If Laurel Vane was thunderstruck at the unexpected sight of the villain
who had so deeply insulted her helpless innocence in New York, Ross
Powell on the other hand was delighted. His bold eyes gleamed with evil
joy, his thin lips curled in a mocking smile.
"Miss Vane," he exclaimed, "is it possible that I find you again after
all my fruitless search? But I might have known that such an angel
would fly to Eden!"
Horror unutterable had seized upon Laurel. The song had died on her
lips, the color fled from her face, she stared at her foe with parted
lips, from which the breath came in palpitating gasps, while her wide,
terrified eyes had the anguished look of some hunted creature.
He had come to betray her, she said to herself. All was ended now.
He had found her out. He would tell the Le Roys who she was, and how
she had deceived them. She could fancy Mrs. Le Roy's scathing words
of condemnation. She could imagine the lightning scorn in St. Leon's
proud, cold eyes.
Stifling the moan upon her lips, she cried out in passionate despair:
"Ross Powell, what has brought you here?"
"I might ask you the same question," he returned, coolly. "It certainly
never entered my mind that I should find the daughter of Louis Vane a
visitor at Eden."
He had spoken unwarily. His words let in a sudden light upon her mind.
He had not traced her here then. Whatever had brought him to Eden it
had been some other cause than the denunciation of Beatrix Gordon's
plot.
Her heart leaped with hope, then sunk heavily again. He was here, and
he would find her out. She could trust to his hate and his desire for
vengeance for that.
Obeying a sudden, desperate impulse, she pushed open the gate and
stepped out into the road.
"You are right," she said, bitterly. "Do you think that the proud, rich
Le Roys would have Laurel Vane for their guest? My errand at Eden is
done, Mr. Powell. Let me pass, if you please."
He stood before her, dumbfounded at her coolness, glancing from her
pale, agitated face to the flowers she carried in her apron with
ostentatious care.
"Your errand," he stammered. "The flowers?"
"Yes," she answered, calmly. "I must take them home. Will you please to
stand out of the way, Mr. Powell?"
"One moment," he said, still hindering her way. "Where is your home?
Where can I find you?"
Her eyes flashed scornfully upon him.
"What can it matter to you?" she said. "Do you think I would receive
you in my home? You, the cowardly insulter of helpless girlhood? Never!
I hate you as I hate the slimy, crawling serpent! You have nothing to
do with me. Out of my way!"
He caught her fiercely by the arm and hissed:
"I shall find you out! Be sure of that, my incarnation of indignant
virtue! And when I do, Laurel Vane, you shall find that the serpent you
hate can sting!"
She tried to shake off the brutal grasp of his fingers, but he held her
in a grasp of steel and would not let her go.
"You hurt me," she said, desperately. "Release my arm, Ross Powell, or
I will scream for help. I hear carriage-wheels coming. Whoever it is I
will appeal for protection."
The threat had the hoped-for effect. He threw her arm from him with a
smothered oath. Laurel pushed quickly past him and walked on down the
road. A carriage rattled past, and under cover of the cloud of dust it
raised she looked furtively back at her worsted foe. He had entered the
gate of Eden and was walking slowly up the graveled path to the house.
"He is really going there," she said, trembling, "and, O Heaven, upon
what mission? He is Mr. Gordon's clerk, and he has come upon some
errand to Beatrix Gordon. They will send out to search for me, and he
will learn the truth. I cannot go back. I am afraid! I must hide myself
until he is gone!"
Her trembling limbs would scarcely support her, but she walked on as
fast as she could, her mind filled with vague conjectures and dire
suspicions.
"Perhaps Mr. Gordon has sent for Beatrix to return home," she thought,
despairingly. "Then the conspiracy will all be discovered. I shall be
driven away from beautiful Eden."
A pang like a dagger's thrust pierced her heart at the thought. She
looked back at the towered and turreted mansion, and the beautiful
extensive grounds, with something of that hopeless despair our first
mother must have felt on leaving Paradise.
The scent of the flowers she carried filled her with keenest pain.
"Shall I ever dare go back?" she said. "Am I going away for the last
time now, with no home, no friends to turn to in my despair--with
nothing but these flowers, and--a memory?"
As she plodded slowly along she came to a little private gate in the
rustic fence that inclosed Eden. It led into a picturesque, bosky dell,
with running streams, leafy shades, cool, green turf, and beds of wild
flowers and exquisite ferns. The master of Eden carried the key to this
private entrance, often preferring it to the more ostentatious front
gate, with its imposing lions keeping grim watch and ward.
Laurel paused and leaned her arms on the low fence, and gazed at the
cool light and shade that flickered on the green grass beneath the
waving boughs of the trees. The hot, dusty road was disagreeable. She
longed to go inside and throw herself down to rest. No one from the
house ever came here except St. Leon Le Roy, and he but seldom. It was
a favorite haunt of Laurel's, and it struck her now that it would be an
excellent hiding-place.
Sighing at its inaccessibility Laurel bowed her head on her hands, and
the first thing that caught the sight of her downcast eyes was the
glitter of the steel key on the inside of the gate, where Mr. Le Roy
had inadvertently left it that morning.
With a cry of joy Laurel slipped her hand through the iron bars of the
gate, unlocked it, and entered.
Then she hastened to the remotest retreat on the grounds, a little
natural bower, formed by the thick interlacing boughs of the trees and
vines that grew thickly and luxuriantly close by a clear meandering
stream, rippling on with a pleasant murmur. Laurel threw herself down
at the foot of a tree in this sylvan retreat, and leaning her head on
her hand, listened pensively to the song of the birds and the musical
murmur of the little streamlet. Her heart beat more calmly in the
solitude and stillness that was only broken by the sweet sounds of
nature. A little hope flickered feebly to life in her breast.
"Clarice is so clever she will save me, perhaps," she whispered to
herself.