The Bacillus of Beauty
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Harriet Stark >> The Bacillus of Beauty
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"Are they looking at us? We must stop," I whispered.
"Looking at you, not us. But don't stop; not yet--Helen!"
"Helen!" He had called my name! My eyes must have shown with bliss and
terror. I had an almost overmastering desire to whisper his name also, to
answer the entreaty of his voice, the clasp of his fingers. But I forced
myself to remember how many eyes were watching.
"I--we must stop," I said.
"Not yet; unless--we shall dance together again?"
I scarcely heard the "yes" I breathed. I shouldn't have known what I had
said but for the sudden light in his eyes, the firmer pressure of his arm.
My feet didn't seem to touch the floor, as he gently constrained me when I
would have ceased to dance, and kept me circling round with him until we
came opposite my seat; then he put me into it as naturally as if I had
been tired.
Tired! Our faces told--they must have told our story. But the others were
blind--blind! John had risen as if to meet us, but if he took note at all
of my flushed face, he doubtless thought me frightened.
It was exultation, not fright. I did not heed the following eyes, when, as
gliding figures began to cover the floor again, John took me back to the
parlours. I went with him submissively; I thought of nothing but the joy
of my life, the love of my lover. I shall think of nothing else to the end
of my days.
Ned went with me, confused and impulsive and ardent as John was attentive
and curiously formal. But I wasn't allowed to remain with either of them.
I didn't wish to do so. I was glad that people crowded about me--men in
black coats all alike, whose talk was as monotonous as their broad
expanses of shirt front or their cat's eye finger rings. But I tried to
listen and answer that I might hide from John my tumult.
Before long I danced again--this time with some black coat; then with
another and another and another; and, at last, once more with Ned.
We scarcely spoke, but he did not hide from me the fervour of his look,
nor I from him the wild joy of mine. There was no need of words when all
was understood, but as he put his arm around me, the tinkling music
receded until I could hardly hear it, the figures about us grew
indistinct--and in all the world there were left only he and I.
"Once there was another Helen," he said. His voice caressed my name.
"There have been many; which Helen?"
I so loved the word as he had spoken it that I must repeat it after him.
"_The_ Helen; there was never another--until you. She was terrible as
an army with banners; fair as the sea or the sunset. Men fought for her;
died for her. She had hair that meshed hearts and eyes that smote.
Sometimes I think--do you believe in soul transmigration?"
My heart beat until it choked me. Some voice far in the depths of my soul
warned me that I must check him--we must wait until I--he--Milly--
"Sometimes; who does not? But Prof. Darmstetter would say that it was
nonsense," I whispered, and waited without power to say another word.
"It is true; Helen is alive again, and all men worship her."
His eyes were so tenderly regardful that--I could not help it. Once more I
raised mine and we read each other's souls. And the music seized us and
swept us away with its rapture and its mystery.
The rest of the evening comes to me like a dream, through which I floated
in the breath of flowers and the far murmur of unheeded talk. I saw
little, heard little, yet was faintly conscious that I was the lodestar of
all glances and exulting in my triumph. It was marvellous!
I didn't dance much. People don't at New York balls. But whether I danced
or talked with tiresome men, my heart beat violently because he would see
the admiration I won--he would know that I, who was Helen, a Queen to
these others, lived only for him, was his slave.
There was supper, served at an endless number of little tables; there was
a cotillon which I danced with Mr. Bellmer. John stayed in the parlours
with Aunt, and Ned danced with Milly, but I was not jealous.
Jealous of Milly, with her thin shoulders rising out of her white dress,
her colourless eyes and her dull hair dressed like mine with roses?
Jealous, when his glance ever sought me; when, as often as we approached
in a figure, if I spoke, his eyes answered; if I turned away my face, his
grew heavy with pain?
Once in the dance I gave a hand to each of them. His burned like my own;
hers was cold.
"Tired, Milly?" I asked, and indeed I meant kindly.
"No," she said sulkily, turning to the next dancer.
I couldn't even pity her, I was so happy.
I couldn't bear to have the beautiful evening end, and yet I was glad to
go home--to be alone.
When John lifted me from the carriage, his clasp almost crushed my hand;
poor John, how he will feel the blow! I didn't wait to say good-night to
Aunt; I didn't look at Milly, but ran away to my room.
Oh, indeed, the child doesn't love him! Milly knows no more about Love
than I did two months ago. She's bloodless, cold; I do not wrong her. Some
day she will learn what Love is, as I have learned, and will thank me for
saving her from a great mistake. I hope she will!
