CHAPTER XI. A PREACHER’S PASSION.
The departure of the editor, politician and broker left Ouida in a very reflective mood. Strange to say, her mind wandered to Paul, the model, as it had often done of late. “I’ll soon call my Herculean model forth. Paul, the perfect brute! Yet, often when he thinks I am not observing, there comes into his eyes a look that makes me tremble, though I know not why. Can it be that I, who have a dozen mighty men, as this world goes, crawling at my feet, am falling captive to a coarse-grained beast, that sleeps and feeds from day to day throughout the year, without a thought or hope beyond the common cattle of the field?”
At this moment a card was handed Ouida, the reading of which filled her eyes with an almost devilish gleam of satisfaction.
“Show the gentleman up,” was her swift command.
It was but a moment when Horatio Nugent, the great preacher, appeared before the sculptress!
“By admitting me to your presence, may I hope there is a truce between us?” he almost humbly said.
“Neither peace nor courtesy moved me to see you,” was her unsatisfactory answer.
“Then why your apparent graciousness?”
“I desire,” said Ouida, “to declare a never-ending war.”
“Will you not,” appealed the preacher, “even listen to what I have to say?”
“No. Your course admits of no explanation. Let me tell you now, you can never creep again within the circle of my friendship.”
“If you could but dig beneath the surface,” he audibly sighed, “and see why I preached my sermon against the nude in art, ’twould be you, not I, seeking pardon.”
“I seek your pardon after that which you have done? Listen,” said the woman, “you played the part of a friend. You sought me out. To you I unfolded my dreams, my conceptions. You said they were divine, and yet when I attended your church, you thundered forth invectives against my art, and hold me up to public ridicule. You would attempt to win a public applause as fleeting as the dew upon the morning rose. If I had loved you, I would hate you for this act.”
“I will explain,” he said, with vehemence and commanding power before which, even for a moment, this imperious creature quailed. “I am not like the vain flatterers that follow in your train. I will speak, even if the hate in you, like a dagger, shall stab me in a vital spot.”
“Speak then,” said she, with resignation. “Courtesy compels me to listen to one who has honored my humble roof with his august presence.”
“Ah, hear me Ouida. The knowledge, sudden and fierce, has forced itself upon me, that I love you with all the strength of my nature!”
“And you have selected this novel way of showing it!”
As Ouida said this, she laughed with such chilling scorn, that it made the preacher shudder with agony.
“That we will not discuss,” said he, as the echo of her scorn died away. “Your life, your Bohemian instincts, your defiance of social laws, has maddened me. I would drive you from this unreal existence, so that in your despair you would turn to me. Then I should uplift you to my grand sphere.”
The idea of Horatio Nugent’s condescension struck Ouida with wondrous merriment, and she laughed again, the laughter growing more intense each moment, until it developed into an indignation almost boundless.
“Your own grand sphere!” she cried. “Drive back the Atlantic surf; lift valleys over mountain tops; throttle Vesuvius, and then come to me with a hope of tearing me and my art apart. I would not exchange an eternity in hell and my work for Paradise with the crude, narrow, dogmatic officialism of your hypocritically pious life.”
“I have less quarrel with your art than with your life,” continued he. “These Bacchanalian revels, this freedom with men so maddening to me. These are the things from which I would save you.”
“Sir,” said she, with supreme dignity, “my life is my own. Society did nothing for me. I have with these hands carved out my fame. You and your kind no more understand art, than you do the voice of Nature. I have sat nude beneath a master’s brush, without an impure thought. I have painted men as naked as the new-born babe, without a quicker pulse beat, wrapped in a dream. My art shall live when churches shall crumble, and preachers’ bones shall mingle with the dust. Divinity touches the brow of genius, and art becomes the heritage of generations yet unborn.”
A goddess could not have looked more divine than this woman did, as she poured forth the inspiration of her swelling, throbbing soul. There was silence again between them. But he at length recovered speech, and renewed the attack.
“Ah, Ouida, you are noble and good; why not economize this worth for grander and purer aspirations?”
“Purer aspirations?” she echoed. “Ah, sir, I am bursting with the fullness of rage. Who are you, that gives you the almost divine right to preach against a thing you know not of? You have not looked on life; you have tasted no agony; you have not walked through the blazing furnace of passion.”
“God alone knows what my battle has been since the knowledge came to me that I loved you.”
“Your passion, sir preacher, moves me not.”
“Then, pitilessly, you will send me out into the gloomy world without a ray of hope?”
“Did you not seek to make the earth for me a place without sun or light?”
“But I have made my atonement, and come now to crave pardon for my sin.”
“You cannot think thus to move me,” said the woman, firmly.
“Can nothing soften your heart of stone?” he appealed.
“Nothing, sir. I hate you strongly. If these were the days of Lucretia Borgia, without compunction I would have you killed. The world can do without you.”
“And yet,” said he, softly, as though consoled by the thought, “I have given up all for you.”
“I have seen nothing that you have done,” she said, sternly, “and more, I ask nothing of you, save that you walk your way, and leave me in peace to go mine.”
“You know, Ouida,” said the man of strength, “that I, too, am ambitious; that men and women showered upon me their plaudits; that I had won a strong place in this great city. I have given up my church!”
She started in breathless amazement! “Sacrificed your wondrous future, and for me?”
And simply he said: “The price of my sin to you.”
Then a deeper silence than ever before fell upon these two, and again there was no speech between them.
“Now,” at length, he said, “I am ready to be sent forth with your cruel scorn, following me even to the end of time.”
“I cannot bid you go thus,” she said, moved to pity. “Does the world know of this?”
“Of the resignation, yes; of the reason, no.”
“Then I abjure you, reveal nothing. Leave me!” she cried.
