“Neil Emory.”
Lying upon the floor of her chamber, with the letter crushed beneath her outstretched hands, Mrs. Gwinn found Gwendoline; and as she raised her stricken child she knew all hope had fled, and all her dreams of that bright future, which she had planned for her daughter, faded into nothing.
And so after awhile the courtly suitor, being convinced that his attentions were in vain, returned to his home, that stately mansion where he dwelt alone; henceforth, its spacious halls and frescoed rooms were untenanted, save by his lonely presence and the countless servants who did his bidding.
As he would listen in the mid-day to the sounds from his sugar house and the whistling of his returning laborers, he longed ever for one glimpse of a face never to be his—for a voice to be heard by him no more. Day by day he grew older and grayer, as he sat at eve in the shadows of the fluted columns of that broad piazza, looking towards those golden waters, the sound of whose waves ever reached his ears, in their ceaseless lap against the shore. But the undying pain which he carried in his bosom gave to his mien a gentler cast and to his voice a softer tone, rendering him a kinder friend, a more lenient master, a truer Southern gentleman!
Woe betide the day that deprived Gwendoline of the privilege of joining hands with such as he, and thus anchoring her storm-tossed bark in so secure a haven!
CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE CITY OF VIOLETS.
To believe that the woman who could rear and ride so spirited an animal as a thoroughbred stallion would swoon away as Gwendoline had done is a difficult matter. But such was the case, and the mother, day by day, saw the color fade from the cheek and the light go out from those glorious brown eyes. Do what she would, the girl grew weaker constantly, and when the heat of the long summer came, Mrs. Gwinn felt her heart almost die within her. There must be a change, or, the only thing on earth for which she now cared to live, would pass away forever. They were not rich enough to travel, so she took her daughter to stay with some friends in the mountains, where a little of the old energy came back. But when the smoke from the fall fires arose in the air above the city, Gwendoline returned to her former listlessness. So, gathering together the remnants of her fortune, Mrs. Gwinn took her child and maid and went to make a long sojourn in New Orleans, that city of violets.
At first, she could not induce her daughter to re-enter society; but fate assisted, for one day she became acquainted with a sweet girl, who was gifted with a wondrous voice. She could not play her own accompaniments, however, and, as Gwendoline was a fair performer, she often drew her into the hotel parlors to play for her. The quiet rooms of the “Veranda” were little frequented, and many hours were spent there by those two; and, at times, Gwendoline would be persuaded to go with her friend elsewhere, so that she might sing her songs in the homes of others. Little by little was she won away from herself; and, at last, to please that mother, now so devoted a parent, she again took her place before the world, apparently fully restored to health, beauty and good spirits. Beauty such as hers can but attract admirers; and, in the handsome saloons of private houses, as well as amid the public places of amusement, did Gwendoline Gwinn again reign supreme.
When the gayest month of the winter—February—came, it brought with it Gray and Maury, who thought the smiles upon her lips were just as sweet, though fraught with a sadness they had not known before. Young Maury pressed his suit, but in vain; and, at last, he, too, went home, a “sadder if not a wiser man.” I do not think I have ever led you to suppose that Reginald Gray had cared for her in a lover-like way. His place in these pages has only been that of Neil Emory’s friend—perhaps, one of Gwendoline’s, too—and the would-be lover of that gloriously seductive creature, Cassandra Clovis.
“Ah, me!” he thought, “I didn’t want the embers of a heart, burned in the furnace of her love for my friend,” and he heaved a sigh,—a rather uncommon sound, as coming from so light a breast.