University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

There was a gorgeous festival at the mansion of Judge Wentworth.

The light fell pleasantly downward, from lamps of porcelain,
held in the marble fingers of rare statues, over a scene of strange
brilliancy. There were handsome men, and beautiful women;
jewels, and robes of silken sheen.

But there were two who seemed to attract more attention
than any others. The host's fair daughter, Aline, and, standing
beside her, the handsome student, Ernest Glenville.

The proudly-beautiful woman stood in the alcove of a window,
leaning gracefully against a statue of Juno, which might not inappropriately
have been modelled after herself. In one hand
she held her jewelled bouquet-holder, while with the other she
was pulling in pieces a fragrant half-opened moss-rosebud.

The dark waves of her jetty hair were knotted with diamonds,
and a single ruby burned upon her bosom, like a spark of fire.
She was talking in a low, musical tone to Ernest Glenville, of
passion, and poetry, and fame. Her wild eyes burned and
sparkled till they kindled up his soul; and then, in turn, his voice
grew eloquent with music, as he spoke of the past, dwelling
always upon the triumph and success of men of low estate, — those
great souls which have climbed upward, and made themselves
mates for kings and nobles; and Aline Wentworth listened, until
her proud heart did him homage, and for the first time in her
life she loved.

Weeks passed on, and, reckless of the future, forgetful of the
destiny his own hand was to carve, day after day Ernest Glenville
sought the presence of the enchantress, and hushed his very
soul to listen to the music of her voice, or drink in her beauty
like an inspiration.

At last, one night he sought her in her luxurious boudoir, and
told his love. He, who had never before breathed words of passion
in woman's ear, grew strangely eloquent, and the light burned
wilder than ever in Aline's glorious eyes. When he paused, she
drew his hand to her lips, with more than woman's tenderness,
and whispered those three words, so musical on the lips of the
beloved, “I love you!”

For one instant Ernest Glenville caught her to his heart; and
then, resolutely putting her from him, he said,

“My Aline! — no, not mine yet. I have a revelation to
make, before I ask you to become my plighted bride. I am not
wealthy, like your honored father, but poor, abjectly poor, as
far as this world's goods are concerned; I am rich in nothing
but courage, and an unfaltering soul. I can feel my destiny
stirring within me. I know I shall do something, yet, this great
world will not blush to own. If you are mine, it is necessary
you should have faith in me. We must wait, it may be years,
before I could have a home to offer you. Think calmly; will
you, Aline Wentworth, become the poor man's promised bride?
Remember what you say now is said forever, and do not answer
rashly!”

Aline gazed for a second into his clear blue eyes, and then,
turning from him, she paced the room, breathing rapidly, and
wringing her hands. He had cautioned her against rashness;
but every moment that she waited swept over him like an age of
torture. There was a fierce struggle going on in the young girl's
soul, — love and pride contending for the mastery. Which shall
conquer?

Glenville held his breath, and the sweat stood upon his brow
in great beaded drops, until at last the cry of his heart burst
forth, —

“Aline, Aline!”

The girl came and stood beside him. Tears were in her large
black eyes, and trembled on her long, fringe-like lashes, as she
raised her hand to his forehead, and brushed back the clustering

curls. She spoke at last, in answer to the mute appeal in his
passionate glance.

“I cannot, O Ernest Glenville, I cannot! — I love you, God
knows I do, — I who never loved mortal before; but to marry
you, — O, Ernest, do not ask it!”

“It is well, Aline Wentworth; you have chosen;” and, so saying,
Glenville turned away; but apparently a secret impulse
urged him to return; for he came back, and, clasping her trembling
form in his arms, he pressed on her lips one kiss, long and
thrilling, and then, saying once more those solemn words, “You
have chosen,” he left the house.

For a long time Aline Wentworth sat there still and quiet as
he had left her. She saw nothing, heard nothing, but those three
words of warning. They haunted her sleep for many a night
after that. The struggle between love and pride had been terrible,
and the conqueror dared not even triumph in his victory.

Three months after saw Ernest Glenville enlisted in the French
army under Napoleon, at that time himself a subaltern.

Those were stirring times in the early days of the French republic,
when fame and promotion hung upon the broad sword's
gleam and the musket's flash, when ten days could raise the
meanest name to glory. Stirring times, when Europe stood still,
awe-struck, and men's hearts were failing them for fear. Here,
in these wild days, and under an assumed name, Ernest Glenville
struggled with the fierce energy despair so often brings to
a noble soul. Aline knew not where he was; but hope whispered
that for her sake he might win power and glory, and then
return to her side.

She should have known him better. He had well said her

words must be forever; and, had he been the possessor of an
earldom, ten days after their strange parting, he would not have
shared it with Aline Wentworth.

He thought of her, indeed, not in scorn, not in anger; but, O,
not with love, — at least, not with the love of passion; but calmly,
and with a subdued, gentle sorrow, as we think of those long ago
dead; and he only knew that he had been unhappy, by the
desolation which left him nothing for which to hope!