Lillian's vow : or, The mystery of Raleigh House

By Mrs. E. Burke Collins

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Title: Lillian's vow
        or, The mystery of Raleigh House

Author: Mrs. E. Burke Collins

Release date: August 5, 2025 [eBook #76634]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: George Munro's Sons, 1889

Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)


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  LILLIAN’S VOW;

  OR,

  THE MYSTERY OF RALEIGH HOUSE

  BY

  MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS.

  COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY GEORGE MUNRO.

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LILLIAN’S VOW.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I. POOR LILLIAN!
  CHAPTER II. MISS RALEIGH’S COMPANION.
  CHAPTER III. HAUNTED.
  CHAPTER IV. APRES!
  CHAPTER V. JACK STRIKES A BLOW.
  CHAPTER VI. IN THE ROUND ROOM.
  CHAPTER VII. ROSAMOND SPEAKS HER MIND.
  CHAPTER VIII. HER LORD AND MASTER.
  CHAPTER IX. DECEIVED.
  CHAPTER X. ACCEPTED.
  CHAPTER XI. IN THE CONSERVATORY.
  CHAPTER XII. FROM THE OTHER WORLD.
  CHAPTER XIII. A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.
  CHAPTER XIV. MISJUDGED.
  CHAPTER XV. THE DIE IS CAST.
  CHAPTER XVI. A TRYING ORDEAL.
  CHAPTER XVII. A SNAKE IN THE GRASS.
  CHAPTER XVIII. “BEWARE!”
  CHAPTER XIX. BESSIE SEES THE GAME.
  CHAPTER XX. GREEK MEETS GREEK.
  CHAPTER XXI. IN AMBUSH.
  CHAPTER XXII. HER FLIGHT.
  CHAPTER XXIII. VAN ALSTYNE’S REVENGE.
  CHAPTER XXIV. GONE TO HER DOOM.
  CHAPTER XXV. FORGED FETTERS.
  CHAPTER XXVI. FACE TO FACE.
  CHAPTER XXVII. UNMASKED.
  CHAPTER XXVIII. GEOFFREY GREY ATONES.
  CHAPTER XXIX. DISCOVERED.
  CHAPTER XXX. THE END.




CHAPTER I.

POOR LILLIAN!


“Help! Help!”

A hoarse groan, a stifled cry, then silence settled down. A clear,
crisp wintery night, with the great city lying asleep beneath an
opal-tinted sky, the rush and roar of the day’s turmoil temporarily
suspended. It was late, and few people were abroad, especially upon
this retired street, where a flickering, flaring electric light threw a
yellow glare over the scene.

A man--old and white-haired, frail and feeble--was struggling in the
grasp of strong hands, while a dark face, over which a broad-brimmed
felt hat was slouched, so that his eyes and the upper part of his face
were hidden from sight, bent over him, glaring down into the white,
frightened countenance of his victim.

That this was no common case of garroting or highway robbery was
apparent at a glance.

“Where is it?” hissed the assailant. “Give it to me at once, Gilbert
Leigh, or, as sure as I live, I will kill you! Give me the book--the
memorandum-book in your possession, with all its contents undisturbed!
You _must_ do it! You shall, Gilbert Leigh! You hold my liberty, my
very life, in your hands. You must be mad to think that I would let you
go until I have gained possession of the book! Give it to me, I say,
or--”

The strong fingers of his right hand tightened their hold upon the
old man’s throat, while the other hand went into the inner pocket of
the thick, warm overcoat that the old man wore. Something was quickly
transferred from the pocket to that of the assailant--something
which proved to be a long, leathern book fastened with a band of
stout elastic. The dusky eyes under the slouched hat sparkled with
gratification, and low under his breath he panted swiftly:

“I have it! The book is mine! And so will perish every clew to my
guilt! I would die before the truth should be known! Why, this old
man held proofs which would have ruined me and ousted me from my high
position! I would--”

“Stop!”

The word, gasped feebly, fell from the pale lips of the half-dead old
man.

“Listen to me,” he went on, brokenly, as the hold of the other
gradually relaxed from about his throat. “I have a word to say.
In--in--my investigations among the books and papers of your
office--investigations which I was commanded to make by my superiors--I
have discovered that you are not only a forger and embezzler--a living
disgrace to the time-honored name that you bear--but that you are--”

He bent his gray head and whispered a few words in the ears of the
other man. With a savage howl, like a wild beast suddenly let loose
upon its prey, he flashed about and grasped the old man once more by
the throat. There was murder now in the dark eyes gleaming under the
broad-brimmed felt hat.

“_Die!_” he panted, hoarsely, “you miserable old spy! Say your prayers
now, for I am going to kill you!”

“By Jove! we’ll see about that!” cried a clear, ringing voice, as firm
footsteps drew rapidly near, and a tall figure came to an abrupt halt.
Crash! went a blow--a back-handed, powerful blow--which landed directly
in the chest of the would-be assassin. There was a dull thud as a dark
form dropped to the pavement, then the electric light went out in that
sudden and exasperating way which electric lights are prone to do upon
the smallest provocation, and when it flared up once more, the limp,
lifeless form upon the pavement and the tall figure of the new-comer
bending over it were the only objects in sight. The new-comer, the
man who had struck the blow, was tall and handsome, with pale, olive
complexion, soft, dark eyes and waves of dark hair. A face good to
look at anywhere. He stooped and peered into the old man’s upturned
countenance, a delicate patrician face, with clear-cut features, and a
broad forehead with a fringe of soft white hair.

“I’m afraid he’s dead, poor fellow!” said the young man, ruefully.
“Well, of course it will be another item for the ‘Daily Thunderer,’ and
I wouldn’t be a hard-working journalist, with my fortune all to make,
if I did not welcome an item.”

He was speaking lightly, as one accustomed to such scenes, but there
was an under-current of feeling in his voice which revealed the kindly
heart beating in his breast.

He drew from his pocket a policeman’s whistle and blew a shrill blast.

Silence for a moment, during which time the young man proceeded to tear
open the old man’s shirt-collar, and lift the white head to give him a
little air.

There was no sign of life. The chest did not move, the white hands lay
limp and lifeless at his side.

Tramp, tramp, down the street, swift and straight, came the echo of
heavy footfalls. A moment more the gleam of a silver badge, a blue
uniform, and a gruff voice demanding sternly:

“Come, now! What’s all this? Why”--in a tone of satisfaction--“if it
ain’t Mr. Lyndon!”

The young man grasped the hand extended.

“Jack Lyndon, of the ‘Daily Thunderer,’ at your service. Your name is
McElroy, I believe? Yes; well, I found this old man just now in the
grasp of a garroter, highway robber, whatever you may choose to call
him. I struck the fellow a blow, he came down with a thud; but he got
off somehow, and the old man is, I believe--McElroy, can he be dead?”

McElroy laid his hand upon the heart of the prostrate man, and a swift
look of horror dawned upon his face, as the electric light flared up
brightly, revealing the features plainly.

“Good heavens! it’s Mr. Leigh! Dear, dear! that’s awful now! And poor
Miss Lillian, it will just kill her! I think, Mr. Lyndon--I really
think and fear that the old man is gone! If it’s so, I tell you what,
I wouldn’t like to face Lillian Leigh with his body. Mr. Lyndon, you
never knew such a case in your life of father and daughter so wrapped
up in each other that they could hardly bear to be out of each other’s
sight. You see, there ain’t none of the Leigh family left but Miss
Lillian and her father. She does type-writing at home, and old Mr.
Leigh himself was an expert accountant, and some folks say a kind of
spy in the big commercial house of Raleigh & Raleigh--to look after
the interests of the firm in a quiet way, you know; it’s the biggest
commercial concern in the whole state--to watch over slippery young
clerks and wild fellows, to keep an eye upon all the employees, in
fact. A number of them--I speak the plain truth--are sons of the best
families here. They need watching, Mr. Lyndon”--shaking his head slowly
and dubiously--“sure’s you are born, they need watching.”

All this time he had been chafing the thin, white hands, and trying to
force a little brandy between the old man’s clinched teeth. He laid the
white head back against Lyndon’s knee at last with a low sigh.

“’Tain’t no use! It really seems like ’tain’t no use, Mr. Jack.
I--I--see--”

He arose to his feet and pointed to a row of buildings, all alike,
with an air of quiet respectability. Their rows of shuttered windows,
each house with its high, arched porch and white stone steps--the neat
brass door-plates at every door--told, without words, that this was a
neighborhood of boarding-houses and “apartments to let.” The policeman
lifted his club and pointed to a side window in the second story of one
of the houses, where a faint light gleamed like a star. Even while they
gazed, the blind was opened softly, and some one peered out into the
night below. McElroy groaned.

“Them’s their rooms up there, Mr. Lyndon!” he said, softly. “Who is
going to bring the old man into the house? And who--” he flashed about
with a tragic gesture--“Good God! Who’s going to tell Miss Lillian?”

The window-blind upstairs was closed softly, and the watching figure
disappeared. A strange pang shot through Jack Lyndon’s big, honest
heart. Years afterward, he was wont to look back upon that moment, and
say that it was a presentiment of what was to come.

“Poor girl! My heart aches for her!” he muttered. “It will be a
terrible blow to bear.” And then, before he scarcely realized it, Jack
Lyndon found himself standing upon the white stone steps of No. 3 ----,
McElroy at his side, ringing the door-bell in a peremptory summons.
One! boomed from the tower of a church not far away. One! repeated a
silvery-toned time-piece somewhere within the silent house at whose
door they were standing. Silence--utter silence--broken at length by
the opening of an upper window, and a masculine voice demanded sternly
who was there, and what they wanted at that time of night.

A few words made clear the sad situation. The window was closed, and
a little later the house-door was opened, and the gas-light burning
dimly in the hall turned up to a cheery blaze. They bore him into the
wide hall and laid him, limp and lifeless, upon a sofa there. Somebody
telephoned for the nearest physician, and a group of half-dressed men
and women gathered round the sofa, gazing, with horror-distended eyes,
upon the sad spectacle. Then the physician bustled in; five minutes’
examination, and the verdict came. Gilbert Leigh was dead. He had died
from the effects of strangulation.

“Who will tell Lillian?”

Somebody asked the question in an awe-stricken voice. Nobody essayed
to reply. It was answered in an unexpected way. The opening of a door
above stairs; a hush of solemn silence; then the rustle of a woman’s
draperies; flying footsteps down the broad stairs descending into the
hall below, and, before any one could realize the situation, a slight
figure, in a flowing robe of white cashmere, with a cloud of golden
hair streaming over her shoulders, dashed into their midst, and fell
upon her knees by the sofa, while a pair of soft, white arms went
around the old man’s neck.

“Papa!” One shrill cry which cut to the heart of every person present.
“Papa! Oh, papa, papa! open your eyes and look at me just once! Speak
to me, papa--just one word! Oh, papa, papa, papa!”

Jack Lyndon ventured to her side at last, and laid his hand--a strong,
white hand--lightly upon the bowed golden head.

“Miss Leigh”--in a voice that quivered with sympathy--“try to be brave!”

She lifted a small, childish face--a beautiful face, with perfectly
chiseled features, and eyes so large and deep and dark that they looked
like black velvet.

“Do you--know--what is wrong, sir?” she faltered, feebly. “Papa went
out this evening--down to the office. He had papers to attend to. Papa
never leaves me alone when he can help it; but he found that he had
forgotten his memorandum-book. It contained business relating to the
private affairs of his employers which was priceless. Papa often said
that if he lost the book he could never enter his employers’ presence
again or expect to be treated with confidence. I know that he would
defend the book, if need be, with his life. Sir”--she arose to her feet
with quiet dignity--“if that book is gone from his body it has been
stolen, and he has been attacked while defending it.”

Then with a swift burst of passionate grief she flashed about, and fell
upon her knees once more, winding her arms about her father’s neck; and
then, drawing the cold face down to her own, she laid her white cheek
against his.

“How cold you are, papa!” in a low, tense voice inexpressibly pathetic.
“You were never so cold before. What is the matter, dear? You are weak
and ill and faint, and--”

Her eyes fell for the first time upon the great purple marks about his
throat--the cruel marks of the assassin’s strong fingers. She started
up with a bitter cry.

“What--what does this mean?” she panted, pointing to the tell-tale
marks. “He is dead--dead!”

The truth had come to her at last. He had been murdered. The book had
been taken from him, and he had died in its defense.

“Oh, papa! papa! speak, and tell your little Lily this awful secret!
My papa, who has gone from me forever--tell me, tell me! You will come
back to me, papa! If disembodied spirits can return to earth, I know
that you will come to me! Speak, papa! Oh, my papa! All I had to love
in the great, cold, cruel world, speak, and tell me--who did this awful
deed?”

And then a strange occurrence took place. Even the physician could not
repress an exclamation of surprise. The dead man’s lips parted slowly,
and a few drops of blood oozed from them and trickled down upon the
snowy beard. To those present it seemed for a moment--so wrought up
were they by the awful tragedy--that Gilbert Leigh had indeed attempted
to speak; that in answer to the pitiful beseeching of his child, the
dumb lips had attempted to frame a reply and utter the name of his
murderer.

The girl’s pale face froze into an icy calm. She lifted her right hand
with a swift gesture, upon her face a look which made the spectators
hold their breath in speechless awe.

“Hear me!” she said, in the same tense voice, “and bear witness to
what I say! I take no oath, I bind myself by no pledge, I make no wild
assertions or prophecies, but, I say this: my father’s murderer shall
yet be found! It may be years before it comes to pass; but sooner or
later, the man who took Gilbert Leigh’s life in this base, dastardly
manner, shall be found and punished! And when the hour comes in which
I shall stand face to face with him, when his guilt is exposed and his
crime revealed, may God have mercy upon him, for I shall have none!”

She sunk upon her knees once more at her dead father’s side, like a
pallid, sad-eyed ghost; and when morning stole in at the shuttered
windows, she was crouching there still. Not a tear had she shed; not
another word had passed her lips; but there was that in her pale young
face which made all who saw her afraid.




CHAPTER II.

MISS RALEIGH’S COMPANION.


“Which shall I wear, mamma, the pale blue silk, with white lace and
pearl ornaments, or the new amber satin with hand-painted panels and
black lace overdress looped with diamonds? Ah, yes, that will be the
handsomest and most striking! And I shall wear _all_ the Raleigh
diamonds!”

“But, Rosamond, _all_ the Raleigh diamonds would be too many jewels
for a single toilet. It would be bad taste, my dear; yet, after
all”--Mrs. Raleigh bent her stately head with its silver-gray puffs in
a meditative way--“it would be something unique! What a woman requires
nowadays in fashionable society is to look as odd and unusual as
possible. But, Rosamond, we live in a great city, and our fashionable
society is controlled by--”

“The woman I hate!” burst forth Rosamond, vindictively, with an angry
gesture. “She is my own cousin, but I hate her, hate her, _hate_ her! I
tell you, mamma, the day upon which Cousin Lenore Vane made her grand
marriage was a bad day for her as well as myself! When she became the
wife of a senator I knew then that my reign was over--that I could
never surpass her in position, in social triumph. And since that day
I have hated her as I have never hated any living creature, and I
shall hate her till I die! To see her surrounded by her satellites is
perfectly nauseating to me, and the absurd flatteries lavished upon
her--why, in her presence I am hardly noticed--nearly drive me mad!”

“I know--I understand”--soothingly; “but never mind, Rosamond! You are
bound to make a grand marriage some day. She is the wife of Senator Van
Alstyne, it is true; but in point of wealth you are--”

“The daughter of Grafton Raleigh, of the great firm of Raleigh &
Raleigh!” interrupted Rosamond, haughtily. “No business house in the
whole United States holds a higher or more enviable position! Do not
forget that, mamma!”

Rosamond Raleigh began to pace up and down the luxurious room, her
delicate blonde face flushed slightly, the big, china-blue eyes drawn
close together with the ugly scowl which puckered her white forehead,
her small, jeweled hands clinched angrily. She came to a halt at
length, and her face wore a very unlovely expression in its jealous
wrath.

“The wife of Senator Van Alstyne! And what of that!” she pouted,
angrily. “He is a great, coarse, pompous creature, most repugnant to
me, or to any civilized taste. If there was any use in wondering over
such matters in this corrupt age, I would marvel exceedingly that he
should ever have been made a member of the United States Senate! But
these affairs are unfathomable. As for Lenore, she was always sly and
underhand. I know that she has never cared for her big, red-faced
senator, and only married him to gratify her vanity, and--mamma, say
what you like, you can never change my opinion--there is a secret in
Lenore Vane’s life. And I believe that, to cover up this secret--this
bad, black, unpleasant secret--she married Senator Van Alstyne!”

“Rosamond!”

Mrs. Raleigh’s face was pale as death, and in her gray-blue eyes
something like terror.

“You are talking wildly, daughter,” she returned, trying to steady
her voice. “You could know nothing concerning Lenore’s past. She is
seven years your senior. You were twenty-five last summer,” she added,
musingly.

“Hush!” Rosamond turned quite pale. “The idea of your telling my age
right out like that! Anyone in the next room might have heard every
word! But, speaking of Lenore’s position, I am going to shine her down
to-morrow night at her own reception! In point of beauty she can not
hold a candle to me! With her pale, colorless face, and big, dark eyes,
and all that assumption of hauteur! Bah! I am sick of all the silly
flatteries lavished upon that woman! Ah-h!” hissing the word forth
vindictively, “if only it were in my power to unmask her, to expose
her secret--whatever it may be! And, mamma, listen, and believe me: I
am convinced that the day is coming when I shall triumph--when I shall
cast her down from her high pedestal into the very dust at my feet! Oh,
what a day that will be!”

“Rosamond!”

“Then I will pay back the debt of hatred that I owe, with compound
interest,” hissed the girl, paying no heed to her mother’s warning
voice; “and so, mamma”--changing to a lighter tone--“I shall go to
Madame Lenore Van Alstyne’s reception to-morrow night, wearing the
Raleigh diamonds and that incomparable amber satin. You know me well
enough to be sure that I am going to have my own way!”

Mrs. Raleigh sighed as she turned away, while Rosamond crossed the room
to a door which communicated with a small octagonal apartment, and
opened it hastily. Her face was still harsh and angry, and there was a
glitter in the blue eyes which boded ill for some one.

“Noisette!” she called, shrilly.

A young girl, a pale-faced, dark-eyed girl, seated at a window in the
tiny room, busily engaged in painting upon a piece of amber satin, laid
down her brush, and turned swiftly.

“Do you want me, Miss Rosamond?” she asked.

“Do I want you? Humph! Of course I would be sure to call you if I did
_not_ want you! That goes without saying! Have you finished the last
panel of the amber satin?”

“Not quite.” The girl’s voice was slow and hesitating. “My heart hurts
me so this morning that I could not work quite so fast as usual, and
so--”

“Bring it here to me!”

The voice was low and ominous; Rosamond Raleigh was trembling
with rage. Slowly Noisette obeyed the command, and entered the
outer apartment, in one small, shapely hand the amber satin panel,
exquisitely painted with bunches of scarlet poppies, and long, clinging
tendrils of pale-green leaves. It was the work of a true artist, and
Rosamond Raleigh knew it--knew that her hand-painted fans and costly
bits of silk and satin were the envy of half her set. And she realized
perfectly that she was getting all this exquisite work done for such a
mere nothing--the poor girl was a dependent upon the Raleighs--that it
was a positive sin.

One glance at the girl’s pale face and heavy, red-rimmed eyes, but
not a tinge of pity stirred Miss Raleigh’s cold heart. The heart of a
fashionable woman, immersed in dress and society, is colder and harder
than stone.

“Not done yet,” in a cutting voice, “and the reception at Senator Van
Alstyne’s to come off to-morrow night, and I must have that dress to
wear. I will have it; do you hear me? That painting must be done,
though it kills you to do it.”

“Miss Rosamond, I will try.”

The girl’s voice was very faint, and trembled perceptibly.

“But my heart hurts me awfully,” she continued, “and sometimes I am
obliged to stop and rest; and it is so difficult to breathe. Everything
seems to get dark before me, and I feel afraid. And besides,”
hesitatingly, “the odor of the paints is disagreeable.”

“Well, have you finished your complaints?” sneered Miss Raleigh,
pitilessly. “Because if you have I would be pleased to see you go to
work. I think I have done enough for you in taking you out of the
orphan asylum and giving you a good home. But you are getting so lazy
that you do not earn your salt. Go back to the sewing-room at once, and
have that panel finished before three o’clock, or”--she drew her breath
with a little hiss, her blue eyes glaring angrily into the girl’s
white, pain-distorted face--“it will be bad for you, my lady,” she
added, sharply.

Noisette bent her head slightly, and, taking the panel, returned to the
room that she had left, closing its door behind her. Her face was white
and rigid, and one hand clutched at her heart as though in pain.

“Heaven help me!” murmured the poor girl, under her breath. “I am
dying, and she knows it. Ah, better for me if she had left me in the
asylum. At least they have some mercy there.”

She sunk into the low seat at the window and took the brush in her
cold, clammy hand.

“God pity the orphan!” she murmured, feebly.

The brush began to move slowly, uncertainly over the glinting, amber
satin; at length it fell upon the dainty fabric, leaving a big red
stain. It looked like heart’s blood.

The girl started up as though some one had struck her a blow; her head
fell forward. A sensation stole over her like floating dreamily through
space. The pale lips parted, and one word escaped them:

“Mother!”

That was all.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Rosamond! Come here, quick! Oh, God, have mercy upon us!”

Rosamond Raleigh heard her mother’s voice in tones of wildest
excitement and alarm an hour or two later, and arising from the satin
couch, where she had been reading a French novel, she hastened to the
octagonal room whence the sound proceeded.

Her mother was standing beside the marble table, upon which the
painting materials were scattered, and Noisette’s head had fallen
forward and rested against the marble top of the table. But the first
object that caught Rosamond’s eye as she entered the room was the spot
of fresh paint upon the amber satin panel.

She caught her breath with a gasp of rage.

“You have ruined my dress!” she shrieked, rushing to the side of the
poor girl, and seizing her rudely by the shoulder; “you have literally
ruined it! But you shall pay for it! I swear it! I will make you suffer
for this! Mamma!”--falling back with a terrified cry--“what is the
matter?”

Noisette’s head had fallen limply to one side, as the rude fingers
closed down upon the thin shoulders in that cruel grip; her eyes were
half open, set, staring and glassy; her lips were parted, showing
the white teeth with a ghastly expression. Noisette was dead! Heart
disease had stricken her down while at her work.

The orphan girl’s troubles were ended. She had died at her post,
engaged in a thankless task.

For just a moment the hard heart of Rosamond Raleigh quailed; she sunk
into a seat and covered her face with her hands.

“Mamma!” glancing up at last, “is she really dead? Is there no hope--no
mistake? Why, this is awful! And it will get into the newspapers. I
wouldn’t have Jack Lyndon get hold of the affair, not for a fortune!
I’m more than half afraid of his sharp tongue and sharper pen. Can we
do nothing?” arising, and, with evident repugnance, approaching the
still figure in the chair.

Mrs. Raleigh shook her head. She had seen Death in too many forms not
to know his dread presence beyond a doubt.

“She has been dead an hour, I should think,” Mrs. Raleigh observed;
“but for form’s sake I will send for a physician. And then--oh,
dear!--there will be a coroner’s inquest, and--”

“Never! Not in this house! Mamma, just think of the publicity! We must
manage to avoid it in some way.”

And they did. In their high position, and with plenty of money at their
command--alas! what will not money do?--all was speedily arranged. The
body of the girl was arrayed for its last resting-place, and borne into
an unused room, where it was placed in a plain coffin, to be buried
quietly away in the nearest cemetery early in the morning.

The arrangements all concluded, Mrs. Raleigh locked the door of the
room where the dead girl lay sleeping so peacefully, and turned to
go back to the drawing-room. But at that very moment the door-bell
rang, there was a brief pause in the spacious entrance-hall, then
the sweeping of silken skirts coming to the wing of the house where
the dead girl lay. Mrs. Raleigh started nervously. A moment later
she was face to face with Lenore Van Alstyne. Tall and slender, with
great, melancholy dark eyes, and a face of marble pallor, she was very
beautiful, and--you could read it at a glance--a woman who would die
for pride’s sake. Mrs. Raleigh could not control her surprise at sight
of her niece.

“I heard that Noisette was dead,” began Lenore at once; “so I drove
around to see if I can do anything. Let me see her, Aunt Helen.”

“Oh, my dear, it is not a pleasant sight. I--”

Lenore’s haughty lip curled.

“Death is seldom a pleasant sight, Aunt Helen!” she returned, coldly.
“I have always liked the girl; she was very unassuming, and certainly
industrious. Let me go in, Aunt Helen. See, I have brought her some
flowers--her favorite lilies.”

So, though much against her will, Mrs. Raleigh unlocked the door, and
they entered the chamber of death, followed shortly by Rosamond.

Lenore laid her lilies upon the open coffin, and then, moved by a
sudden impulse, sunk down upon her knees beside the dead girl. Silence
fell over all, and the moments passed, and still she knelt there. Mrs.
Raleigh turned to her daughter.

“Rosamond, this is no place for you,” she began in a stage whisper;
but she stopped short in unfeigned surprise at sight of the look upon
Rosamond’s face.

“Mamma,” drawing her mother aside and speaking in an almost inaudible
tone, lest their visitor should hear, “look! Did you ever see a more
perfect resemblance than those two faces? In life we never observed it,
but death brings the truth startlingly forward. Noisette is the very
image of Lenore!”

“Nonsense! What absurdity, child! It is only one of those accidental
resemblances which one stumbles across very often. Ah! there; she is
going at last, thank Heaven! I shall never feel comfortable until that
body is out of the house,” she added, plaintively.

The body was out of the house early the next morning, buried away with
scant ceremony, and soon forgotten.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Raleigh sat in her dainty boudoir a few days later. The reception
at Senator Van Alstyne’s was a thing of the past, but Rosamond had been
conspicuous by her absence.

“If I can not wear the amber satin I will not go at all,” the willful
beauty had declared with an emphatic stamp of a small foot in a dainty
bronze slipper; “but I shall make capital out of this horrid affair.
Our set shall believe that I remained at home out of respect for my
protégée’s memory, and not because I was disappointed in my dress.
And I must find another girl in Noisette’s place--I believe I will
advertise for a companion.”

And so she did--and fate decreed that this advertisement should
attract poor Lillian Leigh’s notice, and she resolved to apply for
the position. So Mrs. Raleigh, upon this particular morning of
which I write, was interviewing Lillian, who had ventured to call
at the Raleigh mansion in response to the advertisement. A slender,
black-robed figure, she looked like a mere child as she told her
pitiful story.

“I want employment, madame,” she said, lifting her great, sad
brown eyes to the cold, high-bred face before her. “The old
work--type-writing--has failed me; and besides, I prefer to leave my
present home. I can not endure to remain among the old familiar scenes.
I wish to lead a retired life, and yet I have my own living to make.”

A cold, critical glance swept the black-robed figure from head to foot,
then Mrs. Raleigh’s slow, languid voice observed:

“You may make a trial of us, if you like. Of course we can not pay
much to a novice, but after a time you will receive a good salary.”

So the arrangements were speedily completed, and for a pitifully
small sum Lillian Leigh agreed to act as “companion” to Miss Rosamond
Raleigh, little dreaming of what lay before her, and that fate was
leading her blindly on. Coming down the broad staircase, the first
evening of her life at the Raleigh mansion, Lillian came suddenly face
to face with a tall, dark, brigandish-looking man who had just entered
the house. One glance, and he fell back, clutching wildly at a carved
Gothic chair which stood near, his dark face grown pale as death.

“Who are you?” he gasped. “Surely you are Gilbert Leigh’s daughter?”

She bowed coldly.

“I am Gilbert Leigh’s daughter!” she returned, in a dignified manner.

He glanced furtively about him. There was no one in the hall--no one
within hearing, apparently. He caught her hand with a hasty gesture.

“I must know you better, Miss Leigh,” he said, swiftly, his evil eye
studying every feature of the pale, indignant face. “I am Richard
Raleigh, only son and heir of the Raleighs,” he added, with a smile.

As he spoke he drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and a card
fluttered with it to the floor. Lillian stooped and picked it up. It
was a small photograph, and--could it be possible?--it was a photograph
of her own face! Trembling like a leaf, she flashed indignantly upon
him.

“How dare you!” she was beginning, wildly; but, checking her
agitation, she went on, swiftly: “Mr. Raleigh, where did you obtain
this photograph? I must know! It is one that my father carried in his
pocket. There can be no mistake. See, here are his initials, ‘G. L.,’
on the back of the card. Mr. Richard Raleigh, I demand an answer. Where
did you get this picture?”




CHAPTER III.

HAUNTED.


For just a moment Richard Raleigh quailed like a craven form before the
angry blast in those fearless dark eyes.

“My dear young lady, you must be mad!” he cried, mockingly. “Ah, yes;
it is one that I picked up down-town in the office of the ‘Thunderer.’
Jack Lyndon, one of the staff, had it. Seems that he was present when
your father’s body was found; the photograph fell from his pocket, and
Lyndon picked it up. I saw it, fell in love with it, begged Jack to
relinquish it, which he did; and so I have it. Are you satisfied, Miss
Leigh?”

She was trembling like a reed in the wind, her brown eyes flashing like
fire at the insulting narrative.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” she pouted at last. “Mr. Lyndon is a
gentleman--a true, noble-hearted, honorable gentleman! He was my best
friend when papa died--was murdered,” she added, bleakly. “Mr. Raleigh,
I don’t care what you say; you shall not slander Mr. Jack Lyndon in my
presence. He is the noblest man whom I have ever met.”

“I thank you.”

The girl turned swiftly about; she had not heard the street door open.
A tall form stood at her side; a pair of grave, kindly eyes gazed into
the girl’s excited face, as, hat in hand, Jack Lyndon bowed low before
Miss Raleigh’s companion, waiting-maid, and general factotum.

“God bless you for your championship,” he added, softly. An angry light
overspread Richard Raleigh’s face, but he bowed with tolerable civility
as his eyes met Jack Lyndon’s.

“Ah, good-evening, Lyndon,” he sneered. “May I inquire the nature of
the business which has conferred upon the house of Raleigh the honor of
your presence?”

Jack’s handsome face flushed.

“A note of invitation from Miss Rosamond Raleigh brings me here,” he
said, coldly. “It is a matter of small importance to me whether I
call or not, Mr. Raleigh, but a lady’s written request is not to be
neglected.”

Lillian had slipped the photograph of her own face into her pocket,
and glided away to finish the errand which had brought her thither.
A little later, passing through the great hall once more, on her way
upstairs, she caught a glimpse of a pretty little tableau: Rosamond
Raleigh, in the music-room, seated at the grand piano, attired in
an artistic robe of white surah, with pink roses at her throat and
one half-open bud nestling in her dyed, blonde hair. She was most
artistically got up, and as the small, jeweled hands swept the white
keys, the big blue eyes were lifted, with a sweet, childish expression,
to the grave, handsome face of Jack Lyndon, as he stood beside the
instrument. What was Rosamond’s object in inviting him there? he
asked himself again and again. He was only a poor journalist; rapidly
rising in his profession, it is true, but not worthy to compare, in
point of wealth and position, with the daughter of Grafton Raleigh the
millionaire. And it never once occurred to Jack that the proud, haughty
society woman might have found a heart beating under her silken bodice,
even as Undine found her soul.

Lillian, passing through the hall, saw the couple at the piano, for the
door was open, and a strange pang shot through her heart as she passed
hastily upstairs to attend to her duties. There were guests invited to
the Raleigh mansion that night, and Jack had found himself included in
the invitations, while, much to his surprise, the tiny scented note
contained a P.S., carefully underscored:

 “Please come very early. Say at eight.”

And, wondering greatly, he had obeyed her.

He found Miss Raleigh awaiting him.

“Senator and Mrs. Van Alstyne will look in at our reception to-night,”
she announced. “You know that Mrs. Van Alstyne is my cousin? I thought
that you might like to describe her costume when you write up our
reception for to-morrow’s paper,” with a little laugh.

Jack bowed and smiled his thanks, and then the door-bell rang, and the
first arrival was announced.

Who that saw Lenore Van Alstyne that night will ever forget her? She
wore a trailing robe of shimmering pink satin, with a V-shaped corsage
draped with costly white lace and a great cluster of snow-white
marguerites. Not a jewel did she wear, not even a flower in the massive
coils of silky dark hair. She was adorned by her own stately beauty and
gracious sweetness--jewels which no money can purchase.

It was a grand affair, though only a small party, for Rosamond disliked
a crowd. The evening wore away--that evening during which Miss Raleigh
devoted herself to the entertainment of Jack Lyndon as sedulously as,
in her character of hostess, she dare venture.

Late in the evening Rosamond went upstairs to the pretty octagonal
room which adjoined her own chamber to get a small painting which Jack
Lyndon had expressed a desire to see and with which she would not trust
a servant. She was smiling softly to herself as she ran lightly up the
stairs and laid her hand upon the silver door-knob of the little room
where poor Noisette had passed so many lonely hours, and--yes, where
she had died.

A strange chill crept over Rosamond Raleigh’s heart at the
recollection, and the smile faded from her lips.

The door swung slowly open, and she crossed the threshold. She started
back with a low, frightened cry. Some one had extinguished the gas;
but the moonlight streaming in at the window, whose shade was not
yet drawn, revealed the interior of the pretty room, and rested in
a pearly pathway of light upon the figure seated at the window--the
childish little figure, with a pathetic droop to the small head, bent,
as usual, over the painting materials. An awful horror crept over the
fashionable beauty as she stood there.

How still everything was! The room was too far removed from the
drawing-rooms below for any sound of mirth and revelry to reach it.
Sometimes a quivering, wailing burst of music, sobbing itself into
silence, floated up the staircase, and made a ghostly echo in the room,
where--She glanced once more toward that pathetic little figure bending
over the painting, and Rosamond realized, with a shiver of horror, that
it was no living creature upon which she gazed. An inarticulate cry
passed her lips, as she ventured a little nearer. Was it Noisette’s
spirit which sat there in the moonlight, working out the hard task?
Rosamond saw that the shadowy fingers which grasped the brush were
painting away at the amber satin panel. Painting--painting! but never
to finish. The strokes of the brush up and down left no trace; the
panel was just as Noisette had left it when death had called her,
when the brush had fallen from her nerveless grasp, leaving the big
red stain that looked like heart’s blood. Trembling, gasping for
breath, Miss Raleigh turned and fled from the haunted room. She was
no weak-minded, hysterical girl, to go in nervous spasms over a sight
which she well knew she could never convince the world that she had
witnessed. She fled precipitately, however, nor paused to take breath
until she found herself down in the brilliantly lighted drawing-room
once more, and explaining, in a breathless, laughing, altogether
charming fashion, that the picture must be mislaid, for certainly
it was not to be found. And no one but her mother observed the set
expression that had dawned upon her face, and the look of nameless
terror in her eyes.

“Miss Rosamond!”

She glanced up with a start, to see a tall, liveried footman standing
at her side.

“I don’t like to trouble you,” he went on, hesitatingly, “but it’s an
old woman who will not be denied. She is down in the housekeeper’s
room, and if you wouldn’t mind seeing her a moment, Miss Rosamond--”

With a haughty gesture, Rosamond waved him aside. A little later
she was standing in the housekeeper’s cozy sitting-room, before a
snowy-haired, wrinkled old woman with mild black eyes. She was bent
nearly double over the heavy oaken staff which she clutched with two
skinny hands; but at sound of the opening door, and the swish! swish!
of silken drapery, she lifted her head, and her bold, black eyes met
the glance of interrogation in Miss Raleigh’s cold blue orbs.

“What do you want?” she demanded, sharply.

The old crone bowed humbly.

“I am told that you have guests here to-night, Miss Raleigh,” she
began, in a low tone. “I am a dabbler in the occult and mysterious--I
am a clairvoyant. I can read the future, unmask the present, and,” with
an upward glance of her great black eyes, “expose the secrets of the
past. Don’t look so incredulous, lady--I can do it!”

“What do you want?” demanded Rosamond, haughtily.

“Permission to exhibit my strange powers before your guests,” returned
the woman, promptly. “I am very old, and it is my only means of earning
a livelihood. Let me go into your drawing-room, and I promise to
surprise and astound you. Stay a moment, lady. Is there any one present
whom you dislike--whom you hate?”

Rosamond’s eyes glittered.

“There is. Ah, if you could unmask her, if you could show me her past
and expose her secret, so carefully guarded, I would make you rich for
life!”

The old woman bent her head, and her lips moved as though speaking, yet
she uttered no word.

“Come!” said Rosamond, moved by a sudden impulse. “I will give you
permission to exhibit your powers. But if there is any villainy hidden
under it all, if you have a sinister object in coming here to-night, I
will have you punished to the full extent of the law.”

The old woman’s eyes twinkled.

“Trust me, lady. You will never regret it,” she returned. Low under her
breath she was muttering to herself in a broken, disjointed way, as she
followed Miss Raleigh to the drawing-room:

“At last! At last! The hour for which I have longed is here! Oh, to see
her once again--to--”

They had reached the drawing-room door. A few words of explanation, and
all the company gathered in eager excitement about the old woman, who
had sunk into a low seat and sat as still as a statue. At last:

“Murdered!” she cried, in a shrill voice, which penetrated to every
corner. “Murdered! Poor Gilbert Leigh! My friends, the guilty wretch
who took that old man’s life is present within this very room.”

There was a stifled shriek, followed by a heavy fall; the gas-lights
had gone out suddenly, leaving the great room in darkness, and an awful
silence settled over the scene.




CHAPTER IV.

APRES!

