A BITTER RECKONING

OR

VIOLET ARLEIGH

By Mrs. E. Burke Collins

HART SERIES No. 44

Copyright 1893 by
GEO. MUNRO’S SONS

Published by
THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY
Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.

CONTENTS.

A BITTER RECKONING

OR

VIOLET ARLEIGH

CHAPTER I.

AT MIDNIGHT.

“Will be with you to-morrow at midnight. Prepare for a bitter reckoning.

“Gilbert Warrington.”

Rosamond Arleigh read the telegram over and over—once, twice, thrice, and her face grew pale as death, while into her dark eyes there crept a look of desperation. She glanced across the crowd of happy faces before her—the merry, care-free throng that filled her brilliant drawing-rooms to overflowing, and her pale face was convulsed with pain, and she set her white teeth into her red under lip until the blood started.

“I had nearly forgotten!” she muttered. “Heaven help me, I had almost allowed myself to forget! The time will soon be up—the hour will soon be here when he will come to extort a bitter penalty for that mad mistake of the past. I am brought to bay at last; there is no escape! May Heaven show me mercy, for I need expect none from man!”

She stood there, pale and queenly, her head, its dark locks just touched with silver, resting against the door-casing, as she watched the gleaming kaleidoscope of dancers floating dreamily away to the sweet, sensuous waltz-music. Her dark eyes rested long and lovingly upon a sweet face among the dancers—a fair face lighted up by great dark eyes, the small head crowned by a mass of waving golden hair; a girlish, graceful figure in white silk trimmed with fern leaves. Some subtile instinct made the beautiful eyes of the girl turn in the direction of that watching figure with a swift start of pleasure, and a look of fond affection passed between the two.

Stifling a sigh, Rosamond Arleigh turned away and went out upon the broad gallery which ran in front of the rambling old house—a real Southern country home. Once there, she sunk wearily into a low lounging chair. There was the sound of light footsteps, the soft frou-frou of silken skirts; then a tiny white-gloved hand came down lightly upon Mrs. Arleigh’s shoulder and rested there like a snow-flake, while a gay, girlish voice cried, lightly:

“Mamma! You dear little humbug! you said you would not be able to come down-stairs to-night, and, lo! here you are. All my pleasure has been spoiled until now; the sight of you cheers me once more! Aunt Constance is doing her level best to make my ball a success; but dear as she is, auntie isn’t you! And I——”

“You are enjoying yourself, Violet?” her mother asked, in an anxious tone. “You are satisfied? Do you like your ball?”

“Like it? Mamma, it is divine! There never was another such ball—never in the whole world, I am sure! I ought to be very happy to-night, mamma; I have so much to be thankful for. My beautiful home, and you, and—and all those who are so good to me. And it is my eighteenth birthday, and this is my very first ball!”

She has summed it all up in those last words. In all the years to come there will never be anything like this in her life—never again. She may be surfeited with pleasures, may revel in wealth, and (natural sequence) count her friends by the score; but never again will she taste of the pure, unalloyed delight, the innocent rapture of her first ball—her eighteenth birthday.

Rosamond Arleigh listens to her only child, and as she listens her face grows pale to ghastliness—some hidden anguish seems tearing at her heart-strings—but she tries to smile, and drawing the golden head down, kisses the girl’s red lips.

“My little Violet,” she says, softly, all the beautiful mother-love shining in her eyes, “enjoy yourself while you are young, ‘gather the roses while you may;’ for, oh, my darling, the dark days are coming!”

Her white hand still clutches that crumpled telegram, and the look of horror deepens in her eyes.

Violet uttered a low cry.

“Mamma! you are ill again! I was afraid when I saw you in the door-way that you were exerting yourself too much, and you still feeble from your late illness. Go up to your room again, will you, dear? Come, let me go with you.”

She put her white arm about her mother’s waist in a pretty, protecting way, and laid her satiny cheek against the pale one with a caressing little gesture.

Mrs. Arleigh forced a smile.

“I am better now. Forgive me, daughter. I had no right to mar your happiness with my melancholy. Go back to the ball-room and dance; I see Mr. Yorke looking for you.”

A swift wave of crimson suffuses the girl’s delicate cheeks, and the big, dark eyes droop shyly; but a sweet smile curves her dainty lips, and the white arms tighten their grasp about her mother’s form.

“Leonard Yorke?” carelessly. “Oh, yes; I see him now. Mamma, you like Leonard, do you not?”

“To be sure; there isn’t a better young man in all Louisiana. But, Violet”—a sudden terror flashing into her eyes and her voice trembling audibly—“surely you do not mean—there is nothing between Leonard and you, is there, my darling?”

She shook her golden head.

“No-o; of course not, ma mère—not exactly. Only—I like him. There, ‘I done tole you!’ as the darkies say.”

A spasm of pain convulsed Rosamond Arleigh’s fair face for a moment and her form trembled perceptibly.

Violet started in alarm.

“What a selfish thing I am!” she exclaimed. “Here I am keeping you here when you ought to go to your own room and lie down. Come, dear; I can not return to my guests and know that you are out here alone and ill. And there is Leonard coming now; he is looking for me. Will you not let me go upstairs with you, mamma?”

More to satisfy Violet than for any other reason, Rosamond Arleigh arose to her feet and allowed her daughter to lead her into the hall, which runs through the center of the house, and up the broad staircase, half hidden in flowers.

The band was playing sweetly, sadly, by way of interlude, “Ah, che le morte!”

Rosamond Arleigh’s eyes grew misty.

“‘Ah, I have sighed to rest me deep in the quiet grave!

But all in vain I crave——’”

She stopped abruptly. She had spoken the words half aloud, and Violet had heard them.

