Colonel Carlyle was as deeply infatuated with Bonnibel Vere as the jealous Felise had declared him to be; but, as she had always asserted, he was very wily and cautious in his advances. He was afraid of frightening the pretty bird he wished to ensnare. He, therefore, adopted a deportment of almost fatherly tenderness toward her that was very pleasant to the lonely girl, who missed her uncle's protecting care so much, and who also began to perceive in Mrs. Arnold and her daughter a changed manner, which, while it could scarcely be colder than usual, was tinged with an indefinable shade of insolence.
Poor, pretty Bonnibel! she had fallen upon dark days. She had been deceived by Mrs. Arnold's protestations at first, but by degrees a new light began to break upon her. Mrs. Arnold began to practice a degree of parsimony toward her that was bewildering to the girl. She withdrew Bonnibel's allowance of money, and at last the girl found her dainty little purse quite empty, and likely to remain so—a thing that had never happened to her before in the course of her life, for her uncle had been lavishly generous to her in respect to pin-money. Her supply of mourning was extremely limited, and but for her quiet mode of life would have been quite inadequate to her needs.
But if Mrs. Arnold had wished to diminish Bonnibel's beauty by giving it so meager a setting she failed in the endeavor. The jewel was too bright to miss extraneous adornment.
The somber black dresses could not dim the gleam of her golden hair, the sparkle of her sea-blue eyes. Her white brow and throat were like the petals of a lily, and with returning health a lovely rose-tint began to flush her cheeks.
Her beauty was a royal dower of which no spite or malignity could deprive her. Clothed upon with sackcloth she would still have remained,
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.
Bonnibel knew that she was beautiful. She had heard it remarked so often that she could not be ignorant of the fact.
In those past happy days that now seemed so far away she had taken a childish, innocent pride in the knowledge. But now in her trouble and loneliness she had forgotten it, or cared for it no more. So it never occurred to her to ascribe the painful change in her aunt and Felise to the fact that was quite obvious to others—the very plain fact that she had unconsciously rivaled Felise with Colonel Carlyle and that he only waited a proper season to declare himself.
There was none of the dawdling and hesitation now that had marked his courtship of Felise and prevented him from making the important declaration she had schemed and toiled for. He had virtually jilted Felise, for he had done everything but speak the important words, but the proud girl bore his desertion in ominous silence that boded no good to the man who had thus wronged her.
Lucy and Janet, the respective maids of the two young ladies, held many a whispered colloquy over Colonel Carlyle's defection. Janet indeed was an object of sympathy in those days, for she had to bear the brunt of Felise's anger, which was no slight thing to endure. Indeed, it is probable that the much-enduring maid would have given warning on the spot had it not been for an affaire du c?ur which she was carrying out with the footman.
Rather than be separated from this object of her fond affections Janet remained in Felise's service and endured her caprices and ill-treatment with that heroic fortitude with which women from time immemorial have borne slight and wrong for love's sake.
Will Miss Bonnibel marry him, do you think, Lucy? asked Janet at one of their solemn conclaves.
I don't know, Lucy answered. "Seems to me the child don't have the least idea of what is going on right afore her eyes. I don't believe she knows that the colonel is a courtin' her! She thinks he is a friend, like, and because he knew her father in the army and talks a good deal about his bravery, she listens to him and never dreams that she has cut Miss Felise out right afore her face."
And serves her right, too, said Janet, heartily, taking a malicious pleasure in the defeat of her over-bearing mistress; "I, for one, am downright glad that she has cut my lady out of her rich beau! It would be a fine match for Miss Bonnibel since her uncle has left her without a cent."
I hope she will marry him, said Lucy. "Things isn't going at all to my notion in this house, Janet. Sour looks and impident words is flung around altogether too free in my young lady's hearing. And she getting that shabby that she have got but one decent mourning gown to her back, and I hear nothing said of a new one! As for money I don't believe Mrs. Arnold has given her a single penny since her uncle died; I've seen her little purse and it's quite empty. I'd have put a few of my own savings into it, only I was afraid she might be angry."
I hope she'll marry Carlyle and queen it over them both, said Janet. "I tell you, Lucy, it was very strange that Mr. Arnold's will wasn't found. I am quite sure he made one—he wouldn't have slighted your young lady intentionally. He loved that pretty little blue-eyed girl as the apple of his eye, and there was small love lost between him and t'other one. 'Twas mysterious the way things turned out at his death, Lucy."
Aye, it were, assented Lucy; "I heard Miss Bonnibel, myself, tell Mrs. Arnold down at Sea View when she were sick, that her uncle told her he had made a will and provided liberally for her. And Mrs. Arnold laughed at her and pretended that the fever hadn't got out of her head yet. She didn't want to believe there was a will, Janet, she didn't! Now I ask you, Janet, what has become of that there will?"
Janet laughed scornfully and significantly.
Ah! it's gone where Miss Bonnibel's blue eyes will never shine on it, said she. "It'll never see the light of day again. All that she can do is to marry Colonel Carlyle and get even with them all."
I wish she would, sighed Lucy; "but I don't believe she will. They said she was in love with a young artist last summer, and that her uncle drove him away—the same young man they laid the murder on, you know."
Do you believe he did it, Lucy?
Not I, said Lucy, with a scornful sniff. "I'd sooner believe they did it between themselves! I've seen the young man when he used to come visiting the master at Sea View. A handsome young man he was, and that soft-spoken he would not hurt a fly, I know. But he was poor and made his living by drawing pictures, and since Miss Bonnibel is poor, too, now, I'd rather she'd marry that rich old man, for, poor dear, what good could she do as a poor man's wife!"
Has she forgotten the young feller, do you think? inquired Janet, thinking of her own "young feller" below stairs with a thrill of romantic sympathy for Miss Vere's love affair.
Oh, dear, no, and never will, said Lucy, confidently. "She never names him; but I know she's been grieved and unhappy over and above what natural grief for Mr. Arnold could amount to. But I doubt it's all over between them. He's been in hiding, of course, somewhere, ever since they accused him of the murder, and I doubt if Miss Bonnibel ever sets her sweet blue eyes on his handsome face again."
If he's not guilty why don't he come out and prove his innocence? exclaimed the romantic Janet. "What a fine scene there would be—Miss Bonnibel all in smiles and tears of joy, and t'other ones scowling and angry at them two lovers."
Ah! I can't tell you why he doesn't do so, answered Lucy, sighing; "but there must be some good reason for't. No one could get me to believe that Mr. Dane did that wicked and cruel murder! My young mistress, so innocent as she is herself, could never have loved a man that was mean enough to do that deed!"
