“What jewels will the señora wear tonight?”
“None, Dolores. Manuel has gone for flowers--he likes them best. You may
go.”
“But the señora's toilette is not finished; the sandals, the gloves, the
garland yet remain.”
“Leave them all; I shall not go down. I am tired of this endless folly.
Give me that book and go.”
The pretty Creole obeyed; and careless of Dolores' work, Pauline sank
into the deep chair with a listless mien, turned the pages for a little,
then lost herself in thoughts that seemed to bring no rest.
Silently the young husband entered and, pausing, regarded his wife with
mingled pain and pleasure--pain to see her so spiritless, pleasure to
see her so fair. She seemed unconscious of his presence till the
fragrance of his floral burden betrayed him, and looking up to smile a
welcome she met a glance that changed the sad dreamer into an excited
actor, for it told her that the object of her search was found.
Springing erect, she asked eagerly, “Manuel, is he here?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“His wife is with him.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“Pretty, petite, and petulant.”
“And he?”
“Unchanged: the same imposing figure and treacherous face, the same
restless eye and satanic mouth. Pauline, let me insult him!”
“Not yet. Were they together?”
“Yes. He seemed anxious to leave her, but she called him back
imperiously, and he came like one who dared not disobey.”
“Did he see you?”
“The crowd was too dense, and I kept in the shadow.”
“The wife's name? Did you learn it?”
“Barbara St. Just.”
“Ah! I knew her once and will again. Manuel, am I beautiful tonight?”
“How can you be otherwise to me?”
“That is not enough. I must look my fairest to others, brilliant and
blithe, a happy-hearted bride whose honeymoon is not yet over.”
“For his sake, Pauline?”
“For yours. I want him to envy you your youth, your comeliness, your
content; to see the man he once sneered at the husband of the woman he
once loved; to recall impotent regret. I know his nature, and can stir
him to his heart's core with a look, revenge myself with a word, and
read the secrets of his life with a skill he cannot fathom.”
“And when you have done all this, shall you be happier, Pauline?”
“Infinitely; our three weeks' search is ended, and the real interest of
the plot begins. I have played the lover for your sake, now play the man
of the world for mine. This is the moment we have waited for. Help me to
make it successful. Come! Crown me with your garland, give me the
bracelets that were your wedding gift--none can be too brilliant for
tonight. Now the gloves and fan. Stay, my sandals--you shall play
Dolores and tie them on.”
With an air of smiling coquetry he had never seen before, Pauline
stretched out a truly Spanish foot and offered him its dainty covering.
Won by the animation of her manner, Manuel forgot his misgivings and
played his part with boyish spirit, hovering about his stately wife as
no assiduous maid had ever done; for every flower was fastened with a
word sweeter than itself, the white arms kissed as the ornaments went
on, and when the silken knots were deftly accomplished, the lighthearted
bridegroom performed a little dance of triumph about his idol, till she
arrested him, beckoning as she spoke.
“Manuel, I am waiting to assume the last best ornament you have given
me, my handsome husband.” Then, as he came to her laughing with frank
pleasure at her praise, she added, “You, too, must look your best and
bravest now, and remember you must enact the man tonight. Before Gilbert
wear your stateliest aspect, your tenderest to me, your courtliest to
his wife. You possess dramatic skill. Use it for my sake, and come for
your reward when this night's work is done.”
The great hotel was swarming with life, ablaze with light, resonant with
the tread of feet, the hum of voices, the musical din of the band, and
full of the sights and sounds which fill such human hives at a
fashionable watering place in the height of the season. As Manuel led
his wife along the grand hall thronged with promenaders, his quick ear
caught the whispered comments of the passers-by, and the fragmentary
rumors concerning themselves amused him infinitely.
“_Mon ami!_ There are five bridal couples here tonight, and there is the
handsomest, richest, and most enchanting of them all. The groom is not
yet twenty, they tell me, and the bride still younger. Behold them!”
Manuel looked down at Pauline with a mirthful glance, but she had not
heard.
“See, Belle! Cubans; own half the island between them. Splendid, aren't
they? Look at the diamonds on her lovely arms, and his ravishing
moustache. Isn't he your ideal of Prince Djalma, in The Wandering Jew?”
A pretty girl, forgetting propriety in interest, pointed as they passed.
Manuel half-bowed to the audible compliment, and the blushing damsel
vanished, but Pauline had not seen.
“Jack, there's the owner of the black span you fell into raptures over.
My lord and lady look as highbred as their stud. We'll patronize them!”