“Mamma,” her sweet voice full of wistfulness, “are not you happy?”

“I—happy?”

She has reached the door of her own room now, and opening it, passes within, followed closely by her daughter.

“Happy? Why, of course—of course I am happy! Ha! ha! Why not? Why should I be anything else but happy and—and gay? Now, go down-stairs, dear, back to your guests and the dance. And don’t forget, Violet, that you are only eighteen, and this is your first ball!”

The girl obeys unwillingly, for there is something strange in her mother’s face, and the dark eyes glitter wildly.

“Kiss me, mamma,” she pleads, throwing her white arms about her mother’s neck. “I shall be awfully uneasy about you all the time, and I will come back to you as soon as I can, and——”

“No, dear; don’t do that. I am going to retire now and rest. The music does not disturb me. I—I rather like to hear it. Kiss me again, Violet. Good-night, my baby. May God and the holy angels have you ever in their keeping! Good-bye—good-bye!”

And long afterward it struck home to Violet Arleigh’s heart, with all the force and intensity of a blow, how, instead of good-night, she had said good-bye!

Violet left the room reluctantly, and went down-stairs—went to join the handsome, dark-eyed young man upon the broad gallery overhung with trailing rose-vines, awaiting her impatiently. A moment more, and he had her in his arms, her golden head resting upon his breast.

“Violet—my Violet! You are mine, are you not?” he whispered, passionately.

She smiled up into his face, her dark eyes full of a tender light.

“I am afraid that it is true Leonard,” she returned, demurely.

“Then you do love me?” he cried, rapturously, drawing her closer to his heart.

The shy eyes drooped.

“Yes; I love you,” she whispered, softly. “I think I have always done that, Leonard, ever since—ever since I knew you.”

“And I may speak to your mother to-morrow, darling?” he persisted. “I can not wait any longer. I want you, Violet; and my home is waiting for a mistress—a queen to reign over it. And my mother will be glad, I am sure.”

Violet shook her head dubiously.

He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow—a very dignified and arbitrary woman, with a pride second to none—an overbearing, tyrannical pride which ruled and dominated all her life.

Would she welcome to her home the girl who would henceforth usurp her place in that home, as she had already in the heart of her son?

Violet turned away with a strange, cold feeling settling down over her heart.

“I am not so certain of that,” she returned; “but we will not trouble ourselves about it now, Leonard. Of course you know that even if mamma says yes—do you think she will, Leonard?—I could not think of such a thing as marrying—oh, not for ages!”

A look of amusement passed over his face; he bit his lip to suppress a smile.

“Nice prospect for me!” he cried, ruefully. “Now, sweetheart, let me lay down the law. I shall seek an interview with your mother in the morning—my poor darling, we are both alike fatherless—if she is able to receive me. I am so grieved that her health is not good; but I will try not to excite her; and if she will consent to give her treasure into my keeping, I propose that our marriage take place—let me see! this is April—May is an unlucky month for weddings. What do you say to the first of June, sweetheart?”

“June!”—with a frightened start—“oh, Leonard, impossible!”

“Nothing is impossible, my darling,” he returned, coolly. “And now, Violet, the music has struck up the ‘Manola.’ Come, let us waltz together once more. It will be your first dance in the capacity of my betrothed wife!”

She laid her small gloved hand upon his black coat-sleeve, and they returned to the ball-room, where they were soon floating away to the sweet waltz-music.

And over their young, defenseless heads a cloud was gathering, creeping nearer and nearer. Soon it would envelop them in its inky folds.

Upstairs in her pretty sitting-room Rosamond Arleigh was pacing slowly up and down, her head bent, her hands clasped tightly together, her face set and pale as death.

“There is no way of escape,” she muttered, hoarsely, coming to a halt at length in her monotonous pacing to and fro. “I am like the doomed wretch in the Italian prison, who felt its walls closing in around him a little nearer, a little nearer every day. I shall soon be crushed within the walls of destiny and a relentless hatred—a hatred which has existed for years—a hatred which calls itself love, and which will never be satisfied until it has wrought my ruin, body and soul! And there is no escape, no way out—save death!”

Her eyes wandered restlessly over to a small cabinet which occupied a corner of the room. There were a half-dozen vials standing upon the upper shelf. One of them bore a grinning skull and crossbones, and was labeled “Chloral—Poison.”

“I wonder,” she went on, thoughtfully, “how he intends to begin—how and when he will strike—to deal the fatal blow which will devastate my life and doom my child—my beautiful girl—to endless misery and shame. He says he will be here to-morrow at midnight—to-morrow! Ha-a!” turning the crumpled telegram over in her shaking hand. “Why, the message has been delayed. A common occurrence in these country towns. They have neglected to send it to me here at The Oaks. Yet—yet I have thus gained a few hours’ respite. Let me see. The message is dated yesterday,” she went on, carefully examining it once more. “Good heavens! he will be here this very night! May Heaven have mercy, and help me to be brave!”

One! chimed from the little gilded clock upon the marble mantel of the pretty room—two! three! Rosamond Arleigh clasped her hands, and her eyes were riveted upon the time-piece. Four! five, six! Her breath came thick and fast; her form trembled like an aspen. Seven! eight! nine! ten! eleven! Twelve!

Before the last stroke had fairly died away into silence there was a faint rap at the door of the room. A moment’s pause, during which her white lips moved as though in prayer, and then, pale as a statue, Rosamond Arleigh made her way unsteadily over to the door and threw it open.

CHAPTER II.

A BITTER RECKONING.

There was a brief pause, a silence during which you could hear distinctly the great strangling heart-throbs of the woman who stood staring blankly into the face of her unwelcome visitor.

