Colonel Carlyle keeps the peace for several days. He finds that he has overstepped the mark and that it will take careful management to regain his lost ground in his wife's regard. Bonnibel, though she married him without a spark of love, has yet given him a very frank and tender regard and esteem until now. She has always thought him a perfect gentleman, a model of courtesy and propriety, and as such she has given him all that was left in her heart to give—the reverence and affection of a dutiful daughter. Now, without a moment's warning, her ideal has fallen from the proud pedestal where she had placed it—its shattered fragments bestrewed the ground, and she knows, if he does not, that the broken image can never be restored.
He has deceived her, she tells herself bitterly, but now that he has won her, the mask of courtliness is laid aside, and he shows the iron hand that was hidden beneath the velvet glove.
But a few short weeks had fled, and he begins to play the tyrant already.
Her passionate, undisciplined nature rises up in hot rebellion against his injustice. The foolish jealousy of his old age appears very contemptible to her youthful eyes. She does not try to excuse it to herself. A great revulsion of feeling comes over her, chilling the gentle growth of tenderness and gratitude in her heart. Her manner grows cold, reserved, almost offensively haughty.
Ere this first cloud on the matrimonial horizon clears away the grand ball of the season comes off. The gay visitors at Long Branch dance every night, but this is to be the most brilliant affair of any—a "full dress affair" is what the ladies call it—meaning to say that they wear their finest dresses and costliest jewels—the gentlemen likewise.
The night is cloudless, balmy, beautiful—such nights as we have in the last of July when the moon is full and Heaven martials its hosts of stars in the illimitable canopy above. The spacious ball-room is thronged with revelers. The dreamy, passionate strains of waltz-music float out upon the air, filling it with melody.
Standing beside a window is Colonel Carlyle, in elegant evening dress, looking very stately and distinguished despite his seventy years. Leaning on his arm is Felise Herbert, looking radiant in rose-colored satin and gauze, with a diamond fillet clasping her dark hair, and diamonds shining like dew on her bare throat and rounded arms. Smiles dimple her red lips as she watches the animated scene about her, and her dark eyes shine like stars. Her companion thinks that he never saw her half so handsome before as she hangs on his arm and chatters airy nothings in his ears.
Look at our little Bonnibel, she says, in a tone of innocent amusement; "is she not a demure little coquette? She looks like a veritable snow-maiden, as cold and as pure, yet she has young Penn inextricably prisoned in her toils, and everyone knows it—no one better than herself."
His glance follows hers across the room to where his young wife stands a little outside the giddy circle of waltzers, leaning on the arm of a handsome, dreamy-looking youth, and despite the jealous pang that thrills him at Felise's artful speech, his heart throbs with a great love and pride at her exceeding beauty.
She looks like a snow-maiden, indeed, as her enemy says. She wears costly white lace over her white silk, and her cheeks and brow, her arms and shoulders are white as her dress. Colonel Carlyle's wedding gift, a magnificent set of diamonds, adorns her royally. There is not a flower about her, nothing but silk and laces and costly gems, yet withal, she makes you think of a lily, she looks so white, and cold, and pure in the whirl of rainbow hues around her.
Her companion bends toward her, speaking earnestly, yet she listens with such apparent indifference and almost ennui that if that be coquetry at all it can surely be characterized by no other term than that of Felise—"demure."
I thought that Penn's loves were all ideal ones, the colonel says, trying to speak carelessly as he watches his wife's companion closely. "To judge from his latest volumes of poems, the divinities of his worship are all too ethereal to tread this lower earth."
Felise laughs significantly as her companion ceases to speak.
Byron Penn, despite the ethereal creatures of his brain, is not proof against mortal beauty, she says. "Remember, Colonel Carlyle, that angels once looked down from Heaven and loved the women of earth."
He is a graceful waltzer, her companion returns, as the young poet circles the waist of the snow-maiden with one arm and whirls her into the mazes of the giddy, breathless waltz.
Very, says Felise, watching the graceful couple as they float around the room, embodying the very poetry of motion.
She is silent a moment, then looks up into her companion's face with a slightly curious expression.
Pardon my question, she says, thoughtfully; "but do you quite approve of married women waltzing with other men than their husbands?"
He starts and looks at her sharply. The innocent deference and unconsciousness of her voice and face are perfect.
Since you ask me, he says, slowly, "I may say that upon mature consideration I might think it was not exactly comme il faut. Yet I have really never before given a second thought to the subject. It is quite customary, you know, and it seems even more excusable in my wife than other women, since I never waltz myself, and she would be compelled to forego that pleasure entirely unless she shared it with others."
Oh, pray do not think that I have any reference to Bonnibel, exclaimed Felise, hurried and earnestly, "I was speaking altogether in the abstract. Yet I fully agree with you that your wife would be more excusable for many little errors of head and heart than most women. She is scarcely more than a child, and has never had the proper training to fit her for her present sphere. Her uncle was culpably indulgent to her, and hated to force her inclination, which was very adverse to study or application of any kind. Consequently our little Bonnibel, though beautiful as a dream, is little more than an unformed child. She should be in the school-room this minute."
Every word is spoken with such a pretty air of excusing and defending the young wife's errors, and condemning her dead uncle as their cause, that Colonel Carlyle is entirely deceived. He did not know that Bonnibel was so neglected and unformed before, but he takes it on trust since Felise is so confident of it, and the thought rankles bitterly in his proud heart. But he passes over the subject in silence and returns to the primal one.
So you would not, as a rule, Miss Herbert, commend the practice of married women waltzing with other men than their husbands?
She drops her eyes with a pretty air of mingled confusion and earnestness.
Perhaps you will call me prudish, she says, "or perhaps I may be actuated by the more ignoble passion of jealousy; but I have always felt that were I a man it would be insupportable shame and agony for me to see my wife, whom I loved and revered as a being little lower than an angel, whirled about a common ball-room in the arms of another, while the gaping public nodded and winked."
