"'As bathed in blood the trailing vines appear,While 'round them, soft and low, the wild wind grieves;The heart of autumn must have broken here,And poured her treasure out upon the leaves.'"
"'As bathed in blood the trailing vines appear,While 'round them, soft and low, the wild wind grieves;The heart of autumn must have broken here,And poured her treasure out upon the leaves.'"
"What pretty poetry!" sighed Iris. "Why, it seems to me that you have some beautiful sentiment, set to rhyme, to express almost every thought! You must love poetry. Does—does Dorothy care for it?"
"No," he returned, in a low voice, and looked away from her with a moody brow.
"That is strange," mused Iris. "I should think that you would inspire her with a love for it."
"If it is not in one's soul, how can you expect to find it there," he retorted, rather bitterly. "No, Dorothy has no love for poetry, flowers, or birds,nor, in fact, anything that other young girls care for. I imagine she would quite as soon prefer a garden filled with hollyhocks and morning-glories to the daintiest flowers that ever bloomed. Alas, there are few tastes in common between us!"
"What a pity!" sighed Iris, and her hand crept sympathizingly into his. The gloomy look deepened on his face.
"Do you believe that there is a true mate for each heart, Iris?" he asked, suddenly.
"I might better askyouthat question," she answered, evasively. "You are engaged—youseem to have found a heart that is the mate for your own."
"Do you think there is such a thing as making a mistake, even in so grave a matter?" he asked, huskily, "and that those who discover their error should keep on straying further and further in the wrong path? Do you not believe that there should be the most ardent love between those who wed—and that where there is a lack of it the two should separate, and each go his or her own way?"
Iris drooped her head; but ere she could reply—utter the words that sprang to her lips—an exclamation of the deepest annoyance, mingled with a fierce imprecation, was ground out from between Kendal's teeth.
There, directly in the path before them, stood Alice Lee.
Had she been standing there long? If so, she must have heard every word that had been uttered.
Alice Lee had heard, and every word had cut to her heart like the sharp point of a sword.
She had feared this, but had tried to reason the matter out in her own mind; but although circumstances did look tellingly against the beauty who had come to Gray Gables to be Dorothy Glenn's companion, yet she had tried to make herself believe that her suspicions were groundless.
"Have you been eavesdropping?" cried Iris, springing to her feet, her black eyes flashing luridly.
A thousand thoughts flashed through Alice Lee's mind in an instant.
No; she was too proud to let them realize that she had overheard the perfidy of Dorothy's treacherous lover.
No; better plead ignorance, until she had time to think over the matter, for Dorothy's sake, if not for her own.
"I have but just turned the bend in the road," she replied, with sweet girlish dignity. "Your question, Miss Vincent, surprises me," she said. "I have no need to answer it, I think."
"But you always do happen around just when people least expect you, Alice Lee."
"I hope my old friends will always find my presence welcome," returned Alice, quietly.
"To be sure, you are welcome," interposed Kendal. "Miss Vincent and I were only conversing upon the salient points of a new novel we finished reading yesterday. If you would care to hear it, I shall bepleased to go over the plot with you, and hear your opinion regarding it."
"I fear it would not benefit you, for I am not much of a novel reader, and understand very little of plots and plotting."
Was this a quiet drive at them? both thought as they looked up instantly.
But the soft, gray eyes of Alice Lee looked innocently enough from one to the other.
She seemed in no hurry to pass on, and Iris felt that for the second time that afternoon hertéte-à-tétewith handsome Harry Kendal was to be broken up, and from this moment henceforth she owed Alice Lee more of a grudge than ever, and she felt sure that the girl knew it.
Upon one point Alice was determined—that no matter how coldly Iris Vincent might treat her, she should not leave Dorothy's lover alone with her and in her power—she would stand by her poor little blind friend, who needed her aid in this terrible hour more than she would ever know, God help her!
Although long silences fell between the trio, still Alice lingered, chatting so innocently that they could not find it in their hearts to be very angry with her; and they could not bring themselves to believe that she had a purpose in her guileless actions.
There was no alternative but to walk homeward with her; but they did not ask her in when they reached the gates of Gray Gables, and so Alice had no excuse to enter to see Dorothy and warn her, but was obliged to pass on.
Mrs. Kemp and two or three of the servants were on the porch, so that there was no opportunity to exchange but a few whispered words. They were just about to part when Iris happened to think that Kendal had not told her what was said of those who gather and weave autumn leaves together, as he had promised.
