“Nothing makes me doubt that like your saying it, Mr. Beaton. But now you’ve broken your word—”
“You are to blame for that. You knew I couldn’t keep it!”
“Yes, I’m to blame. I was wrong to let you come—after that. And so I forgive you for speaking to me in that way again. But it’s perfectly impossible and perfectly useless for me to hear you anymore on that subject; and so—goodbye!”
She rose, and he perforce with her. “And do you mean it?” he asked. “Forever?”
“Forever. This is truly the last time I will ever see you if I can help it. Oh, I feel sorry enough for you!” she said, with a glance at his face. “I do believe you are in earnest. But it’s too late now. Don’t let us talk about it anymore! But we shall, if we meet, and so—”
“And so goodbye! Well, I’ve nothing more to say, and I might as well say that. I think you’ve been very good to me. It seems to me as if you had been—shall I say it?—trying to give me a chance. Is that so?”
She dropped her eyes and did not answer.
“You found it was no use! Well, I thank you for trying. It’s curious to think that I once had your trust, your regard, and now I haven’t it. You don’t mind my remembering that I had? It’ll be some little consolation, and I believe it will be some help. I know I can’t retrieve the past now. It is too late. It seems too preposterous—perfectly lurid—that I could have been going to tell you what a tangle I’d got myself in, and to ask you to help untangle me. I must choke in the infernal coil, but I’d like to have the sweetness of your pity in it—whatever it is.”
She put out her hand. “Whatever it is, I do pity you; I said that.”
“Thank you.” He kissed the hand she gave him and went.
He had gone on some such terms before; was it now for the last time? She believed it was. She felt in herself a satiety, a fatigue, in which his good looks, his invented airs and poses, his real trouble, were all alike repulsive. She did not acquit herself of the wrong of having let him think she might yet have liked him as she once did; but she had been honestly willing to see whether she could. It had mystified her to find that when they first met in New York, after their summer in St. Barnaby, she cared nothing for him; she had expected to punish him for his neglect, and then fancy him as before, but she did not. More and more she saw him selfish and mean, weak-willed, narrow-minded, and hard-hearted; and aimless, with all his talent. She admired his talent in proportion as she learned more of artists, and perceived how uncommon it was; but she said to herself that if she were going to devote herself to art, she would do it at firsthand. She was perfectly serene and happy in her final rejection of Beaton; he had worn out not only her fancy, but her sympathy, too.
This was what her mother would not believe when Alma reported the interview to her; she would not believe it was the last time they should meet; death itself can hardly convince us that it is the last time of anything, of everything between ourselves and the dead. “Well, Alma,” she said, “I hope you’ll never regret what you’ve done.”
“You may be sure I shall not regret it. If ever I’m low-spirited about anything, I’ll think of giving Mr. Beaton his freedom, and that will cheer me up.”
“And don’t you expect to get married? Do you intend to be an old maid?” demanded her mother, in the bonds of the superstition women have so long been under to the effect that every woman must wish to get married, if for no other purpose than to avoid being an old maid.
“Well, mamma,” said Alma, “I intend being a young one for a few years yet; and then I’ll see. If I meet the right person, all well and good; if not, not. But I shall pick and choose, as a man does; I won’t merely be picked and chosen.”
“You can’t help yourself; you may be very glad if you are picked and chosen.”
“What nonsense, mamma! A girl can get any man she wants, if she goes about it the right way. And when my ‘fated fairy prince’ comes along, I shall just simply make furious love to him and grab him. Of course, I shall make a decent pretence of talking in my sleep. I believe it’s done that way more than half the time. The fated fairy prince wouldn’t see the princess in nine cases out of ten if she didn’t say something; he would go mooning along after the maids of honor.”
Mrs. Leighton tried to look unspeakable horror; but she broke down and laughed. “Well, you are a strange girl, Alma.”
“I don’t know about that. But one thing I do know, mamma, and that is that Prince Beaton isn’t the F.F.P. for me. How strange you are, mamma! Don’t you think it would be perfectly disgusting to accept a person you didn’t care for, and let him go on and love you and marry you? It’s sickening.”
“Why, certainly, Alma. It’s only because I know you did care for him once—”
“And now I don’t. And he didn’t care for me once, and now he does. And so we’re quits.”
“If I could believe—”
“You had better brace up and try, mamma; for as Mr. Fulkerson says, it’s as sure as guns. From the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he’s loathsome to me;