She saw a look of shame and pain cross his face as his eyes followed the white figure floating round the room in the clasp of Byron Penn's arms.
I suppose there are not many women who feel as strongly on that subject as you do, he says, slowly.
Oh, dear, no, nor men either, or they would not permit their wives such license, is the quick reply.
The waltz-music ceases with a bewildering crash of melody, and some one comes up and claims Felise for the next german. She floats away airily as a rose-colored cloud on her partner's arm, and leaves her victim alone. He stands there quite silently a little, seeming lost in troubled thought, then goes to seek his wife.
He finds her the center of an admiring circle, the young poet, Byron Penn, conspicuous among them.
With a slight apology to his friends he offers his arm and leads her away from the throng out to the long moonlighted piazzas.
Shall I find you a seat or will you promenade? he inquires politely.
Oh! promenade, by all means, she answers a little constrainedly.
They take a few turns up and down the long piazza, Mrs. Carlyle's long robe trailing after her with a silken "swish, swish;" she makes no observation, does not even look at him.
Her large eyes wander away and linger upon the sea that is glorious beyond description with the radiance of the full moon mirrored in its deeps, and making a pathway of light across its restless waves.
She thinks vaguely that the golden streets of the celestial city must look like that.
I hope you are enjoying the ball? her liege lord observes interrogatively.
As much as I ever enjoy anything, she returns listlessly.
Which means—— he says, quickly, then checks himself abruptly.
She finishes his sentence with a dreary little sigh:
That I do not enjoy anything very much!
He looks down at her, wondering at the unusual pathos of her tone, and sees a face to match the voice.
Moonlight they say brings out the true expression of the soul upon the features.
If that be true then Bonnibel Carlyle bears a sad and weary soul within her breast.
The white face looks very spirituelle in the soft, mystical light, and the delicate lips are set in a line of pain.
No man likes to see his wife unhappy. It is a reflection upon himself. It is his first duty to secure her happiness. Colonel Carlyle is nettled, and says, half querulously:
I am sorry to see you ennuyed where everything seems conspiring to promote your happiness. Can I do nothing to further that end?
Her large eyes look up at him a moment in grave surprise at his fretful tone. Then she says to herself in apology for him:
He is old, and I have heard that old people become irritated very easily.
Pray do not trouble yourself over my thoughtless words, sir, she says, aloud. "I am tired—that is all. Perhaps I have danced too much."
It was of that subject I wished to speak with you when I brought you out here, he answers, abruptly. "Are you very fond of the waltz, Bonnibel?"
I like it quite well; this after a moment's study. "There is something dreamy, intoxicating, almost delightful in the music and the motion."
A spasm of jealousy contracts his heart. He speaks quickly and with a labored breath.
I have never waltzed in my life, and cannot, of course, enter into the feelings of those who have, but I can see what I am about to ask may be a great sacrifice to you.
She glances up inquiringly into his face, but he will not meet her eyes.
Bonnibel, I want you to give up waltzing altogether—will you do it? he asks, bruskly.
Give up waltzing? she echoes, in surprise. "Is not that a very sudden notion, Colonel Carlyle? I did not know you harbored any objections to the Terpsichorean art."
I do not in the abstract, he answers, evasively. "But you will pardon me for saying that I consider it exceedingly indelicate and improper for a married woman to dance with any man but her husband. That is why I have asked you to give it up for my sake."
Do other people think the same way, sir? she inquires timidly.
All right-minded people do, he answers firmly, quite ignoring the fact that he is a perfectly new proselyte to his boldly announced conviction of the heinousness of the waltz.
Silence falls between them for a little time. They have stopped walking and stand leaning against the piazza rails. Quite unconsciously she has pulled a flower from his elegant boutonniere, and is tearing it to pieces between her white-gloved fingers. She looks up as the last rose-leaf is shredded away between her restless fingers and asks, quietly:
Would it please you very much to have me give up waltzing, sir?
More than words can express, my darling; are you going to make me happy by the promise?
I am quite willing to please you, sir, when it is possible for me to do so, she answers quite gently; "you have my promise."
Bonnibel, you are an angel! exclaims the enraptured colonel. He draws his arm around her an instant and bends to kiss her lips. "A thousand thanks for your generous self-sacrifice!"
You need not thank me, sir—it is not much of a sacrifice, she answers, dryly.
She has drawn out her programme of the dances for the evening and is hurriedly consulting it.
I find that I am engaged for one more waltz, she says, carelessly. "I suppose you do not object to my dancing that? It would be embarrassing to excuse myself."
Your partner is—whom? he inquires, with a slight frown.
Again she consults her programme.
It is Mr. Penn.
Cannot you excuse yourself? Say you are tired? Your head aches? Women know how to invent suitable excuses always—do they not?
I will do as you wish, sir, she answers, in so low a voice that he does not catch its faint inflection of scorn.
Other promenaders come out on the piazza, and one or two laughing jests are thrown at him for keeping the "belle of the ball away from her proper sphere."
Perhaps I am selfish, he says. "Let us return to the ball-room, my love."
As you please, she answers.
He leads her back and lingers by her side awhile, then it strikes him that les proprietes do not sanction a man's monopolizing his wife's company in society. With a sigh he leaves her, and tries to make himself agreeable to other fair women.
He has hardly left her before the band strikes up "The Beautiful Blue Danube," and Byron Penn starts up from some remote corner, from which he has witnessed her return to the ball-room.
This is our waltz, is it not? he says, with a tremor of pleasure in his voice.
A slight flush rises over Bonnibel's cheek.
I believe it is, she answers; "but if you will not think me very rude, Mr. Penn, I am going to ask you to excuse me from it. I am tired and shall dance no more this evening."
