The "little Creole
love affair" of Neale's had not always been poor and old and
jaded-looking; but reverses must come, even Neale knew that--so the ring
was at the _Mont de Piete_.
Still he must have it, it was his; it would save him from disgrace and
suffering, and from trailing the proud head of the white-gowned bride
into sorrow. He must have it,--but how?
There it was still at the pawn-broker's, no one would have such a jewel,
and the ticket was home in the bureau drawer. Well, he must have it; she
might starve in the attempt. Such a thing as going to him and telling
him that he might redeem it was an impossibility. That good,
straight-backed, stiff-necked Creole blood would have risen in all its
strength and choked her. No; as a present had the quaint Roman circlet
been placed upon her finger,--as a present should it be returned.
The bumping car rode heavily, and the hot thoughts beat heavily in her
poor little head. He must have the ring--but how--the ring--the Roman
ring--the white-robed bride starving--she was going mad--ah yes,--the
church.
Right in the busiest, most bustling part of the town, its fresco and
bronze and iron quaintly suggestive of mediaeval times. Within, all cool
and dim and restful, with the faintest whiff of lingering incense rising
and pervading the gray arches.
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