The loud peal of Miss Herbert's dressing-room bell resounding through the house broke up the conference between the maids, and Janet went away to answer it, muttering, angrily:
Lucy, I do wish we could change mistresses for awhile. I'm that tired with tramping up and down to wait on that ill-natered upstart that all my bones are sore.
So Bonnibel's circumstances and prospects were discussed in high life up-stairs, and by servantdom down-stairs, while she herself, the most interested party, was ignorant of it all.
How could she, whose torn heart was filled with one single aching memory, take note of all that went on about her?
She was still living in the past, and took small heed of the present. She thought Colonel Carlyle was still fond of Felise, and that his little kindnesses and attention to her were offered to her for her father's sake. She felt grateful to him, but that was all. She was not pleased when he came, nor sorry when he went. So, when the long, cold days of winter wore away and nature began to smile with the coming of a genial spring, and Colonel Carlyle could restrain his impatient ardor no longer, his proposal of marriage, worded with all the passion of a younger lover, came upon her with the suddenness of a thunderbolt from a clear sky.
Surely, Mr. Carlyle, I have misunderstood your meaning, she said, looking up at him when he ceased to speak, with terror and fright in her large eyes. "You asked me to—to——"
To marry me, said the colonel. "You have not misunderstood me, Bonnibel. I love you, my darling, as passionately as any young man could do. I ask you to give yourself to me for my cherished wife. It would be the sole aim of my life to make you happy. Will you be my wife, little darling?"
Why, you—you are engaged to Miss Herbert, said Bonnibel, in surprise and reproach.
I beg your pardon, my dear. I am not. I admire and esteem Miss Herbert very much, but I have never addressed a word of love to her. It is you whom I love—you whom I wish to make my wife, exclaimed the ardent colonel.
I certainly understood that you would marry Felise, answered Bonnibel, gravely.
It was a very serious error on your part, my dear little girl, for I have been trying all the winter to make you see that I loved no one but you.
I never dreamed of such a thing, exclaimed the girl, in a tone of genuine distress.
Then you are the only one who did not suspect it, said he, in a mortified tone. "The fact was very patent to all others."
Bonnibel looked down at the shimmering opal on her finger, and a blush of shame rose over her delicate features. She thought to herself, impulsively:
This is dreadful for me—a wedded wife—to sit here and listen to such words without the power of protesting against them.
Perhaps you think I am too old for you, my angel, said the colonel, breaking the silence; "but my heart and my feelings are much younger than my years. I could not have loved you more ardently thirty years ago. But if age is a fault in your eyes, my darling, I will atone for it by every indulgence on earth, and by a deathless devotion."
Oh, pray, do not say another word, Colonel Carlyle. It can never be, sir. I can never be your wife! exclaimed the girl, in deep agitation.
But why not, my dearest girl?
I do not love you, sir, said the girl, cresting her graceful head half-haughtily upon her slender throat.
I will teach you to love me, darling. Come, say that you will let me take you away from this house, where I can see that they hate you, and make your life more happy. I will do anything to further your happiness, Bonnibel, urged the colonel.
What you wish is quite impossible, sir. I beg that you will dismiss the subject, my dear, kind friend, and forget it, repeated Bonnibel, earnestly.
I will not take no for an answer, replied the colonel, obdurately. "I have taken you by surprise, and you do not know your own mind, my dear little girl. I will give you a week to decide in. Think of all the advantages I can offer you, Bonnibel, and of my devoted love, and say yes when I come back for your answer."
So saying he abruptly took his leave.
Mother, Bonnibel has refused Colonel Carlyle.
Mrs. Arnold looked up from the sofa where she lay reading a novel by the gas-light with a start of surprise. Felise had come into the room as quietly as a spirit in her white dressing-gown.
Mercy, Felise, how you startled me! she exclaimed. "I had just got to such an exciting part where the heroine was just about to be murdered by her jealous rival when in you came with your long hair and trailing white wrapper, like Lady Macbeth walking in her sleep. I almost expected to hear you exclaim:
'Here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand!'
You are quite dramatic to-night, mother—your novel must be an exciting one, said Felise, with a slight sneer. She came forward and sat down in a large easy-chair opposite her mother. She looked pale, and her eyes burned with repressed excitement.
It is, said Mrs. Arnold, "the most thrilling book I have read lately. But what were you saying when you came in and frightened me so?"
I said that Bonnibel had refused Colonel Carlyle, repeated Felise, distinctly.
Mrs. Arnold sat up with her fingers between the pages of her book, whose interesting perusal she felt loth to stop. She said, half stupidly:
Oh, she has, has she? Well, it had to come to that, sooner or later, you know, my love.
Indeed? answered Felise, shortly.
Well, you know we have been expecting it some time, Felise, ever since Colonel Carlyle lost his heart about her. I must say his conduct to you has not been that of a gentleman, my dear.
I quite agree with you, said Felise dryly.
She was very quiet, but her small hands were tightly clenched. She seemed "to hold passion in a leash" by a strong effort of will.
But how did you find it out? inquired her mother, thinking that Felise was taking it quite calmly, after all.
As I find out most things—by keeping my eyes and ears open! retorted her daughter, tartly.
When did it happen?
This afternoon, while you were out calling on the Trevertons.
Was the old fool much cut up about it? inquired Mrs. Arnold, inelegantly.
He would not take no for an answer, said Felise. "He wanted her to take time to think of all the advantages he offered her, and he is coming in a week to hear her decision."
The silly old dotard! ejaculated her mother. "Well, all he can get by his persistence is a second refusal."
Felise Herbert straightened herself in her chair, and looked at her mother with a strange smile on her face.
I do not intend that he shall get a second refusal! she said, in a low voice that was very firm and incisive.
Mrs. Arnold stared at her daughter in blank surprise and incredulity.
Why, Felise, what can you mean? she inquired.
I mean that Bonnibel Vere shall marry Colonel Carlyle! her daughter answered, in the same low, determined voice.
Why, my dear, you know it cannot be when she already has a husband! Besides, I did not know that you wanted them to marry. I thought—I thought— said Mrs. Arnold, stopping short because surprise had overpowered her.
She looked at the white figure sitting so quietly there in the arm-chair, with some apprehension. Had Felise's disappointment impaired her reason?
You need not look at me so strangely, mother, said Felise. "I assure you I am not mad, as your eyes imply. I am as sane as you are; but I have said that Bonnibel Vere shall marry my recreant lover, and I mean to keep my word. She has stolen him from me, and now she shall marry him and get out of my way! Or perhaps you would prefer to keep her here to spoil the next eligible chance I get," said Felise, looking at her mother with burning eyes.
I don't see how you can bring her to consent to such a thing, even if you are in earnest, my dear.
You have got to help me, mother. You shall tell her that you will not allow her to refuse Colonel Carlyle—that she shall become his wife, and that if she does not revoke her rejection, you will turn her instantly into the street!
