October winds were blowing coolly over the sea before Bonnibel Vere arose from her sick-bed, the pale and wasted shadow of her former rosy and bewildering self.
She had convalesced but slowly—too slowly, the physician said, for one of her former perfect health and fine constitution. But the weight of grief hung heavily upon her, paralyzing her energies so completely that the work of recuperation went on but slowly.
Two months had elapsed since that dreadful night in which so much had taken place—her secret marriage and her uncle's murder.
She should have had a letter from her young husband ere this, but it was in vain that she asked for the mail daily. No letter and no message came from the wanderer, and to the pangs of grief were added the horrors of suspense and anxiety.
A look of weary, wistful waiting crept into the bonnie blue eyes that had of old been as cloudless and serene as the blue skies of summer. The rose forgot to come back to her cheek, the smile to her lips. The shadow of a sad heart was reflected on her beauty.
Upon her face there was the tint of grace, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
The first day she sat up Mrs. Arnold came in to see her. She had only returned from the city a few days before and was making preparations to go back for the winter season. She sent the nurse away, saying that she would sit with Miss Vere a little while herself.
It was a lovely day, warm and sunny for the season, and Bonnibel sat in her easy-chair near the window where she could look out upon the wide expanse of the ocean with its restless blue waves rolling in upon the shore with a solemn murmur. She loved the sea, and was always sorry when the family left their beautiful home, Sea View, for their winter residence in the city.
You have grown very thin, Bonnibel, said her aunt, giving her a very scrutinizing glance, as she reclined in her chair, wrapped in a warm, white cashmere dressing gown, to which her maid had added a few bows of black velvet in token of her bereavement. "It is a pity the doctor had to shave your hair. You look a fright."
Bonnibel put her hand up to her brow and touched the soft, babyish rings of gold that began to cluster thickly about her blue-veined temples.
It is growing out again very fast, she said; "and it does not matter any way. There is no one to care for my looks now," she added, thinking of the uncle and the lover who had doted so fondly on her perfect loveliness.
It matters more than you think, Bonnibel, said Mrs. Arnold, sharply, the lines of vexation deepening in her face. "It behooves you to be as beautiful as you can now, for your face is your fortune."
I do not understand you, aunt, said the young girl, gravely.
It is time you should, then, was the vexed rejoinder, "I suppose you think now, Bonnibel, that your poor uncle has left you a fortune?"
Bonnibel looked at her in surprise, and the widow's eyes shifted uneasily beneath her gaze.
Of course I believe that Uncle Francis has provided for my future, said the girl, quietly.
You are mistaken, then, snapped the widow; "Mr. Arnold died without a will and failed to provide for either you or Felise. Of course, in that case, I inherit everything; and, as I remarked just now, your face is your fortune."
My uncle died without a will! repeated Bonnibel in surprise.
Yes, Mrs. Arnold answered, coolly.
Oh, but, aunt, you must be mistaken, said Bonnibel, quickly, while a slight flush of excitement tinted her pale cheeks. "Uncle Francis did leave a will. I am sure of it."
Then where is it? inquired Mrs. Arnold.
In his desk in the library, said the girl confidently. "He told me but a few hours before his death that he had made his will, and provided liberally for me, and he said it was at that minute lying in his desk."
Are you sure you have quite recovered from the delirium of your fever? inquired the widow, scornfully. "This must be one of the vagaries of illness."
I am as sane as you are, madam, said Bonnibel, indignantly.
Perhaps, sneered Mrs. Arnold, rustling uneasily in the folds of her heavy black crape. "However that may be, no will has been found, either in the desk or in the hands of his lawyer, where it should most probably be. The lawyer admits drawing one up for him years ago, but thinks he must have destroyed it later, as no trace of it can be found."
I have nothing to live upon, then, said Bonnibel, vaguely.
She did not comprehend the extent of the calamity that had fallen upon her. Her sorrow was too fresh for her mind to dwell upon the possibilities of the future that lay darkly before her.
You have absolutely nothing, repeated Mrs. Arnold, grimly. "Your father left you nothing but fame; your uncle left you nothing but love. You will find it difficult to live upon either."
Bonnibel stared at her blankly.
You are utterly penniless, Mrs. Arnold repeated, coarsely.
Then what am I to do? asked the girl, gravely, twisting her little white hands uneasily together.
What do you suppose? the lady inquired, with a significant glance.
A scarlet banner fluttered into the white cheeks of the lovely invalid. The tone and glance of the coarse woman wounded her pride deeply.
You will want me to go away from here, I suppose, she answered, quietly.
Mrs. Arnold straightened herself in her chair, and to Bonnibel's surprise assumed an air of wounded feeling.
There, now, Bonnibel, said she, in a tone of reproach, "that is just like you. I never expected that you, spoiled child as you are, would ever do me justice; but do you think I could be so unfeeling as to cast you, a poor orphan child, out upon the cold charity of the world?"
Bonnibel's guileless little heart was deceived by this dramatic exhibition of fine feeling. She began to think she had done her uncle's wife injustice.
Forgive me, aunt, she answered, gently. "I did not know what your feelings would be upon the subject. I know my uncle intended to provide for me."
But since he signally failed to do so I will see that you do not suffer, said the widow, loftily; "of course, I am not legally compelled to do so, but I will keep you with me and care for you the same as I do for my own daughter, until you marry, which, I trust, will not be long after you lay aside your mourning. A girl as pretty as you, even without fortune, ought to make an early and advantageous settlement in life."
The whiteness of the girl's fair, childish face was again suffused with deep crimson.
I shall never marry, she answered, sadly, thinking of the lover-husband who had left her months ago, and from whose silence she felt that he must be dead; "never, never!"
Pshaw! said Mrs. Arnold, impatiently; "all the girls talk that way, but they marry all the same. I should be sorry to have to take care of you all your life. I expect you and Felise to marry when a suitable parti presents himself. My daughter already has an admirer in New York whom she would do well to accept. He is very old, but then he is a millionaire."
She arose, stately, handsome and dignified.
