Kitabı oku: «An Old Man's Darling», sayfa 9

CHAPTER XXI

It is barely midnight and the mirth and merriment are at their hight down-stairs. Bonnibel hears the sound of

 
"The violin, flute and bassoon,
And the dancers dancing in tune."
 

through all her interview with Colonel Carlyle, but when it is ended she does not return to the ball-room. She leaves him with a cold good-night, and retires to her own room.

Lucy, her maid, starts up drowsily from her easy-chair as she enters.

"You here, Lucy?" she says. "I told you not to stay up for me. You should not break your rest staying up night after night like this."

"Lor', Miss Bonnibel, I have had as comfortable a snooze in your arm-chair as if I had been tucked into my bed," Lucy answers good-naturedly. "Don't you go for to worry over me staying up. I kin stand it if you kin."

Her mistress stands in the center of the room, her eyes shining, her white hands tearing at the diamond necklace about her throat.

"Take it off, Lucy," she cries out impatiently. "It hurts me, it chokes me!"

Lucy hastens to obey, but starts back as she sees the wild, white face of the hapless girl.

"Oh, me!" she exclaims, "you look like a ghost, you are that white. Are you sick, Miss Bonnibel? Let me get you something to take—some wine, or something?"

"No, no, I wish nothing," she answers, impatiently. "Only undress me, Lucy, and help me to bed. I am very tired—that is all."

She sits quite still while Lucy removes the jewels that shine about her, the white satin slippers, the elegant dress, and brings the snowy night-dress instead. Then as the maid kneels down and buttons the delicate robe, Bonnibel, glancing down, sees her eyes full of tears and her full lip quivering.

"Lucy," she says, in surprise, "what is it? What has grieved you?"

Lucy starts as if frightened at being detected.

"Forgive me, ma'am," she says; "it's for you I grieve. You are that changed that I can't bear it! Here I have been your maid since you was a little girl of twelve, and how happy you used to be before the master died—now for goin' on a year I've never seen a real smile on your face. Something troubles you all the time. Can't I help you? Can't I do something for you?"

The humble, patient fidelity of the girl touches Bonnibel to the heart, it is so seldom that an honest, heartfelt word of kindness falls on her ears. Impulsively she bends and puts her lily white hand into the strong clasp of the girl sitting humbly at her feet, looking up at her with tear-filled eyes.

"Lucy, my poor girl," she says, plaintively, "I believe you are the only true friend I have on earth!"

"Then can't I help you, Miss Bonnibel?" cried Lucy, feeling that the words of her young mistress are too true for her to dispute them. "Something troubles you—can't I help you to be happier?"

A sigh—hopeless, passionate, profound—drifts across the lips of the listener.

"No no, my poor, kind girl," she answers; "no one can help me—I must bear my own cross—no one can carry it for me! Only stay with me, Lucy, and love me always—I have so few to love me—and I shall feel better when I can see that your kind heart sympathizes with me."

"I'll never leave you, my dear mistress," sobs the girl; "I'll never forget to love every hair of your innocent head."

She kisses the little hand Bonnibel has given her reverently and tenderly, as if it were some precious thing.

"Lucy, I am going to test your fidelity," says the girl, drearily. "I am going away to Europe next week. Will you go with me?"

Lucy stares open-mouthed.

"To Yurrup, Miss Bonnibel! Away off to them furrin parts?"

"Yes, Lucy, away off there. Does your courage fail you?" her mistress inquires, with a slight, sad smile.

"No, no, ma'am. I don't like furrin people much; but I'll go to the ends of the earth with you!" is the resolute reply.

"Your devotion shall not be taxed that far, Lucy. We will go to France."

"That heathen land," exclaims Lucy, "where the monseers eats frogs and snakes?"

Bonnibel cannot repress a smile at the girl's quick gesture of disgust.