You are very cruel, says the poet, plaintively; "but if you wish to atone for your injustice you will walk down to the shore with me and look at the moonlight on the sea, and hear how delicious the music sounds down there. You can form no conception of its sweetness when mellowed by a little distance and blent with the solemn diapason of the waves."
If you will go and tell my maid to bring me a shawl, she answers, indifferently, "I will go with you for a minute."
He returns with a fleecy white wrap, and they stroll away from the "dancers dancing in tune."
Colonel Carlyle soon misses his heart's fair queen from the ball-room, and immediately the whole enchanting scene becomes a desert in his love-lorn eyes. He glances hither and thither; he wanders disconsolately around, yet no flitting glimpse of his snow-maiden rewards his eager eyes. She has vanished as completely from his sight as if a sunbeam had shone down upon and dissolved her into a mist.
Have you seen Bonnibel anywhere? he inquires of Felise, meeting her on her partner's arm as he wandered around.
Felise looks up with a low, malicious laugh.
Bonnibel? she says. "Oh, yes; she and Byron Penn have been down on the beach this half hour in the moonlight, composing sonnets."
Her partner laughs and hurries her on, leaving the anxious old husband standing in the floor like one dazed. A dozen people standing around have heard the question and its answer. They nod and wink at each other, for Colonel Carlyle's patent jealousy has begun to make him a laughing stock. After a moment he recollects himself and turns away. People wonder if he will go out and confront the sentimental pair, and a few couples, on curiosity bent, stroll out to watch his proceedings. They are rewarded directly, for he comes out and takes his way down the shore.
Felise's assertion of a half an hour is merely a pleasant fiction. It has not been ten minutes since she left the house on the arm of the young poet. They are standing on the beach looking out at the glorious sea, and the young man whose soul is so deeply imbued with poetry that he can think and speak of nothing else, has been telling her what a sweet poem is "Lucille," Owen Meredith's latest. He repeats a few lines, and the girl inclines her head and tries to be attentive.
O, being of beauty and bliss! seen and known In the depths of my heart, and possessed there alone, My days know thee not, and my lips name thee never, Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever, We have met, we have parted, no more is recorded In my annals on earth.
The pretty lines have a more attentive listener than Bonnibel. Her husband has come up softly and unnoticed. He sees the graceful head graciously inclined, hears the lines that Byron Penn has, unconsciously to himself, made the vehicle for expressing his own sentiments, and his heart quakes with fury. He strides before them, white and stern.
Mrs. Carlyle, he says, in low, stern accents, "will you come with me?"
The young wife lifts her drooping head with a start and sees him standing before her, wan, white and haggard, quite a different man from the enraptured lover who had kissed and praised her but a little while ago.
I—oh, dear me—has anything happened, Colonel Carlyle? Are you ill? she falters, in her innocent unconsciousness.
Will you come with me? he repeats, grinding his teeth in a fury.
Certainly, she says, thinking that something dreadful must have happened surely, and simply saying, "You will excuse me, Mr. Penn," she bows and turns away on her husband's arm.
The handsome young fellow looks after them blankly.
Upon my word, he exclaims, "what a furious, uncalled-for outbreak of jealousy! So that's what it is to be an old man's darling, is it? Truly an enviable position for such a peerless angel."
He throws himself down on the beach, to the detriment of his immaculate evening costume, and resigns himself to some rather melancholy musings.
Meanwhile Bonnibel, as she walks away, again asks, with sweet unconsciousness:
Has anything happened, Colonel Carlyle?
Let us go to your private parlor; I will tell you there, he answers, coldly.
Inside that safe retreat they confront each other in momentary silence, Bonnibel anxious, troubled, and totally unconscious, Colonel Carlyle pale with anger and wild, unreasoning jealousy, his brain on fire with contending passions that have been seething there ever since Felise's consummate art had been employed to torture him this evening.
Now you will tell me? she inquires, standing before him with loosely-clasped hands, the fleecy drapery falling from her shoulders, the fairest vision his eyes ever rested upon.
Bonnibel, you surely do not pretend to be ignorant that you have given me cause for offense? he exclaims, hoarsely.
Her blue eyes dilate; she retreats a step with genuine surprise depicted on her face. Then she remembered her promise about waltzing.
Surely, there is some misunderstanding, she answers, slowly. "I assure you, sir, that I have not waltzed any more since you asked me not to do so."
You have done worse, much worse! he exclaims, passionately, "and your affectation of innocence must certainly be feigned. No woman in her senses could be oblivious to the fact that your open flirtation with that silly rhymester, Byron Penn, is simply scandalous."
In his excitement he characterizes her offense in terms more forcible than true. She is dumb with astonishment for a moment, then she walks straight up to him, a blaze of color rushing over her face and neck, while her eyes flash lightning scorn upon him.
This to me! she exclaims, her girlish voice ringing with passion and resentment. "Such an accusation to Harry Vere's daughter! Oh! for shame! How dare you!"
You provoked it yourself, he answers, retreating before her, for her little hands were clenched wildly as if she would strike him down to earth; "I gave you my honored name to wear—a name as proud as your father's—and you have dragged it through the mire of a moonlight flirtation with a dandy, an idiot."
It is false, she answers, proudly, "I never flirted in my life, I should not know how to do it. And there was no harm in my short walk down to the shore with Mr. Penn. No one could make harm of it except a man blinded by jealousy!"
A glimmer of the truth had begun to dawn upon her. It angered him bitterly to know that she had detected his weakness.
I have been blinded by many things, he answers, furiously. "I was blinded by your beautiful face before I married you, and could not see that you had never received the proper training and education to fit you for the position to which I elevated you. My eyes have been opened by your recent conduct, and I find you simply an unformed child, utterly ignorant how to maintain your dignity as my wife!"
