CHAPTER XV.
“SOFT AS ZEPHYR.”
And, even then, in the “City of Violets,” life went on; even then the soft waters flowed against the shore, or, going out to the ocean, carried upon their bosom the stately ships, laden with spoils, and hearts both sad and gay. The sun rose, to set again in the west, just the same as ever; and music was on the streets, while flowers and lights were everywhere.
If there were any other two, in all that seductive place, who felt like these two of whom we write, it mattered not to them. The days sped on alike, and the nights, not a few, came and went, shaking their starry banners over river and town; and yet, they had not met; though she knew the day was not far distant when he would “come again.”
Engagements of every kind filled her outward existence, and her mother seemed ever ready to hurry Gwendoline from theatre to ball-room, from dinner to tea, and invent a thousand and one excuses to be with her daughter, always keeping her on the go.
Somehow she had learned of Emory’s return, and, later on, of his arrival in the city; and, dreading a meeting between Gwendoline and himself, she spared no pains to avoid the chances of such an encounter. She heard that he was stopping at the “St. Charles,” and she rejoiced now that her daughter had from the first sought a more quiet hotel. Mr. Emory went little into society, and thus it was that at no time had they met. As for that ever-to-be-remembered cold evening, Mrs. Gwinn knew nothing of it. Alice had kept her counsel, and Gwendoline nursed the secret with the terrible words wrung from her in that hour. One week, and then another went by—still no glimpse upon the street, no looks from the opera stalls. Did he go to one theatre, she was at another. Did he walk upon Canal, she sped by in a carriage! Did he call—she was gone!
At last, in despair, he moved his quarters, taking up his abode but a few doors from her own, with his windows looking out upon the same long, cool veranda. But he would not show himself, would not startle her, all too soon, either in the dining-hall or parlors. And she,—how bore she the separation? More bravely than you would think. Perhaps, she prayed that as he came before he would not come again.
“I am afraid, afraid!” she murmured.
One night, the wind blew soft as zephyr through her curtains. She came home from the opera, and sat in the dark to dream of him.
“Go away!” she said to Alice. “I will undress myself!”
All was hushed and still on the street below, when she pulled in her blinds and dropped her dress from her shoulders. Piece by piece the garments fell from around her, until but one remained, and her loosened hair covered her bosom. She had lighted the gas and saw herself reflected in the mirror beyond. She flushed a sunset red.
“All this is for him!” she murmured.
In a moment the light was out and, with her night dress wrapped close about her, she crept to her pillow, shivering as with an ague.