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CHAPTER XXXV

Sylvie pretended to be very anxious that day over the appearance her sisters-in-law would make at the theater-party.

"Have you anything new?" she inquired. "Because I have invited several young ladies and gentlemen, and ordered a supper here after the performance at the theater. Of course, I want you all to do credit to Bryant."

"We haven't a new thing," declared Edith, lugubriously. "You and Ida will have to uphold the honor of the family by your elegant dressing, for Maud and I will be sure to look like dowdies."

Mme. Sylvie did not seem to take the information much to heart. She said carelessly:

"And Eliot's wife?"

"Oh, she will be a dowdy, too," replied roguish Edith.

So Sylvie and Ida could scarcely believe their eyes that evening when Maud and Edith sallied in, the dark-haired Maud in gold-colored satin, red roses, and rubies, and Edith in lustrous rose-color with white lace flounces, while diamonds flashed from her throat and ears. Both girls looked as handsome in their way as the bisque dolls who were splendid in Parisian toilets and a profusion of gleaming jewels.

Sylvie stared in amaze and jealous displeasure.

"You told me you had nothing fit to wear!" she exclaimed, acrimoniously.

"I beg your pardon—nothing new," Edith replied, dimpling with mischief. "These are our mother's old dresses made over."

"But diamonds and rubies—I am sure Bryant told me that all your mother's jewels were sold to help pay your father's debts when he failed!" Sylvie exclaimed, in wonderment and displeasure.

"So they were," Maud answered. "But, Sylvie, these do not belong to us. We borrowed them from Una."

Ida Hayes broke in with inexpressible anger and spite:

"I thought Eliot was too poor to give such jewels to his wife."

Edith flashed her a glance of scorn.

"Fortunately poverty is no disgrace, Ida," she said. "But Eliot did not give them to Una. They were bridal presents from her Southern friends."

"Dear me, Sylvie! and you said she was poor and a nobody!" Ida exclaimed, insolently, turning around to her sister.

"Eliot said so," Sylvie answered; and forthwith there began a war of words that was fortunately stopped by Bryant's entrance, and his instant laying on the table of the heated subject of debate.

On his part he was glad to see his young sisters so charmingly dressed and looking so lovely. He took the exciting fact of Una's jewels with manly equanimity.

"There is no reason why Una should not have them," he said. "Her adopted father, Pierre Carmontelle, is one of the richest men in the South. If he and his friends gave her costly bridal presents, it was no more than she had a right to expect."

Sylvie and Ida dared say no more, but their thoughts were full of rancor, and the former muttered, sotto voce:

"I suppose she will come down presently covered with diamonds!"

Meanwhile, quite a different scene was transpiring in Una's room upstairs. Fifteen minutes ago, as she had stood before her mirror, putting the last touches to her sweet, simple toilet, there had come a light, quick rap at her door.

"Maud or Edith," she thought, and called out, carelessly: "Come in!"

The door opened softly, and Eliot, her husband, appeared on the threshold, looking marvelously handsome in full evening-dress, a bouquet of pure white flowers in one hand, a long, white box in the other.

When he saw lovely Una standing there in the soft, white robe, with the pearls around her bare, white throat, and her round arms uncovered, save by the dainty white gloves, her dark eyes shining with innocent joy at her own fairness, he uttered a cry of delight:

"Oh, Una, how angelic you look! But," dubiously, "do I intrude?"

"No," she answered, with a blush and tremor; so Eliot shut the door and came to her side.

"I have brought you some flowers and an opera-cloak," he said, pulling it out of the box and dropping it on her shoulders. It was a dainty white cashmere affair, not costly but very pretty, with a shining fringe of pearl and silver beads. With the white dress and flowers, it made Una look bride-like and lovely as a dream.

"Does it suit you? Will it be warm enough?" he asked, with shining eyes; and Una held out her hands to him with sudden tears on her lashes.

"Oh, how good you are to me, who should expect so little from you! How can I ever requite your kindness?" she murmured, tremulously.

He caught the white hands in his, and drew the dainty white figure into the clasp of his yearning arms.

"Only love me, my darling!" he whispered, passionately, against her crimson cheek. "That will pay all."

She lay still, trembling with rapture in the close pressure of his fond arms. She felt his kisses falling softly, warmly on her face, her lips, her hair. At last she drew herself from him, saying, with rapturous wonder:

"You really want me to love you, Eliot?"

Half smiling at her wondering tone, he exclaimed:

"What a strange question, Una! Have I not been waiting almost a year for your heart to wake from its childish sleep and respond to mine? And how else could you requite aught I have done for you? Do you not know, my darling, that love must be paid in its own coin?"

Doubting, wondering, she looked up into those glorious blue-gray orbs now full of a radiant fire impossible to describe. Something of the truth dawned on her bewildered soul. She cried out impulsively:

"Oh, Eliot, then you do love me? And I have been so wretched, so afraid, so—"

No more, for he had caught her in his arms, crushing her passionately to his breast, whispering that he had loved her always, always, and had grown so weary, so impatient waiting to win her heart.

"There was no need to wait if you had not been so blind," answered truthful Una. "For I loved you, Eliot, from the very first!"

CHAPTER XXXVI

If Edith had not come upstairs to see what kept Una dressing so long, they would have forgotten all about the theater-party in their absorption of each other. As it was, they started apart in surprise when she came softly in.

"Oh, Eliot, I did not know you were here," she said, drawing back.

"Come in, Edith, and congratulate us," he said, drawing Una to his side again. "We have just found out that we are in love with each other."

"Every one else knew that ages ago," replied the saucy girl, laughing.

But she kissed both with a great amount of girlish fervor, and to hide her emotion, exclaimed:

"The carriages are waiting, and Sylvie is fuming with impatience, so you had better bring your bride down-stairs, Eliot."

They went down together, and when the spiteful Sylvie saw the two handsome, happy faces, she was more vexed than if Una had indeed been covered with diamonds, as she had spitefully said. She could not help seeing that a reconciliation had taken place between the two, and felt instinctively that her cruel revelation to Una had precipitated the understanding it was intended to avert.

But she could not avoid one poisoned shaft of malice at the happy girl, and so, with a sneer, she exclaimed:

"Dear me! Una still posing as a bride at this late day? Your wedding-day must have been a very happy one, since you love to recall it so well."

No one replied to the impertinent speech, for all, even Bryant, understood its spleen. Una only shrunk closer to her husband, and they went out to the carriages that were waiting to convey them to the theater.

Two boxes had been taken for the evening, and there were twelve in the party, including the two ladies and three gentlemen that Sylvie had invited. Una was very glad that Sylvie and Ida did not come into the same box with herself and Eliot. Their cold, sneering looks made her shiver and feel unhappy, so she was glad when she found Maud and Edith with one other young lady and one gentleman as the evening's companions.

The house was full, and the curtain had risen on the first act—a brilliant scene with a fine setting. Mme. Leonie had not made her appearance yet, and the audience felt at liberty to turn a good many curious lorgnettes upon the handsome theater-party. Una, all in white, with her waving golden hair, red lips, and large dark eyes, immediately fixed attention. The murmur ran from lip to lip:

"A bride—a bride!"

Eliot saw what a sensation her beauty was creating, and smiled in pride; but Una was too innocent to comprehend the truth. In fact, she scarcely looked at the audience. Her eager eyes intently watched the stage.

She was anxious to see the great actress of whom the newspapers spoke in such lavish praise.

So, while the adoring young husband by her side kept his fond eyes on her face, Una watched the stage, and her eagerness was soon rewarded by a sight of Mme. Leonie.

Mme. Leonie was tall, beautiful, stately, and the black velvet robe, starred with diamonds, in which she was assaying a queenly rôle, became her well. Una gave a little gasp of honest admiration.

Mme. Leonie's voice rose on the air clear, sweet, shrill, and Eliot Van Zandt turned with a quick start toward the stage.

At the same moment, he became aware that Una's little hand had clutched tightly, spasmodically around his arm.

He looked into her face. Its usual pure, creamy pallor had deepened to ashy whiteness, her dark eyes were wild and frightened.

"Una!"

"Oh, Eliot, look!" she whispered, tremblingly. "It is she—Madame Lorraine!"

He turned his eyes to the stage, from which, a moment ago, that voice had given him such a start.

Yes, Una was right. There she stood—the beautiful, cruel woman who had doomed him to such an awful fate; who had made Una's life so bitter, whose malice and spite had been so supremely fiendish—Mme. Lorraine!

CHAPTER XXXVII

Every eye was turned to the stage, and tumultuous applause greeted the appearance of the favorite, so no one noticed the agitation of the young husband and wife who, tightly clasping each other's hands, stared with loathing eyes at the beautiful actress.

It seemed to both an evil omen—this meeting with cruel, heartless Mme. Lorraine in the first hour of their supreme happiness after the months of doubt and reserve that had held them apart.

All unconscious of the eyes that watched her—the eyes she believed closed forever in the sleep of death, the clever actress went on with her part, and, shrinking closer to Eliot's side, Una whispered with a strange, foreboding fear:

"Let us go home before she sees us. Do not let her find out that we are still living."

Man-like, he smiled at her terror, and whispered back:

"My darling, we have nothing to fear from Madame Lorraine's hatred now. Can you not trust to your husband to protect you?"

"Yes—oh, yes," the girl-wife murmured; but the chill foreboding of evil did not leave her mind, and she shrunk back into the shadow of the heavy box-curtain, praying in her heart that Mme. Lorraine's hateful glance might not find her out.

Perhaps it might not have done so, for, to madame's credit be it said, she did not ogle the boxes after the manner of some actresses. She was intent on her part, and, beyond the knowledge that she had a large and fashionable audience, she took no particular interest in the throng of people.

But a perverse spirit had entered into Eliot Van Zandt, and seeing the woman so cool, calm, and heartless, he longed to let her know that her vengeance failed of its aim and her victims escaped her. He pictured to himself her jealous, impotent fury when she should know that both he and her Little Nobody lived, and that they were happily married and beyond the reach of her venom.

And in that last belief he made his great mistake.

He whispered his thoughts to Una. In truth, he was longing to take his exquisite vengeance on his enemy.

Una forced a smile of meek acquiescence. She said to herself that she could not let her splendid young husband know what a little coward she was, and how she feared her old tyrant and enemy.

At the close of the third act Eliot said, eagerly:

"Will you let me have your bouquet, Una? To-morrow I will bring you a sweeter one."

With secret reluctance she let him have it. He wrote hurriedly a few words on a card and attached it to the flowers.

Una looked over his shoulder. She read:

"Compliments of Eliot Van Zandt and his bride, the 'Little Nobody.'"

"Oh!" the girl cried, with a shiver; but Eliot had already thrown it upon the stage at the feet of the tragedy queen, who was bowing and smiling in response to an enthusiastic recall.

Among a dozen floral tributes she saw that pure, white, bride-like one flung from the opera-box. She took it up, lifted it to her lips, and bowed, then scanned the name written on the card, while Eliot watched her with a triumphant smile, Una with nameless fear.

Eliot was quite curious to note what effect that startling card would have upon the wicked actress. It seemed to him that she would be stunned, that she would fall to the floor in abject terror, crying out for mercy from him she had wronged.

Una, too, expected every instant that she would fall down unconscious, overcome by fear and anger.

Neither one comprehended the stoicism, the incomparable will-power of the gifted, wicked French woman.

Terrible and overwhelming as was the knowledge thus suddenly acquired, Mme. Lorraine neither by word nor sign gave any evidence that she had received a shock. She merely stood still—very still—for a minute or so with her eyes riveted upon the card, and the audience, suspecting nothing of this strange by-play, received the impression that the writing on the card was rather illegible, hence the slowness of the actress in deciphering the name.

At last, with an inward shudder, madame lifted her eyes from the bit of pasteboard upon which she had been gazing as one looks at a serpent hidden among flowers. Her glance went straight to the box where Eliot and Una, so beautiful, so happy, in their youth and love, sat with bated breath watching her face. She recognized them instantly; a subtle smile dawned on her face, she bowed profoundly.

The audience, still unconscious of the truth, applauded madame's graceful courtesy to the echo, and kissing the tips of her fingers, smiling right and left, she retired.

Una drew a long, sobbing breath of relief as the beautiful woman vanished from sight. Eliot smiled and whispered:

"She accepts her defeat with equanimity. Her self-command is admirable, enviable."

"I am so glad she took it so coolly; I dare say she does not care," Una murmured, gladly, and some of the stifling fear and dread left her heart.

