The Fifth Avenue mansion where Mrs. Dalrymple lived was little less
than a palace as she was little less than a princess, if royal beauty,
royal wealth, and almost royal state could count. Her parents were
dead, she was mistress of herself and many millions, and at barely
thirty-three, while looking scarcely twenty-five, had scores of hearts
at her feet from which to choose, if that way lay her happiness.
Some said that she had been widowed young, others that she was
divorced, some that her heart was buried in a grave, others that she
was a man hater. No one ever heard her own that either was true. She
simply smiled and went her way, heedless of praise or blame.
That autumn evening when she swept down the grand staircase into the
brilliantly lighted hall, her rich violet velvet robe trailing behind
her, her jewels flashing like stars, she heard an altercation at the
door. Her pompous servant was saying harshly:
“You cannot come in here; no, indeed, there’s no use begging me, I tell
you. Go around to the servants’ entrance!”
Mrs. Dalrymple stopped short, listening to the low, pleading, girlish
voice that half sobbed:
“I tell you I’m not a beggar! Oh, do let me in to see Mr. Laurier just
once more!”
The man was about to laugh rudely just as his mistress came up behind
him, exclaiming in her sweet, frosty voice:
“What is the trouble here?”
The man stepped back in dismay at the question, and a girlish form
rushed past him and knelt at the lady’s feet.
It was Jessie Lyndon in her tattered garments, on which clung flecks
of melting snow, her face drawn and pallid with misery, the tears half
frozen on her cheeks, her form trembling with weariness, her beauty
half obscured by her miserable plight, as strange a contrast to that
palatial scene and the queenly woman before her as the mind could well
imagine.
She knelt before the startled lady with upraised, pleading eyes and
pathetic clasped hands, imploring:
“Oh, madam, forgive me this intrusion, but my heart is breaking! Oh,
will you let me see Mr. Laurier once before he is lost to me forever!”
“Child, this is very strange!”
“Oh, madam, let me explain! I have a right to see him. We were out
driving. There was such a dreadful accident! Oh, you can see for
yourself how my heart is breaking!” wailed the poor girl, losing all
control over her emotion, and sobbing outright.
Mrs. Dalrymple cried out in the greatest wonder:
“Why you are the little girl that was with Frank in the runaway
accident yesterday, are you not? How very, very strange you look and
act, poor child! You should not come here to see Mr. Laurier, you know.
It is not proper to do so, and, besides----”
Jessie interrupted wildly:
“Oh, madam, do not scold me, I pray you. I am wretched enough already.
Is there not a woman’s heart beating under your silks and jewels the
same as under my rags? Then pity me, I implore you, and grant the boon
I crave! Let me see him but once.”
“All this is very strange to me, child, and for my life I cannot
understand why you should be so anxious to see Frank Laurier, but I
cannot resist your frenzied appeals, they touch me too deeply. He is
in there. Go in and speak to him!” waving her jeweled hand toward the
closed portières of a room on the left of the magnificent corridor.
With a strangled sob, Jessie sprang toward the curtains. Impelled
by sympathy she could not understand, Mrs. Dalrymple followed her
footsteps.
Frank Laurier was lying at ease on a sofa with one foot on a
cushion--having sustained a severe sprain to one ankle that would keep
him Mrs. Dalrymple’s welcome guest for several days. Some strips of
court plaster on the side of his face slightly marred his beauty to an
ordinary observer, but not to Jessie Lyndon, who, advancing at first
with slow, awed footsteps, suddenly stopped, stared, then flew across
the room to the sofa, murmuring in joyful incredulity:
“Alive! Alive!”
She sank on one knee, and pressed her lips tenderly on one hand that
was thrown carelessly above his head.
“Why, that wicked woman told me you were dead! And I--I----” the sweet
voice faltered.
A low, derisive laugh rang on the air, and, lifting her eyes, Jessie
saw that they were not alone.
It was Cora Ellyson who had laughed, as with flashing eyes she pushed
Jessie away from Frank’s side.
“Go away, you bold girl, how dare you force your way in here to annoy
Mr. Laurier?” she cried angrily.
“Annoy him; I--it is not true! Do I annoy you?” pleaded Jessie
tremulously, turning to the young man whose handsome face twitched with
pain as he answered impatiently:
“My dear Miss Lyndon, this is very strange on your part! To come
bursting into the room like this. What is the matter?”
To the day of his death he would never forget what happened in that
room after his cold and haughty reception of little Jessie.