Manuel muttered a disdainful “_Impertinente!_” between his teeth as he
surveyed a brace of dandies with an air that augured ill for the
patronage of Young America, but Pauline was unconscious of both
criticism and reproof. A countercurrent held them stationary for a
moment, and close behind them sounded a voice saying, confidentially, to
some silent listener, “The Redmonds are here tonight, and I am curious
to see how he bears his disappointment. You know he married for money,
and was outwitted in the bargain; for his wife's fortune not only proves
to be much less than he was led to believe, but is so tied up that he is
entirely dependent upon her, and the bachelor debts he sold himself to
liquidate still harass him, with a wife's reproaches to augment the
affliction. To be ruled by a spoiled child's whims is a fit punishment
for a man whom neither pride nor principle could curb before. Let us go
and look at the unfortunate.”
Pauline heard now. Manuel felt her start, saw her flush and pale, then
her eye lit, and the dark expression he dreaded to see settled on her
face as she whispered, like a satanic echo, “Let us also go and look at
this unfortunate.”
A jealous pang smote the young man's heart as he recalled the past.
“You pity him, Pauline, and pity is akin to love.”
“I only pity what I respect. Rest content, my husband.”
Steadily her eyes met his, and the hand whose only ornament was a
wedding ring went to meet the one folded on his arm with a confiding
gesture that made the action a caress.
“I will try to be, yet mine is a hard part,” Manuel answered with a
sigh, then silently they both paced on.
Gilbert Redmond lounged behind his wife's chair, looking intensely
bored.
“Have you had enough of this folly, Babie?”
“No, we have but just come. Let us dance.”
“Too late; they have begun.”
“Then go about with me. It's very tiresome sitting here.”
“It is too warm to walk in all that crowd, child.”
“You are so indolent! Tell me who people are as they pass. I know no one
here.”
“Nor I.”
But his act belied the words, for as they passed his lips he rose erect,
with a smothered exclamation and startled face, as if a ghost had
suddenly confronted him. The throng had thinned, and as his wife
followed the direction of his glance, she saw no uncanny apparition to
cause such evident dismay, but a woman fair-haired, violet-eyed,
blooming and serene, sweeping down the long hall with noiseless grace.
An air of sumptuous life pervaded her, the shimmer of bridal snow
surrounded her, bridal gifts shone on neck and arms, and bridal
happiness seemed to touch her with its tender charm as she looked up at
her companion, as if there were but one human being in the world to her.
This companion, a man slender and tall, with a face delicately dark as a
fine bronze, looked back at her with eyes as eloquent as her own, while
both spoke rapidly and low in the melodious language which seems made
for lover's lips.
“Gilbert, who are they?”
There was no answer, and before she could repeat the question the
approaching pair paused before her, and the beautiful woman offered her
hand, saying, with inquiring smiles, “Barbara, have you forgotten your
early friend, Pauline?”
Recognition came with the familiar name, and Mrs. Redmond welcomed the
newcomer with a delight as unrestrained as if she were still the
schoolgirl, Babie. Then, recovering herself, she said, with a pretty
attempt at dignity, “Let me present my husband. Gilbert, come and
welcome my friend Pauline Valary.”
Scarlet with shame, dumb with conflicting emotions, and utterly deserted
by self-possession, Redmond stood with downcast eyes and agitated mien,
suffering a year's remorse condensed into a moment. A mute gesture was
all the greeting he could offer. Pauline slightly bent her haughty head
as she answered, in a voice frostily sweet, “Your wife mistakes. Pauline
Valary died three weeks ago, and Pauline Laroche rose from her ashes.
Manuel, my schoolmate, Mrs. Redmond; Gilbert you already know.”
With the manly presence he could easily assume and which was henceforth
to be his role in public, Manuel bowed courteously to the lady, coldly
to the gentleman, and looked only at his wife. Mrs. Redmond, though
childish, was observant; she glanced from face to face, divined a
mystery, and spoke out at once.
“Then you have met before? Gilbert, you have never told me this.”
“It was long ago--in Cuba. I believed they had forgotten me.”
“I never forget.” And Pauline's eye turned on him with a look he dared
not meet.
Unsilenced by her husband's frown, Mrs. Redmond, intent on pleasing
herself, drew her friend to the seat beside her as she said petulantly,
“Gilbert tells me nothing, and I am constantly discovering things which
might have given me pleasure had he only chosen to be frank. I've spoken
of you often, yet he never betrayed the least knowledge of you, and I
take it very ill of him, because I am sure he has not forgotten you. Sit
here, Pauline, and let me tease you with questions, as I used to do so
long ago. You were always patient with me, and though far more
beautiful, your face is still the same kind one that comforted the
little child at school. Gilbert, enjoy your friend, and leave us to
ourselves until the dance is over.”
