An Old Man's Darling

"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.

CHAPTER XXIV

"Hurrah, Leslie!"

"Well, Carl!"

"Our pictures are sold!"

"What pictures?"

"What pictures?" mimicking the indifferent tone. "Oh! how indifferent we are! yet a year ago how blessed were the feet of the messenger who brought such tidings! Success falls upon you, my boy. Now with me a ready sale is quite an event. Of course I meant the pictures we sent to Paris!"

The same old studio at Rome into which we looked three years ago, and the same two artists we saw then. Carl Muller had just entered, waving an open letter over his head.

The gay, mercurial German looked as boyishly handsome as ever, as though time had forgotten him. Not so with Leslie Dane, who stood beside a half-finished picture, critically regarding it. He was handsomer than ever, as though the subtle hand of a sculptor had been at work upon his features chiseling the fine Greek outlines into rarer perfection and delicacy. A few lines of thought and care added rather than detracted from the interest with which one turned a second time to look at his face. The full lips half shaded by the dark mustache had lost a little of the almost womanly sweetness of the past and acquired a sterner curve. Into the dark eyes there had crept a gleam of brooding sadness, and a few silver threads shone in the clustering locks about his white brow. His last three years had made their mark upon him in many subtle changes.

"I could have told you that yesterday, Carl," he said, smiling, "but you were out when my letter came, and I was so busy over my picture here that I forgot it when you returned."

"The agent wrote to you first then," said Carl. "He might have had the courtesy to drop me a line at the same time."

"Do not blame him too much, Carl," said Leslie Dane. "He was in a hurry about writing to me because he had a letter to inclose from the purchaser of the pictures."

"Another commission, you lucky dog!" exclaimed Carl Muller.

"It amounts to that, I suppose. He wants me to go to Paris and paint his wife's portrait. If I will not go to Paris he will come to Rome."

"If the mountain will not go to Mahomet, then Mahomet must go to the mountain," said Carl.

"Something that way," said Leslie, carelessly.

"You will accept, of course. The old fellow paid such an extravagant price for the pictures that another commission might be a temptation even to you who have lately been surfeited with success."

"The money certainly might be an object, but I think I shall refuse," was the abrupt reply.

"Refuse!" exclaimed Carl, in surprise, "and why, if I may ask?"

"The man is an American."

"So are you," cried the German, surprised at the dark frown that darkened on Leslie's brow. "Is that a disgrace?"

"I suppose not. Yet I will have nothing to do with my countrymen," said the artist, sternly.

Carl gave vent to a low whistle.

"Ye gods! An American—born under the shadow of the eagle's wing of liberty, a citizen of a land the most patriotic upon earth—coolly repudiating his country! I never expected to see such a novel sight under the sun!"

"You mistake me, Carl," said Leslie Dane, a little vexed. "I do not repudiate my native land. I revere her as the noblest country upon earth, but I am from henceforth an exile, self-expatriated from her shores, and I do not wish to meet anyone who can recall memories I would fain forget."

"You are a strange fellow, Leslie, I cannot understand your moods."

"You do not? Shall I explain, Carl? Listen, then."

Carl looked up into the dark face with its look of proud grief mingled with bitterness.

"No, no; forgive my levity," he said; "I would not intrude upon your secret, dear friend. Let it rest."

"It does not matter," said Leslie, his deep voice full of pain. "I will tell you, Carl. It is only this: One woman in that fair land where I was born has played me false and ruined my life. I hate and shun all Americans for her sake!"

He took up his brush and went to work at his picture without another word. Carl was silent also; he was recalling that episode of three years ago when Leslie in his wild outbreak had painted out the portrait of his fair, false-hearted love.

"So he has not forgotten her," he thought; "and yet he has never breathed another word of her until to-day. Ah! she will never know what a true and noble heart she cast away."

He sat still awhile thinking profoundly, and referring to his letter now and then with ever-increasing pride in the lucrative sale of his picture, for Carl was a lazy fellow, and though he commenced numbers of things seldom had patience to finish them. Consequently a completed work and its ready sale had all the charm of novelty to him.

