JEALOUSY.
Leonard Yorke rode away from The Oaks with a heart full of angry
resentment. So, Captain Venners was coming to call upon Violet that
evening. Violet was evidently deeply interested in the handsome,
dashing young fellow who had won the reputation of a flirt, and who was
such an immense favorite with the ladies.
Could he have been deceived in Violet Arleigh? Could it be that she was
not the simple-hearted girl that he had believed her? She was fond of
admiration--too fond; and, worse than all, to Leonard’s jealous fancy,
she was too fond of handsome, dark-eyed Will Venners.
With a sore heart, he rode away from The Oaks, angry with Violet and
with himself, and detesting Will Venners with all his heart.
“So he is going to call there this evening!” Leonard repeated
half-angrily to himself, as he turned his horse’s head toward home.
“They will pass a quiet evening together, and she will never think of
me at all, I suppose. But Violet is my betrothed wife, and I have a
right to visit The Oaks. Why should I not call also?”
The idea seemed feasible and proper. He made up his mind at length that
he would ride over to The Oaks again that night, at the same time that
Captain Venners would call there.
Leonard rode up the long avenue leading to Yorke Towers, feeling a
little better after he had made up his mind to this step.
At the entrance to the fine old house he was met by Miss Glyndon.
“Your mother is asking for you, Mr. Yorke,” she said, as soon as he
entered the house; and there was a tone of relief in her voice at the
sight of him. “She is better, but she seems to be greatly troubled
about something. Please go right up.”
Leonard Yorke ascended the great staircase, which wound in a circular
form up from the center of the entrance hall, and a few moments later
he rapped at the door of his mother’s room.
“Come in!” called a faint voice; and Leonard turned the knob and
entered.
The room, a great Gothic chamber, was in semi-darkness; the windows
were draped in crimson hangings; the furniture was heavy and antique;
the walls were hung with paintings and lined with books. It was a
sumptuous apartment; but the woman who lay upon the bed, drawn up near
an open window, looked as if nothing in the world could make her happy
or contented. Her pale, delicate face was still quite beautiful. She
had not yet passed middle age, and the soft, dark hair, drawn back from
a broad, low brow, was scarcely touched with silver. Her features were
delicate and high-bred, but worn and grave to sadness.
As her eyes--calm gray eyes which, in spite of their calmness, could
flash with bitter anger and indignation--fell upon the face of her son,
she held out her thin white hand.
“Where have you been, son?” she asked, gently.
His face flushed.
“Over at The Oaks, mother. Poor Violet is nearly crushed by her
mother’s sudden and awful death.”
He hesitated, checking himself at the expression of suffering which
flashed over his mother’s pale face.
“I did not stay long,” he added, swiftly. “I shall call there again
this evening. Mother, I wish you were well enough to invite Violet and
Mrs. Rutledge and Hilda over here for a time. Violet has never visited
Yorke Towers; she has only called occasionally; and--and----”
His voice stammered into silence at the glance from his mother’s calm
gray eyes. He had not yet broken to her the news of his engagement to
Violet. How was she going to take it?
Mrs. Yorke sighed.
“I fear that I am too ill to entertain anybody,” she returned, slowly.
“Yet,” starting slightly, as though a sudden thought had struck her,
“perhaps it will be better for me to take your advice. I--I have a
reason for---- Son, I believe upon the whole that I will try and arouse
myself, and I will send the invitation to the ladies at once. There
is no use in their staying at home nursing their sorrow; and we are
neighbors and old friends, and, of course, here they will be perfectly
at home. There will be no rules of ceremony to follow, and the change
will benefit them all, I am sure.”
Low under her breath she was saying softly:
“I will get that girl here, and then I will try and find out if she
knows anything of the past, of her mother’s secret and mine. But I will
watch Violet well, for there must not be anything serious between her
and Leonard.”
Aloud she added, gently:
“I believe I will write the invitation now.”
“But, mother dear, you are not able to----”
“I am able to write a few lines, and I am able to sit up and to get
about my room a little. And I want them to come over here as soon as
possible,” she added, her eyes lighting up, her pale cheeks flushing
slightly. “Place writing materials on my desk, Leonard, and wheel it to
my side. There, that is right!”
She seemed strangely elated and quite excited over the prospect of
the visitors from The Oaks. Leonard could not understand it. But he
silently obeyed her directions, and in a few moments the note was
written, the most cordial and neighborly note that Mrs. Yorke had ever
written to any one at The Oaks. She laid before Mrs. Rutledge what a
benefit the change would be to herself and the young ladies, and then
it would be a charity to Mrs. Yorke and Miss Glyndon to have them come
to Yorke Towers.
The invitation was received in due time by Mrs. Rutledge, and promptly
accepted without reference to Violet. This was too good a chance to be
lost for Hilda to try and win Leonard Yorke.
Mrs. Rutledge smiled with a swift, furtive glance in the direction of
her daughter when she read the invitation aloud. Hilda returned the
glance with a significant nod.
“Strange that you have never visited Yorke Towers, Violet,” she
observed.
Violet smiled.
