There are women who have no power of attraction until you meet them in
their homes, surrounded by evidences of an individuality which belies
your first impression. Then for the first time you discover new traits
of character, and evidences of thought that fascinate and hold you; then
for the first time they surprise and delight you with their real selves.
Again, there are those who shine abroad, but darken their homes. In the
chilling atmosphere surrounding them, no life can expand. These women
are dwarfed souls. Affecting the semblance, they know not the real.
The lifeless imitation of their surroundings betrays them, and chills
the sensibilities of their guests.
The wife of Donald Laure, was a woman whose surroundings seemed a part
of herself--a bright, light creature, glorifying the materialities about
her with a certain radiance, and none could enter her home without
feeling the charm that pervaded it. With her warm heart and generous
impulses she seemed born but to make beholders happy.
She was, as yet, unconscious of the powers that lay dormant in her;
under her childlike exterior was a soul of which even her husband knew
nothing. All her knowledge of the world was like the knowledge of a
maiden, far from its busy actualities.
She mused upon its wonders as they were presented to her mind by her
husband, but he would have been amazed at the panorama of her thoughts.
Greater amazement would have been his, had he known the strange truth of
which she herself was entirely oblivious, that the great pulsating power
of Love had not yet inspired her. To be loved, caressed, cared for, had
so far made her content. But, born of the English soldier and the
daughter of a savage warrior, there slumbered in her soul a possibility
of passion that needed only to be roused to burst into flame.
The life of excitement that society offers, brings little contentment to
a woman with Dainty's nature. She only beats the bars raised by its
cold, formal laws, and sufficient unto herself, living a life within
that soothes, she becomes a fascinating siren to the energetic
nineteenth century man, who comes with his beliefs in materialism, and
his doubts of any goodness that he cannot prove.
Such a woman is to him a creature to be tested by his methods, and
broken on the wheels of his unfeeling Juggernaut of selfishness and
animalism.
Being a delightfully untutored, trusting soul, she is not looking for
this monster evil--self, that he has raised up and worships. At first
attracted to him by a warmth of manner which has every appearance of
generosity, she at last becomes interested in him so deeply, that the
winning of her perfect trust, her whole heart, is an easy pastime,
undertaken at seemingly accidental moments, but in reality pursued as
steps in a long and carefully laid plan.
The evening set apart for receiving the "few friends" was a memorable
one.
Herr Schwatka, accompanied by Major Kildare, was the first to arrive.
Herr Schwatka was a tall, fair-haired Austrian, of distinguished
appearance, and engaging manners. He was a cool-headed, strong-willed
materialist, to whom human nature was a congenial study, who never
allowed anything to thwart his purpose, and whose spirit of
determination dominated most of those with whom he came in contact. To
him, women had been but playthings; he laughed at such an idea as the
grand passion--a figment of the brain for the misleading of boys!
As the two men entered the salon, Kildare, with all his English
coolness, started with surprise at the beauty of his surroundings.
Accustomed to the society which his rank as an officer in the British
army gave him, he had seen much that was rich and alluring in many
countries; but here, in an African desert, many hundred miles from the
sea, to find such taste and elegance displayed, was to him surprising.
The crimson and gold hangings reflected from mirrors in the opal light,
made a fitting background to a picture, in which stood as its central
figure, the Queen of this home, Dainty Laure--a highly gifted woman,
possessing that rarest of all gifts, perfect naturalness. Donald,
standing by her side, presented the two gentlemen.
Had she been the daughter of a duke, she could not have done the honours
with more grace.
The European in Africa has a deep-seated antipathy to the faintest trace
of mixed blood. Yet, as Herr Schwatka bowed to Mrs Laure in his
elegant way, he was conscious of receiving a pleasant impression
entirely new to him.
As for Major Kildare, he was altogether charmed with her, and speedily
opened conversation with the common-place question:
"Mrs Laure, how do you amuse yourself in this dusty town of Kimberley?"
"I do not amuse myself, but let what I see amuse me," replied Dainty.
"My horses and my dogs are company; everything that is beautiful pleases
me; I make friends of the pleasant people I meet, and avoid the unhappy
ones who carry their woes pictured on their faces."
"But what do you do for a confidential friend? Woman must have them,
you know, and you hardly find any congenial woman here!"
"You forget Kate Darcy," replies Dainty. "She is a being to admire. I
look at no one else when Kate is by."
"Would it be wrong to be glad she is not here then?" said the major,
gallantly.
"I think you will be pleased to meet her, you cannot fail to admire
her," answered Dainty. "She is not like me."
Herr Schwatka smiled at the last assertion.
"Do you expect us to admire her when she is not like you?"
Dainty looked at the Austrian with a little deprecatory smile, as she
said: "You will admire her for what she is, rather than what she is
not."
"It is pleasant to hear a woman praise a woman," said Herr Schwatka.
"All women do it sometimes, for they all must have some intimate whom
they can love, caress, and lavish themselves upon."
"Yes," said Dainty, "that may be true, but Kate is not the style of
woman you imagine. She is strong and noble, though gentle withal--wait
till you meet her."
Herr Schwatka felt a warm thrill at the enthusiasm and loyalty of the
heart that loved its friends so wholly.
"It were well to gain you for a friend," he said.