I have saved myself from the error of my life. I'm not the same woman I
was yesterday. It makes me blush to think how I looked forward to the
adulation of the nobodies at that dance. I care for no praise but his.
Why, I'll go in rags, I'll work, slave--I'll hide myself from every eye
but his, if that will make him love me better. Or I will be Empress of
beautiful women, if that is his pleasure, and give him all an Empress's
love.
I couldn't sleep last night. I know that he could not. I know that he has
been watching, waiting, as I have, for to-day, when he must come to me.
CHAPTER VIII.
A LITTLE BELTED EARL.
Feb. 4.
Five wasted days; and nothing more to tell, though some women mightn't
think so; nothing but--another triumph!
I've been to the Charity Ball. I've danced with a Lord--such a little
fellow to be a belted Earl! I have scored over brilliant women of Society.
It isn't the simple country girl of a few weeks ago whom Ned loves, but a
wonderful woman--a Personage; and I am glad, glad, glad! Though no woman
could be good enough for him. I'm not; I am only beautiful enough. And oh,
so feverishly happy, except that waiting is hard, so hard. I'm so restless
that I scarcely know myself.
If I might tell him that I love him--as other Queens do! I am afraid of
his glance when he is here, because he knows. But when he's not here, I
imagine that he does not know, that he will never come again unless he
learns the truth, and I say it over and over: "I love him! I love him!"
and am glad and panic-stricken as if he had heard.
I have never had any other secret, but the Bacillus, I would sooner die
than tell that, to Ned. My love I would cry aloud, but I cannot until he
speaks, and he cannot speak until--has Milly no pride?
I thought--I thought that the very day after the dance--why, I could have
rubbed my eyes, when I went down to a late breakfast, to find Mrs. Baker
chirping with sleepy amiability, and Milly doling out complacent gossip to
Ethel. The very sky had fallen for me to gather rainbow gold--and here we
were living prose again, just as before.
I had struggled with my joy through all the short night, for I had
imagined them suffering and angry; but I do believe that on the whole
Milly had enjoyed the dance, and liked to shine even by her reflected
importance as the beautiful Miss Winship's cousin. She had been vexed by
Ned's admiration for me; and yet--and yet she didn't understand. The
stupid! Didn't see that his love is mine.
There may have been a pause as I came, dazzling them like a great rosy
light; but then my aunt stifled a yawn as she said, "Here's Nelly," and
the chatter went on as before.
But I didn't hear it. Gliding confusedly into a seat, I had opened a note
from John. "--Called West on business; start to-day," it said; and then
indeed I began to feel the tangle, the terrible tangle--my cousins blind,
John gone, when I was counting the minutes until I could see him. Oh, I
must be free! It is his right to know the truth, and--what can Ned say
while I'm affianced? I am Milly's cousin, and he John's friend.
I hurried to escape. I longed to be by myself that I might recall Ned's
every look and word. Without reason--against reason--I felt that at any
minute Ned might come, and waves of happiness and dread and impatience
swept over me, and kept me smiling and singing and running anxiously to my
glass.
Ned loves my beauty; I pulled down my hair and reknotted it and pulled it
down again, fearful--so foolish have I grown--lest I might fail to please
him; and frowned over my dresses and rummaged bureau drawers for ribbons,
until Milly, who had tapped at my door and entered almost without my
notice, asked abruptly:--
"Who's coming?"
"No one; John--no, he's out of town."
I flushed to see her regard the litter about me with calm deliberateness.
"Oh, you don't have to take pains for John," she said with a short laugh.
"But come; Meg's down stairs."
The General had followed Milly up; she whisked into the room, showering me
with congratulations on my success at the dance, she claimed me for a
dinner, a concert--half a dozen engagements.
"Oh, by the way," she said, checking her flood of gossip. "Who d'you
suppose is to be at the Charity Ball? Lord Strathay. You'll talk with a
real Earl, Nelly--for of course he'll ask to be introduced."
"Another dance!" groaned my aunt, who had trotted panting in the General's
wake; "I'm sure I wish I'd never said she might go; I'm as nervous as a
witch after last evening."
Poor Aunt; she looked tired. She's really becoming the great objector.
Such a day as it was! I started at every footstep; my heart gave an absurd
jump at every movement of the door hangings. Of course I knew that Ned
couldn't--that we mustn't see each other until--but Ned is mine; it's so
wonderful that he loves me. If I were Milly, I wouldn't remain an hour--
not a minute!--in such a false position.
