She looked up and saw that her companion was deadly pale and trembling.
“Oh, what is the matter? Are you ill, Jessie? Have I wearied you with my story?”
Miss Stirling was very cunning, or very brave. She had got a heart wound, but she would not cry out against the hand that struck the blow; after that one passionate outburst she struggled for calmness.
With a hollow laugh, she answered:
“I am very, very tired, after my long journey from New York, and the sun is very hot, but—I shall be better presently.”
“Shall I go and bring you a little sip of wine?” urged Leola, and Jessie assented.
She was glad to be alone for one moment, to cry out aloud at the fate that had parted her from the man she loved.
“Mamma was right, and I was wrong. He was in love with her, after all, and he came here, instead of going yachting, as he intended—came here to woo this simple rustic, won by her wondrous beauty, that was more dangerous than I dreamed! But he shall never marry Leola Mead—never! Why, I think I would murder her first! And what will he say when he finds me here? Above all, why is he masquerading under a false name, and pretending to be a poor artist? Ah, I have it! He means to deceive the silly girl; his intentions are dishonorable, but I will unmask him, I will break up the affair, I swear it!” clenching her white hands desperately.
Leola came back with the wine and a biscuit, and Jessie accepted, eagerly.
“Wine always clears my brain, somehow, and I have got a lot of scheming and planning to do,” she thought, as she drained the last drop and munched the sweet biscuit.