The Plot Begins to Work.
The acquaintance between the Farnums and Virgie progressed rapidly after
the meeting between Sadie and the young wife. Mrs. Farnum was duly
introduced, and did not prove to be nearly so formidable a personage as
Virgie had imagined her to be; for although she was not drawn toward her
as she had been to her daughter, yet she was so gracious and exerted
herself to be so agreeable, that Virgie could but acknowledge to herself
that she was a very pleasant and entertaining person.
Visits were exchanged almost every day between them; the baby was praised
and admired, and Virgie was petted and made much of, until her heart and
confidence were entirely won.
They insisted upon her driving with them; "the fresh air would do her
good," Mrs. Farnum declared, "for she had noticed during the last week
that she was losing color;" and thus she made many excursions with the two
ladies, and visited many points of interest. They even proposed that they
should go into the country together, as it was getting so oppressively
warm in the city; but Virgie would not listen to this proposition, because
of her anxiety for letters, and the hope that Sir William might be coming
for her.
Poor child! she was, indeed, losing color, and was almost heart-sick with
the terrible suspense, although she tried to be very brave and to conceal
her trouble from every eye.
She wrote again and again to her husband, begging for one line, one word
even, pleading that he would let her come to him if he was ill and needed
her. She would gladly brave the dangers of the ocean alone, she told him,
if he would but give her his consent to do so.
But still that terrible silence remained unbroken.
She was almost tempted to set out alone in spite of everything, and
nothing but the fear of passing her husband on the way prevented her doing
so.
She had learned that the Farnums were English, but upon discovering that
their home was a long distance from Heathdale—Mr. Farnum owned a large
estate in Bedford County—she reasoned that they could not know anything
of Sir William's family; and being extremely sensitive regarding his
recent apparent neglect of her, she did not once hint that she expected
her own future home would also be in England.
Meantime Lady Linton's plans were ripening. Events were occurring at
Heathdale which she trusted would serve her purpose well; and now Mrs.
Farnum was only waiting for a favorable opportunity to commence aggressive
operations.
The opportunity soon came. Sadie had been invited by some friends to spend
a week or two at Coney Island, and her mother, fearing if she should be
there to witness Virgie's grief when she began to work out her plot, that
she might do something to upset her plans, willingly gave her consent for
her to go.
On the afternoon after her departure, Mrs. Farnum with a basket of fancy
work in hand, went to pay Virgie a little visit, saying she was lonely
without Sadie, and had come in for a cozy chat.
The young wife had evidently been weeping, for her cheeks were flushed and
her eyes heavy, but she received her guest cordially, and exerted herself
to be entertaining.
Mrs. Farnum appeared unconscious of anything unusual although she watched
the young wife keenly, and readily surmised what had caused her
unhappiness.
She chatted socially for a while on various topics, but after a time laid
down her work, and taking up a book from a table near which she was
sitting, began carelessly turning over its pages.
"Jean Ingelow," she remarked, with a smile. "Are you fond of her poetry,
Mrs. Heath?"
"Yes," Virgie answered, "I think some of her poems are very sweet."
Mrs. Farnum glanced absently at two or three, then turned to the fly leaf
of the book, while Virgie's eyes mechanically followed her movements.
The name of William Heath was written there.
Mrs. Farnum looked up surprised, then smiled.
"Your husband's name is William?" she said, inquiringly
"Yes," Virgie returned, with a slight flush, while a pang shot through her
heart at the sound of the dear name.
"You must be very lonely to be separated from him for so long a time,"
said the woman, in a sympathetic tone.
"Indeed I am," said the young wife, with a long-drawn sigh which did not
escape her companion's notice, "but our separation is compulsory."
"Ah, he was away at the time of our arrival, was he not?"
"Yes, he was called to his home nearly three months ago by the illness of
his mother."
Mrs. Farnum assumed a look of surprise.
"And could not you accompany him?" she asked, as if she thought it very
strange that Virgie should not have done so.
"No, my physician would not allow me to travel; the summons came only a
short time before the birth of my baby, and he said a sea voyage could not
be thought of for me, so my husband was obliged to go without me."
"A sea voyage!" repeated Mrs. Farnum, with a start.
