Of Beauty

by Dorothea Deakin

OF BEAUTY

BY DOROTHEA DEAKIN

Author of "Georgie"

ROSETTE sat enthroned in her high-backed chair, and I from my my usual place gazed and gazed again. Her beautiful, delicate white gown gleamed rose-colored when she moved, and when the light changed on the shimmering satin folds. There was a pink hollyhock bloom in her black hair, and her eyes were maddening; her cheeks were most exquisitely flushed.

"Oh, Rosette, why are you so very, very beautiful?" said I, sorrowfully. She smiled divinely.

"Am I? More than usual, Jerry? Is it my new gown, do you suppose?"

"It's everything," said I, hopelessly; for, indeed, it was not fair. "And it's cruel, wicked, unsportsmanlike of you. Rosette."

"It's a woman's sacred duty to make the most of the looks God gave her," said she, softly.

"Then in this at least you are a dutiful child," I admitted sullenly.

"It's not entirely the result of cultivation," said she, humbly; "you must admit that I've a good deal of capital, Jerry."

I looked at her cheeks and lips and hair and eyes, and silently assented.

"I'm not a made-up thing," cried she, hurt. "It's not kind of you, Jerry, to suggest that I depend upon powder and paint for the effect!"

"Don't!" said I, and my tone was enough, for she smiled again.

"Most women do," said she. "If you only knew! Women aren't as beautiful as they used to be. They can't be. More of them are pretty and attractive, because they can hide their ugly foreheads with hair now, and have their faces massaged when wrinkles begin. But I don't think the really lovely ones are either so many or so lovely. Do you?"

I looked at her, and answered only with my eyes.

"Now, in the old days—you remember how the beautiful Misses Gunning had to be guarded by soldiers when they walked in the park. And even Lucille's grandmother—you've heard that story, haven't you?"

"No," said I, to please her.

"Well, she was walking with her sister in Plymouth town, and, as they passed a group of officers, they heard one of them say: 'By God! they're painted!' 'No; sir,' said Lucille's grandmother, turning and sweeping a curtsey—'painted by God.'"

"It's a very good story," said I, gloomily.

"You're not very cheerful company to-night, Jerry." She smiled at me. How could I be cheerful when I loved her so, and knew so well that she was not for me? She looked at me steadily for a minute or two.

"Beauty in some ways is a handicap," she said slowly. "Do you know, Jerry, that it seems to me almost as humiliating to be loved for one's beauty as for one's money. And it gives false values for a short time. Money, after all, doesn't vanish like one's good looks, with years. How is one to know what one will have left when one's beauty goes? Oh, Jerry,"—her voice almost broke,—"shall I, do you think—shall I have anything at all when—when—"

"Rosette!" I caught her hand, but she took it gently away. She always does.

"You've heard me speak of my sister Penelope?" said she.

"Yes, of course." I sank back to my lowly seat with a sigh.

"She was the beauty, you know, the flower of the flock. She's ten years older than I, and she's been married six years. I adored her, and I never see her now; for she married quite a poor mail, and lives at the other end of the world."

"She married for love, didn't she?" I asked, looking wistfully at Rosette.

"Yes—poor darling." Rosette spoke in a low voice. "She was very, very beautiful, Jerry. The Sargent picture of her only half shows how lovely she was. I adored her, and so did most other people. But—if you can imagine such a thing—she was sick to death of admiration, and she wanted to be loved for herself, not for her pretty face. It—it really worried her, Jerry, to be so handicapped by her looks. Daddy wanted her to make a good marriage, and when Sir John Myles proposed to her—by letter, both he and mother did their best to make her say yes. But you see, Dick, our second cousin—Dick Carey—wrote the same day, and he was very poor—as poor—as poor as—"

"As I?" I asked sadly.

"Well, hardly that; but still unspeakably poor. And Penelope liked them both tremendously. She liked Sir John because he was so trustworthy and good and kind and all that sort of thing. She said he was a perfect rock of silent strength. But she liked Dick, too. Principally I think because he was Dick, and because he was always there when he was wanted—just as you are, Jerry."

"Rosette!" I half rose from my seat.

"Poor Penelope!" said Rosette, wistfully. "She did have a wretched time trying to decide. She used to talk to me about it, because she said I was so wise for my age. I've always been considered wise, Jerry."

"Go on," said I.

