A BITTER RECKONING
OR
VIOLET ARLEIGH
_By Mrs. E. Burke Collins_
HART SERIES No. 44
Copyright 1893 by
GEO. MUNRO’S SONS
Published by
THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY
Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
At Midnight 5
CHAPTER II.
A Bitter Reckoning 15
CHAPTER III.
The Tragedy 30
CHAPTER IV.
Driven to the Wall 33
CHAPTER V.
A Strange Occurrence 41
CHAPTER VI.
Gone! 50
CHAPTER VII.
A Mad Mistake 57
CHAPTER VIII.
“My Dark-Eyed Will!” 65
CHAPTER IX.
Escaped 72
CHAPTER X.
A Mystery 77
CHAPTER XI.
Drowned! 84
CHAPTER XII.
The First Move 92
CHAPTER XIII.
Gilbert Warrington’s Plot 96
CHAPTER XIV.
Cross-Purposes 103
CHAPTER XV.
Alive! 110
CHAPTER XVI.
No Hope 114
CHAPTER XVII.
Jealousy 121
CHAPTER XVIII.
At Yorke Towers 130
CHAPTER XIX.
A Warning 134
CHAPTER XX.
Violet Obeys 141
CHAPTER XXI.
In the East Chamber 148
CHAPTER XXII.
Violet Attempts a Truce 154
CHAPTER XXIII.
In the Corridor 161
CHAPTER XXIV.
A Fearful Deed 168
CHAPTER XXV.
A Terrible Secret 174
CHAPTER XXVI.
A Dark Suspicion 181
CHAPTER XXVII.
In a Trap 188
CHAPTER XXVIII.
In Durance Vile 194
CHAPTER XXIX.
Leonard Hears All 201
CHAPTER XXX.
A Ray of Hope 208
CHAPTER XXXI.
A Ray of Hope 213
CHAPTER XXXII.
What Came Next 220
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A Second Attempt 227
CHAPTER XXXIV.
At Last 233
CHAPTER XXXV.
Violet Hears the Story 240
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Some Lessons Learned 247
A BITTER RECKONING
OR
VIOLET ARLEIGH
CHAPTER I.
AT MIDNIGHT.
“Will be with you to-morrow at midnight. Prepare for a bitter
reckoning.
“Gilbert Warrington.”
Rosamond Arleigh read the telegram over and over--once, twice, thrice,
and her face grew pale as death, while into her dark eyes there crept
a look of desperation. She glanced across the crowd of happy faces
before her--the merry, care-free throng that filled her brilliant
drawing-rooms to overflowing, and her pale face was convulsed with
pain, and she set her white teeth into her red under lip until the
blood started.
“I had nearly forgotten!” she muttered. “Heaven help me, I had almost
allowed myself to forget! The time will soon be up--the hour will soon
be here when he will come to extort a bitter penalty for that mad
mistake of the past. I am brought to bay at last; there is no escape!
May Heaven show me mercy, for I need expect none from man!”
She stood there, pale and queenly, her head, its dark locks just
touched with silver, resting against the door-casing, as she watched
the gleaming kaleidoscope of dancers floating dreamily away to the
sweet, sensuous waltz-music. Her dark eyes rested long and lovingly
upon a sweet face among the dancers--a fair face lighted up by great
dark eyes, the small head crowned by a mass of waving golden hair;
a girlish, graceful figure in white silk trimmed with fern leaves.
Some subtile instinct made the beautiful eyes of the girl turn in the
direction of that watching figure with a swift start of pleasure, and a
look of fond affection passed between the two.
Stifling a sigh, Rosamond Arleigh turned away and went out upon the
broad gallery which ran in front of the rambling old house--a real
Southern country home. Once there, she sunk wearily into a low lounging
chair. There was the sound of light footsteps, the soft _frou-frou_ of
silken skirts; then a tiny white-gloved hand came down lightly upon
Mrs. Arleigh’s shoulder and rested there like a snow-flake, while a
gay, girlish voice cried, lightly:
“Mamma! You dear little humbug! you said you would not be able to
come down-stairs to-night, and, lo! here you are. All my pleasure has
been spoiled until now; the sight of you cheers me once more! Aunt
Constance is doing her level best to make my ball a success; but dear
as she is, auntie isn’t _you_! And I----”
“You are enjoying yourself, Violet?” her mother asked, in an anxious
tone. “You are satisfied? Do you like your ball?”