“And may I come again?” eagerly he pleaded.
“Yes,” she said, the power of resistance gone, “when I have had time to think.”
He left with a sense of mighty triumph in his soul.
CHAPTER XII. OUIDA PROPOSES MARRIAGE.
Even the preacher’s passion, the knowledge of his awful sacrifice, did not rob the artist of her inspiration for work. Proceeding to the studio, filled with treasures of brush and mallet, she found Paul, the model, and Milton, the student.
“Any commands for me,” said Milton, with deference and respect.
“Yes,” said Ouida, “you may assist in arranging the pose.”
Milton, for a few moments, attempts to place the model in the attitude, consistent with the conception of Ouida.
“Ah,” reflected Ouida, aloud, “if I can but tonight imprint on stone the image that long has haunted me, I’ll wring from men the unwilling confession that truly in my veins flows the blood of Michael Angelo.”
Her unconscious talk was interrupted by Paul, who almost sullenly said: “I do not care to work tonight.”
“Hush!” said Ouida, “breathe not. I would not have had you fail me tonight for a brace of kingdoms.”
She then crosses over to where Paul and Milton stood, saying to the latter: “Nay, not thus. Let him stand and look as though with mighty power he bears the weighty earth upon his massive shoulders. There, that is better. Go. Leave me, Milton; I would be alone with him.”
Then, like a tigress, rapidly she set to work with mallet and chisel, and while Paul stood motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, the idea that filled her brain and soul began to take living shape from the block of stone. At some length, however, she dropped her tools. They fell upon the floor with a dull thud. She crosses over to the model; then irresolutely retraced her steps, and threw herself upon a divan or sofa, as in a dream. There she lies motionless, save for a heaving breast.
Paul thinks she sleeps, and leaving his station, goes to the couch whereon she lies, and gazes upon her with strange emotion. She still seems unconscious of his presence.
“Had I Svengali’s power, I’d mould her to my will.” Paul clenches his hand together, gazes passionately at the reclining figure, and slowly moves back to his place. She arose.
“Paul, come near me,” she said, with a voice as seductive as that of a luring siren, “and sit upon this low stool.”
This request was made by her following a flashing, unaccountable mental freak, that filled Paul with pleased astonishment!
“I am your willing slave,” he said, as he did her bidding.
“Do you love any woman?” said Ouida.
“I dare not answer,” said the model.
“Dare not answer? Have I not asked you? What do you fear?” said the sculptress.
“Myself,” said Paul.
“He who cannot master himself is like the beast of the field.”
“That’s what I am. What right have I to feeling, emotion?” said the model.
“Have you no hope for the years that are to come?”
“If I have, I hide it so that none may see. I had one hope, but it was like reaching out after a star. Do not question me concerning it. It shall never be revealed.”
“Paul,” she said, “what think you of these men who crowd about me, like moths about a candle, their tongues quick with the hollow mockery of modern insipidity?”
“They are false as Judas. They drink your champagne, and then, when drunk, tell lies about you. I’d like to cut their throats, if you but speak.”
“I’ll let you, in a way,” she said, looking into his black eyes with a boldness that made him breathe with a mixture of fear and delight.
“How?” said he, with almost breathless quickness.
“Paul,” she replied, “come nearer to me. You are a strong-limbed brute. You are base born. You are poor.”
He shuddered, and was about to acquaint the woman with the story which Lawyer Salmon had told him, but some power which controls fate and destiny, restrained him, and he remained silent upon the point.
“If all you say is true,” he uttered, “What then?”
“Ah, Paul, you are so different to the mere puppets that cringe around and flatter me.”
“If I were like these weaklings, I would not care to live.”
“The very contrast attracts me,” said Ouida, dreamily.
“My God!” said Paul, the truth at length dawning upon him, “can it be possible that you condescend to give me more than a mere passing reflection?”
“There is, Paul. Can you not see that I adore you?”
In a moment their bodies were in close embrace, he enfolding her within his mighty and powerful grasp. After a moment, however, he put her gently from him, and said: “You but mock me by showing me a view of Paradise, only to snatch the entrancing picture from my eyes.”
“No,” she said, exalted through the intensity of her artistic emotion, “I feel a strange, uncontrollable desire to own you, body and soul.”
“I fear, I dream, I dream,” said Paul, but Ouida hurried on:
“You are a giant. You could take any one of these pigmies that flutter and buzz about me, in your arms, and could crush life completely out. I hate them all. I would throttle, and at the same time strangle, the indignation of society. I would bitterly enrage these dogs who fawn on me.”
“And use me as the instrument? What, then, shall become of me?” said Paul.
“You? Why, Paul, you shall be the central moving figure,” said Ouida.
“What care I? Use me as you will. ’Tis enough for me to know that you but reach your hand.”
“Come to my arms then again,” she cried in the ecstacy of this novel and entrancing emotion. “Let us revel in delight, you pauper! You dog! You base born thing, to whom vile society would scarcely throw a crumb!”
“Oh, the delight,” said Paul, “of spurning these little creatures. A month of such sweet vengeance, and you may have my life.”
“I’ll dress these mighty limbs of yours,” she cried. “I’ll flaunt your very baseness in their eyes. I’ll make them crawl to you for the price of a smile from me. They shall pay in deepest humiliation for the privilege of adoring me from afar. We, Paul, you and I, will richly repay society for its wrongs to us.”
She seemed now exhausted from the intensity of her feelings.
“Go now,” she said, tenderly; and without question Paul went away from her, exalted, bewildered, astonished, uplifted, amazed, but happy, and inwardly rejoicing at the wondrous change which had taken place in his fortunes. Poor fool! From his dizzy height he saw not the chasm yawning in greediness below.
