Sylvie pretended to be very anxious that day over the appearance her sisters-in-law would make at the theater-party.
"Have you anything new?" she inquired. "Because I have invited several young ladies and gentlemen, and ordered a supper here after the performance at the theater. Of course, I want you all to do credit to Bryant."
"We haven't a new thing," declared Edith, lugubriously. "You and Ida will have to uphold the honor of the family by your elegant dressing, for Maud and I will be sure to look like dowdies."
Mme. Sylvie did not seem to take the information much to heart. She said carelessly:
"And Eliot's wife?"
"Oh, she will be a dowdy, too," replied roguish Edith.
So Sylvie and Ida could scarcely believe their eyes that evening when Maud and Edith sallied in, the dark-haired Maud in gold-colored satin, red roses, and rubies, and Edith in lustrous rose-color with white lace flounces, while diamonds flashed from her throat and ears. Both girls looked as handsome in their way as the bisque dolls whowere splendid in Parisian toilets and a profusion of gleaming jewels.
Sylvie stared in amaze and jealous displeasure.
"You told me you had nothing fit to wear!" she exclaimed, acrimoniously.
"I beg your pardon—nothing new," Edith replied, dimpling with mischief. "These are our mother's old dresses made over."
"But diamonds and rubies—I am sure Bryant told me that all your mother's jewels were sold to help pay your father's debts when he failed!" Sylvie exclaimed, in wonderment and displeasure.
"So they were," Maud answered. "But, Sylvie, these do not belong to us. We borrowed them from Una."
Ida Hayes broke in with inexpressible anger and spite:
"I thought Eliot was too poor to give such jewels to his wife."
Edith flashed her a glance of scorn.
"Fortunately poverty is no disgrace, Ida," she said. "But Eliot did not give them to Una. They were bridal presents from her Southern friends."
"Dear me, Sylvie! and you said she was poor and a nobody!" Ida exclaimed, insolently, turning around to her sister.
"Eliot said so," Sylvie answered; and forthwith there began a war of words that was fortunately stopped by Bryant's entrance, and his instant laying on the table of the heated subject of debate.
On his part he was glad to see his young sisters so charmingly dressed and looking so lovely. He took the exciting fact of Una's jewels with manly equanimity.
"There is no reason why Una should not have them," he said. "Her adopted father, Pierre Carmontelle, is one of the richest men in the South. If he and his friends gave her costly bridal presents, it was no more than she had a right to expect."
Sylvie and Ida dared say no more, but their thoughts were full of rancor, and the former muttered,sotto voce:
"I suppose she will come down presently covered with diamonds!"
Meanwhile, quite a different scene was transpiring in Una's room upstairs. Fifteen minutes ago, as she had stood before her mirror, putting the last touches to her sweet, simple toilet, there had come a light, quick rap at her door.
"Maud or Edith," she thought, and called out, carelessly: "Come in!"
The door opened softly, and Eliot, her husband, appeared on the threshold, looking marvelously handsome in full evening-dress, a bouquet of pure white flowers in one hand, a long, white box in the other.
When he saw lovely Una standing there in the soft, white robe, with the pearls around her bare, white throat, and her round arms uncovered, save by the dainty white gloves, her dark eyes shining with innocent joy at her own fairness, he uttered a cry of delight:
"Oh, Una, how angelic you look! But," dubiously, "do I intrude?"
"No," she answered, with a blush and tremor; so Eliot shut the door and came to her side.
"I have brought you some flowers and an opera-cloak," he said, pulling it out of the box and dropping it on her shoulders. It was a dainty white cashmere affair, not costly but very pretty, with a shining fringe of pearl and silver beads. With the white dress and flowers, it made Una look bride-like and lovely as a dream.
"Does it suit you? Will it be warm enough?" he asked, with shining eyes; and Una held out her hands to him with sudden tears on her lashes.
"Oh, how good you are to me, who should expect so little from you! How can I ever requite your kindness?" she murmured, tremulously.
He caught the white hands in his, and drew the dainty white figure into the clasp of his yearning arms.
"Only love me, my darling!" he whispered, passionately, against her crimson cheek. "That will pay all."
She lay still, trembling with rapture in the close pressure of his fond arms. She felt his kisses falling softly, warmly on her face, her lips, her hair. At last she drew herself from him, saying, with rapturous wonder:
"You really want me to love you, Eliot?"
Half smiling at her wondering tone, he exclaimed:
"What a strange question, Una! Have I not been waiting almost a year for your heart to wake from its childish sleep and respond to mine? And how else could you requite aught I have done for you? Do you not know, my darling, that love must be paid in its own coin?"
Doubting, wondering, she looked up into those glorious blue-gray orbs now full of a radiant fire impossible to describe. Something of the truth dawned on her bewildered soul. She cried out impulsively:
"Oh, Eliot, then you do love me? And I have been so wretched, so afraid, so—"
No more, for he had caught her in his arms, crushing her passionately to his breast, whispering that he had loved her always, always, and had grown so weary, so impatient waiting to win her heart.
"There was no need to wait if you had not been so blind," answered truthful Una. "For I loved you, Eliot, from the very first!"
If Edith had not come upstairs to see what kept Una dressing so long, they would have forgotten all about the theater-party in their absorption of each other. As it was, they started apart in surprise when she came softly in.
"Oh, Eliot, I did not know you were here," she said, drawing back.
"Come in, Edith, and congratulate us," he said, drawing Una to his side again. "We have just found out that we are in love with each other."
"Every one else knew that ages ago," replied the saucy girl, laughing.
But she kissed both with a great amount of girlish fervor, and to hide her emotion, exclaimed:
"The carriages are waiting, and Sylvie is fuming with impatience, so you had better bring your bride down-stairs, Eliot."
They went down together, and when the spiteful Sylvie saw the two handsome, happy faces, she was more vexed than if Una had indeed been covered with diamonds, as she had spitefully said. She could not help seeing that a reconciliation had taken place between the two, and felt instinctively that her cruel revelation to Una had precipitated the understanding it was intended to avert.
But she could not avoid one poisoned shaft of malice at the happy girl, and so, with a sneer, she exclaimed:
"Dear me! Una still posing as a bride at this late day? Your wedding-day must have been a very happy one, since you love to recall it so well."
