Threads gathered up

The morning after the foregoing conversation between Lady Linton and her physician, Virgie went in to see the invalid, taking her daughter with her.

She had come to take leave of her ladyship, for they were going away to some quiet resort for a few weeks, for Mina’s sake, and after that home to New York. She brought Virgie as a sort of shield from embarrassment, for she dreaded any effusions of gratitude from the woman who, she felt sure, would hate her even now, in spite of all she had done for her, for having won her brother’s love; while, too, she had a curiosity to see if she would be attracted toward her child; she was a believer in the old adage that “blood is thicker than water.”

The invalid’s face lighted the moment the door opened to admit her kind attendant.

“I am so glad to see you,” she cried, heartily; then her glance fell upon the beautiful child, and she added, with evident delight: “And you have brought your little daughter with you! Come here, dear, and let me see if you are as lovely as your mamma.”

She held out both hands to her and the little one went composedly forward and stood before her, her dark eyes searching the woman’s face with a look that thrilled her strangely, while she was deeply impressed with her wonderful beauty.

“You are very like your mamma,” said Lady Linton, smiling down upon the sweet child; “all excepting your eyes. I rather imagine that those came from papa. What is your name, dear?”

“Virgie.”

Her ladyship started slightly and glanced quickly at the child’s mother, and something that she saw in that beautiful countenance made her grow suddenly pale.

Her mind went back to that morning when her brother had laid before her several photographs of his lovely wife, and she was almost sure—even though she had never looked upon them since—that there was a resemblance between that face and this; and the child’s name was the same, too.

But no; it could not be; and she banished the suspicion from her as quickly as it came. It was only a “singular coincidence,” she told herself.

“Virgie,” she repeated, trying, but in vain, to resume her light tone, “I suppose that stands for Virginia. Well, my little maiden, do you know how kind your mother has been to me while I have been so ill?”

“Mamma is always kind to everybody,” was the grave response, and Virgie wondered to see her in this strange, self-contained mood. She was usually very free and confiding with every one.

“What a loyal-hearted little girl!” laughed Lady Linton; “how thankful I am that you were spared for her and she to you from that dreadful accident. Your papa, too, must be a very happy man to know that both his treasures are safe.”

“I haven’t any papa.” said Virgie, with a soft little sigh.

A painful thrill shot through Lady Linton’s nerves at this, and she darted another look at the child’s mother.

It was very strange! She wore no widow’s weeds, she was not even in black! Instead, she was looking very lovely in her stylish traveling suit of dark gray, with a knot of pale blue ribbon at her throat and another in her hat.

“Yes, indeed,” the mother interrupted, not liking to have the child questioned further, “we are very grateful for having escaped such danger. We came to tell you that we are going away to-day, though I would gladly remain, if I could be of use to anyone, and duty did not call me elsewhere.”

“To-day!” exclaimed Lady Linton, in surprise. “I shall be very sorry to part with you,” and her under lip quivered, for at that instant she thought of the debt she owed the beautiful woman.

Virgie bowed. She was laboring under a fearful constraint. She would gladly have avoided this last interview, but something that impelled her to come, if for nothing more than to let her ladyship see her brother’s child, even though she was unconscious of the relationship existing between them.

“Is your maid doing well?” Lady Linton inquired, after a somewhat awkward pause.

“Thanks; yes, much better than I had hoped she would. She feels quite able to travel, is rather homesick, and longs to get away from this dreary place.”

“It is a lonely place. I, too, shall be glad to rejoin my friends. I expect someone will come to me to-morrow, and the physician thinks that by the end of another week, I may also be able to get away. Oh, must you go?” the invalid concluded, regretfully, as Virgie arose to leave.

“Yes, my carriage will come for us in half an hour,” she replied, glancing at her watch. “I am glad to leave you so comfortable, and I trust nothing will occur to retard your full recovery—that your visit to this country may not be spoiled by this accident.”

Lady Linton looked up astonished, as these cold, measured words fell upon her ears.

Virgie had not meant to speak so frigidly, but her ladyship’s reference to her “friends” made her surmise instantly that she was speaking of her brother and his family, whom she believed she had seen at Niagara, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she could control herself at all.

