CHAPTER VII.
A SUSPECTED RIVAL.
“You may laugh at me for a superstitious girl, mamma,” declared beautiful Rosalind Montague, “but I shall always believe that postponements in love are ill-omened. Ever since the night of the lawn fête, when my lover failed to appear, and the fête was broken up by the sudden rainstorm that drenched all our pretty gowns, I have seen that something has gone wrong between Charley’s heart and mine. Do you know, mamma, he has never loved me the same, since his long illness?”
“Just your fancy, dear. To me it seems that he is yet ill and nervous after his terrible experience with his runaway horse that night. I have seen him start and turn pale when no one was speaking, as if from ghastly thoughts.”
“That is true, mamma, perfectly true, and he shudders sometimes when I barely touch his hand, and he is cold as ice to me, mamma, cold as ice. He seldom comes here, only when I send for him, and he never alludes to our engagement. Do you believe that his illness can have dazed his brain, that he can have forgotten?”
“It may be so—who can tell?” cried the proud old lady in velvet and diamonds. “I would sound him gently on the subject, Rosalind.”
“But, mamma, I should not know what to say, how to begin,” exclaimed the girl, with a slight blush.
“Oh, that is easy enough, dear—all roads lead to Rome! Ask him if he has any preference where to spend the honeymoon, or how long he is willing to wait until the wedding—or if he does not think your engagement ring is a little too loose—anything!”
“Thank you, mamma, I’ll stir him up somehow, for at present he is a very unsatisfactory lover. It almost looks as if I have a rival!”
“Oh, nonsense, dear, who could rival beautiful Rosalind Montague, the belle of her set, who won the millionaire’s son from a whole bevy of conspiring mammas and daughters!”
Rosalind smiled complacently at the flattery, and glanced at her reflection in the tall pier glass—a fair reflection, indeed, of a stately blonde with masses of flax-golden hair and large, blue eyes that could soften with love or flash with anger till they looked like points of blue steel. This delicate beauty, appropriately gowned in rich attire, had indeed made Rosalind the belle of her set, “the rose that all were praising.”
It was the most natural thing in the world for Charley Bonair to fall victim to her charms, even if his pretty sisters, her schoolmates, had not conspired to bring it about, artfully throwing them together, ably abetted by Rosalind and her scheming mamma.
He was one of the greatest catches in fashionable society—the only son of the millionaire senator, and although Madam Rumor said ungracious things of him—that he was dissipated, profligate, libertine—what of that? He would inherit several of his father’s millions, and could cover his wife with diamonds if he wished, so one must overlook the spots on the sun! Rosalind knew that she could not get a perfect husband.
To do the pretty Bonair girls justice, they were eager for the match, because they believed that marriage would reform their brother. And who so suitable a bride as Rosalind, their school friend, well-born, well dowered, beautiful, queenly, and secretly adoring the handsome prodigal!
So, among them all, they set a snare for Charley, and tripped him up. His battered heart succumbed easily. Rosalind had scored a triumph over all the beauties! Both families were charmed, and looked eagerly forward to the wedding day.
Right here was where Charley failed in loverlike duty, for he neglected to ask his betrothed to set the wedding day, apparently quite satisfied to make it a long engagement.
Mrs. Montague was not altogether pleased at his lukewarmness. To offset it, she planned the lawn fête to announce the betrothal. When the fact became public property, he must name the day.
We have seen how fate stepped in between and foiled their plans, and how the ominous shadow of that night’s disappointment hung over Rosalind’s ambitious hopes.
“What has put this notion of a rival in your head, dear girl?” continued the mother curiously.
Rosalind hesitated a moment, and a cold, angry glitter shone in her eyes, as she whispered:
“Mamma, of course I know the hard things that are said of Charley—that he is fond of cards, women, and wine. Well, I happen to know that the very day of our fête, even by my very side, my lover was attracted by a new beauty, and could not hide his admiration.”
“A new beauty—who?” demanded Mrs. Montague uneasily.
“You will be startled, mamma, but you will see that I am not jealous without a cause. Listen,” and Rosalind poured out the story of the morning ride when Charley Bonair had bowed to and admired little Berry Vining.
“He said, to my very face, that she was the prettiest girl he ever saw, but I told him how poor and humble she was, and ridiculed his fancy. I found out afterward that he rode back from my side to the florist’s, and sent her a great bunch of red roses. Was not that enough to make any engaged girl angry and jealous, mamma?”
“I must admit you are quite right, darling. Oh, what wretches men are!”
“Yes, indeed, and naturally after that I was jealous and suspicious. When he did not come that night I was almost wild, wondering if I was deserted already for the little village beauty. I did not sleep that night for anger and grief, though I was too proud to tell you until now, when I can no longer bear my trouble alone, because I am haunted always by two torturing questions.”
“What are they, my love?”
“One is this, mamma: ‘What became of that girl when she disappeared so suddenly from home that night? And—did Charley Bonair know anything of her flight?’”
“You suspect him of treachery?”
“Have I not cause? How strangely she fled from home! How lame were her old mother’s guesses at the truth! No girl could be forced to marry a rich old man against her will. Then again, mamma, how strange that Charley should be taking a ride miles out into the country that night, when he was overdue at our fête, where he was to be the guest of honor.”
“You talk like a detective, Rosalind.”
“Oh, mamma, do not ridicule me,” the girl clasped her white hands, imploringly. “Think how much I love him, how much I have at stake! I have puzzled out all this in torturing nights when I could not sleep for jealous pain.”
The proud woman of the world looked at her beautiful daughter, and a deep sigh escaped her lips. Stifling it with a sarcastic smile, she answered:
“It is the way of the world, my dear; men are wicked, and women are weak. It may be as you suspect, that he had a fancy for the girl, but you need not worry over that; you are the one he will marry, and he will tire of her and put her aside before your wedding day.”
“But, mamma, I hate her! I would gladly see her dead, the little hussy! How dare she accept his love, knowing, as all the town knows, that he belongs to me! And who would have believed such a thing of little Berry Vining, who seemed such a good, innocent little thing!”
“Those good little girls like Berry are just the ones to be deceived and ruined by designing men, child. But put it out of your thoughts, love, do. We cannot alter the world nor mankind, and all I can say to you is that it’s better not to brood over imaginary troubles. Bonair shall marry you, darling, never fear.”