No one replied to the impertinent speech, for all, even Bryant, understood its spleen. Una only shrunk closer to her husband, and they went out to the carriages that were waiting to convey them to the theater.
Two boxes had been taken for the evening, and there were twelve in the party, including the two ladies and three gentlemen that Sylvie had invited. Una was very glad that Sylvie and Ida did not come into the same box with herself and Eliot. Their cold, sneering looks made her shiver and feel unhappy, so she was glad when she found Maud and Edith with one other young lady and one gentleman as the evening's companions.
The house was full, and the curtain had risen on the first act—a brilliant scene with a fine setting. Mme. Leonie had not made her appearance yet, and the audience felt at liberty to turn a good many curious lorgnettes upon the handsome theater-party. Una, all in white, with her waving golden hair, red lips, and large dark eyes, immediately fixed attention. The murmur ran from lip to lip:
"A bride—a bride!"
Eliot saw what a sensation her beauty was creating, and smiled in pride; but Una was too innocent to comprehend the truth. In fact, she scarcely looked at the audience. Her eager eyes intently watched the stage.
She was anxious to see the great actress of whom the newspapers spoke in such lavish praise.
So, while the adoring young husband by her side kept his fond eyes on her face, Una watched the stage, and her eagerness was soon rewarded by a sight of Mme. Leonie.
Mme. Leonie was tall, beautiful, stately, and the black velvet robe, starred with diamonds, in which she was assaying a queenly rôle, became her well. Una gave a little gasp of honest admiration.
Mme. Leonie's voice rose on the air clear, sweet, shrill, and Eliot Van Zandt turned with a quick start toward the stage.
At the same moment, he became aware that Una's little hand had clutched tightly, spasmodically around his arm.
He looked into her face. Its usual pure, creamy pallor had deepened to ashy whiteness, her dark eyes were wild and frightened.
"Una!"
"Oh, Eliot, look!" she whispered, tremblingly. "It is she—Madame Lorraine!"
He turned his eyes to the stage, from which, a moment ago, that voice had given him such a start.
Yes, Una was right. There she stood—the beautiful, cruel woman who had doomed him to such an awful fate;who had made Una's life so bitter, whose malice and spite had been so supremely fiendish—Mme. Lorraine!
Every eye was turned to the stage, and tumultuous applause greeted the appearance of the favorite, so no one noticed the agitation of the young husband and wife who, tightly clasping each other's hands, stared with loathing eyes at the beautiful actress.
It seemed to both an evil omen—this meeting with cruel, heartless Mme. Lorraine in the first hour of their supreme happiness after the months of doubt and reserve that had held them apart.
All unconscious of the eyes that watched her—the eyes she believed closed forever in the sleep of death, the clever actress went on with her part, and, shrinking closer to Eliot's side, Una whispered with a strange, foreboding fear:
"Let us go home before she sees us. Do not let her find out that we are still living."
Man-like, he smiled at her terror, and whispered back:
"My darling, we have nothing to fear from Madame Lorraine's hatred now. Can you not trust to your husband to protect you?"
"Yes—oh, yes," the girl-wife murmured; but the chill foreboding of evil did not leave her mind, and she shrunk back into the shadow of the heavy box-curtain, praying in her heart that Mme. Lorraine's hateful glance might not find her out.
Perhaps it might not have done so, for, to madame's credit be it said, she did not ogle the boxes after the manner of some actresses. She was intent on her part, and, beyond the knowledge that she had a large and fashionable audience, she took no particular interest in the throng of people.
But a perverse spirit had entered into Eliot Van Zandt, and seeing the woman so cool, calm, and heartless, he longed to let her know that her vengeance failed of its aim and her victims escaped her. He pictured to himself her jealous, impotent fury when she should know that both he and her Little Nobody lived, and that they were happily married and beyond the reach of her venom.
And in that last belief he made his great mistake.
He whispered his thoughts to Una. In truth, he was longing to take his exquisite vengeance on his enemy.
Una forced a smile of meek acquiescence. She said to herself that she could not let her splendid young husband know what a little coward she was, and how she feared her old tyrant and enemy.
At the close of the third act Eliot said, eagerly:
"Will you let me have your bouquet, Una? To-morrow I will bring you a sweeter one."
With secret reluctance she let him have it. He wrote hurriedly a few words on a card and attached it to the flowers.
Una looked over his shoulder. She read:
"Compliments of Eliot Van Zandt and his bride, the 'Little Nobody.'"
"Oh!" the girl cried, with a shiver; but Eliot had already thrown it upon the stage at the feet of the tragedy queen, who was bowing and smiling in response to an enthusiastic recall.
Among a dozen floral tributes she saw that pure, white, bride-like one flung from the opera-box. She took it up, lifted it to her lips, and bowed, then scanned the name written on the card, while Eliot watched her with a triumphant smile, Una with nameless fear.
Eliot was quite curious to note what effect that startling card would have upon the wicked actress. It seemed to him that she would be stunned, that she would fall to thefloor in abject terror, crying out for mercy from him she had wronged.
Una, too, expected every instant that she would fall down unconscious, overcome by fear and anger.
Neither one comprehended the stoicism, the incomparable will-power of the gifted, wicked French woman.
Terrible and overwhelming as was the knowledge thus suddenly acquired, Mme. Lorraine neither by word nor sign gave any evidence that she had received a shock. She merely stood still—very still—for a minute or so with her eyes riveted upon the card, and the audience, suspecting nothing of this strange by-play, received the impression that the writing on the card was rather illegible, hence the slowness of the actress in deciphering the name.
At last, with an inward shudder, madame lifted her eyes from the bit of pasteboard upon which she had been gazing as one looks at a serpent hidden among flowers. Her glance went straight to the box where Eliot and Una, so beautiful, so happy, in their youth and love, sat with bated breath watching her face. She recognized them instantly; a subtle smile dawned on her face, she bowed profoundly.
The audience, still unconscious of the truth, applauded madame's graceful courtesy to the echo, and kissing the tips of her fingers, smiling right and left, she retired.
Una drew a long, sobbing breath of relief as the beautiful woman vanished from sight. Eliot smiled and whispered:
"She accepts her defeat with equanimity. Her self-command is admirable, enviable."
