“There will be no wedding to-day.”
That night I went to bed hoping to the last that Belle would relent and
say a kindly word to me. For after all, she was the only sister I had,
and I would have been thankful to have been reconciled with her. But she
was as implacable as ever, and never uttered one kindly word to me amid
all the congratulations of others; although Lady Elizabeth had, I know,
remonstrated with her on her unsisterly behavior. My father did not care
to interfere in the matter, especially as his sympathies were all in
favor of his eldest daughter.
I was up betimes, for we were to be at the church at ten o’clock. I had
been sorely exercised about the choice of a wedding dress, as I feared
that white would make me look more hideous than usual. But Lady
Elizabeth had persuaded me to have a creamy satin, and, somehow, as I
surveyed myself in the glass, I was not quite so dissatisfied with the
result as I had expected to be. The freckles had found the London
atmosphere uncongenial, and had departed, I fervently hoped forever. My
complexion too had changed from a muddy hue to a clear dark olive which,
though far from being satisfactory, was a considerable improvement on
its former condition. My hair, thanks to the skillful treatment of Lady
Elizabeth’s maid, had grown much thicker, and looked rather nice than
otherwise.
But, in spite of these improvements, I was still an ugly,
insignificant-looking slip of a girl, and I lost myself in wonderment at
the thought of such great good fortune coming to me. There were to be no
bridemaids, only a few personal friends having been invited to church,
though there was to be a reception at the house afterward. Belle had at
first declared her intention of refusing to accompany us to church. But
perhaps the thought that she would, by holding herself aloof, betray to
the world at large how deeply chagrined she was, induced her to alter
her mind.
Still, when I saw her in the hall, just before we started, I could not
account for her unusual appearance. She was positively livid, and shook
every now and then in the strangest manner. Both my father and Lady
Elizabeth conceived the idea that she must be ill, but she assured them
that there was nothing the matter with her.
“But of course one feels a little excited at seeing one’s sister so
suddenly raised to splendor,” she said, with a side glance at me which
displayed so curious a mixture of fear and hatred that I lost all my
good spirits, and was driven to church in an unaccountable state of
nervousness and trepidation, which was increased when I saw that the
bridegroom and Lord Egreville, who was to officiate as best man, were
not here first, according to arrangement.
“I am surprised they are not here yet,” whispered Lady Elizabeth. “Never
mind, dear, they are sure to come soon.”
So I thought, too. But for the life of me I could not hinder the tears
which came to ease my head and my heart, both of which were in a state
of painful tension. By-and-by, I looked up to see Belle’s eyes fixed
upon me once more. But what had wrought a change in her again? Her
expression was no longer one of fear, but of victory. The hatred was
there yet, and that did not surprise me. But how to account for the
unmistakable triumph which I had seen manifest itself on her face for a
moment?
Like a flash her words recurred to me: “I tell you, it shall not be! I
will not have it! Sooner than endure such a humiliation I would—”
Ah! what would she do? What _had_ she done? I asked myself anxiously.
Something decisive. Something disastrous to me, I knew, or her face
would not have worn that momentary impress of a purpose accomplished.
Somehow, through all the weary waiting that followed, my powers of
observation and deduction seemed strung to their highest pitch. I
noticed that as the moments dragged on without bringing the two
gentlemen, Lady Elizabeth and my father grew momentarily more anxious.
And I also noticed that Belle no longer looked expectantly toward the
door, as every one else kept doing, but that she bore all the appearance
of one whose desires were accomplished.
At last, unable to bear the suspense any longer, my father rose from his
seat, and, whispering to Lady Elizabeth that he was going to the earl’s
temporary town residence, to ascertain the cause of the strange delay,
he left the church without further preamble, my acutely attuned ears
shortly afterward hearing the rattling of his cab-wheels down the
street.
Lady Elizabeth, who sat next to me, put a caressing hand upon my own,
and whispered: “Do not look so frightened, child. I do not suppose they
will be long in coming now.”
“They will never come!” was my reply, intended only for my comforter’s
ears. “They will never come! Something dreadful has happened, and Belle
knows it. See how calm and self-satisfied she is now. Remember the state
she was in before she came. She vowed that my marriage should not take
place. She has made her vow come true!”
Lady Elizabeth cast a startled glance at Belle, but had no time to
comment upon my words, for at this moment we heard an excited hubbub
near the door, and Marvel, the earl’s valet, came down the aisle with a
face which advertised bad news.