"I advised her strongly to marry Sir John. 'He has all the strength of character,' said I, 'and all the brains.' 'But Dick is such a dear,' said she, 'and so handsome.' Penelope had no balance, you see. 'If you intend to go by mere beauty,' said I to her, 'take your precious Dick then, and starve with him.' 'I don't want to starve,' she said. 'And Sir John is so strong.' That was the way it went on for weeks. I didn't point out to her that Sir John was rich as well as strong, and that he could give her comfort, which, in nine cases out of ten, means happiness; for I knew she had no sense of proportion. When I asked her which she really loved, she said she loved them both, in utterly different ways. You may think this is impossible, Jerry, but I assure you that it is not. I know by experience."

"You do, do you?" said I, savagely.

"And then at last," she continued, "I had a really brilliant idea, though if I'd known how it would work out, I'd have thought twice before—'Penelope,' said I, 'have you ever thought of wondering which of them loves you best?' She said she never had. She supposed they both did as much as was humanly possible. But it set her thinking, and then there was that awful accident with the lamp, and her arms were so badly burned, and the fright made her ill for some time. And every day the two men brought fruit and flowers and sweets for her; but they were not allowed to see her. It was one day, when she was sitting up for the first time, doing her hair before the glass (her hair was auburn, you know, not black like mine and James's), that she leaned her elbows on the dressing-table and said, staring into the glass: 'If my face had been scarred. Rosette!' I didn't say anything, for it hadn't, you see. 'If I had been disfigured,' she said in a queer voice, 'I shouldn't have to make up my mind about—about'—'Marriage?' I asked her. 'They only love my pretty face. Rosette,' she said in such a pitiful voice that I wanted to cry. I told her that it was all nonsense, that men were not such fools; that they loved her because she was such a dear, and for her pretty ways, and any nonsense that happened to come into my head. I was an ignorant little girl then, Jerry, with a head full of fairy-tales. But she didn't seem to listen, and sat silent for a long time. Then she told me."

"What?" I asked.

"She was going to try their love," she said. "She was going to bandage her face, and cover up her hair, and pretend she was disfigured for life. She said she could never marry a man who wouldn't go on loving her when she was old and plain."

"What did you say?" I asked, with interest.

Rosette frowned.

"Oh, I was silly first, and agreed with her that it was a splendid idea. Then I thought it over, and, young as I was, I knew that no man could stand the test. I begged her to give it up. But of course that made her all the more determined, and she, did it. I helped her. We chose a day when every one else was out, and I wrote a little note to each of them, making appointments for both; Sir John first, and Dick afterward. And we kept the servants out of the room, and drew the blinds, and she sat in a corner of the sofa, all bandaged and horrible, with her hair screwed into a tight knot at the back.

"Sir John came first, and I waited and waited, and presently he went down-stairs with the most miserable face I have ever seen. I was peeping over the banisters, and I heard him swearing softly to himself all the way down the stairs. Poor Penelope! I rushed up-stairs and found her in tears. 'What? what?' I cried. She couldn't speak for a long time, but at last I made her. 'He says he loves me for the beauties of my mind and disposition,'—she was sobbing dreadfully,—'but I saw the truth in his eyes. Rosette!'

"'Brute!' said I. 'And you're going on with it? With Dick?' She buried her head into the cushions and just cried., I went away into the garden. You see, I knew that it would be better for her if she were disillusioned about Dick. In half an hour I heard him come striding up the drive, and I waited there under the trees for him to go away again. I waited an hour, two hours, too excited to read, and then I went in."

"He'd stood the test, I suppose," said I, triumphantly, for my sympathies were naturally with the undeserving poor.

Rosette laughed.

"What do you suppose had happened?" said she.

"I suppose he behaved like a decent chap," said I, quickly. "I suppose he took the girl in his arms and told her that he wanted her more than ever now, as I should have done if—"

Rosette shook her head and stopped me.

"When I went into the drawing-room, there was Penelope, in her prettiest dress! The bandages had gone, it seemed, and I've never seen her look more lovely or more ashamed. 'When—' I began, 'Before he came,' she said. 'When it came to the point, I couldn't face a look like—like—in Dick's eyes.' And there he stood beside her, his arm round her waist, Jerry, and her silly head on his shoulder. That's all. You know the rest. 'We're going to starve together,' Penelope said, and I couldn't have believed that such a prospect could make any one look so happy as it did those two."

"Has the happiness lasted?" I asked slowly.

"I never see them," Rosette said thoughtfully. "You see, they still live at the other end of nowhere, because they're still—"

"Happy?"

"Starving," said Rosette.