"He must come back to me, he must," she whispered, "at any cost! I have given up the whole world for his love, for his companionship. Even if his love has been given to another, he must still give me his companionship. I will see him—I will send for him to-day, and tell him so."
A strange idea had presented itself to her feverish, suffering heart. An idea born of her wild love and her crushed and ruined pride. In the silent watches of the night, the thought had come to her, that even if Percy made Helena his wife, he might still give her (his comrade, his long-time confidant and friend)—his occasional affectionate companionship. If she submitted quietly and passively to his marriage, he might not wholly cast her off. She believed that society was full of men, respectable citizens in the eyes of the world—who retained their intimate lady friends after marriage. And she knew that the United States Government permitted a large and increasing colony to exist, where men retained any number of wives.
Surely, if any woman on earth had the right to be so retained, it was she. And Percy would see it so—and he would not cast her off. She could scarcely wait for the day to advance, to send for him and lay the plan before him.
She had not the faintest comprehension of the mighty magnitude or the exalted nature of the love which had sprung to life in Percy's heart for Helena. She believed it to be the passing fancy of the hour—a sudden passion of the senses. She remembered the subtle magnetism which Helena possessed in days of old—a peculiar power of drawing people to her—of attracting them and winning their confidence with no seeming effort of her own. She remembered how popular she was in Madame Scranton's Academy—and in those days she had believed it to be the mesmerism of her eyes, that won the hearts of her companions. Percy was, no doubt, affected by this mysterious influence which fascinated every one who lingered long in Helena's presence. But it would pass away—and his love for her, his ideal mate and comrade, would burn again with greater lustre, if she waited patiently.
She wrote a note, full of humility, begging his forgiveness for her conduct during their last interview, and asking him to grant her a few moments' conversation during the day. She sent for a messenger to carry the note, and then she dismissed Lorette for the day and began to prepare herself for the expected guest.
Lorette took her departure reluctantly. "Madame is not herself; Madame is ill, and needs looking after!" she muttered, as she went out, and many times during the day and in succeeding days and weeks, her light volatile French spirits were shadowed by the recollection of her mistress's face, as she last saw it.
Dolores was one of the few women who can be beautiful even when suffering mental and physical pain. As a rule, happiness and health are necessary cosmetics to beauty; but hers was a face that even much weeping, and sleepless nights of torturing pain could not disfigure.
She robed herself all in white, as Percy best loved to see her. She wore his favorite jewels, and a bright knot of ribbon he had once admired, at her throat. Suddenly, in the midst of her preparation, she paused. The full consciousness of her humiliating position dawned upon her with startling force.
"My God! how low I have fallen!" she sobbed, and yet she did not draw back from the resolution she had formed, to throw herself upon the pity of the man she loved.
She had been Queen of the feast; and now she was about to beg for crumbs from the table presided over by another.