“I am sorry now that I did not follow my first impulse and burn those
hateful letters!” cried Maybelle regretfully.
“How many were there?” asked her brother, grimly.
“Seven in all. He must have written to her every day until he received
your letter that she was dead. And such letters! fully of the silliest
love. Pah!” cried the girl, who despised the letters because they were
written to her rival.
If they had been intended for her--jealous, envious Maybelle--she would
have wished them framed in gold and precious stones.
For what is so dear to a woman’s heart as a love letter from the man
she adores?
The mere sight of it makes the blood bound gladly through her frame,
and brightens eye and cheek with joy.
The touch of it makes her fingers tingle with delight.
She reads it over and over in the solitude of her own chamber, and
kisses it as fondly as if it were the face of her beloved.
She carries it in her bosom by day, and places it beneath her pillow,
to bring blissful dreams, by night.
All this bliss of which Maybelle had robbed bonny Floy was hers now,
and the angry girl’s bosom throbbed with the awful pain of jealousy as
she realized how her sweet rival would rejoice over those ardent words
of love sprinkled like diamonds over the pages he had written for her
comfort while they were sundered one from each other.
“I thought of thee--I thought of thee
On ocean many a weary night,
When heaved the long and solemn sea,
With only waves and stars in sight.
We stole along by aisles of balm,
We furled before the coming gale,
We slept amid the breathless calm,
We flew before the straining sail--
But thou wert lost alas! to me,
And day and night I thought of thee.”
Otho listened to his sister with a cynical frown, guessing all that she
suffered by the pain in his own heart.
“I have a suspicion!” he exclaimed, abruptly.
“What is it?”
“Floy is hidden at Suicide Place,” he said, with an evil gleam in his
deep-set, dark eyes.
“Do you think so? But Floy told Mrs. Banks before she went away that
she had seen something terrible there, and would never cross the
threshold again.”
“No matter; I believe she is in hiding there. It is so simple a
solution of the mystery that I wonder it did not occur to me before.
Yes, she is surely at Suicide Place, and I shall entrap her to-night!”
he exclaimed, with triumphant malice.
“But, Otho, are you not afraid to venture into that fatal house?”
“Not in the least. I prize my life too highly ever to commit suicide,
I assure you. I am strong-minded, practical. The grim influence of the
place will not affect me.”
“I am glad that you think so, and I hope that you prosper in your
undertaking to-night.”
“Thank you, sis, I can not foresee any possible failure this time. She
will be entirely at my mercy, with no Beresford to interfere.”
They were both silent for a time, ashamed to discuss their wicked
plans, then Maybelle drew a deep breath, exclaiming:
“Whatever is done it must be ended soon, for it is three weeks now
since he sailed, and he expected to return in a month.”
“Her fate will be sealed before then,” Otho answered, quickly, and
added: “If you are ever to win Beresford, it must be done quickly also,
for father is on the verge of failure, though reputed a millionaire.”
“On the verge of failure--oh, heavens! That is why he refused me the
new set of diamonds I craved! Oh, Heaven help me to win Beresford, for
I could not endure a life of poverty!” exclaimed Maybelle, hysterically.
“I do not see how I am to endure it either; but I did not seem to make
any progress with the heiress,” grumbled Otho.
“You did not, for she showed her indifference too plainly to encourage
the least hope,” agreed his sister, frankly.
“Curse her for a proud, haughty jade; but I do not care for her any
way. My heart is set on bewitching little Fly-away Floy.”
“Then why not marry her, Otho, if you care so much, since that would
take her from Beresford as effectually as if she were dead?”
“She would not marry me to save my life, the proud little minx! But
I’ll have my revenge for her scorn, never fear, and leave the field
clear for you to win Beresford,” laughed Otho, gratingly.
“Oh, if you succeed, I shall pay you well out of my husband’s riches,”
she cried, eagerly.
“You may not get the handling of many dollars, and my demands will be
exhorbitant,” he grumbled, sighing: “I wish that the foul fiend would
deign to show me some royal road to fortune.”
It was an aspiration he had uttered often before in his greed for gold
and his impatience of his father’s restraints, and no thought came to
him that it would be granted soon.
Rejoicing in his good luck at finding Floy’s hiding-place at last, he
waited most impatiently for the close of the beautiful June day that he
might sally forth on his dastardly errand.
The sun set in a blaze of golden glory, and the young moon rose over
the tree-tops, shedding a tender amber light upon the quiet, resting
world.
As soon as he could get away unobserved, Otho took the lonely road
toward Suicide Place.
“She cannot escape me now, my pretty Floy!” he muttered.