Word for word he is going over the specious sophistries of Felise, but he is utterly unconscious of the fact. He has been merely a pliant tool in her artful hands, but he believes that he has found out all these facts for himself, and he asserts them with a perfect conviction of truth.
For Bonnibel stands listening in stunned silence to his vehement rhodomontade. She has walked away from him a little way, and stands clinging to the back of a chair, as if to save herself from falling. The angry flush has died out of her face, and she looks marble-cold, and white even to her lips. As he pauses, she speaks in low, resentful accents:
Colonel Carlyle, you are the first man who has ever offered me an insult!
An insult! he exclaims. "Do you call the truth an insult? You talk like a child and act like a child, Bonnibel. I see no other resource before me than to put you at school and keep you there until you learn the necessary amenities of social life which your uncle's blind indulgence aided and abetted you in ignoring."
Send me—a married woman—to school—like a child! she says, staring at him blankly.
Why not? You are quite young enough yet, he answers, moodily. "Two years at a convent school in Paris would give you the training and finish you lack at present."
I assure you, sir, that my education has not been so totally neglected as your words imply, she answers from the depths of the arm-chair into which she has wearily fallen. "My Uncle Francis, though he loved me too well to send me away from him to school, always provided me with competent governesses, and if my training does not do them credit it is my own fault, not his; so I beg that you will not needlessly reflect on his memory."
He was silent a moment, pacing restlessly up and down the floor. An unconscious pathos in her words had stung him into reflection. "My Uncle Francis loved me too well to send me away from him," has touched a responsive chord in his own heart. Her uncle had loved her like that, yet he, her husband, bound to her by the dearest tie on earth, could talk of sending her away from him like a naughty child that, having disobeyed, must be punished for its fault.
Could I do it? he asked himself, suddenly. "I love her as my own life, though her childish follies drive me mad with jealousy. I am growing old—could I lose her out of my life two precious years when my span of existence may be so short? No, no, fool that I was to threaten her so; I will retract it if I can without compromising my dignity."
He paused before her and said abruptly:
I understand from your words then, Bonnibel, that you refuse your consent to my proposed plan?
To his surprise and confusion she lifted her head with a proud, stag-like motion, and said icily:
Au contraire, sir, I think well of it, and fully agree with you that I need more training and polish to fit me for the exalted position I occupy as your wife!
The fine, delicate irony of her tone could not fail to strike him keenly.
He tried to ignore it as he said in a voice that betrayed nothing of his conflicting emotions:
My proposed course meets with your full approval, then, madam?
She inclines her head with stately grace.
I cannot think of anything at present, Colonel Carlyle, that would please me so well as a few years at a Parisian school such as you mentioned.
She is only too glad to have an opportunity of separating herself from me, he thinks, bitterly; but aloud he answers coldly, "So be it; I shall be happy to meet your wishes."
It is barely midnight and the mirth and merriment are at their hight down-stairs. Bonnibel hears the sound of
The violin, flute and bassoon, And the dancers dancing in tune.
through all her interview with Colonel Carlyle, but when it is ended she does not return to the ball-room. She leaves him with a cold good-night, and retires to her own room.
Lucy, her maid, starts up drowsily from her easy-chair as she enters.
You here, Lucy? she says. "I told you not to stay up for me. You should not break your rest staying up night after night like this."
Lor', Miss Bonnibel, I have had as comfortable a snooze in your arm-chair as if I had been tucked into my bed, Lucy answers good-naturedly. "Don't you go for to worry over me staying up. I kin stand it if you kin."
Her mistress stands in the center of the room, her eyes shining, her white hands tearing at the diamond necklace about her throat.
Take it off, Lucy, she cries out impatiently. "It hurts me, it chokes me!"
Lucy hastens to obey, but starts back as she sees the wild, white face of the hapless girl.
Oh, me! she exclaims, "you look like a ghost, you are that white. Are you sick, Miss Bonnibel? Let me get you something to take—some wine, or something?"
No, no, I wish nothing, she answers, impatiently. "Only undress me, Lucy, and help me to bed. I am very tired—that is all."
She sits quite still while Lucy removes the jewels that shine about her, the white satin slippers, the elegant dress, and brings the snowy night-dress instead. Then as the maid kneels down and buttons the delicate robe, Bonnibel, glancing down, sees her eyes full of tears and her full lip quivering.
Lucy, she says, in surprise, "what is it? What has grieved you?"
Lucy starts as if frightened at being detected.
Forgive me, ma'am, she says; "it's for you I grieve. You are that changed that I can't bear it! Here I have been your maid since you was a little girl of twelve, and how happy you used to be before the master died—now for goin' on a year I've never seen a real smile on your face. Something troubles you all the time. Can't I help you? Can't I do something for you?"
The humble, patient fidelity of the girl touches Bonnibel to the heart, it is so seldom that an honest, heartfelt word of kindness falls on her ears. Impulsively she bends and puts her lily white hand into the strong clasp of the girl sitting humbly at her feet, looking up at her with tear-filled eyes.
Lucy, my poor girl, she says, plaintively, "I believe you are the only true friend I have on earth!"
Then can't I help you, Miss Bonnibel? cried Lucy, feeling that the words of her young mistress are too true for her to dispute them. "Something troubles you—can't I help you to be happier?"
A sigh—hopeless, passionate, profound—drifts across the lips of the listener.
No no, my poor, kind girl, she answers; "no one can help me—I must bear my own cross—no one can carry it for me! Only stay with me, Lucy, and love me always—I have so few to love me—and I shall feel better when I can see that your kind heart sympathizes with me."
I'll never leave you, my dear mistress, sobs the girl; "I'll never forget to love every hair of your innocent head."
She kisses the little hand Bonnibel has given her reverently and tenderly, as if it were some precious thing.
