Paulines Passion and Punishment | Page 2

the lithe slenderness of the whispering palms
overhead, the warm coloring of the deep-toned flowers sleeping in the
room, the native grace of the tame antelope lifting its human eyes to his
as he lingered on the threshold in an attitude eager yet timid, watching
that other figure as it looked into the night and found no solace there.
"Pauline!"

She turned as if her thought had taken voice and answered her,
regarded him a moment, as if hesitating to receive the granted wish,
then beckoned with the one word.
"Come!"
Instantly the fear vanished, the ardor deepened, and with an imperious
"Lie down!" to his docile attendant, the young man obeyed with equal
docility, looking as wistfully toward his mistress as the brute toward
her master, while he waited proudly humble for her commands.
"Manuel, why are you here?"
"Forgive me! I saw Dolores bring a letter; you vanished, an hour passed,
I could wait no longer, and I came."
"I am glad, I needed my one friend. Read that."
She offered a letter, and with her steady eyes upon him, her purpose
strengthening as she looked, stood watching the changes of that
expressive countenance. This was the letter:
_Pauline--
Six months ago I left you, promising to return and take you home my
wife; I loved you, but I deceived you; for though my heart was wholly
yours, my hand was not mine to give. This it was that haunted me
through all that blissful summer, this that marred my happiness when
you owned you loved me, and this drove me from you, hoping I could
break the tie with which I had rashly bound myself. I could not, I am
married, and there all ends. Hate me, forget me, solace your pride with
the memory that none knew your wrong, assure your peace with the
knowledge that mine is destroyed forever, and leave my punishment to
remorse and time.
Gilbert_
With a gesture of wrathful contempt, Manuel flung the paper from him

as he flashed a look at his companion, muttering through his teeth,
"Traitor! Shall I kill him?"
Pauline laughed low to herself, a dreary sound, but answered with a
slow darkening of the face that gave her words an ominous significance.
"Why should you? Such revenge is brief and paltry, fit only for mock
tragedies or poor souls who have neither the will to devise nor the will
to execute a better. There are fates more terrible than death; weapons
more keen than poniards, more noiseless than pistols. Women use such,
and work out a subtler vengeance than men can conceive. Leave
Gilbert to remorse--and me."
She paused an instant, and by some strong effort banished the black
frown from her brow, quenched the baleful fire of her eyes, and left
nothing visible but the pale determination that made her beautiful face
more eloquent than her words.
"Manuel, in a week I leave the island."
"Alone, Pauline?"
"No, not alone."
A moment they looked into each other's eyes, each endeavoring to read
the other. Manuel saw some indomitable purpose, bent on conquering
all obstacles. Pauline saw doubt, desire, and hope; knew that a word
would bring the ally she needed; and, with a courage as native to her as
her pride, resolved to utter it.
Seating herself, she beckoned her companion to assume the place
beside her, but for the first time he hesitated. Something in the
unnatural calmness of her manner troubled him, for his southern
temperament was alive to influences whose presence would have been
unfelt by one less sensitive. He took the cushion at her feet, saying, half
tenderly, half reproachfully, "Let me keep my old place till I know in
what character I am to fill the new. The man you trusted has deserted
you; the boy you pitied will prove loyal. Try him, Pauline."

"I will."
And with the bitter smile unchanged upon her lips, the low voice
unshaken in its tones, the deep eyes unwavering in their gaze, Pauline
went on:
"You know my past, happy as a dream till eighteen. Then all was swept
away, home, fortune, friends, and I was left, like an unfledged bird,
without even the shelter of a cage. For five years I have made my life
what I could, humble, honest, but never happy, till I came here, for here
I saw Gilbert. In the poor companion of your guardian's daughter he
seemed to see the heiress I had been, and treated me as such. This
flattered my pride and touched my heart. He was kind, I grateful; then
he loved me, and God knows how utterly I loved him! A few months of
happiness the purest, then he went to make home ready for me, and I
believed him; for where I wholly love I