CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE CITY OF VIOLETS.
To believe that the woman who could rear and ride so spirited an animal as a thoroughbred stallion would swoon away as Gwendoline had done is a difficult matter. But such was the case, and the mother, day by day, saw the color fade from the cheek and the light go out from those glorious brown eyes. Do what she would, the girl grew weaker constantly, and when the heat of the long summer came, Mrs. Gwinn felt her heart almost die within her. There must be a change, or, the only thing on earth for which she now cared to live, would pass away forever. They were not rich enough to travel, so she took her daughter to stay with some friends in the mountains, where a little of the old energy came back. But when the smoke from the fall fires arose in the air above the city, Gwendoline returned to her former listlessness. So, gathering together the remnants of her fortune, Mrs. Gwinn took her child and maid and went to make a long sojourn in New Orleans, that city of violets.
At first, she could not induce her daughter to re-enter society; but fate assisted, for one day she became acquainted with a sweet girl, who was gifted with a wondrous voice. She could not play her own accompaniments, however, and, as Gwendoline was a fair performer, she often drew her into the hotel parlors to play for her. The quiet rooms of the “Veranda” were little frequented, and many hours were spent there by those two; and, at times, Gwendoline would be persuaded to go with her friend elsewhere, so that she might sing her songs in the homes of others. Little by little was she won away from herself; and, at last, to please that mother, now so devoted a parent, she again took her place before the world, apparently fully restored to health, beauty and good spirits. Beauty such as hers can but attract admirers; and, in the handsome saloons of private houses, as well as amid the public places of amusement, did Gwendoline Gwinn again reign supreme.
When the gayest month of the winter—February—came, it brought with it Gray and Maury, who thought the smiles upon her lips were just as sweet, though fraught with a sadness they had not known before. Young Maury pressed his suit, but in vain; and, at last, he, too, went home, a “sadder if not a wiser man.” I do not think I have ever led you to suppose that Reginald Gray had cared for her in a lover-like way. His place in these pages has only been that of Neil Emory’s friend—perhaps, one of Gwendoline’s, too—and the would-be lover of that gloriously seductive creature, Cassandra Clovis.
“Ah, me!” he thought, “I didn’t want the embers of a heart, burned in the furnace of her love for my friend,” and he heaved a sigh,—a rather uncommon sound, as coming from so light a breast.
Let us trust that he will find on earth a fitting mate, one who will give unto him the first sweet love of her girlhood and lavish on those bright features the purest and best of caresses. We bless you, Reginald, and offer for you this prayer, knowing as we do the purity of your heart, and so bid you a last farewell.
One cold, raw evening, Gwendoline, returning from a reception, entered her apartments through the sitting-room. She found it dark, and, hearing Alice in the bed-chamber, passed on, and, giving her wraps into her hands, returned to the sitting-room. She was shivering from the cold, and, going to the fire, stirred it to a blaze. The brightness illuminated floor and ceiling, chairs and table, falling on the black marble of the last-mentioned article of furniture, and upon the whiteness of a visiting card that lay like a snowflake before her, as she stood with her back to the chimney. Leaning over, she took it up, and turned it to the light behind her.
She was rolling it now softly, now fiercely, between her fingers, when her maid spoke to her, asking some questions about her wardrobe; then, finding herself unanswered, she went again to her work of folding and unfolding her mistress’ tumbled dresses. Presently, Gwendoline moved and, darting into the other room, said:
“When did this come?” and she held out the card, adding: “And did you see him?”
“It came some hours ago,” replied the girl; “and, yes, Miss, I did see him for a few moments.”
“And you never told me!”
“How could I? I have not seen you since,” and Alice went on hanging and putting away the dresses.
The mistress walked in a restless manner about the room, then, stopping in front of the girl, asked:
“What did he say? Did he leave no message with you? Speak! Why are you silent?” and she caught her by the wrist.
“I am silent, Miss Gwendoline, because I do not wish to tell you what he said, for—for—” and the girl’s voice grew low, “I do not think you ought to have his messages—and you ought not to see him again.”
“Impossible! I must see him, if but for a moment! I—I—have not seen him for over six months—think, girl, of that—what a weary time!”
“Yes! it has been a weary time—and I know what a weary time means!” sighed her maid.
“But the messages! Quick! Speak! Tell me what they are! I must have them! Alice, you torture me!” and Gwendoline stood before her, clasping and unclasping her hands in restless impatience.
