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“Tired so soon, Babie? Or in a pet because I cannot change myself into a thistledown and float about with you, like Manuel and Pauline?”

“Neither; I was only wishing that you loved me as he loves her, and hoping he would never tire of her, they are so fond and charming now. How long have you known them–and where?”

“I shall have no peace until I tell you. I passed a single summer with them in a tropical paradise, where we swung half the day in hammocks, under tamarind and almond trees; danced half the night to music, of which this seems but a faint echo; and led a life of luxurious delight in an enchanted climate, where all is so beautiful and brilliant that its memory haunts a life as pressed flowers sweeten the leaves of a dull book.”

“Why did you leave it then?”

“To marry you, child.”

“That was a regretful sigh, as if I were not worth the sacrifice. Let us go back and enjoy it together.”

“If you were dying for it, I would not take you to Cuba. It would be purgatory, not paradise, now.”

“How stern you look, how strangely you speak. Would you not go to save your own life, Gilbert?”

“I would not cross the room to do that, much less the sea.”

“Why do you both love and dread it? Don’t frown, but tell me. I have a right to know.”

“Because the bitterest blunder of my life was committed there–a blunder that I never can repair in this world, and may be damned for in the next. Rest satisfied with this, Babie, lest you prove like Bluebeard’s wife, and make another skeleton in my closet, which has enough already.”

Strange regret was in his voice, strange gloom fell upon his face; but though rendered doubly curious by the change, Mrs. Redmond dared not question further and, standing silent, furtively scanned the troubled countenance beside her. Gilbert spoke first, waking out of his sorrowful reverie with a start.

“Pauline is coming. Say adieu, not au revoir, for tomorrow we must leave this place.”

His words were a command, his aspect one of stern resolve, though the intensest longing mingled with the dark look he cast on the approaching pair. The tone, the glance displeased his willful wife, who loved to use her power and exact obedience where she had failed to win affection, often ruling imperiously when a tender word would have made her happy to submit.

“Gilbert, you take no thought for my pleasures though you pursue your own at my expense. Your neglect forces me to find solace and satisfaction where I can, and you have forfeited your right to command or complain. I love Pauline, I am happy with her, therefore I shall stay until we tire of one another. I am a burden to you; go if you will.”

“You know I cannot without you, Babie. I ask it as a favor. For my sake, for your own, I implore you to come away.”

“Gilbert, do you love her?”

She seized his arm and forced an answer by the energy of her sharply whispered question. He saw that it was vain to dissemble, yet replied with averted head, “I did and still remember it.”

“And she? Did she return your love?”

“I believed so; but she forgot me when I went. She married Manuel and is happy. Babie, let me go!”

“No! you shall stay and feel a little of the pain I feel when I look into your heart and find I have no place there. It is this which has stood between us and made all my efforts vain. I see it now and despise you for the falsehood you have shown me, vowing you loved no one but me until I married you, then letting me so soon discover that I was only an encumbrance to your enjoyment of the fortune I possessed. You treat me like a child, but I suffer like a woman, and you shall share my suffering, because you might have spared me, and you did not. Gilbert, you shall stay.”