Threads gathered up

“You have always supposed, Virgie,” Mrs. Alexander continued, after pausing a moment to summon all her fortitude for the duty which lay before her, “that your father was dead.”

“And is he not, mamma?” cried the startled girl, growing almost as pale as her mother, and casting a terrified look upon her lover.

“No, dear; he is still living and here in England.”

“Mamma!” and the cry of dismay, almost of agony, smote heavily on the fond mother’s heart, while Rupert Hamilton gazed from one to the other, a look of wonder on his fine face.

“Be quiet, Virgie,” returned Mrs. Alexander, gently. “No stigma rests upon either your name or mine, as I perceive you apprehend. Although I was most cruelly deserted in less than a year after my marriage, and at a time when I needed tenderest care and sympathy; although I was scorned and repudiated by the family of the man whom I had wedded; although I was left weak, unprotected, and comparatively destitute in a strange city—yet I have risen above it all; I have been able to prove that I was a lawful wife; that my child could claim an honored name, and it is for that purpose that I am here in London to-day. But let me begin at the beginning, and tell you all about it.”

She went back to the commencement of her acquaintance with Sir William, although she did not call him by name—she was not quite ready to reveal that yet—and related all the story of his visit to that settlement among the mountains of Nevada. She told how he had won her; how kind he had been to her invalid father, and how they had been married while he was so ill; how, after his death, her husband had taken her to many places of interest in order to win her mind from her grief, and had made himself so necessary and was so devoted to her that she had grown to idolize him and to believe him the truest and noblest man on earth. She told of his sudden recall to England, while she was obliged to remain behind; of the sudden cessation of letters; of the arrival at the hotel, where she was boarding, of two English ladies, whom she did not name, who were the means finally of her discovering her husband’s faithlessness, his previous engagement to one of his own countrywomen, and his subsequent marriage with her, in defiance of those bonds that he had assumed in connection with her. She related how she had at once returned to the West, where she had collected incontestable proofs of her marriage, notwithstanding that she had no certificate; how she had been enabled to turn her artistic talents to account and provide for her own necessities. She spoke of the divorce that she had obtained, and her reasons for wishing to secure it, scorning to remain bound to a man who had deserted her, and yet desirous of saving another pure woman from dishonor. Then she told something of her father’s history and fortunes, of her uncle’s return, his repentance and restitution, and the provision which he had made for her and which had placed her forever beyond the fear of want or the need of toil, even though she might never recover the fortune that her father had left her, or succeed in establishing Virgie’s claim to her inheritance.

It was a sad, heart-breaking story, and told with thrilling power and earnestness by the long-tried woman, who almost seemed to be enduring again the sufferings of her early life; and when at length it was concluded, she was nearly exhausted by the effort it had cost her.

Virgie had long since crept to her mother’s side, and was now in tears, with her arms twined about her and her head resting on her bosom; while Rupert sat near with averted eyes and looking grave and deeply distressed.

“Oh, mamma, why have you not told me this before?” Virgie at length asked, trying to control her sobs.

“Because, my darling, I could not bear to sadden your young life.”

“But I could have sympathized with you, and then I need not have pained you by asking so many distressing questions.”

“It was better for me to bear my burden alone,” her mother persisted; “of course I know it would have to be told some time, but I have put it off as long as I could. Now, however, I must soon confront the man who has so wronged us, and demand justice and restitution for you, and so it has become necessary that you should know all this sad history.”

“But, mamma, if he was married to that other woman there may be other children, and—and——”

Virgie could not go on, but broke down in distress.

“True; there are—at least I know of one; but that fact cannot affect your claim or deter me from demanding that you be recognized as the legitimate heir; for, of course, unless he made his second marriage legal, after the divorce was obtained, you alone have any lawful claim upon him,” returned Mrs. Alexander, in a resolute tone, and with a look that denoted an inflexible purpose.

“But that will be dreadful,” Virgie said, greatly troubled; “just think of the shame that such a proceeding would bring upon those who are innocent of wrong; they are not to blame for the evil that my—that their father has done, and it does not seem right that they should be made to suffer, or be deprived of their inheritance; think of their poor mother and all her hopes for her children.”

“Does it count for nothing, Virgie, that my hopes were crushed; that I was abandoned when you were a helpless little one; that I was left to depend upon myself and to provide for you?” cried her mother, sternly; though there was a note of keenest agony in her tones. “Does it count for nothing that the happiness of my whole life has been wrecked; that I was repudiated, scorned, mocked; that you have never been acknowledged by your own name, never allowed to occupy your true position in life?”

“I know it has all been wrong, cruel, wicked,” Virgie returned, sadly and with trembling lips; “but I have been very happy, with you, mamma; you have never allowed me to realize anything of this trouble; we have had everything we needed, and your fortune is ample without striving for that which you affirm should be mine; I cannot bear to think that anyone must be made to suffer just to secure a little more wealth, or a higher position in life, for me.”

“And are you willing to sacrifice all your rights to those who have supplanted you—who have lived all their lives upon your heritage?” demanded Mrs. Alexander, excitedly.

“Mamma,” Virgie answered, sitting up and meeting her mother’s flashing eye with a proud look, “leaving the innocent out of the question entirely, I scorn to accept anything from the man who has so wronged you; I would not be recognized as his child; I would not be known by his name, were he allied to royalty itself.”

Mrs. Alexander leaned forward and kissed the beautiful girl, clasping her fondly to her.

