"Mother, Bonnibel has refused Colonel Carlyle."
Mrs. Arnold looked up from the sofa where she lay reading a novel by the gas-light with a start of surprise. Felise had come into the room as quietly as a spirit in her white dressing-gown.
"Mercy, Felise, how you startled me!" she exclaimed. "I had just got to such an exciting part where the heroine was just about to be murdered by her jealous rival when in you came with your long hair and trailing white wrapper, like Lady Macbeth walking in her sleep. I almost expected to hear you exclaim:
"'Here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand!'"
"You are quite dramatic to-night, mother—your novel must be an exciting one," said Felise, with a slight sneer. She came forward and sat down in a large easy-chair opposite her mother. She looked pale, and her eyes burned with repressed excitement.
"It is," said Mrs. Arnold, "the most thrilling book I have read lately. But what were you saying when you came in and frightened me so?"
"I said that Bonnibel had refused Colonel Carlyle," repeated Felise, distinctly.
Mrs. Arnold sat up with her fingers between the pages of her book, whose interesting perusal she felt loth to stop. She said, half stupidly:
"Oh, she has, has she? Well, it had to come to that, sooner or later, you know, my love."
"Indeed?" answered Felise, shortly.
"Well, you know we have been expecting it some time, Felise, ever since Colonel Carlyle lost his heart about her. I must say his conduct to you has not been that of a gentleman, my dear."
"I quite agree with you," said Felise dryly.
She was very quiet, but her small hands were tightly clenched. She seemed "to hold passion in a leash" by a strong effort of will.
"But how did you find it out?" inquired her mother, thinking that Felise was taking it quite calmly, after all.
"As I find out most things—by keeping my eyes and ears open!" retorted her daughter, tartly.
"When did it happen?"
"This afternoon, while you were out calling on the Trevertons."
"Was the old fool much cut up about it?" inquired Mrs. Arnold, inelegantly.
"He would not take no for an answer," said Felise. "He wanted her to take time to think of all the advantages he offered her, and he is coming in a week to hear her decision."
"The silly old dotard!" ejaculated her mother. "Well, all he can get by his persistence is a second refusal."
Felise Herbert straightened herself in her chair, and looked at her mother with a strange smile on her face.
"I do not intend that he shall get a second refusal!" she said, in a low voice that was very firm and incisive.
Mrs. Arnold stared at her daughter in blank surprise and incredulity.
"Why, Felise, what can you mean?" she inquired.
"I mean that Bonnibel Vere shall marry Colonel Carlyle!" her daughter answered, in the same low, determined voice.
"Why, my dear, you know it cannot be when she already has a husband! Besides, I did not know that you wanted them to marry. I thought—I thought—" said Mrs. Arnold, stopping short because surprise had overpowered her.
She looked at the white figure sitting so quietly there in the arm-chair, with some apprehension. Had Felise's disappointment impaired her reason?
"You need not look at me so strangely, mother," said Felise. "I assure you I am not mad, as your eyes imply. I am as sane as you are; but I have said that Bonnibel Vere shall marry my recreant lover, and I mean to keep my word. She has stolen him from me, and now she shall marry him and get out of my way! Or perhaps you would prefer to keep her here to spoil the next eligible chance I get," said Felise, looking at her mother with burning eyes.
"I don't see how you can bring her to consent to such a thing, even if you are in earnest, my dear."
"You have got to help me, mother. You shall tell her that you will not allow her to refuse Colonel Carlyle—that she shall become his wife, and that if she does not revoke her rejection, you will turn her instantly into the street!"
"Felise, will you tell me why you are so determined upon their marriage? I supposed you were unwilling to it—it would be only natural for you to oppose it—but you seem as anxious for it as Colonel Carlyle himself. Again, I ask you why?
"Mother, I told you I would take revenge upon my rival. This is a part of my revenge. Their marriage will be the first act in the drama. Do not ask me how I am going to proceed. Let me work out my revenge in my own way. I owe them both a score. Never fear but I will pay it off with interest!"
"But, Felise, you must know that Bonnibel would sooner declare her secret marriage than be forced into another one. I can turn her into the street if you are determined upon it; but I know I cannot make a girl as truthful and pure as Bonnibel Vere knowingly become the wife of two husbands."
"I fully admit your inability to do that, mother. I do not intend to insist on your performance of impossibilities. As for Leslie Dane, look here!"'
She straightened out a folded paper she had carried in her bosom, and leaning forward pointed out a small paragraph to her mother.
Mrs. Arnold read the brief paragraph with starting eyes, then turned and looked at her daughter. She no longer kept her finger between the pages of her novel. It had slipped down upon the floor. She was getting absorbed in this tragedy in real life.
"Is it possible?" she exclaimed. "Felise, can it be true?"
"Why not?" was the cool interrogatory. "Such things happen often—don't they?
"'Every minute dies a man,
Every minute one is born.'"
"Let me see the date," Mrs. Arnold said, bending forward. "Ah! it is very recent. Well, I am surprised. But yet it is a very fortunate occurrence, is it not? Of course it is genuine."
"Why, of course it is," said Felise, with a short, dry laugh. "How else could it be in the paper? They don't put such things in for sport, I suppose."
"Of course not; but it came upon me so suddenly I felt quite incredulous at first. Well, this puts a new face upon the matter, does it not, my dear?"
"Certainly, mother. I will show her this paper, and she cannot have any pretext for repeating her refusal in the face of the alternative with which you shall threaten her. I suppose any girl in her senses would marry Colonel Carlyle and his millions rather than be turned out homeless into the street."
She sat still a moment staring before her into futurity with lurid eyes that saw her revenge already, and curling lips that began to taste its sweetness in anticipation.
"When must I tell her, Felise?" inquired Mrs. Arnold.
"To-morrow, mother. There is no use in delaying matters. Let us bring the marriage about as speedily as possible. You will tell her to-morrow what she has to do, and I will be on hand with the paper."
She rose slowly.
"Well, I will go, and leave you to finish your novel," she said; "but if you take my advice you will retire instead. It is growing late. Good-night."
"Good-night, my love, and pleasant dreams," her mother answered.
She went out as quietly as she had entered, her dark hair flying wildly over her shoulders and her white robes trailing noiselessly after her. She was twisting her hands together, and again Mrs. Arnold thought of Lady Macbeth washing her hands and crying in her sleep, "Out, damned spot!"
Ah, Felise Herbert! There was a stain on your soul as red as that on Lady Macbeth's hand!