She paused suddenly and looked up archly into his face.
"What about the autumn-leaf mystery?" she exclaimed. "You know you were to tell me all about it?"
"Do you promise not to be angry with me, Iris?" he answered, in his deep, musical voice. "You know I can not help old adages—I do not make them."
"Why should I be angry?" she exclaimed, having a rather faint idea of what was coming.
"Well, then," said Kendal, fixing his dark eyes full upon her, "it is said that the youth and maiden who twine the ruby and golden leaves together are intended for each other. There, are you so very angry?"
Iris dropped his arm with a little cry, and fled precipitately into the house.
He walked on slowly through the great hall and into the library. He knew Dorothy would be waiting for him, and he did not feel equal to the ordeal of meeting her just then.
He wanted a moment to think. He felt that he was standing on the brink of a fearful abyss, and that one more step must prove fatal to him.
Which way should he turn? He was standing face to face with the terrible truth now, that he loved Iris Vincent madly—loved her better than his own life—he, the betrothed of another.
But with that knowledge came another. Iris could be nothing to him, for they were both poor.
He was sensible enough to sit down and look the future in the face. He realized that if he should marry Iris on the spur of the moment, that would be only the beginning of the end.
It would be all gay and bright with them for a few brief weeks, or perhaps for a few months; then their sky would change, for Iris was not a girl to endure poverty for love's sake. She wanted the luxuries of life—these he could not give her; and there would be reproaches from the lips that now had only smiles for him.
She would want diamonds and silks, and all the other feminine extravagances so dear to the hearts of other women, and he was only a struggling doctor, who would have to fight a hand-to-hand battle with grim poverty. And sitting there in the arm-chair, before the glowing grate, where he had flung himself, he pictured a life of poverty that would spread out before him if he defied the world for love's sake.
A dingy office; a worn coat, and trousers shiny at the knees; a necktie with a ragged edge; an unkempt beard, a last season's hat, and hunger gnawing at his vitals.
The picture filled him with the most abject horror.
He was stylish and fastidious to a fault. He loved Iris; but did he not equally love his own ease? He could barely tolerate Dorothy, the poor, tender, plain little creature who lavished a world of love upon him; but he swallowed the bitter draught of having to endure her by always remembering that she was heiress,in all probability, to a cool million of money, and money had been his idol all his life long. He could not exist without it.
He was not one of the kind who could face the world manfully and snatch from it its treasures by the sweat of his brow. No, he could not give up this dream of wealth that was almost as much as life to him.
In the very midst of his reverie a light step crossed the library, but he did not hear it. It was Dorothy.
She stole up quietly and knelt on the hassock beside his chair.
"What were you thinking of, Harry?" she said.
He was equal to the occasion.
"Of what or whom should I be thinking but yourself, Dorothy?" he replied.
"It could not have been a very pleasant thought, I fear, for you sighed deeply," she murmured.
"That is all your fancy, Dorothy," he declared—"that my thoughts were not pleasant. True, I may have sighed, but did you never hear of such a thing as a sigh of contentment?"
She laughed merrily.
"I have heard of it, but thought the words rather misplaced."
"I assure you they are quite true and practicable."
"Where is Iris?" she asked, suddenly.
"I am sure I do not know," he answered, trying to speak carelessly.
"I want to have a real long talk with you, Harry," she said. "I have heard that there should be nothing but the utmost confidence between engaged lovers. Shall it not be so with us?"
"Of course," he answered, starting rather guiltily, for he had a faint intuition of what was coming.
"Harry," she whispered, "I want you to tell me—is it true—what they are all saying—that you have ceased to love me?"
"All saying!" he echoed. "Who is saying it? What old busybodies are sticking their noses in my affairs now?" he cried, with something on his lips that sounded very like an imprecation.
"But it isn't true, is it, Harry?" she breathed. "I should want to die if I thought it was."
"Look here, Dorothy," he cried, "if you want to believe all these mischief-makers tell you, you will have enough to do all through your life. You will have to either believe me or believe them. Now, which shall it be?"
"But answer my question, 'Yes' or 'No?'" pleaded Dorothy. "I—I am waiting for your answer, Harry."
There was a slight rustle in the doorway, and glancing up with a start, Kendal saw Iris Vincent standing there, looking on the tender scene with a scornful smile, and the words he would have answered died away unsaid on his lips.
