“Time put his sickles in among the days,” and the weeks slipped away
and brought winter weather.
But long before the first snow, Charley Bonair had gone away from
New Market, ostensibly for a yachting trip with some of his bachelor
friends, leaving Rosalind piqued and angry.
For when she had asked him point-blank how long he wanted to wait
before the wedding, he had answered debonairly, that she might take all
the time she wanted. He guessed that both were young enough to wait
a while. Anyhow, he wanted to have this bachelor trip with the boys
before he thrust his neck into the matrimonial noose!
Rosalind, secretly furious at his indifference, was on the point of
telling him to go and stay forever, but she bit the tip of her rosy
tongue, keeping back the sharp retort, and half sobbed instead:
“Oh, Charley, I shall miss you so!”
“I should hate to think that you were lonely, dear, but I don’t believe
you will be, for Lucile and Marie intend to have you with them in
California for the winter months, after Christmas. Will you go?”
“Gladly, if you will promise to join us there when you come back.”
“It’s a bargain,” he answered, laughing, but none of her entreaties
could prevail on him to fix the date of his return.
He did not really know, he said. It would depend on the other fellows.
Meanwhile she was to enjoy herself in her own way; he would not find
fault nor get jealous!
When he had gone away, she loved and hated him by turns, and she was
more than ever sure that Berry Vining had stolen his heart.
“Oh, if I could find her, and were quite, quite sure of her guilt, I
would wreak a bitter vengeance,” she murmured angrily, to the silent
walls of her luxurious chamber.
She would have given anything to know the whereabouts of the girl she
believed to be her rival.
It nearly maddened her to think that Charley might be seeing her daily,
basking in her smiles, laughing with her, perhaps, over the deferred
wedding. Her hatred of the young girl grew each day, until it became a
passion for revenge.
“My day will come! Let her look to herself, that day!” she vowed
bitterly.
She went one day to the cottage on pretense of getting a cloth suit
pressed, and with pretended sympathy, asked Mrs. Vining if she had ever
had any news of the missing girl.
Mrs. Vining wept as she declared that she had never heard any news of
her daughter.
“She may be dead and buried for aught I know to the contrary, Miss
Montague.”
“Perhaps she has eloped with a lover,” cried Rosalind, but the old
woman frowned, and answered quickly:
“My girl was as pure and high-minded as the richest young lady in the
land, miss, and she would never stoop to disgrace.”
“I hope it may prove so, indeed!” exclaimed Rosalind, from the depths
of her jealous heart, and she went away, promising to send her maid
with the tailor gown to be pressed.
The little cottage with the morning-glory vines all dead, looked dreary
and deserted, and poverty-stricken; but poor as it was, the good widow
could barely pay the rent. Rosalind could not help but think, as she
walked away, that it was a poor setting for the lovely girl who had
fled away from it rather than exchange it for the gilded misery of a
loveless marriage, such as her mother had proposed.
One thing she had told Mrs. Vining earnestly:
“If you hear from your daughter, be sure and let me know, and I will
make it worth your while. I take a deep interest in little Berry, you
know.”
Aye, the interest of the hawk in the dove, proud beauty! The mother
curtsied in gratitude, and thanked her for her kindness.
And just before Christmas she was startled to receive a note from the
tailoress, saying she had heard from her little girl at last. She had
run away to be an actress, because life in New Jersey was too dull and
lonely. She had sent her mother a little money and a pretty picture
of herself, and begged her not to be angry, but she was touring in
California now, and it would be a long time before she came home again.
“In California--Charley’s own State. It looks suspicious,” muttered
Rosalind, and she went over to the cottage to visit Mrs. Vining again.
But she did not find out anything more, for the letter had been
mailed on a train, and Berry failed, perhaps by design, to tell her
destination, adding in a postscript:
“I don’t ask you to write me, because I am always ‘on the go,’ but I
have means you do not guess, of sometimes hearing of your welfare.”
“It is through him,” Rosalind thought bitterly, but she concealed her
agitation, and congratulated the widow, prettily, on having heard from
her daughter. Then promising to send her a handsome Christmas gift, she
took leave.
Charley Bonair would have given thousands of dollars to know even what
Rosalind had heard about Berry; for he had begun to mourn her as dead,
and remorse stung like a serpent in his heart.
Always remembering that the man from the inn, who had robbed and tried
to murder him, belonged to those people, he had decided they must all
be cut-throats and robbers, and that Berry had most likely met her
death at their hands.
With a heavy heart he landed from the yacht at San Francisco, deciding
he would join his family there, and little dreaming the surprise
awaiting him.