"A Modern Hercules," The Tale of a Sculptress/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
THE LOVERS CLASH.
Among the guests were Horatio Nugent and Paul Strogoff, each madly, devotedly and passionately, at a distance, watching the Goddess, at whose shrine they worshiped. The preacher, in a rage of despair; Paul, in secret consciousness of his advantage over all others, despite appearances. Each held his secret well before the world, but in the breast of each was a raging volcano, liable to burst forth at any minute. Had any one suspected the preacher of the possession of so strange a secret passion, his story would have been discovered by the hungry, famished look of his eye, which followed the sculptress and her every movement. Strange to relate, Paul exhibited more control over himself.
Fate threw these two strongly-contrasted characters together, the flint and the steel. Horatio Nugent plunged at Paul boldly and fiercely, saying: "I would study you."
"Why?" asked Paul.
"Because you hold a secret power I would give my life to know."
"And that is?"
"The power of winning her regard."
"I would not yield it up for a thousand lives, mine included," said Paul.
"So you are a victim, too?" said the preacher.
"Nay, not a victim," proudly said Paul.
"She loves you?" said the preacher, eagerly.
"I did not say so."
"And yet I think my words are true."
"Your opinions do not concern me," said Paul.
"They may," said Horatio Nugent, throwing discretion to the winds, "for I love her, too, and if you stand in my way—well—it will do you no good."
"You are like the rest of your kind—boastful," said Paul, conscious of his own power, "but in me there is no fear."
"Do not, I pray you, urge me beyond control," said the preacher, "or you will be made to feel there is something beyond mere brute force."
"This masterly tone," said Paul, "must cease. I have no liking for you, sir; you hang about the lady's skirts too much."
"And what is that to you? Are you her protector?"
Ouida approached, having from a distance observed that a clash had occurred between these two men.
"There comes the lady," said Paul; "let her answer."
"I am heartily ashamed of you both," said Ouida. "You have selected a most inappropriate place, as well as subject, for discussion."
The preacher looked ashamed of himself, but Paul, now thoroughly aroused, was almost bursting with defiance; but Ouida had him absolutely under control, and when she commanded him with decisive voice to bring her an ice, he went, submissive like a dog.
"And you, sir," turning to the preacher, "what right have you to give way to vulgar differences with Paul?"
"I have no excuse to offer, save my adoration of yourself," said he, humbly.
"Why vex your soul?" said she filling up with wondrous pity for the man. "Your torment of yourself is useless. I am further from you today than ever before."
"How is this, madam? Is there absolutely no hope for me?"
"None, sir. The barrier between us can never be broken."
"And what is that barrier?" he said, a mighty despair getting its grasp upon him, for he noted the deadly earnestness of her speech.
"The obstacle is Paul," she confessed.
"Your big-limbed model?" He would not believe it.
"Even so," said the woman, as she bowed her head.
"And how is he in my way? Would you stoop to him?"
"Stoop, sir," she said, her pride returning, "I have sworn to marry him."
He staggered with a nameless fear.
"But you do not love him," he said. "You cannot blind me."
"I have no desire to do so. I simply tell the truth."
Nor could he fail to be deeply impressed with her simple dignity.
"Listen, woman, I care not whose heart I break, you love me! Deny it if you can!"
"If I did, what would be the difference?" said Ouida. "I have sworn to wed him. I led him on. He did not dream of me, until I made him drunk with the promise of my life. He has done no wrong. I must bear the grief."
"Then all I have given up is naught to you? You will break my heart and crush my life without a tear?" said he.
"Rather yours than his. Come, be a man; wound me no further," she pleaded, earnestly.
"I cannot break a single link in the awful chain of fate," and he bowed his head in silence.
"Do with me as you will."
"Have you still the power to marry?" she asked.
"Yes, I have given up my church, not the ministry."
"Then will you do me one last favor?" she appealed.
"Be your fate what it will," said he, "I am still your slave."
"Marry Paul and me," she pleaded, as though upon the answer depended her life or death.
"Dare you ask this of me?"
"I do, and pray you ask me not why."
"I have not the courage nor the strength," said he, suddenly, filled up with a great weakness.
"Have I naught to suffer?" she said, in great grief. "Will you compel me to go through it all alone?"
"I'll do it," said he. "I cannot enter deeper into the vale of suffering than I am now. You have stolen from me the power of resistance. Now, I pray you, let me go."
As the preacher passed from her, Paul returned, looking dark and gloomy.
"There is your ice, Ouida," said Paul, striving to control himself. "Would that my heart were like it, so that you might devour it. I do not like that man."
"Why, Paul?"
"He comes too often to you. Nay, do not deny it. He loves you, but you do not love him," he fiercely said.
"I—I—" hesitated Ouida, for a moment losing her self-possession, under the influence of Paul's questioning.
"But you do not love him," he repeated again, as he seized her arm, almost roughly. "If I thought you did—well, you know the blood of the Cossack is in me, and—"
"You will kill him?" she passionately uttered, and she clung to Paul as though holding him from the accomplishment of such a purpose.
"Now, by my life," he said, looking searchingly at her, "this sudden interest almost makes me think you do care for him."
Again her complete mastery over his simple nature exhibited itself.
"Paul," she said, in that alluring tone which always brought him to his knees, "you are beside yourself. You have naught to fear of me with him. He has just promised me to marry us tomorrow night."
"So you have fixed the time at last," said Paul, exultingly. "This is noble, oh, so good of you. This joyous news compensates me for a world of agony and doubt. Would to God tomorrow night were here," said he, completely satisfied. "Come, let us to the ball room. I heard your editorial friend, Doane, swearing a moment ago that you had promised to waltz with him, but that you had secreted yourself to escape his clutches."
"True, I had almost overlooked that. I wish I could educate Doane once in a while to say a kindly thing, but I fear the task is a hopeless one."
She was much relieved that the trying scene had ended, and with no disastrous results.