"I am so glad she took it so coolly; I dare say she does not care," Una murmured, gladly, and some of the stifling fear and dread left her heart.
If she could have looked behind the scenes into madame's dressing-room, she would not have felt so confident.
Mima had to exert all her skill to bring her mistress upto the mark to enable her to go on with the fourth and last act in the play.
Her agitation upon reaching the dressing-room had been great, and Mima for a moment had been scarcely less shaken; but her nerves were very strong, and she soon began to reassure Mme. Lorraine.
"It is nothing—pshaw! Do not let your mind be upset, madame. Be glad that the fair-faced lad lives. Your conscience is that much lighter, and for the rest, he was never worthy the passion of so magnificent a woman!"
"He was the only man I ever loved!" madame cried, obstinately. "He was splendid, whatever you say, Mima, and to think that she, the Little Nobody, has come back from the very grave to part us, to win him from me! Oh, it is bitter! I will not endure it. He was mad to fling that defiance in my face. I will make him pay dearly, dearly for that insolence!"
"Nonsense! You shall not get yourself into any more scrapes over that boy!" Mima cried, angrily.
Mme. Lorraine laughed hysterically.
"You shall see," she said. "I will come between them; I will part them. I swear it!"
"Nonsense!" Mima said again. "You do not even know where they live."
"I shall find out!" the actress cried, obstinately; and then she gave vent to a sudden cry of shrill delight.
"Oh! oh!"
"What is it, then?" curtly.
"Fortune favors me. You know I am invited to a littlepetit souperto-night after the theater. It is at the house of one of the Bostonbon ton, and the name on the card is 'Mrs. Bryant Van Zandt.'"
Even the imperturbable Mima started with surprise.
"Well?"
Madame laughed, and the laugh was not good to hear.
"I have no doubt they are relatives of my Yankeefriend," she said. "Perhaps, even they live in the same house. I shall be sure to go, and then—che sarâ, sarâ!" Her voice had a fiendish threat in its angry cadence.
She went back on the stage, smiling, insolent. She looked once or twice into the box from whence the white flowers had been thrown to her, and smiled whenever she looked. And Una's blood ran cold whenever she met that smile. She instinctively felt that it was one of menace.
She was very, very glad when it was all over, and she could nestle by Eliot's side in the carriage with her cold little hand in his.
Maud and Edith rode with them, but they did not utter one word to even hint to them that Mme. Leonie, the actress, was Mme. Lorraine, the wicked woman who had been so cruel to them in New Orleans.
Both said to themselves that it did not matter now. Let her enjoy her fame, if she could, since out of her cruel plans had come their wedded happiness.
She would leave Boston to-morrow for Philadelphia, where she was to play next, and in all likelihood her path would never cross theirs again.
So, dismissing the wicked woman from their minds, Eliot and Una waited with the girls in the drawing-room for the coming of the rest of the party who were a little late.
At last there was a bustle, a murmur of voices and laughter in the hall—then entered Sylvie, Ida, and their guests—lastly Bryant Van Zandt, on his arm—Mme. Leonie!
"Ah, girls! ah, Eliot!" Sylvie cried out, in pretty triumph. "See what a charming surprise I have brought you. Madame Leonie will honor us by taking supper under our roof."
Not a tremor on the part of the actress betrayed the fact that she had ever seen before the two to whom she bowed with stately grace. For them, they were too amazed byher matchless impudence to even remind her of the past, and bowed coldly in acknowledgment of the introduction.
Turning away with Sylvie, they heard her say, in clear, full tones:
"Ah, Madame Van Zandt, what an aristocratic-looking young beauty is Mrs. Eliot Van Zandt! She is no doubt of one of the finest old families of Boston."
Sylvie's cruel voice answered maliciously:
"On the contrary, a little nobody that Eliot picked up somewhere on a Southern tour."
The eyes of the young husband and wife met, his indignant, hers wet with tears.
"After all, it is true, I am a little nobody," she said, faintly. "Oh, Eliot," with sudden animation, "what if we should force Madame Lorraine to tell us the truth to-night—to own frankly who and what I am?"
"You are Una Marie Van Zandt, and my wife. The past need not matter, my darling," he replied, tenderly.
But the idea had taken complete possession of Una.
"Eliot, it maddens me to hear your brother's wife always flinging that slur upon me—a little nobody! Let us force Madame Lorraine to tell the truth to-night. She is in your power, for although her conspiracy against your life failed, she is amenable to the law for the wicked attempt. Let us seek a private interview with her, Eliot. Let us threaten her, frighten her into the confession of my origin, however humble," pleaded Una, with impassioned fervor.
Mme. Lorraine wormed Una's story out of Mrs. Van Zandt with the greatest ease, Sylvie's spite making it an actual labor of love to place her sister-in-law in the worst possible light before the great actress who had deigned to express admiration for her beauty.
In a little while the wicked woman knew that which thrilled her with cruel joy—that beautiful Una, living in the same house with Eliot and bearing his name, had never been aught to him but his wife in name only.
"He never loved her, and would be glad if he had never seen her," Sylvie said, lying unblushingly in her hatred of Una.
Mme. Lorraine condoled with her in politest phrases, hiding her exultation under an appearance of calmness. She said to herself:
"His wife in name only! It is not so bad as I thought. It will be easy to part them now."
Her opportunity soon came without an effort of her own, through Una's eagerness to find out the secret of her origin.
Eliot had consented to Una's wish, and immediately after the elegant supper, which had been provided by the best caterer in Boston at Sylvie's expense, he sought an opportunity to speak to her alone.
"Will Madame Leonie permit me the pleasure of showing her through our little conservatory? We have a rare plant in bloom there—a night-blooming cereus," he said.
Madame protested she would be delighted; slipped her jeweled hand through his arm, and glided from the drawing-room by his side.
The night-blooming cereus was not a feint. It was really there, but so also was Una standing by its side, pale and agitated, yet withal so lovely, that madame said to herself, with something like contempt for her companion:
"He must be cold-hearted, indeed, to withhold love from one so beautiful."
Eliot began abruptly:
"Madame Lorraine, of course you know we recognized you immediately to-night?"
The beautiful actress bowed mockingly.
