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diff --git a/43037-0.txt b/43037-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9719111 --- /dev/null +++ b/43037-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14452 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43037 *** + +CONTENTS + + Guy Kenmore's Wife; or, Her Mother's Secret + Chapter I. + Chapter II. + Chapter III. + Chapter IV. + Chapter V. + Chapter VI. + Chapter VII. + Chapter VIII. + Chapter IX. + Chapter X. + Chapter XI. + Chapter XII. + Chapter XIII. + Chapter XIV. + Chapter XV. + Chapter XVI. + Chapter XVII. + Chapter XVIII. + Chapter XIX. + Chapter XX. + Chapter XXI. + Chapter XXII. + Chapter XXIII. + Chapter XXIV. + Chapter XXV. + Chapter XXVI. + Chapter XXVII. + Chapter XXVIII. + Chapter XXIX. + Chapter XXX. + Chapter XXXI. + Chapter XXXII. + Chapter XXXIII. + Chapter XXXIV. + Chapter XXXV. + Chapter XXXVI. + Chapter XXXVII. + Chapter XXXVIII. + Chapter XXXIX. + Chapter XL. + Chapter XLI. + Chapter XLII. + Chapter XLIII. + Chapter XLIV. + Chapter XLV. + Chapter XLVI. + Chapter XLVII. + Chapter XLVIII. + Chapter XLIX. + Chapter L. + Chapter LI. + Chapter LII. + + The Rose and the Lily; or, Love Wins Love + Chapter I. + Chapter II. + Chapter III. + Chapter IV. + Chapter V. + Chapter VI. + Chapter VII. + Chapter VIII. + Chapter IX. + Chapter X. + Chapter XI. + Chapter XII. + Chapter XIII. + Chapter XIV. + Chapter XV. + Chapter XVI. + Chapter XVII. + Chapter XVIII. + Chapter XIX. + Chapter XX. + Chapter XXI. + Chapter XXII. + Chapter XXIII. + Chapter XXIV. + Chapter XXV. + Chapter XXVI. + Chapter XXVII. + Chapter XXVIII. + + + + + No. 198 (EAGLE SERIES) 10 Cents + +GUY KENMORE'S WIFE + +AND + +THE ROSE AND THE LILY + +[Illustration] + +BY MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER + +STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + + + +THE EAGLE SERIES + +STREET & SMITH, Publishers + +_The Pioneer Line of Ten-Cent Novels, and the Leader_ + +RETAIL PRICE, 10 Cents + + This famous line was the original series of ten-cent books. Its + success was instantaneous. Millions of copies have been sold, and + an increasing demand for the entire series continues. The following + titles are in print, and can be supplied by all newsdealers. + + ..=199--Geoffrey's Victory. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon= + ..=198--Guy Kenmore's Wife, and The Rose and the Lily. By + Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller= + ..197--A Woman Scorned. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + ..196--A Sailor's Sweetheart. By St. George Rathborne. + ..195--Her Faithful Knight. By Gertrude Warden. + ..194--A Sinless Crime. By Geraldine Fleming. + ..193--A Vagabond's Honor. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson. + ..192--An Old Man's Darling, and Jaquelina. By Mrs. Alex. + McVeigh Miller. + ..191--A Harvest of Thorns. By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman. + ..190--A Captain of the Kaiser. By St. George Rathborne. + ..189--Berris. By Katharine S. Macquoid. + ..188--Dorothy Arnold's Escape. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ..187--The Black Ball. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson. + ..186--Beneath a Spell. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + ..185--The Adventures of Miss Volney. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox. + ..184--Sunlight and Gloom. By Geraldine Fleming. + ..183--Quo Vadis. By Henryk Sienkiewicz. + ..182--A Legal Wreck. By William Gillette. + ..181--The Baronet's Bride. By May Agnes Fleming. + ..180--A Lazy Man's Work. By Frances Campbell Sparhawk. + ..179--One Man's Evil. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + ..178--A Slave of Circumstances. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson. + ..177--A True Aristocrat. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ..176--Jack Gordon, Knight Errant. By William C. Hudson + (Barclay North) + ..175--For Honor's Sake. By Laura C. Ford. + ..174--Wild Margaret. By Geraldine Fleming. + ..173--A Bar Sinister. By the Author of Dr. Jack. + ..172--A King and a Coward. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + ..171--That Dakota Girl. By Stella Gilman. + ..170--A Little Radical. By Mrs. J. H. Walworth. + ..169--The Trials of an Actress. By Wenona Gilman. + ..168--Thrice Lost, Thrice Won. By May Agnes Fleming. + ..167--The Manhattaners. By Edward S. Van Zile. + ..166--The Masked Bridal. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ..165--The Road of the Rough. By Maurice M. Minton. + ..164--Couldn't Say No. By the author of Helen's Babies. + ..163--A Splendid Egotist. By Mrs. J. H. Walworth. + ..162--A Man of the Name of John. By Florence King. + ..161--Miss Fairfax of Virginia. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ..160--His Way and Her Will. By Frances Aymar Mathews. + ..159--A Fair Maid of Marblehead. By Kate Tannatt Woods. + ..158--Stella, the Star. By Wenona Gilman. + ..157--Who Wins? By May Agnes Fleming. + ..156--A Soldier Lover. By Edward S. Brooks. + ..155--Nameless Dell. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ..154--Husband and Foe. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + ..153--Her Son's Wife. By Hazel Wood. + ..152--A Mute Confessor. By Will N. Harben. + ..151--The Heiress of Glen Gower. By May Agnes Fleming. + ..150--Sunset Pass. By General Charles King. + ..149--The Man She Loved. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + ..148--Will She Win. By Emma Garrison Jones. + ..147--Under Egyptian Skies. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ..146--Magdalen's Vow. By May Agnes Fleming. + ..145--Country Lanes and City Pavements. By Maurice M. + Minton. + ..144--Dorothy's Jewels. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ..143--A Charity Girl. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + ..142--Her Rescue from the Turks. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ..141--Lady Evelyn. By May Agnes Fleming. + ..140--That Girl of Johnsons'. By Jean Kate Ludlum. + ..139--Little Lady Charles. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + ..138--A Fatal Wooing. By Laura Jean Libbey. + ..137--A Wedded Widow. By T. W. Hanshew. + ..136--The Unseen Bridegroom. By May Agnes Fleming. + ..135--Cast Up by the Tide. By the author of Half a Truth. + ..134--Squire John. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ..133--Max. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ..132--Whose Was the Crime? By Gertrude Warden. + ..131--Nerme's Second Choice. By Adelaide Stirling. + ..130--A Bitter Bondage. By Bertha M. Clay. + ..129--In Sight of St. Paul's. By Sutton Vane. + ..128--The Scent of the Roses. By the author of Half a Truth. + ..127--Nobody's Daughter. By Clara Augusta. + ..126--The Girl from Hong Kong. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ..125--Devil's Island. By A. D. Hall. + ..124--Prettiest of All. By Julia Edwards. + ..123--Northern Lights. By A. D. Hall. + ..122--Grazia's Mistake. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ..121--Cecile's Marriage. By Lucy Randall Comfort. + ..120--The White Squadron. By T. C. Harbaugh. + ..119--An Ideal Love. By Bertha M. Clay. + ..118--Saved From the Sea. By Richard Duffy. + ..117--She Loved Him. By Charles Garvice. + ..116--The Daughter of the Regiment. By Mary A. Denison. + ..115--A Fair Revolutionist. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ..114--Half a Truth. By a popular author. + ..113--A Crushed Lily. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + ..112--The Cattle King. By A. D. Hall. + ..111--Faithful Shirley. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ..110--Whose Wife Is She? By Annie Lisle. + ..109--A Heart's Bitterness. By Bertha M. Clay. + ..108--A Son of Mars. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ..107--Carla; or, Married at Sight. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + ..106--Lilian, My Lilian. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + ..105--When London Sleeps. By Chas. Darrell. + ..104--A Proud Dishonor. By Genie Holzmeyer. + ..103--The Span of Life. By Sutton Vane. + ..102--Fair But Faithless. By Bertha M. Clay. + ..101--A Goddess of Africa. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ..100--Alice Blake. By Francis S. Smith. + ...99--Audrey's Recompense. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ...97--The War Reporter. By Warren Edwards. + ...96--The Little Minister. By J. M. Barrie. + ...95--'Twixt Love and Hate. By Bertha M. Clay. + ...94--Darkest Russia. By H. Grattan Donnelly. + ...93--A Queen of Treachery. By T. W. Hanshew. + ...92--Humanity. By Sutton Vane. + ...91--Sweet Violet. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + ...90--For Fair Virginia. By Russ Whytal. + ...89--A Gentleman From Gascony. By Bicknell Dudley. + ...88--Virgie's Inheritance. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ...87--Shenandoah. By J. Perkins Tracy. + ...85--Lorrie; or Hollow Gold. By Charles Garvice. + ...84--Between Two Hearts. By Bertha M. Clay. + ...83--The Locksmith of Lyons. By Prof. Wm. Henry Peck. + ...82--Captain Impudence. By Edwin Milton Royle. + ...81--Wedded For an Hour. By Emma Garrison Jones. + ...80--The Fair Maid of Fez. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ...79--Marjorie Deane. By Bertha M. Clay. + ...78--The Yankee Champion. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. + ...77--Tina. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ...76--Mavourneen. From the celebrated play. + ...75--Under Fire. By T. P. James. + ...74--The Cotton King. By Sutton Vane. + ...70--In Love's Crucible. By Bertha M. Clay. + ...69--His Perfect Trust. By a popular author. + ...68--The Little Cuban Rebel. By Edna Winfield. + ...66--Witch Hazel. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ...65--Won By the Sword. By J. Perkins Tracy. + ...64--Dora Tenney. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + ...63--Lawyer Bell from Boston. By Robert Lee Tyler. + ...61--La Tosca. By Victorien Sardou. + ...60--The County Fair. By Neil Burgess. + ...59--Gladys Greye. By Bertha M. Clay. + ...57--Rosamond. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + ...56--The Dispatch Bearer. By Warren Edwards. + ...55--Thrice Wedded. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ...54--Cleopatra. By Victorien Sardou. + ...53--The Old Homestead. By Denman Thompson. + ...52--Woman Against Woman. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + ...51--The Price He Paid. By E. Werner. + ...50--Her Ransom. By Charles Garvice. + ...49--None But the Brave. By Robert Lee Tyler. + ...48--Another Man's Wife. By Bertha M. Clay. + ...47--The Colonel By Brevet. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ...46--Off With the Old Love. By Mrs. M. V. Victor. + ...44--That Dowdy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ...41--Her Heart's Desire. By Charles Garvice. + ...38--The Nabob of Singapore. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ...37--The Heart of Virginia. By J. Perkins Tracy. + ...36--Fedora. By Victorien Sardou. + ...35--The Great Mogul. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ...34--Pretty Geraldine. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + ...33--Mrs. Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ...32--The Blockade Runner. By J. Perkins Tracy. + ...31--A Siren's Love. By Robert Lee Tyler. + ...30--Baron Sam. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ...28--Miss Caprice. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ...27--Estelle's Millionaire Lover. By Julia Edwards. + ...26--Captain Tom. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ...25--Little Southern Beauty. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + ...24--A Wasted Love. By Charles Garvice. + ...23--Miss Pauline of New York. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ...22--Elaine. By Charles Garvice. + ...21--A Heart's Idol. By Bertha M. Clay. + ...20--The Senator's Bride. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + ...19--Mr. Lake of Chicago. By Harry DuBois Milman. + ...18--Dr. Jack's Wife. By the author of Dr. Jack. + ...17--Leslie's Loyalty. By Charles Garvice. + ...16--The Fatal Card. By Haddon Chambers and B. C. + Stephenson. + ...15--Dr. Jack. By St. George Rathborne. + ...14--Violet Lisle. By Bertha M. Clay. + ...13--The Little Widow. By Julia Edwards. + ...12--Edrie's Legacy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ...11--The Gypsy's Daughter. By Bertha M. Clay. + ....9--The Virginia Heiress. By May Agnes Fleming. + ....8--Beautiful but Poor. By Julia Edwards. + ....7--Two Keys. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ....5--The Senator's Favorite. Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + ....4--For a Woman's Honor. By Bertha M. Clay. + ....3--He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. By Julia Edwards. + ....2--Ruby's Reward. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + ....1--Queen Bess. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + + + + + Guy Kenmore's Wife + + OR + + HER MOTHER'S SECRET + + BY + + MRS. ALEX. MCVEIGH MILLER + + AUTHOR OF + + "Jaquelina," "An Old Man's Darling," "A Little Southern Beauty," + "The Senator's Bride," etc. + +[Illustration] + + NEW YORK + STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS + 238 WILLIAM STREET + + + + + Copyright, 1883, + By NORMAN L. MUNRO + + Copyright, 1901, + By STREET & SMITH + + + + +GUY KENMORE'S WIFE; + +OR, + +HER MOTHER'S SECRET. + + +By MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + + "The moonlight lay on the garden wall, + And bathed each path in a silver glow; + And over the towers of the grey hall + Its pearly banner was trailing low." + +It was a night of nights. Moonlight--the silvery, mystical, entrancing, +love-breathing, moonlight of exquisite June--fairest daughter of the +year--lay over all the land. The bay--our own beautiful +Chesapeake--shone gloriously in the resplendent light, and rolled its +foam-capped, phosphorescent waves proudly on to the grand Atlantic. + + "Ten thousand stars were in the sky, + Ten thousand in the sea. + + "For every wave with dimpled crest + That leaped upon the air, + Had caught a star in its embrace, + And held it trembling there!" + +A wind from the sea--cool, and salty, and delicious--came up to Bay View +House, and stole in with the moonlight to the lace-draped windows of the +parlor where a crumpled little figure crouched in a forlorn white heap +on the wide, old-fashioned window sill, sobbing desperately through the +plump little hands, in which the girlish face was hidden. + +The spacious parlor with its handsome, old-fashioned furniture, and open +piano, was deserted, and the weeping of the girl echoed forlornly +through the room, and blended strangely with the whispers of the wind, +and the sounds of the sea. + +Old Faith put her grotesque, white-capped head inside the parlor door. + +"Miss Irene, darling, won't you come and take your tea now?" said she, +persuasively. "There's strawberry short-cake, and the reddest +strawberries, and yellowest cream," added she, artfully appealing to the +young lady's well-known epicurean tastes. + +A sharp little voice answered back from the window seat: + +"I won't take a thing, Faith; I mean to starve myself to death!" + +"Oh, fie, my dearie, don't, now," cried Faith. "Come up-stairs, and let +me tuck you in your little white bed, there's a love!" + +"I won't, so there! Go away and leave me alone, Faith," cried the girl, +through her stifled, hysterical sobs. + +Exit Faith. + +The wind stirred the yellow curls on the drooping head, and the +moonlight touched them with fingers of light, bringing out their glints +of gold. The great magnolia tree outside the window shook a gust of +strong, sweet perfume from the large white waxen flowers, and the scent +of June roses and lilacs came up from the old-fashioned garden. But the +sweetness and beauty of the night seemed lost on little Irene, for her +grieved sobs only burst forth afresh when Faith had departed. The +girlish bosom heaved, the tears rained through her fingers, her +smothered wail disturbed the harmony of the beautiful night. + +Another step came along the hall, a hand turned the door-knob and a +handsome old man came into the room. + +"Irene, my pet, my darling, where are you hiding? Come to papa," he +called, glancing around the dimly-lighted room. + +With a scream of joy the little figure sprang down from its high perch +in the window, and ran precipitately into his arms. + +"Oh, papa, dear papa, you are home again!" she exclaimed, laughing and +crying together, and patting his grey whiskers with her loving white +hands. + +"Yes, but you aren't glad to see me one bit. You're crying because I've +come home. Shall I go back to the city, eh?" he inquired, softly +pinching her cheek, and looking at her with kind, blue eyes full of +love. + +Irene hid her lovely face on his broad breast and sobbed aloud. + +"Why, what ails my little girl?" he exclaimed. "Who's been teasing my +pet? Where are mamma and the girls?" + +With a fresh rain of tears, Irene sobbed out: + +"All g--gone to the b--ball, and would not let--let--me g--go, after +you'd told them all I might, papa." + +The old man's genial face clouded over instantly with some intangible +annoyance. + +"Why wouldn't they let you go?" he inquired. + +"Bertha said if I went, _she_ wouldn't," replied Irene, hushing her +sobs, and answering in a high-pitched, indignant young voice; "she said +children had no business at a ball! The idea of calling _me_ a child! I +was _sixteen_, yesterday! Oh, papa, have you brought me a birthday +present from the city?" she inquired, eagerly, forgetting for a moment +her grievance. + +"Yes, dear. And so Bertha wouldn't let you go to the ball?" he said, +taking a seat, and drawing her down upon his knee. + +"It was mamma, too. _She_ took Bertha's part, and said I shouldn't come +out until the girls were married. Two Miss Brookes were quite enough in +the market at one time she said. As if I wanted to marry any of their +ridiculous beauxs, with their lisps, and their eye-glasses, and their +black coats. I despise them!" cried Irene, indignantly. + +"That's because, as Bertha said, you're nothing but a child," laughed +Mr. Brooke. "When you grow older you'll quite adore these black-coated +dandies, I dare say;" then he added, in a graver tone: "Did Elaine +forbid your going, too?" + +"No, she didn't say one word for, or against it. She only pursed up her +lips and looked out of the window. I never saw such a coward as Elaine," +pursued the girl, angrily. "Bertha and mamma have everything their own +way, and ride rough-shod over Elaine, and she daren't say her soul's her +own!" + +"Hush, Irene--you musn't talk so disrespectfully of your--sister," her +father said, reprovingly. + +"Well, but, papa, do you think it is right for Ellie to be ruled so by +Bertha? She's older than Bert, you know," said the girl, laying her +soft, round cheek against his, coaxingly. + +A strange, sad look came into Mr. Brooke's face at her words. + +"My dear, we won't discuss it," he said, uneasily. "Elaine is so gentle +and quiet, she will not take her own part, perhaps. But about this ball, +my pet. I'm sorry they wouldn't let you go. I brought you some pretty +fal-lals to wear." + +He handed her several parcels as he spoke, and turned up the lamps to a +brighter blaze. Irene Brooke began unwrapping the parcels, with little +feminine shrieks of delight. + +"A baby-blue sash; oh, oh, you dear, old darling!" she cried, letting +the rich lengths of wide, blue satin ribbon ripple splendidly over her +white dress. "A fan! Ivory sticks, and blue and white feathers! Oh, +thank you a hundred times, papa! And what is this tiny parcel? Oh, a +bang-net! You ridiculous old papa, what do you think I want of a +bang-net?" with a ripple of girlish laughter. + +"The shop-woman recommended it. She said they were very fashionable," +said Mr. Brooke, vaguely. + +"I don't care! I'll never put _my_ yellow curls under a bang-net," +laughed Irene, whose tears were dried now as if they had never been. +"Ellie may have it. And, oh, this little box! I had almost missed it." + +She opened it with a little girlish shriek of joy and amaze. + +"A gold chain and locket! Oh, papa, let me kiss you a hundred times!" +she cried, running to him and half smothering him with energetic +caresses. + +"Your birthday present, my love. Look in the locket and see if you like +the pictures," said Mr. Brooke as soon as he could get his breath. + +She left off choking him a moment to obey. + +"Your picture and Elaine's--the very ones I would have wished for! And +how true, how perfect, how beautiful!" she cried, kissing the pictured +faces. "Dear papa, how did you know that I would far rather have your +picture and Ellie's than mamma's and Bert's?" she inquired, smiling +fondly at him. + +"I knew you liked us best because we spoil you the most," he replied. + +"That is true of you, papa, but not to my elder sister," replied Irene, +with a touch of seriousness softening for the moment her childish face. +"Ellie is very kind to me, but she never spoils me. She reads me long +lectures in private, and I believe she loves me dearly, but she never +takes my part against mamma and Bert, when they scold and fret me. She +only looks tearful and miserable! Oh, why should she be afraid of them?" + +"Hush, Irene, I will not listen to such ridiculous fancies," said Mr. +Brooke, half sternly. "You must not imbibe such foolish notions! and, +remember, I forbid you, on pain of my extreme displeasure, ever to +mention these idle notions to your sister." + +"Indeed I never will, papa, I would not hurt Ellie's feelings for the +world," the girl said, earnestly. Then she went to his side and put her +arm around his neck. + +"Papa," she said, looking up at him, with arch, beautiful eyes that +sparkled like purple-blue pansies under their shady, golden-brown +lashes, "papa, it isn't an hour yet since they went to the ball." + +"Well?" he said, half-comprehendingly, smiling down into the eager, +charming face, and passing his hand caressingly over the wealth of +golden curls that adorned the dainty head. + +"Let us go to the ball--you and I, papa?" she said, audaciously. + +"What? Why, that would be rank rebellion! What would mamma and the girls +say when we sneaked into the ball-room? Wouldn't they march us home and +put us in irons for disobeying orders?" inquired Mr. Brooke in pretended +alarm, though Irene did not lose the humorous twinkle in his eye. + +"No, sir, you know they won't say a word if you take my part! You know +they never do. They're afraid of my dear old papa. Oh, how amazed and +how angry they would be if you and I were to walk in presently, and have +a dance together! And serve them right, too, for their selfishness! Oh, +papa, dearest, _do_ take me! I never, never saw a ball in my life, and I +had so set my heart on this one!" + +The tearful eyes and coaxing lips conquered the old man's heart as they +always did, against his better judgment. + +"Well, well, they didn't treat you right," he said, "and you shall have +your revenge on them. Go along now, and tell old Faith to put your new +white frock and blue sash on you in fifteen minutes while I am getting +ready." + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +Every lady knows that fifteen minutes is a totally inadequate time in +which to make a ball toilet. It was at least half an hour before Irene, +with the assistance of the old housekeeper, had adorned herself with all +the finery at her command. Then she came flying down the steps in joyous +haste, and burst into the parlor with the refrain of a happy song upon +her girlish lips. + +Old Faith followed more leisurely with a little white nubia and shawl +thrown over her arm. + +"Ah! dearie me, dearie me," she sighed, as she waddled uncomfortably +down the wide stairs, "the child's too pretty and too willful, and Mr. +Brooke spoils her too much! Harm will come of it, I fear me. Poor Miss +Ellie, poor Irene!" + +She laid the wrappings of her young mistress across the hat-rack in the +hall ready for her, and went back to her own domain and her own duties. +Meanwhile Irene had danced blithely into the parlor. + +"Papa," she said, to the dark, masculine figure that stood at the window +with its back to her, "I'm ready now. Don't I look nice?" + +The figure turned around from its contemplation of the moonlighted bay, +and looked at her. It was not Mr. Brooke at all. It was a younger, +handsomer man, whose brown eyes danced with irresistible mirth at her +pardonable vanity. + +"Nice enough to eat," he answered coolly, and Irene gave a little, +startled shriek. + +"Oh, dear, it isn't papa at all. Are you a bear, sir, that you talk of +eating me?" she inquired, demurely. + +The stranger came forward into the light, and stood before her. + +"Do I look like one?" he inquired, with a smile that lit up his face +indescribably. + +Then, for a moment, they stared straight at each other, taking a mental +inventory of each other's appearance. + +Ladies first--so we will try to give you some faint idea of how Irene +Brooke appeared in Guy Kenmore's eyes, though it is no easy task, for +beauty like hers, varying from light to shadow with + + "Sudden glances, sweet and strange, + Delicious spites and darling angers, + And airy forms of flitting change," + +defies all formal attempts at description. + +She was a sixteen-year-old girl, with the graceful slenderness of that +exquisite age, and the warm, blonde beauty of the south. Her eyes were +deeply, darkly, beautifully blue, and appeared almost black beneath the +long, thick fringes of the beautiful, golden-brown lashes, and the +slender, arched brows of a darker hue. These arched brows, and the +faint, very faint, _retrousse_ inclination of the pretty little nose, +gave an air of piquancy and spirit to the young face that was hightened +by the proud curve of the short upper lip. The round, dimpled chin, and +soft cheeks were tinted with the soft pink of the sea shell. The waving, +rippling mass of glorious curls was of that warm, rich, golden hue the +old masters loved to paint. Put on such a fair young girl a dress of +soft white muslin and lace--just short enough to show the tiny, +high-arched feet in white kid slippers--girdle the slim waist with a +broad, blue ribbon, and fancy to yourself, reader mine, how sweet a +vision she appeared in the eyes of the stranger. + +For him, he was tall, large, and graceful, with a certain air of +indolence and gracious ease, not to say laziness. He was decidedly +handsome, with a well-shaped head of closely-clipped brown hair, good +features, laughing brown eyes, and a drooping brown mustache. His summer +suit of soft, light-gray cloth was infinitely becoming. + +But in much less time than it took for these cursory descriptions, Irene +has spoken: + +"No, you do not look like a bear," she says, with charming frankness. +"You look like--see how good I am at guessing--like Bertha's city beau! +You are--_aren't_ you?" + +Something in this childish frankness touches him with faint annoyance. +He chews the end of his long mustache after an old habit, and answers, +rather stiffly: + +"My name is----" + +"'Norval, from the Grampian hills,'" she quotes, with audacious +laughter. + +"No,--it is plain Guy Kenmore," he answers, stifling his rising +vexation, and laughing with her. + +"There, didn't I say so? Pray sit down, Mr. Kenmore," sweeping him a +mocking, ridiculous little courtesy. "I hope you will make yourself +quite at home at Bay View. I have a great liking for you, Mr. Kenmore." + +He takes a chair with readiness, while she paces, a little restlessly, +up and down the floor. + +"Thank you," he says, languidly. "May I inquire to what circumstances I +owe the honor of your regard?" + +"You may," shooting him a swift, arch glance. "You're going to take Bert +off our hands, and I consider you in the light of my greatest +benefactor." + +He laughs and colors at the cool speech of this strange girl. + +"Indeed?" he says, with a peculiar accent on the word. "Why?" + +"Oh, because," she pauses in her restless walk, and looks gravely at him +a moment with those dark blue eyes, "because Bert is so wretchedly +selfish she won't let me go anywhere until _she_ is married off. Now +to-night there was a ball. Papa had said I might go, but when he was +called unexpectedly away to the city what did Bert and mamma do but +forbid my going! After my dress and gloves and slippers were all bought, +too. Wasn't that too bad? And if you were me shouldn't you just love the +man that would take Bertha away?" + +"A spoiled child, who hasn't the least business out of the school-room +yet," mentally decides the visitor. Aloud he says, curiously: + +"Do you know you have the advantage of me? I haven't the least idea who +you are." + +The blue eyes grow very large and round indeed. "Haven't you, really? +Did Bertha never tell you about me--her little sister, Irene?" + +"Never. She must have forgotten your existence," he answered, with an +amused twinkle in his eyes. + +"It is like her selfishness!" flashed Irene. "Never mind, I'll pay her +out for her crossness this evening. Only think, Mr. Kenmore, papa came +home just after they had gone, and said _he_ would take me to the ball. +I wonder if he is ready yet. It's quite time we were starting," she +adds, looking anxiously at the door. + +"I beg your pardon, Miss Brooke. Your dazzling _entree_ put everything +out of my mind for a moment. Your father was in here about fifteen +minutes ago. He left a message for you." + +"Why didn't you tell me, ah, why didn't you?" she demands, stamping her +little foot in impatient wrath. + +"You talked so fast I quite forgot," he answers coolly. + +"Well, are you going to tell me now?" she inquires, flashing her large +eyes at him superbly. + +"Yes, if you will keep still long enough," he answers, provokingly, and +openly amused at the impatient anger, so like that of a sadly spoiled +child. + +Irene folds her bare white arms over her heaving breast, and shuts her +red lips tightly over her busy little tongue; but her eyes look through +him with a glance that says plainer than words: + +"Go on, now, I'm waiting." + +With a stifled laugh, he obeys: + +"Mr. Brooke said that he had been most unexpectedly called away on a +little matter of business, but that he would certainly return inside an +hour and take you to the ball." + +He expected some expression of disappointment, but he was scarcely +prepared for the dire effect of his communication. + +Irene ran precipitately to the darkest corner of the room, flung herself +down on a sofa, and dissolved into tears. + +Feminine tears are an abomination to most men. Our hero is no exception +to the rule. He fidgets uneasily in his chair a moment, then rises and +goes over to the window, and listening to the low, sad murmur of the sea +tries to lose the sound of that disconsolate sobbing over there in the +dark corner. + +"I never saw such a great, spoiled baby in my life," he says, vexedly, +to himself. "How childish, how silly! She's as pretty as a doll, and +that's all there is to her!" + +But he cannot shut out easily the sound of her childish weeping. It +haunts and vexes him. + +"Oh, I say, Miss Brooke," he says, going over to her at last, "I +wouldn't cry if I were in your place. Your father will be back +directly." + +Irene, lifting her head, looks at him with tearful blue eyes shining +under the tangle of golden love-locks that half obscures her round, +white forehead. + +"No, he will not," she answers, stifling her sobs. "When men go out on +business they never come back for hours and hours--_and hours_!" +dolefully. "It was too bad of papa to treat me so!" + +"But he was _called_ away--don't you understand that? He wouldn't have +gone of himself," says Mr. Kenmore, doing valiant battle for his +fellow-man. + +"I don't care. He shouldn't have gone after he'd promised me, and I was +all ready," Irene answers, obstinately and with a fresh sob. + +"Little goosie!" the young man mutters between his teeth, and feeling a +strong desire to shake the unreasonable child. + +But suddenly she springs up, dashing the tears from her eyes. + +"I won't _wait_ for papa, so there!" she flashes out, determinedly. "All +the best dances will be over if we go so late. _You_ shall take me." + +"_I'm_ not invited, you know," he says, blankly. + +"No matter. They'll make you welcome, for Bert's sake. Any friend of +Miss Bertha's, you know, etc.," she says, with a little, malicious +laugh. "Yes, you shall go with me. It is a splendid idea. I wonder you +didn't suggest it yourself." + +He smiles grimly. + +"Indeed, Miss Brooke, I'm not at all in ball costume," he objects, +glancing down at his neat, light suit. + +"All the better. I despise their ugly black coats," she replies, warmly. +"Do you know," with startling candor, "you are handsomer and +nicer-looking than any of the black-coated dandies that dawdle around +Ellie and Bert? Come, you _will_ go, just to please me, won't you?" she +implores, pathetically. + +"No gentleman ever refuses a lady's request," he replies, with rather a +sulky air. + +Irene scarcely notices his sulky tone. Her heart is set on this daring +escapade. Smarting under the sense of the injuries sustained at Bertha's +hands, she longs to avenge herself, and show her selfish sister that she +will go her way despite her objections. It is a child's spite, a child's +willfulness, and all the more obstinate for that reason. + +"Oh, thank you," she says, brightly. "We shall have a charming time, +sha'n't we?" + +"You may. I am not rapturous over the prospect," he replies, +laconically. + +The willful girl regards him with sincere amazement. "Why, you must be +very stupid indeed, not to care for a ball," she observes, with all the +candor and freshness of an _enfant terrible_. + +"You are very candid," he replies, feeling a strong desire to seize his +hat and leave the house. + +"Now you are vexed with me. What have I done?" she inquires, fixing on +him the innocent gaze of her large, soft eyes. "I hope you haven't a bad +temper," she goes on, earnestly, almost confidingly, "for Bert