It was a supreme moment. Laurel felt it to be such. Her heart beat,
her limbs trembled beneath her. But for the support of St. Leon's
arm she must have fallen to the earth. She wondered that she did not
faint--rather that she did not die--for an intuition, swift as the
lightning's flash, told her that these two strangers were Mr. Gordon
and his wife.
She had never seen them in her life; but she did not for one moment
doubt their identity. She saw Mrs. Merivale modestly giving place to
them, allowing them to greet her first; she saw the smile of pleasure
on St. Leon's lips--St. Leon, who thought she was having such a
pleasant surprise. She could not move nor speak. She clung desperately
to St. Leon's arm, and they came nearer and nearer, the tall, rather
stern-looking man, and the pretty, faded blonde in her rich silks and
laces. Laurel gazed at them with her great, dark, frightened eyes,
much as the little princes in the Tower might have gazed upon their
murderers.
A great horror grew upon her as if, indeed, they were about to strike
her dead. She had been caught in a horrible trap--a pit of destruction
yawned beneath her feet--in a moment she would be hurled down, down,
down, into fathomless darkness and despair.
Mrs. Gordon drew nearer and nearer. There was a tender smile on the
fair, delicate face, and the blue eyes looked straight into Laurel's
own for an instant--only an instant, for then she started backward, and
her cry of dismay and wonder pealed on the impostor's ears like the
knell of doom.
"Beatrix! Oh, my God, it is not Beatrix! What does this mean?"
"It is not Beatrix!" Mr. Gordon echoed, blankly.
And for a moment there reigned a terrible silence in the room.
St. Leon Le Roy looked down at his wife. She was clinging to his arm
with the desperation of despair. Her face was pale as death, and
convulsed with fear. Her wide, frightened, dark eyes stared up straight
into his, with a hunted look in their somber depth that pierced his
heart.
"Beatrix, what do they mean?" he cried. "Have they all gone mad?"
Her white lips tried to syllable the word "mad," but it died upon them
in a straining gasp.
Mr. Gordon came slowly forward, a dazed expression on his features.
"Mr. Le Roy, there must be some mistake," he said. "This lady is not
your wife?"
St. Leon answered gravely:
"There is no mistake. This is my wife, Mr. Gordon."
Mrs. Gordon cried out, startlingly:
"Then where is our daughter?"
She looked ready to faint. Her limbs tottered beneath her. She clung to
her husband with one hand pressed upon her throbbing heart, and stared
at the lovely creature on St. Leon's arm as if she were a ghost. Mrs.
Le Roy, still pale and wan from her recent illness, rose from the couch
where she reclined and tottered to her side.
"My dear friends, have you all taken leave of your senses?" she cried.
"Have you forgotten your own daughter's face? Beatrix, darling, why do
you not come to your mother?"
Only a stifled moan came from Laurel's lips, but Mrs. Gordon answered,
sternly:
"This is no daughter of ours. We have never seen her face before
to-night!"
And Mrs. Merivale, in the background, gazed in gloating wonder and
triumph at the pale, horrified face of St. Leon's wife. She was burning
with anxiety to hear the _dénouement_ of this strange and startling
scene.
"This is no daughter of ours. We have never seen her face before
to-night," repeated Mr. Gordon, and his wife feebly reiterated his
words.
"You have gone mad--both of you," Mrs. Le Roy cried out, fretfully.
"This is your daughter whom you sent to us, and whom my son married.
How dare you deny it? Speak to them, St. Leon--speak to them, Beatrix.
Do not let them deny you! It is monstrous, it is terrible!"
"She is no child of ours. She will not claim to be. She is a miserable
impostor. Look at her guilty face," said Mr. Gordon, pointing a
scornful finger at the white face that did indeed look shame-stricken
and full of guilty woe.
St. Leon had never taken his eyes from that beautiful, terrified face.
He spoke to her now, and his voice sounded hollow and stern.
"Beatrix, what do they mean? Is it true that you are not Mr. Gordon's
daughter?"
The white hands slipped from his arm, and she fell on her knees before
him, lifting up her woful white face pleadingly.
"Oh, St. Leon, pity and forgive me," she moaned, appealingly. "It is
true, and I have bitterly deceived you. I am not Beatrix Gordon!"