Part 3

“Resent it!” said Martha, dropping her companion’s hand, to clasp her own hands together. “Even to you I can’t talk about that. I should either cry like a fool or rage like a fury. I know very little about what happened, except that she has utterly ruined Harold’s life, and cut him off from everything that makes life sweet.”

“You allow yourself to suffer too much for him, perhaps,” the princess said. “I am not going to antagonize you at the outset by saying all that I might say to you on this subject, but believe me, my little _ingénue_, I could give you points about men. I will not do it now, however, and I will even show my willingness to spare you by changing the subject. Tell me about Alice. Is she really so handsome? Does she go into society? Where could one see her?”

“Yes; she goes out a good deal--in the American colony, principally. I don’t think there is any doubt that she’s handsome.”

“Then I’m all the more unfortunate in having no acquaintance in the American colony. Does she look like you?”

“No; the fact is--” Martha blushed, and was in evident confusion, as she went on--“the fact is, I’m considered like Harold. Not really, you know, because no one can deny that he’s magnificent; but there’s said to be a sort of family likeness.”

“Well, I can believe that, my dear, without absolute insult to your brother. Is Alice much admired?”

“Yes, a good deal; but she’s engaged now, and so she is not noticed as much as she was.”

“Oh, she’s engaged, is she? And when is she to be married?”

“The day is not fixed, but it will be before long. The trousseau is being bought now. Her fiancé is an Italian officer of very good family, though not much fortune. Still, Alice is happy, and mama is satisfied, and Harold has given his consent. He is coming over to the wedding. Oh, if you could see him--and he could see you!”

“His seeing me is wholly unnecessary; but the other part might be accomplished. It would be a good idea to give me a card to the wedding if it takes place in a church. Then I could see all your people without their seeing me, and probably disapproving of our intimacy and breaking it up--or else putting it on a footing that would have no comfort in it.”

“How _could_ they disapprove?” said Martha, deeply hurt. “How could they be anything but honored that I should be noticed at all by a great princess like you?”

“Oh, there’s no greatness about this princess, child,” said the other, laughing. “Don’t expect to see me going around with a throne to sit on, in either a literal or a figurative sense. To you I am only Sonia--a fact which you seem to have forgotten, by the way! I wish you’d call me Sonia, and stop thinking about the princess. With your American ideas it, no doubt, seems much more important than it is. Are you going to tell your people about me really or not?”

“No,” said Martha; “I wouldn’t for the world. It may be selfish, but I want you all to myself.”

This was perfectly true; but at the same time, ignore it as she might, there was a lurking feeling in Martha’s heart that the princess was right in imagining that if her mother knew of the friendship that had sprung up between the two students at Etienne’s, she might insist upon investigating the princess--an indignity which Martha felt that she could not endure.

The princess herself seemed pleased at Martha’s evident wish to monopolize her; and the two parted at last with the confidence and affection of old friends.

IV

THE days at the atelier had now a new interest for both students, and their work was manifestly the better for it. To Martha these days were filled with a glorious delight, which seemed to give her all that her nature craved; and if it had not been for sad thoughts of her brother and his loneliness, she would have felt that she could ask for nothing.

To have the princess painting near her, and to be able to look up and see her beautiful figure, with its sinuous grace, posed before her easel, and to receive from her now and then a brilliant smile of mutual comprehension, was quite enough of personal bliss for Martha Keene.

Martha had an ardent and romantic temperament, but she seemed to be capable of satisfying its needs vicariously. There undoubtedly are such women, though the like has possibly never existed in the other sex. For instance, it was a continual battle with her now to put down the temptation, which constantly assailed her, of imagining a meeting, an attraction, and finally a union between the brother who realized her romantic ideal of man and the friend who realized his complement in woman’s form. She knew it was impossible. She knew that Harold would never marry; and she even realized that if he could love again, after the manner in which he had loved one woman, he would, by that fact, compel her to lower her standard either of love or of him.

And yet Martha felt that the meeting and blending of these two lives would, if she could have seen it, have satisfied every need of her heart. She believed that her pleasure and contentment in looking on at such a union as this would give her the greatest joy that could be for her--would indeed, in a way, give her the feeling of satisfied love.

It was very hard to put down these imaginings; but she told herself that it must be done. Harold’s life and love had been given once, and she knew he was right in saying that they were not his to give again; and on the princess’s part, no doubt the idea would be a wild suggestion, indeed. Martha did not know what rigid laws of etiquette and convention might not bind the princess; and condescending as the latter had chosen to be with regard to herself, she felt that this beautiful lady would never do anything unworthy of her caste. Her husband, whether she had loved him or not, had no doubt been a great prince, whose name and title the woman on whom he had bestowed them would never consent to debase. The thing was hopeless and wrong, of course, and the idea must be put away from her. But it was hard to do, with her hero constantly in her mind, and her heroine constantly before her eyes.

