THE ARRIVAL AT HEATHDALE.
Upon her arrival at Heathdale, Lady Linton was considerably surprised to
find that Sir William had engaged the services of a professional
decorator to prepare his home for the reception of his bride, and great
improvements had been made in many of the rooms. The suite over the
library, and looking out upon the river, had been exquisitely fitted up
in blue and white, and gold for his wife’s special use, while several
new pictures and pieces of statuary had been added to the already choice
collection which the old mansion possessed.
Still, with all this added elegance, it needed the touch of a tasteful
woman’s hand to make it really home-like, and both Lady Linton and her
daughter exerted themselves to make everything as attractive as
possible.
Her ladyship realized that perhaps she was presuming a little beyond her
jurisdiction in arranging, unauthorized, for a dinner-party, but she was
determined to do honor to the new mistress of Heathdale, and to show her
brother her entire approval of the step he had taken. She was bound,
too, that no funereal gloom should hang over their first evening at
home, but that all things should wear a joyous and inviting aspect; so
she sent invitations to a select few to come and welcome the baronet and
his bride upon their arrival.
The eventful day at length dawned—a bright, beautiful winter’s day, yet
mild for the season, and, at an early hour, the household at Heathdale
was all astir, and preparations for the grand event went briskly
forward; for everyone, down to the lowest servant, loved the master, and
was eager to show him honor on this unlooked-for occasion, while all
were on the alert to learn what manner of a wife he was about to bring
home.
The state dining-room was handsomely decorated for the grand event; the
best plate had been polished to the last degree of brightness, the
finest linen bleached and pressed, and a most sumptuous dinner was in
preparation.
There were flowers, choice and rare, everywhere, and every room was
fragrant with their perfume and bright with their beauty.
A glowing fire was built in the great hall, while over the carved mantle
above the huge fire-place, Lady Linton had caused to be placed a
beautiful shield, representing the crest of her family, and composed of
lilies and roses, with the word “Welcome,” in immortelles, surmounting
it.
At seven o’clock the guests began to gather; there were the Hon. Mr.
Capron with his wife and daughter, from an adjoining estate. The rector
and his genial helpmate; Lord Alfred Hartington, and his sister; Percy
Linton and his charming _fiancée_; Mrs. Farnum with Lord and Lady
Royalston. Rupert had of course been included in the list, but, not
having yet arrived, was looked for on the train from London, that was
due a few minutes before the one from the west.
Lady Linton was magnificent in garnet velvet, point lace, and diamonds.
She had spared neither time nor money for the occasion, and really had
never looked so well as now.
Lillian wore simple white silk, with crimson roses, in which she was
brilliantly handsome.
The remainder of the party were equally well arrayed, and it was truly a
goodly company that gathered to welcome the Baron of Heathdale.
At precisely a quarter to eight a carriage was heard to arrive, and Lady
Linton hastened to the hall to be the first to welcome her brother and
his wife; but she started back, almost affrighted, as she beheld
instead, William Heath, looking pale and thin, but bright and smiling,
enter, leaning upon Rupert Hamilton’s arm, and followed by his wife and
son.
“Where is my brother?” she inquired, after greeting them all most
cordially.
Rupert smiled roguishly as he replied:
“They have achieved a flank movement upon you, Lady Linton; when they
saw the house ablaze, they suspected a reception, and as a bride would
naturally be somewhat sensitive about appearing before company in
travel-stained garments, Sir William and Lady Heath drove to the
side-entrance, and doubtless are now in their own rooms. I am
commissioned to make their excuses, and to beg that you will send word
when dinner will be served.”
Lady Linton at once dispatched a servant to tell his master that dinner
had been ordered at nine o’clock, but it could be delayed if he desired.
Sir William returned answer not to make any change, that he and Lady
Heath would be ready to meet their friends by half-past eight.