Some one lighted the gas in a moment, and its yellow rays revealed a
pale-faced, terrified group. Lillian, who had been sent to bring Mrs.
Raleigh a fan, was standing in the open door of the library, pale as
marble, one hand clutching the white satin fan with its delicate spray
of wild roses, the handiwork of the girl who had gone to her long rest
such a short time before; the other hand, cold and trembling, pressed
tightly over her wildly throbbing heart; her big, dark eyes, dilated
with horror, fixed blankly before her. Richard Raleigh crouched in a
corner, glaring about him like a wild beast suddenly brought to bay,
and prone upon the velvet-carpeted floor Lenore Van Alstyne lay in a
dead swoon, and the old woman--fortune-teller or whatever she might
be--had disappeared.

For a few moments everybody stood staring helplessly about them, too
overcome by the shock of the surprise--the audacity of the affair--to
collect their scattered faculties.

With a muttered execration, Richard Raleigh strode over to the door and
caught Lillian by the arm.

“You are responsible for all this jugglery!” he hissed, his angry black
eyes devouring the pale face of the shrinking girl. “You are to blame,
Lillian Leigh, and rest assured that you shall suffer for it!”

The stately little head was crested proudly, and the dark, flashing
eyes gave him back scorn for scorn.

“Take your hand from my arm, Mr. Raleigh!” the low, level voice
commanded, calmly. “How dare you touch me? And as for your insulting
words, you shall answer for them! My father--”

Good heavens! what had she been about to say? It came home to her, with
a sharp, keen pang of bitter memory, that she who had never before been
separated from her father, her protector and defender, was all alone.
She had no father now--never any more! She had been so accustomed to
look to him for help, for love, for protection, that for a brief moment
she had lost sight of the cruel truth. Her heart turned to her father
as the sunflower turns to the sun--and--she had no father now! With
one swift, lightning stroke of memory the poor girl came back to the
consciousness of her loss--that bitter, irretrievable loss--and she
saw the blank, empty future stretched out before her eyes--without her
father! Ah! cruel, cruel fate! To be bereft of his tender care--his
loving words of counsel--his kindly guidance!

For just a moment the orphan girl forgot even Richard Raleigh’s dreaded
presence, as the full knowledge of her desolation rushed over her
heart like a swirling flood. But still Richard Raleigh gazed with bold
eyes into her face, and still the stern, dark hand, crowned with a
glittering diamond, clutched the girl’s white arm.

“Let go my arm, sir!” she commanded once more, in a low, scornful tone.
“How dare you insult me?”

“Mr. Raleigh will be good enough to obey this lady’s command!” said a
cool, low voice close by, and Lillian, turning swiftly, saw Jack Lyndon
at her side. Not another word; but Raleigh’s grasp relaxed, and he
loosened his hold; then, with a sneer, he turned upon his heel and left
the room.

There was a great deal of excitement over Lenore, and, therefore,
this scene had been almost unobserved. Senator Van Alstyne bustled
forward, and lifting his wife’s graceful form as though she had been
an infant, placed her carefully upon a sofa, while a group of pale,
excited people gathered around, and restoratives were brought. But one
pair of eyes had watched the scene between Lillian and Jack Lyndon--one
pair of steely orbs, glinting now with anger too deep for words--and a
white-robed figure, which hovered ever in the vicinity of Jack Lyndon,
was trembling with excitement and jealous wrath.

“I will send that girl away to-morrow as surely as I live,” muttered
Rosamond, low under her breath. “I will not be tormented by the sight
of her any longer. And yet,” with a strange sinking of the heart, or
“the muscular viscus” which did duty for that organ with Miss Rosamond
Raleigh--“it would be just my luck to have Jack Lyndon fall desperately
in love with her and marry her if I were to send her away--cast her
adrift without a home. Oh, dear! was any woman ever so tormented
before? First, I must lose my waiting-maid--ugh! I can’t get Noisette
out of my mind!--and now Lillian gives me trouble. First one maid and
then the other. One thing certain, and upon that point I shall be
adamant hereafter: Lillian Leigh shall not be allowed to show herself
among my guests. What evil genius sent her here at this particular
juncture? Oh, yes!” catching sight of the white satin toy in the girl’s
trembling hand, “mamma’s fan! It is the very last fan that Noisette
painted. Ugh! there it is again. I can not forget for a moment. And now
I think that Mr. Lyndon has had quite enough to say to my servant. I
intend to put a stop to it.”

She glided swiftly over to the retired corner near the door where
Lillian stood, while Jack Lyndon bent his handsome head and spoke
in low, eager tones. He was learning the reason for her sudden and
unexpected appearance at the Raleigh mansion.

“It is no place for you, Miss Leigh,” he said, gravely; “we must try to
find you more suitable employment; and--and (pardon me, but I can not
refrain from a few words of warning) it is better for you not to remain
longer under the same roof with--”

“Lillian!” Miss Raleigh’s sharp, cutting voice broke in upon his
low-spoken words with a suddenness that made her start. “What are
you doing here? Don’t you see that mamma is suffering--absolutely
suffering--for a fan? Go give it to her; and then,” in a low tone, “go
up to my room and stay there!”

Lillian bowed. Well, of course Miss Raleigh was right. It was not
Lillian’s place to stand among Miss Raleigh’s select and fashionable
guests; she--a hired companion--waiting-maid--upper servant!

With a grateful “I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Lyndon,” Lillian
glided away, leaving Rosamond, nothing loath, to take the place at Jack
Lyndon’s side which she had just vacated.

“How annoying and unpleasant it is, Mr. Lyndon, to be troubled with
servants who are above their stations, and who, in common parlance,
‘have seen better days.’ Now that girl really knows nothing of the
duties and proprieties of her position here; and I want to be kind
and gentle with her, yet I must be firm, and I fear that I have a
disagreeable task before me. For it is so difficult to train such
people without wounding their sensibilities; and when they once imagine
themselves slighted or insulted, there is no hope of doing anything
with them. And so,” with a pretty deprecatory gesture of the small
gloved hands, “you see how it is.”

It was a slightly ambiguous speech, but it had its own effect. Jack’s
conscience gave a queer little twinge of remorse.

He had been too hard in thought upon Miss Raleigh--too hard and stern,
after all. She meant well--she did the best that she knew. And hers had
been but a superficial and artificial education, a life without aim
or object, an empty fashionable career, with only the false lights of
pleasure and worldly amusements to lure her on.

How vapid and unsatisfying it must be. And he little dreamed--this
grave young knight of the quill--that that same life of fashionable
dissipation was Rosamond Raleigh’s highest ideal, filled every vacant
corner of her heart, was, in fact, the only existence for which she
cared, or which it was possible for her to know and be content. His
grave eyes met her appealing glance kindly, and his voice took on a
gentler tone as he returned:

“You have my sympathy in your grievous trials, my dear Miss Raleigh!”

A low cry resounded through the room and startled the two. Lenore had
opened her eyes and returned to consciousness. She was struggling
and panting and gasping for breath, her eyes--beautiful dreamy dark
eyes--were dilated with horror; the small, cold hands were tearing
wildly at the frosty white lace upon her breast, and she looked like
one distraught.

“Take me away! take me away!” she panted, feebly. “Oh, Van!”
burying her pale face upon the black coat-sleeve of the pompous
senator--“has--has he gone?”

Van Alstyne bent his head and gazed into his wife’s frightened face
with eyes full of undisguised wonder. He was coarse and red faced and
hard featured, with small, ferret-like eyes and iron-gray hair and
beard.

“Lenore!” in a deprecatory tone, “whom do you mean, dear? Don’t you
remember you were frightened by an old woman--witch--beldame--whom
your cousin Rosamond saw fit to introduce among her select guests. By
Jove!” with a fierce assumption of dignity, “it has come to a pretty
pass indeed if a man is compelled to meet such trash at the very first
houses! Lenore, try to be calm. There is nothing to fear, you have had
a fright--a foolish fright--followed by a fainting fit, which latter
I must say does not surprise me. My dear, I never knew you to faint
before but once,” he added, briefly, with a significant glance which
brought the red blood to her pale cheek.

Ah, yes! she remembered that other swoon. Heaven knows she had reason
to remember it. It had occurred at her own marriage. In memory she saw
it all--went through the same scene once more. The brilliantly lighted
church; the gay, glittering crowd; the bridal procession, with the
bride, whiter than death itself, leaning upon the arm of the pompous
bridegroom, while they made their triumphal exit from the sacred
edifice, out to the long line of waiting carriages drawn up beside the
curb; the crowd in the street without surging, swaying to and fro;
and above all others one face--a face which appeared amid the throng,
gazing upon her with great dark eyes full of mute reproach. One swift
instant their eyes had met, and like one suddenly stricken dead, the
bride fell to the pavement.

It all came back to her now in a swift, hurried flash; then there was
a sudden transformation scene. Lenore Van Alstyne started to her feet.
She looked like a galvanized corpse, but the pale lips shut themselves
down closely, and the white hands clinched and unclinched each other
fiercely; and then a light silvery laugh rang out, and she turned to
the watching, lynx-eyed man at her side.

“Come, let us dance! Rosamond said that we should have the lancers, and
now is as good a time as any. Waltz, did you say, Captain Burnham?” as
a tall, soldierly man bowed before her with a few low, eager words.
“Ah, pray excuse me from that. I am not very strong. My foolish nerves
have played me a sad trick, and I do not feel equal to a waltz. But
the lancers--I shall be delighted. Rosamond, _ma cousine_, where is
the music?” turning as she spoke with a light laugh to meet Rosamond’s
astonished gaze, as she still conversed with Jack Lyndon.

“Surely you are not able to dance, Lenore,” she was beginning; but Mrs.
Van Alstyne cut the remonstrance short.

“Nonsense!” she cried, lightly.

And then Jack Lyndon found himself offering his arm to Miss Raleigh,
and the business of dancing the lancers was begun.

But everything comes to an end sooner or later, and at last the
reception was over; and Jack Lyndon, feeling very much as though he
were awaking from an unusually fanciful dream, found himself on his way
home, holding in his memory the half-whispered words of the heiress,
Miss Raleigh:

“Don’t forget the opera to-morrow night! Call early, Jack--I beg your
pardon--Mr. Lyndon,” a swift crimson tingeing her cheek.

After which he could not fail to catch a glimmer of the light of truth,
and open his sleepy eyes to the suspicion that the cold, statuesque
Miss Raleigh was really becoming interested in the poor journalist.

“Poor little Lillian!” was all that he said--and that certainly seems
a strange remark to make, when we consider that Miss Raleigh was the
object of his thoughts.

And at that very hour, in the Van Alstynes’ spacious mansion, Lenore
was pacing up and down her own room, its door securely locked against
intruders, her face pale as marble, all assumed gayety vanished, one
hand clutching at her heart, as she murmured, brokenly:

“It must be--it must be true. It was his voice--I would know it
anywhere. Oh! may Heaven have pity and let me die, for I am the most
miserable woman in the whole world!”




CHAPTER V.

JACK STRIKES A BLOW.


“Well! Miss Lillian Leigh!”

Lillian glanced up with a start at sound of that voice--or was it the
hiss of a serpent?--and her pale face flushed a little as she arose
to her feet. It was in Miss Raleigh’s sleeping-room, and she had
been dreaming over the fire, awaiting the coming of her tyrannical
task-mistress, and while she sat there these thoughts had been flitting
through her brain:

“I wonder what was the matter to-night? Just as I was about to open
the library door, when I went to carry Mrs. Raleigh’s fan, it opened
suddenly from within, and a strange, weird-looking old woman rushed
out, flew down the hall, and was out of the front door and gone before
I could recover my breath. And there were the library lights all
extinguished; and Mrs. Van Alstyne--that pale, proud-looking lady--had
fainted dead away. And Miss Raleigh looked so overcome with terror! It
must have been some very unusual excitement; but, of course, I dared
ask no questions, and it is no concern of mine. I am afraid of Mr.
Richard Raleigh,” she went on, after a brief pause, her busy brain full
of the late strange occurrences, “and but for Mr. Lyndon he might have
said more. I must avoid Mr. Raleigh as much as possible. How good Mr.
Lyndon is--so noble, so kind! I wonder--I wonder if he cares for Miss
Rosamond? And how she smiles upon him! I should think that--”

And then that shrill, high-pitched voice had broken in upon the girl’s
reverie, calling her name in a tone of authority.

“Get up, you lazy creature! Why have you not a chair before the fire
all ready for me when I come in, as--as my other maid used to do?
Here, I enter my room tired to death, and the hour late, and I find my
maid--my--maid,” with inexpressible scorn in the cutting voice, “seated
before my fire without a thought of my comfort. How dare you?”

Lillian stood still, quite overcome by this tirade; then she made haste
to wheel the chair which she had just vacated closer to the fire.

“I--I beg you pardon, Miss Raleigh,” she said, quietly. “I did not mean
to do anything wrong. I am tired, and as you told me to wait for you, I
naturally sat before the fire this cold night.”

With awful dignity Miss Raleigh motioned the chair aside.

“Get me another!” she commanded, insolently. “I do not care for a seat
which my servant occupies.”

The red blood crimsoned Lillian’s pale face, and her beautiful brown
eyes flashed. But she compressed her lips firmly, and brought another
chair, into which Miss Raleigh sunk with an air of intense fatigue.

“I am tired to death!” she exclaimed, savagely. “Come and take my hair
down, and brush it thoroughly. I am accustomed to having it brushed
every night for at least an hour before I retire!”

Poor Lillian glanced at the clock ticking away upon the velvet-draped
bracket near. The hands pointed to the hour of two.

Rosamond laughed disdainfully at sight of the consternation upon
Lillian’s face.

“Oh! you will soon find that you must keep all sorts of hours if you
remain in my employ, Miss Lillian Leigh!” she sneered, coarsely. “I
always make my waiting-maid earn her salary, you may well believe!
Whoever fills that position must earn the money, though the effort
should cost her her life. Ah! what is that?”

The ivory-backed brush trembled in Lillian’s grasp as she stood with
uplifted hand, the rosy fire-light flashing up painted a vivid red
spot upon Rosamond Raleigh’s pale cheek; then the flame sunk down into
feathery ashes once more. A sound had fallen upon their ears plainly,
distinctly; it was a low, hollow groan! Trembling like a leaf Miss
Raleigh started to her feet. Her long hair fell over her shoulders in
a streaming golden shower; she looked unearthly in the loose white
wrapper which she had already donned. Pale, and shaking like an aspen,
she went over to the door of the little octagonal room, and threw it
open wide.

“Lillian, come here!” she commanded; and slowly and wonderingly Lillian
obeyed. “Go into that room,” continued Miss Raleigh, authoritatively,
“and see if there is anybody hidden there! Look behind the curtains and
furniture; leave nothing unsearched.”

Wondering greatly, Lillian lighted a small bronze lamp which stood upon
a bracket, and slowly and hesitatingly she entered the little room. She
returned, after a brief absence, very pale and grave.

“There is no one there, Miss Raleigh,” she announced, placing the lamp
upon a marble table near.

“Come with me!”

Rosamond snatched up the lamp and forced her trembling slave to follow
her back into the little room once more. Everything was just as it
had been left that day when they had carried something away from
it--something stark and stiff and white, something which would never
come back again--would never come back. Would it not?

Rosamond Raleigh’s memory was a good one; she shivered involuntarily.
With mad haste she explored every corner of the room; peering behind
furniture, lifting silken curtains, leaving no chance for any human
being to remain concealed. Then she left the room and locked the door
behind her; after which she extinguished the lamp and threw herself
into the easy-chair once more.

“Brush my hair!” she commanded, ungraciously. “I am half dead with
fatigue.”

And there poor Lillian stood for a whole mortal hour, brushing out the
beauty’s shining, silken hair until her brain reeled, and her cold hand
shook so that she could scarcely move the brush, and the white lids
began to droop over the weary eyes, while the cat-like orbs of her
cruel task-mistress seemed never to court slumber. At last, in sheer
exhaustion, Lillian came to a halt.

“Miss Raleigh, excuse me to-night, will you not?” she pleaded. “I am
not accustomed to such late hours, and I have been through a great deal
to-day, and am so tired that I can scarcely stand.”

Rosamond snatched the brush from her hand and threw it across the room
in a childish outburst of temper.

“Go!” she cried, stamping her foot savagely. “I see plainly the sort of
a maid you will make!”

Pale and resolute, Lillian faced the woman before her.

“Miss Raleigh, will you please bear in mind that I did not apply for
the position of waiting-maid? Your advertisement said a companion;
and I, of course, believed that my duties would be simply those of a
companion--to read to you, sew, sing and play if you desired it, write,
go errands--all such light duties. But to dress and undress you, to
keep the fire burning in your room indefinitely, and to stand and brush
your hair all night long, I must confess my inability to cope with all
that. I am young and not very strong. I have never worked before in my
life--only a little type-writing, and my health would soon break down
under such endless work as this, which keeps a girl employed all day
and all night, too. Good-morning, Miss Raleigh; the clock is about to
strike three. I beg leave to retire.”

Rosamond gathered up her mass of shining hair and secured it for the
night.

“Very well,” her steely eyes fixed upon the girl with cold disdain, “we
will speak further upon this subject in the morning. After to-night I
intend to have you sleep in the little round room next to mine. I am
lonely here in the wing of the house away from every one else.”

“Very well.”

Lillian grew deathly pale. She had heard the story of the round room
hinted at by the servants, even during her brief sojourn at the Raleigh
mansion, and she was afraid--afraid. For she was timid, and the
whispers in the servants’ quarters hinted at a dark deed.

But, glad to escape from her task-mistress, she hastened away to the
little room which had been assigned her, at the furthest end of the
hall, and hastily retiring, the friendless orphan girl was soon fast
asleep. And in dreams she was no longer poor, and alone, and forsaken;
but happy as mortals are never happy upon this earth--only in dreams.

    “Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
       From the lonely earth to the vaulted skies;
     But the dream departs, and the vision flies,
       And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone.”

The next day passed quite uneventfully. Rosamond had compromised with
Lillian, retaining her as general factotum, on condition that she
should not be compulsively detained from her rest after midnight. So
night came down once more, and Rosamond, in her sumptuous apartment,
was preparing to attend the opera.

“I will wear blue silk and pearls!” she announced. “Mamma and I are
going to hear ‘Il Trovatore’ with Mr. Lyndon. He is quite the fashion
now, so I venture to go with him, although of course he is not in our
set, and is only a poor journalist. And--oh, yes, Lillian, before it
gets too late, I want you to run down to the greenhouse--the one away
at the further end of the grounds--and tell Barnes, the gardener, to
send me a bouquet of pink rosebuds. Make haste now, for I don’t like to
be kept waiting.”

To hear was to obey. Lillian made haste to do so. Five minutes later
she was standing at the entrance to the long greenhouse, dimly lighted
by a hanging lamp, and lying like a great dark shadow athwart the dusk
of early night. She peered eagerly through the gloom.

“Barnes!” she called, timidly, “Miss Raleigh has sent me to--”

An arm stole around her waist, and a slim, dark hand crowned by a
flashing diamond closed down upon Lillian’s hand, while Richard
Raleigh’s silky voice cried:

“Ah! my pretty wild bird--caged at last!”

With a wild cry Lillian wrenched herself away from his hold, her face
pale, her eyes blazing.

“How dare you?” she gasped, brokenly.

And at that very instant her quick eyes caught sight of a tall form
hastening through the grounds, and she called, wildly:

“Barnes, is it you? Oh, come--quick--help!”

With a muttered oath, Raleigh had grasped her arm once more, and held
her fast, trying to calm her wild outcries.

The tall figure turned swiftly and hurried footsteps reached her side.
Not Barnes the gardener, but tall, handsome Jack Lyndon, who had heard
her frenzied cry, and had come to the rescue.

“Mr. Raleigh, unhand that lady!” a low voice panted, furiously, “or, by
Heaven! you cowardly dog, I will kill you!”




CHAPTER VI.

IN THE ROUND ROOM.


For a moment, awful silence, while the two men stood glaring at each
other with eyes full of hatred and defiance. Richard Raleigh was the
first to speak.

“Ha! Our doughty friend of the ‘Thunderer!’ Sir Knight of the Quill and
Paste-pot, whose coat of arms is two pens crossed upon a background
of inky paper! Mr. Jack Lyndon,” growing more and more furious, “you
deserve to be punished for this audacity, and taught to know your
place.”

“I have a mind to horsewhip you as I would a vicious dog!” stormed
Jack, his tall form trembling with excitement, his strong hands
clinching and unclinching themselves, as though longing to strike his
opponent down at his feet.

“I never fight my inferiors!” snarled Raleigh, with cutting sarcasm.

“You have no inferiors outside the brute creation!” returned Jack, with
stinging contempt. “By Jove!” turning with sudden energy, as Raleigh,
impelled by devilish malice, caught Lillian by the arm once more in a
rude grasp.

There was silence for half a second, broken by the sound of a heavy
blow, followed by a sickening thud as Raleigh’s tall form swayed
heavily forward and fell into a clump of shrubbery which grew near.

“Oh, Mr. Lyndon!” Lillian’s voice pealed forth in wild terror, “you
have killed him!”

Jack stooped over the prostrate form, his face pale and still, in his
handsome dark eyes a look that was bad to see.

“No danger of that,” he muttered, angrily, for Jack Lyndon’s temper,
usually well under control, was now at white heat. “Such creatures are
not so easily exterminated. Miss Leigh, I beg your pardon, but it was
hardly prudent for you to venture out here alone so late.”

“Miss Raleigh sent me for a bouquet of pink rosebuds,” she returned. “I
never dreamed of meeting Mr. Raleigh!” she added, innocently.

Jack’s face darkened.

“I should think not, indeed!” he panted. “Do not trouble about the
flowers, Miss Leigh. I have already sent a bouquet to Miss Raleigh,
which I imagine will prove satisfactory. Come, let me accompany you
back to the house. That fellow yonder is recovering consciousness, and
I do not care to have any further argument with him.”

Richard Raleigh, with slow and painful effort, was rising to his feet.
Jack drew Lillian’s trembling hand through his arm and led her away. It
was some distance back to the house; and at length, in a secluded nook,
where trailing rose-vines, half denuded of their leaves, still clung to
a tiny summer-house, Jack Lyndon paused.

“Lillian!”--in a tone of alarm--“Miss Leigh, you are ill, fainting!” he
exclaimed. “Oh, my darling--my darling, let me stand between you and
the storms of life! You are too dainty and delicate to meet the adverse
winds of fate, and battle alone and single-handed. Let me--”

“Lillian!”

A shrill, high-pitched voice broke in upon his eager words with cold
disapproval.

“Lillian Leigh! Good heavens! is it possible?”

And Miss Raleigh, with a white burnoose wrapped about her, and the long
silken train of her azure robe flung carefully across her arm, appeared
suddenly before them, like Banquo’s ghost--and quite as unexpected.

“Can it be possible”--in a grave, sweet, reproachful tone, which no one
knew better than Rosamond Raleigh when and how to assume--“Lillian,
whom I had believed immaculate, flirting out under the trees this
wintery night, with--Why!”--with an affected start and a little
shriek--“if it isn’t Mr. Lyndon! Why, Mr. Lyndon, how you startled me!
I did not expect to find you here with my maid!”

There was a world of cruel significance in the sharp, cutting voice,
which made Jack Lyndon gnash his teeth.

“By Jove!” he muttered under his breath, “a man has to endure unlimited
insults from a woman, simply because she _is_ a woman, when ten to one
if they do not deserve--”

Whatever it was which, according to Mr. Jack Lyndon, the weaker sex
deserved, was destined never to be known. He had dropped Lillian’s
hand, feeling the unpleasantness of her position, and longing to spare
her all that he could. Pale and grave, he turned to Rosamond.

“Miss Raleigh!”--in a low voice, his eyes upon the pearl-powdered and
daintily rouged face plainly revealed by the moonlight--“I entered your
grounds through the side gate--the shorter way which you pointed out to
me. I was on my way to the house, and _you_, when I heard a scream--a
woman’s voice in wild alarm, calling for _help_! I hastened to the spot
and found Miss Leigh at the very door of the greenhouse, in the grasp
of a ruffian!”

“Mr. Lyndon! Upon _our_ grounds? Grafton Raleigh’s private grounds?” in
an awe-stricken tone.

Jack smiled. “Even upon Mr. Grafton Raleigh’s sacred premises, my dear
Miss Rosamond, the glaring insult was perpetrated. And the perpetrator
was your own brother, Richard Raleigh!”

“Mr. Lyndon!”

“It is true, Miss Raleigh, I assure you. And--I must confess--I was so
angry that I--knocked him down!”

“You did?” her eyes flashing wickedly. “Well, I am sure that he
deserved it! I have sometimes felt an insane desire myself to knock
Rick down! He is so exasperating! But now you have done it for me!”

“Oh, no! I did it to rescue Miss Leigh--as her knight-errant! And
although I am sorry to be upon such terms with _your_ brother, Miss
Raleigh, I could not stand quietly by and see a lady insulted--above
all things, the lady who--”

“Lillian, go into the house!” cut in Miss Raleigh, sharply. “You need
not be afraid to go alone! Have my opera-cloak, fan and gloves all
ready by the time I reach the house. Mr. Lyndon, I have to thank you
for that exquisite bouquet!” she added, laying a white hand upon his
arm and lifting a radiant face to his. Impelled by an irresistible
impulse, Jack bent his head and kissed the dainty fingers which rested
upon his sleeve. A flush of triumph shot through Rosamond’s cheek, her
heart leaped and bounded like a mad thing.

“He cares for me! I verily believe it!” she whispered to herself. “And
I don’t see how he could help it! He ought to be proud and elated at
winning the favor of Grafton Raleigh’s only daughter! As for that sly
little minx, Lillian Leigh, I will get rid of her before many days!”

And then, leaning upon Jack Lyndon’s arm, she went slowly back to
the house where mamma, in lavender brocade and diamonds, awaited her
coming. If Jack had hoped to catch a glimpse of Lillian, or to breathe
a few whispered words into her ear, he was grievously disappointed, for
he saw her no more.

Upstairs in Miss Raleigh’s chamber Lillian heard the sound of the
carriage-wheels as the carriage drove away to the opera.

“Why am I so different from other girls?” she asked herself; “I am
young, well educated, not bad looking”--her eyes wandered over to the
great mirror which had so often reflected Miss Raleigh’s features--“and
I--I _do_ care for Mr. Lyndon. He is so noble and good; how could any
one help caring for him? And she,” with a sharp sting of jealous pain
stirring blindly in her heart, “_she_ likes him, I can see that, though
he is poor and she the daughter of a millionaire!”

And then a pause of silence, after which Lillian started to her feet
with a little cry of remorse.

“I am not pleasing papa,” she cried, her eyes full of tears; “he would
like me to keep up my studies, and I have been neglectful. I will get
my books and look over my French and German. When Miss Raleigh comes I
will not be so tired.”

When Miss Raleigh came the midnight chimes had long been rung. She
entered the room, her face full of displeasure. Jack Lyndon had been
all that a gentleman--an admirer--should be that evening; but when he
bade her good-night he had asked permission to speak a few words in
private with Miss Leigh the next morning. “Something of importance to
communicate,” he had said. Rosamond Raleigh marched straight to her own
room and opened its door. Trembling with wrath, she stalked into her
sleeping apartment.

“Lillian Leigh”--her voice was loud and shrill--“your conduct is
disgraceful in the extreme! You have been the occasion of an insult--a
gross insult to my brother--_my_ brother; do you understand me? _You_,
a common servant-girl! I will have you punished as you deserve! I will
disgrace you--ruin you forever--so help me Heaven, I will!”

“Miss Raleigh!”

Lillian’s voice, cold and clear, broke in upon her mad ravings.

“I have done no wrong--no intentional harm! If your brother is not a
gentleman, and forgets the respect due a lady, I am not responsible.
And Mr. Lyndon said--”

“Don’t mention his name!” stormed Rosamond. “He has been making light
of you to me to-night--laughed at you, made sport of you. He says that
you threw yourself in his way!”

“Miss Raleigh, I do not believe you! I do not believe a word that you
say. Mr. Lyndon is a gentleman.”

“You--don’t--believe me?” panted Rosamond--“don’t--believe _me_? Take
that--and that, you beggar!” bringing her hand down with all its sharp,
glittering rings across Lillian’s pale cheeks in a shower of stinging
blows. “You shall go into the round room and sleep upon the sofa!”
raved Miss Raleigh. “To-morrow your bed shall be brought there!”

She unlocked the door of communication between the two rooms, and
dragging Lillian after her by the arm, too overcome by the insults
which had been heaped upon her to utter a word, she entered the round
room. Moonlight streamed in at the window--or was it moonlight? No;
the shade was closely drawn; but a soft, clear radiance was diffused
through the room. And there, in its old place at the window, sat a
slight, drooping figure--a thin, attenuated form--while the shadowy
fingers were painting--painting away at an amber satin panel--a task
that was never done, that would never be done! And the strange, soft
light which shone throughout the apartment disclosed the features of
the dead Noisette.




CHAPTER VII.

ROSAMOND SPEAKS HER MIND.


Full of blank, wordless horror, Rosamond stood staring into the
startled face of her companion, too terrified to move from the spot and
shut out the awful scene.

And still the girlish figure at the window of the round room bent over
its never-ending task; still the shadowy fingers wielded the brush,
and the scarlet poppies and graceful vine tendrils grew beneath that
ghostly touch upon the amber satin--grew and blossomed into artistic
beauty, but never done--never to be done.

Shivering all over, like one with an ague, Rosamond Raleigh clutched
the arm of her waiting-maid.

“Lillian!”--her teeth chattering like castanets as she attempted to
speak--“it is Noisette, the girl who--who--died in this room two
weeks ago! It is she; there is no mistake about it; no freak of the
imagination, no fancy. It is Noisette Duval, the little French girl
whom I took from the orphan asylum and treated like a sister. We gave
her a home--a good home, only receiving in return her services as my
maid, and stipulating that she should spend her spare time in painting
little things--fans, sashes, dress panels, and such trifles. I was
always kind to her, as kind as any one could be!”

Miss Raleigh came to a halt. It seemed to her as those words--those
false, wicked words--passed her lips that a hand was laid upon her
shoulder--a firm, detaining hand--which gripped the soft white flesh
with a merciless clutch. Trembling violently, she burst into a flood of
hysterical tears, sinking down upon the velvet-covered floor, with her
white face buried in her cold, shaking hands.

“Oh, Lillian, I am haunted! I am haunted!” she sobbed, brokenly, at
last. “I know it, I feel it! Whenever I enter this room I see her--see
her sitting there at the window painting, painting away, with that
dejected look upon her face so thin and wan and so unearthly white. Oh,
Lillian! what shall I do?”

A strange courage, born of desperation, seemed to take possession of
Lillian Leigh’s heart. She glanced fearfully in at the open door of the
round room, then with a swift movement she crossed its threshold and
entered the room.

Straight up to the window, looking neither to the right nor to
the left, went Lillian. Her heart beat wildly, throbbing like a
sledge-hammer in her frightened ears; but she went calmly over to where
the apparition still was visible, and stooping, peered into the still,
calm, unearthly face. Instantly there was a low sob, a faint moaning
sound which fell upon the silence with a strange, despairing echo, and
then the vision faded away--the apparition was gone! And nothing was
left to tell the two terrified witnesses that there had been a ghostly
visitant within the room--nothing, save the memory of that which they
could not forget, which they would never forget as long as they both
should live.

With a shudder Lillian went back to the other room, to the graceful
figure in shimmering silk crouching upon the carpet, wringing white
jeweled hands in wildest terror, while shudders like convulsions passed
over her frame.

“Come, Miss Raleigh,” urged Lillian, venturing to lay her hand upon the
bowed head, “let me help you to undress and put on a wrapper, and then
I will brush out your hair, and try to help you to forget this thing.
Oh, Miss Rosamond, there is nothing there! You can see for yourself.
It is all dark now in the round room. There is nothing to fear--it is
gone. Come, sit in this easy-chair, and try to be calm and brave.”

Trembling like an aspen, Rosamond lifted her head.

“I am afraid!” she whimpered, feebly, sobbing like a child who awakes
in his sleep frightened and alarmed, full of shadowy fears of he knows
not what.

She sat gazing about her for a brief space, then she staggered to her
feet.

“Is it really gone?” she faltered. “Then I will--Oh, heavens! what
is that?” with a shrill shriek which resounded throughout the silent
house, as a sharp rap was heard upon the door of the room.

That was the last drop in the bucket; Rosamond’s self-control--such as
it was--gave way, and shriek after shriek rent the silence, while poor
Lillian stood like a statue, too terrified to move, not knowing what
to do; afraid to open the door lest Rosamond’s shrieks should redouble
in violence, yet to stand there and do nothing--good heavens! it was
maddening!

“Rosamond,” called a voice through the key-hole, “for mercy’s sake,
what is the matter? Open the door at once, I say! Are you being
murdered in there?”

The shrieks were cut short in a twinkling. Rosamond started up, pale
and breathless.

“It is mamma,” she panted, in a tone of relief, as she threw herself
into an easy-chair, with clasped hands and a face so full of terror
that it was a sight to behold.

Lillian flew to the door and unlocked it. Upon the threshold, in awful
dignity and a flannel dressing-gown, stood Mrs. Raleigh.

“What--what is the matter?” she gasped, feebly. “I heard such a
disturbance in here that I began to think the house was on fire, or
some other awful calamity had occurred, so I left my bed, threw on
a wrapper, and came here at once. Rosamond,” turning to her weeping
daughter with a face full of alarm, “what has happened?”

And then, amid sobs and tears, and wild terror unsuppressed, Rosamond
sobbed forth the story of the ghostly apparition. Her mother listened
with undisguised contempt.

“A ghost? Bah! Rosamond Raleigh, I gave you credit for a little common
sense! If ever I hear anything of this nonsense again, I shall tell
your father. He will send you off somewhere into the country”--Rosamond
shivered with disgust--“or to some place of retirement, and place you
under a physician’s care, and we will see if your nerves will give way
at every little strain. Rosamond Raleigh, you are a fool!”

She was a real Job’s comforter, Lillian thought; but perhaps it was the
proper course to take. At all events, she knew the nature with which
she had to deal. Rosamond dried her tears and leaned her head against
the soft cushions of the chair, listening, with half-closed eyes, to
her mother’s lecture.

Mrs. Raleigh went over to the door of the round room and threw it open.
One glance and she turned away with a disdainful sniff. Darkness there,
and nothing more.

“It was all a delusion--a foolish fancy!” she exclaimed, harshly.

“It was not, indeed, Mrs. Raleigh. I beg your pardon for contradicting
you, but I saw it myself.”

Lillian could not refrain from this outburst of explanation. Mrs.
Raleigh turned coldly upon her and transfixed her with a Gorgon stare.

“Did I address _you_, girl?” she demanded, severely. “We never permit
servants to speak their minds in that way. You will have to learn your
place if you remain in Miss Raleigh’s employ.”

“I do not know that I shall remain in Miss Raleigh’s employ,” returned
Lillian, quietly. “I was engaged as companion, but find myself reduced
to the position of waiting-maid. The position is not an agreeable one,
and I was not educated and trained for a servant, Mrs. Raleigh.”

“Mamma,” sobbed Rosamond, beginning to turn on the water-works once
more, “that girl will go away and will tell everybody that this house
is haunted; and she will make Mr. Lyndon think me a horrible creature,
and--”

“Mr. Lyndon, indeed!” interposed Mrs. Raleigh, with a look of disgust
too deep for words to express. “And pray, who is Mr. Lyndon, that he
should be of such importance, and his opinion so highly prized by
Grafton Raleigh’s only daughter? Rosamond, I think you forget yourself!
Jack Lyndon is only a poor newspaper _attaché_--a mere nobody, with
neither money nor position--only a handsome face and a sharp tongue to
call his own. He is the last man in the world to whom your father would
be willing to give his daughter. You must be mad to think seriously
of Jack Lyndon. Put it out of your mind at once and forever. He is a
villain to try to win your heart.”

Rosamond started to her feet, pale and wrathful, overcome by anger
which for a time was too deep for expression. Twice she opened her lips
to speak before the words which she was striving to utter were suddenly
hissed forth, sharp and shrill:

“Hush! Don’t say another word, mamma, for I will not listen. A villain!
Jack Lyndon is the best and noblest man in the round world. And poor,
without position though he may be, he is the only man for whom I have
ever really cared, and--mamma, you may as well know it now as later--I
intend to marry him.”

A low cry fell from Lillian’s lips. She could not forget his words
to her so short a time before; his tender tone and the look upon his
handsome face when he begged her to let him stand between her and the
storms of life. And yet he must have said something which made Rosamond
Raleigh believe that he cared for her, or she would never have spoken
in that way. Mrs. Raleigh flashed about at the sound of that low cry,
and her hard, cold eyes swept Lillian from head to foot.

“So you are in love with him too, are you?” she sneered.

Rosamond turned her steely eyes upon the shrinking girl.

“You must be mad,” she hissed, “if you imagine for a moment that Mr.
Lyndon has ever thought seriously of you. He is kind to everybody,
and treats all women alike. With the woman he loves, of course, it is
different,” she went on, icily. “If he has ever spoken kindly to you,
or noticed you in any way, it is because of the chivalry and deference
of his nature, but anything further is absurd.”

And then memory reminded her with a cruel little stab of Jack Lyndon’s
words to her that very evening. He had begged for a private interview
with Lillian Leigh on the following morning, and the look in his eyes
when he made the request of Rosamond revealed the secret of his heart.
He loved a woman dearly, but it was not Rosamond Raleigh! And as Miss
Raleigh remembered, her thin lips shut themselves closely together, and
the small, cold hands clinched each other fiercely, while low under her
breath she muttered, with angry emphasis:

“He shall not see her! He must not! I will manage it some way, and I
shall get rid of her as soon as possible.”

So she turned to Lillian with a peremptory gesture.

“Go to bed!” she commanded, sternly. “Last night when I wished you
to remain with me you made a great fuss; to-night you seem inclined
to remain up till morning. Go to your own room. I shall not need you
to-night, and I wish to talk with mamma.”

