"Dead!"
Leslie Noble reels backward, stunned by the shuddering horror of that one word—"Dead!" The stiff, girlish characters of the open letter in his hand waver up and down before his dazed vision, so that he can scarcely read the pathetic words, so pathetic now when the little hand that penned them lies cold in death.
"Dear Leslie," it says, "when you come to bid me good-bye in the morning I shall be dead. That is best. You see, I did not know till to-night my sad story, and that you did not love me. Poor mamma was wrong to bind you so. I am very sorry, Leslie. There is nothing I can do but die."
There is no signature to the sad little letter—none—but they have taken it from the hand of his girl-wife, found dead in her bed this morning—his bride of two days agone.
With a shudder of unutterable horror, his glance falls on the lovely, girlish face, lying still and cold with the marble mask of death on its beauty. A faint tinge of the rose lingers still on the delicate lips, the long, curling fringe of the lashes lies darkly against the white cheeks, the rippling, waving, golden hair falls in billows of brightness over the pillow. This was his unloved bride, and she has died the awful and tragic death of the suicide.
Let us go back a little in the story of this mournful tragedy, my reader, go back to the upper chamber of that stately mansion, where, on a wild night in October, a woman lay dying—dying of that subtle malady beyond all healing—a broken heart.
"Vera, my darling," says the weak, faint voice, "come to me, dear."
A little figure that has been kneeling with its face in the bed-clothes, rises and comes forward. The small, white face is drenched with tears, the dark eyes are dim and heavy.
"Mamma," the soft voice says, hopefully, "you are better?"
The wasted features of the invalid contract with pain.
"No, my little daughter," she sighs, "I shall never be any better in this world. I am dying."
A stifled cry of pain, and the girl's soft cheek is pressed to hers in despairing love.
"No, mamma, no," she wails. "You must not die and leave me alone."
"Alone?" the mother re-echoes. "Beautiful, poor and alone in the great, cruel world—oh, my God!"
"You cannot be dying, mamma," the girl says, hopefully. "They—Mrs. Cleveland and Miss Ivy—could not go on to their balls and operas if you were as bad as that!"
Something of bitter scorn touches the faded beauty of the woman's face a moment.
"Much they would care," she says, in a tone of scorn. "At this moment my sister and her proud daughter are dancing and feasting at the Riverton's ball, utterly careless and indifferent to the fact that the poor dependent is lying here all alone, but for her poor, friendless child."
"You were no dependent, mamma," the girl says, with a gleam of pride in her dark eyes. "You worked hard for all we have had. But, mamma, if—if you leave me, I will not be Ivy Cleveland's slave any longer. I shall go away."
"Where, dear?" the mother asks, anxiously.
"Somewhere," vaguely; "anywhere, away from these wicked Clevelands. I hate them, mamma!" she says, with sudden passion in her voice and face.
"You do not hate Leslie Noble?" Mrs. Campbell asks, anxiously.
"No, mamma, for though he is akin to them he is unlike them. Mr. Noble is always kind to me," Vera answers, musingly.
"Listen to me, Vera, child. Mr. Noble l—likes you. He wishes to marry you," the mother exclaims, with a flush of excitement in her eyes.
"Marry me?" Vera repeats, a little blankly.
"Yes, dear. Are you willing?"
"I—I am too young, am I not, mamma?"
"Seventeen, dear. As old as I was when I married your father," Mrs. Campbell answers with a look of heart pain flitting over the pallid face.
"I have never thought of marrying," Vera goes on musingly. "He will not be angry if I refuse, will he, mamma?"
"But, Vera, you must not refuse," the invalid cries out, in a sudden spasm of feverish anxiety. "Your future will be settled if you marry Mr. Noble. I can die in peace, leaving you in the care of a good husband. Oh, my darling, you do not know what a cruel world this is. I dare not leave you alone, my pure, white lamb, amid its terrible dangers."
Exhausted by her eager speech she breaks into a terrible fit of coughing. Vera bends over, penitent and loving.
"Cheer up, mamma," she whispers; "I am not going to refuse him. Since he wants me, I will marry him for your sake, dear."
"But you like him, Vera?" the mother asks, with piteous pleading.
"Oh, yes," calmly. "He is very nice, isn't he? But, do you know, I think, mamma, that Ivy intended to marry him herself. I heard her say so."
"Yes, I know, but you see he preferred you, my darling," the mother answers, with whitening lips.
"Then I will marry him. How angry my cousin will be," Vera answers, with all the calmness of a heart untouched by the grande passion.
"Yes, she will be very angry, but you need not care, dear," Mrs. Campbell answers faintly. "Leslie will take you away from here. You will never have to slave for the Clevelands any more."
The door opens suddenly and softly. A tall, handsome man comes into the room, followed by a clerical-looking individual.