"You will like the French people better, I hope, when you stay among them two years, for I shall probably stay in Paris that long. I am going to school there, Lucy. You know that I have never been to school in my life, and my governesses were not strict enough with me. There are many things I do not know yet, that one moving in society I frequent should know. So I am going to learn something yet. It is never too late to mend, you know."

Lucy looks up, her eyes growing round with surprise.

"Lor', Miss Bonnibel, I never heard of a married woman going to school in my life."

"Perhaps you never heard of a married woman so untutored as I am," her young mistress returns, somewhat bitterly; "anyway, I am determined to go to school and learn something. But I cannot do without a maid, and I will take you, if you will go."

"That I certainly will, Miss Bonnibel," said Lucy, emphatically.

"Very well, Colonel Carlyle and I will start to New York to-morrow to make preparations for our trip. See that the trunks are all packed, Lucy."

"I will, ma'am. They shall be ready, never fear."

She rises and looks wistfully at the little white figure in the chair, resting its dimpled chin in the curve of one pink palm, the golden head bent wearily.

"Sha'n't I get you something? Indeed, you look ill," she implores.

"Nothing, Lucy. Good-night."

"Good-night, ma'am," Lucy responds, going away rather reluctantly.

Bonnibel makes no move to retire when Lucy has gone. The little white bed awaits her, tempting to repose by its daintiness and coolness, but she does not look toward it; only sits still as Lucy left her, with her face bowed on her hand.

Colonel Carlyle has gone back to the ball-room again, trying to steel his heart against the upbraidings of his conscience. He moves among the revelers pale and distrait, yet still trying to bear his part in the gaieties lest people should whisper that he is unhappy, and fearful that some one may read the secret of his jealousy and cruelty to his beautiful darling.

Curious glances follow him, whispers breathe the story that he fain would conceal, every eye notes Bonnibel's absence.

They shrug their shoulders and tell each other in confidence that Colonel Carlyle is a perfect Bluebeard, and has banished his wife from the festal scene because he is jealous of Byron Penn.

And the music and the dancing go on until daylight warns the gay ones to flee from that too true light that reveals their weariness and haggardness so plainly.

But the ball is long since over for Bonnibel. Lucy finds her as she left her, curled up in the great arm-chair, sleeping like a grieved child, with the trace of tears on her cheek.

CHAPTER XXII

Long Branch is electrified next day by the sudden departure of the Carlyles for New York.

Surprise and wonder run high, and the curious ones seek Felise, thinking that she, if any one, must be acquainted with the whys and wherefores.

But Felise is rather reticent on the subject.

"I will tell you all I know," she says, with a pretty affectation of frankness. "That is not much. The Carlyles are going abroad next week and the colonel is going to put his wife at a convent school in Paris to finish her education and perfect herself in music. He told me that much this morning, and I did not ask him why he proposed taking such a singular step."

"You thought him so crazed by jealousy that he could hardly account for his whims in a rational manner, eh?" inquired one.

"It is monstrous!" says another. "Why, the girl was as finished and elegant in her manners as mortal could be. It were impossible to add another charm to her."

While Byron Penn quoted with enthusiasm:

 
"To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To smooth the ice; or add another hue
Unto the rainbow; or with taper light
To seek the beauteous eye of Heaven to garnish,
Were wasteful and ridiculous excess."
 

It was a nine days' wonder, and then it was over. People voted Colonel Carlyle a bear and a Bluebeard, and his lovely young bride a victim and martyr. They said that he was secluding her from the world because he was too jealous for the light of Heaven to shine upon her.

The young poet indited some charming verses for his favorite magazine: "To Those Blue Eyes Across the Sea," and then the gossip began to die out, and new subjects engrossed society's mind.

Months rolled on, and the Carlyle eclaircissement was almost forgotten, or at least but seldom named, even by those who had been the most interested at first.

But Felise was jubilant.

"Mother, you see what I can do," she said, with a wicked laugh. "The honeymoon is barely over, yet I have thrown sand in the old man's eyes and parted him from his darling for two whole years."