Lucy, I am going to test your fidelity, says the girl, drearily. "I am going away to Europe next week. Will you go with me?"
Lucy stares open-mouthed.
To Yurrup, Miss Bonnibel! Away off to them furrin parts?
Yes, Lucy, away off there. Does your courage fail you? her mistress inquires, with a slight, sad smile.
No, no, ma'am. I don't like furrin people much; but I'll go to the ends of the earth with you! is the resolute reply.
Your devotion shall not be taxed that far, Lucy. We will go to France.
That heathen land, exclaims Lucy, "where the monseers eats frogs and snakes?"
Bonnibel cannot repress a smile at the girl's quick gesture of disgust.
You will like the French people better, I hope, when you stay among them two years, for I shall probably stay in Paris that long. I am going to school there, Lucy. You know that I have never been to school in my life, and my governesses were not strict enough with me. There are many things I do not know yet, that one moving in society I frequent should know. So I am going to learn something yet. It is never too late to mend, you know.
Lucy looks up, her eyes growing round with surprise.
Lor', Miss Bonnibel, I never heard of a married woman going to school in my life.
Perhaps you never heard of a married woman so untutored as I am, her young mistress returns, somewhat bitterly; "anyway, I am determined to go to school and learn something. But I cannot do without a maid, and I will take you, if you will go."
That I certainly will, Miss Bonnibel, said Lucy, emphatically.
Very well, Colonel Carlyle and I will start to New York to-morrow to make preparations for our trip. See that the trunks are all packed, Lucy.
I will, ma'am. They shall be ready, never fear.
She rises and looks wistfully at the little white figure in the chair, resting its dimpled chin in the curve of one pink palm, the golden head bent wearily.
Sha'n't I get you something? Indeed, you look ill, she implores.
Nothing, Lucy. Good-night.
Good-night, ma'am, Lucy responds, going away rather reluctantly.
Bonnibel makes no move to retire when Lucy has gone. The little white bed awaits her, tempting to repose by its daintiness and coolness, but she does not look toward it; only sits still as Lucy left her, with her face bowed on her hand.
Colonel Carlyle has gone back to the ball-room again, trying to steel his heart against the upbraidings of his conscience. He moves among the revelers pale and distrait, yet still trying to bear his part in the gaieties lest people should whisper that he is unhappy, and fearful that some one may read the secret of his jealousy and cruelty to his beautiful darling.
Curious glances follow him, whispers breathe the story that he fain would conceal, every eye notes Bonnibel's absence.
They shrug their shoulders and tell each other in confidence that Colonel Carlyle is a perfect Bluebeard, and has banished his wife from the festal scene because he is jealous of Byron Penn.
And the music and the dancing go on until daylight warns the gay ones to flee from that too true light that reveals their weariness and haggardness so plainly.
But the ball is long since over for Bonnibel. Lucy finds her as she left her, curled up in the great arm-chair, sleeping like a grieved child, with the trace of tears on her cheek.
Long Branch is electrified next day by the sudden departure of the Carlyles for New York.
Surprise and wonder run high, and the curious ones seek Felise, thinking that she, if any one, must be acquainted with the whys and wherefores.
But Felise is rather reticent on the subject.
I will tell you all I know, she says, with a pretty affectation of frankness. "That is not much. The Carlyles are going abroad next week and the colonel is going to put his wife at a convent school in Paris to finish her education and perfect herself in music. He told me that much this morning, and I did not ask him why he proposed taking such a singular step."
You thought him so crazed by jealousy that he could hardly account for his whims in a rational manner, eh? inquired one.
It is monstrous! says another. "Why, the girl was as finished and elegant in her manners as mortal could be. It were impossible to add another charm to her."
While Byron Penn quoted with enthusiasm:
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To smooth the ice; or add another hue Unto the rainbow; or with taper light To seek the beauteous eye of Heaven to garnish, Were wasteful and ridiculous excess.
It was a nine days' wonder, and then it was over. People voted Colonel Carlyle a bear and a Bluebeard, and his lovely young bride a victim and martyr. They said that he was secluding her from the world because he was too jealous for the light of Heaven to shine upon her.
The young poet indited some charming verses for his favorite magazine: "To Those Blue Eyes Across the Sea," and then the gossip began to die out, and new subjects engrossed society's mind.
Months rolled on, and the Carlyle eclaircissement was almost forgotten, or at least but seldom named, even by those who had been the most interested at first.
But Felise was jubilant.
Mother, you see what I can do, she said, with a wicked laugh. "The honeymoon is barely over, yet I have thrown sand in the old man's eyes and parted him from his darling for two whole years."
Felise, how did you accomplish it? Mrs. Arnold inquired curiously.
That is my secret, she answered, triumphantly.
You might share it with me, her mother said, reproachfully. "I never have secrets from you, my dear."
I only used a little tact and humbug, mother—just a word dropped in season here and there—yet the seed I sowed has brought forth an abundant harvest. I have driven him nearly mad with jealousy and doubt and suspicion; I put that scheme of sending Bonnibel to school into his mind. And yet so blinded is he by his jealousy that he does not dream of my complicity in the matter, and he will always blame himself for the everlasting alienation that will exist between them.
You had your revenge sooner than I thought you would. You are a clever girl, Felise, Mrs. Arnold said, admiringly.
It is but begun, Felise answered, moodily. "If time spares the old man until Bonnibel comes out of her school I will wring his heart even more deeply than I have already done. I bide my time."
Her mother, cruel and vindictive as she was herself, looked at her in wonder.
Why, it seems to me that you have already deeply avenged yourself, she said.
Hell has no fury like a woman scorned! Felise exclaimed, repeating her favorite text. "Be patient, mother, and you shall yet see what a woman scorned can do."
What does Colonel Carlyle propose to do with himself while his wife is immured in her convent? asked Mrs. Arnold.
