September slipped into October and Miss Montague returned home again from Bar Harbor, where she spent the summer.
Up at the hall it was very gay, for she was entertaining a house party of her friends, to all of whom it was well known that her trousseau was being made ready, and that before Christmas she was to be married to the multimillionaire, Senator Bonair.
But latterly Rosalind, although outwardly gay, was inwardly disturbed and uneasy, for in nearly two months she had no letter from her elderly betrothed, and became alarmed lest he should slip through her fingers.
In the absence of her betrothed she had consoled herself by flirting, in which she was an adept, and managed, on the whole, to pass away time very pleasantly.
There was one man who had danced attendance on her all summer, a handsome, dark-eyed, jealous fellow, that she preferred to any other, and she said to herself that she would keep him dangling on, till the senator came home, then, she would have to dismiss him for good. He was desperately in earnest, she knew, and she sometimes shuddered, wondering what he would do when he was given his congé. She would not be surprised in the least if he committed suicide; but if he chose to be such a fool, how could she help it?
Now that October was nearing its end, a vague uneasiness began to possess her, for it was quite two months since Senator Bonair had written, and she wondered at his strange silence, and that he did not return home.
Of the two daughters who had gone abroad on a bridal tour around the world, she also heard nothing. The silence was puzzling, annoying. Not even the ubiquitous newspapers seemed to know anything of the great man’s whereabouts.
“It looks bad, and I do not know what to make of it,” she said to her mother uneasily.
“Have you written him?”
“Several times, and as the letters are not returned he must have received them, so his silence is hard to understand.”
“It is very hard, indeed, for an old lover is mostly a greater fool than a young one,” said the worldly-wise mother. “Now, the senator acts so indifferently that he is quite puzzling. I expected he would write to you by every mail, and fairly load you with costly gifts, but he seems to almost forget your existence, and as for gifts, you have received nothing but your diamond engagement ring, and that handsome pearl necklace. If I were you, Rosalind, I would call him to time!”
“What could you do, mamma, since he does not answer my letters, and I cannot follow him up, not knowing whither he has gone?” Rosalind cried impatiently.
“I would write him again—a real love letter, pleading and reproachful by turns, insisting on an answer. Make him show his hand, whatever he has got up his sleeve,” exclaimed Mrs. Montague, rather coarsely.
“Faugh! the idea of writing a love letter to that gray-haired man, sixty years old!” pouted Rosalind disdainfully.
“You will have to pass a long life with him, remember, and he will expect love-making from you, too, which is worse than writing a love letter,” reminded Mrs. Montague.
“A long life with that old dotard! No, no, don’t you fancy such a silly thing as that, mamma! When I get him I shall lead him such a dance I shall soon worry him into his grave.” Rosalind laughed heartlessly, much to the displeasure of her mother, who, though worldly-wise and scheming, was not so cruel by nature. She proceeded to read Rosalind a lecture on the duty to the man she should marry, all of which was heard with a rosy face, and interrupted before its end by the exclamation:
“Oh, bother! don’t lecture me! I shall do as I please with my doting old spouse!”
“There’s another thing, my dear, and that is, I think you go too far flirting with this Adrian Vance. We really do not know much about him, who he is, or why he seems so devoted to you. They say he comes of very humble origin, and certainly he is poor enough! You are making him desperate with love of you. You should send him away.”
“I shall do no such thing. I intend to keep him dangling on, to flirt with after I have married old Sir Moneybags!” Rosalind laughed, with an insolence that brooked no further interference.
But she was not quite a fool, this scheming beauty, so she heeded her mother’s advice enough to write such a letter as she advised, and she waited impatiently enough for an answer, for although she did not love the old man, she dearly loved the moneybags she talked of so glibly, and also her revenge on Charley Bonair.
To her surprise and relief, the fond love letter brought a prompt reply.
Senator Bonair had been too ill to write to any one, and not wishing to alarm his daughters or his betrothed, had not suffered any one else to write to them of his illness.
Therefore, although he had had her letters forwarded from London down to the village, he had not troubled himself to reply; and now that he was better he had a weakness of the eyes so that the doctor forbade him to use the pen.
In this dilemma, he had recourse, of all people in the world, to his son, to act as his amanuensis.
The father and son were on excellent terms now, and the young couple had taken up their quarters at the inn at his urgent request, to help while away the dull hours until he was well enough to go.
“Here, Berry, you write the letter for father to his sweetheart!” cried Charley coaxingly.
But Berry, always so gentle, suddenly turned stubborn and flatly declined:
“I will have nothing to do now, or ever, with Miss Montague!” she said, shaking her dark, curly head.