Thus summarily dismissed, Lillian said good-night briefly and took her
departure, sore-hearted and sad in mind and body. What did it all mean?
She had begun to trust Jack Lyndon implicitly, and to find out his
treachery was a fearful blow. She closed the door of her room behind
her and stirred the fire into a cheery blaze. Her eyes fell upon a card
lying upon the table; she picked it up and read these words penciled
upon it:

 “If Lillian Leigh would gain a clew to the murderer of her father,
 let her be in the grounds by the east gate to-morrow night at nine
 precisely.”

Trembling like a leaf, Lillian read these words.

“A clew!” she panted, at last. “Can it be possible? What would I not
do to gain possession of it? Oh, to find out the name of the dastardly
wretch who took my father’s life I would be willing to lie down and
die.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, in Rosamond’s room, Mrs. Raleigh was talking away in a low,
eager tone.

“You are right, Rosamond,” she said, excitedly, “Lenore Van Alstyne
has a secret--a bad secret, I am certain. And _he_ does not know
it--does not dream it--that pompous man who has bought her with his
gold! She hates him, but he does not know why. Here, I found this in
the dressing-room after the guests left last night. I saw it drop from
Lenore’s pocket. Read it, Rosamond, and tell me what you think.”

She thrust a scrap of paper into Rosamond’s hand. Her face flushed with
unholy triumph.




CHAPTER VIII.

HER LORD AND MASTER.


The wintery sunlight stole in at the windows of the breakfast-room at
Senator Van Alstyne’s sumptuous mansion. It paved a shining pathway
over the pretty crimson carpet, over the round damask-covered table,
glittering with silver and crystal and delicate Sèvres china. A bird
sung in a gilded cage amid the flowering plants in the bay-window, and
the sunlight shone over all with a soft mellow glow which even the
sparkling wood fire upon the marble hearth could not outshine. That
same sunshine danced in irreverent glee upon the top of Senator Van
Alstyne’s iron-gray head, as he sat with the morning paper before him,
absorbed in the news. But all the same there was a frown upon his brow,
and an unpleasant expression hovered about his coarse red face which
betrayed inward annoyance or trouble. And so you will perceive that
even riches can not keep trouble away, and that a man may be a senator
and a millionaire, but still know what it is to be annoyed.

He glanced up from his paper at last, and turned toward the ormolu
clock ticking musically upon the marble mantel, and the scowl upon his
face grew deeper.

“In the name of Heaven, why does not she come down?” he exploded at
length; “half past ten o’clock! Why on earth a woman wishes to remain
all day in her room is more than I can tell. I will endure her airs and
graces no longer. When I married Lenore Vane I intended--”

The click of high heels, the sweeping of silken skirts, and the door of
the breakfast-room opened and Mrs. Van Alstyne appeared.

She wore a pink surah morning-dress garnitured with yellow lace, and
her beautiful face looked like chiseled marble, as with a cold, proud,
weary manner she swept to her place at the breakfast-table.

“Good-morning, Van!” nodding slightly toward him. “Really, I am
unconscionably late! Why did you wait all this time for me?”

“Why?”

It was as though the one word had been fired off like a cannon-ball, so
sudden and sharp was the expletive.

“Simply because I have always told you, madame, that I will never take
my meals alone as long as my wife is able to come to them. If you were
ill it would be different; but as it is I demand obedience, and I shall
exact it hereafter!”

She shut her white teeth hard together, and the white hand that poured
the steaming coffee from the silver urn shook a little. But she
compressed her lips over the sharp retort which trembled for utterance,
and went on with her occupation. At last:

“Here is a letter that came for you this morning,” he snarled, as he
tossed a square white envelope across the table, where it fell beside
her plate. “By the way,” he demanded, harshly, his small eyes upon her
face with a look of menace, “who is ‘C. F.’?”

“‘C. F.’?” And the blood forsook her white face; the cup of delicate
egg-shell china which she was about lifting to her lips fell from her
grasp and was shivered into fragments. “You startled me, Van,” she
observed, apologetically.

His eyes snapped.

“But that is not answering my question,” he persisted. “There’s no use
in your trying to keep all your past to yourself, Lenore Van Alstyne.
When I married you, you acknowledged that there was something in your
past of which I was in ignorance--deuced disagreeable to have a wife
with secrets in her life--and I agreed to ask no questions; and it was
also settled upon the day”--emphatically, with his ugly eyes staring
full into her own--“that I honored you with my name, my hand and
fortune, that all your past was to be dropped forever with the name of
Vane. You remember that that was the agreement, Lenore?”

She bowed coldly.

“Heaven knows I have small chance to forget,” she returned, wearily,
“since you remind me of it every day of my life--every weary, endless
day of my wretched life!” she moaned, stopping short in a spasm of
terror at sight of the thunder-cloud upon his face.

“See here, madame”--he brought his big, fat hand down upon the table
with a force which made the china jump--“if all these heroics are
intended to act as a means of diverting me from getting at the truth,
let me tell you, my lady, that you are failing in your attempt. Once
more I ask--nay, demand of you, Mrs. Van Alstyne--_who is ‘C. F.’?_”

“I do not know what you mean,” she faltered.

“Well, are you never going to open that letter? You will see by
glancing at it that it is sealed with the monogram ‘C. F.’”

For the first time she glanced at the letter. It was lying face
uppermost, addressed in a bold, legible hand to Mrs. Lenore Van
Alstyne. Surely that handwriting was familiar to her? A strange pang
shot through her heart, an awful pallor overspread her cheek; she
crushed her teeth into her under lip with savage ferocity as she took
the letter from the table and turned it over. It was sealed with a drop
of wax, red and glistening, which bore the monogram “C. F.” She knew
then why her husband had awaited her appearance at the breakfast-table.
He was afraid to open the letter and seal it again, as he had been
guilty of doing before now, for the wax could not be broken and
resealed without betraying the truth. Her lip curled with disdain as
she slowly opened the letter. One glance--one swift, eager glance--and
she started to her feet with a low moan. One hand was pressed against
her heart as though to still its awful tumult, the other clutched the
letter in a most despairing grasp.

“Heaven help me!” she whispered low under her breath. And all the time
those basilisk eyes were upon her with an eager, devouring gaze, and
Senator Van Alstyne watched his wife as a cat watches the mouse upon
which it is about to spring. At last:

“Well, Mrs. Van Alstyne, you seem inclined to be tragical this
morning!” he sneered. “Here, give me the letter.”

She drew back with a gesture of horror in her beautiful dark eyes--a
look that was bad to see.

“No! no! no!” she panted, hoarsely; “you must not! I--I mean that it is
nothing. My heart hurts me this morning, and I was a little startled! I
shall be all right soon, and--”

“Mrs. Van Alstyne!”

He darted forward and clutched her white arm in a grasp of steel.

“Give me that letter, I say!” he panted, glaring down into her
terrified face with his cruel eyes. “How dare you have secrets from
me--I, your husband, your lord and master? Give me that letter at once,
I command you, or by the Heaven above us I will force it from you!”

Her head was crested like the head of some beautiful wild creature
brought to bay by the cruel hounds, and her starry eyes flashed fire.

“Unhand me, sir!” she commanded, in a low, ominous voice. “Let go my
arm, Van Van Alstyne, or I will ring for the servants, and throw myself
upon their protection!”

“Will you give me that letter?” he hissed once more.

“No! I will not! You have no more right to demand my letters of me in
this brutal way than I have to see yours--if I care to--from the pretty
ballet-dancer who wrote to you yesterday!”

He fell back a little, and his ruddy face grew pale.

“Nonsense! A man and a woman are different in the eyes of society. It
would be a pretty thing if a woman were allowed the same privileges
that a man is permitted.”

Her lip curled with haughty scorn.

“We agree to disagree upon that subject, Senator Van Alstyne,” she
returned, quietly; “and now I will finish my breakfast.”

“You will do nothing of the sort! By Jove! madame, I will have you to
know that I am master of this house, and that you--curse you!--are my
wife! You belong to me, just the same as my horses and dogs, my plate
and furniture! Give me that letter or I will take it.”

She flashed him one look--a look of mingled scorn and defiance--then,
with a swift gesture, she wheeled about and tossed the letter into the
fire. It flamed up red and glowing--flared and flickered and died down
into a heap of feathery ashes. Whatever secret the letter contained, it
was safe from Van Van Alstyne.

For just a moment he stood there, glaring down into her face, his
own so distorted by rage that it had lost all semblance to a human
countenance. His eyes scintillated, his burly form shook with wordless
wrath. He wheeled about, and lifting his hand, brought it down--oh,
shame to his manhood!--upon the white face of the woman before him.
No sound escaped her--no cry, no moan. Awful silence fell over the
room; she neither spoke nor moved. The clock ticked away. One, two,
three, four moments had come and gone; then, with a swift gesture
of unutterable contempt, she lifted her scornful eyes to his face
and--laughed. It was a bad thing to hear--that laugh. He grew pale, and
shivered slightly as he heard it.

“Ah, what a glorious country this must be!” she sneered, in a low,
cutting voice, “whose senate is honored by such creatures as you!
Wife-beater, falsifier, base, perjured villain! How I loathe the name I
bear!”

“Take care that you do not dishonor it!” he sneered.

She lifted her cold eyes to his face.

“Dishonor?”--she laughed once more. “Look to yourself, Van Van Alstyne.”

She swept past him from the room up to her own chamber ere he could
detain her.

Once alone in her room, with the door locked securely, she threw
herself face downward upon the floor with a storm of bitter sobs.

“He lives! he lives!” she murmured; “after all these years he lives
and is true! How horribly I have suffered, how bitter my punishment,
how fearfully I must atone! Yet it was an unintentional sin--it was
my mistake; this is my punishment! God pity me and let me die, for my
heart is broken.”




CHAPTER IX.

DECEIVED.


 “LENORE,--Must see you. Failing in that, I will write you to-morrow.

                                                            CYRIL.”

Those were the words written upon the scrap of paper which Mrs. Raleigh
eagerly displayed to her daughter. Rosamond glanced the note over, and,
crumpling it fiercely in her hand, she lifted her eyes to her mother’s
face.

“Well, it is evident that she has a secret with a vengeance!” sneered
Rosamond, “for there is something behind all this, I am sure. And it
is no ordinary flirtation or escapade, for Lenore never flirts, and
is scrupulously exact in her behavior. Mamma, this is a clew to the
mystery which hangs around Lenore Van Alstyne; I am sure of it! Let me
keep this paper. I will watch her closely and wait in patience, and if
I am not greatly mistaken there will be developments before long. I
never did fancy Lenore’s reticence in regard to the early part of her
life. You know she lived in Europe with a relative of her father’s, who
afterward died, leaving her alone and dependent upon us. But she never
speaks of her girlhood’s days or her life in Europe. If I chance to
refer to that time she changes the subject as hastily as possible; and
I have seen her grow pale and shudder perceptibly when I happened to
mention the subject. I should say that whatever her secret may be, it
must have occurred some time early in her life, about her sixteenth or
seventeenth year.”

Mrs. Raleigh nodded.

“I believe you are right,” she said; “and now, Rosamond, you had better
retire. These continued late hours are wearing upon you, and you are
beginning to look jaded and--and--old! I will stay with you to-night;
you are lonely and afraid.”

“Do,” in a tone of relief. And so at last Rosamond Raleigh’s head
rested upon her pillow, but the wide-open eyes staring into the
darkness found no sleep. They saw ever before them that pathetic
little figure, the shadowy hands working ever on, so patient--so
piteously patient--even like the fates weaving away at their
never-to-be-completed web. The memory of the vision in the round room
haunted Rosamond Raleigh sleeping or waking, and when morning came she
arose pale and unrefreshed, feeling as though life were a veritable
burden. As soon as breakfast was over she summoned Lillian.

“I want you to go down-town on an errand for me, Lillian,” she began.
“Here is a note to Madame Dupont, my milliner. She has removed to a
place quite out of the world, I should say. Take the note and bring me
a reply. If she is not in wait for her return.”

Lillian was more than willing to go. It was a crisp, wintery morning,
and a walk--even so long a walk--would do her good. So she hurriedly
prepared herself and was soon in the street, her face turned in the
direction indicated. She had not been gone a quarter of an hour when
the door-bell rang and Jack Lyndon made his appearance. Although his
call was intended for Lillian, prudence warned him that it would be
more discreet to inquire for Miss Raleigh. He was shown into the pretty
red-and-gold reception-room, and a little later he was holding Miss
Raleigh’s hand in his, gazing down into a pair of frank, innocent blue
eyes; just as frank and innocent as though she had not sent Lillian
away purposely, and as though she were not playing a game--a desperate
game--which must either be won or lost.

“Oh, Mr. Lyndon, I’m so glad to see you!” lifting the frank blue eyes
for an instant to his, then letting the gold-brown lashes droop over
them once more. “I was feeling really blue and lonely, and wishing that
my good fairy would send some congenial spirit to me; and, lo! you have
come.”

She looked fair and sweet as a picture, in a dainty house-dress of
pale-blue surah shrouded in white lace, fastened at the throat with a
quaint pearl brooch. But Jack was full of the object which had brought
him thither, and felt possessed with the spirit of unrest. Rosamond
talked on gayly, cheerily, trying to divert his mind from the subject
with which it was engaged. At last:

“Miss Raleigh, I have called this morning hoping to obtain an interview
with Miss Leigh. I have something of real importance to say to her, and
trust that you will permit me to infringe upon her time for a brief
space.”

Rosamond’s face was like a marble mask. She arose and rang the bell. A
servant appeared.

“Send my maid to me, Williams,” she commanded.

The man looked blank.

“If you please, Miss Rosamond, she’s gone out. She left word with me
that if you wanted her, to say that she has gone up-town on an errand
of her own, which you gave her permission to attend to to-day. You see,
Miss Rosamond, you had not yet left your room, and Miss Leigh did not
wish to disturb you.”

“Very well, Williams,” she returned. “You may go.”

And as the door closed behind him, Miss Raleigh added, with apparent
frankness:

“Dear me! I wonder what Lillian’s particular business up-town can be?
I told her that you were coming here this morning to see her in regard
to a matter of importance. She looked confused, but she said nothing.
Now, Jack--Mr. Lyndon, do not look so disappointed! Can not I act as a
substitute for my maid?”

The tone of sarcasm in her voice had its own effect. Jack colored
slightly.

“I--I beg your pardon, Miss Raleigh,” he said, hastily. “I am aware
that my conduct is very unusual. I beg that you will be lenient with
me, and try to believe that I mean nothing wrong. And now I will bid
you good-morning.”

The look of disappointment which clouded her face was genuine.

“Why need you leave me so soon?” she pleaded. But Jack, disappointed
and chagrined, was not to be beguiled.

He made his adieu and was soon out in the street, wandering he scarcely
knew whither. He was off duty for a few hours, and the sense of freedom
was sweet. He wandered aimlessly down-town, away to the lower part of
the city, where the city parks lay basking in the wintery sunlight,
nearly deserted now by their usual occupants.

All at once Jack lifted his head, and his eyes fell upon a slight,
graceful figure in deep black, seated upon a bench in Douglas Park, her
fair, pure face uplifted, while the beautiful dark eyes watched the
fleecy clouds overhead with a dreamy, abstracted air. Why had Rosamond
Raleigh told him that Lillian had gone up-town, when in truth she had
taken the opposite direction? He drew near the slight form.

“Waiting for the clouds to roll by, Miss Leigh?” he asked,
mischievously.

Lillian started, and a swift wave of color flamed into her cheek as
Jack came forward and seated himself at her side.

“Why did you run away?” he asked, plaintively.

She laughed.

“Run away? From what--or whom?”

“From me!” he replied, venturing to take her hand in his own. “I called
upon you just now, but Miss Raleigh informed me that you had gone
up-town, or rather her servant said so. I was in despair, so I wandered
on without aim; to-day is a holiday, and I seldom get one; but at last
fate led me straight to your side. Lillian, fate is kind. My darling,
say that you are glad to see me!”

The frank brown eyes met his, and there was no dissimulation in their
depths.

“I am glad,” she murmured, softly. “Oh, so glad to see you! I was
thinking of you just now!”

He lifted her hand to his lips. They were almost as much alone in the
bleak, deserted park as Adam and Eve in Eden; and indeed it was Eden to
them.

Alas! and alas! there is no Eden without a serpent!

“Lillian, I love you!” The words burst from Jack’s lips in a torrent of
passionate yearning. “Darling, let me take you away from that house
where you are so unhappy! Where you are ill-treated and insulted. Be
my wife, Lillian, and I swear before Heaven to do all in my power to
make you happy! And I will help you to find your father’s murderer! I
know that you will never forget the vow that you took that awful night
beside his body. Let me help you, darling, in your efforts to bring
Gilbert Leigh’s murderer to justice! You do care for me, Lillian,
darling?”

“With all my heart!” she answered, simply.

“Then you will be my wife some day?”

The shy, brown eyes drooped before his eager gaze, and sweet and low
came the answer, “Yes.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Ah, good-evening, Mr. Lyndon. How glad I am that you have come! My
truant maid did not return until--oh, a short time ago. And I have
something to tell you, a love secret that I have surprised. What do you
think? Lillian is in love!”

Jack started, and his face grew deathly pale. Then he remembered that
she was his betrothed wife, and he smiled.

“In love? Oh, yes, why not?” he faltered; “and I wish to say to you
to-night, Miss Raleigh, that I--”

“Hush!” smiling archly into his face, “I have surprised a tender
secret. Come with me, Mr. Lyndon; I want to show you a pretty scene!”

She opened a side door which led into the grounds, and, quite
bewildered, Jack followed the graceful figure in black velvet and
pearls, with a crimson shawl wrapped about her shoulders. On to the
furthest extremity of the grounds, to the east gate. Rosamond halted,
and motioned Jack to be silent. In the clear moonlight everything was
visible, and this is what Jack Lyndon saw: The girl who only that
morning had promised to be his wife--Lillian Leigh--clasped close in
the arms of a man. And the pale radiance of the moonlight glinting
down upon the pair revealed to Jack’s agonized eyes--the form and face
of Richard Raleigh!




CHAPTER X.

ACCEPTED.


Lillian had gone to the rendezvous at the last gate with perfect
confidence, and with no thought of Richard Raleigh in her mind. The
night was very beautiful. The moonlight silvered all things, and by
its pale, clear radiance she made her way to the trysting-place. Her
heart was filled with quiet happiness. Jack loved her. To Lillian Leigh
the beginning and the end of all things was comprised in those words.
Jack loved her, and wanted her to be his wife. Of his poverty she never
thought. He earned a reasonable salary, and it requires but little to
keep two who are contented and satisfied with their lot in life--happy
in being together.

Lillian had never been rich. She had never known the pleasure of having
all the money that she wanted, a handsome home, rich dresses and costly
jewels, servants to command, and a carriage in which to ride. What
one has never possessed one can hardly miss; and she could see only
happiness and prosperity in the future for herself and Jack. Ah! there
never was any one like Jack! So handsome, so brilliant, so manly and
good! Her heart was thrilling with love and devotion toward Jack Lyndon
as she hastened to meet this stranger who had written and asked her to
come. A clew to her father’s murderer! The very thought made her heart
beat fierce and fast within her breast.

“He shall be brought to justice, no matter who he may be!” she
muttered, as she hurried onward.

The gate was reached at last, and Lillian came to a halt. There was
no one there. A rustic seat stood near under a huge beech-tree. She
seated herself and drew her white cloak closer about her shoulders.

“I wonder who it is and why he does not come?” she said to herself,
impatiently, and just a little frightened to be out alone at that hour
so far from the house.

Crash! through the underbrush came the sound of heavy footsteps. Pale
and frightened, Lillian started to her feet. The branches of the
beech-tree grew thickly around her, although denuded now of leaves. A
hand pushed the branches aside, and a tall, dark form loomed up before
her in the moonlight.

“Lillian!” exclaimed a voice.

One glance, and she fell back pale and trembling with horror too deep
for words.

“Mr. Raleigh!” she panted; “I did not expect to see _you_.”

He laughed--an unpleasant, sneering laugh.

“No, I suppose not. That was a surprise which I held in reserve for
you--a pleasant surprise, I trust, my dear. Lillian, listen to me. Do
not turn coldly away; I have something to say to you, and, so help me
Heaven, I mean every word that I utter! Lillian, I love you! Stop! I
mean no insult. I love you purely, honorably, with all my heart, and
I ask you to be my wife. Do not look so scornful; pause and reflect
before you decline an alliance with a Raleigh.”

She stood before him pale as marble, her large dark eyes lifted to his
face in wordless scorn.

“Mr. Raleigh, let me pass!” she commanded, coldly. But he caught her
hands in his own.

“Stay, Lillian. No, I do not intend to be violent or rude with you.
I ask you to listen quietly to me, as quietly as you would listen
to Lyndon--curse him!--if he were to make love to you as he does to
every woman who is foolish enough to listen to him. Ah, I guessed your
secret, my sweet Lillian; but when you have heard all that I have come
to say, I imagine that you will change your mind. Lillian, I wrote and
asked you to meet me here to-night that I might reveal the name of your
father’s murderer. It is more than a mere clew that I possess, Lillian
Leigh--I know the man who took your father’s life.”

She was trembling like an aspen, her white hands clasped, her dark eyes
shining like stars.

“His name!” she panted, hoarsely; “tell me his name, Mr. Raleigh!”

Richard Raleigh bent his head, and his dusky eyes studied her face with
a fierce, eager intensity.

“If I tell you what reward will you give me, Lillian?” he queried,
earnestly; “will you promise to be my wife?”

She threw back her head with a haughty gesture, and faced him with
fearless contempt.

“No! a thousand times, no!” she panted, angrily. “I can conceive of no
conditions, no circumstances, under which I would consent to marry you,
Richard Raleigh! You are a bad man, a base, wicked man, and I despise
and condemn you. And I have no right to listen to words of love from
you, for I am already betrothed!”

He started, his face flushing and paling alternately.

“Is it possible?” he cried. “Since when, may I ask? I have a good
reason for my question.”

“I promised to-day to be Mr. Lyndon’s wife!” she answered, proudly.

An awful look flashed over Raleigh’s face. He grew pale, and his eyes
held a strange, lurid, brassy light.

“Jack Lyndon! Curse him! He is always in my way!” he snarled. “He is
a gay Lothario, making love to every woman, every pretty face that he
meets. To my certain knowledge he has talked all sorts of soft nonsense
to Rosamond. He has other strings to his bow, and now you too. Oh,
Lillian,” in a tone of sad reproach and regret, “I would rather see
you dead than deceived and misled by Jack Lyndon. He is a notorious
lady-killer, and a man of no honor--”

“Stop! Not another word, Mr. Raleigh. I will not listen. Jack Lyndon is
good and true--upright and honorable. Such a nature as his is beyond
your comprehension.”

Richard Raleigh laughed.

“Beyond my comprehension? I grant that,” he returned, sardonically.
“But if you believe for a moment that Jack Lyndon is true to you, if
you believe for a second that when he is absent from you he does not
make love to other women--what, irresistible Jack! Beauty, as he is
called!--I will soon undeceive you. I have it in my power to do so.
Look!”

He took from the seat where he had placed it a field-glass of
remarkably strong magnifying power. By its aid any object could
be distinguished a half a mile away. Richard Raleigh arranged the
glass which he turned upon the drawing-room windows of the house. He
brought it within easy range by stepping into a side-path, clear from
obstructing trees and shrubbery.

A moment’s silence fell, then a voice full of triumph:

“Lillian, come, quick!”

She scarcely realized what she was doing. Under ordinary circumstances
Lillian Leigh would have shrunk from such an action; but almost before
she was aware of it, she found herself peering through the glass
straight in at Miss Raleigh’s drawing-room window. This is what she saw:

Rosamond Raleigh seated in a low velvet chair, and Jack Lyndon leaning
over her, gazing into her face with eager eyes, while one hand held
hers. Lillian turned away with a shudder.

Raleigh laughed sardonically.

“Are you satisfied that Jack Lyndon is at least a flirt?” he asked,
softly.

She made no reply. What could she say? If Jack Lyndon were false and
treacherous, in whom could she believe? Sick and faint, she turned
away, and seating herself upon the rustic seat, she covered her face
with her hands. How long a time passed in silence she knew not. The
silence was broken at last by Raleigh’s voice.

“Lillian, would you know the truth--the bad, black, dreadful truth?
Listen to me, then, and believe that I speak truly, Lillian Leigh.”

He stooped and spoke a few words in a low tone.

With a moan of anguish she fell at his feet, and lay there for a time
quite oblivious to all that had come upon her. Not unconscious, not in
an ordinary swoon. There are blows which fall crushing upon the human
heart with such force, such awful paralyzing force, that they benumb
the brain and bring a dull torpor upon the senses, crushing the mind
and the reason for the time being, because they are not strong enough
to believe and accept the full force of the awful shock. In some such a
trance poor Lillian lay for a time. At last Raleigh stooped and lifted
the slight black-robed form in his arms, adjusting the white cloak
about her with a tender touch. It was certain that with all his vices
there was a soft, tender spot in his heart for Lillian. But his face
was set and stern, and low under his breath he murmured, faintly:

“I have half a mind to give up the whole business and run away. But,
no; there is too much involved. Father has revealed too much; I have
promised, and I can not go back now that I have started on the road to
success. I have put my hand to the plow and must not turn back. I must
go on to the bitter end, no matter what the consequences may be.”

And as he lifted Lillian in his arms to place her upon the rustic seat,
just at that juncture Rosamond had appeared with Jack Lyndon. But
neither Lillian nor Richard Raleigh dreamed of such a thing.

One swift glance of horror, just long enough to know and realize that
his eyes had not deceived him, or the moonlight played any trick with
his eyesight, and Jack Lyndon wheeled swiftly about and retraced his
steps to the house, followed at a little distance by Rosamond, her
heart full of gratified triumph. She had succeeded beyond her wildest
hopes.

The goal was very nearly won. If only she were patient and played her
cards properly all would yet be well.

Back in the drawing-room once more, Jack seated himself without a word.
He felt in a mood for anything now--reckless and desperate--fit for any
mad deed. Lillian was false. If that were so--and how could he doubt
the evidence of his own eyesight?--then there was not a woman in the
world worth caring for, worth trusting in. As he sat in moody silence a
soft hand was laid upon his forehead, smoothing the hair from his brow,
and a low, magnetic voice murmured, sweetly:

“Jack, don’t look so down-hearted. What in the world is the matter?
There,” with a low, rippling laugh, “I hear Lillian coming into the
house--the little deceiver. Shall I call her in here and question her?”

He shivered all over as with a chill.

“Forbear!” he cried, lightly. “To intrude upon her happiness would be
unkind. Come, Rosamond,” calling her by that name for the first time in
his life, “let us sit here and have a pleasant chat and shut out all
the world--all false women and men, all deceit and wrong-doing. Let us
be a veritable Darby and Joan, for one night only, as the play-bills
say.”

He was in just the mood to fall into her snare, and Rosamond Raleigh
knew it.

Poor though he was, she had learned to love the brilliant young
journalist with a mad, unceasing love of which no one believed her
capable. And she had made up her mind to marry him.

“I have money enough for both,” she had decided.

To-night he was so reckless and defiant, so desperate and bitter, that
Rosamond’s gentle sympathy, her ignoring of the possibility of Lillian
having any claim upon his affections, all had its own deadly effect.

And sitting at Rosamond’s side in the dimly lighted drawing-room,
fully convinced of Lillian’s falseness and unworthiness, and therefore
considering himself free from her, Jack Lyndon made the mad mistake of
his life. He asked Rosamond Raleigh to be his wife, and Miss Raleigh
promptly accepted him.




CHAPTER XI.

IN THE CONSERVATORY.


Senator Van Alstyne’s splendid mansion was ablaze with light. It looked
like a fairy palace, glittering with its brilliant illumination.
Within, the great rooms were thrown open, and wreathed and decorated
with flowers, with banks of roses and jasmine, and a flower-wreathed
nook from behind which a band of musicians sent forth strains of music
maddening, intoxicating. A grand reception was taking place, and
Senator Van Alstyne, in all the ugliness of conventional evening-dress,
was prominent among his aristocratic guests, his red face fairly
shining with gratified pride and flattered vanity. In the center of the
great drawing-room stood a queenly figure in a sweeping robe of white
velvet, with diamonds sparkling all over her white lace overdress like
fairy frost-work glittering with dew-drops. She was pale and cold and
proud, and in the depths of the beautiful dark eyes there was a weary
look--a look of self-scorn.

“I am pitiably weak,” she was saying to herself, with bitter
self-contempt, “for I ought to have asserted my dignity as a woman;
and when that blow was struck me--that cowardly, unmanly blow--it
would have been better, and I would have more self-respect now, if I
had gone away. Gone to toil and hardship--to work, to starve and die,
and be out of all this gilded misery. For, oh! if it be true, and if
he is living, what am I? I dared not read the entire letter, for Van
Alstyne would have taken forcible possession of it; so I do not know
his address, or where he is, or where to write. Heaven help me!” she
murmured, feebly. “What shall I do?”

Yet all the time these bitter thoughts were running riot through her
brain she was standing, the cynosure of all eyes, in the sumptuous
drawing-room, in her white velvet and point lace and sparkling
diamonds, the most admired, even as she was the most beautiful, woman
present. And like a huge watch-dog Senator Van Alstyne moved about
near her, his keen, ferret-like eyes keeping vigilant watch upon her
movements.

“I will find out what is tormenting her so!” he declared, resolutely.
“There is something wrong--some secret--and it is connected with that
letter. The next letter that arrives for her shall be opened by my
hands before ever she sees it. It is no more than right that I should
know the contents of her letters. By Jove! she is my wife, and I am her
lord and master!”

Just then his eyes fell upon a stylish, graceful little figure in
trailing yellow silk and blood-red rubies. A pair of big, black,
velvety eyes were uplifted with an admiring expression to his
face--with a look which drew him to her side--and the great Senator
Van Alstyne was soon engrossed with Mrs. Vernon, a notorious flirt and
belle, who looked upon all men as lawful prey, and lost no opportunity
of subjugation. There was a Mr. Vernon, too; but then nobody ever
troubled themselves in regard to him, save only as Mrs. Vernon’s
husband. She monopolized all masculine attention, and in her sweet,
innocent, childish way had been guilty of more cruelty, responsible for
more family feuds and conjugal infelicities than any other woman in
the city. Yet she had always contrived to escape blame or censure, and
if any one ventured to blame her she posed as a martyr, and was looked
upon as the victim of envious foes.

“My dear senator,” she cooed sweetly, as she laid her white-gloved
finger-tips upon his black coat-sleeve, and prepared for an agreeable
promenade, “I really must congratulate you upon the success of your
entertainment. It is _recherché_; it is the most perfect that I have
ever witnessed. And how superbly beautiful Mrs. Van Alstyne looks
to-night! No wonder everybody falls in love with her. That reminds
me to ask you the name of her new admirer--the stranger who haunts
her like a shadow. He is so handsome--perfectly splendid. With such
an interesting pallor, and large, dark, melancholy eyes, silky black
mustache and wavy dark hair. I declare he is just for all the world
like the Giaour and all of dear, delightful, awfully wicked Lord
Byron’s heroes! And he looks at Lenore--Mrs. Van Alstyne--with such a
look! What is his name, did you say, senator?”

And she knew full well that the jealous old senator had not said, and
did not know, and it was for that very reason that she had broached the
subject. For Lenore had been so coldly proud in her reception of Mrs.
Vernon that that lady could not find it in her heart to forgive her,
and instead had vowed to pay her back.

She watched Van Alstyne’s face change from smiling red to angry purple,
and his small eyes snap with displeasure. She noticed, too, the
clinched hand and hard, labored breathing. Nothing escaped her eager,
malicious eyes.

“I have not the pleasure of knowing all Mrs. Van Alstyne’s friends,” he
returned, stiffly. “Be good enough to point him out to me, Mrs. Vernon.
Perhaps I can tell you his name if I have the pleasure of seeing the
gentleman.”

“Ah, yes, to be sure! I am always doing foolish, childish things,” in
a tone of mock sorrow. “Forgive me, senator--please; and I’ll promise,
like the naughty boy, never to do it again. There! I see my fascinating
hero--the mysterious unknown. He is standing not far from Mrs. Van
Alstyne. She does not appear to see him at all; but some magnetism
draws him thither--sort of needle and the pole attraction, you know,”
with a silly laugh.

Van Van Alstyne’s greenish eyes followed the direction in which
Mrs. Vernon was gazing. He saw a tall, graceful figure in faultless
evening-dress standing near Lenore. A wondrously handsome man with a
decidedly foreign aspect, dark Oriental eyes, and pale, statuesque
face. Lenore evidently did not observe him. She was engaged in
conversation with a group of ladies and their attendant cavaliers, but
the stranger stood still as a statue, his eyes fastened upon her like
one who is biding his time, waiting patiently for his hour to come.
And still without observing him she turned aside and wandered away to
the conservatory. Van Alstyne’s eyes shone with a lurid light, and
he set his yellow teeth close together, hissing forth a naughty word
from between them. He arose to his feet; Mrs. Vernon arose also and
laid her hand upon his arm. He could not shake her off, and he knew
it; it was best also to keep in Mrs. Vernon’s good graces, so the wily
senator was compelled to stifle his yearnings in the direction of
the conservatory--the conservatory which Lenore entered and went on
straight to her doom.

She wandered down the flower-scented aisles with a tinkling fountain
splashing dreamily and tropical birds singing overhead in their gilded
cages--birds that, like herself, had been taken in their wild beauty
and imprisoned in a glittering prison against which they might beat
their wings in vain, for they could never escape--nothing would free
them but death. Lenore caught her breath with a weary little sigh.

“Nothing but death,” she murmured, softly; “and I have the means of
escape always with me.”

She gazed upon one white finger on which a large solitaire diamond
glittered in the gas-lighted conservatory like living fire.

“No one would ever dream,” she went on, drearily, “that under this
shining stone there lies a drop of poison--such subtle, deadly poison,
and so swift in its effect, that I have only to press the hidden spring
in this ring to find death and eternal quiet.”

“Lenore!”

A voice at her side--a rich, sweet voice, speaking in a cautious
tone. She started, and her face grew white as marble. She pressed one
hand against her heart, with a low cry. One swift glance around the
place, and then both white hands were laid in his, and a voice full of
suppressed delight murmured, faintly:

“Cyril! Good God! can it be you? I could not believe it--I could not
believe it even when I saw your letter! Oh, Cyril! Cyril!”

She threw herself into his arms, her proud head pillowed upon his
breast, her white arms wound about his neck, and lay there in a very
trance of delight.

“Oh! my love--my love!” she murmured, softly. “After all these years,
to hold you thus once more! But, Cyril,” starting up with wide-open,
wild, dilated eyes and a face of ashen pallor, “stop--and think!
You--you know all; and in your letter you said that if I would see you,
you would be able to explain away all the awful mistake of the past.
Tell me, Cyril--tell me, oh! my beloved, you were not all to blame!”

“So help me Heaven, I was not to blame!” he said, fervently. “We were
duped, betrayed, deceived--you and I. It was not my fault--it was
not our sin; and for seventeen years--seventeen long, dark, bitter
years--we have walked apart upon this earth--you and I. But no human
power shall part us now, my darling--no one can come between us ever
any more.”

Her eyes met his with wild terror.

“Cyril--I am Van Van Alstyne’s wife,” she faltered.

His eyes flashed. He stooped and whispered a few words in her
ear--words which made the blood leap madly in her veins.

“Cyril! Can you--prove it?” she cried.

“I can and will, my beloved!” He held her close to his heart once more,
and showered kisses upon the sweet red lips. “You are mine, Lenore!”
he whispered, tenderly. “All this mystery shall be cleared up, and the
world shall know the martyr you have been.”

Footsteps! She sprung to an upright position and hastened away, while
her companion turned to encounter the scowling face of the master of
the house--and upon his arm, smiling, giggling, the irrepressible Mrs.
Vernon, her black eyes twinkling with gratified malice and spite.




CHAPTER XII.

FROM THE OTHER WORLD.


Slowly Lillian aroused herself, and in perfect ignorance of what had
taken place just a few feet away from the scene of her own sorrow, sat
up pale and trembling, Richard Raleigh bending over her.

“It is true, Lillian,” he said, gravely, “all true. But, unless I
speak, there is no proof--no way of proving to the world the deed of
which I accuse that man. We must be quiet and wait patiently for the
next developments. Lillian, promise to be my wife, and I swear to
unearth the murderer and deliver him up to justice.”

He was speaking fast and in low, eager tones. His face had grown
deathly pale--a strange, unearthly pallor--and great drops of
perspiration stood upon his brow. She put up her hands with a repelling
gesture.

“Keep away!” she cried, wildly. “There is no truth in you, Richard
Raleigh! You are bad and false, and I do not believe you. Keep away! Do
not trouble me more, for my brain reels, and I am weak and faint and
half insane!”

Her eyes were glittering with a feverish light; her hands were hot and
trembling; her breath came in fitful gasps. She looked ill and weak.

“It is all true, Lillian,” Raleigh repeated once more. “It is a hard
thing to say--hard, hard; but the truth can not be denied. I repeat to
you boldly--to you, the daughter of the dead man, Gilbert Leigh--that
_Jack Lyndon took your father’s life_!”

She put up her hands once more with a shrill cry of pain.

“Don’t!” she panted, hoarsely. “If there is any pity, any mercy in your
heart, Richard Raleigh, do not repeat that false lie! Why should he do
such a fiendish deed? What motive could he have had?”

Raleigh’s eyes flashed. If she would only discuss the matter with him,
there was a hope of convincing her of the truth of his words.

