A DINNER
Time and chance are but a tide,
Slighted love is sair to bide.
The dining-room and parlor of our little suite adjoined; the door was
standing open between them, as I walked up and down the parlor, waiting
nervously for Richard to arrive. The fire was bright, and the only light
in the parlor was a soft, pretty lamp, which we had brought from Italy.
There were flowers on the table, and in two or three vases, and the
curtains were pretty, and there were several large mirrors. Outside, it
was the twilight of a dark autumnal day; almost night already, and the
lamps were lit. It lacked several minutes of six when Richard came. I
felt very much agitated when he entered the room. It was a year and a
half since I had seen him: besides, this piece of news! But he looked
just the same as ever, and I had not the self-possession to note whether
he seemed agitated at meeting me. I do not know exactly what we talked
about for the first few moments, probably I was occupied in trying to
excuse myself for coming home so suddenly, for I found Richard was not
altogether pleased at not having been informed, and thought there must
be something yet to tell. He was not used to feminine caprice, and I
began to feel a good deal ashamed of myself. I had to remind myself,
more than once, that I was not responsible to any one.
"I just felt like it," was such a very weak explanation to offer to this
grave business-man, for disarranging two years of carefully-laid plans.
I found I was getting to be a little afraid of Richard: we had been so
long apart, and he had grown so much older.
"I hope, at least, you are not going to scold me for it," I said at
last, with a little laugh, feeling that was my best way out of it. "I
shall think you are not glad, to see me."
"I am glad to see you," he said, gravely; "and as to scolding, it's so
long since you've given me an opportunity, I should not know how to
go to work."
"Do you mean, because I've been away so long, or because I've been so
good?"
Susan, who had been watching her opportunity, now appeared in the
dining-room door, and said that dinner was on the table.
Richard asked for Mrs. Throckmorton when we sat down to dinner. I told
him she was dining with her niece. (She had reconsidered the question of
the headache, and had gone to hear more news.) The dinner was very nice,
and very nicely served; but somehow, Richard did not seem to enjoy it
very much, that is, not as I had been in the habit lately of seeing men
enjoy their meals.
"I am afraid you are getting like Uncle Leonard, and only care about
Wall-street," I said. "I shouldn't wonder if you forgot to order your
dinner half the time, and took the same thing for breakfast every
morning in the year."
"That's just exactly how it is," he said. "If Sophie did not come down
to my quarters every week or two, and regulate affairs a little, I don't
know where I should be, in the matter of my dinners."
"How is Sophie?" I said.
"Very well. I saw her yesterday. I went to put Charley in College for
her."
"I can't think of Charley as a young man."
"Yes, Charley is a strapping fellow, within two inches of my height."
"Impossible! And where is Benny?"
"At school here in town. His mother will not let him go to
boarding-school. He is a nice boy: I think there's more in him
than Charley."
"And I hear Kilian is married!"
"Yes. Kilian is married--the very day you landed, too."
"Well," I said, with a little dash of temper, "I'm very sorry for you
all. I did not think Kilian was going to be so foolish."
"He thinks he's very wise, though, all the same," said Richard, with a
smile, which turned into a sigh before he had done speaking.
"I do dislike her so," I exclaimed, warmly. "There isn't an honest or
straightforward thing about her. She is weak, too; her only strength is
her suppleness and cunning."
"I know you never liked her," said Richard, gravely; "but I hope you'll
try to think better of her now."
"I hope I shall never have to see her," I answered, with angry warmth.
Richard was silent, and I was very much ashamed of myself a moment
after. I had meant him to see how much improved I was, and how well
disciplined. This was a pretty exhibition! I had not spoken so of any
one for a year, at least. I colored with mortification and penitence.
Richard evidently saw it, and felt sorry for me, for he said,
most kindly,
"I can understand exactly how you feel, Pauline. This marriage is a
great trial to me. I have done all I could to keep Kilian from throwing
himself away, but I might as well have argued with the winds."
"I don't care how much Kilian throws himself away," I said, impulsively.
"He deserves it for keeping around her all these years. But I do mind
that she is your sister, and that she will be mistress of the house
at R----."
There was an awful silence then. Heavens! what had I been thinking about
to have said that! I had precipitated the _dénouement_, and I had not
meant to. I did not want to hear it that moment, if he were going to
marry Charlotte Benson, nor did I want to hear it, if he were saving the
old place for me. I felt as if I had given the blow that would bring the
whole structure down, and I waited for the crash in frightened silence.
In the meantime the business of the table went on. I ate half a chicken
croquette, and Susan placed the salad before Richard, and another plate.
He did not speak till he had put the salad on his plate; then he said,
without looking at me, in a voice a good deal lower than was usual
to him,
"She is not to be mistress of that house. They will live in town."
Then I felt cold and chilled to my very heart; it was well that he did
not expect me to speak, for I could not have commanded my voice enough
to have concealed my agitation. I knew very well from that moment that
he was going to marry Charlotte Benson. Something that was said a little
later was a confirmation.
