When Golden on the impulse of the moment had entered the room that she
knew was Bertram Chesleigh's, she stood frightened and trembling inside
the closed door, afraid to look up at first at the man who had treated
her so cruelly.
Gathering courage at the shuddering remembrance of the terrors that
awaited her in the darkness of the gloomy night outside, she looked up
at last, determined to make at least one appeal to her husband.
The gas had been lighted and it threw a flood of brightness over every
object in the room.
On a sofa at the further end Bertram Chesleigh lay sleeping in a
careless position, as if he had just thrown himself down, wearied and
overcome with fatigue.
The jet-black hair was tossed carelessly back from his high, white
brow, and the thick, dark lashes lay heavily upon his cheeks, as if his
slumber was deep and dreamless.
A small table was drawn closely to his side, littered with writing
materials, and a pen with the ink scarcely dried upon it, lay beside a
letter just stamped and sealed, and addressed to:
RICHARD LEITH.
No. ---- Park Avenue, New York.
As Golden glided across the room, and paused, with her small hand
resting upon the table, the superscription of the letter caught her
eyes by the merest chance. She started, caught it up in her hand and
scanned it eagerly.
"Richard Leith," she read, and her voice trembled with eagerness. "How
strange! Why is he writing to Richard Leith?"
She glanced at the sleeper, but not the quiver of an eyelash betrayed
disturbance at her presence.
She drew a slip of paper toward her, and neatly copied the address from
the letter, placing it securely in her little purse.
Then she paused, turning another wistful glance from the letter which
she still held in her hand, to the pale, handsome face of the husband
who had discarded her because she had been born to a heritage of shame.
She wondered again if Bertram Chesleigh knew Richard Leith, and why he
had written to him, but no thought of the truth came into her mind, or
how gladly she would have flown to the quiet sleeper and folded him in
her loving arms, and sobbed out her gladness on his broad breast.
Instead she stood gazing at him a few moments in troubled silence, the
tear-drops hanging like pearls on her thick, golden lashes, her breast
heaving with suppressed sighs.
Then she turned and went out of the room, her first impulse to awaken
him having been diverted into another course by her opportune discovery
of the address of the man whom she believed to be her father.
"Bertram would only despise and defy me if I appealed to him, perhaps,"
she murmured, "I will seek my misguided mother instead."
She gave him one sad, reproachful glance and hurried out of the room.
As she closed the door it inadvertently slammed and awakened the
sleeper. He started up, confusedly passing his hand across his brow,
and looking up for the person whom he supposed had entered the room.
"I distinctly heard the door slam," he said to himself. "Someone either
entered or left the room."
But as no one appeared, he concluded that someone had entered, and
finding him asleep, had gone out again.
He crossed to the door and looked out into the lighted corridor.
No one was visible, and he was about to close the door again, when his
sister Edith came suddenly in sight.
He waited until she came up to him, her dark silk dress rustling as she
moved hurriedly along.
"Come in, Edith," he said. "I am sorry I was asleep when you came in
just now. Why did you not awaken me? I was only dozing. The closing of
the door awakened me instantly."
She looked up at him in surprise, and then he saw that her brilliant
face was quite pale, and her dark eyes had a strange, unnatural glare
in them.
"I have not been in your room since morning," she replied. "What made
you think so, Bert?"
"Someone must have come in and gone out again, for I was awakened by
the closing of the door, and I thought at first it must have been you.
Doubtless it was only a servant. It does not matter. But, Edith, has
anything happened? You look pale and strange."
She threw herself down into a chair, and her unnatural calm gave way to
a flood of tears.
Mr. Chesleigh was shocked and distressed. He bent over her and
entreated her to tell him the cause of her grief.
Checking her tears by a great effort of will, Mrs. Desmond told him all
that had passed.
"I will never live with Mr. Desmond again," she said, passionately,
when she had finished her story. "Ever since we married he has outraged
my love and my pride by his glaring flirtations, but this last affair
is too grievous and shameful to be tamely endured. I hate him for his
falsehood and infidelity, and I will never live with him again!"
"Edith, think of the scandal, the notoriety, if you leave your
husband," he remonstrated.
"I do not care," she replied, her dark eyes blazing with wrath and
defiance; "let them say what they will; I will not tamely endure such a
cruel insult! You must make some arrangement for me, Bertie, for I will
never, never live with Mr. Desmond again!"
And Bertram Chesleigh, with his heart on fire at his beloved sister's
wrongs and his brain puzzled over the best way to right them, little
dreamed that his own weakness and wrong-doing had been the sole cause
of her sorrow. His fiery indignation was spent upon his brother-in-law
when it should have been bestowed upon himself.