“Will your ladyship please leave the church as quickly as you can?” he
said to my stepmother. “And take the bride with you. _There will be no
wedding to-day._”
“For God’s sake, tell me what is the matter!” she exclaimed. “Something
dreadful has happened to my father!”
“An accident has occurred to him,” said Marvel, with an attempt to speak
as if it were nothing serious. But his voice broke in the endeavor, and
he sobbed forth: “Oh, my poor master! it is too dreadful!”
“What is the matter with him?” cried Lady Elizabeth, fairly shaking the
man in the intensity of her excitement and dread. “Tell me at once.”
When I heard Marvel’s reply, I neither shrieked nor fainted. For I had
felt sure that he would say what he did.
“He is dead!” he said, and my eyes, flaming and accusing now, at once
sought Belle’s, flashing my conviction of her guilt in her face. Under
that glance she reeled as if from a blow.
I hardly know what else happened that morning. I went home as in a
dream, feeling somehow more sorry for Lady Elizabeth than for myself,
and wondering if they would hang Belle when it was discovered that she
had murdered the earl; for my mind refused to disabuse itself of a
conviction of her guilt, although reason pointed to the conclusion that
it was impossible for her to have injured the earl, seeing that she had
not seen him, or spoken to him, for twenty hours.
The wedding guests returned to their own homes, there to discuss the
sensational interruption to what some of them had voted the most
sensational wedding of the season. My father reached home soon after we
did, and confirmed Marvel’s story in every detail. The Earl of
Greatlands had been found by Marvel, who had grown alarmed when he did
not rise at eight o’clock, lying in ghastly rigidity in the bed which he
had sought some hours earlier in apparently unusually buoyant health and
spirits. A glance convinced Marvel that life was quite extinct, and a
moment later he was rousing the household with shouts and cries. Of
course everybody came rushing up to the earl’s room. And of course
several doctors were summoned at once. But it was only too patent from
the very first that there was no hope, and though there was much loud
lamentation on the part of the servants, and quite a touching display of
sorrow on the part of Lord Egreville, or, rather, the new Earl of
Greatlands, it was not of the slightest avail, and the fiat speedily
went forth to the world that Lionel, ninth Earl of Greatlands, being in
an unusually excited state, owing to his prospective marriage, had
succumbed to unsuspected heart disease.
Nearly all the world accepted this explanation of the tragic event which
had, at one blow, deprived me of husband, wealth, title, position and
influence, and had converted Lord Egreville into the peer he longed to
be.
But not for one moment did I believe that the doctors had given anything
like a true diagnosis of the cause of the late earl’s death. There is a
fashion in everything, even in matters of life and death, and nowadays
it seems to be an epidemical fashion with medical men to ascribe every
sudden death of which they do not understand the cause to unsuspected
heart disease. The explanation is plausible, and, in all likelihood,
more often than not correct, although there is a strong element of
guess-work about it. Post mortem examinations are horrible and
unpleasant contingencies to contemplate, and the feelings of relatives
and friends are apt to be cruelly wounded by the bare mention of such a
_dernier resort_.
Of course it would have been extremely painful for all parties concerned
if an inquest over the remains of the Earl of Greatlands had been
suggested; but I never doubted for one instant that such a course would
have resulted in the discovery of foul play, such as only I—and one
other, as subsequent events proved—suspected.
Suspected! do I say? It was no mere suspicion with me. It was a firm and
rooted conviction, that nothing but absolute proof to the contrary could
ever dispel. And that proof, since no one broached the advisability of
an inquest, was not likely to be afforded me. No doubt there was
considerable marvel in some people’s minds concerning my manner of
bearing the sudden reverse of fortune which had befallen me, but their
opinion troubled me little, and it was not likely that I would occupy
the minds of sensation-mongers long after I had been relegated to my
former status of insignificant obscurity. Tears did not often come to
relieve the aching weight which oppressed me, as I pondered in what
perhaps struck those who were unable to gauge my real feelings as a hard
and defiant mood.
How could they tell, however, that the grief I felt for the loss of the
man who had loved me outweighed my regret for my lost glories, since I
let very few words of sorrow escape me? Indeed, I dared not indulge in
comments with any one, for I feared lest the horror and loathing which I
now felt for my sister and her _fiancé_ should break the bounds in which
I had resolved for the time being to entrammel them, and overflow in a
torrent of bitter denunciation and invective. I should imagine that
there are few girls of stronger passions for love or for hatred than
myself, and I sometimes caught myself wondering how I managed to refrain
from publicly denouncing those whom I firmly believed to be the
deliberate murderers of my dear old earl; for I hated them with a hatred
that was consuming in its wild intensity. Yes, my hatred was of fearful
force. But I was swayed by an even stronger passion, which held it at
bay.
