TASTELESS FRUIT.
She began to have an absurdly married feeling. When she had made up her
mind to drift on the wave she had chosen, she had consoled herself with
the thought that, if love was a disappointment, the situation was
romantic. By constantly reminding herself that she was the heroine of
“an experience,” she could realize in part her old wild dreams. To
create objective illusion was a task she soon renounced. No matrimonial
conditions were ever more prosaic and matter-of-fact than the various
phases of this affair.
The evenings were long and very pleasant. Cryder smoked innumerable
cigarettes in the most comfortable chair in the library, and was never
dull. Hermia began to get rather fond of him in a motherly sort of way.
One night he had a cold and she gave him a dose of quinine; occasionally
she sent him certain of her cook’s dainty concoctions. She always had a
little supper for him on his particular evenings, and took care that his
favorite dishes were prepared.
She had her intervals of disgust and fury with fate, but they were
becoming less frequent. Like all tragic and unversed women she was an
extremist. She had dreamed that life was one thing; her particular
episode had taught her that it was another. There was no medium nor
opposite pole; she had been wrong in every theory.
Ennui was her worst enemy. Sometimes she got tired of the very sound of
Cryder’s voice—it ceased so seldom. She longed for variety of any sort,
for something to assure her that she was not as flatly married as Bessie
and her husband. One day when she was more bored than usual Helen Simms
came in.
“How brilliant you look!” she exclaimed. “What _is_ the matter with
you?”
“Ennui; life is a burden.”
“Where is Ogden Cryder? I thought he had put ennui to flight.”
“He is charming,” said Hermia, “and I am having that flirtation with him
that you advised; but even that is getting a little monotonous.”
“I will tell you what you want,” exclaimed Helen, decidedly. “You want
to see something of the champagne side of life. You have had enough of a
flirtation by a library fire in a feudal room; it is time you did
something a little more _risqué_! Get Mr. Cryder to take you to some
awfully wicked place to dine—some place which would mean social
ostracism were you found out—only you mustn’t be found out. There is
nothing actually wrong in it, and the danger gives one the most
delightful sensation.”
Hermia elevated her nose. “I hate anything ‘fast,’” she said. “I prefer
to keep out of that sort of atmosphere.”
“Oh, nonsense! It is the spice of life; the spice without the vulgarity.
To have all the appearance of being quite wicked, and yet to be actually
as innocent as a lamb—what more stimulating? It is the only thing which
has saved my valuable life. I always amuse myself picturing how poor
papa would look if he should suddenly descend upon me. Then after the
dinner take a drive through the park in a hansom—at midnight! You quite
feel as if you were eloping; and yet—with none of the disagreeable
consequences. You elope, and that is the end of you. You drive through
the park in a hansom, and go home and to bed like a good little girl.
The next week—you drive through the park in another hansom. Then you
feel that life is worth living. Some night you and Mr. Cryder, Mr.
Winston and myself will have a tear.”
“No!” exclaimed Hermia; “I abominate that sort of thing, and I will not
go.”
But Helen, unconsciously, had appalled her. Was there no other escape
from ennui? What a prospect! Mrs. Dykman had promised to take her to
Europe. She determined to make that lady hasten her plans and go at
once.
* * * * *