An Old Man's Darling

CHAPTER XIV

"Mother, Bonnibel has refused Colonel Carlyle."

Mrs. Arnold looked up from the sofa where she lay reading a novel by the gas-light with a start of surprise. Felise had come into the room as quietly as a spirit in her white dressing-gown.

"Mercy, Felise, how you startled me!" she exclaimed. "I had just got to such an exciting part where the heroine was just about to be murdered by her jealous rival when in you came with your long hair and trailing white wrapper, like Lady Macbeth walking in her sleep. I almost expected to hear you exclaim:

"'Here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand!'"

"You are quite dramatic to-night, mother—your novel must be an exciting one," said Felise, with a slight sneer. She came forward and sat down in a large easy-chair opposite her mother. She looked pale, and her eyes burned with repressed excitement.

"It is," said Mrs. Arnold, "the most thrilling book I have read lately. But what were you saying when you came in and frightened me so?"

"I said that Bonnibel had refused Colonel Carlyle," repeated Felise, distinctly.

Mrs. Arnold sat up with her fingers between the pages of her book, whose interesting perusal she felt loth to stop. She said, half stupidly:

"Oh, she has, has she? Well, it had to come to that, sooner or later, you know, my love."

"Indeed?" answered Felise, shortly.

"Well, you know we have been expecting it some time, Felise, ever since Colonel Carlyle lost his heart about her. I must say his conduct to you has not been that of a gentleman, my dear."

"I quite agree with you," said Felise dryly.

She was very quiet, but her small hands were tightly clenched. She seemed "to hold passion in a leash" by a strong effort of will.

"But how did you find it out?" inquired her mother, thinking that Felise was taking it quite calmly, after all.

"As I find out most things—by keeping my eyes and ears open!" retorted her daughter, tartly.

"When did it happen?"

"This afternoon, while you were out calling on the Trevertons."

"Was the old fool much cut up about it?" inquired Mrs. Arnold, inelegantly.

"He would not take no for an answer," said Felise. "He wanted her to take time to think of all the advantages he offered her, and he is coming in a week to hear her decision."

"The silly old dotard!" ejaculated her mother. "Well, all he can get by his persistence is a second refusal."

Felise Herbert straightened herself in her chair, and looked at her mother with a strange smile on her face.

"I do not intend that he shall get a second refusal!" she said, in a low voice that was very firm and incisive.

Mrs. Arnold stared at her daughter in blank surprise and incredulity.

"Why, Felise, what can you mean?" she inquired.

"I mean that Bonnibel Vere shall marry Colonel Carlyle!" her daughter answered, in the same low, determined voice.

"Why, my dear, you know it cannot be when she already has a husband! Besides, I did not know that you wanted them to marry. I thought—I thought—" said Mrs. Arnold, stopping short because surprise had overpowered her.

She looked at the white figure sitting so quietly there in the arm-chair, with some apprehension. Had Felise's disappointment impaired her reason?

"You need not look at me so strangely, mother," said Felise. "I assure you I am not mad, as your eyes imply. I am as sane as you are; but I have said that Bonnibel Vere shall marry my recreant lover, and I mean to keep my word. She has stolen him from me, and now she shall marry him and get out of my way! Or perhaps you would prefer to keep her here to spoil the next eligible chance I get," said Felise, looking at her mother with burning eyes.

"I don't see how you can bring her to consent to such a thing, even if you are in earnest, my dear."

"You have got to help me, mother. You shall tell her that you will not allow her to refuse Colonel Carlyle—that she shall become his wife, and that if she does not revoke her rejection, you will turn her instantly into the street!"

"Felise, will you tell me why you are so determined upon their marriage? I supposed you were unwilling to it—it would be only natural for you to oppose it—but you seem as anxious for it as Colonel Carlyle himself. Again, I ask you why?

"Mother, I told you I would take revenge upon my rival. This is a part of my revenge. Their marriage will be the first act in the drama. Do not ask me how I am going to proceed. Let me work out my revenge in my own way. I owe them both a score. Never fear but I will pay it off with interest!"

"But, Felise, you must know that Bonnibel would sooner declare her secret marriage than be forced into another one. I can turn her into the street if you are determined upon it; but I know I cannot make a girl as truthful and pure as Bonnibel Vere knowingly become the wife of two husbands."

"I fully admit your inability to do that, mother. I do not intend to insist on your performance of impossibilities. As for Leslie Dane, look here!"'

She straightened out a folded paper she had carried in her bosom, and leaning forward pointed out a small paragraph to her mother.

Mrs. Arnold read the brief paragraph with starting eyes, then turned and looked at her daughter. She no longer kept her finger between the pages of her novel. It had slipped down upon the floor. She was getting absorbed in this tragedy in real life.

"Is it possible?" she exclaimed. "Felise, can it be true?"

