CHAPTER XVIII.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
Rosalind’s sorrow, so prettily acted, had its due effect. Her friends quickly acquitted her of all blame, and hastened to soothe her ruffled feelings by praising the good intentions that had prompted her terrible mistake.
The Bonairs hated anything like notoriety, and they tried very hard to keep the sensational events of that night out of the newspapers.
But their efforts failed of success, and the reporters reaped a rich harvest.
When the manager of Berry’s company came the next day to inquire for his missing star, he was astounded to learn through the voluble housekeeper of the tragedy of the previous night.
He went quite white, and trembled with the shock, and as he was rather young and very handsome, Mrs. Hopson surmised that he must be the young girl’s lover, and pitied him very much.
He cried out hoarsely:
“Barely alive, you say, with but one chance in a hundred for her life? Oh, how terrible! I can scarcely credit it, unless I see her with my own eyes!”
He went from the mansion to the cottage, and Mrs. Cline permitted him to see the poor, unconscious girl upon the bed, breathing so faintly that it seemed as if every pulsation must be her last.
“Dying, poor girl, dying! And I loved her, oh, I loved her better than my life!” the man cried, sinking on his knees by the bed, and pressing his lips to the cold little hand that lay outside the cover.
“Then you were going to marry the poor young lady?” asked Mrs. Cline.
“No, for she had rejected my suit, telling me she had loved once and her faith had been destroyed forever. She was very unhappy, I know, over her broken lovedream, but I still hoped on, believing that in time she might forget her false lover and turn to me. In all our leading parts I was cast as her lover, and I threw my whole soul into everything, hoping to win her at last. Alas! all is over, and her sweet life has fallen beneath the machinations of a cowardly enemy,” the man moaned, staggering up to his feet, with a look of despair that touched the woman’s heart.
“I am so sorry for you, sir,” she murmured, putting the corner of her white apron to her eyes, that were wet with tears.
He thanked her with a look, and added:
“While she lives, Mrs. Cline, see that she receives the best of attention, and look to me to settle all expenses to—the last!” his voice breaking over the word.
“Oh, sir, the Bonairs have already pledged themselves to pay everything. A trained nurse is coming within the hour, and the physician will be in frequently,” she replied.
“May I see Mr. Bonair? Will you take my card to him?” asked the manager.
She assented, and he was kept waiting some time, while she related to Charley Bonair every word he had uttered, faithfully describing the emotion he had displayed.
Charley Bonair was lying on his couch very pale and restless, and he grew almost ghastly as the tale ran on.
“That will do, you may bring him in,” he said, at last.
The next moment:
“Ah, Mr. Bonair, will you pardon this intrusion?”
“You are welcome, Mr. Weston. Pray be seated,” Charley answered quietly, gazing hard at his handsome rival.
Truly he was handsome and manly, with that dark, flashing eye that so easily wins its way to a woman’s heart. Charley Bonair wondered jealously that Berry had been able to withstand its fascination.
“Dear little one, surely she loved me well,” he thought, with a twinge of the bitterest remorse and pain.
The manager had somewhat recovered his self-possession that had wavered in the presence of his dying love. He did not give way as before Mrs. Cline, but conversed easily and with a sorrowful dignity that impressed the hearer, against his wishes, with profound respect.
“A dangerous rival, and perhaps more worthy of her than I am,” Bonair said to himself, with a sweeping self-contempt new and withering.
If she lived, poor little Berry, who could tell but that such devotion might win her at last?—but he groaned aloud at the thought.
“Your pardon. A twinge of pain in that confounded shoulder,” he explained.
“Permit me to praise your acting last night,” he added. “It was superb, and, in fact, your company is an admirable one.”
“I thank you, but we are almost ruined now by this terrible happening. No woman in my company is capable of taking the leading part at short notice. I shall arrange to pay the company a week’s salary in advance, and disband for an indefinite time.”
“You must permit me to assist in the financial part; I feel it my duty, and will make it my pleasure. I cannot forget that the disaster came to you through your appearance at my home last night,” the wounded man said cordially.
But the manager declined the offer with a proud, though gentle, dignity, winning more and more Bonair’s respect.
“I thank you, sir, but I must decline your offer, since I am amply able to meet these expenses,” he said, adding after a moment’s hesitation:
“Whatever you may choose to spend in tracing Miss Vane’s cowardly murderer will be well spent.”
“No expense will be spared for that,” Bonair promised, growing so pale again that the visitor felt he was staying too long, and took a courteous and sympathetic leave.
It was a nine days’ wonder in the papers, and the reporters “worked the story for all it was worth.” Meanwhile the Weston Company became so interesting to the general public that the next cleverest actress studied Berry’s part, and the new play, “A Wayside Flower,” ran successfully for weeks upon the boards of a popular theater.
All this time Berry was lingering between life and death from the terrible pounding Zilla had given her in the bear pit, but at last the wavering balance began to incline toward life, gladdening many anxious hearts, but filling one, alas, with malignant hate.
For Rosalind’s jealous hatred waxed hotter every day, and could she have found a chance to be alone in that sick room for five minutes, it is hard to say what might have happened.
But a young princess could not have been guarded with more loving care than the poor little actress, and it was all through Charley Bonair that this was so.
He employed two competent nurses for the sick room, and one or the other was ordered to remain always in the girl’s apartment.
“We must remember always that she has a cruel and unscrupulous enemy thirsting for her young life,” he said. “That enemy may be hovering about, watching for an opportunity to complete her murderous work. She must be foiled in her terrible designs,” he said firmly, and Rosalind, who heard the words, turned aside to hide a cruel sneer that parted her crimson lips.
She was disappointed in all her crafty little schemes for entrapping him into marriage before Berry recovered. It was plainer to her than ever that she had lost every hold she had upon him, and she dreaded every day that he would ask for a release from his engagement.
Rosalind said to herself that when that happened she was afraid she would go mad of her anger and despair.
A jilted bride! How could she bear the stigma, how turn aside the jeers of her little carping world?
“I cannot, I will not release him if he dares plead to me. I will hold him to his promise, and he dare not back down!” she vowed bitterly.
Charley Bonair’s convalescence was so slow that every one became uneasy, not dreaming that he played a deceitful part in order to remain as long as he could beneath the same roof with Berry. Besides, as he said to himself, he could hold Rosalind off better that way. Though she came every day with his sisters to visit him, he frequently pretended to be too ill or nervous to receive them till at last his doctor rallied him soundly.
“What game is it you are playing, Bonair? You were well enough two weeks ago.”
Before Bonair left at last, the nurses permitted him to sit a half hour in Berry’s room watching her as she slept, with the dark silken lashes prone upon her snowy cheek, and the breath just stirring the white folds of her breast.
The sight went to his heart, stirring it with profound emotion, so that he said to himself:
“How can I dream of ever wedding any but this beautiful creature, my soul’s true mate? She must be mine alone; I must break with Rosalind!”