"Katy," repeated Dorothy, in a shrill, awful whisper, "tell me, have you
willfuly deceived me? You have said Miss Vincent was plain--nay, more,
that she was homely--and on all sides of me I hear them speaking of her
wonderful beauty."
Katy sank back shivering in her seat.
"It's fine feathers that make fine birds to-night," she rejoined,
faintly. "No wonder they think Iris Vincent looks well to-night. She's
rigged out like a real peacock; and her face is painted, too. I can see
it clear across the room; and I am quite sure that Mr. Kendal has
noticed it; and I've heard him say that if there's anything which he
detests, it's girls who whiten their faces with chalk."
Still Dorothy did not feel comforted. A nameless fear which she could
scarcely define by words had crept into her heart, and a smoldering
flame of jealousy burst suddenly forth; and that was the beginning of a
terrible end.
She leaned wearily back in her seat, and looked so white that Katy was
frightened.
"Shall I get you a glass of ice-water, Miss Dorothy?" she cried.
The pale lips murmured assent, and she flew to do her mistress' bidding.
Left to herself, Dorothy sprang hastily to her feet.
"It almost seems as if I shall go mad!" she murmured--"yes, mad--with
this terrible fear clutching at my heart! I must have air. I am
stifling!"
All unmindful of the errand upon which she had sent Katy, Dorothy rose
hastily to her feet, and, remembering that there was a rear entrance
leading from the ball-room near where she sat, she groped her way
thither.
The night air fanned her feverish cheek, but it did not cool the fever
in her brain or the fire that seemed eating into her very heart. A
thousand fancies, so weird and strange that they terrified her, seemed
to take possession of her brain. She had relied so entirely upon what
they had told her--that Miss Vincent was very plain--that the feeling of
jealousy had never before occurred to her; for well she knew that Harry
Kendal was a beauty-worshiper, and that no matter how much he might be
thrown in contact with a girl who was plain of face, he would never
dream of being anything else than simply courteous to her.
Now affairs seemed to take on a new and hideous form.
She recalled each and every incident that had taken place since Miss
Vincent's arrival, and
"Trifles light as air
Seemed confirmation strong as Holy Writ"
as she viewed them now.
"Even the guests notice how attentive he is to her," she said to
herself, with a bitter sob, wringing her cold little hands and clutching
them tightly over her heart.
Suddenly she heard the sound of voices, and sank down upon a seat at
hand until they should pass by.
She did not know that the seat which she had selected on the broad
piazza was directly back of one of the large, vine-wreathed, fluted
pillars, and in the dense shadow.
This time she readily divined that the voices must belong to two
light-hearted, happy girls.
"Are you having a good time, Grace, dear?" asked one.
"Oh, quite the jolliest I have ever had in all my life!" was the reply.
"I haven't missed one dance, and all my partners have been so
handsome--quite the prettiest fellows in the ball-room! And how is it
with you?"
"Oh, I'm enjoying myself, too!" laughed the other girl, "But did you
notice what a ninny I had in that last waltz-quadrille? Don't you hate
partners who stand away off, and barely touch your finger-tips as they
dance with you? Upon my word, I'd rather have the straight-as-a-mackerel
kind, who hold you so tight you can scarcely catch your breath!"
And at this both girls went off into uproarious laughter, when suddenly
one of them exclaimed:
"Have you yet had a waltz with handsome Harry Kendal?"
"No," returned the other, ruefully. "At the last ball I went to he was
almost wild to put his name down for every waltz with me. But, after
all, I can not wonder at that when I see how greatly he is infatuated
with the beauty of the ball to-night--the fair Iris Vincent."
"Have you heard all the talk to-night about that?" chimed in the other,
her voice sinking to a low, confidential tone. "Every one has noticed
it, and it is the talk of the ball-room."
"It is shameful for him to carry on so," returned her companion, "when
every one knows that his wedding day with poor, blind Dorothy Glenn is
so near at hand."