At that moment a knock sounded upon the door. She flew to it herself, for some undefined instinct told her that it concerned the dearest wish of her heart. True, for a note was put into her hands—only a few words, asking when he might come.
“I will send an answer,” she said, and the door was shut.
She went to a desk, standing against the wall, and, turning over its contents, dashed off a few hasty words, folded and directed the note, looked up and met the eyes of her maid, who stood before her.
“Do not send it, Miss Gwendoline, do not bid him come, I implore you!”
“I shall not heed you, Alice. I must see him!”
“Oh!” cried the girl, approaching her, “listen to me—it is wrong—wrong! I beg you to say him nay. What will you gain by it? Say him nay, oh! say him nay!”
“Again I tell you I must see him!” and she started from her chair with an impatient gesture.
The girl threw herself upon her knees and caught her dress.
“Oh! you do not know him!” she cried. “You have not seen him as I have done to-day, when he spoke of you. I—I—am afraid for you, my mistress! I tremble for you! Here, at your feet, I implore you to say him nay!”
Tears were in the upturned eyes and soon rolled down the cheeks—tears were in the voice that besought her to “say him nay.”
But the now thoroughly aroused and passionate heart heeded not the voice. The volcano, still so long, had burst forth again.
She tore her dress from the figure crouching at her feet, and, thrusting the note into Alice’s reluctant hands, bade her rise and at once go forth upon her errand, carrying those words that would bring him to her in less than an hour. Turning at the door, the girl lifted her hand and said:
“Oh! Gwendoline,—let me call you so this once—pause before you act—remember my fate—think of me!”
“Go! go!” she cried, wildly. “I can think of nothing but him!” and, throwing her arms out across the table before her, she buried her face in them as the door closed.
When the maid returned, she found her mistress tossing over the wardrobe, looking here and there for some dress to suit her fancy.
“Make me beautiful, oh! make me beautiful!” she ever murmured, as Alice stood, with trembling heart and hands, to do her bidding. At last, she was ready. She had selected a white directoire of soft material, clinging to her form, falling from her shoulders in graceful folds and open at the throat to show the whiteness of her skin. No jewelry of any kind adorned her person, and she looked like a lovely statue as she stood in the subdued light of her sitting-room, waiting for the footsteps she had thought never to hear again.
Alice, lingering in the passage, opened the door to him; then she slipped away to solitude and tears.
Gwendoline, with one hand resting upon the mantle, turned her beautiful face, and, stretching out the other, greeted him.
“I bid you welcome,” she said, softly, “back to America.”
“And you,” he asked, “have you been well?”
“Not always,” she murmured.
The fire-light was the brightest in the room,—the lamp behind them worried him with its dimness. He arose and turned the wick higher.
“Now, I can see you better—do you pardon the act? It is so long since I have looked upon your face, Gwendoline,” and he reseated himself and drew his chair close beside her.
She rested her head back against the cushions behind her, and sighed a little.
“This is boy’s play,” thought Emory. “I must speak!” Then he said aloud: “Gwendoline, you know what has brought me—I cannot live without you! This I have come home to say. How fares it with you?”
The lace on her bosom rose and fell, while the white hands were clasping and unclasping, in a silent, anguished way.
“Speak to me!” whispered her lover, bending over her; “say that you feel as I do—let me have from those lips the assurance that ’tis not mine alone, this love that consumes.”
Rising slowly from her seat, Gwendoline stood for a moment, swaying her tall form back and forth, with outstretched hands, moaning aloud. He took those hands between his own, and again besought her to speak.
“What would you?” she cried, with flame-covered cheeks. “Are you free?”
“Yes! but not as you think—not free as the world would deem me—but free to love you and you alone! Of every thought, where other women are concerned, I am free! Gwendoline!” he cried, passionately, “give yourself to me! Say, am I not everything to you?” and he drew her towards him.
She felt his arms about her, his hot and panting breath upon her cheek, and her heart grew wild within her.
“Not free! not free!” she moaned once more. “Oh! Neil, I know not what to do!”
“Do as I bid you!” His gestures were almost rough in their passion. “One word—will you be mine, and mine alone?”
Still she shrank from him, trembling, afraid to speak. He threw himself before her in a hurricane of passion, and caught her to his breast.
“Tell me, shall I come again?—and when I do, what shall it be?” His voice had grown hoarse and low as he crushed her to his side. Her answer reached him, and he knew then that for them both Heaven would smile, though Hell be at their feet when he came again.