"Oh, Leslie, you are come back again," Mrs. Campbell breathes, joyfully. "I am glad, for I cannot last but a few minutes longer."
"Not so bad as that, I hope," he says, gently, advancing to the bedside; then his hand touches lightly the golden head bowed on the pillow. "Is my little bride ready yet?" he asks.
The girl starts up with a pale, bewildered face.
"Is it to be now?" she asks, blankly. "I thought—I thought——"
But Mrs. Campbell, drawing her quickly down, checks the half protest with a feverish kiss.
"Yes, dear, it is to be now," she whispers, weakly. "I cannot die until I know that you will be safe from the Clevelands. It is my dying wish, Vera."
"Then I am ready," Vera answers, turning a pale and strangely-solemn face on the waiting bridegroom.
The bridegroom is pale, too. His handsome face gleams out as pale as marble in the flickering glare of the lamps, the dark hair tossed carelessly back from the high, white brow, gleaming like ebony in the dim light. The dark, mustached lips are set in a grave and thoughtful line, the dark blue eyes look curiously into the bride's white face as he takes her passive hand and draws her forward toward the waiting minister.
It is a strange bridal. There are no wedding-favors, no wedding-robes, no congratulations. The beautiful marriage words sound very solemn there in the presence of the dying, and the girlish bride turns silently from the side of the new-made husband to seek the arms of her dying mother.
"Bless you, my Vera, my little darling," the pale lips whisper, and then there falls a strange shadow on the room, and a strange silence, for, with the murmured words of blessing, the chords of life have gently parted in twain, and Mrs. Campbell's broken heart is at rest and at peace in that Heavenly peace that "passeth all understanding."
The long, wintry night wanes slowly. Vera's own loving hands have robed the dead for the rest of the grave. She has gone away now to the solitude of her own little chamber under the eaves, leaving Leslie Noble keeping watch beside the loved lost one.
She has forgotten for a moment the brief and solemn words that gave her away to be a wife in her early innocent girlhood; she remembers only that the one creature that loved her, and whom she loved, is dead. Crushed to earth by her terrible loss, Vera flings herself face downward on the chilly, uncarpeted floor, and lies there mute, moveless, tearless, stricken into silence by the weight of her bitter despair.
Who that has lost a mother, the one true heart that loves us truly and unselfishly of all the world, but can sympathize with the bereaved child in her deep despair.
In vain the kind-hearted minister whispered words of comfort, in vain Leslie tried to soothe her, and win her to tears, in awe of her strange, white face and dry-lidded eyes. They could not understand her, and were fain to leave her alone, the while one quoted fearfully to the other:
So the chilly night wanes, and at three o'clock in the morning, carriage wheels echo loudly in the street below, and pause in front of the house. The haughty mistress, and Ivy, her daughter, have returned from the esthetic ball whose delights they could not forego, although their relative lay ill unto death in the house.
A tap at Vera's door, and Mrs. Brown, the chamber-maid, glances in. The worthy woman has been out at "a party" herself, and is quite unconscious of all that has happened since she left the house. Her stolid gaze falls curiously on the recumbent figure on the cold, hard floor.
"Wake up, Miss Vera! Whatever be you a-sleeping on the cold floor this night for? Miss Ivy says for you to come down to her room immejitly."
Disdaining a reply to the coarse woman, Vera drags herself up from the hard floor, and with stiffened limbs takes her way to the luxurious apartment of her cousin.
How different this large and comfortable room from Vera's bare and fireless little den. Miss Cleveland's apartment has soft hangings of pale-blue plush, bordered with silver, cream lace curtains, a blue satin counterpane embroidered with silvery water-lilies. The atmosphere is warm and dreamy, and languid with the scent of hot-house flowers in blue and silver vases. The mistress of all this elegance stands in the center of the room, clothed in an esthetic gown of pale-blue, embroidered down the front with small sunflowers. She is a pretty blonde, with straw-colored hair in loose waves, and turquoise blue eyes, that usually wear an expression of infantine appeal and innocence. Just now the eyes look heavy and dull, and there is a tired, impatient look on her delicate-featured face.
"Here you are at last," she says, as Vera comes slowly in with her white face and heavy eyes, with their look of dumb and hopeless pain. "Hurry up now and undress me; I'm tired and sleepy, and ready to drop!"
Vera stands still, looking gravely at her, and making no move to obey the cool and insolent mandate. For years her cousin has ruthlessly trampled her under foot, and made her a despised slave.
It comes to the girl with a sudden thrill of triumph now that this is the last time Ivy will ever order her about. She is Leslie Noble's wife, and he will shield her from her cousin's abuse.
"Come, don't stand staring like a fool," Ivy breaks out coarsely and impatiently. "Don't you see I'm waiting? Here, pull off these tight slippers. I cannot stand them a minute longer!"
