Kitabı oku: «Laurel Vane; or, The Girls' Conspiracy», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XXXIV

Mrs. Gordon, reclining at ease on a satin divan in her elegant parlor, was entertaining a caller—no less a person than the beautiful widow, Mrs. Merivale.

The wife of the wealthy publisher was a pale, faded, pretty woman, once a belle and beauty, now a chronic invalid. She mingled but little in society, on account of her delicate health, but chance had made her acquainted with Maud Merivale, and the fair widow for some reason of her own had followed up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gordon was rather pleased than otherwise with this new friend. She loved beauty, and Mrs. Merivale was decidedly good to look upon. All the adventitious aid of art had been called in to preserve her fading charms; and in the richest, and most becoming of spring toilets, she looked very fair and sweet and youthful in the aristocratic semi-darkness of the curtained parlor.

They had been discussing a subject dear to Mrs. Gordon's matronly heart, but full of secret gall and bitterness to the widow—the marriage of Beatrix Gordon to St. Leon Le Roy.

Inwardly fuming with jealous rage, Mrs. Merivale held her passions in with a strong rein, and smiled her sweetest as she dilated on her last summer's visit to Eden where she had met Beatrix and enthusiastically "fallen in love with her on the spot."

"So beautiful, so graceful," said Mrs. Merivale, arching her penciled brows. "She will make so charming a mistress for Eden. And they are home from Europe, you tell me?"

"Two weeks ago," answered Mrs. Gordon.

"You have seen them, of course—how happy the meeting must have been between the long-parted mother and daughter," sentimentally.

"No, I have not seen my darling yet," sighed Mrs. Gordon. "They were suddenly summoned home by the illness of Mrs. Le Roy and did not have time to communicate with me. Mr. Gordon has promised to take me down to Eden in a few days, though. I am so impatient to see Beatrix I can scarcely wait."

"No doubt," smiled the visitor, sympathetically. She had followed Mrs. Gordon's eyes to a life-size portrait of a pretty blue-eyed girl that hung against the wall. She had seen the lady's glance wander in the same direction several times. Her curiosity was aroused, and, looking critically at the really beautiful portrait, she detected a strong resemblance between the fair, fresh, girlish face and the pretty, faded, matronly woman.

"Your own portrait, is it not?" she asked, with a smile.

Mrs. Gordon looked pleased and flattered.

"Is it really so much like me?" she asked.

"Your image! I should have recognized it anywhere!" pronounced the widow, following up the good impression she had made.

"Well, my daughter was always said to resemble me; but really, now, Mrs. Merivale, you must have recognized Beatrix. You flatter me too much," simpered Mrs. Gordon.

Mrs. Merivale's false smiles and grimaces gave way for once to an expression of honest surprise.

"Do you mean to tell me that it isn't your portrait—taken when you were, perhaps, a little younger?" she asked.

"No, it is not mine. Do you not recognize my daughter, Mrs. Merivale? It is Beatrix herself."

"Beatrix!"

Mrs. Merivale gazed bewildered at the fair young pictured face. The soft blue eyes smiled into hers, the pale-gold hair waved softly over the low, white brow, the face had a fair, refined loveliness all its own, but it was not the face she recalled as that of Beatrix Gordon. There flashed before her mind's eye a face bright and soft like a tropic flower, lighted by dark, starlike eyes, crowned by grand tresses of dusky, burnished gold—a face before whose rare and witching beauty this other one paled like a flower before a star.

She looked at Mrs. Gordon, surprise and bewilderment on her face, her turquois-blue eyes open to their widest.

"Are you jesting?" she said. "Or have you another daughter? You do not really wish me to believe that this is Beatrix?"

"Why not?" Mrs. Gordon asked, a little gravely.

"It is not the least bit like her," declared Mrs. Merivale, who had left her seat and rustled over to the portrait; "it is utterly unlike her! The eyes are blue here, the hair pale gold; yet your daughter whom I saw at Eden had dark eyes and hair of the darkest golden shade."

Mrs. Gordon laughed lightly.

"You have surely forgotten how Beatrix looked," she said. "That canvas represents her truly and perfectly. The best judges have agreed that the portrait is marvelously true to nature. My dear Mrs. Merivale, you are thinking of some one else. I have no other child than Beatrix, and there are no dark eyes in our family."