CHAPTER XIII. A RICH MAN’S BALL.
A great social leader of the Metropolis had given a ball, to which had been invited not only the “Four Hundred,” but a large proportion of New York’s Bohemian Colony as well.
Olivia Winters had been sent by the city editor of the Daily Tattler to get an account of the affair for her journal. Her reflections as she sat waiting to see the hostess, or some one in her behalf, were neither pleasing nor flattering. “All the world’s a fake,” she thought, “and the men and women merely fakirs. Within a stone’s throw of this place there is a collection of miserable huts. From what I have seen so far here, at least $15,000 has been spent on flowers, that will before tomorrow night have lost their fragrance. How many mouths would that feed, in this great, cold, heartless city, throbbing with the agonies of thousands! Ah, well, why should I moralize? I wish to heaven I could write this thing up as I feel, but to do so would be affronting fashion, and anything original regarding modern New York society, would mean my journalistic death.”
Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Marie Salmon, who extended her hand graciously to Miss Winters, and said: “You are the representative of the Tattler?”
“I am,” said Miss Winters.
“The hostess of the evening presents her compliments to you, and begs that you will excuse her personal presence. She has delegated me to act for her in giving you what you desire for your paper.”
“She could not have selected a substitute who would have better pleased me,” said Olivia, with perfect grace and self-possession.
“You are very good to say so,” said Marie. “Here you will find a list of the invited guests. In this package is a cut of the host and hostess, as well as a picture of her diamonds. She informs me that she has already sent photos of some of the more striking decorations. In this envelope will be found a complete description of the costumes of the ladies. The number of carriages you will be able to procure from the ushers as you go out. She thinks it not advisable to say anything specific about the enormous amount of money spent on the affair, owing to newspaper talk about the terrible poverty prevalent in the city. Is there any other information you desire? If so, I shall be glad to give it to you.”
“Have you given this matter out to any other paper?”
“No. Our hostess said she would give it exclusively to you, as your paper had been the fairest in mentioning the affair in advance,” replied Marie.
“Thanks; that is very good. You know we newspapers always adore a scoop,” said Olivia, and she smiled in satisfaction.
“Why, what in the name of goodness is a scoop?” queried Marie.
“When we print a good thing that other papers fail to get, we call it a scoop.”
“Thanks for the information. May I not,” said Marie, “order some refreshments?”
“No, thank you,” said Winters, with modest dignity, “I only accept hospitality under certain conditions.”
“Be that as you wish,” said Marie, with equal dignity, “I had no desire to offend.”
“I am sure of that, my dear young lady; yet even newspaper women have their scruples.”
“Then I can serve you no further?”
“In no way save to assist me in getting out quickly and unobserved.”
“Then follow me,” said Marie.
Olivia Winters followed her guide, and was soon in the office of the Tattler, pegging away, while Marie returned to assist the hostess in entertaining the numerous guests.
CHAPTER XIV. AN ANGRY FATHER.
There were many brilliant women at the great social function, but the only feast for the eyes of Milton Royle was Marie Salmon. But she was very much in demand. The hostess apparently had a mortgage upon the young girl’s time and attention. At length, however, Milton could endure it no longer. He marched down upon his victim, captured her, and forcibly led her to a quiet and secluded spot in the conservatory, determined to hold her captive until he should have accomplished his purpose.
“I shall not see you again before my departure for Europe, so, my darling, I shall have to bid you good-bye here.”
“I could be completely happy, dear Milton, if it were not for dad’s frightful opposition to you.”
“He forbid me the house,” said Milton, sadly, “but such a course only makes me more determined than ever.”
“You cannot imagine what a hard time I will have while you are gone. It was only yesterday dad told me that it would greatly please him if I would consider young Clafton as a suitor for my hand.”
“What! That brainless ape?” said Milton, indignantly.
“Now don’t get angry, dear; you know very well if he were the last man on earth, I would not consider him for a moment,” she made haste to say.
“I tell you what it is, Marie,” said Milton, “I think I will alter my plans and remain in New York, until we get this thing settled.”
“And I tell you,” said the girl, firmly, “you shall do nothing of the kind. Such a course on your part would make me think you had no faith in me.”
“But it looks cowardly,” said he, “for me to go abroad and leave you to fight this thing out alone.”
“I am not a bit afraid. Besides, I am more than anxious that you should go to Rome and finish your studies. Nothing must be allowed to hinder that great and glorious future which must, which shall, be yours.”
“Now you are my brave darling.” He embraced her fondly, just as Mr. Salmon appeared upon the scene, an angry scowl disfiguring his usually calm and placid brow.
“I had hoped, sir, that your sense of honor would have prevented you from encouraging this young girl in a disobedience of her father.”
“Father, dear, I pray you refrain from speech of that kind to Milton. I love you, sir, with deep affection; but I also love Milton, and I tell you now, as I have told you before, that if I live, and he still wants me, I shall marry him.”
“Marry, girl!” said the aroused father. “I tell you that you will never have my consent to marry him.”
“Then,” said the girl, “I shall marry him without it.”
“I regret, sir,” said Milton, with utmost deference and respect, “that trouble with my father, almost before I was born, should tinge and shape your opinion of me. It is most unjust.”
“Frankly speaking,” said the lawyer, “I do not like you. I do not want an artist in my family.”
“You are her father, sir,” said Milton, with suppressed anger, “and that shields you from the answer that rises within me.”
Marie interposed at this point, and said: “You are both dear to me, and I beg you, in the name of the love you have for me, do not quarrel.”
“I obey your wishes, my darling,” said Milton.
“This is no place for discussion of this kind, anyhow,” said Salmon. “Come, Marie, Mr. Clafton was looking everywhere for you.”
