"Dead, dead!" she moaned."Oh, God! sincehecould die,The world's a grave, and hope lies buried there."
"Dead, dead!" she moaned."Oh, God! sincehecould 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 awidow," 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."
"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 wassoafraid 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, andhad 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 eleganttrousseaumight 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. Andnow?
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 overboardby 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 fashionablemodisteto take her measure once, and after that Mrs. Arnold was forced to give hercarte blanchein 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 madnessin 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 summerday 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?'"
"'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 foolto 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.
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, andsheknows, 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 eveningdress, 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 ofmarriedwomen 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 exactlycomme 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 veryspirituellein 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 youennuyedwhere 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 elegantboutonniere, 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 twolaughing jests are thrown at him for keeping the "belle of the ball away from her proper sphere."
"Perhaps Iamselfish," 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 thatles proprietesdo 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.