"Felise, will you tell me why you are so determined upon their marriage? I supposed you were unwilling to it—it would be only natural for you to oppose it—but you seem as anxious for it as Colonel Carlyle himself. Again, I ask you why? Mother, I told you I would take revenge upon my rival. This is a part of my revenge. Their marriage will be the first act in the drama. Do not ask me how I am going to proceed. Let me work out my revenge in my own way. I owe them both a score. Never fear but I will pay it off with interest!""
"But, Felise, you must know that Bonnibel would sooner declare her secret marriage than be forced into another one. I can turn her into the street if you are determined upon it; but I know I cannot make a girl as truthful and pure as Bonnibel Vere knowingly become the wife of two husbands.
I fully admit your inability to do that, mother. I do not intend to insist on your performance of impossibilities. As for Leslie Dane, look here!'
She straightened out a folded paper she had carried in her bosom, and leaning forward pointed out a small paragraph to her mother.
Mrs. Arnold read the brief paragraph with starting eyes, then turned and looked at her daughter. She no longer kept her finger between the pages of her novel. It had slipped down upon the floor. She was getting absorbed in this tragedy in real life.
Is it possible? she exclaimed. "Felise, can it be true?"
Why not? was the cool interrogatory. "Such things happen often—don't they?
'Every minute dies a man, Every minute one is born.'
Let me see the date, Mrs. Arnold said, bending forward. "Ah! it is very recent. Well, I am surprised. But yet it is a very fortunate occurrence, is it not? Of course it is genuine."
Why, of course it is, said Felise, with a short, dry laugh. "How else could it be in the paper? They don't put such things in for sport, I suppose."
Of course not; but it came upon me so suddenly I felt quite incredulous at first. Well, this puts a new face upon the matter, does it not, my dear?
Certainly, mother. I will show her this paper, and she cannot have any pretext for repeating her refusal in the face of the alternative with which you shall threaten her. I suppose any girl in her senses would marry Colonel Carlyle and his millions rather than be turned out homeless into the street.
She sat still a moment staring before her into futurity with lurid eyes that saw her revenge already, and curling lips that began to taste its sweetness in anticipation.
When must I tell her, Felise? inquired Mrs. Arnold.
To-morrow, mother. There is no use in delaying matters. Let us bring the marriage about as speedily as possible. You will tell her to-morrow what she has to do, and I will be on hand with the paper.
She rose slowly.
Well, I will go, and leave you to finish your novel, she said; "but if you take my advice you will retire instead. It is growing late. Good-night."
Good-night, my love, and pleasant dreams, her mother answered.
She went out as quietly as she had entered, her dark hair flying wildly over her shoulders and her white robes trailing noiselessly after her. She was twisting her hands together, and again Mrs. Arnold thought of Lady Macbeth washing her hands and crying in her sleep, "Out, damned spot!"
Ah, Felise Herbert! There was a stain on your soul as red as that on Lady Macbeth's hand!
The morning after the rejection of Colonel Carlyle, Bonnibel Vere sat alone in a pleasant little morning-room that was thrown out from the main residence as a wing. It was daintily furnished in blue plush and walnut, and had double glass doors that looked out upon a lovely little garden that in this pleasant May season was glowing with bloom and fragrance.
Bonnibel had been trying to read, but in the perturbed state of her mind she could not fix her attention upon the book. It had fallen from her lap upon the floor, and as she sat in the luxurious arm-chair she leaned forward with her little chin buried in one pink palm and her blue eyes gazing into vacancy, as if lost in thought.
She looked very fair and sweet sitting there in a cool, white morning-dress, trimmed in lace and dotted about with several bows of black ribbon. Her beautiful hair, which was growing long and thick again, fell upon her shoulders in loose curls, like glints of sunshine.
She had broken a spray of white hyacinth and pinned it on her bosom, and she looked as pure and sweet as the flower itself.
I am very sorry, she was thinking to herself, "that I was so unfortunate as to win Colonel Carlyle's affection. I certainly never dreamed of such a thing, and a year ago I should have laughed in the face of any old man who dared propose to me, and have told him I did not wish to marry my grandfather. Heigh-ho! I have grown graver now, and do not turn everything into a jest as I did then. Still, I wish it had not happened. I liked him simply as my father's friend, and I thought he liked me just as papa's daughter."
She sighed heavily.
I think I understand some things now that have puzzled me all the winter, she mused. "He was Felise's lover when I first came, and I have unconsciously rivaled her. She hates me for it, and Aunt Arnold hates me, too. Ah! if they knew all that I knew they need not be afraid. Felise is welcome to him, and I will try to induce him to return to her. I never thought that Colonel Carlyle could have acted so basely toward her, as it seems he has——"
Mrs. Arnold's sudden entrance into the room interrupted her meditations. She looked so angry and overbearing that Bonnibel rose and was about leaving the room when she was recalled abruptly.
Stay, Bonnibel; I wish to speak with you. Resume your seat, if you please.
Flushing with resentment at the insolent authority of the tone, Bonnibel turned and faced the lady with a gleam of pride shining in her blue eyes.
Pardon me, she answered, coldly. "I will hear what you have to say standing."
As you please, said Mrs. Arnold, with a sneer. "Perhaps your strength may not stand the ordeal, however."
Bonnibel stared at her in silent surprise.
You have refused an offer of marriage from Colonel Carlyle, said Mrs. Arnold in a tone of deep displeasure.
Bonnibel's fair cheeks deepened their color ever so slightly.
Yes, madam, I have, she answered after a moment's thought. "But I am ignorant of the means by which you became cognizant of the fact."
It does not matter, Mrs. Arnold replied, flushing to a dark red under the clear pure eyes bent upon her. "Perhaps he told me himself. One would think that even so elderly a lover would consult a young lady's guardian and protector before addressing her! But no matter how I came by my information, you admit its truth."
Certainly, madam, Bonnibel answered quietly, but wondering within herself what all this fencing meant. She was growing slightly nervous. The fair hands trembled slightly as they hung lightly clasped before her, and the white and red rose triumphed alternately in her cheek.
Mrs. Arnold stood resting her folded arms on the back of a chair, regarding the lovely young creature as if she had been a culprit before the bar of justice.
May I ask what were your reasons for declining the honor Colonel Carlyle offered you? she inquired in measured tones.
Bonnibel was half-tempted to deny Mrs. Arnold's right to ask such a question. With an effort she fought down the quick impulse, and answered in a voice as gentle as the other's was rude and self-assertive:
I did not love him, Aunt Arnold!
Love! Love! sneered the widow contemptuously. "What had love to do with the matter? You, a poor, penniless, dependent creature, to prate of love when such a man as Colonel Carlyle lays his millions at your feet! You should have jumped at the chance and thanked him for his condescension!"