With a scornful toss of her head, Iris wheeled about. She would not enter the room, though she was just dying to know what they were saying—as Kendal sat in the arm-chair before the glowing coals, while Dorothy knelt on the hassock at his feet.
But that one glance of Iris had proved fatal to Kendal's peace of mind, and the hope swept over his soul that she would not think that he was talking love to Dorothy.
His silence perplexed the girl kneeling at his feet.
"I try to picture what our future life will be together, Harry," she murmured.
"Don't let us talk about it!" he exclaimed, impatiently.
"But I like to," she insisted. "It is my constant thought by night and by day. And, oh! I shall try to make you so happy. I shall go out dining with you every day, if you like, and I will always wear a little veil over my face, that no one need know as they pass us by that your bride is blind. And I shall try to be so wise, and learn to talk with you upon the subjects you love best. You will not be ashamed of me, will you, Harry?"
This with wistful eagerness pitiful to behold.
"I do wish, Dorothy, that you would cease your harping on the same old subject!" he cried, worriedly. "You annoy me so!"
"Annoy you?" whispered Dorothy, half under her breath. "Why, I did not know that we could say anything to those we love which could make them vexed at us, because I thought we were:
"'Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one.'
"'Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one.'
It seems, Harry, as though we had so little time to talk with each other now. And, oh! how I miss those little chats we used to have together; don't you?"
"You talk like a child, Dorothy," he cried. "Doyou expect me to be dancing attendance upon you all the time?"
"No; I have ceased to expect that," murmured the girl, choking back a sob—"especially lately."
"I hope," he cried, "that you are not getting to be one of those exacting creatures who are jealous if a man is not at their side every moment? I could never endure that."
With a sudden impulse, Dorothy threw her arms about his neck and nestled her snow-white cheek against his.
"Let me tell you the truth, Harry," she whispered. "I am trying not to be jealous, as hard as ever I can; but, oh! there seems such a coldness between us lately. My intuition—my heart tells me so. Everything has changed since Iris came," she repeated. "I am glad you have some one to go with you on your rambles, as I used to do—some one to walk and read with you, as I once did. But when I think of it, and picture you two together, and know that she takes the same place by your side that I was wont to take, can you wonder that my heart throbs with a slow, dull pain?"
"Women magnify everything!" cried Kendal, harshly. "I suppose you will begrudge me a moment's comfort where another young girl is concerned, because you can not participate in it."
"I wonder that you can find comfort, as you phrase it, with another," said Dorothy, with a little tremor in her voice. "I have never heard that any other society was satisfying to an engaged lover than that of the sweetheart whom he avers to love."
Kendal laughed a little low, tantalizing laugh which grated keenly on the girl's ears.
"Men differ in their tastes and inclinations," he retorted laconically. "I do not choose to be tied down and governed by one woman's whims, nor to be dictated to."
"You should not speak of it in that way, Harry," whispered the girl in a choking voice; "rather, you should say to yourself that you would not do the slightest thing that might cause me one pang of annoyance. He who truly loves finds no interest, no attraction but in the one face, the one presence. I have known many betrothed young men, and I never yet knew one who paid the girl he loved so little courtesy as to flirt, ever so slightly, with another."
She could not see the flush that burned his face, for he knew that every word she uttered was but too true. He felt guilty in her sweet, innocent presence. Had he but loved her, he would have found no pleasure whatever in Iris Vincent's dangerous coquetries.
He would not have encouraged her by smile, word, or deed.
A wave of pity swept over his heart for Dorothy as he looked down into the pure, uplifted face. But it was only short-lived, for at that instant he heard Iris' silvery laughter from an adjoining room.
"I propose that we finish this interesting subject at some future time," he said, carelessly. "I have some important letters to write, and if you will excuse me for a little while, I should be very glad."
Sorrowfully Dorothy rose from the hassock and slowly quitted the room.
With lagging steps she made her way to her own room, her heart as heavy as lead in her bosom.
She had entered the library with buoyant steps and a light heart; aye, even a little snatch of song on her lips, for she had made up her mind that she would wait there until Harry came and have a good talk with him.
She had been so sure that he would take her in his arms and soothe away her fears, laughing at them in his own way as being the most ridiculous fancies which her sensitive little brain had conjured up.
And ah! how different had been the reality.
He had rudely repulsed her—and she his promised wife! Katy noticed how gloomy she was, and ran quickly to her young mistress' side.
"Oh, Miss Dorothy," she cried, "you do look so pale. Let me place you in a chair and bring you some wine."
Dorothy shook her head.
"I am not ill, Katy," she said, wearily, "only I—I have a slight headache. If you will leave me by myself I will take a short rest if I can, then I shall be all right."
But Katy insisted upon bringing her a cordial, if not the wine, and surely she was forgiven for putting a few drops of a sleeping potion in the glass ere she handed it to her mistress. She well knew that she had not slept soundly for some time past.
Surely she was breaking down slowly from some terrible mental strain. She realized but too well what that mental strain was.
Dorothy allowed her to lead her passively to the sofa, and to deposit her among the cushions.
"You will ring when you want me, Miss Dorothy," she said, placing a table with a bell on it close by her side.
"Yes," said Dorothy, wearily. "Now go and leave me, that's a good girl;" and Katy passed into the next apartment, drawing the curtains softly behind her. There she sat down and waited until her mistress should fall asleep. It almost made the girl's heart bleed to hear the great sighs that broke from Dorothy's lips.
"Poor soul! poor soul!" she cried; "how unhappy she is!"
But soon the potion began to take effect, and the sighs soon melted into deep, irregular breathing, and then Katy knew that she slept.
An hour passed, and yet another, still she did not waken, though there were loud sounds of mirth and revelry in the drawing-room beneath. The maid recognized Iris' voice and that of Harry Kendal.
"The grand rascal!" muttered the girl; "how I feel like choking that man! He doesn't care any more for that poor blind girl in there, that he's engaged to, than the dust which sticks to his patent leather shoes. I believe the truth is slowly beginning to dawn upon her."
At that moment she heard Dorothy's voice calling her, and she went quickly to her side.
"Oh, how long have I slept, Katy?" she cried.
"An hour or such a matter," responded the girl. "They have all been to dinner, but I thought sleep would be better for you."
"How long since?" cried Dorothy, springing from the sofa. "And did they not send up for me?" askingboth questions in a breath, and waiting with feverish impatience for an answer.
"No," said the girl, bluntly.
"Did they forget me?" whispered Dorothy, in a voice so hollow that the tone frightened the little maid.
"It looks very much like it, Miss Dorothy," she answered; "but I did not forget you; I brought you up a whole trayful of things."
"I can not eat," sighed Dorothy, and she murmured under her breath: "Yes, they forgot me—forgot me! Come here, my good girl," she went on, very nervously; "there is something I want you to do for me."
Katy came close to her side. Dorothy reached out her hand and caught the girl's arm in her trembling grasp.
"I want you to slip down quietly, Katy," she said—"mind, very quietly—and see what they are doing down in the drawing-room. I hear Mr. Kendal's voice and Miss Vincent's. Take notice if Mrs. Kemp is with them, or if they are alone."
"Are you going down to-night, Miss Dorothy?" asked Katy.
"If it isn't too late," she answered, in a tremulous voice, adding: "I want you to lay out the prettiest dress I have, and some nice ribbon for my hair, before you go. I can be dressing while you are gone; it will save that much time."
Katy did as she was bid, and a few moments later was creeping noiselessly down the back stairway, which led to the drawing-room. Drawing the heavy silkenportièresaside, she peered cautiously in. Asshe expected, Mr. Kendal and Miss Vincent were enjoying each other's society, quite alone. But that was not the worst of it.
Katy gazed long and earnestly at the picture before her.
Miss Vincent sat at the piano, magnificently dressed in a pale blue chiffon evening dress, with great clusters of pink roses at her belt, at her throat, and in the meshes of her jetty curls.
Beside her, turning over the music, and bending like a lover over her, was Harry Kendal.
And as the girl watched she saw him suddenly lift to his lips the little white hand that was straying over the keys.
"Do let me persuade you to sing for me, Iris," he was saying. "In what have I so far offended you that you are so ungracious to me this evening, Iris?" he murmured, reproachfully.
"I do not know that I am any different to-night from what I have always been," pouted the beauty. "I simply do not feel like singing, that is all."
"You have changed your mood very suddenly, Iris," he declared. "You asked me to come into the drawing-room to hear you sing, and now you tell me that you have changed your mind. What am I to think?"
"Whatever you please," she answered, curtly.
"Tell me one thing, Iris," he murmured, a little hoarsely, bending nearer over the pretty, willfulcoquette; "were the words of the song you intended to sing suggestive of a sudden coldness between two very near and very dear friends?"
"I will not listen to you!" cried Iris, petulantly.