This was my love for Lady Elizabeth, the first being who, since my
mother died, had opened her heart to me, and who was now prostrated by a
nervous attack, due to grief at the loss of her father, between whom and
herself the strongest sympathy had always existed. She had of late
admitted me largely into her confidence, and I had gained so much
knowledge of her nature that I knew what a bitter blow such family
disgrace would be to her as would overtake us all were my convictions
shared by others. For my father’s sake I would not have repressed my
wild longing for vengeance. For Lady Elizabeth’s sake I could have
submitted to make an even greater sacrifice.
But even my great love for her could not induce me to hold friendly
intercourse with Belle, or to withhold the fierce glances of accusation
under which the new Earl of Greatlands writhed in impotent rage. He saw
that I suspected evil-doing of some sort on his part, and he resented my
glances at first by frowns of defiance. But somehow, when I continued to
maintain steadfastly the antagonistic attitude I had assumed, he grew
manifestly uneasy, and even went so far as to presume to address words
of sympathy to me, which implied that he imagined me to cherish
animosity against him merely because he was occupying the place of the
man who was to have been my husband, and suggested that he hoped I would
no longer hold aloof from him and Belle as if I thought they had done me
an injury.
To this misjudged attempt to induce me to bury the hatchet I vouchsafed
no response but a cold stare of contempt and a curl of the lip which
spoke volumes. Indeed, so potent was this mute answer of mine that the
earl almost ceased to visit our house, and my father was informed by
Belle that my violence and ill manners had succeeded in depriving her to
a great extent of her lover’s society.
“Dora,” said my affectionate parent to me one morning after breakfast,
“I am sorry to observe that you have lapsed into your former
ill-conditioned state of selfish ill-breeding. I have made all due
allowance for the disappointment you must have felt at being prevented
from becoming the great lady you expected to be. But I have noticed with
growing displeasure that you are venting your spleen in an unjustifiable
manner upon Belle. Certainly, she is going to occupy the position you
thought would be yours, but she is doing you no personal injury thereby,
for your chances are irrevocably gone, and she was engaged to the
present Earl of Greatlands before the marriage between yourself and his
father was arranged. It is therefore abominable that you should try to
make her life miserable by driving her lover from the house, and doing
your best to produce an estrangement between them; and if you continue
your present behavior, I shall insist upon your going to live at the
Grange until we are ready to leave London.”
Lady Elizabeth was too ill to come downstairs, and was, therefore, not
present during this harangue. Otherwise it would probably not have been
made; for, even in things that wholly and solely concerned me, my father
was wont to show that consideration for his wife, who loved me, that he
would never have displayed toward me for my own sake, and he treated me
with tolerable politeness when in her presence. But when she was not
there, he showed the same unbounded partiality for Belle and the same
lack of sympathy for me which had always distinguished our intercourse
in the past; and it is not surprising that my lately acquired
self-reliance prompted me to retort that I was best aware of the motives
of my conduct, and that Belle was not likely to lose her lover through
me, since their destiny would henceforth be ruled by the promptings of
an evil conscience.
“You miserable little wretch!” exclaimed my father. “How dare you speak
to me in that tone? And how dare you cast innuendoes against Belle and
Cyril which virtually amount to an accusation?”
“An accusation of what, sir?” I asked, with a calm deliberateness which
surprised even myself, and caused my father to stagger as if he had
received a blow. And, indeed, he had received such a blow as is to be
hoped falls to the lot of few fathers. For my looks and manner, more
than my words, had struck him with the sudden conviction that his
favorite child was suspected of having at least been accessory to a
mortal crime. That the suspicion emanated from the brain of another of
his children mattered little to him, for he already disliked me too
intensely to feel any heart-pangs on my account. It was quite
sufficient, however, to cause him to cast aside the last shred of
conventionality as regarded his treatment of myself.
What transpired during the next five minutes I prefer not to relate.
There are events in the lifetime of most people which possess either too
sacred or too painful an interest for discussion with others. The memory
of my last interview with my father awakes in me no emotion but that of
resentment at the constant injustice with which he had always treated
me, and which culminated on this occasion in my expulsion from his
house.
