Mrs. Sherwood at that moment was in the library, bidding her husband good evening before she went out.
What a contrast there was between them—the man crouching there in his low-wheeled chair, wasted and worn with illness and a tortured mind, a helpless paralytic, and the beautiful bride in the bloom of youth and health, gowned in white silk and lace, her golden hair an aureole about her graceful head, the fire of diamonds girding her round white throat, pale roses breathing out perfume against her breast.
“Gods! How beautiful you are, my Daisie!” breathed the man, with a gesture of despair. “How I envy the men who will dance with you at the ball to-night!”
She fluttered into a chair beside him, putting her hand on his arm caressingly, as she cried:
“Then I will not go to the ball to-night. I will come home from the opera.”
“You forget your guest, who has set her heart on this grand function,” he replied, half longing to take her at her word.
“Why, Lutie will be glad to chaperon Annette, and bring her home after the ball,” cried Daisie.
“But I know what Lutie would say—that I am a selfish wretch, and don’t want my wife to go out and enjoy herself. Others will say the same. And it is true, I know. I am jealous, and selfish, and wretched, and miserable—oh, more miserable than words can tell!” wildly.
“Let me stay with you to-night, Royall, and charm away this gray mood. Indeed, I’m not anxious about the opera. And you used to be happier, didn’t you, when I stayed by you more, and didn’t go into society so much?”
“Yes, yes; but Lutie said it was a shame, that the confinement was breaking you down, and you were as pale as a lily and as patient as an angel. No, no—I must not be selfish. You must not neglect your social duties, as Lutie says.”