“Why, indeed?” he repeated. “Why should anybody have had cause? Yet
the awful deed was done. I will tell you all if you have strength
to listen; I will repeat the circumstances of the affair just as I
witnessed it, and then you can judge for yourself. I was coming home
from Mrs. Howard’s reception, Lillian, on the night of your father’s
murder. It was late, and I had walked, so I hurried onward, my head
bent, my thoughts busy. All at once I heard the sound of footsteps, and
as the street was deserted--I was coming down the street upon which you
then lived, Lillian--it attracted my attention, and glancing up I saw
your father, Gilbert Leigh, on the opposite side. I was about to cross
over and join him when the electric light went out into darkness--you
know their exasperating ways--and when I was able to see once more,
I observed your father in eager conversation with another man. It was
very near your own door, Lillian; and just then you opened your window
and glanced out as though looking for your father. I saw your sweet
face and I halted; forgive me, Lillian, I could not help thinking it
was the sweetest face in the round world. Your father was just beyond
the range of your window; you could not see him, so you closed your
blind and I turned away. Stepping on a few paces, I caught the sound of
men’s voices in angry altercation, and once more I halted.

“‘Give me the book!’ I heard an angry voice demand.

“‘I will not!’ responded your father, firmly. ‘It does not belong to me
but to my employers, and I will defend it with my life!’

“Then an awful pause, broken by a smothered groan and a sound like some
one struggling upon the pavement. I dashed across the street, and there
I found--_don’t_ look at me with such horror-stricken eyes, Lillian--I
found your father in the grasp of murderous hands, just breathing his
last. Over him stood his murderer--that man, Jack Lyndon. Why did I not
denounce him at once, you ask? Lillian, it was through sympathy and
pity for you. He told me that he was your intended husband; that your
father had treated him villainously; he fell upon his knees before me
and begged me to spare him and let him go free. I weakly consented out
of pity for you, oh, my beloved, never dreaming that the day was coming
when I too should bow before you in humble supplication for your love.
I have carried this secret about in my heart, corroding and poisoning
my whole life, until I can keep silent no longer. And now, Lillian,
that you have heard all, what will you do?”

Her face froze over like a marble mask.

“Denounce my father’s murderer, and give him up to justice!” she said,
in a low, stern voice.

Richard Raleigh shuddered.

“Lillian, listen. The secret is ours. No one else in the wide world,
but you and I, has any knowledge of his crime. Shall _I_ denounce him,
or shall _you_? You did care for him once; but you shall, if you wish,
deliver him over into the cruel hands of the law.”

She covered her face with her hands, sobbing and trembling in a weak,
womanish way.

“I can not--I can not!” she sobbed, bitterly. “No, no; a thousand times
no! I will not speak! I will die before I will denounce Jack Lyndon! I
can not believe it; it is all false--false--false!”

Richard Raleigh took her hand in his.

“It is true, Lillian; and because it is true I am going to denounce him
to the authorities--Jack Lyndon, the murderer of your father!”

She started up with a low cry.

“You shall not! You shall not, Richard Raleigh!”

“I must. Justice demands it.”

“You shall not! You must not!” wringing her hands in wild beseeching.
“Have pity--have mercy! My brain is reeling--I know not what I say.
_Only spare him!_ I--I loved him once--loved my father’s murderer!
Oh, God! And I stood beside my father’s body and vowed to deliver his
murderer up to justice! What a weak--pitifully weak wretch I am!”

“You are a woman, consequently weak in resolution where one you love is
concerned. Let me do it, Lillian! I will deliver Jack Lyndon into the
hands of the law. I _must_; it is my duty.”

“Richard”--calling him by his name, in a voice full of heart-break,
seizing his hand in both her burning palms--“listen to me. If you do
this thing--if you persist in this determination--if you denounce Jack
Lyndon to the authorities, I will take my own life!”

For just a moment, silence--awful silence; then Richard caught the
girl’s slight, trembling form in his arms and held her close against
his breast.

“Darling, I love you! My God, how I love you!” he panted. “Be mine,
Lillian--be my wife, loved and honored; the wife of Richard Raleigh,
only son of Grafton Raleigh, millionaire. It is no position to scorn.
Be my wife, Lillian, and I swear to let Jack Lyndon go free, to hold
my peace, and leave him to God and his own conscience! Refuse me, and
I will--I must--let the law take its course! But I prefer to give up
the pursuit, to let remorse do its own work in Jack Lyndon’s breast--a
Nemesis to hunt him down. Believe me, Lillian, if the dead--the holy
dead--can behold us, he, your departed father, will approve--would say,
if his dumb lips were unsealed: ‘Daughter, forego vengeance. Leave that
to Heaven.’”

He paused and gazed around him in the pale moonshine. What ailed the
moonlight? It seemed to grow suddenly dim and obscure, as though the
moon were in an eclipse. A strange chill had crept into the air; an
awful unseen presence seemed to stand at their sides. Lillian glanced
up with a convulsive shudder.

“Who called me?” she cried, wildly. “Mr. Raleigh, I swear to you I
heard my father’s voice--my dear, dead, murdered father call clearly,
distinctly, ‘Lillian!’”

He caught her to his heart once more. She had no strength left to
repulse him now.

“Superstitious child!” he cried. “Darling, my life is in your hands;
what are you going to do with it? Think it all over, and let me know
your decision. Be my wife at once, and be lifted out of this poverty.
You need not fear my parents’ displeasure; I know how to win their
consent, and I swear before high Heaven, I swear before my Maker, by
all my hopes of happiness, to let Jack Lyndon go free and unaccused!
Will you consider it, Lillian, and give me your answer to-morrow? Meet
me at this place at ten to-morrow night. Will you come, Lillian?”

Her face was as pale as death, her eyes full of heart-break.

“Yes; I will be here with my answer to-morrow night at ten,” she
returned, mechanically.

She slipped away and up the path like a wild creature, back to the
house, and fled upstairs to Miss Raleigh’s chamber, where she threw
herself down upon the rug before the fire, shivering violently. Not
a word did she utter. Her heart was in a tumult, her brain seemed on
fire. The closing of the outer door of the house aroused her at last,
and she knew that Jack was gone. Click! click! came the sound of high
heels, and a little later Miss Raleigh entered her room. Her face was
all aglow with triumph as she sunk into an easy-chair.

“Come and take off my shoes, Lillian,” she commanded. “I feel like
sitting up till morning, for I am just too happy to sleep! Oh,
Lillian! I must tell somebody, or my heart will burst with its burden
of gladness! Lillian, Jack Lyndon has asked me to be his wife; and,
poor though he is, I love him, and have accepted him. He loves me so
dearly--so very dearly, Lillian--and he has loved me so long, but
feared to speak before. Lillian!”--with a voice full of horror--“look!”

She had started to her feet with a gasp of terror. All of a sudden
the gas-light had begun to grow dim and burn with a faint, blue,
unearthly glow. And then--_then_--the door of the round room opened
slowly--slowly--and there, upon the threshold, pale and wan and
pathetic, with one hand pressed upon her heart, and great, sad, dark
eyes lifted to Miss Raleigh’s horrified face with a look of wild
beseeching--stood the apparition of Noisette.




CHAPTER XIII.

A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.


Rosamond Raleigh’s blue eyes grew black as night as they stared in
wildest terror into the face of the apparition.

A convulsive tremor crept over her frame. She fell back a few paces and
lifted her hands with a maddened gesture.

“Keep back! keep back!” she shrieked. “My God! am I never to be free
from this horrible thing? Lillian--look--for the love of Heaven, look!”

Lillian had been standing all this time, white and wild-eyed, gazing
before her upon the awful sight. She turned aside with a low groan.

“Miss Raleigh, it is really true”--the girl’s voice was low and
faint--“you are--you must be--haunted! I have never believed in such
things before, but I can not doubt the evidence of my own eyesight
upon so many occasions. I, of course, have never seen the young girl
Noisette Duval, but you seem to recognize her.”

“Recognize her!” with a hysterical laugh. “I should think so indeed.
Even that endless painting upon which she is always working is familiar
to me. She died, stricken down by heart disease, in the round room
yonder, while engaged in painting poppies and vine leaves upon an
amber satin panel for a ball-dress--just the loveliest thing. Oh,
Lillian!”--bursting into a flood of hysterical tears--“I have never
been able to wear amber--_so_ becoming to me, too--since that day.
There--thank Heaven, it is gone!” sinking into a seat with a sigh of
intense relief.

Lillian came slowly forward and removed Miss Raleigh’s dainty kid
boots, substituting velvet slippers; and then, Rosamond having donned
a comfortable wrapper, Lillian began her nightly task of brushing out
her long yellow hair. She was silent and sad; her heart lay quivering
on her breast, bowed down with that awful weight of dull anguish and
despair. Surely she was but a foot-ball of fate. What a burden for such
young shoulders to bear! Yet she must bear it and be silent--for the
present at least.

And while her heart was aching madly in her breast she stood and
brushed out the silky hair of the idle, contemptuous beauty who was
going to marry the man whom Lillian Leigh loved--the man who, with
unheard-of fickleness, had asked her to marry him only that morning,
and then at night had besought--oh, the irony of fate!--the woman who
employed her as waiting-maid--servant--to be his wife. Could such
perfidy be possible?

There is not a woman in the world who will fail to understand the
emotions which racked the poor girl’s heart as these thoughts rushed
through it like a torrent. Love--deep and devoted love--which at
the same time was full of scorn and contempt; despair, anguish
unutterable, yet all the time the pride of a woman to uphold her. Ah!
woman’s pride--woman’s pride! When God made woman weak and loving,
with such utter self-abnegation in her love, He gave her also the
delicate, sensitive instinct which keeps many a woman’s feet from by
and forbidden paths. The pride which is part of a woman’s nature will
sustain and uphold her ofttimes when nothing else will. There are
women--Heaven help them!--who have nothing left them but their womanly
pride. Pure and cold as snow and hard as adamant, it stands like a
glittering wall of ice between her and the world. That pride was all
that Lillian Leigh had to lean upon now, in her hour of darkness. It
was her rock and her defense in time of trouble.

“I shall be married soon,” observed Rosamond, complacently, yet
glancing furtively about her with frightened eyes; “for if I remain
much longer in this house I shall die of fright. Of course Jack has but
small means, but I have money enough for us both, and--”

“And he will consent to live upon your money?” burst forth Lillian,
impetuously. “Miss Raleigh, I could never respect a man who would do
that!”

Miss Raleigh’s thin lip curled with a condescending smile.

“My dear Lillian, you have not been asked to respect Mr. Lyndon. And as
for living upon my money--that question lies between ourselves solely
and absolutely. Mr. Lyndon is not accountable to you, or _any_ of my
servants, I hope!”

Lillian made no reply. The hot blood rushed to her white face in a
surging flood; then it receded, leaving her pale as death.

“May I go now, Miss Raleigh?” she asked, wistfully. “See, the clock’s
hands are pointing to one; and I am very tired.”

“Yes, go!” ungraciously. “I imagine that I shall not be disturbed again
to-night. I must devise some plan to get rid of or outwit this ghostly
visitant--to guard against its reappearance. I _must_ put a stop to it!”

She started as the audacious words passed her lips, her face took on a
deathly pallor, and her eyes dilated with sudden horror. Surely that
was a laugh--a low, sweet, mocking laugh which had fallen upon the
silence as though defying her to do her worst. Rosamond fell back into
the chair from which she had just arisen, and sat clutching wildly at
its carved arms.

“Lillian, as surely as you live, that was Noisette’s voice--Noisette’s
laugh. I remember it well, although she seldom laughed aloud. She was a
grave, quiet, taciturn girl--one who had little to say, and was never
demonstrative or merry. Yet I swear that was Noisette Duval who laughed
then as though in derision. Don’t go to bed now, Lillian, for Heaven’s
sake! I will not stay here alone now. No, I will retire, and you may go
after I am asleep. I will take a sedative, and will be sound asleep in
a short time.”

Utterly selfish, the cruel woman did not pause to reflect upon the
terrors which Lillian was suffering. The poor girl was timid and
nervous as any other woman would have been under the circumstances, and
she longed to reach the privacy of her own chamber--longed intensely
to be alone, to stare her sad future in the face. But the woman
unfortunate enough to be employed by Rosamond Raleigh was allowed no
time to weep over her own sorrows.

Rosamond hurriedly prepared herself for bed; then she went to an Indian
cabinet which stood in all the glory of quaint carving in one corner of
the room, and opening it, took a bottle from one of the shelves. The
vial bore a suggestive label--two cross-bones surmounted by a grinning
skull, and below, in large letters, “Chloral--_Poison!_”

“Oh, Miss Raleigh,” interposed Lillian, “surely you will not take that?
It might kill you.”

“Nonsense, you little goose! I always take it when I am disturbed at
night. It is the only thing that makes me sleep.”

She took a golden spoon from the cabinet and dropped a few drops of the
chloral into some water, then hastily swallowing the dose, she returned
the vial to the cabinet and retired for the night. Five minutes later
she was wrapped in a heavy, sluggish slumber.

Free at last, Lillian turned the gas down to the faintest glimmer, and
at last sought her own room. The fire had gone out, the lamp burned
low. She went straight to bed and lay there all the rest of the night,
her eyes wide open, while she tried to stare her future in the face.
The pale gray light of dawn creeping in at the window found her still
sleepless; but at last she sunk into an unquiet sleep which lasted
until the dressing-bell rang.

She awoke with a start, and, pale and spiritless, arose and made
her simple toilet. With light footsteps she entered Miss Raleigh’s
sleeping-room. Rosamond lay sleeping soundly, so Lillian dropped the
shades over the windows, extinguished the gas, and softly withdrew.

One day--only one brief day, and then she must give Richard Raleigh his
answer. Her whole future hung trembling in the balance, and before the
sun should set that night her decision must be made.

Coming down-stairs on her way to the conservatory to gather a bouquet
for Rosamond’s boudoir, Lillian accidentally encountered the master
of the house. His face looked pale and grave, and there was an air
of preoccupation about the pompous millionaire which she had never
observed before. To her amazement, at sight of her, Mr. Raleigh stopped
short, and a smile from which she shrunk involuntarily crossed his lips.

“Ah, good-morning, Miss Leigh,” he said, pleasantly, unctuously. “How
are you this fine morning? I am afraid that you are working too hard.
You look pale--too pale, Lillian. I do not wish you to be overworked,
and really the work is unsuited for you. We will find you something
better--something better,” with a smile and a pat of the girl’s soft
hand which he had taken in his own. “This occupation is entirely out
of place,” resumed the millionaire, blandly; “this is no business for
Gilbert Leigh’s daughter--no, indeed! It is a shame that you should
hold a position of this kind in my household, and I mean to put an end
to it.”

Utterly overwhelmed, Lillian could only bow and murmur something
unintelligible in regard to his kindness, and then she withdrew her
hand and hurried to the conservatory, feeling very uncomfortable and
far from easy in her mind. Grafton Raleigh had never noticed her
before, save in a chance encounter in the hall or some of the rooms,
when the stiffest of bows would be all the notice ever vouchsafed
by him to his daughter’s waiting-maid. Lillian did not like this
sudden change of demeanor, and she hurriedly gathered her flowers and
retreated up the stairs, with a vague terror creeping into her heart, a
feeling that some new calamity was threatening her.

The breakfast hour in the handsome breakfast-room found Mrs. Raleigh,
her husband and son, alone at the table.

“I wonder what keeps Rosamond so late?” observed Richard, turning over
the pile of letters beside his plate.

His father frowned.

“That girl is getting altogether too indolent!” he observed. “And
I do think she keeps that little maid of hers up half the night,
Helen!”--turning swiftly to his wife at the head of the table, behind
the silver urn. “I insist that you inquire into this matter. The girl
is no common servant, remember, and she may astonish you some day.”

Mrs. Raleigh favored her husband with a long, comprehensive stare.

“Well, I declare,” she burst forth, indignantly, “wonders will never
cease! My daughter’s waiting-maid must indeed be possessed of rare
graces to have attracted the attention of the fastidious Grafton
Raleigh. Rest assured--Ah, there comes Rosamond now! The poor child has
had a bad night. I can see that at a glance.”

The door of the breakfast-room had swung slowly open, and Rosamond, in
a pale-blue wrapper which made her pale face look even more death-like,
glided into the room. She was wan and haggard, and there were dark
circles beneath her eyes. At sight of her, her mother’s face grew stern.

“Rosamond”--in a reproving voice--“you have been taking chloral again.”

Rosamond halted just within the door, which she closed behind her. She
glanced into her mother’s face as she burst forth in a shrill treble:

“Yes, I have been taking it, and I shall be compelled to resort to it
every night or never sleep again on earth if something is not done to
relieve me of the visitations from which I suffer. Papa--mamma! it is
the truth, so help me Heaven! I am haunted--haunted by the spirit of
Noisette Duval. I am never safe from it. It comes when I am sad and
when I am cheerful; it comes at night and at day; when I am alone and
when Lillian is present! And, papa”--wringing her hands nervously--“I
have concluded to ask--to beg of you--permission to have the round room
closed up forever. Will you consent, papa?”

Mr. Raleigh sneered and frowned and objected, but he ended by being
overruled. Before noon of that day half a dozen workmen were busily
engaged in sealing up the pretty octagonal chamber. The door of
communication between it and Rosamond’s sleeping-room was removed, the
aperture closed, and the wall papered to correspond with the rest of
the room. The door leading into the hall was also removed, and when
the work was completed Rosamond congratulated herself upon having
completely exorcised the spirit which so persistently haunted her.




CHAPTER XIV.

MISJUDGED.


Silence in the conservatory, where we left Senator Van Alstyne
standing, red and angry, in the presence of the stranger who was also
his guest.

The two men stood silently regarding each other. Van Alstyne’s
ferret-like eyes glowed with a lurid light, an unpleasant sneer curled
his sensual lip, half hidden by the long, carefully kept mustache.

Mrs. Vernon, still hanging on the senator’s arm, glanced from one to
the other, and thoroughly enjoyed the situation.

Van Alstyne bowed coldly, stiffly.

“I beg your pardon, sir. There is some mistake, doubtless;” the
irate senator spoke with ill-concealed disgust; “but I have not
the--ahem!--honor of your acquaintance, Mr.--”

“Fayne, sir--Cyril Fayne,” with quite as cold a salute as the senator
himself had bestowed, and upon his matchless face a look of utter
contempt and scorn.

So this was the man who had bought Lenore Vane with his gold. This
creature who possessed so little of the true refinement of a gentleman
that he would not receive a guest who was unknown to him with the calm
courtesy due from one gentleman to another under any circumstances. And
that Cyril Fayne was a gentleman was as patent to the observer as that
Van Van Alstyne was not.

Low under his breath Cyril Fayne was muttering softly:

“Heaven help her! Her burden has been hard to bear. Poor Lenore--poor
heart-broken Lenore! Curses upon the man--the man whom I believed years
ago to be my friend, and who is to blame for all this misery! All the
sorrow and anguish of our parting, and the seventeen long, dark, bitter
years which lie between that time and now. Curse him! Wherever he is, I
shall find him if he is still above ground. All her happiness blighted;
all the best of my life spoiled; all the woe and anguish that have been
mine until now--though I am not old, for I have seen but forty years--I
feel as if my whole life had come to an end!”

And while these thoughts were rushing through his brain, he was
standing still as a statue, while Van Van Alstyne’s eyes were searching
his face with an ill-bred stare which at last became more than Cyril
Fayne could endure.

“Possibly Senator Van Alstyne recognizes an old acquaintance in me!” he
suggested, mockingly.

Van Alstyne’s red face grew purple with rage.

“No, I do not!” he cried, vehemently; “and I must say that my wife
shows deuced small respect for her husband--her protector--by Jove!
her lord and master--to receive men at her reception who are not only
strangers to me, but whom she does not trouble herself to present to
me!”

“Your wife!”

The two words fell like stones from Fayne’s lips; and the moment they
were spoken he realized that he had made a mistake.

Senator Van Alstyne stared for a moment, too astonished to utter a
word; then bristling with rage, he drew a step nearer, and Heaven only
knows what atrocity might have been perpetrated, but down came a tiny
gloved hand upon his arm, and a sweet voice cried, gayly:

“Come, senator, you promised to show me the datura! Now, don’t stand
here squabbling over nothing, I beg of you! Of course Lenore--Mrs. Van
Alstyne--will make everything clear. Dear me! if Mr. Vernon should make
such a fuss over every gentleman whom I invite to our house without
consulting his royal highness, he would live in a tumult for sure. Van
Van Alstyne, you are as jealous as a Turk. Now, if I were your wife--”

The fascinating Mrs. Vernon possessed more influence over the doughty
senator than any other living creature. Fayne bowed coldly and stepped
aside for them to pass. While down went the senator’s iron-gray head,
and his thick lips touched the gloved hand resting upon his arm, while
he whispered, softly:

“If you were my wife! Oh, Bessie, if you only were!”

And thus you will perceive that senators, and even married senators,
are not quite impervious to a little flirtation with a pretty woman.
And it is possible that, while they are so particular that their wives
should be like Cæsar’s better half, “above suspicion,” the lives of
many a public man are not beyond reproach. Van Van Alstyne’s creed was
that a man can do as he feels inclined; a woman must conduct herself as
she is directed. One creed for the man and another for the woman, and,
of course, no equality. In this case the superiority was all upon one
side, not the senator’s. And there are many men like Van Van Alstyne.

As soon as Cyril Fayne had disappeared, Mrs. Vernon lifted her
great black velvety eyes with their belladonna brilliance and their
delicately painted lids to the face of the man at her side with an
affectation of child-like innocence.

“Where did dear Lenore disappear to?” she queried, sweetly. “Didn’t
you see her when we entered the conservatory? No? Is it possible?
Why, I saw her in close conversation with that delightful Mr. Fayne.
I say, Van, he is delightful, isn’t he? No? Oh, you horrid creature!
Of course, I don’t consider any man so nice as--as--you,” giggling
like a school-girl. “There now, I am certain I see Lenore. Yes, to be
sure. Nobody else wears white velvet, point lace, and such diamonds as
Senator Van Alstyne’s lovely wife. And if there is not such a costume
as I describe seated over yonder--there, by the banksia roses--then I’m
a kitten, that’s all! Ah, Mrs. Van Alstyne,” as they suddenly appeared
before Lenore, who glanced up with a swift start, “we have been
looking for you everywhere. Why did you not present that handsome Mr.
Fayne? You ought not to be so selfish as to keep him all to yourself,
when half the ladies in the drawing-room yonder are just dying to
know him. But the senator and I hunted him up and down, and Mr. Van
Alstyne introduced himself, and we found that he is Mr. Cyril Fayne. So
your pretty little mystery is a mystery no longer. Lenore! Mrs. Van
Alstyne! you are ill--you are going to faint!”

Lenore lifted her heavy eyes, and passed one hand over her brow as
though to relieve the dull pain which was throbbing in her temples.

“Ill? No, no!” she gasped, feebly. “What were you saying, Mrs. Vernon,
about--about some gentleman--Mr.--”

“Cyril Fayne,” supplemented Mrs. Vernon, promptly; “at least, so he
introduced himself. Your husband has made his acquaintance, after
a fashion. I do not imagine that they love each other very dearly,
however. Certainly not a case of love at first sight.”

“Hardly!” growled the senator. “Why, the fellow actually sneered when I
spoke of you, Lenore, as my wife! There! Bessie, she has fainted.”

Lenore had started to her feet, and then, with a long, quivering sigh,
had fallen back into the chair once more, pale and still.

“Hush!” commanded Van Alstyne, as his companion evinced signs of
excitement. “Be still, will you? I don’t want the whole crowd out
yonder to gather in here--and the story would go the rounds of the
newspapers to-morrow, with some infernal lie tacked on to it. Just hold
her head, Bessie, while I get some water from the fountain yonder and
bathe her head. Chafe her wrists a little. Gently--there!”

He hastened to the tiny fountain splashing dreamily into a marble
basin, and soon returned with a silver cup full of its perfumed water.
As he approached the recumbent form of his wife, Mrs. Vernon dropped
something which she had been holding in her hand, with a hasty glance
in his direction--and Van Van Alstyne did not know that the appearance
of haste was assumed on purpose to excite his curiosity. He stepped
swiftly to her side.

“What is it, Bessie?” he asked, cautiously.

She smiled.

“Oh, nothing that you have not seen before, I dare say,” she returned.
“Only a medallion that Lenore wears about her neck.”

His red face flushed a deeper crimson.

“A medallion! I never gave it to her,” he panted. “Let me see it, Mrs.
Vernon.”

And before Bessie Vernon could stop him--if she had wished to--he drew
forth from its hiding-place about Lenore’s white throat, a black onyx
locket in the shape of a medallion. An instant later he pressed the
spring and the lid flew open. One glance, and with a hoarse cry of rage
and jealous wrath too deep for articulate expression, Van Van Alstyne
dropped into the nearest seat, and sat staring helplessly into Mrs.
Vernon’s face. She laughed lightly.

“Ah! so you see that your cold, white marble women are not always as
immaculate as they appear!” she sneered. “Lenore Van Alstyne is so
good, so awfully, fearfully good! She will never flirt, or do anything
just a little ‘off;’ she preaches domestic felicity--a regular Darby
and Joan sort of existence; she frowns severely upon poor me because
I like to flirt and am gay and full of life; and all the time, night
and day, she wears about her neck, hidden from view, the portrait of a
man who is not her husband. Do you see, Van Van Alstyne? This little
thin chain to which the medallion is attached is riveted on. And do you
recognize the face of the portrait? It is the face of Mr. Cyril Fayne.”

Silence--perfect silence. An awful tempest was raging within the man’s
soul. He stood still as death. There was no sign of life save the slow
rising and falling of his chest. His face was ghastly white; his under
lip bleeding from the ferocity with which he had gnawed it; his hands
were clinched fiercely together. He took a step in Lenore’s direction,
where she still lay, white and unconscious, rigid as though life were
extinct. He lifted his strong right hand as though to strike her in
all her helplessness. Swiftly the hand was uplifted, slowly it fell to
his side once more. A strange expression crept over his face; an awful
resolution settled down upon it like a mask. He turned, and his eyes
met Bessie Vernon’s. He smiled. It was bad to see that cold, cruel
smile.

“I will not touch her!” he muttered, hoarsely. “Put the trinket back
where you found it, under the lace at her throat, Bessie; and keep your
tongue still over this unpleasant scene, or--or I will make you sorry
for it. We will let Mrs. Lenore Van Alstyne go on in her own road and
say nothing at present. But the day will come--the day will surely come
when she will wish that she had died to-night--here--now.”

He turned upon his heel and left the conservatory, Mrs. Vernon, with a
scared look upon her pretty face, following closely in his wake. She
felt like a child who has been playing with fire which suddenly burst
forth into a conflagration which nothing could subdue.

And poor Lenore--poor wronged Lenore! who was innocent of sin, if only
he had known or would have believed it, lay there still unconscious,
like one dead. Better for her if she had been!




CHAPTER XV.

THE DIE IS CAST.


Nine! boomed from the big clock in a neighboring steeple; nine! tinkled
musically from the gilded time-piece in Miss Raleigh’s boudoir.

Lillian started up with a cry of dismay, and the lace-work with which
she had been risking her eyesight fell from her hands to the floor.

“One hour more,” she murmured, faintly, “only one hour more, and then
I must give Richard Raleigh his answer. Oh, Heaven, help and pity me!”

She was all alone in the dainty boudoir, for Rosamond was below in the
drawing-room, entertaining a few guests--Mrs. Vernon and one or two
more of Rosamond’s particular friends. And she was expecting Jack. Of
course he would come, and then there would be an interview--a private
interview--with papa in the library, and the poor journalist would ask
for the hand of the millionaire’s daughter.

“And if papa refuses,” thought Rosamond, “for Jack is not rich, and
papa may object--I--I shall marry him anyway! I am of age, fortunately.”

And then there flitted through her brain the thought of poverty, even
though genteel poverty, with the man she loved, and her heart grew
faint and sick within her breast.

“I could not bear to be poor!” she muttered, with a shudder of
aversion. “I just could not endure it.”

And she sat in the drawing-room attired in a soft gray satin gown with
a great deal of white lace, a subdued, Quakerish costume, quaint and
becoming, and chatted with Bessie Vernon and the rest, and all the time
her heart was listening for a ring at the door-bell, the sound of a
familiar step in the hall.

“Rosamond,” whispered Mrs. Vernon, after awhile, “I have something to
tell you--something rich! Are you engaged for twelve to-morrow? No?”
as Rosamond shook her head in the negative. “Then I will call and see
you. I want to tell you something, but you must be sure and never
mention it, never, as long as you live. It is something about Lenore
Van Alstyne.”

Rosamond started.

“Very well, I shall expect you to-morrow. And you may rely upon my
secrecy, Bessie.”

And then Mrs. Vernon’s carriage was announced, and Mrs. Vernon took her
departure, with a whispered reminder to her hostess of the morrow’s
engagement. And then the other callers left. Still Jack Lyndon had not
made his appearance. What did it mean?

Feeling restless and uneasy, full of a strange disquiet, Rosamond threw
a wrap about her shoulders and went out into the grounds. A glorious
moonlight night. She wandered slowly down the nearest walk, and at last
found herself in the vicinity of the east gate.

“I wonder what Rick meant by being out here last night with Lillian?”
she muttered. “Some mischief, I have no doubt. But I don’t care what
happens if only he keeps her away from Jack. I firmly believe that Jack
cared for her; but I will kill her before she takes him from me.”

She came to a halt with a start of surprise. She had nearly reached the
east gate, and her quick eyes had caught sight of two dark forms.

Just at that moment the clock in the steeple struck ten.

“I declare!” panted Miss Raleigh, in a low, wrathful voice, “it is Rick
and that girl again. Now, this is too much--too much altogether. Papa
would be so angry if he knew.”

Even as she gazed upon the scene Richard Raleigh took Lillian’s slight
form in his arms and kissed her unresisting lips.

Miss Raleigh could endure no more. She darted swiftly forward and
confronted the pair in the radiant moonlight, pale and wrathful.

“You shameless creature!” she panted, bringing her hand down upon
Lillian’s shoulder with a fierce grip. “You shall leave my employ at
once--this very night! As for you, Richard Raleigh, I shall tell papa
of your shameful conduct, this moment--this very moment, sir, and he
will settle with you. The idea of a disgraceful affair like this going
on right under our very eyes!”

And before Lillian could recover from her bewilderment, Rosamond
turned swiftly about, and rushed like a mad woman back to the house.
She burst into the drawing-room quite pale with excitement, and she
came to a startled halt as her eyes fell upon Jack Lyndon. He had been
closeted all the evening with Grafton Raleigh, though Rosamond had not
suspected his presence in the house; and now in the drawing-room--the
interview over--they sat conversing with Mrs. Raleigh and waiting for
Rosamond to appear.

There was a hurried greeting, after which Rosamond, pale and excited,
turned to her father.

“Papa--mamma, I beg your pardon, and Mr. Lyndon’s also, for rushing
in upon you in this fashion. But really I must speak or you may
reproach me for my silence later on. Papa, last night I saw your son,
Richard Raleigh, down at the east gate, where he had evidently gone by
appointment to meet my waiting-maid, Lillian Leigh. To-night I walked
out into the grounds. I felt lonely,” with a glance of tender reproach
into Jack’s startled face, “and chancing to walk in the same direction,
I saw them there again. And, papa, Richard had that girl in his arms
and--was actually kissing her!”

“Rosamond!” This from Mrs. Raleigh.

But the master of the house uttered no word. Pale and faint, Jack
Lyndon leaned heavily against the marble mantel, supporting his head
upon his hand and waiting for what was to come next.

“Mamma, it is true. Do not look so angry. It is not my fault. But I
consider his conduct shameful--shameful! And that girl is a bold,
shameless creature, not fit to be in the house with refined ladies. She
is--”

“Hush! Not another word, Rosamond Raleigh!” She wheeled about swiftly,
and there upon the threshold stood her brother, and at his side, pale
and trembling, Lillian Leigh. “Not another word!” repeated Richard
Raleigh, fiercely--“or you shall answer to me for your insults!
Father, I have good news to tell you. I have asked Lillian to be my
wife, and she has consented.”




CHAPTER XVI.

A TRYING ORDEAL.


It was as still as death in the luxurious drawing-room--the sudden,
awful silence of the grave itself, so intense that it was almost
palpable. It was broken at last by Helen Raleigh’s cold, cutting,
imperious voice:

“Grafton,” her hard eyes uplifted to her husband’s face, “you are
master here. I desire you to put an end to this shameful, disgraceful
scene. Your son--my son,” with a hysterical sob, “who dares stand there
and insult his own mother--I demand that he be punished as he deserves.
And as for you,” she glided swiftly over to where Lillian stood, pale
as marble and trembling like a leaf, and brought one white, jeweled
hand down with a grip of iron upon the girl’s shrinking shoulder,
“leave my house this moment, you miserable little wretch--you beggar!
Begone, I say, or I shall--”

“Mother--stop! Not another word!” Richard Raleigh’s face was pale as
death and his eyes flashed ominously. “I command you to be silent.
This lady is my promised wife, and as such I swear that she shall be
respected! Father, are you never going to speak?”

Grafton Raleigh wheeled about and confronted his astonished wife.

“Helen,” his voice was low and stern, “cease this tirade at once.
Richard is right, and--and”--in a whisper--“he has reasons--good
reasons--for the step. The girl is placed in a position which she is
not fitted to fill,” he went on, in a louder tone. “She is pure and
lovely; and Richard--ahem!--loves her, and she--ahem!--loves Richard,
and I have promised not to interfere. I do not see--I do not see why
they should not marry.”

Mrs. Raleigh could only stand and stare blankly into her husband’s
flushed face. Sinking at last upon a velvet sofa, she still sat in
blank, wordless silence, too overwhelmed to speak--too crushed by the
suddenness of the blow to find words to utter. At last:

“Great heavens! am I mad, or am I dreaming? Grafton Raleigh, are you
in your senses? You, Grafton Raleigh, millionaire--you, who have just
listened quietly to the proposal for the hand of your only daughter
from a beggarly journalist,” Jack Lyndon bowed mockingly, “you, who
have listened, I say,” went on the irate lady, “and have decided to
give him a chance to win Rosamond, your only daughter--”

A pause during which Rosamond flashed a swift glance into the pale
face of her prospective betrothed, but failed to see any ecstatic joy
mirrored upon his countenance. Mrs. Raleigh continued:

“You now permit your son--your only son--to say such words to a
servant-girl--a common servant-girl--your daughter’s waiting-maid!
Your son, who might have had his choice of half a dozen wealthy and
fashionable women! Grafton Raleigh, if I did not believe--ay, know
that you had gone mad--I would promise you to be revenged for this.
But you are out of your senses, and I must be patient as possible. But
I can not be patient!” she sobbed, starting to her feet and beginning
to pace up and down the great room with nervous tread. “I shall die!
I--shall--die! Oh, somebody do something for me--quick! I am going to
faint--to die--to--die!”

And then followed an attack of hysterics which prostrated the irate
mother entirely, and made Jack Lyndon cast wistful glances toward the
door, through which for the present he dared not attempt to escape.
After a little Mrs. Raleigh’s maid appeared and the patient was carried
up to her own room, and a physician telephoned for, after which silence
settled down once more.

Pale and still, the group in the drawing-room below stood gazing into
each other’s faces. Jack was the first to break the strange, oppressive
silence. He walked straight up to Lillian and held out his hand.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Miss Leigh,” he said, in a cold, hard
voice. “You have done the best thing possible--for yourself.”

Lillian’s eyes flashed, she bowed coldly, but she did not seem to
notice his offered hand. She could not take it. She could not shake
hands with the man whom Richard Raleigh had accused of her father’s
murder. With a shudder she turned aside, then she forced herself to
glance back into his face again.

“And you,” she returned, quietly, her face pale with righteous
indignation, “may you be as happy as you deserve.”

He turned away, pale and trembling, and with a brief, comprehensive
good-night to the others, left the room.

Rosamond followed him into the hall.

“Jack,” in a low tone, “I am not yet clear as to the result of your
interview with papa. He said--”

“That he would make no objection for the present--would let affairs
take their own course, etc., etc.; but he stipulates that there shall
be no engagement, and that the matter be kept secret for a year. Only I
may call as often as I please, and be looked upon as an honored guest,
and all that sort of thing, while you are to be left untrammeled. If
any other suitor appears with more money, more brains, more good looks
than I possess--”

“Jack!” in a tone of protest, and with a girlish giggle Rosamond threw
herself into his arms.

For just a moment he submitted to the embrace, shutting his teeth down
fiercely into his under lip; then he removed her clinging arms and
turned toward the door.

“I must go, Rosamond,” he said, firmly. “I am expected down at the
office for a good six hours’ work.”

“Poor fellow!” in a tone of tender compassion; “that shall soon be a
thing of the past. For, of course, we shall be married some time, Jack,
and--and then you need never work again.” He shuddered. “And it is
absurd in papa,” she went on, vehemently, “to impose such conditions
upon us. As though I could ever care for any one else. And if a richer
suitor should make his appearance”--“Heaven grant it!” was Jack’s
mental ejaculation--“it would make no difference to me, Jack, I assure
you. Ah, must you go? Good-night, then.”

And a pair of thin lips were held up suggestively, so what could Jack
do but bend his handsome head and touch them lightly with his own?

The first kiss! But, alas! Jack Lyndon was thinking even then of the
lips which he had kissed only the morning before--or was it a century
ago?

Sick and faint and heart-weary, he closed the door of the Raleigh
mansion behind him and went down the street, pale and wan, his eyes
full of moody light. He looked like a desperate gambler who has staked
his all upon one throw of the dice--and lost.

