A BITTER RECKONING.
There was a brief pause, a silence during which you could hear
distinctly the great strangling heart-throbs of the woman who stood
staring blankly into the face of her unwelcome visitor.
Below-stairs the revelry went on; the patter of light feet upon the
polished floor of the ball-room; the gay peals of merry laughter; and
over all the wailing notes of the music, with its tender, pleading, and
wordless entreaty, as the band played “Love’s Young Dream.”
Rosamond Arleigh started, and one white hand went to her heart,
pressing against it with a passionate gesture. She bowed coldly.
“So it is you, Mr. Warrington?” with affected indifference. “Come in.”
“Yes; it is I. Whom else should it be?” retorted the intruder, and a
tall, dark figure crossed the threshold, closed the door and locked it
carefully. “I am exceedingly punctual,” he went on, coolly, as he sunk
uninvited into a seat. “It is a rule of mine never to keep any one, and
more especially a lady, waiting. Why, Rosamond, my dear, you look ‘all
broke up.’ What is the matter with you?”
Rosamond Arleigh frowned.
“I have been ill, that is all,” she returned, coldly; “only a little
touch of the old heart trouble. You have called here to-night, Gilbert
Warrington, to--It is the old business, I suppose.”
“You are right; it is the old affair, that little slip of yours which
is fated to follow you through life like a dark shadow, fated to dog
your footsteps to the very grave. ‘The sins of the parents’--you know
the rest of it, my dear Rosamond. So your sin will fall, in all its
black horror and shame and disgrace, _upon your child_!”
Rosamond Arleigh covered her white face with her cold, trembling hands,
and her graceful figure swayed unsteadily.
“You would not!” she faltered, brokenly.
“Would I not? See here, Rosamond.”
Gilbert Warrington rose and stood before her, a man of some
five-and-forty years, tall and commanding, with keen gray eyes, and a
face as colorless as marble; a heavy black mustache and chin-beard;
thin, cruel lips; a restless glitter in the shifting eyes. Not a face
to trust.
“You understand me, Rosamond?” he went on, in a low, hissing tone,
transfixing his terrified listener with his beady eyes. “I wish to
settle this matter absolutely. You will have to marry me or see your
child eternally disgraced through the bad black blot upon her name
which your own mad deed in the dead and gone past has affixed there.
Ah, you need not wince; I mean to use plain words. I do not intend to
handle you with gloves just because _you_ are a purse-proud aristocrat,
while _I_ come from the slums. I intend that you shall feel the full
sting of the power that I hold over you. _You_, Rosamond Arleigh, sole
representative of an old aristocratic family, one of the best in the
land, you whose name is good for many thousands, who move in the most
exclusive circle among the rich and great, you are something from which
the proud and haughty dames of your select circle would shrink if the
truth were known. The veriest wretch in all the land would not take
your hand to-night if the truth concerning your past were made public,
Rosamond Arleigh.”
“Have--mercy!” she falters, brokenly. “Be human, Gilbert Warrington;
show me some pity, some consideration. For the sake of the past, in
memory of the dead and gone days when I took you by the hand and led
you up to prosperity, have pity, have some gratitude----”
“_Gratitude?_ Bah! Talk of something tangible, something that exists,
something that I can understand. Gratitude? Ha! ha! You make me tired.
No, no, my friend; we will confine ourselves to facts and drop all that
high-flown rhapsody.”
She lifted her white face for a moment, and her eyes rested upon his
with a look of imploring entreaty.
“Is there no alternative?” she gasped.
“None. You must marry me, you must become my wife at once, or the
whole world shall ring with the truth--that you were only Hubert
Arleigh’s----”
“Stop! For the love of God, do not speak that word. It is
false--false--false!”
“_Prove it!_”
“Alas! I can not, as you know too well. Gilbert Warrington, I offer you
all I possess in the world--all my wealth--_everything_--if you will
give me those papers in your possession and let me go free, let me take
my child and go away from here, so far that none here will ever learn
my whereabouts. Is that not enough to buy your silence?”
“No! a thousand times no! There is not money enough in all Louisiana
to purchase my silence. Rosamond Arleigh, _I love you_, and I mean to
make you my wife. I have loved you for years, I have held this secret
suspended over your head for years, but now--now--you shall marry me,
or the secret shall be made public, and you and yours ruined forever!
