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Updated: May 21, 2025
Jessy had set her love's first music to the broad, artistic heart of Petralto; she could not, without wronging herself, decline to a lower range of feelings and a narrower heart. This reserve of herself was not a conscious one. She was not one of those self-involved women always studying their own emotions; she was simply true to the light within her.
So Petralto went out of New York; and the world that had known him forgot him forgot even to wonder about, much less to regret, him. I was no more faithful than others. I fell in with a wonderful German philosopher, and got into the "entities" and "non-entities," forgot Petralto in Hegel, and felt rather ashamed of the days when I lounged and trifled in the artist's pleasant rooms.
Lennox struck Petralto to the ground, and before I raised him, I persuaded the angry bridegroom to retire. I stayed with Petralto that night, although I was not altogether pleased with him. He was sulky and silent at first, but after a quiet rest and a few consoling Havanas he was willing to talk the affair over. "Lennox tortured me," he said, passionately.
I wondered what rare woman had taken the beautiful Jessy Lorimer's place; and I rather enjoyed the prospect of twitting him with his protestations of eternal fidelity to his first love. I did not do it. I had no opportunity. Madame Petralto Garcia was, in fact, Jessy Lorimer Lennox.
In some irregular way I became acquainted with Petralto Garcia. I believe I owed the introduction to my beautiful hound, Lutha; but, at any rate, our first conversation was quite as sensible as if we had gone through the legitimate initiation. I know it was in the mountains, and that within an hour our tastes and sympathies had touched each other at twenty different points.
The next afternoon I was astonished on going up to his rooms to find Will Lennox, sitting there. He was talking in that loud, happy, demonstrative way so natural to men accustomed to have the whole world minister unto them. He did not see how nervous and angry Petralto was under his easy, boastful conversation.
"A small pony, saddled and bridled, feeding quietly, and a young girl standing on tip-toe, pulling down a vine loaded with golden-colored flowers." "Describe the girl to me." I turned and looked at my querist. He was smoking, with shut eyes, and waiting calmly for my answer. "Well, she has Petralto, what makes you ask me?
I had no eyes for the gentleman, the girl at his side was so radiantly beautiful. I heard Petralto promise to call on them, and we passed on; but there was a look on his face which bespoke both sympathy and silence.
Jack, do you not perceive the rest? The Scotch beauty was Jessy Lorimer. I feared it at the first. I knew it this afternoon." "Will you call there?" "I have no power to resist it. Did you not notice how eagerly she pressed the invitation?" "Do not accept it, Petralto." He shook his head, and remained silent.
Lutha walked beside us, showing in his mien something of the proud satisfaction which follows a conviction of having done a good thing. He looked first at me and then at Petralto, elevating and depressing his ears at our argument, as if he understood all about it. Perhaps he did; human beings don't know everything.
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