Part 19 (1/2)

”I am well.”

”And happy? But there, that is hardly a safe topic, is it?”

A sudden light came into her eyes, making them warm and softly bright.

She smiled at him with a fresh, almost childlike enthusiasm. ”Yes, I'm happy,” she said, ”happier than I've ever been in all my life. Why, Cresswell, it's been fun, fun. There's been lots of work, and lots of planning, but nevertheless, I've never enjoyed anything so much in my life. Often I go to bed at night tired out, but it's always with a comforting sense of satisfaction. It's all so varied and interesting, you know, but it isn't that that makes me happy.” She clasped her hands and looked up at him with an unconscious appeal for sympathy and understanding in her eyes. ”It's better than that, better than anything else. It's meant success, think of it, success. Not a horrid, little picayune one either, but a nice, big one.”

He leaned forward and looked at her curiously as if he really saw her for the first time.

”Why, Dita,” he exclaimed, ”has it meant so much to you as that?”

”Indeed, yes.” There was ardor, fervor in her answering exclamation. ”I can not tell you how much. I believe I was really morbid on the subject.

I believed in failure as a real atmosphere always encompa.s.sing me. I had all manner of superst.i.tions, beliefs about it. I believed that with all my strength and youth and energy, I was yet doomed by fate to a tomb of inaction. I seemed so futile, so ineffective. With a restless, active brain I accomplished nothing. You see that was such a dreadful experience, my attempt to earn my living before I married you, and I was so ignorant and inexperienced of every condition of life in which I found myself, that it prevented me from striking out boldly, from believing in myself. So I made the fatal mistake of beginning small, and began to paint all those wretched little articles, and it wasn't my _metier_ at all, Cresswell, really it wasn't, so, naturally, I failed.

And,” as if it had suddenly occurred to her, ”I have found it so interesting to dress Miss Fleming. Designing her costumes has been fascinating.”

”That was a very wonderful and a very clever thing of you to do, Perdita.” There was a tone in his voice she did not understand. She began to praise Fuschia and he leaned back in his chair listening. She could see the mere gleam of his eyes between his almost closed lids. She wondered if he had really heard one word she had said. In reality he was bestowing upon her such attention and study as he had never dreamed of giving her before. She felt, however, in spite of his apparent indifference, that he was so far in sympathy with her, that she was impelled in spite of herself to continue her confidences.

”Do you know, Cresswell, it's a horrible thing to be considered a beauty. Oh, you may laugh,” he could not help his mirth. ”I know beauty is supposed to be the heart's desire of every woman; but there are many drawbacks. Every one, without exception, takes it for granted that you are a fool. Your sense is always considered in reverse ratio to your good looks, and then, it's such an uncertain thing. Just when you need it most to console you for the disappointments and disillusions of life, it departs, and horrid things, wrinkles and gray hairs, take its place.”

”Perdita! What an absurd creature you are!”

”Ah, Cresswell,” her tone was pensive. ”You have always been successful.

You can not imagine what failure feels like, that deadening, hopeless sensation.” She was vehement enough now.

”Can I not?” At last he lifted his drooping lids and looked straight at her. ”My dear Dita, I can give you cards and spades on every emotion of failure you have ever felt. I recall one case in particular, where I failed so conspicuously and brilliantly, that I am overcome with surprise at my own stupidity every time I think of it. But as you have been talking that case has reverted again and again to my mind, and it has struck me that there is still a chance that I pursued the wrong tactics.”

She drew back wounded. He had then, as she had once or twice suspected, not been listening to a word she said, and how his cold face had glowed at the mere thought of retrieving a business blunder.

Hepworth got up and began walking about the room. ”And Gresham, what of him?” he asked presently, breaking the silence which had fallen between them.

”He is quite well, I believe,” she was furious at the conscious note which crept into her voice, at the scarlet which flew to her cheek, but one thing she had never been able to endure and that was any evidence of cowardice in herself. She lifted her eyes bravely to his and held them there. ”He has been in town since January,” she said. ”I have seen him very often.”

”Ah, painting as brilliantly as ever, I dare say? A genius, Eugene!

Unquestionably.”

Again silence fell between them, and lasted until she broke it with the constrained question: ”Are you--are you going to be here for some time now?”

”No, I shall have to be in London more or less during the summer, but I have some matters which must be attended to first. By the way,” as if struck by a sudden thought, ”what are your plans for the summer?”

”I have made none. I have not even thought of such things yet. I dare say I shall go somewhere for a bit of a change, but,” with a smile, ”business is so very brisk.”

He laughed and took one or two more turns up and down the room.

”Dita, do you remember that I told you once that you were a remarkably clever woman? Well, I merely wish to call that fact to your attention, and reiterate my statement. Oh, I must tell you, I have a new amulet, a wonder. I will tell you the history of it when you have more time. You have the case in your keeping have you not? And the tray with the one empty s.p.a.ce?”

The blood rushed to her face. ”I have the case,” she said coldly. ”It is locked in my safe here. Do you wish it now?”

”No,” he shook his head. ”Wait until I bring the amulet. May I bring it late Wednesday afternoon? And why not dine with me then? Say you will, Dita. Give the world something to talk of, something to puzzle over.”