Felise and I return to New York Saturday, she said. "Will you be strong enough to accompany us?"
I am afraid not, said Bonnibel, faintly.
Very well. Your maid and the housekeeper will take care of you in our absence. I will send you a traveling suit of mourning, and when you feel strong enough you can come to us.
Yes, madam, Bonnibel answered, and the wealthy widow left the room.
So in a few weeks after, while nature was putting off her gay livery and donning winter hues, Bonnibel laid aside the bright garments she had been wont to wear, as she had already laid aside the joy and gladness of her brief spring of youth, and donning the black robes of bereavement and bitterness,
Took up the cross of her life again, Saying only it might have been.
The day before she left Sea View she went down to the shore to have a parting row in her pretty little namesake, the Bonnibel.
She had delayed her return to the city as long as possible, but now she was growing stronger she felt that she had no further excuse to dally in the home she loved so well, and which was so inseparably connected with the two beloved ones so sadly lost—the uncle who had gone away from her through the gates of death, and the young husband who seemed separated from her just as fatally by time and distance.
As she walked slowly down to the shore in the beautiful autumnal sunshine it seemed to her they both were dead. No message came to her from that far Italy, which was the beloved Mecca of Leslie's hopes and aspirations. He had never reached there, she told herself. Perhaps shipwreck and disaster had befallen him on the way.
No thought of his forgetfulness or falsity crossed the mind of the loyal little bride. It seemed to her that death was the only thing that could have thrown that strange gulf of silence between their hearts.
She sprang into the little skiff—one of her uncle's loving gifts to his niece—and suffered it to drift out into the blue waves. A fresh breeze was blowing and the water was rather rough. The breeze blew the soft, short rings of gold merrily about her white temples where the blue veins were seen wandering beneath the transparent skin.
The last time she had been out rowing her hair had flouted like a banner of gold on the breeze, and her cheek had glowed crimson as the sunny side of a peach.
Now the shorn locks and the marble pallor of her cheeks told a different story. Love and beauty had both left her, she thought, mournfully. Yet nature was as lovely as ever, the blue sky was mirrored as radiantly in the blue sea, the sunshine still shone brightly, the breeze still whispered as tenderly to its sweethearts, the flowers. She alone was sad.
She stayed out a long while. It was so sunny and warm it seemed like a summer instead of an autumn day. The sea-gulls sported joyously above the surface of the water, now and then a silvery fish leaped up in the sunshine, its scales shining in beautiful rainbow hues, and shedding the crystal drops of spray from its body like a shower of diamonds, and the curlew's call echoed over the sea. How she had loved these things in the gay and careless girlhood that began to seem so far away in the past.
That was Bonnibel Vere, she said to herself, "the girl that never knew a sorrow. I am Bonnibel Dane, whose life must lie forever in the shadow!"
She turned her course homeward, and as she stepped upon the shore she picked out a little blue sea-flower that grew in a crevice of the rock, and stood still a moment looking out over the blue expanse of ocean, and repeating some pretty lines she had always loved:
'Tis sweet to sit midst a merry throng In the woods, and hear the wild-bird's song; But sweeter far is the ceaseless dirge, The music low of the moaning surge; It frets and foams on the shell-strewn shore, Forever and ever, and evermore. I crave no flower from the wood or field, No rare exotic that hot-beds yield; Give me the weeds that wildly cling, On the barren rocks their shelter fling; Those are the flowers beloved by me— They grow in the depths of the deep blue sea!
A sudden voice and step broke on her fancied solitude. She turned quickly and found herself face to face with the wandering sibyl, Wild Madge.
The half-crazed creature was, as usual, bare-headed, her white locks streaming in the air, her frayed and tattered finery waving fantastically about her lean, lithe figure. She looked at Bonnibel with a hideous leer of triumph.
Ah maiden! she cried—"said I not truly that the bitter waters of sorrow were about to flow over you? You will not mock the old woman's predictions now."
Bonnibel stood silent, gazing in terrified silence at the croaking old raven.
Where is the gay young lover now? cried Wild Madge laughing wildly. "The summer lover who went away before the summer waned? Is he false, or is he dead, maiden, that he is not here to shelter that bonny head from the storms of sorrow?"
Peace, woman, said Bonnibel, sadly. "Why do you intrude on my grief with your unwelcome presence?"
Unwelcome, is it, my bonnie bird? Ah, well! 'tis but a thankless task to foretell the future to the young and thoughtless. But, Bonnibel Vere, you will remember me, even though it be but to hate me. I tell you your sorrows are but begun. New perils environ your future. Think not that mine is but a boasted art. Those things which are hidden from you lie open to the gaze of Wild Madge like a painted page. She can read your hands; she can read the stars; she can read the open face of nature!
You rave, poor creature, said Bonnibel, turning away with a shiver of unreasoning terror, and pursuing her homeward way.
Wild Madge stood still on the shore a few minutes, looking after the girl as her slim, black-robed figure walked away with the slow step of weakness and weariness.
It is a bonny maid, she said, aloud; "a bonny maid. Beautiful as an angel, gentle as a dove. But beauty is a gift of the gods, and seldom given for aught but sorrow."
When Bonnibel arrived in New York the day after her rencontre with the sibyl, she found her uncle's fine carriage in waiting for her at the depot. Mrs. Arnold, though she would gladly have cast the girl off, was too much afraid of the world's dictum to carry her wishes into effect. She determined, therefore, that society should have no cause to accuse her of failing in kindness to her husband's orphan niece. She knew well what disapprobation and censure a contrary course would have created, for the beautiful daughter of the famous General Vere, though she had not yet been formally introduced to society, was widely celebrated for her grace and beauty, and her debut, while she had been considered her uncle's heiress, had been anticipated with much interest. Of course her penniless condition now would make a great difference in the eyes of the fickle world of fashion, but still Mrs. Arnold knew that nothing could deprive Bonnibel of the prestige of birth and rank. The young mother who had died in giving her birth, had been one of the proud and well-born Arnolds. Her father, a gay and gallant soldier, though he had quickly dissipated her mother's fortune, had yet left her a prouder heritage than wealth—a fame that would live forever in the annals of his country, perpetuating in history the name of the chivalrous soldier who had gallantly fallen at the head of his command while engaged in one of the most gallant actions on record.
