THE OLD LOVE.
The fashionable season set in early that year, and Bertha Canfield,
whose engagement was yet unknown, except to young Lane, was taken
everywhere by Mrs. Wilson Forbes, a married belle and brilliant leader
in that ultra set of fashionables which aims at mingling a little of the
artistic and intellectual with its high pretensions.
At first, Mrs. Forbes had rebelled against this as a task; but it was
impossible to know Bertha well without loving or hating her. To hate her
at this beautiful period of her life was simply impossible; the blithe
originality of her character would have fascinated a savage, or, more
difficult still, a rival beauty. Sometimes this brilliant woman seemed
to regard the girl with compassion, as if she saw something to pity in
her; and all the time she watched her and Waldon with irritating
scrutiny.
One evening she sat watching the pair as they conversed together, at a
party, where all others were so engaged that Waldon hoped to escape
observation, and, being very restless in his happiness, had stung Bertha
into a flash of jealousy which swept like a summer storm across her
face.
“The same old story,” muttered Mrs. Forbes, darting a swift glance
across the room. “He will snare her as I was snared—leave her as he left
me! Am I coward enough to sit by, and aid in this? No, no, a thousand
times no! The girl is too fair, too good! I will warn her!”
She did warn her—but not then. The old dread was too strong upon her.
That night Waldon asked for a seat in her carriage, and after Bertha was
set down, half angry, half sad, at her mother’s door, the two had a long
drive together, as Mrs. Forbes’ residence lay far apart from his hotel.
They were in the dark, sitting opposite each other in silence, for it
was long since Waldon had cared to interest her. The proud woman felt
the sting of all this, and it helped her to be brave.
“Waldon,” she said; “one word—are you striving to make this girl love
you?”
“And if I am, madam, what then?”
“Only this, it is cruel—it is unmanly!”
“Cruel? Well, you are a judge of that,” answered the man, with a sneer
that made her white teeth close firmly.
“I will warn her of the evil thing she is taking to her heart.”
“No, you will not!”
“But I will!”
“Ha! you will? That is daring a good deal; don’t you think so?”
“I am ready to dare a good deal, rather than see that noble girl suffer,
as she will—as she must—either by your love or hate!”
“Madam, you have not yet learned what my hate is!”
The man leaned forward, with a hand on each knee as he spoke, and the
light of a street lamp, that fell across his face, betrayed a keen,
wolfish expression, that would have frightened a less brave woman.
“It cannot be more fearful than your love,” she said, shuddering in
spite of herself.
“Attempt to interfere in the slightest particular between my pleasure
and the girl who has just left us and you shall find the difference!”
“That I certainly will do!” answered the lady, in a low, firm voice.
“If you dare!—if you dare!”
“This is a threat—a most manly threat.”
“Yes, it _is_ a threat; perhaps you understand its extent?”
“And mine is a duty!”
Again Waldon leaned forward, with a hand on each knee, till his face
almost touched hers.
“Then do this duty, if you have the courage!”
Mrs. Forbes made no answer, but leaned back in her carriage, pale as
marble, and almost as cold. Not another word was spoken. She knew what
his threat meant, and shrunk from it, brave woman as she was.
Waldon smiled to himself, when a lamp they passed revealed the whiteness
of her features to him.
The carriage stopped; two bronze and crystal lanterns poured their light
over the curving steps which led to the mansion she inhabited. Waldon
stood on the pavement watching her. How firmly she walked up the steps,
scarcely touching those stone balustrades with her hand, or turning her
eyes upon him. She had not seemed to notice that he stood ready to help
her from the carriage, but swept by him with slow, imperial scorn. Was
his slave about to escape him thus?
“Mrs. Forbes! Alice!”
She did not seem to hear this name, uttered in the old, entrancing
voice, but passed upward through the door, and out of sight.
Waldon stood a moment, muttered something under his breath, and stepped
into the carriage again, where he took a tiny, enamelled box from his
pocket, struck a light from one of the delicate wax tapers it contained,
and slowly kindled a cigar, muttering, between whiffs of fragrant smoke:
“She may threaten once too often. Heavens, what a bore all this is! I
would rather sit in a dining-room, amid dregs of wine and stale smoke,
an hour after my appetite is gone, than quarrel with a woman I have
ceased to care for!”