“I must break with Rosalind! I can wed no other than sweet little Berry, my soul’s true mate!” Bonair cried passionately, again to his own heart, when he was back in his palatial home, leaving Berry at the lowly cottage of the zoo keeper.
All the puerile questions of wealth and position that had held them apart became dross in his eyes, swept away in the torrent of a love that would no longer brook opposition to its restless force.
Perhaps jealousy of Berry’s handsome lover, young Weston, added fuel to the fire of his love, but it began to burn with a consuming flame that destroyed everything in its path. A gifted poet has fitly portrayed the state of his mind:
When the court of the mind is ruled by reason,
I know it is wiser for us to part;
But love is a spy who is plotting treason,
In league with that warm, red rebel, the heart.
They whisper to me that the king is cruel,
That his reign is wicked, his law a sin,
And every word they utter is fuel
To the flame that smolders within.
His dread of Rosalind’s grief and anger seemed to vanish before the new force of his passion for Berry, and he said to himself grimly that he must have it out with Rosalind, and be done with it. It was best to “be off with the old love” before he was “on with the new.”
The opportunity came soon.
His sister Marie privately lectured him on his indifference to his betrothed.
“How can you be so cruel to poor Rose? You treat her like a stranger.”
“Has she complained of me?” he asked evasively.
“How can she help it? The dear girl is miserable at heart, although she bears up bravely. You know every one is caviling because the wedding day is not set. Why don’t you settle it once for all, Charley, dear?”
Her coaxing arms were round his neck, her bright eyes beaming into his, and he sighed:
“Girls are always dead set on weddings! I don’t see why! I think them great bores myself!”
“Then why don’t you get yours over and be done with it?” persisted the girl.
“Oh, I am not in any hurry to lose my bachelor freedom, sis; I fancy Rose would henpeck me dreadfully,” yawning.
“She would not, I’m sure—that is if you behave yourself, sir! Of course you would have to give up some of your bad habits if you were a married man—flirting, for instance—and—and—drinking! You are a little too fond of the winecup, aren’t you, now?”
“Yes—if you say so,” he replied nonchalantly, taking his lecture coolly, and adding: “I wonder if Rose is going to write out a list of musts and must nots for me to sign on the wedding day; do you know?”
“Oh, nonsense! Go and ask her if you want to know! She’s in the library now, half crying because a girl asked her if her wedding would be soon, otherwise she wanted her to make one of a house party at her home this fall. Don’t you see how embarrassing the uncertainty is, Charley?”
“Yes, I see. We must have an understanding about it,” he replied, with a sudden gravity that emboldened her to add:
“Only yesterday Rosalind refused a proposal that was exceptional, in every way, and when she told me of it she half sighed: ‘He’s very nice, and if I had not been engaged to Charley, I might have said yes.’”
“It isn’t too late to call him back. I’ll tell her she may do so!” he exclaimed eagerly.
Marie pinched his ear and laughed:
“Getting jealous, are you, old boy? Well, you see, there are others who admire Rose beside yourself.”
“Yes, I see,” he replied, getting up carelessly, and moving to the door.
“You’re going to Rosalind?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes, I will not delay speaking to her any longer,” he replied, going out as he spoke, and getting a glass of wine to steady himself, for he owned to himself he was a little bit nervous, thinking uneasily.
“She’ll make no end of a scene, of course—maybe call me a cur and all that. The sooner it’s over, the better.”
Fortified with several glasses of wine, he wended his way to the library.
Rosalind was there, sure enough, exquisitely gowned in some soft green fabric, with loads of lace trimming, that was very becoming to her blond type and she reclined rather pensively in a large leather chair.