Perhaps he thought that I would not take him at his word, and that at
the end of the hour which he had named as the limit of time he would
allow me in which to pack up my belongings and rid my family of my
presence, I would weepingly sue for mercy and promise to be polite and
conciliatory to Belle and the Earl of Greatlands. The mere supposition
that I, whose passions were of the strongest, could thus do violence to
my feelings, and acknowledge the superiority of two people whom I hated
and despised with all my heart, for the sake of retaining a home in
which I could never hope to be happy again, still serves to excite my
indignation and to provoke me to a feeling of resentment which I would
fain repudiate in my calmer moments.
For, after all, my father, poor man, was blinded by his partiality for
Belle; and although he fully grasped the deadly import of my unspoken
suspicions, he never for a moment doubted his beautiful darling’s
goodness, but accepted my attitude merely as a convincing proof of the
monstrosity of nature of one to whom had been denied that outward
fairness which in his eyes was equal to the strongest proof of inward
purity. Thus I sometimes reason, in attempted palliation of his
harshness to me. But, somehow, my reasoning has an awkward knack of
doubling upon itself and transforming my would-be kindlier leanings into
the old imbittered resentment.
My preparations for departure were soon made, although as yet my brain
was in too great a turmoil to permit me to make a definite plan for my
future guidance. I must remove myself and my belongings quickly. And I
must take my leave of Lady Elizabeth without permitting her to be pained
by a knowledge of the permanent nature of the estrangement between
myself and my family. The latter was a difficult feat for me to perform.
But I succeeded in going through the interview in a manner which it
pleased me to recall during my subsequent sufferings; for my dear
stepmother was spared the pain which would have been hers, if she had
realized the anguish of mind which my love for her caused me to hide.
I found her in her dressing-room, reclining on a couch which was drawn
up to the fire, the day being somewhat chilly for the time of year. I
noted with a sudden foreboding dread the change which the last few weeks
had wrought in Lady Elizabeth’s appearance. She was paler, thinner, and
altogether much more fragile-looking than when, so short a time ago, she
had assisted me to select the trousseau for my own marriage with her
father. There was, however, a light in her eyes which had, until lately,
been a stranger to them, and which had caused me considerable
uneasiness. For it gave me the impression that it had its origin in a
feeling deeper even than the grief which an affectionate daughter would
naturally feel at the loss of a beloved parent.
Could it be that—oh, no! perish the thought! Why should she be tortured
by such suspicions as had fixed their scorpion-fangs in my brain? She
could scarcely be so fully convinced of Belle’s capacity for evil as I
was, since she had never known her until the glamour of her artfulness
and beauty was such as to cause nearly every one who knew her to take a
fancy to her. Nor had she such deep reason to distrust one of her own
mother’s children as was the case with me. Some hidden sorrow was
sapping her life’s strength. But I fervently and sincerely prayed that
it might not be the hideous phantom of suspicion which was bidding fair
to wreck my own life.
“I have come to say good-by for a time,” I said, speaking with wonderful
quietness for one whose brain was in a whirl of stormy emotion. “As you
know, things are not as pleasant as they might be between Belle and
myself, and father and I have agreed that it will be best for me to
return to the Grange for a while. The change will do me good, but I
shall be grieved to part from you.”
“But, my dear, we are all going to the Grange shortly,” said Lady
Elizabeth, casting upon me a look of anxious scrutiny. “Come here. Kneel
beside me, and tell me all about this sudden arrangement. Have Belle and
you been quarreling?”
“Belle and I have not been quarreling,” I answered, as I dropped on my
knees beside the only woman in the world who loved me, and stroked her
white hand between my much less shapely ones. “But you may have noticed
that, whether rightly or wrongly, I cannot feel happy in her presence.
The earl, your brother, too, seems to be kept away from the house
through the antagonism which he and I feel for each other. I feel as if
it were wicked to dislike any one nearly related to you. But, indeed, I
cannot help it. So you must forgive me, and let me go from you now with
nothing but the kindest and most loving words from you; for, believe me,
I am more sorely in need of your sympathy than ever I was, and could not
bear to think of an estrangement between you and me.”
“Dorrie, I have learned to love you, and I know that you are not likely
to form violent antipathies without a cause. I also feel convinced that
your treatment of—of—my brother is dictated by the strongest feeling on
your part. The nature of that feeling must remain unknown to me, for I
dread confirmation of certain thoughts which fill my days and nights
with terror. Even should you prove to be actually unjust to my brother,
it will make no difference between us. But, if you are really leaving
town before the rest of us do, you must promise me one thing.”
“I will promise anything to you.”
