"Miss Mayhew is still a maiden free to choose.Shame on her that she chooses so ignobly!Shame on her that she turns her eyes longingly to fetid pools,instead of upward to the breezy hills.
What kind of nature is that which prompts such a choice?"The artist was more capable of Jennie Burton's indignation and contempt than of her pity;and although he knew Ida still stood in the doorway he did not turn to speak to her.His very attitude seemed to indicate to the unhappy girl a haughty indifference,and yet she was so unhappy,so in need of a kind word or reassuring glance that she could not turn away.
"What a wretched mystery it all is,"she thought."I ought to hate,yet I love him.Proud as I have thought myself,I could kneel at his feet for one such word and glance as he just gave Miss Burton.
For contempt I return him honor and admiration.I cannot help myself.By some strange perversity of my heart,I have become his very slave.How can he be so blind!He thinks me pining for a man that I despise and hate more than he ever can,though the fellow attempted his life.Sibley has come between me and that which is more than life--my chance for happiness and right living.
I shall become desperate and bad,like him,if this continues.
How strange it is that some sense,some instinct does not tell him there that the girl who stands so near is lavishing every treasure of her soul upon him!
"That poor little rose-bud represents me to his mind.How ruthlessly he is pulling open its heart!Will he see anything else there save the work of the destroyer?Can it not awaken a thought of pity?
I will--I must speak to him."
She took a hesitating step or two towards him.She could almost hear her heart beat.Twice,thrice,words died upon her lips.
When was she ever so timid before!If he would only give her an encouraging glance!If he would only turn a little towards her and relax that haughty,unbending attitude---"Mr.Van Berg,"she said at last,in a voice that was constrained and hard from her effort to be calm,"you seem very vindictive towards that poor little flower."He turned partially towards her and coldly said,"Good evening Miss Mayhew;"then,after a second,added carelessly:"I admit that this worm-eaten bud is rather vexatious.It has--what is left of it--exquisite color,and in form nature had designed it to be perfect;but"(with a slight contemptuous shrug)"you see what it is,"and he tossed it down into the roadway.
Her face was very pale and her voice low,as she answered:"And so you condemn it to be trampled under foot.""I condemn it!Not at all.Its own imperfection condemns it.""The result is all the same,"she replied,with sudden change of manner."It is tossed contemptuously away to be trodden under foot.Dull and ignorant as you discovered me to be,Mr.Van Berg,I am not so stupid but that I can understand you this evening.
Imperfect as I am I could pity that unfortunate flower whose fragrance rose to you like a low appeal for a little consideration,at least.Would it not have bloomed as perfectly as the others if the worm had let it alone?But,I suppose,with artist,if roses or human lives are imperfect,that is the end of them.Misfortune counts for nothing."Van Berg listened in surprise to these words,and his haughty complacency was decidedly disturbed.He was about to reply that "Evil chosen and cherished was not a misfortune but a fault,"when she turned from him with more than her former coldness and entered the house.
An impulse that he would have found difficult to analyze led him to descend the steps and pick up the symbolic bud,now torn and withering fast,and to place it between the leaves of his note-book.
If she had only seen this act it would have made a great difference;but,ever present to her thought,it lay where he had tossed it,the emblem of herself.