Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (23 page)

 
          
Pauline
obeyed; but as she chatted, skillfully leading the young wife's conversation to
her own affairs, she listened to the two voices behind her, watched the two
figures reflected in the mirror before her, and felt a secret pride in Manuel's
address, for it was evident that the former positions were renewed.

 
          
The
timid boy who had feared the sarcastic tongue of his guardian's guest, and
shrunk from his presence to conceal the jealousy that was his jest, now stood
beside his formal rival, serene and self-possessed, by far the manliest man of
the two, for no shame daunted him, no fear oppressed him, no dishonorable deed
left him at the mercy of another's tongue.

 
          
Gilbert
Redmond felt this keenly, and cursed the falsehood which had placed him in such
an unenviable position. It was vain to assume the old superiority that was
forfeited; but too much a man of the world to be long discomforted by any
contretemps like this, he rapidly regained his habitual ease of manner, and
avoiding the perilous past clung to the safer present, hoping, by some
unguarded look or word, to fathom the purpose of his adversary, for such he
knew the husband of Pauline must be at heart. But Manuel schooled his features,
curbed his tongue, and when his hot blood tempted him to point his smooth
speech with a taunt, or offer a silent insult with the eye, he remembered
Pauline, looked down on the graceful head below, and forgot all other passions
in that of love.

 
          
"Gilbert, my shawl.
The sea air chills me."

 
          
"I
forgot it, Babie."

 
          
"Allow
me to supply the want."

 
          
Mindful
of his wife's commands, Manuel seized this opportunity to win a glance of
commendation from her. And taking the downy mantle that hung upon his arm, he
wrapped the frail girl in it with a care that made the act as cordial as
courteous. Mrs. Redmond felt the charm of his manner with the quickness of a
woman, and sent a reproachful glance at Gilbert as she said plaintively,
"Ah! It is evident that my honeymoon is over, and the assiduous lover
replaced by the negligent husband. Enjoy your midsummer night's dream while you
may, Pauline, and be ready for the awakening that must come."

 
          
"Not
to her, madame, for our honeymoon shall last till the golden wedding day comes
round. Shall it not, cariña?"

 
          
"There
is no sign of waning yet, Manuel," and Pauline looked up into her
husband's face with a genuine affection which made her own more beautiful and
filled his with a visible content. Gilbert read the glance, and in that instant
suffered the first pang of regret that Pauline had foretold. He spoke abruptly,
longing to be away.

 
          
"Babie,
we may dance now, if you will."

 
          
"I
am going, but not with you—so give me my fan, and entertain Pauline till my
return."

 
          
He
unclosed his hand, but the delicately carved fan fell at his feet in a shower
of ivory shreds—he had crushed it as he watched his first love with the bitter
thought "It might have been!"

 
          
"Forgive
me, Babie, it was too frail for use; you should choose a stronger."

 
          
"I
will next time, and a gentler hand to hold it. Now, Monsieur Laroche,
 
I am ready."
 
         
Mrs.
Redmond rose in a small bustle of satisfaction, shook out her flounces, glanced
at the mirror, then Manuel led her away; and the other pair
were
left alone. Both felt a secret agitation quicken their breath and thrill along
their nerves, but the woman concealed it best. Gilbert's eye wandered restlessly
to and fro, while Pauline fixed her own on his as quietly as if he were the
statue in the niche behind him. For a moment he tried to seem unconscious of
it, then essayed to meet and conquer it, but failed signally and, driven to his
last resources by that steady gaze, resolved to speak out and have all over
before his wife's return. Assuming the seat beside her, he said, impetuously,
"Pauline, take off your mask as I do mine—we are alone now, and may see
each other as we are."

 
          
Leaning
deep into the crimson curve of the couch, with the indolent grace habitual to
her, yet in strong contrast to the vigilant gleam of her eye, she swept her
hand across her face as if obeying him, yet no change followed, as she said
with a cold smile, "It is off; what next?"

 
          
"Let
me understand you. Did my letter reach your hands?"

 
          
"A week before my marriage."

 
          
He
drew a long breath of relief, yet a frown gathered as he asked, like one loath
and eager to be satisfied, "Your love died a natural death, then, and its
murder does not lie at my door?"

 
          
Pointing
to the shattered toy upon the ground, she only echoed
his own
words. "It was too frail for use—I chose a stronger."

 
          
It
wounded, as she meant it should; and the evil spirit to whose guidance she had
yielded herself exulted to see his self-love bleed, and pride vainly struggle
to conceal the stab. He caught the expression in her averted glance, bent
suddenly a fixed and scrutinizing gaze upon her, asking, below his breath,
"
Then
why are you here to tempt me with the face
that tempted me a year ago?"

 
          
"I
came to see the woman to whom you sold yourself. I have seen her, and am
satisfied."

 
          
Such
quiet contempt iced her tones, such pitiless satisfaction shone through the
long lashes that swept slowly down, after her eye had met and caused his own to
fall again, that Gilbert's cheek burned as if the words had been a blow, and
mingled shame and anger trembled in his voice.

 
          
"Ah,
you are quick to read our secret, for you possess the key. Have you no fear
that I may read your own, and tell the world you sold your beauty for a name
and fortune? Your bargain is a better one than mine, but I know you too well,
though your fetters are diamonds and your master a fond boy."