The listener regarded her with horror and amazement. Her delicate lips quivered with feeling, and her eyes were misty with unshed tears.
Surely, Aunt Arnold, she said, questioningly, "you would not have had me accept Colonel Carlyle simply for his gold?"
Yes, I would, though, answered Mrs. Arnold roughly, "and what is more, I intend that you shall accept him, Bonnibel Vere! Girl, you must have been mad to dream of refusing such a splendid offer. When Colonel Carlyle returns for his final answer you will tell him that your first refusal was only a girlish freak of coquetry, to try his love, and that you accept his offer gratefully."
Bonnibel's cheeks turned as white as her dress, a mist rose before her eyes, shutting out the sight of her aunt's angry face.
She staggered and put out her hand to steady herself by a chair. Mrs. Arnold regarded her with an air of cold insolence.
I thought you would find it rather beyond your strength to stand before our conversation was over, she remarked, with slight sarcasm.
Bonnibel did not seem to hear the last shaft of malice. She answered the preceding words in a voice that she strove to render steady and controlled.
I cannot recognize your right to dictate to me in a matter that concerns myself alone, madam.
Mrs. Arnold listened to the proud, calm tones in furious wrath.
You defy my authority? You refuse to obey me? she broke out angrily.
Your violence leaves me no other alternative, Aunt Arnold, said the young girl, trying hard to speak calmly. "I do not wish to marry yet, and the man whom you wish me to accept as a husband, could never be the choice of my heart. I cannot understand why you should wish to force me into a marriage so unsuitable."
The graceful, womanly dignity of the young girl's words and manner made no impression on the coarse woman's nature. She only saw before her the girl she had hated ever since her innocent babyhood, the girl whose peerless beauty had come between Felise and her brilliant prospects. She broke out in a passionate resentment:
Because I want to be rid of you, girl! You have been a tumbling-block in my path your whole life, and I hate the very sight of your baby-face! But I took pity on you and cared for you when poverty came upon you. In return for my kindness you stole my daughter's lover! Now you shall marry him and get out of her way. It is the only reparation you can make her. Do you think I will allow you to refuse Colonel Carlyle, and remain here to cheat her out of the next eligible chance that offers? Never!
It was hard work for the listener to be so fiercely assailed by this woman and not break out into the angry remonstrances that were swelling in her heart. But Bonnibel had learned the difficult art of self-control lately. She reflected to herself that it was but natural that Mrs. Arnold should feel sore over the disappointment and humiliation of her clever, handsome daughter.
I am very sorry to hear that you hate me so much, she said, a little sadly. "I have had no one to love me since Uncle Francis died, and I hoped I might win a little place in his wife's heart. But you wrong me, indeed, in charging me with stealing Felise's lover. I never dreamed of winning him away from her; I was deceived by his interest in me, thinking it was simply because he had been a friend and comrade of my dear papa. I might have known better, you say. Perhaps I might, but I was blinded by private troubles of my own, and scarcely heeded what went on around me. I am very sorry I have been the innocent cause of pain to Felise."
Spare her the additional mortification of your sympathy, was the ironical answer. "I think she can bear the old dotard's desertion. She does not desire your regrets, and I believe I have named the only reparation possible for you."
And that? said the girl, slowly.
Is to marry Colonel Carlyle and get out of her way, was the harsh reply.
I cannot do that, said Bonnibel, hurriedly. "It is impossible for me to marry Colonel Carlyle—there are many reasons why I should not. As to the other, I will——"
She was about to add, "I will go away from here," but a sickening thought flashed across her. Where could she go?
She had no relative to fly to in her trouble. She did not know how to work and take care of herself. She had never learned anything useful, and her education had been mostly limited to those showy, superficial accomplishments in vogue in the fashionable world. She had five hundred fashionable friends, but not one to whom she could turn for comfort in this her dark hour.
You say you cannot marry Colonel Carlyle, said Mrs. Arnold, breaking in on her troubled silence. "Listen to the only alternative that is left you. I give you until he returns for his answer to decide in. If you do not then accept him you shall no longer have the shelter of my roof. Yes, in the very hour that you refuse Carlyle's millions, I will turn you out homeless into the streets!"
Into the streets! How the words grated on the girl's horrified hearing. She had seen them take up a dead girl from the street once, a girl as young and fair almost as herself.
They said she had poisoned herself because she had no home. They took her away to the Morgue, but Bonnibel had never forgotten that fair, still face as it lay cold in death.
She recalled it now with a shiver. Some one had turned the poor girl into the streets to die. Would that be her fate?
A deadly weakness stole over her. She dropped into a chair like one shot, and Mrs. Arnold as she stood near her could hear the loud, wild beating of her heart. Her little white hands trembled, and her cheeks and lips turned white as marble.
Aunt Arnold, she said, looking up at the cruel, relentless woman, "you would not do that, surely? I should have nowhere to go, and I am so terribly afraid of the night and the darkness in the dreadful streets of the city!"
No matter, sneered the listener. "You can go to one of the finest houses in the city if you like, and have every luxury that wealth can command—but if you refuse that, out you go from under the shelter of this roof!"
There was the sound of some one singing in the flower-garden outside.
It was Felise. She came in with one handful of roses, while the other held a newspaper which she was studying with a thoughtful brow.
Bonnibel, she said, abruptly, "do you recollect that young artist, Leslie Dane, who used to visit at Sea View last summer?"
A wave of color drifted into the girl's white cheek. She looked up quickly into the thoughtful face of Felise.
Yes, she answered, "what of him, Felise?"
Did he not go to Rome to study painting? inquired the artful girl.
That was his intention, I believe, said Bonnibel, wondering what was coming now.
I thought so. There can be no mistake, then—poor fellow! Look here, Bonnibel.
She put the paper she carried into the young girl's hand, and touched her taper finger to a marked paragraph.
Bonnibel's eyes followed the jeweled finger and read the few lines with staring gaze, mutely conscious of the overpowering scent of the roses that Felise carried in her hand.
Ever afterward Bonnibel associated roses with the thought of death.
Died on the 10th of April, at Rome, Italy, of malarial fever, Leslie Dane, in the 24th year of his age. Mr. Dane was an artist and a native of the United States of America. Requiescat in pace.
Felise was prepared to see her rival fall fainting at her feet.
She expected nothing less from the shock to the girl's already overwrought feelings, and in anticipation she already gloated over the sight of her sufferings.
But she was mistaken. Bonnibel neither screamed nor fainted. She sat like one dazed for a moment, her blue eyes riveted to the paper, and her face growing white as death, while the two women who hated her watched her with looks of triumph.
The next instant, with a bound like that of a wounded fawn seeking some leafy covert in which to die, she sprang from her seat and rushed from the room, clenching the fatal paper in her hand.