Below-stairs the revelry went on; the patter of light feet upon the polished floor of the ball-room; the gay peals of merry laughter; and over all the wailing notes of the music, with its tender, pleading, and wordless entreaty, as the band played “Love’s Young Dream.”

Rosamond Arleigh started, and one white hand went to her heart, pressing against it with a passionate gesture. She bowed coldly.

“So it is you, Mr. Warrington?” with affected indifference. “Come in.”

“Yes; it is I. Whom else should it be?” retorted the intruder, and a tall, dark figure crossed the threshold, closed the door and locked it carefully. “I am exceedingly punctual,” he went on, coolly, as he sunk uninvited into a seat. “It is a rule of mine never to keep any one, and more especially a lady, waiting. Why, Rosamond, my dear, you look ‘all broke up.’ What is the matter with you?”

Rosamond Arleigh frowned.

“I have been ill, that is all,” she returned, coldly; “only a little touch of the old heart trouble. You have called here to-night, Gilbert Warrington, to—It is the old business, I suppose.”

“You are right; it is the old affair, that little slip of yours which is fated to follow you through life like a dark shadow, fated to dog your footsteps to the very grave. ‘The sins of the parents’—you know the rest of it, my dear Rosamond. So your sin will fall, in all its black horror and shame and disgrace, upon your child!”

Rosamond Arleigh covered her white face with her cold, trembling hands, and her graceful figure swayed unsteadily.

“You would not!” she faltered, brokenly.

“Would I not? See here, Rosamond.”

Gilbert Warrington rose and stood before her, a man of some five-and-forty years, tall and commanding, with keen gray eyes, and a face as colorless as marble; a heavy black mustache and chin-beard; thin, cruel lips; a restless glitter in the shifting eyes. Not a face to trust.

“You understand me, Rosamond?” he went on, in a low, hissing tone, transfixing his terrified listener with his beady eyes. “I wish to settle this matter absolutely. You will have to marry me or see your child eternally disgraced through the bad black blot upon her name which your own mad deed in the dead and gone past has affixed there. Ah, you need not wince; I mean to use plain words. I do not intend to handle you with gloves just because you are a purse-proud aristocrat, while I come from the slums. I intend that you shall feel the full sting of the power that I hold over you. You, Rosamond Arleigh, sole representative of an old aristocratic family, one of the best in the land, you whose name is good for many thousands, who move in the most exclusive circle among the rich and great, you are something from which the proud and haughty dames of your select circle would shrink if the truth were known. The veriest wretch in all the land would not take your hand to-night if the truth concerning your past were made public, Rosamond Arleigh.”

“Have—mercy!” she falters, brokenly. “Be human, Gilbert Warrington; show me some pity, some consideration. For the sake of the past, in memory of the dead and gone days when I took you by the hand and led you up to prosperity, have pity, have some gratitude——”

“Gratitude? Bah! Talk of something tangible, something that exists, something that I can understand. Gratitude? Ha! ha! You make me tired. No, no, my friend; we will confine ourselves to facts and drop all that high-flown rhapsody.”

She lifted her white face for a moment, and her eyes rested upon his with a look of imploring entreaty.

“Is there no alternative?” she gasped.

“None. You must marry me, you must become my wife at once, or the whole world shall ring with the truth—that you were only Hubert Arleigh’s——”

“Stop! For the love of God, do not speak that word. It is false—false—false!”

“Prove it!”

“Alas! I can not, as you know too well. Gilbert Warrington, I offer you all I possess in the world—all my wealth—everything—if you will give me those papers in your possession and let me go free, let me take my child and go away from here, so far that none here will ever learn my whereabouts. Is that not enough to buy your silence?”

“No! a thousand times no! There is not money enough in all Louisiana to purchase my silence. Rosamond Arleigh, I love you, and I mean to make you my wife. I have loved you for years, I have held this secret suspended over your head for years, but now—now—you shall marry me, or the secret shall be made public, and you and yours ruined forever! You will be shunned as a pestilence, and Violet, think of what her fate will be!”

A low groan issued from the woman’s pallid lips, then all was still. The silence grew oppressive.

Gilbert Warrington drew near the bowed figure and touched her lightly upon the arm.

“‘Every man has his price,’ it is said,” he says, slowly. “You know mine. There is no alternative. You will consent, Rosamond?”

No answer. The bowed head is lifted, the wild eyes are staring straight before them into space, the cold hands twitch convulsively, the white lips quiver; but not a word escapes her, not a moan.

“You have heard my proposition,” the smooth voice goes on, lowly; “you must say ‘Yes’ at once, or I shall go down-stairs now and expose your secret to the select society gathered here to do honor to your daughter’s eighteenth birthday. You were scarcely eighteen when this occurred of which you are guilty; but Violet will not think of that—will show you no pity because you were so young when it happened—and she, your own child, will look upon her mother—the mother so dearly, so idolatrously loved—with scorn, contempt, loathing. Will you consent, Rosamond?”

“No! no! no! A thousand times no!” she panted, defiantly. “I would sooner take my own life! Better to commit suicide than to fall into your hands, you human tiger! Oh, Heaven! that I should be compelled to listen to such insults beneath my own roof, and be powerless to avenge them!”

She fell back into a seat; pale and gasping for breath, great drops of perspiration standing upon her brow—the cold dew of agony—her features convulsed with suffering, one hand clutching—clutching at her heart, which was throbbing as though trying to break through its mortal prison. Her dark eyes, bloodshot with suffering, wandered slowly over to the cabinet in the corner, where stood the vial marked “Chloral.”

A fiendish expression crept over Gilbert Warrington’s face. With a furtive glance around, as though fearing lest some human eye was upon his movements, he flew to the cabinet, and snatching the bottle from the shelf, thrust it into Rosamond Arleigh’s shaking hand.

