ONE MAN AND ONE WOMAN.
Sitting in her bijou apartments, which consisted of a handsome "Flat" in
a quiet and respectable portion of New York, Dolores seemed lost in
pleasant reverie, when her little French maid, Lorette, appeared before
her.
"Everything is done but the dusting of this room, Madame," she said, in
her native tongue. "Will Madame sit in the boudoir now--"
"No, Lorette, you can go," Dolores answered, speaking French with as
fine an accent as the Parisian _née_. "I will finish dusting, and as I
am to dine out with Monsieur to-day, you need not return before
to-morrow."
Lorette, who came every morning to attend to the domestic duties of the
little ménage, gladly took her congé, and Dolores flitted gayly about,
dust-brush in hand, singing a merry snatch of opera, pausing at every
sound, to listen for a familiar step, the perfect picture of a happy,
expectant housewife making ready for the return of a loved one.
Presently a quick footstep bounded up the stairs, and Dolores flew to
the door before the latch-key could turn the lock, swung it wide open,
and was closely clasped in the arms of Percy, who greeted her with a gay
"_Bon matin, chère amie!_ and how have you been all these days?" Then,
noticing the dust-brush on the floor beside her: "Why! how is this? has
Lorette failed to make her appearance, that my lady-love has to perform
her duties?"
"Oh, no! I sent her away," smiled Dolores. "I knew we did not need her
to-day--and" (shyly) "I did not want any third person to mar our
greeting after your long absence."
"Long!" Percy repeated, laughing, as he threw himself into an easy
chair, and drew her down on an ottoman at his side. "Long? three days,
_ma petite_? I am often absent from you as long as that."
"You have never before been absent from the city so long as that, in
this year of our new life," she said, as she caressed his hands,
"without taking me with you, _mon ami_."
"Well, but I often stay away from this charming nest, that length of
time, without seeing you!"
"So long as I know you are in the city I am not lonely. The air I
breathe seems impregnated with your breath, and I am happy and contented
to await your coming. If I walk down street, I feel a kindly interest in
the throngs of people I meet, because perchance you may be among them.
But when you are out of town the whole world seems depopulated.
Yesterday I walked on Broadway a little while, but the people all looked
like ghastly phantoms to me. Because you were not, I knew, among them,
there seemed to be no life, no beauty in the moving shapes. I hurried
home and hid myself in these rooms, so full of memories of you."
Sweet as were her words of love and devotion, they cast a faint shadow
on her listener's face.
"I am afraid you allow yourself to be too melancholy during my absence!"
he said. "It makes me sad to think of you so lonely, I like to think of
you as happy and contented always."
"Oh, I am, I am!" she hastened to reply. "How could I help being happy
in this ideal life of ours? We are so independent of the world, so in
harmony with our own principles, so true to each other--Oh, Percy! I do
not think two people could be happier then we are; do you? Are you not
perfectly happy with me, dear?"
Just for one second Percy hesitated before he replied. Then he met the
anxious look of inquiry in Dolores' eyes, and answered:
"Yes, perfectly: or rather, I am happier in my companionship with you
than I have been in many years. I know my life is better, too, in many
ways, and my thoughts fairer, than in my old restless days of adventure.
Yet, of course, no lot is without its annoyances and troubles. Did you
ever think how strange it is, that man expects a whole eternity of
unalloyed bliss, from a Ruler who denies him a single month of it here?"
Dolores shook her golden head.
"I used to speculate a great deal about the next world," she said. "I
read all kinds of books on the subject, and I grew very much confused.
Finally, I rested back on the orthodox ideas, as quite as sensible as
any. I am sure the world and human nature is inclined to evil. I think
it is a misfortune to exist, and that we need a future life to repay us
for all we endure here. And I am sure it will require a Mediator to ever
reconcile the Creator to us or to give us eternal joy; but we can attain
it if we seek the way."
"I do not believe that we can attain any joys we have not earned here,"
Percy replied. "I do not believe in sudden conversions, or death-bed
repentance, or being cleansed by blood. That faith gives a man too much
latitude altogether. Every violated principle, every indulged appetite,
every selfish or mean act or thought, I think will count against us on
the last day, no matter how we repent at death's door, or how we cry out
to be saved. Salvation depends upon ourselves, and the use we make of
our time on earth. We are shaping our spirits by our daily lives while
in the body. Just as we have shaped them--beautiful or hideous, they
will appear before God when our bodies fall away and leave them bare. We
cannot in a moment's space, expect any power to remove the scars we have
made by a life-time of wrongdoing. It would not be a just power if it
did. Why should the man who has lived in sin all his life be cleansed by
crying to Christ on his death-bed--and permitted to enter into just such
joys as the good man has earned by a life of noble deeds? I do not
believe in a creed like that."
Dolores put a soft hand over his mouth.
"Let us not talk religion," she said. "I fear you are a sad heretic. Yet
I agree with you that every violated principle counts against us. But we
need not fear death on that account, Percy. I am living up to my
highest convictions of right: are not you?"
Again Percy hesitated. Then he laid his hand on her golden head, and
looked gravely in her sweet eyes, as he answered:
"Sometimes, Dolores, I do not feel that I am. Sometimes the fears that
you may one day repent our independent course of action, together with
the fact that we are obliged to hide so much of our companionship from
the world, weighs upon me like a burden."
She caught his hand and held it against her cheek.
