That day on which Ross Powell saw Laurel with her husband was the last
of a series of happy walks and rides she had taken with St. Leon.
On that day that closed in so softly with the goldenest sunshine and
tenderest twilight, that day seemed too fair for a day of fate, the
suspended sword fell.
Yet she had never felt its shadow less than she did that day. She gave
herself up blindly to her happiness, prizing it all the more because
she knew it could not last. When she went to dress for her drive
that evening she was most particular about her toilet. She chose a
Parisian robe of cream and ruby colors, that was particularly becoming.
Her bonnet was of creamy duchess lace, and its coronet of pale-pink
rosebuds rested daintily against her rich golden waves of hair. The
delicate lace at her throat was held by a gold bar set with pink coral
and diamonds. Her boots and gloves were Parisian; her rose satin
parasol shed a lovely glow over her pearl-fair complexion.
She was lovely as a dream, and she looked the dainty aristocrat from
head to foot. St. Leon Le Roy said to himself with pardonable pride
that he had won the most beautiful woman in the world for his wife.
She had never enjoyed a ride more than she did that afternoon. St. Leon
had never been more tender and devoted. It was like heaven to look
up into those dark, speaking eyes and read the love and adoration in
his face. It filled her with a great passionate rapture and delight.
She worshiped her noble husband with the blindest, most unreasoning
passion woman's heart ever knew. In him she "lived and moved and had
her being."
She had forgotten for a little while the brooding shadow of the sword
that hung ever over her head. The sunshine was reflected in her eyes,
smiles were on her lips, when suddenly like a thunderbolt falling from
a clear sky, the sight of Ross Powell's face came before her--that evil
face which she both hated and dreaded, remembering how he had sworn to
be revenged on her for her just womanly scorn.
In that moment the sun went out of her sky, the light went out of her
life. She stifled the wail of dismay that rose to her lips, and sunk
back among the satin cushions pale as death, her breath coming and
going in great panting gasps, a mute terror in the depths of her wide,
dark eyes.
He recognized her. She read that in the wonder and amaze that flashed
over his face. What would he do? she asked herself. She almost expected
to see him spring to her horses' heads, and, checking them with a grasp
of his infuriated hands, charge her then and there with her sin.
He did nothing of the sort. He only stood and stared like a man
turned to stone while they whirled past him. St. Leon touched his hat
courteously, and in a moment it was all over. They had turned a bend in
the road, and the man standing there, ignobly covered with the dust of
their carriage-wheels, was out of sight.
St. Leon turned to his wife.
"It is your father's clerk--is it not?" he was saying; but he paused,
stricken dumb by the sight of her face. He was startled and frightened.
It was a moment before speech came to him. Then he cried out, in alarm:
"Beatrix, my darling, what is it? You are as pale as a ghost. Are you
ill?"
Her voice sounded faint and far-off, even to herself, as she answered
him.
"I felt a sudden pain in my heart. Do not be alarmed, St. Leon. I shall
recover in a moment."
He watched her anxiously, and he saw that she did not recover herself
very fast. She tried hard to shake off the terrible weight that
oppressed her heart, and to be her own natural self for the few last
moments that were all that remained to her of the happiness that had
been so perfect and so brief.
But she could not do it; she could not summon back the color to her
face, the smiles to her lips, the brightness to her eyes. She could not
still the wild, terrified beating of her heart. She felt a terrible
choking sensation, like one dying. When she spoke, her voice had a
strange sound even to herself.
Mr. Le Roy was frightened over his darling. He did not think of
connecting her sudden seizure with the appearance of Ross Powell. He
had forgotten the man's very existence in his anxiety.
When they reached home he almost carried her into the house in his
arms. He brought wine to her with his own hands. It was only when he
saw that it had revived her and made her better, that he left her to
the care of the little be-ribboned French maid.