THE BREATH OF PASSION.
The torch-light of Passion, how fierce is its power--
It wakens, it burns, it consumes in an hour;
Accursed is the mortal who feels its hot breath,
For the end is destruction--destruction and death.
Unfortunately for the fate of her future, Stella did not see the
extraordinary expression on the young man's face that caused such mental
consternation among her guests.
The thrill which vibrated through her entire being at the touch of his
firm hand rendered her incapable for the moment of meeting his eyes.
So strong was the current of magnetism that passed between them that the
mingled sensations of fear and bewilderment forced her to withdraw her
hand with so much vehemence that she was obliged, from an innate sense
of courtesy, to make a trifling remark to cover the seeming rudeness of
her action.
So swift was the transformation in his face, that, when her eyes were
finally raised to his, only the sweetest of smiles wreathed his proud,
passionate lips, and the glance he bent upon her, was one of mingled
reverence and admiration.
In vain the dowagers angled and the maidens blushed and simpered.
Maurice Sinclair moved about among the guests, always charming and
attentive, but his expressive eyes followed Stella in her every motion
and seemed to devour her beauty with an intensity so deep as to render
him unconscious even to his own enchantment.
Only one of the gentlemen present had noticed particularly the greeting
between Maurice and Stella, or if they had, man-like, they had attached
no significance to the expression whatsoever, and would undoubtedly have
reasoned, had their opinions been asked on the subject, that a man's
face often expresses sentiments foreign to his nature, and that a fellow
could hardly be called to account for the idiosyncrasies and caprices
of unruly features.
But Sir Frederic Atherton had, for reasons of his own, been a keen
observer of Maurice's face, and a look of loathing crossed his own noble
countenance as he muttered, almost audibly, a word that sounded
singularly like "cur." But as he noted the magical effect on Stella, he
drew a long sigh which was as promptly checked with a firm closing of
the lips, and stepping quickly forward actually stood between the two,
then offering his arm to Stella with a laughing remark, he led her away,
from a glance, which in his honorable soul, seemed like desecration.
Sir Frederic was nearly forty years of age; a man marvelously blessed by
nature, in that he possessed not only a magnificent bearing; a face
grand in its determination and strength; but a mental calibre as well,
unequaled by another of his associates. To these he had added integrity
and justice; winning the confidence of all by his honorable dealings
both in social and business relations.
Women worshiped and followed him; Yea, they even flung themselves at his
very feet, but thus far in life Sir Frederic had remained "heart whole
and fancy free," while the memory of a good mother and a faithful sister
saved him from being, like the majority of men whom women flatter, a
chronic disbeliever in the chastity of their sex. Always courteous and
gentle, it was no wonder that women and children loved and trusted him.
Strong and honorable, it was only natural for men to give him confidence
and respect, and he whom his fellow-men regard is sure to be of all men
the most trustworthy.
The love of woman may be but the consequence of perfect features, manly
proportions or a musical voice, but the regard of man for man comes only
as the result of sterling worth.
For some time Sir Frederic had been questioning himself regarding the
quality of his affection for Mrs. Sinclair's beautiful adopted daughter,
but not until he saw her, a delicate flower, exposed if only for a
second to the baneful light of an evil eye, did he realize how deeply
and dearly he loved Stella. The truth stabbed him like a knife, but
after the first sharp pain, and as he felt her hand upon his arm, a joy
surged through his being that the forty well spent years of his life
had hitherto failed to bring him.
After a moment's conversation with Mrs. Sinclair, Stella was again led
away by one of Her Majesty's officers for a sprightly polka, and Sir
Frederic glad to commune for a moment with his somewhat excited heart,
moved a heavy chair farther into the shadow and sat down, while _his_
eyes also watched the graceful movements of Stella, but with very
different emotions from those which were rushing through Maurice
Sinclair's brain at the same time.
Stella had danced with one after another of her guests and was seated
for a moment's rest on a wide turkish divan in a shaded corner of the
room.
It was only a moment, but Maurice's restless glance sought her out, and
smiling his excuses into the baby face of Lady Isabel Van Tyne's
youngest daughter, he, much to her disappointment, strolled across the
room and stood before Stella with the subdued light of a chandelier
brightening his wavy hair into glittering rings about his well shaped
head.
"May I call you Stella?" he whispered abruptly, as he bent slightly
toward her and rested one shapely white hand on a pot of rare exotics
that helped to shade the sofa on which she rested.
Mrs. Sinclair was passing at that moment and the ring on Maurice's
finger caught her eye. With a tender smile she laid her hand upon his
and whispered softly, "How well I remember that ring, Maurice."
It was puzzling to Stella that he should appear so confused at this
simple remark of his mother and withdraw his hand so rudely from her
gentle clasp, but Mrs. Sinclair had passed quietly on, and remembering
that his question remained unanswered she controlled her thoughts and
responded frankly, "Certainly, Maurice, I should feel awkward enough to
call you Mr. Sinclair after hearing and speaking the name of Maurice so
frequently for so many years. I think, really, I almost consider you my
own brother," she continued shyly, although a passing blush and an
almost imperceptible hesitancy in her speech gave the pretty avowal an
appearance of untruthfulness.
To the many eager observers of this momentary by-play, the avowal,
judged by the eye alone, seemed almost a confession of a dearer
sentiment than the sisterly affection to which she had so frankly laid
claim.
Notwithstanding her words of Platonic friendship Maurice smiled as if
well pleased, not only with the words but their silent contradiction. He
sank gracefully upon the divan by her side and in so doing his hand
accidently touched hers and in an instant there came again that
expression of consuming passion that had darkened his face at their
first meeting. Again the mesmeric spell of his presence was upon her. A
sensation, this time wholly indescribable, passed over her frame and as
before she was powerless to raise her eyes until the cloud was lifted
and once more the calm of a summer sky was mirrored on his exquisite
face.
Just at that instant a slight crash was heard near by and both started
involuntarily from their momentary forgetfulness to ascertain the cause.