At that moment the awful silence was broken by the sound of light footsteps flying up the stairs. They paused at the door of the room, and a timid rap sounded upon the panel.

“Mamma!” called Violet, softly. “Are you ill, dear? May I not come in? It is I, your little Violet. I thought I heard you call me. Open the door and let me in.”

There was no answer. Rosamond Arleigh could not speak. Twice she opened her lips to utter Violet’s name, to answer her loving inquiries, but no sound came forth. Trembling, panting in mortal agony, she crouched there, her eyes upon Gilbert Warrington’s cold face.

Still as a statue, Warrington waited for Violet to go. She must not suspect his presence there; neither she nor any one else in the house must know of the midnight visitor who had entered in the midst of the revelry. He would wait there until Violet, believing that her mother was asleep and did not hear her, would go away.

At last the sweet voice ceased to plead for admission, and slowly and reluctantly the girl retraced her steps to the ball-room. Once there, she sought her aunt, Mrs. Rutledge, her mother’s widowed sister, who made her home at The Oaks, together with her daughter Hilda. Mrs. Rutledge was a tall, stylish woman, attired in black lace, with a delicate, high-bred face and large, dark eyes, like Rosamond Arleigh’s own.

“Aunt Constance”—Violet’s voice was full of uneasiness—“I am so anxious about mamma. I was dancing the Lancers just now, and all at once I thought I heard her call me. It troubled me so that I induced Miss Ray to take my place, made it all right with my partner, and hurried up to mamma’s room. But though I rapped hard at the door, I received no answer, and the room was so still—as still as the grave! Aunt Constance, do you think there is anything wrong?”

“Wrong? No. You alarm yourself unnecessarily, my child. If Rosamond wanted anything, she would ring. She is probably sleeping soundly. Go now and enjoy your ball, my child; you will never have another like it.”

“I know it.”

The sweet voice was full of sadness, and held a ring of unconscious prophecy.

As she turned dejectedly away, a graceful figure in floating white lace and pink rose-buds glided swiftly to her side—a girl of some twenty years, a beautiful, dark-eyed girl. It was Hilda Rutledge.

“Where is Leonard—Mr. Yorke, I should say?” she began at once. “I promised to go down to the river with him to show him the new boat. A tête-à-tête stroll in the moonlight! Violet,” with a light, rippling laugh, and a swift glance into the girl’s pale face, “Look out. Leonard Yorke is fickle and likes to flirt. He has been saying no end of sweet things to me to-night.”

“I do not believe it!”

Violet’s beautiful eyes flashed with indignant protest. Hilda laughed.

“What sublime trust, to be sure!” she exclaimed. “Violet, you will learn the world better when you have seen more of it. My dear cousin, whatever you do, never trust in a man; they are all false and fickle.”

“Leonard is not.”

“Ah! so you acknowledge that you are in love with Mr. Yorke? Really, Violet, I am surprised, for he has not been in earnest with you, and I have reason to believe that he cares a great deal for me.”

“It is false!” panted Violet, indignantly. “Hilda, I did not think that you could be so cruel to me. Let me pass!”

She fled past the white-robed figure like some wild creature.

Hilda’s dusky eyes followed the flying figure, and a curious brassy light crept into their depths. Glancing up, she saw Leonard Yorke coming swiftly in her direction. A look of passionate love flashed into her eyes, and under her breath she muttered, harshly:

“He is looking for her, but he shall not find her. He shall come with me. I will have him for a little while alone to-night, and I will manage to find out if he cares a little for me. He has always been so kind and gentle; he has been with me almost as much as he has with her; and I don’t see why he can not love me the best. He shall love me! I swear it! Oh, Leonard! Leonard! for your dear sake I would lay my life down! I would barter all my hopes of happiness!”

Leonard Yorke came swiftly to her side. At sight of Hilda standing there alone, he stopped short.

“Why, Miss Hilda, I thought that Miss Arleigh was here,” he exclaimed. “I am sure I saw her speaking with you a few moments ago.”

“To be sure; but she is gone now—gone to walk in the moonlight with Captain Venners. Let us go and find them.”

Captain Venners! If there was a man in the world whom Leonard Yorke detested, it was Will Venners—handsome, dashing Will Venners—an outrageous flirt, and a general favorite with the ladies. And Leonard did not dream that the tale was only a fabrication of Hilda to arouse his jealousy, with a secret hope that, in his pride and pique, he would turn to her. And so he did. Where is the man who would not have done so? She was very beautiful and fascinating, and—Violet had gone to walk in the moonlight with Venners. Leonard’s heart was very sore.

He offered Hilda his arm, and they left the house and wandered down to the river-side—the beautiful silvery river which wound in and out between its green banks and shone in the moonlight like molten silver.

“I can not imagine what’s the matter with Violet,” Hilda began, pathetically, lifting her great dark eyes to Leonard’s thoughtful face. “She seems actually absorbed in Captain Venners, and—and I’m afraid that he is only flirting with her. You know what a dreadful flirt he is. One glance from Will Venners’ dark eyes, and a poor woman’s heart is subjugated—slain. And to think that, although he quotes poetry, and writes it, too—such beautiful poetry—that he is only amusing himself! Yet, no; I really think that Will believes it all himself. He means all that he says in every flirtation in which he indulges. But as soon as affairs begin to assume a serious aspect, like the knight in the old song,

“‘He loves—

And rides away.’

But poor, dear Violet seems quite infatuated.”