“I hope to Heaven some wealthy suitor will come along and win her from
me,” muttered this strange lover hoarsely, as he strode on down the
broad, aristocratic avenue, back to the office of the “Thunderer.”
“What a sham--what a miserable sham I am!” he burst forth, impetuously,
“to ask a man for his daughter in marriage, hoping all the time that
he will refuse me. And I actually believed that Grafton Raleigh almost
suspected it, or he would hardly have listened so graciously to a
proposal for Rosamond’s hand from a poor devil of a writer. Ah, me! I
can only leave it to time and fate. How beautiful she was to-night!”
he went on, suddenly breaking the silence which had fallen over him;
“the woman who has blighted my faith in all womankind, and has caused
me to make shipwreck of my whole life! She loved me only a few hours
ago!” he added, bitterly. “Yesterday she told me with tears in her eyes
and kisses upon my lips that she loved me. To-night she is betrothed
to a millionaire’s son. Good God! I would give my life to know the
truth, and why she has changed so! Bah! what a fool I am! As though
it were anything but the glittering bait which Richard Raleigh holds
out to her! Yesterday morning she did not know that he meant marriage,
so the poor newspaper scribbler was in favor. To-night there is the
prospect of life in a fine house, with servants and jewels and costly
dresses--bah! all that goes to make up a woman’s heaven--and for these
she turns her back upon love and me, and accepts the glittering future.
But one thing puzzles me.”

He came to a halt upon the deserted streets, and stood staring blankly
through the semi-darkness.

“Why should Richard Raleigh wish to marry a poor girl like Lillian
Leigh?” he went on, slowly. “And he really means honorable marriage,
or he would never have taken the bold step of presenting her to his
family as his betrothed wife. And why--why is Grafton Raleigh, the
purse-proud millionaire, so resigned? Nay, more--I firmly believe that
he is willing--is even pleased; for I surprised a look of intense
satisfaction and relief upon his face while he listened to Richard’s
words. Ah, well, it is a mystery to me,” he went on, as he plunged into
the gloom of the nearest street corner and hastened on down-town--“a
mystery which I may never unravel. But, for my own part, I am the most
miserable man alive, and the sooner the Gordian knot of life is cut the
better for me!”

In the meantime, a terrible scene was taking place at the Raleigh
mansion. Mrs. Raleigh, recovered from the hysterics, was still able to
enact the rôle of the injured mother, the insulted and outraged lady,
and she spared no words to impress upon her hearers the full enormity
of the crime from which she was suffering.

“A common servant-girl!” she panted, angrily, pacing madly up and down
her handsome chamber, whither her husband and Rosamond had followed
her. “A working-girl--daughter of one of my husband’s employees! A
low-born creature like that to be the wife of my son--my handsome
Richard--who might have his choice among the ladies of the land!
Grafton, I can not endure it!” she shrieked, madly. “Drive that girl
from the house--I command you! She shall not remain here! I hate
her--hate her! I hate her pretty baby face and silly ways, her cat-like
deceit, her snaky way of winding herself about everybody’s heart but
mine! Ah, no! not mine--nor Rosamond’s! We are women, and we know a
bad, designing woman--a base adventuress--when we see one. It takes a
woman to know a woman’s real nature, I tell you, Grafton Raleigh.”

“On the principle that it takes a thief to catch a thief, I presume,”
intervened that gentleman, dryly. “Now, Mrs. Raleigh, are you done?
Have you finished your tirade? If so, then perhaps--possibly you
may listen to me. For I have something to say to you and also to
my daughter--a revelation to make. Richard and I have been hiding
something--an important discovery--from you both, for our own private
reasons. Mrs. Raleigh--Rosamond--listen both of you. How would you
like--how would you both like--to be poor? Poor! Not simply deprived
of extravagances--a few extra jewels, an unnecessary servant, a
useless superfluity of some sort; but poor--plainly, horribly,
uncompromisingly poor? How would you like to live on a back street
in a six-room cottage, and be your own servants, and exist without
jewels, walk instead of drive in your carriage with liveried footman,
forego Newport, Saratoga, and all that? How would you like to give up
Jack Lyndon, Rosamond? For, of course, without money that marriage is
off. Answer me, both of you, how would you like to be poverty-stricken
paupers?”

Mrs. Raleigh’s eyes were riveted upon Grafton Raleigh’s pale, earnest
face.

“You are mad!” she was beginning.

He bowed.

“So you have remarked before, madame!” he interrupted, coldly. “I
repeat my question, how would you like to be poor? Now listen. The
great house of Raleigh & Raleigh stands upon the verge of ruin,
and although it may sound absurd and incredible to you, there are
reasons--real, tangible reasons--why a marriage with this girl will
obviate all this; will save us from ruin--utter ruin and black
disgrace--a disgrace which will tempt you to end your lives to escape
its obloquy; a disgrace which would turn Jack Lyndon from you,
Rosamond, and would make our best friend pass us by. I can explain
no further now; you must take my simple word for it. But if Richard
Raleigh does not make that girl Lillian Leigh his wife, and soon, we
will all be beggars, and I--I shall die in prison, the death of a
felon!”

He paused to mop the cold perspiration from his clammy forehead with
his handkerchief. He was as pale as death, and trembled visibly.

“Now, Helen Raleigh,” he continued, glancing into his wife’s white,
startled face with fierce, eager eyes, “will you keep on with your
senseless ravings, or will you make the best of the situation and
consent to the marriage without asking me unpleasant and troublesome
questions? will you relieve us from the scandal of a marriage without
your consent? in short, will you save us from ruin, disgrace, and me
from a felon’s death?”




CHAPTER XVII.

A SNAKE IN THE GRASS.


The music surged in sweet, soft strains, the dancers danced, and the
moments went by. And still the mistress of all this splendor lay
white and unconscious upon the low seat in the conservatory, where the
banksia roses were heaped in great clusters, and the dreamy splashing
of the little fountain not far away alone broke the silence. Out in the
ball-room Senator Van Alstyne was dancing with Mrs. Vernon. Her face
was flushed with triumph, and her eyes held a look of exultation in
their black, velvety depths.

“I will be even with Lenore Van Alstyne yet!” she was muttering low
under her breath. “I will pay her off for her cold, calm superiority
over me--her airs and graces, her assumption of goodness! I hate her,
the stuck-up, haughty creature. I have always suspected that there was
something hidden--a secret in her life--which she would not like the
world to know. I am sure of it now. I shall tell Rosamond all about
it, and if between us we can not punish and humiliate my lady, then I
imagine nobody can.”

And the black, velvety eyes shone like diamonds, and the pretty face
was full of eager exultation at the thought--the alluring prospect of
blackening and defiling a sister woman’s name, and dragging her down
into the dust of shame and humiliation. Lenore was pure and true and
noble, though the victim of strange circumstances. And this woman--who
was no more to be compared with her than the bright blue, sunshiny
summer day can compare with the black, cold, tempestuous winter’s
night--this woman had power to drag her down from her pedestal of
innocence, simply because Bessie Vernon was unprincipled, and had set
her whole heart upon the ruination of Lenore, whom she hated with that
hatred of her own sex which is a woman’s Cross of Honor--such women as
Bessie Vernon. And as she floated down the long room on the arm of the
senator, to the sweet waltz music, her thoughts were busy with a scheme
of vengeance.

And the moments slipped by, and still Lenore did not return to
consciousness. Mrs. Vernon had wandered away to the furthest extremity
of the drawing-room, and alone, for a wonder, was watching the
conservatory with furtive, cat-like eyes; but still Lenore lay in that
death-like swoon in the secluded corner among the banksia roses, and
the guests did not dream the truth.

At length a tall form emerged from the depths of the fernery just
beyond the main conservatory, separated by a screen of luxuriant
flowering vines, and slowly approached the unconscious woman. It was
Cyril Fayne; his face white and set, his eyes full of smoldering light
which was not good to see. He looked like a man who is bent upon some
desperate errand as he came swiftly forward and fell upon his knees at
her side.

“She is dead--my love, my wife!” he panted, hoarsely. “Lenore! Lenore!
Open your eyes, my darling, and tell me that you love me, and will go
with me at once--this very night!”

Slowly the soft dark eyes opened and met his eager, impassioned gaze.
She half arose, putting out her hands in a pleading, beseeching way.

“Don’t! Oh, Cyril! do not let them hear you!” she cried. “He would
listen to no explanation; he would put a bullet into your heart without
a moment’s hesitation. And if he knew all--if he knew--”

She stopped short, breathing hard, like one in pain. Cyril Fayne
started.

“He shall know--he must know soon!” he panted, softly. “I will only
wait for this affair to be ended and the guests dispersed; then I
will demand a private interview with Senator Van Alstyne. Lenore, my
darling, I am going to take you away from this place--away from the
awful position that you are filling--not your fault, my love! but it
must end now--at once, before another sun shall set. Think of the
horrors of your position--this sham existence must end at once! Let it
be to-morrow night. Ah! I have a better plan. We need say nothing to
him until all is over with; we would only make a terrible scene; and
once away from here, we will be with each other, never more to part!
You shall learn all the dark and dreary past, Lenore--the truth of our
long parting. I have written a full confession and explanation for you
to read before you join your fate with mine. Take this and read it at
your leisure,” he added, swiftly, drawing a letter from his pocket and
laying it in her trembling hand.

“We must be silent as the grave,” he went on, hurriedly; “keep our own
counsel, and all will yet be well. Lenore, you can not, must not, live
on in this way a day longer, now that you know the truth. Go with me
to-morrow night. I will meet you at any place you may designate, and we
will take passage for Europe at once. Does that please you, Lenore?”

She smiled, a sad, dreary smile it was, yet her eyes were full of
tenderness.

“Anywhere with you, Cyril,” she whispered. “Oh, to be with you always,
after all these long years, will be like heaven.”

“Then will you go away with me to-morrow night?” he panted, eagerly.
“I will defer my explanation until we are gone; then Van Alstyne shall
receive a written statement, with all necessary proofs of the truth,
and you will be out of his way, so that the horrors of his anger shall
not fall upon your head. And he is so violent and brutal, it is best
for you to be gone before he learns the truth, and that it is no sin.
The sin would be in remaining, Lenore!” She bowed her head like a
beautiful white lily--drooping and pale. “You will go with me?” he went
on, eagerly; “there is no other resource; and--surely you are willing,
Lenore?”

“Willing?”

She started to her feet, pale and trembling with excitement, her hands
clasped, her eyes shining like stars.

“Willing? Oh, Cyril! Ask a starving, freezing wretch if he is willing
to be taken to a warm, luxurious home, with every comfort; ask a dying
consumptive if he would be glad to have his health and strength again;
ask the bleeding, fainting heart if it would be happy with the one it
loves--and you will have my answer. Yes, yes; a thousand times yes. As
the old German song says:

    “‘To be with you--that’s my heaven:
      Without you--that’s my hell.’

And I have been cast out into utter darkness, and my life has been
desolate and barren long enough. I am going to accept the cup of
happiness held to my lips, and thank God for the love that has come
back to me--Heaven be praised, not too late!”

He drew her to his side and kissed the red lips with a long, lingering
kiss.

“My love! my love!” he cried; “you are mine--mine by the laws of heaven
and earth! Thank God for that. Now, Lenore, tell me, where shall I
meet you to-morrow night? The ‘Caspian’ sails the next morning; she is
anchored out at sea. We can go on board my friend Thornton’s yacht at
any hour you name to-morrow night, and he will take us out to where the
‘Caspian’ lies. Once on board her, we are safe. Tell me what hour to
meet you, Lenore.”

She bent her head for a moment in deep thought.

“We entertain again to-morrow night,” she said, slowly. “Van Alstyne
would fill his house every night if it were feasible. To-morrow at
eight we give a dinner to some foreign embassadors and half a dozen
bewhiskered, beribboned officers--a score of guests. I can manage to
slip away unobserved from the house at ten, perhaps, and will meet you
in the grounds down by the ornamental lake. You can easily find the
place; there is a marble basin full of gold-fish, and the water is
white with pond-lilies. Be there at ten precisely, Cyril, and I will
join you as soon as possible.”

“Prepared to go with me at once?” he queried, breathlessly.

A quick flush shot athwart the ivory whiteness of her face and a tender
light stole into her luminous eyes.

“Prepared to go with you? Yes,” she made answer. “My life here must
come to an end. Oh, Heaven! if it had only come to an end long ago,
or, better still, had never begun. I hate and scorn and loathe myself,
Cyril, and oh--”

She stopped short, and her face grew ghastly white.

“Stay!” she whispered, hoarsely, “I have something to tell you--a
revelation to make, Cyril. Listen: I must tell it quickly, for my
guests will miss me, and I must leave you now.”

She whispered a few words in his ear.

He grew pale as death, then he stooped and kissed her.

“How you have suffered, oh, my love!” he cried; “but all that is
ended now. Good-night, Lenore. I will meet you to-morrow night at the
ornamental lake in the Van Alstyne grounds at ten precisely, and then--”

His voice died away into a murmur. He stole from the conservatory into
the grounds through a side door which opened for him; and then, pale as
a marble statue, Lenore went back to her guests.

As soon as she was gone there was a rustling among a group of tall,
feathery palms which grew near, and directly afterward a slight,
_petite_ figure in auburn satin and lace and gleaming, glowing rubies
crept slowly forth. It was Bessie Vernon. Her face was flushed with
unholy triumph, her eyes were scintillating with hatred.

She had witnessed the entire interview; but they had spoken in such low
tones that she had not caught the conversation, only the last few words
which told of the appointed tryst.

Her white hands clinched themselves tightly together, and low under her
breath she muttered, hoarsely:

“He kissed her! I saw him. And they are to meet to-morrow night at ten,
in the grounds. My dear Mrs. Van Alstyne, immaculate Lenore! when that
meeting takes place I shall be there also!”

And then she went back to the ball-room, and danced all the rest of the
night, with as much carelessness and _abandon_ as though she were not
plotting the downfall of a sister woman.




CHAPTER XVIII.

“BEWARE!”


The clocks throughout the Raleigh mansion were just striking twelve the
day after that exciting scene within its stately walls when the door
bell rang, and Rosamond heard the sound of Bessie Vernon’s voice in
the hall. She had given orders to the footman to show Mrs. Vernon up
to her own room; so a few moments later that lady, in all the glory of
a stylish brown velvet street suit, a big plumed hat shading her arch,
piquant face, entered Miss Raleigh’s presence and sunk wearily into a
seat.

“Oh, dear, I am tired to death!” she cried, when the greetings were
over; “the demands of society are fearful upon a weak, delicate woman
like me! You know, Rosamond, how we leaders of society are overworked.
Why, we are perfect martyrs. I have attended five balls this week,
the opera and theater, a flower show and a matinée. To-night is the
Van Alstyne dinner, and to-morrow night I have promised to hear ‘Il
Trovatore’ with Vernon’s old uncle, the rich Californian. Awful bore,
and I know the opera by heart; but Charlie Stuart will be there, and I
imagine I shall be able to pull through the evening. You did not appear
at the Van Alstyne’s reception, Rosamond? I forgot to ask you why last
night when I called, on my way to the reception, you know. I thought
then that I had something to tell you--but, dear me! I went straight
to the discovery of developments of a startling nature. I wish you had
been there, Rosamond.”

Rosamond looked bored. She was out of temper this morning, that was
plain to be seen.

“Mamma and I had a previous engagement,” she said, coldly, “and were
compelled to decline. But tell me, Bessie, what it is that you have
discovered? I am just dying to know. Something about Lenore--I think
you intimated.”

Mrs. Vernon’s face assumed a look of awful solemnity.

“I shrink from telling you, Rosamond!” she said, in a stage whisper.
“After all, Lenore is your own cousin, and it may have an influence
upon your social standing.”

“What do you mean, Bessie Vernon?” Rosamond started to her feet, pale
with anger. “Explain yourself!” she commanded imperiously.

Bessie laughed aloud, a clear, ringing, half-mocking laugh.

“Dear, dear! High tragedy and all that sort of thing! Beats Janauschek
completely! Now, Rosamond, just be calm, and sit down quietly and
listen to me. What I said, I meant; but you will understand me better
later on when I have told my story. First, let me ask you a question:
Have you ever heard of a Mr. Fayne--Mr. Cyril Fayne?”

Rosamond started uneasily.

“I have heard the name, I believe,” she returned, evasively.

“Well, then, possibly you may be better informed than I, and perhaps be
able to account for the strange--the _remarkable_ intimacy between Mr.
Cyril Fayne and Mrs. Lenore Van Alstyne.”

“Bessie!”

“Mrs. Lenore Van Alstyne!” repeated Bessie, laconically. “Rosamond, we
are on the track at last of your cousin’s secret. We have long been
convinced--you and I--that she had a secret, and I have found it out.
That secret is her love--her guilty love--for Cyril Fayne!”

A slow, cruel smile crept over Rosamond’s fair face; her eyes flashed
with a look which was neither sorrow nor regret; one small, pearly hand
clinched itself involuntarily.

“Go on,” she said, slowly.

Bessie nodded.

“I was going on. I am prepared to tell the whole story--just what I
know and saw and heard. I know that Lenore Van Alstyne wears Cyril
Fayne’s portrait in a medallion--the chain riveted about her neck. I
saw them alone together in the conservatory at Van Alstyne’s; she was
in his arms, and he was kissing her for all he was worth! And lastly,
I heard them lay a plot to elope to-night! There! What do you think of
that?”

For a moment Rosamond Raleigh sat staring her visitor in the face, in
blank horror too deep for expression.

At last:

“Bessie, this is--it must be--a practical joke of your own. And I think
it very small in you, and decidedly bad form, knowing as you do how
proud the Raleighs are.”

Bessie’s face flushed angrily.

“It is no practical joke, I assure you, Rosamond Raleigh!” she
retorted. “And if you doubt me I can easily prove the truth of my
words. You will be at the Van Alstyne dinner to-night, I suppose. It
is the dinner for the foreign embassadors. I would not miss it for the
world.”

Rosamond nodded.

“Of course we will have to attend, since we were not at the reception.
And what is your plan, Bessie?”

Mrs. Vernon bent her head close to Rosamond’s ear and began to speak in
low, cautious tones. When her story was done she rose to her feet.

“And now I really must go. I’ve some shopping to do, and time is
flying. What do you think of my plan, Rosamond? Don’t you think it
will be a grand _exposé_? Ah! I have waited and longed for this for
many a long day. My time has come at last. There was never any love
lost between Lenore Van Alstyne and myself, and I imagine that you know
how to appreciate the situation also; for if I am not mistaken, you
never loved her!”

“I hate her!” cried Rosamond, excitedly. “I have hated her always, and
of late her cold, calm superiority has driven me nearly wild. I would
give something to put down her pride and humble her as she deserves.
All right, Bessie. We will be at the Van Alstynes’ to-night, and then
the curtain will rise upon the overthrow--the everlasting disgrace and
utter ruin of Lenore Van Alstyne.”

As the words left her lips she turned swiftly about. Something like a
chill seemed creeping slowly over her, and a strange, subtle instinct
warned her of another presence in the room. _What was it?_

She caught her breath with a gasp of horror, then shriek after shriek
burst from her lips. For there before her--for bolts nor bars have no
power over spirits--stood the apparition which had so persistently
haunted her, and of which she had fondly persuaded herself she was rid
forever--Noisette!

She held the amber satin panel in one shadowy hand; the other was
uplifted with a warning gesture; upon the wan, white, shadowy face
a look of angry menace. Slowly the pale lips opened and--oh, it was
horrible to witness--the apparition spoke.

“_Lenore!_” it said, in a hollow voice. Then, after a moment’s pause,
one more word broke the awful silence. That one word was: “_Beware!_”




CHAPTER XIX.

BESSIE SEES THE GAME.


“Rosamond! For the love of Heaven, _what is it?_”

Mrs. Vernon stood like one turned to stone; her big dark eyes, dilated
with horror, fixed wildly upon the apparition.

“What--is--it?” she gasped once more, in a faltering whisper.

No answer--no answer. Rosamond stood, wringing her hands in horror and
affright, screaming like a lunatic. One more glance, and Bessie Vernon
turned and fled, with Rosamond close at her heels--fled from the room
and down the stairs, bursting into the library, where Grafton Raleigh
sat deeply engrossed in the contents of a formidable-looking document
before him. Bursting into the room, they sunk down upon a low couch,
too overcome by terror to utter a word. “The wicked flee when no man
pursueth.” Grafton Raleigh glanced up with a start of surprise at the
interruption--this unceremonious bursting in upon his privacy--and
arose to his feet, his face dark with displeasure.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Vernon”--in a cold tone. “Why, what is the matter
with my daughter? Rosamond, are you mad?”

“Mad?” with a hysterical outburst. “No, no! But I shall be mad indeed
before long if that dreadful apparition continues to appear. Oh, papa,
listen! You had the round room closed up, and no one can get in or
out of it, yet I saw just now in my room, standing just where the
communicating door used to be, the apparition--the _something_ of which
I have been telling you so long. And Bessie saw it also.”

“It is true, Mr. Raleigh, and no mistake about it!” corroborated Mrs.
Vernon. “I saw it just as certainly and distinctly as I ever saw
anything in my life--just as plainly as I see you at this moment!
And--worse than all else--it--”

“Yes, yes, papa!” interrupted Rosamond, trembling like a leaf and
weeping copiously--“something dreadful occurred! Something which has
never happened before! It--it--_spoke_!”

“Rosamond, now really this is going a little too far. Bessie, I had
imagined you possessed a little common sense, if Rosamond is deficient.
Do you mean to assert that you too saw an apparition in this house in
broad daylight, and that it--the thing--_spoke_ intelligibly?”

“Mr. Raleigh, it did!” This from Bessie.

“Papa, it really did!” repeated Rosamond, wildly. “It spoke two
words--one was ‘Beware!’ the other was ‘Lenore!’ We were speaking of
Lenore at the time the apparition appeared--Bessie and I.”

“Lenore? You must have misunderstood, daughter. I--I--can’t believe it.”

“Papa”--desperately--“it is the truth! And we were not mistaken; we
could not be. I suppose it is gone now, and if you were to go up to my
room you would not find it. But I swear to you there is no mistake or
exaggeration in our story; it is all just as we have told you. I wish
you could see for yourself; and then, I suppose, you would believe.”

“I will take possession of your room,” he said, decidedly, “and will
remain there for a time. Each day hereafter I will make it my business
to spend a portion of the day there to watch, and perhaps I shall be
able to get at the root of the mystery.”

“But it only appears to _me_!” sobbed Rosamond, wringing her hands
again and again. “It seems to have an especial spite against me--though
if any one is with me in the room they always see it too. Papa, papa! I
can not stay in this house. Let me go away for a time at least--let me
go home with Bessie for a few days. I will die if I am forced to remain
here, liable to meet that horrible thing and--and--hear it speak!”

And poor Rosamond sobbed aloud in uncontrollable terror and nervous
fear.

“Yes, come home with me, Rosie!” intervened Mrs. Vernon, her face
lighting up at once. “We will have a pleasant time; and I am expecting
some guests from New York, and I really need an attraction like you,
Rosie. And besides”--in a low tone--“old Arbuthnot, the millionaire,
is to be with us for a few days. Fancy the opportunity for _you_,
Rosamond, to be shut up in the same house with him for perhaps a whole
week! They _do_ say that he is as rich as Crœsus! _Do_ come home with
me, dear!”

So it was finally arranged, and then Rosamond went to inform her mother
and order a trunk packed; for even one week’s stay necessitated much
baggage. Upstairs to her mother’s room she made her way, passing her
own door with a perceptible shudder. She found Mrs. Raleigh lounging
before the fire in a low chair, her hands folded listlessly in her lap.
In a few moments the strange story was told, and Rosamond announced her
intended departure. Mrs. Raleigh, gazing upon her daughter’s pale, worn
face and great frightened eyes with dark circles beneath, and thinking
of her desperate resort to chloral or some such drug, was only too glad
to consent. But she sighed sadly.

“I see but little for which to live; small hope in life!” she cried,
in a shrill voice; “my son, my boy, my idol to be sacrificed to a
foolish whim of your father’s. Rosamond, last night when your father
told us that horrible story--of prospective poverty and disgrace--I
thought then that all life was ended for me. But now you are doomed.
I am convinced that your intellect is giving way. You are a perfect
wreck of what you were a few weeks ago. You are beginning to look old
and faded. Yes, go to Bessie Vernon’s if you like; it would kill you to
remain here, haunted as you are. I have never believed in such things
before in my life. I have always looked upon such tales as foolish
superstitions, or falsehoods got up for the purpose of frightening
timid people, and altogether unworthy a sensible person’s notice. But I
declare, Rosamond, it is exceedingly strange and incomprehensible, to
say the least. I always told you to be more careful in your treatment
of Noisette. You were unwarrantably harsh and cruel, and you are being
punished for it now. But what puzzles me most is that you and Bess
should have heard the apparition speak the name of Lenore. What does
it, can it, mean?”

“Mamma, do you remember when she--Noisette--lay dead, and I--I--saw
the resemblance between her and Lenore Van Alstyne? Mamma, I tell you
I have heard something to-day which proves to me that she is not the
immaculate angel that people think her. I will tell you later on all
about it. But just now I am only anxious to get away. I shall be insane
if I stay here much longer and suffer from this strange, this awful
visitation. Where is Lillian? I want a trunk packed at once.”

Mrs. Raleigh flashed angrily about.

“Lillian, indeed!” she panted, wrathfully. “I hope that you do not for
a moment believe that you can retain my Lady Leigh as a waiting-maid?
Why, your fastidious brother is going to commit matrimonial suicide in
a few weeks, I believe! Rosamond, we are a ruined family!”

Rosamond’s eyes flashed with ominous fire. “Has she left the house?”
she demanded, fiercely.

Mrs. Raleigh shook her head.

“She is shut up in her own room. Your father informed her that the
whole house is at her disposal, and that she can do as she pleases. It
pleased her majesty to lock herself up in her own room, and stay there.
I wish”--savagely--“that she would never come out alive!”

“Amen!” responded Miss Raleigh, fervently. “Well, I suppose I can
manage with the packing somehow; but I can not go into that room alone,
mamma!”

At this obvious hint Mrs. Raleigh arose and accompanied her daughter
to her luxurious sleeping-room. She was quite pale, and trembled with
excitement. But they found the room unoccupied by human or ghostly
visitant, and just as Rosamond had left it, save for one particular:
Upon a white fur rug which lay near the spot where the apparition had
been standing, there was a round red spot of something which looked
like fresh blood. Trembling visibly, Mrs. Raleigh stooped to examine
it; she drew back with a frightened cry. There was nothing there.

“Rosamond!” in a husky whisper, “this house _is_ haunted. I will try
to induce your father to put it into the market at once, for I declare
I do not like to live in it. But come now, daughter, do not look so
terrified. I will ring for my maid and have your trunk prepared. You
will go home with Bessie, and amid her gay surroundings you will forget
this unpleasant, uncomfortable affair.”

Rosamond’s face lighted up with a slow gleam of interest.

“And I will write a line to Jack at once,” she said, “and tell him of
my departure, so that he will call on me at Bessie’s.”

Her mother frowned.

“If I were you I would give up that nonsense, Rosie,” she ventured, in
a low, earnest tone. “I heard yesterday that old Arbuthnot is going to
visit the Vernons. You have heard of him, Rosamond, the railroad king?
What a triumph it would be to become Mrs. Arbuthnot!”

“And give up Jack? Never, mamma! I have never cared for any man before
in my whole life!”

Mrs. Raleigh shut her lips tightly together and sighed dolorously.

“Both my children gone mad over pretty faces!” she ejaculated. “But I
know Richard well enough to believe that he has some ulterior object
in this affair which will be known to us later on. If that surmise
be true--and I can not doubt it after what your father said last
night--why, we can understand Richard’s seemingly unpardonable conduct.
But you, good gracious, Rosamond, you have no sensible excuse for your
folly, none in the world.”

Rosamond’s thin lips were compressed closely, and a dangerous gleam
shone in her eyes.

“We will not discuss it now, mamma,” she made answer. “Wait until I
come home again, though I do not know that the idea of returning to
this house is a very lively one--at least, unless this supernatural
visitation should cease. And now ring for Felice, and let me get ready.
Bessie will be tired waiting.”

But down in the library where she had tarried, Bessie was occupying
herself very much to her own satisfaction. Some one had summoned Mr.
Raleigh from the room, and only waiting to place the document which had
so engrossed him in a drawer, he arose and left the library.

As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Vernon crept swiftly over to the
escritoire, and stealthily opening the drawer, drew forth the great
yellow parchment with glaring red seals, and opened it hastily. The
first words which met her eyes were these:

“And to my niece, Lillian Leigh, I give, devise, and bequeath all--”

Footsteps in the hall without, the turning of the door-knob. Bessie
dropped the document back into the drawer, and closing it, turned to
confront Richard Raleigh. He looked pale and handsome; but there was a
triumphant smile upon his lips, a lurking devil in his dusky eyes. As
they fell upon the lady he started.

“Ah, Mrs. Vernon,” bowing lowly; “delighted to see you.”

And the hand which took Bessie’s in its grasp closed down tightly upon
her tiny fingers. “Mother has just informed me that Rosamond is to go
to you for a few days,” he continued. “Now, my dear Mrs. Vernon, surely
you will not shut a poor fellow out of your paradise? You will let me
come sometimes?”

She laughed lightly.

“As many times as you please,” she returned. “I shall have some pretty
ladies among my guests, and an escort is always welcome.”

Richard’s bold, black eyes sparkled.

“But,” she added, softly, “what is this rumor--oh, a little bird told
me--about your own marriage?”

His dark face flushed.

“I have been caught in Cupid’s net!” he laughed, “and may as well cry
out _mea culpa_ to that charge. Seriously, Bessie--you used to let me
call you Bessie--I am intending to marry soon Miss Leigh. She is a poor
girl, but lovely. Coming, father!” he added, as his father’s voice
called his name.

Five minutes later Bessie Vernon was alone in the library once more, an
odd smile upon her painted lips, her eyes shining like stars.

“Ah, ha! I see the game at last!” she muttered to herself. “How stupid
not to have seen it before.”




CHAPTER XX.

GREEK MEETS GREEK.


Richard Raleigh left the library at sound of his father’s voice calling
his name, and hastened to an adjacent room where that gentleman awaited
him. Grafton Raleigh’s face was pale and troubled.

“Get rid of that woman, Rick,” he said in a low, cautious tone; “her
eyes are everywhere at once. She suspects something, and I believe she
never took her eyes off the--the document--after she had first observed
it.” Richard started nervously. His father went on: “If she once gets
her curiosity aroused, you might as well attempt to stay a tornado in
its course as to check or restrain her. Get her out of the library, if
you can; go into the conservatory and talk nonsense--Heaven knows she
is always ready enough to listen! and I will go back to the library and
remove the--the paper. You know Rosamond well enough to compute the
length of time that she will probably keep Mrs. Vernon waiting--long
enough to ruin us, Rick, if she sees anything more to arouse her
curiosity. And that paper is so extremely conspicuous; and she and
Rosamond burst in upon me so unexpectedly that I had no time to conceal
it. I shall be more careful to lock the door another time.”

Pale and looking very uncomfortable, Richard retraced his steps to the
library. As he entered the room Bessie had just arisen to her feet,
about to return to her investigations in the escritoire. At sound of
the opening door she started guiltily.

“Ah!” she cried, as her eyes fell upon Richard, “you are back
again, and I am glad! I am tired waiting for Rosamond. She is an
unconscionably long time getting ready!” pouting bewitchingly as she
stood with her long black eyelashes drooping over her great, velvety
eyes--downcast, as though unable to bear the look of plainly expressed
admiration from Richard Raleigh’s dusky orbs riveted upon her.

“Come into the conservatory, Bessie,” he pleaded. “I want to talk to
you.”

She followed him as obediently as a child, and they entered the
conservatory together. Moving down the long aisle between rows of bloom
and verdure, she lifted her eyes to his face, with a question in their
innocent depths. No one knew better than Bessie Vernon how to enact the
rôle of innocence and childishness.

“How long has this little affair been going on, Richard,” she asked,
with assumed timidity, “this--this love affair with Miss Leigh? By the
way, have I ever met her? The name sounds strangely familiar. Wasn’t
there a man by the name of Leigh killed a short time ago?”

He fell backward with a suppressed cry, which ended in an impatient
exclamation as his foot came in contact with a rustic jardinière which
fell to the floor with a crash, depositing a great glazed jar filled
with lovely blue Mexican torrinias upon the floor at his feet.

Half angrily he stooped to rescue the plants. Then, summoning the
gardener, he left him to repair the damage, and moved calmly away at
Mrs. Vernon’s side, with as much nonchalance as though a fifty-dollar
jardinière and a ruined collection of rare plants worth their weight in
gold to the connoisseur were matters of the greatest indifference to
him.

“Now, Bessie,” in a low tone, as he led her away to a retired nook
amid great trailing rose-vines, “don’t annoy me with your chaff about
marrying a poor girl. If I could have had my own way, I would have
met another, a sweeter fate. If I could have won the beautiful woman
whom I have admired above all others,” with a tender gaze into her
downcast, blushing face, a look which spoke volumes, “then I would have
had a chance at happiness. But as it is,” with a deep sigh, “I must--I
have--resigned all hope; for she, alas! is the wife of another man!”

“Rick!” in a tone of remonstrance, but at the same time one little hand
stole into his with a faint, wavering touch, “you must not speak in
that way. It is wrong, awfully wrong; and what would Vernon say?”

Richard smiled sadly.

“He would say that he has had the best of it in the race for the prize.
Bessie, why did you not give me a chance--half a chance--to win you?”

She turned shyly away.

“Don’t ask such foolish questions,” she returned. “Run away now like a
good boy, and see if Rosamond is ever coming.”

“I will not.”

He glanced furtively about. Barnes, the gardener, had removed the
_débris_, and quietly retired. They were alone in that retired nook in
the conservatory. Richard lifted Mrs. Vernon’s hand to his lips.

“No, I will not go and leave you!” he cried, eagerly. “I have sought an
interview with you for a long time, Bessie, and sought in vain. This is
my chance now, and I am going to avail myself of it. Bessie! Bessie!
don’t turn away from me so coldly, sweetheart--”

He sunk into a seat at her side, for she had seated herself upon a
carved divan amid the fragrant Maréchal Niel roses, whose perfume
loaded the air. He took her hand in his and drew the dusky head down
upon his shoulder. She started up with a little cry.

“Don’t! Oh, Rick, it is shameful in you! I--I have always cared, of
course. I might indeed have more than liked you in time if--if--well,
fate hadn’t decreed that I should marry Arnold Vernon! It is too late
now to talk about it--too late!”

The little sinner had never thought of such a thing as marrying Richard
Raleigh, or caring for him either, for that matter, though she had
known him all her life. But the situation was strong, and the effect
too much of a temptation to be resisted. But Bessie Vernon was destined
to pay dearly for that moment of sentimental folly.

Richard sighed deeply.

“You are Arnold Vernon’s wedded wife, and I--I am going to marry
Lillian Leigh!” he said, slowly.

“Why should you?” she asked, softly; “you need not marry any one,
Richard, if you--do--not love her! And I do not see what you gain by
this marriage. She is a poor girl!” with a swift, keen glance into his
startled face, “and I see no object in marrying her at all if you do
not--if--you care a little for some one--else!”

He smiled caressingly.

“You are a dear little woman, Bessie,” he said, softly, his dark eyes
upon her face with bold admiration; “but you do not understand a man’s
heart. We are often compelled to submit to much that is unpalatable,
and forego many joys that would make us happy if attainable.

    “‘Much must be borne which is hard to bear;
      Much given away which it were sweet to keep,’

Owen Meredith tells us; and Owen speaks from extended experience.
We have, all of us, to bear our burdens and keep silent, and try to
make as much out of this life as we can. And you would not doom me to
lasting loneliness, Bessie?”

“To be sure not. Hush! Is not that Rosamond coming at last?”

“Yes, confound her! So my blissful moment is over! Bessie, I have
something to say to you, and I must communicate with you in some way.
May I write to you? Will you answer the letter? It will make me very
happy to confide my griefs to you, if you will permit me to write.”

Silence! Light footsteps drawing nearer and nearer, and then a shrill
voice, calling loudly:

“Bessie! Bessie! where are you? I am ready and waiting.”

“Answer me, Bessie. Will you reply to my letter? Don’t refuse me. I
swear you will never regret it. I want your advice; and I must speak my
mind for once, for, oh! I have suffered! May I write? Will you reply?”

The door of the conservatory opened, and Rosamond’s eyes roved through
the flower-scented place.

“Bessie! Ah, yes, there you are! Well, come, dear; I am all ready.”

“Answer me!” reiterated Richard, in a low tone. “Yes or no? Rosie’s
coming in--be quick! Which is it to be?”

“Yes.”

A gleam of devilish triumph flashed into his dusky eyes and lighted up
his face. He caught her hand in his and pressed his lips upon it, and
then Bessie Vernon arose.

She was quite pale, and looked uneasy. Already conscience was pricking
her with its sharp sting, and reminding her that she had done wrong.
Yet it was only a brief reminder, for Bessie Vernon was not troubled
with an undue amount of conscience.

And then they joined Rosamond at the door of the conservatory, and
a little later the two ladies drove away to the elegant home of the
Vernons. And then Richard went back to his father.

Grafton Raleigh was waiting for his son in the library, upon his pale
face a look of perturbation.

“Our fears are well founded,” he began, as soon as his son had entered
the room; “that meddling woman has certainly been looking at that
document! Why? Because this is not the way in which I placed it in the
drawer. I remember perfectly, and indeed I was cautious enough to place
it in a certain position, that I might know if it should be displaced.
If only that fellow Buckley had not called just then! I knew that his
business with me was urgent, or I would have declined seeing him. But
he saved me a hundred dollars by the call, for he gave me a pointer
which will prevent the loss of at least that much. Yet it would have
been better to have lost fifty times one hundred than to let Bessie
Vernon get hold of our secret. The sly little cat! She is always where
she isn’t wanted, and it seems as if she were destined to find out all
our family affairs. Rick, I’m afraid of that woman.”

“I am not.”

