One of the most magnificent of the many palace homes that adorn the
glorious Hudson River belonged to St. Leon Le Roy.
It was a beautiful, picturesque structure with graceful towers,
projecting oriel windows, charming balconies, and marble steps that
led down into spacious grounds so beautifully laid out that one never
wearied of the miniature lakes, the sparkling fountains, the splendid
shrubbery, the rare flowers, and the costly statuary that dotted the
velvety green lawns that sloped down to the water's edge. It was a
miniature paradise without, and the interior of the dwelling was no
less beautiful and tasteful. Cultured taste and rare refinement had
united with great wealth to make it a complete and perfect ideal of
a home. Perhaps the first St. Leon Le Roy, when he had built this
beautiful home and carried his blooming bride there, had not been far
wrong when he called it "Eden."
Whether he had found it a veritable Eden mattered little to him now. He
had passed to his rest in "the land that is fairer than day," and his
son reigned in his stead, a king by right of his imperious will, and
worshiped blindly by the queen-dowager his mother.
He was tall, dark, and stately, with an almost godlike beauty marred
somewhat by an expression of cynicism, coldness, and pride, all
curiously blended together. He was past the prime of youth, being about
five-and-thirty, and his varied experience of men and things had left
cold, distrustful lines about his firm, mustached lips, and a mocking
light in his proud dark eyes.
An impatient discontent rested on his handsome features as he sat in
a beautiful morning-room with his mother the second day after the
beginning of this story. The handsome, richly dressed old lady was
reading aloud from a letter that had just been received with the
morning's mail:
"MY DEAR MRS. LE ROY,--I am in a dilemma, and I turn to you, my old
friend, although I have not seen you in many years, believing that
you will aid and abet me in my innocent scheme. My daughter, Beatrix,
has formed a foolish engagement with a young man of small income and
no prospects. She is both beautiful and accomplished, and as the sole
heiress of her father's wealth I cannot endure to see her become
the prey of a designing fortune-hunter. My plan is to separate them
by sending Beatrix away from the city and getting rid of her lover
by some clever scheme before she returns. If possible, Mr. Gordon
will have him sent to Europe (I would like to send the wretch to
Kamtchatka if I could!) on some lucrative mission. Both our hearts
are deeply set on this plan. Indeed, delicate invalid as I am, my
nerves are so unstrung by this affair, that I feel I shall perish
unless I can rescue my child from this undesirable entanglement. And
now, dear Mrs. Le Roy, for your share in our little scheme. I know
that during the absence of your son in Europe, you are leading a
quiet, retired life, at your beautiful home on the Hudson. I wish to
have Beatrix visit you for a few months, while we get her obnoxious
lover out of the way for good. So sure am I of your consent, that
I have pretended to Beatrix that you have already invited her, and
on the day after to-morrow I shall send her down to Eden in care of
her maid. I would accompany her myself, only that I am a confirmed
invalid. My dear friend, you must take the best care of my treasure.
See that she sends no letters to any one but her father or me. Allow
no stranger to visit her. I depend hopefully on your co-operation
in this matter, for my daughter is a fitting mate for the best, and
I will not sacrifice her to a poor man. You will pardon my prolix
letter, for the sake of a mother's anxiety.
"Yours,
"ISABEL GORDON."
She closed the letter and looked up at St. Leon, who stood in the
embrasure of a lace-draped window gazing carelessly out at the
beautiful grounds. A mocking sneer curled his thin lips as he returned
to her.
"A scheming woman of the world," he said, sententiously. "I hope you
will not lend yourself to her iniquitous plan."
Mrs. Le Roy glanced at her letter again.
"You see she really gives me no chance for refusing, simply taking my
consent for granted," she said, dubiously.
"No matter. Write her that you cannot receive Miss Beatrix. Tell her
I came home yesterday, and that I am an ogre who would frighten her
beauty away. What! is all the peace of my home-coming to be marred by
the coming of a romantic love-sick girl?" he exclaimed.
"I will write her not to come, then, St. Leon--but, heavens, look at
the date of this letter! It has miscarried! She should be here to-day!"
exclaimed the lady nervously.
"Telegraph her, then--anything--only keep the girl away!" exclaimed Le
Roy, testily.
"I will do so immediately, St. Leon," exclaimed his mother, all in a
flutter that was quite unusual to her high-bred dignity.
But "fate is above us all!" At this moment a trained obsequious servant
opened the door, and announced respectfully:
"_Miss Gordon_."