"Felise, how did you accomplish it?" Mrs. Arnold inquired curiously.

"That is my secret," she answered, triumphantly.

"You might share it with me," her mother said, reproachfully. "I never have secrets from you, my dear."

"I only used a little tact and humbug, mother—just a word dropped in season here and there—yet the seed I sowed has brought forth an abundant harvest. I have driven him nearly mad with jealousy and doubt and suspicion; I put that scheme of sending Bonnibel to school into his mind. And yet so blinded is he by his jealousy that he does not dream of my complicity in the matter, and he will always blame himself for the everlasting alienation that will exist between them."

"You had your revenge sooner than I thought you would. You are a clever girl, Felise," Mrs. Arnold said, admiringly.

"It is but begun," Felise answered, moodily. "If time spares the old man until Bonnibel comes out of her school I will wring his heart even more deeply than I have already done. I bide my time."

Her mother, cruel and vindictive as she was herself, looked at her in wonder.

"Why, it seems to me that you have already deeply avenged yourself," she said.

"Hell has no fury like a woman scorned!" Felise exclaimed, repeating her favorite text. "Be patient, mother, and you shall yet see what a woman scorned can do."

"What does Colonel Carlyle propose to do with himself while his wife is immured in her convent?" asked Mrs. Arnold.

"He talks of a trip around the world. He affects to be very fond of travel now. But I could see while he talked to me that the old fool repented his intention and would retract it if he could."

"Perhaps he may do so yet."

"No, he will not. He is too proud and stubborn to do so voluntarily, and I think that Bonnibel has acquiesced so readily in the plan that he can find no loop-hole of escape from it. She is as proud as he is; besides, she does not love him, and his unreasoning harshness has rendered her perfectly reckless. She will go to the school, if only to break his heart."

"Perhaps he will die of grief, Felise, or disappointment, and then she will be left a wealthy young widow," cautions Mrs. Arnold.

"No danger," sneers Felise, cynically. "Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love, as the immortal Shakespeare says, mother. I do not anticipate such a contingency. The old dotard has buried two partners and not succumbed to the pangs of bereavement yet. It is possible he may live to plant the weeping willow over his little white-faced dove."

"Perhaps so. She has never seemed over strong since her illness last summer."

"She has been grieving over the loss of Leslie Dane," Felise answered, carelessly.

She goes to the piano, strikes a few chords, and gets up again, wandering about the room restlessly. There is a marked fitfulness and unrest in her every movement, and her eyes flash and roll about in their sockets in a way that troubles her mother.

"Felise, do you sleep well at night?" she inquires, abruptly.

"Why should I not?" the girl asks, turning her head away.

"I do not know; but there is a haggardness and restlessness about you as if you didn't sleep much. I fancy you are getting nervous and wakeful brooding over this revenge of yours. Your face has grown wan and your eyes quite wild. Take care of yourself or you will lose your beauty."

"Never mind, mother; when we go to Paris next year I will go to one of those wonderful women there and have myself made beautiful forever."

"To Paris? Do you really mean it, Felise? I thought you said the last time we went abroad that you were tired of it and never meant to go again."

"I have changed my mind, mother. That is the privilege of the fair sex, you know."

"I suppose you have some motive in this change of mind, Felise."

"Yes. I have. I want to be on hand when Mrs. Carlyle comes forth from her finishing school. I have a fancy to see her after the polishing process is completed."

She laughs softly to herself as if something pleasant has occurred to her.

"Well, well, have your own way about it, my dear—you always do. But I wish you could forget the Carlyles and enjoy life better. We have everything to make it enjoyable, and if you wanted to marry, why you could buy almost anyone you wanted with our wealth."

"I could not buy Colonel Carlyle, mother, though I wanted him very much. He is the wealthiest man I know of anywhere."

"You do not need to marry for wealth, my daughter; we have enough of our own."

Felise did not answer. She was absorbed in thought. Nothing Mrs. Arnold could say made the least impression on her mind.

