Chapter 4

Two moons had not waxed and waned before he was having what now I am sure must have been the one passionate love of his life. This was unexpected; a blow in the dark to my pride, and, alas! I fear, also, to my heart. It was the death-knell to my better nature. It gave direction to the formation of my social life. From that moment I am conscious of a change, and for the worse, in my hitherto attractive nature. It was attractive on account of its sweetness and its purity. It was a nature which, until then, had known nothing of the hot, passionate love of the world and of all things worldly. The formative period was gone, and with it most that was good.

It was hard to have a man court me, not exactly for my money, but because I chanced to be the nearest fruit in reach and because his crafty mother thought it would be an excellent arrangement! Especially hard, because in spite of myself I had for him a very tender feeling. My sudden loss and quick appropriation by another created within me an unjust resentment; my resentment was silent and unnoticed, but it filled me with a desire for revenge. This was the evil which crept into my life; this was the element which warped my better nature, made me grasping, worldly, hard to please. This sudden desertion placed me in a false position. People said that Gerome had never loved me--simply trifling. The friends of that _other woman_, a great brown-eyed beauty with the subtle charm and fatal fascination of a devil most lovely, made it appear that of course Gerome Meadows had never loved me--why should he? He cowardly held his peace and let them prattle; he was kneeling low before the shrine of his own selection; he was in open rebellion against his irate mother, who did not approve of this brown-eyed beauty.

I was left alone and let alone. But fate was not altogether against me. Death did me a friendly service. He called to her last resting-place an ancient dame who had severely played the role of grandmother and mother-in-law in our large establishment--unloved, tyrannical, unregretted. But custom bade us mourn. Then was my opportunity. Our doors were closed, but I was not idle--_I studied myself_, and, retrospectively, all of my friends. After several months of hard training and much serious thought I found myself ready. I had established my little theories about life, and their intricate relations to myself, and cast about carefully for something upon which I might with safety and good results practice upon. Most of my friends were tame, uninteresting, and none of them just then my lovers. I resorted to many of the little airs and tricks of social trade. I soon found myself doing quite a brisk little business in a quiet way; quite quiet, for I still wore light mourning and, of course, was not going out; we all thought it best to pay the highest possible respect to the late but unlamented grandmother. I soon gained the reputation--which I bravely sustained--of being far above the idle, cruel dealer in human hearts; I was said to be full of old-fashioned coquetry, but not even flirtatious; that I was gracious, had pleasing manners, but was the very soul of sincerity, and would never be guilty of leading men on and on. I was frequently contrasted with that devilish brown-eyed beauty--a recognized flirt, ready to sacrifice any man on her crowded altar. A man once said to me of her:

"Such kings of shreds have wooed and won her, Such crafty knaves her laurel owned, It has become almost an honor Not to be crowned."

"Hush! hush! she is my friend," I said, for I knew him to be one of her rejected lovers. In a month I had gently told him nay. But he was innocent, he did not know that I had played my cards for him. He thought me cold, but he thought me kind. He advertised me in desirable places and with most desirable people. I captivated several other desirable men. It is so easy for a woman to fool a man. But I was eager to try my powers on better metal--some man of the world. A victory in such a quarter would fully establish me, and it would bring the very best men to my side, for they, like sheep, readily follow the well-known leader. And perhaps--Gerome might return.

One winter's night late, after I had gone to my room, two men called. Ordinarily I should have excused myself, but something--we call it fate, I believe--prompted me to see them. One was an old friend--a friend of the family. The other a thorough man of the world, and--I knew it intuitively--my desired victim. He was an idle, indifferent, Social Drifter. He was an artist by profession; his inclination--and his leisure--made him more of a _diletante_ than any thing else. He was more notorious than famous. He had done nothing to give himself fame, but he had done many odd things which gave him notoriety. I have always had a secret but deep-rooted love of notoriety; it makes my blood tingle with a most delicious sensation. I knew that he could give me a great deal of _quiet notoriety_ which was the one thing needed to make me a success--notice, notice, constant notice! The surgeon may be ever so skillful and yet if his skill be not known his instruments, rusted with disuse, will cling to their unopened cases and his hand will forget its cunning. So is it with the flirtatious maiden; she must hang forth a sign which may be read, and quickly, even by those who run.

