A few days later Mr. Ford brought his niece and her son to call at Eden.
The brilliant writer looked very elegant and distinguished in her dress
of soft, rich black silk and lace. A dainty bonnet of black lace and
gleaming jet rested on the dark golden waves of her hair, and set off
to the greatest advantage her blonde loveliness, lighted by such dark
and star-like eyes. A soft color glowed on her rounded cheeks, and
her eyes were bright with repressed excitement, but no trace of her
heart's emotion showed in her calm, gracious manner as she bowed to her
handsome host and greeted his stately mother. She had schooled herself
to calmness, and no heartless queen of society ever bore herself with
more _nonchalant_ ease and outward coldness than did Laurel in the
hour when she re-entered the home she had left long years before, a
wretched, despairing child, for whom life seemed over and done. Now, as
she stepped across the threshold, a beautiful, proud, successful woman,
whom the world delighted to honor, she remembered that broken-hearted
child with a pang of bitterness that steeled her heart to the softness
that had melted it for a moment. She _would_ be cold and calm for the
sake of the girl so cruelly put away from her husband's heart, so
cruelly misjudged and scorned. Yet, as it all rushed over her again,
she wondered, as she had wondered over and over in the past, how she
had lived through her sorrow--that sorrow which she had said so many
times would kill her when it came.
"The day drags through, though storms keep out the sun,
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on."
She said the pathetic lines over to herself, wearily, even as she
touched St. Leon's hand with her own and looked at him with a smile--a
smile bright but cold like moonlight on snow. He had no answering smile
in return. His face was almost stern in its marble pallor and intensity
of repressed emotion. His firm white hand was cold as ice as it touched
the rosy palm so graciously extended; his voice had a strange tone,
even to himself, as he welcomed her to his home.
"You have the most beautiful home on the Hudson. Eden is far more
beautiful than Belle Vue," she said to him, with her bright, cold smile.
"I am glad you like my home. It will always have an added charm in my
eyes since Mrs. Lynn has deigned to praise it," St. Leon answered,
gallantly.
She thanked him almost mockingly, and then their conversation turned
upon the safe ground of generalities--upon art, and books, and foreign
travel, where both were at home. He found Mrs. Lynn his equal in every
sense. Her mind was rarely cultured and stored with knowledge, her
thoughts were beautiful and crystal clear. She held her own with the
ease and grace of one who knew the world, yet retained the native
innocence and frankness of a child. St. Leon's hauteur and reserve
melted before the charm of her manner, and he became his natural self
again, meeting her on her own ground with polished words and brilliant
thoughts. Their glances met each other's calmly, telling no tales of
that "auld lang syne" when "eyes looked love to eyes that spake again."
"Two maskers! what had they to do
With vows forsworn and loves untrue?"
Mrs. Le Roy gave her attention to Mr. Ford and the child. She had drawn
little Laurence to a seat by her side, and was showing him some fine
engravings. She could not keep her fascinated eyes from the beautiful,
spirited, boyish face that bore such a startling resemblance to that of
her own son. Mr. Ford watched her closely, and he saw that her heart
had gone out to the child, and that she was trying to win his love
in return. He looked on approvingly, longing, in the depths of his
unselfish heart, for a reconciliation between the long-parted husband
and wife.
"Neither one is happy," he said to himself, looking at them as they sat
talking calmly like strangers--the proud husband and the proud wife.
"That man has a story written on his face; he has suffered intensely;
is it possible he does not suspect the truth? Can he look at her--speak
to her--and not recognize her? It almost seems impossible. There was
never beauty before like hers--never such winsomeness and artless
grace. Before I came here I despised St. Leon Le Roy. Why is it that I
pity him now? Is it because I can read his sorrow and repentance in the
sadness of his face?"
Mr. Le Roy, rising at that moment, said, quietly, looking at his mother:
"I am taking Mrs. Lynn to the library, mother, to show her a book we
have been discussing, if you and Mr. Ford will excuse us."
"Certainly," both answered in a breath; and they went away, followed by
Mrs. Le Roy's startled glance.
"Your niece is very beautiful," she said, turning back, after a moment,
to Mr. Ford. "Has she been long a widow?"
"Seven years," he answered.
"Then the child has never known his father?" she said, with a light,
pitying touch of her ringed white hand on the boy's dark, clustering
curls.
"No--much to the lad's regret," said Mr. Ford.
"I dare say you have acted a father's part by the fatherless one," she
remarked, turning her grave, questioning eyes on his face. It seemed as
if she was fascinated to speak of little Laurence. She could not keep
her eyes nor her thoughts from him.
"Since I have known him--yes," Mr. Ford answered. "But though his
mother is my own sister's child, Mrs. Le Roy, I never met her, never
knew of her existence, until she was a widow, with a son three years
old."
She looked the curiosity she was too well bred to express in words.
"Do you care to know the reason why?" asked Mr. Ford.
"I confess you have aroused my curiosity," she replied, with a smile.
"Then I will tell you," he said. "When I was quite a lad I ran away
to Australia, seized with a gold-fever, then very prevalent in New
York. After years of ill luck, sickness, and misfortune, I struck a
bonanza. I was an old man then, and my heart yearned for the home and
the friends of my youth. I came home, determined to share my wealth and
prosperity with them, but all were dead, mother, father, and even the
toddling little sister I had loved so dearly. She had married, and died
in a short time after, leaving one daughter, whom I found it impossible
to trace. Several years later, I discovered my missing niece, by a
fortunate accident, in the brilliant novelist, Mrs. Lynn."
"She is very young to have achieved fame in the literary world," said
the lady.
"The result of necessity, my dear madam," Mr. Ford replied. "Losing
her husband before the birth of her child, my niece, scarcely more
than a child herself then, was thrown upon her own resources for
support. She became a writer, and most fortunately for the sake of the
little, helpless being dependent upon her care, she succeeded where
the many fail," he ended, leaving Mrs. Le Roy's unspoken curiosity on
the subject of Mrs. Lynn even greater than before, through his meager
explanation.