All of the young bride's happiness began to wane from that hour. The
shadow of the nearing future began to fall upon her heart. The "coming
events cast their shadows before."
A subtle change came over her. Her cheek was a shade less bright, her
voice had an unconscious tone of pathos, the dark eyes drooped beneath
their shady lashes. Sometimes she fell into deep reveries that lasted
for hours. The return voyage was not so pleasant by any means as the
other had been. Laurel was going away from her peril then, she was
returning to it now.
St. Leon gave all his thoughts and all his love to his fair bride.
Now he divided them with her and his mother. He was very fond of his
handsome, stately lady mother, and deeply distressed over her illness.
He longed to fly to her on the wings of love. He chafed over their
slow progress, bitterly impatient of the adverse winds and waves that
hindered the gallant ship from making progress. If he had known how his
wife welcomed every storm he would have been horrified. If some hidden
rock had sunk the steamer, and she and St. Leon had gone to the bottom
clasped
"In one another's arms,
And silent in a last embrace,"
she would have been glad, she would have thought that that was
happiness compared with what lay before her.
St. Leon did not notice the slight yet subtle change in his darling,
so absorbed was he in anxiety over his mother. Perhaps he thought
she shared in his trouble. He knew that her devotion to him was more
manifest than ever before, and he repaid it with the love of his inmost
heart, but he was very grave and thoughtful. The dread that he might
find his mother dead weighed heavily on his spirits.
Poor Laurel in her terror for herself did not give many thoughts to
Mrs. Le Roy. The lesser evil was swallowed up in the greater. The
Gordons had returned to New York in the spring. Once she returned
home, a meeting with them was inevitable. And then--what! Detection,
exposure, banishment, despair!
Through all her dread and terror one spark of hope burned feebly in
her heart. She knew that her husband loved her with a deep, and mighty
love. Perhaps through that love he would forgive her.
"I could forgive _him_ anything," she said to herself with the divine
love of woman. "Surely, surely he will forgive me!"
It was May when they reached New York. Laurel had had eight months of
happiness now--almost perfect happiness. She was little more than a
child still. She was only seventeen. But she had gained great benefit
from her happy bridal trip. Her beauty was deepened and intensified,
she had acquired polish and dignity, and there was a sweet and gracious
womanliness about her that was exquisitely charming. St. Leon said to
himself exultantly that he should be very proud to introduce his bonny
bride to New York society next winter. She would be without a peer for
loveliness.
"I am so impatient to go home to my sick mother at Eden, that I am
almost selfish enough to ask you to pass through New York without
stopping to see your parents," he said, when they landed.
She hastily assured him that she had no intention of stopping. Her
anxiety to reach Eden was as great as his own. There would be time
enough to see her parents when they were assured of Mrs. Le Roy's well
being.
He did not notice how deathly pale she was, but thanking her gratefully
for what appeared to him a sweet self-sacrifice, accepted it, and she
said to herself with a beating heart:
"I have still a little respite. I shall see Eden once more before I am
banished forever."
The home on the Hudson looked Eden-like indeed that bright, warm
day when they walked, arm in arm, up to the house. The trees and
shrubberies were tinted with the tender green of spring, a soft, warm
air, redolent with flowers, fanned their faces. St. Leon looked pleased
at being home again, but it struck him all at once that his wife looked
pale and wan and miserable.
"It is plain to be seen, Beatrix, that you have no joy in your
home-coming," he said, unable to conceal his disappointment. "And yet I
thought--indeed you used to say--that you adored Eden."
"Indeed I do! I love every tree and flower, every tiniest blade of
grass on the place. I am very happy in my home-coming," she cried,
eagerly, but she had a guilty, miserable inward consciousness that he
did not believe her. Her changeful tell tale face had betrayed her all
too plainly.
They went into the house, and then she forgot for awhile all her own
selfish terrors as St. Leon forgot his disappointment over his wife's
reluctance to come home.
For the shadow of the death-angel's wing hung darkly over Eden!
Mrs. Le Roy was yet very ill with a low typhoid fever and pneumonia.
Surrounded by skillful nurses and the ablest physicians, there were
yet grave doubts whether she would ever recover. The disease was
deeply seated, and the physicians could not conceal from the invalid's
stricken son their fears of a fatal result. She had been dangerously
ill three weeks now--wavering, as it were, between life and death. They
would do all they could, the physicians said, but the issue lay with
God.
In that dark hour Laurel was her husband's comforter. She put self
aside. She forgot that a shadow deeper than death brooded darkly over
her own young life. She whispered peace and hope to the troubled heart.
"I will pray for her," she said, "and I will nurse her. Perhaps love
can save her even where paid attention fails. Then, too, she will be so
glad to have her children home again. Happiness may have a good effect
upon her. Do not despair, St. Leon, I have the greatest faith that she
will be spared to us."
His heavy heart unconsciously grew lighter at the sweet, hopeful words.
And one thing she said came true at least. Though they were almost
afraid to break the news to Mrs. Le Roy of her son's arrival, and
set about it in the most cautious manner, it undoubtedly produced a
beneficial effect on her. She seemed to grow better from that hour, and
her joy at seeing Laurel was as great as that she evinced in the return
of St. Leon.
Laurel, as she had declared she would, became the most devoted and
patient nurse at Mrs. Le Roy's bedside. Her love and her eagerness to
be of use served her instead of experience. There was no step so light,
no touch so cool and soft as hers, no face so eagerly welcomed by the
bedside of the sufferer.
"Beatrix is my ministering angel," she confided to her son, and Laurel,
hearing it, was thrilled with inward joy.
"I have won a place in her heart. When my dark hour comes, she will
take my part, she will plead for me," the poor child said to herself.