The letter shown to Chester St. John was, as the reader has doubtless
surmised, the work of Evelyn Hilton, and written at the dictation of
her husband.
Cold and unkind though she had been to her daughter while the latter
had been in attendance on her, it cost her a struggle to write the
words that would make her child appear in such an evil light to the man
for whose eye it was intended.
There had been a stormy scene in the chamber of the invalid on the
occasion of the writing of this letter, for at first Mrs. Hilton had
boldly declined to do the work required of her.
“You shall write the letter, and write just exactly as I dictate you.
How dare you refuse to obey me?” he almost shouted, grasping Evelyn’s
delicate wrist so tightly that she cried out with pain.
Even after this outburst she ventured to offer another feeble protest.
“How can you ask me to do that which will ruin the reputation of my own
child? Oh, Oscar, think of your own Isabel. Could any threat of harm
to yourself or any inducement that could be offered you compel you to
write one line that would injure her?”
“You amuse me, Evelyn, you are developing rare dramatic talent in your
old age--your pretense of love for your child is really a fine piece of
acting--bah! Do you think I believe it is anything more than acting?
Did you love your child when you would have placed her in an asylum
sixteen years ago? A little, helpless toddler of two years? You talk of
the ties of natural affection! What had you done with that sentiment
when you forged your husband’s name, and branded the man who had loved
you truly as felon, suffering him to be cast into a prison for your
sins? Good heavens, I have killed her!”
The last exclamation broke from Hilton’s lips with a cry of unfeigned
alarm, for Evelyn had fallen back like one dead among the cushions of
her easy-chair.
Oscar Hilton had loved this woman--next to his idolized
daughter--better than anything in life, and she had not even yet lost
all sway over his selfish heart.
He was thoroughly alarmed now, and used every effort in his power to
restore her, fearing to call any assistance lest in her first moments
of awakening to life she might say something to betray her perilous
secret.
It seemed to him that hours had passed before his efforts were rewarded
with success, and the dark-blue eyes he had once thought so beautiful
lost that strained and awful look that had so terrified him.
“How did you learn my secret?” she cried, when fully restored.
“Your secret is known only to myself, Evelyn, and I assure you it is
safe with me as long as you strive to please me and obey me. I learned
the truth from your own lips, while you were sleeping at my side. You
have a habit of talking aloud, and quite connectedly in your sleep, and
you rave of that forged note continually. You are white and trembling
still; drink this glass of wine, and when you are little stronger I
will dictate the words I wish you to write in your daughter’s name. The
imitation of her handwriting will be no trouble to you, I know, for you
have often boasted to me of your skill in this sort of work. Have you
decided to obey me, Evelyn?”
“I have no choice left me but to obey you,” the woman answered, in a
tone of intense weariness; and half an hour later found her engaged in
writing the letter that was destined to cause her child many an hour of
keen suffering. It was addressed to Oscar Hilton, and read as follows:
“I am leaving your home to follow the fortunes of a man whom I love,
but of whom I know you would not approve. I can tell you nothing
concerning him, only the simple fact of my love for him. I know you
had set your heart upon my marriage with Chester St. John, but this
could never have been.
“I like Mr. St. John very much, and I may have deceived him into the
belief that I returned his affection for me, but I could not help it;
it was so pleasant for me to feel in company that I had the power to
retain the handsomest and wealthiest man among them by my side, while
the other ladies were dying of envy.
“I am sorry now that I did so, because I know that I have often given
pain to your Isabel, who loves Chester St. John with her whole heart.
She never betrayed her secret to me until I told her of his proposal,
and then she could not hide it.
“Her face turned white as death, and I heard her whisper his name over
and over in such a tone of love and sorrow that I was ashamed of my
own heartless conduct.
“I hope he will learn to love Isabel, she is much more worthy than I
am, and better fitted to grace his home.
“When you receive this I shall be with the man of my choice.
“Break the news as gently as possible to my mother, and ask her to
forgive and forget her willful daughter,
“IRIS.”
This was the letter, and hardened and worldly as was the woman who
wrote it, a tear fell on the open page before her as she signed the
name of the sweet-faced girl who had never given her an angry or
impatient word.
On the day following that on which he had shown St. John the letter,
Mr. Hilton met Chester face to face on Broadway, and on the latter’s
making a polite inquiry for Miss Hilton, answered in a grave and
sorrowful tone:
“She does not appear to be making much progress toward recovery. Her
doctors say she makes no effort, and they are astonished that one so
young and lovely should seem to have so little desire for life. St.
John, it would kill me to give her up,” and Hilton grasped the arm
of his companion with a passionate vehemence that contrasted oddly
with his usual calm and collected demeanor. “It would kill me,” he
reiterated, “and to save her I would suffer any humiliation. St. John,
you know the secret sorrow that is breaking my darling’s proud heart;
I was obliged to expose it to you when I showed you Iris’ heartless
letter. Will not you do something to restore her to me? Call on her as
a friend. Do not let her think that you have deserted our home because
of Iris’ cruel treatment----”
“Hush, Mr. Hilton; please do not mention that name in my hearing,”
exclaimed St. John, drawing his arm out of that of his companion with a
shudder of uncontrollable repulsion.
The interview ended with a half reluctant promise from St. John to call
on Isabel, and Isabel’s father went on his way triumphant, thinking
as he proceeded toward his home: “Before another month is over, my
darling shall be Chester St. John’s promised wife, and whether I fail
or prosper, her future will be well provided for.”