Richard spoke quietly, but there was a meaning tone in the low, soft,
sneering voice.

“Just leave all that to me, father, and I agree to close Bessie
Vernon’s lips effectually--so effectually that no matter what happens
she will not dare to speak. Don’t ask me how or why. I have not wasted
a moment of time this morning. I know her nature; her insatiable love
of conquest, and her vanity which is never satisfied. I have made hay
while the sun shines; I have won her sympathy through her overweening
vanity, and I am not afraid of Bessie Vernon or all that she may
know. I am no more afraid of any developments which she may make than
I am afraid of the wind. What troubles me in regard to this deuced
unpleasant business is, whether or no Lillian has begun to suspect.”

“The deuce! We had better be dead if that be true.”

Richard nodded.

“And so I say, father, that the sooner the marriage is over, and she
becomes my property, the better for our cause. Shall I endeavor to
bring about the marriage in a few days?”

“Days?” Grafton Raleigh started. “If you can--all right, of course,”
he returned, thoughtfully; “the sooner the better. Can not you touch
Lillian’s pride and arouse her jealousy, so that she will be goaded
into consent to an immediate marriage?”

Richard’s face grew grave.

“I will send for her to come down to the drawing-room,” he said. “She
shall appoint our wedding-day at once, and the sooner the better. I
know how to manage her; never fear, father! And--ahem!--I fancy I can
manage Bessie Vernon also.”

He rang the bell, and when a servant appeared he sent him to request
Miss Leigh to come down to the drawing-room.




CHAPTER XXI.

IN AMBUSH.


“Come up to your room, Rosamond. See! I have given you one across the
hall from mine. Our guests will arrive shortly, and Arnold is down
in the drawing-room, waiting with as much patience as a man usually
bestows upon his wife. Make haste, dear, and get off your wraps, while
I run down and pacify him.”

And Bessie Vernon, just arrived at the handsome home which claimed her
as its mistress, flitted from the room.

Rosamond laid aside her hat and wrap, and seated herself before the
cheerful fire in the pretty blue-and-gold chamber--a triumph of modern
art and æsthetic taste.

“Jack will be surprised,” she said to herself, as she leaned her head
against the puffy blue satin chair-back and closed her eyes languidly.
“But he will call to-night to join our party bound for the Van Alstyne
dinner. And after that--” She arose slowly to her feet, and moved over
to the window, her face full of triumph, and her eyes shining with
malice--the malice of a woman who hates another with all her heart,
and sees a way open to vent her cruel spite upon her. “Ah! Lenore Van
Alstyne,” she hissed, bleakly, “you have had your day--my turn is
coming now. You have queened it over me in the past, it is my hour of
triumph now. I hate her--the cold, proud, grand lady, who makes us all
feel our inferiority; but I shall be even with her yet. I see the way
open before me.”

She hated Lenore with all the hatred of which her narrow mind was
capable. Her nature was cruel and vindictive, and she would leave no
stone unturned to humiliate the woman so much her superior. A rap at
the door of her room made her turn swiftly.

“Let me in, Rosamond!” called Mrs. Vernon’s voice through the key-hole.
“I want to tell you something.”

A little later Rosamond and her hostess were sitting before the fire,
while Bessie chattered volubly away.

“He is coming here to-night, after the Van Alstyne dinner--Mr.
Arbuthnot, I mean, Rosamond--and, dear me, you incorrigible girl! you
pretend not to understand; but I mean--here it is in plain English--I
mean that you shall marry him!”

“Bessie!”

“I mean that you shall become Mrs. Arbuthnot before many months are
past,” repeated Mrs. Vernon, impressively. “Your coming here is just
providential. I had been wanting you here for Mr. Arbuthnot’s visit,
and fate has decreed that you should come.”

“But, Bessie, I--”

“Oh, yes! I suppose it is quite in order for you to respectfully
decline, etc., but all the same I will wager that you will marry Mr.
Arbuthnot. True, he is old, but money, like charity, covers a multitude
of sins and short-comings. And, besides, you will stand a chance of
being a rich widow some day--a real queen--living in royal state. In
which case you will not forget your old friend Bess. Eh, Rosamond?”

Rosamond laughed uneasily.

“You are speaking of impossibilities,” she returned, coldly. “I may as
well tell you now as later. My affections are already engaged. I love
one of the noblest men in the world,” she added, with a tragical air.

Mrs. Vernon arose to her feet, and with both white jeweled hands
uplifted in dumb surprise, turned slowly around upon one foot, like a
revolving automaton, and gazed full into Rosamond’s anxious face. Then
she burst into a peal of silvery laughter.

“Rosamond, you are the funniest girl--just too awfully funny for
anything. Your affections! Who in the world said anything about
affections? I was speaking of marriage. You love the noblest man, and
so on. Dear, dear! you’ll be the death of me, Rosamond! And, come what
may, I still adhere to my opinion that you will win old Arbuthnot, the
railroad king. He is already interested in you. He saw you with me
one day, when we were driving in the park, and he asked me afterward
who you were. Said that he had never seen a more queenly lady, and
that there was something about you which reminded him of the late Mrs.
Arbuthnot.”

Rosamond shuddered.

“Don’t, Bessie!” she cried, angrily. “I will tell you plainly that I--I
care more for Mr. Lyndon than for any man in the universe.”

Bessie shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of mock surprise.

“The end of the world is at hand,” she exclaimed, laughingly. “Now,
Rosamond, you know as well as I that you will never marry that
newspaper scribbler--never! No, not though you go to your grave
unwedded, which I am certain is an act of which you will never be
guilty. Why, it is perfectly laughable. The idea of you, only daughter
of Grafton Raleigh, millionaire, to think seriously for one moment of a
poor newspaper scribbler! Of course I understand; it is merely a jest
of yours, Rosie. And now I am going to ring for refreshments. We will
have a cozy lunch together, after which it will be time to dress for
the affair at Van Alstyne’s.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The great dining-hall of the Van Alstyne mansion was brilliantly
illuminated. The sheen of light fell athwart the long table with its
glittering array of gold and silver, and brought out into strong relief
the gorgeous uniforms of the foreign officers and the rich toilets of
the ladies.

At the head of the table sat Lenore, in a robe of rich black lace,
through which her snowy arms and shoulders gleamed like polished
marble. Inky black was the entire costume, lighted up by the shimmering
topaz ornaments that she wore--yellow and uncanny. Her face was as pale
as death, save for a round red spot which looked like the hectic flush
of fever. Her eyes were calm and proud as they swept the glittering
assemblage, her red lips slightly curling as though with utter scorn.
Rosamond and Mrs. Vernon watched her with furtive eyes. Rosamond in
pale-blue silk and white lace, Bessie in a bewildering combination of
scarlet and gold. Mr. Arbuthnot had been duly presented to Rosamond,
who saw before her a red-faced, rather pompous-looking old man who
seemed to feel the dignity of his own position; and also he seemed to
be really attracted by Miss Raleigh’s charms. At last the banquet was
at an end, and the guests filed back to the drawing-room. The clocks
all over the great house struck the hour of ten.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Cyril, I am here.”

“Lenore! Oh, I feared that something was wrong, that all had been
discovered and our flight prevented. For it is better for you that
we go away quietly. But, Heaven be praised, you have come at last!
My darling, I have waited not so very long when the time is computed
by moments, but counted by the suffering of suspense which I have
endured, it has been an eternity. Lenore, are you ready to go at once?
Thornton’s yacht is down in the harbor and the boat is waiting to take
us thither. You leave no regrets behind, Lenore?”

She laughed, a low, scornful laugh.

“Regrets? Good heavens! This is the real beginning of my life! Cyril, I
have taken nothing which that man ever gave me. I have left my jewels,
my wardrobe--all; this plain merino dress was purchased with money
of my own, which I earned before I ever saw Van Van Alstyne. Nothing
of his goes with me. Come, I am ready. The air of this place--his
possessions--stifle me. You have written the letter, Cyril?”

“I have written the letter. Senator Van Alstyne will find it in his
room whenever he sees fit to enter it. And then he will learn the whole
truth, and he will know that I am only claiming my own--that there is
no sin--no crime in the step which we are taking. Lenore, love of my
life, let us go!”

In the shrubbery close beside them three dark forms were crouching,
watching the scene in perfect silence--Bessie Vernon, Rosamond Raleigh,
and Senator Van Alstyne.




CHAPTER XXII.

HER FLIGHT.


How still it was! Nothing to break the strange, uncanny silence of the
scene and the hour only the wind moaning feebly in the tree-tops. The
moon came forth from behind a mass of fleecy white clouds, and gazed
down upon the group crouching in ambush--the three who had hunted this
woman down to gloat over her ruin.

Cyril Fayne’s arms were about Lenore; her head rested upon his breast.
One brief pause of blissful silence, then they flitted away through the
shrubbery, in the pale radiance of the moonlight, straight to a side
gate which led from the grounds.

Not a word was spoken; not a sound betrayed the excitement which
quivered through the waiting group. Bessie Vernon flashed about at last
and clutched Rosamond’s arm in a nervous grip.

“Look at Van Alstyne!” she whispered. “He looks like a galvanized
corpse. Van Alstyne!” she called, softly, “are you dumb or dead? Don’t
you see that they are going--gone? Why don’t you make your way around
to the front and intercept them? No doubt there is a carriage in
waiting to take them away, and I happen to know that Harvey Thornton’s
yacht, ‘White Wings,’ is in the bay. I suppose he has an object in
anchoring there. Van Alstyne! in the name of Heaven, why don’t you do
something? They will be gone; and if nothing is done it will be too
late to spoil their game and put an end to their flight.”

And it never once occurred to this volatile butterfly that this man had
planned deeper, more terrible revenge than the mere circumvention of
the plan of escape together could ever have visited upon the two.

Slowly Van Van Alstyne turned, and his eyes met the gaze of the woman
who had plotted so well and successfully. Bessie shivered.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she cried. “Go! You have your revolver; I
saw it in your hand a moment ago. Why not use it? Not to--to kill--of
course not; that would be so dreadfully low and common--but it would
frighten them and make a scene. Then she will be disgraced forever.”

He turned slowly and faced her once more. He lifted his right hand
toward heaven--upon his face a look that was bad to see. He had gnawed
his under lip until the blood was beginning to trickle down upon his
stubbly beard.

“Curse her! Curse them both!” he hissed, bleakly. “My curse follow them
wherever they go! I curse them living--I curse them dead! No, I shall
not follow them, Bessie Vernon; I shall remain where I am and let them
take their departure undisturbed. Their punishment will be greater than
my disgrace. Let us return to the house. My plan of vengeance will soon
be revealed to you. I think it will satisfy even you.”

The _dénouement_ was so unexpected, this turn in affairs something
of which Bessie had not even dreamed, and for which she was totally
unprepared, she could only stand and stare blankly into Van Alstyne’s
pale, resolute face.

“I do not understand you,” she faltered. “How can you punish her if
you allow her to go on and elope with the man of her choice? You might
prevent the elopement, and then you could have held the threat of
public exposure and disgrace over her head in future--for the rest of
her natural life. My word for it, she would rather be dead than in your
power in that way. She would have been your slave henceforth; for in
case of any insubordination, a gentle reminder of her secret--in your
power--would bring my lady to her senses. Van Van Alstyne, I don’t
understand you. If Arnold were in your place now, how he would rant and
rave! He would be like a madman!”

“But I am not Arnold Vernon, and if I were, I am afraid I should do as
I am doing now!” he returned, still with that same ominous quiet in
tone and manner. “You will understand me later,” he added, with a grim
smile. “Believe me, Mrs. Vernon, I am quite competent to manage this
affair for myself. I advise you and Miss Raleigh to return to the house
now; I will follow directly. Ah, I see young Stuart coming; he will
escort you.”

A tall, fair-haired young fellow, with great gray eyes and an air of
nonchalance, made his way through the shrubbery and halted.

“Hope I don’t intrude; eh, Mrs. Vernon? Regular Paul Pry, am I not? Do
let me take you back to the house,” adding in a low tone, as Bessie
promptly laid her hand upon his arm: “We will go around by the longest
way.”

Rosamond was taken in charge by a bewhiskered foreign officer, and
they all moved away together, leaving the senator alone. His face was
as white as the face of a dead man; his hands were clinched fiercely
together; he was trembling in every limb.

“Deserted!” he said, aloud, the word cutting in upon the silence like
a knife; “deserted, abandoned, defied, made a mock of; I, senator and
millionaire, one of the richest men in the city, one whose word is law,
and who controls millions! Deserted by a pale-faced, trembling woman
because she does not, and never did, love me, but loves another man!
Ah--h!”

He gnashed his teeth in impotent rage. His pride was hurt, his
self-love wounded, his vanity immolated, and he stood like a skeleton
stripped of its flesh, alone in a howling wilderness, with only the
vultures of social scorn to prey upon him. Otherwise he was alone.

“Alone!” he muttered, harshly, after a time. “Well, I am no more alone
now than when she was with me. For we have always been apart. How I
hate her for the contumely, the shame, the humiliation that she has
brought upon my name! But I shall have revenge. If she were here now,
if she had returned to me a moment ago, or should even yet come back,
I would drag her into the house which she has disgraced, into the
presence of my guests, and tell the shameful story before them all. I
would have no pity, no mercy, nothing but revenge. That letter!” he
panted, as he strode hastily back to the house. “I will find the letter
which that villain said had been placed in my room for my perusal--yes,
I will read it, and then I shall know if the course which I have marked
out for myself be a wise one.”

He shut his lips resolutely together, and hastened around to a side
entrance to the brilliantly lighted mansion.

Once within the house, he hurried upstairs to his own room, and closed
its door behind him.

Upon the elegant dressing-table, with full-length mirror and with all
its costly toilet accessories, the gleam of a white envelope attracted
his attention. He snatched it up and tore it open with all the haste
and passion of a madman.

Several sheets of paper met his view, all covered with writing.
He recognized the chirography which he had seen upon the envelope
addressed to Lenore, and an imprecation passed his lips. Then, still
clutching the letter in one trembling hand, he sunk into the nearest
seat and began to read.

Down-stairs, Rosamond Raleigh and Mrs. Vernon had taken upon themselves
the task of entertaining the guests--assuming control of the
festivities.

Mrs. Van Alstyne had been taken suddenly ill, and had gone to her room.
She would be down directly. Senator Van Alstyne had been summoned away
for a short time upon imperative business.

Lame excuses, but all that could be invented upon short notice.

The evening wore away, and the guests seemed to have accepted the
strange absence of both host and hostess with unprecedented good nature.

Bessie Vernon was in her element, for Charlie Stuart never left her
side. And Arnold Vernon, watching the pair from the corner where he sat
conversing with some ladies, frowned severely and looked as black as a
thunder-cloud; but all of no avail. He could no more prevent his wife’s
mad flirtations than he could turn the waves of the ocean from their
course. He could only sit and glower moodily upon the scene, and, as
Bessie definitely declared, hate himself to death.

She flitted past him leaning upon Charlie’s arm, her piquant face
uplifted to his, while saucy retort and witty repartee flashed from one
to the other. And gradually the elements of a tragedy were evolved from
the giddy foolishness--the overweening vanity of this pleasure-loving
wife.

In the meantime Cyril Fayne was hastening on with Lenore toward where,
in a secluded corner, a closed carriage stood in waiting. A little
later they were safe inside, and the carriage drove away like mad in
the direction of the harbor, a half mile distant. Pale as marble and
trembling like a leaf, Lenore crouched upon the seat at his side, one
hand pressed over her heart throbbing madly, the other grasping his arm
with a despairing clutch, as though she feared that he might be taken
from her.

“Cyril,” she cried, fearfully, “what if he discovers our flight and
follows us? Oh, he is fearful in his anger and brute violence. It makes
my heart quail to even think of him and the day that he struck me--”

She stopped short, the words dying upon her lips, as Cyril Fayne caught
her in his arms, muttering a mad imprecation.

“Struck you? Oh, Lenore, Lenore, you never told me that. Struck you?
How dared he, the villain, the base, vile wretch! Ah, Senator Van
Alstyne, ours will be a terrible reckoning when the day comes in which
we shall stand face to face. Hear me, Lenore: If the day ever comes
when I shall stand in that man’s presence, I shall shoot him down as I
would shoot a mad dog!”

“Cyril!”

“I shall kill him!” he repeated, grimly. “The same world can not hold
Van Van Alstyne and me. For your sake I submit now and will do no
violence, but Heaven help him if we chance to meet. It drives me mad to
think of it. To dare raise his cowardly hand against a woman, and that
woman--you--my own wife!”

He kissed the sweet red lips again and again as the carriage rolled
onward. It came to a halt at last and Cyril hastily alighted. Lenore
peered cautiously forth into the night. The moon had gone down and all
was in darkness--a heavy gloom which hung over the earth like a pall.
But a short distance away she caught the gleam of waves rising and
falling with a low musical murmur, while off upon the water, a faint
light twinkled like a star. The light is Harvey Thornton’s yacht,
“White Wings.” Cyril lifted Lenore to the ground. She clung to him
with a frightened gesture.

“Oh, Cyril, has any one followed us? Has he--found out--do you think?”

Cyril shook his head.

“I see no one--nothing,” he made answer. “And now, my darling, we must
make haste to the boat, and in a short time we will be safe upon the
‘White Wings.’”

One long, eager, searching glance up and down the beach, and down the
long, winding country road by which they had come, then Lenore slipped
her hand through his arm, and he led her away to where a tiny skiff
rocked idly to and fro at the end of its long chain. A little delay and
they were safe within the boat, flying over the water like a bird, in
the direction of the anchored yacht.

“Love,” he bent his head and looked into her eyes, “it is you and I
will move upon life’s tempestuous sea. Do you regret the past? Are you
glad that I came back to you?”

“Cyril!”

One swift glance into his handsome dark face, but it told plainer far
than words her heart’s content. He bent with fresh energy to the oars,
and so at last the yacht was reached and they were safe on board. Half
an hour later the yacht was pushing on, making rapid headway far out at
sea.

       *       *       *       *       *

Van Van Alstyne read the letter that Cyril Fayne had written--read
it in ominous silence--his lips sternly compressed, his face ghastly
white, his eyes blood-shot and fierce with rage. It was finished at
last. He crushed the letter up into a ball, and tossed it into a drawer
in his escritoire, locking it securely. For a few moments he stood
as still as death, an awful look upon his white, drawn face. Then he
wheeled about sullenly and entered his dressing-room. Having bathed
his face and restored his disordered attire, he was quite himself
once more. Forcing a smile to his bloodless lips, he went down to the
drawing-room from which he had so long absented himself. He advanced
into the center of the room and the sight of him somehow checked the
merry badinage of the gay crowd, and laughter died a speedy death.
Pale and stern he faced them. Ah! he was going to taste the sweets of
revenge now.

“My friends,” he began in a clear, distinct voice, “I must apologize
for my unwarrantable neglect of my guests to-night. I have a revelation
to make. Mrs. Lenore Van Alstyne has left her home forever. She has
gone away in the night and darkness. She has disgraced herself and me,
and heaped humiliation upon the name of Van Alstyne. She has fled with
her lover, Cyril Fayne.”




CHAPTER XXIII.

VAN ALSTYNE’S REVENGE.


When Van Van Alstyne spoke those words--those cruel, awful words--he
was speaking falsely, and he knew it. For the letter which he had found
in his room--the letter which Cyril Fayne had written--had told the
whole truth. And Van Alstyne had set his teeth hard together over a
fearful imprecation, while he vowed an awful vengeance upon the woman
who had left him forever.

“I will not kill her,” he muttered, hoarsely. “Oh, no! she would be
out of her misery then. And I will not pursue them and punish them;
for they would publish their story far and near, and would win all
sympathy; and I would be looked upon as an old tyrant from whose
clutches Lenore had escaped to a brighter, happier life. If the world
knew the truth--knew the contents of this letter--she would have all
sympathy and her course would be universally approved. And they have
played directly into my hands by not coming out openly and declaring
the truth. But Cyril Fayne--curse him!--would spare her every pang,
every sorrow. He has taken her away to a foreign land, but they will
return some day; and when that time comes, they will return to find
themselves ostracized by all respectable people, condemned by public
opinion, shunned as moral lepers. That is my revenge! Who shall say
that it is not sweet?”

And then he had walked quietly down-stairs to the drawing-room, and
repeated to the assembled guests the story of Lenore Van Alstyne’s
downfall. He attempted no palliation, asked no leniency for the fallen
woman; but coarsely, brutally told the tale which was destined to
blight a woman’s whole life.

After that there was little desire for merry-making. Not that they
grieved so much over Lenore; she was not a general favorite. She was
too cold and quiet, too honest and sincere to be appreciated or widely
liked. Not being a hypocrite, she would not sully her white soul with
deceit, and pretend to a friendship which she did not feel. She

    “Walked too straight for fortune’s end
     And loved too true to keep a friend.”

And now she must suffer for her honesty and sincerity. In fashionable
society this is inevitable.

One by one the guests took their departure. A few of the older
gentlemen seemed inclined to tarry; perhaps for the purpose of offering
sympathy and consolation. But Van Alstyne coolly dismissed them all
with a stiff “Thanks for your sympathy, old friend; I do not require
it. I have seen the coming ruin for some time, and I have shielded her
and covered up her sins and short-comings because she was my wife. But
now that that which was hidden has become clear, I have no more to say.
I prefer to be alone. Good-night, gentlemen.”

Once left alone in his deserted house, Van Van Alstyne went quietly
upstairs, where he lighted a bronze hand-lamp. Then, lamp in hand, he
turned in the direction of the suite of rooms which had been occupied
by his wife, separate and distinct from his own. He paused upon a
white fur rug before the great carved Gothic door, and slowly turned
the silver knob. There were three rooms in the suite--sleeping-room,
dressing- and bath-room--all connected, and only separated from each
other by crimson velvet portières. The sleeping-room was all in
crimson, with dashes of old gold, with exquisite lace hangings, and
carved rosewood furniture. The dainty satin-covered bed was smooth
and untouched. The black lace robe which she had worn that night was
flung across the foot, and heaped upon the marble toilet-table were
the topaz ornaments, gleaming and glittering like weird, uncanny eyes.
Van Alstyne opened a drawer in the toilet-table. There were her jewel
cases; every jewel reposed upon the white satin bed; not one had been
removed. A second drawer was filled to the brim with rare and costly
laces--point, Mechlin, duchess, Valenciennes--of the most costly
pattern and dainty workmanship.

The great carved wardrobes were overflowing with rich and costly
garments. Silks, satins, velvets, furs. Her Russian sables had been the
envy of half the city that winter.

Van Alstyne paused to place the bronze lamp upon the toilet-table,
while he stood glaring about him with ferocious eyes. He looked like a
tiger--blood-thirsty, cruel--as he stood there, his small, snaky eyes
growing red and blood-shot, his hands clutching the empty air as though
his fingers were about her throat. Then, with a sudden bound and a
hoarse imprecation, he darted forward like one possessed with the very
frenzy of madness. He snatched up the costly lace robe--the dress which
she had last worn--and rent it into unsightly fragments, heaping them
upon the fire which burned smolderingly upon the marble hearth.

Once given over to the evil spirit which had entered his body, he
behaved like a demon. He tore down the beautiful dresses from the
wardrobe, and tearing them into tatters, piled them high upon the
hearth. The flames crawled over them and thrust their fiery tongues
through the silk and satin and velvet sheen, consuming, ruining,
blackening, destroying. Then he opened the jewel caskets and tossed
their contents upon the velvet carpet, setting his boot-heel upon them
in vindictive fury, grinding them into fragments. It was an awful sight.

He came to a pause only when he had wrought utter ruin and desolation.
The frightened servants, aroused from the slumber which they had
only just sought, made their way at length to their lady’s chamber.
It was then that the maniac grew quiet, and turning abruptly upon
them, ordered the fire to be extinguished and the servants to retire.
Tremblingly they obeyed him; and when they had gone away again Van Van
Alstyne locked the outer door of the suite of rooms which had been
Lenore’s, and slipping the key into his pocket, went slowly down the
great carved staircase, through the outer door into the gloom without.
It was the dark hour which always comes before day, a dense darkness
which could almost be felt. But through the gloom Van Alstyne made
his way as straight as a die down to the fountain in the midst of the
marble basin, upon whose surface water-lilies were thickly matted
together. It was a deep and treacherous pool, which had been turned
into an ornament for the Van Alstyne grounds. Although not large, it
was almost fathomless; and the marble sides served as ornaments, and at
the same time marked a spot which would otherwise be dangerous.

Once here, Van Alstyne halted, and drawing the key from his pocket
dropped it into the glistening pool. A few ripples, and it found bottom
somewhere; and then with a muttered curse he turned away.

Plunging into the shrubbery near, he made his way back to the
house--the lonely, deserted house--and up to his own chamber, where,
hastily disrobing, he threw himself upon his bed, and after a time fell
into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

The following evening the city newspapers were teeming with sensational
paragraphs--just such paragraphs as would drive a proud, sensitive
woman to commit suicide. And thus they told the story of Lenore Van
Alstyne’s downfall:

                       “ELOPEMENT IN HIGH LIFE!”

“It is with pain that we chronicle the disgrace and desolation which
have fallen upon the palatial mansion of one of our most influential
citizens. And while our hearts bleed with sympathy for him, we can only
condemn the base woman who has been the cause of all this sorrow.

“Last night, at the elegant mansion of a certain millionaire, a grand
entertainment was given. The hostess, a beautiful brunette, received
her guests in apparently her usual spirits; but a little past ten
o’clock she disappeared from the drawing-room, and her guests saw her
no more.

“She went to meet her lover, a foreigner, who has been quite marked
in his attentions to her of late. It seems that an elopement had been
planned which was successfully carried out. She has fled with her
lover, this false woman who has brought sorrow to her fond husband’s
heart and ruin to the home which was once hers.

“A shadow black as the regions of torment will rest upon her memory,
and henceforth the name of Lenore Van Alstyne will be a synonym for
everything base and vile. Lost, ruined, irretrievably and forever, it
is to be hoped that she will never return to this place. It is believed
that the guilty pair have gone to Europe.

“Our distinguished townsman has our earnest sympathy in his
affliction. But such a woman will not be deeply mourned by the
community, or long missed.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Seated in the Hotel de Ville, Paris, glancing over an American
newspaper, Lenore read these lines--the awful, condemning words which
made her heart stand still with wordless horror and blank despair--and
she understood. The man whom she had left had purposely ignored the
letter, and kept silent in regard to its contents--that letter which
would have made plain the whole bitter truth.

“This is his revenge,” she murmured, brokenly, “and the end is not yet!”




CHAPTER XXIV.

GONE TO HER DOOM.


Richard Raleigh had sent a message by a servant to Lillian, requesting
her to come down to the drawing-room for a few moments. He had made up
his mind that she must be his wife at once. There were reasons--grave
and imperative reasons--why the marriage should take place immediately.

Grafton Raleigh, writhing under the burden of conscious guilt which
he carried ever with him, awaited Lillian’s appearance with as much
feverish impatience as Richard himself.

Up and down the great library paced Grafton Raleigh, his hands folded
behind his back, his pale face full of moody light as he paced to and
fro, listening intently for some sound from the drawing-room which
would tell him that Lillian had obeyed the summons.

But there was no light footstep upon the staircase, no low, sweet voice
was heard, no sign of Lillian’s coming. Grafton Raleigh halted at the
door of the library, which stood slightly ajar, and bent his head to
listen. Down the stairs at last came the echo of footsteps, slow and
measured; a moment more and the servant who had been sent to summon
Lillian paused before Richard, who had hastened into the entrance hall
to meet him.

“Well, what was Miss Leigh’s answer,” he demanded, hurriedly; “is she
coming?”

He was too eager and anxious to appear his usual cold, stately self.
The man’s stolid face wore a look of surprise.

“If you please, Mr. Richard,” he returned, obsequiously, “the young
lady is not there!”

“Not there! What do you mean?” cried Richard, harshly.

At sound of his angry voice Grafton Raleigh stepped out into the hall.
The man bowed deprecatingly.

“Miss Leigh is not in her room, sir, I assure you,” he said. “I rapped
at the door several times, but received no answer, and then I asked
Felice to go in and look. She rapped, and still no answer. She then
ventured to open the door, which was not locked, and she reported to me
that Miss Leigh was not in her room. The fire is out, and no trace of
Miss Leigh, so Felice reported; and then I came down at once to you,
Mr. Richard.”

Richard’s face was as pale as death. He dismissed the servant and
followed his father into the library. Once alone in the room, the two
men stood staring at each other with eyes full of blank bewilderment
and horror too deep for words.

“She has gone away to escape me!” panted Richard, angrily. “The girl
must be mad! Or, father, some one may have told her--all!”

Grafton Raleigh shook his head slowly.

“Hardly. Who would tell her--even granted that any one _knows_? And no
one knows but you and I, Rick; for even if Bess Vernon suspects, she
really knows nothing certain. Besides that, she has not seen or had
access to Lillian since she was here this morning. Richard, the girl
has not gone far, and you must find her!”

Richard started.

“You are right!” he said. “And if I find her I will bring her back to
this house my wife!”

Grafton Raleigh nodded.

“Do so by fair means or foul!” he panted, hoarsely. “She must marry
you! There is no loop-hole of escape for us save through your
marriage with Lillian Leigh. To this end I have partially consented
to Rosamond’s foolish affair with Lyndon. Richard, does it strike you
that Jack Lyndon does not care for Rosamond? I am certain that he does
not, and that he has sought her in marriage either because he expects
to marry a fortune with Rosamond Raleigh or he ‘has an ax of his own to
grind.’”

Richard’s face grew dark.

“I know nothing concerning Mr. Lyndon’s affairs,” he said, stiffly,
“and I care less! My business at present is to find Lillian, and bring
her home my wife! She _must_ consent! We must succeed in this scheme,
father, or we shall be utterly ruined. I am going now to search for
her. Living or dead, I shall find her!”

He left the house, pale and anxious, his eyes full of an ominous light,
his lips compressed sternly under the shadow of his silky mustache.

“Living or dead, I will find her!” he muttered, as he hastened down the
long street.

Where was poor Lillian? The anguish and suffering which she had endured
since her reluctant consent to a marriage which Richard Raleigh had
wrung from her unwilling lips could not be overestimated. Utterly
alone, forsaken, friendless, her whole heart clung to the memory of
Jack Lyndon with all the strength of its pure devotion. Yet he, the man
she loved, had been accused by Richard Raleigh of being her father’s
murderer. Could it be possible? The more that Lillian reflected
upon the dreadful question, the more convinced was she that before
binding herself to Richard Raleigh by the ties of marriage it was but
right and proper, and only justice to Jack, to confront him with the
question, “Are you guilty or not guilty?”

The more the poor girl studied this problem, the more clear and plain
did her course appear to her. She walked the floor of her room for
hours, suffering intensely while she reflected upon the matter.

“Why not go to Jack and ask him?” she panted, wildly, at last; “why not
see him alone and accuse him, and mark the effect of my accusation, and
at least give him an opportunity to prove his innocence?”

And so at last she decided. She dressed herself hurriedly, the deep
mourning-garments making her look pitifully pale and fragile, and at
last she left her room and went softly down the servants’ stairs and
out of the house unnoticed. Once in the street, she turned in the
direction of the office of the “Thunderer.” But by the time she had
reached the imposing building her heart failed her, her courage ebbed
away, and she dared not enter. After all, it was an awful thing to
do--to seek a man in his private office and accuse him of the crime of
murder--the man who had only a few days before told her that he loved
her and asked her to be his wife. She thought of that, and then of his
present engagement to Rosamond Raleigh, and the small hands clinched
themselves tightly together, and the white teeth sunk sharply into her
under lip with fierce intensity as she hurried away from the vicinity.

She passed most of the day wandering through the most unfrequented
quarter of the city, not caring to return to the Raleigh mansion and
the man for whom she felt only aversion, yet whose promised wife she
was. At last, after much indecision, when the afternoon was far spent,
she found herself ascending the long flight of stairs which led to the
office of the “Thunderer,” determined to know the worst.

“Come in!” called a well-known voice, in response to the timid tap
upon the great oaken door which shut out the editorial sanctum from
view. The door swung slowly open and Lillian crossed the threshold.
Jack Lyndon sat at a huge desk covered with papers, briskly engaged in
getting ready a leader for the next issue. He turned, and as his eyes
fell upon the pale, pitiful face he threw down his pen and started to
his feet.

“Lillian--Miss Leigh!”--in an agitated voice--“do you--wish--to--to--”

“To speak with you for a few moments upon matters of importance,”
she supplemented. “Yes, Mr. Lyndon.” Then a pause. “Jack! Jack! tell
me that you are not guilty! I had rather die a thousand deaths than
believe you guilty.”

All the pride of Jack Lyndon’s honest nature was up in arms in a
moment. His face flushed crimson and then grew as pale as death. He
put out his hand instinctively and clutched at the desk beside him for
support.

“I deny your right to arraign me, Miss Leigh,” he was beginning,
haughtily. “The crime of which I am guilty--”

The door was thrown open at that very instant, cutting his speech in
twain. He had been about to say: “The crime of which I am guilty is
loving you too well.”

The interruption was disastrous to Jack, for it was Richard Raleigh who
stepped into the room.

“Lillian! Lillian!”--eagerly, anxiously--“I have sought you everywhere!
Mother is very ill, and Rosamond absent. We need you at home. Come.”

He drew her hand passively through his arm, and without another word
led her away. Once outside in the street, Richard turned and faced
Lillian with eager, burning eyes.

“Lillian, listen!” he said. “I have a strange request to make of you.
I want to make you my wife--now--within the hour. There is a church
just around the corner; the clergyman, an old friend of mine, is there
this moment. Let us go there and be married at once. Will you consent,
Lillian?”

She thought of Jack’s words just spoken, and her wan face grew white
with despair.

“As you will,” she answered, faintly.

They passed on and entered the church together.




CHAPTER XXV.

FORGED FETTERS.


Richard Raleigh entered the church door, and like one in a dream
Lillian followed him. She was scarcely conscious of her own actions.
Her brain felt numb and dazed; her heart beat low and feeble in her
breast; she was faint and trembling, with a slow horror creeping over
her which was terrible. Life stretched out around her like a bleak and
barren desert, upon which no green thing ever smiled. The future--ah,
she dared not look forward to the future, which held not a ray of hope.
Forsaken, hopeless--the man she loved, upon whose integrity she had
staked her all of faith and trust in her fellow-creatures, false--false
and base.

The young heart quailed, as young hearts always do, at sight of such
wickedness, and shrunk back appalled.

Her father’s slayer! Could it be possible? A personal affair, which
had ended disastrously, between the dead man, her beloved father, and
the man she loved, and whose promised wife she had been for one whole
bright, happy day.

“To think of it,” she muttered under her breath, as she moved onward
at Richard Raleigh’s side, “to think how nearly I had come to being
the wife of the man who took my father’s life. Yet, oh, how weak and
feeble I am! I who swore beside my father’s lifeless body to track
his slayer down to his just doom. Yet now I shrink--I tremble at the
very thought of betraying Jack Lyndon’s guilty secret to the world. And
I find myself weakly upholding my own weakness. ‘My father is dead,’
I say to myself, ‘and to deliver Jack Lyndon up to justice would do
Gilbert Leigh no good. It would not bring him back to life, restore to
me my lost content, or make my father in that other world any happier
to know that the man who took his life must expiate that crime upon
the gallows.’ Oh, fool, mad fool that I am! It is because my heart--my
weak, womanish heart--still clings to Jack Lyndon, and will not hate
him as he deserves. But I must learn to hate him, or at least to be
free from him even in thought. And I may as well consent to this
marriage that Richard Raleigh proposes, since the hateful marriage is
to be, and since by that alone I can secure Jack Lyndon’s freedom from
punishment. And--ah, Heaven help me!--we are at the church even now. It
is too late to draw back. The die is cast!”

They were ascending the steps of the sacred edifice in the pale, gray
shades of the gathering twilight. Down the long streets upon either
side lights were beginning to twinkle, and the electric light at the
corner had put forth its round, silvery eye, and was winking and
blinking derisively upon the passers below.

One swift glance toward the towering granite building which held the
office of the “Thunderer.” She could see the office windows brightly
lighted, and could even discern the dim outlines of a dark figure
seated at the long desk, with bowed head resting upon one hand in an
attitude of melancholy and dejection.

For just a moment a swift pang shot through the girl’s tender heart;
but she shrunk from it and pushed it aside, as wicked and unholy. She
seemed to lose all consciousness of time and place. A black doom seemed
to threaten her; a cloud hung over her life which nothing could lift
or move; voices sounded in her ear. She was conscious of some one
speaking, then asking a question in a slow, solemn voice. Something
impelled her to answer, to assent, and she did so. Dim lights danced
before her eyes, which, “as in a glass, darkly,” could discern a tall
form standing before her, and then--like a knell of doom--came the
words: “I pronounce you husband and wife!”

Faint and trembling, she reeled unsteadily, and would have fallen but
Richard Raleigh caught the slight form in his arms.

“Poor child!” she heard him say, softly, and his voice sounded more
gentle than she had ever heard it before. “She is quite overcome. Her
father has just died, you see, and she is weak and faint and ill from
want of sleep. She has been nursing him, sitting by his bedside for
many weary nights.”

Lillian lifted her horror-filled eyes to his dusky, devil-may-care
face. Standing at God’s holy altar, he was telling a deliberate
falsehood for which there was no excuse or palliation. Heaven help
her! What manner of man was this--the man who even now was drawing
her passive hand through his arm? while a soft, silky voice--a voice
which she had never hated more bitterly than now--now, when her hateful
chains were forged forever--was whispering in her ear:

“My own little wife! mine forever!”

Trembling like an aspen, she faced him, white and still.

