Gilbert Warrington drew near the bowed figure and touched her lightly upon the arm.
“‘Every man has his price,’ it is said,” he says, slowly. “You know mine. There is no alternative. You will consent, Rosamond?”
No answer. The bowed head is lifted, the wild eyes are staring straight before them into space, the cold hands twitch convulsively, the white lips quiver; but not a word escapes her, not a moan.
“You have heard my proposition,” the smooth voice goes on, lowly; “you must say ‘Yes’ at once, or I shall go down-stairs now and expose your secret to the select society gathered here to do honor to your daughter’s eighteenth birthday. You were scarcely eighteen when this occurred of which you are guilty; but Violet will not think of that—will show you no pity because you were so young when it happened—and she, your own child, will look upon her mother—the mother so dearly, so idolatrously loved—with scorn, contempt, loathing. Will you consent, Rosamond?”
“No! no! no! A thousand times no!” she panted, defiantly. “I would sooner take my own life! Better to commit suicide than to fall into your hands, you human tiger! Oh, Heaven! that I should be compelled to listen to such insults beneath my own roof, and be powerless to avenge them!”
She fell back into a seat; pale and gasping for breath, great drops of perspiration standing upon her brow—the cold dew of agony—her features convulsed with suffering, one hand clutching—clutching at her heart, which was throbbing as though trying to break through its mortal prison. Her dark eyes, bloodshot with suffering, wandered slowly over to the cabinet in the corner, where stood the vial marked “Chloral.”
A fiendish expression crept over Gilbert Warrington’s face. With a furtive glance around, as though fearing lest some human eye was upon his movements, he flew to the cabinet, and snatching the bottle from the shelf, thrust it into Rosamond Arleigh’s shaking hand.
At that moment the awful silence was broken by the sound of light footsteps flying up the stairs. They paused at the door of the room, and a timid rap sounded upon the panel.
“Mamma!” called Violet, softly. “Are you ill, dear? May I not come in? It is I, your little Violet. I thought I heard you call me. Open the door and let me in.”
There was no answer. Rosamond Arleigh could not speak. Twice she opened her lips to utter Violet’s name, to answer her loving inquiries, but no sound came forth. Trembling, panting in mortal agony, she crouched there, her eyes upon Gilbert Warrington’s cold face.