"I repeat, what have I done to offend you, my dear girl?" he cried.
"Say to yourself that it was surely not my intention nor my will. You asked me to come to the library to listen to some poems. When I stepped into the room I saw at a glance that you had quite forgotten the appointment, Harry, by the picture that met my glance."
He knew in an instant to what she referred—he sitting in the arm-chair with Dorothy by his side, her arms twined about him.
"I did not ask her in there, Iris," he said, huskily. "I found her in there when I entered the apartment. She was evidently waiting for me. She met me with tears and reproaches, and if there is anything that is detestable to a man it is that line of conduct, believe me."
Iris shrugged her shoulders, but made no reply.
"Why did you not come in when you came to the door?" he asked, bending dangerously near the fatally beautiful face so near his own.
"Because I thought that two was company—three would be a crowd," she responded, proudly tossing back her jetty curls.
"Youwould always be welcome tome, Iris," he said, huskily. "You know that but too well by this time, don't you?" and his hand closed tightly over the one lying lightly in her lap, and his head drooped nearer still.
"Great Scott! they are almost kissing each other, the two vipers!" panted Katy to herself, her blood fairly boiling in her veins at the sight of this billing and cooing. "Oh, if I only dared put poor Miss Dorothy on her guard!"
She could not refrain from bursting in upon them at this critical instant, and in less time than it takes to tell it she had bounded into the room.
"A-hem, a-hem!" she coughed, pantingly; "but if you please, miss," turning and addressing herself to Iris, "the housekeeper is looking for you, and wants you to come to her."
"Certainly," said Iris, springing up from the piano stool with a face flushed as red as a peony and a very confused look in her eyes; "I will go at once;" and with an assumed smile on her face she glided from the room, muttering below her breath:
"I'd like to choke that little imp of a maid! Whenever I am talking to Harry Kendal, if I turn around I find her at my elbow."
Katy was about to follow Miss Vincent from the room, when Harry called to her.
"Remain a moment," he said. "I wish to see you."
With a little courtesy Katy obeyed.
For a moment or two he stood quite still in the center of the room, toying nervously with the medallion on his watch chain, and a very perceptible frown on his dark, handsome face.
"Tell me, how long have you been standing there, girl?"
She hung her head, but did not answer; but that silence told him quite as much as words.
"The wisest girls are those who never see or hear anything," he declared, eyeing her sharply.
Again Katy courtesied, making no reply. She knew quite well what he meant.
"I may as well come to the point and say that you are not to mention to any one anything that has taken place in this house—especially in this room to-night. Now here is something that may help you to remember the old adage that 'silence is golden.'" And as he spoke he thrust a bill into the girl's hand, motioning her from the drawing-room, and turning abruptly on his heel, he sauntered slowly across the room and flung himself down in an easy chair.
Katy hurried quickly upstairs.
"The grand rascal!" she muttered; "to pay me to help deceive Miss Dorothy! How my fingers tingled to box his ears! I longed to stamp my foot and cry out: 'You handsome villain—engaged to marry one young girl and making love to another! Oh! for shame! for shame!' It's a pity that Miss Dorothy hasn't a good big brother to give him the trouncing he so richly deserves. The Lord knows it's an unhappy life Miss Dorothy will lead with him, and it would be a blessing in disguise if something should happen to prevent the marriage from taking place. As for that sly, black minx, Iris Vincent, she must have a soul as hard as adamant and cruel as death to cheat a poor blind girl out of her lover, and to try all her arts to win him from her. They fairly make love to each other in her very presence; and she, poor soul! never knows it, because she is blind! The curse of God will surely fall on them, and they will be punished for their treachery to poor Miss Dorothy—and she so trustfuland innocent! I wish I could think of some plan to break that up. Goodness knows, I wouldn't do such a thing for anything in the wide world. I have always believed that the angels take terrible vengeance upon any girl who takes another girl's lover from her by her wicked coquetries."
By this time she had reached Dorothy'sboudoir. She found her young mistress waiting for her with the greatest impatience.
"Well," said Dorothy, quite as soon as she had opened the door, "who's down there?"
For an instant the inclination was strong within Katy's heart to tell the whole truth of what she had seen and heard. It was not the dollar, which seemed to burn in her pocket, that made her hold her tongue, but the fear of giving poor blind Dorothy pain, that caused her to hold her peace.
"Only Mr. Kendal, miss."
"I thought I heard voices," she said, wonderingly.
