"If only I could give Alice the benefit of my past career," the
Baroness would say to herself at times. "I know so well how to
manage men; but what use is my knowledge to me now that I am old?
Alice is young, and even without beauty she could do so much, if she
only understood the art of masculine seduction. But then it is a
gift, not an acquired art, and Alice was not born with the gift."
While Mabel and Alice had been centring their thoughts and attentions
on the rector, the Baroness had not forgotten the rector's mother.
She knew the very strong affection which existed between the two, and
she had discovered that the leading desire of the young man's heart
was to make his mother happy. With her wide knowledge of human
nature, she had not been long in discerning the fact that it was not
because of his own religious convictions that the rector had chosen
his calling, but to carry out the lifelong wishes of his beloved
mother.
Therefore she reasoned wisely that Arthur would be greatly influenced
by his mother in his choice of a wife; and the Baroness brought all
her vast battery of fascination to bear on Mrs Stuart, and succeeded
in making that lady her devoted friend.
The widow of Judge Lawrence was still an imposing and impressive
figure wherever she went. Though no longer a woman who appealed to
the desires of men, she exhaled that peculiar mental aroma which
hangs ever about a woman who has dealt deeply and widely in affairs
of the heart. It is to the spiritual senses what musk is to the
physical; and while it may often repulse, it sometimes attracts, and
never fails to be noticed. About the Baroness's mouth were hard
lines, and the expression of her eyes was not kind or tender; yet she
was everywhere conceded to be a universally handsome and attractive
woman. Quiet and tasteful in her dressing, she did not accentuate
the ravages of time by any mistaken frivolities of toilet, as so many
faded coquettes have done, but wisely suited her vestments to her
appearance, as the withering branch clothes itself in russet leaves,
when the fresh sap ceases to course through its veins. New York City
is a vast sepulchre of "past careers," and the adventurous life of
the Baroness was quietly buried there with that of many another
woman. In the mad whirl of life there is small danger that any of
these skeletons will rise to view, unless the woman permits herself
to strive for eminence either socially or in the world of art.