CHAPTER XV.

A STRUGGLE FOR A RING.

Miss Willoughby had a very bad quarter of an hour with her wilful niece that evening.

For she had not been in the room five minutes before she abruptly brought the conversation around to her new grievance.

“What was Laurie doing in Gipsy’s room before he went away?”

“Oh, my dear, he just came up there searching for me, to say good-by.”

“He might have sent a servant to call you.”

“He did not seem to have time to stand on ceremony,” the old lady answered somewhat tartly.

“Was he talking to you, or Gipsy?” continued Lelia curiously.

“To us both, I believe. In fact, almost as soon as he came in a servant called me out on some domestic matter, and presently Laurie came hurrying after me, and we went down together to the trap that was waiting to take him to the station.”

“Ah, so he was left alone with that artful girl!” snapped Lelia, with flashing eyes.

“Only for a moment, my dear, and you can see for yourself that it was really unavoidable,” soothed her aunt, but adding, with latent irony:

“But what does it matter, anyway? You say you have broken with him, so he is surely free to speak to another girl if he chooses.”

“You always take his part against me, Aunt Cyrilla, and excuse him for all the flagrant flirtations that drive me mad!” cried out her niece reproachfully.

“Nonsense, Lelia. Laurie never flirted in his life. Your jealousy is entirely unfounded.”

“How can you say so? You should have seen him only to-day!” and the angry girl poured out her grievances in eloquent words, with adroit touches of high coloring that made Laurie’s sins look very black indeed.

But Miss Willoughby made due allowance for her tendency to exaggerate her injuries, and calmly replied:

“After a night’s reflection, my dear, Laurie’s faults will not seem so black as you paint them now, and you will be repenting your anger and be wanting him back.”

“I--I--I--want him back now!” sobbed the beauty, humbling herself in her despair to acknowledge the truth. “Oh, I did not dream he would go away in such haste! He never acted like that when we quarreled before! Where has he gone, aunt? Did he tell you?” anxiously.

Miss Willoughby could only tell her that Laurie had said he was called home by a telegram, and she advised Lelia to write to him and crave his pardon for her unkindness.

But the girl turned on her fiercely, resentfully, in her towering pride.

“I will never humble myself to call him back! He will stay forever if he waits for that!” and she darted from the room in a violent passion.

And a yearning to vent her ill-humor on one who dared not strike back carried her straight to Gipsy’s presence.

It was past eleven o’clock, but, without the courtesy of knocking, she coolly turned the handle of the door and entered, a tall, white figure in a loose dressing-gown, with a shimmer of golden hair about her shoulders.

There was a light in the room, for Gipsy had not retired.

She was resting in her easy chair by the window, her slight figure and beautiful face bathed in the flood of summer moonlight.

Though it was late, she could not sleep, her excited thoughts were following handsome, debonair Laurie Willoughby.

More than once she had raised her hand and kissed the shining ring on her finger for the giver’s sake.

And faithful memory recalled over and over every glance of his eyes, every tone of his voice, every word he had spoken, every separate charm that made him one of the most captivating of men.

Unconsciously to herself, she was passionately in love with Laurie, though it would have frightened her if she had realized the meaning of her sweet, tumultuous thoughts.

On these sweet emotions, and the calm solitude of the hour, broke Lelia Ritchie, like an evil spirit--specterlike in her loose white robe and waving hair.

Gipsy started in sudden fear and dread, with a low cry of wonder.

“Who is that? What do you want?”

“Don’t you know me, Gipsy--Miss Ritchie?” exclaimed the intruder superciliously, as she drew forward a chair, seating herself in front of the girl.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Ritchie. I almost took you for a ghost at first,” laughed Gipsy, recovering herself quickly, though she wondered secretly at the visit.

Lelia answered carelessly:

“I’ve been waiting for you to get well, so as to come in and thank you for saving Laurie’s and my life that day. You acted very bravely, and we are anxious to pay our debt of gratitude by a suitable gift. Tell me frankly what you wish for most.”

If Gipsy could have spoken out the impulse of her heart, she might have answered:

“I covet nothing you have, proud beauty, except your noble lover, Laurie Willoughby.”

But such a choice was not for Gipsy, the waif, and she sat there, pale and mute, while Lelia continued airily:

“Now, what shall the present be? A silk gown, a piece of jewelry, or a sum of money? You can take your choice.”

The pale girl in the chair answered earnestly:

“Oh, Miss Ritchie, I desire no gift from you. The approval of my own conscience is sufficient reward.”

It seemed to Lelia that the girl was really trying to put herself on a level with her superiors by her answer, and she cried out waspishly:

“I cannot let it go that way, Gipsy Darke! I insist on making you a present!”

Poor, innocent Gipsy, she dreamed not what disaster she was calling down upon her head when she gently replied:

“Please do not insist on it, Miss Ritchie, because the gift Mr. Willoughby brought me to-day was more than enough from you both, and, of course, he intended it that way.”

