Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (22 page)

 
          
She
did so, but it was not taken. Manuel had left his seat and now stood before
her, awed by the undertone of strong emotion in her calmly spoken words,
bewildered by the proposal so abruptly made, longing to ask the natural
question hovering on his lips, yet too generous to utter it. Pauline read his
thought, and answered it with no touch of pain or pride in the magical voice
that seldom spoke in vain.

 
          
"I
know your wish; it is as just as your silence is generous, and I reply to it in
all sincerity. You would ask, 'When I have given all that I possess, what do I
receive in return?' This—a wife whose friendship is as warm as many a woman's
love; a wife who will give you all the heart still left her, and cherish the
hope that time may bring a harvest of real affection to repay you for the
faithfulness of years; who, though she takes the retribution of a wrong into
her hands and executes it in the face of heaven, never will forget the
honorable name you give into her keeping or blemish it by any act of hers. I
can promise no more. Will this content you, Manuel?"

 
          
Before
she ended his face was hidden in his hands, and tears streamed through them as
he listened, for like a true child of the south each emotion found free vent
and spent itself as swiftly as it rose. The reaction was more than he could
bear, for in a moment his life was changed, months of hopeless longing were
banished with a word, a blissful yes canceled the hard no that had been
accepted as inexorable, and Happiness, lifting her full cup to his lips, bade
him drink. A moment he yielded to the natural relief, then dashed his tears
away and threw himself at Pauline's feet in that attitude fit only for a race
as graceful as impassioned.

 
          
"Forgive
me! Take all I have—fortune, name, and my poor self; use us as you will, we are
proud and happy to be spent for you! No service will be too hard, no trial too
long if in the end you learn to love me with one tithe of the affection I have
made my life. Do you mean it? Am I to go with you? To be near you always, to
call you wife, and know we are each other's until death? What have I ever done
to earn a fate like this?"

 
          
Fast
and fervently he spoke, and very winsome was the glad abandonment of this young
lover, half boy, half man, possessing the simplicity of the one, the fervor of
the other. Pauline looked and listened with a soothing sense of consolation in
the knowledge that this loyal heart was all her own, a sweet foretaste of the
devotion which henceforth was to shelter her from poverty, neglect, and wrong,
and turn life's sunniest side to one who had so long seen only its most bleak
and barren. Still at her feet, his arms about her waist, his face flushed and
proud, lifted to hers, Manuel saw the cold mask soften, the stern eyes melt
with a sudden dew as Pauline watched him, saying, "Dear Manuel, love me
less; I am not worth such ardent and entire faith. Pause and reflect before you
take this step. I will not bind you to my fate too soon lest you repent too
late. We both stand alone in the world, free to make or mar our future as we
will. I have chosen my lot. Recall all it may cost you to share it and be sure
the price is not too high a one. Remember I am poor, you the possessor of one
princely fortune, the sole heir to another."

 
          
"The
knowledge of this burdened me before; now I glory in it because I have the more
for you."

 
          
"Remember,
I am older than yourself, and may early lose the beauty you love so well,
leaving an old wife to burden your youth."

 
          
"What
are a few years to me? Women like you grow lovelier with age, and you shall
have a strong young husband to lean on all your life."

 
          
"Remember,
I am not of your faith, and the priests will shut me out from your
heaven."

 
          
"Let
them prate as they will. Where you go I will go;
Santa Paula
shall be my
madonna
!"

 
          
"Remember,
I am a deserted woman, and in the world we are going to my name may become the
sport of that man's cruel tongue. Could you bear that patiently; and curb your
fiery pride if I desired it?"

 
          
"Anything for you, Pauline!"

 
          
"One thing more.
I give you my liberty; for a time give
me forbearance in return, and though wed in haste woo me slowly, lest this sore
heart of mine find even your light yoke heavy. Can you promise this, and wait
till time has healed my wound, and taught me to be meek?"

 
          
"I
swear to obey you in all things; make me what you will, for soul and body I am
wholly yours henceforth."

 
          
"Faithful and true!
I knew you would not fail me. Now
go, Manuel. Tomorrow do your part resolutely as I shall do mine, and in a week
we will begin the new life together. Ours is a strange betrothal, but it shall
not lack some touch of tenderness from me.
Love, good
night."

 
          
Pauline
bent till her bright hair mingled with the dark, kissed the boy on lips and
forehead as a fond sister might have done, then put him gently from her; and
like one in a blessed dream he went away to pace all night beneath her window,
longing for the day.

 
          
As
the echo of his steps died along the corridor, Pauline's eye fell on the paper
lying where her lover flung it. At this sight all the softness vanished, the
stern woman reappeared, and, crushing it in her hand with slow significance,
she said low to herself, "This is an old, old story, but it shall have a
new ending."

 
          
"What
jewels will the señora wear tonight?"

 
          
"None, Dolores.
Manuel has gone for flowers—he likes
them best. You may go."

