Though stubbornly unwilling to believe it, she had of late been forced to notice the growing attachment between Schuyler and her own companion, Miss Burt, and had it not been for the surety of the approaching wedding, she would have dismissed the girl. But so certain was she that her son’s ambitions, like her own, were centred on the Van Norman name, she could not believe that Schuyler would let himself become greatly interested in Dorothy Burt.
But she did not allow for that mischievous Imp of Romance who plays havoc with hearts without saying “by your leave.”
And partly because of her own dainty charm, partly because of her contrast to Madeleine’s magnificence, Dorothy Burt crept into Schuyler Carleton’s affections before either of them realized it, and when they did discover the surprising fact, it did not seem to dismay them as it should have done.
But it troubled them; for Schuyler well knew that honor, expediency, and good judgment all held him bound to Miss Van Norman, and Dorothy Burt knew it equally well.
And, whether or not with an ulterior motive, she had made no claim on him from the first. She had admitted her love for him, but in the same breath had avowed her appreciation of its hopelessness. Even if he hinted at a possible transfer of his allegiance, she had hushed him at once, saying it was impossible for him to do otherwise than to be true to his troth, and that he must forget her, as she should—try to—forget him.
This nobility on her part only made Carleton love her more, and though continuing to admire his beautiful fiancée, his real affection was all for little Dorothy.
She came to dinner that night, soft and lovely in a simple white frock, her pathetic eyes wide open in grief and sorrow, her rosebud mouth drooping and tremulous at the corners.
Fessenden watched her. Without appearing to do so, he noted every expression that flitted across her baby face.
And he was greatly disturbed.
The night before he had paid slight attention to her. To be sure, Miss Van Norman had spoken her name in the afternoon, but it had meant little to him, and, thinking of her merely as Mrs. Carleton’s companion, or secretary, he wasn’t sure which, he had been conventionally polite and no more. But tonight she was a factor in the case, and must be reckoned with.
As Fessenden watched her, he saw, with a growing conviction, as sure as it was awful, that she was relieved at Miss Van Norman’s death.
Gentle, tender little girl as she seemed, it was nevertheless true that the removal of the obstacle between Carleton and herself gave her only joy. She tried to hide this. She cleverly simulated grief, horror, surprise, interest—all the emotions called forth by the conversation, which unavoidably pursued only one course. In fact, Miss Burt took her cue every time from Mrs. Carleton, and expressed opinions that invariably coincided with hers.
It began to dawn upon Fessenden that the girl was unusually clever, the more so, he thought, that she was consciously concealing her cleverness by a cloak of demure innocence, and careful unostentation. Never did she put herself forward; never did she show undue interest in Schuyler, personally.
Fessenden reasoned that the game being now in her own hands, she could afford to stand back and await developments.
Then came the next thought: how came the game so fortuitously into her own hands? Was it, even indirectly, due to her own instigation?
“Pshaw!” he thought to himself. “I’m growing absurdly suspicious. I won’t believe wrong of that girl until I have some scrap of a hint to base it on.”
And yet he knew in his own heart if Dorothy Burt had wanted to connive in the slightest degree in the removal of her rival, she was quite capable of doing so, notwithstanding her very evident effect of pretty helplessness.
“When an excessively clever young woman assumes an utterly inefficient air,” he thought, “it must be for some undeclared purpose;” and he felt an absurd thrill of satisfaction that though Kitty French was undeniably clever, she put on no ingénue arts to hide it.
Then Kitty’s phrase of “a clinging rosebud” came to his mind, and he realized its exceeding aptness to describe Dorothy Burt. Her appealing eyes and wistful, curved mouth were enough to lure a man who loved her to almost any deed of daring.
“Even murder?” flashed into his brain, and he recoiled at the thought. Old Schuyler might have been made to forget his fealty; he might have been unable to steel his heart against those subtle charms; he might have thrown to the winds his honor and his faith; but surely, never, never, could he have committed that dreadful deed, even for love of this angel-faced siren.
“Could she?”
The words fairly burned into Fessenden’s brain. The sudden thought set his mind whirling. Could she? Why, no, of course not! Absurd! Yes, but could she? What? That child? That baby-girl? Those tiny, rose-leaf hands! Yes, but could she?
“No!” said Fessenden angrily, and then realized that he had spoken aloud, and his hearers were looking at him with indulgent curiosity.
“Forgive me,” he said, smiling as he looked at Mrs. Carleton. “My fancy took a short but distant flight, and I had to speak to it sternly by way of reproof.”
“I didn’t know a lawyer could be fanciful,” said Mrs. Carleton. “I thought that privilege was reserved for poets.”
“Thank you for a pretty compliment to our profession,” said Rob. “We lawyers are too often accused of giving rein to our fancy, when we should be strapped to the saddle of slow but sure Truth.”
“But can you arrive anywhere on such a prosaic steed?” asked Miss Burt, smiling at his words.
“Yes,” said Rob; “we can arrive at facts.”
What prompted