You will be shunned as a pestilence, and Violet, think of what her fate
will be!”
A low groan issued from the woman’s pallid lips, then all was still.
The silence grew oppressive.
Gilbert Warrington drew near the bowed figure and touched her lightly
upon the arm.
“‘Every man has his price,’ it is said,” he says, slowly. “You know
mine. There is no alternative. You will consent, Rosamond?”
No answer. The bowed head is lifted, the wild eyes are staring
straight before them into space, the cold hands twitch convulsively,
the white lips quiver; but not a word escapes her, not a moan.
“You have heard my proposition,” the smooth voice goes on, lowly;
“you must say ‘_Yes_’ at once, or I shall go down-stairs now and
expose your secret to the select society gathered here to do honor
to your daughter’s eighteenth birthday. You were scarcely eighteen
when this occurred of which you are guilty; but Violet will not think
of that--will show you no pity because you were so young when it
happened--and she, your own child, will look upon her mother--the
mother so dearly, so idolatrously loved--with scorn, contempt,
loathing. Will you consent, Rosamond?”
“No! no! no! A thousand times no!” she panted, defiantly. “I would
sooner take my own life! Better to commit suicide than to fall into
_your_ hands, you human tiger! Oh, Heaven! that I should be compelled
to listen to such insults beneath my own roof, and be powerless to
avenge them!”
She fell back into a seat; pale and gasping for breath, great drops
of perspiration standing upon her brow--the cold dew of agony--her
features convulsed with suffering, one hand clutching--clutching at her
heart, which was throbbing as though trying to break through its mortal
prison. Her dark eyes, bloodshot with suffering, wandered slowly over
to the cabinet in the corner, where stood the vial marked “Chloral.”
A fiendish expression crept over Gilbert Warrington’s face. With a
furtive glance around, as though fearing lest some human eye was upon
his movements, he flew to the cabinet, and snatching the bottle from
the shelf, thrust it into Rosamond Arleigh’s shaking hand.
At that moment the awful silence was broken by the sound of light
footsteps flying up the stairs. They paused at the door of the room,
and a timid rap sounded upon the panel.
“Mamma!” called Violet, softly. “Are you ill, dear? May I not come in?
It is I, your little Violet. I thought I heard you call me. Open the
door and let me in.”
There was no answer. Rosamond Arleigh could not speak. Twice she opened
her lips to utter Violet’s name, to answer her loving inquiries, but
no sound came forth. Trembling, panting in mortal agony, she crouched
there, her eyes upon Gilbert Warrington’s cold face.
Still as a statue, Warrington waited for Violet to go. She must not
suspect his presence there; neither she nor any one else in the house
must know of the midnight visitor who had entered in the midst of the
revelry. He would wait there until Violet, believing that her mother
was asleep and did not hear her, would go away.
At last the sweet voice ceased to plead for admission, and slowly and
reluctantly the girl retraced her steps to the ball-room. Once there,
she sought her aunt, Mrs. Rutledge, her mother’s widowed sister, who
made her home at The Oaks, together with her daughter Hilda. Mrs.
Rutledge was a tall, stylish woman, attired in black lace, with a
delicate, high-bred face and large, dark eyes, like Rosamond Arleigh’s
own.
“Aunt Constance”--Violet’s voice was full of uneasiness--“I am so
anxious about mamma. I was dancing the Lancers just now, and all at
once I thought I heard her call me. It troubled me so that I induced
Miss Ray to take my place, made it all right with my partner, and
hurried up to mamma’s room. But though I rapped hard at the door, I
received no answer, and the room was so still--as still as the grave!
Aunt Constance, do you think there is anything wrong?”
“Wrong? No. You alarm yourself unnecessarily, my child. If Rosamond
wanted anything, she would ring. She is probably sleeping soundly. Go
now and enjoy your ball, my child; you will never have another like it.”
“I know it.”
The sweet voice was full of sadness, and held a ring of unconscious
prophecy.
As she turned dejectedly away, a graceful figure in floating white lace
and pink rose-buds glided swiftly to her side--a girl of some twenty
years, a beautiful, dark-eyed girl. It was Hilda Rutledge.
“Where is Leonard--Mr. Yorke, I should say?” she began at once. “I
promised to go down to the river with him to show him the new boat. A
_tête-à-tête_ stroll in the moonlight! Violet,” with a light, rippling
laugh, and a swift glance into the girl’s pale face, “Look out.