Mrs. Merivale remained silent for a moment. Her face had a dazed expression.

"I am not mistaken," she said to herself. "Is it likely I should forget how the girl looked who stole St. Leon from me? She had great black eyes, full of fire and soul. She was rarely beautiful. This portrait looks a mere doll beside her. And yet Mrs. Gordon swears that this is Beatrix Gordon. If it is true, as she says, then there is some mystery about it. What does it mean?"

She went back to her seat again and replied to Mrs. Gordon with a light laugh.

"Yes, I see now that I was mistaken. I was thinking of some one else. One meets so many fair faces in society."

But to herself she was saying:

"If there is a mystery, I will find it out. Nothing will please me so well as to injure the girl who married St. Leon Le Roy."

But though her suspicions were aroused, they were vague and unformed. She did not dream of the real truth.

Before leaving she said, with her most innocent and engaging air:

"I have a great mind to run down to Eden with you when you go. It is only recently that I received a letter from Mrs. Le Roy, inviting me to visit her. We are quite old friends, you know. Shall you object to have me make one of your party?"

Mrs. Gordon thought it would be rather pleasant than otherwise to have the pretty, vivacious widow accompany them to Eden. She expressed her opinion very graciously, and Mrs. Merivale was delighted.

"A thousand thanks," she twittered. "I shall enjoy the trip with you and Mr. Gordon so much. And I do so want to see dear Mrs. Le Roy, and our sweet bride and her husband, who, by the bye, was once my fiancé. But that was long ago. I threw him over for Mr. Merivale, who had the most money, although, unfortunately, he sunk a great deal in a foolish speculation after I married him. Ah, well, St. Leon will bear me no ill will now, when he has secured such a bonny bride."

She lingered until they had named the day for the trip, then departed, full of vague plans against the happiness of St. Leon's bride.

CHAPTER XXXV

Ross Powell had been bitterly chagrined and disappointed at his failure to trace Laurel Vane, after his meeting with her at the gates of Eden.

Her beauty had inspired him with a passion that all her anger and scorn and detestation were powerless to chill. While he tried to hate her for her disdain, he could not help loving her for the rare loveliness that had won him at first sight. Brooding deeply over the subject after his return to New York, he made up his mind that, if he could not possess Laurel in any other way, he would make her his wife. He did not doubt but that she would be delighted at the chance of becoming Mrs. Powell, and, after coming to this magnanimous resolve, he was exceedingly anxious to find her out and propose to her.

But fate was against him. His clerkly duties kept him chained to his desk so closely that it was only at the Christmas holidays he found an opportunity of returning to the vicinity of Eden to prosecute his search. After long cogitation on the subject, he had concluded that Laurel had misled him in stating that she was not staying at Eden. He now believed that she belonged to the staff of domestics at Eden, and that she had hidden her identity under an assumed name.

"The little jade tricked me cleverly that time, but I'll catch up with her yet!" he muttered, angrily, to himself, for he did not relish the idea of having been duped by a simple girl like Laurel.

So, with his faculties sharpened by reflection, and spurred on by his passion—which only gained in strength by the months of suspense he had endured—Ross Powell returned to the palace on the Hudson, where he hoped to find Laurel employed in some menial capacity by the proud, rich Le Roys.

Alas for Laurel if she had remained at Eden! for the villain would most undoubtedly have detected her this time; but, as the reader knows, she was absent in Europe with her husband. Mr. Powell, in a sly, underhand way, informed himself thoroughly regarding the household at Eden, and became satisfied that the object of his search was not there. He was bitterly enraged at his non-success in the pursuit of the beautiful, and, as he imagined, unprotected orphan.

"I was a fool to let her slip through my fingers so easily that day," he told himself. "I wish I had followed her, and let Mr. Gordon's business go to the mischief until I had settled my own! A little delay would not have mattered to him, while my own cause was ruined by my attention to business. Never mind! Once I get on her track again, she shall not escape me! Twice she has given me the slip. Let her look to the third time!"

Alas! poor Laurel, in her summer home across the sea, she had forgotten this crafty spider that lay in wait for her, whose love was crueler than hate.

