Phyllis of Philistia [29]
will understand all. A woman before she loves is--what is she, an egg before it is hatched? That sounds ridiculous. Better say a green chrysalis before it breaks into a butterfly; for the transition comes at once. Theology! Oh, my Phyllis, haven't you read in history, true history--novels written by men who know us and how we were created, and why--haven't you read what women do when they truly love a man? How they fling every consideration to the winds: heaven--home--husband --God--Mrs. Grundy? Theology! Ah, you are a healthy girl. You never cared a scrap for George Holland. You were glad when the excuse presented itself in order to throw him over."
"Yes; I believe that is quite true."
Ella's cry of surprise, and her laugh that followed, shocked her companion, and feeling that this was the case, the one who laughed hastened to make her apologies.
"Don't be annoyed with me, dear," she cried. "But I really couldn't help that laugh when I thought of your earnestness the week before last. Then, you will remember, you were in great pain because of the heterodoxy of George Holland. Didn't I tell you at that time that you had never loved him? You were ready to assure me that you had, and that you were making a great sacrifice to your principles?"
"I remember very well," said Phyllis, with a sound that was not far removed from a sob.
"Ah, you are a puzzle to yourself, you poor little chrysalis," said Ella, putting the meteoric feathers playfully down upon the serious face of Phyllis--its seriousness was apparent beneath the light of the carriage lamp. "No, don't make the attempt to explain anything to me. Don't try to reconcile your frankness now with your pretense then, because you'll certainly make a muddle of it, and because no such attempt is necessary to be made to me. I know something of the girl and her moods--not a great deal, perhaps, but enough to prevent my doing you an injustice. You are perfectly consistent, my Phyllis."
"Oh, consistent?"
"Perfectly consistent with your nature as a girl. It is the nature of a girl to change with every wind that blows. It is only the female prig who acts consistently under all circumstances. In a world the leading of which is its men, inconsistency is the best nature of a healthy girl made to be loved by men. One doesn't sneer at the weathercock because one hour it points to the north and the next to the east. 'Tis its nature to. 'Tis our nature to change with every breeze of man that bears down on us. That's why they love us and detest the prigs. Here we are at your house. I hope you don't keep your maid up for you. I would scorn to keep a girl out of her bed for the sake of brushing my hair. Good-night, dear, and dream of the paradise that awaits you--a paradise in which there are birds to be shot, birds of paradise to make feather fans for women who hold them to their bosoms one minute, and the next dispose of them to Mr. and Mme. Abednego with last season's opera wrap. There's a parable for you to sleep upon."
"And you--you?" cried Phyllis.
"Oh, as for me, I'll, I'll--well, I think I'll put my meteor fan on the pillow beside my own to-night. I'm still newfangled with my toy and--well, I'm a woman."
At this instant the carriage pulled up to Mr. Ayrton's hall door and the footman jumped down from the box to run up the steps and ring the bell.
"Good-night," said Phyllis. "I enjoyed my evening greatly, and the drive home best of all."
Ella Linton's laugh was smothered among the delicate floss of the feathers which she held up to her face.
CHAPTER X.
IT IS THE PRICE OF BLOOD.
Phyllis had a good deal to think of after she had sat for half an hour with her father in the room where they worked together for the discomfiture of the opposite party, and had given him some account of the representation of the play at the Parthenon. Her father was delighted to find her in high spirits. So many people come back from the theater looking glum and worn out, yawning and mumbling when asked what they have seen and what it had all been about. Phyllis
"Yes; I believe that is quite true."
Ella's cry of surprise, and her laugh that followed, shocked her companion, and feeling that this was the case, the one who laughed hastened to make her apologies.
"Don't be annoyed with me, dear," she cried. "But I really couldn't help that laugh when I thought of your earnestness the week before last. Then, you will remember, you were in great pain because of the heterodoxy of George Holland. Didn't I tell you at that time that you had never loved him? You were ready to assure me that you had, and that you were making a great sacrifice to your principles?"
"I remember very well," said Phyllis, with a sound that was not far removed from a sob.
"Ah, you are a puzzle to yourself, you poor little chrysalis," said Ella, putting the meteoric feathers playfully down upon the serious face of Phyllis--its seriousness was apparent beneath the light of the carriage lamp. "No, don't make the attempt to explain anything to me. Don't try to reconcile your frankness now with your pretense then, because you'll certainly make a muddle of it, and because no such attempt is necessary to be made to me. I know something of the girl and her moods--not a great deal, perhaps, but enough to prevent my doing you an injustice. You are perfectly consistent, my Phyllis."
"Oh, consistent?"
"Perfectly consistent with your nature as a girl. It is the nature of a girl to change with every wind that blows. It is only the female prig who acts consistently under all circumstances. In a world the leading of which is its men, inconsistency is the best nature of a healthy girl made to be loved by men. One doesn't sneer at the weathercock because one hour it points to the north and the next to the east. 'Tis its nature to. 'Tis our nature to change with every breeze of man that bears down on us. That's why they love us and detest the prigs. Here we are at your house. I hope you don't keep your maid up for you. I would scorn to keep a girl out of her bed for the sake of brushing my hair. Good-night, dear, and dream of the paradise that awaits you--a paradise in which there are birds to be shot, birds of paradise to make feather fans for women who hold them to their bosoms one minute, and the next dispose of them to Mr. and Mme. Abednego with last season's opera wrap. There's a parable for you to sleep upon."
"And you--you?" cried Phyllis.
"Oh, as for me, I'll, I'll--well, I think I'll put my meteor fan on the pillow beside my own to-night. I'm still newfangled with my toy and--well, I'm a woman."
At this instant the carriage pulled up to Mr. Ayrton's hall door and the footman jumped down from the box to run up the steps and ring the bell.
"Good-night," said Phyllis. "I enjoyed my evening greatly, and the drive home best of all."
Ella Linton's laugh was smothered among the delicate floss of the feathers which she held up to her face.
CHAPTER X.
IT IS THE PRICE OF BLOOD.
Phyllis had a good deal to think of after she had sat for half an hour with her father in the room where they worked together for the discomfiture of the opposite party, and had given him some account of the representation of the play at the Parthenon. Her father was delighted to find her in high spirits. So many people come back from the theater looking glum and worn out, yawning and mumbling when asked what they have seen and what it had all been about. Phyllis