"Why not?" was the cool interrogatory. "Such things happen often—don't they?

"Let me see the date," Mrs. Arnold said, bending forward. "Ah! it is very recent. Well, I am surprised. But yet it is a very fortunate occurrence, is it not? Of course it is genuine."

"Why, of course it is," said Felise, with a short, dry laugh. "How else could it be in the paper? They don't put such things in for sport, I suppose."

"Of course not; but it came upon me so suddenly I felt quite incredulous at first. Well, this puts a new face upon the matter, does it not, my dear?"

"Certainly, mother. I will show her this paper, and she cannot have any pretext for repeating her refusal in the face of the alternative with which you shall threaten her. I suppose any girl in her senses would marry Colonel Carlyle and his millions rather than be turned out homeless into the street."

She sat still a moment staring before her into futurity with lurid eyes that saw her revenge already, and curling lips that began to taste its sweetness in anticipation.

"When must I tell her, Felise?" inquired Mrs. Arnold.

"To-morrow, mother. There is no use in delaying matters. Let us bring the marriage about as speedily as possible. You will tell her to-morrow what she has to do, and I will be on hand with the paper."

She rose slowly.

"Well, I will go, and leave you to finish your novel," she said; "but if you take my advice you will retire instead. It is growing late. Good-night."

"Good-night, my love, and pleasant dreams," her mother answered.

She went out as quietly as she had entered, her dark hair flying wildly over her shoulders and her white robes trailing noiselessly after her. She was twisting her hands together, and again Mrs. Arnold thought of Lady Macbeth washing her hands and crying in her sleep, "Out, damned spot!"

Ah, Felise Herbert! There was a stain on your soul as red as that on Lady Macbeth's hand!

CHAPTER XV

The morning after the rejection of Colonel Carlyle, Bonnibel Vere sat alone in a pleasant little morning-room that was thrown out from the main residence as a wing. It was daintily furnished in blue plush and walnut, and had double glass doors that looked out upon a lovely little garden that in this pleasant May season was glowing with bloom and fragrance.

Bonnibel had been trying to read, but in the perturbed state of her mind she could not fix her attention upon the book. It had fallen from her lap upon the floor, and as she sat in the luxurious arm-chair she leaned forward with her little chin buried in one pink palm and her blue eyes gazing into vacancy, as if lost in thought.

She looked very fair and sweet sitting there in a cool, white morning-dress, trimmed in lace and dotted about with several bows of black ribbon. Her beautiful hair, which was growing long and thick again, fell upon her shoulders in loose curls, like glints of sunshine.

She had broken a spray of white hyacinth and pinned it on her bosom, and she looked as pure and sweet as the flower itself.

"I am very sorry," she was thinking to herself, "that I was so unfortunate as to win Colonel Carlyle's affection. I certainly never dreamed of such a thing, and a year ago I should have laughed in the face of any old man who dared propose to me, and have told him I did not wish to marry my grandfather. Heigh-ho! I have grown graver now, and do not turn everything into a jest as I did then. Still, I wish it had not happened. I liked him simply as my father's friend, and I thought he liked me just as papa's daughter."

She sighed heavily.

"I think I understand some things now that have puzzled me all the winter," she mused. "He was Felise's lover when I first came, and I have unconsciously rivaled her. She hates me for it, and Aunt Arnold hates me, too. Ah! if they knew all that I knew they need not be afraid. Felise is welcome to him, and I will try to induce him to return to her. I never thought that Colonel Carlyle could have acted so basely toward her, as it seems he has–"

Mrs. Arnold's sudden entrance into the room interrupted her meditations. She looked so angry and overbearing that Bonnibel rose and was about leaving the room when she was recalled abruptly.

"Stay, Bonnibel; I wish to speak with you. Resume your seat, if you please."

Flushing with resentment at the insolent authority of the tone, Bonnibel turned and faced the lady with a gleam of pride shining in her blue eyes.

"Pardon me," she answered, coldly. "I will hear what you have to say standing."

"As you please," said Mrs. Arnold, with a sneer. "Perhaps your strength may not stand the ordeal, however."

Bonnibel stared at her in silent surprise.

"You have refused an offer of marriage from Colonel Carlyle," said Mrs. Arnold in a tone of deep displeasure.

Bonnibel's fair cheeks deepened their color ever so slightly.

"Yes, madam, I have," she answered after a moment's thought. "But I am ignorant of the means by which you became cognizant of the fact."

"It does not matter," Mrs. Arnold replied, flushing to a dark red under the clear pure eyes bent upon her. "Perhaps he told me himself. One would think that even so elderly a lover would consult a young lady's guardian and protector before addressing her! But no matter how I came by my information, you admit its truth."