One day, after an unusually hard morning’s work, the princess invited Martha to go home to lunch with her, and to spend the afternoon at the Louvre, looking together at the pictures which they had so often enjoyed apart.

When they reached the apartment in the Rue Presbourg, the princess was informed that her aunt had already finished her second breakfast, which she took with the regularity of clockwork, not depending upon the comings and goings of the rather erratic person who was the other member of the family. This the princess explained lightly, as she led the way to the dining-room. The servants by this time all knew Martha; and they looked upon her, as the friend of their mistress, with the most amiable glances. Not speaking the Russian language, Martha could show her good will only by a pleasant smile, in return for the evident pleasure which they showed in serving her.

The princess threw her wrap backward over the chair, as she sat at the head of the round table, with her slender figure against a background of dark sable, and her head, in its large plumed hat, standing out from a halo of many-hued old stained-glass in the window behind. Martha, sitting opposite, fell into an unconsciously intent scrutiny of her face.

It was certainly safe, Martha thought, to call this face beautiful, both for feature and character. The eyes were large, dark, brilliant, and fervidly suggestive. One wondered what those eyes had seen, were seeing, and were capable of discovering for others. The hair was a brilliant, waving brown, arranged in a loose mass that was still firm and lovely in its outline--hair, as Martha thought, that

it must be sweet to touch with fingers and with lips. Also the girl thought one might well long to prove by touch whether that white skin was as smooth and fine as it looked. The firm, short nose was definitely pointed, and tilted upward, slightly lifting with it the short upper lip. Her chin was bewitching--at once strong and alluring. The mouth was very individual, and, as Martha studied it, she concluded that if she could tell why it was so charming, half the charm would be gone. For the first time it occurred to her to wonder how old the princess was.

“You are wondering how old I am!” said the princess, almost taking the girl’s breath away.

“I never knew anything so strange!” exclaimed Martha. “It was the very thought I had in my mind.”

“Certainly, I read it there! I can do that, sometimes, with people who are very sympathetic to me. I fancy it would be rather dangerous for _you_ to do any very private thinking in my presence. I sometimes read, too, without reading aloud. I think I have read some of your thoughts lately, without your suspecting it.”

She looked at Martha, over her cup of bouillon, and smiled. Martha felt herself blushing, as she wondered if that persistent and dominating thought about her brother, which had been so often in her mind of late, could have been perceived by this wonderful being. It frightened her so that she quickly changed the subject, and the remainder of the meal passed in less personal talk.

When they were seated in the princess’s coupé, a little later, driving past the Arc de Triomphe, Martha saw her companion turning her head to look at it with lingering, earnest eyes.

“I always look at the Arc whenever I can,” she said; “and it always has something to say to me. Its expression of strong beauty and repose always makes me feel that what is, is right. If I am happy, it makes me feel that joy is both good and permanent; and even when in times of unhappiness it makes me feel that sadness is permanent, it somehow seems to tell me that that too is good. Did you ever stand quite close to it and look up?”

“No,” said Martha.

“We must, some day, together. It will give you a new sensation.”

“I always thought that it appeared better at a distance,” said Martha.

“So it does, in a way; but the impression is different. I love it from the Place de la Concorde, when the horse-chestnuts are in bloom. Then it looks like a magnificent image of beneficence, stretching out two great arms to take in all those people, in carriages and on foot, who are thronging the Champs-Élysées, its body vague and distant in the clouds. That’s a sufficiently fantastic thought for you, if you like; but it is one that has comforted me. I love Paris. It is the only city that has ever seemed to me to be lovable. Its streets are so gay and clean, and the faces of the people one meets, along here at least, are so good-humored and intelligent. I love this mixture of fashion and ruralness. Look at the swells and the peasants driving side by side! Look at those white-aproned men drawing handcarts, that mail-coach coming alongside, those old peasants in their covered wagons, and that superb mounted policeman with his gorgeous trappings! How friendly and at home they all seem! Even that omnibus, with its three white Percherons abreast, looks sociable and friendly by the side of the _steppeurs_ of the _haute école_. Oh, it’s all very human and charming; or is it that you humanize me, and make me feel its charm more than I have done for many a day?”

She was still in this delightful humor when they reached the Louvre, and made their way at once to pay their homage to the Venus of Milo. They did not say much as they looked at her, moving slowly from place to place to get the different points of view. Each knew what the other felt, and words seemed out of place. Presently the princess said:

“I have a fancy to try an experiment. Let’s name her! What I mean is, if that were a real woman, what would you think the name best suited to her?”

