CHAPTER XLVI.
THE UNFORGOTTEN FACE.
“I called to see your dressmaker this evening, Clara, and she promises to have your work completed to-morrow, without fail, and—but by the way, my dear, I am not quite certain that the young girl will be able to keep her promise. I caught a glimpse of her invalid mother, and it is my belief that the poor woman will not live till morning. I suppose, in that case, the other young lady will be obliged to finish the work for you.”
The speaker was Mr. Charles Broughton, and the woman he addressed Mrs. Clara Neville, a haughty, handsome widow of thirty, and Mr. Broughton’s affianced wife.
The fair widow would never have owned to herself that she could harbor the slightest feeling of jealousy toward such an insignificant personage as a dressmaker’s associate; but there was something in Mr. Broughton’s expression and manner of speaking of that other lady that brought an angry glitter to the black eyes of his betrothed.
“Who is the person you are speaking of? I never had the pleasure of meeting any other sewing woman in Jenny’s home. I have always understood that Jenny Mason was without friends or connections in this country.”
“I saw a face in Jenny Mason’s home to-night that brought back——”
He did not finish the sentence, but threw his hands suddenly over his face, shivering in the warmth and luxury of the cozy apartment in which he sat, as if he had been facing a wintry blast.
“Let me finish the sentence for you, Mr. Broughton; the face you saw to-night brought back the memory of some woman you have loved in the past. What a pity that the possessor of this face should be only a working girl.”
“By heavens! you wrong me, Clara,” he cried hoarsely, “the girl I saw to-night reminded me of my bitterest enemy—of a woman I have cause to hate—and whose name I curse every hour of my life. If I thought one drop of that woman’s blood flowed in the veins of this working girl I would hunt her out of every place she found employment. I would never rest until I had visited the sin of her—but what wild talk is this? The woman whose name I curse is living in luxury wherever she may be, and the poor little seamstress is not to blame for her remarkable resemblance to one who must be a stranger to her. Never send me there again, Clara; the sight of that girl’s face aroused all the demon within me, and awakened passions that have lain dormant for years.”
He was a handsome man, despite his five-and-forty years. His thick, wavy black hair showed no thread of silver, and his eyes were keen and bright.
He was a general favorite among the fair sex, although but little was known of his antecedents or former history.
If there was an air of mystery surrounding him, this fact only tended to make him more interesting in the eyes of the ladies, and there were many who envied Clara Neville her conquest when it became known that this fascinating little widow had won handsome Charley Broughton’s love.
Clara herself was very proud of her stately, distinguished-looking lover, and insanely jealous of him, as her recent exhibition of temper may have led the reader to suppose.
She was half frightened now at the storm of passion her own words had evoked, but she had no longer any fear that he admired the girl he had met at Jenny Mason’s.
“Pray calm yourself, my dear Charles,” she said; “you shall never go to my dressmaker’s again; you will surely be ill if you excite yourself so; I shall be quite anxious about you when you leave me; please look a little more cheerful for my sake.”
“For your sake, my pretty pleader, I would accomplish a much harder task,” replied Broughton, with assumed gayety, as he encircled the widow’s form with his arm, and pressed a kiss on her white forehead.
During the remainder of that evening he was as loving and attentive as even the most exacting lady love could have desired, and left Mrs. Neville in the happy belief that her idolatrous fondness for him was fully reciprocated.
But once outside her home the man’s whole demeanor changed, and as he wended his way to the hotel at which he had taken up his residence, he was saying to himself:
“Bah! how hard it is for me to humor her jealous whims, and to keep up a pretense of fondness for her. If I had allowed her to continue in her belief that I admired this Maggie Gordon, she would have succeeded in getting the girl out of the way.”
Charles Broughton had reached his hotel by this time, and encountered a friend who had been awaiting his arrival in the reading room, and who greeted him with an exclamation of astonishment.
“Heavens, Charley, how ill you look!”
“Never mind my looks, my friend; I am a little under the weather, but I don’t care to be reminded of it continually. Come up to my den, and let me see if a chat with you and a glass of wine will not restore me,” said Broughton carelessly; and a few moments later found the friends chatting and laughing over their wine and cigars.
But always between Charles Broughton and the ruby liquid he raised so often to his lips came the beautiful face and violet eyes of the girl who had declared herself to be Maggie Gordon.