UNMASKED.
Reed Raymond followed the departing guests to the door, anxious for
a private word with his friend Lord Werter; and then Mrs. Fleming
exclaimed jauntily:
“Well, I must be going, too. Good-by, all!”
She was anxious to get away, for she felt frightened of Daisie,
somehow, though undreaming that the girl had learned the secret of her
treachery.
But, to her alarm and surprise, Daisie stretched out an imperative
hand, saying sternly:
“Wait, Lutie. There is something I must say to you and Royall.”
Annette turned to the door, saying nervously:
“I will go upstairs.”
“No;” and Daisie’s outstretched white hand motioned her to a seat, as
she added: “You know so much of my story, Annette, that I want you to
hear the rest.”
These three, who knew in their secret hearts how cruelly Daisie
had been wronged, and how much they were responsible, waited in the
greatest wonder and fear to hear what she might say.
They were prepared for something startling from the awful pallor of her
lovely face and the tragic ring of her sweet voice.
She stood up, with her arms folded on the back of her chair, the long
train of her blue silk gown trailing behind her on the floor, the rich
color bringing out the waving gold of her hair and the lily white of
her face--stood up and said to them in clear, unfaltering tones:
“I thought it as well, Royall, to tell you and your cousin that it will
not be necessary for you to pay Letty and her husband any greater price
for my misery. I know it all.”
“All!” muttered Royall hollowly.
“All!” echoed Lutie, in a sickly tone of dismay.
“All!” murmured Annette, in surprise and grief.
And, with an almost tragic sweep of her white hand, Daisie repeated
bitterly:
“All!”
They were unable to utter a single word. They could only wait
shrinkingly for her to continue her scathing arraignment.
“I know all!” she repeated, and the note of despair in her voice
scathed their hearts, it was so pathetic. “I know the plot that was
laid to part me from my lover, how we both were tricked and cheated by
lies and forged letters that turned our hearts to ice. Letty and Cullen
played their parts well from beginning to end--aye, until this very
day; but----”
“Dallas Bain, Lord Werter, has found out, and told you this!” hissed
Mrs. Fleming fiercely.
“No; I doubt if the story is yet known to him. By your own lips you are
condemned. Lutie Fleming, from your own lips I heard the cruel story of
my wrongs.”
“Ah-h!” cried Royall, in a sharp voice of comprehension, and she went
on, in that deep, accusing voice:
“When I left you with Royall this afternoon, I hurried upstairs to
change my dress, and came back and lay down on the sofa in the alcove
to rest. I did not mean to eavesdrop. I was only tired, and wanted to
rest while you chatted with Royall, so--I heard all!”
There was nothing to be said, no defense possible, they could only hang
their heads like detected felons.
Then the scheming widow, stealing a furtive glance at her cousin’s
face, was startled at its ghastly pallor.
Her tenderness for him nerved her to make one effort for his sake.
“Lay the blame on me!” she cried defiantly. “If you heard all, as you
say, you know that he was not in the plot, that it was mine alone--all
the fault mine. I dare say you would like to forsake poor Royall and
run after Lord Werter now, but you cannot do it, for you stayed with my
cousin of your own free will, and you cannot leave him now.”
“Hush!” breathed Royall hoarsely; and Daisie turned from her with a
glance of contempt.
She looked at Royall, and said gently:
“I have nothing but contempt and hatred for this woman, but you I pity.”
“Only pity!” he groaned; but she continued:
“You know I never professed anything but pity for you. My love was
given elsewhere before I was drawn into that mockery of a marriage
that chained me, an unloving wife, to your side.”
She paused, drew a long, quivering breath, and continued:
“You know I have tried to do my duty by you--that I will still try.”
“Yes, yes,” he cried, in a tone of infinite relief. He had feared that
she meant to apply for a divorce, and in the madness of his love he
was too selfish to bear such a suggestion. “You would not leave me,
Daisie--ill and crippled? It would be heartless!” he cried weakly, in
his agitation.
All his pity was for himself--none for her, so beautiful, so helpless,
so cruelly wronged by every additional hour of this bondage of a
loveless marriage.
She answered, with the calmness of a great despair:
“I must leave you, Royall, for a while--a little while--because I
should go mad just now without a change of some sort. I shall go
to-morrow down to Gull Beach for a few weeks with Aunt Alice. You
must do without me while I wrestle in silence with a grief beyond all
telling, and gain strength by prayer to take up my burden and face the
world again.” A pause to gather courage, and she added: “Annette tells
me she has a letter from home to-day. Her mother is sick, and begs
her to return. She goes to-morrow, and I shall accompany her on her
journey.”
It was true. Annette had seized on the first excuse that offered to
leave New York. It seemed to her that she could not breathe the same
air with Ray Dering--he had come, and she must go.
“Oh, Daisie, you will soon return?” he half sobbed, breaking down
utterly.
She moved to his side, and asked earnestly:
“Tell me--if you could have known what she was doing that night, would
you have joined in that infamous plot against my happiness?”
No matter what he would have done, he knew, at this moment that his
only salvation lay in denying it now.
He answered quickly:
“No, never!”
“Then I will return,” she answered, from the depths of her true womanly
pity, and swept from the room without another glance at the cruel woman
who had wrought all her woe.