Pauline obeyed; but as she chatted, skillfully leading the young wife's
conversation to her own affairs, she listened to the two voices behind
her, watched the two figures reflected in the mirror before her, and
felt a secret pride in Manuel's address, for it was evident that the
former positions were renewed.
The timid boy who had feared the sarcastic tongue of his guardian's
guest, and shrunk from his presence to conceal the jealousy that was his
jest, now stood beside his formal rival, serene and self-possessed, by
far the manliest man of the two, for no shame daunted him, no fear
oppressed him, no dishonorable deed left him at the mercy of another's
tongue.
Gilbert Redmond felt this keenly, and cursed the falsehood which had
placed him in such an unenviable position. It was vain to assume the old
superiority that was forfeited; but too much a man of the world to be
long discomforted by any contretemps like this, he rapidly regained his
habitual ease of manner, and avoiding the perilous past clung to the
safer present, hoping, by some unguarded look or word, to fathom the
purpose of his adversary, for such he knew the husband of Pauline must
be at heart. But Manuel schooled his features, curbed his tongue, and
when his hot blood tempted him to point his smooth speech with a taunt,
or offer a silent insult with the eye, he remembered Pauline, looked
down on the graceful head below, and forgot all other passions in that
of love.
“Gilbert, my shawl. The sea air chills me.”
“I forgot it, Babie.”
“Allow me to supply the want.”
Mindful of his wife's commands, Manuel seized this opportunity to win a
glance of commendation from her. And taking the downy mantle that hung
upon his arm, he wrapped the frail girl in it with a care that made the
act as cordial as courteous. Mrs. Redmond felt the charm of his manner
with the quickness of a woman, and sent a reproachful glance at Gilbert
as she said plaintively, “Ah! It is evident that my honeymoon is over,
and the assiduous lover replaced by the negligent husband. Enjoy your
midsummer night's dream while you may, Pauline, and be ready for the
awakening that must come.”
“Not to her, madame, for our honeymoon shall last till the golden
wedding day comes round. Shall it not, cariña?”
“There is no sign of waning yet, Manuel,” and Pauline looked up into her
husband's face with a genuine affection which made her own more
beautiful and filled his with a visible content. Gilbert read the
glance, and in that instant suffered the first pang of regret that
Pauline had foretold. He spoke abruptly, longing to be away.
“Babie, we may dance now, if you will.”
“I am going, but not with you--so give me my fan, and entertain Pauline
till my return.”
He unclosed his hand, but the delicately carved fan fell at his feet in
a shower of ivory shreds--he had crushed it as he watched his first love
with the bitter thought “It might have been!”
“Forgive me, Babie, it was too frail for use; you should choose a
stronger.”
“I will next time, and a gentler hand to hold it. Now, Monsieur Laroche,
I am ready.”
Mrs. Redmond rose in a small bustle of satisfaction, shook out her
flounces, glanced at the mirror, then Manuel led her away; and the other
pair were left alone. Both felt a secret agitation quicken their breath
and thrill along their nerves, but the woman concealed it best.
Gilbert's eye wandered restlessly to and fro, while Pauline fixed her
own on his as quietly as if he were the statue in the niche behind him.
For a moment he tried to seem unconscious of it, then essayed to meet
and conquer it, but failed signally and, driven to his last resources by
that steady gaze, resolved to speak out and have all over before his
wife's return. Assuming the seat beside her, he said, impetuously,
“Pauline, take off your mask as I do mine--we are alone now, and may see
each other as we are.”
Leaning deep into the crimson curve of the couch, with the indolent
grace habitual to her, yet in strong contrast to the vigilant gleam of
her eye, she swept her hand across her face as if obeying him, yet no
change followed, as she said with a cold smile, “It is off; what next?”
“Let me understand you. Did my letter reach your hands?”
“A week before my marriage.”
He drew a long breath of relief, yet a frown gathered as he asked, like
one loath and eager to be satisfied, “Your love died a natural death,
then, and its murder does not lie at my door?”
Pointing to the shattered toy upon the ground, she only echoed his own
words. “It was too frail for use--I chose a stronger.”
