CHAPTER II.
A BITTER RECKONING.
There was a brief pause, a silence during which you could hear distinctly the great strangling heart-throbs of the woman who stood staring blankly into the face of her unwelcome visitor.
Below-stairs the revelry went on; the patter of light feet upon the polished floor of the ball-room; the gay peals of merry laughter; and over all the wailing notes of the music, with its tender, pleading, and wordless entreaty, as the band played “Love’s Young Dream.”
Rosamond Arleigh started, and one white hand went to her heart, pressing against it with a passionate gesture. She bowed coldly.
“So it is you, Mr. Warrington?” with affected indifference. “Come in.”
“Yes; it is I. Whom else should it be?” retorted the intruder, and a tall, dark figure crossed the threshold, closed the door and locked it carefully. “I am exceedingly punctual,” he went on, coolly, as he sunk uninvited into a seat. “It is a rule of mine never to keep any one, and more especially a lady, waiting. Why, Rosamond, my dear, you look ‘all broke up.’ What is the matter with you?”
Rosamond Arleigh frowned.
“I have been ill, that is all,” she returned, coldly; “only a little touch of the old heart trouble. You have called here to-night, Gilbert Warrington, to—It is the old business, I suppose.”
“You are right; it is the old affair, that little slip of yours which is fated to follow you through life like a dark shadow, fated to dog your footsteps to the very grave. ‘The sins of the parents’—you know the rest of it, my dear Rosamond. So your sin will fall, in all its black horror and shame and disgrace, upon your child!”
Rosamond Arleigh covered her white face with her cold, trembling hands, and her graceful figure swayed unsteadily.
“You would not!” she faltered, brokenly.
“Would I not? See here, Rosamond.”
Gilbert Warrington rose and stood before her, a man of some five-and-forty years, tall and commanding, with keen gray eyes, and a face as colorless as marble; a heavy black mustache and chin-beard; thin, cruel lips; a restless glitter in the shifting eyes. Not a face to trust.
“You understand me, Rosamond?” he went on, in a low, hissing tone, transfixing his terrified listener with his beady eyes. “I wish to settle this matter absolutely. You will have to marry me or see your child eternally disgraced through the bad black blot upon her name which your own mad deed in the dead and gone past has affixed there. Ah, you need not wince; I mean to use plain words. I do not intend to handle you with gloves just because you are a purse-proud aristocrat, while I come from the slums. I intend that you shall feel the full sting of the power that I hold over you. You, Rosamond Arleigh, sole representative of an old aristocratic family, one of the best in the land, you whose name is good for many thousands, who move in the most exclusive circle among the rich and great, you are something from which the proud and haughty dames of your select circle would shrink if the truth were known. The veriest wretch in all the land would not take your hand to-night if the truth concerning your past were made public, Rosamond Arleigh.”
“Have—mercy!” she falters, brokenly. “Be human, Gilbert Warrington; show me some pity, some consideration. For the sake of the past, in memory of the dead and gone days when I took you by the hand and led you up to prosperity, have pity, have some gratitude——”
“Gratitude? Bah! Talk of something tangible, something that exists, something that I can understand. Gratitude? Ha! ha! You make me tired. No, no, my friend; we will confine ourselves to facts and drop all that high-flown rhapsody.”
She lifted her white face for a moment, and her eyes rested upon his with a look of imploring entreaty.
“Is there no alternative?” she gasped.
“None. You must marry me, you must become my wife at once, or the whole world shall ring with the truth—that you were only Hubert Arleigh’s——”
“Stop! For the love of God, do not speak that word. It is false—false—false!”
“Prove it!”
“Alas! I can not, as you know too well. Gilbert Warrington, I offer you all I possess in the world—all my wealth—everything—if you will give me those papers in your possession and let me go free, let me take my child and go away from here, so far that none here will ever learn my whereabouts. Is that not enough to buy your silence?”
“No! a thousand times no! There is not money enough in all Louisiana to purchase my silence. Rosamond Arleigh, I love you, and I mean to make you my wife. I have loved you for years, I have held this secret suspended over your head for years, but now—now—you shall marry me, or the secret shall be made public, and you and yours ruined forever! You will be shunned as a pestilence, and Violet, think of what her fate will be!”