“Like it? Mamma, it is divine! There never was another such ball--never
in the whole world, I am sure! I ought to be very happy to-night,
mamma; I have so much to be thankful for. My beautiful home, and you,
and--and all those who are so good to me. And it is my eighteenth
birthday, and this is my very first ball!”
She has summed it all up in those last words. In all the years to come
there will never be anything like this in her life--never again. She
may be surfeited with pleasures, may revel in wealth, and (natural
sequence) count her friends by the score; but never again will she
taste of the pure, unalloyed delight, the innocent rapture of her first
ball--her eighteenth birthday.
Rosamond Arleigh listens to her only child, and as she listens her
face grows pale to ghastliness--some hidden anguish seems tearing at
her heart-strings--but she tries to smile, and drawing the golden head
down, kisses the girl’s red lips.
“My little Violet,” she says, softly, all the beautiful mother-love
shining in her eyes, “enjoy yourself while you are young, ‘gather the
roses while you may;’ for, oh, my darling, the dark days are coming!”
Her white hand still clutches that crumpled telegram, and the look of
horror deepens in her eyes.
Violet uttered a low cry.
“_Mamma!_ you are ill again! I was afraid when I saw you in the
door-way that you were exerting yourself too much, and you still feeble
from your late illness. Go up to your room again, will you, dear? Come,
let me go with you.”
She put her white arm about her mother’s waist in a pretty, protecting
way, and laid her satiny cheek against the pale one with a caressing
little gesture.
Mrs. Arleigh forced a smile.
“I am better now. Forgive me, daughter. I had no right to mar your
happiness with my melancholy. Go back to the ball-room and dance; I see
Mr. Yorke looking for you.”
A swift wave of crimson suffuses the girl’s delicate cheeks, and the
big, dark eyes droop shyly; but a sweet smile curves her dainty lips,
and the white arms tighten their grasp about her mother’s form.
“Leonard Yorke?” carelessly. “Oh, yes; I see him now. Mamma, you _like_
Leonard, do you not?”
“To be sure; there isn’t a better young man in all Louisiana. But,
Violet”--a sudden terror flashing into her eyes and her voice trembling
audibly--“surely you do not mean--there is nothing between Leonard and
you, is there, my darling?”
She shook her golden head.
“No-o; of course not, _ma mère_--not exactly. Only--I like him. There,
‘I done tole you!’ as the darkies say.”
A spasm of pain convulsed Rosamond Arleigh’s fair face for a moment and
her form trembled perceptibly.
Violet started in alarm.
“What a selfish thing I am!” she exclaimed. “Here I am keeping you here
when you ought to go to your own room and lie down. Come, dear; I can
not return to my guests and know that you are out here alone and ill.
And there is Leonard coming now; he is looking for me. Will you not let
me go upstairs with you, mamma?”
More to satisfy Violet than for any other reason, Rosamond Arleigh
arose to her feet and allowed her daughter to lead her into the hall,
which runs through the center of the house, and up the broad staircase,
half hidden in flowers.
The band was playing sweetly, sadly, by way of interlude, “_Ah, che le
morte!_”
Rosamond Arleigh’s eyes grew misty.
“‘Ah, I have sighed to rest me deep in the quiet grave!
But all in vain I crave----’”
She stopped abruptly. She had spoken the words half aloud, and Violet
had heard them.
“Mamma,” her sweet voice full of wistfulness, “are not you happy?”
“_I_--happy?”
She has reached the door of her own room now, and opening it, passes
within, followed closely by her daughter.
“Happy? Why, of course--of course I am happy! Ha! ha! Why not? Why
should I be anything else but happy and--and gay? Now, go down-stairs,
dear, back to your guests and the dance. And don’t forget, Violet, that
you are only eighteen, and this is your first ball!”
The girl obeys unwillingly, for there is something strange in her
mother’s face, and the dark eyes glitter wildly.
“Kiss me, mamma,” she pleads, throwing her white arms about her
mother’s neck. “I shall be _awfully_ uneasy about you all the time, and
I will come back to you as soon as I can, and----”
“No, dear; don’t do that. I am going to retire now and rest. The music
does not disturb me. I--I rather like to hear it. Kiss me again,
Violet. Good-night, my baby. May God and the holy angels have you ever
in their keeping! Good-bye--good-bye!”
And long afterward it struck home to Violet Arleigh’s heart, with all
the force and intensity of a blow, how, instead of good-night, she had
said _good-bye_!
Violet left the room reluctantly, and went down-stairs--went to join
the handsome, dark-eyed young man upon the broad gallery overhung with
trailing rose-vines, awaiting her impatiently. A moment more, and he
had her in his arms, her golden head resting upon his breast.
