She believed she could hope for nothing from him;and yet,did not that belief leave her hopeless?To what else,to whom else could she turn?Nothing else,no one else then seemed to promise any help,any happiness.Her wretched experience had come as unexpectedly as one of those mysterious waves that sweep the sunny shore of Peru.
Whither it would carry her she did not know,but every moment separated her more hopelessly from him who appeared like an immovable rock in his quiet strength.
She was turning despondently away when she heard Jennie Burton's voice,and a moment later that young lady mounted the adjacent steps and said to Van Berg:
"See what a prize I captured at this late season.Roses early in August are like hidden treasures.See,they are genuine hybrids.
Have I not had rare good fortune?"
Van Berg rose at once,and met her at the top of the steps;and Ida,who still remained unseen in the hall,now stepped forward into the doorway,so that she might not seem a furtive listener,as he was standing with his back towards her.
"Had I my way,Miss Burton,"said the artist,"you should have this rare good fortune every day of the year."She blushed slightly,and said,rather coldly,"Good evening,Miss Mayhew,"thus rendering Van Berg aware of the latter's presence.
The artist only frowned,and gave no other recognition of Ida's proximity.
"Since you can't have your way,I shall make the most of my present good fortune.Is not that a beautiful cluster?""It is indeed,with one exception.Do you not see that this defective bud mars the beauty of all the others?""A 'worm I'the bud fell on its damask cheek.'I took it out and killed it,and was in hopes that if I placed the injured flower in water with the others it might still make a partial bloom.You will think me absurd when I tell you I felt sorry for it,and thought how many roses and lives would be more perfect were it not for some gnawing 'worm i'the bud.'""The 'worm'in Shakespeare's allusion,"said the artist,lightly,"is redeemed by its association and symbolism;but the one that has been at work here was a disagreeably prosaic thing that you rightly put your foot upon.The bud,as it now appears,suggest the worm more than anything else.So,please,let me cut it out;for art cannot tolerate anything so radically marred and defective.
Its worm-eaten heart spoils the beauty of the entire cluster.""I fear you artists become too critical and exacting.Well,cut it out.I will submit to art in roses,but feel that marred and defective lives should have very different treatment.""That depends.If people persist in cherishing some worm of evil,they cannot expect to be held in the same esteem as those who are aiming at a more perfect development.There,now!does not our cluster appear much better?""Yes;and yet I cannot help feeling sorry for the poor little bud that has missed its one chance to bloom,and all will wither unless I hasten to my room and put them in water."In her prejudice against Ida she had not looked towards her while talking with Van Berg,but in passing,a hasty glance almost caused her to stay and speak to her,for she thought she saw her eyes full of unshed tears.But her glance was brief and her prejudice strong.Miss Burton had not a little of the wholesome feminine intolerance for certain weaknesses in her sex.She would counsel a wife to endure a bad husband with a meek and patient spirit.But gentle as she was,she would scorn the maiden who could be attracted by a corrupt man,and almost loathe her for indulging in such an affinity.She could pity Ida--she could pity any one;but the poor girl's unfortunate association with Sibley,and her seeming interest in him,would subordinate pity to indignation and contempt.
Her thought was this: