Bonnibel was completely crushed by the knowledge that Colonel Carlyle had put into execution his threat of making her a prisoner.
For a moment she ran wildly about the room, passionately seeking some mode of egress, filled with the impulse of seeking and following her poor, maltreated Lucy.
But no loophole of escape presented itself.
Her suite of rooms, boudoir, dressing-room, and sleeping-apartment, all communicated with each other, but only one opened into the hall, or presented any mode of egress from her imprisonment. Of this room, the boudoir which she then occupied, Colonel Carlyle had taken the key. She was in an upper story, many feet from the ground, or she would have jumped from the window in her desperation. As it was she could do nothing. She threw herself down upon the floor, crushing her beautiful ball-dress with its grasses and lilies, and wept unrestrainedly.
The slight form heaved and shook with emotion, the tears rained from her eyes in a torrent. At length, worn out with passionate weeping, and overcome by the "dumb narcotic influence of pain," she fell asleep where she lay on the floor, her wet cheek pillowed on her little hand, her golden hair floating about her in "sad beauty."
Thus Colonel Carlyle found her when he entered, late that morning. He was honestly shocked at the sight, for he had supposed that she would yield gracefully to the inevitable, and retire to her sleeping-apartment without more ado when she found how inflexible a will he was possessed of. Instead, here she lay prostrate on the rich velvet carpet of the boudoir, still attired in her ball-dress, the traces of tears on her pale cheeks, and her restless slumber broken by sobs and moans that shook her slight form like a wind-shaken-willow.
He stood still looking down at her, while pity vainly struggled against the fierce anger and resentment burning hotly in his heart.
She can grieve for him like this, he muttered bitterly, and lifted her, not rudely, but yet unlovingly, and laid her down upon a silken sofa.
The movement disturbed her, and for a moment she seemed about to wake; but the heavy lethargy of her troubled sleep overpowered her.
Colonel Carlyle stood silently watching her for a little while, marveling at her beauty even while he felt angry with her for the uncontrollable emotion that had touched her fairness with the penciling of grief. Then, with a deep yet unconscious sigh, he kissed her several times and went softly away. It was noon when she started up from her restless slumbers, pushing off the silken coverlet that had been carefully spread over her.
She sat up, pressing her hand upon her aching temples, and looked about the room with dazed, half-open eyes. For the moment she had forgotten her trouble of the previous night, and fully expected to see her faithful Lucy Moore keeping her patient vigil by the couch of her weary mistress. But memory returned all too swiftly. The kind, loving face of Lucy did not beam its welcome upon her as of old. Instead, the cold, hard face of a smartly-dressed, elderly Frenchwoman looked curiously at her as the owner rose and courtesied.
I am the new maid, madam, she explained. "I hope madam feels better."
Bonnibel stared at her in bewilderment.
Where is Lucy? I want Lucy, she said almost appealingly.
Madam, I knows nothing of Lucy, she answered. "Monsieur le colonel, the husband of madam, engage me to attend upon madam. I will remove your ball dress, s'il vous plait."
With those words the whole bitter truth rushed over Bonnibel's mind. A low, repressed cry, and she fell back on the sofa, again hiding her convulsed face in her hands.
Madam, you make yourself more sick by dis emotion, said the new maid in her broken English. "Allow me to bring you someding to break your fast—some chocolate, a roll, a bit of broiled bird."
I want nothing, Bonnibel answered, bitterly at first, but the next moment she sat up and struggled to regain her composure.
What is your name, my good woman? she inquired.
Dolores, madam, at your service, said the maid, with one of her low courtesies, "Dolores Dupont."
Bonnibel rose and moved slowly toward her dressing-room.
Dolores, she said, "you may come and remove this robe. I was very tired last night, and my maid having left me, I fell asleep in my ball costume."
Dolores deftly removed the crushed and ruined robe, and substituted a dressing-gown, while she brushed and arranged the beautiful golden hair that was straying on her shoulders in wild disorder.
It is the most beautiful hair in de world, she said. "Dere are many ladies would give a fortune to have it on deir own heads."
But Bonnibel did not heed the praise. She had no thought or care for her beauty now. She only said, listlessly:
Never mind removing the dressing-gown, Dolores, I will lie down again. I am very tired.
I shall bathe your head with the eau de cologne—shall I? the maid inquired.
No, no, only let me rest.
You will breakfast, at least, madam? the woman persisted.
Not now, Dolores. I wish for nothing but rest, she said, as she passed into her boudoir and lay down again upon the sofa.
The maid followed after her.
I should wish your keys, madam, to pack your trunks, she said, solicitously.
To pack my trunks! exclaimed the mistress, in surprise. "Why should you wish to do that, Dolores?"
Dolores looked back at her in surprise also.
For your journey, of course, Madam Carlyle, she said. "Monsieur, your husband, tells me dat Paris do not agree with your health, and dat he removes you dis day to his palace in Italy on de Bay of Naples."
Alas for that one triumphant night of Felise Herbert. It was succeeded by a day of disappointment.
It was scarcely noon before she heard that Colonel Carlyle had caused the arrest of Leslie Dane upon the charge of murdering Mr. Arnold, and that he had been committed to prison to await a requisition from the governor of New Jersey, in which State the deed had been committed. Mrs. Arnold entering her room in a tremor of nervous agitation, found her pacing the floor, wildly gesticulating, and muttering to herself, in terms of the fiercest denunciation, anathemas against Colonel Carlyle.
The miserable old dotard! she exclaimed, furiously. "To think that his madness should have carried him to such lengths! Just when I felt so sure of my revenge he has balked me of my satisfaction and imperiled my safety by his jealous madness!"
Felise, you have heard all, then? exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, anxiously.
Felise turned her blazing dark eyes toward her mother, and Mrs. Arnold shuddered.
All, all! she echoed passionately; "ill news flies apace!"
Felise, I feared this! exclaimed Mrs. Arnold. "You were over-confident last night. Who could tell what form that old man's madness would take?"
Who, indeed! cried her daughter passionately. "And yet my theory seemed so plausible—who could have dreamed of its failure? But for him all would have gone as I planned it! But you cannot dream, mother, what that besotted old villain had the audacity to do!"
It is not possible he suspected your complicity in the affair, Felise—he has taken no steps against us? wildly questioned the mother as she sank into a chair half-fainting with terror.
No, no, he has not done that, mother—his deviltry took another form.
What, then, my dear? Oh! Felise, do sit down and calm yourself, and let us talk this matter over quietly, implored Mrs. Arnold anxiously.
Calm myself—ha, ha, ha, when the blood in my veins has turned to molten fire, and is burning me to ashes! You are an iceberg, mother, with your cold words and calm looks, but you cannot put out the fire that is raging within me! Surely I must be wholly my father's child! There is nothing of you about me—nothing!
Yes, she is like her father—the more pity! For there was madness in his blood, Mrs. Arnold muttered inaudibly; "and I, oh! God—all my life I have fostered her evil passions, in my greed of gold, until now, when her reason totters on the brink of insanity. Oh! that I might undo my part in this fearful tragedy, and save her from the gulf that yawns beneath her feet!"
Overcome by her late remorse and terrible forebodings, she hid her face in her hands while a nervous trembling seized upon her from head to foot. Felise paused in her frenzied walk and eyed her curiously.
Mother, are you turning coward in the face of danger? she asked, with a ring of contempt in her voice.
There was no reply. The bowed face still rested on the trembling hands, the form still shook with nervous terror. Something in the weakness and forlornness of that drooping attitude in the mother who had subordinated everything else to her daughter's welfare, struck like a chill upon Felise, and partially tamed the devil raging within her. She spoke in a gentler tone:
Rouse yourself, mother. See! I have quite sobered down, and am ready to discuss the matter as calmly and dispassionately as you could wish. Ask what you please, and I will answer.
Mrs. Arnold looked up, taking new heart as she saw that Felise still retained the power to subdue her fiery passions.
Then tell me, dear, what else Colonel Carlyle has done besides causing Leslie Dane's arrest, said her mother.
Felise grasped the arms of her chair and held herself within it by a frenzied effort of will. Her voice was low and intense as she answered:
Mother—he found out that Bonnibel was about to fly from him last night—just as I told you she would, you remember—and he—he actually locked her into her rooms, turned Lucy Moore, her maid, into the street—and is keeping his wife a prisoner to prevent her escape.
Mrs. Arnold was too astonished to speak for a minute or two. At length she found voice to utter:
How know you that, Felise?
I have a spy in the chateau, mother—nothing that transpires there remains long unknown to me, returned the daughter, calmly.
Again there was momentary silence and surprise. Mrs. Arnold's weaker nature was sometimes confounded by a new discovery of her daughter's powerful capabilities for evil.
What must Bonnibel's feelings be under the circumstances? she exclaimed at last.
I cannot imagine, was the dry response.
Will she confess the truth to him, do you think?
I cannot tell; I hope she will not, said Felise with strong emphasis.
I thought you wished him to know the truth. Was not that a part of your cherished scheme of revenge?
Yes, it was, but 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,' you know. And now that he has prevented her escape with Leslie Dane, and caused the artist's arrest, the only chance of safety for you and me lies in his keeping her a close prisoner until the trial is over.
What can that avail us, Felise?
Can you not see? exclaimed Felise impatiently. "Leslie Dane must be sacrificed to save us. He must be convicted by circumstantial evidence, and punished. Bonnibel is the only person who could prove his innocence. Let her keep out of the way and all will go well with us. Should she appear at the trial then discovery and ruin stare us in the face."
But you forget, my dear, that Leslie Dane can prove his own alibi by the minister who married him that night, even though we could procure Bonnibel's silence.