She throws herself into a blue-cushioned chair, and thrusts forward her small feet encased in white kid slippers and blue silk hose, and Vera, conquering her strong impulse of rebellion, kneels down to perform the menial service.
After all, what does this last time matter? she asks herself, wearily. After to-morrow she will be out of their power. Tonight, while that dear, dead mother lies in the house, she will keep still, she will have peace, no matter how bitter the cup of degradation pressed to her loathing lips.
With steady hands she unlaces the silken cords that lace the white slippers, draws them off the compressed feet, and unclasps the satin garters from the blue silken hose. All the while Ivy raves angrily:
"I have seen for some time that you rebel against waiting on me, ungrateful minx, as if all you could do would repay us for the charity that has clothed and fed you all your life. To-morrow I shall report you to your mother, and if she does not bring you into better subjection, you shall both be driven away, do you hear?"
Her mother! This is the iron rod with which they have ruled poor Vera all her life long. That poor, drooping, delicate mother, whose hold on life had never been but half-hearted, whose only home and shelter had been the grudging and hard-earned charity of her heartless and parsimonious sister. Day in and day out the Clevelands had driven their two weak slaves relentlessly, always holding over their heads the dread of being turned out to face the cold world alone.
A low and bitter laugh rises to Vera's lips at the thought that that poor, meek dependent is beyond their dominion now, and that Ivy's threatened complaints can never rise to that high Heaven where her mother's freed spirit soars in happiness and peace.
"Not that you are of much account, anyway," pursues the heartless girl, angrily. "You can never be trained into a proper maid, you stiff-necked little pauper. If mamma were not so mean and stingy she would let me have a real French maid like other girls. Never mind, when once I am Mrs. Leslie Noble I'll show her how I will spend money!"
Vera shivers, and her heart thumps heavily against her side. The one idea of Ivy's life is to marry Leslie Noble. He is handsome, fascinating, wealthy, in short, her beau ideal of perfection. He has come on a month's visit to her mother from a distant city, and both mater and daughter are sure, quite sure, that the object for which he was invited is accomplished; they have hooked the golden fish, they have no doubt. What will Ivy say when she knows that she, the despised Vera, is Leslie Noble's chosen bride?
"She will kill me, just that!" the girl murmurs to herself in terror, while a second terror shakes her slight frame.
"What are you trembling for?" Ivy demands, shortly. "Are you afraid I will slap you as I did last night? Well, you richly deserve it, and I don't know but that I may. Hurry, now, and fix my hair and bring my robe de nuit. It will be broad daylight before I get into bed. And I want to rise early to find out why Leslie did not come to the ball."
Vera moves about mechanically, obeying orders, but answering never a word.
A golden gleam has come into the eyes beneath the drooping lashes, a heavy, deep red spot glows in the center of her death-white cheeks. Half-frightened as she is at the thought of Ivy's rage when she learns the truth, she is yet filled with triumph at the thought of her own vengeance on her enemies, this glorious vengeance that has come to her unsought.
She will be Leslie Noble's wife, she will queen it over Ivy and her mother. She will wear satin and laces and diamonds, she will have French maids to wait on her, and then a sudden anguished recollection drives the blood from her heart and forces a moan of despair from her white lips—what is all her triumph since it cannot bring back the dead?
She is moving to the door, having tucked the blue satin counterpane about Ivy's small figure, when the straw-gold head pops up, and the frivolous beauty recalls her.
"I say, Vera, is the embroidery finished on my Surah polonaise? Because I shall want it to-morrow night to wear to Mrs. Montague's german. Tell your mother I shall want it without fail. I am tired of this shamming sickness. It's nothing but laziness—just that. Did you say it was finished?"
"No," Vera answers her, through her white lips. Ivy springs up tumultuously in the bed.
"Not finished!" she screams, shrilly.
"Scandalous! I tell you I want it to-morrow night! I will have it—you hear! Go and tell your mother to get up this instant and go to work at it. Go and tell her—you hear?"
Vera, with her hands on the latch, and that crimson spot burning dully on her cheeks, answers with sudden, passionate defiance:
"I will not!"
All in a moment Ivy is out of bed, and her small, claw-like fingers clutch Vera's arm, the other hand comes down in a ringing slap on Vera's cheek.
"Take that, little vixen!" she hisses, furiously, "and that, and that! How dare you defy me?"
Vera pushes her off with a sudden passionate defiance.
"Because I am not afraid of you any longer," she says, sharply. "Because poor mamma has escaped you. She is free—she is dead!"