Yet the next day passed just like that day, and the next and the next and
the next; every morning a note from John, scrawled on a railway train, and
begging for a line from me. I wrote, poor fellow; so that's settled, and
I'm very sorry for him.
I got rid of one morning by calling on Prof. Darmstetter. It was three
weeks since I had seen him, and he was testy.
"I see much in t'e newspapers about t'e beautiful Mees Veensheep, but v'y
does she neglect our experiment?" he demanded, following me across the
laboratory to my old table. "V'ere are my records, my opportunities for
observation? Has t'e beautiful Mees Veensheep no regard for science?"
"You've always said she hadn't, and pretended to be glad of it; I won't
contradict," I returned. "But hurry up with your records; it doesn't need
science or the newspapers, does it, to tell you that the beautiful Miss
Winship cannot go about very freely?"
"Ach, no," said he humbly; for he could not look upon my face and hold his
anger. "If I haf not alreaty gifen to Mees Veensheep t'e perfect beauty
t'at I promised, I cannot conceive greater perfection. You are satisfied
vit' our vork--vit' me?"
"Yes, I'm satisfied," I said coolly.
Just as soon as I could, I left him. Oh, I ought to be grateful, more than
ever grateful now that the Bacillus has won for me the most blessed of
earth's gifts--the gift of love. But I'm not; I wish I might never again
see Prof. Darmstetter; he reminds me--he makes me feel unreal. As for his
records, the experiment is finished. We have succeeded, and I want to
enjoy our success and forget its processes. And why not? He knows in his
heart that we have no further need of each other.
My real records now are public; the Charity Ball last night added a
brilliant chapter.
The Charity Ball! How calmly I write that! I hope it may be the last
triumph I need to win in public without Ned; but I enjoyed it. There was
no awkward John to spoil my dancing, no jealous Milly, no over-anxious
Aunt. I had Mrs. Marmaduke Van Dam for my chaperon--more the great lady,
with all her thin rigidity, than Mrs. Henry; and for companion the
General, almost as young and light-hearted as I.
And I was mistress of myself, strong and self-contained. Instead of being
confused when all eyes were bent upon me, I had a new feeling of glad
self-command. I felt the rhythm of my flawless beauty, my pure harmonies
of face and form, and found it natural that fine toilets should be foils
to my cheap white dress, and that I should be the centre around which the
great assembly revolved. I'm really getting used to myself.
I danced constantly, danced myself tired, holding warm at my heart this
one thought: that in the morning Ned would read of my triumphs and be
proud of them, and rejoice because she about whom the whole city is
talking thinks only of him.
My partner in the march was "Hughy" Bellmer, as the General calls him; I
begin to know him well. He's harmless, with his drawl and his round pink
face that shines with admiration. Deliciously he patronized the ball.
"Aw, Miss Winship," he said, "too large, too public. People prefer to
dawnce in their own houses."--The ball was at the Waldorf-Astoria.--"The
smaller a dawnce is, the greater it is, don't ye see."
"But aren't any great people here?" I asked demurely. "I am just a country
mouse, and I've really counted on seeing one or two great people, Mr.
Bellmer--besides you, of course."
"The Charity Ball is--aw, y'know, Miss Winship, an institution," he
explained, fairly strutting in his complacency at my deference; "and as an
institution, not as a Society event, ye understand, it is patronized by
the most prominent ladies in the city."
"How good of them!" I cried, laughing.
He was so funny! But he was useful, too; he knew about everybody.
Some of the women I shall remember--Mrs. Sloane Schuyler, leader of the
smallest and most exclusive of Society's many sets--a handsome woman with
well-arched eyebrows; and Mrs. Fredericks, of the same group; sallow, with
great black eyes, talking with tremendous animation; and Mrs. Terry--of
the newly rich; Mr. Bellmer's aunt; dumpy, diamonded and disagreeable-
looking.
"But where are the famous beauties?" I asked eagerly. "Won't they dance,
even for charity, except in their own houses?"
Some of them were there; tall, pale, stylish girls, or women whose
darkened eyes and faces mealy with powder told of a bitter fight with
time. Why, I haven't seen a woman whom I thought beautiful since--since I
became so.
"Aw, Miss Winship, really, y'know, you have no rivals," said my partner.
I hadn't supposed him clever enough to guess what I was thinking.
"Oh, yes I have--one," I said; "isn't there somewhere here a real live
Lord?"
But just then we joined Meg, and it was she who pointed out to me "The
Earl of Strathay--the Twelfth Earl of Strathay," in a whisper of comical
respect and deference.
