"Blameless? Oh, yes!" There was bitter whiteness on her lips, and her eyes flashed fiercely.
The sneer relieved him. There had been something of compa.s.sion, even of regret, in his voice till then; but the curl of her lips drove all such feeling away.
"At least," he continued, promptly, "any blame that I might myself feel it just to a.s.sume, has been a thousand times overbalanced by your conduct, regarding one of the brightest and sweetest creatures that the sun ever shone upon."
The bitter sneer spread all over the woman"s face, leaving it cold and white.
"You speak of Miss Lee?"
The voice in which she uttered these words was fearfully concentrated, and her agitation kept her still as a serpent before it springs.
"Yes, madam, I speak of the lady who once, at least, received me kindly; but who, yielding to your machinations, has just sent me from her presence forever, a rejected, desperate man, for I love her better than my own soul!"
A faint sound, sharp as a cry, deep as a grave, broke from the woman.
Lawrence did not heed it, but turned away and left her, seemingly forgetful that it was a farewell. She followed him with her great, wild eyes, struggled with herself, and evidently strove to cry out; but her locked features refused to stir. The cold lips took a blue tinge, but gave no sound. She stood like Lot"s wife, with all the vitality stricken from her limbs, listening to his footsteps as they died among the leaves. Then she uttered a low cry, sprang forward to follow him, and fell p.r.o.ne across the footpath.
CHAPTER LIX.
A HEART-STORM ABATING.
I seized the lithe stem of the ash, and lifted myself up the bank, prompted by an irresistible impulse of humanity. The woman lay upon the ground in a position so like death, that it frightened me. Her white face was half hidden by the turf. The folds of an India shawl were entangled around her, like the broken wings of some great tropical bird; one hand was clenched deep in a fleece of wood-moss, where its jewels flashed like rain-drops.
I attempted to raise her face from the turf, but it fell back like lead from my hands; the cheek which rested for a moment on my arm was cold as snow. There was no life perceptible; I looked around for water. A hundred feet below me it was rushing forward in abundance, but that was unattainable. The house was some distance, but there alone could I hope for succor.
I detested that woman in my soul; but some pure womanly feeling impelled me to keep her terrible condition a secret. I could not find it in my heart to expose her humiliation. So entering the hall unseen, I seized a pitcher of water that stood on the marble console and hurried back, carrying it so unsteadily that the ice-drops rained over my hands at every step. When I reached the rock, breathless with haste, the woman was gone, and but for the crushed gra.s.s, and a handful of moss torn up by the roots, there remained no proof of the scene I had just witnessed.
Where had she gone? Not to the house. I must have seen her had she taken that direction. Surely she had not followed Lawrence! I stepped to the rock, which gave me a view of the footpath and the precipitous bank. She was not in the woods, nor on the line of the ridge. Had she thrown herself down the bank, and so perished in the river below?
I seized the ash-tree, and, supporting myself by it, leaned over, searching the depths with a trembling dread of what I might find.
Half-way down the descent, I saw the gorgeous colors of a shawl shrouding some object crouched upon a point of rock that jutted out from the bank, and fairly overhung the black waters fifty feet below. In my fright, the ash-tree escaped my hold, and, starting back with a sharp recoil, made a great rustling among the leaves.
The woman sprang up, lifted her white face toward me, and for a moment stood poised over the water, with her garments fluttering in the wind so violently, that their very motion threatened to destroy her balance.
I threw out my arms, pleading with her to come back; but she sprang forward into a heavy covert of pine-boughs that swept the descent, and disappeared.
I waited some minutes, hoping that she would appear again; but everything was still; and after lingering about the rock some time, I returned to the house.
When I entered the hall, Mrs. Dennison was leaning over the bal.u.s.trade of the square balcony, gazing down upon the scenery of the valley, to all appearance tranquil as a child.
She looked around with a furtive movement of the head as I set the pitcher upon the console, and then I saw that her face was still deathly pale. I said nothing to any one of what I had seen; it could have availed little; my report would only have met with denial and discredence. I felt sure of this and went to my room, there most earnestly praying G.o.d to direct me how to act.
Mrs. Dennison did not come down to dinner that afternoon, and Cora reported that she was in her room, suffering greatly. Something was the matter; the dear lady had been crying for hours together as if her heart were broken.
This was said in the presence of Mr. Lee, and I saw that he listened keenly.
"Do you know any reason for this distress?" he inquired of the pretty mulatto.
"No, sir; no reason in the world, without it is the high airs that old lady took with her. I was in the hall, sir, and saw it; since then my lady has been crying half the time."
We were at the table when Cora came down with this account of her mistress. Mr. Lee poured out a gla.s.s of champagne and placed it on the silver tray, upon which Jessie was arranging some delicacies from the desert.
"Ask your mistress to try and join us in the drawing-room this evening,"
he said, kindly; "solitude will only depress her."
Cora bowed and went away, but returned directly with a message from Mrs.
Dennison. She had a severe headache, and was afraid that it would be impossible for her to meet the family that evening. To-morrow she trusted to be better.
Poor woman! she was true for once, though even her real illness was afterward turned to account.
After dinner, I found myself alone with Jessie. She had been a little excited after Lawrence left; but as the day wore on, her self-poise returned, and a sweet gravity settled upon her. As I sat by the window, she left the piano, from which a plaintive air had been stealing, and came to my side.
"Aunt Matty," she said, in her sweet, trustful way, "I have something to tell you. Mr. Lawrence has been here."
I did not express any knowledge of the fact, but looked at her, waiting for more. A faint flush rose to her cheek; but her eyes looked clearly into mine.
"You know what he came for?"
"I suppose so, Jessie; and that he went away disappointed."
"I think he loved me, Aunt Matty."
"And you?" I questioned, anxiously.
She shook her head and smiled wistfully.
"You remember the violets we took from the spring down in the meadow yonder? How fresh and hardy they looked! But we tore them up too roughly, and they never would take root again! They were young plants, you said, and hard usage withered them. The violets are all uprooted and dead here."
She pressed one hand to her heart, and, stooping down, kissed me to hide the sadness that crept into her eyes.
"And you do not regret it?" I whispered, drawing her close to me.
"As I regretted the death of our violets, with a little sadness for the perfume that is gone."
"And it is decided?"
"Nothing can change me. His intimacy with that woman gave her influence enough to poison his mind with thoughts that should never enter the heart of a true man. This was reason enough, if love ever reasoned; but his power is gone from me. I could never live with a man who had once been, even partially, controlled by a woman like that."
"Did you give him this reason?"
"As I have given it now."
"And he considers it as final?"
"Undoubtedly. I am glad he came--glad that he has spoken; for it sets me free--heart and soul."