We had counted on it very much, and your mother feels it all the more because she is weak after her illness.We don't quite understand why you did not seem to know about her having had diphtheria in Paris.You did not answer Betty's letter.Perhaps it missed you in some way.Things do sometimes go wrong in the mail, and several times your mother has thought a letter has been lost.She thought so because you seemed to forget to refer to things.We came over to leave Betty at a French school and we had expected to visit you later.But your mother fell ill of diphtheria and not hearing from you seemed to make her homesick, so we decided to return to New York by the next steamer.I ran over to London, however, to make some inquiries about you, and on the first day I arrived I met your husband in Bond Street.He at once explained to me that you had gone to a house party at some castle in Scotland, and said you were well and enjoying yourself very much, and he was on his way to join you.
I am sorry, daughter, that it has turned out that we could not see each other.It seems a long time since you left us.
But I am very glad, however, that you are so well and really like English life.If we had time for it I am sure it would be delightful.Your mother sends her love and wants very much to hear of all you are doing and enjoying.Hoping that we may have better luck the next time we cross--Your affectionate father, REUBEN L.VANDERPOEL.
Rosalie found herself running breathlessly up the avenue.
She was clutching the letter still in her hand, and staggering from side to side.Now and then she uttered horrible little short cries, like an animal's.She ran and ran, seeing nothing, and now and then with the clenched hand in which the letter was crushed striking a sharp blow at her breast.
She stumbled up the big stone steps she had mounted on the day she was brought home as a bride.Her dress caught her feet and she fell on her knees and scrambled up again, gasping;she dashed across the huge dark hall, and, hurling herself against the door of the morning room, appeared, dishevelled, haggard-eyed, and with scarlet patches on her wild, white face, before the Dowager, who started angrily to her feet:
"Where is Nigel? Where is Nigel?" she cried out frenziedly.
"What in heaven's name do you mean by such manners?"demanded her ladyship."Apologise at once!""Where is Nigel? Nigel! Nigel!" the girl raved."I will see him--I will--I will see him!"She who had been the mildest of sweet-tempered creatures all her life had suddenly gone almost insane with heartbroken, hysteric grief and rage.She did not know what she was saying and doing; she only realised in an agony of despair that she was a thing caught in a trap; that these people had her in their power, and that they had tricked and lied to her and kept her apart from what her girl's heart so cried out to and longed for.
Her father, her mother, her little sister; they had been near her and had been lied to and sent away "You are quite mad, you violent, uncontrolled creature!"cried the Dowager furiously."You ought to be put in a straitjacket and drenched with cold water."Then the door opened again and Nigel strode in.He was in riding dress and was breathless and livid with anger.He was in a nice mood to confront a wife on the verge of screaming hysterics.After a bad half hour with his steward, who had been talking of impending disasters, he had heard by chance of Wilson's conflagration and the hundred-pound cheque.He had galloped home at the top of his horse's speed.
"Here is your wife raving mad," cried out his mother.
Rosalie staggered across the room to him.She held up her hand clenching the letter and shook it at him.
"My mother and father have been here," she shrieked.
My mother has been ill.They wanted to come to see me.
You knew and you kept it from me.You told my father lies --lies--hideous lies! You said I was away in Scotland--enjoying myself--when I was here and dying with homesickness.
You made them think I did not care for them--or for New York!
You have killed me! Why did you do such a wicked thing!
He looked at her with glaring eyes.If a man born a gentleman is ever in the mood to kick his wife to death, as costermongers do, he was in that mood.He had lost control over himself as completely as she had, and while she was only a desperate, hysteric girl, he was a violent man.