I had recovered myself enough to talk about ordinary things, and to keep
strictly to them, too. Richard was talking of the great heat of the past
summer. I had said it had been unparalleled in France; had he not found
it very uncomfortable here in town?
"I have been out of town so much, I can hardly say how it has been
here," he answered. "I was all of August in the country; only coming to
the city twice."
My heart sank: that was just what they had said; he had been a great
deal at home this summer, and she had been there all the time.
The dinner was becoming terribly _ennuyant_, and I wished with all my
heart Throckmorton had been contented with just half the courses.
Richard did not seem to enjoy them, and I--I was so wretched I could
scarcely say a word, much less eat a morsel. It had been a great
mistake to invite him to take dinner; it was being too familiar, when he
had put me at such a distance all these years: I wished for Mrs.
Throckmorton with all my heart. Why had I sent her off? Richard was
evidently so constrained, and it was in such bad taste to have asked him
here; it could not help putting thoughts in both our minds, sitting
alone at a table opposite each other, as we should have been sitting
daily if that horrid will had not been found. He had dined with us just
twice before, but that was at dinner-parties, when there had been ever
so many people between us, and when I had not said six words to him
during the whole evening.
The only excuse I could offer, and that he could understand, would be
that I wanted to talk business to him; I had said in my note that I
wanted to consult him about something, and I must keep that in mind. I
had wanted to ask him about a house I thought of buying, adjoining the
Sisters' Hospital, to enlarge their work; but I was so wicked and
worldly, I felt just then as if I did not care whether they had a house
or not, or whether they did any work. However, I resolved to speak about
it, when we had got away from the table, if we ever did.
Susan kept bringing dish after dish.
"Oh, we don't want any of that!" I exclaimed, at last, impatiently; "do
take it away, and tell them to send in the coffee."
I was resolved upon one thing: Richard should tell me of his engagement
before he went away; it would be dishonorable and unkind if he did not,
and I should make him do it. I was not quite sure that I had
self-control enough not to show how it made me feel, when it came to
hearing it all in so many words. But in very truth, I had not much pride
as regarded him; I felt so sore-hearted and unhappy, I did not care much
whether he knew it or suspected it.
I could not help remembering how little concealment he had made of his
love for me, even when he knew that all the heart I had was given to
another. I would be very careful not to precipitate the disclosure,
however, while we sat at table; it is so disagreeable to talk to any one
on an agitating subject _vis-à-vis_ across a little dinner-table, with a
bright light overhead, and a servant walking around, able to stop and
study you from any point she pleases.
Coffee came at last, though even that, Susan was unwilling to look upon
as the legitimate finale, and had her views about liqueur, instructed by
Throckmorton. But I cut it short by getting up and saying, "I'm sure
you'll be glad to go into the parlor; it gets warm so soon in these
little rooms."
The parlor was very cool and pleasant; a window had been open, and the
air was fresh, and the flowers were delicious, and the lamp was softer
and pleasanter than the gas. I went to break up the coal and make the
fire blaze, and Richard to shut the window down.
When I had pulled a chair up to the fire and seated myself, he stood
leaning on the mantelpiece, on the other side from me. I felt sure he
meant to go, the minute that he could get away--a committee meeting, no
doubt, or some such nauseous fraud. But he should not go away until he
had told me, that was certain.
"What is it that you wanted to ask me about, Pauline?" he said, rather
abruptly.
My heart gave a great thump; how could he have known? Oh, it was the
business that I had spoken of in my stupid note. Yes; and I began to
explain to him what I wanted to do about the hospital.
He looked infinitely relieved. I believe he had an idea it was something
very different. My explanation could not have added much to his
reverence for my business ability. I was very indefinite, and could not
tell him whether it was hundreds or thousands that I meant.
He said, with a smile, he thought it must be thousands, as city property
was so very high. He was very kind, however, about the matter, and did
not discourage me at all. He always seemed to approve of my desire to
give away in charity, and, within bounds, always furthered such plans of
doing good. He said he would look into it, and would write me word next
week what his impression was; and then, I think, he meant to go away.
Then I began talking on every subject I could think of, hoping some of
the roads would lead to Rome. But none of them led there, and I was
in despair.
"Oh, don't you want to look at some photographs?" I said, at last,
thinking I saw an opening for my wedge. I got the package, and he came
to the table and looked at them, standing up. They were naturally of
much more interest to me than to him, being of places and people with
which I had so lately been familiar.
But he looked at them very kindly, and asked a good many questions about
them.
"Look at this," I said, handing him an Antwerp peasant-woman in her
hideous bonnet. "Isn't that ridiculously like Charlotte Benson? I bought
it because it was so singular a resemblance."
"It is like her," he said, thoughtfully, looking at it long. "The mouth
is a little larger and the eyes further apart. But it is a most striking
likeness. It might almost have been taken for her."
"How is she, and when have you seen her?" I said, a little choked for
breath.
"She is very well. I saw her yesterday," he answered, still looking at
the little picture.
"Was she with Sophie this summer?"
"Yes, for almost two months."
"I hope she doesn't keep everybody in order as sharply as she used to?"
I said, with a bitter little laugh.