Martha smiled comprehendingly, and looked at the statue with a gaze of deep concentration. This changed, after a moment, into a smile, as she said:

“I’ve named her. It’s so absurd, however,” she went on, “to give such a name as I’ve chosen to that ancient Greek statue, that I’m almost ashamed to tell it.”

“You needn’t be,” said the princess, smiling too; “for I’ve got a name about which I have exactly the same feeling. Come; I’ll say mine first. It’s Gloriana.”

“And mine is Georgiana! How odd that they should be so much alike!”

“Isn’t it? It’s delightful, though; for it shows that there’s something in my theory of names, and that this statue has made almost exactly the same impression on us. I’m eager now to name the Winged Victory. Come; let’s go and look at her.”

They hurried away to the foot of the wide staircase, where, looking up, they saw the magnificent creature with her great wings spread.

After standing before her in silence a few moments, the princess exclaimed suddenly:

“Oh, have you named her yet? A _perfect_ name for her has come to me!”

“And to me, too--_perfect_!” said Martha. “How many syllables has yours?”

“One.”

“So has mine!” said the other, breathlessly. “Now let’s count three, and say the name.”

Simultaneously they said: “One, two, three--_Ruth_!”

Then they looked at each other with an excited delight that the passers-by must have thought rather amazing even for two artists looking at the Victory.

“It’s the most wonderful thing I ever heard of,” said Martha. “Don’t you feel positively creepy?”

“I should think I did! Little cold chills are running all over me. Oh, how nice it is that we can think and feel together in this way!”

Her face, as she spoke, was glowingly beautiful; and Martha returned her gaze with a look which expressed what no words could possibly have done.

V

ONE morning the princess did not come to the atelier; and Martha, after working along without her for a while, thinking that her friend might have been delayed and hoping that she would come later, found her mind so preoccupied by the absence of her usual companion that her work would not go at all, and at last she concluded to stop trying, and to go to look the princess up.

She called a cab, and drove to the apartment in the Rue Presbourg, where she was now well known. Even the old concierge, with her shining white hair, brilliant black eyes, red cheeks, and bearded upper lip, gave her a smile of welcome as she passed through the court; and the princess’s servant gave her another as he conducted her at once to his mistress’s boudoir.

Here he left her. Martha tapped on the door, and waited. Getting no answer, she turned the knob and entered, intending to knock at the inner door; but no sooner had she shut herself into the room than she became aware, although it was almost wholly darkened, that it was not unoccupied.

A stifled sound reached her ears, and she could now make out the figure of the princess, lying on the lounge, with her face buried in her hands.

The girl’s heart ached with pity, and she did not know whether to yield to her own impulse, and to go forward, or to consult the possible preference of her friend, and go back.

While she hesitated, the princess took her hands from her face, and saw her. As she did so, she started up, touching her eyes with her handkerchief, and clearing her voice to speak.

“Is it you, Martha? Come in, child,” she said. “I have a headache to-day, and intended to see no one. I forgot, however, that I had given orders that you were always to be the exception. I should not have let you see me like this if I had known beforehand; but now that you have looked upon your poor friend in this humiliated state, sit down, and never mind.”

Martha had come near, and now took the seat beside the lounge, her face tragic with sympathy.

“I am so sorry you are ill,” was all that she could say.

“I am not ill, really,” said the princess. She was lying back upon the lounge, and fanning her flushed face with her little gossamer handkerchief, which Martha could see was limp with tears. “My head does ache now, but I brought it on by this wretched crying. It’s all my own fault. You did not know that I was such a weakling, did you?” and she made an effort to smile.

“Oh, I am so, so sorry!” said Martha, helplessly.

“You needn’t be, dear. Never be sorry for any man or woman who is equal to his or her life--and I am equal to mine. One time out of ten it gets the better of me, but the nine times I get the better of it. This mood will surely pass. Indeed, it is passing now. You have helped me already. It has been very long indeed since I have found or wanted human help, and it takes me by surprise.”

Martha saw that she was preparing to lead the talk away from her recent tears and their cause, and she passionately wished that her friend should feel that she longed to enter into her sorrow with her, if it could be allowed her; so she said impulsively:

“I don’t suppose you feel like telling me your trouble; but oh, I wish you could!”

“I do feel like it, you darling child! I could talk to you about it better than to any one on earth; but there are some things one cannot speak of even to one’s own heart. That is the trouble now. If I were to let myself indulge freely in imaginings and regrets, I should satisfy the want of the moment, but it would undo me utterly. My great temptation is regret, and I must be strong enough not to regret.”

“Oh, how sad life is!” cried Martha. “I have always thought that you at least ought to be happy. I gave you the name of ‘The Happy Princess,’ out of Tennyson. It has seemed to me from the first that you were a creature who had it in you to command happiness.”

“Ah, dear child, if you could only know how helpless I am there! The best thing that is in me is the power to command courage. That I can, and for the most part do. While that is so, I shall not complain.”

