“And it seems to me,” said Pembroke, calmly, “on looking back, that I was a little too aggressive—that I put rather a forced construction on what you said—and that I was very angry.”
“I was angry, too—and it has angered me every time I have thought of it in these six years, that I was made to appear mercenary, when I am far from it—that a mere want of tact and judgment should have marked me in your esteem—or anybody else’s, for that matter—as a perfectly cold and calculating woman.”
She was certainly very angry now.
“But if I was wrong,” said Pembroke, in a low, clear voice—for he used the resources of his delightful voice on poor Olivia as he had done on many men and some women before—“I have paid the price. The humiliation and the pangs of six years ago were much—and then, the feeling that, after all, there was but one woman in the world for me—ah, Olivia, sometimes I think you do not know how deep is the hold you took upon me. You would have seen in all these years, that however I might try, I could not forget you.”
Olivia was not implacable.
When they came in the house, the Colonel was come, and in a gale of good humor. He had, however, great fault to find with Pembroke’s course. He was too conciliatory—too willing to forget the blood shed upon the battlefields of Virginia—and then and there they entered upon a political discussion which made the old-fashioned mirrors on the drawing-room wall ring again. The Colonel brought down his fist and raved. “By Jove, sir, this is intolerable. My black boy, Petrarch (Petrarch continued to be the Colonel’s boy), knows more about the subject than you do; and he’s the biggest fool I ever saw. I’ll be hanged, sir, if your statements are worth refuting.” Pembroke withstood the sortie gallantly, and at intervals charged the enemy in splendid style, reducing the Colonel to oaths and splutterings and despair.
Olivia sat in a low chair by the round mahogany table, on which the old-fashioned lamp burned softly, casting mellow lights and shades upon her graceful figure. Occasionally a faint smile played about her eyes—whereat Pembroke seemed to gain inspiration, and attacked the Colonel’s theories with renewed vigor.
Upon the Colonel’s invitation he remained all night—the common mode of social intercourse in Virginia. Next morning, the Colonel was ripe for argument. Pembroke, however, to his immense disgust, refused to enter the lists and spent the morning dawdling with Olivia in the garden. About noon, the Colonel, in a rage sent Petrarch after the renegades. Three times did he return without them. The fourth time Petrarch’s patience was exhausted.
“Marse French, fur de Lord’s sake come ter ole marse. He done got de sugar in de glasses, an’ de ice cracked up, an’ he fyarly stan’nin’ on he hade. He got out all dem ole yaller Richmun Exameters, printed fo’ de wah, an’ he say he gwi’ bust yo’ argifyins’ all ter pieces. He mighty obstroporous, an’ you better come along.”