not believe that this was really my mother’s wish. She has been influenced, overpowered, coerced in this matter, or”—the great dark eyes transfix the glittering orbs of the man as she goes on slowly—“or the letter is a forgery, and Rosamond Arleigh never wrote a word of it. You know best!”

With an angry cry like the stifled howl of a wild beast, Gilbert Warrington sprung forward and grasped the girl’s arm in a fierce grip. His face was absolutely colorless, his eyes blazed.

“You devil!” he hissed, bending his head until his eyes seemed to burn into her very soul, “you shall obey me, do just as I direct, or you will live to regret it. I have come here at this hour—this sad hour—when the discovery of your mother’s death has just been made, simply and solely to confer with you before the lawyers get hold of the business here, and the authorities have time to put in their oar. So I slipped in here when I found that you were alone, and my object is this: Whatever may be the terms and conditions of your mother’s will, you will have to submit—whether you are pleased or not—and be silent as the grave, too. Now that you have read your mother’s letter, you have some idea of the burden that she bore in[Pg 36] secret—the burden of her own sin. I loved your mother, Violet Arleigh!”

[Pg 36]

“You?”

The tone, the glance, the utter, stinging contempt, were enough to drive a man wild. He flushed angrily, and ground out an oath between his close-shut teeth. But he controlled himself.

“Never mind,” he snarled; “you are having your day now, my time will come before long. Scratch, bite, tear about your cage, my little tigress, your claws will be cut soon, and you will find yourself utterly powerless!”

“Leave me!” she commanded, her voice trembling with indignation. “How dare you address me in this way? How dare you come to me with these matters, and my poor mother scarcely cold in death? Go! or I will summon the servants to put you out!”

“Ah, you will? But before many days shall pass you will find the tables turned with a vengeance. Violet Arleigh, there is a dark cloud resting over your life, a cloud which will never disappear, a stain that can not be wiped out—the stain of black disgrace. When the time comes for the truth to be known, how many of your present dear friends, think you, will remain true? How many will rally around you and stand by you through everything? My word for it, you will not find one. When the truth comes 

 Prev. P 19/143 next