She was wedded to one idea, and as the weeks and months rolled by it only took a firmer hold on her feelings.

CHAPTER XXIII

"Madam Carlyle, monsieur, your husband, awaits you in the salon."

The tall, beautiful blonde, practicing a difficult sonata at the piano, pauses a moment and suffers her white hands to rest idly on the keys.

"Colonel Carlyle, did you say, madam?" she inquires calmly.

The dignified head of the Parisian school bows in assent, and stands awaiting her pupil's pleasure. The latter rises slowly, folds her music together, restores it to the proper place and turns to leave the music-room.

"You will wish to make some changes in your dress, of course," the lady superior blandly asserts.

Madam Carlyle gives a glance downward at her dress of dark blue cashmere. It is made with almost nun-like simplicity, and fits her rounded, graceful form to perfection. The neck and sleeves are finished with frills and fine lace, and there is not an ornament about her except the rings on her tapering fingers. She does not need ornament. She is rarely, peerlessly beautiful with her fair flower-face and luxuriant crown of golden hair.

"It is not necessary," she answers. "Colonel Carlyle is perhaps impatient."

There is a delicate-veiled sarcasm in the words barely perceptible to the trained hearing of the listener. With that simple speech she turns and glides from the room, leaving the lady superior gazing after her in some surprise.

"They say that we in France make mariages de convenance," she murmurs in French (which we will spare our readers); "but surely the Americans must do likewise. That old man and that fair young girl—surely it is the union of winter and summer. After two years' absence she goes to him as coolly as an iceberg."

Meanwhile Mrs. Carlyle has glided down the long hall, opened the door of the reception-room with a steady hand, and stepped across the threshold.

"Bonnibel!" exclaims a voice, trembling with rapture and emotion—"my darling wife!"

His arms are about her, his lips touch hers.

After a moment she gently disengages herself and looks up in his face.

"Colonel Carlyle," she exclaims, involuntarily, "how changed you are!"

Ten years instead of two seem to have gone over his head.

A look of age and weakness has grown into his face, his erect form has acquired a perceptible stoop; yet a look of disappointment flashes into his eyes at her words.

"It is only the fatigue of travel," he answers, quickly. "I have been a great wanderer since we parted, my dear, and the weariness of travel is still upon me. But as soon as I get rested and recuperated I shall look quite like myself again."

"I hope so," she answers, politely. "Pray resume your seat sir."

He looks at her a little wistfully as she seats herself some distance from him.

"Bonnibel, are you glad to see me again?" he asks, gently.

She looks up, startled, and hesitating what to say to this point-blank question.

He sees the struggle in a moment, and adds, quickly and a little sadly:

"Never mind, my dear, you need not answer. I see you have not forgotten my harshness in the past, and you are not prepared with an answer that would make me happy. But, my darling, you must learn forgetfulness of those things that alienated you from me, for I shall bend every effort now to the one object of making you happy. I have come to take you away with me, Bonnibel."

A slight, almost impalpable, shiver runs through her at the words, and she smothers a faint sigh.

She will be very sorry to leave this haven of peace in which she has rested securely the last two years. She has grown fond of her quiet life among the "passionless, pale-cold" nuns of the convent, and is loth to break its repose by going back to the jar and fret of life with her jealous husband. She wishes that she might stay in the convent all her life.

"Do you intend to return at once to the United States, sir?" she inquires, being at a loss for something to say.

"Not yet, unless you particularly desire it. I want you to see something of life in the gay French Capital—'dear, delightful Paris,' as we Americans call it. I have rented an elegant chateau and furnished it in handsome style, according to what I fancied your taste would prefer; have engaged a retinue of servants; and there is a lovely garden of roses; in short, the home is ready, and only awaits its mistress. I have tried to arrange everything as you would like it."

"Thank you; you are very kind," she murmurs, almost inaudibly.