They could hear her light feet flying along the hall and up the stairs to her own especial apartments.
The two wicked women looked at each other blankly.
I did not expect her to take it that way, said Mrs. Arnold.
Nor I, returned Felise. "I looked for a fainting spell, or some kind of a tragic scene at least."
Perhaps she does not care much after all, suggested Mrs. Arnold. "She is young, and the young are proverbially fickle. She may have ceased to love him."
No, she has not. I am confident of that, mother. Her face looked dreadful when she went out. She is too proud to let us see how she is wounded—that is all. She turned as white as a dead woman while she was reading, and there was a hunted, desperate look in her eyes. Depend upon it she is terribly stricken.
Do you think she will consent to marry Colonel Carlyle now, Felise?
I rather think she will after the awful alternative you placed before her.
Did you hear our conversation, my dear?
Every word of it, mother. I must say you sustained your part splendidly. I feared you would not display sufficient firmness, but you came off with flying colors.
Mrs. Arnold smiled. She was well-pleased at her daughter's praise, for though her life was devoted to the service of Felise, this scheming girl seldom gave her a word or smile of commendation. She answered quickly:
I am glad you were pleased, my love. I tried to be as positive as you wished me to be. I fancied I heard you under the window once.
I was there, said Felise, with a laugh.
She was very much shocked when I threatened to turn her out of doors, said Mrs. Arnold. "She looked at me quite wildly."
She will be more shocked when she finds you meant every word, for, mother, if she does not accept Colonel Carlyle, you shall certainly drive her away! exclaimed Felise, and a wild and lurid gleam of hatred fired her eyes as she spoke, that boded evil to the fair and innocent girl upon whom she had sworn to take a terrible revenge.
Bonnibel flew up the stairs to her own room, still clenching the fatal paper tightly in her hand, and locking her door, threw herself downward upon the carpet and lay there like one dead.
She had not fainted. Every nerve was keenly alive and quivering with pain. Her heart was beating in great, suffocating throbs, her throat felt stiff and choked as if compressed by an iron hand, and her head ached terribly as if someone had hurled a heavy stone upon it.
Her whole being seemed to be but one great pulse of intense agony, yet she lay still and moveless, save that now and then a convulsive clutch of the small hand pressed to her throat showed that life still inhabited that beautiful frame.
Life! The thought came to her suddenly and painfully. She raised herself slowly and heavily, as if the weight of her sorrow crushed her down to earth, and the full realization of the terrible change broke over her. Leslie Dane was dead. That graceful form, that handsome face was hidden beneath the damp earth mould. The dark eyes of her artist husband would never shine down upon her again with the love-light beaming in them, those lips whose smiles she had loved so well would never press hers again as they had done that night when he had blessed her and called her his wife. But she—she was a living, agonized creature, the plaything of fate—oh, God! she thought, clasping her hands together wildly, oh, God! that she were dead and lying in the grave with the loved one she would never see again. She felt in all its passionate intensity the force of another's heart-wrung utterance.
Dead, dead! she moaned. "Oh, God! since he could die, The world's a grave, and hope lies buried there."
Ah! Bonnibel, sweet Bonnibel! It is a dark world indeed on which your tearful gaze looks forth! It has been the grave of hope to many, yet destiny pushes us forward blindly, and we cannot stay her juggernaut wheels as they roll over our hearts.
I am eighteen years old, and I am a widow, she moans at last, and staggers blindly to her feet, pushing back the fair locks from her brow with shaking hands. "I am a widow!"
Oh! the pathos of the words! As she speaks them she draws the blinds, drops the curtains, and the room is shrouded in darkness. She has shut out the world from the sight of suffering. You and I, my reader, will turn aside, too, from the contemplation of that cruelly tried young heart as it fights the battle in the gloom and silence.
Who breathes must suffer; and who thinks must mourn; And he alone is blessed who ne'er was born.
Six days later Colonel Carlyle was ushered into Mrs. Arnold's drawing-room and sent up his card to Miss Vere.
After a slight delay she came gliding in, pale and pure as a snow-drop, and demure as a little nun. Colonel Carlyle both felt and saw that some subtle and indefinable change had come over her as he bowed over the cold, white hand she placed in his.
It was a very warm day, even for May; but she was clothed from head to foot in heavy mourning draped with crape. Her golden hair was brushed straight back from her temples and gathered into a simple coil fastened with a comb of jet. From that somber setting her fair face and bright hair shone like a star.
You are pale, Bonnibel; I trust you have not been ill, exclaimed the ancient suitor anxiously.
I am as well as usual, she answered, with a slight, cold smile.
They sat down, and the ardent lover at once plunged into the subject nearest his heart.
Bonnibel, I have come for my answer, you know, he said. "I hope and trust it may be a favorable one."
The girl's sweeping lashes lifted a moment from her pale cheeks, and her blue eyes regarded him sadly; but she did not speak. He bent down and lifted her white, listless hand in his and held it fondly.
My dear, shall it be yes? he inquired. "Will you give me this precious little treasure?"
Bonnibel looked down at the hand that lay in the colonel's—it was the one which wore the opal ring—that beautiful, changeful gem. Its colors were dim and pale to-day. She shivered slightly, as if with cold.
Colonel Carlyle, I told you when we spoke of this before that I did not love you, she said, faintly.
The colonel did not appear to be disheartened by this plaintive plea.
At least you do not hate me, Bonnibel, he said, half questioningly.
Oh, no, she answered quickly; "I like you very much, Colonel Carlyle. You have been so very kind to me, you know—but it is only the liking one has for a friend—it is in no way akin to love."
I will try to be contented with just your friendly liking, my dear one, if you will give yourself to me, he answered, eagerly.
I believe I could give you a daughter's affection, but never that of a wife, she murmured.
He did not in the least understand the swift, appealing look of the eyes that were raised a moment to his own. A swift thought had rushed over her and she had given it words:
Oh, that he would adopt me for his daughter and save me from either of those two alternatives that lie before me, she thought, wildly. "He might do so for papa's sake, and I would make him a very devoted daughter!"
But the sighing lover did not want a daughter—he was after a wife.
I will take you even on those terms, he replied. "Let me give you the shelter of my name, and we will see if I cannot soon win a warmer place in your heart."
She shook her head and a heavy sigh drifted across her lips.
Do not deceive yourself, Colonel Carlyle, she said. "My heart is dead. I shall never love any one."
I will risk all that, he answered. "Only say yes, most peerless of women, and so that I call you mine I will risk all else!"
Do you mean it? she asked, earnestly. "The hand without the heart—would that content you?"
Yes, he answered, bent on attaining his end, and foolishly believing that he could teach her to love him. "Yes; am I to have it, Bonnibel?"
