Arnell & Grey, the firm at whose immense tobacco factory Pansy
Laurens worked, were noted for their kindness and liberality to their
employees. Every year they planned and carried out, at their own
expense, some pleasant entertainment, to which every one in the factory
was cordially invited; and this summer it took the form of a delightful
excursion.
A crowded steamer carried the large number of employees down the James
River, and a fine band furnished music for the gay young people, who
danced all day upon the deck, under the blue sky and bright sunlight of
August. Downstairs a dinner was waiting, and nothing that could conduce
to the pleasure of the occasion had been forgotten by Arnell & Grey,
who delighted in the success of their generous undertakings.
Pansy Laurens went, of course--naughty Pansy, who had been in disgrace
for a month with her relations, on account of her crime of stealing a
rich girl’s lover away. Yes, it was almost five weeks now since Uncle
Robbins had taken Pansy back to Richmond and told her mother sternly
that he was sorry he had ever taken her away, since she had made
serious trouble among his boarders, and flirted boldly with a young man
who was engaged to another girl.
He had brought her home to get her out of harm’s way, he said, and he
advised his sister to keep a sharp lookout upon the willful girl, as
Norman Wylde had vowed he would follow her to Richmond.
Mrs. Laurens expressed herself to her brother as being ashamed of her
daughter’s bad conduct, and determined to keep her in strict bounds
hereafter.
She scolded Pansy, and threatened to lock her in her room on bread and
water if she ever spoke to that dangerous young man again.
Poor Pansy could do nothing but tell her own side of the story.
She had not been bold and forward. She had not known Norman Wylde was
engaged to anybody, and she did not know that he was amusing himself
only, when he made love to her in those bright summer days. When she
found out that he was only flirting she had told him never to speak to
her again.
“Stick to that, little gal, and there won’t be no more trouble,” said
Uncle Robbins approvingly.
“Yes; don’t let him come near you again as long as you live,” added
Mrs. Robbins sharply, and Pansy thought to herself that she never would.
She was overwhelmed with shame and grief at this pitiless exposé of
her futile love dream, and down in her little heart was a secret
resentment, too, at the hardness of everybody. Why should they declare
that she had been bold and forward? She knew that it was untrue, and
their blame cut deep into the sensitive heart. Norman Wylde, too--how
could he have been so cruel, so unkind? Her pillow was wet with tears
every night as she strove through long, sleepless hours to banish from
memory the false, sweet smiles and loving dark eyes that haunted her
and made so hard the bitter task she was essaying.
She was not among the dancers to-day, although she was the prettiest
girl on board, and had many invitations from gallant young men. But
she chose rather to sit leaning pensively over the handrail and gaze
with grave blue eyes into the foamy depths of the water. Many eyes
wandered to the pretty figure in the snowy-white dress and wide,
daisy-trimmed straw hat; many wondered why she seemed so sad, but none
guessed that she was thinking that she would like to be at rest under
those softly lapping waves, with the story of her young life ended here
and now.
Ah, how suddenly her despondent mood was changed! A shadow came between
her and the light--some one sat down beside her and facing her. She
looked up, startled, and saw--Norman Wylde.
Norman Wylde, pale and impassioned-looking, with a determined light in
his splendid dark eyes.
As she made a movement to rise, his strong hand closed over her weak
little white ones, and forced her back into her seat.
“Sit still,” he whispered hoarsely, desperately. “I must speak to you,
and you shall listen.”
She glanced about her with frightened eyes. No one was looking. The
music was pulsing sweetly on the air, and the dancers were keeping
time with flying feet. She looked up at him, pale with emotion.
“You can have nothing to say to me that I wish to hear, Mr. Wylde, for
I despise you,” she answered bitterly.
“That is not true, Pansy, for a month ago you owned that you loved me,
and you have not unlearned your love so soon. Falsehoods have been told
you, and you knew no better than to believe them without giving me a
chance to defend myself. I have written to you, but my letters came
back to me unopened. I have dogged your footsteps on the streets, but
you fled from me, and, as a last resort, I came upon this excursion,
determined to force a hearing from you. Will you listen to me? Will you
let me explain the meaning of that scene with Juliette Ives that day?”
She struggled under his detaining hand, anxious to escape, yet not
wishing to make a scene.
“You were engaged to her, yet you made love to me; that is enough for
me to know,” she answered, turning crimson in her humiliation; but her
indifference and eagerness to get away only made him more determined to
conquer her pride.
“Pansy, you are driving me mad,” he cried imploringly; then, with
sudden passion, he added: “Unless you will sit still and listen to what
I have to say to you, I swear I will drown myself before your eyes!”