“I know your willingness to serve me, and I think I can gauge your love
for me, but I am about to exact a great proof of both. Listen. All my
life I have yielded to the dictates of family pride. I have been proud
of my ancient lineage and unsullied family escutcheon; so proud, indeed,
that I did not hesitate to ally myself with one who had once been one of
the humblest sons of the people. I never dreamed of the possibility of
my being lowered to his family level by marrying him, but was sure that
the prestige of my own connections would over-shadow the possible
vulgarity of his antecedents. In marrying a wealthy commoner, of whose
personal worthiness I felt thoroughly convinced, I hoped to be able to
assist my family to a financial position more commensurate with their
social status than the aristocratic impecuniosity which had been our lot
for many years, owing to the extravagance of my grandfather, who had
mortgaged the greater part of the estate. My expectations were fully
justified. My husband was kind and generous, and whatever my original
feelings toward him may have been, I can truthfully say that his upright
nature won my complete loyalty and respect. I was certainly disappointed
to find myself comparatively poor after his death. But I have had time
to think the matter over since then, and believe that the people to whom
he left the bulk of his money must have needed it more than I did. I see
that you wonder why I am telling you all this. I assure you I have a
strong enough motive, for I want you to realize that I would sacrifice
everything to the honor of my family—love, happiness, even life itself.
This being the case, can you picture how terrible it would be to me to
see even the shadow of public disgrace fall upon our name? That you have
ample provocation for a certain course of conduct which would materially
affect the interests of my brother, and of your sister, I know. I also
know that you return the love I bear you. Let that love outweigh the
resentment you feel at the conduct of others. If you are not inclined to
spare _them_, for God’s sake spare _me_ the anguish which a disclosure
of your—of your suspicions would cause me! You are leaving us for a
time. I implore you to have mercy upon an ancient name.”
By the time Lady Elizabeth had got thus far, she was sobbing in
uncontrollable excitement, and clung to me with convulsive apprehension.
As for me, I was filled with grief at this disclosure of the suffering
which my dear one was undergoing. I could no longer doubt that she
shared all my own painful suspicions, and that to her distressed state
of mind her recent physical prostration was attributable. And I was
stabbed by the remorseful thought that I had been the one to originate
the dread suspicions which were doing so much mischief. Was it too late
to undo the mischief? Could I hope to remove the terrible burden of
dread which oppressed Lady Elizabeth? It was doubtful. But there was too
much at stake to warrant hesitation on my part, and my course of conduct
was instantaneously mapped out.
“Mother,” I said, as quietly as my emotion would permit, “I cannot
pretend not to understand the meaning of what you have just said. But,
oh! my dear, how could you think I meant all that I implied to you on
that terrible morning, when I was beside myself with anxiety and grief?
Put away such thoughts from your mind. It is the misfortune, not the
fault, of Cyril and Belle, that all the circumstances attending recent
events have seemed as if specially guided for their interests. But if
even I, who am so great a loser by their advancement, can say that my
first suspicions were unjustifiable and wicked, surely you can no longer
think them capable of a crime too atrocious for even ready-dyed
criminals to think of.”
Lady Elizabeth suddenly raised her head and literally gasped with
mingled relief and amazement.
“Is it possible,” she cried, “that I have been tormenting myself
needlessly? That I have foully wronged Cyril and Belle? That I have
mistaken your dislike to them for a stronger sentiment—that of a thirst
for justifiable revenge for a deadly injury?”
“Quite possible. Think. Our dear old earl could not have been expected
to live very much longer. He was happy. So happy, that he was naturally
excited. Excitement is not good for weakly old people, and the skillful
doctors who were summoned were sure to be able to judge of the real
cause of death. You cannot tell how much I regret having given audible
expression to a cruel suspicion. But you can do as I have done—and
repudiate it.”
“Do you repudiate it?”
“Most certainly I do.”
“Thank God for that! You have lifted a nightmare from my mind. Do you
know that the promise I wished to exact from you was that you would at
least spare me the suffering which a denunciation of my brother Cyril
would cause me?”
“A denunciation! Ah, well—I don’t like him. I never shall like him. But
as there is nothing to denounce, I can safely promise you, nay, swear to
you, that never, so long as you live, will I, by word or deed, do aught
that can injure any member of your family or in any way jeopardize its
good name.”
“You swear this?”
“I swear it!”
“You have given me a new lease of life, my darling, and by the time we
join you at the Grange you will see me almost as vigorous as ever.”