"Of course."
He continued gravely:
"Then, perhaps you can guess why I have brought you here?"
Glancing maliciously from the pale, grave face of Eliot to the agitated one of his wife, madame said, scoffingly:
"To congratulate you and your bride on your happiness, no doubt, monsieur!"
"No; nor to reproach you with your wickedness," Eliot answered, sternly, his handsome face pale and set, his splendid eyes full of scorn. "I brought you here, madame, to say that in return for my leniency in not denouncing you to the law for your attempt upon my life, I demand at your hands one simple act of justice."
"Justice!" she echoed, vaguely.
"Yes, to me," said Una, drawing nearer. "Oh, Madame Lorraine, the time is come at last when you must tell me who and what I am. You have denied to me even a name, but however poor and obscure my origin, I surely have a right to some name, and I can no longer bear Mrs. Van Zandt's sneers at the mystery that infolds me. Speak, madame, and dissipate the cloud that veils the past."
"Speak!" Eliot echoed, sternly.
Then there was a moment of terrible suspense and silence.
Madame had drawn back hurriedly from the two with an expression of alarm and trouble on her mobile white face. At last:
"Oh, you know not what you ask!" she faltered, with emotion.
Growing ashen pale, Una cried out hoarsely:
"I am ready to hear—even the worst."
Eliot came to her side and drew her cold hand gently through his arm.
"Do not look so frightened, Una, my love," he said, gently. "If madame speaks the truth, she will say you are well-born and of noble parentage."
Madame gave him a look of fierce wrath and scorn.
"Are you so sure?" she sneered. "Better let me go, then, with your fatal question unanswered, and hug that vain delusion to your breast."
Eliot answered dauntlessly:
"Most willingly, only for Una's sake. She has some natural curiosity on the subject, and I have promised her it shall be gratified."
The beautiful face of Mme. Lorraine grew positively fiendish with the evil smile that flashed across it.
"A true daughter of Eve," she said; "but your Una, as you call her, if she persists in her curiosity, may purchase her knowledge at as bitter cost as did the adventurous lady of Eden."
"I am not afraid of the truth, if you will only speak it and have done, madame," Una cried out, impatiently; and Eliot felt her tremble violently as she leaned against him.
Then both looked at the clever actress in surprise.
Her face had changed its expression, as if by magic, from hate and scorn to softness, gentleness, and poignant regret. Her splendid orbs were dim as with a mist of tears. Clasping her jeweled hands together in strong agitation, she faltered, pleadingly:
"Do not press me so hard, for—oh, how can I tell you what you ask?"
"Do you mean that there is shame, disgrace, linked with—my birth—my parentage?" Una demanded, almost wildly.
Mme. Lorraine gave her a cunning upward glance full of a sort of contemptuous pity.
"Listen to me, both of you," she said; "I have wronged you both, but Heaven knows how I repent of my evil deeds. I do not want to cause any more sorrow to either of you, as I must do if I tell Una what she asks.Therefore, let me go away, in silence, and be sure that in her case ignorance is bliss."
"I will not believe you, Madame Lorraine, if you assert that aught of shame belongs to the parentage of my wife," Eliot said, hotly, and she uttered a long, long sigh.
"Whatever it is, I have a right to some name, however humble," Una said; but Mme. Lorraine preserved a silence that was significant.
Eliot drew his arm tenderly about Una's waist, as he said:
"Dearest, you have a right to one of the proudest names in Boston. Why trouble your little head about the past?"
But Una was obstinate. Sylvie's sneers had made her bitter and determined.
She looked with dark, impatient eyes into the face of the woman who hated her with relentless hate.
"Speak, madame," she said, icily. "Do you not see that you must reveal the secret now, whatever it be, that has thrown its stigma over my life?"
"I am in your power, monsieur; you can denounce me for my attempted crime, if I refuse to answer you," madame said, looking at Eliot. "Do you still insist?"
He looked at Una; she murmured "Yes" through pale, determined lips, but she did not see the covert triumph in the eyes of her foe.
"Very well, then," said the actress, with a heavy sigh. She looked at Eliot with grave eyes. "Monsieur Van Zandt, I must make at least one condition," she exclaimed.
"Yes?" he said, inquiringly.
"It is this: you will leave me alone with your wife while I reveal to her her name and true identity. It will be best thus. The secret will then be her own, and it will be optional with her whether she should reveal it to you or not."
He bowed affirmatively.
"I have no objection to your plan, madame, and smallcuriosity over your secret. Whatever you may reveal to Una, it will in nowise lessen my regard for my wife."
He went out and left them together.
Mme. Lorraine turned her vindictive eyes upon Una hissing fiercely:
"Do you not know that you are very foolish in this matter? Would I have treated you as I did for fifteen years, if you had not been—"
"What?" asked Una, impatiently, as she paused significantly, and regarded her with angry, scornful eyes.
Bending forward until her writhing lips almost touched the small, pink ear of the girl, Mme. Lorraine finished her broken sentence in a hissing voice like that of a serpent.
It was as if Mme. Lorraine had struck the girl upon the face. She reeled backward with a low, gasping, terrified cry, and sunk to the floor.
Eliot waited almost an hour in the drawing-room for madame to return, and Mrs. Van Zandt grew angry and impatient at the detention of her guest by that Little Nobody. Eliot made all the excuses he could. They were talking about the flowers; Mme. Leonie loved them so dearly, etc. At last he went in search of the two.
Madame was just emerging from the conservatory with a smile of triumph on her handsome face.
As he would have passed her, she detained him with a hand laid heavily on his arm.
"Do not go to her yet. She desired me to keep you away from her a little while until she can collect her thoughts and decide whether it is best to share her terrible secret with you or not."
"But surely she needs me now," he said, quailing at the words. "Her terrible secret!"
"She prefers to be alone, she said," madame returned, so positively that he decided, against his sense of duty, to humor Una's whim. He guessed it was not a pleasantrevelation madame had made among the warm, sweet odors of the dim conservatory.
The actress returned to the drawing-room, made her adieus, and departed. Then the rest of the party broke up, and the family retired to their several apartments. Eliot went to the conservatory for Una.
"I can not leave her alone any longer in her trouble, poor child!" he thought, with a heart full of tenderness.
