With Edge Tools Part 7

"A compliment, I should say, as your opinion of me will change."

"On what do you base your presumption?" she said with a.s.sumed indignation.

He was silent. She glanced about the room. It was nearly dark and the fire was flickering on the hearth. Unconsciously she looked up as though seeking an answer to her question. Again two grey eyes looked softly through the twilight into her own. "Because I feel certain of it," he said quietly and emphatically, as though in answer to her questioning glance.

"Then you shall acknowledge yourself mistaken," she slowly replied.

"I'll give you a fair chance. Will you dine with us on Friday?"

"A day of ill luck, but I accept," he replied as he rose to go. "Shall it be a truce in the interim?" he added, offering his hand.

"If you like," she replied.

"Good-by," he said, taking her hand. "It shall be a fair game and I will play to win."

"But you will lose," she answered.

Her eyes followed him as he left the room. "An interesting nature to study," she thought, "but I wish he would not look at me in that way."

CHAPTER VI.

SPANISH CASTLES.

Mrs. Sanderson had arranged designedly the dinner to which she had invited Duncan. He had been much in her thoughts in the interim, and, being anxious to see what method he would adopt to overcome her a.s.sumed enmity, she looked forward to their next meeting with curiosity. She was a strong impressionist, and when she had first heard him described by her New York friend, Sibyl Wright, she had mentally resolved that he was a person she would one day meet and like. She had also formed a picture of him in her mind, and, curiously enough, the likeness had been exact.

She now felt that her impression had been a presentiment, and this thought appealed to her peculiarly const.i.tuted nature. She wanted to know Duncan better and a.n.a.lyze his character, so she arranged her table to further this desire, placing him at her right, and, as Florence Moreland did not like him, she was given the next seat; next to Florence she put Harold Wainwright, feeling sure that they would both be oblivious to their neighbors, while about the table she maliciously scattered a trio of drawing-room musicians. There was Herr von Steubenblatter, a musical professor, Mdlle. de Longchamps, an amateur soprano, and Mr. John Smith, who, after studying singing in Italy and pa.s.sing five years without an engagement, had now a.s.sumed the more euphonious name of Signor Frivogini. Besides these there were several inoffensive people who never said much, but who would consider it their duty to applaud the musicians and keep them employed after dinner, so that Marion and Duncan might talk un.o.bserved.

Unfortunately Duncan's manner was not at all what she had expected. He talked to her about the most conventional and trivial subjects in a most conventional and trivial way, until about the second _entree_, when he entered into a literary argument with Florence which lasted during the entire dinner. Both Marion and Wainwright considered themselves very much abused, and Marion in particular thought that somehow her elaborate plans had failed and that Duncan was purposely neglecting her.

She endeavored to listen to a discourse on the relative merits of canvas-back and red-head, delivered by an experienced diner on her left, but she felt much relieved when she was able to make the signal for the ladies to file out. When the men had finished their cigars and found their way to the drawing-room she boldly conducted Herr von Steubenblatter to the piano, trusting, from her experience of the opera, that Duncan would disregard the music and talk to her. Marion had provided a formidable array of drawing-room musicians, but they failed to serve the purpose for which they were invited. They played and sang in continuous succession, but Duncan, instead of taking a seat beside her and making the music a cloak for conversation, went to the other side of the room and sat down near pretty, smirking Miss Ender. There he chatted a.s.siduously and made her giggle so loudly that Herr von Steubenblatter sent withering glances through his gold bowed spectacles which made the poor girl blush and stop simpering for two entire minutes.

Marion was furious with everything, but with Duncan most of all. She tried to conceal her anger and listen to the insipid chatter of an under-graduate, but her replies were generalities, delivered without reference to the soph.o.m.ore's plat.i.tudes, and her thoughts were entirely across the room. "What did Duncan mean by such negligence? Why did he challenge her to a verbal combat and then refuse an engagement? Why had he appeared to be interested in her on one day and then utterly indifferent the next?" It was in forming and revolving such questions in her mind that she pa.s.sed the evening, and, meanwhile, the harmless college boy struggled and sputtered on.

At one end of the Sanderson drawing-room was a settee placed behind a few palms; although it was in the room, it was sufficiently hidden to remove people sitting there from the observation of others. When music had been suggested Florence Moreland and Harold Wainwright had wandered toward this seat. The two had been childhood friends and in later years the intimacy had continued. Harold had been left an orphan without fortune, and Florence had always taken a deep interest in his success.

After leaving college Harold had come to the western metropolis and, by hard and creditable work had built up a flourishing law-practice. He was only twenty-seven and possessed in a marked degree the best qualities of young American manhood. He was one of those young men so numerous in Western cities, whose earnest and energetic characters, untouched by Old World follies and vices, make them the heirs of the pioneer of the past.

Florence had admired Harold as a sister might admire a strong, splendid brother. She trusted and looked up to him, and she often confided her thoughts to him. He was a sympathetic friend, but that was all; she, at least, was not a lover.

"Do you know, Harold," Florence said, as they took their seats on the settee, "that we have not had one of our old talks since you were home last summer. There has been a succession of bothersome people to interfere ever since I arrived. Tell me, are you working as hard as ever?"

"Yes," he replied. "I am still toiling away, but to what end I don't know."

"That doesn't sound like you, Harold."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you are not the man to mind the b.u.mps in life's road. You can see beyond them."

Harold was silent; he seemed thoughtful; a little sigh escaped him. "Can I, Florence?" he finally said. "You know me better than I know myself.

What can I see?"

"A successful career."

"Is that all?"

"No; friends."

"Of what use are they?"

"Dr. Johnson called friendship 'the cordial drop that makes the nauseous draught of life go down'."

"He was wrong."

"Why, Harold! you forget that I am your friend."

"No, Florence, I don't; I wish I could."

"How strangely you act to-night," she replied in puzzled tones. "I don't understand you."

"That cordial drop of friendship is a poison, sweet, subtle, and deadly," he answered mournfully.

Florence drew back, startled. "Harold, you forget the past," she said anxiously.

"I wish I could," he replied sadly. "I wish you were not my friend."

"Why?" she asked, frightened, and almost afraid to hear the reply.

"Because I love you, Florence," he slowly and earnestly replied. "If you were not my dearest friend you might love me, too."

She looked wonderingly into his face, almost expecting to read there that his words were in jest. She was so startled that the full meaning of what he said did not, at first, appear to her, but slowly she realized that this friendship that had lasted so long and had been so sweet must end. She covered her face with her hands as though hoping to hide this thought from her mind. "Why did you say it? Why did you say it?" she moaned. "It was so sweet before."

"It was in my heart, dearest; it has been there a very long time. I have tried to keep it friendship, but I couldn't." Harold slowly rose and stood beside her. "Forgive me," he continued. "I couldn't help it, Florence; I couldn't."

She took his hand; it was cold. "Forgive you," she said, "I have nothing to forgive."

His hand tightened about hers. "I love you, Florence," he said. "Will you be my wife?"

She raised her eyes and looked full into his face. "Would you marry your best friend?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Calmly he returned her glance. "No," he replied. "Not unless she brought me the same love I gave."

"Then I cannot promise to be your wife," she said hesitatingly, as though the words were painful.

He released her hand slowly. "May I hope that some day it will be different?"

"Let us both hope so," she replied. They remained silent and motionless, each feeling that an epoch of life had come; each wondering what futurity concealed. Perhaps a minute pa.s.sed, though it seemed much longer, then Florence spoke. "We had better not remain here, Harold, the world sometimes misunderstands even friends."