It wounded, as she meant it should; and the evil spirit to whose
guidance she had yielded herself exulted to see his self-love bleed, and
pride vainly struggle to conceal the stab. He caught the expression in
her averted glance, bent suddenly a fixed and scrutinizing gaze upon
her, asking, below his breath, “Then why are you here to tempt me with
the face that tempted me a year ago?”
“I came to see the woman to whom you sold yourself. I have seen her, and
am satisfied.”
Such quiet contempt iced her tones, such pitiless satisfaction shone
through the long lashes that swept slowly down, after her eye had met
and caused his own to fall again, that Gilbert's cheek burned as if the
words had been a blow, and mingled shame and anger trembled in his
voice.
“Ah, you are quick to read our secret, for you possess the key. Have you
no fear that I may read your own, and tell the world you sold your
beauty for a name and fortune? Your bargain is a better one than mine,
but I know you too well, though your fetters are diamonds and your
master a fond boy.”
She had been prepared for this, and knew she had a shield in the real
regard she bore her husband, for though sisterly, it was sincere. She
felt its value now, for it gave her courage to confront the spirit of
retaliation she had roused, and calmness to answer the whispered taunt
with an unruffled mien, as lifting her white arm she let its single
decoration drop glittering to her lap.
“You see my 'fetters' are as loose as they are light, and nothing binds
me but my will. Read my heart, if you can. You will find there contempt
for a love so poor that it feared poverty; pity for a man who dared not
face the world and conquer it, as a girl had done before him, and
gratitude that I have found my 'master' in a truehearted boy, not a
falsehearted man. If I am a slave, I never know it. Can you say as
much?”
Her woman's tongue avenged her, and Gilbert owned his defeat. Pain
quenched the ire of his glance, remorse subdued his pride,
self-condemnation compelled him to ask, imploringly, “Pauline, when may
I hope for pardon?”
“Never.”
The stern utterance of the word dismayed him, and, like one shut out
from hope, he rose, as if to leave her, but paused irresolutely, looked
back, then sank down again, as if constrained against his will by a
longing past control. If she had doubted her power this action set the
doubt at rest, as the haughtiest nature she had known confessed it by a
bittersweet complaint. Eyeing her wistfully, tenderly, Gilbert murmured,
in the voice of long ago, “Why do I stay to wound and to be wounded by
the hand that once caressed me? Why do I find more pleasure in your
contempt than in another woman's praise, and feel myself transported
into the delights of that irrecoverable past, now grown the sweetest,
saddest memory of my life? Send me away, Pauline, before the old charm
asserts its power, and I forget that I am not the happy lover of a year
ago.”
“Leave me then, Gilbert. Good night.”
Half unconsciously, the former softness stole into her voice as it
lingered on his name. The familiar gesture accompanied the words, the
old charm did assert itself, and for an instant changed the cold woman
into the ardent girl again. Gilbert did not go but, with a hasty glance
down the deserted hall behind him, captured and kissed the hand he had
lost, passionately whispering, “Pauline, I love you still, and that look
assures me that you have forgiven, forgotten, and kept a place for me in
that deep heart of yours. It is too late to deny it. I have seen the
tender eyes again, and the sight has made me the proudest, happiest man
that walks the world tonight, slave though I am.”
Over cheek and forehead rushed the treacherous blood as the violet eyes
filled and fell before his own, and in the glow of mingled pain and fear
that stirred her blood, Pauline, for the first time, owned the peril of
the task she had set herself, saw the dangerous power she possessed, and
felt the buried passion faintly moving in its grave. Indignant at her
own weakness, she took refuge in the memory of her wrong, controlled the
rebel color, steeled the front she showed him, and with feminine skill
mutely conveyed the rebuke she would not trust herself to utter, by
stripping the glove from the hand he had touched and dropping it
disdainfully as if unworthy of its place. Gilbert had not looked for
such an answer, and while it baffled him it excited his man's spirit to
rebel against her silent denial. With a bitter laugh he snatched up the
glove.
“I read a defiance in your eye as you flung this down. I accept the
challenge, and will keep gage until I prove myself the victor. I have
asked for pardon. You refuse it. I have confessed my love. You scorn it.
I have possessed myself of your secret, yet you deny it. Now we will try
our strength together, and leave those children to their play.”
“We are the children, and we play with edge tools. There has been enough
of this, there must be no more.” Pauline rose with her haughtiest mien,
and the brief command, “Take me to Manuel.”
Silently Gilbert offered his arm, and silently she rejected it.
“Will you accept nothing from me?”
“Nothing.”