If she could have looked behind the scenes into madame's dressing-room, she would not have felt so confident.

Mima had to exert all her skill to bring her mistress up to the mark to enable her to go on with the fourth and last act in the play.

Her agitation upon reaching the dressing-room had been great, and Mima for a moment had been scarcely less shaken; but her nerves were very strong, and she soon began to reassure Mme. Lorraine.

"It is nothing—pshaw! Do not let your mind be upset, madame. Be glad that the fair-faced lad lives. Your conscience is that much lighter, and for the rest, he was never worthy the passion of so magnificent a woman!"

"He was the only man I ever loved!" madame cried, obstinately. "He was splendid, whatever you say, Mima, and to think that she, the Little Nobody, has come back from the very grave to part us, to win him from me! Oh, it is bitter! I will not endure it. He was mad to fling that defiance in my face. I will make him pay dearly, dearly for that insolence!"

"Nonsense! You shall not get yourself into any more scrapes over that boy!" Mima cried, angrily.

Mme. Lorraine laughed hysterically.

"You shall see," she said. "I will come between them; I will part them. I swear it!"

"Nonsense!" Mima said again. "You do not even know where they live."

"I shall find out!" the actress cried, obstinately; and then she gave vent to a sudden cry of shrill delight.

"Oh! oh!"

"What is it, then?" curtly.

"Fortune favors me. You know I am invited to a little petit souper to-night after the theater. It is at the house of one of the Boston bon ton, and the name on the card is 'Mrs. Bryant Van Zandt.'"

Even the imperturbable Mima started with surprise.

"Well?"

Madame laughed, and the laugh was not good to hear.

"I have no doubt they are relatives of my Yankee friend," she said. "Perhaps, even they live in the same house. I shall be sure to go, and then—che sarâ, sarâ!" Her voice had a fiendish threat in its angry cadence.

She went back on the stage, smiling, insolent. She looked once or twice into the box from whence the white flowers had been thrown to her, and smiled whenever she looked. And Una's blood ran cold whenever she met that smile. She instinctively felt that it was one of menace.

She was very, very glad when it was all over, and she could nestle by Eliot's side in the carriage with her cold little hand in his.

Maud and Edith rode with them, but they did not utter one word to even hint to them that Mme. Leonie, the actress, was Mme. Lorraine, the wicked woman who had been so cruel to them in New Orleans.

Both said to themselves that it did not matter now. Let her enjoy her fame, if she could, since out of her cruel plans had come their wedded happiness.

She would leave Boston to-morrow for Philadelphia, where she was to play next, and in all likelihood her path would never cross theirs again.

So, dismissing the wicked woman from their minds, Eliot and Una waited with the girls in the drawing-room for the coming of the rest of the party who were a little late.

At last there was a bustle, a murmur of voices and laughter in the hall—then entered Sylvie, Ida, and their guests—lastly Bryant Van Zandt, on his arm—Mme. Leonie!

"Ah, girls! ah, Eliot!" Sylvie cried out, in pretty triumph. "See what a charming surprise I have brought you. Madame Leonie will honor us by taking supper under our roof."

Not a tremor on the part of the actress betrayed the fact that she had ever seen before the two to whom she bowed with stately grace. For them, they were too amazed by her matchless impudence to even remind her of the past, and bowed coldly in acknowledgment of the introduction.

Turning away with Sylvie, they heard her say, in clear, full tones:

"Ah, Madame Van Zandt, what an aristocratic-looking young beauty is Mrs. Eliot Van Zandt! She is no doubt of one of the finest old families of Boston."

Sylvie's cruel voice answered maliciously:

"On the contrary, a little nobody that Eliot picked up somewhere on a Southern tour."

The eyes of the young husband and wife met, his indignant, hers wet with tears.

"After all, it is true, I am a little nobody," she said, faintly. "Oh, Eliot," with sudden animation, "what if we should force Madame Lorraine to tell us the truth to-night—to own frankly who and what I am?"

"You are Una Marie Van Zandt, and my wife. The past need not matter, my darling," he replied, tenderly.

But the idea had taken complete possession of Una.