To his surprise, the flowery retreat was quite deserted.
"She has stepped out unperceived in the confusion of the leave-takings, and gone to her room," he decided, and a yearning impulse led him to seek her there.
He knocked at first softly on the door, and receiving no reply, entered quietly, feeling that she needed him in the distress she was enduring over madame's revelation.
But the room, like the conservatory, was deserted.
Over the dressing-table the gas was burning brightly. Eliot's eyes quickly detected an envelope lying just beneath the light that bore in large characters his own name.
He stood staring with frightened eyes at the white envelope, with its large black letters formed in Una's crude handwriting, dreading to touch it, for a swift instinct told him the truth.
She had left him, he felt quite sure—left him almost in the very hour when the discovery of their mutual love for each other had paved the way to their wedded happiness. Mme. Lorraine, like the serpent crawling into Eden, had brought woe and pain where love and joy had reigned.
All this flashed over him instinctively as he took the letter in his hand and tore it open, devouring in fierce haste the brief, sad note Una had written such a little while ago that the ink was scarcely dry upon the page.
"This is my farewell to you, Eliot," it said. "I have learned the secret of my identity. Forgive me that I shrink from revealing it to you. I can only say that it comes between us, and divides us as effectually as the grave itself. I have left you forever. Do not seek to trace me, for nothing can ever induce me to live with you again. Give up the thought of me and obtain a divorce (it will be easy, for, thank Heaven, I have never been your wife, save in name only), then you can marry Ida Hayes, whom you loved before you ever saw me. God bless you for all your goodness to me. If you had known who I was that time in New Orleans, you need not have sacrificed yourself for my sake. God bless my—yes, I will presume to call them sisters this once—Maud and Edith! I have left them the jewels they wore to-night in memory of Una, to whom they were so kind. Forget me, Eliot, as soon as you can, for I am all unworthy of your name and your love."Little Nobody."
"This is my farewell to you, Eliot," it said. "I have learned the secret of my identity. Forgive me that I shrink from revealing it to you. I can only say that it comes between us, and divides us as effectually as the grave itself. I have left you forever. Do not seek to trace me, for nothing can ever induce me to live with you again. Give up the thought of me and obtain a divorce (it will be easy, for, thank Heaven, I have never been your wife, save in name only), then you can marry Ida Hayes, whom you loved before you ever saw me. God bless you for all your goodness to me. If you had known who I was that time in New Orleans, you need not have sacrificed yourself for my sake. God bless my—yes, I will presume to call them sisters this once—Maud and Edith! I have left them the jewels they wore to-night in memory of Una, to whom they were so kind. Forget me, Eliot, as soon as you can, for I am all unworthy of your name and your love.
"Little Nobody."
She had deliberately signed the name she hated so much, and he knew that her humility must have been great to drive her to such an act. With a groan he sunk into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
"How could she, with her beauty and innocence, her high-bred air and noble soul, be lowly, even shamefully born, as this letter would have me believe?" he exclaimed. "No, no; it is only another of that wicked woman's falsehoods. She has taken Una with her, out of hatred for my darling and envy of our happiness. There can be nothing strong enough to come between us, my little love and I. Oh, why did I leave them alone together? I might have known that serpent's wiles. But I will follow and bring them back! Fortunately it is not too late."
But he was mistaken, for when he reached madame's hotel, half an hour later, he was told that she had left Boston by the 1:30 train.
"Just thirty minutes too late!" he muttered, wildly, and the sleepy night-clerk of the hotel looked at him in contemptuous amazement. He thought he must be some demented admirer of Mme. Leonie.
Eliot knew that madame's next engagement was in Philadelphia, and he determined that he would follow by the next train.
"Will she have the temerity to take Una with her, or will she try to hide her from me? The latter, most likely," he thought, sadly, and a presentiment grew upon him that his lovely girl-wife was lost to him forever.
But he followed the actress by the next train to Philadelphia, only to learn that she had never arrived there. At a heavy cost, she had made her manager cancel her engagement, and neither herself nor the manager could be found there, nor a clew obtained to their whereabouts.
Just as suddenly as she had returned to the stage, she disappeared from it, and the mystery of her disappearance was the topic of newspaper paragraphs for some days.
Only one of the journalistic fraternity had any idea of the cause of her flight, and he was too proud and bitter to give it to the world.
To his own family, under strict bonds of secrecy, he confided the truth, and Maud and Edith were indignant at the thought that wicked Mme. Lorraine had dared come beneath their roof, and loud in their protestations of disbelief in the story that there was a stain on Una's birth.
But Bryant, Sylvie, and Ida preserved a significant silence that told more plainly than words their belief that all had happened for the best. They hoped secretly that Eliot would get a divorce, as Una had told him to do.
After the space of five years, let us look in again upon the Van Zandts.
Eliot Van Zandt has a guest.
Pierre Carmontelle!
For five years the noble Louisianian has been a wanderer in foreign lands. He has returned at last cured of his passion for the girl he had loved, strong enough now to witness her happiness with another.
Not since the day when he bid farewell to Eliot and his bride has he heard aught of their fate until now, when, strong in the consciousness of his conquered love, he goes to Boston, determined to visit the happy pair before his return South.
"I shall see Van Zandt grown portly and important, the Little Nobody of old matronly and magnificent," he said to himself, with a smile.
Fancy the shock of the reality when he found Eliot a grave, sad man, old beyond his years through the influence of sorrow for the young wife lost so strangely out of his life.
It was several minutes after Eliot had told him his story before he could utter a word, so greatly was he affected by what had been told him. Then he called down the vengeance of Heaven on the head of the wicked woman.
Eliot's grave, sad face, with its lines of suffering, told plainer than words all that he had endured.
"Surely you pursued them?" cried Carmontelle.
"As long as my means lasted—yes," said Van Zandt. "But that was such a little while. You know I had so little beyond my salary, and—there were my two sisters."
"You should have written to me."
"I did—your letter was returned to me—you had sailed for Europe."
"And not a clew in all these years?"
"None."
"I need not ask if you have taken Una's advice and procured a divorce?" Carmontelle said, with quiet comprehensionof the other's pale, grave face that flushed slightly, as he answered:
"I am bound to Una while I live, although I have given up all hope of ever seeing her again."