"Yes. My husband's home is in England," Virgie answered, flushing vividly.
A blank look came over Mrs. Farnum's face, then she assumed a grieved
expression.
"In England! and you never told us that you were our countrywoman, Mrs.
Heath!" she said, reproachfully.
"I am not. I am a native of California," Virgie explained with some
confusion; but I seldom speak of myself to strangers."
"With good reason, my pert young woman!" mentally retorted Mrs, Farnum,
for her companion's last words had been rather coldly uttered. Then she
said aloud, in a pitying tone:
"It must have been very trying for you to let your husband go on such a
journey without you?"
"Yes, indeed, it was," Virgie replied, with lips that quivered painfully;
"but, of course, I could not keep him from his dying mother."
"Was her condition so critical as that?"
"Certainly, or my husband would not have consented to leave me. Mrs. Heath
was suddenly stricken with paralysis."
Again Mrs. Farnum started, and bent a long, searching look upon her
companion—a look that made Virgie feel very uncomfortable and wonder what
it meant.
"Is—is she still living?" the woman asked, still regarding Virgie
searchingly.
"Yes—at least, she was the last I heard; but her condition was still
considered so critical that she could not bear the least excitement."
"Then it is some time since you have heard from her?" remarked Mrs.
Farnum, pointedly.
Virgie bridled a trifle at being so closely questioned. She thought her
guest was trespassing beyond the bounds of good breeding. But, after a
moment, feeling as if she must share her burden with some one, she said,
in an unsteady voice:
"No, I have not, and—I am afraid that my husband's letters have
miscarried, and the suspense has been very trying."
"Ahem! Mrs. Heath, there is something very strange—very inexplicable
about what you have told me," Mrs. Farnum said, in a grave tone.
Virgie looked up, astonished both at the words and tone.
"I do not understand you," she returned.
"You know, of course, that we are English people," began her companion.
"Yes. Miss Sadie mentioned the fact to me during the first of our
acquaintance."
"Did she ever tell you that we know people in England by the name of
Heath?"
"No. Do you?" Virgie cried, eagerly, her face lighting as she thought
perhaps she might learn something regarding her long silent husband.
"Yes, and they are a very fine family. They belong in Hampshire, and I may
as well tell you that they are a very proud and aristocratic family,
laying great stress upon their unimpeachable honor and untarnished name."
Virgie flushed a painful crimson at this, which her companion noticed
with a thrill of exultation, and then resumed:
"The oldest daughter, who married a peer of the realm, has been my most
intimate friend for many years. Sir William, also——"
"Sir William!" Virgie interrupted, catching her breath, face growing
radiant.
"Yes, that's the name of the son and heir. I was about to remark that he
is a baronet and that it is a singular coincidence that he should also
have been here in America while his mother was stricken with paralysis. It
is strange, too, that his first name should be the same as your husband's;
but——"
"Oh, Mrs. Farnum," cried Virgie, leaning forward and seizing the woman's
hands in a transport of joy, as she believed she was about to hear some
definite news regarding her loved one, "Sir William Heath is my
husband—can you tell me anything about him? I have not heard a word from
him for more than a month, and I am nearly distracted from anxiety and
suspense."
Mrs. Farnum drew back in well-feigned astonishment.
"Child! are you mad? Sir William Heath your husband? It is simply
impossible."
Virgie straightened herself, and yet it seemed as if somebody had suddenly
struck her a cruel blow upon her naked heart.
Mrs. Farnum had just told her that for years she had been the most
intimate friend of Lady Linton and yet to all appearances she had been
literally astounded to learn that Sir William was married.
Could it be possible that her husband had never acknowledged her as his
wife to his family?
The thought almost paralyzed her for a moment; then she put it indignantly
away from her.
No, he had written letter after letter to his mother and sister—at least
he had spoken of so doing, though she had never read them—telling of
their marriage, and speaking of their return to Heathdale. Of course his
friends must have been apprised of all that had occurred during his
absence; still it was very strange that the "most intimate acquaintance of
Lady Linton" had not been made acquainted with the fact.
