A Terrible Secret by May Agnes Fleming (motivational novels TXT) 📕

ached--she would sleep and forget.

She did sleep, deeply, dreamlessly. The sunlight was pouring into her room, flooding it with golden radiance, when she awoke.

She sprang up; her heart gave one bound of recollection and rapture. Sir Victor Catheron had asked her to be his wife.

Doubt was at an end--hesitation was at an end.

"Colors seen by candlelight Do not look the same by day."

Last night a hair might have turned the scale and made her say "No," reckless of consequences--to-day a thousand Charleys would not have influenced her. She would be Lady Catheron.

She sang as she dressed. Not the May sunshine itself was brighter than her face. She left her room, she walked down the corridor, down the stairs, and out upon the emerald green lawn.

A well-known figure, in a gray suit, stood a few yards off, pacing restlessly about and smoking. He flung away his cigar and hurried up to her. One glance at her smiling face, was enough, his own flushed deep with rapture.

"I have come for my answer," he cried. "O Edith, my darling, don't let it be 'No.'"

She laughed aloud at his vehemence--it was the sort of wooing she liked.

"I should like to please you, Sir Victor--what, then, shall it be?"

"Yes! a thousand times, yes! Edith, my love--my love--yes!"

She was smiling still--she looked him frankly in the eyes as no woman on earth, in such an hour, ever looked at the man she loved. She laid in his one slim, brown, ringless hand.

"Since you wish it so much, Sir Victor, let it be as you please. Yes!"


CHAPTER X.

HOW TRIX TOOK IT.

It was half-past twelve, by all the clocks and watches of Powyss Place. Miss Stuart sat alone, in the pleasant boudoir or sitting-room, assigned her, her foot on an ottoman, a novel in her hand, a frown on her brow, and most beautifully dressed. In solitary state, at half-past ten, she had breakfasted, waited upon by the trimmest of English handmaidens in smiles and lace cap. The breakfast had been removed for over an hour, and still Miss Stuart sat alone.

Her mamma had called to see her, so had Lady Helena, but _they_ did not count. She wanted somebody else, and that somebody did not come. Her novel was interesting and new, but she could not read; her troubles were too many and great.

First, there was her ankle that pained her, and Trixy did not like pain. Secondly, it was quite impossible she could venture to stand upon it for the next three days, and who was to watch Sir Victor during those three days? Thirdly, next week Lady Helena gave a large party, and at that party it was morally and physically impossible she could play any other part than that of wall-flower; she who was one of the best waltzers, and loved waltzing better than any other girl in New York. Is it any wonder, then, that an absorbing novel failed to absorb her?

The door opened and Edith came in. At all times and in all array, Miss Darrell must of necessity look handsome. This morning in crisp muslin and rose-colored ribbons, a flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes, Miss Darrell was something more than handsome--she was beautiful. Something, that was more the memory of a smile, than a smile itself, lingered on her lips--she was so brightly pretty, so fresh, so fair, that it was a pleasure only to look at her.

"Good morning, Trixy," she said. "How is our poor dear ankle? It doesn't hurt much, I hope?"

She came up behind Miss Stuart's chair, put her arms around her neck, stooped down and kissed her forehead. The frown on Trixy's face deepened--it was the last straw that broke the camel's back, to see Edith Darrell looking so brightly handsome, privileged to go where she pleased, while she was chained to this horrid chair.

"It _does_ hurt," Trixy responded crossly. "I wish I had never had an ankle, sooner than go spraining it this way. The idea of horrid floors, like black looking-glasses, and slipperier than a skating-rink. Edith, how long is it since you got up?"

"Now for it!" thought Edith, and the smile she strove to repress, dimpled her sunny face. Luckily, standing behind Trix's chair, Trix did not see it.

"How long? Oh, since nine o'clock. You know I'm not a very early riser."

"Did you go straight down to breakfast?"

"The breakfast hour was ten. It doesn't take me all that time to dress."

"Where did you go then?"

"I walked in the grounds."

"Edith!" with sudden sharpness, "did you see Sir Victor?"

"Yes, I saw Sir Victor."

"Where? In the grounds too?"

"In the grounds too--smoking a cigar."

"Edith!" the sharpness changing to suspicion and alarm. "_You_ were with Sir Victor!"

"I was with Sir Victor. That is to say, Sir Victor was with _me_."

"Bother! What did you talk about? Did he ask after me?"

"Ye-e-es," Edith answered doubtfully--the fact being Sir Victor had utterly forgotten Miss Stuart's existence in the dizzy rapture of his acceptance--"he asked for you, of course."

"Was that all? _He's_ a pretty attentive host, I don't think," cried Trixy, with bitterness, "having a young lady laid up by the le--the ankle in his house, and never so much as calling to see if she is dead or alive!"

"My dearest Trix," said Edith, struggling with a laugh, "gentlemen don't call upon young ladies in their chambers at break of day, even though they have a sprained ankle. It isn't _de rigeur_."

