“Iris! Iris! My God, have I killed her?”
The words came from the lips of Oscar Hilton with a cry of unutterable
fear, as he bent over the rigid and senseless form of his young
daughter, on the morning following his interview with Chester St. John.
“I have killed her!” the man reiterated; but even as he lifted the
girl’s head from the floor, her lips trembled slightly, and the lids
were lifted slowly from the beautiful blue eyes that looked purple now,
as Iris awakened to the consciousness of a sorrow tenfold more bitter
than death.
“It cannot--oh, it cannot be true!” she moaned, drawing herself away
from the touch of his hands with an irrepressible shudder.
“You say that Chester St. John loves me, and will ask me to be his
wife, and I--loving him with every pulse of my heart--must give him
up. Nay! more--that I must tell him I have no love for him--must send
him from me with the bitter thought that I am a false and heartless
coquette. No! no! Oh, dear Heaven! I can do anything but that.”
Oscar Hilton had been terrified when it seemed to him that Iris lay
dead at his feet, but at the moment when her voice fell again upon his
ear, his voice grew stern and cold, and he spoke to her now with a
sneer.
“Do you think Chester St. John would ask you to be his wife if he knew
the true story of your life? He is very proud of his fine old name; do
you think he would care to give it to the child of a----”
The word he would have spoken died on his lips unuttered, for Iris had
lifted her eyes quickly to his own, with an intangible something in
their expression that daunted him.
“You have told me the story of my parentage, Mr. Hilton, and if you
have any claim to the title of a gentleman, you will not insult my
helplessness by repeating the epithet you were about to apply to me.
When you married my father’s divorced wife, and took her to be a mother
to your daughter Isabel, why did you allow her to rear me--that man’s
offspring--as one entitled to your name, to crush me at this late day
with a knowledge of the truth. It has pained me always to notice your
coldness toward me, in contrast to your passionate love for Isabel; but
I--I never suspected this. Oh, how could my own mother deceive me so?”
“I should never have told you the truth, Iris, but for this affair with
St. John. I have treated you always as my own child, and denied you no
luxury that Isabel herself has enjoyed. If I now demand a sacrifice at
your hands, I think I have a right to expect that you will grant what
I ask. At a word from me your mother would have given you, an infant
of two years, into an asylum, sixteen years ago. I saved you from such
a fate, and all I ask in return is that you will cure Chester St. John
of his infatuation for your pretty, childish face. It is nothing more
than infatuation, for before your return from school he was devoted to
Isabel; and, Iris, I will tell you this in strict confidence: unless
my daughter makes an advantageous marriage very soon, I shall be a
ruined man. Think what this word ruin means, not only to Isabel, but to
your invalid mother, whose love of ease and luxury is part of her very
life. Make St. John believe that you have no love for him, and all will
be well, I know. The secret I have revealed to you to-day shall never
again pass my lips, and----”
“Let me speak!” interrupted Iris, with quick, panting breaths. “I have
no other way of paying you for what you have done for me, and I--I will
do what you ask. But when I have sent Chester St. John from me I shall
leave your home forever. I will never pass another night beneath your
roof.”
A low knock on the door at this moment interrupted the girl’s brave
words, and Peter entered, to announce that Mr. St. John was waiting in
the parlor to see Miss Iris.
“So soon! Oh, how shall I meet him?” exclaimed Iris, with such a
passionate cry of pain that Mr. Hilton feared her resolution would fail
at the last, and, starting toward her, attempted to take one of her
hands in his own.
“Iris, do not forget,” he began, but she drew herself shudderingly away
from him, saying, as she moved slowly toward the door:
“I shall not forget the debt I owe you; I am going to pay it now--to
pay it in full.”
There was no tremor in the low, sweet voice as she spoke these words,
but her face, turned for a moment toward him as she crossed the
threshold, was so pitifully white and hopeless that a momentary thrill
of compassion stirred Oscar Hilton’s heart, and he muttered to himself
as he listened to the sound of her footsteps descending the stairs:
“Pshaw! she does not mean all that nonsense. I would never let her do
that, but she shall not stand in my Isabel’s light. Ah, my daughter! I
was thinking of you; was I speaking my thoughts aloud?”
He had spoken the last words audibly, just as the object of his
thoughts entered the room.
“What is the matter, papa? I just passed Iris in the hall, looking like
a ghost, and came in here to find you raving about somebody standing
in my light. Tell me what it is all about, please; I hate anything
approaching a mystery.”
Isabel spoke in the cold, imperious tones that were peculiar to her,
but her father answered her almost humbly:
“There is no mystery, my darling; do not distress yourself. Don’t go
yet, Isabel, I want to talk with you. You have not told me how you
enjoyed yourself at Mrs. Laurier’s last night. Were there many there?
Was Mr. St. John among the guests at any time during the evening?”
The last question was asked so earnestly that Isabel showed her white
teeth in a laugh.
“You are always so anxious about Chester St. John, papa; I think you
have set your heart upon having him for a son-in-law; is it not so,
_mon père_?”
Mr. Hilton answered his daughter gravely:
“I would like it of all things, Isabel; I should like to see you
Chester St. John’s wife.”
Isabel’s dark, handsome face flushed, and she spoke somewhat bitterly:
“I would consent to be his wife if he asked me, papa, because he is
the richest man I know, and the handsomest; but I do not like him. I
think him proud, scornful, and sarcastic; and if the day ever comes
when I--but I must not make idle threats; take comfort in the thought,
my father, your dutiful daughter will employ every art in her power to
bring Chester St. John to her feet.”