Part 25 (1/2)
Sepia smiled, with her face to the gla.s.s, in which she saw the face of her cousin with her eyes on the fire; but she made no answer. Hesper went on.
”Ah!” she said, ”your story is not mine. You are free; I am a slave.
You are alive; I am in my coffin.”
”That's marriage,” said Sepia, dryly.
”It would not matter much,” continued Hesper, ”if you could have your coffin to yourself; but when you have to share it--ugh!”
”If I were you, then,” said Sepia, ”I would not lie still; I would get up and bite--I mean, be a vampire.”
Hesper did not answer. Sepia turned from the mirror, looked at her, and burst into a laugh--at least, the sound she made had all the elements of a laugh--except the merriment.
”Now really, Hesper, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she cried.
”You to put on the pelican and the sparrow, with all the world before you, and all the men in it at your feet!”
”A pack of fools!” remarked Hesper, with a calmness which in itself was scorn. ”I don't deny it--but amusing fools--you must allow that!”
”They don't amuse me.”
”That's your fault: you won't be amused. The more foolish they are, the more amusing I find them.”
”I am sick of it all. Nothing amuses me. How can it, when there is nothing behind it? You can't live on amus.e.m.e.nt. It is the froth on water an inch deep, and then the mud!”
”I declare, misery makes a poetess of you! But as to the mud, I don't mind a little mud. It is only dirt, and has its part in the inevitable peck, I hope.”
”_I_ don't mind mud so long as you can keep out of it. But when one is over head and ears in it, I should like to know what life is worth,”
said Hesper, heedless that the mud was of her own making. ”I declare, Sepia,” she went on, drawling the declaration, ”if I were to be asked whether I would go on or not--”
”You would ask a little time to make up your mind, Hesper, I fancy,”
suggested Sepia, for Hesper had paused. As she did not reply, Sepia resumed.
”Which is your favorite poison, Hesper?” she said.
”When I choose, it will be to use,” replied Hesper.
”Rhyming, at last!” said Sepia.
But Hesper would not laugh, and her perfect calmness checked the laughter which would have been Sepia's natural response: she was careful not to go too far.
”Do you know, Hesper,” she said, with seriousness, ”what is the matter with you?”
”Tolerably well,” answered Hesper.
”You do not--let me tell you. You are nothing but a baby yet. You have no heart.”
”If you mean that I have never been in love, you are right. But you talk foolishly; for you know that love is no more within my reach than if I were the corpse I feel.”
Sepia pressed her lips together, and nodded knowingly; then, after a moment's pause, said: