CHAPTER XXVIII
Mr. Le Roy, turning in the same moment with his wife, saw two faces that he recognized—Cyril Wentworth's whom he had seen once in New York, and Clarice's, which he remembered perfectly well. Beatrix, he did not know. He glanced at her carelessly, little thinking what an influence the pretty blonde had exerted over his life.
A pang of jealousy, keen, swift, and terrible as the lightning's flash tore through his heart as he beheld his worshiped bride waver and fall, like one dead, to the floor.
He believed that the mere sight of Cyril Wentworth's face had produced that terrible emotion that had stricken her down like a broken flower at their feet.
For an instant he stood motionless, almost petrified by his agitation, then he bent down over the beautiful face that only a moment ago had been lifted to his sparkling and glowing with love and happiness. It was pale and rigid now, and the jetty fringe of the lashes lay heavily on the white cheeks as if they would never lift again from the sweet dark eyes.
Quick as he was, light-footed Clarice was before him. She was kneeling down loosening the furs and laces about the throat of the unconscious girl with deft, easy fingers. She looked up at him with a strange glance.
"It is only a faint," she said, "but she may be some time in recovering. You had better go out and bring eau de Cologne."
He obeyed her like one in a dream, and the moment he was gone quick-witted Clarice borrowed Mrs. Wentworth's vinaigrette.
"I only sent him out on a pretext," she said. "We must get her revived before he returns. Mr. Wentworth, will you please remove her gloves and chafe her hands? No, perhaps your wife might do it better," she added, with a quick afterthought.
Beatrix had been clinging to her husband's arm, staring like one dazed at the strange scene. She knelt down, drew off Laurel's dark kid gloves, and chafed the delicate, dimpled, white hands. She saw a broad gold wedding ring on the slender finger of one small hand, guarded by a keeper of magnificent diamonds and rubies. All three looked significantly at one another, and Clarice said, woman-like, to her mistress:
"Mrs. Wentworth, I told you so."
Cyril could not repress a slight laugh as he stood gazing down upon them. His keen perception told him the truth.
"It is Laurel Vane," he said, and Beatrix answered, "Yes," in a dazed tone, while the maid supplemented quickly, "Or rather Laurel Le Roy."
At that moment Laurel shivered and opened her eyes. She saw herself supported in Clarice's arms, while Beatrix, kneeling by her, chafed her small hands. They saw her glance wander past them yearningly, and a moan of pitiful despair came from her white lips as she missed the face she sought.
"You fainted, and Mr. Le Roy has gone out for some eau de Cologne," said the maid.
A touch of color came into the blanched face. She turned her dark, frightened eyes up to their cold faces.
"You have betrayed me!" she said, in a faint, almost dying, tone.
Beatrix seemed incapable of speech.
Clarice answered, coldly:
"We have said nothing yet!" Then she continued, gravely: "Miss Vane, are you Mr. Le Roy's wife?"
"Yes, I am his wife," Laurel answered, faintly. And she tore her hands from Beatrix and covered her face with them.
No one spoke for a moment, then Clarice asked, slowly:
"Did you deceive him to the end?"
"To the bitter end!" shuddered Laurel, in a hollow tone.
Then suddenly she let the shielding hands fall from her burning face and looked at Beatrix.
"Do not look at me so sternly and coldly, Mrs. Wentworth," she cried. "You sent me there. Are you not to blame?"
No one could have believed that Mrs. Wentworth's gentle face could grow so hard and cold.
Laurel Vane had so bitterly betrayed the trust she reposed in her that she did not know how to forgive her.
"Do not charge me with your folly, your madness!" she cried, indignantly. "My sin was bad enough—but yours is beyond pardon. How dared you, Laurel Vane, marry the proud, rich St. Leon Le Roy?"
"I loved him—he loved me!" moaned the wretched young bride.
"And what will become of his love now when he learns the truth?" queried Beatrix, with stinging scorn.
Cyril hastily interposed.
"Do not be hard on her, Beatrix. She was kind to us. Be kind to her. See, she is almost heartbroken by your scorn!"
Laurel looked at the handsome, kindly face. It was full of sympathy and pity, not hard and angry like the women's faces. Her despairing heart filled with new hope. She clasped her hands and looked at him with dark, appealing eyes.
"Yes, I pitied you, I helped you to your love," she said, pleadingly. "Will you let them rob me of mine? Will you let them betray me?"
All the pity in his heart, all his manly compassion was stirred into life by her words and looks.
"We love each other," she went on, pathetically. "We love each other even as you and your wife love. Do not come between us yet! Let us be happy a little longer!"
"Beatrix, you hear," said Cyril, bending down to take his wife's hand in his own. "They love even as we love, dear. Can you bear to part them—to betray her? She is little more than a child. You will break her heart. The beginning of it all lies with us. Do we not owe her our pity at least—our pity and our silence?"
"Your silence—that is all I ask," cried the culprit, eagerly. "The end will come soon enough. Let me have a little respite. Tell me where to find you tomorrow. Mr. Le Roy has an engagement out then, and I will come to you. I will tell you how it all happened! I will beg for your pity on my bended knees!"
She began to weep passionately. Beatrix could not bear those bitter tears. She drew out her card case hastily.
"Here is my address," she said. "Come to me tomorrow, and tell me the whole story. I can judge better than what is best for me to do."
She did not pity Laurel much. She felt angry with her for her presumption in marrying one so far above her as Mr. Le Roy. And then the folly, the madness of it. She could not understand the mad love that had driven Laurel, step by step, into her terrible position.
"Mr. Le Roy is coming. Do not let him suspect anything wrong," said Cyril, hastily.
He turned with a smile to meet the handsome, stately gentleman.
"Mr. Le Roy, I am Cyril Wentworth," he said, genially. "Permit me to assure you that your wife is quite recovered, and to present you to my wife—Mrs. Wentworth."
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