 
          
"But
the señora's toilette is not finished; the sandals, the gloves, the garland yet
remain."

 
          
"Leave
them all; I shall not go down. I am tired of this endless folly.
 
Give me that book and go."
 
         
The
pretty Creole obeyed; and careless of Dolores' work, Pauline sank into the deep
chair with a listless mien, turned the pages for a little,
then
lost herself in thoughts that seemed to bring no rest.

 
          
Silently
the young husband entered and, pausing, regarded his wife with mingled pain and
pleasure—pain to see her so spiritless, pleasure to see her so fair. She seemed
unconscious of his presence till the fragrance of his floral burden betrayed
him, and looking up to smile a welcome she met a glance that changed the sad
dreamer into an excited actor, for it told her that the object of her search
was found. Springing erect, she asked eagerly, "
Manuel,
is he here?"

 
          
"Yes."

 
          
"Alone?"

 
          
"His
wife is with him."

 
          
"Is
she beautiful?"

 
          
"Pretty,
petite, and petulant."

 
          
"And
he?"

 
          
"Unchanged: the same imposing figure and treacherous face, the
same restless eye and satanic mouth.
Pauline, let me insult him!"

 
          
"Not
yet. Were they together?"

 
          
"Yes.
He seemed anxious to leave her, but she called him back imperiously, and he
came like one who dared not disobey."

 
          
"Did
he see you?"

 
          
"The
crowd was too dense, and I kept in the shadow."

 
          
"The wife's name?
Did you learn it?"

 
          
"
Barbara St.
Just."

 
          
"Ah!
I knew her once and will again. Manuel, am I beautiful tonight?"

 
          
"How
can you be otherwise to me?"

 
          
"That
is not enough. I must look my fairest to others, brilliant and blithe, a
happy-hearted bride whose honeymoon is not yet over."

 
          
"For his sake, Pauline?"

 
          
"For yours.
I want him to envy you your youth, your
comeliness, your content; to see the man he once sneered at the husband of the
woman he once loved; to recall impotent regret. I know his nature, and can stir
him to his heart's core with a look, revenge myself with a word, and read the
secrets of his life with a skill he cannot fathom."

 
          
"And
when you have done all this, shall you be happier, Pauline?"

 
          
"Infinitely;
our three weeks' search is ended, and the real interest of the plot begins. I
have played the lover for your
sake,
now play the man
of the world for mine. This is the moment we have waited for. Help me to make
it successful. Come! Crown me with your
garland,
give
me the bracelets that were your wedding gift—none can be too brilliant for
tonight.
Now the gloves and fan.
Stay, my sandals—you
shall play Dolores and tie them on."

 
          
With
an air of smiling coquetry he had never seen before, Pauline stretched out a
truly Spanish foot and offered him its dainty covering. Won by the animation of
her manner, Manuel forgot his misgivings and played his part with boyish
spirit, hovering about his stately wife as no assiduous maid had ever done; for
every flower was fastened with a word sweeter than itself, the white arms
kissed as the ornaments went on, and when the silken knots were deftly
accomplished, the lighthearted bridegroom performed a little dance of triumph
about his idol, till she arrested him, beckoning as she spoke.

 
          
"Manuel,
I am waiting to assume the last best ornament you have given me, my handsome
husband." Then, as he came to her laughing with frank pleasure at her
praise, she added, "You, too, must look your best and bravest now, and
remember you must enact the man tonight. Before Gilbert wear your stateliest
aspect, your tenderest to me,
your
courtliest to his
wife. You possess dramatic skill. Use it for my sake, and come for your reward
when this night's work is done."

 
          
The
great hotel was swarming with life, ablaze with light, resonant with the tread
of feet, the hum of voices, the musical din of the band, and full of the sights
and sounds which fill such human hives at a fashionable watering place in the
height of the season. As Manuel led his wife along the grand hall thronged with
promenaders, his quick ear caught the whispered comments of the passers-by, and
the fragmentary rumors concerning themselves amused him infinitely.

 
          
"
Mon ami!
There are five bridal couples here
tonight, and there is the handsomest, richest, and most enchanting of them all.
The groom is not yet twenty, they tell me, and the bride still younger. Behold
them!"

 
          
Manuel
looked down at Pauline with a mirthful glance, but she had not heard.

 
          
"See,
Belle! Cubans; own half the island between them. Splendid, aren't they? Look at
the diamonds on her lovely arms, and his ravishing moustache. Isn't he your
ideal of Prince Djalma, in The Wandering Jew?"

 
          
A
pretty girl, forgetting propriety in interest, pointed as they passed. Manuel
half-bowed to the audible compliment, and the blushing damsel vanished, but
Pauline had not seen.

 
          
"Jack,
there's the owner of the black span you fell into raptures over.
 
My lord and lady look as highbred as
their stud. We'll patronize them!"
 