He talks of a trip around the world. He affects to be very fond of travel now. But I could see while he talked to me that the old fool repented his intention and would retract it if he could.
Perhaps he may do so yet.
No, he will not. He is too proud and stubborn to do so voluntarily, and I think that Bonnibel has acquiesced so readily in the plan that he can find no loop-hole of escape from it. She is as proud as he is; besides, she does not love him, and his unreasoning harshness has rendered her perfectly reckless. She will go to the school, if only to break his heart.
Perhaps he will die of grief, Felise, or disappointment, and then she will be left a wealthy young widow, cautions Mrs. Arnold.
No danger, sneers Felise, cynically. "Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love, as the immortal Shakespeare says, mother. I do not anticipate such a contingency. The old dotard has buried two partners and not succumbed to the pangs of bereavement yet. It is possible he may live to plant the weeping willow over his little white-faced dove."
Perhaps so. She has never seemed over strong since her illness last summer.
She has been grieving over the loss of Leslie Dane, Felise answered, carelessly.
She goes to the piano, strikes a few chords, and gets up again, wandering about the room restlessly. There is a marked fitfulness and unrest in her every movement, and her eyes flash and roll about in their sockets in a way that troubles her mother.
Felise, do you sleep well at night? she inquires, abruptly.
Why should I not? the girl asks, turning her head away.
I do not know; but there is a haggardness and restlessness about you as if you didn't sleep much. I fancy you are getting nervous and wakeful brooding over this revenge of yours. Your face has grown wan and your eyes quite wild. Take care of yourself or you will lose your beauty.
Never mind, mother; when we go to Paris next year I will go to one of those wonderful women there and have myself made beautiful forever.
To Paris? Do you really mean it, Felise? I thought you said the last time we went abroad that you were tired of it and never meant to go again.
I have changed my mind, mother. That is the privilege of the fair sex, you know.
I suppose you have some motive in this change of mind, Felise.
Yes. I have. I want to be on hand when Mrs. Carlyle comes forth from her finishing school. I have a fancy to see her after the polishing process is completed.
She laughs softly to herself as if something pleasant has occurred to her.
Well, well, have your own way about it, my dear—you always do. But I wish you could forget the Carlyles and enjoy life better. We have everything to make it enjoyable, and if you wanted to marry, why you could buy almost anyone you wanted with our wealth.
I could not buy Colonel Carlyle, mother, though I wanted him very much. He is the wealthiest man I know of anywhere.
You do not need to marry for wealth, my daughter; we have enough of our own.
Felise did not answer. She was absorbed in thought. Nothing Mrs. Arnold could say made the least impression on her mind.
She was wedded to one idea, and as the weeks and months rolled by it only took a firmer hold on her feelings.
Madam Carlyle, monsieur, your husband, awaits you in the salon.
The tall, beautiful blonde, practicing a difficult sonata at the piano, pauses a moment and suffers her white hands to rest idly on the keys.
Colonel Carlyle, did you say, madam? she inquires calmly.
The dignified head of the Parisian school bows in assent, and stands awaiting her pupil's pleasure. The latter rises slowly, folds her music together, restores it to the proper place and turns to leave the music-room.
You will wish to make some changes in your dress, of course, the lady superior blandly asserts.
Madam Carlyle gives a glance downward at her dress of dark blue cashmere. It is made with almost nun-like simplicity, and fits her rounded, graceful form to perfection. The neck and sleeves are finished with frills and fine lace, and there is not an ornament about her except the rings on her tapering fingers. She does not need ornament. She is rarely, peerlessly beautiful with her fair flower-face and luxuriant crown of golden hair.
It is not necessary, she answers. "Colonel Carlyle is perhaps impatient."
There is a delicate-veiled sarcasm in the words barely perceptible to the trained hearing of the listener. With that simple speech she turns and glides from the room, leaving the lady superior gazing after her in some surprise.
They say that we in France make mariages de convenance, she murmurs in French (which we will spare our readers); "but surely the Americans must do likewise. That old man and that fair young girl—surely it is the union of winter and summer. After two years' absence she goes to him as coolly as an iceberg."
Meanwhile Mrs. Carlyle has glided down the long hall, opened the door of the reception-room with a steady hand, and stepped across the threshold.
Bonnibel! exclaims a voice, trembling with rapture and emotion—"my darling wife!"
His arms are about her, his lips touch hers.
After a moment she gently disengages herself and looks up in his face.
Colonel Carlyle, she exclaims, involuntarily, "how changed you are!"
Ten years instead of two seem to have gone over his head.
A look of age and weakness has grown into his face, his erect form has acquired a perceptible stoop; yet a look of disappointment flashes into his eyes at her words.
It is only the fatigue of travel, he answers, quickly. "I have been a great wanderer since we parted, my dear, and the weariness of travel is still upon me. But as soon as I get rested and recuperated I shall look quite like myself again."
I hope so, she answers, politely. "Pray resume your seat sir."
He looks at her a little wistfully as she seats herself some distance from him.
Bonnibel, are you glad to see me again? he asks, gently.
She looks up, startled, and hesitating what to say to this point-blank question.
He sees the struggle in a moment, and adds, quickly and a little sadly:
Never mind, my dear, you need not answer. I see you have not forgotten my harshness in the past, and you are not prepared with an answer that would make me happy. But, my darling, you must learn forgetfulness of those things that alienated you from me, for I shall bend every effort now to the one object of making you happy. I have come to take you away with me, Bonnibel.
A slight, almost impalpable, shiver runs through her at the words, and she smothers a faint sigh.
She will be very sorry to leave this haven of peace in which she has rested securely the last two years. She has grown fond of her quiet life among the "passionless, pale-cold" nuns of the convent, and is loth to break its repose by going back to the jar and fret of life with her jealous husband. She wishes that she might stay in the convent all her life.
