The next day a stone Galatea faced the mirror. There was a purple stain
upon her mouth--a tiny swelling that would not disappear. It was
scarcely perceptible, but it burnt brand-like on her heart; it glared
at, and mocked her, and seemed to beckon with horrible witch-like
fingers along the grimy gutters that fringe the paved paths to despair.
Loveless surrender! What more unredeemed debasement! Yet she would have
vowed her being to lifelong slavery for Gordon Rosser's sake, and held
such sacrifice but glorification. One kiss! What was it? Was it gold or
was it mud? Mud, mud, mud, which only the magic of love's alchemy could
transmute to gold and pearl. Yet the mud had served its purpose. Was it
not sufficient to defile the temple that had been consecrated to an
unworthy idol, break down its altars, obliterate all memory of misguided
worship--child-like, unreasoning faiths?
But her revenge--her curse on the falsity had come home to roost. It not
only branded her--it seared the innocent! Poor, poor Yate! What had he
done that a suffering girl should have clung to him to avert mental
death in an ocean of despond, while he had imagined it but a dancing
duet on the waves of love? And she had aided the deception. It had been
to gain time, to kill regret, to help in wrenching the weeds she had
mistaken for flowers from the garden of her life. Well, she had failed,
and the travesty must cease. But before it ceased that which she had
striven to do as a duty to herself she would now do as a duty to Yate.
She chose paper and a pen with deliberation, and wrote very
proportionately and legibly:--
DEAR MR. ROSSER,--Pray do not consider yourself bound to return
as you suggested, and resume our childish relations. Your long
silence has proved you now know your own mind, and I have
already found someone worthy of a woman's esteem and
affection.--Your sincere friend,