The Gilded Age by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner

hurried on to say.

No man had ever accused Col. Selby of cowardice. But he was a coward

before this woman. May be he was not the man he once was. Where was his

coolness? Where was his sneering, imperturbable manner, with which he

could have met, and would have met, any woman he had wronged, if he had

only been forewarned. He felt now that he must temporize, that he must

gain time. There was danger in Laura’s tone. There was something

frightful in her calmness. Her steady eyes seemed to devour him.

“You have ruined my life,” she said; “and I was so young, so ignorant,

and loved you so. You betrayed me, and left me mocking me and trampling

me into the dust, a soiled cast-off. You might better have killed me

then. Then I should not have hated you.”

“Laura,” said the Colonel, nerving himself, but still pale, and speaking

appealingly, “don’t say that. Reproach me. I deserve it. I was a

scoundrel. I was everything monstrous. But your beauty made me crazy.

You are right. I was a brute in leaving you as I did. But what could I

do? I was married, and–”

“And your wife still lives?” asked Laura, bending a little forward in her

eagerness.

The Colonel noticed the action, and he almost said “no,” but he thought

of the folly of attempting concealment.

“Yes. She is here.”

What little color had wandered back into Laura’s face forsook it again.

Her heart stood still, her strength seemed going from her limbs. Her

last hope was gone. The room swam before her for a moment, and the

Colonel stepped towards her, but she waved him back, as hot anger again

coursed through her veins, and said,

“And you dare come with her, here, and tell me of it, here and mock me

with it! And you think I will have it; George? You think I will let you

live with that woman? You think I am as powerless as that day I fell

dead at your feet?”

She raged now. She was in a tempest of excitement. And she advanced

towards him with a threatening mien. She would kill me if she could,

thought the Colonel; but he thought at the same moment, how beautiful she

is. He had recovered his head now. She was lovely when he knew her,

then a simple country girl, Now she was dazzling, in the fullness of ripe

womanhood, a superb creature, with all the fascination that a woman of

the world has for such a man as Col. Selby. Nothing of this was lost on

him. He stepped quickly to her, grasped both her hands in his, and said,

“Laura, stop! think! Suppose I loved you yet! Suppose I hated my fate!

What can I do? I am broken by the war. I have lost everything almost.

I had as lief be dead and done with it.

The Colonel spoke with a low remembered voice that thrilled through

Laura. He was looking into her eyes as he had looked in those old days,

when no birds of all those that sang in the groves where they walked sang

a note of warning. He was wounded. He had been punished. Her strength

forsook her with her rage, and she sank upon a chair, sobbing,

“Oh! my God, I thought I hated him!”

The Colonel knelt beside her. He took her hand and she let him keep it.

She, looked down into his face, with a pitiable tenderness, and said in a

weak voice.

“And you do love me a little?”

The Colonel vowed and protested. He kissed her hand and her lips. He

swore his false soul into perdition.

She wanted love, this woman. Was not her love for George Selby deeper

than any other woman’s could be? Had she not a right to him ? Did he

not belong to her by virtue of her overmastering passion? His wife–she

was not his wife, except by the law. She could not be. Even with the

law she could have no right to stand between two souls that were one.

It was an infamous condition in society that George should be tied to

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