So Bonnibel found a welcome, albeit a chilling one, waiting for her in Mrs. Arnold's grand drawing-room when she arrived there cold and weary. The mother and daughter touched her fingers carelessly, and offered frigid congratulations upon her recovery. Mrs. Arnold then dismissed her to her own apartments to rest and refresh her toilet under the care of her maid.
You need not be jealous of her youth and beauty any more, Felise, said Mrs. Arnold complacently to her daughter. "She has changed almost beyond recognition. Did you ever see such a fright?"
Felise Herbert, hovering over the bright fire that burned on the marble hearth, looked up angrily.
Mother, you talk like a fool, she said, roughly. "How can you fail to see that she is more beautiful than ever? She only looked like a great wax doll before with her pink cheeks and long curls. Now with that new expression that has come into her face she looks like a haunting picture. One could not forget such a face. And mourning is perfectly becoming to her blonde complexion, while my olive skin is rendered perfectly hideous by it. I see no reason why I should spoil my looks by wearing black for a man that was no relation of mine, and whom I cordially hated!"
Mrs. Arnold saw that Felise was in a passion, and she began to grow nervous accordingly. Felise, if that were possible, was a worse woman than her mother, and possessed an iron will. She was the power behind the throne before whom Mrs. Arnold trembled in fear and bowed in adoration.
She hastened to console the angry girl.
I think you are mistaken, my dear, she said. "I cannot see a vestige of prettiness left. Her hair is gone, her color has faded, and she never smiles now to show the dimples that people used to call so distracting. There are few that would give her a second glance. Besides, what is beauty without wealth? You know in our world it simply counts for nothing. She can never rival you a second now that it is known that she has no money and that you will be my heiress."
The sullen countenance of Felise began to grow brighter at the latter consolatory clause.
As to the black, pursued Mrs. Arnold, "of course you and I know that it is a mere sham; but then, Felise, it is necessary to make that much concession to the opinion of the world. How they would cavil if you failed in that mark of respect to the memory of your step-father."
There is one consolation, said Felise, brightening up, "I can lay it aside within a year."
And then, no doubt, you will don the bridal robe as the wife of the millionaire, Colonel Carlyle, Mrs. Arnold rejoined, with an air of great satisfaction.
Perhaps so, said her daughter, clouding over again; "but you need not be so sure. He has not proposed yet."
But he will soon, asserted the widow, confidently.
I expected he would do so, until now, said Felise, sharply. "The old dotard appeared to admire me very much; but since Bonnibel Vere has returned to flaunt her baby-beauty before him, his fickle fancy may turn to her. A pretty face can make a fool of an old man, you know."
We must keep her in the background, then, said Mrs. Arnold, reassuringly. "Not that I am the least apprehensive of danger, my dear, but since your fears take that direction he shall not see her until all is secure, and you must bring him to the point as soon as possible."
I have done my best, said Felise, "but he hovers on the brink apparently afraid to take the leap. I cannot understand such dawdling on the part of one who has already buried two wives. He cannot be afflicted with timidity."
We must give him a hint that I shall settle fifty thousand dollars on you the day you marry, said her mother. "I have heard that he is very avaricious. It is a common vice of age and infirmity. He fears you will spend his wealth too freely."
And so I will, if I get a chance, said Felise, coarsely. "I have been stinted all my life by the stepfather who hated me. Let me but become Mrs. Colonel Carlyle, and I assure you I will queen it right royally."
You would become the position very much, said the admiring mother, "and I should be very proud of my daughter's graceful ease in spending her husband's millions."
Miss Herbert's proud lips curled in triumph. She arose and began to pace the floor restlessly, her eyes shining with pleased anticipation of the day which she hoped was not far distant when she would marry the rich man whose wealth she coveted, and become a queen in society. She looked around her at the splendor and elegance of her mother's drawing-room with dissatisfaction, and resolved that her own should be far more fine and costly, her attire more extravagant, and her diamonds more splendid. She was tired of reigning with her mother. She wanted to rule over a kingdom of her own.
Felise had no more heart than a stone. Her only god was wealth, and her ambition was towering. She thought only of self, and felt not the first emotion of gratitude to the mother who had schemed and planned for her all her life. All she desired was unbounded wealth and the power to rule in her own right.
Miss Felise has caught a beau at last, said Bonnibel's maid to her as she brushed the soft locks of her mistress. She had been having a hasty chat with Miss Herbert's maid since her arrival that day, and had gathered a good deal of gossip in the servants' hall.
Indeed? asked Bonnibel, languidly, "what is his name, Lucy?"
He is a Colonel Carlyle, miss; a very old man Janet do say, but worth his millions. He have buried his two wives already, I hear, and Miss Herbert is like to be a third one. I wish him joy of her; Janet knows what her temper is.
You need not speak so, Lucy, said Bonnibel, reprovingly, to the maid whose loquacity was far ahead of her grammar. "I daresay Janet gives her cause to indulge in temper sometimes."
Lor! Miss Bonnibel, said Lucy, "Janet is as mild as a dove; but Miss Felise, she have slapped Janet's mouth twice, and scolds her day in and day out. Janet says that Colonel Carlyle will catch a Tartar when he gets her."
Be quiet, Lucy; my head aches, said Bonnibel, thinking it very improper for the girl to discuss her superior's affairs so freely; she therefore dismissed the subject and thought no more about it, little dreaming that it was one portentous of evil to herself.
Felise need not have troubled herself with the fear of Bonnibel's rivalry. The young girl was only too willing to be kept in the background. In the seclusion which Mrs. Arnold deemed it proper to observe after their dreadful and tragic bereavement they received but few visitors and Bonnibel was glad that her recent illness was considered a sufficient pretext for denying herself to even these few. Some there were—a few old friends and one or two loving schoolmates—who refused to be denied and whom Bonnibel reluctantly admitted, but these few found her so changed in appearance and broken in spirit that they went away marveling at her persistent grief for the uncle whom the world blamed very much because he had failed to provide for her as became her birth and position.