“I hope so. But I must be off now, or I shall not be ready when the cab
comes round for me. Good-by.”
“Good-by, my dear. I hope the change will do you good. You too have been
drooping lately.”
“I suppose I have. But country air will work wonders, eh?”
Another minute, and I had hurried out of Lady Elizabeth’s room, with
breaking heart and whirling brain. Should I ever see her again? To what
had I pledged myself? I had, for her sake, forsworn all my dreams of
punishing those whom I firmly believed to be the murderers of the Earl
of Greatlands. Certainly, I had never intended to invoke the vengeance
of the law upon them, for I also had some regard to the maintenance of
the esteem in which the two families were held by the world at large.
But I had meant to elucidate, by some means, the extent of their
culpability, and to show them up to their relatives in all their hideous
criminality, leaving them to continue their career stripped of the
misplaced love and confidence that had hitherto been so charily bestowed
upon me.
Surely this was but a feeble ideal of the punishment due to a great
crime which had deprived me of everything that made my life worth
living. But I was now bereft of even this small satisfaction, for I had,
for the sake of Lady Elizabeth, pledged myself to do nothing that would
reflect discredit upon her family. I had even gone so far as to
repudiate all my suspicions, and so long as she lived I must do nothing
to re-awaken the terrors which had been tormenting her of late.
Does any one doubt that I found this sacrifice of my personal
inclinations very hard to bear? or that it was not a real sacrifice to
leave my enemies to gloat unrestrainedly at the success of their evil
plotting? Or do they imagine that the feelings I harbored were
unjustifiable? If so, let them imagine themselves in my position. Let
them picture all that I had lost and suffered, and contrast my lot with
what would have been my condition had the earl’s life not terminated
when it did. True, I had as yet not the slightest practical evidence to
support my opinion of the culpability of the new earl and his _fiancée_;
but as my personal conviction never admitted the slightest doubt on that
score, I found its virtual abandonment all the harder to bear, though
nothing would now make me disregard Lady Elizabeth’s wishes. And this I
mention, not for the sake of demonstrating my powers of self-sacrifice,
but to show how gratefully I reciprocated the kindness of my stepmother,
and to show how my heart hungered for love, since the lavishment of a
little of it upon me had power to arouse in me a feeling so passionate
as to be almost akin to worship.
And now I was about to leave, probably forever, the one being who cared
for me. Small wonder that the hard feelings which had hitherto enabled
me to keep my composure should break down, and that the quick tears of
utter lonesomeness should chase each other down my pale cheeks as I
hurriedly gathered my belongings together, and began to pack them in the
substantial trunks which had been provided by Lady Elizabeth to hold the
trousseau with which her loving liberality had provided me.
“Excuse me, Miss Dora, but my lady has sent me to see if I can be of any
use to you. You are packing everything up? Then pray let me do it for
you.”
I looked up through my tears, and saw Agnes, my stepmother’s maid,
standing ready to relieve me of my task. She was in such evident
sympathy with me that at sight of her kindly face my last shred of
composure left me, and I wept in such an abandonment of grief as only a
feeling of utter desolation can produce. Agnes was frightened at the
violence of my emotion and did her best to console me. But I presently
became calmer, and thanking her for the trouble she was taking, gladly
availed myself of her help in packing my boxes. I felt no hesitation in
taking everything that belonged to me, for all I had worth having was
due to the generosity of Lady Elizabeth or of her father. To my own
father I owed nothing of which I was now possessed, the last item of the
unbecoming garments which he had so grudgingly bestowed upon me having
disappeared long ago.
In another half an hour I was ready to go, and a few moments later the
cab for which I had sent was at the door. As I stepped into it I glanced
at the upper windows of the house which was no longer a home for me. I
saw Lady Elizabeth, who had come to her window to wave me a smiling
good-by. Evidently no one had yet told her that I was permanently
banished from my father’s house. I smiled and kissed my hand to her,
resolved that her last glimpse of me should be as pleasant as possible.
Then my eyes sought the level of the drawing-room windows, to see—what?
My sister standing there by the side of the Earl of Greatlands, both of
them displaying the greatest delight at my departure, and both of them
casting contemptuous glances of triumph on a poor, homeless girl whose
presence near them was a continual reproach.
But their malevolence did not get all the satisfaction it sought, for my
glance wandered swiftly upward again, and rested on my stepmother’s
smiling face, until I was driven out of sight altogether, with such
apparent unconsciousness of their presence that they could not know I
had seen them. And thus I entered upon the battle of life on my own
account.
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