"Dead!" Ivy screams in passionate wrath. "Dead—and the embroidery not finished on my Surah polonaise! It is just like her—the lazy, ungrateful thing! To go and die just when I needed——"
But Vera slams the door between her and the rest of the heartless lament, and flies along the hall laughing like some mad thing. In truth the horrors of this dreadful night have almost unseated her reason. She shuts and bolts herself into her room, her young heart filled with wild hatred for her heartless cousin.
"To-morrow I shall have my revenge upon her," she cries, with clenched hands. "I would not tell her to-night. My triumph would not have been complete. I will wait—wait until to-morrow, when Leslie Noble will take me by the hand and tell her to her face that he loves me, and that I am his wife!"
And her strange, half-maddened laugh filled the little room with weird echoes.
To-morrow, Vera's to-morrow—dawns, rainy, chilly, cheerless, as only a rainy autumn day can be. The wild winds sigh eerily around the house. The autumn leaves are beaten from the trees and swirl through the air, falling in dank, sodden masses on the soaked grass of the lawn. The sun refuses to shine. No more dreary and desolate day could be imagined.
With the earliest peep of dawn Vera makes her way to her mother's room.
It is lonely and deserted save for the sheeted presence of the quiet dead. The lamps burn dimly, and there is a silence in the room so deep it may be felt.
With a trembling hand Vera turns down the cold linen cover for one long, lingering look at the beloved face—the strangely-beautiful marble-white face, on which the story of a life-long sorrow has carved its mournful record in the subtle tracery of grief.
Mrs. Campbell has been that most sorrowful of all living creatures—a deserted wife!
The beautiful, dark eyes of her daughter have never looked upon the face of the father who should have loved and nurtured her tender life.
But it is all over now—the pain, the sorrow, the loneliness, the deep humiliation. The small, toil-stained hands are folded gently together over some odorous white tube-roses that Vera has placed within them!
The jetty fringe of the long, black lashes rests heavily against the thin, white cheeks, the beautifully-curved lips are closed peacefully, the golden brown hair, thickly-streaked with gray, is parted sweetly on the peaceful brow.
As Vera gazes, the tears, which have remained sealed in their fountains till now, burst forth in healing showers, breaking upon the terrible calm that has been upon her.
Again and again she presses her hot, feverish lips to the cold, white brow of the only friend her lonely life has ever known.
"Oh, mamma, mamma, if you might but have taken me with you," she sobs, bitterly.
"The best thing that could have happened," says a curt, icy voice behind her, and turning with a shiver of repulsion, Vera beholds her aunt, Mrs. Cleveland, who has entered noiselessly in her furred slippers and crimson dressing-gown.
She comes to the foot of the bed and stands silently a moment regarding the cold, white features of her dead sister, then hastily turns her head aside as if the still face held some unspoken reproach for her.
"Cover the face, Vera," she says, coldly. "It is not pleasant to look at the dead."
"Not when we have wronged them," the girl murmurs, almost inaudibly, and with deep bitterness.
"What is that you are saying?" demands Mrs. Cleveland, sharply. "'Not when we have wronged them,' eh? Beware, girl, how you let that sharp tongue of yours run on. You may chance to see the inside of the alms-house!"
But Vera, biting her lips fiercely, in mute shame at that angry slip of the tongue in presence of the dead, makes no answer. Dropping the white sheet back over the sealed lips that cannot open to defend her child, she buries her face in the pillow, trembling all over with indignation and grief.
Mrs. Cleveland stands contemplating her a moment with a look of contemptuous scorn on her high, Roman features, then, to Vera's amazement, she exclaims:
"One of the servants told me that Leslie Noble brought a preacher in here last night. Was it to administer the sacrament to the dying?"
No answer from Vera, whose face remains buried in the pillow.
"Speak!" Mrs. Cleveland commands, coming a step nearer, "did he come to administer the consolations of religion to the dying?"
"No," Vera answers, lifting her white face a moment, and looking steadily into her enemy's questioning eyes. "No."
"No," Mrs. Cleveland echoes, with a look of alarm. "What then, girl, what then?"
But Vera, with the strange reply, "You must ask Mr. Noble—he will inform you," drops her pallid face into her hands again.
Mrs. Cleveland makes a step forward, resolving in her own mind "to shake the breath out of that stubborn girl," but even her wicked nature is awed by the still presence of death in the room, and she desists from her heartless purpose, and, retreating to the door, pauses with her hand on the latch to say, icily:
"Your mother's funeral will take place from the Epiphany Church this afternoon. Mourning garments will be sent to your room for you to wear."
Vera springs to her feet with a heart-wrung cry:
"So soon! Oh, my God, you will not bury her out of my sight to-day, when she only died last night!"
Mrs. Cleveland's haughty features are convulsed with anger.