Leonard Yorke is fickle and likes to flirt. He has been saying no end
of sweet things to me to-night.”
“I do not believe it!”
Violet’s beautiful eyes flashed with indignant protest. Hilda laughed.
“What sublime trust, to be sure!” she exclaimed. “Violet, you will
learn the world better when you have seen more of it. My dear cousin,
whatever you do, never trust in a man; they are all false and fickle.”
“Leonard is not.”
“Ah! so you acknowledge that you are in love with Mr. Yorke? Really,
Violet, I am surprised, for he has not been in earnest with you, and I
have reason to believe that he cares a great deal for me.”
“It is false!” panted Violet, indignantly. “Hilda, I did not think that
you could be so cruel to me. Let me pass!”
She fled past the white-robed figure like some wild creature.
Hilda’s dusky eyes followed the flying figure, and a curious brassy
light crept into their depths. Glancing up, she saw Leonard Yorke
coming swiftly in her direction. A look of passionate love flashed into
her eyes, and under her breath she muttered, harshly:
“He is looking for her, but he shall not find her. He shall come with
me. I _will_ have him for a little while alone to-night, and I will
manage to find out if he cares a little for me. He has always been
so kind and gentle; he has been with me almost as much as he has with
_her_; and I don’t see why he can not love me the best. He _shall_ love
me! I swear it! Oh, Leonard! Leonard! for your dear sake I would lay my
life down! I would barter all my hopes of happiness!”
Leonard Yorke came swiftly to her side. At sight of Hilda standing
there alone, he stopped short.
“Why, Miss Hilda, I thought that Miss Arleigh was here,” he exclaimed.
“I am sure I saw her speaking with you a few moments ago.”
“To be sure; but she is gone now--gone to walk in the moonlight with
Captain Venners. Let us go and find them.”
Captain Venners! If there was a man in the world whom Leonard Yorke
detested, it was Will Venners--handsome, dashing Will Venners--an
outrageous flirt, and a general favorite with the ladies. And Leonard
did not dream that the tale was only a fabrication of Hilda to arouse
his jealousy, with a secret hope that, in his pride and pique, he would
turn to _her_. And so he did. Where is the man who would not have done
so? She was very beautiful and fascinating, and--Violet had gone to
walk in the moonlight with Venners. Leonard’s heart was very sore.
He offered Hilda his arm, and they left the house and wandered down to
the river-side--the beautiful silvery river which wound in and out
between its green banks and shone in the moonlight like molten silver.
“I can not imagine what’s the matter with Violet,” Hilda began,
pathetically, lifting her great dark eyes to Leonard’s thoughtful face.
“She seems actually absorbed in Captain Venners, and--and I’m afraid
that he is only flirting with her. You know what a dreadful flirt he
is. One glance from Will Venners’ dark eyes, and a poor woman’s heart
is subjugated--slain. And to think that, although he quotes poetry, and
writes it, too--such beautiful poetry--that he is only amusing himself!
Yet, no; I really think that Will believes it all himself. He means all
that he says in every flirtation in which he indulges. But as soon as
affairs begin to assume a serious aspect, like the knight in the old
song,
“‘He loves--
And rides away.’
But poor, dear Violet seems quite infatuated.”
“Stop!” Leonard Yorke’s voice was hoarse and strained. “Miss Hilda,
stop, I beg of you. Don’t you know--you surely _must_ know--that she
and I are----”
“Good friends? I know it. Dear me, Leon--Mr. Yorke--of course,
everybody knows that; and I was about to suggest that you remonstrate
with Violet in regard to her infatuation. Yet, truly, their conduct
lately makes me suspect that they are engaged. Ah! there they are now.
Don’t they look like a pair of betrothed lovers?”
It is said that the devil always helps his own; and without any
personal allusions in regard to Miss Hilda Rutledge, it certainly
seemed as though his Satanic Majesty had intervened to assist her
cruel scheme, for whom should they come upon, standing in the silvery
moonlight under the branches of a live-oak not far away, but Violet
Arleigh, and at her side handsome Will Venners! He was gazing down into
her face with a tender look in those dangerous dark eyes. It looked for
all the world like a leaf from a love story. But in reality this is
what he was saying to her:
“So, Miss Violet, you think that there is hope for me? I have loved her
so long; it is no flirtation this time. Sweet Jessie Glyndon is the
only woman I have ever loved well enough to wish to make my wife.”
