A CLEVER TRIFLER.
The next afternoon Cryder came again. Hermia received him this time in
the hall which, with its Gothic roof, its pictured windows, its walls
ribbed and dark, and its organ, looked like a cathedral. As she came
down the broad staircase, in a gown that made her look as if she had
stepped from some old French canvas, Cryder stood gazing at her for a
moment, then without a word sat down before the organ and began to play.
The organ needs only a skillful hand; its own rich, sonorous tones pour
soul through cold, calm fingers. Cryder played Tristan’s Death Song, and
Hermia sank into a chair and felt that naught existed but glory of color
and surge of sound.
Cryder played but a short time—he never did anything too long—then
went over and sat beside her. He made her talk about herself, and
managed to extract much of her past. He learned nothing, however, of her
former lack of beauty. Then he entertained her brilliantly for an hour
with accounts of celebrated people he had met.
After he had gone she felt a vague sense of disappointment; he had not
touched upon co-personal topics for a moment. The sense of
disappointment grew and deepened, and then she gave a sudden start and
smiled. She could not feel disappointment were she not deeply
interested. Was this the suffering, the restlessness, which were said to
be a part of love? Surely! She was pained that he could talk lightly
upon indifferent subjects, and apparently quite forget the sympathy
which existed between them. The pain and the chagrin might not be very
acute, but they were forewarnings of intenser suffering to come. Of
course she wanted to suffer. All women do until the suffering comes.
After that they do not go out of their way to look for it.
She went up-stairs and sat down before the fire in her boudoir. It was
very delightful to fall in love with a man as mentally agreeable as
Cryder. He would always entertain her. She would never be bored! The
intervals between love-making would never drag; she had heard that they
were sometimes trying. And then the pictures between those framing
intervals—when the fierce, hot tide of passion within her would leap
like a tidal wave, lashed into might by the convulsion at its heart. And
Cryder! To see the tiger in the man fling off its shackles and look
through the calm brown of his eyes! (Like all girls, Hermia believed
that every man had a tiger chained up inside him, no matter how cold he
might be exteriorly.) What a triumph to break down that cool
self-control!
Her maid brought her a cup of tea and she drank it; then, resting her
elbows on her knees leaned her chin on her locked fingers. There were
some things she did not like about Cryder. He lacked literary
conscience, and she doubted if he had much of any sort. Her high ideals
still clung to her; but perhaps this was her mission in life—to remold
Cryder. A man is always much under the influence of the woman who gives
him his happiness; she would have a grand opportunity to make him
better. When the end came, as of course it would—she was no longer such
a fool as to imagine that love lasted forever—he should have much to
thank her for.
When a woman thinks she loves a man, she dreams of making him better.
When she really loves him, she would have him share his virtues with the
saints. She loves his faults and encourages them; she glories in the
thought that his personality is strong enough to make her indifferent to
defects. This lesson, however, Hermia had yet to learn; but she was
pleased with the idea of putting the spirituality of which Cryder had
accused her to some practical use. She had not a very clear idea what
spirituality meant, but she thought she was learning.
* * * * *