A Heart's Bitterness — page 65: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

~~ A HEART’S BITTERNESS. 57 ‘¢T am sorry for you; but in all this I am helpless.” ‘<1 know you are. J am the one who should be sorry for you, fettered toa man who deceives you. Your husband has no tender heart, Lady Leigh. Once he gave me flowers and wandered with me along Leigh woods, and now he would rather see me starve on the streets of Paris than éarn bread at your hand.” Hven as she spoke she searched the lovely flower-like face of the little Countess of Leigh. ‘This morning talk was but the beginning of her plan for vengeance. She was studying her victim. Violet was her enemy solely because, in mar- rying Lord Leigh, she had unconsciously crossed Helen Hope’s passion and ambition. ‘*Hush! hush! Do not speak so. Let me help you.” ‘Thanks. I need no help. Iam glad I have seen you. ~ I shall always remember you as a sweet creature, worthy a better fate. Lady Leigh, you are crying; drop your vail; people will be staring at you.” Violet dropped her vail, and, as one dazed bya heavy blow, she went out jnto the small,’still, lovely garden of Cluny, an ancient garden known even in Roman times; but in all who had walked its rosy shades, perhaps no sad- der heart had beat than that of the forlorn heiress of the Ainslies, whose life had come to such untimely wreck at its opening. ‘The ripple of waters, and the smile of the flow- ers she loved, could not console her, who, seeking bread of life at a husband’s hand, had been given but a stone. She had looked for love, and received only the burnt out ashes of a dead heart. * * * ** * x * That evening there was to be a grand ball given by the Duc d@’Etoile, and Lord Leigh and his bride were among the chief guests. Violet stood in her dressing-room before the cheval glass, while the skilled hands of Kate arrayed her. But Violet’s changeful brown eyes did not regard the exquisite figure | that the glass mirrored in a robe of white brocade, the waist covered with a fine network of pearls, ropes of pearls about the smooth neck, and the dainty dimpled wrists, a string — of pearls wreathed in the dark waves and braids of her shining hair. Her eyes were rather fastened on a bouquet waiting for her on her dressing-table. A white bouquet, comicbooks (Gi @)