“Stop!” Leonard Yorke’s voice was hoarse and strained. “Miss Hilda, stop, I beg of you. Don’t you know—you surely must know—that she and I are——”

“Good friends? I know it. Dear me, Leon—Mr. Yorke—of course, everybody knows that; and I was about to suggest that you remonstrate with Violet in regard to her infatuation. Yet, truly, their conduct lately makes me suspect that they are engaged. Ah! there they are now. Don’t they look like a pair of betrothed lovers?”

It is said that the devil always helps his own; and without any personal allusions in regard to Miss Hilda Rutledge, it certainly seemed as though his Satanic Majesty had intervened to assist her cruel scheme, for whom should they come upon, standing in the silvery moonlight under the branches of a live-oak not far away, but Violet Arleigh, and at her side handsome Will Venners! He was gazing down into her face with a tender look in those dangerous dark eyes. It looked for all the world like a leaf from a love story. But in reality this is what he was saying to her:

“So, Miss Violet, you think that there is hope for me? I have loved her so long; it is no flirtation this time. Sweet Jessie Glyndon is the only woman I have ever loved well enough to wish to make my wife.”

And Violet’s sympathetic tone responds:

“I think she likes you, Will. Shall I tell you why? Because, although she laughs at you when you attempt to enact the lover, just let any one venture a slighting remark concerning you, and she will fly into a passion and defend you with all her might. Jessie Glyndon is a peculiar woman—the very proudest woman I ever knew. But a woman doesn’t hate a man whom she watches with her very soul in her eyes. An hour ago, Will, I found her in the rose arbor all alone. She was watching you in the distance—you were flirting awfully with some one, you naughty boy!—and I heard her say, believing herself all alone, ‘Dear Will—dear old Dark Eyes! He will never know—never know!’”

“Did she?”

Will Venners’ hand closes eagerly down upon Violet’s small gloved hand, and Leonard Yorke’s jealous eyes observe the action.

“Did she really, Miss Violet? And yet she was so cold to me. Miss Violet, will you give her this? It is a little poem I wrote for her.”

“With pleasure.”

A folded sheet of paper fluttered from Will Venners’ hand into Violet’s grasp; she hid it in the lace of her corsage.

“I will give it to Jessie to-night if possible,” Violet says, softly; “and now you had better take me back to the house; I must go and see mamma for a moment; I am afraid she is ill.”

As the words pass her lips she lifts her eyes and they rest upon two figures strolling leisurely on in the moonlight—Leonard Yorke, her lover, and at his side Hilda Rutledge. Something in their attitude makes a cold chill creep over Violet’s heart; she turns away and hastens to the house.

In the entrance hall she pauses and glances eagerly about her in search of Jessie Glyndon. She sees her at last, a brown-haired young woman with blue-gray eyes and an air of quiet dignity which some people considered out of place, for she was only a dependent, the hired companion to Leonard Yorke’s mother, and had lived at Yorke Towers for a year.

Wishing to deliver Will’s poem at once—for she felt certain that this was more than a mere flirtation—Violet hastened in pursuit of Miss Glyndon. On—on to the conservatory Violet made her way, and at last, just beside the fountain, whose silvery spray fell into a marble basin full of water-lilies, Violet found herself face to face with—Leonard Yorke. Hilda had disappeared. He came swiftly to her side, his face was pale, but he was determined not to betray his emotions.

“What is the matter, Violet?” he asked, gently. “You look troubled. Tell me what it is that is making you unhappy?”

Her great dark eyes were lifted to his face. She forgot everything but that she loved him.

“I am never unhappy when I am with you, Leonard,” she returned, simply; “but I will confess that I am troubled about mamma. I never felt so strangely in my life. Wherever I go I am haunted by the sight of her pale face. Oh, Leonard, if anything should happen to her it would kill me! She is so——”

She stopped short, and the words died away into silence upon her quivering lips.

What was that?

A shriek, an awful shriek, had resounded throughout the house—a wild, heart-rending cry of agony. Violet’s face grew ashen white.

“What has happened?” she moaned. “Oh, Leonard, Leonard, something awful has happened! What is it?”

He turned to the door, then slipped back to Violet’s side and took her in his arms. For the moment all jealous doubts were set at rest—for the moment only—it is hard to kill jealousy.

“Be brave and calm, my darling,” he whispered, gently; “I will stand between you and all harm!”

But, alas! there comes a time into all lives when human love is powerless and human care can avail nothing. Such an hour had come to Violet Arleigh now.

“Wait here a moment,” the young man went on, eagerly, pityingly, all jealous distrust swallowed up in anxiety. “I will go and see.”

He left the conservatory hastily; but though he did not know it, Violet followed close behind him. It is so hard to be told that you must sit still, and wait in silent inaction, while others make all the effort, do all that we so long to do for our loved ones in extremity. And some unerring instinct warned Violet Arleigh that whatever had come upon her now, to darken her life forever, it was connected with her mother.

As she left the conservatory she chanced to glance in the direction of a glass door which opened into the grounds, and her quick eyes caught a glimpse of a vanishing figure, which disappeared in the shrubbery and was lost to sight—the tall, dark form of a man. It was Gilbert Warrington.

CHAPTER III.

THE TRAGEDY.

Violet hastened back to the drawing-room to be met by anxious friends with pale, frightened faces.

Some one tried to intercept her, but Violet’s eyes were riveted upon one figure—Mrs. Rutledge.

That lady had fallen helplessly upon a sofa, and was weeping hysterically, wringing her white hands in uncontrollable grief. The shriek which had resounded through the house, terrifying the guests, had issued from her lips. It was she who had first discovered the dread thing that had occurred.

Secretly troubled by Violet’s anxiety over her mother, Mrs. Rutledge had stolen up to Mrs. Arleigh’s room, only to come flying down again, her face like the face of a dead woman, and shrieks of horror issuing from her pale lips. She had found the door of the room unlocked, and turning the knob, her eyes fell upon a ghastly sight.

