"It is getting a little cold," said she: "we had better go in."
They went indoors silently. He was walking like a man just awakened
from a dream. While she!--her head was high. Where was her equal!
She frowned in the face of the moon and stars. She beat her small feet
upon the earth and called it slave. She had torn victory from nowhere.
A man's head swung at her girdle and she owned the blood that dripped,
and her heart tossed rapture and anthem, carol and paean to the air
around.--She had her hour.
That night the other young gentleman whom any woman would like to take
charge of asked her to be his wife, and she consented gracefully,
slightly disarranging his nice, new moustache in the act of surrender.
The next day the poet left the house pleading urgent briefs as an
excuse--
"You'll come to the wedding," cried her father, "or," laughing, "maybe,
you'll help us with the settlements, that's more in your line," and he
put an arm fondly about his daughter. She, regarding their visitor,
nestled to him and laughingly said--
"It would not be like my wedding at all if you stayed away. You must
write me an ode," and her eyes mocked him.
He stood, looking at her for a moment, and his eyes mocked also, for
the poet knew by his gift what she had done, and he replied with
careless scorn--
"I will come with pleasure, and," with an emphasis she noted, "I will
dance at your wedding." So he laughed and marched away heart-whole.
Then, disengaging her arm from her father's, she smiled and walked
slowly indoors, and as she walked there spread over her body a fierce
coldness, and when her husband sought her afterwards that wintry breast
chilled him, and he died: but the poet danced at her wedding, when her
eyes were timid and pleading, and frightened.