"Certainly, madam," Bonnibel answered quietly, but wondering within herself what all this fencing meant. She was growing slightly nervous. The fair hands trembled slightly as they hung lightly clasped before her, and the white and red rose triumphed alternately in her cheek.

Mrs. Arnold stood resting her folded arms on the back of a chair, regarding the lovely young creature as if she had been a culprit before the bar of justice.

"May I ask what were your reasons for declining the honor Colonel Carlyle offered you?" she inquired in measured tones.

Bonnibel was half-tempted to deny Mrs. Arnold's right to ask such a question. With an effort she fought down the quick impulse, and answered in a voice as gentle as the other's was rude and self-assertive:

"I did not love him, Aunt Arnold!"

"Love! Love!" sneered the widow contemptuously. "What had love to do with the matter? You, a poor, penniless, dependent creature, to prate of love when such a man as Colonel Carlyle lays his millions at your feet! You should have jumped at the chance and thanked him for his condescension!"

The listener regarded her with horror and amazement. Her delicate lips quivered with feeling, and her eyes were misty with unshed tears.

"Surely, Aunt Arnold," she said, questioningly, "you would not have had me accept Colonel Carlyle simply for his gold?"

"Yes, I would, though," answered Mrs. Arnold roughly, "and what is more, I intend that you shall accept him, Bonnibel Vere! Girl, you must have been mad to dream of refusing such a splendid offer. When Colonel Carlyle returns for his final answer you will tell him that your first refusal was only a girlish freak of coquetry, to try his love, and that you accept his offer gratefully."

Bonnibel's cheeks turned as white as her dress, a mist rose before her eyes, shutting out the sight of her aunt's angry face.

She staggered and put out her hand to steady herself by a chair. Mrs. Arnold regarded her with an air of cold insolence.

"I thought you would find it rather beyond your strength to stand before our conversation was over," she remarked, with slight sarcasm.

Bonnibel did not seem to hear the last shaft of malice. She answered the preceding words in a voice that she strove to render steady and controlled.

"I cannot recognize your right to dictate to me in a matter that concerns myself alone, madam."

Mrs. Arnold listened to the proud, calm tones in furious wrath.

"You defy my authority? You refuse to obey me?" she broke out angrily.

"Your violence leaves me no other alternative, Aunt Arnold," said the young girl, trying hard to speak calmly. "I do not wish to marry yet, and the man whom you wish me to accept as a husband, could never be the choice of my heart. I cannot understand why you should wish to force me into a marriage so unsuitable."

The graceful, womanly dignity of the young girl's words and manner made no impression on the coarse woman's nature. She only saw before her the girl she had hated ever since her innocent babyhood, the girl whose peerless beauty had come between Felise and her brilliant prospects. She broke out in a passionate resentment:

"Because I want to be rid of you, girl! You have been a tumbling-block in my path your whole life, and I hate the very sight of your baby-face! But I took pity on you and cared for you when poverty came upon you. In return for my kindness you stole my daughter's lover! Now you shall marry him and get out of her way. It is the only reparation you can make her. Do you think I will allow you to refuse Colonel Carlyle, and remain here to cheat her out of the next eligible chance that offers? Never!"

It was hard work for the listener to be so fiercely assailed by this woman and not break out into the angry remonstrances that were swelling in her heart. But Bonnibel had learned the difficult art of self-control lately. She reflected to herself that it was but natural that Mrs. Arnold should feel sore over the disappointment and humiliation of her clever, handsome daughter.

"I am very sorry to hear that you hate me so much," she said, a little sadly. "I have had no one to love me since Uncle Francis died, and I hoped I might win a little place in his wife's heart. But you wrong me, indeed, in charging me with stealing Felise's lover. I never dreamed of winning him away from her; I was deceived by his interest in me, thinking it was simply because he had been a friend and comrade of my dear papa. I might have known better, you say. Perhaps I might, but I was blinded by private troubles of my own, and scarcely heeded what went on around me. I am very sorry I have been the innocent cause of pain to Felise."

"Spare her the additional mortification of your sympathy," was the ironical answer. "I think she can bear the old dotard's desertion. She does not desire your regrets, and I believe I have named the only reparation possible for you."

"And that?" said the girl, slowly.

"Is to marry Colonel Carlyle and get out of her way," was the harsh reply.

"I cannot do that," said Bonnibel, hurriedly. "It is impossible for me to marry Colonel Carlyle—there are many reasons why I should not. As to the other, I will–"

She was about to add, "I will go away from here," but a sickening thought flashed across her. Where could she go?

She had no relative to fly to in her trouble. She did not know how to work and take care of herself. She had never learned anything useful, and her education had been mostly limited to those showy, superficial accomplishments in vogue in the fashionable world. She had five hundred fashionable friends, but not one to whom she could turn for comfort in this her dark hour.