“Oh, no, not at all. There was something unpleasant, I have always
fancied, between Mrs. Yorke and my poor mother. What it was, I do not
know. Aunt Constance, do _you_ know anything about it? Or, perhaps, I
ought not to ask.”
Mrs. Rutledge smiled an acid smile.
“There was something like jealousy between them, I believe, over Harold
Arleigh,” she returned, in an indifferent tone; “but I do not think
it amounted to much; and, anyway, Rosamond won him, and so she could
afford to be magnanimous. But I must confess, Violet, that I do not
think your mother ever really liked Mrs. Yorke. I am sure that there
was no love lost between them, and that is why she opposed Leonard’s
calling here so often.”
“Opposed Leonard--Mr. Yorke--calling here?” repeated Violet, in
amazement. “Why, Aunt Constance, that is the first I ever heard of
it. Why--the very last night that she--the night of my ball, she was
speaking to me of Leonard in the kindest and most affectionate way, I
am sure you are mistaken, auntie; mamma _did_ like Leonard.”
“Well, well! you need not go into hysterics over it. I suppose it
is so since you say so. But suppose, Violet, that there was really
anything serious between you and Leonard--(why, you are blushing like a
peony)--would you marry him against your mother’s wishes?”
Silence! Violet shook her head.
“No, I would not marry any man of whom my darling mother did not
approve,” she said, slowly; “but then I know that mamma _did_ approve
of Leonard, for she told me so.”
“Mamma”--Hilda’s voice broke in upon Violet’s eager words--“why do you
speak of such folly as Leonard Yorke caring for Violet? You know that
he cares for some one else.”
Violet turned to her cousin, pale and trembling.
“Explain, Hilda!” she said, quickly. “I do not understand you.”
But Hilda tossed her pretty dark head and laughed derisively.
“Wait!” was all that she would say.
Just then the bell rang, and a servant appeared with a card for Violet.
She glanced at it, and her face flushed. The name upon the card was
Captain Venners. She rose at once.
“Will you come down, Hilda?” she asked, laying the card before her
cousin.
Hilda glanced at it.
“He has called to see you,” she returned, shortly. “No, I will not go
down. ‘Two are company, and three a crowd!’ You know the old saying.”
So, feeling a little uncomfortable, Violet went slowly down to the
drawing-room, in her plain black dress with soft white ruffles at
throat and wrists, looking very fair and mournful.
“A sweet, true little woman!” thought Will Venners, as he took her
little hand in greeting.
“I am _so_ glad to see you, Miss Arleigh!” he began at once, in his
frank, boyish way. “I hope that you are feeling better. My poor little
friend, my heart aches with sympathy for you in your great loss!”
Her head drooped. The great tears welled up into her soft dark eyes;
her chin quivered; but she controlled her emotion. She sunk into a seat
at her visitor’s side.
“Have you seen Miss Glyndon?” she asked, after a brief silence.
Will’s bronzed face flushed crimson, then grew pale and stern.
“I have seen her for a few moments,” he returned, coldly, “and she--she
froze me out, Miss Violet.”
“I must tell you about the poem,” Violet was beginning, hesitatingly.
Poor child! she was half afraid to confess her delinquency and
acknowledge that she had lost his precious effusion. But, still fated
to go on in this odd game of cross-purposes, Will cut in sharply:
“No matter; I know. There is no need to explain, or, in fact, to
mention it at all. Jessie Glyndon is a flirt--a coquette. She has never
cared for me from first to last.”
“Oh, Will!”
“It is true--true--true!” he cried, rising to his feet and beginning to
pace up and down the room in mad haste. “She has proved the truth to me
this day. Violet, I believe that I shall go away from Louisiana--quit
the whole country--cut it all--run over to Texas and turn cowboy or
something. I’m dead tired of civilization as it is found here. And
then, some day, when I hear that Jessie is married to some one who
suits her--some one good enough and proud enough, and, above all,
_rich_ enough to please Miss Jessie Glyndon--I will come back.”
He paused, quite out of breath, his eyes flashing, his white teeth
gnawing fiercely at the heavy dark mustache which shaded his handsome
upper lip.
“Jessie is not mercenary,” ventured Violet, swift to speak in her
friend’s defense.
“No? Well, I am pleased to hear it; but I must beg leave to differ
with you there. I see it all. I am only poor Will Venners, a
retired army officer; but I am only thirty-three, and I have won my
shoulder-straps--won them in good, hard fights on the Colorado plains,
facing the red devils, under Custer. I am proud of my record, Miss
Violet, and I shall be proud of it should a dozen Miss Glyndons regard
me with contempt.”
“She does not--indeed she does not!” cried Violet, warmly. “How could
she?”
“Thank you, dear little friend! Thank God for your friendship, since I
can not win her love.”
He had her hand in his, and had raised it to his lips, when just at
that moment the door opened and Hilda appeared, and at her side, pale
and wrathful, stood Leonard Yorke. He had witnessed the scene between
Violet and Will Venners, and, of course, to his jealous nature, there
could be but one inference.
[Illustration]