A STRUGGLE FOR A RING.
Miss Willoughby had a very bad quarter of an hour with her wilful niece
that evening.
For she had not been in the room five minutes before she abruptly
brought the conversation around to her new grievance.
“What was Laurie doing in Gipsy’s room before he went away?”
“Oh, my dear, he just came up there searching for me, to say good-by.”
“He might have sent a servant to call you.”
“He did not seem to have time to stand on ceremony,” the old lady
answered somewhat tartly.
“Was he talking to you, or Gipsy?” continued Lelia curiously.
“To us both, I believe. In fact, almost as soon as he came in a
servant called me out on some domestic matter, and presently Laurie
came hurrying after me, and we went down together to the trap that was
waiting to take him to the station.”
“Ah, so he was left alone with that artful girl!” snapped Lelia, with
flashing eyes.
“Only for a moment, my dear, and you can see for yourself that it was
really unavoidable,” soothed her aunt, but adding, with latent irony:
“But what does it matter, anyway? You say you have broken with him, so
he is surely free to speak to another girl if he chooses.”
“You always take his part against me, Aunt Cyrilla, and excuse him for
all the flagrant flirtations that drive me mad!” cried out her niece
reproachfully.
“Nonsense, Lelia. Laurie never flirted in his life. Your jealousy is
entirely unfounded.”
“How can you say so? You should have seen him only to-day!” and the
angry girl poured out her grievances in eloquent words, with adroit
touches of high coloring that made Laurie’s sins look very black indeed.
But Miss Willoughby made due allowance for her tendency to exaggerate
her injuries, and calmly replied:
“After a night’s reflection, my dear, Laurie’s faults will not seem so
black as you paint them now, and you will be repenting your anger and
be wanting him back.”
“I--I--I--want him back now!” sobbed the beauty, humbling herself in
her despair to acknowledge the truth. “Oh, I did not dream he would go
away in such haste! He never acted like that when we quarreled before!
Where has he gone, aunt? Did he tell you?” anxiously.
Miss Willoughby could only tell her that Laurie had said he was called
home by a telegram, and she advised Lelia to write to him and crave his
pardon for her unkindness.
But the girl turned on her fiercely, resentfully, in her towering pride.
“I will never humble myself to call him back! He will stay forever if
he waits for that!” and she darted from the room in a violent passion.
And a yearning to vent her ill-humor on one who dared not strike back
carried her straight to Gipsy’s presence.
It was past eleven o’clock, but, without the courtesy of knocking, she
coolly turned the handle of the door and entered, a tall, white figure
in a loose dressing-gown, with a shimmer of golden hair about her
shoulders.
There was a light in the room, for Gipsy had not retired.
She was resting in her easy chair by the window, her slight figure and
beautiful face bathed in the flood of summer moonlight.
Though it was late, she could not sleep, her excited thoughts were
following handsome, debonair Laurie Willoughby.
More than once she had raised her hand and kissed the shining ring on
her finger for the giver’s sake.
And faithful memory recalled over and over every glance of his eyes,
every tone of his voice, every word he had spoken, every separate charm
that made him one of the most captivating of men.
Unconsciously to herself, she was passionately in love with Laurie,
though it would have frightened her if she had realized the meaning of
her sweet, tumultuous thoughts.
On these sweet emotions, and the calm solitude of the hour, broke Lelia
Ritchie, like an evil spirit--specterlike in her loose white robe and
waving hair.
Gipsy started in sudden fear and dread, with a low cry of wonder.
“Who is that? What do you want?”
“Don’t you know me, Gipsy--Miss Ritchie?” exclaimed the intruder
superciliously, as she drew forward a chair, seating herself in front
of the girl.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Ritchie. I almost took you for a ghost at
first,” laughed Gipsy, recovering herself quickly, though she wondered
secretly at the visit.
Lelia answered carelessly:
“I’ve been waiting for you to get well, so as to come in and thank you
for saving Laurie’s and my life that day. You acted very bravely, and
we are anxious to pay our debt of gratitude by a suitable gift. Tell me
frankly what you wish for most.”
If Gipsy could have spoken out the impulse of her heart, she might have
answered:
“I covet nothing you have, proud beauty, except your noble lover,
Laurie Willoughby.”
But such a choice was not for Gipsy, the waif, and she sat there, pale
and mute, while Lelia continued airily:
“Now, what shall the present be? A silk gown, a piece of jewelry, or a
sum of money? You can take your choice.”
The pale girl in the chair answered earnestly:
“Oh, Miss Ritchie, I desire no gift from you. The approval of my own
conscience is sufficient reward.”
It seemed to Lelia that the girl was really trying to put herself on a
level with her superiors by her answer, and she cried out waspishly:
“I cannot let it go that way, Gipsy Darke! I insist on making you a
present!”
Poor, innocent Gipsy, she dreamed not what disaster she was calling
down upon her head when she gently replied:
“Please do not insist on it, Miss Ritchie, because the gift Mr.