Do you intend to return at once to the United States, sir? she inquires, being at a loss for something to say.
Not yet, unless you particularly desire it. I want you to see something of life in the gay French Capital—'dear, delightful Paris,' as we Americans call it. I have rented an elegant chateau and furnished it in handsome style, according to what I fancied your taste would prefer; have engaged a retinue of servants; and there is a lovely garden of roses; in short, the home is ready, and only awaits its mistress. I have tried to arrange everything as you would like it.
Thank you; you are very kind, she murmurs, almost inaudibly.
The next thing, he goes on, "is to take you to Worth, where you may order an outfit as handsome as a queen's, if you choose. And jewels—well, you shall have as many and as costly ones as you like."
I have enough jewels, I think, she answers. "There are the pearls Uncle Francis gave me; then my wedding-gift—the diamonds."
Tut, tut; you will need many more when you are fairly launched on the tide of gay society here. You will see women fairly loaded with jewels—you must not have less than they. Not but that you are beautiful enough to dispense with extraneous ornament, but I wish you to outshine all others in adornment as well as in beauty.
The long lashes droop over her cheeks a little sadly as he talks. So these are the things with which she is to fill her life—society, dress, jewels, fashion. A long life, too, perhaps, for she is barely twenty-one now. For other women there may be love and happiness—for her nothing but the gilded pleasures that wealth can purchase. Ah, well, and with a start she remembers Mrs. Arnold's threat and her weak subjugation by it—these are the things for which she sold herself to the old man sitting yonder. She made the bargain herself, and now she must abide by it. She is a fettered slave, but at least her bonds are golden ones.
You are very kind, she answers, trying hard to be cordial and grateful for his generosity. "I do not know how to thank you for your munificence, sir."
I will tell you, he answers, quickly. "Try to like me a little, Bonnibel. Once I dreamed of winning your love; but things went wrong and I—I—perhaps I was too harsh with the bonny bird I had caught—so I came near earning your hatred instead. But that was so long ago. You will try to forgive me and like me just a little now, my wife."
The pathos of his words, his aged, weary looks touch a tender chord in her young heart, and thaw out a little of the icy crust of reserve that has been freezing around it these two years.
She rises impulsively and walks over to him, putting her delicate hand, warm with youth and health, into his cold, white, trembling one.
Indeed, I will try, she says, earnestly. "Only be kind to me, and do not frighten me with your jealous fancies, and I will like you very much indeed!"
He kisses the little hand with the ardor of a boyish lover, feeling his heart beat warm and youthful still at her gently-spoken words.
A thousand thanks, my angel! he exclaims. "Your words have made me very happy. I will try to curb my jealous temper and merit your sweet regard. And now, my dearest, how soon can you accompany me? I do not want to go away without you."
You wish me to go at once—to-day? she stammers, drawing back ever so slightly.
To-day—at once, he answers. "I have wearied for a sight of you so long, my wife, that I cannot let you go again. I want you to put on a carriage costume at once, and I will take you to Worth's, and from thence to the chateau."
But my maid—and my trunks, she urges, in dismay.
Tell your maid to pack your trunks and we will send for them this evening, and her also. By the way, who is your maid? Have you a competent one? he inquires.
You remember Lucy—the girl who came over with me from New York? she says.
He frowns slightly.
Ah, yes; but she will not suit you now, dear. You must let her go, and secure a skillful French maid.
Let Lucy go—the faithful creature! For the first time her lip quivers. "Oh, no, I cannot part with Lucy. She has been my attendant ever since I was a child, and is the only link that is left to me out of my old life."
Keep her with you still, then, but secure a French maid also, and let Lucy hold a sinecure.
It would break her heart, Colonel Carlyle, to depose her from her post as my chief helper. Besides, though she is rather illiterate, the girl has real talent and taste in her vocation. Pray do not ask me to give her up.
As you please, my dear. But now go and make your adieux to the lady superior and your friends here, and prepare to accompany me to your new home, said the colonel, with slight impatience, for he already felt his dominant passion, jealousy, rising within him at Bonnibel's openly-expressed preference for her maid. Old or young, male or female, he could not feel contented that anyone but himself should hold a place in his young wife's heart.
She went away and remained what seemed a long time to the impatient old man. She came back with slightly-flushed cheeks and a mist in her sea-blue eyes, attended by the superior of the convent.
With a brief and gentle farewell to her, Bonnibel entered the carriage with her husband.
Hurrah, Leslie!
Well, Carl!
Our pictures are sold!
What pictures?
What pictures? mimicking the indifferent tone. "Oh! how indifferent we are! yet a year ago how blessed were the feet of the messenger who brought such tidings! Success falls upon you, my boy. Now with me a ready sale is quite an event. Of course I meant the pictures we sent to Paris!"
The same old studio at Rome into which we looked three years ago, and the same two artists we saw then. Carl Muller had just entered, waving an open letter over his head.
The gay, mercurial German looked as boyishly handsome as ever, as though time had forgotten him. Not so with Leslie Dane, who stood beside a half-finished picture, critically regarding it. He was handsomer than ever, as though the subtle hand of a sculptor had been at work upon his features chiseling the fine Greek outlines into rarer perfection and delicacy. A few lines of thought and care added rather than detracted from the interest with which one turned a second time to look at his face. The full lips half shaded by the dark mustache had lost a little of the almost womanly sweetness of the past and acquired a sterner curve. Into the dark eyes there had crept a gleam of brooding sadness, and a few silver threads shone in the clustering locks about his white brow. His last three years had made their mark upon him in many subtle changes.
I could have told you that yesterday, Carl, he said, smiling, "but you were out when my letter came, and I was so busy over my picture here that I forgot it when you returned."
The agent wrote to you first then, said Carl. "He might have had the courtesy to drop me a line at the same time."