But while the world censured Mr. Arnold's neglect of her, Bonnibel never blamed her uncle by word or thought. She believed what he had told her on the memorable evening of his death. He had provided for her, she knew, and the will, perhaps, had been lost. What had become of it she could not conjecture, but she was far from imputing foul play to anyone. The thought never entered her mind. She was too pure and innocent herself to suspect evil in others, and the overwhelming horror of her uncle's tragic death still brooded over her spirit to the utter exclusion of all other cares save one, and that one a sore, sore trial that it needed all her energies to endure, the silence of Leslie Dane and her anxieties regarding his fate; for still the days waned and faded and no tidings came to the sick heart that waited in passionate suspense for a sign from the loved and lost one.
Strange to say, she had never learned the fatal truth that Leslie Dane stood charged with her uncle's murder, and that justice was still on the alert to discover his whereabouts. During her severe and nearly fatal illness all approach to the subject of the murder had been prohibited by the careful physician, and on her convalescence the newspapers had been excluded from her sight and the subject tabooed in her presence. She had forgotten the solemn charge of Felise Herbert and her mother that fatal night which she had so indignantly refuted. Now she was spared the knowledge that the malignity of the two women had succeeded in fixing the crime on the innocent head of the man she loved. Had Bonnibel known that fact she would have left Mrs. Arnold's roof although starvation and death had been the inevitable consequence. But she did not know, and so moped and pined in her chamber, tearful and utterly despairing, oblivious to the fact that she was doing what Felise most desired in thus secluding herself.
A blind chance at last brought about the fatal meeting between Bonnibel Vere and Colonel Carlyle which Felise Herbert so greatly dreaded and deprecated.
As the autumn months merged into winter Bonnibel had developed a new phase of her trouble. A great and exceeding restlessness took possession of her.
She no longer moped in her chamber, thinking and thinking on the one subject that began to obscure even the memory of her Uncle Francis. She had brooded over Leslie's strange silence until her brain reeled with agony—now a strange longing for oblivion and forgetfulness took hold upon her.
Oh! for that fabled Lethean draught which men drink and straightway all the past is forgotten! she would murmur wildly as she paced the floor, wringing her beautiful hands and weeping. "Either Leslie has deserted me or he is dead. In either case it is wretchedness to remember him! Oh! that I could forget!"
Shrouded in her thick veil and long cloak she began to take long rambling walks every day, returning weary and fatigued, so that sleep, which for awhile had deserted her pillow, began to return, and in long and heavy slumbers she would lose for a little while the memory of the handsome artist so deeply loved in that brief and beautiful summer. Those days were gone forever. Her brief spring of happiness was over. It seemed to her that the only solace that remained to her weary heart was forgetfulness.
Once, rendered desperate by her suspense, she had written a letter to Leslie—a long and loving letter, full of tender reproaches for his silence, and containing the whole story of her uncle's tragic death. She had begged him to send her just one little line to assure her that she was not forgotten, and this beautiful little letter, filled with the pure thoughts of her innocent heart, she had directed to Rome, Italy.
No answer came to that yearning cry from the aching heart of the little wife. She waited until hope became a hideous mockery. She began to think how strange it was that she, little Bonnibel Vere, who looked so much like a child, with her short hair, and baby-blue eyes, was really a wife. But for the shining opal ring with its pretty inscription, "Mizpah," which Leslie had placed upon her finger that night, she would have begun to believe that it was all a fevered dream.
She was thinking of that ring one day as she walked along the crowded street, filled with eager shoppers, for Christmas was drawing near, and people were busy providing holiday gifts for their dear ones.
Mizpah! she repeated to herself, walking heedlessly along the wet and sleety pavement. "That means 'the Lord watch between thee and me while we are absent one from another.' Oh, Leslie, Leslie!"
Absorbed in painful thoughts she began to quicken her steps, quite forgetful of the thin sheet of ice that covered the pavement, and which required very careful walking. How it happened she could not think, but the next moment she felt one ankle twisting suddenly beneath her with a dreadful pain in it, and found herself falling to the ground. With an exclamation of terror she tried to recover her balance, but vainly. She lay extended on the ground, her hat and veil falling off and exposing her beautiful pale face with its clustering locks of sunny hair.
People crowded around her immediately, but the first to reach her was a gentleman who was coming out of a jewelry store in front of which she had slipped and fallen.
He lifted her up tenderly, and a woman restored her hat and veil.
Bonnibel tried to stand upon her feet and thank them both for their timely aid.
To her terror a sharp twinge of pain in her ankle warned her that she could not stand upon it. She uttered a cry of pain and her blue eyes filled with quick tears.
I—I fear my ankle is sprained, she said, "I cannot stand upon it."
Never mind, said the gentleman, melted by the tears and the beauty of the sufferer. "Here is my carriage at the curbstone. Give me your address and I will take you home immediately."
Bonnibel was growing so faint from the pain of her sprained ankle that she could scarcely speak, but she murmured brokenly: "Fifth Avenue, number ——," and with a slight exclamation of surprise he lifted her into the carriage and gave the order to the driver.
She leaned her head back against the satin cushions of the carriage and closed her eyes wearily!
I beg your pardon, said her companion's voice, arousing her suddenly from the deathly faintness that was stealing over her, "but I think you must be Miss Bonnibel Vere, Mrs. Arnold's niece. Perhaps you have heard her mention me. I am Colonel Carlyle."
Bonnibel opened her eyes with a start, and looked at him, instantly recalling the gossip of her maid, Lucy. So this was Colonel Carlyle, Felise Herbert's elderly lover. She gave him a quick, curious glance.
He was an old man, certainly, and apparently made no attempt to disguise the fact, for the curling locks that still clustered abundantly on his head were silvered by time, as well as the long beard that flowed down upon his breast.