Willoughby brought me to-day was more than enough from you both, and,
of course, he intended it that way.”
Lelia’s heart leaped in alarm, then sank heavily, while her face
whitened to the hue of marble, as she demanded hoarsely:
“Laurie brought you a gift to-day! What was it, pray?”
“Did he not tell you?” exclaimed Gipsy, in surprise. “Oh, it is such a
pretty ring! But I prize his kind words even more. He said it was in
token of undying gratitude, and he placed it on my finger himself, with
some kind wish that he is to tell me when we meet again.”
In her enthusiasm she had forgotten the tales she had heard of Lelia’s
jealousy of her betrothed.
She did not dream that the proud beauty and heiress could stoop to envy
a poor young girl.
She was soon to realize all the horrors of the real truth.
Lifting her eyes, she saw Lelia glaring at her with eyes like points of
blue steel, as she muttered, in hoarse, strained accents:
“Let me see the ring.”
And Gipsy held out her dainty little hand, where Lelia’s ring was
shining like a drop of globed dew.
One glance, and the haughty beauty knew the fatal truth.
She could never get Laurie back.
To punish her for her pride and anger, he had given her betrothal-ring
to another, and left her forever.
It was the bitterest moment of her whole life, this terrible defeat.
Her whole being flamed with such despairing anger that it was a wonder
she did not fall dead instantly of excitement. She could scarcely
mutter the fierce words that leaped to her lips:
“It is my ring, Gipsy Darke! Give it to me!”
“Oh, Miss Ritchie!” cried Gipsy, in consternation, then for a moment
their eyes met, while dead silence reigned.
Gipsy shuddered at the implacable hate of her enemy’s gaze.
Lelia made a fierce effort to hold herself in check, but her voice had
the hiss of a serpent as she muttered:
“You did not know it was my engagement-ring Laurie gave you?”
“Oh, no, no, surely not! Why should he give it to me? This is some
horrible jest!”
Lelia laughed hysterically.
“Yes, a jest on Laurie’s part. We--we had a little tiff to-day, and, in
a moment of anger, I gave him back his ring. I have done so before, but
he always made me take it back. A lover’s quarrel, that is nothing,
you know--just the renewal of love, the poets say. It was a sorry jest
to give you the ring, for he will take it away to-morrow, to give it
back to me.”
“But he is gone,” faltered the startled girl.
“He will soon return. He cannot stay away long from me, we love each
other too well. Oh, Gipsy Darke, you cannot understand the madness it
stirs in me to see my ring on your hand. Give it back to me, I command
you!”
She held out an imperious hand, but Gipsy recoiled, faltering:
“Oh, I cannot grant your wish. He made me promise not to remove the
ring till he came back--that it would break the charm of the wish. Oh,
forgive me, but I must wear it till he comes.”
Lelia sprang from her chair and stood threateningly over the girl.
“How dare you refuse my wish, you wretched, low-born foundling!”
Stung to rebellion by her scorn, Gipsy put her little hand behind her,
answering proudly:
“The ring is mine, not yours, for by your own confession you gave
it back to Mr. Willoughby. Since he deemed me worthy to wear it, and
commanded me not to remove it, the ring shall never leave my hand, save
at his desire!”
“You defy me?”
“If you call that defiance!” and the dark eyes flashed with pride and
spirit.
She was determined to hold out bravely against the injustice of Lelia’s
demand, but she was not prepared for the lengths to which her jealous
rival would go.
With a cry like an enraged tigress, Lelia flung herself on the other,
to possess herself of the ring by force.
Gipsy, weakened by her two weeks’ illness, was no match for her furious
antagonist.
But with courage born of desperation, she tried to defend her rights.
There in the glow of the moonlight that streamed into the open window,
the beautiful rivals struggled madly for possession of the diamond that
meant so much to both; and the angels above must have looked on in
wonder and pity at the strange scene.
With throbbing hearts, with low cries of anger, each strained every
nerve for mastery, the one to retain the ring, the other to possess it.
Excitement gave to both a fictitious strength, but Gipsy had been at
a disadvantage from the first, and as Lelia’s rage grew to murderous
fury, her hatred could brook no further resistance.
Infuriated by Gipsy’s defiance, impatient of delay, she flung one hand
out blindly toward a little table near-by, and grasped the first thing
she touched--a heavy cut-glass paper-weight.
Already she had her knees pressed into Gipsy’s chest, stifling her
breath, and one hand wound in the tresses of her dark hair. A minute
more and she would achieve a bloodless victory.
But her anger could not wait. A blind, jealous wrath drove her on to a
terrible deed.
Once, twice she lifted a murderous hand and struck Gipsy on her head
with the improvised weapon.
Then it was that two loud shrieks rang out fearfully upon the midnight
air, and roused every sleeper in the house.
Blank silence then, while Gipsy fell like a log from her chair, blood
spurting from her head over Lelia’s gown.
“I have killed her, I must fly!” muttered Lelia, wildly wrenching the
ring in savage haste from the limp, unresisting hand and rushing to the
door.