Felise laughed heartlessly.
Yes, he could, certainly, but the question is, would he? I am quite sure he would not.
But why should he be silent when his life would most probably pay the forfeit? exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, with a slight shudder.
Mother, there are men who would die for an over-strained point of honor. From all that I can gather from his intercepted letters, Leslie Dane is precisely that sort of a man. He is a Southerner, you know—a Floridian. You have been in the South, and you know that its natives are proud, chivalrous, honorable to the highest degree! Well, he can have no means of knowing that Bonnibel is imprisoned by her husband—of course the proud old colonel will keep that fact a dead secret, and invent some plausible excuse for her retirement from society. The artist can therefore attribute her absence from the trial to but one thing.
And that? queried Mrs. Arnold.
He will think that Bonnibel is silent because she would sooner sacrifice him than lose her prestige in society, and her brilliant position as the wife of Colonel Carlyle. He will scorn to betray her secret, and will go to his death with the self-sacrifice of a martyr.
But suppose Colonel Carlyle should let Bonnibel go free? What then?
Felise laughed softly.
He will not do so, mother. I have sent him an anonymous letter to-day that will fairly madden him with jealousy. He will never unlock her prison-door until the grass is growing over the handsome face of Leslie Dane.
Within the gloomy cell of a French prison Leslie Dane was seated on a low cot-bed, looking out through the narrow, grated window at the blue and sunny sky of France. The young artist looked haggard and wan in the clear light of the pleasant day, for though it was winter the rigors of that season had not yet set in. His dark eyes had a look of suffering and despair in their beautiful depths, and his lips were set in a weary line of pain. It was the day after his incarceration, and he had spent a wretched, sleepless night, almost maddened by the horror of his fearful situation. Suddenly the heavy key turned in the iron door; it swung open to admit a visitor, and then the jailer closed and re-locked it, shutting into the gloomy cell the blonde face of Carl Muller.
Bon jour, he said, with his debonair smile that seemed to light the gloomy place like a beam of sunshine. "How goes it, mon ami?"
A gleam of pleasure shone faintly over his friend's haggard features.
Is it you, Carl? he said; "I thought you had deserted me!"
Ingrate, could you think it? responded Carl. "I was busy yesterday trying to find out some particulars of this mysterious affair, and they would not admit me last night. I came this morning as soon as they would let me in."
Thanks Carl; I might have known you were true as steel. And yet there is so much falsity and treachery on earth, how could I be sure of your loyalty? Have you learned anything?
Your accuser is the American, Colonel Carlyle, was the startling reply.
My God! exclaimed Leslie Dane, with a violent start; and then he added in a passionate tone, and half to himself: "Has he not already wronged me beyond all forgiveness?"
He seems to have pushed it forward with the greatest malignity, continued Carl. "There are other countrymen of yours here in this city who declare they knew of the foul charge against you, yet they say that the verdict against you was given on purely circumstantial evidence, and that, such being the case, they did not intend to molest you, believing that you might after all be innocent of the crime. But Colonel Carlyle has pushed the affair in a way that seems to indicate a personal spite against you."
Leslie's broad, white brow clouded over gloomily.
It is true, then, that there is such a charge against me. I fancied there must be some mistake. The whole affair seemed too monstrous for belief, yet you say it is a stern fact. It is so inexplicable to me, for I swear to you, Carl, that up to the very moment of my arrest yesterday I did not know that Francis Arnold was dead.
And I believe you, Leslie, as firmly as I believe in the purity of my mother away off in my beloved Germany. I know you never could have been guilty of such a foul crime.
A thousand thanks for your noble confidence, Carl. Now I know that I have at least one true friend on earth. I was rather cynical in such matters before. A sad experience had taught me to distrust everyone, exclaimed Leslie, as he warmly grasped the young German's hand. "But what reason do they assign for my alleged commission of the crime?"
They told me, said Carl, hesitatingly, "that you were poor and unknown, and aspired to the hand of the millionaire's beautiful and high-born niece. Mr. Arnold, they said, declined your suit for the young lady's hand, and you became enraged and left him, uttering very abusive language coupled with threats of violence. He was murdered while sleeping in his arm-chair that night on his piazza, and it was supposed that you had stealthily returned and wreaked your vengeance upon him."
My God! said Leslie Dane, "they have made out a black case against me, indeed. But upon whose circumstantial evidence was my conviction based?"
Mrs. Arnold, the wife of the murdered man, and his step-daughter, Miss Herbert, heard and witnessed the altercation from their drawing-room windows. Their evidence convicted you, it is said.
My soul! exclaimed the unhappy prisoner to himself. "Bonnibel was there; she at least knew my innocence, yet she spoke no word to clear me from that most foul aspersion! And yet I could have sworn that she loved me as her own life. Oh, God! She was falser than I could have dreamed. But, oh, that angel face; those beguiling lips—how can they cover a heart so black?"