And Violet’s sympathetic tone responds:
“I think she likes you, Will. Shall I tell you why? Because, although
she laughs at you when you attempt to enact the lover, just let any
one venture a slighting remark concerning you, and she will fly into a
passion and defend you with all her might. Jessie Glyndon is a peculiar
woman--the very proudest woman I ever knew. But a woman doesn’t hate
a man whom she watches with her very soul in her eyes. An hour ago,
Will, I found her in the rose arbor all alone. She was watching you
in the distance--you were flirting awfully with some one, you naughty
boy!--and I heard her say, believing herself all alone, ‘Dear
Will--dear old Dark Eyes! He will never know--never know!’”
“Did she?”
Will Venners’ hand closes eagerly down upon Violet’s small gloved hand,
and Leonard Yorke’s jealous eyes observe the action.
“Did she really, Miss Violet? And yet she was so cold to me. Miss
Violet, will you give her this? It is a little poem I wrote for her.”
“With pleasure.”
A folded sheet of paper fluttered from Will Venners’ hand into Violet’s
grasp; she hid it in the lace of her corsage.
“I will give it to Jessie to-night if possible,” Violet says, softly;
“and now you had better take me back to the house; I must go and see
mamma for a moment; I am afraid she is ill.”
As the words pass her lips she lifts her eyes and they rest upon two
figures strolling leisurely on in the moonlight--Leonard Yorke, her
lover, and at his side Hilda Rutledge. Something in their attitude
makes a cold chill creep over Violet’s heart; she turns away and
hastens to the house.
In the entrance hall she pauses and glances eagerly about her in search
of Jessie Glyndon. She sees her at last, a brown-haired young woman
with blue-gray eyes and an air of quiet dignity which some people
considered out of place, for she was only a dependent, the hired
companion to Leonard Yorke’s mother, and had lived at Yorke Towers for
a year.
Wishing to deliver Will’s poem at once--for she felt certain that this
was more than a mere flirtation--Violet hastened in pursuit of Miss
Glyndon. On--on to the conservatory Violet made her way, and at last,
just beside the fountain, whose silvery spray fell into a marble basin
full of water-lilies, Violet found herself face to face with--Leonard
Yorke. Hilda had disappeared. He came swiftly to her side, his face was
pale, but he was determined not to betray his emotions.
“What is the matter, Violet?” he asked, gently. “You look troubled.
Tell me what it is that is making you unhappy?”
Her great dark eyes were lifted to his face. She forgot everything but
that she loved him.
“I am never unhappy when I am with you, Leonard,” she returned, simply;
“but I will confess that I am troubled about mamma. I never felt so
strangely in my life. Wherever I go I am haunted by the sight of her
pale face. Oh, Leonard, if anything should happen to her it would kill
me! She is so----”
She stopped short, and the words died away into silence upon her
quivering lips.
_What was that?_
A shriek, an awful shriek, had resounded throughout the house--a wild,
heart-rending cry of agony. Violet’s face grew ashen white.
“What has happened?” she moaned. “Oh, Leonard, Leonard, something awful
has happened! _What is it?_”
He turned to the door, then slipped back to Violet’s side and took her
in his arms. For the moment all jealous doubts were set at rest--for
the moment only--it is hard to kill jealousy.
“Be brave and calm, my darling,” he whispered, gently; “I will stand
between you and all harm!”
But, alas! there comes a time into all lives when human love is
powerless and human care can avail nothing. Such an hour had come to
Violet Arleigh now.
“Wait here a moment,” the young man went on, eagerly, pityingly, all
jealous distrust swallowed up in anxiety. “I will go and see.”
He left the conservatory hastily; but though he did not know it, Violet
followed close behind him. It is so hard to be told that you must sit
still, and wait in silent inaction, while others make all the effort,
do all that we so long to do for our loved ones in extremity. And some
unerring instinct warned Violet Arleigh that whatever had come upon her
now, to darken her life forever, it was connected with her mother.
As she left the conservatory she chanced to glance in the direction of
a glass door which opened into the grounds, and her quick eyes caught
a glimpse of a vanishing figure, which disappeared in the shrubbery
and was lost to sight--the tall, dark form of a man. It was Gilbert
Warrington.
[Illustration]