"Hush, you little fool!" she bursts out, angrily. "Do you think that dead people are such enlivening company that one need keep them in the house any longer than is necessary to provide a hearse and coffin? Only died last night, forsooth! Well, she is as dead now as she will be a hundred years hence, and the funeral will take place this afternoon. You will be ready to attend, if you understand what is good for yourself."
So saying, she sweeps from the room, slamming the door heavily behind her.
Alas, the bitterness of poverty and dependence. Vera throws herself down by the side of the bed, and weeps long and bitterly, until exhausted nature succumbs to the strain upon it, and she sleeps deeply, heavily, dreamlessly, wrapped in a dumb, narcotic stupor rather than healthful slumber. She is hustled out of the way at length that her mother may be placed in the plain coffin that has been provided for her, and a few hours later—oh, so piteously few—she is standing by that open grave in Glenwood, hearing the dull thud of the earth, and the patter of the rain upon the coffin, and the solemn voice of the minister, repeating in tones that sound faint and far away to her dazed senses, "Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust."
From her carriage, where she sits impatiently waiting the conclusion of the sacred service, Mrs. Cleveland watches the scene, frowning impatiently at the sight of Leslie Noble supporting Vera on his arm, and holding his umbrella carefully over her, reckless of the rain-drops that patter down on his uncovered head and face. Mrs. Cleveland does not like the look of it at all. She regards Leslie as Ivy's own especial property. Leslie is too kind-hearted. Why should he trouble himself over Vera Campbell, her despised niece, who is no better than a servant to Ivy, her idolized daughter. She does not like the look of it at all, and when Leslie hands the sobbing girl into the carriage, and takes a seat by her side instead of Mrs. Cleveland's, the matron's vexation rises into almost uncontrollable rage. Biting her lips fiercely, she resolves that as soon as they reach home she will give the young man a broad hint to cease his little kindnesses in that quarter.
The occasion comes very soon. It is almost dark when they reach home. The gas is lighted and a cheerful fire glows in the luxurious parlor.
Mr. Noble leads his passive companion deliberately in, and installs her in a cushioned seat before the fire. With deft fingers he removes the heavy veil and hat, the black shawl, and the wet gloves, and chafes in his own warm clasp the half-frozen little fingers.
"Upon my word!" drawls a thin little voice, full of anger and surprise.
Mr. Leslie, glancing up, sees Ivy reclining on a couch, and regarding the scene with supercilious surprise commingled with anger. Mrs. Cleveland, who has followed them into the room, stands still, a mute statue of rage and dismay.
"I—I should like to know the meaning of this, Mr. Noble," she gasps at length, haughtily. "I do not allow that girl in my parlor! Let her go to the servants' room. They are good enough for the likes of her."
Mr. Leslie turns his pale, handsome face round with an air of surprise.
"She is your sister's child," he says, with reproach in every tone of his voice.
"Yes, to my sorrow," Mrs. Cleveland flashes out. "Add to that that she is a pauper and an ingrate! Vera Campbell, get up and go to your own room. You ought to know your place if Mr. Noble does not!"
Vera rises silently, and standing still a moment, looks up into Leslie Noble's face. The supreme moment of her triumph has arrived. With a nervous tremor she looks up into his face for courage to sustain her in the trying ordeal of the Clevelands' wrath before its vials are poured out upon her shrinking head.
But the expression of the handsome, troubled face does not exactly satisfy her. He is not looking at her. His eyes are fixed on Ivy Cleveland's pretty face with its pink cheeks and turquoise-blue eyes. There is tenderness, regret and trouble in the rather weak though handsome face.
"Go, Vera," Mrs. Cleveland reiterates, sternly and impatiently.
Then Leslie's eyes fall on the slight, black-robed figure standing in silent, proud humility by his side.
He stoops over her, not to caress her, as for a moment she vaguely fancied, but to whisper in her ear:
"Do as she bids you this time, Vera. Go to your room and sleep soundly to-night. I will have it out with her now, and in the morning I will take you away."
She flashes one quick glance into his troubled eyes, bows her head, and goes mutely from the room. But something in that look haunts Leslie Noble ever after. It seemed to him as if those dark eyes said to him plainer than words could speak: "You are a coward. Are you not afraid to acknowledge your wife?" He is right. The look in her eyes has been palpable contempt.
She goes from the room, but only to enter the room adjoining the parlor, and conceal herself behind the heavy, dark-green hangings. So this is the grand triumph her imagination has pictured for her. This is the weak way in which her husband takes her part against the world.
When Vera has gone from the room, an embarrassed silence falls. Mrs. Cleveland is wondering what to say next. It is no part of her plan to offend Leslie Noble. She prefers to conciliate him. For Leslie himself, he is wondering in what terms he shall convey the truth to his arrogant relative and her haughty daughter.