"Eliot, it maddens me to hear your brother's wife always flinging that slur upon me—a little nobody! Let us force Madame Lorraine to tell the truth to-night. She is in your power, for although her conspiracy against your life failed, she is amenable to the law for the wicked attempt. Let us seek a private interview with her, Eliot. Let us threaten her, frighten her into the confession of my origin, however humble," pleaded Una, with impassioned fervor.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Mme. Lorraine wormed Una's story out of Mrs. Van Zandt with the greatest ease, Sylvie's spite making it an actual labor of love to place her sister-in-law in the worst possible light before the great actress who had deigned to express admiration for her beauty.

In a little while the wicked woman knew that which thrilled her with cruel joy—that beautiful Una, living in the same house with Eliot and bearing his name, had never been aught to him but his wife in name only.

"He never loved her, and would be glad if he had never seen her," Sylvie said, lying unblushingly in her hatred of Una.

Mme. Lorraine condoled with her in politest phrases, hiding her exultation under an appearance of calmness. She said to herself:

"His wife in name only! It is not so bad as I thought. It will be easy to part them now."

Her opportunity soon came without an effort of her own, through Una's eagerness to find out the secret of her origin.

Eliot had consented to Una's wish, and immediately after the elegant supper, which had been provided by the best caterer in Boston at Sylvie's expense, he sought an opportunity to speak to her alone.

"Will Madame Leonie permit me the pleasure of showing her through our little conservatory? We have a rare plant in bloom there—a night-blooming cereus," he said.

Madame protested she would be delighted; slipped her jeweled hand through his arm, and glided from the drawing-room by his side.

The night-blooming cereus was not a feint. It was really there, but so also was Una standing by its side, pale and agitated, yet withal so lovely, that madame said to herself, with something like contempt for her companion:

"He must be cold-hearted, indeed, to withhold love from one so beautiful."

Eliot began abruptly:

"Madame Lorraine, of course you know we recognized you immediately to-night?"

The beautiful actress bowed mockingly.

"Of course."

He continued gravely:

"Then, perhaps you can guess why I have brought you here?"

Glancing maliciously from the pale, grave face of Eliot to the agitated one of his wife, madame said, scoffingly:

"To congratulate you and your bride on your happiness, no doubt, monsieur!"

"No; nor to reproach you with your wickedness," Eliot answered, sternly, his handsome face pale and set, his splendid eyes full of scorn. "I brought you here, madame, to say that in return for my leniency in not denouncing you to the law for your attempt upon my life, I demand at your hands one simple act of justice."

"Justice!" she echoed, vaguely.

"Yes, to me," said Una, drawing nearer. "Oh, Madame Lorraine, the time is come at last when you must tell me who and what I am. You have denied to me even a name, but however poor and obscure my origin, I surely have a right to some name, and I can no longer bear Mrs. Van Zandt's sneers at the mystery that infolds me. Speak, madame, and dissipate the cloud that veils the past."

"Speak!" Eliot echoed, sternly.

Then there was a moment of terrible suspense and silence.

Madame had drawn back hurriedly from the two with an expression of alarm and trouble on her mobile white face. At last:

"Oh, you know not what you ask!" she faltered, with emotion.

Growing ashen pale, Una cried out hoarsely:

"I am ready to hear—even the worst."

Eliot came to her side and drew her cold hand gently through his arm.

"Do not look so frightened, Una, my love," he said, gently. "If madame speaks the truth, she will say you are well-born and of noble parentage."

Madame gave him a look of fierce wrath and scorn.

"Are you so sure?" she sneered. "Better let me go, then, with your fatal question unanswered, and hug that vain delusion to your breast."

Eliot answered dauntlessly:

"Most willingly, only for Una's sake. She has some natural curiosity on the subject, and I have promised her it shall be gratified."

The beautiful face of Mme. Lorraine grew positively fiendish with the evil smile that flashed across it.

"A true daughter of Eve," she said; "but your Una, as you call her, if she persists in her curiosity, may purchase her knowledge at as bitter cost as did the adventurous lady of Eden."

"I am not afraid of the truth, if you will only speak it and have done, madame," Una cried out, impatiently; and Eliot felt her tremble violently as she leaned against him.

Then both looked at the clever actress in surprise.

Her face had changed its expression, as if by magic, from hate and scorn to softness, gentleness, and poignant regret. Her splendid orbs were dim as with a mist of tears. Clasping her jeweled hands together in strong agitation, she faltered, pleadingly:

"Do not press me so hard, for—oh, how can I tell you what you ask?"

