Mrs. Gordon, reclining at ease on a satin divan in her elegant parlor,
was entertaining a caller--no less a person than the beautiful widow,
Mrs. Merivale.
The wife of the wealthy publisher was a pale, faded, pretty woman,
once a belle and beauty, now a chronic invalid. She mingled but little
in society, on account of her delicate health, but chance had made
her acquainted with Maud Merivale, and the fair widow for some reason
of her own had followed up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gordon was rather
pleased than otherwise with this new friend. She loved beauty, and Mrs.
Merivale was decidedly good to look upon. All the adventitious aid
of art had been called in to preserve her fading charms; and in the
richest, and most becoming of spring toilets, she looked very fair and
sweet and youthful in the aristocratic semi-darkness of the curtained
parlor.
They had been discussing a subject dear to Mrs. Gordon's matronly
heart, but full of secret gall and bitterness to the widow--the
marriage of Beatrix Gordon to St. Leon Le Roy.
Inwardly fuming with jealous rage, Mrs. Merivale held her passions in
with a strong rein, and smiled her sweetest as she dilated on her last
summer's visit to Eden where she had met Beatrix and enthusiastically
"fallen in love with her on the spot."
"So beautiful, so graceful," said Mrs. Merivale, arching her penciled
brows. "She will make so charming a mistress for Eden. And they are
home from Europe, you tell me?"
"Two weeks ago," answered Mrs. Gordon.
"You have seen them, of course--how happy the meeting must have been
between the long-parted mother and daughter," sentimentally.
"No, I have not seen my darling yet," sighed Mrs. Gordon. "They were
suddenly summoned home by the illness of Mrs. Le Roy and did not have
time to communicate with me. Mr. Gordon has promised to take me down
to Eden in a few days, though. I am so impatient to see Beatrix I can
scarcely wait."
"No doubt," smiled the visitor, sympathetically. She had followed Mrs.
Gordon's eyes to a life-size portrait of a pretty blue-eyed girl that
hung against the wall. She had seen the lady's glance wander in the
same direction several times. Her curiosity was aroused, and, looking
critically at the really beautiful portrait, she detected a strong
resemblance between the fair, fresh, girlish face and the pretty,
faded, matronly woman.
"Your own portrait, is it not?" she asked, with a smile.
Mrs. Gordon looked pleased and flattered.
"Is it really so much like me?" she asked.
"Your image! I should have recognized it anywhere!" pronounced the
widow, following up the good impression she had made.
"Well, my daughter was always said to resemble me; but really, now,
Mrs. Merivale, you must have recognized Beatrix. You flatter me too
much," simpered Mrs. Gordon.
Mrs. Merivale's false smiles and grimaces gave way for once to an
expression of honest surprise.
"Do you mean to tell me that it isn't your portrait--taken when you
were, perhaps, a little younger?" she asked.
"No, it is not mine. Do you not recognize my daughter, Mrs. Merivale?
It is Beatrix herself."
"Beatrix!"
Mrs. Merivale gazed bewildered at the fair young pictured face. The
soft blue eyes smiled into hers, the pale-gold hair waved softly over
the low, white brow, the face had a fair, refined loveliness all its
own, but it was not the face she recalled as that of Beatrix Gordon.
There flashed before her mind's eye a face bright and soft like a
tropic flower, lighted by dark, starlike eyes, crowned by grand tresses
of dusky, burnished gold--a face before whose rare and witching beauty
this other one paled like a flower before a star.
She looked at Mrs. Gordon, surprise and bewilderment on her face, her
turquois-blue eyes open to their widest.
"Are you jesting?" she said. "Or have you another daughter? You do not
really wish me to believe that this is Beatrix?"
"Why not?" Mrs. Gordon asked, a little gravely.
"It is not the least bit like her," declared Mrs. Merivale, who had
left her seat and rustled over to the portrait; "it is utterly unlike
her! The eyes are blue here, the hair pale gold; yet your daughter whom
I saw at Eden had dark eyes and hair of the darkest golden shade."
Mrs. Gordon laughed lightly.
"You have surely forgotten how Beatrix looked," she said. "That canvas
represents her truly and perfectly. The best judges have agreed that
the portrait is marvelously true to nature. My dear Mrs. Merivale, you
are thinking of some one else. I have no other child than Beatrix, and
there are no dark eyes in our family."
Mrs. Merivale remained silent for a moment. Her face had a dazed
expression.
"I am _not_ mistaken," she said to herself. "Is it likely I should
forget how the girl looked who stole St. Leon from me? She had great
black eyes, full of fire and soul. She was rarely beautiful. This
portrait looks a mere doll beside her. And yet Mrs. Gordon swears that
this is Beatrix Gordon. If it is true, as she says, then there is some
mystery about it. What does it mean?"
She went back to her seat again and replied to Mrs. Gordon with a light
laugh.
"Yes, I see now that I was mistaken. I was thinking of some one else.
One meets so many fair faces in society."
But to herself she was saying:
"If there is a mystery, I will find it out. Nothing will please me so
well as to injure the girl who married St. Leon Le Roy."
But though her suspicions were aroused, they were vague and unformed.
She did not dream of the real truth.
Before leaving she said, with her most innocent and engaging air:
"I have a great mind to run down to Eden with you when you go. It is
only recently that I received a letter from Mrs. Le Roy, inviting me to
visit her. We are quite old friends, you know. Shall you object to have
me make one of your party?"
Mrs. Gordon thought it would be rather pleasant than otherwise to have
the pretty, vivacious widow accompany them to Eden. She expressed her
opinion very graciously, and Mrs. Merivale was delighted.
"A thousand thanks," she twittered. "I shall enjoy the trip with you
and Mr. Gordon so much. And I do so want to see dear Mrs. Le Roy, and
our sweet bride and her husband, who, by the bye, was once my _fiancé_.
But that was long ago. I threw him over for Mr. Merivale, who had the
most money, although, unfortunately, he sunk a great deal in a foolish
speculation after I married him. Ah, well, St. Leon will bear me no ill
will now, when he has secured such a bonny bride."
She lingered until they had named the day for the trip, then departed,
full of vague plans against the happiness of St. Leon's bride.