Mr. Le Roy, turning in the same moment with his wife, saw two faces
that he recognized--Cyril Wentworth's that he had seen once in New
York, and Clarice's, which he remembered perfectly well. Beatrix he
did not know. He glanced at her carelessly, little thinking what an
influence the pretty blonde had exerted over his life.
A pang of jealousy, keen, swift, and terrible as the lightning's flash
tore through his heart as he beheld his worshiped bride waver and fall,
like one dead, to the floor.
He believed that the mere sight of Cyril Wentworth's face had produced
that terrible emotion that had stricken her down like a broken flower
at their feet.
For an instant he stood motionless, almost petrified by his agitation,
then he bent down over the beautiful face that only a moment ago had
been lifted to his sparkling and glowing with love and happiness. It
was pale and rigid now, and the jetty fringe of the lashes lay heavily
on the white cheeks as if they would never lift again from the sweet
dark eyes.
Quick as he was, light-footed Clarice was before him. She was kneeling
down loosening the furs and laces about the throat of the unconscious
girl with deft, easy fingers. She looked up at him with a strange
glance.
"It is only a faint," she said, "but she may be some time in
recovering. You had better go out and bring _eau de Cologne_."
He obeyed her like one in a dream, and the moment he was gone
quick-witted Clarice borrowed Mrs. Wentworth's _vinaigrette_.
"I only sent him out on a pretext," she said. "We must get her revived
before he returns. Mr. Wentworth, will you please remove her gloves and
chafe her hands? No, perhaps your wife might do it better," she added,
with a quick afterthought.
Beatrix had been clinging to her husband's arm, staring like one dazed
at the strange scene. She knelt down and drew off Laurel's dark kid
gloves and chafed the delicate, dimpled, white hands. She saw a broad
gold wedding-ring on the slender finger of one small hand, guarded
by a keeper of magnificent diamonds and rubies. All three looked
significantly at one another, and Clarice said, woman-like, to her
mistress:
"Mrs. Wentworth, I told you so."
Cyril could not repress a slight laugh as he stood gazing down upon
them. His keen perception told him the truth.
"It is Laurel Vane," he said, and Beatrix answered, "Yes," in a dazed
tone, while the maid supplemented quickly, "Or rather Laurel Le Roy."
At that moment Laurel shivered and opened her eyes. She saw herself
supported in Clarice's arms, while Beatrix, kneeling by her, chafed her
small hands. They saw her glance wander past them yearningly, and a
moan of pitiful despair came from her white lips as she missed the face
she sought.
"You fainted, and Mr. Le Roy has gone out for some _eau de Cologne_,"
said the maid.
A touch of color came into the blanched face. She turned her dark,
frightened eyes up to their cold faces.
"You have betrayed me!" she said, in a faint, almost dying, tone.
Beatrix seemed incapable of speech.
Clarice answered, coldly:
"We have said nothing yet!" Then she continued, gravely: "Miss Vane,
are you Mr. Le Roy's wife?"
"Yes, I am his wife," Laurel answered, faintly. And she tore her hands
from Beatrix, and covered her face with them.
No one spoke for a moment, then Clarice asked, slowly:
"Did you deceive him to the end?"
"To the bitter end!" shuddered Laurel, in a hollow tone.
Then suddenly she let the shielding hands fall from her burning face,
and looked at Beatrix.
"Do not look at me so sternly and coldly, Mrs. Wentworth," she cried.
"You sent me there. Are you not to blame?"
No one could have believed that Mrs. Wentworth's gentle face could grow
so hard and cold.
Laurel Vane had so bitterly betrayed the trust she reposed in her that
she did not know how to forgive her.
"Do not charge me with your folly, your madness!" she cried,
indignantly. "My sin was bad enough--but yours is beyond pardon. How
dared you, _Laurel Vane_, marry the proud, rich St. Leon Le Roy?"
"I loved him--he loved me!" moaned the wretched young bride.
"And what will become of his love now when he learns the truth?"
queried Beatrix, with stinging scorn.
Cyril hastily interposed.
"Do not be hard on her, Beatrix. She was kind to us. Be kind to her.
See, she is almost heart-broken by your scorn!"
Laurel looked at the handsome, kindly face. It was full of sympathy and
pity, not hard and angry like the women's faces. Her despairing heart
filled with new hope. She clasped her hands, and looked at him with
dark, appealing eyes.
"Yes, I pitied you, I helped you to your love," she said, pleadingly.
"Will you let them rob me of mine? Will you let them betray me?"
All the pity in his heart, all his manly compassion was stirred into
life by her words and looks.
"We love each other," she went on, pathetically. "We love each other
even as you and your wife love. Do not come between us yet! Let us be
happy a little longer!"
"Beatrix, you hear," said Cyril, bending down to take his wife's hand
in his own. "They love even as we love, dear. Can you bear to part
them--to betray her? She is little more than a child. You will break
her heart. The beginning of it all lies with us. Do we not owe her our
pity at least--our pity and our silence?"
"Your silence--that is all I ask," cried the culprit, eagerly. "The end
will come soon enough. Let me have a little respite. Tell me where to
find you to-morrow. Mr. Le Roy has an engagement out then, and I will
come to you. I will tell you how it all happened! I will beg for your
pity on my bended knees!"
She began to weep passionately. Beatrix could not bear those bitter
tears. She drew out her card-case hastily.
"Here is my address," she said. "Come to me to-morrow, and tell me the
whole story. I can judge better then what is best for me to do."
She did not pity Laurel much. She felt angry with her for her
presumption in marrying one so far above her as Mr. Le Roy. And then
the folly, the madness of it. She could not understand the mad love
that had driven Laurel, step by step, into her terrible position.
"Mr. Le Roy is coming. Do not let him suspect anything wrong," said
Cyril, hastily.
He turned with a smile to meet the handsome, stately gentleman.
"Mr. Le Roy, I am Cyril Wentworth," he said, genially. "Permit me to
assure you that your wife is quite recovered, and to present you to my
wife--Mrs. Wentworth."