A Few Short Sketches | Page 2

While we were driving to the ball I asked her about the perfumed
gloves with an odor like sandal-wood or like ottar of roses. She said
they had been sent her from Paris, but they were in all the shops, were
pleasant, but not rare. She said nothing about the violets, nor did I
mention them again. Yielding to an impulse, I had before we left the
house thrust them into my waistcoat pocket when she had turned to
take up the flowing silk of her train.
All the evening I could catch the odor of those Russian violets that had
been lightly worn, indifferently cast aside, and smothered by those
artificial creatures, the perfumed gloves, for they were jealous of the
natural fragrance and would have killed it if they could.
All the evening I found myself nervously looking about for Russian
violets, but there were none to be seen. Miss Bolton wore violets, but
not the deep, dark, wide and sad-eyed violet known as the Russian.
We had a curious talk, driving home, about the responsibility of human
action--hardly the kind of conversation for "after the ball." Miss
Caddington astonished me by saying that she considered it useless to
strive against the current of that which is called "Destiny;" that it was
better to yield gracefully than to awkwardly, unsuccessfully struggle
against the tide. I was deeply interested, and asked her what she meant,
what association of ideas had produced the speech.
"For instance," she said, "if a man who fancies himself in love with me

deliberately dictates a certain course of action which I do not care to
follow, and grows angry with me, and finally breaks with me altogether,
I certainly do not in any way feel responsible for any of his subsequent
movements. Am I right?"
In parting with her, and in answer to her question, I made, as we so
often make in reply to real questions, a foolish answer:
"I will tell you on New Year's night."
* * * * *
I drove to the club. I was aglow with my enjoyment of the evening, and
wanted to talk it over with some congenial fellow. I found John
Hardisty, a man that I had known for many years, and who always
seemed to enjoy my rambling accounts--even of a ball.
Hardisty was a quiet man, keenly observant of people, but himself free
almost entirely from observation. In the financial world he held a
clerical but valuable position; in the social world, being a gentleman
and a club man, he was invited everywhere; and, being very punctilious
about his calls and social obligations, he was always invited again.
People in recounting those who had been at balls, dinners, and the like,
always named the guests, then added, "And Hardisty, I believe." No
one was ever very sure. He had no intimate friends and no enemies--he
was not noticed enough to inspire dislike. But he was a man of positive
opinion, which he generally kept to himself. He had settled convictions,
which he never used to unsettle others. I had known him in his old
home, Virginia; so perhaps he felt more friendly toward me and talked
more freely with me.
He was a man of a fine sentiment and a sensitive nature. He ought to
have been a poet instead of a clerical expert. He was intensely fond of
flowers, but never wore them. He used to say that it was heresy for a
man to wear a flower, and sacrilege for a woman to let them die on her
breast.
When I told him about those Russian violets he seemed interested, but,

when I finished, astonished and grieved me by yawning in my face and
calmly stating that he considered the story trivial, far-fetched, and, in
short, stupid.
"There is," he said, "only one thing for us to do--have a drink and go to
bed--for the club closes in ten minutes." He ordered a small bottle of
wine, something I had never seen him drink, and talked in a light,
nonsensical strain, for him a most unusual thing. In telling the story I
had drawn out the little bunch of Russian violets and placed them on
the table. They were very much wilted, but the odor seemed stronger
and sweeter than ever. When we parted for the night I forgot the violets.
The next day, the twenty-ninth of December, I did not see John
Hardisty, although he was at his office and in the club that night, and
insisted on paying his account for December and his dues to April first.
December thirtieth he was at his office, where he remained until nearly
midnight. He went to his room, which was near the club, and was found
by his servant, early the next morning,