CHAPTER LX
Mrs. Wentworth and Mr. Gordon were not the only persons at the seaside who suspected that Mrs. Lynn was other than she seemed.
The curiosity of the pretty, faded widow, Mrs. Merivale, had been aroused by the first sight of Mrs. Lynn. She spared no pains until she obtained an introduction to the noted writer, over whose charms of mind and person all the best people at the seaside were enthusiastic in admiration. When she had done so, she was almost frightened by the astonishing likeness of Mrs. Lynn to Laurel Vane.
"It is the dead alive!" she said to herself. "I can no longer believe that St. Leon's wife drowned herself. There has been some great mistake. She went away and hid herself from all who knew her, and she has reappeared as Mrs. Lynn. I wish I knew the history of those intervening years, and what she intends to do. Will she return to St. Leon? Will he forgive her and take her back?"
She was bitterly chagrined and angry at the thought that Laurel lived in the person of the beautiful, gifted, wealthy Mrs. Lynn. She had been glad when she heard that Laurel was dead. She began to feel now that Fate had played her an unkind trick in resurrecting her hated rival from the grave, where she had deemed her resting all these long years; not that the wily widow had any hope of winning St. Leon. She had understood that long ago. She knew that he was proof against her faded charms, her rouged and powdered beauty, that he thoroughly despised her. She had known it ever since that night at Eden, when he had flung back her offered heart on her hands in supremest scorn and sarcasm. The knowledge had aroused all the littleness and spite of her malicious nature. She had hated St. Leon from that moment—hated the beautiful girl who had won him even more. She would gladly have done both an ill turn if she could, but Laurel, dead in her grave, was secure from her vengeance, and St. Leon, in his proud position and calm reserve, beyond her reach. For several years she had not seen him, but she knew that he had returned from his wanderings and was at home again. The thought that Laurel still lived, the bare possibility that she might yet be reunited with her husband, filled her with jealous anger and dread. On the spur of the moment, she penned a letter to one who hated St. Leon and Laurel with as deadly a rancor as her own—one whose love for Laurel had changed to hate, even as had Mrs. Merivale's for St. Leon—no less a person than the villain, Ross Powell.
Mr. Powell's animosity against the rich man who had won Laurel had not been lessened by the fact that Mr. Le Roy had secured the dismissal of the villain from Mr. Gordon's employ in the week immediately following the exposé at Eden. Mr. Le Roy's resentment had followed him steadily from one place to another in New York, until he found that it was useless to expect to retain employment in that city, and was forced to seek a livelihood in a more distant one beyond the reach of his enemy's anger.
The villain was well punished for his unmanly persecution of an innocent, helpless girl, but it did not add to the sweetness of his temper to receive this merited retribution for his wickedness. He swore revenge upon St. Leon Le Roy, and patiently bided his time, pledging himself the faithful ally of Mrs. Merivale in her hatred of her whilom friend and lover.
The time for his revenge seemed to come at last, when he received Mrs. Merivale's letter, urging him to come to the seaside and help her to identify Laurel Vane in the beautiful, courted woman queening it so royally in circles where Maud Merivale could barely find a footing. He lost no time in obeying her mandate, feeling as anxious as the wicked widow herself to prevent a reunion of the long-separated husband and wife.
He reached the hotel on a lovely evening in the last of August and was shown at once to Mrs. Merivale's private parlor. They had never met but once before, but there was no embarrassment in the meeting. Both were alike at heart—crafty, evil, unscrupulous—ready to do their best to dash down the possible cup of happiness from the lips of the man and woman they hated with all the venom of their little souls.
"And you are sure that she is Laurel Vane?" he said, in wonder.
"I am sure—quite sure in my own mind," she replied. "But you will see her very probably this evening at the usual hop if she deigns to honor it with her presence. It is not often she appears, being very exclusive and reserved, but if you miss her tonight you will be very sure to see her on the shore in the morning."
"What are we to do if it be really Laurel Vane?" asked Powell, musingly.
Her pale eyes flashed with subtle meaning.
"We must do anything to prevent her from meeting Mr. Le Roy again—I could not endure their happiness," she replied, bitterly.
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