His features were aristocratic in contour, his mouth rather stern, his eyes still dark and piercing, though he could not have been less than seventy years old. He was dressed with taste and elegance, and his stately form was quite erect and stately.
Yes, I have heard of you, Colonel Carlyle, Bonnibel answered, quietly, "but I cannot imagine how you could know who I am. We have never met before."
No, he answered, with a gallant bow and smile, "we have not, I have never had the happiness of meeting you, though I have frequently visited at your home. But the fame of Miss Vere's beauty has gone forth into the land, and when you named your address I knew you could be no other."
Bonnibel bowed silently. Something in the graceful flattery of his words or tone jarred upon her. Besides, she was in such pain from her ankle that she felt it an effort to speak.
He observed the whiteness of her face, and said quickly:
Pardon me, but I fear you are suffering from your sprain.
Somewhat, she admitted, through her white lips.
Bear it as bravely as you can, he said. "In a few minutes you will be at home, and can have medical attention. Sprains are quite serious things sometimes, though I hope yours may not result that way."
I hope not, she echoed, growing paler and paler, and biting her lips to repress the moan of pain that trembled on them. She was really suffering acute pain from the twisted ankle.
He was silent a minute, studying the beautiful, pale face with admiring eyes.
She looked up and met a world of deep sympathy shining on her from his keen, dark eyes.
I was very fortunate in meeting you, Colonel Carlyle, she said, gently. "Believe me, I am much indebted for your timely aid."
I am glad to have been of service to your father's daughter, said the colonel, bowing. "I knew your father intimately in the army, Miss Vere. We were friends, though the general was my junior in age and my superior in rank. I have often wondered what poor Harry's daughter was like. He was so frank, so handsome, so chivalrous, so daring."
The girl's blue eyes lit up with pleasure at his praise of the father who had died in her infancy, but whose memory she loved and revered. She put out her hand, saying proudly:
I thank you for your praise of him, Colonel Carlyle. Let my father's friend be mine also.
And the wealthy colonel gave the little hand a fervent pressure, feeling that those timely words of his had gained him a great advantage—one of which he would not be slow to avail himself.
He was about to express his pride and satisfaction at her words in glowing terms when, with a faint cry, she sank back against the cushions and closed her eyes. She had succumbed to her pain in spite of herself and fainted.
Fortunately they were within a block of the house. The colonel seated himself beside her and supported her helpless head on his arm until the carriage stopped in front of Mrs. Arnold's splendid brown-stone mansion. Then he carefully lifted the fair burden in his arms and carried her across the pavement and up the steps, where he rang the bell.
The obsequious servant who opened the door to him stared in surprise and alarm at his burden, but silently threw open the drawing-room door, where Felise and her mother sat in company with a few visitors.
Both sprang up in bewilderment as Colonel Carlyle entered with a bow and laid the insensible Bonnibel down upon the sofa. She looked like one dead as she lay there with her closed eyes and deathly-white face, and limp hands hanging down helplessly.
What has happened, Colonel Carlyle? demanded Felise, stepping forward, as he bent over Bonnibel, while her mother and the guests echoed her words: "What has happened?"
Miss Vere slipped and fell upon the ice, he answered, "and has sustained some serious injury. She has suffered much pain. Let her have medical attendance at once."
But you, said Felise, abruptly, and almost rudely. "How came you with her?"
Colonel Carlyle looked at her in slight surprise.
I was about crossing the pavement to enter my carriage, he explained, rather coolly, "when the accident occurred, and I had the happiness to be of service in bringing her home."
And Felise, as she watched him bending anxiously over the girl she hated, wished in her heart that Bonnibel Vere might never recover from the swoon that looked so much like death.
A merry Christmas, Bonnibel, and many happy returns of the day.
Bonnibel Vere, lying helplessly on the sofa in her dressing-room, looked up with a start of surprise.
Felise Herbert was entering with her cat-like steps and a deceitful smile wreathing her thin lips.
Thank you, Felise, she answered wearily, "though your wishes can scarcely bear fruit to-day."
Are you suffering so much pain to-day? asked Felise, dropping into an easy-chair and resting her head with its crown of dark braids against its violet velvet lining.
My ankle is rather painful.
We are going to have a few friends to dine with us to-day—Colonel Carlyle is among them—and we thought—mother and I—that you might be well enough to come down into the drawing-room, said the visitor, watching the invalid keenly under her drooping lashes.
But the feverish flush on the girl's cheek did not deepen under the jealous scrutiny of the watcher. She watched with a sigh of positive relief.
Many thanks, but it is not possible for me to do so, Felise; Doctor Graham said that I must remain closely confined to my sofa at least two weeks. And indeed I could not leave it if I tried. My foot is much swollen and I cannot stand at all.
She pushed out the little member from under the skirt of her warm white wrapper, and Felise saw that she spoke truly.
She rose and came nearer under pretense of examining it.
Why, what a pretty little ring you wear—is it a new one? said she suddenly, and in an instant she had dexterously slipped it off Bonnibel's finger, and, holding it up, read the inscription within, "Mizpah!" "Why, how romantic! Is it a love token, Bonnibel?"
Bonnibel's lips were quivering like a grieved child's, and quick tears sprang into her eyes.
Felise, she said, reproachfully, "you should not have taken it off. I never meant for that ring to leave my finger while I lived, never!"
Felise laughed—a low, sneering laugh—and tossed her jetty braids.
Here, take your ring, she said scornfully; "I did not know you were going to be such a baby over it. It must have been the gift of a lover to be so highly prized—perhaps it was given you by Leslie Dane."
Bonnibel slipped the ring back on her tapering third finger, while a hot flush mounted to her brow.
You seem very curious over my ring, Felise, she said, angrily. "I do not suppose it can matter to you at all who the giver may be."
Oh! not in the least, said Felise, airily. "I beg your pardon for teasing you about it. But if someone should give me a prettier ring than that soon I should not mind telling you the donor. And by the way," said she, walking to the window and peering out through the lace curtains, "you must tell me, Bonnibel, how you liked Colonel Carlyle the other day."
I should be very ungrateful if I did not like him very well, said the girl, simply. "He was very good to me."