All at once, however, she brightened. Mrs. Farnum had been traveling in
America also, for how long she did not know, and perhaps that accounted
for it. If she did not correspond with Lady Linton she had no means of
knowing of the baronet's marriage.
She even smiled to think how foolish she had been to allow such thoughts
to have even for a moment a place in her mind, as she looked up and said:
"No, indeed, Mrs. Farnum, I am not mad, and it is not impossible that I am
Sir William Heath's wife. We were married last September, and after the
death of my father, who was very ill at the time, we traveled for several
months and then came to New York, intending to sail for England the last
of May, but were forbidden to do so by my physician, as I have already
told you."
"Still I say it is impossible. The Sir William Heath whom I mean is the
master of a large estate called Heathdale in Hampshire County, England,"
reiterated Mrs. Farnum, decisively.
"And my husband is the master of Heathdale, in Hampshire County, England,"
Virgie said, a trifle proudly.
She resented the woman's incredulity, while she could not forget what she
had said about the "unimpeachable honor and untarnished name" of the
family. It had stung her keenly, though she did not suspect that it had
been an intentional slur upon the shadow resting on her own.
Mrs. Farnum's only reply was a look of increased astonishment, mingled
with something of horror.
A crimson flush dyed Virgie's face.
"May I ask, Mrs. Farnum, how long you have been in America?" she said.
"We sailed from Liverpool the sixth of May."
Virgie's heart sank a trifle.
"And had you seen your friend, Lady Linton, within a few months previous
to that time?"
"Lady Linton came to London only three weeks before, to make me a farewell
visit. She was with me ten days."
The young wife grew pale.
"And did she not mention the fact of her brother's marriage?" she inquired
in a faint voice.
"No such event in connection with him has ever been announced," returned
the woman, ruthlessly. "His friends know nothing of it. Sir William Heath
is believed by his friends to be a single man. More than this——"
Virgie stopped her with a gesture, but she was as white as new fallen snow
as she arose, and going to her writing-desk, brought a letter, which she
laid upon Mrs. Farnum's lap.
"There is his last letter to me," she said, but her lips were almost rigid
as she spoke. "It will prove my statements."
Mrs. Farnum took it, and examined the envelope. It was directed to "Mrs.
William Heath,——Hotel, New York City, U.S.A." It was post-marked at
Heathdale. The handwriting was familiar, and she knew well enough that
Sir William Heath had penned it.
"Mrs. William Heath!" she said, reading the name aloud. "He does not
address you as Lady Heath, which is your proper title if you are his
wife."
"Oh!" cried Virgie, with a shiver of pain, for those last words, implying
a doubt of her position, hurt her like a knife. "Neither of us cared to be
conspicuous while we were traveling, so my husband dropped his title," she
explained.
"Ahem! that was a very strange proceeding. But does—does he say anything
about coming for you, in this letter?" inquired her companion, who was
burning with curiosity to know what it contained.
"You may read it if you like, Mrs. Farnum. I see that you are still in
doubt about my being what I represent myself," Virgie returned, with some
hauteur.
Mrs. Farnum flushed at this.
"You must excuse me, my dear," she said, with hypocritical blandness,
"but—but—it is simply unaccountable to me, knowing what I do about the
family and their future plans for Sir William. I'm afraid——"
She did not finish what she was going to say, but coolly drew the letter
from the envelope, unfolded, and began to read it, never once stopping to
consider how she was outraging the delicacy and affection of the young
wife by this act, notwithstanding that she had received permission to do
so—She could not doubt, as she read, that the young baronet's heart had
all been given to this fair, beautiful woman, for though written in his
own dignified way, the letter was full of devotion and loyalty to her. And
yet not once in all those eight pages had he called her by the sacred name
of "wife." There were all manner of pet names and expressions of
endearment, but not a single time was written that word which would have
proved so much.
The arch plotter as she read, was quick to observe this omission, and she
gloated over it; it would materially help to further her designs in the
future she thought, if this letter was a sample of all others which he had
written her. She would have given a great deal to be able to have that
pretty writing-desk at her command for an hour or two.
Her face took on a sterner and graver look than she had ever yet worn as
she read on, and when at length she finished the epistle, she appeared the
horrified prude to perfection.