St. Leon lifted his mother's senseless form, and bore her away to her
room. Mrs. Gordon lay weeping, moaning, and wildly lamenting in her
husband's arms. Ross Powell, having accomplished his wicked work,
and finding himself unnoticed, stole quietly away from the scene of
his villainy. No one seemed to heed the prostrate form, lying prone
upon the floor like one dead, the marble-white face, with its closed
eyes and night-black lashes, upturned to the light--no one save Mrs.
Merivale, and she actually spurned it with her dainty foot, and glared
upon it with envenomed hatred in her turquois-blue eyes.
"The little viper!" she muttered, bitterly. "Oh, that I had known
the truth when I was here last summer! How I should have exulted in
betraying her to my haughty lord who laughed at my love, and scorned
me because once I was false to the trust he placed in me! She was an
angel forsooth. Ha! ha! I would not have missed this rich scene for ten
thousand dollars. What has become of that man who came so opportunely
upon the scene? I must see him. It may be worth my while."
She cast a glance of hate and scorn upon Laurel's silent, recumbent
figure, then hastened to the window and glided out, the heavy curtains
of silk and lace falling noiselessly together behind her retreating
form. The great gilded drawing-room, with its brilliant chandeliers and
myriad flowers, was deserted now save for the half frantic Gordons and
the unconscious girl upon the floor.
Unnoticed and deserted she struggled back to life and found herself
alone save for those two who gazed upon her with reproach and hatred as
the cause of their desolation. She had lent herself to the plot to rob
them of their daughter, and they could not forgive her any more than
they could forgive Beatrix for her unfilial desertion.
But she went and stood before them, so beautiful in her sorrow and
despair, with her disheveled golden tresses and the red roses dying
on her breast, that they could almost have pitied her in her tender
youth and grief, if only she had not helped Beatrix to her happiness,
and spoiled their clever scheme for separating her from her handsome,
penniless lover.
"I have wronged you," she said, sadly. "I know that. But, believe me,
I could not help it. She--your daughter--had been kind to me, and I
promised her my eternal gratitude. When she claimed my promise, what
could I do but yield! And--and--she is very happy. You must not forget
that when you think of her. Perhaps you may forgive me when you know
that she is so perfectly happy."
"Forgive!" they uttered, scornfully, for the thought that Beatrix was
happy in her stolen marriage was like a thorn in the flesh to them.
They felt hard and vindictive toward their beautiful, willful child.
They would have been glad to hear that she was ill, unhappy, repentant,
starving, even--anything but happy.
"You will forgive me, and forgive her?" pleaded the hapless girl.
"Never!" they answered, harshly, hardening their hearts against the two
young creatures who had carried out that daring conspiracy.
And Laurel began to realize the enormity of what she had done. It had
not seemed so bad to her at first, this helping a fair young girl and
her lover to be happy in spite of opposition. She remembered that
Clarice had called it a splendid joke, and Beatrix had laughed at her
scruples. But it was quite another thing to the Gordons. It was a cruel
outrage, and beyond pardon.
She stood looking at their cold, frowning faces a moment, then turned
hopelessly away. Every one was against her. If only St. Leon would
forgive her she would not care for the rest, she thought; but, alas--
"His love is turned to hate," she sighed. "He will never forgive me. He
will drive me away from him into eternal banishment. My brief dream of
happiness is over. And yet I was mad enough to think that out of his
great love he would forgive me! Ah, me! ah, me!"
Mr. Gordon led his wife silently from the room without a glance at her.
She was alone in the great, gilded drawing-room--deserted and alone in
her terrible anguish and despair. The sting of their contempt pierced
her heart.
"I am despised and deserted by all," she said, sorrowfully. "What shall
I do? Must I go away? Would St. Leon like it? Would he be glad never to
see me again?"
Something like a wail of anguish came from her lips at the thought of
leaving her husband and never seeing him again. It was more bitter than
death. She thought of his passionate, idolizing love. Had it all been
murdered at one fell stroke by the knowledge of her sin?
The door opened, and he came suddenly into the room.
He saw her standing there, the only creature in the wide, brilliant
drawing-room. He knew that every one had deserted her for her sin--that
fatal retribution had overtaken her. His own heart had revolted from
its allegiance, now that he knew her for the willful creature of clay
that she was instead of the angel he had deemed her. Yet never had her
perfect beauty struck him more forcibly than now. Robbed of its light,
its coloring, its bloom, its perfection still showed supreme, like the
beauty of a perfectly chiseled statue.
She ran to him; she threw herself humbly at his feet--
"There, with her milk-white arms and shadowy hair,
She made her face a darkness."
"Forgive me, my husband, forgive me!" prayed the wretched wife.