“Ah, my darling, you are not lacking in spirit, in spite of your forgiving nature,” she said; “but justice demands that he shall make you restitution; that must be part of his punishment.”

Then turning to Rupert she continued:

“You are a man, just and true, Mr. Hamilton; you have heard my story as a disinterested witness, and are therefore capable of judging with an unprejudiced mind; I ask you, is it right that I should demand for my child the position and inheritance that belong to her?”

And Rupert Hamilton replied, gravely, decidedly:

“It is right; a great wrong has been done both you and Virgie, and it is but just that it should be atoned for as far as may be—if not willingly, then by compulsion.”

The young man little realized that he was passing sentence upon his respected and well-beloved guardian; but he had been greatly shocked by the story to which he had listened, and he deemed no punishment too severe for him who had been guilty of such wrong.

Virgie sighed at his verdict. She never could bear the thought of giving pain to others, and she shrank almost with loathing from meeting one who had caused her mother so much unhappiness.

“Mamma, who is my father?” she asked, after a thoughtful pause.

“My dear, I do not wish to tell you just yet, for you are liable to meet him or some members of his family in society, and you will be happier not to know it, at least until my plans are matured and I have decided when and how to act. I have simply related this story to you now because I thought that Rupert ought to know something of our history, and to prepare you for what must soon occur.”

“Very well; I will wait your time,” the young girl returned; but a little shiver of dread crept over her; she felt that she could never forgive or own the man who had so ill-treated her beautiful mother.

“And one thing more,” continued Mrs. Alexander, turning to Rupert. “I should prefer that your engagement remain unannounced for a little while, until this business is settled. My lawyer hopes to be able to arrange matters in the course of two or three weeks.”

“It shall be just as you wish,” the young man responded, adding, with a fond smile, as he turned to Virgie: “So long as I am assured of the love that I crave it matters little to me whether the world knows it or not for the present. I would, however, like to make one exception. I should like to inform my guardian of the fact.”

“That is but right,” returned Mrs. Alexander; and she was again about to ask the name of his guardian, but a ring of their bell just then warned them that Miss Huntington had arrived, and as she entered Rupert took his leave, wondering to himself who this man was, who evidently stood so high in London society, and who had so ruthlessly ruined the life of a beautiful and trusting woman and discarded his own child.

A few evenings after this Virgie, accompanied by her mother for the first time, attended the reception and ball given by Lord and Lady Dunforth.

Lady Dunforth had herself been a beautiful American girl—Brownie Douglas by name—and she was always eager to entertain her countrywomen when they visited London.

She had met Virgie at the Huntingtons, and had at once been attracted toward her, and had taken pains to secure her presence on her next evening at home, arranging for extra attractions for her sake.

Mrs. Alexander was feeling unusually well on this night, and had taken a great deal of pains with her own and her daughter’s toilet.

Virgie’s costume was exquisite, consisting of pale blue satin, with an overdress of misty lace, wrought with tiny crystals, and draped with clusters of blush-roses, while she wore strings of rare pearls on her neck and arms and in her hair.

Mrs. Alexander wore simple black, but of richest material and finest texture, while her laces were exceptionally rare and her diamonds of the purest water.

She was a strikingly beautiful woman. Her form was finely developed, and yet it had lost nothing of the graceful outline of her maidenhood. Her face possessed a peculiar delicacy of beauty, and her complexion was as faultless as of old. She had gained much in ease and self-possession; her bearing was regal, her manner charming.

Lady Dunforth was even more delighted with her than she had been with Virgie, and took especial pains to present her to her most honored guests.

It happened that Lady Linton and Lillian were also present that evening.

Both were accomplished society women, and were much sought after, because of their tact and brilliancy, for there was never any lack of life, there was never any stiffness or awkwardness where they were. Lady Linton could entertain charmingly, and Lillian was always the center of a brilliant circle.

But for once Lady Linton’s accomplishment in this direction failed her.

As Lady Dunforth was presenting Mrs. Alexander to some of her guests, she suddenly came face to face with Sir William Heath’s sister.

“Ah! Lady Linton,” said her hostess, in her genial way, “I have a friend here to whom I would like to introduce you; Mrs. Alexander—Lady Linton.”

Her ladyship gave one glance into the beautiful face before her, and recognized it.

She knew her instantly for the woman who had saved her life at the time of that frightful railroad disaster eight years previously; who had nursed her so faithfully during the illness that followed, and who had afterward told her, “I am the woman whom your brother loved—whom he wooed and won.”

A deadly pallor overspread her countenance, while her customary elegant self-possession was utterly routed. She was actually stricken dumb—her lips refused to pronounce the name she had heard, in acknowledgment of the introduction; she could only stand still with her eyes fastened in a blank, startled stare upon that graceful figure, while her heart sank a dead weight in her bosom.

Instinctively Lady Linton knew why Mrs. Alexander was there in London. She had come to fulfill the threat that she had uttered so long ago, and a terrible despair settled down upon the finished woman of the world, rendering her speechless, constrained, embarrassed.

Mrs. Alexander, however, was entirely at her ease. She had expected to meet this woman in society at some time or other, and was prepared for the encounter.

She bowed with exceeding grace, but with a suspicion of ironical politeness, while she remarked in cool, placid tones:

“I have had the pleasure of meeting Lady Linton before.”

The sound of her voice broke the spell that held her ladyship enthralled; she managed to bow and to murmur some inarticulate words in return, then Lady Dunforth passed on with her guest, wondering if Lady Linton was ill, that she should appear so unlike herself.