Carmontelle's steady eyes went over the worn sheet of paper on which Una had traced her pathetic farewell to her husband.
"And Miss Hayes, whom she says here you loved before your marriage?" he said, abruptly.
"I can not tell how she fell into such an error. Miss Hayes is my brother's sister-in-law. She visited here often, but we were never more than friends," Eliot answered, quietly, all unsuspicious of Sylvie's treachery.
Then the ladies of the house came in, and the conversation drifted to other subjects.
Sylvie was the same exquisitely dressed doll; but five years had changed Maud and Edith from pretty, vivacious girls to quiet, dignified young ladies. In Maud there was a greater change than in Edith, and the secret lay in the failure of her beloved novel.
Three years ago the cherished book had been given to the world, and the cruel critics had ridiculed the immature work of the girl, saying that the wild flights of fancy, so fresh, so buoyant, could have emanated from none but a young, inexperienced brain knowing nothing of the hard, cruel world.
Pretty, tender Maud did not have the spirit of a Byron to retort on her critics and write, despite their sneers, so she laid down her pen, as she said, forever, and nearly broke her heart in bitter humiliation over her cruel failure. So there lay the secret of the beauty so ethereally frail that one fancied, in looking at her, that the spirit would soon plume its wings for another world.
Edith was made of different metal. When the picture on which she had spent so much time was voted as great afailure as Maud's book, she shed a few bitter tears, brushed them away, and began again.
On her easel had stood, for some time, an unfinished portrait of Una. Turning to this now, she made a fancy picture of it, and boldly called it Una.
Upon this portrait rested Edith's fame. When exhibited, it created a great sensation. She had many offers for it, but she rejected all to present the portrait to her brother. He was deeply moved, and declared that the gift of a fortune would not have pleased him so much.
So Edith's fame was established. A few copies of the beautiful "Una" found ready sale. Then there came in orders for portraits. She had her own beautiful studio now, and made money enough to buy her own dresses, and Maud's, too; so Eliot was free now, but he had never begrudged the manly aid he lent to his sisters. Even now he spent very little for himself, but went on laying up his small savings carefully for Una, if she should ever come back.
Pierre Carmontelle, who had traveled five years to get cured of an attack of thegrande passion, fell straight into Cupid's net again when he encountered Maud's pensive beauty. She, on her part, was attracted to this noble man of forty-odd years as she had never been to younger ones who had bowed at her shrine.
Never did anything come about more suddenly; for the Southerner, who had expected to remain in Boston only a day, stayed a month, and at the expiration of that time Maud was his promised wife.
Of course they had talked to each other about Una, and when Maud wanted to defer the bridal-day six months, Carmontelle said, artfully:
"Do not make it so long as that, my darling, because you and I want to go in search of Una just as soon as we are married, do we not?"
"Yes," she answered eagerly; and thereupon agreed to get ready to be married in two months.
Sylvie said that it was all hurried up in the worst of taste. She had not believed Maud would be so ready to snap up a rich man; but—ah! well, your romantic, novel-writing folks had an eye to the main chance, like everybody else.
Edith answered daringly:
"Why not say at once, Sylvie, that you're envious because Maud is going to be as rich as you are? Goodness knows, I'm glad one of the Van Zandts will be rich at last, so that you will not be able always to fling our poverty in our faces!"
Maud declared that the trousseau must be a very simple and quiet one, since almost everything must come from the pockets of Eliot and Edith.
But the brother and sister overruled her objections.
"As if we had any other use for our savings!" cried Edith. "We are going to spend every penny. Do you think we are going to let our sister go to her rich husband plain and shabby?"
So the order was given for several very handsome dresses, among them an ivory white satin, veiled in lace, for the bridal-dress.
But before the bills came in from milliners and modistes the young authoress was able to pay them out of her own purse.
And it came about in this wise.
About four weeks after her engagement to the rich Southerner she received a visit from her Boston publisher.
He put into her hand a check for several hundred dollars, the receipts from her novel which until now had not paid for the first costs of its publication.
"I congratulate you, Miss Van Zandt," he said. "Your novel is suddenly becoming popular. The book-sellers report numerous calls for it, and in consequence I have large orders."
Maud's lip quivered, and her blue-gray eyes, so like Eliot's, dimmed with happy tears.
"At last!" she exclaimed, joyously. "Oh, I had ceased to hope or expect anything!"
"I have taken pains to inquire into the cause of your success after the unfriendliness of the critics had so long injured its sale," he said; "and I have found out that the real merits of your novel have at last been discovered and revealed by a friendly critic."
"I thought they were all my mortal foes!" she exclaimed.
He smiled, and answered:
"Not this one, at least, for he or she has been very frank, as well as very just. While the defects of your book are plainly acknowledged, its many beauties and merits are enthusiastically dwelt upon, and the fact of the author's tender youth is eloquently dilated on in excusing its faults."
The girl's sweet eyes dilated wildly.
"Who could have known that?" she asked him.
"I can not tell. I understood that the writer is a reviewer of books for a noted New York magazine. I have not learned the name, but I will find it out for you, Miss Van Zandt," promised the genial publisher.
"Pray, do so, if possible; and also please get the magazine containing the friendly review of my poor book. It will make me so happy to read it, and to write a letter of thanks to my good angel!" she exclaimed, fervently.
Smiling at her enthusiasm, and promising to gratify her desire, the publisher took leave, and the very next day sent her the magazine.
How gladly, how happily the young heart beat as hereager eyes devoured the column of reviews, and at last fell on "The Fatal Roses," her own romantic and high-flown novel, over whose non-success she had shed such bitter, burning tears.
But they were tears of joy that glittered on her lashes now, as she went eagerly over the two full columns that had been given to "The Fatal Roses" by one who signed the, to Maud, startling name of "Una."
"Una!" she cried out, wildly, and ran to seek Eliot, who was in the library with her intended husband.
"Eliot! oh, Eliot, look! Our own darling Una!" she exclaimed, wildly, pointing with her taper finger at the startling name.
Scarcely less agitated than herself, he took the review and read it hurriedly, then passed it to Carmontelle.