"Miss Vincent was there when I entered the room, but left a moment or so after," answered Katy, truthfully.
"Were they talking together? And what were they talking about?" asked Dorothy, eagerly.
"That I can not say, miss," returned the girl, flushing to the roots of her hair, and inwardly thankful that her poor young mistress could not see the distress which she knew must be mirrored on her face.
"Were they speaking so low that you could not hear them?" inquired Dorothy, quickly.
"Oh, no, miss! quite loud; but I was not listening."
Dorothy gave a sigh of relief.
"If it were not so late, I would go down stairs," shesaid, reflectively. "But then, there's the ball to-morrow night. I will be up late, so I suppose it would be just as well for me to rest to-night, for I want to look my best, Katy. I would give the world to look bright and gay as any girl there. I could hear the music, the patter of dancing feet, and the sound of merry laughter. And, oh, Katy! perhaps I might forget for a few brief moments my terrible affliction. I know Harry will be happy amid the brilliant throng, and that thought alone will be joy enough for me. You shall sit with me, Katy, to hold my wraps, my flowers, my fan, and—and you must watch sharp, and tell me, Katy, if he dances with any pretty girl the second time."
She felt that she must make a confidant of some one, even though it was Katy, the maid.
"You must not think for one moment I am jealous, Katy," she said, "for I assure you I am not; only as host I should not like him to pay too much courtesy to any one person, you know."
"Certainly not," assented Katy.
"I have asked Iris what she intends to wear, but for some reason she does not tell me, so I want you to notice particularly what she has on, and if she looks very pretty. But then, I think she is sure to look nice."
"I shall look very closely, you may be sure of that," responded Katy, "and tell you of everything that goes on—who's dancing, and who's sitting in corners flirting, and just who Mr. Kendal dances with. Will he take you in to supper, miss?" she asked, suddenly.
She was sorry the moment after that she had askedthe question, for Dorothy's poor, sightless eyes filled with great tears.
"You know that he would like to," she murmured, faintly, "but it would be a ghastly sight—a poor blind girl sitting at the festal board with the gay guests. Oh! why did God put such a terrible affliction upon me?" throwing out her little white hands and beating the air as she sobbed aloud in her agony. "Why can I not enter into his joys, and share them with him as others do? Oh, Katy! will I not make but a sorry wife for my handsome king—my idol? I wonder what he can find about me to hold me still dear in his eyes, for I am no longer pretty, willful, madcap Dorothy, as they once called me."
The night of the ball came at last—the night which had been looked forward to so anxiously for weeks by many a maiden and brave swain.
By the time night had drawn her sable curtains over the sleeping earth all the preparations had been completed at Gray Gables, and when the lights were lighted it presented such a brilliant spectacle that those who witnessed never forgot it.
The guests began to arrive early, in order to have a long evening of enjoyment.
Late that afternoon an odd discussion had arisen which came near wrecking the whole affair.
Mrs. Kemp, Iris, and Dorothy were all seated in the general sitting-room discussing the last but by nomeans least important matter of who should receive the guests.
"You are the young lady of the house," said Mrs. Kemp, turning to Dorothy with a puzzled air, "and of course every one expects you to perform that pleasant duty; but—"
"Oh, no, no!" cut in Dorothy. "My—my affliction makes that an impossibility.Youmust do it, Mrs. Kemp."
"Really, child, my presence is so much of a necessity in looking after the servants and overlooking affairs in general that I assure you I can not be spared even for a brief half hour; so, as near as I can see, Iris must take your place for that occasion, with Mr. Kendal, to welcome your guests. What do you say, my dear?" she asked, turning anxiously to the beauty, who sat disconsolately by the window, listening to the conversation, feeling confident as to how the debate must end—inher ownfavor.
"I'm sure I do not mind doing so, if the arrangement suits Mr. Kendal and—Dorothy."
Harry entered the room at this stage, and of course the matter was quickly laid before him.
"Why, yes, Iris can help me receive the guests," he declared. "What a happy thought! I supposed I alone was to be delegated to that task. Yes, let us settle it in that manner, by all means."
As usual, no one thought of consulting Dorothy's opinion. Indeed, they scarcely missed her presence when, a few moments later, she slipped from the room to have a good cry over the matter.
Katy was startled as she beheld her white face asshe groped her way into the room. She sat so still that Dorothy imagined herself quite alone.
