Charley Bonair was a man of action.
Having resolved to marry Berenice Vining, he knew that he would have to encounter strong family opposition, and foreboded that every possible means would be adopted to prevent the marriage.
Therefore he decided to forestall family interference by marrying the young girl first, and trying to reconcile his relatives afterward.
His sanguine disposition made him believe that this would be an easy task. And even if it failed he felt quite independent, even in the face of possible disinheritance.
His dead mother had left her own handsome fortune to be divided between her three children on the coming of age of Marie, the youngest.
Charley thought he and his love could get along very well on his portion, especially as Berenice was used to poverty and would not really know how to be extravagant.
He made up his mind to have the ceremony quietly to-morrow and he would then feel surer.
He took Mrs. Cline partially into his confidence, telling her that he and Berenice had been lovers before and parted through a misunderstanding that he had now explained away.
The next thing he had to do—the hardest of all—was to acquaint Rosalind with the fact of his acceptance by her rival.
He felt keenly how unwelcome the news must be to the girl who had loved him and hoped to be his bride, but he assured himself that she would soon be consoled by the attentions of other lovers.
“I am not much of a prize for any girl, if it were not for father’s money, anyway. She will soon forget me,” he thought, with unwonted seriousness, for at the thought of wedding little Berry, all the follies of his youth rose up blackly before his mind’s eye, with a poignant sense of regret.
As he strolled slowly backward to the mansion, in the late afternoon amid the sweet sights and sounds and perfume of spring at her loveliest, he caught himself wondering “if the old man would ‘cut up very rough’ over the mésalliance he was going to make,” and if his dainty sisters would turn up their pretty noses at his humble bride.
“It is very likely they may, but if so I must face the music and accept my fate. One thing is certain. I would not give up my bonnie bride for the whole Bonair fortune, although I should like a generous slice of it for my bride’s sake as well as my own. Heigh-ho, he may cut me off with a shilling, though, and then I shall only get the modest portion from my mother. Without that we should have to live on bread and cheese and kisses, my love and I.” He threw back his handsome head with a happy laugh, and went his way, whistling a plaintive Irish air that seemed to chime with his mood:
“My fortunes are not what for your sake I could wish them to be;
My wealth consists of but a heart that beats alone for thee;
And when I ask you to be mine,
As I shall surely do,
This is the song I shall sing to you:
“My heart for your heart
Is all I can give;
My love for your love
As long as we live;
My smile for your smile,
Until life is o’er;
These give me, sweetheart,
I ask nothing more.”
With a heart elate with love and joy and triumph, he entered the house and sought Rosalind, but she was nowhere to be seen.
He sent up a servant to her room to ask for an interview, eager to have the painful task over that he might give himself up wholly to the happiness that sent his pulses bounding joyously along his veins.
The servant came back quickly to say that Miss Montague was in bed with a sick headache, and had desired not to be disturbed.
With that he began to feel a little remorseful, saying to himself:
“Poor Rose! no doubt she has wept herself into a headache over losing me. I wish she had not loved so well! It makes me feel badly because I know I don’t deserve one of her tears.”
He was interrupted here by a visit from the detective who came, as he had done several times before, to report that he had made no headway with the case.
“The old Indian seeress has covered up her tracks completely. I cannot get the slightest clew to her whereabouts or her identity, and I almost believe that some disguised person played the part of fortune teller, and may be laughing in secret at our fruitless search,” he exclaimed.
While the young man stared at him in startled wonder, he added:
“I have made up my mind that we can do nothing more until Miss Vane, the actress, is able to speak for herself. Doubtless she might tell us something that would furnish a clew. What do you think?”
“It may be so, but I doubt it. She is fast regaining strength, and I hope may soon be interviewed on the subject, although the physician interdicts such conversation now,” Charley answered.
“In that case I will wait before I take any further steps. If she cannot furnish any further clew it will be useless for me to go on, as the murderer or murderess, as the case may be, is securely entrenched behind a disguise we cannot penetrate,” reluctantly owned the detective.