That is an evasive answer, said Felise, laughing. "Should you have liked him if you had not been prompted thereto by gratitude?"
I am sure I do not know. I was suffering such acute pain I hardly thought of him until he told me he had been an intimate friend of my papa while in the army. And he praised papa so highly I could not choose but like him for his words.
The cunning old fox, said Felise to herself, while she drew her black brows angrily together. "Already he has been trying to find the way to her heart."
He is rather fine-looking for one who is certainly no longer young—don't you think so, Bonnibel? pursued the wily girl.
Certainly, said Bonnibel, willing to praise Colonel Carlyle because she thought it would please Felise; "he does not seem so very old, and he is quite handsome and stately-looking."
Whatever Felise might have replied to this was interrupted by the entrance of Lucy, Bonnibel's maid. A broad smile lighted her comely, good-natured features at the sight of the visitor.
For you, miss, said she, going up to Bonnibel and putting in her hand a small volume of splendidly-bound poems and a rare hot-house bouquet, whose fragrance filled the room, and turning to Miss Herbert she added: "Colonel Carlyle is waiting in the drawing-room, Miss Herbert."
Felise made no answer to the maid. She swept forward and looked at the flowers in Bonnibel's hand.
It was a lovely bouquet, composed almost entirely of white flowers. A lily filled the center, surrounded by exquisite rose-buds and waxen tube-roses and azalias. The border of the lovely floral tribute was a delicate fringe of blue forget-me-nots. On a small white card depending from the bouquet was written these words:
Miss Vere, with the compliments of the day from her father's friend.
Her father's friend, said Felise, reading it aloud. "That must mean Colonel Carlyle."
I suppose so, said Bonnibel, simply. "He is very kind to remember me to-day. You will thank him for me, Felise."
Certainly, Felise answered.
She took up the book—a handsome copy of one of the modern poets—and glanced rapidly through it, but found no writing or underscoring within it, as her jealous fancy had expected.
I must go, she said, putting it down and trailing her silken skirts hurriedly from the room.
Lucy looked after her with a slight smile. She, in common with all the domestics, hated the overbearing Felise and it pleased her to see what her innocent young mistress never dreamed of—that Mrs. Arnold's daughter was furiously jealous and angry because of her suitor's tribute to Bonnibel.
The colonel's tribute to Miss Herbert was a much more pretentious one than that which had been the cause of arousing her jealousy up-stairs. He brought her a bracelet of gold, set with glowing rubies, and a bouquet that was a perfect triumph of the floral art. Its central flower was a white japonica, and sprigs of scarlet salvia blazed around it; but Felise remembered the modest white lily up-stairs, with its suggestive circle of forget-me-nots, and her eyes blazed with scarcely concealed anger as she thanked the colonel for his gifts.
Colonel Carlyle was in brilliant spirits to-day. Always a fine talker, he surpassed himself on this occasion, and the guests exchanged significant glances, thinking that surely he had proposed to Miss Herbert and been accepted, for she, too, appeared more fascinating than usual, and exerted herself to please her elderly suitor. She had laid aside the more cumbrous appendages of mourning, such as crape and bombazine, and appeared in a handsome black silk, with filmy white laces at throat and wrists. A single spray of the scarlet salvia, carelessly broken and fastened in her dark hair, brightened her whole appearance, and made her creamy, olive complexion beautiful by the contrast. She was looking her best, as she wanted to do, for she felt that she was about to lose her slight hold upon the millionaire's heart and she meant to do her best to win back her lost ground.
Alas for Felise's prospects! A pair of tearful, violet eyes, a little, white face, a quivering baby mouth, drawn with pain, had totally obscured the image of her bright, dark beauty in the colonel's heart. He was as foolishly in love with Bonnibel's dainty loveliness as any boy of twenty, and through all his brilliant talk to-day his heart was bounding with the thought of her, and he was revolving plans in his mind to free himself from what had almost become an entanglement with Miss Herbert, that he might spread his net to catch the beautiful little white dove that had fluttered across his path.
Miss Vere is better, I trust, he found courage to ask of Mrs. Arnold before he left that evening. His guilty conscience made him shrink from asking Felise even that simple question. He knew that he had paid her sufficient attention to warrant her in expecting a proposal, and now he began to feel just a little afraid of the flash of her great dark eyes.
She is better, Mrs. Arnold answered, coldly; "but not able to leave her sofa. Doctor Graham thinks it will be several weeks before she is well."
So, the enamored colonel thought to himself, "it will be several weeks before I can see her again. That seems like an eternity."
'Italia, oh, Italia, thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty: which became A funeral dower of present woes and past,'
repeated the voice of a young man leaning from an upper window, and looking down upon the antique streets of famous Rome.
I think you have more taste for poetry than painting, Carl, said a second voice.
The scene is an artist's studio, up four flights of stairs, and very near the sky. A large skylight gives admission to the clear and radiant light, and the windows are open for the soft breeze to enter the room, though it is the month of December in that fair Italian clime, where it is always summer. Pictures and palettes, statuettes and bronzes adorn the walls, and somewhat litter the room, and its only two occupants wear artists' blouses, though one of the wearers sits idly at the window gazing down into the street. He is blonde and stout, with gay blue eyes, and is unmistakably German, while his darker companion, who is busily painting away at a picture, is just as certainly an American. They both bear their nationalities plainly in their faces.
Poetry and painting are sister arts, I think, said Carl Muller, laughing. "The poets paint with words as we do with colors. They have the advantage of us poor devils, for their word-paintings remain beautiful forever, while our ochres crack and our crimsons fade."
You should turn poet, then, Carl.
I had some thought of it once, said the mercurial Carl, laughing, "but upon making trial of my powers, I found that I lacked the divine afflatus."
Say rather that you lacked the more prosaic attribute that you lack in painting—industry, said the American.
Whatever failing I may have in this respect is fully atoned for by you, Leslie. Never saw I a poor dauber so deeply wedded to his art. Your perseverance is simply marvelous.