“Then you are really unhappy? Oh!” said Martha, drawing herself up with an impulsive movement.

“I know what that fervent exclamation means as well as if you had put it into words,” said the princess. “You are wishing that there were some way in which, by sacrificing yourself, you could purchase happiness for me.”

Martha, startled at the correctness of this guess, could say nothing in denial.

“I knew it,” said the princess, reading her face. “I have not the faintest doubt that you would do it; and--now I am going to knock over some of your idealizing of me--there have been moments in my life when my greed for happiness has consumed me so that I believe I would have been willing to take it, and to let another pay the price. That’s a base thing for a woman to say of herself, but so true it is that I thank God I was never tempted when those moods were on me. Something not wholly different from that panting after an impossible joy was upon me this morning. Shall I never get the better of it utterly? _Can_ one overcome it? Did _you_ never have it, Martha? To me joy is impossible, but it is not so to you. Don’t you ever long for it? I will speak to you quite openly, Martha, and tell you this--when I say joy, I mean love. _Is_ there a woman’s heart that does not long for that? Be as honest with me as I have been with you, and tell me.”

“I will try,” said Martha. “I will do my best to be perfectly truthful. I _do_ long for happiness; but--this may seem strange to you, and you may even think that I am pretending to be better or more unselfish than others--”

“That I _never_ will! I _know_ that isn’t so. Go on.”

“I was going to say that the craving of my heart seems somehow to be impersonal. I want happiness intensely, but the way in which I want it is to see the beings whom I love best have it. Now there are two creatures in the world whom I love supremely--my brother and you. You know that this is so. If I could see both of you happy, in the manner and degree that I want, I believe that I could then be perfectly happy, too. I believe all the needs of my own heart could be answered in that way; and indeed I almost think that my greed for joy is as great as yours at times. It has strained my heart almost to bursting, in Harold’s case, and I feel now almost the same about you. I have never spoken of this to any one; indeed, I was never fully aware of it, I think, until I put it into words now. It must seem quite incredible to you.”

“Not in the least. I believe it utterly, or rather it’s a stronger thing than belief with me. I feel that it is true. I admire you for it, and all the more because it is so different from me. I want happiness and love for myself--every ounce of flesh, every drop of blood in me longs for it as well as every aspiration of my soul. It is _self_ that I am thinking of when I get like this--my own power to enjoy, and also--oh, God _knows_ that this is true!--and also the power to give joy to another. Martha, I will tell you something,” she said, with a sudden change of tone, dropping her voice, and leaning forward to take both of Martha’s hands in hers as she spoke, with her eyes fixed intently on the girl’s. “I have known this joy. I have loved supremely, and been loved. You have never tasted that cup of rapture as I have; but then you have never known, as I have, the anguish of that renunciation. Which of us is the fortunate one? If you knew how I suffer you would probably say that it is you; but if, on the other hand, you knew what ecstasy I have had, I think that you might decide differently. Oh, if God would give me one more hour of it, I think I would be content! One more hour, to take it to the full, knowing that I must, after that, come back to what I suffer now! I think those sixty joy-absorbing minutes would make up to me for everything. But to have it _never again_!”

She broke off, and, hiding her face in her hands, turned away, and lay for some moments quite silent and still. She was not crying--Martha could see that; and when she presently turned, and looked at the young girl, holding out both her hands to her, although there was no smile on her face, it showed that she had conquered her dark mood, and was strong again.

It was a very gentle sort of strength, however, that was not too self-sufficient to feel pleasure in the words and looks and touches of quiet sympathy which Martha gave her now. They sat there, hand in hand, for a long time; and presently the princess said, with her own beautiful smile:

“You have done me a world of good, Martha. My headache is gone, and also its cause. Sometimes, do you know,--I’m going to let you see just how weak I am,--sometimes I succumb for days to a mood like this. Nobody knows that tears have anything to do with the headaches that I suffer from--at least nobody but Félicie, and she gives no information. My aunt loves me dearly, but is no more acquainted with the real _me_ than if I were a stranger; and yet she adores me--perhaps for that reason. I tell her nothing, because the feelings that I have are quite outside her comprehension, while the headaches are quite within it. She recommends various powders and pellets, and is constantly getting new prescriptions for me. She says my headaches are of a very obstinate type, and I agree with her. To show you how completely you’ve cured me,” she added, rising to her feet, with an entire change of tone, “I am going to work this afternoon. You will stay and take your lunch with me, and then we’ll be there in time for the second model’s pose.”

“I can’t stay,” said Martha, rising too; “but I will meet you there promptly. I am keeping my cab below, so that I may be back at the atelier by the time the carriage comes for me. You know how very quiet I am keeping my little escapades with you.”