Come, come, mon ami, don't give up like this, said Carl, distressed by the sight of his friend's uncontrollable emotion. "It is a monstrous thing, I know, and will involve no end of time and worry before you get clear, of course, but, then, there is no doubt of your getting off—you have only to prove your innocence, and you can easily do that, you know. So let's take it as a joke, and bear it bravely. Do you know I mean to cross the ocean with you, and see the farce played out to the end? Then you shall take me around, and do the honors of your native land."
Leslie looked at the bright, buoyant face of the German artist as he spoke so cheerily, and a suspicious moisture crept into his dark eyes. He dashed his hand across them, deeming it unmanly weakness.
Oh! Carl, he exclaimed, remorsefully, "how little I have valued your friendship, yet how firm and noble it has proved itself in this dark and trying hour! Forgive me, my friend, and believe me when I say that I give you the sole affection and trust of a heart that heretofore has trusted nothing of human kind, so basely had it been deceived. I thank, I bless you for that promise to stand by me in my trial! And now I will do what I should have done long ago if I had known the value of your noble heart. I will tell you my story, and you shall be my judge."
Word for word, though it gave him inexpressible pain to recall it, he went over the story of his love for Bonnibel Vere, and her uncle's rejection of his suit, and the high words that passed between them. He passed lightly over their farewell, omitting but one thing. It was the story of their moonlight sail and secret marriage. That story was sealed within his breast. He would have died before he would have revealed Bonnibel's fatal secret to any living soul.
I left Cape May, where they were summering, on the midnight train, he concluded, "and the next day I sailed from New York for Europe. I never heard from Francis Arnold or his niece again. She had promised to be faithful to our love, but though I wrote to her many times I never received one line in return until that fatal note which you remember. In it she wrote me that she loved another."
Perfidious creature! muttered Carl.
I never heard of her again, continued Leslie, "until, to my unutterable surprise, I met her as the wife of Colonel Carlyle."
And it is for one so false and cruel that you rest under this dreadful charge, exclaimed the German. "But, please God, you will soon be cleared from it. Of course you will have no difficulty in proving an alibi. That is all you need to clear you."
But Leslie did not answer, and his friend saw that he was pale as death.
Of course you can prove an alibi—cannot you, Leslie? he asked, with a shade of anxiety in his tone.
But Leslie looked at him with a gleam of horror in his dark eyes, and his voice shook with emotion as he answered:
No, Carl, I cannot!
Carl Muller started as though a bullet had struck him.
Leslie you jest, he exclaimed, hoarsely. "Of course you can prove where you were at that exact time when the murder took place. Your safety all hinges upon that. Do you not remember where you were at that time?"
Ah, Heaven, do I not remember? Every moment of that time is indelibly stamped upon my memory, groaned the unhappy prisoner.
Then why do you talk so wildly, my dear fellow? All you have to do is to tell where you were at that time, and produce even one competent witness to prove it.
I cannot do it! Leslie answered, gravely.
But, good Heavens, man, your life may have to pay the forfeit if you fail to establish an alibi at the trial.
I must pay the forfeit, then. Carl, I choose death rather than the only available alternative, was the inscrutable and final reply.
Words fail me, Colonel Carlyle, when I try to express my burning sense of your injustice in this high-handed outrage! What, in this enlightened age, in this nineteenth century, do men turn palaces into prisons, and debar weak women of their liberties? Am I a slave that you have turned your keys upon me, and set hirelings and slaves to watch me? Am I a criminal? If so, where is my crime?
A long and elegant saloon in a beautiful palace in Italy. The rich curtains of silk and lace are looped back from the windows, and the view outside is the beautiful Bay of Naples with the clear, blue, sunny sky reflected in its blue and sparkling waves. A garden lies below the windows, rich, in this tropical clime, with beautiful flowers, and vines and shrubbery, while groves of oranges, lemons, figs and dates abound in lavish luxuriance. Within the room that was furnished with princely magnificence and taste, were a man and a woman, the man old, and bowed, and broken, the woman young and more beautiful than it often falls to the lot of women to be. Her delicate features, chiseled with the rare perfection of a head carved in cameo, were flushed with passion, and the glow of anger shone through the pure, transparent skin, tinting it with an unusual bloom. As she walked restlessly up and down the room, in her trailing robe of soft azure hue, her sea-blue eyes blazed under their drooping lashes until they looked black with excitement.
I tell you, she said, pausing a moment, as no answer came to her passionate outburst, and facing the man before her with a slim, uplifted finger, as if in menace, "I tell you, Colonel Carlyle, that the vengeance of Heaven will fall upon you for this cruel, unmanly deed! Oh, how can you forget your sense of honor as a soldier and a gentleman, and descend to an act so ignoble and unworthy? To imprison a weak and helpless woman, who has no friend or defender save Heaven! Oh, for shame, for shame!"