“Surely you are not going to leave me thus?” said the sick woman, reproachfully, “without even allowing me to clasp your hand; you, who have done so much for me, who have twice saved my life. Come here and let me kiss you good-by—let me tell you that I shall never cease to think of you with gratitude and love. Why, you have never yet told me your name! You must not go without telling me who you are, so that I can inform my brother and friends who was my deliverer from a dreadful death—who was my kind nurse during my critical illness.”

Virgie was as pale as a marble statue now; she could bear no more, and she resolved that she would tell her the truth. She should tell her brother, any anyone else she chose, who had saved her, if she wished to do so.

“Run away, Virgie, and help Mina to get ready,” she said to her daughter, “and I will come presently;” then, as the child obeyed, she turned back, and stood tall and straight before the woman who had wronged her.

“Lady Linton,” she began, in low, intense tones that smote her like a whip, and made her shiver with dread at what might follow, “it is true, I suppose, that I saved your life at the time of the disaster: it is true, also, that I have tried to make you comfortable during your illness; but I have not done it to win your gratitude or to oppress you with any sense of obligation. I did it, first, from a sense of duty, as I would have performed the same service for any stranger in trouble; and, second, because I would not allow myself to turn coldly from you in the hour of danger and distress, because of a feeling of enmity toward you——”

“Enmity?” interrupted her listener, with pale lips, and putting out her hand as if to ward off a blow.

“Yes, enmity, for my heart was full of it when you told me who you were. If I had listened to the evil that surged through my brain on that dreadful night, if I had yielded to a spirit of revenge for past injuries, I should have turned my back upon you when you called upon me to save you, telling myself that you deserved no better fate. But I believe I am a Christian, a disciple of One who commanded us to ‘love our enemies, to do good to those who despitefully use us,’ and I wished to conquer that enmity, to subdue myself, to return good for evil; and that is why I tried to save you then, and afterward served you as tenderly as I would have served my own mother.”

“Why—why! what are you saying? I do not understand,” incoherently cried the startled woman, as she gazed wildly into that beautiful face before her, and began to realize something of the terrible truth yet to come.

“I did not mean that you should understand,” Virgie resumed, speaking more gravely. “I did not mean that you should ever know to whom you owed your life. I meant to do what good I could for you, and then go quietly away, taking with me as my only reward, the consciousness of a duty faithfully performed. I do not know why I have spoken thus even now, but the words seemed forced from me by a power beyond my control. Perhaps it is because you asked me to kiss you, to clasp your hand in friendly farewell, when I was conscious that you would wish me to do neither, if you knew who I am, that you would shrink from me, repel me, perhaps even hate me more than you have ever done. I see that you begin to realize who I am. Yes. I am Virginia Alexander, the woman whom your brother once loved, for I believe even now that he did love me then—and who worshiped him, who would have devoted her life to his happiness, and considered herself blessed in so doing.”

Lady Linton had fallen back upon her pillow as Virgie uttered that well remembered name, and now lay, as if transfixed, gazing upon her with a look of amazement mingled with something of terror.

A suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon her when the child had told her name; it had been strengthened when she had so innocently said she had no papa, and it was now confirmed by Virgie’s open declaration.

The knowledge almost paralyzed her; she could neither move nor speak; she had no power but to stare with a helpless, appalled look at that perfect figure, that pale, beautiful, high-bred face, as she realized, at last, the enormity of the wrong of which she had been guilty.

“You have seen my little daughter,” Virgie resumed, after a moment, with a tender, even pathetic inflection; “she is also your brother’s child, and the heiress of Heathdale——

