HERMIA HEARS THE TRUTH.
He called one morning soon after and spent the entire day with her. He
had finished the last of the stories and he read it to her. The tale was
a tragic one, and had a wild, savage pathos in it. It brought the tears
to her eyes, and at the climax she leaned forward with a gasp.
“Oh, you can cry?” said Quintard.
“It is only nervousness,” hastily. “I never do. I may have been able to
once, but I no longer possess feeling of any sort. Don’t think that I am
ridiculous and blasé; it is simply that I cannot take any personal
interest in life. I have made the discovery that there is nothing in it
a little sooner than most people—that is all.”
“You are a little crazy,” said Quintard. “You will get over it.”
The blood mounted to the roots of Hermia’s hair, and her eyes looked as
fierce as if she were one of Quintard’s barbarians. She felt more anger
than she cared to betray. No other man living would have dared make such
a speech to her. Cryder would have humored her, and she had expected
Quintard to be suitably impressed.
“What did you say?” she demanded, with an effort at control.
He looked at her unmoved. “You have a great many ridiculous notions
about life,” he said. “In addition, you have less knowledge of yourself
than any woman I have ever known. The two things combined have put your
mind out of joint.”
Hermia felt as if she were stifling. “I wonder you dare,” she said
through her teeth.
“Your point of view is all wrong,” he went on; “you see everything
through glasses that do not fit your eyes. You are not fond of talking
about yourself, but you have given me several opportunities to gather
that. You think you have exhausted life, whereas you have not begun to
live. You simply don’t even know what you are thinking about. You know
less about the world than any woman of brain and opportunities I ever
met in my life, and it is because you have deliberately blinded yourself
by false and perverted views.”
Hermia’s teeth were clinched and her bosom was heaving. “You may as well
finish,” she said, in a voice ominously calm.
“Just to mention one point. You have said you do not believe in
matrimony—particularly when people love each other. I have had every
experience with women that a romantic temperament can devise, so perhaps
you will allow me to tell you that I have come to the conclusion that
the only satisfactory relationship for a man and woman who love each
other is matrimony. The very knowledge that conditions are temporary,
acts as a check to love, and one is anxious to be off with one affair
for the novelty of the next. Moreover, if human character is worth
anything at all, it is worth its highest development. This, an irregular
and passing union cannot accomplish; it needs the mutual duties and
responsibilities and sacrifices of married life. If ever I really loved
a woman I should ask her to marry me. You have got some absurd, romantic
notions in your head about the charm and spice of an intrigue. Try it,
and you will find it flatter than any matrimony you have ever seen or
imagined.”
Hermia, with a cry of rage, sprang from her chair and rushed from the
room. She dropped her handkerchief in her flight, and Quintard went
forward and picked it up. “She is ready to tear me bone from bone,” he
thought; “but, if I have destroyed some of her illusions, I shall not
mind.” He passed his hand tenderly over the handkerchief, then raised it
suddenly to his lips. A wave of color rushed over his dark face, making
it almost black. “She was superb in her wrath,” he muttered, unsteadily.
He laid the handkerchief on the table and went back to his seat. After a
time Hermia returned. She was very pale, and looked rather ashamed of
herself. It was characteristic of her that she made no allusion to the
past scene. She had a book in her hand. “I came across this in an old
book-shop the other day,” she said. “I am fond of prowling about dusty
shelves; I suppose I shall end by becoming a bibliomaniac. This is a
collection of fragmentary verses which it is said the Crusaders used to
sing at night on the battle-field. I thought you might use it.”
Quintard looked as pleased as a boy. “It was very good of you to think
of me,” he said impulsively, “and I shall make use of it. But tell me
what you think of this last yarn.”
“It is magnificent,” said Hermia; “I believe you are that rarest object
in the history of the world—a poet.”
“I have written miles of it, and have made some of the most beautiful
bonfires in history.”
Hermia laughed. “Could you never be consistently serious?”
“Yes, I could,” said Quintard, briefly.
Hermia looked at the door. “Higgins is coming to announce luncheon,” she
said.
* * * * *