"De rigger be blowed! It isn't my chamber; it's my private parlor; and aristocratic as we have got lately, I don't think half-past twelve is the break of day. Edith, upon your word, _did_ he say anything about--about--you know what?"

"Marrying you? No, Trixy, not a word."

She put her arms closer around poor Trixy's neck, and hid her face in Trixy's chestnut hair.

"Trix, pet, don't you think there may have been a little--just a little, misunderstanding that night at Killarney?"

"Misunderstanding! I don't understand _you_, Edith," Miss Stuart exclaimed, in increasing alarm. "For goodness' sake come round where I can see you, and don't stand there like a sort of 'Get thee behind me, Satan.' I like to look people in the face when I talk to them."

"In one moment, dear; please don't be cross. I have something that is not pleasant to say that _you_ won't like. I am afraid to tell you. Trix, there _was_ a misunderstanding that night."

"I don't see how; I don't believe there was. Edith Darrell, what do you mean? He asked me to marry him--at least he told me he was in love with me in a stupid, round-about way, and asked me if he might hope, and if there was any danger of a refusal, or a rival, when he spoke out, and that balderdash. He said he meant to speak to pa and ma, as plain as print. Now how could there be a misunderstanding in all that?"

"It was, as you say, awfully stupid of him, but these Englishmen have such different ways from what we are accustomed to. There was a misunderstanding, I repeat. He means to speak to your father and mother to-day, but--not about you."

"Edith!" Trix half sprung up, pale as death and with flashing eyes. "What do you mean? Speak out, I tell you!"

"O Trix." She twined her arms still closer around her neck, and laid her cheek coaxingly alongside of Miss Stuart's. "There has been a horrid mistake. All the time in that boat on Killarney lake he was talking of--me!"

"Of--you!" The two words drop from Trixy's ashen lips.

"Of me, dear, and he thinks at this moment that you understood him so. Trixy--don't be angry with me--how could I help it--he proposed to me yesterday afternoon."

"Proposed to you yesterday afternoon!" Trix repeats the words like one who has been stunned by a blow, in a dazed sort of tone. "And you--refused him, Edith?"

"Accepted him, Trixy. I said yes to Sir Victor Catheron this morning in the grounds."

Then there was a pause. The ticking of the little Swiss clock, the joyous warble of the thrushes, the soft rustle of the trees sounding preternaturally loud. Beatrix Stuart sat white to the lips, with anger, mortification, amaze, disappointment. Then she covered her face with her hands, and burst into a vehement flood of tears.

"Trix! dear Trix!" Edith exclaimed, shocked and pained; "good Heaven, don't cry! Trix, dearest, I never knew you were in love with him."

"In love with him!" cried Trix, looking up, her eyes flashing through her tears, "the odious little wishy-washy, drawling coxcomb! No, I'm not in love with him--not likely--but what business had he to go talking like that, and hemming and hawing, and hinting, and--oh!" cried Trix, with a sort of vicious screech, "I should like to tear his eyes out!"

"I dare say you would--the desire is both natural and proper," answered Edith, smothering a second desire to laugh; "but, under the circumstances, not admissible. It was a stupid proceeding, no doubt, his speaking to you at all, but you see the poor fellow thinks you understood him, and meant it for the best."

"Thought I understood him!" retorted Miss Stuart, with a vengeful glare. "Oh, _shouldn't_ I like to make him understand me! The way he went on that night, kissing my hand, and calling me Beatrix, and talking of speaking to pa, and meaning you all the time, is enough--enough to drive a person stark, staring mad. All Englishmen are fools--there!" exclaimed Miss Stuart, sparks of fire drying up her tears, "and Sir Victor Catheron's the biggest fool of the lot!"

"What, Trix! for wanting to marry me?"

"Yes, for wanting to marry you. You, who don't care a bad cent for him!"

"How many bad cents did you care, Miss Stuart, when you were so willing to be his wife?"

"More than you, Miss Darrell, for at least I was not in love with any one else."

"And who may Miss Darrell be in love with, pray?"

"With Charley," answered Trix, her face still afire. "Deny it if you dare! In love with Charley, and he with you."

She was looking up at her rival, her angry gray eyes so like Charley's as she spoke, in everything but expression, that for an instant Edith was disconcerted. She could not meet them. For once in her life her own eyes fell.

"Are we going to quarrel, Trix? Is it worth while, for a man you have decided we neither of us care for--we who have been like sisters so long?"

"Like sisters!" Trix repeated bitterly. "Edith, I wonder if you are not scheming and deceitful!"

"Beatrix!"

"Oh, you needn't 'Beatrix' me! I mean it. I believe there has been double dealing in this. He paid attention to me before you ever came to New York. I believe if I hadn't been sea-sick he would have proposed to me on the ship. But I _was_ sea-sick,--it's always my luck to be everything that's miserable,--and _you_ were with him night and day."

"Night and day! Good gracious, Trixy, this is awful!"

"You know what I mean," pursued Trix loftily. "You got him in love with you. Then, all the way to Killarney you flirted with Charley--poor Charley--and made him jealous, and