THE FORGED LETTER.
In direct contradiction to the note which Robert received, Mr. Ellerton
bent his steps toward the Glenburn House, where, despite the crowd of
visitors, he had managed to obtain rooms.
He sought in vain for his son among the throng that poured out from the
institute. He then found one of the professors and asked him to send
Robert to him, if he should find him.
The professor had politely told him that he would send to his
boarding-place, and inform him of his father’s arrival, which he did,
and with what success future chapters will show.
Thanking him for his kindness, Mr. Ellerton then returned to the hotel,
where he waited with ill-disguised impatience for Robert’s appearance.
At the dinner-table Madame Alroyd and Dora sat directly opposite Mr.
Ellerton; and as his eyes fell upon the graceful and familiar beauty of
our heroine, he started violently, and during the whole meal intently
studied her features.
Dora had recognized him at a glance, and all her old anger toward him
revived instantly. For she could not forget how bitterly he had opposed
Robert’s love for her, nor the sarcastic insinuations he had cast at her
mother.
She wondered why Robert was not with his father, if they had seen each
other at all. She wondered also if he had fully forgiven his father for
his former harshness and ill-treatment, and if Mr. Ellerton was as cross
and unyielding as ever.
She glanced up furtively at him, as her thoughts reached this crisis,
and caught his eye fastened earnestly and thoughtfully upon her.
Her own dropped instantly, and with almost a guilty feeling; for she
felt as if he must have read her thoughts, so searching had been his
glance.
She thanked the fates fervently that just at this moment her aunt
finished her meal, and arose to leave the table. She felt that a pair of
eyes were following her the whole length of the room, and she was ill at
ease until the door closed upon them.
“Who were those two ladies who just left the room?” asked Mr. Ellerton
of a gentleman who sat at his right hand, and with whom he had been
having some previous conversation.
“Madame Alroyd and Miss Dora Dupont, her niece. They are from your own
country, sir, I have been told,” replied his companion.
Mr. Ellerton puckered up his mouth very much as if he were going to
whistle, while he muttered to himself:
“Well, I don’t wonder the little beauty looked at me, as if she thought
I was an old bear. She must have known me; and now I know where I have
seen those great, deep blue eyes before.”
“Do you know anything about them?” he asked, aloud.
“Only by report,” replied his neighbor. “That says that the old lady is
as rich as Crœsus, and has adopted the young lady who is her niece. They
are making a tour for pleasure of this country. They say the little
beauty is turning all the young men crazy.
“Is she? That’s a pity, for I have my doubts about any of them getting
her,” remarked Mr. Ellerton, dryly.
“I don’t know about that. I sat beside her to-day in the institute, and
I began to think that one young man had turned her head; for she scarce
breathed all through Ellerton’s valedictory; and when he finished she
threw him a lovely bouquet, and which you might have seen in his hand
afterward. She’s a dainty little craft, anyhow—don’t you think so?”
“Um—well, yes—rather,” replied Mr. Ellerton, smiling at his companion’s
volubility, and rather enjoying this bit of gossip about his son. Then
to himself he added, “I guess I shall have to look into this matter a
little. Rich, is she? well, I won’t mind so much about his having her
now. I’ll cultivate their acquaintance immediately, and try to get the
little one to like me if I can.”
With which complacent reflections he arose and left the table.
As Madame Alroyd and Dora were passing up the stairs to their rooms, a
servant met them and handed the latter a note.
She glanced at the handwriting, and in an instant flushed crimson, then
turned pale as the pure lilies which hung from her hair, and lay against
her soft cheek.
Passing swiftly to her room, with the note clasped in both her hands
over her beating heart, she sank breathless upon a sofa, quivering in
every nerve. The writing was Robert’s, and she felt that that white
folded missive had power to seal her happiness or plunge her into the
depths of woe.
Madame Alroyd took in at a glance the cause of her emotion, and so
remained silent until her niece should recover herself sufficiently to
read the note.
She had not long to wait, for soon Dora tore it eagerly open and read it
through, her white face blanching to the hue of death, until at the last
word she fell with a moan of anguish to the floor.