"I—I can not bear it!" she sobbed, flinging herself face downward on the carpet with a wretched little sob. "In everything she seems to come between me and my lover! Oh, I wish to Heaven that Iris Vincent would go away! Harry has not been the same to me since she has been beneath this roof. They tell me it is my imagination, but my heart tells me it is no idle fancy.Shewill be standing by my lover's side receivingmyguests! Oh, angels up in Heaven, forgive me if the pangs of jealousy, cruel as death, spring up in my poor heart at that bitter thought!" And another thought: "Harry is beginning to depend so much upon her society. Now, if I ask, 'Where is Harry?' the answer is, 'Out driving or walking or singing with Iris.' Katy tells me she is very plain of face—nay, even homely. If she were beautiful I should be in terror too horrible for words. It is wicked of me, but, oh! I can not help but thank God she is not fair of face, to attract my darling from me."
Tears rolled down Katy's cheeks as she listened. Not for the world would she have let her poor young mistress know that her grief had had a witness. She kept perfectly quiet, making no sound, scarcely breathing, until Dorothy passed slowly into an inner apartment, and she was heartily glad that she touched her bell a moment after.
Katy hurried to her with alacrity, taking pains, however, to tiptoe to the door, open it, and close it again, quite as if she had just come in from the corridor.
"Now, Katy," said her young mistress, "you mustmake haste to help me dress. I am impatient. I feel dreadfully nervous, as though a great calamity was to take place. I feel just such a strange sensation as seemed to clutch at my heart before that terrible accident happened that has blighted my whole life."
"Oh, dear Miss Dorothy,pleasedon't talk so!" cried Katy, aghast. "I'm sure it isn't right, if I may make so bold as to say so to you. I have always heard it said: 'Never cross a bridge of trouble until you come to it.'"
"'Coming events cast their shadows before,'" quoted Dorothy, slowly.
"I have made your dress look so lovely, Miss Dorothy," she cried, bravely attempting to turn her thoughts into another channel, "and it's right sorry I am that you can't see it. Every one will say that it is the prettiest dress at the ball. You said I might fix it any way that I liked, so long as it looked grand."
"How have you arranged it, Katy?" asked Dorothy, with a faint smile, being girl enough to forget her sorrow for an instant in speaking of her ball dress.
"It is your new white tulle, miss, that I picked out—the one that you had made to go to parties in, providing you were ever asked to any, the first week you came to Gray Gables, you remember."
"Oh, yes," murmured Dorothy, clasping her little hands. "I—I remember so well how nice it looked on me, too."
"You looked like an angel in it!" declared Katy; resuming: "Well, it's that one, miss, and I have been embroidering flowers all over the front of it as a surprise for you, and, oh, they look perfectly magnificent on it!—just as though some one stood near you andthrew a great handful of blossoms over you and they clung to your white tulle dress just where they fell."
"What kind of flowers are they?" asked Dorothy, delightedly.
"Wisteria blossoms," said Katy.
Dorothy sprang to her feet, pale as death.
"You have embroidered purple wisteria blossoms all over my ball dress?" she whispered, in an awful voice.
"Yes," returned the girl, wondering what was coming next.
"Oh, Katy!" she cried, in a choking voice, "don't you know that purple wisteria blossoms mean tears?"
"I don't believe in all those old women's superstitions, miss," declared Katy, stoutly. "I imagine that it was got up by some muddy-complexioned creature, whose only annoyance was that the pretty blossoms didn't look good on her, and consequently she gave them a bad name to keep others from wearing them. There's plenty of such things being done."
This explanation, or rather explosion of the pet superstition, amused Dorothy vastly.
"Well, I shall not mind the old adage about wisteria blossoms and tears. I'll wear the dress anyhow, Katy, come what may. But do you know what Iris is going to wear? I haven't been able to find out."
"Nor has any one, ma'am," muttered Katy. "She has been making up her ball dress in her own room for the past fortnight, and keeps the door securely fastened; but we shall see very soon now, for it is quite time to dress, and she has to be ready first to receive the guests. I heard Mr. Kendal telling her so, a few moments since, as they passed through the corridor just as I opened the door."
She saw Dorothy turn a shade paler, and her head drooped, but she made no reply.
"Shall I commence now to arrange your toilet?" she asked, anxious to dress her mistress, and then don her own new dress for the gala occasion.
"I don't want to go into the ball-room until all the guests have arrived, and then I want to slip in quietly," said Dorothy; "so you need not hurry."