Seated near the table in an easy-chair was her sister, Rosamond Arleigh—stone dead! One cold hand had grasped a crumpled piece of paper; on the table close by an empty vial labeled “Chloral—Poison.”

Had she died by her own hand?

How Violet found out all the particulars of the ghastly story, she never knew. The first thing of which she was conscious, she was kneeling at her mother’s side, her arms about the cold, dead form, kissing the rigid lips, and begging her over and over again to speak or give some sign that she still lived. In all the impotence of her awful grief the child knelt there, weeping, moaning.

Dead! Could it be possible? Her mother, who had been more like an elder sister to her than a parent—her beautiful, sad-faced mother, who had been to the girl the light of her eyes, the very soul of her!

Some one unwound the clinging arms from about the cold form at last, and Leonard Yorke led Violet away, to make room for the physician and coroner, who had arrived together.

Just as Leonard led the girl from the chamber of death the little gilded clock on the mantel chimed forth the hour—two!

Such a short—such a very short time since she had been the happiest, most care-free of creatures, and now all her happiness was over, all the foam gone from the beaker of life! To her the whole world was altered.

Leonard led the orphan girl into the library, and closing the door, left her alone; and there Mrs. Rutledge found her, crouching in the depths of an easy-chair, her wan little face drooping like a fading lily. Mrs. Rutledge slipped into the girl’s cold hand a piece of crumpled paper. It was the same that had been found between the stiffened fingers of the dead woman.

“You had better try to read it, my dear,” she said, softly. “It seems to be a paper of importance. The inquest is over, and the coroner is puzzled. There is no trace of poison in the body. It is all a mystery——”

She checked herself abruptly, for Violet had opened the crumpled paper, and was reading what was written there—reading it with eyes dilated and dark with awful horror, a slow change creeping over her girlish face, a change that was fearful to see. Her features seemed to freeze down into a stone mask, and an icy look of despair settled slowly over her face. With a low moan, she crumpled the letter in her hand and staggered to her feet. She did not swoon away, or moan, or cry out, after the fashion of ordinary women. To her, as with many natures that suffer most intensely, the boon of unconsciousness was denied.

Trembling like a leaf, she stood with that fatal letter clutched in one shaking hand, her dark eyes staring straight before her, fixed and wild.

The library door opened softly, and a man crossed the threshold. Her eyes fell upon his face, and she started with a low cry of horror and hatred, a cry which ended in a broken moan of despair.

It was Gilbert Warrington.

CHAPTER IV.

DRIVEN TO THE WALL.

Her eyes rested upon his face with a wild stare of terror, which grew deeper and more intense as he crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him.

Tall, dark, saturnine, he was not a pleasant person to look at as he came to a halt upon the rug before the fireless grate and stood staring into her frightened face with eyes full of cold scrutiny.

For years she had been accustomed to see this man at long intervals, when he would suddenly and unexpectedly intrude upon her mother with some mysterious errand. There would be a private interview, and then he would disappear, leaving behind him a gloomy shadow—her mother’s face sad and sorrowful, her manner constrained, and the evidence of intense mental suffering.

As he stood before the girl now, she mentally decided that he was destined to be the evil genius of her life. And she was right.

“Well, Miss Violet Arleigh,” he began at last, breaking the silence which rested upon the room, “you have read your mother’s letter, I see. What do you think of its contents—the communication made therein?”

Silence! The girl’s dark eyes blazed with wordless indignation.

“What do I think, Mr. Gilbert Warrington?” she made answer, her voice trembling with scorn and contempt. “I think what I have always thought—that you are the greatest villain unhung!”

He winced perceptibly, and a faint tinge of color suffused his sallow cheek for a moment, then receded, leaving his face pale and resolute as before.

“Miss Arleigh is disposed to be complimentary,” he sneered, a baleful light kindling in his deep-set eyes. “You would do well to choose your words.”

“What is your business here?” she demanded, abruptly, after a brief pause, during which she studied the face of the man before her, with utter scorn in her eyes. “What has brought you here so unexpectedly? And answer me this, Gilbert Warrington: how did you know the contents of the letter which I have just read?”

He starts, and his lips close down upon a stifled imprecation. He has made a false move; let slip something which he should have guarded with his very life. His eyes seek the floor for a moment, then are once more uplifted.

“It is no concern of yours how I became acquainted with the contents of that letter,” he said, slowly. “Let it suffice that I do know. And I ask you, Miss Violet Arleigh, what are you going to do?”

She smoothed out the crumpled sheet of paper in her hand, and glanced over its contents once more.

“My mother states that you have a claim upon her—you!”—the girl’s sweet voice rang out in clear, scornful tones—“and she directs me to carry out your instructions. Mr. Gilbert Warrington, I do not believe that this was really my mother’s wish. She has been influenced, overpowered, coerced in this matter, or”—the great dark eyes transfix the glittering orbs of the man as she goes on slowly—“or the letter is a forgery, and Rosamond Arleigh never wrote a word of it. You know best!”

With an angry cry like the stifled howl of a wild beast, Gilbert Warrington sprung forward and grasped the girl’s arm in a fierce grip. His face was absolutely colorless, his eyes blazed.

“You devil!” he hissed, bending his head until his eyes seemed to burn into her very soul, “you shall obey me, do just as I direct, or you will live to regret it. I have come here at this hour—this sad hour—when the discovery of your mother’s death has just been made, simply and solely to confer with you before the lawyers get hold of the business here, and the authorities have time to put in their oar. So I slipped in here when I found that you were alone, and my object is this: Whatever may be the terms and conditions of your mother’s will, you will have to submit—whether you are pleased or not—and be silent as the grave, too. Now that you have read your mother’s letter, you have some idea of the burden that she bore in secret—the burden of her own sin. I loved your mother, Violet Arleigh!”