His eyes fell before the unbearable scorn in hers, and he turned as if to leave the room. But half way to the door he paused and came back to her.
Bonnibel, he said, sternly, "cease this wild raving, and calm yourself. My troubles are hard enough to bear without the additional weight of unmerited reproaches from you. I am of all men the most miserable."
She shook off the hand with which he attempted to lead her to a seat, as if there had been contagion in the mere contact of his white, aristocratic fingers.
No, do not touch me! she exclaimed, wildly. "At least spare me that indignity. All other relations that have existed between us are altered now, and merged simply into this—I am your prisoner, and you are my jailer. The eagle spurns the hand of its captor. Remember, there is proud, untamable blood in my veins that will not be subdued. I am Harry Vere's daughter."
Bonnibel saw him wince as the name of her beloved father passed her lips.
Ah, you are not lost to all sense of shame, she cried. "You can tremble at the name of the hero you have wronged through his helpless daughter! Oh, Colonel Carlyle, by the memory of my father, whom you pretended to love and honor, I beg you to let me go free from this place."
Her angry recklessness had broken down suddenly into pathetic pleading. Her slender hands were locked together, her eyes were lifted to his with great, raining tears shining in them. He turned half away, trembling in spite of his iron will at sight of those tearful eyes, and parted, quivering lips.
Bonnibel, he answered, in a voice of repressed emotion, "my suffering at the course I have found myself compelled to pursue with you is greater than your own. I love you with all the strength of a man's heart, and yet I am almost compelled to believe you the falsest of women. And yet, through all the distrust and suspicion which your recent conduct has forced me to harbor, the instinct that bids me have faith in the honor of Harry Vere's daughter is so much beyond the mere power of my reason that at one little promise from your lips you might this moment go free!"
And that promise? she asked, dashing the blinding tears away from her eyes and looking into his face.
Bonnibel, on the night when I presumed to lock you into your chamber you were about to fly from me—to what fate I know not, but—I feared the worst. Think of the shame, the disgrace, the agony I must have endured from your desertion! Can you wonder that I took stringent measures to prevent you from carrying your wild project into execution? I would have laid you dead at my feet before you should have broken my heart and made me a target for the scorn of the world.
She did not flinch as he uttered the emphatic words and looked keenly into her face. She thought of herself vaguely as of one lying dead at the feet of that stern, old, white-haired man, yet the passing thought came to her indifferently as to one who was bearing the burden of a "life more pathetic than death." She felt no anger rising within her at the threat. Only a faint, stifled yearning awoke within her for a moment as his stern voice evoked a vision of the rest and peace of the grave.
You see how strongly I feel on this subject, my wife, he continued, after a long pause, "yet even now you shall go free if you will give me your sacred word of honor, by the memory of your father, that you will not desert me—that you will not leave me!"
Silence fell—a long, painful silence. He stood quite still, looking down at her pale face, and waiting for her answer with quickened heart-beats. For her, she seemed transformed to a statue of marble only for the quick throbs that stirred the filmy lace folded over her breast. She stood quite still, her eyes drooping from his, a look of pitiful despair frozen on the deathly pallor of her face. Outside they could hear a soft wind sighing among the flowers and kissing the blue waves of the bay. Within, the fragrance of an orange tree, blooming in a niche, came to them with almost sickening oppressiveness. Still she made no sign of answer.
Bonnibel, he said, and his hoarse, strained voice fell so unnaturally on the stillness that he started at its strange sound, "Bonnibel, my darling little wife, you will give me that promise?"
She shivered through all her frame as if those pleading words had broken her trance of silence.
Do not ask me, she said, faintly, "I cannot!"
You will not give me that little promise, Bonnibel?
I cannot, she moaned, sinking into a chair and hiding her face in her hands.
You are determined to leave me, then, if you can? he exclaimed in a voice of blended horror and reproach.
I must, she reiterated.
Then tell me why you must go away, Bonnibel. What is this fatal secret that is driving you forth into exile? This mystery will drive me mad!
She removed her hands a moment, and looked up at him with sad, wistful eyes, and a face crimson with painful blushes.
Colonel Carlyle, I will tell you this much, she said, "for I see that you suspect me of that which I would rather die than be guilty of. I am not going because a guilty passion for a former lover is driving me from your arms to his. If I go into exile I shall go alone, and I shall pray for death every hour until my weary days upon earth are ended forever. Death is the only happiness I look for, the future holds nothing for me but the blackness of darkness. I can tell you nothing more!"
She ceased, and dropped her anguished face into the friendly shelter of her hands again. He remained rooted to the spot as if he could never move again.
Bonnibel, he said, at last, "surely some subtle madness possesses you. You do not know what you would do. I must save you from yourself until you become rational again."
With these words he went out of the room, locking the door behind him.
