OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.
“What dreadful news are you telling me, my dear Lelia?” Mrs. Ritchie
cried, in consternation.
Lelia repeated dejectedly:
“Laurie and I have broken our engagement for the third time, mama.”
“Good heavens! my dear, this will never do at all, for our own fortune
is dwindling away so fast it is imperative you should marry a rich
man--and that soon! You must whistle Laurie back as soon as possible!”
cried the lady anxiously.
“That is what I mean to do, mama, if I can! But what if he will not
make up again?” sobbed Lelia, breaking down under her secret knowledge
of things that she dare not confess to her mother or any other living
soul--the gift of the betrothal-ring to Gipsy, her encounter with the
girl, the intercepted letters that carried the conviction to her heart
that Laurie loved her no more--these gruesome secrets must remain
forever locked in Lelia’s guilty breast--not even to the mother that
bore her could she betray her terrible crime.
Even that mother, weak and mercenary, but perhaps not actually wicked,
might have turned from her in loathing, had she known to what terrible
lengths her beautiful daughter had carried her insane jealousy.
Not knowing all these terrible facts, Mrs. Ritchie was disposed to take
a hopeful view of the case.
“Of course, he will make it up with you, my dear, but you will have to
make the first advances, this time, for you have treated him very badly
by your own confession,” she said.
“Oh, mama, you must help me; tell me what to do!” implored Lelia, her
blue eyes full of burning tears.
“I must think it over. I cannot advise you now. I must see your aunt
first, for I am very anxious over her, you know,” returned Mrs.
Ritchie, who was rather uneasy in her mind over the broken engagement.
She recalled to mind the fact that on the occasion of former ruptures
Laurie had always confessed to her and besought her intercession with
Lelia.
But this time he had acted very differently on coming home.
He had seemed quite as bright and happy as usual, with not a care on
his mind.
To her questions about Lelia he had said she was well and happy, and
given plausible reasons for his sudden return, saying he had some
investments to look after in Charleston.
If he was grieved over the break with his betrothed, he certainly
showed no signs of it.
And when Lelia’s telegram summoned them all to The Crags, he appeared
gently incredulous over his aunt’s illness.
“She was in her usual good health when I left. Perhaps Lelia, in
her fright, has exaggerated her illness,” he said, and declined to
accompany them without further news.
“If Aunt Cyrilla is indeed as ill as you fear, you may telegraph me at
once and I will come. Otherwise I do not care to go back, very soon, to
The Crags,” he said pointedly.
All of which showed Mrs. Ritchie, plainly now, that Laurie did not care
very much about being reconciled to his jealous sweetheart. The worm
had turned at last.
On the whole, she was rather glad to find Miss Cyrilla still so
critically ill that it seemed quite the proper thing to summon Laurie,
at once, by telegram.
“I wonder if she has made her will?” she said to Lelia, who professed
entire ignorance of the subject.
“Then come with me to see her and make yourself as sweet as possible;
then if she should happen to leave you all her money, it would not
make so much difference whether Laurie forgives you or not,” said the
mercenary mother, who placed wealth far above love in the scale of
worldly advantages.
It needed not her telegram to hurry Laurie, for all the morning papers
contained notices of the mysterious tragedy at The Crags, and his heart
sank, like lead, in his bosom, as he realized that the beautiful girl
who, for twenty-four hours, had filled all his thoughts was probably no
more.
He realized the cause of his aunt’s sickness now, and regretted he had
not accompanied his father and Lelia’s mother to The Crags.
He would go at once; he took the first train for The Crags, determined
to ferret out the mystery of Gipsy’s fate and, if possible, avenge her
tragic death.
Oh, it was cruel; it was monstrous, that her sweet young life should
have come to so premature an end.
How differently he had planned it out; how firmly he had resolved to
elevate poor Gipsy Darke to the level on which he himself stood, to
make her his bride, his wife.
For love had suddenly been born, full grown, in Laurie Willoughby’s
breast, an emotion so subtly sweet and overpowering that he questioned
if he ever had been really in love with his cousin, Lelia.
From boyhood he had been secretly interested in the girl, and the
events following on his late visit to The Crags had intensified the
feeling. Love grew from pity and admiration, blended; and when Lelia
threw him over and he was free, the scales fell from his eyes, and he
saw in the beautiful face and noble character of the poor young girl
the realization of his dreams of happiness. In the impetuous moment
when he placed the ring on her trembling hand he wished that she might
some day become his wife.
He knew quite well that he would have to encounter the bitter
opposition of his family, that their pride would stand aghast at a
union between a Willoughby and the gipsy foundling. No matter, he would
wed to please himself, and if his proud father chose to disinherit him,
he would still be rich, having a snug fortune inherited from his dead
mother.
With such hopes and plans he had gone away, and on reaching home he had
been tempted to write to Miss Willoughby and confide in her, begging
for her friendship for Gipsy and himself; telling her all the truth of
the rupture between himself and Lelia, his change of heart toward Gipsy
and desire to make her his wife. Very eloquently he pleaded that she
would put aside pride and help him to his happiness.
“I realize, fully, what a blow it will be to the family, the breaking
off with Lelia, but with her imperious, jealous nature, she could
never have made me happy. I question now, in the light of my feelings
for Gipsy Darke, whether I ever really loved Lelia save with a
complacent, cousinly love,” he wrote frankly--and a little further on:
“My cousin cannot charge that I have behaved badly to her, because
she has made me the victim of her caprices a long time, and no one
can blame me that my patience is exhausted. When she gave me back my
ring, she told me she loved another, so she ought to rejoice that I
can say the same.
“If you are vexed with me, dear aunt, I am grieved; because, next to
my father and my dark-eyed young love, you are the dearest one on
earth to me. I know you have loved me fondly, too, because you have
twice given me to understand that you meant to divide your fortune
between Lelia and myself. Perhaps you will not wish to do so now, but
if you will only be kind to my sweet young love, I am willing for you
to make Lelia your sole heiress. We shall not need riches to ensure
our happiness.”
With a throbbing heart he posted this letter, little dreaming that it
was destined to fall into Lelia’s hands, and of the fury it would rouse
in her jealous breast.
He was astonished at the headlong force of this sweet new passion. His
heart and his mind were full of the lovely dark-eyed girl, with her
cloud of curling, dark hair, her rare red lips, her sweet, tremulous
smile, her small, dimpled, white hands that looked so weak, yet were so
strong to do and dare in heroic fashion. He longed every moment to see
her again, to clasp her to his heart, to declare his love, to woo her
for his bride.
Yet he restrained his ardor, telling himself he would wait till
Lelia’s visit was over before he returned to The Crags to woo Gipsy
Darke. Better be fairly off with the old love before he sought the new.
On all these springing hopes and dreams came the announcement of the
tragic disappearance of Gipsy Darke, falling on his heart with crushing
force, shrouding it in the dark pall of despair.