"I say," he said, breaking the silence that had brooded as long as he could bear it, and returning to the charge upon his friend, "old fellow, it's a shame you should refuse such a profitable commission for a scruple I must say is not worthy of you. Do accept it, Leslie. This old fellow—let me see"—referring again to his letter—"Carlyle his name is—Colonel Carlyle—need not trouble you much with the sight of his obnoxious face, and the old lady—Favart says he is an old man, so of course she is an old lady—need only give you a few sittings. They would not trouble you long, and you need not think of them as Americans at all. Simply regard the sitter as your model, and think no more about it."

Leslie Dane did not answer, but the slight smile that played around his lips showed that he had been an attentive listener to Carl's admonition.

"You know," resumed Carl, seeing that Leslie would not answer, "we have been promising ourselves a trip to Paris for ever so long. I see no chance so suitable as the present when I have this pot of money to spend, and when you might so agreeably combine business with pleasure in the execution of this portrait and the enjoyment of all the pleasures of Paris. Recollect, you would be fairly lionized there."

"I do not fancy being lionized," said Leslie Dane, grimly.

"Do you not! Now, I should enjoy it above all things. But since I am not apt to have that honor I should enjoy following in your wake and taking all the glories second-hand. I should be sure to get a little of the honor reflected on me, for though I am not the rose, you know I have lived near it."

Leslie Dane looked up with a quizzical smile.

"Confess now, Carl," he said, "that nothing will content you but to get away and spend the gold you have earned. All your flattery and sophistry leads to this—that you are wild for a companion to aid and abet you in spending the money that is burning a hole in your pocket this minute."

"Somehow the gold does seem to burn through my pockets," said Carl, reflectively. "But, tra, la, what is it good for but to buy pleasure?"

He began to hum a few bars of a German song with a gay refrain.

"Come, come, get to your work," exclaimed the other. "Your signal success with your last work should stimulate you to renewed efforts."

"So it will," affirmed Carl; "but not to-day. I feel so giddy over my good news that I could not work to-day. I should hardly know how to mix my colors. I feel as lazy, shiftless and good-natured as the Italian lazzaroni out in the sunshine."

Leslie Dane gave a little sigh as he looked at his happy companion. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle the gay current of his good nature. His temperament was an enviable one.

"Carl, did you ever have a sweetheart?" Leslie asked curiously.

"Sweethearts—yes, a score of them," laughed Carl. "More Gretchens, Madchens, and Anitas than you could count on your fingers. Why do you ask?"

"Only for curiosity. I thought you could not be so care-free and joyous if love had ever come into your life."

"That is according to how we look at love," said the German; "with you it is all a solemn epic or tragedy. With me it would be a pretty little poem or a happy song."

Leslie sighed but did not answer.

"Come, now," said the German, "we have wandered from our subject. Give up your selfishness this once, Leslie, and take a holiday. Come with me to Paris next week."

Leslie stood silently meditating, and Carl saw that the battle was almost won.

"Don't hesitate," said he, pushing his advantage. "Indeed you work too hard, my boy. There is no need of it since you have forsworn marriage. Take a breathing spell and come with me to Paris and paint old Mrs. Carlyle's portrait."

Leslie frowned slightly at the words.

"Pray do not mention those people again," he said, in an irritated tone. "Perhaps I will accompany you to Paris; but I have no fancy to paint the portrait of a wrinkled old woman."

CHAPTER XXV

"Confound the impudence of such fellows!" said Colonel Carlyle, fretfully, as he entered his wife's morning-room.

It was a charming apartment with hangings of pale blue satin that made a perfect foil to the pearl-fair beauty of Bonnibel.

The chairs and sofas were upholstered in the same rich material; the carpet was white velvet, sprinkled over with blue forget-me-nots; the costly white lace curtains were draped over blue satin, and the bright fire burning in the silver grate shone upon expensive gilding and delicate bric-a-brac scattered profusely about the room.

A marble Flora, half buried in flowers, stood in a niche, and vases of delicate white lilies were on the marble mantel.

The young mistress of all this beauty and wealth so tastefully combined, as she sat near the fire with an open book, looked like a gem set in an appropriate shrine, so fair, and pure, and dainty, was her person and her apparel.

She looked up with a slight smile as her liege lord's fretful ejaculation fell upon her ears.

"What person has been so unfortunate as to incur your displeasure?" she inquired.

