CHAPTER LXV
And Laurel?
Full of wonder and pity and sympathy, they lifted the golden head from Le Roy's breast and bore her away. No one dreamed that he had given his life to save hers. No one dreamed that she belonged to him by the dearest tie possible to mortals: no one knew that her rightful place was by his side, and the sealed lips did not open to claim her right, for they were pale and rigid as if the finger of eternal silence had been laid upon them.
Strangers' hands carried her back to the hotel, and the news of the dreadful tragedy spread far and wide. It excited the greatest wonder. It was so sudden, so strange, so mysterious. No one knew the murderer, and no one guessed the motive for his double crime—no one except, perhaps, Mr. Gordon and he was wisely silent. He deemed it for the best.
But it created a great sensation. Mr. Le Roy was so well known as a gentleman of birth, culture, and wealth, and Mrs. Merivale as a woman of fashion, that the wonder and excitement were most intense. Popular indignation ran high against Ross Powell. If they had caught him, it is most probable that Judge Lynch would have been his executioner.
The sensation had its element of romance. It was whispered far and near that the beautiful belle, Mrs. Lynn, had fainted with her head upon Mr. Le Roy's breast. They told how her delicate laces had been crimsoned by his lifeblood, how she had looked like a dead woman when they lifted her up. When it became known, the next day, that her excitement had culminated in an attack of brain fever, her interest and sympathy, and curiosity ran higher and higher. People agreed that there must have been something between Mr. Le Roy and Mrs. Lynn. They deemed that they had been lovers.
Mrs. Wentworth did not return to New York the next day. She remained to nurse her ill and unconscious friend. Cyril Wentworth stayed also. Mr. Gordon went back and brought his wife down to see her daughter. She was very willing to forgive her now. Years had softened her anger and resentment, and when she heard that Cyril Wentworth had proved himself worthy of her beautiful daughter she threw pride to the winds and forgave him, too. They had a very tender reconciliation—the mother and daughter—in the quiet room where Laurel lay ill unto death with brain fever, her beautiful golden hair cut close to her head, and cold, sparkling ice laid against the fevered brain to cool the subtle fire that burned in her veins.
Beatrix told her mother all that she suspected—that Mrs. Lynn was Laurel Le Roy—and Mrs. Gordon quite agreed with her. She had never forgotten the beautiful face of the girl who had deceived St. Leon Le Roy so bitterly. She recalled it again now, and she was sure that her daughter was right. There could not have been two such lovely faces in the world. She did not doubt that this was St. Leon's wife.
She forgave Laurel now for all that she had done. It was easy to forgive her now when she lay so ill—perhaps dying. She and Beatrix vied with each other in the care of the invalid. They would not trust her wholly to the care of a hired nurse. Her life was too precious. Laurence and Trixy were left to the care of the nurses, and Beatrix gave all her care and thought to the invalid.
"I cannot do too much for her," said gentle Beatrix. "She was like an angel to me."
The day came at last when her patience and fidelity were rewarded. Laurel opened her eyes and looked up with the light of reason shining on her face. The crisis of her terrible delirium was past. She would recover.
She looked at Beatrix, and a faint flush stole into her pale face.
"Have I told all in my delirium?" she asked.
"You have told nothing. All your ravings have been of your books and of your child," Beatrix answered, gently.
A look of anxiety stole into the hollow, dark eyes.
"My little Laurie?" she said, wistfully.
"He is well and happy. He has been well cared for," answered Beatrix. "But I must not bring him to you yet; you are not strong enough. Can you wait?"
"Yes, I can wait," Laurel answered, patiently. Then she laid her thin, white hand on Beatrix's arm. "Can you forgive me?" she said. "I have been hard and proud and wicked. I have willfully deceived you; I am really Laurel Vane."
Beatrix bent and kissed the poor, pale lips that faltered over this humble confession.
"My dear, I have known it all the while," she said, simply.
"And you forgive me for my duplicity?" asked Laurel, in wonder.
"My dear, if you can forgive me all the sorrow my willful plot brought down upon your head, there is nothing I cannot forgive you," cried impulsive Beatrix.
"You were not to blame," Laurel answered, and the warm color drifted over her face as she went on, sadly: "It was all the fault of my mad love, Beatrix. I blame no one for my folly and sin. If I had gone away from Eden with Clarice Wells, nothing would have happened. I stayed, and brought down fate upon my own head—and his."
"A happy fate, my dear, if only you will be reconciled to him," said Beatrix, gently.
The dark eyes looked up at her, full of the pathos of regret and despair.
"Ah! now I understand all the pathos that lies in those words, too late," she said. "I was mad, I think—mad with my wounded love and pride. I denied my identity to him, I refused to listen to his repentance, I was cruelly hard and cold, and now my punishment has come. I repent, but he cannot hear me. My love cannot reach him, for he is dead."
"Dead! ah, no, my dear! Is it possible that you have been thinking so? He lives, he will soon be well and strong again if only you will forgive him."
Then she stopped suddenly, for Laurel's head had fallen back, and her eyes were closed. The shock of joy had been too much. Laurel had quietly fainted.
When she came to herself again there was a strange resolute look in the dark eyes. She took Beatrix's hand and held it tightly in both her own as if she needed strength and support.
"He lives," she said, wildly. "Oh, how glad I am! Now I will make atonement to him! He would have given his life to save mine. I will give him more than my life."
"I do not understand you," said Beatrix, wonderingly.
"You shall know soon," said Laurel. "Dear Beatrix, do let me have Laurie for a little while. I am sure it will not hurt me. I am stronger than you think!"
Comments