"I don't know," he said. "I think, perhaps, she is rather less decided
than she used to be."
"Oh, you call it decision, do you? Well, I'm glad I know what it is. I
used to think it hadn't such a pretty name as that."
Richard looked grave; it certainly was not a graceful way to lead up to
congratulations.
"But then, you always liked her," I said.
"Yes, I always liked her," he answered, simply.
"I'm afraid I'm not very amiable," I retorted, "for I never liked her:
no better even than that fraudulent Mary Leighton, clever and sensible
as she always was. There is such a thing as being too clever, and too
sensible, and making yourself an offence to all less admirable people."
Richard was entirely silent, and, I was sure, was disapproving of me
very much.
"Do you know what I heard yesterday?" I said, In a daring way. "And I
hope you're going to tell me if it's true, to-night?"
"What was it that you heard yesterday?" he asked, without much change of
tone. He had laid down the photograph, and had gone back, and was
leaning by the mantelpiece again.
"Why, I heard that you were going to marry Charlotte Benson. Is it
true?"
I had pushed away the pile of photographs from me, and had looked up at
him when I began, but my voice and courage rather failed before the end,
and my eyes fell. There was a silence--a silence that seemed to
stifle me.
"Why do you ask me that question?" he said, at last, in a low voice. "Do
you believe I am, yourself?"
"No," I cried, springing up, and going over to his side. "No, I don't
believe it. Tell me it isn't true, and promise me you won't ever, ever
marry Charlotte Benson."
The relief was so unspeakable that I didn't care what I said, and the
joy I felt showed itself in my face and voice. I put out my hand to him
when I said "promise me," but he did not take it, and turned his head
away from me.
"I shall not marry Charlotte Benson," he said; "but I cannot understand
what difference it makes to you."
It was now my turn to be silent, and I shrank back a step or two in
great confusion.
He raised his head, and looked steadily at me for a moment, and then
said:
"Pauline, you did a great many things, but I don't think you ever
willingly deceived me. Did you?"
I shook my head without looking lip.
"Then be careful what you do now, and let the past alone," he said, and
his voice was almost stern.
I trembled, and turned pale.
"Women sometimes play with dangerous weapons," he said; "I don't accuse
you of meaning to give pain, but only of forgetting that some
recollections are not to you what they are to me. I never want to
interfere with any one's comfort or enjoyment; I only want to be let
alone. I do very well, and am not unhappy. About marrying, now or ever,
I should have thought you would have known. But let me tell you once for
all: I haven't any thought of it, and shall not ever have. It is not
that I am holding to any foolish hopes. It would be exactly the same if
you were married, or had died. It simply isn't in my nature to feel the
same way a second time. People are made differently, that is all. I'm
very well contented, and you need never let it worry you."
He was very pale now, and his eyes had an expression I had never seen in
them before.
"Richard," I said, faintly, "I never _have_ deceived you: believe me now
when I tell you, I am sorry from my heart for all that's past."
"You told me so before, and I did forgive you. I forgave you fully, and
have never had a thought that wasn't kind."
"I know it," I said. "But you do not trust me--you don't ever come near
me, or want to see me."
"You do not know what you are talking of," he answered, turning from me.
"I forgive you anything you may have done at any time to give me pain. I
will do everything I can to serve you, in every way I can; only do not
stir up the past, and let me forget the little of it that I can forget."
I burst into tears, and put my hands before my face.
"What is it?" he said, uneasily. "You need not be troubled about me."
Seeing that I did not stop, he said again, "Tell me: is it that that
troubles you?"
I shook my head.
"What is it, then? Something that I do not know about? Pauline, you are
unhappy, and yet you've everything in the world to make you happy. I
often think, there are not many women have as much."
"The poorest of them are better off than I," I said, without raising my
head.
"Then you are ungrateful," he said, "for you have youth, and health, and
money, and everybody likes you. You could choose from all the world."
"No, I couldn't," I exclaimed, like a child; "and everybody doesn't like
me,"--and then I cried again, for I was really in despair, and thought
he meant to put me away, memory and all.
"Well, if that's your trouble," he said, with a sigh, "I suppose I
cannot help you; but I'm very sorry."
"Yes, you _can_ help me," I cried imploringly, forgetting all I ought to
have remembered; "if you only would forgive me, really and in earnest,
and be friends again--and let me try--" and I covered my face with
my hands.
"Pauline," he said, standing by my side, and his voice almost frightened
me, it was so strong with feeling; "is this a piece of sentiment? Do you
mean anything? Or am I to be trifled with again?"
He took hold of my wrists with both his hands, with such force as to
give me pain, and drew them from my face.
"Look at me," he said, "and tell me what you mean; and decide
now--forever and forever. For this is the last time that you will have a
chance to say."
"It's all very well," I said, trying to turn my face away from him.
"It's all very well to talk about loving me yet, and being just the
same; but this isn't the way you used to talk, and I think it's
very hard--"
"That isn't answering me," he said, holding me closer to him.
"What shall I say," I whispered, hiding my face upon his arm. "Nothing
will ever satisfy you."
"Nothing ever _has_ satisfied me," he said, "--before."