"Can it be my Una?" he exclaimed, pale and agitated, his heart beating wildly.
But the face of Pierre Carmontelle looked calm and grave.
"Dear Eliot, dear Maud, do not give yourself up too ardently to hope," he said. "This may prove but a coincidence. The name may have been chosen as anom de plumeby the writer."
"My publisher promised to find out the name of the critic, if possible," Maud said; and to him Eliot went at once in a fever of anxiety.
Mr. Dudley could not give him any satisfaction. He had written to the New York publisher, asking for information, but had not yet received his reply. As soon as it came, he would be happy to lay his letter before Miss Van Zandt and her brother.
It was almost a week before the reply came, and Mr. Dudley forwarded it at once to Maud.
The New York publisher wrote that he was unacquainted with his able critic, save by the name of Una. All his business with her was transacted through a Boston banker,whose name he gave, and whom the Van Zandts knew as the head of one of the most influential banks in the city.
"She is here, then, in this very city, my lost Una—so near and 'yet so far!'" groaned Eliot. "But I shall go at once to Mr. Chesterton, with whom I have long had a friendly acquaintance."
He went and elicited simply nothing. The great banker would give him no information.
"I am not at liberty to speak one word on the subject, although I would gladly oblige you, Van Zandt, were it in my power!" he cried, affably.
"At least tell me if Una is young, and if it is a real name, or anom de plume," pleaded Eliot.
"I regret that I am not at liberty to answer your questions," repeated courteous Mr. Chesterton.
Baffled, but almost convinced by all this mystery that Maud's friendly critic was none other than his lovely, lost Una, Eliot went away in despair, and found a comforter in Carmontelle.
"Leave it to me, Eliot, and I will find out all about the little runaway," he said, confidently.
He went to a directory and found out the residence of Mr. Chesterton, a stately brown-stone residence in a fashionable and aristocratic street.
A day or two later he said to Van Zandt:
"I have found out all about the members of Mr. Chesterton's family. He has a handsome young wife, three small children, and a beautiful young governess."
"Una!" Eliot cried, with a start.
"Perhaps so; but we must not be too sure. I have not seen her yet," said Carmontelle.
"But you will do so soon?" anxiously.
A week later he came to Eliot where he sat with his sisters in the library, their favorite room, for here Sylvie seldom obtruded her presence.
Maud, so lovely and happy now that she did not looklike the pensive girl of a month ago, sprung up impetuously and caught his arm.
"Oh, you look so happy, you surely found our darling girl!"
Taking Eliot's and Edith's indulgence for granted, he pressed a light kiss on her pure brow.
"You have guessed aright," he answered, "I have seen Mr. Chesterton's governess. She calls herself Mademoiselle Lorraine, and teaches French to the little Chestertons, but she is indeed no other than our Una."
"Thank Heaven!" Eliot cried, springing up, "I will go to her at once."
"Nonsense! She will not receive you," said his friend, and Eliot flung himself down again with a groan.
"Listen," said Pierre Carmontelle, "Mademoiselle Lorraine goes out every afternoon to walk with her little charges. She is always closely veiled, and sometimes she walks past this very house, and looks up at the windows with eyes full of sadness. I saw her myself to-day, and recognized her in spite of her thick veil. I followed her, and when near the gate, I spoke to her; but afterward I was almost sorry I had done so, she was so terribly frightened."
"Frightened!—but why?" cried Maud.
And Eliot echoed bitterly:
"Why?"
"I can not tell you, I only know that she did not accord me any welcome. She only looked sorry and frightened and cried out sharply: 'Oh, you have hunted me down! This is cruel, cruel; but, oh, Monsieur Carmontelle, for God's sake, do not betray me to Eliot—to Mr. Van Zandt.'"
"And then?" cried Edith, breathlessly.
"Then her little pupils came around her and hurried her inside the gate. She looked back at me, waved her little gloved hand imploringly, and cried out again, 'Donot betray me to Eliot, or any one.' Then she vanished inside the banker's door."
They sat looking sadly, and yet gladly, at one another. At least she lived, poor darling, and was out of the power of the wicked woman whose malice had lured her from home and love.
"If I could only see her, only speak to her, my poor little Una, I am sure I could win her confidence!" Eliot exclaimed, passionately.
"You are right; and indeed you must see her now," answered his friend. "Una must give you her confidence, must come home to you. It is not right that she, your wife, and my adopted child, should be slaving her young life away like this through some fancied duty."
"I must see her. I will go to Mr. Chesterton since she denies me a sight of her. I will tell him my story, I will ask him to plead my cause with Una," Eliot exclaimed, in strong agitation; and just a little later he stood before the banker's mansion ringing the bell, and looking up in the darkness at the front of the great house, thrilling with the thought that his loved, lost bride was so near to him at this moment, that it seemed almost impossible but that they must soon come face to face.
"And if she loves me still, as she said she did that happy night before she left me, I swear that no earthly power shall ever tear her again from my arms!" he vowed to himself.
Mr. Chesterton was at home, and received his guest in the library with courteous surprise; but when the young man poured forth his agitated story, the banker became greatly interested and excited.
"You are right. She is, she must be your wife. She came to us two years ago from the Convent of Le Bon Berger in New Orleans. My wife was once a pupil there, and wrote to the mother superior for a French teacher for our little ones. She sent us Mademoiselle Lorraine, whois as gifted and clever as she is lovely and winning. But I have always seen that she lay beneath the shadow of some sorrow. Wait, my young friend, and I will go upstairs and beg this proud young wife to give you an immediate interview," concluded the good man.
Eliot waited in the large, elegant library with eager impatience, never doubting that Mr. Chesterton would succeed in his kindly mission. Una could not be so cruel as to refuse him an interview.
"And once in her presence I will combat every objection she can raise until I persuade her to go home with me," he said to himself, firmly, and his heart began to beat lightly, happily, with the thought that soon Una would be with him, never to be torn from him again.
"It is five years since I saw her. She was scarcely more than a child then. Now she is a woman, beautiful, gifted, intelligent. Oh, how I long to be wealthy, for the sake of my fair young wife!" he thought.
Then it dawned upon him that the banker was staying a long time. The bronze clock on the mantel had chimed the quarters of an hour twice while he had sat there all alone.
