Berry smiled. “We may have less to say than we think, dear; the matter may be taken quite out of our hands by Rosalind herself. I foresee trouble. Another thing: Adrian is a mere adventurer, a gambler, and if he married her only for her money, how long do you suppose that will last?”
“What a worldly-wise little pessimist you are, dear!” responded Charles, with a laugh. “Come, tear up this insulting troublesome letter, and let’s drive over to the Towers. What’s the use of vexing ourselves with a mere chance that may not occur for a dozen years?”
This easy-going philosophy proved to be the wrong one, for they heard again from Rosalind, two years later. This time it was to announce the birth of a daughter, who was to be named Dora. Why Rosalind had taken the trouble to send this announcement to the Bonairs, in spite of their continued indifference to her existence, was not clear to Berry, who merely remarked: “I suppose she has reasons of her own.” But Charles saw through this move clearly enough. He readily guessed that Rosalind and her husband had not given up hope of being received at Thetford Towers; all the more now, for the sake of their daughter, Berry’s niece, and also because their fortunes were known to be on the wane.
His understanding was aided by reports of Adrian’s reckless speculations which he had heard from time to time, during his occasional visits in London.
On one of these occasions, he had, unknown to Berry, received a letter from Adrian Vance, requesting the loan of a large sum of money with which to pay several importunate creditors; and he had even gone so far as to lend Adrian half the amount, hoping thereby to avoid further difficulties with the Vance family. In this hope he was destined to be disappointed; for Adrian suddenly appeared at Thetford Towers, early in the following summer, and sought an interview with Charles and Berry.
The meeting was not pleasant to any of the three. Charles was frankly indignant, Berry cool and reserved, Adrian in a tumult of embarrassment, envy, and resentment.
“Rosalind is well, I dare say,” he said, in answer to their perfunctory question. “I’ve not seen her for several months. She’s studying to go on the stage—you’ll have her again for a rival, Berry, in your former sphere.”
The covert insolence of this seemingly playful remark was not lost upon its hearers, who took no notice of it, however, and soon afterward managed to bring the interview to a close. Adrian departed, no richer than he had come.
Before the end of the summer, he was killed in a railroad accident on the Continent, and Rosalind, the heiress whom he had reduced to poverty and driven to the stage, left the country, and was not again seen in England for many years. When she returned to trouble and harass her “relatives,” it was in an unexpected and disgraceful way.