“You?”

The tone, the glance, the utter, stinging contempt, were enough to drive a man wild. He flushed angrily, and ground out an oath between his close-shut teeth. But he controlled himself.

“Never mind,” he snarled; “you are having your day now, my time will come before long. Scratch, bite, tear about your cage, my little tigress, your claws will be cut soon, and you will find yourself utterly powerless!”

“Leave me!” she commanded, her voice trembling with indignation. “How dare you address me in this way? How dare you come to me with these matters, and my poor mother scarcely cold in death? Go! or I will summon the servants to put you out!”

“Ah, you will? But before many days shall pass you will find the tables turned with a vengeance. Violet Arleigh, there is a dark cloud resting over your life, a cloud which will never disappear, a stain that can not be wiped out—the stain of black disgrace. When the time comes for the truth to be known, how many of your present dear friends, think you, will remain true? How many will rally around you and stand by you through everything? My word for it, you will not find one. When the truth comes out, who will care for you and seek you for a wife? Not your handsome lover, Leonard Yorke; and even if his love is strong enough to stand the shock of the disgrace and exposure of your family secret, his mother—proud Helen Yorke—would sooner see her only son dead than wedded to you, the child of——”

“Hush! I forbid you to speak such words to me. I forbid you to mention the name of Leonard Yorke.”

“Yes! Too good to pass the lips of a reprobate like Gil Warrington, I suppose? But I know the world better than you do, my dear Miss Arleigh, and I assure you that, when this that I have to tell becomes known, when the truth is made public, you will prove your friends then, and my word for it, Leonard Yorke will not be among the number. He will be the very first to desert you.”

“It is false! Mr. Warrington, I will hear no more of this. Leave me! Have you no pity, no compassion for me, whose mother lies upstairs dead and cold?”

An ugly sneer disfigured his face.

“Business before pleasure,” he returned, coarsely; “and my errand with you admits of no delay. Once more I ask you the question: Are you going to act a submissive part, Miss Violet Arleigh, in that which is before us?”

She turned away. She could not speak.

“Go!” she repeated, sternly, waving her hand in the direction of the door. “I can bear no more of this. Listen! Some one is coming to me now!”

There was a faint rap at the door of the room, and then Leonard Yorke’s voice called softly:

“Violet! Violet! May I come in? Don’t stay there all alone, dear Violet! Open the door and let me come in and comfort you.”

Gilbert Warrington’s lips parted in a cruel smile.

“Yes, to be sure! Let him comfort you while he may, my dear Violet! His days of comforting will soon be at an end. You had better promise me what I ask,” he added, harshly. “If you do not, you will be sorry. Say yes—just the one word yes! Violet—I know that your simple verbal promise will be as good as another person’s guarantee—just say yes, and I will step out of the window yonder and be gone before Mr. Leonard Yorke suspects my presence here. You had better consent, Violet.”

She stood hesitating, trembling, paling. Her whole soul revolted from the bondage into which she would be selling herself by this promise; for well she knew the nature of the man with whom she had to deal—knew that he was unscrupulous and a thorough villain. And must she bind herself to obey him blindly? How did she know to what evil purpose she was pledging herself? He drew nearer, and grasping her arm once more, glared down into her pale, frightened face.

“Promise me! Swear to obey me!” he hissed, bleakly. “I will only require you to follow your mother’s instructions; your mother who was—well, her letter tells you, does it not, that she had a bad, black secret hidden away in her past life, and that I alone shared that secret with her?—did she not write that in the letter that you have just read?”

Violet’s head drooped, but the pale lips managed to falter forth the two words:

“She did.”

“Very well. Then you will believe me and obey me? Quick, Violet—your answer! Say yes, for Leonard Yorke is determined to get into this room, and some one is with him! Upon my word, that some one is Hilda Rutledge! People say that Leonard thinks so much of your cousin Hilda that he really does not know which of you is the dearest. The door of this room is locked; but he will continue to rap at it, and if you do not open it he will summon the household and break it down. Speak, Violet—at once! Do you promise to obey me? Is it yes?”

She can hardly speak, she is so faint and frightened, and the gaze of the basilisk eyes riveted upon her white face seems to eat into her heart.

Tap, tap, at the door again, and once more Leonard’s voice calls in tones of alarm:

“Violet, dear Violet, open the door! What is the matter? Are you ill?”

And then the voice of Hilda Rutledge takes up the refrain:

“Violet, dearest, unlock the door; we are all so frightened about you. Come, dear!”

“Will you obey me?” hisses the serpent at her side. “Is it yes?”

Her eyes, wild with horror, meet his; she sinks into a seat.

“Yes!” she gasps, in a feeble whisper.

“Very well. Remember!”

With a look of triumph upon his evil face, Gilbert Warrington leaps through the open window and disappears.

Violet staggers slowly to the door and unlocks it; then she falls to the floor in a swoon.

CHAPTER V.

A STRANGE OCCURRENCE.

Leonard Yorke threw open the door of the library and rushed into the room, Hilda following closely. His eyes fell at once upon the huddled heap upon the floor. A moment later he was kneeling beside the prostrate form, clasping the poor girl in his arms.

“Violet! Violet!” he cried, eagerly, anxiously, “open your eyes and let me hear you speak! Oh, Hilda, she is dead!”

Hilda Rutledge made an impatient gesture.

“Nonsense! She has only fainted. Go and send mamma here, we will attend to her.”

