The handsome residence of Oscar Hilton was ablaze with lights from
basement to attic, and from the long parlors issued the sound of merry
dance music. It was Isabel’s birthday, and Isabel’s dear five hundred
friends had been invited to do honor to the occasion.
It must have been almost, if not quite, eleven o’clock, and the
festivities were at their height, when a servant made his way through
the dancers to the place where his master stood, with such a look of
alarm on his face, that every one who chanced to see it knew there was
something wrong, or some sad news to be imparted to their host. Hilton
himself turned white as death as he saw the man coming toward him.
A hush fell upon the assembled guests, and at this most inopportune
moment the music ceased, and one could plainly hear the beating of the
rain against the windows, one of those sudden storms peculiar to early
springtime having arisen unknown to the dancers.
The servant was speaking in low, cautious tones to his master, but some
of his words came plainly to the ears of the bystanders, among whom
were St. John and Isabel.
“Miss Iris is outside, sir, an’ she’s sick, I think, fainted dead away.
She’s drenched through with the rain--and--and, oh, sir, I think she’s
a-dyin’. She just came up the stoop a-holdin’ by the rails, an’ when
I opened the door she cried so faintly, sir, ‘mother! mother!’ an’
fell as if dead at my feet before I could catch her. I laid her in the
reception room, sir--was that right?--an’ I thought it best to tell you
before I frightened Mrs. Hilton.”
“Quite right, Peter; I will attend to the girl myself,” whispered Mr.
Hilton, unconscious that any other ear than his own had caught Peter’s
words.
Peter hurried from the room with his eyes suspiciously moistened and
red; he had loved the gentle Iris very dearly.
Mr. Hilton shortly followed him, pausing first to make a polite apology
to his guests for the necessity which obliged him to tear himself away
from them for a few moments only.
From what Isabel had overheard, she knew that Iris had returned ill,
and in trouble, at this late hour, and her eyes instinctively sought
those of the man upon whose arm she leaned.
His face was white and set, and his lips pressed themselves tightly
together, but he did not avoid her gaze.
He drew her hand closer within his arm, and led her to a spot a little
distance removed from the rest of the company.
“Isabel,” he said gently, as if he had read aright the fear in her
eyes, “you are my promised wife, and Iris has sinned beyond the
possibility of forgiveness--you need not fear that I will give her one
thought that would be a wrong to you. I know your father will deal
gently with her, but you, Isabel, you who have loved her as a sister
almost all her life, you will be kind to her if she comes to you,
penitent and suffering; will you not promise me this, Isabel, my wife?”
He spoke the last two words with a peculiar emphasis, as if trying
to impress on his heart and brain that she was really to bear this
relationship to him.
She smiled up into his face, while tears dimmed her lustrous eyes as
she answered:
“Were she the vilest sinner on earth, I would receive her
gladly--joyfully, and do everything in my power to reclaim her.”
As Isabel uttered these words, Chester St. John bent suddenly over her
and touched his lips gently to her forehead.
It was the first time he had ever caressed her, and the warm blood
crept into her dusky cheeks until they rivaled the crimson of the rose
at her breast, but she knew that the kiss was given only for Iris’
sake, and her heart grew hard and bitter toward that hapless girl.
“She shall not return to this house though she die of starvation on
the street,” was Isabel’s thought, and at the very first opportunity
that offered she stole quietly from the room and made her way to the
apartment where she expected to find her father and the unhappy Iris.