“There is some mistake,” she faltered, slowly, putting her hand to her
brow, and pushing back the thick golden hair, as though its weight
oppressed her. “I--I--do not know--Oh, sir”--turning to the surprised
clergyman with a wild, imploring gesture--“tell me, am I really and
lawfully the wife of this man, Richard Raleigh?”

“You are the wife of Richard Raleigh,” he returned, quietly, “and may
Heaven grant you all happiness!”

“Happiness? Ha! ha!”

The shrill, unnatural laughter resounded through the silent church, and
the two supernumeraries who had enacted the rôle of witnesses shrunk
back in wonder and surprise not unmixed with alarm.

Richard beckoned the clergyman aside.

“She is really ill,” he explained, “poor child! I will take her home to
my father’s house at once.”

“And you are quite sure, Mr. Richard, that your father approves the
step that you have taken?” queried the clergyman, gravely.

“You may set your mind at rest upon that score, Mr. Woods,” he said,
deferentially. “Indeed, the marriage has my father’s hearty approval.
Only we did not expect to be married this evening, and that explains
the privacy of the affair. My poor little wife is quite friendless and
homeless, you see, and it seems right that I should give her a home at
once. Just hand me the marriage certificate, Mr. Woods. Ah, yes--thank
you.”

And the folded document was placed in his pocket, a generous fee
bestowed upon the clergyman, a present added for the witnesses, and
then Richard Raleigh led his unwilling bride from the church. The eyes
of the clergyman followed the pair, and an uneasy look crossed his fine
old face.

“I hope and pray that there is nothing wrong in this affair!” he
murmured, slowly. “I had rather die than be guilty of a wrong of that
kind! I consider clergymen somewhat responsible in such matters. They
have no right to perform the marriage ceremony when they know that they
are binding together two lives where one is perhaps coerced into the
compact. Ah, well! I will watch this case from a distance, and I trust
to Heaven that all is well!”

Out upon the pavement, Richard Raleigh halted to summon a passing cab.
His face was flushed with triumph; his eyes shone with a fiendish
light; he was arrogant and overbearing in his manner. He saw the way
to victory now, and there was no more need to fear. As they stood
beside the curb, and waited for the cab to halt, Jack Lyndon, passing
down the street on his way home to a six-o’clock dinner, saw them, and
his face grew as white as death. He came to a halt. They had just left
the church. Jack could see that, and a slow horror crept over his heart
like a chill.

Just at that moment Lillian lifted her head, and their eyes met--met
for one brief, fleeting moment, yet long enough to hold a lingering
glance. It was to be a farewell.

“I shall know that look when we meet beyond this ‘speck of time,’”
quoted Jack Lyndon slowly to himself, as he moved down the street and
was lost to sight.

Then Richard Raleigh aroused Lillian from the strange stupor which
seemed to have taken sudden possession of her faculties.

“Come, darling,” he said, in a low, persuasive tone, as the cab drew up
to the sidewalk, “let me assist you into the cab, and we will go home
at once. You look tired out, and this unexpected wedding of ours has
been too much for you.”

She was shivering like one with a chill, as he placed her in a cab and
seated himself at her side. They drove rapidly away down the street,
and Lillian’s head fell back upon the cushion of the seat. Into her
beautiful eyes a strange, wild gleam crept swiftly. She looked like one
who sees before her an awful precipice or bottomless abyss, from which
nothing can save or rescue her.

“Take me to the grave-yard!” she moaned; “I want to go to papa’s grave.
Oh, Richard--Mr. Raleigh, take me there for just a few moments, and I
will ask no more.”

“You must be mad!” he panted, harshly. “The idea of asking such a
thing. Your father’s grave, indeed, and you not a half hour married!
Lillian, upon my soul, I believe that you are going mad!”

A wild light flashed into the starry-brown eyes.

“Yes, I am going mad!” she repeated, bleakly; “I have no doubt of that.
I must have been mad when I consented to marry you, Richard Raleigh,
for my life is utterly ruined, and--”

He wheeled about swiftly upon the seat and placed his hand upon her
lips.

“Hush!” he hissed, sibilantly; “I forbid you to utter another word of
that, Lillian Raleigh! You are to obey me henceforth, remember that!
If you are obedient and tractable you will be a happy wife, and shall
never regret the step that you have taken to-day. But if you--you defy
me--” he drew his breath hard, and his voice died away into silence.

The cab stopped before the Raleigh mansion, and a few moments later
Lillian was upstairs in her own room, its door securely locked; while
Richard sought his father in the library.

“Won at last!” he cried, triumphantly, as he entered the room. “Lillian
Leigh is my wife, and the Raleigh fortune is safe!”

He came to a startled halt. In his haste, and the mad exultation
which had taken possession of him, he had not observed that there was
another person present beside Grafton Raleigh--a diminutive figure in
seal-brown velvet and flashing diamonds; an arch, smiling face, with a
glare of malice peeping from her bright eyes--Bessie Vernon.

He fell back with a stifled exclamation; then rallied his forces and
greeted her with effusion. Ten minutes later he left the library, and
stole upstairs to the door of Lillian’s room, and rapped upon the panel.

“Open the door, Lillian, please?” he pleaded. “Don’t be cold and angry
with me, sweetheart! I want you to come down with me to my father.”

The key grated in the lock, the door flew open, and there upon the
threshold, looking like a spirit, in a flowing white cashmere robe,
with her golden hair coiled loosely about her graceful head, stood
Lillian. Her eyes glittered feverishly; her face was pale as death, and
resolute.

“We may as well come to an understanding now, Richard Raleigh!” she
said, in a clear, icy voice. “I have gone through this farce of a
marriage, but I hate you, hate you, hate you! I am your wife in name
only, and I desire that you keep out of my sight. If your father wishes
to see me, he knows where he can find me. I married you to save Jack
Lyndon--the man I love--from an awful doom; but I loathe and despise
you unutterably, and I shall never look upon you as aught but a snake
in the grass--a man whom I can never respect--my bitter enemy. Go! I
have no more to say. I am dead to you now, Richard Raleigh--just as
dead as though the grave had closed over my lifeless form.”

Lillian Leigh’s wedding-day was a thing of the past, and what had it
brought her? Only black, bitter misery and woe unspeakable.




CHAPTER XXVI.

FACE TO FACE.


“Do not weep, dear love!”

Cyril Fayne took Lenore in his arms and kissed the quivering red lips.

“Do not grieve so, my darling. That man is a fiend incarnate, but we
will unmask him to the world. We will rise superior to him and his
petty nature--his engrossing hatred. He is mean and despicable, and the
world shall know the truth and see him as he is. He has kept back the
letter that I wrote him; concealed it from the knowledge of the world;
held his peace as to my explanation, and then boldly denounced you and
me to the public at large. A man like that would commit any crime. But
I shall punish him! As sure as I live, I shall punish him! When can you
be ready to return to America, Lenore?”

“Within the hour!” she answered, her eyes flashing, her voice ringing
forth sweet and clear--“at a moment’s notice! To vindicate my honor,
to make my traducers bow before me in humiliation, to be set right
in the eyes of the world of society--that fashionable, hypocritical
society which has eaten my bread and enjoyed my hospitality times
innumerable--I will go back at any time, Cyril--_now!_”

She was pale with excitement, her large dark eyes shining like stars,
her bosom heaving with indignation, like a beautiful, outraged queen,
as she stood in the center of the great sunlit room in an old Italian
palace, her white silk robe trailing behind her over the marble floor.
Cyril Fayne felt his heart thrill madly at sight of her glorious
beauty, this woman for whose sake he had suffered so much and so long,
this woman who, in turn, had borne so heavy a burden for his sake, and
for his love counted the world well lost. And he gnashed his teeth in
mad despair at thought of the mistake that he had made in leaving the
letter of explanation behind for Van Van Alstyne’s private perusal.

“I should have gone to him--openly and frankly--like a man,” he said
to himself, “and told him the whole truth, and claimed my wife openly
before the whole world! But Lenore, poor child! was so weak and worn
with the burden that she was bearing, so nervous and fanciful, so
broken down in spirit, that I could not bear the thought of exposing
her to his brutal rage. And so I did what I believed to be the best.
But I have acted the part of a coward in the eyes of the world, and now
I must suffer. In my blind haste and mad love for my darling, I paused
not to consider after consequences; I did not stop to count the cost to
her, dear love, who has suffered so for me. I should have remembered
the nature of the madman with whom I had to deal! I have been to blame
for my headlong precipitancy. But I had lived so long without her, had
suffered so intensely, had missed her so, that when I saw her before
me once more, and knew that my long years of searching for her were
over at last, and that she loved me still, had always loved me, that
we had been separated and kept apart by base treachery, then I struck
the blow which broke her bonds and gave her back to me. Ah, Geoffrey
Grey! Geoffrey Grey! false friend, wicked, vile traitor! the day will
surely come--oh, yes, I shall live to see it!--when we will stand face
to face, and then--”

He was pacing to and fro, his face white and drawn, his hands locked
convulsively together, upon his features the impress of mad despair. Up
and down the vast apartment he paced in stern silence.

All at once his eyes fell upon the figure of a man passing slowly down
the sunlit street between the long rows of ilex-trees. A handsome,
effeminate face, with a womanish mouth half hidden by the silky beard
and mustache of pale gold. A weak, uncertain, vacillating face, with
large, limpid blue eyes and straight, delicate features. A man for
women to rave over, jest with, and _forget_! He was sauntering idly
along in the golden, glittering sunlight, attired in a faultless gray
suit, with a red rose in his button-hole, swinging a tiny cane lazily
in one hand as he walked.

A swift glance, then an awful change passed over Cyril Fayne’s face.
With a hoarse cry, like the cry of a wild beast suddenly brought face
to face with its prey, he dashed open the great plate-glass window, and
springing through it, was upon the broken stones of the pavement in an
instant.

With one mad bound he sprung upon the dainty, smiling vision and caught
him.

“Geoffrey Grey!” he hissed between his close-clinched teeth, “I have
you at last! For years I have hunted you down, but always and ever
in vain; you would manage to elude me always. I followed you from
place to place, but when I came you would fly, and thus escape me. But
justice shall be done, vengeance shall have its own at last. You are
in my power, Geoffrey Grey, and the same world can contain us both
no longer! Villain, coward, traitor, false friend and traducer of
womankind, your hour has come!”

For just a moment the graceful figure stood transfixed with horror and
overcome with surprise, like one suddenly petrified. The smile had
died upon his lip, his face had blanched to an ashen pallor, he was
trembling in every limb. Still the white-faced Nemesis stood over him.
The coward winced.

“Don’t,” pleaded the low, musical voice, and the gray-clad figure
recoiled from the stern, threatening gaze of the other. “Do not--hurt
me--Cyril! I--I never did all that of which you accuse me. I--I swear
that I am sorry for what I have done!”

A thought flashed like an inspiration across his brain. Slowly his
grasp relaxed the miscreant, and his voice, stern and cold, asked the
question:

“Suppose that I agree to spare you, Geoffrey Grey--suppose that I
should let you go free, what are you willing to do to show your
penitence? But, bah! I am a fool to trust you, you false fiend! Stay!
if I guard you well, if I remain constantly at your side so that you
can not escape me, strive as you may, if I take you back thus guarded
to America, will you bear witness to Lenore Fayne’s innocence? Will you
take back the wrong that you have done, the evil that you have wrought,
and clear her fair name before the world? Speak, villain! And if you
agree to my proposition--remember that you can never escape me. I will
guard you always like a jailer! I will never let you out of my sight,
night nor day, until we have landed in America, and you have made
public all this vile plot against a pure woman’s happiness.

“Answer me, Geoffrey Grey! Will you try to retrieve your miserable past
by this one act of justice? Will you endeavor to atone in this manner
for the unpardonable wrong that you have done Lenore Fayne and myself,
the husband from whom your villainous treachery separated her for
seventeen long, bad, black years?”

Dead silence. The leaves of the ilex-trees swayed slowly in a passing
breeze; no sound broke the dead calm. A bright-eyed _donizella_ tripped
past; a group of ugly _lazaroni_ gathered upon the opposite side of
the street, begging alms in guttural Italian. Cyril Fayne stood like a
statue glaring down into the shrinking face of his enemy run down at
last.

“Well?” he demanded, at length, “is it yes or no?”

“Yes!” responded Geoffrey Grey, sullenly.




CHAPTER XXVII.

UNMASKED.


For just a moment Richard Raleigh stood in the corridor outside
Lillian’s room, in utter silence; then, with a muttering, he turned and
walked away. Back to the library he hastened, finding, to his relief,
that Mrs. Vernon had taken her departure. Pale and troubled, he sunk
into a seat, gazing into the fire in moody silence.

“Well, the deed is done!” he said, harshly, with a swift upward glance
into his father’s face, “and I have caught a Tartar.”

Grafton Raleigh smiled when he had heard his son’s story.

“Nonsense, Rick; I would pay no more heed to her caprices than to the
blowing of the wind. All we want is her signature.”

Richard nodded.

“Very true. But, my dear sir, the girl is capable of anything. Suppose
she refuses to sign our little document?”

Grafton Raleigh started up, pale and alarmed.

“She must sign it,” he returned, firmly. “If she is not willing we must
force her into it, that’s all. Rick, the day for scruples and foolish
hesitation is past. It is ruin if we do not get control of--”

“Hush! The very walls have ears; and since I have seen Bessie Vernon in
the house I am uneasy. This matter is of vital importance to us both;
to me it is more than you know. There is something which I have never
dared to tell you, and I prefer keeping it to myself. But, believe
me, if Lillian is not coerced into signing this paper, there will be
blacker trouble for me than you realize.”

Grafton Raleigh sighed.

“I am sorry, Richard. But then I do not anticipate much difficulty in
the matter. Let her alone until morning; then your mother must go and
see her in her room, do the maternal, treat her like a young princess,
flatter and defer to her, spoil her generally, and secure that
signature by fair means or foul. After that I will wash my hands of the
management of your wife.”

And while the worthy pair consulted together, Bessie Vernon was
standing in an anteroom where every word distinctly reached her ears,
waiting for Rosamond to come. She had accompanied that young lady home
on an errand, after which she would return to the Vernon mansion for a
longer visit. After awhile Mrs. Vernon left the anteroom and tripped
lightly upstairs, moved softly past Rosamond’s door and down the long
corridor to the wing in which Lillian’s room was situated.

Her face was pale with anger, the large, soft eyes were flashing
indignantly, the small hands clinched as though she longed to strike
some one.

“The hypocrite!” she muttered, softly; “he has just devoted himself
to me of late. And he wrote me a letter in which he spoke of himself
as fated to marry a woman whom he did not love, while his heart was
attracted elsewhere, though he did not, of course, dare to say all that
was in his mind. And now--now,” catching her breath hard, “he bursts
in upon his father with the announcement of his marriage. Ah, Richard
Raleigh, I will teach you a lesson! You shall learn that a woman’s
friendship is not to be trifled with. How dared he make me believe all
that foolish sentiment? I am provoked with myself for believing it. But
I will pay him back for his falsehood--I declare I will!”

Poor little silly moth! She had singed her wings in the flame of
flattery, and her vanity was suffering now, and her pride was horribly
wounded.

She paused at the door of Lillian’s room and rapped lightly.

“Miss Leigh!” she cried, softly, through the key-hole--“I beg your
pardon--Mrs. Raleigh--will you open the door just a moment? I have
something of importance to say to you. It is I--Bessie Vernon.”

Wondering somewhat, for Lillian had never exchanged a dozen words with
Mrs. Vernon in her life, she opened the door.

Bessie darted into the room.

“Hush!” she whispered, warningly; “do not speak a loud word. I have
not a moment to waste, for I must get back to Rosamond. I have just
learned of your marriage.” Lillian shuddered. “And I want to warn you.
If Grafton Raleigh or his hopeful son try to get you to sign a paper--a
legal document of some description--refuse to do it. Remain firm; do
not be frightened into it. Go to some competent lawyer and tell him
that these two men hold in their possession a document which I firmly
believe to be a will, and which bequeaths property--I do not know how
much--to one Lillian Leigh. The paper reads to the effect that the
testator gives his all to his beloved niece, Lillian Leigh. Hush! I
hear Rosamond! I have no time for further explanations. Good-night!”
and she was gone, leaving Lillian in a perfect whirl of excitement.

The next morning Mrs. Raleigh was induced to go to Lillian’s room and
accompany her down to breakfast. The meal was a constrained one, and
Lillian was devoutly thankful when it was over. But, like everything
in this world, it came to an end at last, and then Grafton Raleigh
invited Lillian into the library. With pale face and compressed lips
she followed him, while Richard brought up the rear.

Once in the library and the door closed, a strange chill passed over
Lillian. She felt that a decisive moment had come. Grafton Raleigh led
the way to the escritoire.

“My dear Lillian,” he began, taking a gold pen in a jeweled holder
from the silver and ebony rack, “I would like to have you sign your
name to a little business matter. You see, as a married woman you will
be expected to sign deeds in conjunction with your husband. Richard
is about to convey a piece of property, and he cannot legally do so
without his wife’s signature. We have sent for a notary--Ah! there he
is now,” as the door opened and a grave-looking man entered the room.

Two of the servants were summoned to act as witnesses.

Pale as marble, Lillian turned away.

“I can not sign any paper, Mr. Raleigh, without first knowing its
contents,” she said, firmly. “My father taught me to read, understand,
and weigh well any document to which I am requested to sign my name.
Pardon me, but I must first read the paper.”

Richard snatched the document from the desk.

“You shall not read it!” he cried, angrily. “You are my wife, and must
obey me. Sign your name, Lillian--there,” indicating a line.

“I will not. I must first know its contents. Besides, I have no right
to sign business documents; I am not yet of age.”

The notary started in surprise.

“If this be true, I refuse to act in the matter,” he said. “Mr.
Raleigh, there is some mistake here--suppose we postpone action for the
present?”

And, smiling urbanely and bowing courteously, the little notary bowed
himself out.

The servants returned to their duties, and Lillian stood facing her
husband, alone.

“Curse you!” he muttered, harshly. “You little demon! you have
ruined my father and blasted your own prospects as well. And all
because you are heart-broken for the sake of Jack Lyndon. You think
to spite me by this conduct, but you shall learn that I am master.
Now, listen, madame, and you shall hear the whole truth. You have
been duped--deceived--made a fool of. Jack Lyndon did not murder your
father--and Jack Lyndon loves you as he loves his own soul. And--you
are my wife!”




CHAPTER XXVIII.

GEOFFREY GREY ATONES.


What a journey that was across the Atlantic! With Cyril Fayne standing
guard over the white-faced, scared-looking man who crouched in a
retired corner of the deck all day, and at night was locked in a
state-room to which Fayne himself held the key, guarded like a prisoner
on his way to prison, never for a moment left alone, constantly under
surveillance, Geoffrey Grey will never forget that journey until the
day he dies. But at last the end came, as everything comes to an end
some time or other, and

    “Good times and bad times, sad times and glad times, and all times
           alike
       Will pass over.”

And at last the vessel steamed into port, and, half dead with terror
and cowardly shrinking, Geoffrey Grey was taken on shore, and, still
closely guarded, conveyed to the nearest hotel.

It was an awful task to which Cyril Fayne had pledged himself; but
he persevered in grim determination, his face set and stern, and an
ominous light in his resolute dark eyes.

He knew that the crisis of his life--his own life and Lenore’s--was
close at hand. The hour was drawing nigh when men should acknowledge
their mutual sufferings, their mutual wrongs, or every man’s hand
should be against him, and his hand against every man in war
henceforth. He shut his teeth closely together with a repressed cry,
heartsick and weary.

“But she must be defended,” he panted, eagerly, “she must be upheld by
a strong arm; and mine is surely strong enough for her to lean upon.
The world shall learn the truth and acknowledge its error, and shall
beg her pardon--my sweet, white lily flower, my pearl of purity!”

And his face froze over into stern determination. It would have been
bad for Senator Van Alstyne had he chanced to meet Cyril Fayne at that
moment.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Raleigh mansion was brilliantly illuminated, and a grand reception
was in progress, for fashion is vigorous and tyrannical, and Mrs.
Raleigh knew that she must throw open her doors to her dear five
hundred friends, and make known Richard’s marriage to Lillian Leigh,
or the fashionable world would conclude at once that the marriage was
obnoxious to her. So, though secretly much against her own desires, she
had issued cards for a grand reception in honor of her son’s marriage.

But she found more difficulty with Lillian than she had apprehended. At
first the girl refused outright to appear at all, but the entreaties
of Mrs. Raleigh were not without effect. Lillian felt that, after all,
it would be a small concession for her to appear in the drawing-room
for a short time; and since it would keep peace in the family, she
consented at last. But she refused firmly to lay aside her mourning. In
vain did Mrs. Raleigh lay before her the enormity of a bride appearing
in black; her words were wasted. The utmost to which her persuasion
could induce Lillian to agree was a compromise between black and white.
So a beautiful costume had been ordered of fancy black-and-white
crêpe lisse, with heavy jet ornaments. The girl looked like a queen
in mourning-garments as she stood at Mrs. Raleigh’s side, under the
blazing chandelier in the great drawing-room, receiving the guests as
they arrived.

Every one seemed conscious of a strange restraint--a feeling pervaded
the apartment as though they were expecting some one or something
to come. It came like an electric shock as the voice of the footman
announced, in loud tones:

“Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Fayne--Mr. Geoffrey Grey!”

Van Alstyne, seated at Bessie Vernon’s side, dropped the bouquet of
orchids which he was just presenting to that lady, and started to his
feet, his red face fairly purple with wrath--and was it fear that
lurked in his snaky little eyes?

A strange silence fell upon the room as Cyril entered with Lenore
leaning upon his arm--Lenore all in bridal white--a robe of shimmering
satin strewn with seed-pearls. Her face was very pale; but her head
was held aloft in haughty grace, and her dark eyes blazed with scorn.
Following closely in their wake was Geoffrey Grey.

The guests seemed to shrink closer together--the female portion, at
least--as though they thought it contamination to even breathe the same
atmosphere with this woman whom they had hunted down.

Cyril Fayne bowed lowly before the astonished assemblage; then he
spoke, and the words that he uttered froze the audience into silence.

“I present to you,” he began, in a clear, ringing voice, “my wife, Mrs.
Lenore Fayne, and I wish to tell you our strange story--a story which
I believed had been made public long ago, or I would have left Europe
before this to set right in the eyes of the world the woman so bitterly
wronged.

“My friends, this lady became my wife nearly eighteen years ago. See,
here is the marriage certificate. We were married in Arles, France, as
you will see by glancing at this document. We were separated by fraud
and treachery--separated, and I believed her dead, and she believed
me false. Afterward she read my name in the list of deaths on board a
burning steamer, and she too believed me gone to my last account.

“Her only relatives--the Raleighs--were traveling through France.
They found her and took her home to America with them, and with
them she resided for years. But she never told her story. They did
not know the truth; and when Senator Van Alstyne asked her hand in
marriage they looked upon it as a grand match for her; and so, urged
and influenced--pressed upon all sides--Lenore consented and became
the wife of Senator Van Alstyne. Of the life which she led with him I
will not speak. In the meantime I came to America, and, roving about
aimlessly, I saw my wife one day by accident, and learned that she was
married to another man.

“In the disguise of an old woman, a fortune-teller, I managed to get
into her presence, and, by the aid of a little juggling, which I had
learned in the East, threw the party into consternation, in the midst
of which I managed to slip a note into her hands.

“I afterward wrote her a full explanation of what had happened, and in
her reply I learned what I had suspected, that she loved me still, and
hated the man Van Alstyne. And she was my wife! To me not all the years
of separation could prevent my claim. I determined to claim her, after
which a legal process would settle all questions, and a repetition of
the marriage ceremony would make all binding. In the eyes of God she
was my wife.

“And now comes the point wherein I blame myself severely. Lenore
was weak and nervous. She feared Van Alstyne with a terror beyond
expression, and she shrunk from an open explanation. Weakly I yielded,
and we went away together, leaving a letter for Van Alstyne, explaining
all.

“He found and read that letter, learned the whole truth, then he went
down to his drawing-room, into the presence of his guests, and told
them a deliberate falsehood--that Lenore had fled with her lover, that
she was base and vile.

“I acknowledge the weakness of my own course; but it was a mistake made
through the kindest intentions toward my suffering wife. She did not
know all that had taken place until we had been living in Italy for
some time, our marriage having been celebrated for the second time upon
my friend Thornton’s yacht. All formalities were rigorously observed.
She is my lawful wife.

“The very day that we learned the truth and how Van Alstyne had
sought, by the ruin of her fair fame, to obtain revenge, that very day
Providence threw into my way the man who had wrought the sorrow of our
lives--Geoffrey Grey. I have forced him to return with us to America to
bear witness to the truth of my words, and the secret of Lenore Fayne’s
life. Geoffrey Grey, speak, and tell the truth, the whole truth, I
command you.”

Geoffrey Grey lifted his handsome head and gazed about him with a
crest-fallen expression.

“I acknowledge my own wrong-doing,” he said, slowly. “Years ago, when
I was only twenty-one, I loved Lenore Vane; but she never cared for
me. I was accustomed to flattery and homage, and the thought that she
did not love me, and would never care for me, made me desperate. I
asked her to be my wife, but she refused, and refused me with scorn,
ending at last by acknowledging her love for Cyril Fayne. I had never
liked him; he was always so grand and dignified; he never joined me in
my mad escapades; and he loved Lenore so dearly and with such jealous
tenderness that he would scarcely permit me to speak her name. At
last they were married, and not long afterward Cyril Fayne was called
away to England upon business, and Lenore was left alone. In an evil
hour an awful plot entered my brain, and I determined to separate
husband and wife, if possible, forever. I planned a tale of Cyril’s
treachery and falseness. I made Lenore believe, with such apparently
overwhelming proof that no woman dare doubt it that Cyril Fayne had
gone to England with another woman, and that she was a deserted wife.
About that time a steamer was burned at sea. I caused a list of the
dead to be shown Lenore--a list which contained the names of Cyril
Fayne and a woman registered upon the steamer’s books as his wife. It
is useless to add that I had caused the false report to be printed
that she might see and believe in his treachery. A few months later
her child was born--a puny little girl. A short time after its birth I
sought Lenore again and asked her to be my wife. She refused me with
bitter scorn, averring that, true or false, she loved Cyril Fayne, and
would never love another. In my anger I determined to be avenged, and
I--I stole her child and took it to America. Once there, I placed it
in an orphan asylum--the asylum of St. Vincent in this city. The child
was afterward removed from the asylum by the Raleighs under the name of
Noisette--Noisette Duval.”

There was a wild cry, and Rosamond Raleigh started to her feet,
pale and trembling. There in the door-way stood a slight, childish
figure--a pale, sad face, with great, dark, unearthly eyes--in one hand
a bit of amber satin, while the shadowy fingers plied the brush as
usual with swift, deft strokes--never ending--never ending.

Another wild shriek went up from Rosamond Raleigh’s pale lips, then she
tottered a few steps and fell to the floor. When they lifted her and
bore her from the room, the overwrought brain had given way, and she
was raving like a mad woman.




CHAPTER XXIX.

DISCOVERED.


For a time the guests stood staring in utter consternation; then Van
Van Alstyne started to his feet. The apparition had disappeared.

“My friends,” he began, trying to control his mad rage, “I pronounce
this scene a bit of clap-trap and stage effect which is too ludicrous
to be believed. I look upon the woman yonder,” pointing toward Lenore
with such a look of hatred upon his face that he was absolutely
repulsive--“as--as--”

He never finished. With one mad bound Cyril Fayne darted forward, but
before he could lay his hands upon Van Alstyne the senator fell limply
to the floor, stricken down by apoplexy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Society rallied about Lenore, and did all in its power to make amends
for what had occurred--all but Bessie Vernon, who refused stubbornly to
acknowledge Lenore as an acquaintance. Rosamond Raleigh was very ill
with brain fever, and in her delirium the burden of her cry was ever:

“Take her away--take her away! She is painting my ball-dress with her
heart’s blood!”

And as time passed it began to be currently reported that the proud
Miss Raleigh would never again recover the full use of her mental
faculties. Old Arbuthnot appeared fairly infatuated, and hovered about
the Raleigh mansion like an unquiet spirit. Presents of rare flowers,
costly wines and dainty luxuries found their way daily to the Raleigh
mansion, and were duly huddled into an anteroom out of Rosamond’s
sight. It was a case of real affection upon the part of the railroad
king, which brought tears of regret to Mrs. Raleigh’s eyes--regret
because of the fear which possessed her that Rosamond would never be in
a mental condition to accept Arbuthnot and his millions.

In the meantime Jack Lyndon did the coldly polite and courteous
lover, calling once a day with punctilious courtesy to inquire after
Rosamond’s health; but though he was told that in her delirium she
called him to come to her, and although her mother hinted that a sight
of him would please the sick girl, he made no effort to see her.

He looked as he felt--a disappointed man, a man who has risked all upon
one venture and lost.

Lillian kept her own room continually; but she felt it her duty to
offer to help nurse Rosamond, so it came about that she was installed
there as assistant to Mrs. Raleigh.

One day that lady requested Lillian to go up to Richard’s room for
a bottle of some particular lotion which had been placed there and
forgotten.

“Run up there, please, Lillian,” urged the now quite urbane
mother-in-law. “You will find the bottle in the closet in the corner
of Rick’s room, near the fire-place. He is not there. The idea of your
shrinking from entering your own husband’s room on an errand! Richard
has gone to see Doctor Thompson. A consultation between a half dozen
physicians is to be held over Rosamond to-morrow, and he has gone to
appoint the hour. Make haste and get the lotion, Lillian; I must not
neglect Rosamond for a moment.”

So Lillian left the room and went reluctantly to that which Richard
Raleigh occupied. The door-bell had been muffled and all noises hushed
on account of the sufferer; so Lillian did not hear the outer door
open, and was not aware of Jack Lyndon’s presence in the house until
she saw him coming swiftly, silently up the staircase straight to
where she stood. It was too late to retreat, so she stood her ground,
greeting him with a cool nod, and answering his questions as to
Rosamond’s state with swift conciseness.

“Jack Lyndon did not murder your father, and he loves you as he loves
his own soul!”

She remembered the words, and her heart almost broke with its burden of
anguish. She turned away, but Jack caught her hand in his own.

“Stay! Just a moment, Lillian--Mrs. Raleigh!” he corrected himself. “I
have never had an opportunity to speak with you before since the late
unpleasant events. Lillian, tell me, why do you hate me so?”

Her eyes met his with a look of terror.

“Hate you? I do not. I never can,” she faltered, and before he could
recover from his surprise she flitted past him, down the long hall to
the room which was occupied by Richard Raleigh. For just a moment she
hesitated before the door, a feeling of intense repugnance creeping
over her. Then she remembered Mrs. Raleigh’s peremptory order; she laid
her hand upon the knob, and opened the door softly, slowly.

The room was vacant. A strange sensation crept over the girl’s heart; a
feeling that something was about to happen.

“What is the matter with me?” she exclaimed, impatiently. “I feel like
a detective on the track of a criminal, and who has nearly hunted him
down!”

Just then her eyes fell upon an object which lay upon Richard’s desk--a
large, roomy escritoire which stood beside a window. It was a pencil,
an odd-looking affair of gold, in a long, flat shape, which terminated
in a snake’s head, with two tiny rubies for eyes.

“Papa’s pencil!” she panted, in a low, horror-stricken voice. “Papa’s
gold pencil, the one that he carried for so many years, and that he
used to say he meant me to have. How came it here? How came it in
Richard Raleigh’s possession?”

She turned it slowly over in her trembling fingers, then she returned
it to the desk.

“He must explain how that pencil came into his possession,” she said,
resolutely. “I will know!”

She moved slowly across the room to the closed door beside the
fire-place and opened it swiftly. Her face was pale with excitement,
and her heart beat fast.

One glance into the interior revealed a large closet in the wall, with
a row of shelves at the back. There was no sign of the bottle for
which she had been sent, and Lillian turned to the shelves and began
to search for it there. Still no sign of its whereabouts. Only a box
remained to be searched--a large box which stood below the row of
shelves. Though much against her will, Lillian at last lifted the lid
and began to glance over the contents.

A suit of men’s clothing rolled into a bundle. Half consciously she
turned it over. It was a plain, dark business suit, but stained with
mud and water, as though the clothing had fallen into a gutter, and,
rolled up inside the bundle, a book, the sight of which made Lillian
cry aloud with mad horror and despair.

“Papa’s book!” she panted, brokenly, “the book for which he went back
to the office that night and never returned--only his dead body all
bruised and blackened from a murderer’s clutches. What does this mean?”

She opened the book swiftly, eagerly. A note fell from its pages--a
note in Richard Raleigh’s handwriting, and signed by his name, begging
Gilbert Leigh not to expose him to the world; acknowledging himself as
a forger and embezzler; but adding that if the truth were known, and
the house of Raleigh & Raleigh should cast him off, he would be ruined
beyond redemption. How came that book in his possession? The awful
question struck to her heart like a blow.

She staggered to her feet, still grasping the book in one trembling
hand; and turning swiftly about, she stood face to face with Richard
Raleigh.

Silence--the dead, unbroken silence of the grave. He stood like one
turned to stone, his dark eyes blazing with a lurid light.

“Richard Raleigh!” her low voice was full of wordless horror, “your
bad, black secret has come to light at last. I am going now to denounce
you. False villain, your hour has come!”

She left the room, carrying the book in her hand. Still Richard Raleigh
never spoke, never moved. When she was gone he started suddenly, like
one aroused from a bad dream. Going over to the door of the room, he
locked it securely.




CHAPTER XXX.

THE END.


At the foot of the stairs Lillian’s strength suddenly gave way, and she
sunk down upon the floor in a huddled heap, in a dead swoon.

Mrs. Raleigh, tired with waiting for her to return, came to search for
her, and found her lying there with that book clasped to her breast,
her eyes closed--no sign of life. She summoned a servant and had the
unconscious girl carried to her own apartment; then she went back
to Rosamond’s side. There was a little change apparent in the sick
girl--it was hoped, for the better.

There was a light step upon the stairs; the door of Rosamond’s room
opened softly. Mrs. Raleigh lifted her heavy eyes and saw Lenore
standing near.

“Auntie, you are quite worn out,” said a sweet, compassionate voice.
“I have come to relieve you. Go and lie down for awhile, and I will do
everything for Rosamond.”

She led the exhausted woman away to another room and made her lie down,
while she bathed the aching brow with Cologne water; then darkening
the windows, she went out and left Mrs. Raleigh just sinking into a
peaceful slumber. Then Lenore went back to Rosamond.

Upstairs in his own room Richard Raleigh stood staring blankly into
vacancy. His face was like marble; all the triumph had left his eyes,
and fear and horror unutterable were in its place. He went over to the
escritoire at last and sunk into a seat before it.

“She means it!” he muttered, fiercely, “she means every word that she
uttered! She will set the bloodhounds of the law upon my track, and I
shall die a horrible death upon the gallows, or drag out an endless
existence in a prison cell. I will not! No, I will circumvent her yet!”

He drew a sheet of paper toward him and wrote upon it these words:

 “I hereby confess that I am the murderer of Gilbert Leigh. He held in
 his possession certain facts in regard to my private affairs which he
 refused to relinquish, and which he declared to be his duty to lay
 before the house of Raleigh & Raleigh. I knew that he would keep his
 word; I knew also that if these facts were to become known I would be
 disgraced and turned adrift. I used every endeavor to induce Leigh to
 give up this book in which his information had all been noted, and to
 give up at the same time his intention of exposing me; but he refused.
 I met him one night not far from his own door, and endeavored to take
 forcible possession of the book, but he fought like a tiger, and in
 the struggle met his death.

 “The very day after his burial, an old man--a stranger in the
 city--came to our office and introduced himself as the only brother of
 Gilbert Leigh, and left in our care his private papers, including his
 will, in which he bequeathed all he possessed to his niece, Lillian.
 That night the old man died suddenly in the street, with heart
 disease. The Raleigh fortune was in peril. Wild speculations had made
 us tremble for our own safety; and my father and I conceived the idea
 of retaining the will and inducing Lillian to become my wife; after
 which I believed it an easy matter to get her to sign her property
 over to me as her lawful guardian; then I could rescue the tottering
 house of Raleigh. The fortune, which belongs by right to Lillian Leigh
 Raleigh, is estimated at over a million. She has become my wife, but
 she hates me and loves Jack Lyndon. I confess that I separated these
 two by false representations. He was led to believe her false; she
 was made to believe that in a quarrel with her father Jack Lyndon had
 killed him. I threatened to hand him over to the authorities unless
 she consented to marry me. But she repudiated me after the marriage,
 and declared that she had sacrificed herself to save the man she
 loved. I swear that this is a full and true confession, so help me God!

                                                 “RICHARD RALEIGH.”

Silence in the room--utter silence as the last words are traced.
Richard Raleigh’s face was like marble, and his eyes wore a hunted,
desperate look. He opened a drawer in the escritoire and took from it
a small leather case; it contained two revolvers--one was empty, the
other loaded. He removed the latter from its crimson velvet bed and
passed his hand lightly over it, a cynical expression upon his face.

“Six shots,” he muttered, sharply; “six chances of emigration to
another world!”

His lip curled scornfully; he threw his handsome head back with a
gesture of disdain.

“Bah! what do I fear?” he cried, contemptuously. “What is it that
Bulwer says:

    “‘Fear life--not death;
      To whatever bourne my breath is borne, the way is easy now; for life,
      Like a pagan sacrifice, leads us on to the great high priest with the
          knife.
      Bitter? I dare not be bitter in the few last hours left to live--
      Needing so much forgiveness, God grant me at least to forgive!
      And there’ll be no space for the ghost of her face
      Down in that narrow room--
      And the mole is blind, and the worm is mute--
      And there _must_ be rest in the tomb!’

Farewell, dear world!” he cried, sarcastically. “I am going to another,
and, let us hope, a better one! Hush! I hear the sound of footsteps
upon the stairs. Come, my friend; the hour draws nigh. The officers!
the officers!” he cried, starting up. “But I shall escape them!” he
added, sinking slowly back into his seat once more.