“Does that offend you?” she asked, as Lady Linton shrank again, as if from a blow, at these words. “It is to be regretted, but it is a fact which nothing can change, and she will one day claim her own, even though her mother is no longer the wife of her father, and I trust that she will then do honor to the name and position which she will assume. You may rest assured that I shall attend most faithfully to her education, for it has been, and still shall be, my chief object in life to make her worthy in every way to be received as a representative of the ‘ancient and honored house of Heath.’ Pardon me if I seem ironical,” Virgie interposed, a slight smile flitting over her lips as she quoted this sentence, which had been burned into her brain so long ago; “but I cannot forget the cruel things which you wrote to your friend, Mrs. Farnum, ten years ago. Do you blame me for refusing to clasp, in pretended friendship, the hand that penned them? or for shrinking from the kisses of one who so scorned and mocked me; who offered me money, as if my honor was a thing to be bought, my wretchedness and despair something to be alleviated with gold? You wrote of me is ‘that person’—‘that girl,’ as if I belonged to a lower order of humanity; but, madam, my grandmother was an English woman like yourself, and perchance—though I assume nothing of the kind—there is as good blood in my veins as in your own. But,” with a weary sigh, “perhaps I am wrong to recriminate thus. I had no intention of saying aught like this when I came to you. I am afraid I have been inconsiderate of your weakness, but my words have come unbidden. I wish you no ill. I think I have proved that during the past week. I wish your brother no ill, if he is happy in his present relation; far be it from me to wish him to suffer as I have suffered, although he has done me the greatest wrong it is possible for a man to do a woman. It is a strange freak of fate, Lady Linton, this meeting between you and me, and yet I believe I do not regret that we have seen and known each other; it has served to show you what the woman, whom your brother wooed and won, is like; that although she may not have belonged to the titled aristocracy of a kingdom, she was at least a true-hearted daughter of a grand republic, and in no way his inferior in character or intellect. We may never meet again, and we may; I cannot tell; but some day the wrong that has been done me will be righted through the justice which must and shall be rendered to my daughter.”

As she ceased Virgie bowed gravely and then turned and quietly left the room, leaving Lady Linton more astonished and browbeaten—though it had been done in the most courteous and dignified way imaginable—than she had ever been before. For several minutes she sat staring, in a dazed way, at the door which had been so softly shut upon that graceful, retreating form, and almost feeling as if the whole interview must have been some hallucination of the brain.

That lovely woman—proud, beautiful, cultivated—with that magnificent form and carriage, the “low-born girl!” whom she supposed her brother had married! It seemed impossible! She was so entirely different from what she had conceived her to be.

Why, this brilliant creature was fitted to grace a throne—to shine a star in the highest circles of even her own country, of which she was so arrogantly proud, and she, by her cunning plotting, her falsehood and calumny, had debarred her from her home, from all the rights which legally belonged to her; she had brought shame and dishonor upon her, broken her heart, and, in so doing, had made her own brother’s home desolate, his life almost a barren waste.

That beautiful child, too—that dainty, graceful, golden-haired fairy, with her mother’s delicate features and her father’s eyes; yes, they were strikingly like Sir William’s own—she had tried to cheat her out of her heritage, and thus the grand old house at Heathdale was childless and was likely to remain so until this brave, determined woman came to demand justice, and to claim for her daughter the respect and honor that had been denied her as a wife.

She knew that she would do it if she lived; those quiet, resolute tones still rang in her ears, and she fell back upon her pillows weak and faint, heart-sick and terrified, and, for the moment, filled with remorse for the sin of the past.

She fully realized at last the enormity of her treachery and wickedness—the hardness of her heart, the selfishness of her nature.

She had been utterly heartless when she had attempted to crush the lovely girl whom her brother had won, and now the basely wronged woman had turned and heaped coals of fire upon her head. She had nobly put aside all sense of injury, and, knowing full well that she was serving an enemy, had saved her life and then given her kindest attention and tenderest care during her illness.

Lady Linton knew that she should carry a burdened heart to her grave on account of it.

Fired with sudden impulse, she started up and sharply rang her bell.

The woman of the house came to her almost immediately.

“Where is she?” demanded the invalid, wildly.

“Who?” asked her attendant, surprised by her excessive agitation.

“The lady who has been so kind to me. Call her back! Call her at once!”

“She has gone. The carriage has just driven away from the cottage where she stopped.”

Lady Linton sank back again with a groan.

She was too late. She had meant to do a good deed. Under the impulse of the moment, and with a feeling of gratitude animating her, overcome with admiration for a rarely beautiful woman, and a sense of superiority; with the vision of that lovely, dark-eyed child still before her, she had resolved to make a full confession of all her wrong-doing, try to effect a reconciliation between those two who, she knew, still devotedly loved each other, and thus atone, as far as was possible, for the sin she had committed.

But the opportunity was gone, and when she came to think of it more calmly afterward, she began to upbraid herself for her momentary weakness, and to be glad that she had not committed herself.

Her good angel fled, her better nature was overcome, and she grew harder, more bitter than before.

“There will be some way out of it,” she muttered, as she recalled Virgie’s threat to claim her child’s heritage. “I will fight it out to the bitter end. I am glad I did not make a fool of myself.”