Colonel Carlyle would fain have lingered in Bonnibel's apartment and asked for some explanation of her fainting spell, which he was convinced was the result of her meeting with the artist, although her simple assertion of striking her head against the jardiniere had deceived all others except himself, as it might have deceived him but for the warning of the masked sibyl.
But it was quite true that she had hurt her head, and when the faithful Lucy parted the thick locks and began to dress the slight wound, her young mistress turned so ghastly pale and closed her eyes so wearily that the jealous old man saw that it was no fitting time for recrimination, and went away to attend to his guests, half-resolved to have it out with the artist himself.
But calmer thoughts stepped in and forbade this indulgence of his spleen. After all, what could he say to the young man? What did he know wherewith to accuse him? His anonymous informant had only said that his wife and the artist had been former lovers. What, then? How the gay world would have laughed if he picked a quarrel with the lion of the hour on such a charge as that.
Many of the women whom Colonel Carlyle knew would have deemed it an honor to have been loved either in the past or present by the gifted artist. No, there was nothing he could say to the man on the subject, yet he determined that he would at least watch him closely, and if—if there should be even the faintest attempt on his part to revive the intimacy of the past, then woe unto him, for Colonel Carlyle was nerved to almost any act of frenzy.
Bonnibel lifted her head when the colonel was gone and looked at her faithful attendant with a face on which death itself seemed to have set its seal.
"Oh, me! Miss Bonnibel, you are as white as a ghost," exclaimed Lucy. "And no wonder! It is a bad cut, though not very deep. Does it hurt you very much?"
"What are you talking of, Lucy? What should hurt me?" inquired her mistress in a wild, startled tone, showing that she had quite forgotten her wound.
"Why, the cut on your head, to be sure," said Lucy in surprise.
"Oh! Heaven, I had forgotten that," moaned the poor young creature. "I do not feel the pain, Lucy, for the wound in my heart is much deeper. It is of that only I am thinking."
She bowed her face in her hands and deep, smothered moans shook her from head to foot. The delicate frame reeled and shook with emotion like some slender reed shaken by a storm.
Lucy knelt down at her feet and implored her mistress to tell her what she could do to help her in her trouble, whatever it might be.
"Miss Bonnibel," she urged, "tell me something that I can do for you—anything, no matter what, to help you out of your trouble if I can."
Bonnibel hushed her sobs by a great effort of will, and looked down at the faithful creature.
"Bring me my writing-desk, Lucy," she said, "and I will tell you what you can do for me."
Lucy complied in wondering silence.
Bonnibel took out a creamy white sheet, smooth as satin, and wrote a few lines upon it with a shaking hand. Then she dashed her pen several times through the elaborate monogram "B.C." at the top of the sheet.
"Lucy," she said, as she inclosed her note in an envelope and hastily addressed it, "do you remember a gentleman who used to visit at Sea View before my Uncle Francis died—a Mr. Dane?"
"Perfectly well, ma'am," Lucy responded, promptly. "He was an artist."
"Yes, he was an artist. Should you know him again, Lucy?"
"I think I should, ma'am. He was very handsome, with dark eyes and hair," said the girl, who was by no means behind her sex in her appreciation of manly beauty.
"He is down-stairs now, Lucy—he is one of our guests to-night," said Bonnibel, with a heavy sigh.
"Is it possible, ma'am?" exclaimed the girl, in surprise. "I thought—at least I heard—Miss Herbert's maid told me a long while ago that Mr. Dane was dead."
"There was some mistake," answered Bonnibel, drearily. "He is alive—I have seen him. And now, Lucy, I will tell you what I wish you to do."
The girl stood listening attentively.
"You will take this note, my good girl, and go down-stairs and put it in the hands of Mr. Dane, if you can find him. Try and deliver it to him unobserved, and bring me back his answer."
"I will find him if he is to be found anywhere," said Lucy, taking the note and departing on her secret mission.
Leslie Dane's first passionate impulse after his abrupt meeting with his lost wife was to leave the house which sheltered her false head.
But as he was about to put his resolve into execution he was accosted by a group of ladies and detained for half an hour listening to an idle hum of words, from which he longed to tear himself away in the frenzy of scorn and indignation which possessed him.
At length he excused himself, and was about passing through the deserted hall on his way out when he encountered Bonnibel's maid.
Lucy had, like many illiterate persons, a keen recollection of faces. She knew the artist immediately.
"You are Mr. Dane," she said, going up to him after a keen glance around to see if she were unobserved.
"Yes," he answered, looking at her in wonder.
"I have a note for you, sir. Please read it and give me an answer at once."
He took it, tore off the envelope, and read the few lines that Bonnibel had penned, while a frown gathered on his brow.
"Well, sir?"
"Wait a moment."
He took a gold pencil from his pocket and hastily scribbled a few lines on the back of Bonnibel's sheet. Lucy, watching him curiously under the glare of gas-light, saw that he was deadly pale, and trembled like a leaf.
"Give this to your mistress," he said, putting the sheet back in the torn envelope, "and tell her that I am gone."
He turned away and walked rapidly out of sight.
Lucy sighed, she could not have told why, and turned back along the hall.
"Hold, girl!" exclaimed a hoarse, passionate voice behind her.
She turned in a fright, and saw Colonel Carlyle just behind her, his features distorted by rage and passion. He caught her arm violently and tore the note from her grasp.
"I will myself deliver this note to your mistress," he said, "and as for you, girl, go!"
He dragged her along the hallway to the open door, and pushed her out violently into the street, bareheaded and with no wrapping to protect her frail, womanly form from the rigors of the wintry night.
"Go, creature!" he thundered after her, "go, false minion of a false woman, and never darken these doors again with your hated presence!"
Lucy sank down upon the wet and sleety pavement with a moan of pain, and Colonel Carlyle closed and locked the door upon her defenseless form.
Rage had transformed the courteous old man into something more fiend-like than human.
As soon as he had disposed of his wife's attendant so summarily he turned his attention to the note he had wrested from her reluctant grasp.
Retiring into a deserted ante-room he opened and read it as coolly as if it had been addressed to himself.
What he read caused the veins to start out upon his forehead like great twisted cords, and his lips to writhe, while his face grew purple, and his eyes almost started from their sockets.
Bonnibel had written:
"Leslie, forgive me if you can. Before God, I wronged you innocently! I thought you dead! If there is one spark of pity or honor in your breast keep my secret. It would kill me to have it known to the world! I will go away from here and hide myself in obscurity forever! Of course I cannot remain with Colonel Carlyle a day longer. You seemed very angry to-night—your eyes flashed lurid lightnings upon me. I pray you, do not believe me willfully guilty—do not betray me for the sake of revenge! The shame, the horror, the disgrace of our fatal secret will kill me soon enough.
BONNIBEL."
Looking at the top of the page he saw that she had dashed her pen several times through her monogram. He gnashed his teeth at the sight.
"What could she possibly mean by it?" he asked himself, as he turned the sheet and read the artist's reply:
"Do not fear for your proud position, Bonnibel. Mine is the last hand upon earth that would drag you down from it! Pursue your wonted way in peace and serenity. You need not go away—that is for me to do. God knows I would never have come here to-night had I dreamed of meeting you! But try to forget it! To-morrow I shall have passed out of your life forever, and that most deplorable secret will be as safe with me as if I really were dead!
LESLIE DANE."
Colonel Carlyle crumpled those strange, unfathomable notes into his breast-pocket, and went out with ominous calm to bid adieu to his parting guests.
They had enjoyed themselves so much, they said, and with many regrets for Mrs. Carlyle's unfortunate accident they hastened their departure.