A SNAKE IN THE GRASS.
The music surged in sweet, soft strains, the dancers danced, and the
moments went by. And still the mistress of all this splendor lay
white and unconscious upon the low seat in the conservatory, where the
banksia roses were heaped in great clusters, and the dreamy splashing
of the little fountain not far away alone broke the silence. Out in the
ball-room Senator Van Alstyne was dancing with Mrs. Vernon. Her face
was flushed with triumph, and her eyes held a look of exultation in
their black, velvety depths.
“I will be even with Lenore Van Alstyne yet!” she was muttering low
under her breath. “I will pay her off for her cold, calm superiority
over me--her airs and graces, her assumption of goodness! I hate her,
the stuck-up, haughty creature. I have always suspected that there was
something hidden--a secret in her life--which she would not like the
world to know. I am sure of it now. I shall tell Rosamond all about
it, and if between us we can not punish and humiliate my lady, then I
imagine nobody can.”
And the black, velvety eyes shone like diamonds, and the pretty face
was full of eager exultation at the thought--the alluring prospect of
blackening and defiling a sister woman’s name, and dragging her down
into the dust of shame and humiliation. Lenore was pure and true and
noble, though the victim of strange circumstances. And this woman--who
was no more to be compared with her than the bright blue, sunshiny
summer day can compare with the black, cold, tempestuous winter’s
night--this woman had power to drag her down from her pedestal of
innocence, simply because Bessie Vernon was unprincipled, and had set
her whole heart upon the ruination of Lenore, whom she hated with that
hatred of her own sex which is a woman’s Cross of Honor--such women as
Bessie Vernon. And as she floated down the long room on the arm of the
senator, to the sweet waltz music, her thoughts were busy with a scheme
of vengeance.
And the moments slipped by, and still Lenore did not return to
consciousness. Mrs. Vernon had wandered away to the furthest extremity
of the drawing-room, and alone, for a wonder, was watching the
conservatory with furtive, cat-like eyes; but still Lenore lay in that
death-like swoon in the secluded corner among the banksia roses, and
the guests did not dream the truth.
At length a tall form emerged from the depths of the fernery just
beyond the main conservatory, separated by a screen of luxuriant
flowering vines, and slowly approached the unconscious woman. It was
Cyril Fayne; his face white and set, his eyes full of smoldering light
which was not good to see. He looked like a man who is bent upon some
desperate errand as he came swiftly forward and fell upon his knees at
her side.
“She is dead--my love, my wife!” he panted, hoarsely. “Lenore! Lenore!
Open your eyes, my darling, and tell me that you love me, and will go
with me at once--this very night!”
Slowly the soft dark eyes opened and met his eager, impassioned gaze.
She half arose, putting out her hands in a pleading, beseeching way.
“Don’t! Oh, Cyril! do not let them hear you!” she cried. “He would
listen to no explanation; he would put a bullet into your heart without
a moment’s hesitation. And if he knew all--if he knew--”
She stopped short, breathing hard, like one in pain. Cyril Fayne
started.
“He shall know--he must know soon!” he panted, softly. “I will only
wait for this affair to be ended and the guests dispersed; then I
will demand a private interview with Senator Van Alstyne. Lenore, my
darling, I am going to take you away from this place--away from the
awful position that you are filling--not your fault, my love! but it
must end now--at once, before another sun shall set. Think of the
horrors of your position--this sham existence must end at once! Let it
be to-morrow night. Ah! I have a better plan. We need say nothing to
him until all is over with; we would only make a terrible scene; and
once away from here, we will be with each other, never more to part!
You shall learn all the dark and dreary past, Lenore--the truth of our
long parting. I have written a full confession and explanation for you
to read before you join your fate with mine. Take this and read it at
your leisure,” he added, swiftly, drawing a letter from his pocket and
laying it in her trembling hand.
“We must be silent as the grave,” he went on, hurriedly; “keep our own
counsel, and all will yet be well. Lenore, you can not, must not, live
on in this way a day longer, now that you know the truth. Go with me
to-morrow night. I will meet you at any place you may designate, and we
will take passage for Europe at once. Does that please you, Lenore?”
She smiled, a sad, dreary smile it was, yet her eyes were full of
tenderness.
“Anywhere with you, Cyril,” she whispered. “Oh, to be with you always,
after all these long years, will be like heaven.”