The revolver was pressed against his temple; the footsteps came
nearer--nearer; they halt at the door of his chamber, and then a
loud rap resounded throughout the house--a rap which was followed by
a startling report. Richard’s fingers closed over the weapon in his
grasp; he pulled the trigger.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Rosamond’s sick-room, whither she has returned, his mother hears the
ominous report. Pale and trembling, she stands for a moment, then she
dashes open the door, only to find herself confronted by her husband.
Grafton Raleigh looks like a ghost as he grasps her hand and leads her
into an adjoining room.

“Be brave!” he moans, “for an awful calamity has come upon us!”

And then with many pauses, and between her sobs and broken cries, he
tells her the story--the whole ghastly story of how her only son has
died.

The sound of footsteps upon the stairs had not been the footsteps of
the officers come to drag him away, but some of Richard’s own boon
companions who had come in haste to consult him upon some matter of
importance to them.

The ghastly remains of Richard Raleigh were buried away out of sight,
and poor Lillian, having placed her affairs, together with his dying
confession, in the hands of a competent lawyer, was soon installed
heiress to her uncle’s fortune. Through her agency the affairs of the
Raleighs were set straight, and no one knew how nearly they had come to
ruin.

Rosamond recovered--a pale wreck. The first thing that she did was to
send for Jack Lyndon and give him his freedom. She afterward married
old Arbuthnot, and although she will never entirely recover her mental
equilibrium, she leads society in her city to-day. For brain is not a
requisite for the average leader of fashion.

Lenore and Cyril live in a handsome house in the most aristocratic
quarter of the city, and are so very happy that they are learning to
forget the sad past.

Bessie Vernon eloped with Charlie Stuart soon after the return of
Lenore to America--even at the very time that she was refusing to
acknowledge Lenore as a friend.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Jack, Jack! look up and say that you forgive me for ever harboring
such a dreadful suspicion against you.”

The journalist lifted his head from the writing with which he was
busily engaged, and saw standing before him a slim, black-robed figure.
Perhaps he thought of another interview which once took place in the
office of the “Thunderer” as he arose and stood before Lillian, pale
and still.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she cried; “but say that you forgive me;
for oh, Jack, you do not know how I have suffered!”

“I forgive you! Of course I could not do otherwise!” he returned,
gravely. “You were under the influence of a wicked man, and--”

“You do care a little for me still, don’t you, Jack?” all pride
thrown to the winds now, and her two hands clasping his. She knows
his stubborn pride--the pride which will not give way an inch; and
she knows that never for one moment does he forget the difference
between the poor journalist and the heiress to a million. But Lillian
is determined to have no more misunderstandings, so she clings to his
hands and looks straight into his eyes.

“Jack, you asked me once to be your wife. I--I have never cared for any
one but you! If you--would--ask me again!”

He stoops and gathers her close to his heart, and their eyes meet in a
look of deathless affection--perfect trust.

“Dear love!” he whispers, softly--“the one love of my life!”


THE END.




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 November, 1901.

THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.

POCKET EDITION.

AUTHORS’ CATALOGUE.

_Books marked thus * are at present in Alligator covers._

[_When ordering by mail please order by numbers._]


E. About.

   No.                             Title                              Pages

  1467* A New Lease of Life                                             264


Amedee Achard.

  2196  The Royal Chase                                                 334


Mrs. Leith Adams.

  1345  Aunt Hepsy’s Foundling                                          294


Author of “Addie’s Husband.”

   388  Addie’s Husband; or, Through Clouds to Sunshine
   504  My Poor Wife
  1046  Jessie                                                          167


Author of “A Fatal Dower.”

  372  Phyllis’s Probation


Author of “A Golden Bar.”

  483* Betwixt My Love and Me                                          178


Author of “A Great Mistake.”

   588  Cherry
  1040  Clarissa’s Ordeal                                               385
  1137  Prince Charming                                                 199
  1187  Suzanne                                                         227
  2055  A Great Mistake                                                 384


Author of “For Mother’s Sake.”

  1900  Leonie; or, The Sweet Street Singer of New York                 287


Hamilton Aide.

  383* Introduced to Society


Albert W. Aiken.

  1899  Injun Paul; or, The Prairie Cat. Illustrated


George L. Aikin

  1901  Bob O’Link


Gustave Almard.

  1341  The Trappers of Arkansas
  1396  The Adventurers
  1398  Pirates of the Prairies
  1400  Queen of the Savannah
  1401  The Buccaneer Chief
  1402  The Smuggler Hero
  1404  The Rebel Chief
  1650  The Trail-Hunter
  1653  The Pearl of the Andes
  1672  The Insurgent Chief
  1688  The Trapper’s Daughter
  1690  The Tiger-Slayer
  1692  Border Rifles
  1700  The Flying Horseman
  1701  The Freebooters
  1714  The White Scalper
  1723  The Guide of the Desert
  1732  Last of the Aucas
  1734  Missouri Outlaws
  1736  Prairie Flower
  1740  Indian Scout
  1741  Stronghand
  1742  Bee-Hunters
  1744  Stoneheart
  1748  The Gold-Seekers
  1752  Indian Chief
  1756  Red Track
  1761  The Treasure of Pearls
  1768  Red River Half-Breed


F. M. Allen.

  2211  Through Green Glasses


Grant Allen.

   712  For Maimie’s Sake                                               295
  1221  “The Tents of Shem”                                             292
  1783  The Great Taboo                                                 223
  1870* What’s Bred in the Bone                                         292
  1008* Dumaresq’s Daughter                                             296
  2017  Miss Cayley’s Adventures                                        197
  2022* Duchess of Powysland


Mrs. Alexander.

     5  The Admiral’s Ward                                              419
    17  The Wooing O’t                                                  392
    62  The Executor                                                    473
   189  Valerie’s Fate
   229  Maid, Wife, or Widow?
   286  Which Shall it Be?                                              346
   339  Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid
   490  A Second Life                                                   390
   564  At Bay                                                          178
   794  Beaton’s Bargain                                                205
   797  Look Before You Leap                                            234
   805  The Freres                                                      630
   806  Her Dearest Foe                                                 473
   814  The Heritage of Langdale                                        391
   815  Ralph Wilton’s Weird
   900  By Woman’s Wit                                                  207
   997* Forging the Fetters, and The Australian Aunt                    166
  1054  Mona’s Choice                                                   300
  1057  A Life Interest                                                 431
  1189  A Crooked Path                                                  390
  1199  A False Scent
  1867  Heart Wins                                                      262
  1459  A Woman’s Heart                                                 394
  1571  Blind Fate                                                      335
  2158  What Gold Can Not Buy


Mrs. Alderdice.

  1582  An Interesting Case                                             366


Alison.

  481* The House That Jack Built


Hans Christian Andersen.

  1814  Andersen’s Fairy Tales                                          380


W. P. Andrews.

  1172* India and Her Neighbors                                         285


F. Anstey.

   59  Vice Versâ                                                      221
  225  The Giant’s Robe                                                280
  503  The Tinted Venus. A Farcical Romance
  819  A Fallen Idol                                                   228
  616  The Black Poodle, and Other Tales                               239


G. W. Appleton.

  1346  A Terrible Legacy                                               304
  2004  Frozen Hearts


Sir Edwin Arnold.

  960  The Light of Asia


Edwin Lester Arnold.

  685  The Wonderful Adventures of Phra the Phœnician                  347


T. S. Arthur.

  1337* Woman’s Trials                                                  216
  1636  The Two Wives                                                   184
  1688* Married Life                                                    214
  1640  Ways of Providence                                              215
  1641* Home Scenes                                                     216
  1644* Stories for Parents                                             215
  1649* Seed-Time and Harvest                                           216
  1652* Words for the Wise                                              215
  1654* Stories for Young Housekeepers                                  212
  1657* Lessons In Life                                                 215
  1658* Off-Hand Sketches                                               216
  1660  The Tried and the Tempted                                       212
  2164  Ten Nights in a Bar-room and What I Saw There


Sir Samuel W. Baker.

   267  Rifle and Hound in Ceylon
   538  Eight Years’ Wanderings in Ceylon                               205
  1502  Cast Up by the Sea                                              410


R. M. Ballantyne.

    89  The Red Eric                                                    178
    95  The Fire Brigade                                                170
    96  Erling the Bold                                                 184
   772  Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader                                259
  1514  Deep Down                                                       420


Honore De Balzac.

   776  Père Goriot                                                     212
  1128  Cousin Pons                                                     297
  1318  The Vendetta                                                    254
  2189  Shorter Stories                                                 186
  2231  The Chouans                                                     290


S. Baring-Gould.

   787  Court Royal                                                     406
   878  Little Tu’penny
  1122* Eve                                                             283
  1201* Mehalah: A Story of the Salt Marshes                            270
  1697* Red Spider                                                      222
  1711  The Pennycomequicke                                             448
  1763  John Herring                                                    445
  1779* Armiuell                                                        519
  1821* Urith                                                           438


Frank Barrett.

   986  The Great Hesper
  1138  A Recoiling Vengeance
  1245* Fettered for Life                                               313
  1461  Smuggler’s Secret
  1611  Between Life and Death                                          292
  1750  Lieutenant Barnabas                                             292


J. M. Barrie.

  1896  My Lady Nicotine                                                206
  1977  Better Dead
  2099  Auld Licht Idylls
  2100  A Window in Thrums
  2101  When a Man’s Single                                             162
  2167  A Tillyloss Scandal                                             164


  Basil.

   344* “The Wearing of the Green”                                      275
   585* A Drawn Game                                                    304


G. M. Bayne.

  1618* Galaski                                                         237


Anne Beale.

  188  Idonea                                                          239
  199* The Fisher Village


Alexander Begg.

  1605* Wrecks in the Sea of Life                                       348


By the Writer of “Belle’s Letters.”

  2091  Vashti and Esther


E. B. Benjamin.

  1706* Jim, the Parson                                                 244
  1720* Our Roman Palace                                                360


A. Benrimo.

  1624* Vic


E. F. Benson.

  2105  Dodo                                                            213


E. Berger.

  1646  Charles Auchester                                               333


E. Berthel.

  1589* The Sergeant’s Legacy                                           342


Walter Besant.

    97  All in a Garden Fair                                            271
   137  Uncle Jack
   140  A Glorious Fortune
   146* Love Finds the Way, and Other Stories. By Besant and Rice
   230  Dorothy Forster                                                 283
   324  In Luck at Last
   541  Uncle Jack
   651* “Self or Bearer”
   882  Children of Gibeon                                              459
   904  The Holy Rose
   906  The World Went Very Well Then                                   366
   980  To Call Her Mine                                                164
  1055  Katharine Regina
  1065* Herr Paulus: His Rise, His Greatness, and His Fall              278
  1143* The Inner House                                                 183
  1151* For Faith and Freedom                                           356
  1240* The Bell of St. Paul’s                                          352
  1247  The Lament of Dives                                             244
  1378  They Were Married. By Walter Besant and Jas. Rice               189
  1413  Armorel of Lyonesse                                             401
  1462  Let Nothing You Dismay
  1530  When the Ship Comes Home. By Besant and Rice
  1655  The Demoniac                                                    347
  1861  St. Katherine’s by the Tower                                    377


M. Betham-Edwards.

   273  Love and Mirage; or, The Waiting on an Island
   579* The Flower of Doom, and Other Stories
   594* Doctor Jacob                                                    207
  1023* Next of Kin--Wanted                                             220
  1407* The Parting of the Ways                                         390
  1500* Disarmed                                                        203
  1543* For One and the World                                           340
  1627* A Romance of the Wire                                           192


Jeanie Gwynne Bettany.

  1810  A Laggard in Love                                               189


Bjornstjerne Bjornson.

  1385  Arne
  1388  The Happy Boy


William Black.

     1  Yolande                                                         329
     8  Shandon Bells                                                   274
    21  Sunrise: A Story of These Times                                 324
    23  A Princess of Thule                                             334
    39  In Silk Attire                                                  316
    44  Macleod of Dare                                                 294
    49  That Beautiful Wretch                                           215
    50  The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton                             372
    70  White Wings: A Yachting Romance                                 261
    78  Madcap Violet                                                   310
    81  A Daughter of Heth                                              336
   124  Three Feathers                                                  328
   125  The Monarch of Mincing Lane                                     271
   126  Killmeny                                                        240
   138  Green Pastures and Piccadilly                                   391
   265  Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and Other Adventures       260
   472  The Wise Women of Inverness
   627  White Heather                                                   337
   898  Romeo and Juliet: A Tale of Two Young Fools                     162
   962  Sabina Zembra                                                   454
  1096  The Strange Adventures of a House-Boat                          335
  1132  In Far Lochaber                                                 287
  1227  The Penance of John Logan
  1259 Nanciebel: A Tale of Stratford-on-Avon
  1268 Prince Fortunatus                                                421
  1389 Oliver Goldsmith
  1394 The Four Macnicols, and Other Tales
  1426 An Adventure in Thule
  1505 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart
  1506 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M. P.
  1725 Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!                                       408
  1892 Donald Ross of Heimra                                            367


R. D. Blackmore.

    67  Lorna Doone                                                     454
   427  The Remarkable History of Sir Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P.       210
   615  Mary Anerley                                                    488
   625  Erema; or, My Father’s Sin                                      396
   629  Cripps, the Carrier                                             333
   630  Cradock Nowell                                                  568
   631  Christowell                                                     458
   632  Clara Vaughan                                                   489
   633  The Maid of Sker                                                507
   636  Alice Lorraine                                                  494
   926  Springhaven
  1267  Kit and Kitty                                                   419


Isa Blagden.

  705  The Woman I Loved, and the Woman Who Loved Me


Edgar Janes Bliss.

  2102  The Peril of Oliver Sargent                                     177


Frederick Boyle.

  356* A Good Hater                                                    244


Miss M. E. Braddon.

    35  Lady Audley’s Secret                                            279
    56  Phantom Fortune                                                 464
    74  Aurora Floyd                                                    333
   110  Under the Red Flag
   153  The Golden Calf                                                 297
   204  Vixen                                                           328
   211  The Octoroon                                                    160
   234  Barbara; or, Splendid Misery                                    256
   263  An Ishmaelite                                                   338
   315  The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884.
        Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon                                    197
   434  Wyllard’s Weird                                                 312
   478  Diavola                                                         233
   480  Married in Haste. Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon                  240
   487  Put to the Test. Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon                   365
   488  Joshua Haggard’s Daughter                                       438
   489  Rupert Godwin                                                   369
   495  Mount Royal                                                     431
   496  Only a Woman. Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon                      390
   497  The Lady’s Mile                                                 425
   498  Only a Clod                                                     403
   499  The Cloven Foot                                                 416
   511  A Strange World                                                 429
   515  Sir Jasper’s Tenant                                             416
   524  Strangers and Pilgrims                                          473
   529  The Doctor’s Wife                                               431
   542  Fenton’s Quest                                                  240
   544  Cut by the County; or, Grace Darnel                             163
   548  A Fatal Marriage, and The Shadow in the Corner
   549  Dudley Carleon; or, The Brother’s Secret,
        and George Caulfield’s Journey
   552  Hostages to Fortune                                             409
   553  Birds of Prey                                                   414
   554  Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Sequel to “Birds of Prey”)            397
   557  To the Bitter End                                               459
   559  Taken at the Flood                                              490
   560  Asphodel                                                        468
   561  Just as I am; or, A Living Lie                                  437
   567  Dead Men’s Shoes                                                459
   570  John Marchmont’s Legacy                                         498
   618  The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1885.
        Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon                                    257
   840* One Thing Needful; or, The Penalty of Fate                      281
   881  Mohawks                                                         515
   890* The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1886.
        Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon                                    252
   943  Weavers and Weft; or, “Love that Hath Us in His Net”            206
   947  Publicans and Sinners; or, Lucius Davoren
  1036  Like and Unlike                                                 402
  1098  The Fatal Three                                                 357
  1211  The Day Will Come                                               415
  1411  Whose Was the Hand?                                             377
  1664* Dead Sea Fruit                                                  348
  1893  The World, Flesh and the Devil                                  472
  1933  Nobody’s Daughter. Sequel to “Diavola”                          265


Annie Bradshaw.

  706* A Crimson Stain


Charlotte M. Braeme, Author of “Dora Thorne.”

    19  Her Mother’s Sin; or, A Bright Wedding Day                      174
    51  Dora Thorne                                                     320
    54  A Broken Wedding-Ring                                           336
    68  A Queen Amongst Women
    69  Madolin’s Lover; or, The Love that Lived                        329
    78  Redeemed by Love; or, Love’s Victory; or, Love Works Wonders    240
    76  Wife in Name Only; or, A Broken Heart                           287
    79  Wedded and Parted
    92  Lord Lynne’s Choice                                             197
   148  Thorns and Orange-Blossoms                                      319
   151  The Ducie Diamonds
   155  Lady Muriel’s Secret                                            185
   156  “For a Dream’s Sake”                                            189
   174  Under a Ban                                                     270
   190  Romance of a Black Veil                                         160
   194  “So Near, and Yet So Far!”
   220  Which Loved Him Best? or, Two Fair Women                        184
   237  Repented at Leisure                                             283
   244  A Great Mistake                                                 384
   246  A Fatal Dower                                                   249
   249  “Prince Charlie’s Daughter;” or, The Cost of Her Love           191
   250  Sunshine and Roses; or, Diana’s Discipline                      244
   254  The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but False
   273  For Life and Love
   283  The Sin of a Lifetime; or, Vivien’s Atonement                   201
   285  The Gambler’s Wife                                              309
   291  Love’s Warfare                                                  181
   292  A Golden Heart                                                  184
   296  A Rose in Thorns                                                183
   299  The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride from the Sea
   300  A Gilded Sin
   303  Ingledew House, and More Bitter than Death
   304  In Cupid’s Net
   305  A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwendoline’s Dream
   306  A Golden Dawn, and Lover for a Day
   307  Two Kisses, and Like no Other Love
   308  Beyond Pardon                                                   268
   322  A Woman’s Love-Story                                            173
   328  A Willful Maid                                                  210
   335  The White Witch                                                 294
   352  At Any Cost
   411  A Bitter Atonement                                              290
   430  A Bitter Reckoning
   433  My Sister Kate
   459  A Woman’s Temptation                                            277
   460  Under a Shadow                                                  245
   461  His Wedded Wife                                                 300
   465  The Earl’s Atonement                                            254
   466  Between Two Loves                                               220
   467  A Struggle for a Ring                                           245
   469  Lady Damer’s Secret                                             256
   470  Evelyn’s Folly                                                  268
   471  Thrown on the World                                             223
   476  Between Two Sins; or, Married in Haste
   516  Put Asunder; or, Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce                     261
   518  The Hidden Sin                                                  312
   519  James Gordon’s Wife                                             272
   547  A Coquette’s Conquest                                           304
   576  Her Martyrdom                                                   289
   626  A Fair Mystery; or, The Perils of Beauty                        456
   628  Wedded Hands                                                    358
   677  Griselda                                                        234
   741  The Heiress of Hilldrop; or, The Romance of a Young Girl        285
   745  For Another’s Sin; or, A Struggle for Love                      313
   755  Margery Dew                                                     226
   759  In Shallow Waters                                               202
   778  Society’s Verdict                                               319
   792  Set in Diamonds                                                 277
   807  If Love Be Love                                                 257
   821  The World Between Them                                          368
   822  A Passion Flower                                                352
   829  The Actor’s Ward                                                315
   853  A True Magdalen; or, One False Step                             364
   854  A Woman’s Error                                                 286
   908  A Willful Young Woman                                           283
   922  Marjorie                                                        346
   923  At War With Herself                                             258
   924  ’Twixt Smile and Tear                                           391
   927  Sweet Cymbeline                                                 358
   928  The False Vow; or, Hilda; or, Lady Hutton’s Ward                261
   928  Hilda; or, The False Vow; or, Lady Hutton’s Ward                261
   929  The Belle of Lynn; or, The Miller’s Daughter                    263
   931  Lady Diana’s Pride; or, One Against Many                        177
   933  A Hidden Terror                                                 264
   948  The Shadow of a Sin                                             217
   949  Claribel’s Love Story; or, Love’s Hidden Depths                 296
   952  A Woman’s War                                                   319
   953  Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Marriage Vow                            312
   955  From Gloom to Sunlight; or, From Out the Gloom                  328
   958  A Haunted Life; or, Her Terrible Sin                            288
   964  A Struggle for the Right                                        245
   967  Bonnie Doon
   968  Blossom and Fruit; or, Madame’s Ward                            313
   969  The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, Not Proven                       269
   973  The Squire’s Darling                                            160
   975  A Dark Marriage Morn                                            311
   978  Her Second Love                                                 198
   982  The Duke’s Secret                                               335
   985  On Her Wedding Morn, and The Mystery of the Holly-Tree          178
   988  The Shattered Idol, and Letty Leigh                             191
   990  The Earl’s Error, and Arnold’s Promise
   995  An Unnatural Bondage, and That Beautiful Lady                   164
  1006  His Wife’s Judgment                                             302
  1008  A Thorn in Her Heart                                            256
  1010  Golden Gates                                                    256
  1012  A Nameless Sin                                                  229
  1014  A Mad Love                                                      270
  1031  Irene’s Vow                                                     265
  1052  Signa’s Sweetheart                                              361
  1091  A Modern Cinderella
  1134  Lord Elesmere’s Wife                                            401
  1155  Lured Away; or, The Story of a Wedding-Ring,
        and The Heiress of Arne                                         160
  1179  Beauty’s Marriage
  1185  A Fiery Ordeal                                                  206
  1186  Guelda                                                          219
  1195  Dumaresq’s Temptation                                           324
  1285  Jenny                                                           187
  1291  The Star of Love                                                212
  1328  Lord Lisle’s Daughter
  1338  A Woman’s Vengeance                                             215
  1343  Dream Faces                                                     296
  1373  The Story of an Error                                           299
  1415  Weaker than a Woman                                             289
  1444  The Queen of the County                                         386
  1628  Love Works Wonders; or, Love’s Victory; or, Redeemed by Love    270
  1951  The Mystery of Woodleigh Grange
  2010  Her Only Sin
  2011  A Fatal Wedding                                                 160
  2012  A Bright Wedding-Day; or, Her Mother’s Sin                      174
  2013  One Against Many; or, Lady Diana’s Pride                        177
  2014  One False Step; or, A True Magdalen                             361
  2015  Two Fair Women; or, Which Loved Him Best?                       184
  2053  The Love that Lived; or, Madolin’s Lover                        329
  2068  Lady Latimer’s Escape                                           236
  2188  His Perfect Trust                                               338


Fredrika Bremer.

  187  The Midnight Sun


Charlotte Bronte.

   15  Jane Eyre                                                       337
   57  Shirley                                                         405
  944  The Professor                                                   228


Rhoda Broughton.

    86  Belinda                                                         261
   101  Second Thoughts                                                 253
   227  Nancy                                                           234
   645  Mrs. Smith of Longmains
   758  “Good-bye, Sweetheart!”                                         344
   765  Not Wisely, But Too Well                                        314
   767  Joan                                                            362
   768  Red as a Rose is She                                            355
   769  Cometh Up as a Flower                                           278
   862  Betty’s Visions
   894  Doctor Cupid                                                    319
  1599  Alas!                                                           387


Louise de Bruneval.

  1686* Sœur Louise                                                     175


Robert Buchanan.

   145  “Storm-Beaten:” God and The Man                                 208
   154* Annan Water                                                     197
   181* The New Abelard                                                 176
   268  The Martyrdom of Madeline
   398* Matt
   468* The Shadow of the Sword                                         282
   646* The Master of the Mine                                          189
   892  That Winter Night; or, Love’s Victory
  1074* Stormy Waters                                                   238
  1104* The Heir of Linne                                               185
  1350  Love Me Forever
  1455* The Moment After


Frank T. Bullen.

  2008  The Cruise of the “Catchalot”                                   258


John Bunyan.

  1498  The Pilgrim’s Progress. Illustrated                             307


Captain Fred Burnaby.

  330* “Our Radicals”
  375  A Ride to Khiva                                                 173
  384  On Horseback Through Asia Minor                                 290


Aaron Ainsworth Burr.

  951  Zo, A Perfect Woman


John Bloundelle-Burton.

  918  The Silent Shore; or, The Mystery of St. James’ Park


Beatrice M. Butt.

  1354* Dellcia                                                         189


E. Lasseter Bynner.

  1456* Nimport                                                         494
  1460* Tritons                                                         406


Lord Byron.

  719  Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage                                      163


E. Fairfax Byrrne.

  521* Entangled                                                       251
  538  A Fair Country Maid                                             263


Mrs. Caddy.

  127* Adrian Bright                                                   400


Hall Caine.

   445  The Shadow of a Crime                                           242
   520  She’s All the World to Me
  1234  The Deemster                                                    343
  1255  The Bondman                                                     357
  2079  A Son of Hagar                                                  354


Mona Caird.

  1699* The Wing of Azrael                                              305


Ada Cambridge.

  1583  A Marked Man                                                    355
  1967  My Guardian                                                     250
  2139  The Three Miss Kings                                            338


Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron.

   595  A North Country Main                                            277
   796  In a Grass Country                                              301
   891* Vera Nevill; or, Poor Wisdom’s Chance                           306
   912  Pure Gold                                                       401
   963  Worth Winning                                                   222
  1025  Daisy’s Dilemma
  1028  A Devout Lover; or, A Wasted Love                               271
  1070  A Life’s Mistake                                                176
  1204  The Lodge by the Sea                                            170
  1205  A Lost Wife                                                     179
  1236  Her Father’s Daughter                                           256
  1261  Wild George’s Daughter                                          178
  1290  The Cost of a Lie                                               178
  1292  Bosky Dell                                                      250
  1782* A Dead Past                                                     318
  1819* Neck or Nothing


Lady Colin Campbell.

  1325* Darell Blake                                                    274


Rosa Nouchette Carey.

   215  Not Like Other Girls                                            320
   396  Robert Ord’s Atonement                                          376
   551  Barbara Heathcote’s Trial                                       538
   608  For Lilias                                                      399
   930  Uncle Max                                                       430
   932  Queenie’s Whim                                                  436
   934  Wooed and Married                                               496
   936  Nellie’s Memories                                               546
   961  Wee Wifie                                                       350
  1033  Esther: A Story for Girls                                       194
  1064  Only the Governess                                              323
  1135  Aunt Diana                                                      177
  1194  The Search for Basil Lyndhurst                                  468
  1208  Merle’s Crusade                                                 226
  1545  Lover or Friend?                                                487
  1879  Mary St. John                                                   407
  1965  Averil                                                          217
  1966  Our Bessie                                                      244
  1968  Heriot’s Choice                                                 440


Capt. L. C. Carleton.

  1902  The Man of Death
  1907  Eagle Eyes, the Scout
  1910  The Trapper’s Retreat
  1911  The Wild Man of the Woods. Illustrated


William Carleton.

  1493  Willy Reilly                                                    458
  1552  Shane Fadh’s Wedding
  1553  Larry McFarland’s Wake
  1554  The Party Fight and Funeral
  1556  The Midnight Mass
  1557  Phil Purcel
  1558  An Irish Oath
  1560  Going to Maynooth
  1561  Phelim O’Toole’s Courtship
  1562  Dominick, the Poor Scholar
  1564  Neal Malone


“Carolus.”

  2210  The Story of L’Aiglon


Alice Comyne Carr.

  571* Paul Crew’s Story


Lewis Carroll.

  462  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Illustrated by John Tenniel   189
  789  Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There.
       Illustrated by John Tenniel                                     230


Cervantes.

  1576  Don Quixote                                                     635


L. W. Champuey.

  1468* Bourbon Lilies                                                  388


Erckmann-Chatrian.

  329  The Bells; or, The Polish Jew.
       (Translated from the French by Caroline A. Merighi)


Victor Cherbuliez.

  1516* Samuel Brohl & Co.                                              222


Mary Cholmondeley.

  2217  The Danvers Jewels


Mrs. C. M. Clarke.

  1801* More True than Truthful                                         232


W. M. Clemens.

  1544  Famous Funny Fellows                                            214


Captain Clewline.

  1912  The Boy Whalers
  1913  The Island Demon


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   546  Mrs. Keith’s Crime                                              172
  2104  Love Letters of a Worldly Woman


Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.

  1949  The Queen’s Revenge
  1950  Ivan, the Serf


J. Maclaren Cobban.

   485* Tinted Vapours
  1279* Master of His Fate                                              193
  1511* A Reverend Gentleman                                            320


John Coleman.

  504  Curly: An Actor’s Story


C. R. Coleridge.

   403* An English Squire                                               266
  1689* A Near Relation                                                 265


Beatrice Collensie.

  1352* A Double Marriage                                               267


Mabel Collins.

   749  Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter                                       324
   828  The Prettiest Woman in Warsaw                                   288
  1463 Ida: An Adventure in Morocco


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    52  The New Magdalen                                                234
   102  The Moonstone                                                   352
   167  Heart and Science                                               250
   168  No Thoroughfare. By Dickens and Collins
   175  Love’s Random Shot, and Other Stories
   233  “I Say No;” or, The Love-Letter Answered                        237
   508  The Girl at the Gate
   591  The Queen of Hearts                                             366
   613  The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy and the Prophet
   623  My Lady’s Money                                                 167
   701  The Woman in White                                              628
   702  Man and Wife                                                    614
   764  The Evil Genius                                                 300
   896  The Guilty River
   946  The Dead Secret                                                 348
   977  The Haunted Hotel                                               197
  1029  Armadale                                                        676
  1095  The Legacy of Cain                                              281
  1119  No Name                                                         623
  1269  Blind Love                                                      313
  1347  A Rogue’s Life                                                  188
  1608  Tales of Two Idle Apprentices. By Dickens and Collins


M. J. Colquhoun.

   624* Primus in Indis                                                 162
  1469* Every Inch a Soldier                                            286


Lucy Randall Comfort.

  2072  For Marjorie’s Sake                                             198


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   240  Called Back
   251* The Daughter of the Stars, and Other Tales
   301  Dark Days                                                       197
   302* The Blatchford Bequest
   341* A Dead Man’s Face
   502* Carriston’s Gift
   525  Paul Vargas, and Other Stories
   543  A Family Affair                                                 206
   601* Slings and Arrows, and Other Stories
   711  A Cardinal Sin                                                  351
   804  Living or Dead                                                  279
   830  Bound by a Spell                                                169
  1353  All In One                                                      206
  1684* Story of a Sculptor
  1722* Somebody’s Story


Ralph Connor.

  2209  Black Rock


Edward H. Cooper.

  2182  The Marchioness Against the County                              205


J. Fenimore Cooper.

  60  The Last of the Mohicans                                        346
  63  The Spy                                                         278


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  51 A Fiery Ordeal                               Charlotte M. Braeme
  52 Between Two Loves                            Charlotte M. Braeme
  53 Beyond Pardon                                Charlotte M. Braeme
  54 A Bitter Atonement                           Charlotte M. Braeme
  55 A Broken Wedding-Ring                        Charlotte M. Braeme
  56 Dora Thorne                                  Charlotte M. Braeme
  57 The Earl’s Atonement                         Charlotte M. Braeme
  58 Evelyn’s Folly                               Charlotte M. Braeme
  59 A Golden Heart                               Charlotte M. Braeme
  60 Her Martyrdom                                Charlotte M. Braeme
  61 Her Second Love                              Charlotte M. Braeme
  62 Lady Damer’s Secret                          Charlotte M. Braeme
  63 Lady Hutton’s Ward                           Charlotte M. Braeme
  64 Lord Lisle’s Daughter                        Charlotte M. Braeme
  65 A Study in Scarlet                           A. Conan Doyle
  66 Lord Lynne’s Choice                          Charlotte M. Braeme
  67 Love Works Wonders                           Charlotte M. Braeme
  68 Prince Charlie’s Daughter                    Charlotte M. Braeme
  69 Put Asunder; or, Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce  Charlotte M. Braeme
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  73 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms                   Charlotte M. Braeme
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  75 Under-Currents                               “The Duchess”
  76 A Born Coquette                              “The Duchess”
  77 Under a Shadow                               Charlotte M. Braeme
  78 Weaker Than a Woman                          Charlotte M. Braeme
  79 Wedded and Parted                            Charlotte M. Braeme
  80 Which Loved Him Best?                        Charlotte M. Braeme
  81 Wife in Name Only                            Charlotte M. Braeme
  82 A Woman’s Temptation                         Charlotte M. Braeme
  83 A Queen Amongst Women                        Charlotte M. Braeme
  84 Madolin’s Lover                              Charlotte M. Braeme
  85 Only the Governess                           Rosa N. Carey
  86 Camille                                      Alexander Dumas
  87 The Sin of a Lifetime                        Charlotte M. Braeme
  88 Love’s Warfare                               Charlotte M. Braeme
  89 ’Twixt Smile and Tear                        Charlotte M. Braeme
  90 Sweet Cymbeline                              Charlotte M. Braeme
  91 April’s Lady                                 “The Duchess”
  92 Vendetta!                                    Marie Corelli
  93 The Squire’s Darling                         Charlotte M. Braeme
  94 The Gambler’s Wife                           Charlotte M. Braeme
  95 A Fatal Dower                                Charlotte M. Braeme
  96 Her Mother’s Sin                             Charlotte M. Braeme
  97 Romance of a Black Veil                      Charlotte M. Braeme
  98 A Rose in Thorns                             Charlotte M. Braeme
  99 Lord Elesmere’s Wife                         Charlotte M. Braeme
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  101 The Kreutzer Sonata                         Count Lyof Tolstoi
  102 Anna Karénine                               Count Lyof Tolstoi
  103 The Mystery of Woodleigh Grange             Charlotte M. Braeme
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  105 His Word of Honor;
          or, What the Spring Brought             E. Werner
  106 She Fell in Love With Her Husband;
          or, “Good Luck;”
          or, Success, and How He Won It          E. Werner
  107 Ivan, the Serf                              Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
  108 The Queen’s Revenge                         Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
  109 The Price He Paid                           E. Werner
  110 The Master of Ettersberg                    E. Werner
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  112 The Homestead on the Hillside               Mary J. Holmes
  113 The English Orphans                         Mary J. Holmes
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  116 The Drums of the Fore and Aft               Rudyard Kipling
  117 The Royal Chase                             Amédée Achard
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  119 Inez: A Tale of the Alamo                   Augusta J. Evans
  120 All Aboard!                                 Oliver Optic
  121 Now or Never                                Oliver Optic
  122 Lena Rivers                                 Mary J. Holmes
  123 Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyúm
  124 She Loved Him                               Charles Garvice
  125 In His Steps. “What Would Jesus Do?”        Rev. C. M. Sheldon
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  128 The Hypocrite
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  131 Prisoners and Captives                      Henry S. Merriman
  132 A Parisian Romance                          Octave Feuillet
  133 Carmen: The Power of Love                   Prosper Merimée
  134 Prue and I                                  George Wm. Curtis
  135 The Heiress of Glen Gower                   May Agnes Fleming
  136 Magdalen’s Vow                              May Agnes Fleming
  137 Who Wins?                                   May Agnes Fleming
  138 Lady Evelyn                                 May Agnes Fleming
  139 Estella’s Husband                           May Agnes Fleming
  140 The Baronet’s Bride                         May Agnes Fleming
  141 The Unseen Bridegroom                       May Agnes Fleming
  142 Young Mistley                               Henry S. Merriman
  143 The Sherlock Holmes Detective Stories       A. Conan Doyle
  144 A Girl of the Klondike                      Victoria Cross
  145 Paula. A Sketch from Life                   Victoria Cross
  146 Sappho                                      Alphonse Daudet
  147 Manon Lescant                               L’Abbé Prévost
  148 The Dance of Death                          Jean Corey
  149 A Charity Girl                              Effie A. Rowlands
  150 Husband and Foe                             Effie A. Rowlands
  151 Little Lady Charles                         Effie A. Rowlands
  152 Cast Up by the Tide                         Dora Delmar
  153 The Scent of the Roses                      Dora Delmar
  154 Hearts And Lives                            Wenona Gilman
  155 Blind Dan’s Daughter                        Wenona Gilman
  156 Val, the Tomboy                             Wenona Gilman
  157 My Little Princess                          Wenona Gilman
  158 The Banker’s Daughter                       Magdalen Barrett
  159 The Depth of Love                           Hannah Blomgren
  160 His Legal Wife                              Mary E. Bryan
  161 Lillian’s Vow                               Mrs. E. Burke Collins
  162 Sold for Gold                               Mrs. E. Burke Collins
  163 A Heart of Fire                             Jean Corey
  164 Shadow and Sunshine                         Adna H. Lightner
  165 Lady Gay’s Pride                            Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
  166 Lancaster’s Choice                          Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
  167 Tiger-Lily                                  Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
  168 The Pearl and the Ruby                      Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
  169 Eric Braddon’s Love                         Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
  170 Little Sweetheart                           Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
  171 Flower and Jewel                            Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
  172 Little Nobody                               Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
  173 Under Five Lakes                            M. Quad
  174 Her Second Choice                           Charlotte M. Stanley
  175 His Country Cousin                          Charlotte M. Stanley
  176 Frou-Frou                                   Charlotte M. Stanley
  177 The Little Light-House Lass                 Elizabeth Stiles
  178 The Man She Loved                           Effie A. Rowlands
  179 An Impossible Thing                         Katharine Wynne
  180 Woman, the Mystery                          Henry Herman
  181 Christie Johnstone                          Charles Reade
  182 The Blithedale Romance                      Nathan’l Hawthorne
  183 Through Green Glasses                       F. M. Allen
  184 One Man’s Evil Effie                        A. Rowlands
  185 A Willful Maid                              Charlotte M. Braeme
  186 A Woman’s Love Story                        Charlotte M. Braeme


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Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by
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