by Marion Bryce
Meanwhile fair faces and lovely forms flitted before hint, carrying his glance along in their train, but only because youth was a symbol of Paula. If these fresh young girls could smile and look back upon. him, with that lingering glance which his presence ever invoked, why not she who was not only sweet, tender, and lovely, but gifted with a nature that responded to the deep things of life, and the stern passions of potent humanity. Could a merry laugh lure her while he stood by? Was the sunshine the natural atmosphere of this flower, that had bloomed under his eye so sweetly and shed out its innocent fragrance, at the approach of his solemn-pacing foot? He began to mirror before his mind’s eye the startled look of happy wonder with which she would greet his impassioned glance, when released from whatever duties might be now pressing upon her; she wandered into these rooms, to find him awaiting her, when suddenly there was a stir in the throng, a pleased and excited rush, and the large curtain which he had vaguely noticed hanging at one end of the room, uplifted and—was it Paula? this coy, brilliant, saucy-eyed Florentine maiden, stepping out from a bower of greenery, with finger on her lip, and a backward glance of saucy defiance that seemed to people the verdant walks behind her with gallant cavaliers, eager to follow upon her footsteps? Yes; he could not be mistaken; there was but one face like that in the world. It was Paula, but Paula with youth’s merriest glamour upon her, a glamour that had caught its radiant light from other thoughts than those in which he had been engaged. He bowed his head, and a shudder went through him like that which precedes the falling knife of the executioner. Even the applause that greeted the revelation of so much loveliness and alluring charm, passed over him like a dream. He was battling with his first recognition of the possibility of his being too late. Suddenly her voice was heard.
She was speaking aloud to herself, this Florentine maiden who had outstripped her lover in the garden, but the tone was the same he had heard beside his own hearthstone, and the archness that accompanied it had frequently met and encouraged some cheerful expression of his own. These are the words she uttered. Listen with him to the naïve, half tender, half pettish voice, and mark with his eyes the alternate lights and shadows that flit across her cheek as she broodingly murmurs:
“He is certainly a most notable gallant. His “Good day, lady!” and his “Good even to you!” are flavored with the cream of perfectest courtesy. But gallantry while it sits well upon a man, does not make him one, any more than a feather makes the cap it adorns. For a Tuscan he hath also a certain comeliness, but then I have ever sworn, in good faith too, that I would not marry a Tuscan, were he the best made man in Italy. Then there is his glance, which proclaims to all men’s understandings that he loves me, which same seems overbold; but then his smile! Well, for a smile it certainly does credit to his wit, but one cannot live upon smiles; though if one could, one might consent to make a trial of his—and starve belike for her pains. (She drops her cheek into her hand and stands musing.)
Mr. Sylvester drew a deep breath and let his eyes fall, when suddenly a hum ran through the audience about him, and looking quickly up, he beheld Mr. Ensign dressed in full cavalier costume, standing behind the musing maiden with a half merry, half tender gleam upon his face, that made the thickly beating heart of his rival shrink as if clutched in an iron vise. What followed, he heard as we do the words of a sentence read to us from the judge’s seat. The cavalier spoke first and a thousand dancing colors seemed to flash in the merry banter that followed.
Martino.—She muses, and on no other than myself, as I am ready to swear by that coy and tremulous glance. I will move her to avow it. (Advances.) Fair lady, greeting! A kiss for your sweet thoughts.
Nita. (With a start).—A kiss, Signior Martino? You must acknowledge that were out a sorry exchange for thoughts like mine, so if it please you, I will keep my thoughts and you your kiss; and lest it should seem ungracious in me to give nothing upon your asking I will bestow upon you my most choice good day, and so leave you to your meditations. (Curtseys and is about to depart.)
Martino.—You have the true generosity, lady; you give away what it costs you the dearest to part from. Nay, rumple not your lip; it is the truth for all your pretty poutings! Convince me it is not.
Nita.—Your pardon, but that would take words, and words would take time, and time given to one of your persuasion would refute all my arguments on the face of them. (Still retreating.)
Martino.—Well, lady, since it is your pleasure to be consistent, rather than happy, adieu. Had you stayed but as long as the bee pauses on an oleander blossom, you would have heard—
Nita.—Buzzing, signior?
Martino.—Yes, if by that word you would denominate vows of constancy and devotion. For I do greatly love you, and would tell you so.
Nita.—And for that you expect me to linger! as though vows were new to my ears, and words of love as strange to my understanding .is tropical birds to the eyes of a Norseman.
Martino.—If you do love me, you will linger.
Nita.—Yet if I do, (Slowly advancing) be assured it is from some other motive than love.
Martino.—So it be not from hate I am contented.
Nita.—To be contented with little, proves you a man of much virtue.
Martino.—When I have you, I am contented with much.
Nita.—That when is a wise insertion, signior; it saves you from shame and me from anger.—Hark! some one calls.
Martino.—None other but the wind; it is a kindly breeze, and grieves to hear how harsh a pretty maiden can be to the lover who adores her.
Nita.—Please your worship, I do not own a lover.
Martino.—Then mend your poverty, and accept one.