 
          
She
had been prepared for this, and knew she had a shield in the real regard she
bore her husband, for though sisterly, it was sincere. She felt its value now,
for it gave her courage to confront the spirit of retaliation she had roused,
and calmness to answer the whispered taunt with an unruffled mien, as lifting
her white arm she let its single decoration drop glittering to her lap.

 
          
"You
see my 'fetters' are as loose as they are light, and nothing binds me but my
will. Read my heart, if you can. You will find there contempt for a love so
poor that it feared poverty; pity for a man who dared not face the world and
conquer it, as a girl had done before him, and gratitude that I have found my
'master' in a truehearted boy, not a falsehearted man. If I am a slave, I never
know it. Can you say as much?"

 
          
Her
woman's tongue avenged her, and Gilbert owned his defeat. Pain quenched the ire
of his glance, remorse subdued his pride,
self
-condemnation
compelled him to ask, imploringly, "Pauline, when may I hope for
pardon?"

 
          
"Never."

 
          
The
stern utterance of the word dismayed him, and, like one shut out from hope, he
rose, as if to leave her, but paused irresolutely, looked back, then sank down
again, as if constrained against his will by a longing past control. If she had
doubted her power this action set the doubt at rest, as the haughtiest nature
she had known confessed it by a bittersweet complaint. Eyeing her wistfully,
tenderly, Gilbert murmured, in the voice of long ago, "Why do I stay to
wound and to be wounded by the hand that once caressed me? Why do I find more
pleasure in your contempt than in another woman's praise, and feel myself
transported into the delights of that irrecoverable past, now grown the sweetest,
saddest memory of my life? Send me away, Pauline, before the old charm asserts
its power, and I forget that I am not the happy lover of a year ago."

 
          
"Leave
me then, Gilbert. Good night."

 
          
Half
unconsciously, the former softness stole into her voice as it lingered on his
name. The familiar gesture accompanied the words, the old charm did assert
itself, and for an instant changed the cold woman into the ardent girl again.
Gilbert did not go but, with a hasty glance down the deserted hall behind him,
captured and kissed the hand he had lost, passionately whispering,
"Pauline, I love you still, and that look assures me that you have
forgiven, forgotten, and kept a place for me in that deep heart of yours. It is
too late to deny it. I have seen the tender eyes again, and the sight has made
me the proudest, happiest man that walks the world tonight, slave though I
am."

 
          
Over
cheek and forehead rushed the treacherous blood as the violet eyes filled and
fell before his own, and in the glow of mingled pain and fear that stirred her
blood, Pauline, for the first time, owned the peril of the task she had set
herself, saw the dangerous power she possessed, and felt the buried passion
faintly moving in its grave. Indignant at her own weakness, she took refuge in
the memory of her wrong, controlled the rebel color, steeled the front she
showed him, and with feminine skill mutely conveyed the rebuke she would not
trust herself to utter, by stripping the glove from the hand he had touched and
dropping it disdainfully as if unworthy of its place. Gilbert had not looked
for such an answer, and while it baffled him it excited his man's spirit to
rebel against her silent denial. With a bitter laugh he snatched up the glove.

 
          
"I
read
a defiance
in your eye as you flung this down. I
accept the challenge, and will keep gage until I prove myself the victor. I
have asked for pardon. You refuse it. I have confessed my love. You scorn it. I
have possessed myself of your secret, yet you deny it. Now we will try our
strength together, and leave those children to their play."

 
          
"We
are the children, and we play with edge tools. There has been enough of this,
there must be no more." Pauline rose with her haughtiest mien, and the
brief command, "Take me to Manuel."

 
          
Silently
Gilbert offered his arm, and silently she rejected it.

 
          
"Will
you accept nothing from me?"

 
          
"Nothing."

 
          
Side
by side they passed through the returning throng till Mrs. Redmond joined them,
looking blithe and bland with the exhilaration of gallantry and motion. Manuel's
first glance was at Pauline, his second at her companion; there was a shadow
upon the face of each, which seemed instantly to fall upon his own as he
claimed his wife with a masterful satisfaction as novel as becoming, and which
prompted her to whisper, "You enact your role to the life, and shall enjoy
a foretaste of your reward at once. I want excitement; let us show these
graceless, frozen people the true art of dancing, and electrify them with the
life and fire of a Cuban valse."

 
          
Manuel
kindled at once, and Pauline smiled stealthily as she glanced over her shoulder
from the threshold of the dancing hall, for her slightest act, look, and word
had their part to play in that night's drama.

 
          
"Gilbert,
if you are tired I will go now."

 
          
"Thank
you, I begin to find it interesting. Let us watch the dancers."

 
          
Mrs.
Redmond accepted the tardy favor, wondering at his unwonted animation, for
never had she seen such eagerness in his countenance, such energy in his manner
as he pressed through the crowd and won a place where they could freely witness
one of those exhibitions of fashionable figurante which are nightly to be seen
at such resorts. Many couples were whirling around the white hall, but among
them one pair circled with slowly increasing speed, in perfect time to the
inspiring melody of trumpet, flute, and horn, that seemed to sound for them
alone. Many paused to watch them, for they gave to the graceful pastime the
enchantment which few have skill enough to lend it, and made it a spectacle of
life-enjoying youth, to be remembered long after the music ceased and the agile
feet were still.