There was no longer any fear that Mrs. Le Roy would die. She was
better. She was rapidly convalescing.
St. Leon was very happy over her recovery.
He had not known how well he loved his mother until the dread of her
loss hung over him. He had been sad and gloomy over the prospect
of losing her. He was light-hearted and jubilant now over her
convalescence.
Not the least of his happiness was that his mother, with all
the fancifulness of an invalid, ascribed her recovery to her
daughter-in-law's devoted care and nursing. She would not give any
credit to the physicians who had exhausted the skill of the Esculapian
art for her benefit. She declared that the paid nurses were a set of
careless, neglectful dolts. She was quite sure that she must have
perished among them but for the love and care of her son's wife.
St. Leon and his wife both knew that the invalid was unjust to her
faithful attendants, and that really they had done all they could to
hasten her recovery. But they could not help being pleased and happy
over her affectionate fiction; and, indeed, Laurel had devoted herself,
with unsparing love and patience, to St. Leon's mother. When care and
skill had failed, she had gone on her knees in prayer, though it often
crossed her mind that, perhaps, God would not hear the pleadings of one
who was herself living a dreadful lie of which she could not repent,
because she was so blissfully happy that she could not realize the
enormity of her sin.
But all doubt was over now. The gloomy shadow of the death-angel's wing
no longer hung over Eden. The physicians declared that Mrs. Le Roy
would live, and Mrs. Le Roy declared that her daughter-in-law had saved
her life. No one gainsaid her, for they saw that the fancy made her
happier, and St. Leon, if possible, loved his wife more passionately
than before for her devotion to his mother.
When the long strain of fear and anxiety was over, they began to see
that the faithful nurse had suffered somewhat in her tireless vigils by
the couch of pain. She was thinner and paler, her eyes looked wide and
dark and somber, just as they did when, almost a year ago, now, she had
first come to Eden.
When St. Leon's terrible anxiety over his mother was dispelled, he
began to be alarmed over his wife. It struck him that she was not
looking well and scarcely happy.
"My darling, you have worn yourself out in tender cares for my mother,"
he said. "I have been selfish to allow it. But I did not think! You
should have been more careful over yourself! But she is better now, and
you must relegate the cares of the sick-room to others, while you go
out with me and brighten your faded roses."
A strange mournful smile quivered over the beautiful face.
"I must not leave her yet," she said, "she would miss me so much. She
loves me."
He could not understand the wistful pathos that trembled in the tone.
He believed that her wearisome confinement to the sick-room had
saddened her spirits.
"She loves you," he cried, catching her in his arms, and kissing the
pale face until it glowed with tender blushes. "Who does not love you,
my own, my peerless Beatrix? You are the queen of love and beauty! I
worship you as the lovely incarnation of all that is best and purest in
your sex! And, deeply as I loved you before, I shall always love you
better for your devotion to my mother!"
"Always?" she murmured, and again it seemed to him there was a ring of
pathos that was almost pleading in the low, sweet voice. It confirmed
him in his belief that she was saddened and overwrought by her
wearisome confinement in the sick-chamber.
"Always, my darling. Can you doubt it?" he said, looking fondly into
the wistful dark eyes, as he held her in his arms.
"I will not doubt it. I will be happy as long as I can," she answered,
with a sort of desperation.
That day when they sat by Mrs. Le Roy's couch together, she began
herself to realize the change that had come over her son's wife. She
missed the roses from the delicate cheeks, the brightness from the
eyes, but most of all, the happy smile from the red lips. It even
seemed to her that they had a wistful, pathetic droop.
"I have been selfish over my daughter," she said, repentantly. "She has
broken herself down waiting on me. Beatrix, my darling, can you forgive
me for being such a selfish, thoughtless old woman?"
"There is nothing to forgive," she answered. "I have not felt any
weariness, and I have been only too happy to be with you and to care
for you."
"You are a dear, unselfish child," cried Mrs. Le Roy, "but I don't
intend to be so unreasonable again. You must leave me with the nurses
now that I am better, and go out with your husband riding and driving
again. I want to see the roses back in your face and the light in your
eyes. And, St. Leon, you must write to the Gordons, and ask them to
come and make us a visit."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, do not ask them," Laurel cried out with such
sudden energy and passion that they were startled. Her face was deathly
white with the shock she had received. They looked at her in surprise.
"My dear, I do not think you understood my mother," said her husband.
"She wishes to invite your parents to visit you. Should you not be
pleased to have them come?"
She saw that in her terror she had almost betrayed her horrible fear of
the Gordons.
"I understood," she faltered. "I only meant--meant that it would be
better not to ask them just yet, until your mother is better--until she
is able to go out some. It would be pleasanter for all, would it not?"
They agreed with her that it would be pleasanter for all parties, but
they did not want to tax her patience too much. It seemed only natural
that she should be longing to see her mother.
"I might take you up to New York for a day or two," St. Leon suggested.
And again the beautiful face grew ghastly pale with fear and dread.
"No, I should not like that," she said, "I would prefer to have them
come here. But let us wait a few days before we invite them."
She left them and went away to her own private room, locked the door,
and threw herself down upon her couch in a perfect passion of dread
and despair. The coils of fate were narrowing around her. She could
not escape from the web her own hands had woven. A few hours or days
at most, and then detection, shame, ignominy, perhaps banishment. The
thought quivered like a sword-point in her heart.
"Will he forgive me, or will he send me away from him?" she asked
herself, fearfully.
She sat up and looked with dazed, heavy eyes at the elegance and luxury
with which his love had surrounded her--at the diamonds on her hands,
at her rich and costly robes--all mute tokens of the adoration in which
he held her.
"He loves me so dearly, perhaps he will forgive me," she whispered to
her beating heart. "I know if he had wronged me ever so bitterly, I
should forgive him and love him still if he prayed me on his bended
knees, as I shall do."
She pinned all her faith to the strength of his love and the power of
that beauty on which he never wearied of gazing. She grew suddenly
alarmed at the pallor of her face and the heaviness of her eyes. She
thought that her beauty was deserting her, that potent charm by which
she hoped to hold his heart when he found her out in her sin.
"I must go out, indeed," she cried to herself, in sudden terror; "I
must get back my brightness and my color. I cannot afford to lose one
charm that may hold my husband's heart!"
She forgot that he valued truth and honor more than mere physical
loveliness--she forgot that he had scorned all womanhood for long years
because one beautiful woman had been false to him. She could think of
nothing but her anguished yearning not to lose her husband.