ONLY ONE LITTLE PROMISE.
“I would that your pledge were recorded
To taste not the dangerous glass;
That the treacherous joy it afforded
Might over your lips never pass.”--MRS. ALEX. MCVEIGH MILLER.
“I have kept this little memento of you for years, my darling. May I
call you by the sweet name written there?”
It is the lazy, musical voice of Charlton Leigh, and he holds in his
hand a little silver comb, set with lustrous pearls, and inscribed with
the name: “Marie Orne.”
Marie looks up a moment in blushing assent, and he goes on low and
tenderly:
“Marie! Sweetest name that ever was written. It lacks but one word to
make it the guiding star of my life.”
“That word?” she murmurs in trembling accents.
“_My_ Marie! Shall it be that, dearest? Can you love me well enough to
be my cherished wife?”
A shiver of blissful happiness thrills through her at the earnest words.
Charlton has grown into her heart and life so wholly in this past year
that for her the world holds no one else but this handsome, debonair
lover.
“Strange! that one lightly whispered word
Is far, far sweeter unto me
Than all the sounds that kiss the earth
Or breathe along the sea.”
To be his nearest and dearest--his treasured wife! Can life, that has
used her so hardly, hold such sweet possibilities for her yet? Her
voice falters from excess of joy as she murmurs:
“My heart’s first, last, and only love is yours, dear Charlton. It
needs but one promise from you to make me give my life’s happiness into
your keeping.”
“What is that, my darling?”
“Forgive me,” she answers timidly, deprecatingly. “I have suffered so
much from the curse of strong drink, and--people say, Charlton, that
you love the wine-cup, and that the habit is growing fast upon you.”
Charlton Leigh laughs lightly.
“I acknowledge the first fault,” he answers, “I am fond of wine; but,
my dear, you need not be alarmed for me. I shall never be a drunkard.”
“Many men have said the same thing, Charlton, and yet gone down to
drunkards’ graves. Oh, Charlton, won’t you give up drinking for my
sake?”
“I can safely promise you never to become a drunkard, Marie,” he
replies, with a slightly offended air.
“But you will promise me never to taste a drop of ardent spirits again,
dear Charlton. Then--oh, then, I shall be so happy!”
A sudden spirit of obstinacy is roused in her lover’s breast by her
persistency. He has entire confidence in his own strength, and, like
many another man, fancies that a pledge of total abstinence is a
confession of unmanly weakness.
And steeling himself against the pleading voice and pathetic face, he
replies:
“Indeed, Marie, I cannot consent to give up my freedom of action to
gratify this whim of yours. I do not believe in the wisdom of total
abstinence. Such men as Orne and Essex might have profited by it, but
my own strength of mind is sufficient to keep me in the right path.
Give up this foolish fancy, I implore you, darling Marie, for indeed
you may safely trust your happiness in my keeping.”
“I am afraid, afraid!” Madame Orne sobs nervously, and looking at him
in wild appeal. “Oh, Charlton, I could risk all else for you but this!
Oh, my dear one, I tremble for your future. Your sister, too--she hates
wine as I do--hates it as those only can who have suffered through its
dread agency. Ah, you can make us both so happy by one little promise.
Will you not speak it?”
“And if I promised, Marie, how easy it would be to break my word! Men
often do that, don’t they? Surely you could not base your happiness on
so slight a thing as a promise!”
“You are the soul of honor, Charlton,” she replies, with fond pride in
her lover; “your promise once given, you would hold it sacred.”
“Put aside these vexing fancies, and trust me, dearest, and trust me to
be all that your tender heart requires--the fondest of lovers, the most
devoted of husbands.”
Tears gather in her eyes and rain down upon her cheeks, her lips
quiver, her little hands are outstretched to him.
“Oh, Charlton, my love, my dear, you must give me the promise I ask! It
means so much to me--more than you even dream. Oh, do not believe me
unreasonable or exacting! But oh, heaven, I have suffered too much as a
drunkard’s wife to risk the same fate again.”
But Charlton’s will is stronger than his love. He returns her glance
tenderly and hopefully, but with no sign of relenting. He to be ruled
by a woman’s will, conquered by a woman’s tears, never!
“I must refuse your unreasonable request, Marie,” coldly.
Her white face drops in her hands, and for long minutes no sound breaks
the stillness, save her gasping breath as she struggles to smother her
bursting sobs.
Charlton has been heard to say, in his cynical hours, that lovers
always fill up the pauses of conversation with sighs and kisses, but
no such episode breaks the long hiatus between these lovers. It grows
unendurable to Charlton, that nervous sobbing, and presently he puts
his arms around her, but is gently repulsed.
“Marie, you drive me mad,” he exclaims, with passionate impatience. “I
will trifle here no longer. One word--will you marry me, or not?”
“It must be no,” she answers, lifting her white face to his with
despair in the lovely violet eyes.
“So be it,” he answers angrily; “your prudence is greater than your
love.”
He stands proud and erect before her, fighting down his wounded love
and pride with iron will, but when she rises also, and faces him, his
fierce anger relents at the white and haggard misery of her lovely
face. He clasps her fondly to his breast and presses kiss after kiss
on her trembling lips. She lies passive in his clasp one moment, then
pushes him away from her with a strength born of agony.
“I am going now, Marie, but let me tell you the truth first. I know you
love me well, and that it is half-killing you to part from me. Some day
you will repent this rash and cruel decision and call me back again.
Oh, my darling, let me stay now and save you that suffering.”
“No, no,” she answers firmly, but with her little hands pressed tight
upon her heart to stay its mad, bounding pulses. “I shall never marry
you without that promise! It is now or never with you, Charlton.”
“It is never, then!” he answers angrily. “I shall never see you again,
Marie, although I shall love you all my life!”
He goes out with the words, and meets Doctor Verne coming up the
steps, but only nods and rushes on. Charlton is passionately angry
with his willful love, and equally certain that she will recall him
unconditionally in the end. But the suspense is bitter, for Charlton,
with a man’s easy vanity, had felt sure of his happiness. Well, it is
only delayed, he thinks, only--it is so silly in Marie to hold out like
this in the very beginning.