Nita.—I am no beggar to accept of alms.
Martino.—In this case, he who offers is the beggar.
Nita.—I am too young to wear a jewel of so much pretension.
Martino.—Time is a cure for youth, and marriage a happy speeder of time.
Nita.—But youth needs no cure, and if marriage speedeth time, I’ll live a maid and die one. The days run swift enough without goading, Signior Martino.
Martino,—But lady—
Nita.—Nay, your tongue will outstrip time, if you put not a curb upon it. In faith, signior, I would not seem rude, but if in your courtesy you would consent to woo some other maiden to day, why I would strive and bear it.
Martino.—When I stoop to woo any other lady than thee, the moon shall hide its face from the earth, and shine upon it no more.
Nita.—Your thoughts are daring in their flight to-day.
Martino.—They are in search of your love.
Nita.—Alack, your wings will fail.
Martino.—Ay, when they reach their goal.
Nita.—Dost think to reach it?
Martino.—Shall I not, lady?
Nita.—’Tis hard to believe it possible, yet who can tell? You are not so handsome, signior, that one would die for you.
Martino.—No, lady; but what goes to make other men’s faces fair, goes to make my heart great. The virtue of my manhood rests in the fact that I love you.
Nita.—Faith! so in some others. ’Tis the common fault of the gallants, I find. If that is all—
Martino—But I will always love you, even unto death.
Nita.—I doubt it not, so death come soon enough.
Martino. (Taps his poiniard with his hand).—Would you have it come now, and so prove me true to my word?
Nita. (Demurely).—I am no judge, to utter the doom that your presumption merits.
Martino.—Your looks speak doom, and your sweet lips hide a sword keener than that of justice.
Nita.—Have you tried them, signior, that you speak so knowingly concerning them? (Retreating.) Your words, methinks, are somewhat like your kisses, all breath and no substance.
Martino.—Lady! sweet one! (Follows her.)
Nita.—Nay, I am gone. (Exit.)
Martino.—I were of the fools’ fold, did I fail to follow at a beck so gentle
. (Exit.)
That was not all, but at was all that Mr. Sylvester heard. Hastily retreating, he went out into the corridor and ere long found himself in the conservatory. He felt shaken; felt that he could not face all this unmoved. He knew he had been gazing at a play; that because this Florentine maiden looked at her lover with coyness, gentleness, tenderness perhaps, it did not follow that she, his Paula, loved the real man behind this dashing cavalier. But the possibility was there, and in his present frame of mind could not be encountered without pain. He dared not stay where men’s eyes could follow him, or women’s delicate glances note the heaving of his chest. He had in the last three hours given himself over so completely to hope. He realized it now though he would not have believed it before. With man’s usual egotism he had felt that it was only necessary for him to come to a decision, to behold all else fall out according to his mind. He had forgotten for the nonce the power of a youthful lover, eager to serve, ready to wait, careful to press his way at every advantage. He could have cursed himself for the folly of his delay, as he strode up and down among the flowering shrubs in the solitude which the attractions of the play created. “Fool! fool!” he muttered between his teeth, “to halt on the threshold of Paradise till the door closed in my face, when a step would have carried me where—He grew dizzy as he contemplated. The goal looks never so fair as when just within reach of a. rival’s hand.
A vigorous clapping, followed by a low gush of music, woke him at last to the realization that the little drama had terminated. With a hasty movement he was about to return to the parlors, when he heard the low murmur of voices, and on looking up, saw a youthful couple advancing into the conservatory, whom at first glance he recognized for Bertram and Miss Stuyvesant. They were absorbed in each other, and believing themselves alone, came on without fear, presenting such a picture of love and deep, unspeakable joy, that Mr. Sylvester paused and gazed upon them as upon the sudden embodiment of a cherished vision of his own imaginings. Bertram was speaking ordinary words no doubt, words suited to the occasion and the time, but his voice was attuned to the beatings of his long repressed heart, while the bend of his proud young head and the glance of his yearning eye were more eloquent than speech, of the leaning of his whole nature in love and protection towards the dainty, flushing creature at his side. It was a sight to make old hearts young and a less happy lover sick with envy. In spite of his gratification at his nephew’s success, Mr. Sylvester’s brow contracted, and it was with difficulty he could subdue himself into the appearance of calm benevolence necessary to pass them with propriety. Had it been Paula and Mr. Ensign!
He did not know how it was that he managed to find her at last. But just as he was beginning to realize that wisdom demanded his departure from this scene, he suddenly came upon her sitting with her face turned toward the crowd and waiting—for whom? He had never seen her look so beautiful, possibly because he had never before allowed himself to gaze upon her with a lover’s eyes. She had exchanged her piquant Roman costume for the pearl gray satin in which Ona had delighted to array her, and its rich substance and delicate neutral tint harmonized well with the amber brocade of the curtain against which she sat.
Power, passion and purity breathed in her look, and lent enchantment to her form. She was poetry’s unique jewel, and at this moment, thought rather than merriment sat upon her lips, and haunted her somewhat tremulous smiles. He approached her as a priest to his shrine, but once at her side, once in view of her first startled blush, stooped passionately, and forgetting everything but the suspense at his heart, asked with a look and tone such as he had never before bestowed upon her, if the play which he had seen that evening had been real, or only the baseless fabric of a dream.