A low groan issued from the woman’s pallid lips, then all was still. The silence grew oppressive.
Gilbert Warrington drew near the bowed figure and touched her lightly upon the arm.
“‘Every man has his price,’ it is said,” he says, slowly. “You know mine. There is no alternative. You will consent, Rosamond?”
No answer. The bowed head is lifted, the wild eyes are staring straight before them into space, the cold hands twitch convulsively, the white lips quiver; but not a word escapes her, not a moan.
“You have heard my proposition,” the smooth voice goes on, lowly; “you must say ‘Yes’ at once, or I shall go down-stairs now and expose your secret to the select society gathered here to do honor to your daughter’s eighteenth birthday. You were scarcely eighteen when this occurred of which you are guilty; but Violet will not think of that—will show you no pity because you were so young when it happened—and she, your own child, will look upon her mother—the mother so dearly, so idolatrously loved—with scorn, contempt, loathing. Will you consent, Rosamond?”
“No! no! no! A thousand times no!” she panted, defiantly. “I would sooner take my own life! Better to commit suicide than to fall into your hands, you human tiger! Oh, Heaven! that I should be compelled to listen to such insults beneath my own roof, and be powerless to avenge them!”
She fell back into a seat; pale and gasping for breath, great drops of perspiration standing upon her brow—the cold dew of agony—her features convulsed with suffering, one hand clutching—clutching at her heart, which was throbbing as though trying to break through its mortal prison. Her dark eyes, bloodshot with suffering, wandered slowly over to the cabinet in the corner, where stood the vial marked “Chloral.”
A fiendish expression crept over Gilbert Warrington’s face. With a furtive glance around, as though fearing lest some human eye was upon his movements, he flew to the cabinet, and snatching the bottle from the shelf, thrust it into Rosamond Arleigh’s shaking hand.
At that moment the awful silence was broken by the sound of light footsteps flying up the stairs. They paused at the door of the room, and a timid rap sounded upon the panel.
“Mamma!” called Violet, softly. “Are you ill, dear? May I not come in? It is I, your little Violet. I thought I heard you call me. Open the door and let me in.”
There was no answer. Rosamond Arleigh could not speak. Twice she opened her lips to utter Violet’s name, to answer her loving inquiries, but no sound came forth. Trembling, panting in mortal agony, she crouched there, her eyes upon Gilbert Warrington’s cold face.
Still as a statue, Warrington waited for Violet to go. She must not suspect his presence there; neither she nor any one else in the house must know of the midnight visitor who had entered in the midst of the revelry. He would wait there until Violet, believing that her mother was asleep and did not hear her, would go away.
At last the sweet voice ceased to plead for admission, and slowly and reluctantly the girl retraced her steps to the ball-room. Once there, she sought her aunt, Mrs. Rutledge, her mother’s widowed sister, who made her home at The Oaks, together with her daughter Hilda. Mrs. Rutledge was a tall, stylish woman, attired in black lace, with a delicate, high-bred face and large, dark eyes, like Rosamond Arleigh’s own.
“Aunt Constance”—Violet’s voice was full of uneasiness—“I am so anxious about mamma. I was dancing the Lancers just now, and all at once I thought I heard her call me. It troubled me so that I induced Miss Ray to take my place, made it all right with my partner, and hurried up to mamma’s room. But though I rapped hard at the door, I received no answer, and the room was so still—as still as the grave! Aunt Constance, do you think there is anything wrong?”
“Wrong? No. You alarm yourself unnecessarily, my child. If Rosamond wanted anything, she would ring. She is probably sleeping soundly. Go now and enjoy your ball, my child; you will never have another like it.”
“I know it.”
The sweet voice was full of sadness, and held a ring of unconscious prophecy.
As she turned dejectedly away, a graceful figure in floating white lace and pink rose-buds glided swiftly to her side—a girl of some twenty years, a beautiful, dark-eyed girl. It was Hilda Rutledge.
“Where is Leonard—Mr. Yorke, I should say?” she began at once. “I promised to go down to the river with him to show him the new boat. A tête-à-tête stroll in the moonlight! Violet,” with a light, rippling laugh, and a swift glance into the girl’s pale face, “Look out. Leonard Yorke is fickle and likes to flirt. He has been saying no end of sweet things to me to-night.”