It is the only way to conquer fame, Carl. There is no royal road to success, said the artist, painting busily away as he talked.
Carl yawned lazily and repeated Beattie's well-known lines:
'Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar; Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime, Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with fortune an eternal war!'
The 'malignant star' in your case means idleness, Carl. You have talent enough if you would but apply yourself. Up, up, man, and get to your work.
It is impossible to conquer my constitutional inertia this evening, Leslie. To-morrow I will vie with you in perseverance and labor like a galley-slave, laughed the German, stretching his lazy length out of the window.
There was silence a few moments. Carl was absorbed in something going on in the street below—perhaps a street fight between two fiery Italians, or perhaps the more interesting sight of some pretty woman going to mass or confession—while Leslie Dane's brush moved on unweariedly over his task. Evidently it was a labor of love.
I should like to know where you get your models, Leslie, said Carl Muller, looking back into the room. "You do not have the Italian type of women in your faces. What do you copy from?"
Memory, said the artist, laconically.
Do you mean to say that you know a woman anywhere half as beautiful as the women you put on your canvas?
I know one so transcendently lovely that the half of her beauty can never be transferred to canvas, said Leslie Dane, while a flush of pride rose over his features.
In America? asked Carl.
In America, answered Leslie.
Whew! said the German, comprehensively. "I thought you did not care for women, Mr. Dane."
I never said so, Carl, said Leslie Dane, smiling.
I know—but actions speak louder than words. You avoid them, you decline invitations where you are likely to meet them, and the handsome models vote you a perfect bear.
Because there is but one woman in the whole world to me, answered Leslie Dane, and he paused a moment in his painting, and looked away with a world of tenderness in his large, dark eyes.
Carl Muller began to look interested.
Ah! now I see why you work so hard, he said. "There is a woman at the bottom of it. There is always a woman at the bottom of everything that goes on in this world whether it be good or evil."
Yes, I suppose so, said Leslie, resuming his work with a sigh to the memory of the absent girl he loved.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, For love is heaven, and heaven is love,
hummed Carl in his rich tenor voice.
Leslie, you will accompany me to the fete to-night? said he, presently.
Thank you. I do not care to go, said Leslie.
Heavens, what a selfish fellow! said Carl, turning back to the window.
Silence fell between them again. The soft breeze came sighing in at the window ruffling Carl's sunny curls and caressing Leslie Dane's cheek with viewless fingers.
A pot of violets on the window ledge filled the air with delicate perfume. After that evening the scent of violets always came to Leslie Dane wedded to a painful memory.
There was a heavy step at the door. Their portly landlady pushed her head into the room.
Letters, gentlemen, she said.
Carl Muller sprang up with alacrity.
All for me, of course, he said. "Nobody ever writes to Dane."
He took the packet and went back to his seat, while his companion, with a smothered sigh, went on with his work. It was quite true that no one ever wrote to him, yet he still kept waiting and hoping for one dear letter that never—never came.
Ah, by Jove! but I was mistaken, Carl broke out suddenly. "Hurrah, Leslie, here's a love letter from the girl you left behind you."
He held up a little creamy-hued envelope, smooth and thick as satin, addressed in a lady's elegant hand, and Leslie Dane caught it almost rudely from him. Carl gave a significant whistle and returned to his own correspondence.
Leslie Dane tore open the letter so long waited and hoped for, and devoured its contents with passionate impatience. It was very brief. Let us glance over his shoulder and read what was written there:
"Leslie," she wrote, "your letters have kept coming and coming, and every one has been like a stab to my heart. I pray you never to write to me again, for I have repented in bitterness of spirit the blind folly into which you led me that night. Oh, how could you do it? I was but a child. I did not know what love meant, and I was bewildered and carried away by your handsome face, and the romance of that moonlight flitting. It was wicked, it was cruel, Leslie, to bind me so, for, oh, God, I love another now, and I never can be his! But at least I will never be yours. I have burned your letters, and I shall hate your memory as long I live for the cruel wrong you did me. God forgive you, for I never can!
"Bonnibel."
Leslie Dane threw that dreadful letter down and ground it beneath his heel as though it had been a deadly serpent. It was, for it had stung him to the heart.
Carl Muller looked up at the strange sound of that grinding boot-heel, and saw his friend standing fixedly staring, into vacancy, his dark eyes blazing like coals of fire, his handsome face pallid as death, and set in a tense look of awful despair and bitterness terrible to behold.
Carl Muller sprang up and shook him violently by the arm.
My God! Leslie, he cried, "what is it? What has happened to move you so? Is there anyone dead?"
The handsome artist did not seem to hear him. He stood immovable save for the horrid crunching of his boot-heel as it ground that fatal letter into fragments.
Leslie, exclaimed Carl, "speak, for mercy's sake! You cannot imagine how horrible you look!"
Thus adjured Leslie Dane shook off his friend's clasp roughly, and strode across the room to a recess where a veiled picture hung against the wall.
He had always refused to show it to his brother artist, but now he pushed the covering aside, disclosing a female head surrounded by silvery clouds like that of an angel. The face, framed in waving masses of golden hair, was lighted by eyes of tender violet, and radiantly beautiful.
Look Carl, said the artist in a changed and hollow voice, "is not that the face of an angel?"
Carl Muller looked at the lovely face in wonder and delight.
Beautiful, beautiful! he exclaimed, "it is the face of a seraph!"
Yes, it is the face of a seraph, repeated Leslie Dane. "The face of a seraph, but oh, God, she is fickle, faithless, false!"
He stood still a moment looking at the fair young face smiling on him in its radiant beauty, then caught up his brush and swept it across the canvas.
One touch, the tender blue eyes were obliterated, another, and the curved red lips were gone with their loving smile, another and another, and the whole angelic vision was blotted from the canvas forever.
No, don't attempt to excuse yourself, mother! If you had taken my advice, and turned your wax doll out upon the world to look out for herself, this would never have happened! But no, you must saddle yourself with the charge of her, and pamper her as foolishly as her uncle did! And now you see the result of your blind folly. It needed but one sight of her baby-face by that old dotard to ruin my prospects for life. I hope you are satisfied with your work!
