A FATEFUL LETTER.
While she was driving away, she looked eagerly, suspiciously, at the
solitary letter for Cecil.
A cry of jealous anger parted her crimson lips.
“From Violet!”
It was indeed from Violet, whose anxiety had overridden her discretion
and made her write at last to her lost lover to tell him the bitter
truth about their parting.
“For it breaks my heart to have Cecil believe that I was false to him!”
she sighed, to herself, and in a sudden fit of willfulness posted the
letter to him without the knowledge of her friends.
“He at least will not betray me to my foes!” she thought.
Alas! she dreamed not that her cruel, jealous cousin would be on the
watch for the letter, and that it was fated to fall into her hands.
“I feared, I dreaded this,” Amber muttered, bitterly; then she thrust
the letter inside her bosom, to read it at another time.
“Cecil shall never see it, never! That doll-faced girl shall never
rob me of my darling!” she vowed, vindictively, as she turned toward
Bonnycastle, shivering through her rich sealskin wraps, for the day
was bitterly cold and wintry, the chill of the hastening December days
already in the air.
As she drove along, the beautiful face became white and set, and an
intense light burned in the golden-hazel eyes. There was a struggle
before her that was bitterly humiliating to contemplate, yet she did
not flinch from it. She was determined that ere the sun set she would
be Cecil’s wedded wife.
“Then I can laugh at fate!” she cried, grimly, as she sprang from
her phaeton, threw the reins to a servant, and entered the doors of
Bonnycastle.
Mrs. Grant, who was a semi-invalid, was always hovering over a bright
open wood-fire, and rose hospitably to greet her guest.
“How cold and pale you look, my dear. Here, sit close to the fire,” she
cried, kissing Amber, and drawing forward a large rocking-chair for her
occupancy.
Amber dropped into the chair, put her face in her hands, and burst into
a passion of genuine, fitful sobbing. It came quite naturally, for she
was wrought up to the verge of hysteria.
“Oh, Amber, what has happened? My dear, dear girl, what troubles you?”
implored Mrs. Grant, in surprise and distress, but for some time she
received no satisfaction.
Amber apparently was too much agitated to speak, and at last sobbed out
in the most incoherent fashion:
“Wait! Wait--till Cecil--comes! and I will--tell--you--my--miserable
story!”
Then she subsided into her drenched handkerchief again until presently
her betrothed came quickly into the room.
“Oh, Cecil, I’ve been waiting so long for you to come!” she sobbed, and
he answered:
“But I’m not much behind time, Amber. I only ran down to the
post-office before coming home to luncheon. And, by the way, Amber, I
was told you had called for my mail and taken it away.”
He looked at her expectantly, and she faltered:
“I was on my way to Bonnycastle, and thought I would save you
the trouble of calling for your mail. But, Cecil, there was only
one letter, and as I held it in my hand--can you ever pardon my
carelessness?--the breeze caught it from me, and whirled it into the
river.”
She wished with a sudden uneasiness that she had indeed tossed Violet’s
letter into the river, but she had kept it, with woman’s proverbial
curiosity, to read at some future convenient time.
Cecil’s dark, handsome face was grave with disappointment, but he
stifled his vexation, and said, courteously:
“It cannot be helped now, but I dare say it was of no
importance--although I fancy I shall be curious all my days over the
contents of that lost letter.”
“But you never shall know the truth about it,” thought Amber,
vindictively, and she resolved to destroy the letter at the first
opportunity.
Then, suddenly, she burst into tears again, and Mrs. Grant said,
anxiously, to her son:
“Amber is in some deep trouble, and promised to explain all as soon as
you arrived.”
He turned quickly to the weeping girl, saying, tenderly:
“What is it that has grieved you so bitterly, my dear girl?”
Unheeding Mrs. Grant’s presence, and with a torrent of tears, Amber
threw herself into Cecil’s arms, clinging wildly to him, and sobbing,
miserably:
“Grandpapa has turned me out of doors, driven me from home, and I have
come to throw myself upon your protection.”
“Turned you out of doors! Good heavens! why has Judge Camden done this
cruel thing?” demanded Cecil, wonderingly, and she moaned, despairingly:
“He found out that--that--it was I who loaned you the money to save
Bonnycastle, and he--he--struck me, and drove me from home!”