It shall be as you wish, she answered, quietly, and leaning slightly forward she laid in his the hand she had withdrawn a while ago.
Colonel Carlyle was beside himself with rapture.
A thousand thanks, my beautiful darling, he exclaimed, pressing passionate kisses on the small hand. "Nay, do not take it away so soon, my love. Let me first place on it the pledge of our betrothal."
Still and white as marble sat Bonnibel while the enraptured colonel slipped over her taper forefinger a magnificent diamond ring, costly enough for a queen to wear. Its brilliant stone flashed fire, and the opal on her third finger seemed to grow dull and cold.
So Bonnibel had made her choice.
Her nature was tender, refined, luxurious. She was afraid of poverty and cold, and darkness; yet if Leslie Dane had lived she would have faced them all rather than have chosen Mrs. Arnold's alternative.
But Leslie Dane was dead. Life was over and done for her. There was nothing to do but to die or forget. Death would have come soon enough in the streets, perhaps, but she was so afraid of such a death. So she took "the goods the gods provided," and blindly threw herself forward into the whirling vortex of fate.
It was not to be expected that Colonel Carlyle would be willing to defer his happiness. He was well-stricken in years, and had no time to spare in idle waiting. He therefore pressed Bonnibel to name an early day for the wedding.
She had no choice in the matter, and allowed him to name the day himself.
Armed with her permission, he consulted Mrs. Arnold in regard to the earliest possible date for his happiness.
Mrs. Arnold, tutored by Felise, was all smiling graciousness, and fully appreciated his eagerness. She thought it quite possible that a suitable and elegant trousseau might be provided for a wedding on the twenty-fifth of June.
Bonnibel's wedding-day dawned cloudless, fair and beautiful. The sun shone, the flowers bloomed, the birds sang. Nothing was wanting to complete the charm of the day.
Nothing? Ah! yes. The most important thing of all—the light and happy heart that should beat in the breast of a bride was lacking there.
She was beautiful "in gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls," but she looked like a statue carved in marble. No warmth or color tinged the strange pallor of her face and lips, no light of love shone in the violet eyes that drooped beneath the sweeping lashes. She spoke and moved like a soundless automaton.
Bonnibel had pleaded for a private marriage, but Colonel Carlyle had set his heart on a marriage at church, with all the paraphernalia of a fashionable wedding. He wanted to show the whole world what a peerless prize he was winning. He had urged the point with the persistency and almost obstinacy that is characteristic of age, and Bonnibel had yielded recklessly. She told herself that it did not matter what they did with her. Her heart was broken and her life was ruined.
She was not in a position to dictate terms. Wretched, dejected, friendless; what mattered this crowning humiliation of being decked in satin and pearls and orange flowers, and paraded before all eyes as a beautiful slave that an old man had bought with his gold.
Well, it was over. She had gone to the church with him, the wide portals had opened to receive her, the wedding march had pealed over her head, the beautiful bridesmaids had gone with her to the altar in their gala dresses, and carrying little baskets of flowers on their arms, and she had spoken the words that made her the bride of Colonel Carlyle. The fashionable world had flocked to witness the pageant, and nodded approval and congratulated both. And now?
Now the wedding breakfast was over, the "dear five hundred friends" had departed, and Mrs. Carlyle stood arrayed in her traveling dress.
Long Branch was to be the first destination of the wedded pair—they had made no further arrangements yet. Mrs. Arnold and Felise had promised to join them there in a few days by the groom's express invitation.
Felise had behaved so decorously after being thrown overboard by her fickle suitor that the colonel felt that it behooved him to show his appreciation of her conduct by every delicate attention that was possible under the circumstances.
He had, therefore, insisted on their company at Long Branch while he and the bride remained there, and the two ladies had promised to join them there in a day or two at farthest.
Nothing but the coldest civilities had passed between the outraged Bonnibel and the mother and daughter since the day when Mrs. Arnold had cruelly insulted and threatened the helpless girl.
Bonnibel had kept her room almost entirely after that day, acquainting her uncle's wife with her acceptance of Colonel Carlyle by a brief note sent by Lucy, though she might have spared herself the trouble, for Mrs. Arnold and her daughter had both been witnesses of the colonel's happiness.
The bride-elect had been threatened by an avalanche of milliners and dressmakers at first, but she had resolutely declined to have anything to do with the details of her bridal outfit.
She had suffered a fashionable modiste to take her measure once, and after that Mrs. Arnold was forced to give her carte blanche in the whole matter of taste, expense and arrangement. Bonnibel would dictate nothing in the preparation of those hated garments in which she was to be sacrificed.
It was all over now. She stood in the hallway of the splendid home that had sheltered her childhood, waiting for the carriage that would bear her away on her honey-moon trip. She was leaving that dear home forever; a quick tear sprang to her eyes as the servants crowded around her with their humble, sorrowful adieux.
Lucy was to go with her, but the others, many of whom had been valued domestics in the house for years, she might never see again.
They all loved her, and their farewells and good wishes were the most fervent and heart-felt she had ever received.
Colonel Carlyle, though a little impatient, was pleased at these humble manifestations and distributed gratuities among them with a liberal hand. He wondered a little at the tears that crowded into the blue eyes of his girl-wife. He did not know that she was thinking of the dear uncle with whom she had spent so many hours beneath this roof. Ah, those happy days! How far they lay behind her now in the green land of memory!
Come, dearest, he said, drawing her small hand through his arm and leading her away, "you must not dim those bright eyes with tears."
He led her down the steps, placed her in the carriage that was gay with wedding favors, and Mrs. Arnold and Felise airily kissed the tips of their fingers to them. Janet threw an old slipper after the carriage for good luck, and then Bonnibel was whirled away to the new life that lay before her.
I came very near being the bride in that carriage myself, said Felise, turning away from the drawing-room window. "But 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'"
The tone was light, almost laughing; but Mrs. Arnold, turning to look at her, read a different story in her eyes.
The slighted beauty looked very fair and handsome to-day. She had been the first bridesmaid, and her dress rivaled that of the bride itself for richness and elegance.
It was a creamy satin, heavily embroidered with pearl beads and draped with rich lace, caught up here and there with deep-hearted yellow roses. Her glossy black hair was adorned with the same flowers, and a necklace of sparkling topaz made a circlet of pale flame around her white throat. A dainty little basket of yellow roses had hung upon her arm, but she had thrown it down now and stood trampling the senseless flowers with fury in her eyes.
My dear! exclaimed the mother, in some trepidation.
Don't 'my dear' me, Felise answered, furiously. "I am not in a mood to be cajoled."
She began to pace the floor impatiently, her rich dress rustling over the floor, her white hands busy tearing the roses from about her and throwing them down as if she hated the beautiful things whose crushed petals sent out a rich perfume as if in faint protest against her cruelty. There was a wild glare akin to that of madness in her dark eyes.
