Isabey told her of Richard’s doings at the instruction camp and spoke of him with admiration. “I thought I knew Richard Tremaine well, and as you know, when two youngsters have chummed together as Tremaine and I did at the university and in Paris, they haven’t usually an overwhelming admiration for each other, but it is impossible not to recognize Tremaine’s capacity. It appears greater whenever there is a great opportunity. He has it now and you will see this time next year he will be known as one of the best artillery officers in the Confederate Army.”
Angela was once more impressed by the studied correctness of Isabey’s speech, which, however much he might be master of English, showed that it was not his native language, and this added still more to his charm, serving as it did to differentiate him from all other men she had ever known in her life.
Upon the wall opposite them hung a fanciful painting of Neville and Richard when they were little boys in white frocks. According to the sentimental fashion of the time, they were represented as doing what they had never done in their lives. Richard, sitting upon a bank of violets, held a bird cage with a bird in it, at which Neville was throwing roses. The picture had a quaint prettiness upon which Isabey remarked, asking if they were portraits of the two brothers.
“Yes,” answered Angela. “The one with the bird cage is Richard and the other is my—my husband.”
“As you know, I haven’t the pleasure of knowing Captain Neville Tremaine as well as I know Richard, but, of course, I honor and respect him the more for the action he has taken, which I believe was the most painful sacrifice imaginable. I am not of those rabid men who think that there is but one view of military honor. I think I should have acted differently if I had been in Neville’s place, but I am very far from condemning him.”
“Thank you,” said Angela, tremulously. “You don’t know how hard it is to me to feel that every hand is turned against Neville, every heart hardened toward him. You see, all of us love Neville better, I think, than anything in the world; he was Aunt Sophia’s and Uncle Tremaine’s favorite son, though they always denied they had a favorite, but Richard and Archie knew it and all of us, and there never was any jealousy of Neville. Richard was the cleverer, Neville says that himself, but Neville was the best loved, and now his parents seem to hate him.”
Angela, as she spoke, leaned back and half-averted her face and lowered her long lashes, a trick she had when she was distressed or displeased.
Isabey, listening to her, was overwhelmed with a wave of pity. She was unconsciously telling the story he had suspected from the beginning, that she had married without exactly knowing what love was. He gently encouraged her to speak of Neville, and every word she said confirmed his theory. She could not say too much in praise of Neville, but she said no word which showed that his presence made heaven for her or that his absence meant desolation.
“Of course, I shall go to Neville as soon as I can,” she said. “He is not able to have me yet, but I shall go the instant he writes me to start. Everyone at Harrowby was kind to me when I was a child, but Neville was the kindest of all, and now when he is an outcast I am the only one who will go to him and comfort him. I don’t mean that Richard is bitter against him. Richard feels as you do, but Aunt Sophia and everyone else is against him. Aunt Sophia and Uncle Tremaine, you know, won’t mention his name at family prayers; think of it!”
She leaned forward and two indignant tears dropped upon her pale, pretty cheeks.