The time would have passed heavily after that, had it not been for
Rupert, who was a general favorite, and soon had the whole company in
the best possible humor with themselves and everybody else, and Lady
Linton blessed him in her heart for his genial mirth, his exhaustless
fund of anecdote and repartee.
She was very restless, however, and anxiously watched the clock upon the
mantle, while it seemed as if half-past eight would never arrive.
All at once she saw Rupert dart from the side of Lillian, with whom he
had been talking, toward the lower door of the drawing-room, and
disappear in the hall.
Then there came a murmur of surprise from the opposite direction, and
glancing toward the upper door, she saw Sir William standing there,
smiling and looking the personification of joy, with a beautiful woman
leaning upon his arm.
Lady Linton started eagerly forward to greet them, when, all at once,
her heart bounded into her throat with suffocating force, a blur came
before her eyes, her limbs trembled and almost sank beneath her.
What delusion was this—what trick of her fancy?
Was it a horrible nightmare, or had some sorceress suddenly bewitched
her sight.
She covered her eyes with her hand for a moment, and then looked again.
No, it was no delusion—it was no trick; for just before her, looking
like a queen in her rich robes, her face radiant with happiness as she
leaned proudly upon her husband’s arm, she saw the woman who she had
hated and wronged for long, long years; whom she had plotted to ruin and
sweep from her path forever—Virginia Alexander! the chosen bride of her
brother in his youth, and now, in spite of falsehood, calumny, treachery
and even divorce, his happy wife, and the mistress of Heathdale!
She was clad in a reception robe of pale lavender velvet, simply piped
with satin; it faultlessly fitted her perfect form, while its ample
train, sweeping out behind her, made her stately figure seem more regal
than usual. Diamonds of purest water sparkled in her ears, gleamed upon
her bosom, and an exquisite crescent was fastened among the glossy coils
of her still rich and abundant hair.
Never had she been more beautiful, even in her youth, than now, as she
stood upon the threshold of her new home, where she was destined to
reign for long years yet, an honored and idolized wife.
Happiness had done much for her during the last few weeks; her face had
resumed its rounded outlines; a delicate bloom had come into her cheeks;
her lips were like lines of brightest coral; her eyes brilliant with the
exhilaration caused by the restoration of blissful hopes.
Just behind her, and now attended by Rupert Hamilton, was Virgie,
inexpressibly lovely in cream-white silk, with no ornaments save a bunch
of fragrant mignonette in her corsage; but, in the eyes of her lover,
and to others gathered there, she seemed the fairest vision of youth
that they had ever looked upon.
Lady Linton afterward confessed that she suffered more than death in the
brief interval that elapsed before her brother led his bride cross the
threshold and advanced to greet her.
But she was a woman of indomitable will, and, though her spirit for a
moment recoiled beneath this unexpected blow, she resolutely rallied her
failing courage—an almost uncontrollable rage took possession of her as
she realized how she had been duped—fooled; how this overwhelming
surprise had been deliberately prepared for her, and, though she was as
colorless as the costly lace that was fluttering upon her bosom with
every pulsation of her fiercely bounding heart, she swept haughtily
toward that regal-looking couple until within a few feet of them, when
she made a profound obeisance before them, saying with formal
politeness:
“Welcome, Sir William and Lady Heath, to Heathdale.”
She met and bore her defeat superbly, although she was sick at heart and
almost in a frenzy of anger, mortification, and humiliation, at being
thus triumphantly confronted in her own home by the woman, whom, all her
life, she had schemed to crush. To think that she should have made all
these elaborate preparations and planned this brilliant welcome but to
suffer such an ignominious overthrow in Virginia Alexander’s very
presence, was maddening beyond description.
But she would rather have died than betray anything of the conflict
within her, and, after that one obeisance, she stepped aside to allow
others to offer their greetings and congratulations, and by the time
supper was announced she had recovered, to all outward appearances at
least, entire control of herself.
