Laurel had left her veil and gloves on the bank of the river with a
deliberate purpose.
She desired that her angry, unforgiving husband should believe that she
was dead. Since he had deliberately planned to put her out of his life
forever, he would, no doubt, be glad to think that she was dead. So,
with a heart full of bitterness and wounded love, she had penned that
pathetic note to him and gone away.
All her trembling hopes were over now. She knew the worst. St. Leon
would never forgive her for the deceit by which she had made herself
his wife. He had forgotten his love; indeed, she did not doubt but that
he hated her now, and believed Ross Powell's shameless lie against
her. Mrs. Le Roy, too, had declined to see her. Of course she took
sides with her son. The poor child had not one friend to turn to in her
despair.
Her heart beat, her face burned at the thought of the ignominious
separation her husband had planned. What did she care for Eden, for
the wealth he had sneeringly said she should not be deprived of, now
that she had lost him? All the latent pride within her rose in arms
against such terrible humiliation. She would have died, indeed, would
have faced the crudest death unflinchingly, rather than have remained
at Eden on such terms. Laurel had been a passionate, loving, impulsive
child till now. In the hour of her unutterable desolation, she became
a proud, cold, blighted woman. Her sin had found her out. That time
of which she had spoken to Beatrix Wentworth and Clarice, saying
that only when it came could she repent of her fault, had come, and,
metaphorically speaking, she wore sack-cloth and ashes.
Death would have been welcome in that hour. She longed for it, she
prayed for it. It seemed to her quite impossible that she could lose
St. Leon and live. She had told herself often and often that, if he
refused to forgive her when he found her out, she should die. It had
seemed to her that her heart would stop its beating, her pulses faint
and fail in that terrible hour.
But the end had come, and the blood still pulsed through her veins, her
heart still beat, the young, strong life that thrilled her held on its
steady course. A great temptation came over her as she crouched in the
night and the darkness on the banks of the swirling river. It would
have been so pleasant, so sweet, to have ended the short, sad story
of her life, with its terrible temptation and cruel failure, then and
there--to have shut out the dark, foreboding future in the merciful
shadows of oblivion, but something--perhaps that tender secret she
had so shyly withheld from her husband--held her back from the fatal
plunge. Her own life she might have taken in the frenzy of despair,
but that other tenderer one throbbing beneath her broken heart, she
could not, she dared not.
"I have no right," she said to herself. "I might be wicked and mad
enough to commit suicide, but murder, never. No, no, I will be brave. I
will bear my cross for the sake of what is coming to me. Who knows but
that it may comfort me in my lonely future! St. Leon will not want it.
He would hate it and exile it from him as he did me. It will be wholly
mine--something of his that will love me and cling to me although he
scorns and despises me."
So she went away. She took with her none of the jewels, none of the
beautiful gifts her adoring husband had lavished upon her in the happy
days now forever past. She slipped her purse into her pocket. It
contained several hundred dollars. Pride would have made her leave it,
but she felt that for the sake of her tender secret she had a right to
take it with her. She would need it in the trial that lay before her.
So she left the veil and gloves upon the river bank where they would
find them if they sought for her, and then she went to New York and hid
herself and her sorrow in the obscurity of the great, thronged city,
bearing her burden of sorrow alone and in pitiful silence and despair.
Through the medium of the omnipresent newspaper she learned of the
tragedy that had occurred at Eden. As if it had been the story of
another she went over the fate of the beautiful impostor who had been
detected in her sin, and whose disappearance had been followed by the
finding of her drowned body. Then, indeed, she started, wondering who
the unfortunate river waif could have been who had been buried with the
honors pertaining to St. Leon Le Roy's young wife.
"I will not undeceive them," she said. "Now, indeed, I am dead to him
forever, and that is best. Let him forget me."