“Violet--_my_ Violet! You are mine, are you not?” he whispered,
passionately.
She smiled up into his face, her dark eyes full of a tender light.
“I am afraid that it is true Leonard,” she returned, demurely.
“Then you _do_ love me?” he cried, rapturously, drawing her closer to
his heart.
The shy eyes drooped.
“Yes; I love you,” she whispered, softly. “I think I have always done
that, Leonard, ever since--ever since I knew you.”
“And I may speak to your mother to-morrow, darling?” he persisted. “I
can not wait any longer. I want you, Violet; and my home is waiting for
a mistress--a queen to reign over it. And my mother will be glad, I am
sure.”
Violet shook her head dubiously.
He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow--a very
dignified and arbitrary woman, with a pride second to none--an
overbearing, tyrannical pride which ruled and dominated all her life.
Would she welcome to her home the girl who would henceforth usurp her
place in that home, as she had already in the heart of her son?
Violet turned away with a strange, cold feeling settling down over her
heart.
“I am not so certain of that,” she returned; “but we will not trouble
ourselves about it now, Leonard. Of course you know that even if mamma
says yes--do you think she _will_, Leonard?--I could not _think_ of
such a thing as marrying--oh, not for ages!”
A look of amusement passed over his face; he bit his lip to suppress a
smile.
“Nice prospect for _me_!” he cried, ruefully. “Now, sweetheart, let
_me_ lay down the law. I shall seek an interview with your mother in
the morning--my poor darling, we are both alike fatherless--if she
is able to receive me. I am so grieved that her health is not good;
but I will try not to excite her; and if she will consent to give her
treasure into my keeping, I propose that our marriage take place--let
me see! this is April--_May_ is an unlucky month for weddings. What do
you say to the first of June, sweetheart?”
“June!”--with a frightened start--“oh, Leonard, _impossible_!”
“Nothing is impossible, my darling,” he returned, coolly. “And now,
Violet, the music has struck up the ‘Manola.’ Come, let us waltz
together once more. It will be your first dance in the capacity of my
betrothed wife!”
She laid her small gloved hand upon his black coat-sleeve, and they
returned to the ball-room, where they were soon floating away to the
sweet waltz-music.
And over their young, defenseless heads a cloud was gathering,
creeping nearer and nearer. Soon it would envelop them in its inky
folds.
* * * * *
Upstairs in her pretty sitting-room Rosamond Arleigh was pacing slowly
up and down, her head bent, her hands clasped tightly together, her
face set and pale as death.
“There is no way of escape,” she muttered, hoarsely, coming to a halt
at length in her monotonous pacing to and fro. “I am like the doomed
wretch in the Italian prison, who felt its walls closing in around him
a little nearer, a little nearer every day. I shall soon be crushed
within the walls of destiny and a relentless hatred--a hatred which has
existed for years--a hatred which calls itself love, and which will
never be satisfied until it has wrought my ruin, body and soul! And
there is no escape, no way out--save death!”
Her eyes wandered restlessly over to a small cabinet which occupied a
corner of the room. There were a half-dozen vials standing upon the
upper shelf. One of them bore a grinning skull and crossbones, and was
labeled “Chloral--Poison.”
“I wonder,” she went on, thoughtfully, “how he intends to begin--how
and when he will strike--to deal the fatal blow which will devastate
my life and doom my child--my beautiful girl--to endless misery and
shame. _He_ says he will be here to-morrow at midnight--to-morrow!
Ha-a!” turning the crumpled telegram over in her shaking hand. “Why,
the message has been delayed. A common occurrence in these country
towns. They have neglected to send it to me here at The Oaks. Yet--yet
I have thus gained a few hours’ respite. Let me see. The message is
dated yesterday,” she went on, carefully examining it once more. “Good
heavens! he will be here this very night! May Heaven have mercy, and
help me to be brave!”
One! chimed from the little gilded clock upon the marble mantel of the
pretty room--two! three! Rosamond Arleigh clasped her hands, and her
eyes were riveted upon the time-piece. Four! five, six! Her breath came
thick and fast; her form trembled like an aspen. Seven! eight! nine!
ten! eleven! _Twelve!_
Before the last stroke had fairly died away into silence there was
a faint rap at the door of the room. A moment’s pause, during which
her white lips moved as though in prayer, and then, pale as a statue,
Rosamond Arleigh made her way unsteadily over to the door and threw it
open.
[Illustration]