Threads gathered up

Could it be possible that the man who had been her husband had come again to this country, accompanied by the woman who had supplanted her?

They had a child too, it seemed, a young heir, and they were all underneath the same roof with her.

For a moment she was dazed with the knowledge; then she was tempted to dash the pen through her own name and fly to some other place.

But she did not like to make herself conspicuous; even now the clerk had noticed her emotion, and was asking her if she was faint and would like a glass of water. So she braced herself to face whatever might come, though she felt as if it would kill her to meet the man who had once called her wife.

She resolved to go to her rooms and remain in them, at least for a day or two, then she would quietly leave the hotel and go to some other.

She found her apartments very pleasant, overlooking the river and the rapids, while in the distance she could hear the never-ceasing roar of the falls. But there were no attractions in the place now for her; all interest had been swallowed up in the intense excitement that had taken possession of her.

She slept but little that night, and during all the next day she was wretched and almost ill. All her wrongs seemed to rise up afresh before her, and she wondered that Sir William had dared to cross the ocean lest her vengeance should overtake him. He was traveling, too, the same as he used to, as plain Mr. Heath. Oh, how supremely happy she had been in those lovely rooms in New York, when she had believed herself to be his honored wife, and was looking forward to a bright future as the mistress of Heathdale.

But now she believed another was reigning there. She wondered if she was fair and lovely; if she had ever suspected the wrong that her husband had done his first wife. She wondered, too, if Sir William had ever legalized that mock marriage after receiving the notice of his divorce from her.

All day she lay there, too miserable to rise, listening to every footfall that passed her door; she believed that she could recognize his step, even though a decade of years had passed since she had heard it.

When night came again she was nearly worn out, and, with little Virgie clasped close to her heart, she slept the sleep of exhaustion, and awoke the next morning feeling stronger and much refreshed, though still very unhappy.

She would not go down to breakfast, however, but had it served in her room. She had not courage to come face to face with the man who, she believed, had so wronged her; she shrank from him, but even more from the woman who, she supposed, occupied the position that belonged to her.

After breakfast she dressed her little daughter in the daintiest manner, and sent her out for a walk with her maid, telling the latter that she might keep Virgie out as long as desired, as she was not feeling well and wished to be quiet.

When they were gone she lay down again, and tried to think what was best for her to do. Should she go away immediately, and avoid all danger of being seen and recognized? Should she fly from the temptation that was fast laying hold of her to look once more upon the old-time lover—the father of her child?

She feared that it was not wise for her to linger there; indeed she knew that it would be far better for her peace of mind to turn resolutely away from all that pertained to the past, go elsewhere, and try to forget—if that were possible—that such a person as Sir William Heath had ever existed.

She fell asleep while musing thus, and was conscious of nothing more until someone knocked upon her door, and a childish voice called out:

“Mamma! mamma! oh, please let me in. I want to tell you something.”

Virgie aroused herself, and going to the door, unlocked and opened it, and was confronted by her little daughter, her face flushed and eager, her hat hanging from her neck by its blue ribbons, her golden curls floating in charming disarray about her shoulders, while she held by the hand a bright, dark-eyed little boy, perhaps a year younger than herself.

“Oh, mamma!” cried little Virgie, all excitement, “I have had such a lovely time down stairs on the veranda. There was the nicest lady and gentleman there, and this is their little boy. We played a long time with some beautiful white stones, and we had some caramels and taffy, the lady told us some pretty stories, and Willie’s papa sang us such a funny song; then they went away for a walk, and told Willie that he might come and play with me for a little while.”

Something made Virgie grow very pale and still while her child was talking; something in those dark eyes of the little stranger, lifted in wonder and inquiry to her beautiful, white face, made her shrink and tremble, a terrible suspicion in her heart.

She stooped quickly and looked closer into the small, upturned face.

“Your name is Willie,” she said, in a low, repressed tone—“Willie what?”

“Willie Heath,” he answered, regarding her earnestly.

“Yes, mamma, and he lives away over the sea, in England—away over that water where poor papa went and——”

“Yes, dear,” said Virgie, interrupting her, and though she had known well enough, the moment she saw him, who the child was, the sound of those two names smote her with such startling force that she reeled dizzily and was obliged to lay hold of the door for support.

“Poor mamma! your head is bad again, isn’t it?” said her little girl, taking her hand and lifting it tenderly to her lips, while she looked pitifully into her white face.

“Yes, darling, and I shall have to lie down again; but you and your little friend may come in if you like,” she forced herself to say, as she feebly made her way to a lounge, and almost fell upon it, a deadly faintness nearly overpowering her.

“No, mamma; we will go out into the hall and play,” Virgie replied, while the young stranger regarded the stricken woman with wide, grave eyes. “I am going to get that box of toys that you bought me yesterday, then Willie and I will go away, and we will not make any noise, so you can sleep. Does your mamma ever have such dreadful headaches?” she asked of the boy.