Colonel Carlyle had not quitted the room an hour before Bonnibel's maid, Dolores, came into her presence, bearing a sealed letter upon a salver.
Une lettre from monsieur le colonel, for Madam Carlyle, she said, in her curious melange of French and English. Bonnibel took the letter, and Dolores retreated to a little distance and stood awaiting her pleasure.
What can he have to write to me of? she thought, in some surprise, as she opened the envelope.
She read these words in a rather tremulous hand-writing:
"Bonnibel, my dear wife," and she shuddered slightly at the words—"I sought you a little while ago to inform you of my immediate departure for Paris, but our interview was of so harrowing a nature that I was forced to leave you without communicating my intention. I could not endure your reproaches longer. I am compelled to leave you here—circumstances force my immediate return to Paris. It is possible, nay, probable, that I may have to make a trip to the United States before I return to Naples. Believe me, it is distressing to me beyond measure to leave you now under existing circumstances, but the business that takes me away is most imperative and admits of no delay.
"I have made every possible provision for your comfort and pleasure during my absence. The housekeeper, the domestics and your own especial maid will care for you faithfully. In an hour I leave here. If you have any commands for me; if you are willing to see me again, and speak even one word of kind farewell, send me a single line by Dolores, and I will be at your side in an instant.
"Clifford Carlyle."
She finished reading and dropped the letter, forgetful of the lynx-eyed French woman who regarded her curiously. Her eyes wandered to the window, and she fell into deep thought.
Madam, the maid said, hesitatingly, "Monsieur le colonel awaits une reply. He hastens to be gone."
Bonnibel looked up at her.
Go, Dolores, she answered, coldly; "tell him there is no reply."
Dolores courtesied and went away. Bonnibel relapsed into thought again. She was glad that Colonel Carlyle was going away, yet she felt a faint curiosity as to the imperative business which necessitated his return to his native land. She had never heard him allude to business before. He had been known to her only as a gentleman of elegant leisure.
Some of the banks in which his wealth is invested have failed, perhaps, she thought, vaguely, and dismissed the subject from her mind without a single suspicion of the fatal truth—that the jealous old man was going to America to be present at the trial of Leslie Dane, and to prosecute him to the death. Ah! but too truly is it declared in Holy Writ that "jealousy is strong as death, and as cruel as the grave."
Colonel Carlyle was filled with a raging hatred against the man who had loved Bonnibel Vere before he had ever looked upon her alluring beauty.
He had received an anonymous letter filled with exaggerated descriptions of Bonnibel's love for the artist, and his wild passion for her. The writer insinuated that the lovely girl had sold herself for the old man's gold, believing that he would soon die, and leave her free to wed the poor artist, and endow him with the wealth thus obtained. Now, said the unknown writer, since the lovers had met again their passion would fain overleap every barrier, and they had determined to fly with each other to liberty and love.
Colonel Carlyle was reading the letter for the hundredth time when Dolores returned from delivering his letter to Bonnibel with the cold message that there was "no reply."
That bitter refusal to the yearning cry of his heart for one kind farewell word only inflamed him the more against the man whom he believed held his wife's heart. It seemed to him that that in itself was a crime for which Leslie Dane merited nothing less than death.
She read my letter? he said to the maid who stood waiting before him.
Oui, Monsieur, answered Dolores, with her unfailing courtesy.
That is well, he said, briefly; "now, go."
Dolores went away and left him wrestling with the bitterest emotions the heart of man can feel. He was old, and the conflicting passions of the last few years had aged him in appearance more than a score of years could have done. He looked haggard, and worn, and weary. But his heart had not kept pace with his years. It was still capable of feeling the bitter pangs that a younger man might have felt in his place. Felise Herbert had done a fearful work in making this man the victim of her malevolent revenge. Left to himself he had the nobility of a good and true manhood within him. But the hand of a demon had played upon the strings of the viler passions that lay dormant within him, and transformed him into a fiend.
Not one word! he exclaimed, to himself, in a passion of bitter resentment. "Not one word will she vouchsafe for me in her pride and scorn. Ah, well, Leslie Dane, you shall pay for this! I will hound you to your death if wealth and influence can push the prosecution forward! Not until you are in your grave can I ever breathe freely again!"
The slow, sad days that bring us all things ill merged into weary weeks, but brought no release to the restless young creature who pined and chafed in her confinement like a bird that vainly beats its wings against the gilded bars of its cage. Dolores Dupont guarded her respectfully but rigorously. Weary days and nights went by while she watched the sun shining by day on the blue Bay of Naples, and the moonlight by night silvering its limpid waves with brightness. Her sick heart wearied of the changeless beauty, the tropical sweetness and fragrance about her. A cold, northern sky, with darkening clouds and sunless days, would have suited her mood better than the tropical sweetness of Southern Italy. As it was she would sometimes murmur to herself as she wearily paced the length of her gilded prison:
Night, even in the zenith of her dark domain, Is sunshine to the color of my fate.