Sir William led the way to the dining-room, and, without one word to his
sister, conducted his wife to the head of the table, whispering fondly
as he seated her:
“Welcome, my darling, to your home and to your position as mistress of
Heathdale.”
He then sought his own place opposite, while the butler seated the other
guests according to their rank.
There were two others among that company who had recognized the new
mistress of Heathdale with fear and trembling—Mrs. Farnum and her
daughter, Lady Royalston.
But, judging from Lady Heath’s gracious manner and the attention which
she bestowed upon all her guests alike, there was not one among the
company whom she did not regard in the most friendly way.
She was simply charming; her bearing and all her observances of
etiquette were faultless, and once, during the meal, Lady Royalston bent
and whispered in her mother’s ear:
“This is the woman whom Lady Linton scorned as unfit to mate with a
Heath! This is the woman whom we lent our aid to ruin! Mamma, we ought
to go down on our knees to her and her lovely daughter whom we have so
wronged.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Sadie, do not add to my torture,” returned Mrs.
Farnum, with pale lips. “Remember it was all for you—I knew that you
loved——”
“That will do, mamma; we will never open that grave again,” returned
Lady Royalston, losing some of her own color, “but I would give much to
be able to have Lady Heath for my friend, and I am impressed that we
shall never be bidden to Heathdale again.”
After dinner, an hour or more was spent in social intercourse, during
which something of Sir William’s and Lady Heath’s story was divulged.
The baronet had insisted upon this, for Virgie’s sake.
“She is my own daughter, and I must claim her as such before the whole
world,” he said, so as much as he deemed advisable to relate, without
publicly compromising any one who had been instrumental in causing the
misunderstanding between himself and his wife, he told to his friends.
It was also announced at the same time that Mr. Hamilton, the baronet’s
ward, had won the baronet’s beautiful daughter, and that there would be
another wedding about Easter.
When Lady Linton heard this she looked around for Lillian, but she had
quietly withdrawn from the company directly after dinner, and did not
make her appearance again.
The evening was over at last, and the guests dispersed, pronouncing Lady
Heath “delightful,” and predicting a happy future for the master of
Heathdale after the romantic trials of his youth and the sorrow of his
later years.
When Mrs. Farnum and her daughter took leave of Sir William and his
bride, the baronet simply bowed to them without offering his hand,
saying, with the least possible but unmistakable emphasis:
“Good-by, Mrs. Farnum; adieu, Lady Royalston.” And both knew that all
the past had been explained, and they had received their final _congé_.
Lady Royalston’s prediction had been verified.
When the last guest had departed, Sir William turned to his sister, his
face stern and cold.
“Miriam,” he said, in a tone that made her shiver, “at last I have found
my Virgie, my mountain maid whom I have loved all my life long. But what
of the lost years of the past?—the sorrow, the loneliness, and
misunderstanding? What of the hatred and treachery that produced it
all?”
Every word fell upon Lady Linton’s heart as if it had been a blow from a
hammer.
She made a gesture of despair. She could not speak; she felt that she
should go mad unless she could soon get away to the quiet of her room
and be released from that fearful constraint which she had imposed upon
herself for so many hours.
Lady Heath read something of her suffering in that wild gesture, and she
laid her lips against her husband’s ear, whispering:
“Dear Will, we can afford to be generous out of the abundance of our
happiness.”
Sir William’s face melted into infinite tenderness at her plea.
He placed his arm about her waist and drew her fondly to him.
“If you can plead for her, my darling, I should not be obdurate,” he
murmured, tenderly; then, turning again to his sister, he added: “We
will talk further of this matter to-morrow. Good-night, Miriam.”
With one more stern glance at the unhappy woman, he led his beautiful
wife from the room, and Lady Linton, her strength exhausted, her proud
spirit crushed, sank with a moan of anguish to the floor, and there the
butler found her half an hour later when he came to put out the lights.
He called her maid, and together they helped her to her room, where she
spent half the night in hysterics, and then, worn out, sank into a
profound slumber or stupor.