"You must not take offense, Leslie, at my interference in this case," Mrs. Cleveland stammers at length. "I know your kind, easy nature, and I cannot tamely see you imposed upon by that wretched girl, who is the most ungrateful and hard-hearted creature you could imagine, and only fit to herd with the low and vulgar."
"I do not understand you," Mr. Noble answers, resting his arms on the back of the chair, and turning on her a white, perplexed face.
"She comes of bad stock," answered Mrs. Cleveland. "Her mother, my sister, married most wretchedly beneath her. The man was a low, drunken, brutal fellow, with nothing under Heaven to recommend him but a handsome face. As might have been expected, he abused and maltreated his wife, and then deserted her just before the birth of his daughter, who resembled him exceedingly in character as well as in person."
Leslie Noble winces. Pride of birth is a strong point with him. He is exceedingly well-born himself. The story of this drunken, wife-beating fellow thrills him with keenest disgust.
"Where is the fellow now—dead?" he asks anxiously.
"No, indeed; at least, not that I ever heard of," Mrs. Cleveland answers. "I have no doubt he is alive somewhere, in state prison, perhaps, and he will turn up some day to claim his daughter, and drag her down to his own vile depths of degradation."
Mr. Noble is silent from sheer inability to speak, and Mrs. Cleveland resumes, with apparent earnestness:
"I have my doubts whether I am acting right in keeping the girl here. She is a dead expense to me, and the most ungrateful and violent-tempered creature that ever lived. Would you believe that she flew at poor, dear little Ivy, and boxed her ears this morning? My pity and affection for my sister induced me to give them a home as long as she lived, but now that her influence is withdrawn from Vera, she will be perfectly unmanageable. I think I shall send her away."
"Where?" inquires Mr. Noble, trying to keep his eyes from the pink and white face of Ivy, who is listening intently to every word, without speaking herself.
"To some place where she may earn her own living, or, perhaps, to the House of Correction. She sadly needs discipline," is the instant reply.
Leslie Noble's face turns from white to red, and from red to white again. What he has heard has utterly dismayed him.
"I wish that I had known all this yesterday, or last night," he mutters, weakly.
"Why?" Mrs. Cleveland asks, startled by the dejected tone.
Leslie Noble looks from her to Ivy, who has started into a sitting posture, and fixed her blue eyes on his face.
"Because I have something shocking to tell you," he answers, growing very pale. "You must not be angry with me, Mrs. Cleveland, nor you, Ivy. It would not have happened if I had known all that I know now."
"Oh, what can you mean?" screams Ivy, startled into speech by her vague fear.
"You remember that I declined the Riverton's ball last night on the score of a violent headache?" he says, looking gravely at her.
"Yes, and I missed you so much. I did not enjoy the ball one bit," she murmurs, sentimentally.
Mr. Noble sighs furiously.
"I wish that I had gone, no matter how hard my head ached," he says, dejectedly. "Then Mrs. Campbell would never have sent for me to come to her room."
"To come to her room!" mother and daughter echo in breathless indignation.
"Yes," answers the young man, with another sigh.
"Impertinent! What did she wish?" Mrs. Cleveland breaks out, furiously, pale to the lips.
"She wished to tell me that she was dying, and to leave her daughter in my care," he stammers, confusedly.
"Go on," Mrs. Cleveland exclaims.
"She told me that Vera was delicate, sensitive, helpless and friendless, and so good and sweet that none could help loving her. She declared she could not die in peace without leaving her in the care of a kind protector."
"A fine protector a young man would make for a young girl," Mrs. Cleveland sneers, with cutting irony.
"You do not understand, I think," Leslie answers her, gravely. "She wished me to make her my wife."
"Your wife! Marry Vera Campbell!" Ivy shrieks out wildly.
He trembles at the passionate dismay of her voice, but answers, desperately:
"Vera Noble, now, Ivy, for her mother's grief overcame my reason, and I made her my wife last night by the side of her dying mother."
Following that desperate declaration from Leslie Noble, there is a scream of rage and anguish commingled. Ivy has fallen back on the sofa in violent hysterics. Mrs. Cleveland glares at him reproachfully.
"You have killed her, my poor Ivy!" she cries. "She loved you, and you had given her reason to think that—you meant to marry her."
"I did so intend," he answers, on the spur of the moment. "I was only waiting to be sure of my feelings before I declared myself. But now, this dreadful marriage has blighted my life and hers. Poor little Ivy."
"I could almost curse my sister in her grave!" Mrs. Cleveland wails, wringing her hands.
"Curse me rather," Leslie answers, bitterly, "that I was weak enough to be deluded into such a mesalliance. She was ill and dying, she barely knew what she did; but I was in full possession of my senses. Why did I let my weak pity overcome me, and make me false to the real desire of my heart?"