'Hell has no fury like a woman scorned!' she said, repeating the words of the great poet. "Oh, mother, how I hate Colonel Carlyle and his wife! I seem to live but for revenge."
Felise, you frighten me with your looks and words, Mrs. Arnold said, a little anxiously. "You seem like one on the verge of madness."
I am, she said, stopping in her hurried walk a moment, and laughing a low, blood-curdling laugh, "but never fear, mother, 'there is method in my madness!'"
I wish you would give up this scheme of revenge, pursued the mother, anxiously. "I hate them as much as you do, I know, but then we have got rid of the girl, and the misery she feels as the wife of a man she cannot love is a very fair revenge upon her. Remember we have despoiled her of everything, Felise, and given her over to a life that will make her wretched. Is not that enough?"
No, it is not! exclaimed her daughter, in low, concentrated tones, full of deep passion. "But, mother, what has changed you so? You used to be as vindictive as a tigress—now you plead with me to forego my revenge."
Because I am afraid for you, my dear, Mrs. Arnold answered in troubled tones. "I fear that your mind will give way under this dreadful strain. I have never told you, Felise, but I will do so now that you may guard yourself against yourself. There was a taint of madness in your father's family, and when I see you brooding, brooding over your revenge, I am afraid, afraid!"
The excited creature only laughed more wildly as she continued her walk.
Felise, the mother continued, "we have wealth, power, position, and you are beautiful. We can make life a long summer day of pleasure. Let us do so, and throw every vexing care to the winds."
Mother, I cannot do it, Felise exclaimed. "I have been cruelly humiliated in the eyes of world—everyone expected Colonel Carlyle to marry me—do you think I will tamely bear their sneers and contempt? No; the man who has brought such odium upon me shall bitterly rue the day he first looked upon the siren face of Bonnibel Vere!"
My love, do you remember the prediction of Wild Madge the sibyl? She said 'you would have everything and lose everything, because the gods had made you mad.'
Who cares for the predictions of that crazy old witch? What can she know of the future? I wish she were dead and out of the way! exclaimed the angry girl, clenching her small white hands impotently together. "Mother, have done with your warnings and pleadings. I will not have them! You seem to be undergoing a softening process of the heart and brain—perhaps both," and with a mocking laugh she swept from the apartment.
Among all the radiant beauties that promenaded the beach and danced in the ball rooms at Long Branch, the young bride of Colonel Carlyle became immediately distinguished for her pre-eminent loveliness.
Wherever she went she created a great sensation.
People went to the places where they heard she would be, just to look at that "faultily faultless" face "star-sweet on a gloom profound."
Artists raved over her form and features. They said she was the fairest woman in the world, and that her beauty had but one fault—it was too cold and pale. One touch of glow and color in that "passionless, pale, cold face," they said, would have made her so lovely that men would have gone mad for her—gone mad or died.
And then she was so young, they said. She had never been presented in society. Colonel Carlyle, the cunning old fox, had married her out of the schoolroom before anyone had a chance to see her. The fops and dandies swore at him behind their waxed mustaches, while better and nobler men said it was a shame that such a fair, charming girl should be wedded to such an old man.
There were some who said that the girl, young as she was, had a hidden heart-history. These were the poets and dreamers. They said that the language of those pale cheeks and drooping eyes was that she had been torn from her handsome lover's side and bartered for an old man's gold.
But these were mere conjectures. No one knew anything about her certainly, until Mrs. Arnold and Felise came down after a week's delay. Then they knew that she was the daughter of General Vere, and the niece of Francis Arnold, the murdered millionaire.
Felise told them of the artist lover who had murdered the millionaire because he would not give him his niece. The excitement only ran higher than before, and people looked at the young creature with even more curiosity and interest than ever.
Bonnibel could not help seeing that she was an object of interest and admiration to everyone about her. She saw that the men sought her side eagerly and often, and that the women were jealous of her. At first she was vexed and angry about it. She could not get a moment to herself. They were always seeking her out, always hovering about her like butterflies round a flower. She wondered why they came round her so, but at length she remembered what she had almost forgotten. Uncle Francis had often told her so; Leslie Dane had told her so; she had heard it from others, too, and even Wild Madge had admitted it.
Ah! Wild Madge! Over her memory rushed the words of the fearful old hag, freighted with a deeper meaning than they had held at first.
You are beautiful, but your beauty will be your bane. "Years of sorrow lie before you!" "You will be a young man's bride, but an old man's darling!"
It has all come true, she thought, turning from the circle around her, and looking wistfully out over the waves that came swelling against the shore, like some wild heart beating against the bars of life. "It has all come true—yet how little I dreamed that she could read the future that lies folded, like the leaves of a book, from first sight. How little I thought that a shadow could ever fall between me and happiness! Yet in a few short months her wild prediction has been fulfilled. I have drank deeply of sorrow's cup. I have been a young man's bride; now they say I am an old man's darling. All—all has been fulfilled save the shame and disgrace with which she threatened me. But that can never come, never, never!" and a look of pride came over the fair face, and the round throat was curved defiantly.
Colonel Carlyle was quite happy and proud at first over the sensation created by his beautiful girl-wife. He liked to see how much people admired her. It pleased him to note the admiring glances that followed her slightest movement.
She belonged to him, and all the admiration she excited was a tribute to his taste and his pride.
For a whole week he was as pleased and happy as a man could be, but a shadow fell upon him with the coming of Felise. He grew morbidly jealous.
Jealous, and without a shadow of reason, for Bonnibel was like the chaste and lovely moon—she shone coldly and alike upon all.
But the colonel became a changed man—everyone noticed it, and many said that the old man was growing jealous of his beautiful darling.
But no one could tell how it came about, not even Felise Herbert, who, when questioned by her mother, refused to admit that the faintest, most insidious hint from her lips had been dropped like poison into the cup of perfect happiness from which the doting old husband was fondly drinking.
One morning a note lay on his dressing-table—a little note scrawled in a disguised hand—he took it up and read it, then put it down again and stood gazing blankly at it as if it were the death-warrant of his happiness. It was very short, but every word was stamped indelibly on his memory.
Your wife, it ran, "wears a little opal ring on the third finger of her right hand. She prizes it more than all the costly jewels you have lavished upon her. It was the gift of a former lover whom she still adores. Ask her to cease wearing the ring, or even to show you the inscription inside, and you will see who has the warmest place in her heart."
Could this be true? Was this a friend who warned him, he thought. He remembered the pretty little ring perfectly.
The jealous pang that had been tearing at his heart for days grew sharper than ever.
He knew his wife did not love him yet, but he had fondly hoped to win her heart in time.