“I do not wish to see him, father. Good-bye, Milton.”
“Good-bye, Marie. May angels guard you everywhere.”
And there the lovers parted. The lawyer was full of anger, but he had no chance at that time to show it.
CHAPTER XV. THE LOVERS CLASH.
Among the guests were Horatio Nugent and Paul Strogoff, each madly, devotedly and passionately, at a distance, watching the Goddess, at whose shrine they worshiped. The preacher, in a rage of despair; Paul, in secret consciousness of his advantage over all others, despite appearances. Each held his secret well before the world, but in the breast of each was a raging volcano, liable to burst forth at any minute. Had any one suspected the preacher of the possession of so strange a secret passion, his story would have been discovered by the hungry, famished look of his eye, which followed the sculptress and her every movement. Strange to relate, Paul exhibited more control over himself.
Fate threw these two strongly-contrasted characters together, the flint and the steel. Horatio Nugent plunged at Paul boldly and fiercely, saying: “I would study you.”
“Why?” asked Paul.
“Because you hold a secret power I would give my life to know.”
“And that is?”
“The power of winning her regard.”
“I would not yield it up for a thousand lives, mine included,” said Paul.
“So you are a victim, too?” said the preacher.
“Nay, not a victim,” proudly said Paul.
“She loves you?” said the preacher, eagerly.
“I did not say so.”
“And yet I think my words are true.”
“Your opinions do not concern me,” said Paul.
“They may,” said Horatio Nugent, throwing discretion to the winds, “for I love her, too, and if you stand in my way—well—it will do you no good.”
“You are like the rest of your kind—boastful,” said Paul, conscious of his own power, “but in me there is no fear.”
“Do not, I pray you, urge me beyond control,” said the preacher, “or you will be made to feel there is something beyond mere brute force.”
“This masterly tone,” said Paul, “must cease. I have no liking for you, sir; you hang about the lady’s skirts too much.”
“And what is that to you? Are you her protector?”
Ouida approached, having from a distance observed that a clash had occurred between these two men.
“There comes the lady,” said Paul; “let her answer.”
“I am heartily ashamed of you both,” said Ouida. “You have selected a most inappropriate place, as well as subject, for discussion.”
The preacher looked ashamed of himself, but Paul, now thoroughly aroused, was almost bursting with defiance; but Ouida had him absolutely under control, and when she commanded him with decisive voice to bring her an ice, he went, submissive like a dog.
“And you, sir,” turning to the preacher, “what right have you to give way to vulgar differences with Paul?”
“I have no excuse to offer, save my adoration of yourself,” said he, humbly.
“Why vex your soul?” said she filling up with wondrous pity for the man. “Your torment of yourself is useless. I am further from you today than ever before.”
“How is this, madam? Is there absolutely no hope for me?”
“None, sir. The barrier between us can never be broken.”
“And what is that barrier?” he said, a mighty despair getting its grasp upon him, for he noted the deadly earnestness of her speech.
“The obstacle is Paul,” she confessed.
“Your big-limbed model?” He would not believe it.
“Even so,” said the woman, as she bowed her head.
“And how is he in my way? Would you stoop to him?”
“Stoop, sir,” she said, her pride returning, “I have sworn to marry him.”
He staggered with a nameless fear.
“But you do not love him,” he said. “You cannot blind me.”
“I have no desire to do so. I simply tell the truth.”
Nor could he fail to be deeply impressed with her simple dignity.
“Listen, woman, I care not whose heart I break, you love me! Deny it if you can!”
“If I did, what would be the difference?” said Ouida. “I have sworn to wed him. I led him on. He did not dream of me, until I made him drunk with the promise of my life. He has done no wrong. I must bear the grief.”
“Then all I have given up is naught to you? You will break my heart and crush my life without a tear?” said he.
“Rather yours than his. Come, be a man; wound me no further,” she pleaded, earnestly.
“I cannot break a single link in the awful chain of fate,” and he bowed his head in silence.
“Do with me as you will.”
“Have you still the power to marry?” she asked.
“Yes, I have given up my church, not the ministry.”
“Then will you do me one last favor?” she appealed.
“Be your fate what it will,” said he, “I am still your slave.”
“Marry Paul and me,” she pleaded, as though upon the answer depended her life or death.
“Dare you ask this of me?”
“I do, and pray you ask me not why.”
“I have not the courage nor the strength,” said he, suddenly, filled up with a great weakness.
“Have I naught to suffer?” she said, in great grief. “Will you compel me to go through it all alone?”
“I’ll do it,” said he. “I cannot enter deeper into the vale of suffering than I am now. You have stolen from me the power of resistance. Now, I pray you, let me go.”
As the preacher passed from her, Paul returned, looking dark and gloomy.
“There is your ice, Ouida,” said Paul, striving to control himself. “Would that my heart were like it, so that you might devour it. I do not like that man.”
“Why, Paul?”
“He comes too often to you. Nay, do not deny it. He loves you, but you do not love him,” he fiercely said.
“I—I—” hesitated Ouida, for a moment losing her self-possession, under the influence of Paul’s questioning.
“But you do not love him,” he repeated again, as he seized her arm, almost roughly. “If I thought you did—well, you know the blood of the Cossack is in me, and—”
“You will kill him?” she passionately uttered, and she clung to Paul as though holding him from the accomplishment of such a purpose.
“Now, by my life,” he said, looking searchingly at her, “this sudden interest almost makes me think you do care for him.”
Again her complete mastery over his simple nature exhibited itself.
“Paul,” she said, in that alluring tone which always brought him to his knees, “you are beside yourself. You have naught to fear of me with him. He has just promised me to marry us tomorrow night.”