He wasn't very impressive--just a thin, pale young fellow with a bulbous
head, big above and small below; but I was glad to do Meg a service; for
of course she wished to meet him, and of course Lord Strathay was
presented to the beautiful Miss Winship and her chaperons.
Then I danced with him. I felt as if I were amusing a nice boy; he hardly
came to my shoulder. I asked him if he liked America.
He wasn't too much of a boy to reply:--
"Like is a feeble word to voice one's impressions of the land of lovely
women."
And then he looked at me. Oh, he did admire me immensely, and I took quite
a fancy to him in turn, though it seemed pathetic that such a poor little
fellow--I don't believe he's twenty-one--should carry the weight of his
title. I danced with his cousin, too, a Mr. Poultney; and wherever I went
Strathay's eyes followed me wistfully.
Meg danced with Strathay and amused me by her elation. She hadn't really
recovered from it to-day.
To-day! Blessed to-day! Lord Strathay's only an Earl; to-day there came to
me--Ned! Oh, this has been the gladdest, most provoking day of my life,
for I had only a moment with him.
It was Mrs. Baker's "afternoon," and we had a good many callers; the fame
of my beauty has spread. They gazed furtively at me as they talked and
sipped their tea, and it was all very stupid until--oh, I didn't know how
perturbed, how unhappy I'd been, until--I glanced up for a word with the
General, who came late, and behind her I saw--Him. He came to me as if
there were no one else in the room.
Ah, I have been unhappy! I have known that he would try to keep away from
me. Useless! Useless to fight with love! It's too strong for us. At sight
of him joy like a fire flashed through my veins.
But there were my cousins; there was Meg--she looked at him impatiently, I
fancied, as she has sometimes looked at John. Poor John, it didn't need
her surveillance to break his feeble hold upon my heart. And there they
stayed. They wouldn't go. They stayed, and talked, while I shivered and
grew hot with fear and gladness and the excitement of his presence; they
talked--of all senseless topics--about the ball.
"Why, Mr. Hynes, we've missed you," said Ethel carelessly, at sight of
him. "Oh, Meg, tell us about last night, won't you? Helen's said nothing;
almost nothing at all."
"Oh, what is there to tell?"
It made me impatient. How could I chatter nothings when Ned was by my
side, smiling down at me so confusedly?
"Most girls would find enough! You should have heard the dowagers cluck,
Ethel!" exclaimed the General, her face losing its vexed look at the
thought. "It was bad weather for their broods. You never saw such a
scurrying, pin feathers sticking every which way. The proudest hour of
Hughy Bellmer's life was when the march started, and he walked beside
Helen--same parade as always--through that wide hall between the Astor
gallery and the big ball room; committeemen and patronesses at the head
and the line tailing. You may believe the plumes drooped and the war paint
trickled. Nelly was the only girl looked at. Milly, you should have been
there? Headache? You look pale beside Helen."
"Oh, I don't hope to rival Nelly's colour; she looks like--like somebody's
'_Femme Peinte par Elle-meme_.'" said Milly with a laugh that might
have been innocent. Since Ned's entrance she had grown white and my cheeks
had burned, until there was reason for her jest.
"Is Mr. Bellmer handsome--handsome enough to be Nelly's partner?"
persisted Ethel, impatient for her gossip--to her it's all there is of
gayety. "And is Lord Strathay--nice?"
"Mr. Bellmer's an overgrown cherub with a monocle," I laughed. Ned shall
not think me one of those odious, fortune-hunting girls.
"Hughy's pretty good-looking, Ethie," said Meg, amiably; "and the best
fellow in the world; but probably not of a calibre to interest a college
girl. And Lord Strathay"--the name rolled slowly from her tongue, as if
she were loth to let it go--"is a charming fellow. Just succeeded to the
title. He's travelling with his cousin, the Hon. Stephen Allardyce
Poultney. Nelly danced with him. And did she tell you that Mrs. Sloane
Schuyler begged to have her presented? Sister to a Duchess, you know.
We'll have Helen in London next. Nobody there to compare with her. Just
what Strathay said, I do assure you."
London! Men of title, and great ladies and the glitter of a court! Once I
may have dreamed of power and place and the rustle of trailing robes, and
being admired of all men and hated of all women, but now in my annoyance I
longed to cry out: "Why can't you talk sense? Why babble of such silly
things?"
To make matters worse, Uncle came just in time to hear the General's last
remark.
"I do not think our Princess would leave us," he said, "even if--
'at her feet were laid
The sceptres of the earth exposed on heaps
To choose where she would reign.'"
It was scarcely to be borne. I knew he was thinking of John, and I caught
myself looking down at my hand, praying that Ned might see that I no
longer wore the opal ring.
