CHAPTER I.

“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[Pg 6] 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[Pg 7] 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!”

[Pg 8]

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.

[Pg 9]

“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.

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[Pg 10] 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.

[Pg 11]

“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[Pg 12] 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[Pg 13] 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![Pg 14] 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.

[Pg 15]

CHAPTER II.

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?”

[Pg 16]

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[Pg 17] 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[Pg 18] 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[Pg 19] 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.”

[Pg 20]

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.