“So you have fixed the time at last,” said Paul, exultingly. “This is noble, oh, so good of you. This joyous news compensates me for a world of agony and doubt. Would to God tomorrow night were here,” said he, completely satisfied. “Come, let us to the ball room. I heard your editorial friend, Doane, swearing a moment ago that you had promised to waltz with him, but that you had secreted yourself to escape his clutches.”
“True, I had almost overlooked that. I wish I could educate Doane once in a while to say a kindly thing, but I fear the task is a hopeless one.”
She was much relieved that the trying scene had ended, and with no disastrous results.
CHAPTER XVI. PAUL COMPLETES A STORY.
Despite the difference in their dispositions, something usually brought Doane, Wayland and Connors together. So about midnight, at the grand ball, this trio found themselves together in one of the apartments of the great mansion.
Connors, the politician, started to talk. “If Sarah Bernhardt were here,” he said, “she’d take a bath in the wine we have wasted tonight.”
“The frail Sarah has much faith in this method of preserving health, as did old Ponce de Leon, in the long-sought-for fountain of immortal youth.”
“By the way,” said Doane, “did you hear the story they tell on the actress, while on her late Western tour?”
“No,” they exclaimed, “let us have it.”
“Well,” said Doane, in great relish, for he did love to tell a story, “when she played at Seattle, she expressed a desire to have a vivid, real live hunt. An old trapper near by had some tame bears, and the newspaper boys put up a job on the fair French woman. She dressed herself up in a male attire, went out into the woods, a perfect nimrod. She was hauled over logs and creeks, and finally, in a moment of ecstacy, she was permitted to kill a bear. She was the happiest woman, for a day, upon whom the sun ever shone.”
They had a hearty laugh.
“I saw in your paper the other day, that some fool out West had attempted to dramatize Victor Hugo’s ‘Les Miserables.’”
“If you saw it in my paper,” said Doane, “be careful. I missed a train a few days ago by depending on the accuracy of my own journal.”
“But what do you think of the idea?” queried Connors.
“In these days,” said Wayland, “when managers are crazy for a new idea, it seems to me that a clever stage story of Jean Valjean would make a certain hit.”
“You might as well try to dramatize the clouds, the great rugged mountain peaks,” said Doane, scornfully, “as anything Victor Hugo wrote. No man under forty can grasp the real philosophy of Hugo. How, then, can the unintelligent masses hope to comprehend him? Connors, you are a great politician, but you are not overburdened with dramatic knowledge.”
“I wrote a play once,” said Connors.
“Was it produced?” asked Wayland.
“Yes, for three consecutive nights.”
“And what became of it then?” laughed Doane.
“The fourth night,” said Connors, sorrowfully, “the leading man did not appear. He afterward explained that he could not stand the forcible appreciation of the admiring gallery.”
The trio talked, smoked and sipped champagne for quite a while. Suddenly it occurred to the editor that it was about time for him to fill an engagement in the ball room.
“By the way, I promised, after considerable persuasion, to dance with Ouida,” said Doane, “and even my gout shall not deprive her of that pleasure.”
“The conceited wretch,” said Connors. “He talks as though he conferred a favor.”
“I do,” said Doane, as he went off in search of his partner, “there are but few women in this world I would really dance with.”
He returned in a moment, mad as a March hare. He had been too late, and fifty had pleaded for his place upon her programme of dances.
“A most remarkable woman,” said Connors.
“Peculiar, isn’t it, how a person like her could so have mastered the world?” observed Wayland. “I have heard that but a comparatively few years ago she was the most common and obtainable creature on the streets of New York.”
“I care not what may have been her past,” said Connors, with comparative warmth, “today she is verily a mistress of her art.”
“She is now putting the finishing touches,” said Doane, “on ‘A Modern Hercules,’ a work which, in my judgment, compares favorably with that of the ancient Italian artists.”
“By the way,” said Wayland, “did you hear of her scrape with Cardinal Beppo, at Rome?”
“Yes,” said Doane, “but tell it for the benefit of Connors.”
“You see,” said Wayland, “Ouida spent some time in study at Rome. For a few months she worked hard, and behaved herself quite well, but one sunny day she captivated the Cardinal, and so complete was his adoration, that he lost all discretion, and Rome rung with the open story of his mad infatuation. Finally the officers of the Vatican made known to her, that the sacred city could exist without her. She suddenly left her dear prelate, who, since that time, has been beyond consolation.”
“A capital bit of romance,” said Connors, somewhat skeptical, “but who vouches for its truth?”
“I had it almost direct,” said Doane, “from the Secretary of the American Legation, who was home last year from Rome on a visit to his people. But that story is tame, compared to what she did to Demas of the Comedie Francaise.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Wayland, eagerly, “you never mar a poor tale in the telling of it.”
Wayland was about to go, having heard all that he desired, but Doane restrained him, and he reluctantly was almost forced to listen to a style of gossip which, in his opinion, was good enough for the sewing circle, but little fitted for intelligent men.
“Ouida,” said Doane, “was more than intimate with Demas, known to you all by reputation. But she fooled him, as she has every man who has thus far been lured into the magic circle of her regard. One night Demas was playing Falstaff in ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor.’ He was of ordinary size, but made himself up as the ‘huge hell of flesh,’ by a rubber apparatus, which was nightly filled with air. This night the cork came out which held the air in the rubber affair, and almost in the twinkling of an eye, he dwindled to his normal size, while his clothing hung about him like the folds of a collapsed balloon. The audience broke into a roar. The curtain was rung down, and it was fully fifteen minutes before order was sufficiently restored to allow the performance to proceed. Next day Demas was found dead in his apartments, a bullet wound in the temple. The press said it was chagrin. The real truth was that Ouida had led him on and on, until he thought she loved him. That night the fatal knowledge came to him that she was a heartless jilt, and he simply took the pistol route, with which to end his misery.”
