Except for Clelie, she is alone.Not that there have been no friendships in her life.There have even been passions.With men and women of her vigor and vitality, passion is inevitable.But those she admits find that she has little to give, and they go away, she making no effort to detain them;or she finds that she has nothing to give, and sends them away as gently as may be.She has the reputation of caring for nothing but her art--and for the great establishment for orphans up the Hudson, into which about all her earnings go.
The establishment is named for Brent and is dedicated to her mother.Is she happy? I do not know.I do not think she knows.Probably she is--as long as she can avoid pausing to think whether she is or not.What better happiness can intelligent mortal have, or hope for? Certainly she is triumphant, is lifted high above the storms that tortured her girlhood and early youth, the sordid woes that make life an unrelieved tragedy of calamity threatened and calamity realized for the masses of mankind.The last time I saw her----It was a few evenings ago, and she was crossing the sidewalk before her house toward the big limousine that was to take her to the theater.She is still young; she looked even younger than she is.Her dress had the same exquisite quality that made her the talk of Paris in the days of her sojourn there.
But it is not her dress that most interests me, nor the luxury and perfection of all her surroundings.It is not even her beauty--that is, the whole of her beauty.
Everything and every being that is individual in appearance has some one quality, trait, characteristic, which stands out above all the rest to make a climax of interest and charm.
With the rose it is its perfume; with the bird, perhaps the scarlet or snowy feathers upon its breast.Among human beings who have the rare divine dower of clear individuality the crown and cap of distinction differs.In her--for me, at least--the consummate fascination is not in her eyes, though Iam moved by the soft glory of their light, nor in the lovely oval contour of her sweet, healthily pallid face.No, it is in her mouth--sensitive, strong yet gentle, suggestive of all the passion and suffering and striving that have built up her life.Her mouth--the curve of it--I think it is, that sends from time to time the mysterious thrill through her audiences.
And I imagine those who know her best look always first at those strangely pale lips, curved in a way that suggests bitterness melting into sympathy, sadness changing into mirth--a way that seems to say: "I have suffered--but, see!
I have stood fast!"
Can a life teach any deeper lesson, give any higher inspiration?
As I was saying, the last time I saw her she was about to enter her automobile.I halted and watched the graceful movements with which she took her seat and gathered the robes about her.And then I noted her profile, by the light of the big lamps guarding her door.You know that profile? You have seen its same expression in every profile of successful man or woman who ever lived.Yes, she may be happy--doubtless is more happy than unhappy.But--I do not envy her--or any other of the sons and daughters of men who is blessed--and cursed--with imagination.
And Freddie--and Rod--and Etta--and the people of Sutherland--and all the rest who passed through her life and out? What does it matter? Some went up, some down--not without reason, but, alas! not for reason of desert.For the judgments of fate are, for the most part, not unlike blows from a lunatic striking out in the dark; if they land where they should, it is rarely and by sheer chance.Ruth's parents are dead; she is married to Sam Wright.He lost his father's money in wheat speculation in Chicago--in one of the most successful of the plutocracy's constantly recurring raids upon the hoardings of the middle class.They live in a little house in one of the back streets of Sutherland and he is head clerk in Arthur Sinclair's store--a position he owes to the fact that Sinclair is his rich brother-in-law.Ruth has children and she is happier in them than she realizes or than her discontented face and voice suggest.Etta is fat and contented, the mother of many, and fond of her fat, fussy August, the rich brewer.John Redmond--a congressman, a possession of the Beef Trust, I believe--but not so highly prized a possession as was his abler father.
Freddie? I saw him a year ago at the races at Auteuil.He is huge and loose and coarse, is in the way soon to die of Bright's disease, I suspect.There was a woman with him--very pretty, very _chic_.I saw no other woman similarly placed whose eyes held so assiduously, and without ever a wandering flutter, to the face of the man who was paying.But Freddie never noticed her.He chewed savagely at his cigar, looking about the while for things to grumble at or to curse.Rod?
He is still writing indifferent plays with varying success.
He long since wearied of Constance Francklyn, but she clings to him and, as she is a steady moneymaker, he tolerates her.
Brent? He is statelily ensconced up at Woodlawn.Susan has never been to his grave--there.His grave in her heart--she avoids that too, when she can.But there are times--there always will be times----If you doubt it, look at her profile.
Yes, she has learned to live.But--she has paid the price.
End
