And, even then, in the “City of Violets,” life went on; even then the
soft waters flowed against the shore, or, going out to the ocean,
carried upon their bosom the stately ships, laden with spoils, and
hearts both sad and gay. The sun rose, to set again in the west, just
the same as ever; and music was on the streets, while flowers and
lights were everywhere.
If there were any other two, in all that seductive place, who felt like
these two of whom we write, it mattered not to them. The days sped on
alike, and the nights, not a few, came and went, shaking their starry
banners over river and town; and yet, they had not met; though she knew
the day was not far distant when he would “come again.”
Engagements of every kind filled her outward existence, and her mother
seemed ever ready to hurry Gwendoline from theatre to ball-room, from
dinner to tea, and invent a thousand and one excuses to be with her
daughter, always keeping her on the go.
Somehow she had learned of Emory’s return, and, later on, of his
arrival in the city; and, dreading a meeting between Gwendoline and
himself, she spared no pains to avoid the chances of such an encounter.
She heard that he was stopping at the “St. Charles,” and she rejoiced
now that her daughter had from the first sought a more quiet hotel.
Mr. Emory went little into society, and thus it was that at no time
had they met. As for that ever-to-be-remembered cold evening, Mrs.
Gwinn knew nothing of it. Alice had kept her counsel, and Gwendoline
nursed the secret with the terrible words wrung from her in that hour.
One week, and then another went by--still no glimpse upon the street,
no looks from the opera stalls. Did he go to one theatre, she was at
another. Did he walk upon Canal, she sped by in a carriage! Did he
call--she was gone!
At last, in despair, he moved his quarters, taking up his abode but
a few doors from her own, with his windows looking out upon the same
long, cool veranda. But he would not show himself, would not startle
her, all too soon, either in the dining-hall or parlors. And she,--how
bore she the separation? More bravely than you would think. Perhaps,
she prayed that as he came before he would not come again.
“I am afraid, afraid!” she murmured.
One night, the wind blew soft as zephyr through her curtains. She came
home from the opera, and sat in the dark to dream of him.
“Go away!” she said to Alice. “I will undress myself!”
All was hushed and still on the street below, when she pulled in her
blinds and dropped her dress from her shoulders. Piece by piece the
garments fell from around her, until but one remained, and her loosened
hair covered her bosom. She had lighted the gas and saw herself
reflected in the mirror beyond. She flushed a sunset red.
“All this is for him!” she murmured.
In a moment the light was out and, with her night dress wrapped close
about her, she crept to her pillow, shivering as with an ague.