My father put back his head and shouted. He thought it was a fine joke. He laughed about it long after my party was over. He thought my head was turned. He laughed about it long after other people had stopped wondering why Gordon went away.
I never told any one why Gordon went away. I might under certain circumstances have told a girl, but it was not the sort of thing one could have told one's mother. This is the first time I have ever told the story of Dolly Leonard's death and my débutante party.
Dolly Leonard left a little son behind her—a joyous, rollicking little son. His name is Paul Yardley. We girls were pleased with the initials—P. Y. They stand to us for "Perfect Year."
Dolly Leonard's husband has married again, and his wife has borne him safely three daughters and a son. Each one of my six girl chums is the mother of a family. Now and again in my experience some woman has shirked a duty. But I have never yet met a woman who dared to shirk a happiness. Duties repeat themselves. There is no duplicate of happiness.
I am fifty-eight years old. I have never married. I do not say whether I am glad or sorry. I only know that I have never had a Perfect Year. I only know that I have never been warm since the night that Dolly Leonard died.
The Muffled Peal
LAY love by, out of mind
And youth, and revelry.
Now early stars on thee
Are smiling from the blue,
O may the dark be kind,
Silence be true!
Alone, pass even so,
While no bright trail divine
Tells where that wound of thine
Is gone beyond despair:
Queen, keep thy queenly woe
Worthy the wear.
Perfect this final art,
And greaten with the years;
All time is yet for tears,
Then spend them not too fast!
And though they fail the heart.
Sorrow will last.
