Her mother! This is the iron rod with which they have ruled poor Vera all her life long. That poor, drooping, delicate mother, whose hold on life had never been but half-hearted, whose only home and shelter had been the grudging and hard-earned charity of her heartless and parsimonious sister. Day in and day out the Clevelands had driven their two weak slaves relentlessly, always holding over their heads the dread of being turned out to face the cold world alone.
A low and bitter laugh rises to Vera's lips at the thought that that poor, meek dependent is beyond their dominion now, and that Ivy's threatened complaints can never rise to that high Heaven where her mother's freed spirit soars in happiness and peace.
"Not that you are of much account, anyway," pursues the heartless girl, angrily. "You can never be trained into a proper maid, you stiff-necked little pauper. If mamma were not so mean and stingy she would let me have a real French maid like other girls. Never mind, when once I am Mrs. Leslie Noble I'll show her how I will spend money!"
Vera shivers, and her heart thumps heavily against her side. The one idea of Ivy's life is to marry Leslie Noble. He is handsome, fascinating, wealthy, in short, her beau ideal of perfection. He has come on a month's visit to her mother from a distant city, and both mater and daughter are sure, quite sure, that the object for which he was invited is accomplished; they have hooked the golden fish, they have no doubt. What will Ivy say when she knows that she, the despised Vera, is Leslie Noble's chosen bride?
"She will kill me, just that!" the girl murmurs to herself in terror, while a second terror shakes her slight frame.
"What are you trembling for?" Ivy demands, shortly. "Are you afraid I will slap you as I did last night? Well, you richly deserve it, and I don't know but that I may. Hurry, now, and fix my hair and bring my robe de nuit. It will be broad daylight before I get into bed. And I want to rise early to find out why Leslie did not come to the ball."
Vera moves about mechanically, obeying orders, but answering never a word.
A golden gleam has come into the eyes beneath the drooping lashes, a heavy, deep red spot glows in the center of her death-white cheeks. Half-frightened as she is at the thought of Ivy's rage when she learns the truth, she is yet filled with triumph at the thought of her own vengeance on her enemies, this glorious vengeance that has come to her unsought.
She will be Leslie Noble's wife, she will queen it over Ivy and her mother. She will wear satin and laces and diamonds, she will have French maids to wait on her, and then a sudden anguished recollection drives the blood from her heart and forces a moan of despair from her white lips—what is all her triumph since it cannot bring back the dead?
She is moving to the door, having tucked the blue satin counterpane about Ivy's small figure, when the straw-gold head pops up, and the frivolous beauty recalls her.