"It must not, it must not!" she cried. "I shall never repent these
perfect days with you--never. We have violated no principles. All laws
are made by man, and every nation has its own peculiar ideas and rules
upon this subject. I believe God blesses and approves of our
companionship. You tell me that your life is better for it, and I know I
am ten-fold more unselfish, and womanly, and sympathetic than ever
before. Surely, we have been a benefit and strength to each other. As
for secrecy, I am ready, and willing to meet the world at any time.
Percy,--proudly, as George Eliot met it. I am not ashamed of my love for
you, or my devotion to you. I have never asked for secrecy."
Percy flushed slightly.
"I know you have not," he answered. "But the world condemns, without
trial, who ever dares defy its opinions. Were we to publicly declare our
ideas, we should be subjected to a thousand annoyances which we escape
now. Cranks and villains would make no distinction between our sweet
comradeship and their own immoral lives, while Society would exile us
wholly, and people in general would cry us down. For your sake, as well
as for my own social and business interests, it seems wiser to keep our
pleasant seclusion."
"Yet Society is full of disgraceful intrigue--the very best of it,"
cried Dolores, with scorn. "The very people who would condemn us for our
ideas, are hiding shameful infidelities in their own lives."
"Some of them," Percy admitted, "not all. Many a man among my
acquaintances, who would mark my name off his visiting list, if we were
to make our beliefs public, is himself similarly situated, save that he
is also deceiving a wife; while I wrong no third party. But in the eyes
of men, you know, the sin consists in being found out."
"Thank heaven, I am not in the position of one of those deceived wives!"
cried Dolores, fervently. "At the first moment you tire of me, or that
your heart strays away from me, you are free to go, without hesitating,
and without legal proceedings. I should not want you to remain after you
ceased to love me. You know my maxim is, 'those who love are wed, and
those who no longer love are no longer wed.'"
Dolores really believed what she said. It is so easy to be liberal and
broad in our theories, before our weak, human hearts are put upon the
rack.
Percy, who enjoyed the sensation of liberty which her words gave him,
felt also moved by an affectionate admiration for the lovely speaker. He
reached out his arms and drew her fair head against his heart.
"I shall never tire of you, my royal lady!" he said, kissing her brow
and cheek. "You combine all the qualities necessary to keep me true.
You are a bright mental companion, a beautiful picture to my eye, and a
fond heart-friend. And then you never hamper my liberty, or fret me by
asking where I have been, or whither I am going, or why I have not come
home sooner, as so many wives do. I appreciate your delightful good
sense, when I see how some of my friends are martyrs to the whims of
exacting women."
"It seems to me," Dolores replied, "that a woman makes a great mistake,
who expects a man to give up all his old friends, and pleasures, and
devote every moment of his life to her: and to account to her for every
hour passed out of her presence. It must be terribly galling to a man
who has been accustomed to his liberty. I think men are like some
spirited horses--the tighter you draw the rein, the more reckless their
pace: while with an easy rein they jog along very sedately. But speaking
of our happiness, dear, I read a little poem the other day in an old
book, which reminded me of our love. May I read it to you?"
Percy looked at his watch:
"Yes, if it is not very long:" he said. "We must be off for our drive in
half an hour."
Dolores ran and brought an old magazine from her ebony desk, and,
resuming her place at Percy's knees, read the poem.
"The name of the author is not given," she said; "but it seemed to me
whoever wrote it, had loved as we love, Percy--with every faculty of his
being. It is called
THREE-FOLD.
Somewhere I've read a thoughtful mind's reflection:
"All perfect things are three-fold:" and I know
Our love has this rare symbol of perfection:
The brain's response, the warm blood's rapturous glow,
The soul's sweet language, silent and unspoken.
All these unite us, with a deathless tie.
For when our frail, clay tenement is broken,
Our spirits will be lovers still, on high.
My dearest wish, you speak before I word it.
You understand the workings of my heart.
My soul's thought, breathed where only God has heard it,
You fathom with your strange divining art.
And like a fire, that cheers, and lights, and blesses,
And floods a mansion full of happy heat,
So does the subtle warmth of your caresses,
Pervade me with a rapture, keen as sweet.
And so sometimes, as you and I together
Exult in all dear love's three-fold delights,
I cannot help but vaguely wonder whether
When our freed souls, attain their spirit heights,
E'en if we reach that upper realm where God is,
And find the tales of heavenly glory true,
I wonder if we shall not miss our bodies,
And long, at times, for hours on earth we knew.
As now, we sometimes pray to leave our prison
And soar beyond all physical demands,
So may we not sigh, when we have arisen,
For just one old-time touch of lips and hands?
I know, dear heart, a thought like this seems daring
Concerning God's vast Government above,
Yet, even _There_, I shrink from wholly sparing
One element, from this, our Three-fold Love."
"What a very queer idea!" commented Percy, with a slight frown, as
Dolores finished reading the poem. "It has the merit of being original,
at least, but I cannot say that I like it."
"Still it expresses a great deal: the person who composed it must have
comprehended every phase of love. Do you not think so?"
"It is quite as likely that the author had never loved at all, save in
imagination. And I do not like the idea of ever longing for my body
after I once get through with its troublesome demands. It is too
material."
Dolores looked wonderingly at Percy.
"What a strange man you are!" she said. "After all, I do not think I
fully understand you. Sometimes you shock me with your lack of
orthodoxy, and again I feel as if your spiritual nature was far beyond
my own in its development. You are a paradox, _mon ami_. But there is
the carriage, and I must put on my hat and gloves."