"He finds her hard to persuade," he exclaimed, rising from his chair and beginning to pace restlessly up and down the floor.
Five, ten minutes elapsed. Then there came a step at the door. The handle turned. Mr. Chesterton entered—alone.
Eliot turned to him in unutterable dismay.
"Una!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, then paused, speechless. He saw a folded slip of paper in the banker's hand, and on his genial face disappointment and regret.
"Van Zandt, I am sorry for you, upon my word!" hesaid, feelingly. "I used all my eloquence, but I have failed. She gave me this note for you," he added, thrusting the slip of paper into Eliot's hand.
He took it in a dazed, lifeless way, opened it slowly, and read the words written in an elegant flowing hand, very different from the cramped, childish one in which Una had penned her farewell to him five years ago.
"Oh, forgive me," it ran, "but I can not see you now, or ever again in this world. What I wrote you when I left you five years ago remains unchanged. There is a barrier between us cruel as the grave. You must seek freedom from the nominal tie that binds you to me. Then you will forget me and find happiness with some woman more blessed by fate than I have been. For me, I shall convince you that our separation is irrevocable by returning at once to New Orleans, there to enter a convent and take the veil for life.Una."
"Oh, forgive me," it ran, "but I can not see you now, or ever again in this world. What I wrote you when I left you five years ago remains unchanged. There is a barrier between us cruel as the grave. You must seek freedom from the nominal tie that binds you to me. Then you will forget me and find happiness with some woman more blessed by fate than I have been. For me, I shall convince you that our separation is irrevocable by returning at once to New Orleans, there to enter a convent and take the veil for life.
Una."
The cruel letter fell from his hand, and staggering heavily forward, Eliot dropped into a chair and bowed his face on the table.
"Van Zandt!" exclaimed the banker.
There was no reply.
Rushing to Eliot's side, he lifted his head from the table, and it fell again heavily. The young man's overwrought feelings had culminated in momentary unconsciousness.
A sharp peal of the bell brought the servants rushing to the scene, but not so soon but that Mr. Chesterton heard a gasp of terror from behind the curtains that divided the library from a pretty little parlor. Poor Una had crept in there for one stolen glimpse of the face of her beloved.
The banker saw the lovely, frightened face peering around the curtain, and said, sharply:
"Mrs. Van Zandt, I fear you have killed your husband!"
With a stifled wail, she rushed forward and flung herself on her knees beside Eliot's unconscious form, catching his limp hands in both her warm, trembling white ones.
"Dead! Oh, no, no, Mr. Chesterton, do not charge me with such cruelty!" she cried, gazing with straining eyes into that pale, handsome face. Her touch, her voice, her gaze, seemed to recall him to life, for suddenly his eyes opened wide on that lovely face. A cry of dismay broke from her lips, and dropping his hands, she rushed through the curtains and disappeared just as two servants entered at the other door.
"Bring water and wine," said the banker. "This gentleman is ill."
Both disappeared at once, and Eliot Van Zandt struggled up to a sitting posture, gazing wildly around the room.
"Una—she was here!" he murmured, faintly.
"She has gone," Mr. Chesterton answered, gravely. "Drink this wine, Van Zandt, it will revive you."
"No; the water, please."
He swallowed a few drops, and rose to go in spite of Mr. Chesterton's entreaties that he would stay until he was better.
"I am all right. It was but a temporary faintness. Heaven bless you for your kindness to a miserable man, Mr. Chesterton," said Eliot, wringing his friend's hand fervently.
Then he repossessed himself of Una's note that he had dropped on the floor, and went out of the room with a ghastly face. Mr. Chesterton, alarmed at his looks, followed him at a discreet distance until he saw him enter a car that would take him straight to Beacon Hill, then bethinking himself of an engagement he had for that evening, he hurried back home to don evening-dress and escort his beautiful wife to a soirée.
Returning home in the small hours, he concluded tomake a confidante of his wife and enlist her sympathies in Eliot Van Zandt's case.
"What a romantic story!" exclaimed Mrs. Chesterton. "But I always thought there was something very interesting hidden in the past of our gifted governess. So she is a Van Zandt—one of the oldest, proudest names in Boston. My dear, I will speak to her in the morning, and see if I can not untangle the strange web of fate that has been woven around her life by that wicked Madame Lorraine."
"I knew your sympathies would be drawn to this unhappy pair, Constance!" exclaimed the banker, fondly.
But, alas! his story had been told too late. Morning found the young governess gone.
She had left the house during their absence, and taken her trunks with her, flying like a thief in the night, not from pursuit, not from shame, but from a husband's love, the deepest, fondest, most passionate that ever thrilled a manly breast.
"I must take the veil, then he will understand that all hope is indeed ended," she said, resolutely to herself. "I had no business returning here. Father Quentin told me it was wrong, but in my mad yearning to see his face, I would not listen. Now I must go back and stay there forever. Eliot will soon forget me, for it was more pity than love that he felt for me. When he realizes that all is irrevocably at an end between us, he will seek his freedom that he may return to his old love, his first love, Ida Hayes."
With the thought of her rival, all the old-time bitter jealousy rushed over Una's heart, and she told herself that Eliot had never really loved any one but Ida, and that he could not but rejoice some day that fate had freed him from the incubus of Little Nobody.
"I have spoiled his life for years, but at last he will be happy," she said, thinking bitterly of that year in which she had lived with Eliot, less to him, as she thought, thanhis sisters, or the governess even, wearing his name because it had been given not in love, but through an instinct of tender pity.
She was older, wiser, now than she had been before Sylvie made that cruel revelation to her that winter night, and she chafed with shame at remembering the position she had filled in Eliot's home—that of a wife in name only, unloved and barely endured.
"How they must have pitied and despised me!" she thought, with hot tears in her dark eyes as the express train rushed along through the night. "Ah, it is better, better for us both that things fell out as they did. I have a very jealous mind. I should never have forgotten that he loved Ida Hayes first, that he married me for pity's sake, so I never should have been quite sure of his heart. Ah, I wish—wish," with a choking sob, "that we had died together in madame's underground prison!"
And in this wretched frame of mind, bitter and despairing, Una went away from Boston and her husband, back to the South and the Convent of Le Bon Berger.