Side by side they passed through the returning throng till Mrs. Redmond
joined them, looking blithe and bland with the exhilaration of gallantry
and motion. Manuel's first glance was at Pauline, his second at her
companion; there was a shadow upon the face of each, which seemed
instantly to fall upon his own as he claimed his wife with a masterful
satisfaction as novel as becoming, and which prompted her to whisper,
“You enact your role to the life, and shall enjoy a foretaste of your
reward at once. I want excitement; let us show these graceless, frozen
people the true art of dancing, and electrify them with the life and
fire of a Cuban valse.”
Manuel kindled at once, and Pauline smiled stealthily as she glanced
over her shoulder from the threshold of the dancing hall, for her
slightest act, look, and word had their part to play in that night's
drama.
“Gilbert, if you are tired I will go now.”
“Thank you, I begin to find it interesting. Let us watch the dancers.”
Mrs. Redmond accepted the tardy favor, wondering at his unwonted
animation, for never had she seen such eagerness in his countenance,
such energy in his manner as he pressed through the crowd and won a
place where they could freely witness one of those exhibitions of
fashionable figurante which are nightly to be seen at such resorts. Many
couples were whirling around the white hall, but among them one pair
circled with slowly increasing speed, in perfect time to the inspiring
melody of trumpet, flute, and horn, that seemed to sound for them alone.
Many paused to watch them, for they gave to the graceful pastime the
enchantment which few have skill enough to lend it, and made it a
spectacle of life-enjoying youth, to be remembered long after the music
ceased and the agile feet were still.
Gilbert's arm was about his little wife to shield her from the pressure
of the crowd, and as they stood his hold unconsciously tightened, till,
marveling at this unwonted care, she looked up to thank him with a happy
glance and discovered that his eye rested on a single pair, kindling as
they approached, keenly scanning every gesture as they floated by,
following them with untiring vigilance through the many-colored mazes
they threaded with such winged steps, while his breath quickened, his
hand kept time, and every sense seemed to own the intoxication of the
scene. Sorrowfully she too watched this pair, saw their grace, admired
their beauty, envied their happiness; for, short as her wedded life had
been, the thorns already pierced her through the roses, and with each
airy revolution of those figures, dark and bright, her discontent
increased, her wonder deepened, her scrutiny grew keener, for she knew
no common interest held her husband there, fascinated, flushed, and
excited as if his heart beat responsive to the rhythmic rise and fall of
that booted foot and satin slipper. The music ended with a crash, the
crowd surged across the floor, and the spell was broken. Like one but
half disenchanted, Gilbert stood a moment, then remembered his wife, and
looking down met brown eyes, full of tears, fastened on his face.
“Tired so soon, Babie? Or in a pet because I cannot change myself into a
thistledown and float about with you, like Manuel and Pauline?”
“Neither; I was only wishing that you loved me as he loves her, and
hoping he would never tire of her, they are so fond and charming now.
How long have you known them--and where?”
“I shall have no peace until I tell you. I passed a single summer with
them in a tropical paradise, where we swung half the day in hammocks,
under tamarind and almond trees; danced half the night to music, of
which this seems but a faint echo; and led a life of luxurious delight
in an enchanted climate, where all is so beautiful and brilliant that
its memory haunts a life as pressed flowers sweeten the leaves of a dull
book.”
“Why did you leave it then?”
“To marry you, child.”
“That was a regretful sigh, as if I were not worth the sacrifice. Let us
go back and enjoy it together.”
“If you were dying for it, I would not take you to Cuba. It would be
purgatory, not paradise, now.”
“How stern you look, how strangely you speak. Would you not go to save
your own life, Gilbert?”
“I would not cross the room to do that, much less the sea.”
“Why do you both love and dread it? Don't frown, but tell me. I have a
right to know.”
“Because the bitterest blunder of my life was committed there--a blunder
that I never can repair in this world, and may be damned for in the
next. Rest satisfied with this, Babie, lest you prove like Bluebeard's
wife, and make another skeleton in my closet, which has enough already.”
Strange regret was in his voice, strange gloom fell upon his face; but
though rendered doubly curious by the change, Mrs. Redmond dared not
question further and, standing silent, furtively scanned the troubled
countenance beside her. Gilbert spoke first, waking out of his sorrowful
reverie with a start.
“Pauline is coming. Say adieu, not au revoir, for tomorrow we must leave
this place.”
His words were a command, his aspect one of stern resolve, though the
intensest longing mingled with the dark look he cast on the approaching
pair. The tone, the glance displeased his willful wife, who loved to use
her power and exact obedience where she had failed to win affection,
often ruling imperiously when a tender word would have made her happy to
submit.