"Falsest, most deceitful of men!" sobs Ivy from her sofa, and Leslie takes her white hand a moment in his own, pressing it despairingly to his lips as he cries:
"You must forgive me, Ivy, I did not know how well I loved you until I had lost you."
Mrs. Cleveland interposes sternly.
"Come, come, I cannot allow any tender passages between you two. If Leslie intends for this nefarious marriage to stand, it will be best that he shall remain a stranger henceforth to us both."
"To stand?" Leslie repeats, looking at her like one dazed.
"Yes," she answers, meaningly. "I ask you, Leslie, if such a marriage as this can be legal and binding?"
"Oh, yes, it is perfectly so," he answers.
"Do you love her? Oh, Leslie, do you love that dreadful girl?" wails Ivy, from her sofa.
He shakes his head, Mrs. Cleveland having interdicted other intercourse.
"Do you intend to live with her?" Mrs. Cleveland queries, significantly.
"Pray, what else can I do?" Mr. Noble queries, bewildered, and Ivy groans, lugubriously.
"Oh, nothing, nothing," the lady answers, with a scornful laugh. "But if it were me who had been deluded into such a marriage with a low and mercenary girl, I am sure that nothing could induce me to live with her. I would either divorce her, or pension her off."
Mr. Noble walks up and down the floor with folded arms, in deep agitation.
"It would be quite impossible to procure a divorce," he answers, after a moment's thought. "I could assign no earthly cause for demanding one. I married her of my own free will, though I admit I was unduly persuaded."
"All she cares for is your money," snaps Ivy, quite ignoring the fact that this was her own motive for winning him. "It will kill me if you take her home with you, Leslie. I shall die of a broken heart."
"Poor, deceived dear," sighs her mother, while Leslie breaks out, ruefully:
"What else can I possibly do, Ivy?"
Mrs. Cleveland, who had been silently cogitating, answers with sudden blandness:
"If you want my advice, Leslie, you shall have it, unfairly as you have treated us. I say the girl is ignorant and uneducated, and quite unfit to become the mistress of your elegant home in Philadelphia. If you are compelled to stick to your unlucky bargain, you must try and make the best of it. You will have to put her into a strict convent school where her ill-nature will be tamed down, and her manners educated up to the proper standard for your wife. How do you like that plan?"
Her magnetic gaze is fixed on Ivy as she speaks, compelling her to be silent, though she was raising her shrill voice in protest.
"Would they be harsh with her?" Leslie asks anxiously, some instinct of pity for the orphan girl struggling blindly in his heart.
"Not at all. I was educated at a convent school myself. I liked it very much. But you will have to be very positive about Vera, to induce her to go. She will wheedle you out of the notion if possible. Raw, untrained girl as she is, she thinks she is quite capable of doing anything, or filling any position. But if you listen to her, you will find yourself mortified and disgraced directly," blandly insinuates the wily woman.
Leslie Noble winces as she had meant he should. He is very proud and sensitive, this rich, handsome man who finds himself placed, through his weakness, in such a sore strait.
"I think your plan is a very good one," he says, hastily. "Do you know where there is a school, such as you named just now?"
"I can give you the address of one in Maryland," Mrs. Cleveland answers, readily.
"I will go there to-morrow and make arrangements for her reception as a pupil," he replies. "Would it be better to apprise her of my intention beforehand?" he inquires with some embarrassment.
"No, decidedly not. She might find means to circumvent you. She is a very sharp witted girl. Merely tell her that you are called away unexpectedly, on business, and that you will leave her in my charge until you return."
"Would it be agreeable to you to have her stay that long?" he queries.
Mrs. Cleveland smiles a little grimly.
"Of course, as your wife, Vera may expect every courtesy from me," she answers in a strange kind of voice, and there the conference ends.
From her hiding-place in the adjoining room Vera creeps out with a white face, and takes her way up-stairs to her mother's room. Her step is slow and heavy, her eyes are dull and black, there is no single gleam of brightness in them. The last drop has been added to the already overflowing cup of misery and despair.
With an unfaltering hand she goes to a small medicine chest kept for her mother's use, and unlocking it, takes out two small vials filled with a dark-colored liquid. Each vial has a label pasted on, containing written directions for use, but without the name of the drug.
Vera knits her straight, black brows thoughtfully together as she puzzles over them. "I remember," she says, aloud, "that mamma said one would produce a long, deep sleep, the other—death! Now which is which?"
After a minute she decides to her satisfaction, and placing one vial back, goes away with the other in her bosom. In her own little room she sits down to pen a few words to Leslie, then slowly kneels by the bedside.
"I do not think anyone can blame me," she murmurs, "not even God. The world is so cold and hard I cannot live in it any longer. I am going to my mother."
Some broken, pleading words falter over the quivering, white lips, then a low amen.