But "the darkest hour is just before day," it is said. It was as true for our sweet Bonnibel as it has proved for many another weary soul vainly beating its weary wings against the bars of life in the struggle to be free. Just now, when her heart and hope had failed utterly and her only chance of escape seemed to lie in a frank confession of the truth to Colonel Carlyle, the path of freedom lay just before her feet, and destiny was busy shaping an undreamed-of future for that weary, restless young heart.
I can bear it no longer, she murmured, as she paced the floor late one night, thinking over her troubles until her brain seemed on fire. "I will write to Colonel Carlyle and tell him the truth—tell him that dreadful secret—that I am not his wife, that I belong to another! Surely he must let me go free then. He will hate me that I have brought such shame upon him; but he will keep the secret for his own sake, and let me go away and hide myself somewhere in the great dark world until I die."
She dropped upon her knees and lifted her clasped hands to heaven, while bitter tears rained over her pallid cheeks.
Heaven help me! she moaned; "it is hard, hard! If I only had not married Colonel Carlyle all might have gone well. Oh, Leslie, Leslie, I loved you so! God help me, I love you still! Yet I shall never see you again, although I am your wife! Ah, never, never, for a gulf lies between us—a gulf of sin, though Heaven is my witness I am innocent of all intentional wrong-doing. I would have died first!"
Her words died away in a moan of pain; but presently the anguished young voice rose again:
The sibyl's fateful prophecy has all been fulfilled. Yet how little I dreamed that it could come true! Oh, God, how is it that I, the proud daughter of the Veres and the Arnolds, can live with the shadow of disgrace upon my head?
She dropped her face in her hands, and the "silence of life, more pathetic than death," filled the room. All was strangely still; nothing was heard but the murmurous waves of the beautiful Bay of Naples softly lapping the shore. Suddenly a slight, strange sound echoed through the room. Bonnibel sprang to her feet, a little startled, and listened in alarm. Again the sound was repeated. It seemed to Bonnibel as if someone had thrown a few pebbles against the window. Yes, it must be that, she was sure.
Full of vague alarm, blent with a little trembling hope of she knew not what, Bonnibel ran to the window, which was fortunately not fastened down, pushed up the sash and peered down into the night. The moon had not fully risen yet, and there was but a faint light in the clear sky, but down in the dark shrubbery below she fancied she could see a human form and a white face upturned to the window.
Yes, she was right. In a moment a low and cautious, but perfectly audible voice, floated up to her ears.
Oh! my dear Miss Bonnibel, was what it said, "is that you?"
Bonnibel put her hand to her heart as if the shock of joy were too great to be borne.
It was the voice of the poor girl over whose unknown fate her heart had ached for many weary days—the welcome voice of faithful Lucy Moore.
Yes, it is Bonnibel, she murmured gently back, fearing that her voice might be heard by Dolores Dupont, who slept on a couch in the dressing-room to be near her mistress.
Are you alone? inquired Lucy, softly.
Yes, quite alone, was answered back.
Miss Bonnibel, I have a rope-ladder down here. I am going to throw it up to you. Try and catch it, and fasten it to your window strongly enough for me to climb up to you.
Bonnibel leaned forward silently. A twisted bundle was skillfully thrown up, and she caught it in her hands. Stepping back into the room she uncoiled a light yet strong ladder of silken rope.
Fasten it into the hooks that are used to secure the window-shutters, said Lucy's voice from below.
Trembling with joy, Bonnibel fastened the ends strongly as directed, and threw the rope down to Lucy. In a few moments the girl had climbed up to the window, sprang over the sill, and had her young mistress in her arms.
One kiss, you darling! she said, in a voice of ecstasy, "then I must pull up the rope, for I fear discovery, and I have much to tell you before I take you away with me!"
Bonnibel's heart gave a quick bound of joy.
Oh! Lucy, will you really take me away? she exclaimed, pressing the girl's hand fondly.
That's what I am here for, answered Lucy, withdrawing her mistress into the darkest corner of the room, after having drawn her rope up and dropped the curtains over the coil as it lay upon the floor.
Lucy, how did you ever find me? exclaimed Bonnibel, gladly, as they sat down together on a low divan, mutually forgetting the difference in their position as mistress and maid in the joy of their re-union.
I've never lost track of you, Miss Bonnibel, since the night your husband turned me into the cold, dark street.
Cruel! muttered Bonnibel, with a shudder.
Yes, it was cruel, said Lucy, "but I didn't spend the night in the streets! Pierre, the hall-servant, let me in again unbeknownst to Colonel Carlyle, and I slept in my old room that night, though I couldn't get to speak to you because he had locked you into your room and kept the key. At daylight I went away and secured a lodging near you—you know I had plenty of money, Miss Bonnibel, because you were always very generous! That evening when Colonel Carlyle took you away, along with that hateful furrin maid, I followed after, you may be sure, and I've been in Naples ever since trying to get speech of you; but though I've tried bribery, and corruption, and cunning, too, I've always failed until to-night."