“Gilbert, you take no thought for my pleasures though you pursue your
own at my expense. Your neglect forces me to find solace and
satisfaction where I can, and you have forfeited your right to command
or complain. I love Pauline, I am happy with her, therefore I shall stay
until we tire of one another. I am a burden to you; go if you will.”
“You know I cannot without you, Babie. I ask it as a favor. For my sake,
for your own, I implore you to come away.”
“Gilbert, do you love her?”
She seized his arm and forced an answer by the energy of her sharply
whispered question. He saw that it was vain to dissemble, yet replied
with averted head, “I did and still remember it.”
“And she? Did she return your love?”
“I believed so; but she forgot me when I went. She married Manuel and is
happy. Babie, let me go!”
“No! you shall stay and feel a little of the pain I feel when I look
into your heart and find I have no place there. It is this which has
stood between us and made all my efforts vain. I see it now and despise
you for the falsehood you have shown me, vowing you loved no one but me
until I married you, then letting me so soon discover that I was only an
encumbrance to your enjoyment of the fortune I possessed. You treat me
like a child, but I suffer like a woman, and you shall share my
suffering, because you might have spared me, and you did not. Gilbert,
you shall stay.”
“Be it so, but remember I have warned you.”
An exultant expression broke through the gloom of her husband's face as
he answered with the grim satisfaction of one who gave restraint to the
mind, and stood ready to follow whatever impulse should sway him next.
His wife trembled inwardly at what she had done, but was too proud to
recall her words and felt a certain bitter pleasure in the excitement of
the new position she had taken, the new interest given to her listless
life.
Pauline and Manuel found them standing silently together, for a moment
had done the work of years and raised a barrier between them never to be
swept away.
Mrs. Redmond spoke first, and with an air half resentful, half
triumphant:
“Pauline, this morose husband of mine says we must leave tomorrow. But
in some things I rule; this is one of them. Therefore we remain and go
with you to the mountains when we are tired of the gay life here. So
smile and submit, Gilbert, else these friends will count your society no
favor. Would you not fancy, from the aspect he thinks proper to assume,
that I had sentenced him to a punishment, not a pleasure?”
“Perhaps you have unwittingly, Babie. Marriage is said to cancel the
follies of the past, but not those of the future, I believe; and, as
there are many temptations to an idle man in a place like this,
doubtless your husband is wise enough to own that he dares not stay but
finds discretion the better part of valor.”
Nothing could be softer than the tone in which these words were uttered,
nothing sharper than the hidden taunt conveyed, but Gilbert only laughed
a scornful laugh as he fixed his keen eyes full upon her and took her
bouquet with the air of one assuming former rights.
“My dear Pauline, discretion is the last virtue I should expect to be
accused of by you; but if valor consists in daring all things, I may lay
claim to it without its 'better part,' for temptation is my delight--the
stronger the better. Have no fears for me, my friend. I gladly accept
Babie's decree and, ignoring the last ten years, intend to begin life
anew, having discovered a sauce piquante which will give the stalest
pleasures a redoubled zest. I am unfortunate tonight, and here is a
second wreck; this I can rebuild happily. Allow me to do so, for I
remember you once praised my skill in floral architecture.”
With an air of eager gallantry in strange contrast to the malign
expression of his countenance, Gilbert knelt to regather the flowers
which a careless gesture of his own had scattered from their jeweled
holder. His wife turned to speak to Manuel, and, yielding to the
unconquerable anxiety his reckless manner awoke, Pauline whispered below
her breath as she bent as if to watch the work, “Gilbert, follow your
first impulse, and go tomorrow.”
“Nothing shall induce me to.”
“I warn you harm will come of it.” “Let it come; I am past fear now.”
“Shun me for Babie's sake, if not for your own.”
“Too late for that; she is headstrong--let her suffer.”
“Have you no power, Gilbert?”
“None over her, much over you.”
“We will prove that!”
“We will!” Rapidly as words could shape them, these questions and
answers fell, and with their utterance the last generous feeling died in
Pauline's breast; for as she received the flowers, now changed from a
love token to a battle gage, she saw the torn glove still crushed in
Gilbert's hand, and silently accepted his challenge to the tournament so
often held between man and woman--a tournament where the keen tongue is
the lance, pride the shield, passion the fiery steed, and the hardest
heart the winner of the prize, which seldom fails to prove a barren
honor, ending in remorse.