Charley took up the pen to write to his future stepmother, and looked
at his father.
“Shall you dictate, sir, or will you tell me your desires and leave the
rest to me?” he asked.
“I will tell you what to say, and you may put it in your own words,”
Senator Bonair replied.
So it happened in due time that there came across the sea to anxious
Rosalind this answer to her charming love letter:
“DEAR ROSALIND: You’ll be surprised to get this letter from me
in answer to your loving one to father, but as you have consoled
yourself for my fault, I hope you bear no ill will, and that you are
willing to let bygones be bygones. To tell you the honest truth,
Rosalind, I’m so happy with my darling little wife, I feel at peace
and amity with the whole world, and as dad wants me to write you
this letter, I embrace the chance to tell you so. I don’t mind
your marrying dad, if you love him. If not, please don’t, for his
happiness is very dear to me.
“You wondered why dad failed to write to you, and he wants me to
explain. Well, this is why: Along late in August he came down here
to the little village by the sea, alone, with his valet, and first
thing he knew he came down with a horrid case of smallpox, and
everybody deserted him but Tousey, who didn’t know a single thing
about nursing or cooking, either, so dad was likely to die. By the
best luck in the world my wife happened to be in the neighborhood
(I was in London myself), and she went to his aid, like a brick
(excuse slang). You see, she had had smallpox and knew how to nurse
it. She also knew how to get a decent meal, so between her two
accomplishments she dragged dad out of the jaws of death. Then she
wrote me to send a London doctor, which I did, and although the sick
man went down to the gates of death they dragged him back, and now he
is convalescent, but not allowed to read or write yet, so he is using
my pen and eyes to allay your anxiety.
“Of course, it follows, dad has forgiven Berry and me, and just dotes
now on my charming wife.
“But dad wishes me to say that our reconciliation makes no difference
in his duty and his feelings to you, and that he has not reconsidered
his disinheritance of his disobedient son. Your marriage dower will
be quite as large as he had promised before, and the future must take
care of itself. I have won my suit for my mother’s money, and if I
never get a penny of dad’s my little love and I can be perfectly
happy without it.
“Dad will be home weeks before the wedding, so don’t worry, he says,
as he loves you as well as ever. My sisters will be home before the
wedding, too, he says, but I don’t expect an invitation, and would
not come if you sent one! I suppose you and Berry won’t care to meet
for a good while yet, and I won’t force a crisis. We will likely make
our home over here, anyway, as Berry isn’t used to society, and I’m
not rich enough to keep in the swim, either. So when dad goes, I’m
going to buy a fine automobile, and we two, my love and I, are going
touring in it. We shall be as happy as two birds in a nest.
“The next letter will be from dad himself, telling you when to expect
him home. Good luck to you, Rosalind, and good-by.
“CHARLEY BONAIR.”
This was the startling letter that threw Rosalind into a fit of angry
hysterics.
“The game is lost to me, I feel it, I know it! Oh, why did I let him go
away from me over there, where those two scheming wretches were sure to
nab him? Why didn’t I insist on an immediate marriage, so as to go with
him? I was a fool letting him out of my sight as I did!”
“Rosalind, your fears are groundless. Nothing but some glaring fault in
yourself would prevent the marriage, and I tremble over this flirtation
with Adrian Vance if it even gets to his knowledge. You go too far,
indeed, my dear.”
“Quit preaching, for Heaven’s sake; you drive me mad!” Rosalind cried
angrily. “I shall flirt all I like, and with whom I like, for when I am
tied down in wedlock with old Moneybags I shall have to be so proper I
shall die of dreariness!”
When she had got over her hysterical fit, she dressed herself with care
and went down to her guests, where Adrian Vance always flew to attend
to her lightest wish. When they got away by themselves, presently, in a
shaded alcove behind the curtain, she said carelessly:
“I have just had a letter from the senator, and the poor old man has
had smallpox in a dreadful form. I am wondering if he will be so pitted
as to make him more homely than he was before?”
“I hope he may be rendered so hideous that you will break the
engagement on sight,” he responded passionately.
“Ah, Adrian, I wish he had your good looks along with his millions.
Then I should be happy, indeed.”
He seized her white, jeweled hand in a crushing pressure.
“Ah, Rosalind, why are you so cruel when I love you so well and you
pretend that you return it? Let that old man go, and give yourself to
me.”
“I promise you now,” she whispered softly, leaning close to him, “that
when old Moneybags dies and leaves me his millions, I’ll take you, my
dark-eyed Adrian, for my second husband, and let you help to spend the
money.”
“You tempt me to murder him by the time the marriage ceremony is over!
Have a care, Rosalind, for what you put in my head!” the man whispered
back hoarsely.