“No, but papa does sometimes; then he has to stay in a dark room, and everybody has to keep as still as mice,” he answered.

It seemed to the suffering woman as if she could not suppress a moan of agony to hear the child call that man “papa,” and she wondered if he ever knew what it was to have such a heartache as she was at that moment suffering.

Little Virgie secured her box of playthings, and then the two children tiptoed out of the room, softly shutting the door after them, while Virgie lay another hour trying to compose herself and rally her shattered nerves.

She arose at last with the fixed determination to have one look at the man and woman whom she believed had ruined her life—just one glance to see how life had dealt with them, and then she would fly from all danger and temptation.

She arrayed herself in a lovely dress of black lace, made over rich lavender silk, and looped here and there with glistening ribbons of the same color. She had coiled her abundant hair in a coronet about her shapely head and pinned it with a golden arrow, in which there gleamed a single diamond. Her ornaments were of dead rough gold, fashioned in some quaint design, and she fastened in her belt a cluster of white acacia blossoms, which made a lovely contrast against the black and lavender of her dress.

She was exquisitely beautiful, and she realized the fact as she finished her toilet, and she could not help wondering what she—that other woman was like—the woman who had won her husband from her.

She could hear the merry voices of the children, who were still at their play in the hall, and a bitter smile curled her lips as she thought how unconscious they were of each other’s identity, or of the torture she was suffering to have them thus together, two rivals, she believed, for the same name and inheritance.

After a little she went to her door and looked out at them. The children were both seated upon the floor, with Virgie’s toys between them, and were chatting gayly with all the unconscious freedom of childhood.

“Oh, mamma, you are better!” cried Virgie, catching sight of her mother, her face lighting with pleasure, “and how nice you look! Willie,” turning with an impressive air to her companion, “do you know I think my mamma is the prettiest mamma there is in the world; yours is very nice and grand, but I don’t think she is quite as lovely as mine.”

The boy fixed his eyes on Virgie, and looked gravely thoughtful for a moment, as if debating the point in his mind, and she was amused, in spite of her pain, by his evident desire to be guilty of no disloyalty, and yet not wound his new friend by contradicting her assertion, as he replied:

“Well, perhaps; but my papa is very handsome. Where is your papa?”

“Sh!” Virgie whispered, as her mother turned quickly away at the question and walked to the end of the corridor, where there was an alcove inclosed by rich draperies, “it makes mamma very sad to say anything about my papa. We lost him when I was a little baby.”

“Lost him!”

“Yes; he went away over the same sea that you had to cross and he never came back.”

“Oh! he was drownded!” whispered the little fellow, in an awe-stricken voice, and looking exceedingly shocked.

“What is your mamma’s name?” he asked, after a pause.

“Virginia—the same as mine. What is yours?”

“Margaret, and it means ‘a pearl.’ Papa sometimes calls her his ‘pearl of great price.’”

“Oh!” moaned Virgie from behind the draperies, as she caught these words, “a pearl of great price, indeed.”

Just then a door midway of the corridor opened and another lady came slowly down the lofty hall.

She was tall and commanding in figure; not so slight or graceful as Virgie, but possessing a sweet and gracious dignity that was exceedingly pleasing.

She was a perfect blonde, and her beautiful golden hair was gathered into a massive and graceful knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were blue, her cheeks delicately tinted with pink, and a rare, winning smile played about her sweet mouth.

She was dressed all in white. A robe of some soft clinging material was en traine, very artistically draped and elaborately trimmed with a profusion of white satin ribbons. She wore an elegant set of opals surrounded with diamonds, and was truly a beautiful and distinguished looking woman.

Her face gleamed with infinite tenderness as she drew near the children.

“Why, are you still playing together?” she asked, as she stopped beside them; “you seem inclined to be very friendly.”

“Yes, Virgie is a very nice girl to play with,” returned Master Heath, with the air of one paying a great compliment; “and see what she has given me, mamma,” he added, holding up a handful of toys.

“Do not let the little girl rob herself,” said his mother, in a voice of tender caution.

“No; she made me take them; and—oh, mamma! I have seen her mamma—she was here just now—such a lovely lady! And Virgie says she lost her papa when she was a little baby—he was drownded.”

“Drowned, you mean, Willie,” corrected the lady; “how sad! but perhaps you ought not to talk about it, dear,” she added tenderly, as she bent forward and softly stroked Virgie’s glossy hair with her jeweled hand.

There were tears in her eyes as she said it, and though Virgie, in her hiding place behind the draperies, could not see these, she could hear the slight tremulousness in her tones, and she knew that she was a tender-hearted, sympathetic woman.

She then began to talk about something else and thus led their minds away from the sad topic until in a few moments they were laughing in the merriest manner—the childish voices ringing out fresh and clear, that of the beautiful woman like a silver bell.