Charley Bonair, after a moment’s meditation, agreed with him that it must be so.
“One more question,” said the baffled sleuth: “Do you know of any malignant enemy Miss Vane can have?”
In his masculine obtuseness, Charley quickly answered:
“No, I do not know that she has an enemy in the world.”
The detective mused a moment, then exclaimed:
“Sometimes love can be as cruel as hate. I wonder if the beautiful young girl had a rejected lover?”
He started when he was answered in the affirmative.
“Ah, perhaps I am getting on the right track now! Where is this man? Who is he?”
“He is the manager of the company in which Miss Vane was the leading lady. His name is Willis Weston, and he may be seen every night on the boards of the Olympia Theater.”
“Ah-h, then I have seen him already! A clever actor and a handsome man, on or off the stage. Perhaps this may give me a clew. I shall look into his past, and in the meantime, sir, as soon as the young lady can safely give me an interview, please let me know, for surely she may be able to throw some light on the darkness of this mysterious case.”
He bowed himself out, and Charley was about to leave the room also when he was startled by the appearance of Miss Montague’s maid, Suzette. She curtsied, and said:
“My mistress begins to feel a little better, sir, and would be pleased to see you for a while in her boudoir.”
“I will come at once,” he replied, following the maid in his eagerness to be off with the old love, but saying to himself humorously:
“What fools men are, anyway! They would be lots better off if they left the women alone and remained bachelors all their lives, but instead of that they must always be getting into hot water over the pretty dears. We are weak as children, where woman is concerned, that’s the truth. Now, I wonder what is up with Rosalind? I pray Heaven she does not treat me to a fit of hysterics.”
Suzette opened a door into a shaded rose-hung boudoir, and disappeared.
He stepped across the threshold and was alone with Rosalind.
The slighted beauty lay gracefully posing among the silken pillows of an Oriental couch.
She wore a negligee robe of soft white lansdowne, embroidered in blue flowers that matched the striking hue of her beautiful eyes. The golden lengths of her thick hair flowed unconfined over her shoulders, and her face, even to her lips, wore a bluish pallor of illness and suffering.
At Charley’s entrance a melancholy smile curved her lips, and she extended her white hand, glittering with diamonds, murmuring:
“Dear Charley, I was really too ill to receive you. See to what a plight your falsity has brought me. But I hoped against hope you had relented, and wished everything to be as before, so I sent for you. Ah, tell me, dear, is it true?”
Charley’s heart quickly sank like a stone in his breast, for he saw that his presentiment was right; hysterics were impending, sure enough!
He felt like swearing, but he controlled the impulse and stood gazing at her, speechlessly, while she raved on:
“Oh, Charley, dearest, I’ve thought it all over until my brain is almost wild, and I’ve decided that I cannot, will not give you up to my rival! I have the first, best claim, and I will yield it to no other. Ah, say that you will love me still, that you will be true to your vows!”
“Here is a pretty pickle!” groaned the young man to himself, in a sort of consternation at the situation, his generous heart touched by her display of emotion, for her beauty and her sorrow were very striking, almost theatrical.
But he pulled himself together, and said gently, with an abashed air in his self-reproach:
“Don’t say another word, please, Rosalind; you are only making matters worse. It is too late!”
“Too late!” she almost shrieked, and he answered seriously:
“Yes, forever, too late. I’ve proposed to the other girl, and have been accepted.”
A cry of rage burst from Rosalind’s lips, and her blue eyes blazed with the fire of jealous hate.
She sat erect suddenly and shook her small, jeweled fist close to his face.
“Coward! Traitor! You have turned my love to hate, and you shall pay dear for the slight you have put upon me!”
“Do you threaten me with a suit for breach of promise?” he demanded laughingly.
“Worse than that, far worse!” she answered fiercely, adding: “I know who my secret rival is already—that miserable little actress that used to be Berry Vining, and I will have my revenge on you both! Now go!”
Charley obeyed her with alacrity!