         
Manuel
muttered a disdainful "
Impertinente!
" between his teeth as he
surveyed a brace of dandies with an air that augured ill for the patronage of
Young America, but Pauline was unconscious of both criticism and reproof. A
countercurrent held them stationary for a moment, and close behind them sounded
a voice saying, confidentially, to some silent listener, "The Redmonds are
here tonight, and I am curious to see how he bears his disappointment. You know
he married for money, and was outwitted in the bargain; for his wife's fortune
not only proves to be much less than he was led to believe, but is so tied up
that he is entirely dependent upon her, and the bachelor debts he sold himself
to liquidate still harass him, with a wife's reproaches to augment the
affliction. To be ruled by a spoiled child's whims is a fit punishment for a
man whom neither pride nor principle could curb before. Let us go and look at
the unfortunate."

 
          
Pauline
heard now. Manuel felt her start, saw her flush and pale, then her eye lit, and
the dark expression he dreaded to see settled on her face as she whispered, like
a satanic echo, "Let us also go and look at this unfortunate."

 
          
A
jealous pang smote the young man's heart as he recalled the past.

 
          
"You
pity him, Pauline, and pity is akin to love."

 
          
"I
only pity what I respect.
Rest content, my husband."

 
          
Steadily
her eyes met his, and the hand whose only ornament was a wedding ring went to
meet the one folded on his arm with a confiding gesture that made the action a
caress.

 
          
"I
will try to be, yet mine is a hard part," Manuel answered with a sigh,
then
silently they both paced on.

 
          
Gilbert
Redmond lounged behind his wife's chair, looking intensely bored.

 
          
"Have
you had enough of this folly, Babie?"

 
          
"No,
we have but just come. Let us dance."

 
          
"Too
late; they have begun."

 
          
"Then
go about with me. It's very tiresome sitting here."

 
          
"It
is too warm to walk in
all that
crowd, child."

 
          
"You
are so indolent! Tell me who people are as they pass. I know no one here."

 
          
"Nor I."

 
          
But
his act belied the words, for as they passed his lips he rose erect, with a
smothered exclamation and startled face, as if a ghost had suddenly confronted
him. The throng had thinned, and as his wife followed the direction of his
glance, she saw no uncanny apparition to cause such evident dismay, but a woman
fair-haired, violet-eyed, blooming and serene, sweeping down the long hall with
noiseless grace. An air of sumptuous life pervaded her, the shimmer of bridal
snow surrounded her, bridal gifts shone on neck and arms, and bridal happiness
seemed to touch her with its tender charm as she looked up at her companion, as
if there were but one human being in the world to her. This companion, a man
slender and tall, with a face delicately dark as a fine bronze, looked back at
her with eyes as eloquent as her own, while both spoke rapidly and low in the
melodious language which seems made for lover's lips.

 
          
"Gilbert,
who are they?"

 
          
There
was no answer, and before she could repeat the question the approaching pair
paused before her, and the beautiful woman offered her hand, saying, with
inquiring smiles, "Barbara, have you forgotten your early friend,
Pauline?"

 
          
Recognition
came with the familiar name, and Mrs. Redmond welcomed the newcomer with a
delight as unrestrained as if she were still the schoolgirl, Babie. Then,
recovering herself, she said, with a pretty attempt at dignity, "Let me
present my husband. Gilbert, come and welcome my friend Pauline Valary."

 
          
Scarlet
with shame, dumb with conflicting emotions, and utterly deserted by
self-possession,
Redmond
stood with downcast eyes and agitated mien, suffering a year's remorse
condensed into a moment. A mute gesture was all the greeting he could offer.
Pauline slightly bent her haughty head as she answered, in a voice frostily
sweet, "Your wife mistakes. Pauline Valary died three weeks ago, and
Pauline Laroche rose from her ashes. Manuel, my schoolmate, Mrs. Redmond;
Gilbert you already know."

 
          
With
the manly presence he could easily assume and which was henceforth to be his
role in public, Manuel bowed courteously to the lady, coldly to the gentleman,
and looked only at his wife. Mrs. Redmond, though childish, was observant; she
glanced from face to face, divined a mystery, and spoke out at once.

 
          
"Then
you have met before? Gilbert, you have never told me this."

 
          
"It
was long ago—in
Cuba
. I believed they had forgotten me."

 
          
"I
never forget." And Pauline's eye turned on him with a look he dared not
meet.

 
          
Unsilenced
by her husband's frown, Mrs. Redmond, intent on pleasing herself, drew her
friend to the seat beside her as she said petulantly, "Gilbert tells me
nothing, and I am constantly discovering things which might have given me
pleasure had he only chosen to be frank. I've spoken of you often, yet he never
betrayed the least knowledge of you, and I take it very ill of him, because I
am sure he has not forgotten you. Sit here, Pauline, and let me tease you with
questions, as I used to do so long ago. You were always patient with me, and
though far more beautiful, your face is still the same kind one that comforted
the little child at school. Gilbert,
enjoy
your
friend, and leave us to ourselves until the dance is over."