Rosalind’s sorrow, so prettily acted, had its due effect. Her friends
quickly acquitted her of all blame, and hastened to soothe her ruffled
feelings by praising the good intentions that had prompted her terrible
mistake.
The Bonairs hated anything like notoriety, and they tried very hard to
keep the sensational events of that night out of the newspapers.
But their efforts failed of success, and the reporters reaped a rich
harvest.
When the manager of Berry’s company came the next day to inquire
for his missing star, he was astounded to learn through the voluble
housekeeper of the tragedy of the previous night.
He went quite white, and trembled with the shock, and as he was rather
young and very handsome, Mrs. Hopson surmised that he must be the young
girl’s lover, and pitied him very much.
He cried out hoarsely:
“Barely alive, you say, with but one chance in a hundred for her life?
Oh, how terrible! I can scarcely credit it, unless I see her with my
own eyes!”
He went from the mansion to the cottage, and Mrs. Cline permitted him
to see the poor, unconscious girl upon the bed, breathing so faintly
that it seemed as if every pulsation must be her last.
“Dying, poor girl, dying! And I loved her, oh, I loved her better than
my life!” the man cried, sinking on his knees by the bed, and pressing
his lips to the cold little hand that lay outside the cover.
“Then you were going to marry the poor young lady?” asked Mrs. Cline.
“No, for she had rejected my suit, telling me she had loved once and
her faith had been destroyed forever. She was very unhappy, I know,
over her broken lovedream, but I still hoped on, believing that in
time she might forget her false lover and turn to me. In all our
leading parts I was cast as her lover, and I threw my whole soul into
everything, hoping to win her at last. Alas! all is over, and her sweet
life has fallen beneath the machinations of a cowardly enemy,” the man
moaned, staggering up to his feet, with a look of despair that touched
the woman’s heart.
“I am so sorry for you, sir,” she murmured, putting the corner of her
white apron to her eyes, that were wet with tears.
He thanked her with a look, and added:
“While she lives, Mrs. Cline, see that she receives the best of
attention, and look to me to settle all expenses to--the last!” his
voice breaking over the word.
“Oh, sir, the Bonairs have already pledged themselves to pay
everything. A trained nurse is coming within the hour, and the
physician will be in frequently,” she replied.
“May I see Mr. Bonair? Will you take my card to him?” asked the manager.
She assented, and he was kept waiting some time, while she related to
Charley Bonair every word he had uttered, faithfully describing the
emotion he had displayed.
Charley Bonair was lying on his couch very pale and restless, and he
grew almost ghastly as the tale ran on.
“That will do, you may bring him in,” he said, at last.
The next moment:
“Ah, Mr. Bonair, will you pardon this intrusion?”
“You are welcome, Mr. Weston. Pray be seated,” Charley answered
quietly, gazing hard at his handsome rival.
Truly he was handsome and manly, with that dark, flashing eye that
so easily wins its way to a woman’s heart. Charley Bonair wondered
jealously that Berry had been able to withstand its fascination.
“Dear little one, surely she loved me well,” he thought, with a twinge
of the bitterest remorse and pain.
The manager had somewhat recovered his self-possession that had wavered
in the presence of his dying love. He did not give way as before Mrs.
Cline, but conversed easily and with a sorrowful dignity that impressed
the hearer, against his wishes, with profound respect.
“A dangerous rival, and perhaps more worthy of her than I am,” Bonair
said to himself, with a sweeping self-contempt new and withering.
If she lived, poor little Berry, who could tell but that such devotion
might win her at last?--but he groaned aloud at the thought.
“Your pardon. A twinge of pain in that confounded shoulder,” he
explained.
“Permit me to praise your acting last night,” he added. “It was superb,
and, in fact, your company is an admirable one.”
“I thank you, but we are almost ruined now by this terrible happening.
No woman in my company is capable of taking the leading part at short
notice. I shall arrange to pay the company a week’s salary in advance,
and disband for an indefinite time.”
“You must permit me to assist in the financial part; I feel it my duty,
and will make it my pleasure. I cannot forget that the disaster came
to you through your appearance at my home last night,” the wounded man
said cordially.
But the manager declined the offer with a proud, though gentle,
dignity, winning more and more Bonair’s respect.
“I thank you, sir, but I must decline your offer, since I am amply able
to meet these expenses,” he said, adding after a moment’s hesitation:
“Whatever you may choose to spend in tracing Miss Vane’s cowardly
murderer will be well spent.”
“No expense will be spared for that,” Bonair promised, growing so
pale again that the visitor felt he was staying too long, and took a
courteous and sympathetic leave.
It was a nine days’ wonder in the papers, and the reporters “worked
the story for all it was worth.” Meanwhile the Weston Company became
so interesting to the general public that the next cleverest actress
studied Berry’s part, and the new play, “A Wayside Flower,” ran
successfully for weeks upon the boards of a popular theater.
All this time Berry was lingering between life and death from the
terrible pounding Zilla had given her in the bear pit, but at last the
wavering balance began to incline toward life, gladdening many anxious
hearts, but filling one, alas, with malignant hate.
For Rosalind’s jealous hatred waxed hotter every day, and could she
have found a chance to be alone in that sick room for five minutes, it
is hard to say what might have happened.
But a young princess could not have been guarded with more loving care
than the poor little actress, and it was all through Charley Bonair
that this was so.
He employed two competent nurses for the sick room, and one or the
other was ordered to remain always in the girl’s apartment.
“We must remember always that she has a cruel and unscrupulous enemy
thirsting for her young life,” he said. “That enemy may be hovering
about, watching for an opportunity to complete her murderous work. She
must be foiled in her terrible designs,” he said firmly, and Rosalind,
who heard the words, turned aside to hide a cruel sneer that parted her
crimson lips.
She was disappointed in all her crafty little schemes for entrapping
him into marriage before Berry recovered. It was plainer to her than
ever that she had lost every hold she had upon him, and she dreaded
every day that he would ask for a release from his engagement.
Rosalind said to herself that when that happened she was afraid she
would go mad of her anger and despair.
A jilted bride! How could she bear the stigma, how turn aside the jeers
of her little carping world?
“I cannot, I will not release him if he dares plead to me. I will hold
him to his promise, and he dare not back down!” she vowed bitterly.
Charley Bonair’s convalescence was so slow that every one became
uneasy, not dreaming that he played a deceitful part in order to remain
as long as he could beneath the same roof with Berry. Besides, as he
said to himself, he could hold Rosalind off better that way. Though she
came every day with his sisters to visit him, he frequently pretended
to be too ill or nervous to receive them till at last his doctor
rallied him soundly.
“What game is it you are playing, Bonair? You were well enough two
weeks ago.”
Before Bonair left at last, the nurses permitted him to sit a half hour
in Berry’s room watching her as she slept, with the dark silken lashes
prone upon her snowy cheek, and the breath just stirring the white
folds of her breast.
The sight went to his heart, stirring it with profound emotion, so that
he said to himself:
“How can I dream of ever wedding any but this beautiful creature, my
soul’s true mate? She must be mine alone; I must break with Rosalind!”