She understood him and drew back with a look almost of aw e, shaking her head and replying in a startled way, “I do not know, I dare not say, I scarcely have taken time to think.”
“Then take it,” he murmured in a voice that shook her body and soul, “for I must know, if he does not.” And without venturing another word, or supplying by look or gesture any explanation of his unexpected appearance, or as equally unexpected departure, he bowed before her as if she had been a queen instead of the child he had been wont in other days to regard her, and speedily left her side.
But he had not taken two steps before he paused. Mr. Ensign was approaching.
“Mr. Sylvester! you are worse than the old woman of the tale, who declaring she would not, that nothing could ever induce her to—did.”
“You utter a deeper truth than you realize,” returned that gentleman, with a grave emphasis meant rather for her ears than his. “It is the curse of mortals to overrate their strength in the face of great temptations. I am no exception to the rule.” And with a second bow that included this apparently triumphant lover within its dignified sweep, he calmly proceeded upon his way, and in a few moments had left the house.
Mr. Ensign, who for all his careless disposition, was quick to recognize depths in others, stared after his commanding figure until he had disappeared, then turned and looked at Paula. Why did his heart sink, and the lights and joy and promise of the evening seem to turn dark and shrivel to nothing before his eyes!
XXXIII. TWO LETTERS.
“I have no other but a woman’s reason,
I think him so, because I think him so.”
—TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.
A woman who has submitted to the undivided attentions of a gentleman for any length of time, feels herself more or less bound to him, whether any special words of devotion have passed between them or not, particularly if from sensitiveness of nature, she has manifested any pleasure in his society. Paula therefore felt as if her wings had been caught in a snare, when Mr. Ensign upon leaving her that evening, put a small note in her hand, saying that he would do himself the pleasure of calling for his reply the next day. She did not need to open it. She knew intuitively the manly honest words with which he would be likely to offer his heart and life for her acceptance; yet she did open it almost as soon as she reached her room, sitting down in her outside wraps for the purpose. She was not disappointed. Every line was earnest, ardent, and respectful. A true love and a happy cheerful home awaited her if—the stupendous meaning latent in an if!
With folded hands lying across the white page, with glance fixed on the fire always kept burning brightly in the grate, she sat querying her own soul and the awful future. his was such a charming companion; life had flashed and glimmered with a thousand lights and colors since she knew him; his very laugh made her want to sing. With him she would move in sunshiny paths, open to the regard of all the world, giving and receiving good. Life would need no veils and love no check. A placid stream would bear her on through fields of smiling verdure. Dread hopes, strange fears, uneasy doubts and vague unrests, would not disturb the heart that rested its faith upon his frank and manly bosom. A breeze blew through his life that would sweep all such evils from the path of her who walked in trust and love by his side. In trust and love; ah! that was it. She trusted him, but did she love him? At one time she had been convinced that she did, else these past few weeks would have owned a different history. He came upon her so brightly amid her gloom; filled her days with such genial thoughts, and drew the surface of her soul so unconsciously after him. It was like a zephyr sweeping over the sea; every billow that leaps to follow seems to own the power of that passing wind. But could she think so now, since she had found that the mere voice and look of another man had power to awaken depths such as she could not name and scarcely as yet had been able to recognize that though the billows might flow under the genial smile of her young lover, the tide rose only at the call of a deeper voice and a more imposing presence?
She was a thinking spirit and recoiled from yielding too readily to any passing impulse. Love was a sacrament in her eyes; something entirely too precious to be accepted in counterfeit. She must know the secret of her inclinations, must weigh the influence that swayed her, for once given over to earth�
��s sublimest passion, she felt that it would have power to sweep her on to an eternity of bliss or suffering.
She therefore forced herself to probe deep into the past, and pitilessly asked her conscience, what her emotions had been in reference to Mr. Sylvester before she positively knew that love for her as a woman had taken the place of his former fatherly regard. Her blushing cheek seemed to answer for her. Right or wrong, her life had never been complete away from his presence. She was lonesome and unsatisfied. When Mr. Ensign came she thought her previous unrest was explained, but the letter from Cicely describing Mr. Sylvester as sick and sorrowful, had withdrawn the veil from the delusion, and though it had settled again with Mr. Sylvester’s studied refusal to accept her devotion, was by this evening’s betrayal utterly wrenched away and trampled into oblivion. By every wild throb of her heart at the sound of his voice in her ear, by every outreaching of her soul to enter into his every mood, by the deep sensation of rest she felt in his presence, and the uneasy longing that absorbed her in his absence, she knew that she loved Mr. Sylvester as she never could his younger, blither, and perhaps nobler rival. Each word spoken by him lay treasured in her heart of hearts. When she thought of manly beauty, his face and figure started upon her from the surrounding shadows, making all romance possible and poetry the truest expression of the human soul. While she lived, he must ever seem the man of men to charm the eye, affect the heart, and move the soul. Yet she hesitated. Why?
