“Thanks, my dear sir, and I assure you you shall never have cause to regret the confidence you have placed in me. It shall be the labor of my life to make Iris happy——”
“Iris!”
At Chester St. John’s mention of this name Oscar Hilton sprang to his feet, with every trace of color dying out of his face, and his hands pressed tightly to his heart.
“Iris!” he again ejaculated hoarsely; but when Chester sprang to his side in alarm he waved him back authoritatively. “It is nothing,” he cried, with quick, gasping breaths, “I am subject to these sudden spasms of pain—around my heart—and it is so natural for me to call on—Iris—there! it is over now, but I would like to be alone. Come to-morrow, St. John, and Iris will give you her answer.”
Chester was not in the least offended by this abrupt dismissal, having no suspicion that the pain of which Mr. Hilton had complained was purely imaginary, and that there was a deeper cause for that ashen, pale face and those trembling hands.
He bade Iris’ father good night with many expressions of regret, promising to call for Iris’ answer on the morrow, and taking his departure at last with such a look of hope upon his face that one might have guessed what he expected the girl’s answer to be.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE OUTCAST.
“Iris! Iris! My God, have I killed her?”
The words came from the lips of Oscar Hilton with a cry of unutterable fear, as he bent over the rigid and senseless form of his young daughter, on the morning following his interview with Chester St. John.
“I have killed her!” the man reiterated; but even as he lifted the girl’s head from the floor, her lips trembled slightly, and the lids were lifted slowly from the beautiful blue eyes that looked purple now, as Iris awakened to the consciousness of a sorrow tenfold more bitter than death.