“Then will you go away with me to-morrow night?” he panted, eagerly.
“I will defer my explanation until we are gone; then Van Alstyne shall
receive a written statement, with all necessary proofs of the truth,
and you will be out of his way, so that the horrors of his anger shall
not fall upon your head. And he is so violent and brutal, it is best
for you to be gone before he learns the truth, and that it is no sin.
The sin would be in remaining, Lenore!” She bowed her head like a
beautiful white lily--drooping and pale. “You will go with me?” he went
on, eagerly; “there is no other resource; and--surely you are willing,
Lenore?”
“Willing?”
She started to her feet, pale and trembling with excitement, her hands
clasped, her eyes shining like stars.
“Willing? Oh, Cyril! Ask a starving, freezing wretch if he is willing
to be taken to a warm, luxurious home, with every comfort; ask a dying
consumptive if he would be glad to have his health and strength again;
ask the bleeding, fainting heart if it would be happy with the one it
loves--and you will have my answer. Yes, yes; a thousand times yes. As
the old German song says:
“‘To be with you--that’s my heaven:
Without you--that’s my hell.’
And I have been cast out into utter darkness, and my life has been
desolate and barren long enough. I am going to accept the cup of
happiness held to my lips, and thank God for the love that has come
back to me--Heaven be praised, not too late!”
He drew her to his side and kissed the red lips with a long, lingering
kiss.
“My love! my love!” he cried; “you are mine--mine by the laws of heaven
and earth! Thank God for that. Now, Lenore, tell me, where shall I
meet you to-morrow night? The ‘Caspian’ sails the next morning; she is
anchored out at sea. We can go on board my friend Thornton’s yacht at
any hour you name to-morrow night, and he will take us out to where the
‘Caspian’ lies. Once on board her, we are safe. Tell me what hour to
meet you, Lenore.”
She bent her head for a moment in deep thought.
“We entertain again to-morrow night,” she said, slowly. “Van Alstyne
would fill his house every night if it were feasible. To-morrow at
eight we give a dinner to some foreign embassadors and half a dozen
bewhiskered, beribboned officers--a score of guests. I can manage to
slip away unobserved from the house at ten, perhaps, and will meet you
in the grounds down by the ornamental lake. You can easily find the
place; there is a marble basin full of gold-fish, and the water is
white with pond-lilies. Be there at ten precisely, Cyril, and I will
join you as soon as possible.”
“Prepared to go with me at once?” he queried, breathlessly.
A quick flush shot athwart the ivory whiteness of her face and a tender
light stole into her luminous eyes.
“Prepared to go with you? Yes,” she made answer. “My life here must
come to an end. Oh, Heaven! if it had only come to an end long ago,
or, better still, had never begun. I hate and scorn and loathe myself,
Cyril, and oh--”
She stopped short, and her face grew ghastly white.
“Stay!” she whispered, hoarsely, “I have something to tell you--a
revelation to make, Cyril. Listen: I must tell it quickly, for my
guests will miss me, and I must leave you now.”
She whispered a few words in his ear.
He grew pale as death, then he stooped and kissed her.
“How you have suffered, oh, my love!” he cried; “but all that is
ended now. Good-night, Lenore. I will meet you to-morrow night at the
ornamental lake in the Van Alstyne grounds at ten precisely, and then--”
His voice died away into a murmur. He stole from the conservatory into
the grounds through a side door which opened for him; and then, pale as
a marble statue, Lenore went back to her guests.
As soon as she was gone there was a rustling among a group of tall,
feathery palms which grew near, and directly afterward a slight,
_petite_ figure in auburn satin and lace and gleaming, glowing rubies
crept slowly forth. It was Bessie Vernon. Her face was flushed with
unholy triumph, her eyes were scintillating with hatred.
She had witnessed the entire interview; but they had spoken in such low
tones that she had not caught the conversation, only the last few words
which told of the appointed tryst.
Her white hands clinched themselves tightly together, and low under her
breath she muttered, hoarsely:
“He kissed her! I saw him. And they are to meet to-morrow night at ten,
in the grounds. My dear Mrs. Van Alstyne, immaculate Lenore! when that
meeting takes place I shall be there also!”
And then she went back to the ball-room, and danced all the rest of the
night, with as much carelessness and _abandon_ as though she were not
plotting the downfall of a sister woman.