CHAPTER XLI
St. Leon lifted his mother's senseless form and bore her away to her room. Mrs. Gordon lay weeping, moaning, and wildly lamenting in her husband's arms. Ross Powell, having accomplished his wicked work, and finding himself unnoticed, stole quietly away from the scene of his villainy. No one seemed to heed the prostrate form, lying prone upon the floor like one dead, the marble-white face, with its closed eyes and night-black lashes, upturned to the light—no one save Mrs. Merivale, and she actually spurned it with her dainty foot, and glared upon it with envenomed hatred in her turquois-blue eyes.
"The little viper!" she muttered, bitterly. "Oh, that I had known the truth when I was here last summer! How I should have exulted in betraying her to my haughty lord who laughed at my love, and scorned me because once I was false to the trust he placed in me! She was an angel forsooth. Ha! ha! I would not have missed this rich scene for ten thousand dollars. What has become of that man who came so opportunely upon the scene? I must see him. It may be worth my while."
She cast a glance of hate and scorn upon Laurel's silent, recumbent figure, then hastened to the window and glided out, the heavy curtains of silk and lace falling noiselessly together behind her retreating form. The great gilded drawing room, with its brilliant chandeliers and myriad flowers, was deserted now save for the half-frantic Gordons and the unconscious girl on the floor.
Unnoticed and deserted she struggled back to life and found herself alone save for those two who gazed upon her with reproach and hatred as the cause of their desolation. She had lent herself to the plot to rob them of their daughter, and they could not forgive her any more than they could forgive Beatrix for her unfilial desertion.
But she went and stood before them, so beautiful in her sorrow and despair, with her disheveled golden tresses and the red roses dying on her breast, that they could almost have pitied her in her tender youth and grief, if only she had not helped Beatrix to her happiness, and spoiled their clever scheme for separating her from her handsome, penniless lover.
"I have wronged you," she said, sadly. "I know that. But, believe me, I could not help it. She—your daughter—had been kind to me, and I promised her my eternal gratitude. When she claimed my promise, what could I do but yield! And—and—she is very happy. You must not forget that when you think of her. Perhaps you may forgive me when you know that she is so perfectly happy."
"Forgive!" they uttered, scornfully, for the thought that Beatrix was happy in her stolen marriage was like a thorn in the flesh to them. They felt hard and vindictive toward their beautiful, willful child. They would have been glad to hear that she was ill, unhappy, repentant, starving, even—anything but happy.
"You will forgive me, and forgive her?" pleaded the hapless girl.
"Never!" they answered, harshly, hardening their hearts against the two young creatures who had carried out that daring conspiracy.
And Laurel began to realize the enormity of what she had done. It had not seemed so bad to her at first, this helping a fair young girl and her lover to be happy in spite of opposition. She remembered that Clarice had called it a splendid joke, and Beatrix had laughed at her scruples. But it was quite another thing to the Gordons. It was a cruel outrage, and beyond pardon.
She stood looking at their cold, frowning faces a moment, then turned hopelessly away. Everyone was against her. If only St. Leon would forgive her she would not care for the rest, she thought; but, alas—
"His love is turned to hate," she sighed. "He will never forgive me. He will drive me away from him into eternal banishment. My brief dream of happiness is over. And yet I was mad enough to think that out of his great love, he would forgive me! Ah, me! ah, me!"
Mr. Gordon led his wife silently from the room without a glance at her. She was alone in the great, gilded drawing room—deserted and alone in her terrible anguish and despair. The sting of their contempt pierced her heart.
"I am despised and deserted by all," she said, sorrowfully. "What shall I do? Must I go away? Would St. Leon like it? Would he be glad never to see me again?"
Something like a wail of anguish came from her lips at the thought of leaving her husband and never seeing him again. It was more bitter than death. She thought of his passionate, idolizing love. Had it all been murdered at one fell stroke by the knowledge of her sin?
The door opened, and he came suddenly into the room.
He saw her standing there, the only creature in the wide, brilliant drawing room. He knew that everyone had deserted her for her sin—that fatal retribution had overtaken her. His own heart had revolted from its allegiance, now that he knew her for the willful creature of clay that she was instead of the angel he had deemed her. Yet never had her perfect beauty struck him more forcibly than now. Robbed of its light, its coloring, its bloom, its perfection still showed supreme, like the beauty of a perfectly chiseled statue.
She ran to him; she threw herself humbly at his feet—
"There, with her milk-white arms and shadowy hair,
She made her face a darkness."
"Forgive me, my husband, forgive me!" prayed the wretched wife.
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