Ill news flies apace. It was not long before Beatrix Wentworth,
leisurely reading her New York paper in London, came upon the story of
that tragedy on the beautiful Hudson--read the ending of the strange
story of love and temptation, for which she felt herself in some degree
responsible, since she herself had sent Laurel Vane to Eden.
She threw down the paper and wept bitterly. It was true that she had
been angry with Laurel because she had deceived St. Leon Le Roy.
She had known that she would find it harder to be forgiven for her
elopement with Cyril since Laurel's willful marriage, but in this
moment she forgot her pique, her annoyance, her resentment at Laurel's
fault, and her heart was full of grief and pity over the girl's sad
fate. She remembered how young and fair and loving the erring girl had
been, and she said to herself that St. Leon Le Roy had been too hard
and cold when he found her out. He might have forgiven her, he should
have been kind and pitiful to her, at least, for the sake of that mad
love that had tempted her to sin.
Cyril agreed with her that the proud, rich man might have forgiven the
lovely, hapless girl for the sake of her great love. He had felt so
grateful to Laurel Vane for the service she had done him and Beatrix,
that he wished her the greatest good and the greatest happiness that
is possible to mortals. It came upon him with a great shock, that the
beautiful, dark-eyed girl, with the crimson lips, like a pomegranate
flower, and the shining, golden hair was dead--worse than all, dead
because she could not bear her life, driven into the dark, cold river
by the intensity of her despair. He wondered what Mr. Le Roy's feelings
could be.
"I should feel like a murderer," he said, to Beatrix. "It would seem
to me that with my own hand I had pushed the poor child into the cruel
river."
"He was so proud! All my life I have heard of the Le Roy pride," said
Beatrix. "I have felt frightened for Laurel, ever since I found out
what she had done. I never doubted that he would put her away from
him when he found her out; but I never dreamed she would be driven to
suicide. I thought that after awhile he would forgive her and take her
back."
She could not bear to think of the gentle, beautiful, golden-haired
girl, lying dead. She wept when she recalled her first meeting with
her, and the temptation that had entered her mind. How sadly their
girlish conspiracy had ended for the dead author's daughter.
"I was her evil genius, but I only meant to be kind to her," she
repeated, remorsefully, many times.
Even Clarice, who had been very angry with Laurel, and who had judged
her hardly at first, had nothing but tears and regrets for the dead
girl. Her passionate love that had ended in so sad a tragedy set her
apart in solemn sacredness. She had atoned for her fault with her life.
"We must write to Mr. Le Roy," said Cyril Wentworth. "We must confess
all our fault in sending Laurel to Eden. We must tell him how kind and
true and sweet she was until her mad love led her astray. We must beg
him to forgive her now that she is dead."
Beatrix wrote. It was a brave though most pathetic letter. She owned
her fault in sending Laurel to Eden, she dwelt pathetically on her
temptation to do so. She begged his pardon for her fault, and then she
pleaded for Laurel dead as warmly and earnestly as if she had been
living to profit by the prayers of her friend. The page was blistered
by her tears, but no answer ever came to her earnest appeal. It seemed
that Mr. Le Roy was indeed hard and unforgiving. He could not accord
his pardon to any of the actors in the strange drama that had shadowed
his life.
Then Beatrix wrote to her parents, humbly acknowledging her fault and
praying their pardon. She loved them dearly although she had deserted
them for her handsome, adoring young lover. She had a faint hope that
they would forgive her and Cyril and bid them come home. She longed for
her father's kiss of welcome, her mother's clasping arms.
Oh, how impatiently she waited for the answer to that letter! How
eagerly she longed to be pardoned for the girlish conspiracy that had
ended so disastrously to Laurel Vane! She began to see her fault in
a darker light now since the tragedy at Eden. The shadow of Laurel's
grave seemed to fall long and dark across her wedded happiness!
An answer came at last from her outraged father--such an answer as
withered all the springing-hopes in her breast. They would never
forgive her for her fault. They had no longer a daughter. Their Beatrix
was the same as dead to them, and they wished never to hear from Cyril
Wentworth's wife.