The little touch of sentiment that flashed, as it were, from Randolph
Chance as he lifted me off the pier, was presently blotted, as far as
effect upon me was concerned, by the return of Miss Sprig to the
Purblind household, and the renewal of his attentions to her. At least I
regarded them as renewed, and I coldly turned my back upon him, and let
him go his way, without further thought or speculation.
I was daily becoming more interested in another acquaintance--Mr.
Gregory, a man of years, whom I had known for some time. He had been a
visitor at our house when my parents were living, and had, from time to
time, shown me friendly attentions since their death. He frequently
invited me to places of entertainment, something Randolph Chance seldom
did, and in many ways contributed to my comfort and happiness. Single
women are very dependent upon their men friends for pleasures of this
sort; few of them care to go out at night alone, and even when they go
in company with each other, the occasion lacks a zest which belongs to
it when a woman has an escort. It is strange that many men--many of those
who believe in the dependence of women, fall into the selfish habit of
going alone to theater, concert, and lecture, and so force the women of
their acquaintance into a position which their sentiments would seem to
deprecate.
While in no way obtrusive, or gushing in his attentions, Mr. Gregory was
most thoughtful and kind, and few women are without appreciation of
conduct of this type.
Life flowed on with me with a quiet current. I was not a woman to make
scenes with myself or others, and my circumstances were such as to
permit of an undisturbed tenor of way.
One bright afternoon, just as I returned from a long walk, Mrs. Purblind
ran over to see me, and soon afterward, Mrs. Cynic dropped in. I never
could bear this latter woman; something malevolent seems to emanate from
her; something that is more or less unhealthful to the moral nature of
all who come in contact with it, just as the miasma from a swamp is
poisonous to the physical being.
It chanced that I had just finished writing a little story, drawn from
the life-page of my domestic experience; it was so endeared to my memory
that I was not like to forget it, and yet, in the course of years, its
outlines would probably fade a trifle if I did not take care to preserve
their distinctness; for that reason I had written it out.
I ought to have had better sense than to read anything of this kind to
Mrs. Cynic. In the presence of such people, that which is fresh,
beautiful, and holy withers, as a cluster of dewy wild flowers is
parched and killed by the hot, sterile breath of a furnace.
Usually I have some judgment in such matters, but that day all
discretion seemed to take wings.
A remark of Mrs. Purblind's led up to the subject. This little woman can
say ugly things at times, but they are stung out of her, as it were, by
some particular hurt, and are not the expression of her real nature. She
has a kind, good heart, though her judgment and tact are somewhat
lacking.
We happened to be speaking of men, and something was said about their
capacity for devotion, when Mrs. Purblind exclaimed:
"Devotion! the masculine nature doesn't know the meaning of the word,
unless it is devotion to self."
"I must read you a little story I've written to-day. It's a true one,
remember--I think I shall call it, 'Devotion'."