“Gentlemen,” said Connors, “you astonish me. I have heard of such creatures as you paint this woman, but never before had the distinguished honor of a personal acquaintance. I do believe that a grain or two of discount on such stuff would be wise and just to her.”
“And yet,” said Wayland, “what a following she has, despite all this. Go into the ball room, and see New York at her feet.”
“New York is the greatest city in the world,” said Doane, “yet it is the most easily duped.”
“People, in their wild desire to be entertained,” said Connors, “pick and choose queer idols for worship.”
At this juncture, unobserved, Ouida, accompanied by Paul, enter at the rear, but are partially concealed by large and rich portieres. Ouida had been searching for Doane, in order to soothe his wounded feelings, although not at fault herself. She heard herself as the subject of Doane’s conversation, but hardly thought it would take the shape it did. She intended, in the midst of it, to burst in and turn it into something amusing at Doane’s expense.
“The most astonishing part of it all,” said Doane, “is her well-known life here in New York. At twelve, Ouida, who was the natural daughter of a woman of the town and Albert Angelo, was a child of the street. How she lived, she hardly knew herself. Lovers she had by the score. She became a model. She would just as willingly sit nude, as attired in silks and satins. One day Warde discovered that she possessed talent, nay, genius, of a high order. She was inspired to uplift herself out of base conditions. She was sent abroad, where, between her scrapes and love affairs, she studied. The power of art dowered her with wondrous victories. One or two conceptions a year brought her a fortune. She became rich enough to gratify every whim. She came here three years ago, having lost none of her Bohemian characteristics. Society has opened its arms; as you see, it worships her.”
Paul breaks away from Ouida, and confronts Doane, anger and contempt leaping from his eyes.
“A wonderful story! Is it fully told?” said Paul. “Do these gentlemen know all?”
“All!” said Doane, “all, man? Why, could more possibly be crowded into the life of one woman?”
“Yes, slanderous cur,” thundered Paul, as he slapped Doane’s face with his glove. “Give them the finish. She marries me tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER XVII. AN UNCANNY WEDDING.
The night of this strange and almost unnatural marriage had arrived. Ouida had very sensibly invited but few guests. Some of them were assembled in her mansion. Thence, it had been arranged, they should be driven to the quiet and unostentatious church, where Horatio Nugent would pronounce the simple words that would mate forever Ouida Angelo to Paul Strogoff.
“I don’t like this marriage,” said Mr. Salmon, the lawyer. “Paul is a fool, to marry Ouida Angelo. She is a great artist, but no creature for wife to any man.”
“They love each other,” said Marie, indignantly. “I don’t see why they should not marry.”
“Of course,” replied the father, “a young girl always looks into the romance of the case. My experience in marriage settlements, and in the divorce courts, teaches me that a marriage of this kind never turns out well. By the way, how are you and young Clafton getting along?”
“Splendidly,” said Marie.
“That’s good. Now you are my own sweet child.”
“I am helping him court my cousin, Georgie. He likes her better than you ever thought he cared for me. You see, father, I have never ceased to truly love Milton. Pray, forgive me, but I thought the best way to rid myself of Mr. Clafton’s attentions, was to have him fall in love with Cousin Georgie. He has entered into the trap beautifully, and I am spared much annoyance. Dear old dad, you are not mad?”
“I ought to be,” said Mr. Salmon, “but I cannot help admiring your professional method in outwitting the old gentleman. Your scheme was clever, even if I am the victim. But think not that I will ever withdraw my objection to Milton.”
“I don’t expect you to,” said Marie with a deep sigh.
“Then you will give him up?”
“No,” said she, “I won’t ask your consent. We’ll slip off quietly some day when he returns, and your newspaper friend, Doane, will, in his journal, record an elopement.”
“Never worry,” said Salmon, much annoyed, “your Milton will never come back. He’ll get tangled up in Rome with some Italian beauty, and she will keep him abroad. These stone cutters always act that way.”
“Father,” said the girl, almost in tears, “you are most unkind and most unjust,” and she left the room, looking for consolation.
Paul entered about this time, for the purpose of having an interview with Mr. Salmon, who was his lawyer.
“These are the papers which the lady requested me to present to you. She settles her entire fortune upon you, giving you full power to make such disposition of the same as you see fit. In fact, she is most liberal,” said Mr. Salmon.
“Are these the papers?” said Paul, as he took them from the hand of the lawyer.
“Yes, they are all pinned together.”
Paul sat down and glanced over them. When he had finished their perusal, which did not take long, he tore them up and threw the pieces in the fire, where they were quickly devoured by the flames.
“What have you done?” said the startled lawyer.
“Nothing,” simply said Paul. “I refuse any gift of property from her. On the contrary, you know exactly how my affairs stand. Convey to her, by proper deeds and instruments, the full one-half of my fortune. The cash transfer to her credit at the Chemical Bank.”
“But, sir—” said Salmon.
But he was interrupted by Paul, who said: “No buts, sir. This is my will. Either carry out, with as little delay as possible, my expressed desire, or I will be under the painful necessity of securing the services of another lawyer.”
“I shall do as you desire, and—”
“Remember,” said Paul, as he left the lawyer’s presence, “not a word to her. I must leave you now, to prepare for the ceremony.”
A few more guests had arrived by this time. Mr. Connors came, and at about the same time Olivia Winters, the journalist, put in an appearance in the room, accompanied by Marie.
“A queer wedding,” said Olivia, “and yet it may turn out well.”
“I am glad to see you, Miss Winters. It appears that we alone, of all New York, have been honored by an invitation to the wedding.”