"The artist of whom I purchased that splendid picture for the drawing-room—the last one, you know."

"Yes," she said, languidly; "and what has he done now?"

"I wanted him to paint your portrait, you know."

"Excuse me, I did not know," she returned.

"Oh no; I believe you did not. I think I failed to mention the matter to you. Well, he is the greatest artist in Rome—people are raving over his pictures. They say he has the most brilliant genius of his time."

"Is that why you are angry with him?" she asked, with a slight smile.

"No; oh, no. But I wrote to him and asked him to paint your portrait. I even offered to take you to Rome if he would not come to Paris."

"Well?"

"He had the impertinence to send me a cool refusal," said the colonel, irately.

"He did—and why?" asked Bonnibel, just a little piqued at the unknown artist.

"He did not like to paint portraits, he said—he preferred the ideal world of art. Did you ever hear of such a cool excuse?"

"We have no right to feel angry with him. He is, of course, the master of his own actions, and has undoubted right to his preferences," said Bonnibel, calmly.

But though she spoke so quietly, her womanly vanity was piqued by the unknown artist's cold refusal "to hand her sweetness down to fame."

"Who is he? What is his name?" she asked.

The colonel considered a moment.

"I have a wonderful faculty for forgetting names," he said. "Favart has told me his name several times—let me see—I think—yes, I am sure—it is Deane!"

"I should like to see him," she said, "I have always taken a great deal of interest in artists."

"You will be very apt to see him," said the colonel; "he is in Paris now—taking a holiday, Favart says. People are making quite a fuss over him and his friend—the artist from whom I bought the other fine picture, you know. You will be sure to meet them in society."

"Do you think so?" she asked, twirling the leaves of her book nervously. The mention of artists and pictures always agitated her strangely. She could not forget the young artist who had gone to Rome to earn fame and fortune and died so soon. Her cheek paled with emotion, and her eyes darkened with sadness under their drooping lashes of golden-brown.

"Yes, there is not a doubt of it," he said. "In fact, I suppose we shall have to invite them, too, though I do not relish it after the fellow's incivility. But it is the privilege of greatness to be crusty, I believe. Anyway, the fashionables are all feting and lionizing him, so we cannot well slight him. I shall have Monsieur Favart bring him and his friend to our ball next week. What do you say, my dear?"

"Send him a card by all means," she answered, "I am quite curious to see him."

"Perhaps he may repent his refusal when he sees how beautiful you are, my darling," said the colonel, with a fond, proud glance into her face. "His ideal world of art, as he calls it, cannot contain anything more lovely than yourself."

"You flatter me, Colonel Carlyle," she said lightly, but in her heart she knew that he had spoken truly. She had been afloat on the whirling tide of fashionable life now for several months, and praises and adulation had followed her everywhere. The gay Parisians went mad over her pure blonde loveliness. They said she was the most beautiful and refined woman in Paris, as well as the most cold and pure. She had begun to take a certain pleasure in the gaieties of the world and in the homage that followed her wherever she moved. These were the empty husks on which she had to feed her heart's hunger, and she was trying to find them sweet.

Colonel Carlyle's baleful jealousy had lain dormant or concealed even since he had taken his wife from school.

True, his arch-enemy, Felise Herbert, was in Paris, but for some reason of her own she had not as yet laid any serious pitfall for his unwary feet.

Perhaps she was only playing with him as the cat does with the little mouse before she ruthlessly murders it; perhaps Bonnibel's icy-cold manner and studied reserve to all made it harder to excite the old soldier's ever ready suspicion.

Be that as it may, life flowed on calmly if not happily to the colonel and his young wife.

They met Mrs. Arnold and her daughter frequently in their fashionable rounds, they invited them to their house, and received invitations in return, but though the colonel was cordial, his wife was cold and proud to the two women who had been so cruel to her and driven her into this unhappy marriage with a man old enough to be her grandfather. She could not forgive them for that cruel deed.

"I bide my time," Felise said to her mother one day when they were discussing the Carlyles. "I am giving her a little taste of the world's pleasures. I want her to fall in love with this life she is leading here. She will be tempted by its enticements and forget her coldness and prudishness. Then I shall strike."

"She is very circumspect," said Mrs. Arnold. "They say she is a model of virtue and beautiful wifely obedience."