"Do you mean that there is shame, disgrace, linked with—my birth—my parentage?" Una demanded, almost wildly.

Mme. Lorraine gave her a cunning upward glance full of a sort of contemptuous pity.

"Listen to me, both of you," she said; "I have wronged you both, but Heaven knows how I repent of my evil deeds. I do not want to cause any more sorrow to either of you, as I must do if I tell Una what she asks. Therefore, let me go away, in silence, and be sure that in her case ignorance is bliss."

"I will not believe you, Madame Lorraine, if you assert that aught of shame belongs to the parentage of my wife," Eliot said, hotly, and she uttered a long, long sigh.

"Whatever it is, I have a right to some name, however humble," Una said; but Mme. Lorraine preserved a silence that was significant.

Eliot drew his arm tenderly about Una's waist, as he said:

"Dearest, you have a right to one of the proudest names in Boston. Why trouble your little head about the past?"

But Una was obstinate. Sylvie's sneers had made her bitter and determined.

She looked with dark, impatient eyes into the face of the woman who hated her with relentless hate.

"Speak, madame," she said, icily. "Do you not see that you must reveal the secret now, whatever it be, that has thrown its stigma over my life?"

"I am in your power, monsieur; you can denounce me for my attempted crime, if I refuse to answer you," madame said, looking at Eliot. "Do you still insist?"

He looked at Una; she murmured "Yes" through pale, determined lips, but she did not see the covert triumph in the eyes of her foe.

"Very well, then," said the actress, with a heavy sigh. She looked at Eliot with grave eyes. "Monsieur Van Zandt, I must make at least one condition," she exclaimed.

"Yes?" he said, inquiringly.

"It is this: you will leave me alone with your wife while I reveal to her her name and true identity. It will be best thus. The secret will then be her own, and it will be optional with her whether she should reveal it to you or not."

He bowed affirmatively.

"I have no objection to your plan, madame, and small curiosity over your secret. Whatever you may reveal to Una, it will in nowise lessen my regard for my wife."

He went out and left them together.

Mme. Lorraine turned her vindictive eyes upon Una hissing fiercely:

"Do you not know that you are very foolish in this matter? Would I have treated you as I did for fifteen years, if you had not been—"

"What?" asked Una, impatiently, as she paused significantly, and regarded her with angry, scornful eyes.

Bending forward until her writhing lips almost touched the small, pink ear of the girl, Mme. Lorraine finished her broken sentence in a hissing voice like that of a serpent.

It was as if Mme. Lorraine had struck the girl upon the face. She reeled backward with a low, gasping, terrified cry, and sunk to the floor.

Eliot waited almost an hour in the drawing-room for madame to return, and Mrs. Van Zandt grew angry and impatient at the detention of her guest by that Little Nobody. Eliot made all the excuses he could. They were talking about the flowers; Mme. Leonie loved them so dearly, etc. At last he went in search of the two.

Madame was just emerging from the conservatory with a smile of triumph on her handsome face.

As he would have passed her, she detained him with a hand laid heavily on his arm.

"Do not go to her yet. She desired me to keep you away from her a little while until she can collect her thoughts and decide whether it is best to share her terrible secret with you or not."

"But surely she needs me now," he said, quailing at the words. "Her terrible secret!"

"She prefers to be alone, she said," madame returned, so positively that he decided, against his sense of duty, to humor Una's whim. He guessed it was not a pleasant revelation madame had made among the warm, sweet odors of the dim conservatory.

The actress returned to the drawing-room, made her adieus, and departed. Then the rest of the party broke up, and the family retired to their several apartments. Eliot went to the conservatory for Una.

"I can not leave her alone any longer in her trouble, poor child!" he thought, with a heart full of tenderness.

To his surprise, the flowery retreat was quite deserted.

"She has stepped out unperceived in the confusion of the leave-takings, and gone to her room," he decided, and a yearning impulse led him to seek her there.

He knocked at first softly on the door, and receiving no reply, entered quietly, feeling that she needed him in the distress she was enduring over madame's revelation.

But the room, like the conservatory, was deserted.

Over the dressing-table the gas was burning brightly. Eliot's eyes quickly detected an envelope lying just beneath the light that bore in large characters his own name.