“And you, my dear Connors, were invited because, when Doane was exuding, about Ouida, that venom which he cannot cut out of his nature, you alone spoke up for her and her noble art, and the fame she had justly achieved.”
“It is entirely immaterial to me,” said Mr. Connors “what she may have been. I know only this, that, in my judgment, she is today the grandest artist of the modern world, and as such, is entitled to my homage. As far as this marriage is concerned, she is her own mistress. She can marry whomsoever she fancies. There are many men in New York today, who would sell their souls for her.”
“Are you one of them?” said Olivia.
“I decline to answer so leading a question,” said Mr. Connors, but not ungraciously.
“I received my summons so hastily,” said Olivia, “that I am entirely ignorant of particulars. Where will the ceremony take place, and who will tie the knot?”
“Dr. Nugent,” answered Marie, “and at the church around the corner.”
“I thought,” said Olivia, “that Dr. Nugent had quit the ministry?”
“No,” said Mr. Connors, “but almost the same. He has resigned from the pulpit of the First Church.”
“I have understood,” said Salmon, “that he promised to wed them at the request of Ouida.”
Connors, joining in again at this time, said that he had heard, that at one time Dr. Nugent had fallen a victim to the fascinating charms of the sculptress.
“Some of the blackmailing sheets so reported,” chipped in Olivia, “but no reputable journal fathered such a libel. One thing is true, this wedding will eclipse all sensations of the year.”
“I wonder how Doane will take it?” said Connors.
“Badly, I think,” said Olivia. “He was hit hard in that direction. Ouida’s is the only picture I have ever seen grace his sanctum.”
“Nonsense,” said Salmon, the practical, “what would Doane do with a wife? He has been wedded to journalism so long that he’d forget his matrimonial bonds.”
“Men who are not journalists think such a course in fashion these days,” said Olivia.
“Doane said to me the other day,” remarked Mr. Connors, “that New York was getting very dull and commonplace; that men were beginning, actually, to fall in love with their own wives.”
“Don’t men always love and respect their wives?” asked Marie.
“Your arcadian simplicity is really refreshing,” laughed Olivia.
“Pray, wise one,” said Mr. Salmon, “don’t endow her with your superior wisdom. I prefer my daughter as she is.”
“That’s the one great mistake made in our land today, in the rearing of children. They are allowed to grow up in utter ignorance of the things which, if they knew, would save them untold misery.”
“Right you are, Miss Winters,” said Mr. Connors. “If I should ever be fortunate enough to marry, and be blessed with a boy, I should show him around and acquaint him with life myself.”
“Say and think what you will, ladies and gentlemen,” said Marie, with firmness, “I shall never marry a man unless I love him and he loves me, and it will be my fault if I do not retain his devotion.”
“Hold fast to that sentiment, my child,” said Connors, solemnly, “and may faith in it never forsake you.”
“Our carriage is below,” said Salmon, “let us hasten to the church,” and the company departed from the house.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE WEDDING IN THE CHURCH.
There are but few people who are not familiar with the little church around the corner. It is not only quaint in appearance, but its history is unique in the extreme. Those who paid but little attention to God and religion in life, were always well treated here, in death, and prince and pauper were alike welcome to its use.
The bridal party arrived, and there was little of that absurd delay which usually characterizes the fashionable wedding. Soon after, the organist played one of the stock wedding marches, and as the bridal party appeared before the altar, the preacher, paler than any one had ever before seen him, ascended the pulpit.
He looked down upon Ouida and Paul, and as he did, a mournful glance of recognition and understanding flashed between the preacher and the bride. Apparently, no one observed them. The organist ceased his touching of the keys, and the sound of the music died away in the distance. Dr. Nugent made an effort to begin the ceremony, but something hindered him, and he had the sympathy of all, because they thought him ill. They little knew his agony. At length, by a supreme effort, he mastered himself.
“Will the bride and groom join hands?” he said, and the silence seemed full of pain.
“Will you, Ouida Angelo, take as husband, Paul Strogoff, and, forsaking all others, cleave unto him, and honor and obey him, as long as you shall live, and until death shall part you?”
And the woman said, softly: “I will.”
“Will you, Paul Strogoff, take as your lawful wife, this woman, Ouida Angelo, and love her, comfort, support and protect, and, forsaking all others, cleave unto her as long as you shall live, and until death shall part you?”
And the man said, boldly and proudly: “I will.”
“If any here present know aught why this marriage should not take place, let him speak now, or forever hold his peace,” and just as he spoke these words, the preacher himself, knowing of the empty heart the woman was bringing to the man, was about to speak, but his objection was registered only in his own soul. There was no spoken objection.
“Then I pronounce you man and wife.”
As the preacher uttered the words which united his rival to the woman he loved, he tottered feebly from the pulpit. Mr. Salmon sprang to his assistance, but was waived away, the minister saying: “I am not well today.”
CHAPTER XIX. THE BRIDAL CHAMBER.
When Dr. Nugent left the church, which he did quickly, his breast was filled with emotions of a conflicting nature. Reason seemed to have been displaced with a mad, ungovernable rage. Why should this ignorant, low, base-born son of a Russian exile possess this goddess? What moral right had this usurper to loll at ease in her chamber, barring out his betters of all the world? He knew that he possessed all her mighty love, and yet he saw the fruit of it slipping away forever. He was seized with a strange, overmastering desire to prevent, at all hazards and at any cost, the actual consummation of the marriage. He struggled, wrestled, tried to fight it down, but his feet carried him toward her house. He reached it before the bridal party had arrived, and, being familiar there, he ascended into the bridal chamber, and there secreted himself.