He returned to the city, sullen, angry, disappointed, but more anxious than ever to find her. A new idea had taken possession of his mind.

It occurred to him that Laurel had perhaps gone abroad in the capacity of maid to the young bride, Mrs. Le Roy.

This idea having once taken possession of his mind, was dwelt on until it became a rooted belief. He was quite certain that he had solved the mystery of her absence now. He cursed her for a clever little wretch, who could never have eluded him so cleverly if she had not inherited her father's brains.

"And he was a genius," he said. "Egad, it seems a little strange that old Vane's pretty, high-bred looking girl should descend to the level of a common servant. He was proud, although he ruined himself by drink. I wonder if his bones don't turn in the coffin at thought of little Laurel waiting on Beatrix Gordon!"

He made arrangements to be informed at the earliest hour of the return of Mr. Le Roy and his bride to Eden. He swore that quick-witted Laurel should not forestall him and get away this time.

"If she only knew that I meant to do the fair thing by her and make her Mrs. Powell, I have no doubt she would be deuced glad to have me find her," he thought, egotistically. "It's a bother that I can't have her without, but she's a high-strung little filly, and has her own notions. Perhaps I can arrange for a mock marriage. Then, when I am tired of her, I can drop her more easily. She will drown herself, of course, when she finds out that she has been deceived."

So ran the musings of the wretch, and his impatience reached fever-heat as the dreary winter months dragged away and still Mr. Le Roy lingered abroad with his lovely bride, little dreaming in their happiness of the clerk sitting behind the desk in Mr. Gordon's office and growing ever more and more impatient for their return.

Winter passed away at length, followed by March with its chilling, boisterous winds, its clouded, murky skies; April came with its sunshine and rain, May with its balmy airs and fragrant flowers. Still they came not. How he hated those grand, rich people who could loiter their time away amid the beauties and luxuries of the old world, and keep Laurel away from him, losing her heart perhaps to some musical Italian, frog-eating Frenchman, or sturdy Englishman. A vague, bitter jealousy of he knew not what filled his heart.

He never forgot how glad he felt when in the latter part of May he heard that Mr. Le Roy and his bride had returned to Eden. A burning impatience filled him to get away from the office and go down to Eden to assure himself if Laurel were really there.

He made some excuse of indisposition or private business—in fact, the first ready lie that came to his tongue—and asked Mr. Gordon for a holiday; it was granted, and on the same day Ross Powell went down to Eden, so confident of success that the disappointment he experienced staggered him with its bitterness and intensity.

For when he went boldly to the servants' entrance and asked for young Mrs. Le Roy's maid, a pert foreigner, a mademoiselle whom St. Leon had engaged in Paris to attend his wife, came to him. Her broken English, her voluble French, her cap and ribbon, alike disgusted him. He crushed a bitter oath between his teeth and went away.

"It is just as I feared and dreaded," he thought. "Some jackanapes over the sea has won her, and she would not return with the Le Roys, who had to engage that painted, beribboned, chattering monkey in her place. I have a great mind to go and ask Mr. Gordon's daughter to tell me about Laurel Vane."

But on second thoughts he concluded not to do so. It would come to Mr. Gordon's ears and might possibly set unpleasant inquiries on foot. After all it could not avail him anything to know how he had lost her. Fate had played him a trick, a dastardly trick that nothing could undo now. There was nothing to do but resign the hopes that had buoyed him up for many months, realize that the game he had played was over, and that he had been the loser. His love turned to hate, his passion to a dastardly yearning for revenge upon the beautiful, high-spirited girl.

"The little black-eyed jade! How cleverly she gave me the slip! I would give anything on earth to be able to punish her," he muttered, wickedly, to himself.

He was walking slowly along the dusty road that wound along the banks of the river, and had already left the beautiful, extensive grounds of Eden some distance behind him. The sun was setting resplendently, gilding the beautiful river with gold, and a soft breeze fanned his hot brow; but the beauties of nature had no charm for his passion-seared soul. He walked on with lowering, moody brows, and did not look up until a cloud of dust blowing over him and the sound of approaching carriage wheels forced an impatient imprecation to his lips. Then he looked up, and the sight he beheld was photographed on his memory forever.