Then came Aunt Frank with a headache, looking ill enough, indeed; and I
was glad to jump up and serve her some tea.
"Milly has a headache, too," I said; and she looked from Milly's vexed,
cold face to mine, almost peevishly replying:--
"Nothing ever seems to ail you, child."
After all the weary waiting, Ned and I exchanged only a word. But the word
was a delight and a comfort.
More than once the Judge has suggested for me a short absence from the
city to win a respite from the newspapers; and this morning, when he saw
that the _Echo_ had smuggled an East Side girl into the ballroom last
night to tell the Bowery, in Boweryese, how the other half lives, her
descriptions of me so incensed him that he almost insisted upon Aunt's
packing for Bermuda at once. Ned must have heard of that.
"You will not go away?" he said when he took leave of me.
"You know that Uncle--"
"You will not?"
"No."
I couldn't speak steadily. The low, passionate entreaty told me that he
had come to receive that pledge, and I gave it.
Oh, now, now, I cannot be unhappy! I know that he has tried to stay away
from me, and why he has not succeeded. Love has been too mighty for us
both. Love has conquered us, and I--I shall never again be unhappy!
BOOK IV.
THE BRUISING OF THE WINGS.
CHAPTER I.
THE KISS THAT LIED.
East Sixty-seventh Street, Feb. 25.
He said he did not love me.
It is not true. I saw love when he spoke, when he kissed my hands. He does
love me, but he guards a man's honour.
I have broken John's heart, given up my home, estranged my friends; I have
given up even Ned for love of him. But I'd have gone to the ends of the
earth in gladness, I'd have given up for him all else in life--even my
beauty; which is dearer than life.
He'll come to me yet. Milly won't forgive, won't trust. She will not try
to understand. Her only thought will be to hurt, to punish. She'll drive
him to me again; but oh, the shame of taking him so, given to me by her
severity!
I won't believe he doesn't love me.
What have I done to be so tortured? I didn't know it was cruelty not to
break the bond with John earlier; I didn't know I gave him only a girl's
passing fancy.
It was when I met Ned that my heart awoke.
I knew that he was Milly's betrothed and I had not thought of thus
repaying Aunt's kindness. Her kindness! Kind as a stone.
But it wasn't Ned's fault. He couldn't help himself. If he could have left
me alone! If he could only have gone away!
I suppose he tried to control himself, but his eyes glowed when he looked
on me; and I, thinking I knew what love was, because I was affianced, did
not see--did not know what the wild joy meant that his look woke in my
heart.
To keep faith with John and Milly, should I have shunned him? But there
was nothing to warn me; he never spoke of love; I never thought of it. If
he had spoken earlier, I might have known what to do. It might have been
the danger signal. Why could he not have kept away? Why did he not speak a
word of love until it was too late--until--ah, I was so happy!
But he does love me. There's truer speech than that of words, and his
lips--that kissed me, but said he did not love--have told two stories. I
know which to believe!
And Milly knows. She is too wise to contend with Me.
I shall never know what brought Ned to the house--three weeks ago, but I
haven't dared to write of it--I shall never know what happened before I
saw him.
I ran into the library with a song bubbling to my lips--for I was thinking
of him--and the gladness of it was in my eyes when I found him there. He
started and turned to me a face of confusion--yes, and of worship. He
fumbled with a book on the table, and glanced toward the door as if he
would have left me. I saw that, but I didn't think--there was no time to
think, but I must have felt that a crisis had come that would decide our
lives. All the fear, all the sweet shame that I had felt before him
vanished. My heart beat wildly for happiness, but I was calm.
At last we were alone together!
I waited for him to speak. Slowly he turned as my questioning eyes had
willed. His were black with passion and grief. A look of pain contracted
his face, and he said, jerking the words out hoarsely:--
"I'm going away."
The suddenness of it almost took my breath. I had expected different
words. Indeed his eyes had shot another message; _they_ said that he
would never leave me!
Confused by lips that lied and eyes that confessed, I stammered:--
"Going--not going away? Why? Why should you go?"
I couldn't keep appeal out of my tone, and I could see him brace himself
to resist. I think I knew that, if he could, he meant to sacrifice our
love to John and Milly. I think I had seen this earlier; but I had thought
the struggle past when he came to me and begged me not to leave the city.
But perhaps, this time, I didn't understand him; perhaps I was simply
confused by his distress.
I thought he tried in vain to look away from me. Then he moved a step
nearer, slowly, as if reluctant. His face was haggard.
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