It was ten o'clock at night, and Felise Herbert had come into her mother's room in her dressing-gown, with her dark hair hanging over her shoulders, and her eyes flashing angrily, to upbraid her mother for her weakness in the matter of Bonnibel Vere.
You should have turned her adrift upon the world, she repeated, stamping her slippered foot angrily. "She might have starved to death for all I cared! After all I did for you, I think you could have done that much to please me!"
But, Felise, you know it was quite impossible to take such extreme measures without incurring the censure of the world, and perhaps its suspicion! said Mrs. Arnold, deprecatingly.
Who cares for suspicion—they could not prove anything! said Felise, snapping her fingers.
No, perhaps not, Mrs. Arnold answered, "but all the same, I should not like to run the risk. You are blinded by anger, Felise; or you would reason more clearly. You know I did not want to keep the girl here. I hate her as much as you do. I have hated her ever since she was born, but you know I dare not turn her off. Society would taboo us if we dared hint such a thing. Turn a girl of her aristocratic antecedents out upon the world to earn her living, while I am rolling in wealth! A girl who knows no more of the world than a baby! The daughter of General Vere, the niece of my dead husband! Felise, you must see that it would never do!"
It would if I had been suffered to have my way, answered the girl, marching angrily up and down the floor. "To be thwarted this way in my prospect of making the most brilliant match of the season is too bad! It is shameful! For her to step into my place this way makes me hate her worse than ever!"
But, Felise, she cannot step into your place, my dear. Did you not tell me you had learned from Leslie Dane's intercepted letters that the girl was secretly married to him? Why did you meddle with their correspondence, anyway? Why not have let him come back in time to claim her? She would then have been out of your way!
Mother, you talk like a fool! exclaimed the daughter, angrily. "You know I dare not let Leslie Dane return here! I am compelled to keep him out of the country for the sake of my own safety. I am compelled to separate the two because he must not hear of the charge of murder that we made against him. If she should hear it, as she is likely to do at any time, and should communicate it to him, what would be the consequence? He would return here and disprove the charge at once. Bonnibel was with him that night. They went to Brandon and were married while your husband was being mur—— put out of the way. He could prove an alibi at once. You talk of suspicion—where would suspicion fall then?"
Surely not on us, Felise! said Mrs. Arnold, fearfully.
And why not? sneered the girl. "If the now quiescent subject were agitated again what absurd theories might not be propounded by the suspicious world? Who can tell whether Wild Madge could keep the secret? I tell you I have only consulted our vital interests in separating Leslie Dane and Bonnibel Vere, though to do so I have had to destroy my every prospect of becoming the millionaire's wife. I am compelled to keep that beggarly artist out of the country at any cost."
But, my dear, there is no chance of Bonnibel marrying Colonel Carlyle even though she should be separated forever from her artist-husband, for she is a married woman anyhow. One hint of this to Colonel Carlyle would make your affair all right with him again!
It would not, answered Felise, passionately. "He is madly in love with her. Have I not seen it in these few weeks since she has been well enough to come down-stairs? Has not the old fool hung over her as dotingly as any boy-lover could do? Suppose I told him the truth? Do you think he would return to me? No, he would only hate me because I had shattered his brilliant air castle!"
I am surprised that Bonnibel tolerates his attentions as she does, said Mrs. Arnold, stirring up the fire that was beginning to burn low in the grate.
She does not suspect what the old fox is after; I will do her that much justice, said Felise, bitterly. "He is very cautious. He has a thousand tales of her father's prowess with which to pave his way and awaken her interest. She makes an idol of her wretched father who squandered every penny of her mother's fortune, and only redeemed himself by dying recklessly in some foolish charge on the battle-field!"
She resumed her walk up and down the floor which she had temporarily ceased during the last outburst. She was furiously angry.
Her eyes blazed luridly, her lips were curled back from her glittering teeth, her step seemed to spurn the floor. Her mother watched her uneasily.
Felise, do you not fret yourself, my dear. I am persuaded that everything will come right soon. Suppose Colonel Carlyle is in love with Bonnibel. If he proposes to her she is compelled to refuse his offer. What more natural than that he should return to you then, and make you his wife. Hearts are often caught on the rebound, you know.
Mother, hush! You talk like a simpleton as you are! was the fierce retort.
Mrs. Arnold was stung to anger by the unprovoked insolence of her daughter. She rose and looked at her in dignified displeasure.
Felise, she said, threateningly, "you are my daughter, but you must not suppose that I will tamely bear the continued disrespect and contumely I have lately been forced to receive at your hands. In your rage at losing Colonel Carlyle you seem to forget that it is in my power to make you almost as wealthy as he could do. Remember, I am a very rich woman, and I can leave my wealth to whom I please."
And who placed you in that position? sneered Felise. "How much would you have been worth but for my constant care of your interests? A third of your husband's property, which was all you could legally claim! That was what he said to his big wax-doll. The balance of his money was for her, to make her a queen and win the homage of the world for her. Perhaps you will leave her the money I have risked so much to gain for you?"
Felise, this is but idle recrimination. You know I would not leave Bonnibel Vere a penny to save her soul from perdition, and you know I have been scheming all my life to get that money for you, and that I will certainly give it to you. But I do not understand your mood to-night. What is it that you wish me to do?
Nothing, nothing! Months ago I begged you to send the girl away and you refused me. You knew I hated her, and you knew I spared nothing that came in my way. She has come between me and my dearest ambition. Now let her look to herself. I tell you, mother, I will take a terrible revenge on Bonnibel Vere for what I have lost. I have sworn it, and I will surely keep my vow!
She stood still a moment with upraised hands, looking fixedly at her mother, then she turned and went swiftly from the room.
Mrs. Arnold stared after her blankly. She was a cruel and wicked woman, but she would not have dared to go such lengths as her daughter. She was afraid of her daughter, and frightened at the terrible intent expressed in her tone and manner.
My God! she murmured, with a shiver, "what rash act is she about to commit?"