An exquisite little phaeton—the daintiest, the most fairy-like he had ever beheld in his life—was approaching him, drawn by two superb white horses, whose smooth, satiny coats, gold-mounted harness, and azure bridle-reins glittered in the golden sunlight. Among the blue-satin cushions sat a lady and a gentleman, the latter a dark, handsome, prince-looking man, whom he recognized instantly as St. Leon Le Roy. Beside him sat a young beauty, in the daintiest Parisian bonnet and toilet, smiles on her lips, love in her eyes, peerless loveliness on the face lifted so tenderly to St. Leon's. Ross Powell gave one quick look into that beautiful face, and gasped, like one dying:

"Laurel Vane!"

St. Leon saw the man trudging in the dust, and touched his hat courteously. Laurel saw him, and her young face whitened to the hue of death. Ross Powell did not return the gentleman's bow, did not move nor speak; he only stood still in the road, like one dazed, while the dazzling equipage whirled past him and covered him with dust.

The echoing sound of the wheels, that seemed to roll over his heart, died away; the dust-cloud slowly lowered and sunk to its kindred earth again. During those moments he had stood stock-still, like one dead, staring blindly before him. He roused himself now, shook himself like one awakened from a painful dream, and, turning, gazed down the road.

He was too late! The dainty equipage, with its daintier mistress and handsome master, had gone out of sight like a dream. He was alone in the golden glow of the beautiful sunset, the soft sound of the river in his ears, his heart on fire with the memory of that lovely face that had flashed on him suddenly like a star out of blackest night.

"Laurel Vane! And by St. Leon Le Roy's side! What does it mean?" he asked himself.

He went over in his mind every detail of the beautiful, happy face, the rich dress, the shining jewels she wore. Only the richest ladies in New York wore such things as these, he knew. Why did Laurel Vane have them? How came she to be sitting by St. Leon Le Roy's side—one of the proudest, richest men in the State?

He sat down on the grassy river bank, and tried to collect his thoughts. He was all at sea; he could not understand.

CHAPTER XXXVI

There was no longer any fear that Mrs. Le Roy would die. She was better. She was rapidly convalescing.

St. Leon was very happy over her recovery.

He had not known how well he loved his mother until the dread of her loss hung over him. He had been sad and gloomy over the prospect of losing her. He was light-hearted and jubilant now over her convalescence.

Not the least of his happiness was that his mother, with all the fancifulness of an invalid, ascribed her recovery to her daughter-in-law's devoted care and nursing. She would not give any credit to the physicians who had exhausted the skill of the Esculapian art for her benefit. She declared that the paid nurses were a set of careless, neglectful dolts. She was quite sure that she must have perished among them but for the love and care of her son's wife.

St. Leon and his wife both knew that the invalid was unjust to her faithful attendants, and that really they had done all they could to hasten her recovery. But they could not help being pleased and happy over her affectionate fiction; and, indeed, Laurel had devoted herself, with unsparing love and patience, to St. Leon's mother. When care and skill had failed, she had gone on her knees in prayer, though it often crossed her mind that, perhaps, God would not hear the pleadings of one who was herself living a dreadful lie of which she could not repent, because she was so blissfully happy that she could not realize the enormity of her sin.

But all doubt was over now. The gloomy shadow of the death-angel's wing no longer hung over Eden. The physicians declared that Mrs. Le Roy would live, and Mrs. Le Roy declared that her daughter-in-law had saved her life. No one gainsaid her, for they saw that the fancy made her happier, and St. Leon, if possible, loved his wife more passionately than before for her devotion to his mother.

When the long strain of fear and anxiety was over, they began to see that the faithful nurse had suffered somewhat in her tireless vigils by the couch of pain. She was thinner and paler, her eyes looked wide and dark and somber, just as they did when, almost a year ago, now, she had first come to Eden.

When St. Leon's terrible anxiety over his mother was dispelled, he began to be alarmed over his wife. It struck him that she was not looking well and scarcely happy.

"My darling, you have worn yourself out in tender cares for my mother," he said. "I have been selfish to allow it. But I did not think! You should have been more careful over yourself! But she is better now, and you must relegate the cares of the sick-room to others, while you go out with me and brighten your faded roses."