If what the writer of that anonymous letter said was true, then it was vain to hope any longer.
A former lover whom she still adored. Oh! God, could that be true?
I will test her, he said to himself. "No one shall poison my mind against my beautiful wife without a cause. 'I will put it to the test and win or lose it all.'"
He went to a jeweler's that morning and came back with a little box in his vest-pocket.
Then he asked Bonnibel if she would walk down to the seashore with him.
She complied with a gentle smile, and he found her a shady seat a little off from the crowd, where they could talk uninterrupted.
She laid down her parasol, and removing her delicate gloves folded her white hands listlessly together.
Colonel Carlyle took up the hand that wore the opal ring and looked at it fondly.
My dear, he said, "that is a very pretty ring you wear, but it is not beautiful enough for your perfect hand. I have brought you a much handsomer one with which to replace it."
He took it from his pocket and showed it to her—a lovely, shimmering opal set round with gleaming pearls.
I have heard that opals are unlucky stones, he said, "but if you are not superstitious, and like to wear them, will you lay aside the simple one you now have and put this on instead?" and he made a movement as if he would withdraw the tabooed one from her finger.
Bonnibel withdrew her hand quickly, and looked up into Colonel Carlyle's face.
He saw her delicate lips quiver, and a dimness creep over her eyes, while her cheeks grew, if anything, paler than ever. Her voice trembled slightly as she answered:
I thank you for your beautiful gift; but I cannot consent to wear it in the place of the plainer one I now have.
And why not, my dear little wife? It would look much handsomer than the one you now wear on your finger.
A faint flush tinged her snow-white cheek at the half-sarcastic emphasis of his words. Her glance wandered off to the sunlit sea and a tear rolled down her check as she said, very gently:
"I am quite aware of that, Colonel Carlyle. Your ring is a marvel of beauty and taste, and I will wear it on another finger if you like; but I prize the other more for its associations than for its beauty or value. It was a keepsake from a friend. You remember the pretty words of the old song: 'Who has not kept some trifling thing, More prized than jewels rare, A faded flower, a broken ring, A tress of golden hair?'""
"There was a tone of unconscious pleading in her pathetic voice, and the heart of the jealous old husband gave a throb of pain as he listened.
It is true, then, he thought to himself. "It was a gift of a former lover."
Aloud he said rather coldly:
Since you prize it so much as a keepsake, Bonnibel, put it away in some secret place, and preserve it as romantic people do such treasures—it will be safer thus.
I prefer to wear it, sir, she answered, with a glance of surprise at the persistency.
But I do not wish you to wear it. I particularly desire that you should lay it aside and wear the one I have brought you instead, he insisted, rather sharply goaded on by jealousy and dread.
Bonnibel turned her eyes away from the blue waves of the ocean and looked curiously at her husband. She saw that he was in desperate earnest. His dark eyes flashed with almost the fire of youth, and his features worked with some inward emotion she did not in the least understand.
I am sorry to refuse your request, sir, she answered, a little gravely; "though I am surprised that you should insist upon it when I have plainly expressed a contrary wish. I can only repeat what I have said before, that I prefer to wear it."
Against my wishes, Bonnibel?'
I hope that you will not further oppose it, sir, on the ground of a mere caprice, she answered, flushing warmly. "It was the gift of a dear friend, who is dead, and I shall always wear it in remembrance."
The gift of a former lover, perhaps, sneered Colonel Carlyle, half beside himself with jealousy.
I suppose it cannot matter to you, Colonel Carlyle, who the giver may have been, exclaimed Bonnibel, offended at his overbearing tone, and flushing indignantly.
Pardon me, but it does matter, Bonnibel. I dislike exceedingly to see my wife wearing the ring of one whom she loves better than her husband! Common regard for my feelings should induce you to lay it aside without forcing me to issue a command to that effect!
His jealous pain or innate tyranny was fast getting the better of his prudence, or he would scarcely have taken such a tone with the young wife whose heart he so ardently longed to win. She sprang up impetuously and looked down at him with the fires of awakened resentment burning hotly upon her cheeks, looking beautiful with the glow and warmth of passion in the face that had been too cold and pale before. The same proud spirit that had forced her to defy her Uncle Francis that memorable night animated her now.
I think you will hardly dare issue such a command to me, Colonel Carlyle. Remember that though I am your wife I am not your slave!
How fair she looked in his eyes even as she indignantly defied his authority! But passion had made him blind to reason and justice. With a swift glance around to assure himself that no one was in sight, he caught her small hand and tried to wrench the ring from her finger by force.
At least I will see whose hated name is written within the precious jewel! he exclaimed.
Release me, this moment, Colonel Carlyle! If you dare to persevere in such a cowardly and brutal course, I swear to you that I will never live with you another day! Yes, I would leave you within the hour were I twice your wife! cried the girl, in such passionate wrath and scorn that the colonel let go of her hand in sheer surprise at the transformation of his dove.
You would not dare do such a thing! he exclaimed, vehemently.
Would I not? she answered, with flashing eyes. "I dare do anything! Beware how you put me to the test!"
He stood glaring at her with rage and malignity distorting his aristocratic features. How dared that feeble, puny girl defy him thus?
For a moment he almost hated her. A sleeping devil was aroused within his heart.
Bonnibel, he exclaimed, angrily, "you shall repent this hour in dust and ashes!"
All the latent fire and scorn of the girl's passionate nature were fanned into flame by his threatening words.
I care nothing for your threat, she answered, haughtily. "I defy you to do your worst! Such threats do honor to your manhood when addressed to a weak and helpless girl! See how little I prize the gift of one who could act in so unmanly a way."
She stooped and caught up his ring where it had fallen on the sands in all its shining beauty. She made a step forward towards the water, her white hand flashed in the air a moment, and the costly jewel fell shimmering into the sea.
They stood a moment looking at each other in silence—the girl reckless, defiant, like a young lioness at bay; the man astonished, indignant, yet still thrilled with a sort of inexpressible admiration of her beauty and her daring. He saw in her that moment some of the dauntless courage of her hero-father. The same proud, untamed spirit flashed from her glorious eyes. It flashed across him suddenly and humiliatingly that he had been a fool to try such high-handed measures with General Vere's daughter—he might have known that the same unconquerable fire burned in her veins. He had seen Harry Vere go into the battle with the same look on his face—the same flashing eye, the same dilated nostril and disdainful lip.
He went up to her, thrilled with momentary compunction for his fault, and took her hand in his.
You were right, Bonnibel, he said, humbly. "I acted like a coward and a brute. I was driven mad by jealousy. Can you forgive me, darling?"
I accept your apology, sir, she answered, coldly; but there was little graciousness and much pride in her manner. Her pride had been outraged almost past forgiveness.