"It is not the boy I have known," I suddenly decided in my mind; and I cannot say in what wild surmises I might have indulged, if at that moment the door at my back had not opened and a figure stepped in which at the first glance attracted my whole attention and absorbed all my thought.
Imagine a woman, lithe, blonde, beautiful, intense; with features regular as the carver's hand could make them, but informed with a spirit so venomous, passionate, and perverse, that you lost sight of her beauty in your wonder at the formidable nature of the character she betrayed. Then see her dressed as no other woman ever dressed before, in a robe of scarlet of a cut and make quite its own, and conceive, if you can, the agitation I felt as I realized that in her I beheld my rival, my antagonist, the enemy of Dwight Pollard's peace and mine.
That her face, even the hatred that visibly contracted it as her eyes met mine, were familiar to me in the countenance and expression of the boy I had met, went for nothing. The beauty and malice of a seeming imbecile, and the same characteristics in a woman subtle and decided as this, awaken very different emotions in the mind. Though I had seen that same brow corrugated before, it was like a revelation to behold it now, and watch how the rosy lips took a straight line and the half-shut, mysterious eyes burned like a thread of light, as she stretched out one white hand and asked half imperiously, half threateningly:
"Who are you, and for what do you come to me?"
"I am Constance Sterling," I retorted, satisfied that nothing short of the heroic treatment would avail with this woman; "and if I do not mistake, I think you know very well why I come here."
"Indeed!" came in something like a hiss from between her set lips. And in one short instant all that was best in her and all that was worst became suddenly visible, as turning to her softly chuckling brother, she motioned him gently out of the room, and then turning to me, advanced a step and said: "Will you explain yourself, Miss—or is it Mrs. Constance Sterling?"
"I will explain myself," I returned, wondering, as I saw her cheeks pale and her eyes emit strange and fitful sparks, if I exerted any such influence over her as she did over me. "I said I thought you knew why I came here. I said this, because this is not the first time we have met, nor am I the first one who has presumed to address the other in a tone that to a sensitive ear sounded like menace. The idiot boy–"
"We will leave my brother out of the discussion," she broke in, in a voice so distinct I scarcely noticed that it was nothing but a whisper.
"I am not alluding to your brother," I declared, meeting her eyes with a look steady as her own, and I hope more open.
"Oh, I see," she murmured; and she took another step, while the flash of her glance cut like a knife. "You accuse me then–"
"Of assuming a disguise to spy upon Dwight Pollard."
It was a well-sped shaft, and quivered alive and burning in her heart of hearts. She gave a spring like the panther she seemed at that minute, but instantly recovered herself, and launching, upon me the strangest smile, mockingly exclaimed:
"You are a brave woman." Then as I did not quail before her passion, drew up her slight figure to its height and said: "We are worthy of each other, you and I. Tell me what you want."
Then I felt my own cheek turn pale, and I was fain to sit upon the pile of cushions that were arranged in one corner for a seat.
"What I want?" I repeated. "I want to know how you dared put in language the insinuations which you hung up on the door of the old mill this morning?"
Her eyes, narrowed, as I have said, in her seemingly habitual desire to keep their secrets to herself, flashed wide open at this, while a low and mirthless laugh escaped her lips.
"So my labor was not entirely wasted!" she cried. "You saw—"
"Both the lines and the writer," I completed, relentlessly preserving the advantage I felt myself to have gained—"the lines before they were defaced by the storm, the writer as she picked up the useless paper and went away."
"So!" she commented, with another echo of that joyless laughter; "there are two spies instead of one in this game!"
"There are two women instead of one who know your enmity and purpose," I retorted.
"How came you at the mill?" she suddenly asked, after a moment of silent communion with her own repressed soul.
"By accident," was all my reply.
"Were you alone?"
"I was."
"Then no one but yourself saw the paper?"
"No one but myself."
She gave me a look I made no sign of understanding.
"Have you told any one of what you saw and read?" she inquired at last, as she perceived I meant to volunteer nothing.
"That I am not called upon to state," I returned.
"Oh, you would play the lawyer!" was her icy and quiet remark.
"I would play nothing," was the answer that came from my lips.
She drew back, and a change passed over her.
Slowly as a fire is kindled, the passion grew and grew on her face. When it was at its height she leaned her two hands on a table that stood between us, and, bending forward, whispered:
"Do you love him? Are you going to fight to keep his name free from stain and his position unassailed before the world?"
Believe me if you can, but I could not answer; possibly because I had as yet no answer to the question in my soul.
She took advantage of my hesitation.
"Perhaps you think it is not worth while to fight me; that I have no real weapons at my command?" and her eyes shot forth a flame that devoured my rising hopes and seared my heart as with a fiery steel.
"I think you are a cruel woman," I declared, "anxious to destroy what no longer gives you pleasure."
"You know my story then?" she whispered. "He has talked about me, and to you?"
"No," I replied, in quiet disdain. "I know nothing save what your own eyes and your conduct tell me."
"Then you shall," she murmured, after a moment's scrutiny of my face.
"You shall hear how I have been loved, and how I have been forsaken.
Perhaps it will help you to appreciate the man who is likely to wreck both our lives."
I must have lifted my head at this, for she paused and gave me a curious look.
"You don't love him?" she cried.
"I shall not let him wreck my life," I responded.
Her lip curled and her two hands closed violently at her sides.
"You have not known him long," she declared. "You have not seen him at your feet, or heard his voice, as day by day he pleaded more and more passionately for a word or smile? You have not known his touch!"
"No," I impetuously cried, fascinated by her glance and tone.
I thought she looked relieved, and realized that her words might have been as much an inquiry as an assertion.
"Then do not boast," she said.
The blood that was in my cheeks went out of them. I felt my eyes close spasmodically, and hurriedly turned away my head. She watched me curiously.
"Do you think I succumbed without a struggle?" she vehemently asked, after a moment or two of this silent torture "Look at me. Am I a woman to listen to the passionate avowals of the first man that happens to glance my way and imagine he would like to have me for his wife? Is a handsome face and honeyed tongue sufficient to gain my good graces, even when it is backed by the wealth. I love and the position to which I feel myself equal? I tell you you do not know Rhoda Colwell, if you think she could be won easily. Days and days he haunted this room before I let his words creep much beyond my ears. I had a brother who needed all my care and all my affection, and I did not mean to marry, much less to love. But slowly and by degrees he got a hold upon my heart, and then, like the wretch who trusts himself to the maelstrom, I was swept round and round into the whirlpool of passion till not earth nor heaven could save me or make me again the free and light-hearted girl I was. This was two years ago, and today—"