“Bles, almost thou persuadest me—to
be a fool. Now go.”
Thirty
“I never realized before just what a lie meant,”
said Zora.
The paper in Mrs. Vanderpool’s hands fell quickly
to her lap, and she gazed across the toilet-table.
As she gazed that odd mirage of other days haunted
her again. She did not seem to see her maid,
nor the white and satin morning-room. She saw,
with some long inner sight, a vast hall with mighty
pillars; a smooth, marbled floor and a great throng
whose silent eyes looked curiously upon her.
Strange carven beasts gazed on from a setting of rich,
barbaric splendor and she herself—the Liar—lay
in rags before the gold and ivory of that lofty throne
whereon sat Zora.
The foolish phantasy passed with the second of time
that brought it, and Mrs. Vanderpool’s eyes
dropped again to her paper, to those lines,—
“The President has sent the following nominations
to the Senate ... To be ambassador to France,
John Vanderpool, Esq.”
The first feeling of triumph thrilled faintly again
until the low voice of Zora startled her. It
was so low and calm, it came as though journeying
from great distances and weary with travel.
“I used to think a lie a little thing, a convenience;
but now I see. It is a great No and it kills
things. You remember that day when Mr. Easterly
called?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Vanderpool, faintly.
“I heard all he said. I could not help
it; my transom was open. And then, too, after
he mentioned—Mr. Alwyn’s name, I wanted
to hear. I knew that his appointment would cost
you the embassy—unless Bles was tempted
and should fall. So I came to you to say—to
say you mustn’t pay the price.”
“And I lied,” said Mrs. Vanderpool.
“I told you that he should be appointed and
remain a man. I meant to make him see that he
could yield without great cost. But I let you
think I was giving up the embassy when I never intended
to.”
She spoke coldly, yet Zora knew. She reached
out and took the white, still hands in hers, and over
the lady’s face again flitted that stricken
look of age.
“I do not blame you,” said Zora gently.
“I blame the world.”
“I am the world,” Mrs. Vanderpool uttered
harshly, then suddenly laughed. But Zora went
on:
“It bewildered me when I first read the news
early this morning; the world—everything—seemed
wrong. You see, my plan was all so splendid.
Just as I turned away from him, back to my people,
I was to help him to the highest. I was so afraid
he would miss it and think that Right didn’t
win in Life, that I wrote him—”
“You wrote him? So did I.”
Zora glanced at her quickly.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Vanderpool. “I
thought I knew him. He seemed an ordinary, rather
priggish, opinionated country boy, and I wrote and
said—Oh, I said that the world is the world;
take it as it is. You wrote differently, and
he obeyed you.”