My artist lover was not the ideal slender, pale-faced youth; he was not beautiful, he was not good looking. But perhaps I should have loved him if he had been the one, and tolerated him longer if he had been the other. He was aggressive; he was open, direct always; he was not blunt, yet he was free from the all-prevalent use of the _preliminary_. He loved me! And he very soon told me as much and more. He made no concealment of the fact to me, or indeed to others. He loved me, was proud of it, and glad to have all know of it. Of course this was just what I wanted, for he was not a susceptible man. He had not been in love for years. His declarations meant something, and people knew it. Thus was I brought into notice. "Who, pray, is this Mary Lee Manley?" they began to ask. "Is she the same scrawny, ugly girl who was such a flat failure in society two years ago?" "What has she done to herself? She is certainly not a beauty but she has improved, just how we are unable to say."

The men began to find me, hunted me up, and were unable to realize that I was that self same individual whom they had so diligently avoided her first season out. All the while my affair went on, systematically artistic, with that Social Drifter. No man will ever love me again as I was loved by that man. I wantonly played with his openly avowed affections. I was deliberate, artistic. I was cold. I led him on blindly. I calculated every move with mathematical accuracy. I left nothing undone. I skillfully covered my tracks. I always told him sadly, gently, that I did not love him, and that I never could. Yet I told him in such a manner that, almost breathless with a new hope, he refused to believe me, refused to listen. He was always considerate and I hated him for his consideration. He was always thoughtful, unselfish, and alas, always loving. Finally, after I had successfully played him for all that he was worth--which was a great deal to me--I told him to go. I dismissed him with scorn and without reason. Of course there had been no love in my heart for this man, but his delicate attentions were always intensely flattering. And once, just once, I might have yielded, but my family, my own judgment, every thing, was against the man, and to the end he continued to be simply a trial for my untried and newly discovered powers. And then, perhaps the more potent reason of all, Gerome Meadows gave uneasy indications of a desire to return. I, and immediately, made arrangements for the full gratification of his desire. Now was my chance. Revenge, when delayed, is all the sweeter for the delay. The world must know of my power, and through Gerome Meadows! I had waited long and patiently, but I had not wasted my time. I had gone through a severe social training, and with the best results. I was an accomplished flirt, but I was not trammeled by the always dangerous reputation--it was not known. It was simply a rumor about town that I might be somewhat of a trifler, but it had not been affirmed, and few believed the idle, unauthorized rumor; it had not even reached the ears of Gerome Meadows. He had hotly quarreled with his devilish, brown-eyed beauty. She had dismissed him after a highly tragic scene. The details were highly sensational--as told by her devoted partizans, and warmly denied by his and his outraged family (principally irate mother). They sound like the fragments of a romance written by Bulwer, and with a liberal touch of Lucile. It was the talk of the town, and many things were said, and a few were done. I was silent and hopeful. My triumph was near! She had done with him, and forever. He did not cut his handsome throat! He did not do any of the thrilling but uncomfortable things done by the usual rejected lover in the average novel--_but he came back to me!_ Once more Gerome Meadows was my recognized lover, and the people--the fickle people--began to whisper it about (greatly to my satisfaction), that perhaps this very uncertain Mr. Meadows had always loved me from the time his sister Kate and myself were school-girls together. And furthermore, he had for a while yielded to the manifold fascinations of that devilish brown-eyed beauty. In fact, he himself told me a goodly number of just such little speeches; discoursed on the difference between real love and mere fascination. He told me that I was the only woman he ever could really love, and that he had for me a pure and warm affection. Ah! how sweet were those declarations to my ear. But not to my heart--it was closed against him.

I was not the woman he had known and halfway loved before--for I had eagerly tasted deep and long of the Egyptian flesh-pots, and I refused any other kind of social sustenance. I allowed him to believe that his tardy return had routed all rivals from the field. I forced him to fancy me to be so different from _that other woman_. I was, in truth, a cool, quiet reaction. I coaxed him into believing me to be full of a gentle, womanly purity. I made him blind to the fact that I was a worldly woman, conscious of and ready to unhesitatingly use my worldliness. I measured my powers aright--I could at my own sweet will allow him, force him, coax him, make him _do any thing_. I cunningly wove a web in and around the heart of Gerome Meadows--his rejected, torn and dejected heart. I gently soothed him into not quite a forgetfulness, yet a strong and healthful calm. He was grateful. Reactions are always dangerous; he wondered why he had not known me before as he knew me then. And while he wondered I charmed him into a new love fever. It was almost a touch of real passion. It was a skillful drawing together of the scattered ligaments of that other and violently broken love. I had labored hard, and not altogether in vain. He was mine for the taking. Would I take him?

We stood together late one afternoon in a rich oriel window which overhung the street. We were silent. The rustle of the light summer drapery filled the air with a faint but melodiously tender undertone. We looked out of the broad open window down the street. It was near the close of a superb summer's day. I was in a mood to yield. My old nature seemed to rise out of its former self. It was the one golden opportunity for the man by my side. The old tender leaning toward him came back again, stronger, more subtle than ever before. It was--for the while--love, or something very like unto love. My nature, my soul was at its utmost flow, but no one touched the flood-gates. Gerome was passive, silent. One word, a hand-touch, and I would have loved him and bound myself to him for weal or woe! Little things are every thing in a woman's life. Robert Fairfield passed by beneath the window; he briefly paused, politely looked up, lifted his hat, _smiled_, and--innocent of what he had done--went on his way. He had simply done what was the proper and usual thing, but his conventional smile had come into my life at a strangely opportune moment--or, was it opportune? My heart had been laid bare, the flood-gates had been touched, and they had slowly opened beneath the magic influence of a _smile_. Gerome Meadows had been silent. He had lost his one golden opportunity. I told him so, and sent him away. I fired upon him a volley of ridicule and contempt; my revenge was complete. He was angry, surprised, disappointed. The old wounds were torn open afresh; but he was not easily undone. He immediately made peace with his irate mother. He placed himself in her charge. He promised to try again, but under her direction and according to her selection. In a few days more he goes to the altar with this new and latest love. But, ah! Gerome, your charming, susceptible self never loved but once! Where is that devilish brown-eyed beauty? It is well that she is silent! One word from her and--but, go marry. And pray, take with you my conventional wishes for your peace and happiness. On your wedding day I will write you a dainty card and send you a trifle.

What shall it be? What would be, under the "existing circumstances," the most appropriate thing? Perhaps a little Cupid, somewhat weather-beaten and with an empty quiver might do, or, best of all, _a lock of golden-brown hair_ stolen from the rich, heavy tresses of that devilish brown-eyed beauty. What say you? But _au revoir_, Gerome Meadows.

There is to be a reception--a most elegant affair--the night of the wedding. It is to be given by that now well-satisfied lady, Mrs. Gillespie Meadows, the mother of my dear, dear Gerome. My escort: Robert Fairfield. The beginning of another end! What will it be?

* * * * *

VII

An Olive Outline In Shades and Shadows Of a Clever Social Life.

* * * * *

Platitudes and Pleasures.

My life is different from the usual social existence of the average society girl.

I have never followed the mirage of a definite ideal.

I have never been a straggler for social honors--they have been mine without the struggling. I was born to a position. It is mine by right of inheritance. There is no strong odor of lately acquired greenbacks about our old and very respectable establishment. We live on a quiet, unfashionable street; we are somewhat apart from the world, and yet we are frequently sought--for we never seek. My grandfather was a man of excellent parts and much power in his native State. He was a well-known, important factor in the home of his adoption. His wife was celebrated for her ready wit and radiant beauty in the days when Madison was President.

My father is a great man. It is not a greatness hedged in by a local limit; he is known far and wide. His scientific researches have made him famous and his name familiar and beloved on foreign shores. Nor is he a prophet without honor even in his own country.

My mother is a rare woman. She is peculiarly a womanly woman. She constantly gives her best thought, her best effort, to the members of her family, always forgetting self; and she is full of the tenderest consideration toward other people. She never speaks ill of her neighbor; she is always true. She is always ready to discharge her duty--and more. She is tender, gentle, firm; there is not a flower which blooms more full, better rounded out, more sweet, better to look upon, or in any way more complete, more perfect than she.

I may not be great or entirely good myself, but I constantly breathe an atmosphere exhilarating and pure--made so by the presence of a great man and a good woman.

Our house is the tacitly recognized head-quarters for all kinds and conditions of clever people, and some not so clever, but who--in their way--are just as interesting:

Social Exquisites. Social Drifters. Briefless Barristers. Men Who Have Risen. Men Unsuccessful. Sympathy Seekers. Sympathy Finders. Newspaper Reporters. Newspaper Poets. Authors Private. Authors Public. People Of The Army. People Of The Navy. Bohemians, Ragged As To Their Cuffs, Unkempt As To Their Raiment. All Classes, Shades And Conditions Of Life. In Short, A Strange Kaleidoscopic Circle.

To be a gentleman above question is the _badge of admission_. To be clever is the _badge of promotion_. I am the center of this intensely interesting circle. I am the focus, the magnet around which they all revolve. The bulk of the social burden rests on me. The minute but highly important details are carefully watched and skillfully righted by the good mother. I am the General Entertainer, but she is the ameliorator of those little roughnesses, those little sharp corners which cling even to unconventional people. Her clear, well-balanced mind, her gentle, yet quietly positive temperament, peculiarly fit her for this necessary but frequently neglected social work.

I am young, beautiful, untrammeled; I am full of an unlimited ambition; I am not content with the small things of life; I will have none of those precious morsels--mere fragments--which tempt and readily please my sweet sisters in Vanity Fair. Young, yet I am far enough beyond twenty to have ideas of my own. Beautiful, yet I am free from that all-conscious air which pervades the average beauty. Untrammeled, because men do not touch me--have not the power to rouse within me one tender feeling. I am interested always, but I am never susceptible. Women depend too much on their intuitions; they know so little about human nature, and less about man-nature. An intuition is oftentimes a safeguard to woman but more frequently a danger, because it creates within her too much of a servile dependence upon mere impulses and first impressions. My own intuitions are strong, but I want my knowledge to be stronger. I want to know all there is to know about men, women, and things. Women are usually like open books to me, easily read while passing on to matters more interesting--men.

A man once asked me what special impression or effect I should like to have on a man of the world who had been every where, done every thing, seen every thing, knew every thing (or at least thought so)--in fine, a man with the edge of every desire dulled, the glow of every passion cooled. My answer was simply this: I should try to give him what I constantly and without much effort gave most men--_A new sensation_. After all it is not such a hard thing to do. Blasé men are my especial prey; they can always be reached; their vulnerable points are many, but generally well concealed.

I have lost my early enthusiasms, but my enthusiastic _manner_ still remains. A genuine, cynical touch has, here of late, fallen into my life. It is not an affectation. I am all the better for that touch; it makes me more of a power among my subjects. For they are in reality my subjects. In the main they are loyal. They are ready to fight for me and my cause--if I had one.

I have divided my subjects--and other men--into:

I. Platitudes, II. Pleasures.

Platitudes are men who lead an honest, stupid existence. They are contented with their lot--because ignorant of any other. They are resentful of all innovations--because they are narrow-minded and full of deep ruts; they are guiltless of one clever thought; they sometimes stumble into somewhat of a clever action, but humbly deprecate the move, unconscious of having done a clever thing. Such men used to float about me in shoals of delicious stupidity. I was such a new creature! I was so different from the women they had met and always known. They were the foolish moths, I the candle-flame. They dashed blindly into danger; they fluttered about in ungraceful, ungracious misery. Finally, they would fly out and go on their little commonplace ways full of scars and petty burns, but not altogether marred--all the better for their uncomfortable but harmless burning. But nowadays it is quality not numbers which I desire, so they let me alone and are indeed astonished, bewildered, to find that I can go on, quite successfully too, and _without them_. Poor little fools; they are not an absolute necessity to any one--hardly to themselves.

A Platitude is a selfish creature, and never very grateful unless he expects a continuance of past favors. With him a cessation of favors means a cessation of gratitude. A limited number of the Platitude class still linger about me--principally on account of a long-contracted habit. They are content with whatever they get; they are entirely harmless, always useful in some way, and occasionally quite interesting.

* * * * *

A Pleasure is the direct opposite of a Platitude.

He is a clever man--clever in some one particular way. He is generally a man with many brilliant theories brilliantly brought forth. He is ready to entertain any proposition. He is ready to try any new field of human action. He is sometimes sympathetic, more frequently antagonistic. But my so-called _Pleasures_ may not be forced under any one head which will accurately describe them as a class. Indeed, each one is a class within himself; that is my reason for using so broad a term as Pleasures: they are, in fact, Pleasures to me. They are really necessary to my happiness--not individually, but as an entirety.

Most of these men have been at some one time my lovers--at least after a fashion. Some of them are foolishly constant. They are not foolish on account of their constancy--a most commendable trait--but because of their inability to know just when to make a display of their devotion. The general run of lovers--at least mine--are distressingly inopportune. This a woman, in spite of herself, deeply resents; it is so unpardonably stupid of a sensible man not to know just when to make known his tender passion. Lovers seldom study the women they love. They labor hard and plow straight on, in spite of any timid opposition from the other quarter; they are heedless of the future; they are eager to gain the prize, and often stride far beyond--overstep the mark, which sometimes is but a mere shadow line.