Colonel Carlyle had not quitted the room an hour before Bonnibel's maid, Dolores, came into her presence, bearing a sealed letter upon a salver.
"Une lettre from monsieur le colonel, for Madam Carlyle," she said, in her curious melange of French and English. Bonnibel took the letter, and Dolores retreated to a little distance and stood awaiting her pleasure.
"What can he have to write to me of?" she thought, in some surprise, as she opened the envelope.
She read these words in a rather tremulous hand-writing:
"Bonnibel, my dear wife," and she shuddered slightly at the words—"I sought you a little while ago to inform you of my immediate departure for Paris, but our interview was of so harrowing a nature that I was forced to leave you without communicating my intention. I could not endure your reproaches longer. I am compelled to leave you here—circumstances force my immediate return to Paris. It is possible, nay, probable, that I may have to make a trip to the United States before I return to Naples. Believe me, it is distressing to me beyond measure to leave you now under existing circumstances, but the business that takes me away is most imperative and admits of no delay.
"I have made every possible provision for your comfort and pleasure during my absence. The housekeeper, the domestics and your own especial maid will care for you faithfully. In an hour I leave here. If you have any commands for me; if you are willing to see me again, and speak even one word of kind farewell, send me a single line by Dolores, and I will be at your side in an instant.
"Clifford Carlyle."
She finished reading and dropped the letter, forgetful of the lynx-eyed French woman who regarded her curiously. Her eyes wandered to the window, and she fell into deep thought.
"Madam," the maid said, hesitatingly, "Monsieur le colonel awaits une reply. He hastens to be gone."
Bonnibel looked up at her.
"Go, Dolores," she answered, coldly; "tell him there is no reply."
Dolores courtesied and went away. Bonnibel relapsed into thought again. She was glad that Colonel Carlyle was going away, yet she felt a faint curiosity as to the imperative business which necessitated his return to his native land. She had never heard him allude to business before. He had been known to her only as a gentleman of elegant leisure.
"Some of the banks in which his wealth is invested have failed, perhaps," she thought, vaguely, and dismissed the subject from her mind without a single suspicion of the fatal truth—that the[Pg 116] jealous old man was going to America to be present at the trial of Leslie Dane, and to prosecute him to the death. Ah! but too truly is it declared in Holy Writ that "jealousy is strong as death, and as cruel as the grave."
Colonel Carlyle was filled with a raging hatred against the man who had loved Bonnibel Vere before he had ever looked upon her alluring beauty.
He had received an anonymous letter filled with exaggerated descriptions of Bonnibel's love for the artist, and his wild passion for her. The writer insinuated that the lovely girl had sold herself for the old man's gold, believing that he would soon die, and leave her free to wed the poor artist, and endow him with the wealth thus obtained. Now, said the unknown writer, since the lovers had met again their passion would fain overleap every barrier, and they had determined to fly with each other to liberty and love.
Colonel Carlyle was reading the letter for the hundredth time when Dolores returned from delivering his letter to Bonnibel with the cold message that there was "no reply."
That bitter refusal to the yearning cry of his heart for one kind farewell word only inflamed him the more against the man whom he believed held his wife's heart. It seemed to him that that in itself was a crime for which Leslie Dane merited nothing less than death.
"She read my letter?" he said to the maid who stood waiting before him.
"Oui, Monsieur," answered Dolores, with her unfailing courtesy.
"That is well," he said, briefly; "now, go."
Dolores went away and lef............