CHAPTER XLIII.

THE AMERICAN BEAUTY.

When Laurie read his father’s letter in Paris the blood forsook his cheek for a moment, and his heart throbbed with hot anger.

“She has dragged my proud name through the mire of a divorce-court and the columns of yellow journals to advertise her clap-trap play! It is like her--vain, selfish, sensational to the core!” he thought, with irritation.

But the next moment his blood leaped through his veins wildly, with a thrilling thought.

“I am free!”

Of her own will, Lelia had unlocked the fetters in which she had bound him, and they fell, clanking, to his feet.

Free! Free!

Was it possible he would be able to redeem his life from its gloom and shadows? Could he win the heart he prized, the beautiful girl of whom he had scarcely dared think while he was bound in Lelia’s cruel chains?

He knew she was in London, the guest of one of his father’s near cousins, Lady Warrington, who had presented her at court this season.

He knew how much she had been admired, how many suitors she had had, how the admiring Londoners called her “the American beauty.”

All this he had gleaned from the newspapers, that hinted also at an engagement with young Lord Warrington.

It might be true, and, if so, it would be a splendid match. Warrington was worthy a princess for his true manliness. Rosalind was a match for a prince.

Rosalind, how dearly he loved that name since she had borne it. It made him think of flowers and sunshine, of singing birds and rippling streams, of everything sweet and fair.

His heart throbbed fast with a memory of her dainty loveliness, her dark eyes, her red lips, like twin ripe cherries; her cloud of dark fragrant hair. It was all engraven on his heart, though he had not seen her for more than a year.

She had been traveling in the Old World, too, ever since last fall, but he had never been near to her, never given her greeting. Lelia’s husband knew that it was better so.

“World wide apart, although so near, He breathed her charmed atmosphere.”

With a thrill of delirious joy he thought of seeing her again--aye, even though she belonged to Warrington--of seeing her even once again.

He would go to London to-morrow, he would not put it off a day longer, and he would find out if there was any hope for him, or if Warrington had won.

It was a restless night he spent, and a restless journey he made. That evening saw him entering his cousin’s grand house, The Larches.

It was young Warrington himself that came to greet him with profuse welcomes.

“I knew you were over here somewhere, and wondered why you didn’t drop in,” he said. Then, with some embarrassment: “We read in the papers to-day about the--ah, your wife, you know. Is it true?”

“The divorce? Oh, yes; father wrote me to-day it was granted. It helped advertise her, you know. I suppose next thing she will be on the stage impersonating her own heroines. She always had dramatic ability.”

“Yes, and wonderful beauty. Really, I cannot understand----” He threw a puzzled glance on Willoughby, who replied with perfect composure:

“Oh, the separation? Well, it was nothing serious, just incompatibility, you know. We could never get on together.”

“I hope it does not hurt.”

“Oh, no, it rather comes as a relief. As a man, I was too courteous to seek relief, but I am grateful, all the same. I can even forgive her for making me a catspaw to get advertising for her play. Now, Warrington, I’ve read things in the papers, too, about you and--and Miss Whitney. Are they true? May I congratulate you?”

“Well--er--no, cousin, not at all. She gave me the marble heart--pardon my slanginess--so long ago that I am almost well of it now.”

“Then the wound did not go very deep!”

“I did not permit it to do so. I hardly hoped at first, Rosalind is so cold to men generally, so it did not come as much of a surprise to me when she said, ‘No, thank you.’ So now we are just the best of friends. You cannot believe half the society gossip you read in the fashion columns.”

“And is there no other man?” eagerly.

“None in England. Can’t say about the other side. There’s a puzzling depth in her eyes sometimes--suggests that poem, you’ve heard it somewhere, no doubt. Let’s see--it runs this way:

“Sister, since I met thee last O’er that brow a change has passed; In the softness of thine eyes Deep and still a shadow lies. Through thy soul a storm has moved-- Gentle sister, thou hast loved!”

How closely Warrington had noted her! Was it true? Did the shadow of a secret love dwell in those dark, soft, brilliant eyes? A jealous pang tore through his heart.

The swish of a silken robe, and Lady Warrington entered, with Rosalind.

The girl was dressed in thin, soft white fabric over glittering white satin, pearls clasping her neck and binding her raven hair, white carnations on her breast diffusing their subtle fragrance.

Laurie had never seen her in evening dress before; he had never remembered her as quite so enchanting. Time had touched her as with a fairy wand, adding new charms.

He was afraid afterward that he had seemed rather stupid and tongue-tied to his cousin, Lady Warrington. He was silent, dizzy, with a great rapture.

He held the girl’s hands and gazed in her face with eager brown eyes, that asked if she were glad, and her kindling blush answered without words.

From thence forward he was in Elysium until Lady Warrington brought him back to earth, saying they should have to tear themselves away for the Duchess of Delamayne’s ball; but as any friend of hers would be welcome, she would take him along.

No, he would rather not intrude. He would come again to-morrow.

“Do come with us now!” breathed a soft, tremulous voice, and then wild horses could not have dragged him away.

He went.

He danced with her every chance he got, he watched her social triumphs, he saw that she was the queen rose of that fair garden of beautiful, high-bred women; then his thoughts strayed to the old West Virginia home perched on the shelving cliffs, and the young life that had budded there in simple graciousness and beauty--and it seemed to him he had loved her from the very first, only Lelia had resolutely thrust herself between.

He watched with secret envy every man who approached her, but for no one did her blushes burn so brightly as for him. He asked himself could he, indeed, be so blessed? Did she care?

He was with them every day for a week before he found what he craved--the chance to speak to her alone.

Lady Warrington, yawning over a society novel, fell asleep in the drawing-room. Her son was at his club. Laurie whispered softly:

“Come out into the moonlight and see the great white moonflowers unfolding in the dew, and holding their broad, perfumed saucers to the night.”

Rosalind went out to the arbor, a moonflower herself in her white gown and dainty loveliness. She sat down by his side on the rustic bench, and they both were trembling with emotion.

“I have wanted to speak to you alone very much, Rosalind,” he began, adding: “You know that I am free, that the wife who was never aught but wife in name has severed my bonds and set me free?”

She bowed her head, and he continued:

“You have wondered at that strange alienation. I will tell you how it came about. From the very first day she was nervous and hysterical, her dreams were wild. She fancied herself your murderer, and rehearsed the gruesome details in her sleep.”

She shuddered away from him, her face as white as the moonflowers unfolding to the dew overhead; a low moan escaped her lips.

“Do not be frightened, Rosalind. I am not going to ask you to betray confidence; I only wish you to know that in her sleep she found your ring!”

“My ring!” her sweet voice trembled with joy and pride. She looked up at him with shy expectancy, wondering, hoping.