“I do not believe it!”
Violet’s beautiful eyes flashed with indignant protest. Hilda laughed.
“What sublime trust, to be sure!” she exclaimed. “Violet, you will learn the world better when you have seen more of it. My dear cousin, whatever you do, never trust in a man; they are all false and fickle.”
“Leonard is not.”
“Ah! so you acknowledge that you are in love with Mr. Yorke? Really, Violet, I am surprised, for he has not been in earnest with you, and I have reason to believe that he cares a great deal for me.”
“It is false!” panted Violet, indignantly. “Hilda, I did not think that you could be so cruel to me. Let me pass!”
She fled past the white-robed figure like some wild creature.
Hilda’s dusky eyes followed the flying figure, and a curious brassy light crept into their depths. Glancing up, she saw Leonard Yorke coming swiftly in her direction. A look of passionate love flashed into her eyes, and under her breath she muttered, harshly:
“He is looking for her, but he shall not find her. He shall come with me. I will have him for a little while alone to-night, and I will manage to find out if he cares a little for me. He has always been so kind and gentle; he has been with me almost as much as he has with her; and I don’t see why he can not love me the best. He shall love me! I swear it! Oh, Leonard! Leonard! for your dear sake I would lay my life down! I would barter all my hopes of happiness!”
Leonard Yorke came swiftly to her side. At sight of Hilda standing there alone, he stopped short.
“Why, Miss Hilda, I thought that Miss Arleigh was here,” he exclaimed. “I am sure I saw her speaking with you a few moments ago.”
“To be sure; but she is gone now—gone to walk in the moonlight with Captain Venners. Let us go and find them.”
Captain Venners! If there was a man in the world whom Leonard Yorke detested, it was Will Venners—handsome, dashing Will Venners—an outrageous flirt, and a general favorite with the ladies. And Leonard did not dream that the tale was only a fabrication of Hilda to arouse his jealousy, with a secret hope that, in his pride and pique, he would turn to her. And so he did. Where is the man who would not have done so? She was very beautiful and fascinating, and—Violet had gone to walk in the moonlight with Venners. Leonard’s heart was very sore.
He offered Hilda his arm, and they left the house and wandered down to the river-side—the beautiful silvery river which wound in and out between its green banks and shone in the moonlight like molten silver.
“I can not imagine what’s the matter with Violet,” Hilda began, pathetically, lifting her great dark eyes to Leonard’s thoughtful face. “She seems actually absorbed in Captain Venners, and—and I’m afraid that he is only flirting with her. You know what a dreadful flirt he is. One glance from Will Venners’ dark eyes, and a poor woman’s heart is subjugated—slain. And to think that, although he quotes poetry, and writes it, too—such beautiful poetry—that he is only amusing himself! Yet, no; I really think that Will believes it all himself. He means all that he says in every flirtation in which he indulges. But as soon as affairs begin to assume a serious aspect, like the knight in the old song,
“‘He loves—
And rides away.’
But poor, dear Violet seems quite infatuated.”
“Stop!” Leonard Yorke’s voice was hoarse and strained. “Miss Hilda, stop, I beg of you. Don’t you know—you surely must know—that she and I are——”
“Good friends? I know it. Dear me, Leon—Mr. Yorke—of course, everybody knows that; and I was about to suggest that you remonstrate with Violet in regard to her infatuation. Yet, truly, their conduct lately makes me suspect that they are engaged. Ah! there they are now. Don’t they look like a pair of betrothed lovers?”
It is said that the devil always helps his own; and without any personal allusions in regard to Miss Hilda Rutledge, it certainly seemed as though his Satanic Majesty had intervened to assist her cruel scheme, for whom should they come upon, standing in the silvery moonlight under the branches of a live-oak not far away, but Violet Arleigh, and at her side handsome Will Venners! He was gazing down into her face with a tender look in those dangerous dark eyes. It looked for all the world like a leaf from a love story. But in reality this is what he was saying to her:
“So, Miss Violet, you think that there is hope for me? I have loved her so long; it is no flirtation this time. Sweet Jessie Glyndon is the only woman I have ever loved well enough to wish to make my wife.”