Virgie saw and heard all with the keenest pain in her heart and though a torturing jealousy filled her soul—a sense of wrong and humiliation—from the belief that another had supplanted her in the heart and home of the man she loved, yet she could but own the worth, the beauty, and the fascination of that sweet, womanly woman who seemed so unconscious of wrong, whose heart was so full of tenderness and sympathy for the sorrows of others.

Oh, if, as she stood behind those curtains peering out upon that merry, attractive group, she could have known how very near she was just then to happiness and an explanation of all the dark past, she never would have concealed herself as she did. She would have made herself known; she would have sought rather than shunned that beautiful woman in white, and learned the mistake that had so embittered the last ten years of her life.

But she could more resolutely have faced a wild beast than those pure, innocent eyes and that happy smile. At first she had thought that she would go down to dinner, she would assert herself and make her presence a living reproach to the guilty pair.

But now she knew she could not; her strength would fail her, and she only longed for an opportunity to steal away unobserved to her room and hide her wretchedness once more from every human eye.

She turned away from that pretty tableau where her darling was so happy, and gazed out upon the street beneath her; but she saw nothing, heard nothing, for the tumult within her heart and brain.

She was conscious of nothing else till a movement almost beside her caused her to turn suddenly, and she found herself face to face with William Heath’s wife.

“I beg your pardon,” said the latter, flushing slightly as she met the startled, surprised look that shot into Virgie’s eyes; “I did not know that any one was here. I came to find a book that I left here yesterday.”

Virgie bowed, and moved aside to see if she was hiding it; but her heart beat almost suffocatingly, and she was as white as that cluster of acacias in her belt.

Yes, there was a volume lying on the chair beside her, which Mrs. Heath recognized, remarking as she took possession of it:

“Ah, yes, this is it. Thank you; I am sorry to have intruded upon you.” Then, with an upward, admiring glance into the beautiful face, she added: “Pray, excuse me, but are not you the mother of the little girl who is playing with my son in the corridor? The resemblance between you is very striking.”

“Yes, Virgie is my daughter,” Virgie answered, laying an unconscious stress upon the pronoun.

“She is a dear little thing—so merry, yet so gentle and affectionate,” remarked Mrs. Heath, with a tender inflection which somewhat softened her listener, “and I believe she is the loveliest child I ever saw. How old is she?”

“She was nine in June.”

“And my boy is eight,” smiled the fond mother, with a proud, backward glance; “and he seems to have become really attached to Virgie during the little time they have played together. Have you been in Niagara long, Mrs. Alexander?”

Virgie started at being thus addressed by the woman who bore the name which had once been rightly her own.

“We arrived the day before yesterday,” she said, briefly.

“Ah! So recently?” replied her companion, wondering why the beautiful woman should be so reserved. “Then you have had no opportunity to see the attractions of the place, and it is wonderful here. I have never seen anything so grand in all Europe as these mighty falls and the rapids.”

She was so sweet and gracious, and evidently so desirous of pleasing, that Virgie was seized with an impulse to show her the better side of her character. She felt sure that they would meet again some day when, perhaps, their relative positions might be reversed, and something like a feeling of pity for the lovely woman prompted her to put aside her pain, her jealousy and bitterness, and exert herself to be agreeable.

She responded cordially to the remarks she had just made relative to the scenery of that locality, and thus, once launched, she talked as she had never talked before—of nature, of art, of literature, of men, and things generally; and when, half an hour later, the two women separated, Mrs. Heath was fascinated, almost enraptured.

“I have never met any one so brilliant or beautiful before,” she murmured to herself, as she went to call her boy from his play, remarking that he must bid his little friend “good-by, since papa had decided that they were to leave directly after dinner.”

Several hours later, as the twilight had begun to deepen, Virgie, weak and pale from the excitement of the day, sat upon the balcony opening from her room, eagerly watching a little scene below.

A carriage had just been driven to the door. Two large trunks were brought out from the hotel and strapped upon it, then a gentleman and a lady with a little boy and maid followed.

Virgie crouched down behind the railing and strained her eyes for a look at that tall, manly figure, firmly believing it to be Sir William Heath—her recreant husband.

He stood by the carriage door and assisted his wife to enter with affectionate care, seeing that she was perfectly comfortable before he attended to anything else; then he caught his boy in his arms, and with some playful remark, which the eager ear above could not catch, tossed him lightly in beside his mother. Then the maid was kindly assisted, after which he entered himself, and the travelers were driven away.

But Virgie, with all her anxiety to do so, had not been able to catch even one glimpse of that face. There was something familiar about the form, although it was somewhat stouter than Sir William had been ten years ago, while he had spoken so low that she could not tell whether it was the old loved voice or not; but as the carriage was whirled away in the growing dusk she felt a hundred-fold more desolate than ever before.

They were so happy, she so miserable! Why, oh, why must such things be?

Then a different mood took possession of her, and she grew hard and stern.

“It is coming—a day of retribution will surely come,” she said. “There may be a son to inherit the title, but, if he told me the truth, the eldest born inherits the bulk of the property, and Virgie shall yet have her inheritance.”