It was a sorry task at best for Katy, dressing her poor, blind mistress for the ball.
Ah! it was pitiful to see her sitting so patiently there with her back to the mirror, while the maid, with great tears rolling down her cheeks, fastened the clouds of tulle here and there with the dark blossoms, and twined them in the golden curls that fell about her white neck.
Oh, how radiantly fair she looked! And Katy knew that no one gazing in those beautiful violet eyes would ever realize that the lovely girl was blind—stone blind.
Her hand trembled violently as, an hour later, she clung to her maid's arm, and timidly, shrinkingly entered the great ball-room crowded with guests. No one noticed their entrance, the throng was so great, and she had her heart's desire. She slipped into a corner without her presence being commented on.
She did not know that a little place among a bower of ferns had been previously arranged for her by Katy, where she could sit and hear the music without being seen herself; nor would Katy be seen by the guests.
"Tell me," she whispered, nervously clutching the girl's hand, "where is Harry, and is—is Miss Vincent with him, and how does she look?"
Before Katy could frame a reply the last question was rudely answered by a stranger. Two young ladies at that instant dropped down into seats so near Dorothy that she could easily have touched them had she reached out her hand from her screen of palms and roses.
"What a magnificent-looking girl that Iris Vincent is!" cried one of the young girls. "The fame of her great beauty is spreading everywhere; but I never dreamed she was as beautiful as the description I have heard of her, and I find she far surpasses it. I wonder that poor, blind Dorothy Glenn is not jealous that her affianced husband should pay the girl so much attention."
"This is the first time I have seen her," replied her companion, "and I, too, am amazed at her marvelous beauty. As I stepped into the ball-room she was the first person I beheld, and she has dazzled my eyes ever since. Oh, it was a wonderful picture she made, standing under a slender palm tree, in her white tulle dress flecked with gold and pearls, and those blood-red rubies encircling her white throat and perfect arms and coiled in her jetty curls; and then those glorious dark eyes! No wonder men lose their hearts over her at the first fatal glance into their wonderful, mesmeric depths. She is fairer than the fairest of poets' dreams."
Dorothy listened with bated breath, then turned quickly to Katy.
"Have you deceived me—me, a poor blind girl?" she cried in a terrible voice that sounded like a cry from the tomb. "You told me that the girl who had come beneath this roof was homely and terribly plain.Theysay she is beautiful. Oh, God! have you deceived me? I must know the truth at once."
"Katy," repeated Dorothy, in a shrill, awful whisper, "tell me, have you willfuly deceived me? You have said Miss Vincent was plain—nay, more, that she was homely—and on all sides of me I hear them speaking of her wonderful beauty."
Katy sank back shivering in her seat.
"It's fine feathers that make fine birds to-night," she rejoined, faintly. "No wonder they think Iris Vincent looks well to-night. She's rigged out like a real peacock; and her face is painted, too. I can see it clear across the room; and I am quite sure that Mr. Kendal has noticed it; and I've heard him say that if there's anything which he detests, it's girls who whiten their faces with chalk."
Still Dorothy did not feel comforted. A nameless fear which she could scarcely define by words had crept into her heart, and a smoldering flame of jealousy burst suddenly forth; and that was the beginning of a terrible end.
She leaned wearily back in her seat, and looked so white that Katy was frightened.
"Shall I get you a glass of ice-water, Miss Dorothy?" she cried.
The pale lips murmured assent, and she flew to do her mistress' bidding.
Left to herself, Dorothy sprang hastily to her feet.
"It almost seems as if I shall go mad!" she murmured—"yes, mad—with this terrible fear clutching at my heart! I must have air. I am stifling!"
All unmindful of the errand upon which she had sent Katy, Dorothy rose hastily to her feet, and, remembering that there was a rear entrance leading from the ball-room near where she sat, she groped her way thither.
The night air fanned her feverish cheek, but it did not cool the fever in her brain or the fire that seemed eating into her very heart. A thousand fancies, so weird and strange that they terrified her, seemed to take possession of her brain. She had relied so entirely upon what they had told her—that Miss Vincent was very plain—that the feeling of jealousy had never before occurred to her; for well she knew that Harry Kendal was a beauty-worshiper, and that no matter how much he might be thrown in contact with a girl who was plain of face, he would never dream of being anything else than simply courteous to her.
Now affairs seemed to take on a new and hideous form.
She recalled each and every incident that had taken place since Miss Vincent's arrival, and