"The next thing," he goes on, "is to take you to Worth, where you may order an outfit as handsome as a queen's, if you choose. And jewels—well, you shall have as many and as costly ones as you like."

"I have enough jewels, I think," she answers. "There are the pearls Uncle Francis gave me; then my wedding-gift—the diamonds."

"Tut, tut; you will need many more when you are fairly launched on the tide of gay society here. You will see women fairly loaded with jewels—you must not have less than they. Not but that you are beautiful enough to dispense with extraneous ornament, but I wish you to outshine all others in adornment as well as in beauty."

The long lashes droop over her cheeks a little sadly as he talks. So these are the things with which she is to fill her life—society, dress, jewels, fashion. A long life, too, perhaps, for she is barely twenty-one now. For other women there may be love and happiness—for her nothing but the gilded pleasures that wealth can purchase. Ah, well, and with a start she remembers Mrs. Arnold's threat and her weak subjugation by it—these are the things for which she sold herself to the old man sitting yonder. She made the bargain herself, and now she must abide by it. She is a fettered slave, but at least her bonds are golden ones.

"You are very kind," she answers, trying hard to be cordial and grateful for his generosity. "I do not know how to thank you for your munificence, sir."

"I will tell you," he answers, quickly. "Try to like me a little, Bonnibel. Once I dreamed of winning your love; but things went wrong and I—I—perhaps I was too harsh with the bonny bird I had caught—so I came near earning your hatred instead. But that was so long ago. You will try to forgive me and like me just a little now, my wife."

The pathos of his words, his aged, weary looks touch a tender chord in her young heart, and thaw out a little of the icy crust of reserve that has been freezing around it these two years.

She rises impulsively and walks over to him, putting her delicate hand, warm with youth and health, into his cold, white, trembling one.

"Indeed, I will try," she says, earnestly. "Only be kind to me, and do not frighten me with your jealous fancies, and I will like you very much indeed!"

He kisses the little hand with the ardor of a boyish lover, feeling his heart beat warm and youthful still at her gently-spoken words.

"A thousand thanks, my angel!" he exclaims. "Your words have made me very happy. I will try to curb my jealous temper and merit your sweet regard. And now, my dearest, how soon can you accompany me? I do not want to go away without you."

"You wish me to go at once—to-day?" she stammers, drawing back ever so slightly.

"To-day—at once," he answers. "I have wearied for a sight of you so long, my wife, that I cannot let you go again. I want you to put on a carriage costume at once, and I will take you to Worth's, and from thence to the chateau."

"But my maid—and my trunks," she urges, in dismay.

"Tell your maid to pack your trunks and we will send for them this evening, and her also. By the way, who is your maid? Have you a competent one?" he inquires.

"You remember Lucy—the girl who came over with me from New York?" she says.

He frowns slightly.

"Ah, yes; but she will not suit you now, dear. You must let her go, and secure a skillful French maid."

"Let Lucy go—the faithful creature!" For the first time her lip quivers. "Oh, no, I cannot part with Lucy. She has been my attendant ever since I was a child, and is the only link that is left to me out of my old life."

"Keep her with you still, then, but secure a French maid also, and let Lucy hold a sinecure."

"It would break her heart, Colonel Carlyle, to depose her from her post as my chief helper. Besides, though she is rather illiterate, the girl has real talent and taste in her vocation. Pray do not ask me to give her up."

"As you please, my dear. But now go and make your adieux to the lady superior and your friends here, and prepare to accompany me to your new home," said the colonel, with slight impatience, for he already felt his dominant passion, jealousy, rising within him at Bonnibel's openly-expressed preference for her maid. Old or young, male or female, he could not feel contented that anyone but himself should hold a place in his young wife's heart.

She went away and remained what seemed a long time to the impatient old man. She came back with slightly-flushed cheeks and a mist in her sea-blue eyes, attended by the superior of the convent.

With a brief and gentle farewell to her, Bonnibel entered the carriage with her husband.