Leonard left the room, and Hilda bent over Violet and began to rub her hands and bathe her temples. In one hand, clasped tightly between the cold little fingers, was the crumpled letter which had nearly broken Violet’s heart. Hilda’s eyes scintillated.

“Ha! there is some mystery here!” she muttered. “I must see the contents of that letter!”

But she could not remove it from Violet’s grasp; and even while she was endeavoring to do so, the girl opened her eyes. A fearful shudder passed over her.

“Where is he?” she faltered, brokenly.

“Who?”

“That man——”

Violet stopped abruptly, as memory came slowly back to her. She struggled to a sitting posture just as Mrs. Rutledge entered the room, looking pale and frightened.

“My dear child!” she began at once. “Oh, thank Heaven, you are conscious! Come up to your own room, Violet, and lie down. Yes, I insist upon it.”

Violet arose, and leaning upon her aunt’s arm, moved slowly from the room.

Where was Leonard? Why had he deserted her? He had not returned to the library, and Violet did not know that he had been with her. Somehow, her heart sunk with a vague alarm. Something in the fact of his absence struck to her aching heart like a blow. Had he forgotten her? Then he had ceased to care for her—had never cared at all.

With all the usual inconsistency of a woman, she forgot that only a few hours had elapsed since Leonard Yorke’s avowal of love for her. How could he possibly have changed in that short time?

It was the wild outreaching of the loving, lonely little heart, and the intense disappointment that crushed down upon it like a vise was almost more than she could bear.

Once in her own chamber, she begged her aunt and cousin to leave her. The guests had, of course, long since departed; only Leonard remained, as he felt that he had a right to do. But Violet was ignorant of this fact, and so she misjudged him. Ah! if we only knew each other’s motives, how different life would be! And Violet never dreamed that Leonard had been forbidden by Mrs. Rutledge to enter her presence, and, with natural delicacy, the young man had held himself aloof.

Left alone in her own chamber, Violet’s first act was to lock its door against possible intruders. Then she placed the letter, which she still held in her hand, safely away in her little writing-desk; and at that moment she remembered the poem which Will Venners had given her—the pretty love verses written for the eyes of Jessie Glyndon alone. She searched in the lace of her corsage, but the poem was gone. Still, it was nothing of vital importance, and in the presence of the awful affliction which had come upon her and that other trouble which she felt certain was about to come into her life through Gilbert Warrington, she thought no more about it.

And little did she dream of the important part which that poem was destined to play in her own future. Little things sometimes sway and alter our whole lives. The veriest trifle may possibly work great and stupendous results. The mouse gnaws the rope which sets the prisoner free; a file can sever iron bars; a word in due season, how much good it can accomplish! Life is made up of trifles, after all. Victor Hugo maintains that had it not been for the small circumstance of a shower of rain, Napoleon would not have lost Waterloo, and the fate of two great nations might have been vastly different.

Down-stairs, in the deserted library, Leonard Yorke was pacing to and fro, his face pale and full of trouble. Something indefinable haunted him; a feeling of doubt, of distrust regarding Violet had taken possession of his heart. Leonard was by nature inclined to be jealous, and Hilda had contrived to arouse his latent jealousy.

Leonard thought it all over—all his supposed grounds for distrust of Violet—and his heart grew heavy. His mother, too, did not like Violet, and was always trying to influence her son against the girl, though this Violet never suspected.

Up and down he paced restlessly, impatient for news of Violet before he would go home. Yorke Towers was some two miles distant from The Oaks, and he was determined to remain until he was assured of his darling’s recovery from the indisposition which had prostrated her. As he paced slowly up and down the library, his eyes fell upon a folded paper lying upon the floor, just under the edge of a sofa. He stooped mechanically and picked it up. It was a closely written sheet of note-paper, evidently verses. Leonard Yorke’s brow contracted with an angry frown as he recognized Will Venners’ plain, elegant chirography—the gallant young captain who had seen service under Custer in the far West, but now seemed more at home in luxurious drawing-rooms at the feet of beauty. To sum it all up in a few words, Will Venners was the only man whom Leonard feared as a rival.

He stood there now slowly turning over the poem which Will had so carefully written to the woman he loved. But how was Leonard to know that it was meant for Jessie Glyndon? Had he not seen Captain Venners slip the paper into Violet’s willing hand out in the moonlight on the river-bank, when neither of them thought themselves observed? A hot flood of anger swelled Leonard Yorke’s heart. Slowly he read the lines, and as he read, the anger grew and strengthened:

“Dear, I tried to write you such a letter

As would tell you all my heart to-day;

Written love is poor, one word were better,

Easier, too, a thousand times to say.

“I can tell you all; fear, doubts unheeding

While I can be near you, hold your hand;

Looking right into your eyes and reading

Reassurance that you understand.

“But I wrote it through, then lingered, thinking

Of its reaching you, what hour, what day,

Until my heart and courage sinking

With a strange, new, wondering dismay.

“‘Will my letter fall,’ I wondered sadly,

‘Upon her mood like some discordant tone,

Or be welcomed tenderly and gladly?

Will she be with others, or—alone?

“‘It may find her too absorbed to read it,

Save with hurried glance and careless air;

Sad and weary, she may scarcely heed it,

Gay and happy, she may hardly care.

“‘Shall I—dare I—risk the chances?’ Slowly

Something, was it shyness, love, or pride?

Chilled all my heart and checked my courage wholly;

In wistful silence then I laid it all aside.

“Then I leant against the casement, turning

My tearful eyes toward the far-off West,

Where the golden evening light was burning,

Until my heart throbbed back again to rest.

“And I thought, ‘Love’s soul is not in fetters;

Neither space nor time keeps souls apart;