Lelia’s heart leaped in alarm, then sank heavily, while her face whitened to the hue of marble, as she demanded hoarsely:

“Laurie brought you a gift to-day! What was it, pray?”

“Did he not tell you?” exclaimed Gipsy, in surprise. “Oh, it is such a pretty ring! But I prize his kind words even more. He said it was in token of undying gratitude, and he placed it on my finger himself, with some kind wish that he is to tell me when we meet again.”

In her enthusiasm she had forgotten the tales she had heard of Lelia’s jealousy of her betrothed.

She did not dream that the proud beauty and heiress could stoop to envy a poor young girl.

She was soon to realize all the horrors of the real truth.

Lifting her eyes, she saw Lelia glaring at her with eyes like points of blue steel, as she muttered, in hoarse, strained accents:

“Let me see the ring.”

And Gipsy held out her dainty little hand, where Lelia’s ring was shining like a drop of globed dew.

One glance, and the haughty beauty knew the fatal truth.

She could never get Laurie back.

To punish her for her pride and anger, he had given her betrothal-ring to another, and left her forever.

It was the bitterest moment of her whole life, this terrible defeat.

Her whole being flamed with such despairing anger that it was a wonder she did not fall dead instantly of excitement. She could scarcely mutter the fierce words that leaped to her lips:

“It is my ring, Gipsy Darke! Give it to me!”

“Oh, Miss Ritchie!” cried Gipsy, in consternation, then for a moment their eyes met, while dead silence reigned.

Gipsy shuddered at the implacable hate of her enemy’s gaze.

Lelia made a fierce effort to hold herself in check, but her voice had the hiss of a serpent as she muttered:

“You did not know it was my engagement-ring Laurie gave you?”

“Oh, no, no, surely not! Why should he give it to me? This is some horrible jest!”

Lelia laughed hysterically.

“Yes, a jest on Laurie’s part. We--we had a little tiff to-day, and, in a moment of anger, I gave him back his ring. I have done so before, but he always made me take it back. A lover’s quarrel, that is nothing, you know--just the renewal of love, the poets say. It was a sorry jest to give you the ring, for he will take it away to-morrow, to give it back to me.”

“But he is gone,” faltered the startled girl.

“He will soon return. He cannot stay away long from me, we love each other too well. Oh, Gipsy Darke, you cannot understand the madness it stirs in me to see my ring on your hand. Give it back to me, I command you!”

She held out an imperious hand, but Gipsy recoiled, faltering:

“Oh, I cannot grant your wish. He made me promise not to remove the ring till he came back--that it would break the charm of the wish. Oh, forgive me, but I must wear it till he comes.”

Lelia sprang from her chair and stood threateningly over the girl.

“How dare you refuse my wish, you wretched, low-born foundling!”

Stung to rebellion by her scorn, Gipsy put her little hand behind her, answering proudly:

“The ring is mine, not yours, for by your own confession you gave it back to Mr. Willoughby. Since he deemed me worthy to wear it, and commanded me not to remove it, the ring shall never leave my hand, save at his desire!”

“You defy me?”

“If you call that defiance!” and the dark eyes flashed with pride and spirit.

She was determined to hold out bravely against the injustice of Lelia’s demand, but she was not prepared for the lengths to which her jealous rival would go.

With a cry like an enraged tigress, Lelia flung herself on the other, to possess herself of the ring by force.

Gipsy, weakened by her two weeks’ illness, was no match for her furious antagonist.

But with courage born of desperation, she tried to defend her rights.

There in the glow of the moonlight that streamed into the open window, the beautiful rivals struggled madly for possession of the diamond that meant so much to both; and the angels above must have looked on in wonder and pity at the strange scene.

With throbbing hearts, with low cries of anger, each strained every nerve for mastery, the one to retain the ring, the other to possess it. Excitement gave to both a fictitious strength, but Gipsy had been at a disadvantage from the first, and as Lelia’s rage grew to murderous fury, her hatred could brook no further resistance.

Infuriated by Gipsy’s defiance, impatient of delay, she flung one hand out blindly toward a little table near-by, and grasped the first thing she touched--a heavy cut-glass paper-weight.

Already she had her knees pressed into Gipsy’s chest, stifling her breath, and one hand wound in the tresses of her dark hair. A minute more and she would achieve a bloodless victory.

But her anger could not wait. A blind, jealous wrath drove her on to a terrible deed.

Once, twice she lifted a murderous hand and struck Gipsy on her head with the improvised weapon.

Then it was that two loud shrieks rang out fearfully upon the midnight air, and roused every sleeper in the house.

Blank silence then, while Gipsy fell like a log from her chair, blood spurting from her head over Lelia’s gown.

“I have killed her, I must fly!” muttered Lelia, wildly wrenching the ring in savage haste from the limp, unresisting hand and rushing to the door.