Do not blame him too much, Carl, said Leslie Dane. "He was in a hurry about writing to me because he had a letter to inclose from the purchaser of the pictures."
Another commission, you lucky dog! exclaimed Carl Muller.
It amounts to that, I suppose. He wants me to go to Paris and paint his wife's portrait. If I will not go to Paris he will come to Rome.
If the mountain will not go to Mahomet, then Mahomet must go to the mountain, said Carl.
Something that way, said Leslie, carelessly.
You will accept, of course. The old fellow paid such an extravagant price for the pictures that another commission might be a temptation even to you who have lately been surfeited with success.
The money certainly might be an object, but I think I shall refuse, was the abrupt reply.
Refuse! exclaimed Carl, in surprise, "and why, if I may ask?"
The man is an American.
So are you, cried the German, surprised at the dark frown that darkened on Leslie's brow. "Is that a disgrace?"
I suppose not. Yet I will have nothing to do with my countrymen, said the artist, sternly.
Carl gave vent to a low whistle.
Ye gods! An American—born under the shadow of the eagle's wing of liberty, a citizen of a land the most patriotic upon earth—coolly repudiating his country! I never expected to see such a novel sight under the sun!
You mistake me, Carl, said Leslie Dane, a little vexed. "I do not repudiate my native land. I revere her as the noblest country upon earth, but I am from henceforth an exile, self-expatriated from her shores, and I do not wish to meet anyone who can recall memories I would fain forget."
You are a strange fellow, Leslie, I cannot understand your moods.
You do not? Shall I explain, Carl? Listen, then.
Carl looked up into the dark face with its look of proud grief mingled with bitterness.
No, no; forgive my levity, he said; "I would not intrude upon your secret, dear friend. Let it rest."
It does not matter, said Leslie, his deep voice full of pain. "I will tell you, Carl. It is only this: One woman in that fair land where I was born has played me false and ruined my life. I hate and shun all Americans for her sake!"
He took up his brush and went to work at his picture without another word. Carl was silent also; he was recalling that episode of three years ago when Leslie in his wild outbreak had painted out the portrait of his fair, false-hearted love.
So he has not forgotten her, he thought; "and yet he has never breathed another word of her until to-day. Ah! she will never know what a true and noble heart she cast away."
He sat still awhile thinking profoundly, and referring to his letter now and then with ever-increasing pride in the lucrative sale of his picture, for Carl was a lazy fellow, and though he commenced numbers of things seldom had patience to finish them. Consequently a completed work and its ready sale had all the charm of novelty to him.
I say, he said, breaking the silence that had brooded as long as he could bear it, and returning to the charge upon his friend, "old fellow, it's a shame you should refuse such a profitable commission for a scruple I must say is not worthy of you. Do accept it, Leslie. This old fellow—let me see"—referring again to his letter—"Carlyle his name is—Colonel Carlyle—need not trouble you much with the sight of his obnoxious face, and the old lady—Favart says he is an old man, so of course she is an old lady—need only give you a few sittings. They would not trouble you long, and you need not think of them as Americans at all. Simply regard the sitter as your model, and think no more about it."
Leslie Dane did not answer, but the slight smile that played around his lips showed that he had been an attentive listener to Carl's admonition.
You know, resumed Carl, seeing that Leslie would not answer, "we have been promising ourselves a trip to Paris for ever so long. I see no chance so suitable as the present when I have this pot of money to spend, and when you might so agreeably combine business with pleasure in the execution of this portrait and the enjoyment of all the pleasures of Paris. Recollect, you would be fairly lionized there."
I do not fancy being lionized, said Leslie Dane, grimly.
Do you not! Now, I should enjoy it above all things. But since I am not apt to have that honor I should enjoy following in your wake and taking all the glories second-hand. I should be sure to get a little of the honor reflected on me, for though I am not the rose, you know I have lived near it.
Leslie Dane looked up with a quizzical smile.
Confess now, Carl, he said, "that nothing will content you but to get away and spend the gold you have earned. All your flattery and sophistry leads to this—that you are wild for a companion to aid and abet you in spending the money that is burning a hole in your pocket this minute."
Somehow the gold does seem to burn through my pockets, said Carl, reflectively. "But, tra, la, what is it good for but to buy pleasure?"
He began to hum a few bars of a German song with a gay refrain.
Come, come, get to your work, exclaimed the other. "Your signal success with your last work should stimulate you to renewed efforts."
So it will, affirmed Carl; "but not to-day. I feel so giddy over my good news that I could not work to-day. I should hardly know how to mix my colors. I feel as lazy, shiftless and good-natured as the Italian lazzaroni out in the sunshine."
Leslie Dane gave a little sigh as he looked at his happy companion. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle the gay current of his good nature. His temperament was an enviable one.
Carl, did you ever have a sweetheart? Leslie asked curiously.
Sweethearts—yes, a score of them, laughed Carl. "More Gretchens, Madchens, and Anitas than you could count on your fingers. Why do you ask?"
Only for curiosity. I thought you could not be so care-free and joyous if love had ever come into your life.
That is according to how we look at love, said the German; "with you it is all a solemn epic or tragedy. With me it would be a pretty little poem or a happy song."
Leslie sighed but did not answer.
Come, now, said the German, "we have wandered from our subject. Give up your selfishness this once, Leslie, and take a holiday. Come with me to Paris next week."
Leslie stood silently meditating, and Carl saw that the battle was almost won.
Don't hesitate, said he, pushing his advantage. "Indeed you work too hard, my boy. There is no need of it since you have forsworn marriage. Take a breathing spell and come with me to Paris and paint old Mrs. Carlyle's portrait."
Leslie frowned slightly at the words.
Pray do not mention those people again, he said, in an irritated tone. "Perhaps I will accompany you to Paris; but I have no fancy to paint the portrait of a wrinkled old woman."