"Do you know," said the other, slowly, "that I doubt if he will ever
marry Dorothy now? You must remember that he became engaged to her
before that terrible accident. And do you know there is great diversity
of opinion as to whether the poor fellow should marry her or not. It is
very nice to read about in books--of lovers proving true to their
_fiancees_ through every trouble and tribulation--but I tell you they
don't do it in real life. When trouble comes to a girl, nine lovers out
of ten fly from her 'to seek pastures new;' and, after all, to come
right down to the fine point, between you and me, could you really blame
Harry Kendal if he were to break off with Dorothy? He is young and
handsome, and I say that it would be a bitter shame for him to go
through life with a blind girl for a wife; and when I think of it I
actually feel indignant with the girl for holding him to his engagement
under such circumstances. She ought to know that in time he would
actually hate her for it. She can share none of his joys. Why, she would
be only a pitiful burden to handsome Harry Kendal! That girl whom he
seems so infatuated with would be a thousand times more suitable for
him. Oh, what a handsome couple they do make! And every one can see,
though they think they hide it so well, how desperately they are in love
with each other."
They moved on, little dreaming of the ruin and blight they had left
behind them.
They were scarcely out of hearing when the great cry that had been
choked back so long burst forth in a wild, piercing wail of agony that
meant the breaking then and there of a human heart. But the dance-music
inside, to which the joyous, merry feet kept time, completely drowned
it.
Dorothy had risen from her chair, and the look on her face was terrible
to behold.
"Let me quite understand it," she whispered--"let me try to realize and
grasp the awful truth: Harry Kendal, my lover, has ceased to care for
me, and is lavishing his attention, nay, more, his affection, upon
another and one who in return loves him; and they say that I should give
him up to her--I, who love him better than my own life! He is all I have
left me in my terrible affliction, and they would take even him from me
and give him to another. They said it was not right for me to cling to
him, and to burden him with a blind wife through life--that the thought
is torture to him. Oh, God in Heaven! can it be true?"
And again the angels at the great White Throne were startled with the
piercing cries of woe that broke from the girl's white lips, which once
more the dance-music mercifully drowned.
"I will go to him and confront him with what I have heard. He shall
choose between us before all the people assembled here to-night. I will
fling myself upon my knees at his feet, crying out: 'Oh, my darling! my
love! my life! tell me that the cruel rumors which I have heard are
false--that you do not hate me because--because of the awful affliction
that Heaven has seen fit to put upon me! Turn from the girl by your side
to me--to me, your promised bride! She can never love you as I do. You
are my all--my world! If I were to die to-day--aye, within this hour--my
soul could not leave this earth while you were here! I would cling to
you in life or in death!'"
With a swift motion Dorothy turned and re-entered the house, forgetful
of her blindness, and to count the steps which she had taken,
remembering only that she was undergoing the greatest trial of her life.
Swift as a fluttering swallow she hastened across the broad piazza, but
in the confusion of her whirling brain she had mistaken the direction.
One instant more, too quick for a cry, too quick for a moan, she had
stepped off the veranda, and fell with a terrible thud down five feet
below, and lay, stunned and unconscious, on the graveled walk.
The shock was so sudden, so terrible that surely God in His mercy was
kind in that the fearful pain of the fall was not realized by her.
The moments dragged themselves wearily by as she lay there. Fully half
an hour elapsed. No one missed her save Katy, no one thought of looking
for her out in the cold and darkness, which was penetrated only by the
dim light of the stars. The dew of night fell silently, pityingly upon
the white, upturned face and curling golden hair, which lay tangled
among the sharp pebbles. Gradually consciousness dawned upon her brain.
The warm blood crept back to the chilled veins and pulsed feebly, but
with it came the remembrance of the terrible blow that had fallen upon
her.
Dorothy staggered to her feet, but as she did so a strange electric
shock seemed to pass through her body and balls of fire to whirl before
her eyes. But as they cleared away a great cry broke from the girl's
lips:
"Oh, God! can it be true? Heaven has restored my sight to me as
miraculously as it was taken from me!"
Once again she saw the blue sky, with its myriads of golden-hearted
stars, bending over her; the great stone house, with its lighted
windows, and beyond, the tall, dark oak trees, with their great,
widespread tossing branches; and she fell upon her knees and kissed the
very stones at her feet and the green blades of waving grass that she
never once thought she would see again, and she raised her white arms to
heaven with such piteous cries of thankfulness that the angels must have
heard and wept over.
Yes, Dorothy's sight had been restored to her as miraculously as it had
been taken from her.
But even in the midst of her great joy the dregs of woe still lingered
as memory brought back to her the terrible ordeal through which she had
passed.
With bated breath she turned and crept swiftly back to the house and up
to the long windows that opened out on the porch, sobbing bitterly to
herself that she would see at last if her lover was true or false to
her.