"She has a mean tongue," admitted Susan, tall and slim and straight, with glorious dark hair and a skin healthily pallid and as smooth as clear."But she's got a good heart.She gives a lot away to poor people.""Because she likes to patronize and be kowtowed to," retorted Ruth."She's mean, I tell you." Then, with a vicious gleam in the blue eyes that hinted a deeper and less presentable motive for the telling, she added: "Why, she's not going to ask you to her party."Susan was obviously unmoved."She has the right to ask whom she pleases.And"--she laughed--"if I were giving a party I'd not want to ask her--though I might do it for fear she'd feel left out.""Don't you feel--left out?"
Susan shook her head."I seem not to care much about going to parties lately.The boys don't like to dance with me, and I get tired of sitting the dances out."This touched Ruth's impulsively generous heart and woman's easy tears filled her eyes; her cousin's remark was so pathetic, the more pathetic because its pathos was absolutely unconscious.
Ruth shot a pitying glance at Susan, but the instant she saw the loveliness of the features upon which that expression of unconsciousness lay like innocence upon a bed of roses, the pity vanished from her eyes to be replaced by a disfiguring envy as hateful as an evil emotion can be at nineteen.Susan still lacked nearly a month of seventeen, but she seemed older than Ruth because her mind and her body had developed beyond her years--or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say beyond the average of growth at seventeen.Also, her personality was stronger, far more definite.Ruth tried to believe herself the cleverer and the more beautiful, at times with a certain success.But as she happened to be a shrewd young person--an inheritance from the Warhams--she was haunted by misgivings--and worse.Those whose vanity never suffers from these torments will, of course, condemn her; but whoever has known the pain of having to concede superiority to someone with whom she or he--is constantly contrasted will not be altogether without sympathy for Ruth in her struggles, often vain struggles, against the mortal sin of jealousy.
The truth is, Susan was beyond question the beauty of Sutherland.Her eyes, very dark at birth, had changed to a soft, dreamy violet-gray.Hair and coloring, lashes and eyebrows remained dark; thus her eyes and the intense red of her lips had that vicinage of contrast which is necessary to distinction.To look at her was to be at once fascinated by those violet-gray eyes--by their color, by their clearness, by their regard of calm, grave inquiry, by their mystery not untouched by a certain sadness.She had a thick abundance of wavy hair, not so long as Ruth's golden braids, but growing beautifully instead of thinly about her low brow, about her delicately modeled ears, and at the back of her exquisite neck.Her slim nose departed enough from the classic line to prevent the suggestion of monotony that is in all purely classic faces.Her nostrils had the sensitiveness that more than any other outward sign indicates the imaginative temperament.Her chin and throat--to look at them was to know where her lover would choose to kiss her first.
When she smiled her large even teeth were dazzling.And the smile itself was exceedingly sweet and winning, with the violet-gray eyes casting over it that seriousness verging on sadness which is the natural outlook of a highly intelligent nature.For while stupid vain people are suspicious and easily offended, only the intelligent are truly sensitive--keenly susceptible to all sensations.The dull ear is suspicious; the acute ear is sensitive.
The intense red of her lips, at times so vivid that it seemed artificial, and their sinuous, sensitive curve indicated a temperament that was frankly proclaimed in her figure--sensuous, graceful, slender--the figure of girlhood in its perfection and of perfect womanhood, too--like those tropical flowers that look innocent and young and fresh, yet stir in the beholder passionate longings and visions.Her walk was worthy of face and figure--free and firm and graceful, the small head carried proudly without haughtiness.
This physical beauty had as an aureole to illuminate it and to set it off a manner that was wholly devoid of mannerisms--of those that men and women think out and exhibit to give added charm to themselves--tricks of cuteness, as lisp and baby stare;tricks of dignity, as grave brow and body always carried rigidly erect; tricks of sweetness and kindliness, as the ever ready smile and the warm handclasp.Susan, the interested in the world about her, Susan, the self-unconscious, had none of these tricks.She was at all times her own self.Beauty is anything but rare, likewise intelligence.But this quality of naturalness is the greatest of all qualities.It made Susan Lenox unique.
It was not strange--nor inexcusable that the girls and their parents had begun to pity Susan as soon as this beauty developed and this personality had begun to exhale its delicious perfume.
It was but natural that they should start the whole town to "being kind to the poor thing." And it was equally the matter of course that they should have achieved their object--should have impressed the conventional masculine mind of the town with such a sense of the "poor thing's" social isolation and "impossibility" that the boys ceased to be her eagerly admiring friends, were afraid to be alone with her, to ask her to dance.