She paused to take breath, and Bonnibel silently pressed her hand.
So there's the whole story in a nutshell, continued Lucy, after a minute; "I ain't got time to spin it out, for you and me, Miss Bonnibel, has to get away from here as quick as ever we can! Do you think you can climb down my ladder of rope?"
Bonnibel smiled at the anxious tone of the girl's question.
Of course I can, Lucy, she said, confidently, "I wish there were nothing harder in life than that."
Miss Bonnibel, said the girl, in a low voice, "we must be going in a minute or two, now. Can you get a dark suit to put on? And have you any money you can take with you? For it will take more money than I have in my purse, perhaps, to carry us home to New York."
To New York—are we going back there? faltered the listener.
As fast as wind and water can carry us! answered the girl. "You and me are needed there in a hurry, my darling mistress. At least you are, for I feel almost sure that a man's life is hanging on your evidence."
Lucy, what can you mean? exclaimed Bonnibel, in amazement.
Ah! I see they have told you nothing! answered Lucy.
Bonnibel caught her arm and looked anxiously into her face.
No one has told me anything, she said. "What should they have told me?"
Much that you never knew, perhaps, said the girl, shaking her head gravely.
Then tell it me yourself, said Bonnibel. "Do not keep me in suspense, my good girl."
May I ask you a question first, Miss Bonnibel?
As many as you please, Lucy!
You remember the night poor old master was murdered? said the girl, as if reluctant to recall that painful subject.
As if I could ever forget it, shuddered the listener.
You were down at the shore until late that night, pursued the girl, "and when you got back you found your uncle dead—murdered! Miss Bonnibel, was Mr. Dane with you that night on the sands? I have sometimes been athinkin' he might a been."
Lucy, what are you trying to get at? gasped the listener.
I only asked you the question, said Lucy, humbly.
And I cannot understand why you ask it, Lucy, but I will answer it truly. Leslie Dane was with me every moment of the time.
I thought so, said Lucy, fervently. "Thank God!"
Lucy, please explain yourself, said Bonnibel anxiously. "You frighten me with your mysterious looks and words. What has gone wrong?"
I am going to tell you as fast as I can, my dear young mistress. Try and bear it as bravely as you can, for you must go back to America to right a great wrong.
A great wrong! repeated the listener, helplessly.
You were so sick after Mr. Arnold died, said Lucy, continuing her story, "that the doctors kept the papers and all the news that was afloatin' around, away from you; so it happened that we never let you know that your friend, Mr. Leslie Dane, was charged with the murder of your uncle."
There was a minute's shocked silence; then, with a smothered moan of horror, Bonnibel slid from her place and fell on the floor in a helpless heap at Lucy's feet.
Oh! Miss Bonnibel, rouse yourself—oh, for God's sake don't you faint! Oh, me! oh, me! what a born fool I was to tell you that before I got you away from this place! cried Lucy in terror, kneeling and lifting the drooping head upon her arm.
Oh! Miss Bonnibel, please don't you faint now! she reiterated, taking a bottle of smelling salts from her pocket and applying it to the young lady's nostrils.
Thus vehemently adjured, Bonnibel opened her blue eyes and looked up into the troubled face of her attendant.
We have got to be going now, urged the girl, "you must keep all your strength to get away from here."
I will, said Bonnibel, struggling to a sitting posture in Lucy's supporting arms. "I am quite strong, Lucy, I shall not faint, I give you my word, I will not! Go on with your story!"
I mustn't—you can't stand it, answered the girl, hesitating.
Go on, Bonnibel said, with a certain little authoritative ring in her voice that Lucy had always been wont to obey.
If I must then, said Lucy, reluctantly, "but there's but little more to tell. Mr. Dane got away and they never caught him till the night of your grand masquerade ball when Colonel Carlyle recognized him. The next day he had him arrested and put in a French prison on the charge of murder."
And now? asked Bonnibel, in horror-struck accents.
And they all sailed for the United States more than two weeks ago, answered Lucy, sadly. "Mr. Dane to his trial, and Colonel Carlyle, Mrs. Arnold and Miss Felise Herbert to testify against him."
More than two weeks ago, repeated Bonnibel like one dazed.
I heard some men talking about it, Lucy went on, "and they said that if Mr. Dane couldn't prove his absence at the time of the murder he would certainly get hung."
A moan was Bonnibel's only response.
So you see, my dear young mistress, that his only chance rests on your evidence, and we must start right away if we are to get there to save him!
Bonnibel sprang to her feet, trembling all over.
Let us go this moment, she said, feverishly; "oh, what if we should be too late!"
Wild with horror she set about her preparations. Her one thought now was to save Leslie Dane though the whole world should know the shameful secret she tried so hard to keep from its knowledge.