She rises, puts the treasured vial to her lips, and drains the last bitter drop, throwing the empty vessel on the hearth where it cracks into a hundred fragments. Then she lies down upon the bed with her letter to Leslie clenched tightly in her slim white hand. And when they come to awake her in the morning, she is lying mute and pale, with the marble mask of death over all her beauty.
When they tell Leslie Noble the fatal truth—when they lead him to the cold, bare chamber where his girl-wife lies dead, he is stunned by the swift and terrible blow that the hand of fate has dealt him. A quick remorse has entered his soul. He did not love her, yet he would not have the light of her young, strong life go out in darkness like that.
Though he has walked the floor of his room all night, raving, and almost cursing himself because he had married her, the sight of her now—like that—and the sad pathos of that brief letter touch him to the depths of his heart with a vain remorse and pity. With a faltering voice he reads aloud the sad and hopeless words:
"When you come to bid me good-by in the morning I shall be dead. That is best. You see, I did not know till to-night my sad story, and that—that you did not love me! Poor mamma was wrong to bind you so. I am very sorry, Leslie. There is nothing I can do but die!"
His glance falls on Mrs. Cleveland, who is standing in the room with a strange expression upon her face. He does not like to think it is relief and satisfaction, and yet it is marvelously like it.
"Who has told her the truth? How has she learned it?" he asks. "I never meant that she should know. I meant to do my duty by the poor, friendless girl."
"No one told her. She must have listened at the door last night. It was like her low, mean disposition to be peeping, and prying, and listening to what did not concern her," Mrs. Cleveland bursts out, scornfully.
"Pardon me, but our conversation did concern her," he answers, gravely.
"At least, it was not intended for her hearing," she replies, shortly.
Mr. Noble is silent a moment, gazing earnestly at the pale, dead face, from which the woman's eyes turn in fear and aversion.
"Perhaps we have wronged her," he says, slowly. "If she had been what you believed her—coarse and low, and violent like her father—would she have been driven," shudderingly, "to this!"
"You are allowing a maudlin sentimentality to run away with your reason, Leslie," the woman answers, coldly. "Do you suppose I have lied to you? The girl has lived here since infancy. I knew her temper well, and I repeat that she was unbearable. I only endured her for her mother's sake. This is very sad. Of course, you feel badly over it. And yet, common sense whispers that this is a most fortunate thing for you. You are freed from a galling bond. Had she lived, she would almost inevitably have become a sorrow and a disgrace to you."
"We should not speak ill of the dead," he answers, a little sternly.
"Pardon me; I know there are some truths which we innately feel, but should not give expression to," she answers, with keen irony.
"Does Ivy know?" he asks her.
"Not yet; poor dear, I have been watching by her bedside all night. She is ill and almost heart-broken. I must go and break the news to her now."
She moves to the door, but, seeing him standing irresolute in the center of the floor, looks back over her shoulder to say, anxiously:
"Will you come away now, Leslie? The women would like to come in to prepare the body for the grave."
He shivers, and turns to follow her, casting one long, lingering look at the fair, immobile face upon the pillow.
"I did not know she was so beautiful," he murmurs to himself as he passes out.
"Have you no message to send Ivy?" Mrs. Cleveland asks him, as they pass along the hall. "She would be so glad of even one kind word from you."
"I thought you interdicted all intercourse between us last night," he answers, blankly.
"Yes; but the obstacle no longer remains," she replies, significantly, and, with a violent start, Leslie realizes the truth of her words. In his horror and surprise he had not thought of it before. Yes, Vera's death has set him free—free to marry Ivy when he will.
"Tell her that I am very sorry she is ill. I hope she will soon be better," he answers, gravely and courteously. He will not say more now out of respect to the dead, and Mrs. Cleveland is wise enough not to press him.
Ivy, whose pretended illness is altogether a sham, is jubilant over the news.
"Was there ever anything more fortunate?" she exclaims. "Lucky for us that she listened, and found out the truth."
"Yes, indeed, she saved me a vast deal of plotting and planning, for I was determined that she should be put out of the way somehow, and that soon," Mrs. Cleveland answers, heartlessly. "The little fool! I did not think she had the courage to kill herself, but I am very much obliged to her."
"'Nothing in her life became her like the leaving it,'" Ivy quotes, heartlessly.
"Remember, Ivy, you must not allow Leslie to perceive your joy. He is very peculiar—weak-minded, indeed," scornfully. "And he might be offended. Just now he is carried away by a maudlin sentimentality over her tragic death."
"Never fear for me. I shall be discretion itself," laughs Ivy. "But, of course, I shall make no display of grief. That could not be expected."
"Of course not. But it will be a mark of respect to Leslie if you will attend the funeral to-morrow."
"Then I will do so, with a proper show of decorum. I am determined that he shall not slip through my fingers again."