And Violet’s sympathetic tone responds:
“I think she likes you, Will. Shall I tell you why? Because, although she laughs at you when you attempt to enact the lover, just let any one venture a slighting remark concerning you, and she will fly into a passion and defend you with all her might. Jessie Glyndon is a peculiar woman—the very proudest woman I ever knew. But a woman doesn’t hate a man whom she watches with her very soul in her eyes. An hour ago, Will, I found her in the rose arbor all alone. She was watching you in the distance—you were flirting awfully with some one, you naughty boy!—and I heard her say, believing herself all alone, ‘Dear Will—dear old Dark Eyes! He will never know—never know!’”
“Did she?”
Will Venners’ hand closes eagerly down upon Violet’s small gloved hand, and Leonard Yorke’s jealous eyes observe the action.
“Did she really, Miss Violet? And yet she was so cold to me. Miss Violet, will you give her this? It is a little poem I wrote for her.”
“With pleasure.”
A folded sheet of paper fluttered from Will Venners’ hand into Violet’s grasp; she hid it in the lace of her corsage.
“I will give it to Jessie to-night if possible,” Violet says, softly; “and now you had better take me back to the house; I must go and see mamma for a moment; I am afraid she is ill.”
As the words pass her lips she lifts her eyes and they rest upon two figures strolling leisurely on in the moonlight—Leonard Yorke, her lover, and at his side Hilda Rutledge. Something in their attitude makes a cold chill creep over Violet’s heart; she turns away and hastens to the house.
In the entrance hall she pauses and glances eagerly about her in search of Jessie Glyndon. She sees her at last, a brown-haired young woman with blue-gray eyes and an air of quiet dignity which some people considered out of place, for she was only a dependent, the hired companion to Leonard Yorke’s mother, and had lived at Yorke Towers for a year.
Wishing to deliver Will’s poem at once—for she felt certain that this was more than a mere flirtation—Violet hastened in pursuit of Miss Glyndon. On—on to the conservatory Violet made her way, and at last, just beside the fountain, whose silvery spray fell into a marble basin full of water-lilies, Violet found herself face to face with—Leonard Yorke. Hilda had disappeared. He came swiftly to her side, his face was pale, but he was determined not to betray his emotions.
“What is the matter, Violet?” he asked, gently. “You look troubled. Tell me what it is that is making you unhappy?”
Her great dark eyes were lifted to his face. She forgot everything but that she loved him.
“I am never unhappy when I am with you, Leonard,” she returned, simply; “but I will confess that I am troubled about mamma. I never felt so strangely in my life. Wherever I go I am haunted by the sight of her pale face. Oh, Leonard, if anything should happen to her it would kill me! She is so——”
She stopped short, and the words died away into silence upon her quivering lips.
What was that?
A shriek, an awful shriek, had resounded throughout the house—a wild, heart-rending cry of agony. Violet’s face grew ashen white.
“What has happened?” she moaned. “Oh, Leonard, Leonard, something awful has happened! What is it?”
He turned to the door, then slipped back to Violet’s side and took her in his arms. For the moment all jealous doubts were set at rest—for the moment only—it is hard to kill jealousy.
“Be brave and calm, my darling,” he whispered, gently; “I will stand between you and all harm!”
But, alas! there comes a time into all lives when human love is powerless and human care can avail nothing. Such an hour had come to Violet Arleigh now.
“Wait here a moment,” the young man went on, eagerly, pityingly, all jealous distrust swallowed up in anxiety. “I will go and see.”
He left the conservatory hastily; but though he did not know it, Violet followed close behind him. It is so hard to be told that you must sit still, and wait in silent inaction, while others make all the effort, do all that we so long to do for our loved ones in extremity. And some unerring instinct warned Violet Arleigh that whatever had come upon her now, to darken her life forever, it was connected with her mother.
As she left the conservatory she chanced to glance in the direction of a glass door which opened into the grounds, and her quick eyes caught a glimpse of a vanishing figure, which disappeared in the shrubbery and was lost to sight—the tall, dark form of a man. It was Gilbert Warrington.