Her aunt sprang quickly to her side, and, seizing the fatal missive,
flashed her eyes swiftly over it, for she felt she had a perfect right
to know its contents.
“Dastard! cowardly villain!” burst fiercely from her firmly compressed
lips at its close. Then ringing a furious peal for her maid, she
gathered the unconscious girl tenderly in her arms, and moaned, “My poor
stricken lamb, it is cruel, cruel to crush your young heart thus.”
The maid came in, and together they raised her and laid her gently upon
a sofa, and applied restoratives.
Could Ralph Moulton have seen her then, methinks even his cruel heart
would have failed him at the sight of that white, rigid face, and he
would have been glad to give the lovers back to each other to have seen
those lovely eyes again unclose, and that breathless bosom heave again.
His diabolical plan had worked well, for the note ran thus:
“DORA:—
“For I cannot say my dear Dora—I feel as if I have forfeited all right
to name you thus—your note, so deftly concealed in your lovely tribute
to-day, causes me more suffering than I like to own, for it shows me
how fully and faithfully you have trusted in me all these years; when
I——. Well, I thought when I last saw you, that I, too, should be true,
and that nothing could ever change my affection for you. But how
changeable is life! I will be frank with you, however, and trust to
your kindness of heart to release me from all bonds that have united
us in the past. I have recently met a young and lovely maiden, without
whom life to me would be utterly wretched. Could you see her, you
would not blame me that I wish to wed her. And now I have one request
to make, and then I bid you farewell forever, and hope that you may
yet attain earth’s highest happiness. Will you consent that the bonds
which unite us be annulled? I feel that I have not the courage to meet
you, and when you receive this I shall be far away. I have written to
my father the cause of my absence, and if you will sign the paper
which he will present you, you will render deeply grateful one who has
done you great wrong, and who earnestly wishes to be forgiven.
“Yours, with deep repentance,
ROBERT ELLERTON.”
For an hour Dora lay in a fearful swoon, and Madame Alroyd was nearly
distracted with the fear that her darling would die. She showered the
bitterest reproaches her heart could invent upon the author of all this
sorrow and suffering. She blamed herself, again and again, for being
overpersuaded to come to that “horrible place.” But Dora’s health was
good, and her constitution firm and strong, and she finally opened her
eyes and gazed wildly upon her aunt and maid, who hung so anxiously over
her.
At first she could not realize why she was lying upon the sofa, so weak
and languid, but presently the remembrance came to her, and she closed
her eyes again wearily, with a low, helpless moan.
“There, darling, you are better now; drink this, and it will give you
new strength,” said her aunt, putting some wine to her lips.
She obeyed, and the color soon began to tinge her pale lips again.
Madame Alroyd bent tenderly over her and pressed a kiss upon her pure
brow.
“Have courage, my precious pet,” she whispered. “Show your brave little
heart now. You are all that poor old auntie has got, and must try and
live for her.”
“Do you know—did you read? she gasped, a look of stony agony in her deep
eyes.
“Yes, love; I knew I might; and, oh, darling, this poor old withered
heart has suffered, too. I know how it feels, and the sting is there
yet. The thorn is left, if the rose is faded and dead.”
And poor, sympathizing Madame Alroyd took the pale, crushed lily in her
arms, and sobbed as if the sweetness of her own life had been just
crushed out, instead of years and years ago.
And Dora cried, too; the tears came like a flood, and they did her good,
though she felt as if life held no joy for her now. But she would live
as happily as she could for her dear aunt’s sake, who had made her life
so happy the past six years.
She passed her night of sorrow alone, and when morning came she rose up
calm and proud, and pale and cold as an iceberg. Not another tear did
Madame Alroyd see, not another sob did she hear. Dora’s heart might have
been impregnable marble, after that first wild burst of sorrow, for any
outward appearance of grief.
No queen could have borne herself more proudly and coldly at the offense
of some criminal, than did Dora Dupont after she believed that she was
forsaken; and her aunt being a woman of the world, exulted at the spirit
she showed, while in her secret heart she wondered at her powers of
endurance.