraging glance! If he would only turn a little towards her
and relax that haughty, unbending attitude---
"Mr. Van Berg," she said at last, in a voice that was constrained
and hard from her effort to be calm, "you seem very vindictive
towards that poor little flower."
He turned partially towards her and coldly said, "Good evening Miss
Mayhew;" then, after a second, added carelessly: "I admit that
this worm-eaten bud is rather vexatious. It has--what is left
of it--exquisite color, and in form nature had designed it to be
perfect; but" (with a slight contemptuous shrug) "you see what it
is," and he tossed it down into the roadway.
Her face was very pale and her voice low, as she answered: "And
so you condemn it to be trampled under foot."
"I condemn it! Not at all. Its own imperfection condemns it."
"The result is all the same," she replied, with sudden change
of manner. "It is tossed contemptuously away to be trodden under
foot. Dull and ignorant as you discovered me to be, Mr. Van Berg,
I am not so stupid but that I can understand you this evening.
Imperfect as I am I could pity that unfortunate flower whose
fragrance rose to you like a low appeal for a little consideration,
at least. Would it not have bloomed as perfectly as the others if
the worm had let it alone? But, I suppose, with artist, if roses
or human lives are imperfect, that is the end of them. Misfortune
counts for nothing."
Van Berg listened in surprise to these words, and his haughty
complacency was decidedly disturbed. He was about to reply that
"Evil chosen and cherished was not a misfortune but a fault," when
she turned from him with more than her former coldness and entered
the house.
An impulse that he would have found difficult to analyze led him
to descend the steps and pick up the symbolic bud, now torn and
withering fast, and to place it between the leaves of his note-book.
If she had only seen this act it would have made a great difference;
but, ever present to her thought, it lay where he had tossed it,
the emblem of herself.