“Like a thief,” he said to himself, “I steal into this now sacred apartment. Over my being creeps a determination so desperate, that I shudder at the spectacle of my own deformity. I have suffered more than mortal agony. There in the church, my much-abused spirit almost departed from me. Where was the artist to tear aside the flesh and paint the hearts as they really were? Paul, radiant and happy; Ouida, serene in the consciousness of self-imposed beauty, while I was burdened with the deepest sorrow of them all.”
He waited, and soon Ouida entered, and threw off her veil and wraps.
“The deed is done,” she murmured, “and yet I would it were undone. The marriage vows have been exchanged, and yet Paul is as far from me as I am from Paradise. Strange paradox am I. I know that Nugent’s love has in it the sting of guilt, yet, through its scorching rays, I clearly see myself. Oh, what a madcap freak, to rouse the slumbering passion of my ‘Modern Hercules,’ and yet the fault is all my own. And I must pay the penalty; must tread the path of sorrow to the end. This is a rude awakening of my dream. I once had thought to greet my lord with gleaming eyes, with passion, strong yet tender. Tonight he comes, and I am full of fear and trembling.”
She heard a slight noise.
“Is that you, Paul?”
Instead of Paul, Horatio Nugent stepped out from the darkness. His eye was full of strange, unnatural brilliance, but his face was drawn, pinched and haggard. At his appearance, Ouida’s heart almost ceased to beat; she was so full of horror and despair. She expected Paul at almost any moment. She knew his nature when once aroused, and she was ashamed within herself to confess that she feared a collision between the two men, more for the sake of the preacher than for her now lawfully wedded husband.
When Ouida asked if it was Paul, the preacher said: “No, it is I, whose death you seal tonight.”
“My God! what brings you here?” said Ouida.
“You will not let me live,” said he, “so I have come to end existence at your feet.”
“And I,” commanded the woman, with wondrous dignity, “pronounce against such base-born cowardice. You build your grief up mountain high, and then make oath you stand alone.”
“I will not argue this thing with you. I am determined on my course.”
“Unhappy man,” she said, with mighty pity, “do you think you bear all the agony of this dream? I, too, am full of sorrow as deep and black as night.”
“Then all the more reason,” said he, desperately, “that we should end it all together.”
“Agreed,” said Ouida, and as she spoke, she handed him a jeweled dagger. “Waste no time,” she urged. “Plunge this deep into my heart, then draw it forth and join me in eternity.”
He quickly seized the proffered weapon, raised it high in the air, and was about to sink it into her bared breast, when they heard Paul’s footsteps approaching. The dagger dropped from his nerveless hand. He covered his face with his hand, exclaiming: “Shame upon me, that I, in unmanly weakness, should have entertained so hideous a resolve!”
“Quick,” said Ouida, “to the inner chamber, and there remain until I can let you out unseen.”
He got out not a moment too soon, for upon the very instant of his disappearance, Paul entered the chamber of the bride.
“Come, Ouida,” he said, “let me fold you to my breast, for tonight you have enthroned me in the kingdom of love.”
“I have fulfilled my oath, that is all,” said Ouida, wearily, and not responsive to his enthusiasm and passion.
He threw upon her a questioning glance.
“How changed you are,” said he. “It seems but an hour agone to me, when you, with the very ecstasy of passion, awoke the slumbering fires within me. Tonight, when you should greet me with a smile of joy, you seem a block of ice, whose coldness chills me with the grip of death.”
“Do not upbraid me,” she pleaded. “I shall strive, with all my might, to be faithful, grateful for your fidelity and love.”
“Oh, I see it all now,” cried Paul, delight and hope again springing up in his simple soul. “You think I am low and base-born, a pauper, and you despise yourself for having lifted me to the high plane you occupy.”
She was about to speak, but he gave her no chance to break the current of words which flowed from his lips.
“Oh, do not speak; hear me out. The very day you made of me a God, because you said you loved me, it was made known to me that I was of gentle birth, rich beyond all imagination. I am not the dog, the pauper, the base-born wretch, but am equal in birth, in wealth and power, to any man who might aspire to honorable marriage with you.”
He paused, breathlessly, expecting Ouida to melt in delightful surprise at their good fortune. But no such thing happened. In his intensity, he did not observe her gathering anger. When he finished his story, she said:
“So, sir, you knew all this the very day I spoke to you?”
“Yes, but would not then have told it to you to save a tottering throne.”
“Then thus boldly and shamelessly,” she thundered forth, “you confess deception?”
“What man alive would not have remained silent,” said Paul, “when speaking meant so deep a loss? Will you not forgive me?”
Even then he thought she would relent, and he approached her. She waived him off, contemptuously.
“Away! Approach me not. You madden me,” she said, with frightful vehemence, “I thought that you were baser clay than the dull-witted fools that gathered round. I sighed for the pleasure of attiring those mighty limbs of yours, of decking you with jewels, rich and rare. I deemed you poor, that I might lavish gifts upon you. I thought you nameless, that I might envelop you with the mantle of my own fame and genius. You knew the motive, and yet, by the false pretense of silence, you tricked from my freakish lips that hasty declaration. Be gone! Let me not look upon your face again!”
The pallor of death overspread his face, and he exclaimed, almost piteously: “I do confess my sin; yet, does it merit the punishment of exile? A life that’s worse than death?”
“Go,” she said, in tones that left no room for hope, “I’ll not unsay a single word. Since you are other than I thought you, this marriage bed shall know you not. This is no place for such a husband.”
She pointed to the door, and slowly Paul turned, and gradually his feet bore him away from her presence. When the sound of the departing tread of Paul had passed away, Ouida, with a glance at the inner room, wherein waited her lover, she sank with a sigh upon the floor. Her brain reeled, and consciousness for a period completely abandoned her being.