A strange mournful smile quivered over the beautiful face.

"I must not leave her yet," she said, "she would miss me so much. She loves me."

He could not understand the wistful pathos that trembled in the tone. He believed that her wearisome confinement to the sick-room had saddened her spirits.

"She loves you," he cried, catching her in his arms, and kissing the pale face until it glowed with tender blushes. "Who does not love you, my own, my peerless Beatrix? You are the queen of love and beauty! I worship you as the lovely incarnation of all that is best and purest in your sex! And, deeply as I loved you before, I shall always love you better for your devotion to my mother!"

"Always?" she murmured, and again it seemed to him there was a ring of pathos that was almost pleading in the low, sweet voice. It confirmed him in his belief that she was saddened and overwrought by her wearisome confinement in the sick-chamber.

"Always, my darling. Can you doubt it?" he said, looking fondly into the wistful dark eyes, as he held her in his arms.

"I will not doubt it. I will be happy as long as I can," she answered, with a sort of desperation.

That day when they sat by Mrs. Le Roy's couch together, she began herself to realize the change that had come over her son's wife. She missed the roses from the delicate cheeks, the brightness from the eyes, but most of all, the happy smile from the red lips. It even seemed to her that they had a wistful, pathetic droop.

"I have been selfish over my daughter," she said, repentantly. "She has broken herself down waiting on me. Beatrix, my darling, can you forgive me for being such a selfish, thoughtless old woman?"

"There is nothing to forgive," she answered. "I have not felt any weariness, and I have been only too happy to be with you and to care for you."

"You are a dear, unselfish child," cried Mrs. Le Roy, "but I don't intend to be so unreasonable again. You must leave me with the nurses now that I am better, and go out with your husband riding and driving again. I want to see the roses back in your face and the light in your eyes. And, St. Leon, you must write to the Gordons, and ask them to come and make us a visit."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, do not ask them," Laurel cried out with such sudden energy and passion that they were startled. Her face was deathly white with the shock she had received. They looked at her in surprise.

"My dear, I do not think you understood my mother," said her husband. "She wishes to invite your parents to visit you. Should you not be pleased to have them come?"

She saw that in her terror she had almost betrayed her horrible fear of the Gordons.

"I understood," she faltered. "I only meant—meant that it would be better not to ask them just yet, until your mother is better—until she is able to go out some. It would be pleasanter for all, would it not?"

They agreed with her that it would be pleasanter for all parties, but they did not want to tax her patience too much. It seemed only natural that she should be longing to see her mother.

"I might take you up to New York for a day or two," St. Leon suggested.

And again the beautiful face grew ghastly pale with fear and dread.

"No, I should not like that," she said, "I would prefer to have them come here. But let us wait a few days before we invite them."

She left them and went away to her own private room, locked the door, and threw herself down upon her couch in a perfect passion of dread and despair. The coils of fate were narrowing around her. She could not escape from the web her own hands had woven. A few hours or days at most, and then detection, shame, ignominy, perhaps banishment. The thought quivered like a sword-point in her heart.

"Will he forgive me, or will he send me away from him?" she asked herself, fearfully.

She sat up and looked with dazed, heavy eyes at the elegance and luxury with which his love had surrounded her—at the diamonds on her hands, at her rich and costly robes—all mute tokens of the adoration in which he held her.

"He loves me so dearly, perhaps he will forgive me," she whispered to her beating heart. "I know if he had wronged me ever so bitterly, I should forgive him and love him still if he prayed me on his bended knees, as I shall do."

She pinned all her faith to the strength of his love and the power of that beauty on which he never wearied of gazing. She grew suddenly alarmed at the pallor of her face and the heaviness of her eyes. She thought that her beauty was deserting her, that potent charm by which she hoped to hold his heart when he found her out in her sin.

"I must go out, indeed," she cried to herself, in sudden terror; "I must get back my brightness and my color. I cannot afford to lose one charm that may hold my husband's heart!"

She forgot that he valued truth and honor more than mere physical loveliness—she forgot that he had scorned all womanhood for long years because one beautiful woman had been false to him. She could think of nothing but her anguished yearning not to lose her husband.