isn't an +angel, I can assure you; and if you're both cross, won't you have a +lovely time when you marry." + +Vexation at this aggravating little beauty almost gets the better of the +young man's politeness. + +"Miss Brooke, if you weren't such a pretty child, I should like to shake +you soundly, and send you off to your little bed!" he exclaims. + +She flushes crimson, flashes him an angry glance from her lovely eyes, +and curls her red lips into a decided and deliberate _moue_ at him. +Then, holding her pretty head high, she walks from the room. + +"Has she taken me at my word?" he asks himself, rather blankly. + +But no; Irene has only gone to the housekeeper's room, to leave a +message for her father that she has gone to the ball with Mr. Kenmore. +It does not enter her girlish mind that she is doing an improper thing, +or that her father would object to it. + +Old Faith, wiser in this world's lore than her willful little mistress, +raises vehement objections. + +"You mustn't do no such thing, Miss Irene, darling," she says. "Miss +Bertha will be downright outrageous about you coming there along of her +beau." + +The pansy-blue eyes flash, the red lips pout mutinously. + +"All the better," she answers, wickedly. "I want to make her mad! That's +why I'm going! I'm going to the ball with her beau; and I mean to keep +him all to myself, and to flirt with him outrageously, just to see how +Bert's black eyes will snap!" + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +"Oh, Irene, my darling, why have you done this mad, disobedient thing? +Mamma and Bertha are terribly angry! When Bertha first saw you, dancing +with her lover, too, I thought she would have fainted. Her eyes flashed +lightning. I believe she could have killed you! Child, child, you will +break my heart by your willfulness! Oh, you cannot dream what this may +bring upon you!" + +The sweet voice broke in almost a wail of pain, and beautiful Elaine +Brooke drew her sister further into the shaded alcove of the bay-window +as she waited anxiously to hear her reply. + +Pretty little Irene shrugged her dimpled white shoulders, and pouted her +rosy lips. + +"Now, Ellie, you needn't begin to scold," she said. "You know you all +treated me unfairly, and so papa said when he came home!" + +"Papa _has_ come, then?" asked Miss Brooke, in a tone of relief. + +"Yes, and he gave me leave to come, so you needn't lecture any more, +Ellie," said the girl, with an arch, pleading glance. + +But a long and bitter sigh drifted over the grave, sweet lips of Elaine +Brooke. + +"Then why, ah, why _didn't_ papa bring you himself?" she said, wringing +her slender white hands together. "He should have known that Bertha +would be enraged at your coming with Mr. Kenmore." + +"Don't scold any more, Ellie, _please_ don't," said her little sister, +impatiently; "papa _was_ coming, but, while I was up-stairs dressing, he +was called away for an hour. So when I came down to the parlor there was +Mr. Kenmore, and I made him go with me. Please let me go now. I want to +dance some more." + +"Oh, Irene, indeed you must not dance again to-night! Promise me you +will not!" exclaimed her sister, anxiously. + +Irene shook the white hand off her shoulder, dismayed and rebellious. + +"I'm engaged to Mr. Kenmore for ever so many dances," she exclaimed, +"and I don't want to break my word! You're selfish, Ellie, and want to +have all the pleasure to yourself!" + +"Selfish," Elaine echoed, with almost a moan. "Oh, child, you don't +understand!" then she added, almost piteously: "Irene, in the large +parlor next to the dancing-room there are some young people like +yourself who are not dancing at all, but playing games and having +charades and tableaux. Darling, won't you join them, and keep out of +Bert's and mamma's sight? Perhaps they won't be so angry, then." + +"I'm not afraid of them----" Irene began, rebelliously, but stopped +short as she saw a glittering tear splash down on her sister's cheek. +"Oh, Ellie, you great baby," she said, "must I give up all my pleasure +just to please you?" + +"Yes, for this once, love," answered Elaine, tremblingly. "I'll try to +make it up to you, indeed I will, some other time, dear," and drawing +Irene further into the shadow of the lace curtain, she bent down and +kissed the fresh young lips. + +"But here comes Mr. Kenmore, now. What shall I say to him about our +dances?" asked the girl, with a sigh of disappointment. + +"Oh, I'll make your excuses," Elaine answered, readily, as Mr. Kenmore +came toward them, not looking very eager, certainly, over the dances he +was fated to lose. + +His handsome brown eyes lighted with admiration as they fell upon Elaine +Brooke, and she was well worthy of it, for in her maturer style she was +as lovely as the girlish Irene. + +The family Bible registered the eldest Miss Brooke as thirty-two years +old, and she had all the repose and dignity of the age, with all the +charms of ripe loveliness. Men called her a "magnificent woman," envious +girls sneeringly dubbed her an old maid. This latter was her own fault, +certainly, for she had admirers by the score who went wild over her rare +blonde beauty. But Miss Brooke, unknown to all, treasured a broken dream +in her heart like her hapless namesake: + + "Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable; + Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat." + +So the years went and came, and Elaine answered no to all her suitors, +though her mother frowned and her father sighed, while deep down in her +heart she echoed the "Lily Maid's" song: + + "Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain, + And sweet is death who puts an end to pain." + +But none of this pain was visible on Elaine's face as she looked up at +Guy Kenmore with that calm, sweet smile, softly bright, like the +moonlight that shone on the outer world. + +"Mr. Kenmore, I know you will excuse Irene from her dances," she said +sweetly. "She wants to go and play games with the other children in the +parlor." + +"_The other children_," Irene muttered ominously, and before Mr. Kenmore +could murmur his ready assent, she exclaimed, in a tone of witching +_diablerie_: + +"Yes, but I'm not going to desert my partner! Come along, Mr. Kenmore, +and you shall be my play-fellow with the children." + +With a gay little laugh and a triumphant glance at her sister, Irene +slipped her hand in his arm, and led her captive away, leaving Elaine +gazing after them in silent dismay and despair. Irene had outwitted her +after all, and her artful scheme for keeping her apart from Bertha's +lover was an ignominious failure. + +With a sinking heart and a face as pale as death, she turned away to +convey the tidings of her failure to her mother. + +Mrs. Brooke, a still handsome woman of the brunette type, received the +news with an ominous flash of her large black eyes. + +"Little minx! she shall pay for it, dearly," she muttered, between her +teeth. + +"Oh, mamma, it is only thoughtlessness I think. She doesn't really mean +to be disobedient," faltered Elaine, tremulously. + +Her mother gave her a swift, displeased glance that silenced the +excusing words on her lips. + +Bertha came up, flushed from the dance, a dark, haughty beauty, three +years younger than Elaine, but never owning to more than twenty years. + +"Where is Mr. Kenmore? I left him with you, mamma," she said. + +"He left me to seek his partner for the next dance," Mrs. Brooke +answered, in a tone of repressed fury. + +Bertha turned her large, flashing dark eyes on her elder sister. + +"I thought mamma sent you to get Irene out of the way," she said, +imperiously. + +"I did my best, Bertha," Elaine answered, gently. "I persuaded her to go +and play games in the parlor. Unfortunately Mr. Kenmore came up as she +was going, and she playfully carried him off with her. I am sure he will +return to us directly. He regards Irene as the merest child." + +"She is as old as you were when she was----" Bertha sneered in her +sister's ear, making the last word so low it was inaudible. + +Beautiful Elaine's cool, white cheeks crimsoned, then grew paler than +before. She answered not a word. + +"Hush, Bertha. Are you crazy, making such remarks in this crowded room?" +whispered her mother, in angry haste. + +"I shall not be answerable for what I say or do unless you get my lover +away from that wretched girl," the dark-eyed beauty retorted furiously +in her ear. + +"Come, then, let us go and see their games," Mrs. Brooke answered, +soothingly, to allay the young lady's violent rage. "He will leave Irene +and come to you as soon as he sees you." + +The three moved away to the crowded parlor where the girls from twelve +to sixteen, and the lads from sixteen to twenty, were enjoying +themselves, to the top of their bent. Having exhausted everything else, +they had determined on having a wedding. Mr. Kenmore being the most +grown-up of the gentlemen, was selected for the groom, and Irene Brooke +for the bride. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Mr. Kenmore, having vainly protested at first against making a show of +himself, has now resigned himself to his fate, and stands awaiting his +martyrdom with a rather bored look on his handsome face. Irene, on the +point of a vehement refusal to enact the bride's part, suddenly catches +a glimpse of Bertha's face glowering on her from the door, and on the +instant her mood changes. + +Never so willing a bride as she. + +After that one glance she does not seem to see Bertha. She stands with +lowered eyelids waiting while the gay young girls fasten a square of +tulle on her hair with a spray of real orange blossoms from the pet +orange tree that is the pride of the hostess. No one sees the mischief +dancing under the demurely drooping lashes. + +"Poor old Bert--how mad she is," the girl is saying to herself. "I think +I've almost paid her out now for her meanness. As soon as the wedding is +over she shall have her fine beau back. I believe I have almost teased +her enough." + +"Who will be the preacher?" she inquires, glancing around at the lads. + +"Mr. Clavering, Mr. Clavering!" cried half a dozen voices. "He looks the +parson to the life, with his black coat and little white tie. There he +is on the balcony. Go and ask him, Mr. Kenmore." + +Guy Kenmore steps lazily through the low window and addresses the +little, clerical-looking figure standing meditatively in the moonlight. + +"Excuse me," he says, in his bored tone. "We are going to have a +marriage, by way of a diversion for the young people. Will you come in +and perform the ceremony for us?" + +Mr. Clavering turns a pale, dreamy, rather delicate face, toward the +speaker. + +"Isn't it rather sudden?" he inquires. + +"Rather," Mr. Kenmore asserts, with a careless laugh, and without more +words they step through the window into the parlor, where the babel of +shrill young voices goes on without cessation. + +The bride, and a giggling string of attendants, are already on the floor +awaiting them. Guy Kenmore laughingly steps to his place. Somebody puts +a prayer-book into Mr. Clavering's hand and merrily introduces him to +the bride and groom. He bows, and, with quite an assumption of gravity, +opens the book and begins to read the beautiful marriage service. + +To Bertha Brooke, glaring with scarce repressed rage at the mock +marriage, it all seems horribly real. Irene has put on a shy, frightened +look, supposed to be natural to brides, and no one takes note of the +suppressed merriment dancing in her blue eyes, as she pictures to +herself Bertha's silent rage. Mr. Kenmore, impressed beyond his will by +the solemn marriage words, looks a little graver than his wont. The +babel of voices is momentarily still, while bright eyes gaze entranced +on the beautiful scene. It seems to Bertha as if she can no longer bear +it; as if she must scream out aloud as she hears Guy Kenmore's deep, +full voice repeating after Mr. Clavering: + +"I, Guy, take thee, Irene, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold +from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in +sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, +according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth." + +"Mamma, for God's sake, stop it," Bertha utters, in a fierce whisper, +clutching her mother's arm. + +"Don't be a fool, Bertha! It is nothing but child's play," Mrs. Brooke +replies, impatiently, and, in a minute more the ring is slipped over +Irene's finger, and the minister utters, in tones that sound too solemn +for this pretty mockery: + + "Whom God had joined together, let no man put asunder." + +Gay congratulations followed, and Irene, a little paler than her wont, +slipped over to Elaine, who was white as death, with the dew of unshed +tears glittering on her long, thick lashes. + +"You dear old owl, how solemn you look," she said. "But I didn't like it +myself. It sounded too horribly real. Once I had half a mind to break +loose, and run away!" + +Mrs. Brooke glared at her youngest pride in silent rage. The vials of +her wrath were reserved till to-morrow. + +Irene darted to Mr. Kenmore's side and looked at him with laughing eyes: + +"You may go and stay with Bert now," she said, carelessly, "I believe I +have teased her quite enough, and I mean to be good the remainder of the +night." + +He looked at the bright, arch face curiously a minute, then moved away +to join Bertha. + +She received him with a curling lip, and an irrepressible flash of her +proud, dark eyes. + +"I did not know you were so fond of juvenile society, Mr. Kenmore," she +said, in a tone of pique. + +"I am not; I was rather forced into this affair, Miss Bertha," he +replied, languidly, and with a rather bored expression. "But come, let +us promenade the balcony in the moonlight. Or would you prefer to +dance?" + +"The balcony by all means," answered Bertha, remembering what an +opportunity it would afford for a sentimental _tete-a-tete_, and also +that a pretty woman never looks more lovely than by moonlight. + +"When did you leave Baltimore?" she inquired, as they stepped through +the low French window, and walked arm-in-arm along the moonlighted +balcony. + +"Only to-day," he answered. "I remembered my promise to visit you at Bay +View, and thought it a good time to keep my word, not dreaming that you +would be absent. I half-feared you would have forgotten me, it has been +so long since your visit to the city," he added, half-quizzically, for +Irene's innocent prattle that evening had let in some light upon his +mind. He understood that Bertha claimed him openly as her lover, and +fully calculated on marrying him, while the truth was that though he had +a lazy admiration for the beautiful brunette, he had never dreamed of +aspiring for her hand. His intimate friends did not consider him "a +marrying man." + +"As if I could ever forget my visit to Baltimore," said Bertha, +sentimentally, with an effective upward glance into his face from her +dark, long-lashed eyes. + +Mr. Kenmore returned the coquettish glance with interest. He was an +adept at flirting himself when he could conquer his natural indolence +enough to exercise the art. + +"I hope it will not be long before you visit the city again," he said. +"Your friend, Miss Leigh, sent you as much love as I could conveniently +transport, and an urgent message to come again." + +"I shall be delighted," exclaimed Bertha, who was fast forgetting +Irene's naughtiness, and recovering her spirits in the charm of her +admirer's presence. Now that she had him all to herself, her horrible +fears of her younger sister's rivalry grew less, and she resolved to +make the very most of this glorious _tete-a-tete_ under the beautiful +moonlight with the soft notes of the entrancing dance-music blending +with the murmuring of the melancholy sea. + +She was succeeding almost beyond her expectations. Mr. Kenmore was +lending himself to her efforts to charm with unqualified approval. + +He had dropped his indolent air of being bored by everything, and his +dark eyes sparkled with interest, when suddenly the scene was changed, +and Bertha's sentimentalisms interrupted by a little flying white figure +that came through the window with a rush, and clutched Mr. Kenmore's arm +frantically, with two desperate young hands, and looked up at him with +eyes that were wide and dark with horror. + +"Mr. Kenmore, oh, Mr. Kenmore," panted the sharp, shrill, frightened +young voice, "do you know what they are saying in yonder?--what Mr. +Clavering is saying? That--that--he is a _real minister_, and that it +was a _real marriage_! It isn't true! Oh, my God, it can't be! Go, and +make them say it is all a wretched joke to frighten me!" + +There was a moment's stunned silence broken only by a scream of dismay +from Bertha. Irene was gazing with a blanched face, and wild, beseeching +eyes, up into the handsome, startled face of the man. Suddenly he pushed +the white hands from his arm, broke loose from Bertha's clasp, and +strode hastily through the window. + +Irene fell upon the floor, all her childishness stricken from her by +this terrible blow, and grovelled in abject terror. + +Haughty Bertha spurned the little white figure with her dainty slippered +foot. + +"Get up," she said, harshly. "Get up, Irene, and tell me the truth! Is +it true what you were saying, or only one of your miserable jokes?" + +Irene dragged herself up miserably from the floor, and clung to the +balcony rail around which clambered a white rose vine. The snowy, +scented roses were not whiter than her haggard young face. + +"Oh, Bertha--Bertha, it is true," she said, despairingly. "That stupid +Clavering didn't know we were joking. He is a minister--really a +minister--but no one in the room knew it, because he is a stranger about +here, you know, and staying at the hotel for his health. Oh, +Bertha--Bertha, what shall I do? I don't like Mr. Kenmore! I don't want +to be his wife!" + +Bertha shook from head to foot with jealous rage. + +"Listen to me, Irene Brooke," she said, in a hoarse, low voice of +concentrated fury. "If this is true, if you really are Guy Kenmore's +wife, I am your bitterest foe as long as you live! I'll make you repent +this night's work in dust and ashes to your dying day!" + +As the cruel words left her writhing lips, Mr. Kenmore came out, +followed by Mrs. Brooke and her eldest daughter. + +Irene's wild eyes searched the man's face imploringly, + +"Yes, it is true," he said to her abruptly, almost harshly. "The man is +an ordained minister, licensed to marry. You are really my wife!" + +A piercing shriek, full of the sharpest anguish, followed on the last +cold word. Irene threw up her white arms wildly in the air and fell like +one dead at the bridegroom's feet. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +When Irene Brooke recovered her senses she was lying on a sofa in the +old familiar home-parlor which she had quitted such a little while ago a +careless, happy, willful child. The soft locks that hung about her +forehead were all wet and dabbled with _eau de cologne_, and Elaine bent +over her with the face of a pitying angel, bathing her cheeks and +temples with the refreshing perfume. The clock in the hall chimed the +midnight hour, and lifting her head, that felt strangely dull and heavy, +she gazed wonderingly around her. + +In the subdued light that flooded the spacious parlor, Mr. Kenmore was +walking slowly up and down with his hands behind his back. He came and +knelt down by her side. + +"You are better," he said, gently. + +All her troubles rushed overwhelmingly over Irene, and she turned from +him with a shudder. + +"Ellie, where is papa? I want papa," she said, longing to lean in her +trouble on the grand strength of the father who was dearer to her than +all the world. + +"He has never come home yet," Elaine answered in a troubled tone. + +"Not yet, and he promised to return within the hour!" Irene exclaimed in +vague alarm. + +"He has been detained, doubtless," Mr. Kenmore said, soothingly. "You +know you said to-night, Irene, that when men went out on business they +never came back for hours and hours." + +Irene looked at him in wonder, his tone was so kind and gentle. A great, +deep pity shone in his speaking eyes. He laid his strong white hand +lightly on hers. She could not understand why his touch thrilled her +through and through, and pulled her hand quickly away. + +"Irene, do not turn from me so coldly," he said, in the same gentle tone +at which she had wondered so much, "I have something to say to you. Will +you listen to me?" + +She lifted her dark blue eyes to his face, inquiringly. + +"Since we brought you home, and while you lay unconscious, my child, I +have been talking to your sister," he said. "I think--we both +think--that you and I will have to accept the situation." + +Elaine rose delicately and went to the window. Irene answered not a +word. He went on, holding her gaze within his steady, grave, brown eyes: + +"Through our carelessness and love of fun, we have fettered ourselves so +effectually that we cannot break our bonds without exposing ourselves to +a notoriety that would be galling alike to the pride of the Brookes and +the Kenmores. Do you understand me, my child?" he inquired, pausing, and +waiting for her reply. + +"I understand--you mean----," she said, then paused, sensitively, while +her cheeks grew very white, and her dry lips refused to go on. + +"That it is doubtful if the law will free us from the marriage vows we +so unthinkingly uttered," he said. "If it did, it would only be at the +expense of a newspaper notoriety that would be galling to our pride and +a death-blow to sensitiveness. I own that I am proud," a deep flush +coloring his face for a moment. "I cannot bear the thought of making the +subject of numberless inane witticisms and newspaper paragraphs. I had +rather accept the consequences of my folly." + +"You are taking all the blame upon yourself," she said, in a low, +strange voice that sounded very womanly for Irene, "when you know that +it was all my fault." + +"Do you think so? No, I was too careless, I should not have been led +into their child's play," he said. "Well, no matter, let us make the +best of it. I will be your faithful husband if you will be my true +little wife, Irene." + +The tone was very kind, but it was not that of a lover. Irene, though +she had never been wooed, instinctively felt the subtle difference. + +"You do not care for me--that way," she said, "and I--do not like you!" + +"I have heard it said that it is best to begin with a little aversion," +he answered, in a tone of patient good-humor. + +"You belong to Bertha," she said. + +"I belong to you," he retorted. + +Elaine came slowly back from the window, looking like some tall, fair +goddess in her shimmering pearl-gray silk. The tears were shining in her +azure eyes. + +"Irene, Mr. Kenmore is very kind," she said. "Believe me, he has made +the wisest decision, if only you will acquiesce in it." + +"Ellie, I don't wish to be married," cried the child. + +"You are married already," Elaine answered, with a sigh, quickly +repressed. + +The beautiful child, who, by her own willfulness, had brought this doom +upon her head, struggled up to a sitting posture. The sweet blue eyes +had a dazed look. Grief had strangely changed her already. + +"Let me alone, Ellie, and you, Mr. Kenmore, for a little while," she +said, pitifully. "Wait until papa comes. He shall tell me what is best. +Oh, it cannot be right that two lives should be spoiled by such a little +mistake! Three lives, I mean," she added, wildly, "for Bertha loves him, +and he belongs to her." + +"Yes, he belongs to me," said a low, menacing voice in the door-way. "He +belongs to me, Irene Brooke. Do not dare to take him from me!" + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +It was Bertha's voice. She had been to her room, to indulge in a fit of +mad passion and jealousy, but had returned and stood listening at the +door for some moments--long enough indeed to hear all that had been +spoken since Irene had recovered consciousness. Mad with passion she +stood before them. + +"He is mine," she said again, hoarsely. "Woe be to you, Irene Brooke, if +you take him from me!" + +She looked like some mad creature with the loosened coils of her shining +hair falling down like long black serpents over the corsage of her ruby +satin robe, and her black eyes flashing forth jealousy and defiance. The +jeweled serpents that wreathed her white arms seemed to dart menace from +their gleaming emerald eyes as she shook her hand. + +Slowly Guy Kenmore turned and looked at her, honest amazement stamped on +his handsome features. + +"Miss Brooke, your assertion is a most strange one," he said. "I cannot +understand why you should wish to complicate this unhappy affair still +further by such a palpable injustice. On what grounds do you base your +claim?" + +Her flashing eyes fell a moment before the proud wonder in his. Then she +asked, with a heaving breast and in deep agitation: + +"Do you deny that you have made love to me? That you came to Bay View to +woo me?" + +A deep, warm color drifted over his face. + +"Is it possible, Miss Bertha, that you have taken our idle flirtation in +earnest?" he exclaimed, shame, surprise and self-reproach struggling +together in his voice. "If you have, I beg your forgiveness a thousand +times, for I thought you were simply amusing yourself, as I was. I +admired you, certainly, but I never dreamed of love, I never thought of +marriage." + +If love changed to hatred could have slain, Guy Kenmore would have +fallen dead before the vengeful lightnings of the brunette's eyes. +Strong man though he was he shivered under their baleful glare. Her very +voice was changed when she spoke again. It seemed to cut the air like a +keen-bladed knife. + +"So you were only amusing yourself," she said. "You made a plaything of +a woman's heart! Did you ever hear of playing with edged tools? Ah, +beware, Guy Kenmore, beware! My love would have been a thousand times +better than my hate! And do you pretend to love _that_ creature?" +pointing a scornful finger at the drooping form of Irene. + +Instinctively he moved a step nearer to his girl-bride, as if to shield +her from some threatening danger. + +"I make no idle pretences," he answered. "Irene is my wife. Love will +come." + +"Love," she sneered. "Love! Your cold, selfish heart is incapable of +that divine passion! I understand why you would hold that willful child +to the fetters so unwittingly forged! It is the Kenmore pride, that is +afraid of being dragged through the mire of the divorce court! You will +never love her, never make her happy! You only take her to save your +overweening pride." + +"Oh, Bertha, hush! It is the best way out of our trouble," pleaded +Elaine, gently. + +"Best--ah, yes, you never dreamed of such a marriage for your +_fatherless child_? A Kenmore--rich, honorable, high-born--to mate with +the child of shame, the _nameless creature_ whom we have shielded with +our own honest name to save our family honor! Ha, ha, Guy Kenmore, are +you not proud of your high-born bride--Elaine's base-born child, who +never had a father?" screamed Bertha, wild with jealousy and anger, and +flashing the lurid lightning of her great black eyes upon their blanched +faces. + +Like some beautiful enraged tigress, Irene sprang from the sofa, and ran +to Bertha. She clutched her small white fingers in the brunette's round +white arm, and their frantic clasp sunk deep into the flesh. + +"You wicked, cruel woman, how dare you utter such a fiendish lie?" she +panted, hoarsely. "How dare you malign the honor of my beautiful, +pure-hearted Ellie? How dare you name us--Ellie and me--the honest +daughters of old Ronald Brooke--in the same breath with dishonor!" + +"I dare because it is true," hissed Bertha, breaking loose from the +child's frantic grasp, and laughing like a beautiful demon. "Don't take +my word for it! Ask that woman there whom my very words have crushed +down to the earth! Ask her if she is not your mother! Ask her the name +of your father! Ha, ha, Guy Kenmore, accept my congratulations on your +brilliant marriage," she sneered, as she rushed from the room. + +Elaine Brooke had indeed sunk wretchedly to the floor at her sister's +terrible charge. She crouched there forlornly, her face hidden in her +trembling hands, her golden hair falling loose, and streaming in sad +beauty over her quivering, prostrate form. Guy Kenmore, with blanched +face and starting eyes, recalled Arthur's words to his faithless +Guinevere. They seemed to fit this crushed woman: + + "Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes; + I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, + I, whose vast pity almost makes me die + To see thee, laying there thy golden head, + My pride in happier summers, at my feet." + +With a single bound Irene reached the prostrate form. Her small hand +fell heavily on Elaine's white, quivering shoulder. + +"Ellie, Ellie, look at me," she said; "I want to see your face! I want +to see the truth in your eyes!" + +With a groan Elaine obeyed the imperious mandate of the sharp, young +voice. She raised her head and looked into Irene's clear, searching eyes +with a woful, white, white, face, on which the very agonies of death +could not have written such despair. + +"Irene, my love, my darling, do not curse me," she moaned. "It is true! +I am your wretched mother!" + +The beautiful, kneeling figure reeled backward with one hand pressed on +her heart as if it had been pierced by a sword-point. + +"My mother--Elaine Brooke my mother," she groaned. "Oh, God, was ever +sin and shame hidden beneath such true, sweet eyes and the face of an +angel before? Do not ask me not to curse you! God may forgive you, but I +never can! Now I know why they hate me, your mother and your sister. I +have no right in the world, I have no name, no place, I am the living +badge of my mother's dishonor! Great God, pity me! Strike me dead this +moment at the feet of my guilty, shameless mother," she prayed, wildly +lifting her wild, white face and anguished eyes to Heaven. + +Guy Kenmore gazed like one paralyzed at the unhappy mother and daughter. +He could not speak one word to either. The shocking disclosure of the +maddened Bertha had almost stunned him. He was a proud man, as he had +said. It was horrible to think of the stain on the girl he had +wedded--the willful, naughty, yet beautiful girl whom with all her +faults he had been proud to think was nobly born as the Kenmores. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +Elaine dragged herself up from the floor, and held out her arms +imploringly to the lovely, imperious young creature, who regarded her +with angry, scornful eyes. + +"Irene, hear me," she said, humbly. + +But Irene pushed off the clinging hands, cruelly. + +"Do not touch me," she said, bitterly. "I am bad enough myself. The +brand of shame is on me, and I have no name and no right in the world; +but it is no sin of mine. _You_--_you_ are the guilty one! The touch of +your hand would burn me! Oh, God! oh, God! how came she by that angel's +face and devil's heart?" + +She had forgotten Guy Kenmore's presence as she hurled her denunciations +at the lovely, despairing, sinful woman before her. Elaine did indeed +have the face of an angel. Even in this moment, when her long-hidden and +shameful secret became revealed to her child, her exquisite face had on +it no remorseful shame. The rather it was touched with the despairing +resignation of some pure, high heart which has found itself cast down +and destroyed in its struggle against the wicked world. She lifted her +sweet, sad, violet eyes, and cast a look of pathetic reproach upon +Irene. + +"My child, do you indeed believe me so vile and wicked?" she asked, +mournfully. + +"I am forced to judge you by your confession," Irene answered, with +passionate shame. + +"I have made no confession yet, I wish to do so now, if you will listen +to me, Irene," said the beautiful woman in a tone of sad patience. "I am +not guilty as you think me, oh, no, no, no!" she cried, shudderingly. + +"You are my mother, and you are ashamed to claim me! You are a wretched +sinner, and instead of hiding your disgraced head in seclusion, and +trying to win the pardon and mercy of offended Heaven, you flaunt your +beautiful face before the world, unforgiven and unrepentant!" cried out +Irene, with all the hard severity of a young mentor. + +Elaine wrung her beautiful, jeweled hands together, and tears fell one +after another in a rapid stream down her cheeks upon the corsage of her +dress, spotting and staining the rich silk. + +"Irene, will you indeed be so hard and unforgiving?" she cried. "Will +you judge and condemn me without hearing? Are you the sweet, loving +child, whom I could always lead and persuade with a kind word?" + +"I am no longer a child!" the girl cried out, bitterly. "I am a woman +now. The events of to-night have laid years on my head and a burden on +my heart! You might have led me by one thread of your golden hair while +I believed you to be my pure, true-hearted sister who bore your mother's +and sister's tyranny like an angel because you were too gentle to resent +it. I understand it all now. You were afraid of them. Conscience made a +coward of you, and they held your shameful secret like a whip-lash over +your head and drove you hither and yon at the bent of their own wills! +Oh, shame, shame!" cried Irene, withering her mother by her sharp scorn. + +"Yes, I have been a slave, a coward," Elaine murmured, mournfully. "But, +oh, Irene, my poor child, I bore it all for my father's sake. He, at +least, was kind and forgiving!" + +The words recalled to Irene's mind the fond, indulgent old man whom she +adored with all the strength of her ardent young heart. Mrs. Brooke and +Bertha had been too harsh and cold to command her love, Elaine had vexed +her impetuous spirit by her shrinking cowardice. But her father--the +loving old man who has ever taken her part bravely against them all--it +rushed over her with a chill like that of death that he belonged to her +no longer, by that dear filial tie that had been the one unalloyed joy +of her willful life, and a cry of exceeding bitter pain fell from her +white lips. + +"Papa, oh, my dear, my darling, I must lose you with the rest," she +cried out in a voice sharp and shrill with despair. "Nothing of all I +thought mine belongs to me! I must lose you, too, whom I loved with all +my soul--lose you through the sin of her who brought me into a world +where I have no place, no name! Oh, God, I cannot bear it! I wish that I +were dead!" wailed Irene, in the bitterness of her despair. + +Elaine gazed at her daughter like one dazed. All the youth, the joy, the +childishness seemed stricken from her forever by the terrible revelation +of to-night. The slender young figure stood apart from her in desperate +grief, seeking no friendly arm to lean on in its terrible isolation; the +beautiful young face was cold and rigid with despair; the blue eyes, +black now with her soul's emotion, flashed scorn through proud tears +that would not fall. A woman's outraged soul, forlorn yet proud, shone +through the tense young form. + +Suddenly a firm touch fell on Irene's arm. + +"Irene," said Guy Kenmore, low and sternly, "no more of these wild +reproaches to your mother! You shall hear her offered confession first." + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +There was a moment's perfect silence in the room. The sound of the sea +came to them soft and low, the wind stirred the flowers in the garden, +and sent a gust of exquisite perfume through the windows. In the +stillness Elaine moved a little nearer to her daughter, looking at the +stern young face with unutterable love and longing in her eyes. + +Irene turned coldly from that yearning glance and looked at Mr. Kenmore +with a rebellious flash in her eyes. + +He was very pale, the sparkle of mirth had died out from his dark eyes, +his lips were compressed sternly. + +"Hear your mother's story first," he repeated, gravely. "Do not condemn +her before you know her whole sad secret. See how she suffers." + +The calm, grave, masterful tone influenced Irene against her will. She +glanced reluctantly at Elaine's face, and saw how terribly she suffered +beneath the fiery lash of her daughter's scorn, but she spoke no word of +comfort, only lowered her white-lidded eyes to shut out that harrowing +sight. + +"Why should I listen to her?" she said, almost sullenly. "What can she +say to excuse her sin?" + +"Hear me, and judge, Irene," said Elaine, creeping a little nearer, with +a wistful gaze at the obstinate girl. "You, too, Mr. Kenmore. You have +heard me taunted with my sin. Stay and hear my exculpation." + +He bowed silently and placed a chair for her; then he drew Irene down to +a seat upon the sofa beside himself. She yielded with strange +passiveness, unconscious that while she sat there his arm lay lightly +but firmly around her waist, gently detaining her. She was conscious of +nothing but a sharp, tearing pain at her heart, and that she was waiting +with a sort of numb indifference to hear Elaine's palliation of her sin. + +Elaine sat silently a minute, with her white hands locked convulsively +in her lap. When she spoke she seemed to be communing with herself. + +"Dear God," she whispered, "I had hoped that the child need never know +her mother's secret! Ah, I might have known how hard and cruel Bertha +would be some day!" + +She lifted her eyes and fixed them in a sort of unwilling fascination on +Irene's beautiful, mutinous face. + +"I have lived years and years of sorrow and despair," she said, "but +when I look back it seems only yesterday that I was a pretty, willful, +loving child, such as Irene was until to-night. Ah, so like, so like, +that I have sometimes shuddered and wept, fearing her fate would be like +mine." + +Irene made a passionate gesture of loathing and dissent. + +"Ah, my child, you do not know," Elaine said, sadly. "The greatest +temptation of woman has never come to you. You have never loved." + +The fresh, young lips curled in utter scorn of that master-passion whose +fire had never breathed over her young heart. + +"You have never loved," Elaine repeated, with a gesture of despair. +"When that master passion first came to me I was a younger girl than +you, Irene, and just as willful and headstrong and passionate. Bertha +and I were away at boarding-school when I first met my fate." + +She paused, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and resumed, mournfully: + +"He was a cousin of one of the pupils, and came to a musical festival +given by us at the first of the mid-winter term. I sang one or two +solos, and it was then and there that this handsome scion of a proud and +wealthy house fell in love with me." + +"I have never loved as you say," interrupted Irene in her clear, +bell-like voice, "but I should hesitate to call that feeling which only +aims at the ruin of its object by the pure name of love." + +Elaine bowed her golden head wearily. + +"Let us say that he pretended to love me, then," she amended, sadly. +"But, ah, Irene, if you had seen and heard him you would have believed +his vows, too--you would have trusted in him as I did. No girl ever had +a handsomer, more adoring lover." + +"I was young, romantic, willful," she continued. "It seemed to be a case +of true love at first sight. We met several times, and some foolish +love-letters passed between us. There are more opportunities for such +things than you would guess at the average boarding-school, Mr. +Kenmore," she said, turning her blushing face upon him for a moment. "At +this one, love-letters, stolen walks, secret meetings were carried on to +an alarming extent, one third of the pupils at least being as foolish +and romantic as I was." + +"I can understand," Mr. Kenmore answered, gently. + +"Mamma was a stern and proud woman," Elaine resumed, with a sigh. "She +was exceedingly proud of my beauty and my fine voice. A brilliant future +was mapped out for me. But first I was to become a perfect prodigy of +learning and accomplishments. At sixteen, when I was to finish the +course at the Institute where I then was, I was to be sent to the Vassar +College for a few years. 'Ossa on Pelion piled,'" she quoted, with a +mournful smile. + +"I knew that a love affair on my part would not be tolerated for years," +she resumed. "My lover, as regards his family, was placed in the same +position comparatively. A marriage of convenience was arranged for him, +and he was forbidden to think of another. Madly in love with each other, +and rebelling against our fetters, we planned an elopement. In three +months after I met him we ran away to another State and were married." + +"Married?" Irene echoed, with a hopeful start. + +"We were married--_as I believed_," said Elaine, with a shudder. "There +was a ceremony, a ring, a certificate. I was a child, not sixteen yet, +remember, Irene. All appeared satisfactory to me. We went to a luxurious +boarding-house where six months passed in a dream of perfect happiness. +My husband remained the same fond, faithful lover he had been from the +first day we met until the fateful hour when we parted--never to meet +again," sobbed Elaine, yielding to a momentary burst of despairing grief +that showed how well and faithfully she had loved the traitor who had +ruined her life. + +But feeling her daughter's cold, young eyes upon her, she soon stemmed +the bitter tide of her hopeless grief. + +"Our funds ran low," she continued, after a moment, "and he was +compelled to leave me to go to his father and ask pardon and help. We +were both young, and having been reared in the enervating atmosphere of +luxury, knew not how to earn a penny. He went and--never came again." + +"Villain!" Guy Kenmore uttered, indignantly. + +"After waiting vainly a week I wrote to him," said Elaine, bowing her +lovely head upon her hands. "His father came, full of pity and surprise. +My God! I had been deceived by a mock marriage. He whom I loved so +dearly, whom I believed my husband, had gone home, wedded the woman of +his father's choice, and taken her abroad on a wedding trip. I had been +ruthlessly forsaken. + +"Then I remembered papa, whom I had loved truly and tenderly as you did, +Irene. In my extremity and despair I wrote to him. He came, the dear +father I had deserted and forgotten in the flush of my wifely happiness. +He pitied and forgave me. + +"Mamma and Bertha would not forgive, but they plotted to save the family +honor. The affair had never been publicly known. We went abroad, and +among strangers, where in a few months you were born, my poor wronged +Irene. When we came home mamma claimed my child for her own, and by her +stern command I took my place in society and played my part as calmly as +if my heart were not broken. Now, Irene, you know the full extent of +your mother's sin. I have been wronged as well as you, my darling. You +are nameless, but not through sin of mine." + +Her faltering voice died into silence. Irene made no answer. She had +dropped her face in her small white hands. Guy Kenmore felt the slight +form trembling against his arm. + +"I was mistaken in my first estimate of her," he thought. "She has more +depth, more character than I thought." + +Then he turned to Elaine. + +"You have indeed been wronged bitterly," he said. "The fault is not +yours, save through your disobedience to your parents." + +"Yes, I was willful and thoughtless, and I have been most terribly +punished for my fault," she replied, sorrowfully. + +"Is there no possibility that you have been deceived by your husband's +father? Such things have been," said Mr. Kenmore, thoughtfully. + +"There was no deception. He was armed with every proof, even the +newspaper, with the marriage of his son to the wealthy heiress whom his +family had chosen for him," answered Elaine, blushing crimson for her +unmerited shame and disgrace. + +"Then your lover was a villain unworthy the name of man. He deserved +death," exclaimed Guy Kenmore. + +Elaine's angelic face grew pale as death. She sighed heavily, but made +no answer. + +Suddenly Irene sprang to her feet, with blazing eyes. + +"His name!" she cried, wildly, "his name!" + +"My poor child, why would you know it?" faltered Elaine. + +"That I may hunt him down!" Irene blazed out. "That I may punish him for +your wrongs and mine!" + +"Alas, my darling, vengeance belongs to Heaven," sighed the martyred +Elaine. + +"It belongs to you and to me," cried Irene. "His name, his name!" + +"I cannot tell you, dear," wept the wronged woman. + +"Then I will go to Bertha," flashed the maddened girl. + +"Bertha is bound by an oath never to reveal that fatal name," Elaine +answered. + +The door opened, Mrs. Brooke entered, stern and pale. She glanced +scornfully at Irene, then turned to her daughter: + +"Elaine, I am sorry this has happened," she said. "I could not keep +Bertha from betraying you. The poor girl was driven mad by her wrongs. +If Irene had remained away from the ball to-night, as I bade her do, you +would have been spared all this. Her disobedience has caused it all." + +Old Faith put her head, with its flaring cap-ruffles, inside the door +before Elaine could speak. + +"Oh, Mrs. Brooke, Mrs. Brooke!" she cried, and wrung her plump old hands +disconsolately. + +"Well, what is it? Speak!" cried her mistress, sharply. + +"Oh, ma'am, some men have come--with news--they found master down on the +shore--oh, oh, they told me to break it to you gently," cried the old +housekeeper, incoherently. + +A flying white figure darted past old Faith and ran wildly down the +broad, moon-lighted hall, to the old-fashioned porch, bathed in the +glorious beams of the moonlight. + +Mrs. Brooke went up to the woman and shook her roughly by the arm. + +"What are you trying to tell me, Faith? What of your master?" she +exclaimed. "Speak this instant!" + +Elaine came up to her other side, and looked at her with wide, startled +eyes. + +"Oh, Faith, what is it?" she cried. + +"They told me to break it gently," whimpered the fat old woman. + +At this moment a shrill young voice, sharpened by keenest agony, wild +with futile despair, came floating loudly back through the echoing +halls: + +"_Papa, oh, darling papa! Oh, my God, dead, dead, dead!_" + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +They bore him into the parlor and laid him down. He was dead--the +handsome, genial, kind old father, who had been Elaine's truest friend +in her trouble and disgrace. It was strange and terrible to see the +women, each of whom had loved the dead man in her own fashion, weeping +around him. + +Their gala robes looked strangely out of place in this scene of death. +There was Bertha in her ruby satin and shining jewels, Elaine in her +shimmering silk and blue forget-me-nots, Mrs. Brooke in crimson and +black lace, lighted by the fire of priceless diamonds. Saddest of all, +little Irene, crouched in a white heap on the floor at his feet, adorned +in the modest bravery he had brought her for a birthday gift. Poor +little Irene who has lost in this one fatal day all that her heart held +dear. + +A physician was called to satisfy the family. He only said what was +plainly potent before. Mr. Brooke was dead--of heart disease, it +appeared, for there were no marks of violence on his person. He was an +old man, and death had found him out gently, laying its icy finger upon +him as he walked along the shining sand of the bay, in the beautiful +moonlight. His limbs were already growing rigid, and he must have been +dead several hours. + +"Dead! while we laughed and danced, and made merry over yonder in their +gay saloons," Elaine wailed out, in impatient despair. "Oh, my God, how +horrible to remember!" + +Only Guy Kenmore saw that the right hand of the dead man was rigidly +clenched. + +"What treasure does he clasp in that grasp of death?" he asked himself, +and when no one was looking he tried to unclasp the rigid fist. He only +succeeded in opening it a little way--just enough to draw from the +stiffened fingers a fragment of what had once been a letter--now only +one line remained--a line and a name. + +Guy Kenmore went to the light, spread the little scrap open on his hand +and looked at it. The writing was in a man's hand and the few words were +these: + + "_That the truth may be revealed and my death-bed repentance + accepted of Heaven, I pray, humbly._ + + "_Clarence Stuart, Senior._" + +Suddenly a cold little hand touched his own. + +"I saw you," said Irene, in a low, strange voice. "What does it mean?" + +"A great deal, or---- nothing," he answered, in a voice as strange as +her own. + +She read it slowly over. The fragmentary words and the proud name seemed +to burn themselves in on her memory. + +"Who is Clarence Stuart?" she asked, wonderingly. + +"I intend to find out," he answered. "When I do, I shall tell you, +little Irene." + +In his heart there was a deadly suspicion of foul play. Who had torn +from old Ronald Brooke's hand the letter whose fragmentary ending he +grasped within that clenched and stiffened hand? Had there been murder +most foul? + +He went back and looked attentively at the corpse. It was true there was +no sign of violence, but was that the face of one who had died from one +instant's terrible heart pang, who must have died before he had realized +his pain? No, the face was drawn as if in deadly pain, the open eyes +stared wide with horror. + +"I shall say nothing yet," he said to himself, gravely. "Let them think +that death came in the quiet course of nature. But if old Ronald Brooke +was murdered I shall bring his murderer to justice." + +And on the man's handsome face, usually so gay and debonair, was +registered a grim, firm purpose. + +Mrs. Brooke and Bertha had been led away to their rooms now. No one +remained for the moment but Elaine. She came slowly to her daughter's +side. + +"Irene, you must come with me now, she said, pleadingly, but the girl +broke from her clasp and ran to throw herself on the dead man's breast. + +"I cannot leave him yet," she sobbed. "He was my all!" + +Elaine shivered, as if some one had struck her a blow. She followed her +daughter, and solemnly took the dead man's hand in her feverish, +throbbing clasp. + +"Irene, my daughter, this, my own father whom I deceived and deserted, +whose loving heart I broke by my folly--he pitied and forgave me," she +said, mournfully. "My sin against you was far less, for it was not +premeditated. Here by papa's cold dead body I ask you, darling, to pity +and forgive me. Will you refuse my prayer?" + +Irene lifted her head from its chill resting-place and looked at her +suppliant mother with a strange, grave gaze. + +"We forgive every one when we are dying--do we not?" she asked, slowly. + +"Yes, my darling, but you are young and strong. You have many years to +live perhaps. I cannot wait till your dying hour for your love and pity. +I need it now," sighed poor Elaine. + +There was a moment's silence. Irene looked down at the dead man's face +as if asking him to counsel her in this sad hour. As the wide, +horror-haunted eyes met hers she recoiled in terror. + +"_He_ forgave you," she said, solemnly. "He cannot counsel me, but I +will follow his example. Mother," she reached across that still form and +touched Elaine's hand, "I forgive you, too. Always remember that I +pitied and forgave you." + +There was a strange, wild light in her eyes. It startled Elaine. + +"My darling," she cried, half-fearfully. + +"I must leave you now, poor mother," continued Irene, with that strange +look. "I must go down to the shore where death waited for papa to-night. +He is waiting there for me!" + +She turned with the words and ran swiftly from the room. Frightened by +her strange looks and words Elaine followed behind her, but her +trembling limbs could scarcely carry her body. + +Young, light, swift as a wild gazelle, Irene flew down the steps and +across the garden. The moon was going down now, and only the flutter of +her white dress guided the frantic mother in her wild pursuit. The +garden gate unclosed, there was a patter of flying feet along the sands +outside, there was a wild, smothered, wailing cry of despair, +then--then Elaine heard the horrible splash of the waves as they opened +and closed again over her maddened, desperate child. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +The sound of Irene's pliant young body as it struck the cold waters of +the bay, fell on the wretched mother's heart like a death-blow. The +horrors of this fatal night culminated in this. + +One long, terrible shriek as of some wounded, dying creature, startled +the midnight hour with its despairing echoes, then she sprang wildly +forward with the desperate intent to share her daughter's watery grave. + +The weakness of her overwrought body saved her from the crime of +self-destruction. Her head reeled, her limbs failed her. As she pushed +the gate open with faltering hands she staggered dizzily and fell like a +log on the hard ground. Merciful unconsciousness had stolen upon her. + +That prolonged, despairing shriek reached Guy Kenmore's ears in the +library, where he was gravely conferring with the men who had found Mr. +Brooke dead upon the shore. + +His first thought was of Irene. A dreadful foreboding filled his mind. +He rushed from the room and followed the sound, the two men behind, all +terrified alike by the anguish that rang in that mysterious shriek. + +Outside the garden gate they found Elaine, lying like one dead on the +hard earth. With tender compassion they lifted the beautiful, rigid form +and bore it into the house. + +That long, deep, deathly swoon was the beginning of a severe illness for +Elaine Brooke. It culminated in an attack of brain fever. + +On recovering from her long spell of unconsciousness, Elaine revealed +the cause of her illness. Two hours, perhaps, had passed since Irene's +maddened plunge into the water. It was too late to save her then. The +cold waves kept their treasure, refusing to yield it up to the efforts +of those who, headed by Mr. Kenmore, made an ineffectual trial to find +even the cold, dead body of the desperate girl. Dawn broke with all the +roseate beauty of summer, and the golden light glimmered far over land +and sea, but neither the wide waste of waters nor the sandy reaches of +shore gave back sign or token of her who had found life too hard to +bear, and so had sought Nepenthe from its ills and pains. + +Guy Kenmore remained to Mr. Brooke's funeral, then returned to Baltimore +a softened, saddened man--a man with a purpose. Two things had confirmed +him in his purpose to trace the writer of the fragment found in the dead +man's hand. + +On the night of Mr. Brooke's death no sign of violence had been +discovered on his person. On the day following a purplish mark was +discoverable on the old man's temple--a strange, discolored mark. +Careless lookers believed it to be the effects of decomposition. + +Guy Kenmore, studying it with suspicious eyes, believed that it was +caused by a blow--a blow that had caused Ronald Brooke's death. + +Another thing was, that when Elaine Brooke went into a delirious fever, +that terrible dawn that broke on the tragic night, he had stood by her +side a few moments, gazing at her in pain and sorrow. While he stood +there she had startled him by calling wildly on one name. It was +"Clarence, Clarence, Clarence!" + +He sought Bertha. + +"Will you tell me," he asked, gravely, and without preamble, "the name +of the villain who deceived your sister?" + +Bertha colored and trembled in shame and agitation. + +"I cannot," she answered. "I am under a sacred promise not to reveal +it." + +"Was it Clarence Stuart?" he asked, coolly, and Bertha gave a terrible +start. + +"She has revealed it in her delirium," she exclaimed. + +"Yes," he answered, calmly, knowing that he had surprised the truth from +her reluctant lips. + +Walking slowly along the shore, listening to the murmur of the waves, in +which his bride of an hour had sought oblivion from the ills of life, +Guy Kenmore thought it all out to his own satisfaction. That fragmentary +line of a letter had told the whole sad story. + +Elaine Brooke had been truly a wife. Her husband's father had deceived +her by a trumped up story, and divided her from her young husband. +Dying, he had repented his sin, and written a letter of confession to +her father. + +And here he fitted the second link of the story. + +Some person unknown had found it to be against his or her interests that +the truth should be revealed. That person had followed the bearer of +Clarence Stuart's letter, and had torn it from old Ronald Brooke's +grasp, with a blow that meant death to the gentle, kindly old man. + +Guy Kenmore honestly believed in the truth and accuracy of these +deductions. + +"If I can only find out where these Stuarts live, I will discover the +guilty party," he said to himself. "I will not ask Mrs. Brooke nor +Bertha. They would only believe me impertinent. I must depend on the +gentle Elaine for information." + +He concluded to return to his home in Baltimore, and await the issue of +Elaine's illness. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +The time came weeks after when Elaine, pale, wan, shadowy, the sad ghost +of her former beautiful self, came down to the parlor again and joined +her mother and sister in the broken family circle whose severed links +could never be re-united again. + +Mrs. Brooke and Bertha were subtly changed, too. Their black dresses +made them look older and graver. Bertha's grief at the loss of a kind, +indulgent father, and her chagrin at Guy Kenmore's defection, had +combined to plant some fine lines on her hither unruffled brow, and a +peevish expression curled her red lips, while her large brilliant black +eyes flashed with discontent and scorn. Over Irene's tragic death she +had shed not a tear. She had always disliked the girl for her youth and +winsome beauty and looked down on her for the stain upon her birth, +always deploring that she had not died in infancy. The poor girl's +willfulness the night of the ball had changed Bertha's dislike to hate. +She was secretly glad Irene was dead. Better that than to have lived to +be Guy Kenmore's wife. + +Mrs. Brooke shared Bertha's feelings, only in a less exaggerated degree. + +So Elaine found no sympathy in the loss of the beautiful daughter whom +she had secretly worshiped, and over whose pretty defiant willfulness +she had oftentimes shed bitter, burning tears of grief and dread. + +The old gray hall which her sweet songs and musical laughter had once +made gay and joyous was now hushed and silent as the tomb. The few +servants glided about as if afraid of awaking the lonely echoes that +slept in the wide, dark halls, and quiet chambers. No song nor laugh +disturbed the silence. The mistress sat in the parlor pale and grave in +her sweeping sables. Her daughters were no less grave and still, sitting +in their chairs like dark, still shadows, with averted faces and silent +lips, for Elaine had not forgotten Bertha's treacherous betrayal of her +shameful secret; and Bertha, while she felt no remorse for her cruel +work still felt shame enough to cause her to turn in confusion from the +clear, sad light of her sister's eyes. + +In the meantime that sad truth that oftentimes makes the pang of +bereavement harder to bear, was coming home to them. + +Mr. Brooke had died almost insolvent. + +Once a man of almost unlimited wealth and position, the old tobacco +planter had been almost ruined by the war which had freed his slaves, +and left him only his broad-spreading, fertile acres, with no one to +till them. His great income was almost gone, for with his losses through +the war, he could not afford to replace with hired workmen the skilled +labor he had lost. + +In order to keep up the dignity of appearances which his proud wife +considered necessary to herself and her beautiful young daughters, Mr. +Brooke had been forced to sacrifice his land from time to time, until +now, at the end, only a few acres remained of his once princely estate. +The fine old gray-stone mansion, Bay View, remained as a shelter for +their heads, indeed; but the sacrifice of the remaining land would +barely support them a year or two. Mrs. Brooke and Bertha were aghast at +the prospect. They had expected that the latter would have been married +off to some wealthy personage before the dire catastrophe of poverty +overtook them. They quailed and trembled now beneath the subdued +mutterings of the storm of adversity. + +When Elaine came down and mingled with them again, they broke the bad +tidings to her rudely enough. + +"No more playing fine lady for us," Mrs. Brooke said, bitterly. "We can +live on the land a little while, then we must sell our jewels, then our +home, and when all is done, we shall have to work for our living like +common people." + +The aristocratic southern lady, who had never soiled her white, jeweled +fingers in useful toil, broke down and sobbed dismally at the grievous +prospect. + +"Oh, I have had more than enough of trouble and sorrow in my life," she +complained. "First, there was Elaine's disobedience and disgrace; then, +losing our negroes by the war; then my poor husband dying so suddenly, +without a farewell word, and now this horrible nightmare, poverty! Oh! I +have never deserved these visitations of Providence," asseverated the +handsome, selfish widow, energetically. + +Bertha joined in these lamentations loudly. She would not know how to +work when it came to that, not she. They should have to starve. + +Elaine regarded them with troubled eyes. + +"Mamma, do not grieve so bitterly," she said. "We are not come to +absolute want yet." + +"You take it very coolly," Bertha sneered. "When the last few acres of +land are sold, how long will the proceeds keep three helpless women, +pray?" + +Elaine did not answer Bertha--did not even look at her. She went up to +her mother's side. + +"Mamma, I have foreseen this trouble coming," she said. "We have been +living beyond our means for years, and even if poor papa had lived this +crash must have come some day; I am very sorry," she repeated, gently. + +"Sorrows will not put money into our empty purses," Mrs. Brooke +answered, spitefully. + +"I know that," Elaine answered, patiently. "But I have a plan by which +your money may be made to last a little longer. I am going to leave you, +mamma." + +"Leave me," Mrs. Brooke echoed, feebly. + +"Rats always desert a sinking ship," flung in Bertha with coarse irony. + +Again her elder sister had no answer for her. + +"I am going away," she repeated. "Even if papa had left us a fortune it +would be the same, I could not stay here after--all that has happened." + +"You mean,"--said Mrs. Brooke, then paused. + +"I mean since I have lost papa and Irene," her daughter answered, sadly. +"You know, mamma, you and Bertha have never been kind to me since my +great--trouble. You only tolerated me because my father wished it. I +have long been in your way. It is all over now. To-morrow I shall leave +you forever." + +"Forever," Mrs. Brooke repeated, blandly, while Bertha exclaimed with a +coarse, spiteful sneer: + +"You will return to the life of shame from which papa rescued you +perhaps." + +"I am going to New York to earn my living by honest work," Elaine said, +speaking pointedly to her mother. "You know I have a good voice, and +talent for music. I shall give music lessons, probably." + +"My daughter giving music lessons! Oh, what a disgrace to the family!" +cried the aristocratic lady. "Are you not ashamed to put yourself so +low, Elaine?" + +"Don't be silly, mamma," flashed Bertha, sharply. "It is a very good +plan, I think. Besides, it is only right for Elaine to give up the +remainder of her property to us. If we had not been burdened with the +support of her daughter for sixteen years there would have been more +money for me." + +"It is quite settled, mamma, I shall go," said poor Elaine, and the +selfish mother weakly acquiesced. + +The next day she went, glad of her freedom, glad to fling off the +slavery of sixteen years. + +"I could not have stayed even if poor papa had left me a fortune," she +said to herself. "The sound of the waves sighing over Irene's watery +grave in the lonesome nights breaks my heart!" + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +We must return to Irene Brooke that fatal night, whose accumulating +horrors induced a transient madness that drove the wretched girl to seek +oblivion from her woes in self-destruction. + +Life is sweet, even to the wretched. Irene's sudden, violent plunge into +the cold waves cooled the fever of her heart and brain like magic. In +that one awful, tragic moment in which the waters closed darkly over her +golden head, a sharp remorse, a terrible regret woke to life within her +heart. + +Out of that swift repentance and awful despair, a cry for pity broke +wildly from her almost strangling lips: + +"Oh, Lord, pardon and save me!" + +As she came back from the depths with a swift rebound to the surface of +the water, the girl threw out her white arms gropingly, as if to seize +upon some support, however slight and frail, on which to buoy her +drenched and sinking frame. + +Joy! as if God himself had answered her wild appeal for help and pardon, +a strong, wide plank drifted to her reach. Irene grasped it tightly and +threw herself upon it, while a cry of thankfulness broke from her lips. +Alone in the dark and rushing waves, her heart filled with relief at the +thought of this frail barrier between herself and that mysterious +Eternity, to which a moment ago she had blindly hastened. + +"If I can only hold on a little while, Elaine will bring me help and +rescue," she said to herself, hopefully, and calling her mother by the +old familiar sisterly name, for the name of mother was strange to her +young lips yet. + +Alas, for her springing hopes! Poor Elaine lay white and still in that +long, long trance of unconsciousness that followed on her realization of +her daughter's suicide. Her locked lips did not unclose to tell her +anxious watchers the story of that white form floating on the dark +waters, waiting, hoping, praying for rescue, while her strength ebbed, +and her arms grew tired and weak, clinging so tightly to that slender +plank that floated between her and the death from which she shrunk +tremblingly now with all the ardor of a young heart that has found life +a goodly thing and fair. + +No rescue came. The girl floated farther and farther out to sea in that +thick darkness that comes before the dawn. Hours that were long as years +seemed to pass over her head, and hope died in her breast as the cruel +waves beat and buffeted her tender form. + +"I am forgotten and deserted," she moaned. "My mother has raised no +alarm. Is it possible she was glad to be rid of me, and held her peace?" + +A jeering voice seemed to whisper in her ear: + +"It is best for all that you die. Bertha and her mother hated you. You +were a stumbling block in your mother's path. You had involved Guy +Kenmore in a fatal entanglement. You had no right and no place in the +world. Not one whom you have left but will be glad that you are dead." + +A cry of despair came from the beautiful girlish lips in the darkness. + +"Oh, God, and only yesterday life seemed so beautiful and fair! Now I +must die, alone and unregretted! Oh, cruel world, farewell," she cried, +for she felt her strength forsaking her, and knew that in a moment more +her arms would relax their hold and that she would sink forever amid the +engulfing waves. + +But in that last perilous moment something occurred that seemed to her +dazzled and bewildered senses nothing less than a miracle. + +In her bodily pain and mental trouble, with eyes blinded by the salt sea +waves that mixed with her bitter tears, Irene had not perceived the +faint grey light of dawn dispelling the thick darkness of the night. But +suddenly, all suddenly, the crest of the waves was illuminated +marvellously by a gleam of brightness that shot far and wide across the +water; the blank horizon glowed with light. + + "And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn + God made Himself an awful rose of dawn." + +Startled by the swift and seemingly instant transition from darkness to +light, Irene uttered a shrill, sharp cry and looked up. The beautiful, +life-giving sun was just peeping across the level green waves, and +touching their foamy crests with gold. Through half-dazzled eyes she saw +riding, like a thing of beauty on the beautiful water, a stately, +white-sailed yacht only a few rods away. Irene could see moving figures +on her decks. + +There was one awful moment when the girl's breath failed, her heart +stood still, and she could scarcely see the moving yacht outlined +against the rosy dawn, for the mist that filled her eyes. Then she shook +off the trance that threatened to destroy her, and with one last, +desperate effort sent her sharp young voice ringing clearly across the +waves: + +"Help! Help! In God's name, help!" + +The cry was heard and answered by the moving figures on the vessel's +deck. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +Was it hours or moments before the gallant figure that sprang over the +side of the yacht reached Irene's side? + +The girl never knew, for even as she watched his progress through the +water, and admired his swift and graceful swimming, a dizziness stole +over her; her arms relaxed their hold; the friendly plank slipped from +beneath her, and she felt herself sinking down, down into the fathomless +depths of green water. + +It was well that her rescuer was a skillful diver, or our hapless +heroine's history must have ended then and there. + +But the dauntless swimmer who had gone to her assistance was brave, +bold, daring. He redoubled his speed, made a desperate dive beneath the +water and reappeared with the form of the exhausted and unconscious girl +tightly clasped in one arm. + +In the meantime a small boat had been lowered from the yacht, and was +coming with rapid strokes to her assistance. + +When Irene came to herself again she lay on a pile of blankets upon the +deck of the yacht. An anxious group was collected around her, +conspicuous among them being one wet and dripping figure whom she +instinctively recognized as her gallant preserver. + +Irene opened her beautiful eyes, blue as the cerulean vault above, and +smiled languidly at the stranger. + +The man, who was middle-aged and had the rich, dark, picturesque beauty +of the southern climate, started and bent over her. He grew ashy pale +beneath his olive skin. + +"She recovers," he said, hoarsely. "She will live." + +"Clarence, Clarence," cried a thin, peevish, authoritative voice at this +moment, "I insist that you shall go and change your wet clothing this +moment! You will catch your death of cold standing around here drenched +and shivering." + +Irene turned her languid eyes and saw a pale, faded, yet rather pretty +little woman, clothed in an elegant blue yachting dress with gold +buttons. She was looking at Irene's rescuer with a peevish look in her +light hazel eyes. + +The man scarcely seemed to heed her, so intent was his gaze at Irene. +Some one handed him a glass of wine at that moment, and, kneeling down, +he lifted the girl's head gently on his arm and held it to her lips. + +"Drink," he said, in a voice so kind and musical it thrilled straight +through the girl's tender heart. She drank a little of the beautiful, +ruby-colored liquid, and it ran like fire through her veins, warming and +reviving her chilled frame. + +"Clarence," again reiterated the woman's peevish voice, "do oblige me by +changing your wet clothing. You seem to think less of your own health +than of this total stranger's." + +His brow clouded over, but he forced a smile on his handsome face. + +"Very well, Mrs. Stuart, I will do so to oblige you," he said; "but pray +do not make me ridiculous among my friends by such unfounded +apprehensions! I am not a baby to be killed by a bath in salt water!" + +He went away, and several ladies came around Irene, gazing curiously at +the pale, fair face. They whispered together over her wondrous beauty, +which, despite the long hours of suffering endured in the water, shone +resplendently as some fair white flower in the beams of the rising sun. + +"Her clothing should be changed, too," said one, more thoughtful than +the rest. "She shall have my bed and dry clothing from my wardrobe. She +is about my size, I believe." + +Irene smiled her languid gratitude to the kind-hearted lady, then her +weary eyes closed again. An overpowering drowsiness and languor was +stealing over her. When they had changed her drenched clothing for warm, +dry, perfumed garments, and laid her in a soft, warm bed, she could no +longer keep awake. She swallowed the warm, fragrant tea they brought her +and fell into a long, deep, saving slumber. + +The ladies were all burning with curiosity over the beautiful waif so +strangely rescued from the cruel waves, but they refrained through +delicacy from asking her questions when they saw how weary and exhausted +she was. When she was asleep they examined her wet, cast-off linen for +her name, but were disappointed, for they found none. + +Then, with feminine curiosity, they peeped into the gold locket that +hung by its slender chain around Irene's neck. + +"What a handsome old man, and what a beautiful woman!" they cried. "Who +can the girl be?" + +Everyone was eager and interested except the faded, peevish Mrs. Stuart. +She openly railed at her husband for risking his life for an utter +stranger. She would not allow anyone to praise his bravery in her +presence. + +"I will not have him encouraged in such bravado and foolhardiness," she +said, angrily. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +"Oh, Mrs. Leslie, isn't she just lovely? And she cannot be much older +than I am!" + +Irene had slept profoundly for a day and night, being physically and +mentally exhausted by her terrible ordeal in the water. When she awoke +after twenty-four hours of restful slumber those words of admiration +rung in her ears, uttered by a soft, girlish voice, interrupted by an +ominous hacking cough. + +Irene opened her eyes and glanced languidly around her. Beside her bed +she saw Mrs. Leslie, the little lady who had been so kind to her the day +before. Next to the lady, in a low, cushioned rocker, sat a girl of +thirteen or fourteen, richly and tastefully dressed, but with a thin +face as white as alabaster, save for two burning spots of hectic on her +hollow cheeks, and with large, brilliant black eyes burning with the +feverish fire of consumption. + +"So you are awake at last!" cried the girlish voice, joyously, "I +thought you were going off into a regular Rip Van Winkle sleep, and I +have been just dying of curiosity over you." + +Irene felt the sudden crimson dying her cheeks at the vivacious +exclamation of the delicate-looking girl. + +"Lilia, my love, you startle her," said Mrs. Leslie, gently; then she +bent over Irene, saying kindly: "You feel better, I hope, after your +long rest. This is Miss Stuart, the daughter of the gentleman who saved +your life. She has been very anxious over you." + +Irene looked gratefully at the dark-eyed girl who rose impulsively and +kissed her. + +"You are so pretty, I love you already," she cried, and Mrs. Leslie +laughed. + +"Pretty is as pretty does," she said, gaily, and Irene crimsoned +painfully, as if the words had been a poisoned shaft aimed at her +breast. + +"Are you going to be well enough to sit up to-day?" pursued Lilia +Stuart, anxiously. "Because if you are, I want you to come into my +little saloon with me. I will give you my softest lounge to lie on. +Aren't you very hungry? Will you take your breakfast now?" + +"Yes, to all of your questions," Irene answered, looking in wonder at +this girl who was but two years younger than herself, yet who seemed so +very light and childish. Alas, poor Irene, that fatal night had forced +her into a premature womanhood. + +When she had taken a light, appetizing breakfast, and been robed in a +white morning-dress, Mrs. Leslie advised her to spend the day in Lilia +Stuart's saloon. + +"She is a spoiled child," she said, "but we humor her all we can, for +hers is a sad fate. She is dying of consumption." + +"Dying---- so young!" cried Irene with a shudder, remembering how +horrible the thought of death had appeared to her while she was +struggling in the cold, black waves. + +"Yes, poor child, she is surely dying," sighed Mrs. Leslie. "Her father +bought this beautiful yacht to take her to Italy by the advice of her +physicians. They fancied a sea voyage might benefit her. But I do not +believe she will survive the trip. Some days she is very ill. Poor +little Lilia. It is very hard. She is Mr. Stuart's only child." + +They went to Lilia's luxurious saloon which was fitted up with every +comfort, and was exquisitely dainty and charming, though small. Mrs. +Stuart was there with her daughter. She gave the stranger a little +supercilious nod, and invited Mrs. Leslie to go on deck with her. + +Lilia, who had just recovered from a violent spell of coughing, led her +visitor to a softly cushioned satin lounge. + +"You may rest here," she said. "I am well enough to-day to sit up in my +easy-chair, but some days I lie down all day. You may call _me_ Lilia. +What shall I call you?" + +"You may call me Irene," was the answer, while a burning flush mounted +to the speaker's forehead. + +"Irene---- what a soft, sweet name! I like that," said Lilia, and just +then the door unclosed and her father came in softly. "Ah, here is papa! +you see I have a visitor, papa," she cried. + +Mr. Stuart was a handsome, stately-looking man, middle-aged, with +abundant threads of silver streaking his dark hair. His mouth, in +repose, looked both sad and stern. + +Irene arose and held out her hands. + +"I owe you my life," she said, gratefully. + +A transient, melancholy smile lit the grave, dark face. + +"You need not thank me," he said, almost bruskly. "Wait until years have +come and gone, and you have fairly tested life. It will be a question +then whether you will award me blame or praise for the turn I did you +yesterday." + +The large, dark, melancholy eyes held Irene's with a strange +fascination. + +"Ah! you think that youth is all sunshine and roses," she answered, +almost against her will. "I have already learned the reverse of that, +and yet I find life sweet." + +"How came you to be in the water?" he asked, anxiously, sitting down and +drawing Lilia to a seat upon his knee. + +The deep color rushed over Irene's pale, lovely face. A deep shame +overpowered her, and yet against her will something within her forced +her to confess her sin. + +"You will be shocked," she said; "but I must tell you the truth. I threw +myself in." + +"No," he exclaimed, in surprise. + +"Yes," she answered, sadly. + +"Oh, Irene, why did you do that?" exclaimed little Lilia. + +"Why did you do it?" echoed the man. + +"I had lost the only friend I had on earth, and I did not wish to live," +she answered. + +"Then I was right. You will not thank me for saving your life," +exclaimed Mr. Stuart. + +"Yes, for I repented my rashness as soon as my body struck the cold +waves," she answered, shivering. "I am thankful my life was spared to +me. Life is hard, but death is harder." + +He looked at the beautiful, agitated girl with deep interest. He began +to see that there had been some romance in her life. Her face had a +tragedy written on it. + +"You will wish to return to your home and your friends?" he said. + +An exceedingly bitter expression crossed the lovely young face, and for +a moment she was silent. To herself she said: "I have neither home, nor +friends, nor name. Those whom I left will be glad to think that I am +dead." + +Her heart was hardened against them all. She believed that her mother +had left her to perish without one effort at rescue. + +"She was glad to be rid of her illegitimate child," she said to herself, +with inexpressible bitterness. + +Mr. Stuart, thinking she had not heard him, repeated his question. + +"You will be glad to return to your home and friends?" + +She raised her large, beautiful eyes to his face. They were dark with +unutterable despair. + +"I have neither home nor friends--nor name!" she said. + +He started, and looked at her keenly. + +"You must have borne some name in the world," he said, almost sternly. + +"I did; but I had no right to it, and I have renounced it forever. I am +called Irene. That is the only name I can rightfully claim," she +answered, bitterly, and drooping her shamed eyes from his earnest gaze. + +For a moment both were silent. + +Mr. Stuart's dark, sad eyes were fixed on her with a look that was +almost pain. This fair, mysterious waif from the sea, stirred his soul +to its deepest depths. His presence held the same mysterious fascination +for her. + +Lilia, the most innocent child in the world, and who had been listening +with deepest interest, broke the silence, wide-eyed. + +"You have only one name," she said. "How strange! I thought everyone had +two names. I have. Mine is Lilia Stuart. Mamma's is the same. Papa's +name is Clarence Stuart." + +She paused, for a stifled cry broke from Irene's lips. The dainty +saloon, the faces of the father and child seemed to fade before her. She +was back in the parlor of Bay View, that fatal night when they had +brought old Ronald Brooke home dead. Again she saw, through the blinding +mist of her tears, Guy Kenmore extricating the fragment of paper from +the dead hand. Again she looked over his arm and read: + + "That the truth may be revealed, and my death-bed repentance + accepted of Heaven, I pray humbly. + + "CLARENCE STUART, Senior." + +"My God! what does it mean?" she asked herself; and Guy Kenmore's +ambiguous answer recurred to her mind: + +"A great deal--or nothing!" + +"Irene, are you ill?" asked Lilia, anxiously. "You almost screamed out, +and your face is as white as chalk!" + +"I am very nervous. You must not let me frighten you, Lilia," the girl +answered, sadly. + +Lilia came coaxingly to her side. + +"I am going to tell you something," she said, with her pretty air of a +spoiled child. "While you were asleep I was very naughty. I peeped at +the beautiful lady in your locket!" + +"Lilia!" her father exclaimed. + +"All the ladies looked, papa," Lilia answered, self-excusingly. "And I +am going to have one more peep! Irene will not care, I know!" + +She flashed the lid open suddenly before his dazzled eyes. He could not +choose but see that fair face, with its haunting eyes, and tremulous +smile, and golden hair, Elaine's perfect image, even to the shadow of a +tragedy that even a stranger could read on her beauty. + +He gazed and gazed, and the breath fluttered sharply over his parted +lips. Then, all in a moment, with a smothered cry of despair, he put out +his hands and shut out the sight of the lovely face, even as his head +fell back against the chair, his breath failed, and he lay all white and +corpse-like before the two frightened girls. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +Bertha had promised to keep Guy Kenmore informed of the progress of +Elaine's illness, and she was glad to keep her word, as it afforded her +a pretext for writing to the young man, and thus keeping her memory +alive in his heart. + +Since the supposed death of poor Irene, the artful Bertha was again +laying plans for the capture of Mr. Kenmore. She hoped in time to allay +the unfavorable impression she had created in his mind the night of the +ball, and to establish an empire over his heart. Mr. Kenmore belonged to +one of the wealthiest and most aristocratic families in Baltimore, and +it was the hight of her ambition to become his wife. + +Though the young man's interest in Elaine afforded her a pretext for +corresponding with him, Bertha was vaguely displeased at his anxiety +over her sister. It filled her with secret jealousy. Elaine was still +young and beautiful enough to win the heart of the man who had married +her daughter. Bertha was determined not to tolerate her as a rival. + +"There is no accounting for men's tastes," she said, angrily, to her +mother. "I supposed that his knowledge of Elaine's shameful secret would +utterly disgust him with her. But he is almost as anxious over her as if +he were her lover." + +"Men regard these things somewhat differently from women," replied Mrs. +Brooke. "It is possible he may regard Elaine with pity, rather than +disgust. And pity is akin to love, you know." + +In her heart Mrs. Brooke was rather elated at Guy's interest in Elaine. +If she could not secure him for Bertha, she would be very pleased to +have him for her elder daughter. + +Bertha saw the bent of her mother's mind, and inwardly raged at it. Day +and night her mind was filled with projects for diverting Guy's mind +from the charms of her elder sister. On this particular state of her +mind Elaine's announcement of leaving Bay View fell like healing balm. + +Several days elapsed after her departure before Bertha communicated the +fact to Mr. Kenmore in a brief, ambiguous note. + +It was no part of her plan that he should become acquainted with their +poverty, or with the reason of Elaine going. + +So she wrote simply: + +"Elaine convalesced more rapidly than was expected, and has left us in +anger, declining to live with us longer, and making a mystery of her +destination. Come down to Bay View and I will give you the particulars." + +The note had the effect she anticipated of bringing Mr. Kenmore down to +Bay View without delay. + +Then Bertha told her story with well-acted grief and penitence. + +"It was all my wretched fault," she sighed. "Elaine would not forgive me +for giving way to my jealous passion that dreadful night, and betraying +her shameful story. It was all in vain that I declared my penitence on +my knees and implored her forgiveness. She would not hear me. She +declared that she should hate me so long as she lived, and that the +same roof could not shelter us both. So she went away from mamma and me, +declaring that it was forever." + +The arch deceiver here shed some quiet, natural-looking tears into her +perfumed, black-bordered handkerchief. + +"It was very hard, losing papa and Elaine, and poor little Irene, all, +as it were, at one fatal stroke," she declared, sobbingly. + +Mr. Kenmore was gravely, sadly silent. He did not think of doubting +Bertha's clever tale. It seemed very natural that poor Elaine should +resent her sister's cruel betrayal of the long-guarded secret of Irene's +birth. He scarcely wondered that she had gone away desperately wounded +and unforgiving, in the smart of her bitter pain. + +"Oh, if you could know how bitterly I have repented all that I said that +dreadful night," sighed Bertha, giving him a sidewise glance under her +long, black lashes. "I must have been mad, I think. You know the great +poet says, 'There's madness in the moon,' and that night Irene had +fairly driven me wild. Oh, if I could only think you had forgotten the +unkind things I said to you in my foolish passion!" she pursued, +remorsefully. + +Her pretty shame and penitence touched him. + +"I wish that you could forget it as freely as I forgive it, Miss +Brooke," he answered, kindly. + +"Oh, thank you, thank you," she cried. "I have repented my folly in +bitterness and tears. I let my own heart deceive me. I know now that a +woman should not give her heart unasked, still less betray its tender +throbbings to the cold and careless." + +She hid her face in her hands as if she could not bear his kindly gaze. +Guy, touched by her tears and sorrow, did not know what to say or do. He +was intensely sorry for her, forgetting how much he had disliked her +that night when she had shown herself in her true colors. + +"Let us forget it all, Miss Brooke," he said, uneasily, anxious to dry +up her springing tears. + +The beautiful brunette gave him a swift, shy look of gratitude. + +"Oh, how gladly I will do so!" she exclaimed, putting out her delicate, +white hand to him. "Shall we be friends as we were before---- that fatal +night?" + +"Yes," he replied, pressing her hand kindly, but lightly, for he had no +mind to be drawn into the _role_ of a lover again. + +"And you will come down to Bay View sometimes? Mamma and I will be so +lonely and sad now, after losing so many dear links from our family +circle," said the dark-eyed beauty, following up her advantage. + +"Sometimes--when I can find leisure," he replied ambiguously. + +And with that Bertha was obliged to be content. She hoped great things +from the concessions he had already made. Now that Irene was dead, and +Elaine gone, she would have no rivals, and surely, surely her beauty, +her fascination, her tenderness for him must win him even against his +will. + +She brought the whole battery of her charms and graces to bear upon +him, but was obliged to confess to herself that she had never seen him +so sad, so grave, so pale and so _distrait_. + +"It cannot be that he is sorry over that child's death. He ought to be +glad," she thought to herself. "It must be that he assumes this gravity +in deference to my affliction." + +Yet she was troubled and chagrined when he left her so indifferently and +went down to the shore. She watched him from her window, standing +quietly, with folded arms, a tall, dark shape, outlined against the +brightness of the summer eve. + +"Of what is he thinking?" she asked her heart, uneasily. + +It would have seemed strange to her if she had known. It even seemed +strange to himself. + +He was standing there gazing with dark, heavy eyes at the rolling waves, +much as if he had been gazing on a grave. + +He was recalling to mind the winsome, changeful, perfect beauty, the +fire, the soul, the passion of the girl he had so strangely wedded, the +girl who had recklessly flung herself into the deep, relentless waves, +leaving him only the memory of the few, brief hours in which she had +flashed before him in the extremes of joy and despair---- one moment a +beautiful, spirited, happy child, the next a passionate, despairing, +crushed and broken-hearted woman! + +"Poor little Irene," he said to himself. "If she had lived, who +knows"--then a sigh, deeper than he knew, finished the regretful words. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +He stood there a long, long time, listening to the beat of the waves, +and thinking of Irene and her mother. Bertha grew tired of watching him +and stole away to try the effect of a new mourning bonnet that had just +been sent home from the milliner. Guy had forgotten her. He was wrapped +in other thoughts. New feelings had come to him since that night, when, +indolent, _blase_, careless, he had come face to face with his fate. He +was haunted by a voice, a face. Some sad words came to his mind: + + "How could I tell I should love thee to-day, + Whom that day I held not dear? + How could I know I should love thee away + When I loved thee not anear?" + + "Oh, that word Regret! + There have been nights and morns when we have sighed: + 'Let us alone, Regret!'" + +He turned away at last warned by the darkening twilight that fell like a +pall over his lost bride's "vast and wandering grave." + +"I must bid adieu to Mrs. Brooke and Bertha and return home to-night," +was the thought in his mind. + +Mrs. Brooke was in the parlor alone, Bertha being still absorbed in the +new bonnet. A sudden impulse came to Guy Kenmore. + +He sat down by the matron's side and gazed sympathetically into her +still youthful-looking and handsome face. + +"Miss Brooke left you no address when she went away, I presume?" he +inquired in a tone of respectful anxiety. + +Mrs. Brooke had received her cue from Bertha and answered accordingly: + +"No. She has deserted us most heartlessly, and I fear, I fear"---- she +broke down and buried her face in her handkerchief. + +"You do not suppose that she can have made away with herself?" he cried +in low, awe-struck tones. + +"No, no; worse, far worse," groaned the apparently deeply agitated +woman. "Oh, Mr. Kenmore, pity the grief and shame of a heart-broken +mother--I fear that Elaine has returned to her wicked deceiver." + +"Impossible!" he exclaimed, in stern and startled tones. + +"Would that I could think so," sighed the unjust mother. "But my heart +is torn by cruel suspicions. Elaine has never ceased to love that wicked +wretch, and to whom else can she have gone?" + +To herself she said, self-excusingly: "Poor Elaine, I would not blacken +her name still more, only to help Bertha. If she marries him I shall +manage to let him find out the real truth about Elaine directly +afterward. She shall not lie under that base imposition any longer than +is necessary for Bertha's welfare." + +She was startled when she saw how reproachfully and sternly his brown +eyes gleamed upon her. + +"A mother is the last person to impute sin to her child," he said. + +Mrs. Brooke only sobbed into her handkerchief by way of answer to this +reproach. + +"I have become deeply interested in your daughter's sad story, Mrs. +Brooke," he went on. "Pray do not think me inquisitive if I ask you one +question." + +She looked it him in startled surprise. + +"It is only this, Mrs. Brooke," he said. "Will you tell me in what city +lived the man who so cruelly wronged beautiful Elaine?" + +"It can do no good to rake up these old things," she said, +half-fretfully. + +"It was only a single question. It cannot hurt you to answer," he said, +almost pleadingly. + +She said to herself that it could not matter indeed, and she did not +wish to offend the young man whom she hoped to capture for her +son-in-law. + +"It is very painful re-opening these old wounds," she sighed; "but since +you insist upon it I will answer your question. The young villain lived +at Richmond." + +He bowed his thanks. + +"I already know his name," he said, "and since you have no son to send +upon this delicate mission, Mrs. Brooke, I will make it my business to +inquire if your elder daughter has indeed deserted you for her base +betrayer." + +She was about to protest against his doing so on the first pretext she +could think of, when Bertha's entrance suddenly closed the conversation. + +He made his adieux and departed, giving an evasive reply to the young +lady's wishes for his swift return. + +One week later Mrs. Brooke received a letter from him dated at Richmond. + +"You wronged your daughter by your unkind suspicions," he wrote; "she is +not with the man you thought. Clarence Stuart left Richmond on the very +day of your husband's death, in his own yacht, with his wife and +daughter, and a party of friends. They were on a pleasure-trip to Italy. +You will no doubt be glad to hear that Elaine is not so wicked as you +believed her." + +Thus the letter closed abruptly. Mrs. Brooke, in a curt note, thanked +Mr. Kenmore for his information. She did not dare give way to her +indignation at his interference, dreading that it would injure the +success of Bertha's husband-hunting. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +Lilia Stuart was very much frightened by her father's strange seizure. +She was about to scream loudly for help when Irene, with a sensitive +horror of scenes, laid her white hand gently but firmly over the parted +lips. + +"Do not be frightened, Lilia," she said. "Get some cold water. That is +all that is necessary." + +Lilia sprang to the ice-flagon and returned with a glass of cold water +in her trembling grasp. Irene thrust her white hand into the cold fluid, +and deluged Mr. Stuart's rigid white face with it. + +It produced the desired effect. Mr. Stuart shivered, opened his eyes, +and stared blankly around him for a moment. + +"Oh, papa, you are better," cried Lilia, springing to throw her arms +around his neck. "I am so frightened, dearest papa, shall I not call +mamma?" + +Something like dread or fear flashed for a moment into his open dark +eyes. + +"No, for Heaven's sake, don't!" he exclaimed, testily; "I detest scenes! +There is nothing at all the matter with me! Say nothing to your mother, +Lilia. You understand me?" + +"Yes, papa," the girl replied, obediently. "But what made you faint?" +she continued, curiously. + +An expression of deep annoyance clouded Mr. Stuart's handsome face. + +"Pooh, I did not faint," he said, sharply. "A mere dizziness overcame +me. Don't let your fancies run away with your reason, Lilia." + +He rose as he spoke, and without a glance at Irene or the open locket +that still swung at her throat, hastily quitted the room. Lilia, +forgetting her guest, followed after him. + +Irene thus left alone, fell into a startled revery. + +She had not been deceived like Lilia by Mr. Stuart's short assertion of +dizziness. She knew that he had actually fainted, and she believed that +the bare sight of her mother's face in the locket had been the cause of +his agitation. + +"He recognized the face, and it had power to stay the very pulses of his +life for a moment," she said to herself. + +A terrible suspicion darted into her young mind, chilling the blood in +her veins, and driving it coldly back upon her heart. + +"Can this man be my father, my mother's base betrayer?" she thought. + +She did not like to think so. Her heart had gone out strangely to this +man, the savior of her young life. She liked to think that he was noble, +good and brave. For the villain who had betrayed her trusting young +mother she had nothing in her heart but hatred, and a burning desire for +revenge. + +Suddenly the saloon door opened softly. Mr. Stuart had eluded Lilia and +returned. + +He came to her side and sat down again. His dark face was strangely pale +still. There was a troubled look in his large, dark eyes. + +"You must have thought my agitation strange just now, Irene," he said. + +"Yes," she answered, gravely. + +"And--you guessed the reason?" he inquired, slowly, fixing a keen glance +on her face. + +She raised her beautiful, troubled blue eyes steadily to his. + +"You recognized the pictures in my locket," she replied, touching it +with her trembling hand. + +"My God, yes!" he answered hoarsely. "Irene, child, for the love of +Heaven, tell me what this man and woman are to you." + +She had no answer for him. In her own heart she was saying, dumbly: + +"I cannot tell him. It is my mother's secret. She guarded it for sixteen +years, and I must not betray her." + +He looked at the white, agonized face of the girl, and repeated his +question: + +"Tell me what this man and woman are to you." + +"I cannot tell you, Mr. Stuart," she replied, falteringly. + +"You mean you will not," he said, studying her downcast face, with +grave, attentive eyes. + +"I _cannot_," she replied. "It is a secret that belongs to others. I +cannot betray confidence." + +A baffled look came into his troubled, marble-white face. + +"Do you mean to preserve an utter _incognito_ among us?" he asked. + +"I must," she answered, while great, trembling tears started beneath her +drooping lashes. "I can say no more than what I have told you already. I +am homeless, friendless, nameless!" + +"How old are you?" he inquired. + +"I was sixteen years old but a few days ago," she answered. + +He looked again keenly at her face, and bending forward, again looked at +the beautiful, pictured face of Elaine Brooke. + +A shudder shook his form. + +"You are strangely like her--strangely like," he said. "Child, I would +give much to hear you say what this beautiful woman is to you." + +Irene looked gravely at him, her young bosom shaken by a storm of +suspicion. + +"Confidence invites confidence," she said, harshly. "I will tell you +what this woman is to me if you tell me what she once was to you." + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +Irene's stern, abrupt question produced a startling effect upon Mr. +Stuart. His face grew ashy pale, even to his lips, and he gazed +suspiciously, almost angrily, at the girl's grave face. Seeing only an +earnest wonder mirrored in her clear, sweet eyes, he sprang abruptly +from his seat, and without replying to her question began to pace +rapidly up and down the room. + +Her grave, troubled eyes followed him slowly up and down, while a +terrible pain tore her heart. + +He seemed to have forgotten her presence, as with clenched hands and +wildly staring eyes he paced up and down, muttering bitter phrases to +himself. + +Irene caught the echo of some passionate words quoted in a voice of +raging scorn: + + "Falser than all fancy fathoms, + Falser than all songs have sung, + Puppet to a father's threat, + And servile to a shrewish tongue." + +Suddenly he stopped in his wild march, and came back to her side. + +"No, child, keep your secret," he said, hoarsely. "Keep your secret, and +I will keep mine. God help you if yours be as hard to bear as mine." + +She must have pitied the dreary despair of his face and voice if her +heart had not been hardened against him by her terrible suspicions. A +hard, scornful laugh broke over her lips. + +"Remorse is always hard to bear," she said, bitterly, to herself. + +He looked at her in wonder. + +"We will keep our own sad secrets," he repeated, mournfully. "But you +are friendless. I will be your friend. You are homeless. My home shall +be yours. You are nameless. You shall be Lilia's sister, and share her +name. It is a noble one, and has never been stained by disgrace." + +She looked at him gravely, fixedly. + +Did he speak the truth? Did not her mother's shame and hers lie at his +door? + +"Do you accept my proposition?" he inquired, anxiously. + +For a moment she was tempted to give him an angry passionate denial, to +say bitterly: + +"No, I will not have these things on sufferance that should be mine by +right. I will not have your favor or your pity, you demon, who blasted +my mother's life and mine! I could rather curse you!" + +But on a sudden she remembered that her suspicions were merely +suspicions. She had no proof that this noble-looking man, who seemed +crushed by the weight of some inward sorrow, was her father. Perhaps she +wronged him in her thoughts. + +"I must give him the benefit of the doubt, since he saved my life," she +thought, and put out a cold, little hand to him. + +"I must perforce accept your kindness," she said, mournfully, "since I +have not a friend to turn to in all the wide, wide world." + +He crushed the slender fingers in his firm clasp. + +"I will be your friend, always--remember that," he said. + +Irene would have thanked him feebly, but the saloon door hastily +unclosed, admitting Lilia and her faded, peevish-looking mother. + +"You here, Clarence!" exclaimed the latter, in a tone of marked +displeasure. + +He gave her a quick, cold look. Her eyes fell before it. Cowed by her +husband's superior will, she vented her spite on Irene. + +"Lilia has been telling me that you threw yourself into the water," she +said, flashing her eyes full of greenish rage on the pale young girl. +"Oh, you wicked, wicked girl!" + +"Madam!" exclaimed Irene, in a proud and haughty tone. + +Mr. Stuart advanced, and drew his wife's arm through his own. + +"Come with me, Mrs. Stuart, I want you," he said, leading her +deliberately from the room. + +Lilia stood looking at Irene's indignant face, with a strange +expression. The child was like a cat, one moment all silky fur and +purring fondness, the next ready to attack with teeth and claws. + +She saw the resentment at her mother's coarse attack burning in Irene's +dark blue eyes, and exclaimed, with peevish childishness: + +"Mamma says you must have done something very bad, indeed, or you +wouldn't have thrown yourself into the water! She says you are a bad, +wicked girl, and that I musn't entertain you in my pretty saloon, so I +guess you had better go back to Mrs. Leslie, and let me have my lounge!" + +Irene gazed at the child, almost petrified by her startling change from +sweetness and affection to spite and rancour. She saw the mother's +spirit flashing from the eyes of the child, and rising with a proud +step, left the room without a word. + +"Is he really my father," she asked herself, "and is that coarse woman +the one who was thought better to bear his name than my angel-hearted +mother? And that sickly, petted child--does she shed greater lustre on +the proud name of Stuart than I would have done?" + +She hastened to Mrs. Leslie's tiny apartment, and finding herself alone, +threw herself down upon the white bed and burst into a torrent of bitter +tears. + +Mrs. Leslie entering more than an hour later found her there, still +sobbing and weeping in a very abandonment of despair. She stooped down +impulsively and kissed the pure, white brow. + +"Do not mind Mrs. Stuart, my dear," she said consolingly. "She is a +spiteful, jealous cat, and hates you for your fair, young face." + +Irene looked up, startled. How had Mrs. Leslie learned so much? + +"Oh, I have heard about her naughtiness to you just now," smiled the +lady. "Do not grieve, Irene. I will be your friend. I am a wealthy +widow, and have no one to please but myself. I have fallen in love with +you, you mysterious little waif! You shall be my _protege_ if you will." + +Seeing that Irene could not speak for tears, she slipped a little note +into her hand. + +"Dry your eyes and read that," she said. "It is my recommendation to +your favor." + +Irene obeyed her in surprise. It was a pencil scrawl, hastily done. + +"My poor, unfortunate child," it ran, "owing to the hardness of my wife +I am unable to take you into the bosom of my family, as I wished to do; +but I am none the less interested in your welfare. You will be Mrs. +Leslie's _protege_. She is one of my oldest friends, and will be like a +sister to you, while you may always command me as your best friend. It +will be necessary, perhaps, that you should assume some name in order to +avoid censure and suspicion. The world is very hard and cold, as you may +have learned ere now, and it is best to put every defense possible +between you and its sneers. Let Mrs. Leslie assist you in the selection +of a suitable name." + +The hurried note closed abruptly with the name of Clarence Stuart. Irene +raised her eyes wonderingly to the lady's face. + +"Why does he take such an interest in me?" she asked. + +"He saved your life, my dear, and you seem in some sort to belong to +him. Besides, he is naturally one of the noblest and best of men. His +heart is full of pity for the weak and helpless," said the lady, +enthusiastically. + +There was a moment's silence; then Mrs. Leslie said, kindly: + +"What do you say, my dear--will you be my little sister, and let me care +for you?" + +"Yes, until I can act for myself," Irene answered, softly, and pressing +her girlish lips gratefully upon the lady's small white hand. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +Mrs. Leslie smoothed the girl's rippling golden curls tenderly. + +"And the name?" she said. "Shall you not take Mr. Stuart's advice about +that? It will be far--far better." + +Irene was silent, warm blushes drifting over her fair, young face. + +"Think," said the gentle lady, "there must surely be some name to which +you have a legal right. Is there not, my dear?" + +Deeper and warmer grew the blush on the fair, girlish face. + +She had suddenly remembered Guy Kenmore, and the ceremony which Mr. +Clavering had declared to be binding upon them. + +"My name is Mrs. Kenmore," she said to herself, with a strange feeling +trembling at her heart as she recalled the handsome man to whom she was +bound. + +Then a flash of pride usurped the thrill of almost unconscious +tenderness. + +"He did not wish for me to be his wife," she said to herself. "I +remember he regarded me simply as a spoiled child. I shall not claim his +name, shall never trouble him more. He shall think me dead." + +She looked up gravely at her kind friend. + +"Mrs. Leslie," she said, "there is no name from out my past that I wish +to claim. I have severed myself violently from all that once bound me. I +have done no wrong, I have sinned no sin, but I have been terribly +wronged and sinned against. It is true I have borne a name in the world +where I used to move, but when I found it was not mine I flung it away. +I will not be called by it, I will have nothing to remind me of the +past. Now tell me what I shall do." + +Mrs. Leslie was silent a few moments. She wondered who had been so cruel +as to wrong this beautiful girl, whose words, whose looks, whose every +action was so pure and high-toned. + +After a moment's reflection she said: + +"My maiden name was Berlin; will you bear that, Irene?" + +"You would give your own name to me, an utter stranger?" Irene cried, in +grateful surprise. + +"Yes, because, as I said just now, I have fallen in love with you. +Whatever may be the sad secret of your past I can look into your eyes +and see that you are pure and good. The name of Berlin is an old and +honorable one, but I do not believe you would disgrace it in the +bearing," said the sweet lady, heartily. + +"Then I accept the loan of it with sincerest gratitude," replied Irene, +through springing tears. + +"Then you shall be called Irene Berlin," said Mrs. Leslie. "It is a +pretty name, and will suit you. And now we will discuss other affairs. I +am going to Italy with the Stuarts. Shall you be willing to go with me?" + +"Nothing could please me better than to leave my native land behind me," +replied the girl. + +"That is settled, then. And now do you feel well enough to go on deck +with me? It is a lovely day. The sun is shining softly and brightly. The +sea is almost as calm and blue as the sky. The fresh air will do you a +world of good." + +"I have nothing to wear," said Irene, flushing deeply. + +"That is true," laughed Mrs. Leslie. "The party dress in which you came +among us is not exactly a yacht costume. But I can remedy that defect, I +think, from my own wardrobe. Fortunately we are about the same size." + +She brought out from her trunk a dark blue velvet suit and a cap of the +same with a jaunty bird's wing on one side. Nothing could have become +Irene better. The suit fitted to a charm, and when Mrs. Leslie set the +jaunty cap on the streaming curls she exclaimed in wonder at the +dazzling loveliness of her _protege_. + +"It is no wonder Mrs. Stuart was jealous of you, you are the loveliest +creature I ever saw," she exclaimed frankly. + +"If I were not so unhappy you would make me vain, Mrs. Leslie," sighed +the lovely girl. + +"You are too young to be unhappy, my dear. I hope you will soon forget +your sorrows. But come, let us go on deck and I will introduce you to +your _Compagnons du Voyage_." + +They went out and Irene's eyes were dazzled with the beauty of the day. +The sky was deeply blue, with little white clouds sailing over it. The +sun shone on the blue waves, and white-winged sea-gulls darted here and +there. Several ladies and gentlemen were on deck, walking and chatting. +They started in surprise--the women envious--the men admiring--at the +new comer. She looked like a young princess. Her step was light and +proud, her bearing calm and self-possessed. The sun shone on her golden +curls, her fair face and her velvet blue eyes, making her look like a +perfect picture. Several gentlemen came around Mrs. Leslie, waiting +eagerly for an introduction. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +Lilia Stuart had not failed to repeat Irene's confession of her +namelessness to her mother. Mrs. Stuart, with the malice of a little +mind, industriously disseminated the news among her guests. Curiosity +and excitement were rife, regarding the mysterious waif from the sea. + +So when Irene came upon deck, looking so wondrously lovely in the blue +velvet dress and her rippling, waving, golden curls, they all came +around her, full of wonder and surprise. They were amazed and +disconcerted when Mrs. Leslie, with the cool self-possession that never +deserted her under any circumstances, proceeded to introduce her +_protege_ by the name of Miss Berlin. + +"Why, we thought she had no name--that she was a child of shame. Mrs. +Stuart certainly said so," the ladies exclaimed to each other in +whispers. "Depend upon it there is something wrong. We will be very shy +of having anything to do with her." + +If Irene had been homely and stupid, they might have pitied her, but her +girlish beauty and grace at once enlisted the spite and envy of their +little minds. Mrs. Leslie was the only lady on board who did not wish +that she had perished in the cold waves. They regarded her as an +interloper and unwelcome burden on them. + +The gentlemen took a different view of the matter from their feminine +friends. They were full of wonder and admiration over the beautiful +stranger. + +There were three gentlemen beside Mr. Stuart, on board the yacht, as +there were three ladies. With two of these men our story has no +interest. The third one, who was a distant relative of Mr. Stuart, and +who at once fell desperately in love with our heroine, we will slightly +describe. + +He was tall and slight, with very dark eyes and hair, and a face that +though weak and irresolute in expression, was rather handsome, having an +effeminate mouth and chin that lent sweetness to his ever-ready smile. +His dark eyes had a trick of falling beneath your glance, as if some +inner consciousness made him shrink from meeting you with an open, +steady gaze. In dress and manner he was rather a dandy, and was counted +popular among the fair sex for his obliging disposition, and also a very +fair tenor voice, with which he accompanied himself on the guitar. He +answered to the name of Julius Revington. + +On the heart of this handsome ladies'-man, the fair, blonde loveliness +of Irene at once committed terrible havoc. + +He gazed as if fascinated, on that arch, bright face to which the +delicate color mounted in a roseate glow at his ardent gaze. + +Mrs. Leslie smiled as she saw how deeply he was smitten with her +_protege's_ charms, and immediately introduced him. + +He acknowledged the introduction with delight, and invited Miss Berlin +to promenade the deck with his arm for support. + +As Irene gently declined, pleading weariness for excuse, he brought her +a comfortable chair and stood beside her ostensibly to shade her face +from the too ardent kisses of the wind and sun, but really that he might +feast his eyes on her fresh and pearl-fair beauty. Revington holding his +umbrella over Irene provoked some mirth and more envy in the breasts of +Brown and Jones. The ladies were unanimously disgusted. It was too bad +that she should wile Revington from them. Miss Smith, a tall brunette +who rather regarded him as her own prey, looked daggers. Mrs. Leslie was +secretly amused and delighted. She knew that Mrs. Stuart had been +forming a coalition against Irene, and it pleased her to see how hard +they took Revington's desertion to the banner of the newcomer. + +But rave as they would, Irene's conquest was potent to everyone but +herself. She who had never had a lover in the course of her brief, +secluded life, was innocent of coquetry and unversed in the arts of +love. She accepted Revington's attentions kindly, and congratulated +herself that she had won another friend. + +But though she was patient and gentle the beau could not congratulate +himself on any rapid progress in her favor. She was strangely sad and +grave. The red lips had no smiles for him though they answered him +gently when he spoke. The blue eyes did not look at him, though he tried +all his arts to win them to meet his gaze. They wandered strainingly +across the sea, as if seeking something lost to sight. The lids, with +their heavy golden lashes, had a pathetic droop as if unshed tears +weighed them down. The lips quivered now and then as if with mute sobs. +A story was written on her face--a story of sorrow and pain that clouded +somewhat its spring time loveliness as clouds overshade an April sky. +Revington, who was poetical, thought of some applicable lines, and +bending over her softly repeated them: + + "It is raining, little flower; + Be glad of rain---- + Too much sun would wither thee---- + 'Twill shine again. + The clouds are very black, 'tis true, + But just behind them shines the blue. + + "Art thou weary, tender heart? + Be glad of pain---- + In sorrow sweetest things will grow, + As flowers in rain. + God watches and thou wilt have sun + When clouds their perfect work have done." + +The sweet words touched her. She had not known before that the sorrow at +her heart was reflected on her face. She looked at him then a little +wistfully. + +"Do I indeed look so sad?" she asked. + +"Far too sad for one so young," he answered. "I wish I could teach you +to smile." + +She did smile then, but the smile was sadder than tears. + +"Ah, you should have known me even a week ago," she said, impulsively. +"I had never known a real sorrow then. But now, unless I could forget, I +do not think I could ever again be glad." + +She thought of the old gray head that she had so loved lying low in the +dark grave; of Elaine, her mother, who had left her to perish in the +dark waves after she had followed her almost to the brink, and a +fountain of sorrow, of bitterness, and of shame welled up within her +heart. + +Revington looking keenly at her, wondered what the sorrow had been that +had shadowed her brow and heart. + +"I will find it out if I can," he said to himself, "and I will teach her +to forget if I can." + +He little dreamed how vain a task he had set himself. As the summer days +glided softly past, and the white-sailed yacht flew over the blue ocean +waves blithely as a bird, Irene began to understand the drift of his +attentions. + +"Revington is making love to you, my dear," Mrs. Leslie had said, +laughing, and thus her young eyes were opened. + +It amused her at first, and then she became disgusted. It angered her to +see the artful little traps he had set to surprise her secret from +her--the secret of her hidden past. From a desire for flirtation at +first he had glided into ardent love, and his longing to know the story +of her past grew greater daily in accordance with the strength of his +passion. + +But Irene, from mere friendliness at first had turned to ice. She +repelled his attentions now, instead of languidly enduring them. In her +heart she contrasted the weakly, handsome face and shrinking eyes with +one that was engraved on her memory as possessing of all manly beauty +the most. + +Mrs. Stuart looked on at the little by-play with coldly disapproving +eyes. She had begun with a jealous hatred of Irene, because her husband +had saved her life. Her aversion never grew less. Indeed, the beauty, +and grace, and romantic mystery that enfolded the girl, only added fuel +to the flame of her wrath and jealousy. She knew, although she was chary +of expressing it by word or sign, that Mr. Stuart took a great and +almost painful interest in the object of her antipathy. + +It vexed her when she saw Julius Revington losing his heart to the girl, +but she never expostulated with him but once, although they were +intimate friends. Then he spoke a few words that effectually silenced +her, and she learned for the first time how his dark eyes could flash +beneath their drooping lids. She let him alone after that, and contented +herself with spiteful looks and sneering words behind his back. + +In the balmy breezes and salty breath of the summer ocean, Lilia +Stuart's insidious disease took a new and flattering turn. She had fewer +ill-turns. Her thin cheeks rounded out with something like healthy +plumpness. Her large eyes did not look so large in her childish face. +She would have returned to her first enthusiastic admiration and +friendship for Irene, but her mother maliciously fostered ill-will and +contempt in her mind, and Irene was the recipient of many bitter +impertinences from the misguided child, which she received with cold and +disdainful scorn. Mrs. Leslie was the only friend she had who dared +speak openly and kindly for her. All the rest of the party, except +Julius Revington, were weakly dominated by Mrs. Stuart. + +They reached Italian shores at last, and Arno was secured for the +Stuarts and their guests. There was a short and sharp debate between Mr. +Stuart and his wife, who objected to receive Irene as her guest. But the +lady knew how far she could transgress against her husband's will, and +she found she had reached the limit, and was forced to yield +ungraciously to his desires. + +A cold and formal invitation was therefore accorded to Miss Berlin as +Mrs. Leslie's friend. Irene, burning with resentment and wounded pride, +would fain have declined and gone out into the cold, strange world to +seek her bread among strangers, but Mrs. Leslie's gentle solicitation +prevailed, and she accepted the grudging invitation as reluctantly as it +had been given. We will leave her there, in "the land of the orange, the +myrtle and vine," and return to Guy Kenmore. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +Mr. Kenmore, in his pursuit of knowledge, had no difficulty in tracing +the Stuarts in Richmond. + +At the elegant and fashionable West End of the city, a stylish residence +was pointed out to him as the home of Clarence Stuart and his family. + +He remained in the city a few days and stored his mind with all the +available facts regarding this, to him, interesting family. + +It was easy to do. The Stuarts, as wealthy, fashionable and aristocratic +people, were well known. The city papers had duly announced their +departure for Italy in their own yacht, the _Sea-Bird_. Their movements +were considered generally interesting to the public, to judge by the +paragraphs that appeared in the daily journals. + +Mr. Kenmore heard, incidentally, that Clarence Stuart's wife had been a +wealthy heiress when he married her, some fifteen years before. + +Casual inquiry elicited the fact that Clarence Stuart's father had been +dead three weeks. + +Guy Kenmore was startled by this information. It went far towards +confirming his theory of the fragment of letter found in old Ronald +Brooke's dead hand, and which he treasured carefully in his pocket-book. + +"It was the senior Stuart's death-bed confession," he said to himself. +"What could that dying man have to confess to old Ronald Brooke?" + +What but the story of a crime that lay so heavy on his dying hours, that +he was fain to seek the pardon of God and of man before he dared go out +into the terrible unknown? + +_Who_ had dared to wrest that important confession from Mr. Brooke's +hand, and strike him dead with the secret unrevealed? + +Shuddering, Guy Kenmore asked himself this question to which the answer +seemed only too clear. + +The only persons who could have been vitally interested in old Clarence +Stuart's death-bed confession were his son and his family. + +Was Clarence Stuart, junior, a guilty man or a wronged man? + +Did he or did he not know of his father's death-bed confession? + +By whose hand had that confession been sent to old Ronald Brooke? + +Who had followed behind the messenger and torn that document from the +old man's hand with a death-blow? + +These questions rung unceasingly through Guy Kenmore's head. They +sickened him with their terrible suggestions of hidden guilt and crime. +He believed more and more that Ronald Brooke had been murdered instead +of dying a natural death as his physicians had asserted. + +But how was he to find the murderer, and how bring his guilt home to +him? + +Mr. Kenmore, who was naturally indolent and ease-loving, and who had +been nurtured in these habits by his life of luxury and indulgence, +found himself staggered by these heavy responsibilities that appeared to +have been thrust upon him. The blood of Ronald Brooke seemed to cry +aloud to him from the earth for vengeance on his murderer. + +"Why has Heaven selected me for the instrument of righting Elaine +Brooke's wrongs?" he asked himself, in wonder. + +He did not relish the duty, but when he would fain have given it up, a +voice within him loudly urged him forward in the path of duty. + +"What good can it do?" he answered back, impatiently, to that inward +monitor. "Mr. Brooke is dead, Irene is dead, her mother has broken loose +from all her old ties and associations, and hidden her life away in the +great thronging world. Can vengeance bring the dead back, or give peace +to the broken heart of that poor wronged woman?" + +Yet in spite of his sophistries and protestations the voice within still +loudly echoed: "_Go on._" + +He wrote to Mrs. Brooke informing her of her erroneous supposition +concerning Elaine's whereabouts, then he turned his whole attention to +the Stuarts. + +"If I could see Clarence Stuart I could form my opinion of him much +better," he thought. "I have nothing else to do. Why not follow them to +Italy?" + +He went home to Baltimore and made his preparations for going abroad. +There was no one to oppose his will. His parents were dead, his two +sisters were married to wealthy men, and were too much absorbed in +fashion and pleasure to miss him greatly. Somewhat reluctantly he went, +not remembering that the path of duty is oftentimes the straight road to +happiness. + +No dream came to him as he walked the deck those beautiful moonlit +nights of summer and mused on the repulsive task to which he was going, +that fate was leading him straight to the presence of her who had become +a sweet and softened memory to his heart; whose childish willfulness and +flitting spites had so irked him once, but which now he remembered only +as + + "Delicious spites and darling angers, + And airy forms of flitting change." + +Death had idealized his blue-eyed girl-bride, and he loved her now when +it seemed too late. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + "Italia, oh, Italia, thou who hast + The fatal gift of beauty which became + A funeral dower of present woes and past." + + +The words fell softly from the lips of Irene as she walked beneath the +shade of the orange and olive and lemon trees in the villa garden. The +balmy air was sweet with the breath of countless flowers, the birds sang +sweetly in the boughs above her head, and the blue waves of the Arno +ebbed and flowed at her feet with a pleasant murmur. Overhead the clear +blue sky of Italy, which poets have painted in deathless verse and +artists on immortal canvas, sparkled and glanced in all its radiant +sapphire beauty. + +She was musing on the beauty and the sorrow of this lovely hapless land, +and the famous words of Byron came aptly to her lips. She repeated them +softly and sadly, and someone who had stolen upon her unaware answered +musingly: + +"Do you believe with Byron that the gift of beauty is always fatal, Miss +Berlin?" + +She started and flushed with annoyance. It was Julius Revington. He had +become her very shadow, seeming unable to exist out of her sight. + +The beautiful girl in her white dress with the roses and myrtles in her +small hand, turned her face away pettishly. + +"How you startled me, Mr. Revington," she said, in a tone of +displeasure. "I thought myself alone." + +"You are very cruel to hide yourself out here in the orange ground," +said the gentleman, sentimentally. "Do you know that I have been +searching for you everywhere?" + +"No, I did not know it. If I had, I should have hidden myself in a +securer place than this," she replied, with all the frank cruelty of a +young girl. + +"Miss Berlin, you are very cruel," complained the lover. "Sometimes I +really wonder whether you say such sharp things in earnest, or if you +are only coquetting." + +The blue eyes flashed. + +"I know nothing of coquetry," said Irene, sharply. "I mean everything +that I say." + +He came nearer and looked under the brim of the shady hat at the lovely, +irritated face and sparkling eyes. + +"Oh, Miss Berlin, why will you treat me so coldly when you know that I +love the very ground you walk upon?" he exclaimed, almost abjectly. + +"I do not want your love," she answered, stamping her little foot +impatiently on the turf, as if the love he confessed for her lay +veritably beneath her feet. + +His weakly, handsome face grew pale at her impetuous words. + +"Wait, Irene, before you so cruelly reject me," he exclaimed. "You are +young, but not too young to know that it is wrong to trifle with the +human heart." + +"I have not trifled with yours," she interrupted, flushing at the +imputation. + +"But all the same your beauty has wiled my heart from me," he said. "I +have loved you from the first hour I saw your charming face. I lay my +heart, my hand, my fortune at your feet, Irene. Will you not take pity +on me and be my wife?" + +The flowers fell from her hands down upon the sweet, green turf, and her +face grew pale with emotion. It was the first time a lover had ever +wooed her, yet she was a wife--a wife unwooed and unwon--yet bound, how +plainly she recalled the solemn, fateful words, by ties that no man +"should put asunder." + +She looked at the dark, handsome face that showed at its best with that +light of love lingering on it. Between her and it another face arose, +languid, careless, indifferent, yet fascinating for the soul that looked +out of the bright, yet soft brown eyes. She remembered that she had +thought him handsome--handsomer than any of Bertha's and Elaine's +beaux--a flush rose slowly to her face as she remembered that she had +told him so. + +"No wonder he despised me," she said to herself, and she turned back to +Mr. Revington trying to forget Guy Kenmore, for she was now ashamed of +the willfulness and spite she had displayed before him. + +"Will you be my wife, Irene?" repeated her adoring lover. + +"I cannot, Mr. Revington. I do not love you," she answered, in a gentler +tone than she had used to him before. + +He threw himself impetuously at her feet and grasped her hands. + +"Let me teach you to love me," he cried, abjectly. + +Her crimson lips curled in faint scorn. + +"I could not learn the lesson," she replied. "You are not the kind of +man whom I could love," and again the handsome face of Guy Kenmore rose +before her mind's eye. + +"Why do I think of _him_?" she asked herself. + +"What sort of a man _could_ you love, Miss Berlin?" he asked, almost +despairingly, and again the proud, handsome, indifferent face of Guy +Kenmore rose tormentingly before her. + +"Why do I think of _him_?" she asked herself again, in wonder, and +forgetting to answer the question of the kneeling man. She had drawn her +hand away from his frenzied clasp, and now he gently plucked at her +dress to draw her attention. + +"Irene, my love, my darling, my beautiful queen, take pity on me, and do +not reject me," he cried, pleadingly. "Tell me what manner of man you +could love, and I will make myself over by your model. I could do +anything, be anything, for your sweet sake!" + +Again the blue eyes looked at him in faint scorn, and the red lips +curled. + +"Do get up from the ground, Mr. Revington," she said. "It is quite +undignified; I dislike it very much." + +He was too much carried away by his passion to observe the slight +inflection of scorn in her tone. + +"No, I will not rise," he answered. "I will kneel at your feet, like the +veriest slave, until you retract your cruel refusal, and give me leave +to hope." + +"But I cannot do so," she answered, more gently. "Do be reasonable, and +drop the subject, Mr. Revington. It is quite impossible, this that you +ask. I do not love you, and I cannot be your wife." + +"You might learn to love me," he persisted, almost sullenly. + +"Never. You do not realize my ideal," the girl replied, with an +unconscious blush. + +"Tell me what your ideal is like, Irene," said her kneeling lover. + +"I have read some lines that fit him," she replied, half dreamily, half +to herself, and still with that soft blush on her beautiful face. "I +will repeat them to you." + +Yet she seemed to have forgotten him, as she fixed her eyes on the blue, +rolling waves of the Arno, and the words fell like music from her +beautiful lips: + + "He to whom I give affection + Must have princely mein and guise. + If devotion lay below me, + I would stoop not for the prize + Bend down to me very lowly, + But bend always from above; + I would scorn where I could pity, + I must honor where I love. + + "Did he come as other lovers + With his praises low and sweet, + Did he woo in the old phrases, + Kneeling humbly at my feet-- + How my heart would be unfettered, + And my thoughts soar free and high, + As a bird that beats at morning + 'Gainst the gateway of the sky. + + "He must hold his perfect manhood, + He must keep his place of pride; + Bring me fond words as a lover, + And true words as friend and guide. + So in him my fate would meet me, + Life's surrender all complete, + Fearlessly I'd take my future, + And I'd lay it at his feet!" + +Her ideal lover, so unlike himself, sent a blush of shame tingling to +his cheeks. He sprang hastily to his feet and looked down at her from +his tall hight sullenly. + +"You are unlike all the women I have ever met before," he said, with +repressed anger. "You would have a man play the master, not the slave." + +And in his heart he longed to be her master then and compel her love in +return for that which glowed in his heart. + +She looked up at him with a slight smile. + +"You misunderstand me," she replied. "I could not tolerate a master as +you mean it--a tyrant. Still less could I love a slave. My ideal must +have manly dignity and gracious pride. He must look like Jean Ingelow's +Laurance: + + "'A mouth for mastery and manful work, + A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, + A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair + Saxon of hue.'" + +"So I must change my looks as well as my nature before I can please my +lady," he said with sudden bitterness. + +"Yes," she answered, with a light and careless laugh, for, to do her +justice, she did not dream how deep his love lay in his heart. She +believed him weak and fickle, as his face indicated, and as he was. If +he had won her, lovely and charming as she was, he must have wearied of +her in time, as it was his nature to do; but being unattainable she at +once became the one thing precious in his sight, without which he could +never know happiness. + +He went away and left her to her solitude under the orange tree with its +glistening green leaves, its waxen-white flowers and golden globes of +fruit. She looked a little sadly at the flowers which had fallen from +her hands and which her kneeling lover had crushed into the turf. + +"The great booby," she said indignantly to herself. "He has +remorselessly crushed all my beautiful flowers." + +Was it an omen? + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +Julius Revington went away from the presence of the girl he adored, cast +down but not destroyed. + +He had set his mind doggedly on winning her and he was by no means +despondent of winning her yet. + +His grosser, weaker nature could not comprehend the higher, loftier +nature of Irene. Her gentle intimation of how he fell short of her ideal +had not greatly impressed him except to fill him with a certain amount +of sullen jealousy toward some unknown person or other whom it was +evident existed in her mind, and possibly in flesh and blood upon the +earth. + +"Perhaps she has already given her heart away," he thought to himself. +"But, no, she is too young. That cannot be." + +As he walked slowly along the path toward the villa something bright and +shining on the ground attracted his attention. He stooped and picked it +up. + +A cry of eager surprise broke from his lips. + +It was the pretty, blue-enamelled locket that Irene usually wore around +her white throat. + +It had become detached from the slender gold chain and fallen on the +ground without her knowledge. + +Julius Revington had endured many pangs of baffled curiosity over this +locket, of whose contents he had heard much from the ladies but which he +had never had the good fortune to behold. + +Pausing now in the quiet, secluded path, he deliberately touched the +spring of the pretty bauble. + +The lid flew open, and there before him under the soft light of the +Italian sky that sifted down through the glistening leaves of the orange +trees, were revealed the handsome faces of old Ronald Brooke and his +daughter. + +A hoarse cry broke from Julius Revington's lips, his face whitened, a +cold dew started out upon his brow. + +"My God," he said, and sank down upon a bed of flowers as if totally +overcome. + +With starting eyes he looked at the kind, genial, manly face of the old +man, and then at the fair, almost angelic face of Elaine. An +uncontrollable shudder shook his form. + +"Father and daughter!" he said, under his breath. + +Sitting there in the balmy air with the soft murmur of the waves in his +ears, he relapsed into thought. Minutes went silently by, bringing a +subtle change into the man's face. His cheeks glowed, his downcast eyes +sparkled. + +"A master rather than a slave," he muttered at last with an evil triumph +in his tone; "so be it." + +Slowly rising, he retraced his steps to Irene. + +He met her coming along the path toward him, her fair face anxious and +troubled. + +"Oh, Mr. Revington," she cried, "I have lost the locket off my chain! +Have you seen it anywhere?" + +He held it up to the light, and her sweet face glowed with joy. + +"Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr. Revington," she cried, "I am so glad! I +feared I had lost it forever!" + +"I am very glad to have the good fortune to restore it to you," he said; +"it lay directly in my path as I was returning to the villa." + +"I am so glad," she repeated, kissing it as if it had been some sentient +thing. "You see, Mr. Revington, it was a gift to me from one who is now +dead--one whom I loved--dearly," she concluded, with a falter in her +voice and a mist of tears in her eyes. + +"Miss Berlin, will you pardon me if I ask you what may seem an +impertinent question?" he asked. + +She brushed the soft dew from her eyes with her lace handkerchief, and +looked up at him with her soft, wondering glance. + +"Well?" she said. + +He did not look at her in return; his shifting eyes fell to the ground, +as was their wonted habit. + +"When I found the locket lying on the ground the lid was open. I saw the +two faces it held," he said, in a strange, hesitating voice. + +"Well?" she repeated, gravely, while a flush rose over her fair face. + +"They--were not strange to me," he replied; "I was startled when I saw +whose were the faces you wore always over your heart. Miss Berlin, will +you tell me what that man and woman are to you?" + +He saw her start and shiver--saw the warm crimson flash into her face, +then recede again, leaving it deathly pale and cold. She clasped her +hands over the locket, pressing it tightly to her beating heart, while +she answered hoarsely and with downcast eyes: + +"I cannot tell you, Mr. Revington; it is a secret, and that secret +belongs to another. I have no right to reveal it." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +Julius Revington stood looking in silence at the beautiful, agitated +girl as she repeated, sadly: + +"The secret belongs to another. I have no right to reveal it." + +"Is it a secret of shame?" Julius Revington asked, slowly. + +Irene started, and flashed a look of anger upon him through her tear-wet +lashes. + +"You are impertinent," she said, sharply; "you have no right to seek to +penetrate the secret of my past!" + +"I have the same right as the physician who probes the wound to heal +it," he replied, coolly. + +"You!--you can heal no wound of mine!" she flashed, almost disdainfully. + +"You think so, but you are wrong," said Julius Revington. "Sit down, +Miss Berlin, I have much to say to you. It is for your own good that you +should listen to it." + +The earnestness of his tone impressed Irene against her will. She sat +down slowly on the soft, green grass, still with a mutinous pout on her +lips, and her eyes turned coldly away from him. + +Mr. Revington seated himself also, and glanced carefully around, to make +sure that no one was in hearing distance of himself and his fair +companion. + +"I see that you have no faith in my power of making an interesting +communication to you," he said, addressing himself to Irene. + +"No, I cannot imagine your telling me anything I should like to hear," +she retorted, coldly. + +An angry light flared into the man's dark eyes a moment, but he bit his +lip to keep back a sharp rejoinder. Her willfulness, her pretty +petulances, had an actual fascination for him. + +"Such an answer from any one but you, Miss Berlin, would be actual +rudeness," he said, lightly. "But whether frowning or smiling you are +ever charming to me. You remind me of nothing so much as one of +Tennyson's heroines, 'a rosebud set with little willful thorns.'" + +She answered not a word. Her fair face was averted, and her blue eyes +gazed at the silvery Arno softly gliding past. + +"You have been a beautiful, enchanting mystery to me ever since I met +you," he continued, slowly. "I have wondered whence you came and to whom +you belonged, but with no hope of unsealing your beautiful lips or the +secret they held so close. But chance--or shall I call it fate?--has +solved the mystery for me." + +She turned her head and looked at him suddenly, her blue eyes dark with +fear and wonder. + +"What can you mean?" she exclaimed. + +"I mean that when I came upon your picture in your locket just now the +mystery of your identity was solved for me," he replied, coolly, glad +that he had roused her at last. + +"I do not understand you," she said through her lips that had suddenly +grown white and trembling. + +A slight smile curved Julius Revington's mustached lips, as he saw how +much he had startled her. + +"Master rather than slave," he repeated to himself, vindictively, for +that was the way he interpreted her eloquent description of her ideal. + +"I told you the faces were not strange to me," he said. "Shall I tell +you their names?" + +"You cannot," she returned, miserably. + +"Do not deceive yourself," he retorted. "The old man is Ronald Brooke, +the beautiful woman is his daughter, Elaine." + +A startled cry broke from her lips, she flashed her eyes upon him in a +swift, horrified gaze, a terrible suspicion darting through her heart. + +"You know her?" she cried out, hoarsely. + +His answer dispelled the horrible dread that had clutched at her heart +with icy fingers. + +"No, I have never met her in my life, but I have seen her picture +before," he said. + +She gave a gasp of relief. It had been horrible to fancy for a moment +that this man whom she despised in her heart could be her mother's +betrayer. + +"You have seen her picture before?" she repeated. "Where?" + +"It depends on yourself whether I ever answer that question or not," he +said. + +"On me?" she asked, with some wonder. + +"Yes," he replied; "for if I should answer that question it would +involve a long story. Before I tell it to you I shall expect to receive +a like confidence from you." + +She shut her lips tightly over her little clenched teeth, and he saw the +blue eyes flash mutinously. + +"You refuse?" he asked. + +"Yes," she replied, dauntlessly. "You have startled and surprised me and +I know not how much you know of me and my past. But at least you will +never learn more from me." + +He could not forbear a glance of annoyance. + +"Miss Berlin, you are certainly the most willful child I ever saw," he +exclaimed. "What good can it do you to refuse to tell me what +relationship you bear to Ronald Brooke and his daughter?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +Irene raised her large blue eyes to Mr. Revington's face. They were full +of anguish and despair. + +"I have told you already that the secret is not mine to reveal," she +said. + +"Then I must answer my own question," he replied, with a swift glance +around him to make sure that he was not overheard; "you are Elaine +Brooke's _illegitimate daughter_!" + +A low cry of bitterness and despair shrilled from her lips. It confirmed +his hazardous guess. + +"You cannot deny it!" he uttered, triumphantly. + +"My God, are you man or devil, Julius Revington?" she exclaimed. "How +came you by this knowledge?" + +"In a perfectly natural manner," he answered, coolly. "The story of your +mother's past is better known to me than to yourself, Irene." + +She could not speak for a moment. A hand of ice seemed to grip her +throat, her brain reeled, the sound of the river came to her faintly as +in a dream. The hot color rushed to her face and her lashes fell. She +could not look at this man who held the story of her mother's past--that +secret so full of shame and sorrow. + +"I know it far better than you do; better than she does," he repeated. +"Do not hang your head so heart-brokenly, Irene. You have nothing to +blush for." + +"Nothing," she echoed, bitterly. + +"No," he said, "I can tell you good news, little one. But first raise +your head and look at me. I want to see the joylight flash into your +eyes when you hear what I have to tell you." + +She obeyed him, lifting her sweet eyes in wonder, with half-parted +crimson lips that seemed to ask mutely what joy life could yet hold for +her. + +"You have nothing to blush for," he repeated. "Your mother was a +lawfully wedded wife. You are not the child of shame as you have been +taught to believe." + +"Can I believe you?" she exclaimed, and he was dazzled by the flash of +joy in her eyes. + +"You may, for it is true, and I can produce proofs of what I say," he +answered. "Your mother has been fearfully wronged, but it lies in my +power to restore her to her rights again." + +"God forever bless you, Mr. Revington, if you can lift the cloud of +sorrow from the hearts and lives of a wronged woman and her child," +exclaimed the lovely girl, fervently. + +"It rests with you, Irene, whether I do so or not," he replied, flashing +a look of admiration on her beautiful, agitated face. + +"With me!" she echoed, blankly. + +"You are the daughter of a wealthy, high-born, noble gentleman, who +would be delighted to claim you if he knew that you lived, and who would +rejoice to clasp your mother to his devoted heart," said Mr. Revington, +watching her closely as he uttered the words. Her eyes beamed, her face +glowed with joy; then suddenly a shadow fell on its brightness. + +"You are deceiving me?" she said. + +"No, I swear that I am not," he asseverated. "I can prove what I say, +and I am ready to do so--on one condition!" + +"And that?" she asked, innocently. + +His shifting gaze fell before that eager, hopeful, unconscious look, but +he answered, boldly: + +"That you be my wife, Irene." + +"I have told you that was impossible," she answered, growing suddenly +pale to the lips. + +"Why?" he inquired, chagrined at the prompt reply. + +"I do not love you," she replied, evasively. + +"Granted that you do not," he said, selfishly, "is your hand too great a +price to pay to secure to your mother ease, honor, end happiness?" + +She had no answer for him only an irrepressible moan of pain that broke +uncontrollably over her white lips. Her thoughts went back to poor, +patient, badgered Elaine, and her hard life at Bay View--harder now than +ever, she guessed, since her father was dead, and she was left to the +tender mercies of her mother and sister. + +"Dear mother, how gladly I would purchase this man's knowledge, even at +the bitter price he asks, for your dear sake, if only it were possible," +she thought to herself with a pang like death at her heart, as she +recalled her fatal marriage. + +Julius Revington, watching the mute anguish on her speaking face, saw +that it was no time to press the question. + +"Do not answer me now, Irene," he said, with ready gentleness. "Take +time to think it over. Revolve it in your mind to-night in soberness and +calmness. Ask yourself if you do not owe this duty to your poor, wronged +mother. How sweet it would be for her child to restore to her all she +has lost." + +"You are cruel and calculating," she said, indignantly. "Why should you +ask such a costly price for doing this kindness to my poor, martyred +mother?" + +"Because I love you, and in no other way can I win you," he answered, +boldly. + +Her beautiful eyes flashed scornfully upon him. + +"Would you take a reluctant and unloving bride?" she asked. + +"I would take you on any terms, Irene," he replied. + +She looked up at him and asked the strangest question that could +possibly fall from a daughter's lips: + +"Mr. Revington, will you tell me the name of my father?" + +The piteous sadness of the tone, and the pathos of the question must +have touched the heart of a better man. + +But Julius Revington was thoroughly hard and selfish. + +"You have never heard his name, then?" he said. + +"Never," she replied. "Will you tell it to me now?" + +"Not yet," he replied, cruelly. "I will reserve that pleasant bit of +information for our marriage day." + +She flashed a sudden, piercing glance upon him. + +"You are deceiving me," she said. "You are trying to win me by a +pretended knowledge of facts that do not exist." + +"On my honor, no," he replied. "I admit that I am selfish, and that I am +using the knowledge I possess to gain my own ends, but on the morning +that you give me your hand in marriage I swear that I will place in your +hands the documents that will prove your mother a lawfully-wedded wife, +and give you a legal right to your father's name and wealth. Moreover, I +assure you that no one will be more surprised or rejoiced than your +father himself on learning the truth." + +"And what if I refuse to marry you? she asked, fearfully. + +"If you refuse," he replied, cruelly, "the cloud of shame shall never be +lifted from your mother's life and yours. Nay, more, I will go to the +Stuarts and your good friend, Mrs. Leslie, and I will tell them why you +choose to make a mystery of your past. Consent to marry me, and on our +wedding-day I will prove you the legal inheritor of an honorable name +and a great fortune. I will give you until to-morrow to decide the +question." + +He rose with the words and walked abruptly away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +Irene remained sitting like one stunned on the banks of the beautiful +river. + +Her white hands clasped each other convulsively in her lap, her head +drooped on her breast, she stared blankly and dreamily before her, +seeming lost to the beauty of the fair Italian scene, and deaf to the +soft sounds that filled the air with a pleasant murmur. + +Heart and brain were in a terrible tumult. + +Her head ached and throbbed almost to bursting, her heart beat fast and +hard in her breast. + +The joy and triumph she would have experienced in the knowledge of her +poor mother's innocence and honor were all damped by the thought of the +costly price she was required to pay before she could have the happiness +of bearing the glad tidings to the wronged, unhappy woman. + +With deepest self-reproach the girl recalled her own frenzied reproaches +to that beautiful, sorrow-stricken parent on the fatal night when she +had been so maddened by the revelation of the angry Bertha. She looked +back as though years had intervened upon the Irene of that summer night +as a rude, impertinent, willful child. + +"Is it any wonder my mother left me to the death I courted in my wild +despair?" she thought. "How could I, who should have soothed sorrow, +turned upon her so cruelly? Poor, unhappy Ellie, as I used to call her, +what sorrows may she not be enduring now? What insolence, what cruelty, +at the hands of her overbearing mother and sister? Even I, her child, +did not spare her my reproaches in her dark hour, and how should they +who love her less than I did?" + +In the flood-tide of remorseful affection that swept over her heart, she +longed to go home to her mother, to take her in her arms, and say, +lovingly: "Mother, darling, you and your husband were both cruelly +wronged. Here are the papers that will prove your wifely honor. Take +them and forgive me my wicked reproaches." + +Alas, between her and that beautiful hour which fancy painted so +glowingly, there yawned a dread, impassable gulf! + +"Even if I could consent to pay Julius Revington's terrible price for +those papers, I could not do so. I am already wedded," she said to +herself; and her heart thrilled strangely at the thought. + +The remembrance of his threat sent a shiver of dread thrilling through +her frame. To-morrow he would tell Mrs. Leslie and the Stuarts that she +was a child of shame; that her beautiful, pure-hearted mother was a +sinful, erring woman. How should she bear it? she asked herself, with a +moan. + +The evening sun sunk lower and lower; the twittering birds flew home to +their nests; the cool, soft dew began to fall on Irene's face and hands. +She rose with a shiver, as though of mortal cold, and dragged herself +back wearily to the villa. + +Then she felt that she could not endure to meet the cold, curious faces +of Mrs. Stuart and her friends just then. She stole quietly up to her +own room, closed and locked the door, and threw herself wretchedly down +upon the floor, with her face hidden on her arm. + +She did not know how long she had lain there, wretched, forlorn, +despairing, when she was roused by the tap of a servant outside, who +desired her presence at dinner. + +She replied, through the closed door, that she was ill, and did not wish +any, and returned to her crouching posture on the floor, as if she found +a grim pleasure in physical discomfort, as a set-off to her mental +trouble. + +She felt angry with herself for the fairness that had won Julius +Revington's love. + +"If I had been homely and ill-shapen, instead of fair and graceful, he +would never have loved me, and he might then have given me those papers +for pure pity's sake, with no such condition attached," she told +herself, sadly. + +Two hours later Mrs. Leslie came tapping softly at the door. + +"You must let me in, Irene, for I shall keep 'tapping, tapping,' like +the raven, until you do," she called out gaily. + +With a smothered sigh Irene admitted her friend. + +"What, all in darkness? I beg your pardon, I did not know you had +retired," exclaimed the lady. + +Irene struck a light and then Mrs. Leslie gazed in wonder at the pale, +haggard face. + +"My dear child, what is the matter with you?" she cried out in wonder. + +"It is nothing--only a headache, I--I have been lying down," she +faltered, miserably. + +The lady glanced at the white, unrumpled bed, and then at Irene, +curiously. + +"Where--upon the floor?" she inquired, with a mixture of sarcasm and +amazement. + +"I--believe so; I felt so bad I did not think," answered Irene, trying +to smile. + +"Poor dear," said the lady, full of womanly compassion; "if I had known +you were so ill I would have come up to you long ago. It was too bad +your lying here all by yourself in the dark! In your tight dress, too; I +am ashamed of myself! But now I am going to undress you and 'put you in +your little bed.'" + +Heedless of Irene's gentle expostulations, she proceeded to follow the +kind promptings of her womanly heart, and directly she had the girl +dressed in her snowy _robe de nuit_ and nestled among the pillows of the +snowy bed. + +"Now you may shut your eyes, and I will bathe your head with _eau de +cologne_ until you fall asleep," she said. + +"But indeed it does not ache now. Pray do not trouble yourself," Irene +expostulated, now thoroughly ashamed of her innocent little fib. + +The lady sat down and began passing her hand tenderly over the pillow. + +"I am glad it does not ache any longer," she said, unsuspiciously. "You +were sadly missed from among us this evening, my dear," she continued in +a light, bantering tone. "Mr. Revington was exceedingly distrait; Miss +Smith teased him for a song, but he gave her such a doleful one that he +received no encores whatever." + +Irene looked so plainly disgusted at the mention of her lover's name +that Mrs. Leslie forebore to tease her. She delicately changed the +subject. + +"Mr. Stuart came back from his trip to Florence this evening, and +brought us some sad news," she said. + +Irene tried hard to look interested in this communication, but failed +dismally. Her own troubles absorbed all her care. + +"There has been the most terrible ocean disaster," continued Mrs. +Leslie. "Two American steamers, one homeward bound, the other en route +for Italy, collided in mid-ocean at midnight, with a horrible loss of +human life. Is it not awful?" + +Irene tried to look properly shocked, but heart and brain were so numbed +by her own grief that she could scarcely comprehend the extent of the +calamity her friend was bewailing. + +"It is very dreadful," she murmured, feebly. + +"Is it not?" said Mrs. Leslie, in awe-struck tones; "and, only think, +Irene, I was personally acquainted with one of the passengers who +perished in the wreck. I met him once while visiting my sister in +Baltimore. He was very handsome and agreeable, besides being very +wealthy. His name was Guy Kenmore." + +She paused, and uttered a cry of alarm in the next breath. Irene had +gasped convulsively once or twice, then fainted dead away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + +Mrs. Leslie was filled with dismay and terror at the result of her +thoughtless communication to her _protege_. + +"What a silly tattler I am to tell such shocking things to that poor +sick child," she said to herself, with lively compunction. + +Then she flew to the dressing-table, and securing a bottle of _eau de +cologne_, proceeded to drench Irene's face vigorously. + +The result of her treatment was that Irene speedily gasped, shivered and +opened her eyes. + +"Oh, you are alive yet, are you, my dear?" exclaimed her friend. "I was +afraid I had killed you with my foolish tales." + +"Then it wasn't true--you were jesting with me?" exclaimed the girl, +unconsciously clasping her small hands around her friend's arm, and +lifting her dark, anxious eyes to her face. + +"Eh? what, my dear?" Mrs. Leslie asked, rather vaguely. + +"The wreck, you know--the people who were drowned," Irene answered, with +a shudder. "Is it true?" + +"Oh, yes, child, every word of it, I am sorry to say, but I oughtn't to +have told you about it while you were feeling so badly. It shocked you +very much, poor dear." + +"Yes, it shocked me very much," Irene replied, in a strange voice. "You +were saying--were you not?--that one of your friends was--was--drowned," +she concluded, with a faint quiver in the last word. + +"Yes--poor Guy Kenmore of Baltimore--one of the most splendid men I ever +met," sighed Mrs. Leslie. "But do not let us talk about it any more +to-night, dear. It makes you nervous, I think." + +"Yes, and I am very tired. I should like to go to sleep. Good-night, +dear Mrs. Leslie," said Irene, thus gently dismissing her friend. + +"Very well, since you want to go to sleep, good-night, dear," said the +lady, good-humoredly; "I hope you will let me know if you are worse in +the night, though." + +Irene promised, and received Mrs. Leslie's good-night kiss. Then the +lady went away and left her alone. + +Why did she weep so bitterly upon her lonely pillow that it was drenched +with her bitter tears? + +Now that her husband of an hour was dead, Irene knew that she loved him. + + "Loved him with a bitter yearning + That could never pass away, + Loved him with an anguished passion + That could never know decay." + +As she lay there weeping sorely on her pillow, she recalled that sweet +June night, but a few short months ago, when her own willful folly had +led her into that deplorable entanglement. She recalled the handsome +face of Bertha's lover, as she then deemed him--handsomer then and now +to her fancy than any other man she had met. He had given her no word +of blame or reproach for her folly that had led him into that mad +marriage. Nay, how kindly, how gently he had tried to make the best of +it--he had offered to keep faithfully those marriage vows he had taken, +even when he knew that she was a nameless child, and her mother a +disgraced woman. How kindly he had spoken to poor Elaine, even when her +own child madly reproached her. She seemed to feel again the warm, +gentle clasp of his arm around her waist while poor Elaine told her +sorrowful story. + +"I love him. It is not wrong, for he belonged to me, and he is dead," +she said to herself, plaintively and sadly, through her falling tears. + +She forgot Julius Revington for a while in the shock of this new grief. +One hour was given to her sorrow and her tears. + +"He is dead, yet I cannot realize it," the girl-widow said to herself, +trying to fancy those laughing brown eyes drowned in the salty waves of +old ocean--those languid, musical tones hushed in its everlasting roar. +It was in vain the effort. It was in life, rather than death that he +dwelt in her thoughts. + +"He is dead, but no more dead to me than he was in life," she repeated +over and over to herself, "for I should never have seen him again." + +And suddenly, like an Arctic wave coldly sweeping over her, came the +remembrance of Julius Revington. + +"I am free now," she repeated to herself, with a shiver of horror. +"Nothing lies between my mother and happiness but my own unconquerable +repugnance to the man who holds the secret of my mother's wrongs." + +Remorseful memory pictured that beautiful mother sad, lonely, bereaved, +wasting her heart in unavailing sighs and tears. + +"Oh, mother, I was hard, cold, cruel to you that night in my madness," +she cried. "I, who shadowed your life with an ever-present memory of +shame for sixteen years, now owe you reparation and atonement even to +the sacrifice of my poor life." + +And in the solemn, mystical midnight hours the great battle was fought +between self-pity and mother-love. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + +It was late when Irene came down to breakfast the next morning. + +The breakfast bell had clanged noisily twice, and all the other inmates +of the villa were in their places at the table, when Miss Berlin glided +in, pale, mute, grave, and took her wonted seat by Mrs. Leslie's side. + +Every eye turned curiously on the fair young face. The change was too +marked to escape observation. The white cheeks, the dark shadows beneath +the eyes, the pathetic droop of the red lips, all had a story of their +own. The simple white morning-dress, with the black velvet ribbon at +throat and waist was sad and suggestive too. All missed the bright bunch +of flowers she was wont to wear on her breast, but none guessed that the +simple black and white were mute tokens of bereavement. + +"I was sorry to hear of your illness last night. I trust you are better +this morning," said Mr. Stuart from his place as host. + +His voice was grave and kind, but his eyes were kinder. They often +lingered on her as if fascinated, until, with a sharp sigh of pain he +would turn away. + +"Thank you, I am better," she replied, briefly, and dropped the long +lashes over her eyes because Julius Revington was trying to meet them +across the table. + +He was vexed with her for looking so pale, so wan, so unhappy. + +"Am I an ogre that she should look so pale, so ill, so wretched, at the +bare idea of having me for a husband?" he said to himself, in a +passionate ebullition of wounded vanity. + +When breakfast was over he managed to intercept her as she was going +out. + +"It is a beautiful morning, Miss Berlin. Will you walk out with me?" he +asked, pleadingly. + +She brought her broad-brimmed sun-hat from the rack in the hall and +silently accompanied him. + +It was a beautiful morning, as he had said. The sun shone brilliantly, +the blue sky mirrored itself in the blue river, birds sang, flowers +bloomed, and the air was sweet with the breath of roses. But for once +Irene was indifferent to the sweet influences of nature. She walked +along silently by his side, her blue eyes downcast, her face pale, her +steps slow and languid. + +They paused at last to rest on a pretty garden seat beside the murmuring +river. Irene flung herself down wearily. + +She, who seldom knew what weakness meant, could barely drag her weary +limbs along. + +"I am sorry to see you looking so ill to-day," murmured the lover. + +She glanced up quickly in his face for some sign of relenting. + +Alas, his passionate look of admiration dispelled the sudden, springing +hope. Her heart sank heavily again. + +"I _am_ ill," she cried. "God only knows what I suffered last night. Are +you still relentless in your cruel purpose?" + +"You use hard words," he said, flinching under her scorn. "Is it cruel +to love you, and wish you for my own?" + +"It is cruel to try to force me into compliance with your wishes," she +answered, with a passing flash of indignation. + +"You mistake. I have not tried to force you. I merely gave you a choice +of terms," he replied. + +"Scylla and Charybdis," murmured the girl, disdainfully. + +"As you will," he replied; but in his heart he said, cruelly: "You find +it hard, fair lady, to tolerate a master in practice, however fine it +may appear in theory." + +She sat still, looking dreamily into the rushing river, a look of +despair frozen on her white face. + +"You may have guessed why I brought you here," he said. + +She made him no answer. The cold despair deepened in the lovely, +downcast eyes. + +"I am impatient for my answer," he went on. "Are you going to be kind +to your mother, Irene; kind to yourself, and merciful to me?" + +She turned and looked at him, with the fire of scorn flashing all over +her beautiful face. + +"If you mean am I going to sacrifice myself for my mother's sake, I +answer yes," she said. "Here is my hand. Take it. But it is empty--there +is no heart in it. There never will be. I shall never love you, were I +twenty times your wife. I shall always hate you for driving me to the +wall, for making me untrue to myself." + +Unheeding her wild words he took the hand and kissed it, but she tore it +madly away. It rushed over her drearily how strange it was for Guy +Kenmore's widowed bride to be thus plighting her hand to another almost +in the first hour of her bereavement. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + +Mr. Revington duly announced his betrothal to the inhabitants of the +villa. Congratulations followed of course, but he could not flatter +himself that there was any heart in them. + +Mr. Stuart was openly surprised and inwardly disgusted. + +"To think that a girl of such beauty and soul as Irene should stoop to +mate with that weak, guitar-playing dandy," he said to himself. + +Brown and Jones were envious of Revington's good luck. The ladies, with +the exception of Mrs. Leslie, thought it quite too good a match for the +mysterious Miss Berlin. + +"My dear," said Mrs. Leslie, the first time she could draw Irene aside, +"I do not know how to congratulate you. You have surprised me too much. +I never dreamed that you were in love with Julius Revington." + +They were alone on the wide balcony, and the opaline hues of sunset +sparkled on the blue horizon. Irene looked very pale and grave in the +brilliant light. She gazed sadly at her friend. + +"Does it follow that I am in love with him because I have promised to be +his wife?" she asked, almost bitterly. + +Mrs. Leslie started and gazed keenly at the fair young face. + +"It _should_ follow," she said. "No girl should marry a man with whom +she is not in love. It is positively sinful to do so. And, my dear +child, if you are marrying him for money you are sadly mis----" she +paused, for a flood of crimson had drifted into Irene's face. + +"Mrs. Leslie, I am quite aware that Mr. Revington's income is extremely +small," she said, with girlish dignity. + +"Oh, then, it is for love, after all," said the lady, relieved. "Well, +that is the best, if you are going to marry him. But I must say it is a +great surprise to me. You seemed to belong to me so utterly I never +thought of a lover carrying you off." + +Her sigh of genuine regret pierced Irene's tender heart. + +She longed to throw her arms around the sweet lady's neck and tell her +all her sad story--to disclaim all interest and love in the wretch who +exacted so costly a price for her mother's happiness; but a feeling of +pride held her back. + +"Not now, while the shadow of the old disgrace hangs over me," she said +to herself. "I could not bear for her to pity me. Only in the hour of my +triumph will I tell her my strange story and ask her to rejoice with +me." + +Lilia came out on the balcony and Mrs. Leslie said no more. The child +was exquisitely dressed, as usual, in a rich white robe, with a +rose-colored sash. She looked quite pretty with her dark, shining hair +falling over her shoulders, her large black eyes beaming with the fires +of disease, and a deceptive glow of color on her cheeks. + +She came and stood by Irene's side, and with one of her rare impulses of +kindness laid her light, fragile hand on her shoulder. + +"They tell me you are going to marry my cousin Julius," she said, +abruptly. + +"Yes," Irene answered, with a smothered sigh. + +Mrs. Leslie looked at the two young girls, admiring their different +types of beauty. Irene's blonde loveliness was matchless; the darker +type of Lilia challenged admiration. Each set off the other, like night +and morning. + +But as Mrs. Leslie gazed she suddenly smothered a cry upon her lips--a +cry of amazement! + +Something had flashed over her suddenly and without warning as she +watched the two beautiful faces side by side. + +It was a subtle, startling, vivid resemblance between the two--the +blue-eyed blonde, the dark-eyed brunette. + +As she gazed, the wonderful, startling resemblance grew and grew upon +her consciousness. Though one was fair and the other dark there was a +subtle, haunting likeness in their features strong enough to have +existed between sisters. + +"What does it mean?" the lady asked herself, wonderingly. "Is it a mere +chance likeness?" + +While she gazed as if fascinated, Mr. Stuart stepped out upon the +balcony. His dark face lighted with pleasure as he noted Lilia's +affectionate attitude toward Irene. He stepped softly to his daughter's +side and gazed at the two fair girls with a gratified smile upon his +lips. + +And again Mrs. Leslie suppressed a little cry of wonder. + +The subtle likeness between Irene and Lilia was not stronger than that +which existed between Irene and Mr. Stuart. They might have passed for +father and daughter. + +He looked up and arrested her gaze fixed upon his face in wonder and +perplexity. He smiled. + +"On what weighty subject are you musing so deeply, Mrs. Leslie?" he +inquired. + +"If you will come and walk with me, I will tell you," she replied, +lightly. + +"Nothing would give me more pleasure," he answered gallantly. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + +They went down the wide balcony steps together, leaving the two girls +alone. Mrs. Leslie chose a favorite walk along the river bank, and by +chance they sat down on the same pretty garden seat where Irene had +rested that morning while she gave her promise to be Julius Revington's +wife. + +Mr. Stuart looked at his friend with a smile on his dark, handsome face. + +"Now will you give me the benefit of your thoughts?" he said. + +"If you will promise not to laugh--not to call me fanciful," she +answered. + +"On my honor," he replied, placing his hand on his heart, and bowing +with mock gravity. + +She was silent a moment, feeling a momentary embarrassment over her +promise. He would think her fanciful certainly, perhaps be displeased. + +"I am growing very curious," he observed. + +"You need not be---- it is nothing of any consequence," she said. "It is +only that before you came out on the balcony I was startled by observing +the vivid likeness that exists between Lilia and Irene. They are like +enough to be sisters. And when you came upon the scene my wonder only +grew. Irene is enough like you to be your daughter." + +She need not have been afraid that he would laugh at her--that he would +think her fanciful. He started and gazed at her with wide, dark eyes and +ashen, parted lips. + +"Like Lilia! like me!" he repeated, strangely. + +"Yes," she answered. "Enough like Lilia to be her sister, enough like +you to be your child." + +"Before God, I believe that she is!" he answered, startlingly. + +She gazed at him in wonder. + +"I do not understand you," she said, wondering if her old friend had +gone mad. + +But he reiterated in tones of suppressed passion: + +"I believe that she is my own child. I have loved her since the first +hour I looked on her beautiful face, so like that of the fair, cold +woman who broke my heart! I have yearned to hold her in my arms, to kiss +her fair face, and claim her for my own daughter, the pledge of a love +that for a little while was as pure, as true, as beautiful as Heaven! It +was the voice of nature speaking in my heart, claiming its own in tones +that would not be stilled. Oh, Elaine, Elaine, fairest, dearest, +cruelest of women!" + +He bowed his head on his hands, and his strong form shook with great, +smothered sobs. + +Mrs. Leslie gazed at him in wonder and sympathy. What hidden mystery, +what aching sorrow had her chance words evoked from the buried past? It +was terrible to witness the shuddering emotion of this brave, strong +man. + +Looking up suddenly, with dark, anguished eyes, he caught her wondering, +troubled look. + +"Mrs. Leslie, you think me mad," he said, mournfully. + +"No, no," she answered, reassuringly. "I must beg your pardon for my +ill-advised words," she continued, regretfully. "I fear that I have +touched the spring of some secret sorrow." + +"You have," he answered, sadly. "But do not reproach yourself. You +could not have known. You probed an aching wound by chance." + +"I am so sorry. I did not dream," she said, incoherently, full of sorrow +for her unconscious fault. + +"And she looks like me, you think?" he said, thoughtfully. + +"Marvellously," she exclaimed. + +"Have you ever seen the woman's face in the locket she wears about her +throat?" he asked. + +"I am ashamed to confess that my womanly curiosity has made me guilty of +peeping into it on one or two occasions," she replied. "It is the +loveliest face I ever beheld." + +"Fairest and falsest," he replied. "Mrs. Leslie, what will you think +when I tell you that that woman was once bound to me by the dearest tie +upon earth? She was my wife." + +"I do not know what to think," she replied, and in truth she was half +dazed by his words. She could not understand him. + +"You look incredulous," he said, sadly. "But, Mrs. Leslie, you have +known me for long years. Let your mind go back to the years before I +married Miss Lessington. Did no faint rumor ever reach you of a boyish +entanglement, hushed up by my father for fear it should reach the ears +of the heiress selected for me?" + +"Yes," she answered, with a start, "I recall it now--the merest whisper +of a boyish fancy that your father would not tolerate. It was true, +then?" + +"It was true," he answered, sadly. "Mrs. Leslie, may I tell you my +story? They say that a woman's wit is very keen. Perhaps you can help me +to solve the problem of Irene's identity." + +"You may tell me, and I will gladly help you if I can," she replied, +with gentle, womanly sympathy. + +In her heart she had always been sorry for Clarence Stuart. She believed +him to be one of nature's noblemen, and she knew that he was mated with +a cold, hard, jealous woman who was proud of her wealth, her birth, her +station, and whose hard heart held neither pity nor sympathy for those +whom she proudly held as inferiors. She intuitively felt that he had +never loved the haughty heiress his proud father had selected for him. + +"I must go back more than seventeen years to the romance of my life," he +said. "I was barely twenty-one, then, an eager, impetuous, romantic boy, +chafing at the rein my father tried to hold over me, and disgusted with +the idea of the _mariage de convenance_ he had arranged for me." + +He sighed, and resumed: + +"Nellie Ford, my cousin, who was away at a fashionable boarding-school, +sent me an invitation to a musical _soiree_. I went, carelessly enough, +and at that entertainment I met my fate--a blue-eyed girl looking much +as Irene does now. + +"She was not only beautiful, she was gifted with the sweetest voice I +ever heard," he continued. "She sang, and I was enraptured. I sought and +obtained an introduction to my divinity. Before we parted that evening +my heart was irrevocably lost to sweet Elaine Brooke." + +Heavy sighs rippled over his lips as he paused and seemed to +contemplate in fancy the fair, flower-face, so long ago lost out of his +life. + +"That was not the last time we met," he continued. "Both loved, although +it seemed indeed a mad, hopeless passion. I was destined to Lilia +Lessington, and Elaine's ambitious mother intended to make a pedant of +her daughter. She was destined to several years at Vassar College. Young +blood flows hastily, you know, Mrs. Leslie," with a sad smile. "The +hopelessness of my love maddened me. I persuaded my darling to elope +with me to a distant city, where we were married." + +"All for love, and the world well-lost," Mrs. Leslie quoted. + +"Well-lost, indeed, if only _she_ had been true," Clarence Stuart +answered, with one of those long, labored sighs, that seem to cleave a +strong man's heart in twain. + +He was silent a few moments then, watching with gloomy eyes the softly +lapsing river, on which the haze of twilight began to fall-- + +"So life runs away," he said, sadly. "Wave by wave, in sunshine or +shadow. Ah! my old friend, the stream of my life has flowed for more +than sixteen years in the shadow of a great sorrow. Only a few months of +happiness were granted me with my beautiful bride." + +"She was false, you said?" murmured Mrs. Leslie, sympathetically. + +"False," he echoed. + + "'Falser than all fancy fathoms, + Falser than all songs have sung, + Puppet to a father's threat, + And servile to a shrewish tongue.' + +"I have said that a few months only of happiness were granted me," he +continued, after a moment's pause. "In a distant city, our whereabouts +and our fate a mystery to all our relatives, we spent a few months of +blind, delirious happiness, forgetting all save each other. Never was +bride more wildly worshiped than I worshiped my beautiful Elaine; never +was husband more adored than she seemed to adore me. We lived but for +each other. + +"To this sweet idyl, this beautiful romance, came a most prosaic ending. + +"The considerable sum of money with which I had left home was quite +exhausted by our idle, happy, luxurious life. I was forced to leave my +wife for a short time, and go home, like the prodigal, to my father's +house, confess my marriage, and entreat his forgiveness and assistance. + +"There were hard words and a stormy scene at first. I had expected as +much; for I was well aware of his ambitious plans for me. But at last, +as I was about leaving his roof in anger, he relented. He gave me his +paternal forgiveness, and promised to receive my wife as a daughter. It +was arranged that I should leave early the next morning to bring Elaine +home. Perhaps you can fancy my happiness, Mrs. Leslie." + +"Yes," she replied, sympathetically, her kind blue eyes shining through +a suspicious mist. + +"I sat up quite late that night, talking to my father, expatiating with +boyish enthusiasm on the beauty and sweetness of my young bride. My +father heard me indulgently, and suffered me to run on unchecked. At +length we drank some wine together, and I retired to rest in buoyant +spirits, to dream of my darling, who was so soon to be welcomed as a +beloved daughter to my father's splendid home. + +"Instead of awaking early the next morning to start on my return to +Elaine, as I had proposed doing, I slumbered on deeply and dreamlessly +until noon. I awoke, burning with fever, parched with thirst, and +seriously ill almost to the verge of delirium. Physicians were summoned, +who declared that a severe and probably long attack of illness lay +before me. I entreated my father to write to my wife to come to me, and +was assured that he had already done so. He received no reply. Elaine +neither wrote nor came to my sick bed. At my wild and urgent +solicitations he wrote again and again, receiving not a line in reply. +To allay my terrible anxiety, as soon as my illness took a turn for the +better, my father went himself to bring my wife to me." + +He paused, and fixed his dark, sad eyes on Mrs. Leslie's face. Their +intense, anguished gaze seemed to burn through her. + +After a moment, he said, hollowly: + +"My friend, he returned alone." + +"She was not worthy your love," Mrs. Leslie began, indignantly. + +"Listen, and you shall judge," he replied. "After I left Elaine, her +parents by some means obtained a clew to her whereabouts. They went to +her, and, by dint of threats and persuasions, induced her to renounce me +forever--me, her husband, who lay languishing upon his sick bed, almost +dying for a sight of her worshiped face." + +His voice broke slightly here. After the lapse of sixteen years memory +was still potent to shake the iron self-possession he had tried to build +up against his sorrow. He collected himself with an effort and resumed: + +"Cold, hard man as my father was, the tears of pity for his outraged son +stood thickly in his eyes when he told me this story. Elaine had gone +home with her father and mother, but she sent me a cold, hard letter, +upbraiding me with having beguiled her from her duty to her parents, and +declaring that she would never live with me again, and never even wished +to see again the man who had persuaded her into an entanglement which +now she bitterly regretted and deplored." + +"She was young and her parents unduly influenced her," said Mrs. Leslie, +instinctively excusing the beautiful child-wife. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + +"Do you think so?" asked Mr. Stuart sadly. "Yes, she was very young, but +that was a poor love that could thus lightly be turned away from its +object." + +And again he murmured hollowly from his favorite poet: + + "Well--'tis well that I should bluster! + Hadst thou less unworthy proved: + Would to God--for I had loved thee + More than ever wife was loved. + + "Am I mad that I should cherish + That which bears but bitter fruit? + I will pluck it from my bosom + Though my heart be at the root." + +"You have had a sad experience," the lady said, gently. + +"Have I not?" he said bitterly. "Ah, Mrs. Leslie, I cannot tell you what +I suffered in learning my wife had cast me off. It seemed to me that I +had gone mad in my grief and despair. I had a relapse of my illness and +for long weeks struggled between life and death. I would sooner have +died, but it was fated not to be. Slowly, wearily, I came back to life, +and when I asked my father for tidings of her he told me that her +parents had taken her abroad. Do I weary you, my friend, with the long +recital of my sorrows?" he asked, pausing abruptly and gazing into her +face with his beautiful, sad, black eyes. + +"No, I am deeply interested," she replied. "I wish to hear all that +there is to tell." + +"There is little more to tell," he answered, sadly. "I was very proud, I +loved my wife still, but I had no mind to force her obedience. I did not +follow her to beg for her favor. I lent myself to my father's efforts to +amuse and interest me, and tried to drown my sorrow in the mad whirl of +dissipation and excess. In a few, a very few months, a formal letter +came to my father from the Brookes abroad. Elaine, my willful +child-wife, had died in giving birth to a little daughter. They wrote my +father later on that the babe was dead, too." + +He stifled the hollow groan that rose to his lips, and bowed his face on +his arm. Mrs. Leslie regarded him in silent pity, but she could offer no +acceptable words of sympathy to the sharp pathos of a grief like this. + +"It grows late, I must hasten with my story," he exclaimed, glancing up +at the sky from which all the sunset brightness was fading into +"sober-suited grey." "You understand, Mrs. Leslie, that life was over +and done for me then. I cared little what became of me, and my father +urged me so persistently that a year later I married Lilia Lessington, +the heiress he had chosen for me. I did not pretend to love her. I think +she suspected something of my story, for she has always been bitterly +jealous of me, and we have never been happy together." + +"You should have told her your story. She could not have been jealous of +the dead," Mrs. Leslie said, gently. + +"The dead," he repeated in a strange voice. "Ah, my friend, is she dead? +For sixteen years I never doubted it, but since that morning months ago, +when I saved Irene's life, I have been haunted by terrible doubts and +tears. The girl is the living, breathing image of my lost child-wife. +She looks at me with Elaine's eyes, she speaks to me with Elaine's +voice, she smiles at me with Elaine's face. And the face she wears +around her neck is Elaine's face, only older, graver, sadder, with the +brightness and archness faded from it, and the look of a martyred angel +in its place." + +"What do you suspect?" she asked, in a low and startled tone. + +"I suspect that Elaine lives--that your mysterious _protege_, is her +child and mine--I suspect that I have been deeply, darkly, terribly +wronged--but, oh, my God, by whom?" he added, fiercely, striking his +clenched hand against his high brow all beaded with drops of dew. + +Mrs. Leslie stared, aghast and speechless. Had Clarence Stuart, indeed, +been thus foully wronged? If so, whose soul was black with the stain of +this sin? + +"I have told you my story," he said. "I know you will keep it inviolate, +but, Mrs. Leslie, if there is aught in the boasted keenness and wit of +woman, I pray you find out this girl's secret for me. Let me know if my +heart has spoken truly, when day and night it claims her for its very +own, its first-born child, dearer than aught on earth beside, because +she bears her mother's face." + +"If woman's wit can avail, I will find out the truth for you," Mrs. +Leslie answered, from the depths of her warm, womanly heart. + +Then they rose and walked back to the villa in the hush of the beautiful +twilight, outwardly silent, but with full hearts. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + +As the footsteps of Mr. Stuart and his companion died away, there was a +sudden rustling in the thick shrubbery that shaded the garden-seat. The +branches parted and the face of Mrs. Stuart appeared. It was white with +commingled fear and anger, the eyes flashed luridly, her white, jeweled +hands were tightly clenched, the breath came gaspingly between her +parted lips. + +She sat down on the garden-seat, and gazed gloomily before her into the +deepening dusk. + +"He suspects all," she uttered, huskily. "My God, what if he should +learn the truth? That girl--I have always instinctively hated her. Can +she be his child, indeed? If so, she must be removed as soon as +possible. Does Julius Revington suspect whom she is, and is he laying a +plan for my dethronement? I must see him privately and learn the truth. +I cannot, I will not, be ousted from my place. I have dared and risked +too much to lose all now!" + +She made her way rapidly back to the house by a roundabout path, and +going to her room, arranged her disordered hair and dress. Then she +descended to the drawing-room in search of Mr. Revington. + +The lamps were lighted and most of her guests were in the room amusing +themselves in various fashions. She missed Mr. Revington, but the tinkle +of his inevitable guitar came to her from the balcony. She went out and +found him pouring out a plaintive love-song into the unappreciative ears +of Irene. At the appearance of her hostess the girl effected a +precipitate escape into the house, leaving her lover to finish his +ditty to the desert air. + +Mrs. Stuart went up to his side and laid her hand on his arm. + +"Julius, I wish to speak to you," she said, in a low, strange voice. + +The strings twanged discordantly under his hand. He looked up with +something like a guilty start. + +"Now?" he asked. + +"Of course not," impatiently, "but as soon as possible. Can we manage a +private meeting?" + +"_I_ can, of course," he answered, with an emphasis on the pronoun. "The +risk is yours, not mine. What can you have to say to me?" + +The impatient, almost insolent tone in which he addressed her, sent the +hot blood to her face. + +"You take a high tone," she breathed in suppressed anger. + +"Pardon me," he replied, with a fine latent sarcasm in his tone that +angered her yet more. + +But she kept down her seething resentment with a powerful effort of +will. + +"Can you come out into the grounds to-night? I have something very +important to speak about. I can slip out unnoticed about eleven +o'clock," she whispered. + +"I will come," he replied, laconically. + +She named a place for meeting, then returned to her guests in the +drawing-room. Her glance, full of envenomed hate and deadly malice, fell +on Irene. + +The girl was standing at an open window half-hidden by the falling +drapery of the lace curtains, her beautiful, sad young face turned +toward the sky. She was looking wondrously lovely in her simple, white +mull dress with a great cluster of purple golden-hearted pansies nestled +in the filmy lace at her throat, and the veil of her golden hair half +hiding the slim, graceful form. Mrs. Stuart wondered at the air of deep +sadness that marked the girlish face and caused that pathetic droop of +the rosy lips. + +How little she dreamed that the girl she hated so jealously was thinking +of one dead in the cruel sea as she stood there watching the starry +constellations of Heaven sparkling through the misty veil of night. She +did not dream what mournful thoughts filled the young heart nor how +sadly Irene murmured over to herself some plaintive words that seemed to +fit her melancholy vein: + + "Ships are tossing at sea, + And ships sail in to the windy cliffs of the shore; + But the ship that is dearest to me + Will never come in with the tide-- + Will ripple the bay no more, + Riding in with the tide." + +All unheeded and unnoted by its object, Mrs. Stuart's angry glance dwelt +on Irene. The girl was so absorbed in her own sad thoughts that the +ripple of talk and laughter in the room seemed to flow past her like a +dream so faint and far-away it sounded. A feeling of utter loneliness +and pain, of vague longing and sharp regret possessed her. Only half +conscious of outward things she leaned against the window mournfully +musing. + +Suddenly to her dulled senses penetrated the noise of a somewhat unusual +bustle in the room, the rustle of a silken robe as its wearer hastily +rose, and a sharp cry of wonder and surprise in the voice of Mrs. +Leslie: + +"Mr. ----!" Irene lost the name in her apathy. "_Can_ this be you, or am +I dreaming?" + +"I heard at Florence that you were here, Mrs. Leslie, and I could not +resist the temptation of calling," said a deep, sweet, musical voice. + +That voice! Every drop of blood in Irene's heart seemed to answer it! It +shocked her out of her apathetic sorrow. She would have cried out in the +suddenness of her surprise, but her lips were parched and dry, her +tongue failed her. + +Instinctively she shrank further into the shadow and turned her head +toward the sound. + +Her heart had not deceived her. The world had never held but one voice +that could stir the secret depths of her heart. + +And this was _he_! She had thought him dead-- + + "Down by the reefs and the shells + Far down by the channels that furrow the dolorous deep, + Where the torn sails rise with the swells, + And swing in the pulse of the sea. + Silently sleeping his sleep + Down in the sorrowful sea." + +But there he stood--tall, large, handsome, with that easy, gracious, +indolent air she recalled so well--a smile on his lips as he replied to +Mrs. Leslie's eager questions and exclamations. + +Then Irene, watching with startled eyes, saw and heard the hum of +greetings and introductions. Even Mrs. Stuart unbent from her +supercilious hauteur to do honor to the stranger. She had heard of him, +and knew that he was well-born and wealthy. + +"What shall I do? Will he know me?" Irene asked herself, with a great +suffocating heart-beat. + +She saw Mrs. Leslie coming to the window with her friend, and nerved +herself for the ordeal. Her thoughts flew confusedly back over the past. +How strangely they had parted, how strangely they were meeting. + +Mrs. Leslie pushed back the rich lace curtain with her white, ringed +hand, and showed the beautiful, silent, statue-like girl. + +"Miss Berlin, allow me to present my friend, Mr. Kenmore, the +dead-alive," she said, smilingly. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + +There was one instant of breathless silence as Mrs. Leslie's kind +introductory words thus fell on the ears of the husband and wife, who +until that moment had believed the other dead. Then, with a great effort +of will Irene raised her pale face and dark blue eyes to meet Guy +Kenmore's gaze. + +He was staring at her with parted lips, with dilated eyes, and a +death-white face as if he had seen a ghost, and suddenly, without words +or bow, or slightest greeting, he turned away and walked to another +window, leaning from it as if stifled for want of air. + +Mrs. Leslie gazed after him, stupefied. She had never beheld such +unparalleled rudeness. + +"Irene might have been a ghost," she said to herself. "What does it +mean?" + +In the next instant Mr. Kenmore walked quickly back to them. He bowed +his head humbly before Irene. + +"Miss Berlin, I crave your pardon," he said. "Pray do not think me rude. +Your face startled me as if I had seen a ghost. You are the image of +one--who is dead." + +He looked at her strangely as if expecting her to refute his words, but +she only bowed her graceful head and drooped her deep blue eyes before +his earnest gaze. Her heart was throbbing wildly with the wonder if he +would claim her before all these curious, gazing eyes. It would not have +surprised her if he had said: + +"You are Irene Brooke, whom I married and whom I thought dead. I know +not how you came back from your watery grave, but I cannot be deceived +in your identity." + +She stood speechless before him, expecting every moment to hear him +utter those words. She wondered what she would say to him in reply. +Should she own the truth--she, who had promised to give herself to +Julius Revington to purchase honor and happiness for her wronged mother? + +She could not answer her own question; a mist swam before her eyes, her +heart beat in her ears, it seemed to her that her strength failed her, +and in another moment she must fall upon the floor at his feet. + +Through it all she heard his voice breaking clearly, musically upon her +tumultuous thoughts. + +"I am most happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Berlin," he said, in +the courteous, kindly voice of a stranger, and extended his hand to her. + +He had been startled out of himself, but only for a moment. Now he was +the cool, polished man of the world again. He spoke to her and looked at +her as a stranger. + +Her heart gave a sudden throb of relief, then sank like ice in her +breast. She gave him her hand, her small head crested with sudden pride, +though a subtle thrill ran through her veins as his warm fingers clasped +hers in a momentary pressure. + +There is a subtle language in a hand-clasp. Guy Kenmore's pressure of +Irene's hand said, as plain as words: + +"I love you!" + +Every drop of blood in Irene's heart acknowledged the confession, but +her colder reason disdainfully rejected it. + +"He will not acknowledge me. He is sorry to find that I am living," she +said to herself, with a sudden, hot thrill of shame and anger. "Well, I +shall not force myself upon him. I can be as cold and indifferent as he +is." + +Her strong will and her latent pride came to her aid. She knew that he +regarded her as a spoiled child. A longing came over her to show him +that she was a woman--a fascinating woman, too. + +When Julius Revington came to her side again he was astonished at the +bright, charming wiles she put forth for his benefit. + +He knew that her moods were changeful as an April day. He had found a +certain charm in the fact, although more clouds than sunshine had been +meted out to him. But suddenly he found everything inexplicably changed. + +From a lovely, willful, capricious child, Irene was transformed into a +beautiful, dignified, brilliant woman. She talked with charming ease and +grace. Her laugh rang out like a chime of silver bells. No one had ever +seen her so gay and sparkling before, nor one-half so beautiful. + +Her eyes sparkled beneath their drooping lashes with interest and +animation. Her cheeks were flushed like the heart of a rose, the +delicious dimples played hide and seek around her lovely lips. Her +words, her looks, her gestures, were all full of grace and beauty. + +Julius Revington was enthralled by the newly developed charms of his +betrothed. He believed that she had softened to him at last, and that +her graciousness indicated a dawning love for himself. + +He was thrilled with joy at the thought, and gave free rein to the +emotions of his heart. His eager adoration showed in his every glance. + +Meanwhile Guy Kenmore, seated across the room by the side of Mrs. +Leslie, could not keep his eyes and his thoughts from the lovely girl +who had so startled him out of his self-possession. Not a movement or +word escaped his notice, although he was outwardly courteous and +attentive to the lady he had called to see. + +But the pretty, graceful widow was gifted with keen perceptions. She did +not fail to note her caller's wandering glance. She was not envious of +her beautiful _protege_, but she could not repress a slight feeling of +pique as she saw with what an effort he maintained his apparent interest +in herself. + +At length she tapped him lightly on his shoulder and brought his +wandering glances back to meet her own. + +"Forewarned is forearmed," she whispered, gaily. "Do not lose your heart +to my beautiful _protege_, Mr. Kenmore. She is already betrothed." + +He started, and a dark-red flush mounted to his temples. + +"Your _protege_!" he exclaimed, catching eagerly at the word. + +"Yes," she replied. "She belongs to me, and her story is a most romantic +one. Some time I will tell it you, and you shall tell me about that dead +friend of yours whom Irene resembles." + +"Is her name Irene?" he inquired, and she did not fail to notice the +uncontrollable start he gave. + +"Yes, it is Irene--Irene Berlin. Do you not think it a pretty name?" she +asked. + +"Yes," he answered, "I like it very much, and it gives me a new interest +in the owner. The name of my lost friend was Irene." + +"And if I am not mistaken my _protege_ is the friend whom you believed +lost. I have stumbled on a romance and a mystery," thought the lady, +shrewdly, to herself; but aloud she only said, with apparent +unsuspiciousness: "That is quite a coincidence." + +Then she said no more, for to her utter surprise she saw Julius +Revington leading Irene to the piano. + +Irene had always declined to play and sing before to-night, so her +friend was quite excusable for the almost open-mouthed surprise with +which she regarded her movements. + +The white figure settled itself on the piano stool, the white hands +fluttered over the keys, a melancholy chord was softly struck, then---- + +Mrs. Leslie held her breath. + +Irene was singing in a voice no one had suspected her of +possessing--pure, clear, rarely tender and sweet--those sad, pathetic +verses, "Remember and Forget." + +A sudden silence fell on every one in the room. No one was less +surprised than Mrs. Leslie. No one had dreamed how obstinately Irene had +concealed her gift of a sweet, bird-like voice until now. As the clear, +well-trained tones rose and fell, every one was dumb with astonishment +and delight. + + "When I am dead, my dearest, + Sing no sad songs for me; + Plant thou no roses at my head, + Nor shady cypress tree. + Be the green grass above me + With flowers and dewdrops wet: + And, if thou wilt, remember, + And, if thou wilt, forget. + + "I shall not see the shadows, + I shall not feel the rain, + I shall not hear the nightingale + Sing on as if in pain. + And, dreaming through the twilight, + That doth not rise and set, + Haply I may remember, + And haply may forget." + +Mrs. Leslie felt a light touch on her shoulder. She looked up into the +pale, agitated face of Mr. Stuart. He bent down and whispered: + +"I can doubt no longer. She is too fatally like Elaine. She is, she must +be, my own child. She has my lost wife's face and voice, and it is the +same song she sang the night when her fatal beauty and sweetness wiled +my heart from me. What must I do?" + +She saw that he was deeply agitated, and fearing some impulsive action, +whispered back, warningly: + +"Do nothing--yet. Stranger coincidences have happened. Wait until you +learn more." + +With a sigh he acquiesced in her advice, and returned to his seat. But +his agitation had not been unobserved by Mrs. Stuart. Her soul was on +fire with anger and hatred toward the beautiful singer. She would have +given anything she possessed to have heard what her husband had confided +to Mrs. Leslie. + +Guy Kenmore sat silent, lost in a maze of troubled thought. He had not +meant to listen to Mr. Stuart's words, but in his proximity to Mrs. +Leslie, the sharp, agonized whisper had penetrated to his hearing. An +uncontrollable eagerness came over him to hear Mrs. Leslie's promised +story of her beautiful _protege_. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + +Irene was playing a waltz now--something as gay and joyous as her song +had been sweet and pensive. Guy Kenmore touched Mrs. Leslie's arm. + +"Let us go on the balcony. The moonlight is so beautiful," he said. + +They went, and though Irene did not turn her head she knew that they had +left the room, and her heart sank unaccountably. But she went on playing +with tireless fingers, and the gay, sweet music floated deliciously out +on the balcony where the young man was saying in a low voice to his +companion: + +"I must confess to an almost feminine curiosity regarding your promised +story of your beautiful _protege_." + +"You wish to hear it now?" said the lady, smilingly. + +"Yes," he admitted, frankly. + +"After all there is little to tell," she replied. "I know actually +nothing of her except that she is a beautiful, fascinating mystery." + +"A mystery--how?" he asked. + +"I will tell you," she said, "for I do not suppose it is any betrayal of +confidence. If I do not tell it you will hear it from others who love +her less than I do." + +"No one could appreciate your confidence more than I will do," he said, +eagerly. + +Mrs. Leslie's heart beat quickly. She believed that Mr. Kenmore held the +key to the mystery she had promised to unravel for Clarence Stuart. She +determined to tell him Irene's story, in the hope of eliciting a like +confidence. + +"It is nearly four months now since we left Richmond for Italy," she +began. "We sailed in Mr. Stuart's own yacht." + +"Yes. I saw that fact duly announced in the Richmond papers," he +observed. + +"But, pardon me for having interrupted your story. Please go on." + +"It was the tenth of June when we left Richmond--I like to be particular +as to dates," said Mrs. Leslie. "Well, it was lovely weather, and we all +planned to get up early the next morning and see the sun rise over the +sea. We did so, and as you may be aware, it was a glorious sight; but we +only got one glimpse of it, for its first beams showed us a more tragic +and interesting sight." + +Mr. Kenmore caught his breath, and gazed eagerly at the speaker. + +"It was a loud scream for help that first attracted our attention," said +Mrs. Leslie. "The sound was not very far away, and we all turned +instinctively toward it. To our horror we saw on the level, sun-lighted +waves a floating plank, with a human figure clinging to its frail +support. Literally, there remained but one plank between her and +eternity." + +"Ah!" exclaimed Guy Kenmore, with a shudder. + +"Mr. Stuart is one of the bravest men in the world, I think. He +immediately sprang over the side of the yacht into the sea, and swam +toward the floating figure. Before he reached her she lost her hold of +the plank, and sank under the water. Mr. Stuart instantly dived, and +brought her up in his arms." + +"_He_ saved her life. How strange," exclaimed Mr. Kenmore, as if +speaking to himself. + +"Do you think so?" she asked, looking at him keenly. "Why strange, Mr. +Kenmore?" + +"I beg your pardon. I did not express myself properly," he said, biting +his lips nervously. "Well, Mrs. Leslie, do you mean to tell me that the +heroine of that romantic episode was the beautiful Miss Berlin?" + +"Yes, it was she," replied Mrs. Leslie. + +There was a minute's dead pause. Irene was singing again. In the +stillness her full, sweet voice floated out to them softly: + + "Go! be sure of my love--by that treason forgiven, + Of my prayers, by the blessings they win thee from Heaven; + Of my griefs (guess the length of the sword by the sheath's) + By the silence of life more pathetic than death's! + Go, be clear of that day!" + +Mrs. Leslie looked at the man's handsome face. It was grave and troubled +in the moonlight. + +"Is it not strange?" she said. "She would never sing for us until +to-night. We did not suspect that she had such a soulful voice. But she +was betrothed to Mr. Revington to-day. Perhaps the happiness of her soul +finds natural vent in song." + +She saw him wince as if she had touched a secret wound. He looked away +from her at the lovely Italian landscape bathed in the pearly radiance +of the moonlight. When he spoke again he did not look at her. + +"Mrs. Leslie. I am curious to hear how your _protege_ came to be in the +water?" + +"She threw herself in, Mr. Kenmore." + +"No," he cried, with a shudder. + +"It is true," she replied. "She says she had lost her only friend and +did not wish to live." + +"Who was that friend?" he asked. + +"She declined to say. She declined to speak of her past. She had broken +loose from all its ties, and never wished to unite them again. She +shrouded herself in mystery, claiming nothing from the life she had left +except the sweet, simple name of Irene." + +"Yet you called her Berlin," he said. + +"Yes, but it was my own maiden name which I gave her because she +declared herself nameless," said Mrs. Leslie. + +"You were very kind." + +"Do you think so? I fell in love with the child, and adopted her as my +_protege_. I am sure she has had a great sorrow in her life, but I am +equally sure that she is pure and innocent as a little child." + +He looked at her, gratefully. + +"And the Stuarts?" he inquired, in a tone of veiled significance. + +"Mr. Stuart was as much fascinated by Irene as I was. He wished to adopt +her as Lilia's sister, but his jealous wife would not permit him to do +so." + +"And Revington is her lover?" + +"Yes, she accepted him to-day." + +"Is it a good match for her?" inquired Mr. Kenmore, dropping into a +light, conventional, society tone. + +"Not in a worldly way," she replied. "Mr. Revington's fortune is very +small, barely sufficient for his own luxurious needs. He is of good +family, however, being cousin to Clarence Stuart. I cannot say I have +any admiration for the man, and I am disappointed at Irene's choice." + +He made no comment on her words, but remained gazing thoughtfully at the +beautiful starry arch of night. Mrs. Leslie thought that it was now her +turn to receive confidence. + +"Now, I have told you all I know of my interesting _protege_, you must +tell me about your friend whom she resembled so much that she frightened +you to-night," she said, blandly. + +He started and looked at her, but before he could speak they were +interrupted. + +Mr. Revington and Irene came out upon the balcony and took seats near +them. The girl looked at Mr. Kenmore with a bright, careless smile. + +"We have been talking about you, Mr. Kenmore," she said. "We are +exceedingly anxious to know how you escaped from the wreck in which you +were reported as lost." + +She spoke and looked as if he were an utter stranger. He answered with +indifference equal to her own: + +"I am gratified by your solicitude, Miss Berlin. I can very easily +gratify your curiosity. I was rescued by one of the small boats that was +lowered from the steamer that sunk us." + +"Thank you for your concise explanation," she replied, gaily. "I see you +are not disposed to weave any romance around it." + +"It was too terribly real to be associated with the thought of romance," +he replied, repressing a slight shudder. + +"And yet our daily life is often more romantic than fiction," observed +Mr. Revington, sentimentally. + +No one dissented from the proposition. Mr. Kenmore rose and prepared to +take leave. + +But when he had bowed formally to Irene and her lover, and returned to +the drawing-room, the hospitable host and hostess quite took him by +storm. + +"Return to Florence that night? They would not hear of such a thing! +They could not think of losing such a pleasant addition to their party. +Mr. Kenmore must promise to be their guest a week at least." The end of +it all was that Mr. Kenmore gracefully accepted their cordial +invitation, and promised to send to Florence for his luggage on the +morrow. + +Very soon afterwards the party separated for the night. Mr. Kenmore went +to his room, but he was in no mood for retiring. He threw himself down +into a chair at the window and lighted a cigar. + +"Decidedly I have made a fine beginning," he said to himself. "I have +found out more than I expected to do when I came to Mr. Stuart's villa. +Perhaps I had been wise to have remained in America. I am come too +late." + +He was restless and ill at ease. The four walls of his room, spacious +and elegant as it was, seemed to confine and stifle him. A fancy seized +him to go out into the night air. It would cool his throbbing brow +perhaps and he could think more clearly. + +A narrow balcony ran across the front of his window, and a flight of +steps led from it to the garden below. He stepped safely through his +open window and went down the stairs just as all the clocks in the house +simultaneously chimed eleven. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + +"You have kept me waiting, Julius." + +Mrs. Stuart spoke impatiently. She had been waiting some time at the end +of the myrtle avenue among its deepest shadows and her temper was not +sweetened by the delay. + +"I beg your pardon," Mr. Revington replied, "I was smoking a cigar with +your husband and could not come any sooner." + +He paused a moment, and then added in a rather complaining tone: + +"I could not imagine what you wanted of me, anyhow." + +"Could you not?" she inquired, with a smothered sneer. "Well, sit down +here on this quiet seat and I will tell you." + +They seated themselves and began talking softly, unconscious that in the +long grass just beyond the thick belt of shrubbery that inclosed the +myrtle avenue, a man had flung himself down full length, so absorbed in +his own painful thoughts as to be for the moment unaware of their +presence. + +Suddenly he became aware of the murmuring sound of voices. His first +impulse was to rise and leave the spot, but in the next he decided that +it would startle the speakers and draw down their ill-will perhaps upon +himself. + +"Some of the servants out sparking," he laughed to himself. "I will not +disturb them. They will be none the worse for my presence." + +So he laid his head down again upon his arm, and relapsed into his +painful musing. + +"I will tell you what I have to say to you, Julius," repeated Mrs. +Stuart. "I wish to ask you who is this girl, Irene?" + +Julius Revington gave a violent start in the darkness. + +"My dear madame, how should I know?" he exclaimed. + +"She has promised to be your wife, and it is very likely that she has +confided the story of her past to you," replied Mrs. Stuart. + +"You are mistaken in the supposition. She has steadily declined any such +confidence. I have taken her upon her own merits, mystery and all," he +replied. + +There was a moment's pause. Their faces were in shadow, and Mrs. Stuart +devoutly wished that she could pierce the veil of the darkness, and read +upon his weak face whether or not he was deliberately trying to deceive +her. + +"Perhaps you have formed some opinion of your own," she said. + +"I have had no clew upon which to base an opinion," he replied. + +"Have you ever seen the pictures in her locket?" she inquired. + +Taken by surprise, he stammered faintly: "Ye-es, once, by the merest +accident." + +"You recognized them?" she asked, coldly. + +"How should I?" he asked, startled. + +"Why should you not?" she mimicked. "Julius, do not try to beat about +the bush with me. I am in desperate earnest. I will not be put off by +lies and evasions! You have seen Elaine Brooke's portrait; therefore you +must have recognized the face in Irene's locket as hers." + +"And if I did?" he asked, sullenly. + +"You must have guessed at the girl's name. You could not have helped it. +It is written on her face. You know whom she is, but you are trying to +deceive me. You know that you are," she said, passionately. + +He saw that he had to deal with a passionate, jealous woman, and that +his game was all up, so far as concealment of his plans was concerned. + +"I shall be forced to admit what I cannot deny," he told himself, +grimly. + +Aloud, he asked, in a tone of forced suavity: "Whom do you say that the +girl is, Mrs. Stuart?" + +She bent toward him and answered in a hissing whisper of anger and hate: + +"She is the daughter of Clarence Stuart and his first wife, Elaine +Brooke." + +A cry of dismay and surprise came from his lips. + +"You dare not deny it," she hissed. + +"I do not intend to. It is quite true," he replied, doggedly. + +"I knew it! How I hate her!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart, vindictively. "Would +to God she had perished in the sea that day! From the very first I hated +her even before I dreamed of her identity!" + +And for a few moments the air was filled with the sharp ravings of her +anger and bitter hatred. + +"How have you learned so much?" inquired Julius Revington, curiously, +for he had fancied that the mystery surrounding Irene was impenetrable +to all but himself. + +"No matter. I am not blind to anything around me. I carry too terrible a +secret in my breast to run the risk of its detection. I must guard it at +every point," she replied. "Can you guess what question I am about to +ask you, Julius Revington? You cannot? It is this, then, and mind that +you answer me truly. Do you intend to turn traitor?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + +"Traitor? What do you mean?" stammered Julius Revington. + +"You know well enough what I mean," flashed Mrs. Stuart angrily. "You +are going to marry that girl, and of course her welfare will be yours. +It will be to your interest to betray me. Do you intend to reveal the +secret and drive me and Lilia out into the world nameless and +disgraced---- through no fault of mine, remember, but through the sin of +that old dotard who should have carried his miserable secret to the +grave with him?" + +A pause. It seemed to Guy Kenmore that they must hear his heart beating +so near them in the stillness. He was thoroughly aroused now, but he +could not believe that it was wrong to listen. On the contrary he +blessed the fancy that had led him out into the cool night air. + +Julius Revington made no reply to Mrs. Stuart's half-piteous appeal. + +"Cannot you speak?" she cried out, sharply. "Are you too cowardly to own +your vile intentions?" + +"You use strong terms, Mrs. Stuart," he said, sullenly. "Is it a vile +act to carry out the sacred commands of a dying man? To restore to +Clarence Stuart the last love of his youth? To give honor and happiness +to a wronged woman? To restore her unhappy child to her father's name +and love?" + +"Then you do intend to do so! Wretch!" cried the lady, bitterly; then +she broke down, sobbing in an abandonment of despair: "Oh, Lilia, Lilia, +my poor, fragile darling! This will kill you!" + +Julius Revington sat sullenly silent, ashamed of being found out in his +designs, yet by no means ready to forego them. + +"And you promised to keep the secret for me. You took my bribes, and +swore you would never tell the truth to Clarence! You are a perjured +villain!" upbraided the lady, violently. + +"And you are a----". He bent and whispered the last word in her ear in a +tone of threatening. "Beware how you call names, my lady! I am not to be +abused and bullied, remember that!" + +A wail of pain broke from her lips. + +"It was for Lilia's sake," she moaned. "My proud, beautiful child, how +could she bear shame and disgrace? Oh, Julius Revington, I would go down +on my knees to you, I would bless you forever, I would deem you the +noblest man on earth, if you would spare me and my Lilia this shame and +ignominy!" + +"Irene has lived under the shadow of shame and ignominy all her life. It +is her turn now," he retorted, sullenly. + +"Does she suspect the truth?" she asked, anxiously. + +"No," he replied, ashamed of the bribe he had held out as the means of +winning his lovely betrothed. + +"She need not ever know. Oh, Julius, why cannot you marry her, and take +her away, far away, and leave us in peace?" she cried, miserably. + +"You forget that she is the legal heir to her father's fortune," he +retorted, with coarse significance. + +"Ah! that is the object," she cried. "You are poor, and you cannot +forego your grip on the Stuart fortune. Oh, Julius, I bought your +silence once; let me do so again." + +"It would be at a costly price," he said, in a hard, snappish voice. + +"At any price!" she cried, desperately. "Listen, Julius. My own private +fortune is as large as Mr. Stuart's. I have complete control of it. I +will portion you off handsomely, if you will keep the secret and take +Irene away from here--far away--where she can never trouble my peace +again. Oh, for pity's sake, Julius, grant my prayer!" She threw herself +desperately on the ground and clasped his knees despairingly. "It can +matter little to you. You will have the woman you love; and I swear that +you shall receive from me as much money as Mr. Stuart would leave her. +Will you do this, Julius, for Lilia's sake? If you refuse, it will be +the death-warrant of my child!" + +"Since you put it like that, I suppose I must yield the point. I do not +want to kill the child," he muttered. "But it is hard on Irene, and if a +large slice of your fortune isn't handed out, you needn't count on my +silence!" + +"As much as you wish," she cried, eagerly; "and, oh, Julius, you will +marry her as quick as possible--to-morrow--next week--the earliest +moment she will consent! And let your wedding tour be to the other end +of the world!" she added, feverishly. + +"I do not care how far it be so that I have beautiful Irene for my +companion, and a large bank account to draw on," Julius Revington +answered, with a coarse laugh. + +"And this contemptible creature is the man Irene loves, the man she +would wed," Guy Kenmore said to himself in bitter disgust. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + +"What am I to do?" Irene asked herself that night when she was alone in +the quiet and seclusion of her chamber. + +She had laughed and sung and jested while Guy Kenmore's eyes were upon +her, and feigned an indifference she was very far from feeling. But now +she had to tear off the mask so proudly worn, and face her fate. + +"What am I to do?" she asked herself, miserably, as she walked up and +down the floor in her pretty blue dressing-gown, with her white hands +twisted together in a childish fashion she had. "I do not believe the +heroine of the most impossible novel was ever placed in a more harrowing +situation. Here am I betrothed to the villain of the story, when my +husband, whom I believed to be dead, unexpectedly pops upon the scene. +And instead of his appearance simplifying matters, it tangles them into +a Gordian knot, and I can only ask myself what I shall do!" + +She laughed--a mocking, mirthless little laugh that startled a dozen +eerie little echoes in the corners of the room. + +"Heigh-ho! I know what I would do if _he_ loved me," she said to +herself, wistfully, "I would fly to my husband's arms, and defy Julius +Revington to do his worst. I would say to him proudly, I have here an +honest name, and a true love of which your machinations cannot deprive +me!" + +The quick tears started out beneath her golden-brown lashes. + +"Alas, alas! he does not love me," she sighed. "Why should he do so? He +never saw me but once before last night. It was my own willful folly +that led him into that dreadful marriage. I doubt not he was glad when +he thought that my reckless suicide had broken the fetters that had +bound him. Last night he pretended not to know me, yet he could hardly +have been ignorant of my identity. He could not have forgotten my face +so soon. It is a fair one, they say--yet not fair enough to have won his +heart." + +That momentous question, "What am I to do?" echoed drearily in her +heart. She could find no answer to it; she could think of no refuge from +her sorrow. For the first time since that awful night in the cold, dark +waves, she wished that the friendly plank had not drifted to her +reach--that she had perished miserably then rather than have lived to +find herself in this terrible strait. + +"I cannot marry Mr. Revington now," she thought. "I must take back my +promise of yesterday, with no reason save that of a woman's fickleness. +He will be very angry; he will tell my miserable story to Mr. Stuart and +Mrs. Leslie, to all of these people that sneer at the mystery that +enshrouds my past. What shall I do?" + +A passionate shame surged over her at the thought of the cold looks and +sneering words that would be thrown at her when her discarded suitor +should tell these strangers that her mother was a dishonored woman, and +that she, her child, had no right to her father's name. She fancied that +Mrs. Leslie and Mr. Stuart, the only two friends she had, would be +turned against her, too. She would be utterly alone and +wretched--friendless and forsaken. + +"And yet I cannot be sorry that Guy Kenmore lives," she murmured. +"Though he hate me and deny me; though he bring down shame and sorrow on +my head, I must still be glad that he did not perish in the cold and +dark waves. How strange it seems that only twenty-four hours ago I wept +him dead, and now I weep him living. Alas! living or dead, he is lost to +me the same. I must ever remain an unloved, unacknowledged bride." + +Worn out by the weary vigils of the past two nights she threw herself +down on the bed, dressed as she was, and fell into an exhausted slumber. +She slept late and dreamlessly, and when she opened her bewildered blue +eyes the next morning upon the beautiful sunny day no answer had come to +the question that vexed her brain last night. + +But in the golden light of the new day her woful strait did not look so +grievous as it did last night. A feverish hope sprang up in her heart +that God would befriend her in her sorrow and helplessness and show her +some way out of her trouble. + +When she had made her simple, pretty toilet, and gone down-stairs, she +found that everyone had breakfasted except Mr. Revington, who had +sentimentally waited for her. She swallowed her breakfast with what +appetite she could, and then he asked her to take a walk with him. + +"All the ladies of the family are out in the garden," he said. "Mrs. +Leslie and her admirer, Mr. Kenmore, have been out almost an hour. That +will be a match, I think." + +"I think you are mistaken," Irene answered, almost angrily. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + +Irene brought her shady sun-hat and went out into the beautiful garden +with her lover. Mr. Revington carried his guitar, thinking that he would +beguile the hours with music. + +They went to Irene's favorite seat under the orange trees, where she +could watch the river gliding past. She was very languid and quiescent +this morning, the natural result of last night's emotion. She said to +herself that she would make no struggle against her fate to-day; she +would just drift quietly with the tide and see where it would bear her. + +She little dreamed what subject was agitating Mr. Revington's mind. + +He was full of the new idea Mrs. Stuart had suggested, and had brought +his betrothed out expressly to ask her to name an early day for their +marriage. + +Some little remorse for the treachery he meditated toward her disturbed +his mind, but it was not deep enough to cause him to repent of the +promise Mrs. Stuart had exacted from him. Once he was safely married to +beautiful Irene he intended to invent some plausible story of losing the +documents he had promised her as proving her mother's honorable +marriage. Oh, he would manage cleverly enough. Once bound to him Irene +could not help herself, doggedly reasoned the dastard. + +But somehow he did not find it easy to broach the subject uppermost in +his thoughts. Irene was grave and _distrait_ this morning, with a chilly +reserve about her that did not court lover-like advances. All her bright +spirits and coquettish wiles of last night had vanished. He was dismayed +at her relapse into her old, _ennuyed_ self. She would not encourage his +advances. She was absolutely frigid. + +So he was obliged to plunge into the subject with an inward shiver like +one about taking a bath in ice-cold water. + +"My darling, can you guess what I am going to ask you this morning?" he +ventured. + +She looked at him with a crimsoning face and flashing eyes. + +"I wish you would not call me names, Mr. Revington," she said, with +petulant dignity. + +"Names!" he echoed, blankly. + +"Yes," she replied, loftily. "Darling, and all such names as belong to +the jargon of love, I heartily despise, and I must beg you to spare me +their infliction." + +"But you have promised to marry me, Irene," he expostulated. + +"I have not promised to love you, though," she retorted with spirit. +"Please remember that, Mr. Revington, and spare me your love-sick +phrases!" + +He stared at her, angered and abashed. Her purple-blue eyes sparkled +with scorn, her sweet, red lips were curled disdainfully. He kept down +his bitter anger with an effort, remembering the boon he wished to +crave. + +"Do not forget that our compact was a mere matter of the bargain and +sale of the secret you held," Irene continued, bitterly. "You drove me +into it by your threats of disgracing me in the eyes of the world. Let +us keep to the letter of our bargain. You will never have any terms of +endearment from me, and I expect and desire none from you. On such terms +they are simply revolting." + +"As you will," he retorted, in sullen wrath. "But I cannot see what you +expect to gain by your stand-off and let-alone policy. I shall be your +husband all the same, and instead of having me for your devoted slave, +you will make me a tyrannical master." + +A queer little smile curled her lips. Her heart beat with a sudden +exultant thought. + +Fate had placed it out of her power to sacrifice herself for her +mother's sake. She could not but be glad, although her heart bled for +that mother's griefs and wrongs. + +"Shall I tell him?" she asked herself, almost tempted to defy him then +and there. + +Her weak heart failed her at the thought of the story the wretch would +pour into Mrs. Leslie's ears. How would she meet pity and contempt in +those dear eyes that had looked at her so kindly. + +"I will wait. I cannot tell him yet," she concluded, weakly. + +But his next words fell like a thunder-clap on her startled hearing. +"Irene, I wish you would name an early day for our marriage," he said. + +"Early," she stammered, taken aback. + +He smiled grimly. + +"Yes, it's a mere bargain, you know, and, like all business compacts, +should be ratified early." + +She quivered all over with resentment at his tone, but she held her +peace. + +"Not yet," she answered to her beating heart that longed to defy him. + +"It seems to me that in your peculiar situation, being a mere dependent +on Mrs. Leslie's charity, that the sooner you have a home and a husband +the better for you," he continued, coarsely. "I am most anxious to take +you back to your mother with the good tidings we have to carry her. Do +you remember, Irene, that the longer you delay our marriage the more you +prolong your mother's pain?" + +"I remember," she said, in a stifled voice. + +"Then will you not consent to name this day week for our wedding-day? + +"So soon? No, I will not," she flashed back, in indignant surprise. + +"For your mother's sake," he pleaded artfully. + +"Not for an angel's sake!" declared Irene angrily. + +Her lover was dumfounded at this indignant denial. + +"How soon, then, can I count upon your fulfilment of your promise?" he +demanded, in a crestfallen tone. + +The girl's red lips trembled with the defiant answer, "Never," but she +bit them hard to keep back the passionate word. She knew his power, and +though she felt that the threatening sword that hung over her head must +fall at last, she dreaded to utter the word that must precipitate its +downfall. + +"I have not thought about that matter yet," she said, determined to +temporize with the wretch, and gain a few days' respite. "I supposed it +lay far away in the future. I hoped so at least." + +"I hope you will give it your earliest attention, then," he replied, +sullenly. "I have no mind to wait long, I can assure you." + +"How long will be the limit of your patience?" she inquired +sarcastically. + +"I shall wait two weeks on your pleasure. If you are not ready then to +keep your promise I shall throw prudence to the winds and reveal all," +he answered, stung by her scorn and goaded to retaliation. + +Her beautiful blue eyes flashed scorn and contempt upon him. + +"Wretch," she cried, "how I hate you! Leave my presence instantly, and +do not intrude upon me again to-day. I am free yet, and I will not +tolerate you until I am compelled to do so. Go this instant!" + +The flash of her eye assured him that prudence was the better part of +valor. He rose angrily. + +"Very well, since you choose to play the shrew!" he said, "enjoy your +liberty while you may! I assure you it will not last long once you are +legally mine!" + +And with a muttered curse on his lips he stalked angrily away, his heart +full of blended love and hate for his beautiful, disdainful betrothed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + + +"Mrs. Leslie, I want to ask you one question," said Guy Kenmore. + +They two were walking in the wide, beautiful villa-garden among the +roses and lilies and beautiful crimson flowers drooping from grand white +marble vases. The sun shone on the beautiful terraced walks, on the +sparkling fountains, and the glistening green leaves and golden fruit of +the orange and lemon trees, the air perfumed with the fragrance of +countless flowers. + +Mrs. Leslie was walking by her friend's side looking thoughtfully down +at the drifts of pink myrtle blossoms that blew across the path beneath +her dainty feet. She looked up with a smile, and answered: + +"As many as you please, Mr. Kenmore." + +"Thank you," he replied, but for a moment he was silent over the +momentous question that hovered on his lips. Looking at him curiously +she saw that he was very pale and grave, with a fathomless sadness in +the dark brown eyes usually so bright and laughing. + +"It must be a very important question, you look so grave over it," she +said. + +"It _is_ important," he replied, and then he went on, meditatively. "You +told me, I believe, Mrs. Leslie, that Mr. Stuart's yacht left Richmond +on the tenth of June?" + +"Yes," she replied. + +"The question I have to ask you is this: Did the yacht go steadily on +that day and night, or did she stop at any landing on the Bay?" + +Mrs. Leslie pursed up her pretty lips, and reflected. + +"Let me see," she said. "Ah, yes, I remember. We _did_ stop that night, +about nine o'clock, at a landing in the Bay. It was at a place called +Brooke's Wharf, and was noted for the fine fruit to be obtained there. I +think it was at Mr. Revington's instance we stopped, and Mr. Stuart +obtained a supply of the most luscious fruit." + +Outwardly calm and composed, Guy Kenmore inwardly trembled with +excitement. Was he about to find a clew to Ronald Brooke's slayer? + +"Did anyone leave the yacht and go on shore?" he inquired. + +"Oh, yes, we all did," said Mrs. Leslie, readily enough. "I mean all +except the captain and crew. It was the most beautiful night I ever saw, +I think. These Italian nights are not lovelier. We went on shore, and +rambled about in the moonlight. I remember the night perfectly." + +Ah! did he not, too, he groaned, silently, to himself. How vividly it +all rushed over him. His careless visit to Bertha Brooke, from which so +much had arisen. Memory recalled the lovely, willful girl, who had +carried him off to the hall perforce that night, and he thought, with a +softened tenderness, of the childish spite and self-will that had so +vexed him then. Poor little Irene! she had suffered enough from Bertha's +rage to atone for her willfulness. A feeling of pity and remorse mingled +with the love he bore his hapless child-wife. + +"Poor child! I was vexed and annoyed when I first found out the truth +that we were legally married that night. It came upon me so suddenly, +and I showed my feelings too plainly, and she--she was equally averse to +having me for a husband. But, better, far better for her, if she had +taken me at my word when I offered to make the best of my sad mistake +than to have given her heart to that dandy jackanapes," he concluded, +bitterly, for he had gauged the depth of Julius Revington at first +sight, and the conspiracy he had overheard last night had filled him +with horror and contempt for the traitor. + +"To think that, she--my own beautiful and beloved wife--should turn +coldly from me to lavish her precious love on a thing like that," he +thought, jealously. + +Mr. Kenmore, in his indolent way, though unconsciously to himself, had +possessed some little complacent conceit of himself. His mirror had told +him he was noble-looking and handsome, and women's eyes had repeated it. +His progress through society had been a complete ovation to his pride +and his vanity. Men had honored him for his manliness as much as for his +great wealth, and women had angled for him as a most unexceptionable +_parti_. But the complacent conceit that the world had fostered in him +for years, had received a terrible blow from Irene's indifference and +her palpable preference for the weakly-handsome, guitar-playing and +tenor-singing Julius Revington. + +"A compound of the dandy and the villain--a man who can plan behind her +back to rob her of the knowledge of her honorable name, who cares +nothing for the grief and shame of her wronged mother! To think that she +should love _him_! And most probably she hates me for having re-appeared +when she believed me dead. I have a most disagreeable task before me, +for I must prove to her the unworthiness of the villain on whom she has +set her heart," he mused, gravely. + +"Are you through with your questioning?" inquired Mrs. Leslie, noting +his pre-occupied silence. + +"Yes," he replied, adding, with a slight smile: "Perhaps you would like +to ask me some questions now." + +"Yes, I would," she smiled, with engaging frankness. + +"I am ready to reply to you," he answered, cordially. + +"Perhaps I shall startle you," she said; "I am going to ask you a +leading question, as a lawyer would say. You must remember that I give +you _carte blanche_ not to answer it unless you wish." + +"Thank you for the permission," he said. "Let me hear it." + +She looked at him with an odd gleam in her bright, kindly eyes. + +"It is this," she said. "I believe that you and Irene Berlin, my +_protege_, have met before last night. Am I right?" + +He looked at her with a curious, intent gaze. + +"Mrs. Leslie," he said, "I can better answer that question if you will +tell me whether I may count on your silence and friendship in the +strange dilemma in which I find myself placed." + +She put out her hand to him impulsively. + +"No one can say that Laura Leslie ever failed them in the hour of +trouble," she said, gravely. "You may count on my silence and my truest +friendship if it can avail you." + +He pressed her hand, gratefully. "It will be an incalculable benefit to +me," he said. "Perhaps you can help me and advise me." + +"I will do both if I can," replied the charming widow. + +"Then I shall tell you my secret," he replied. "Mrs. Leslie, it was not +mere chance as I pretended that brought me here last night. I have +followed Clarence Stuart across the ocean on a self-appointed mission to +right the wrongs of the innocent and bring the guilty to justice." + +Looking at his grave, agitated face, she started and uttered a cry of +comprehension. + +"You come from Elaine Brooke---- she lives!" she cried. + +He started in his turn. + +"What do you know?" he cried. + +"No matter---- I must hear your story first," she said. "And you have +not answered my leading question yet." + +"I will tell you my story, and then you may be able to answer it for +yourself," he said. + +They sought a beautiful, secluded spot where they were not likely to be +interrupted or overheard, and Guy Kenmore confided to her sympathizing +ears the story of that fatal tenth of June, when old Ronald Brooke had +met his death and Irene Brooke had become his wife. + +The lady listened with eager, breathless interest, with parted lips and +shining eyes, and color that varied from white to red and red to white. + +When he had finished he looked at her with something like a smile in his +dark-brown eyes. + +"Mrs. Leslie, I have given you my confidence now. Perhaps you can answer +your own question." + +She laughed, merrily. + +"I can put two and two together as cleverly as any woman, I think," she +replied. "And you have made this case quite clear. My pretty Irene is +your wife." + +"Yes," he replied. "And she is the daughter of Clarence Stuart." + +"That is quite true," she answered. "I have suspected it before, now I +am assured of the fact. No one will rejoice more over it than will +Clarence Stuart, himself." + +"I do not understand you," he replied, in a puzzled tone. + +Mrs. Leslie found that she had a confidence to make too. She told him +Mr. Stuart's sorrowful story, and he in turn related the conversation he +had heard the night before. Many things were made clear to both by the +confidence thus reposed in each other. + +"It is as I supposed," Guy Kenmore said. "Clarence Stuart and his wife +were foully deceived and separated by the machinations of old Mr. +Stuart." + +"And the whole secret of it lies in the possession of Julius Revington, +and the proud usurper of Elaine Brooke's name and rights," added Mrs. +Leslie. + +"More than that," said he, with a shudder, "the death of old Ronald +Brooke lies between those two." + +She was silent a few moments, gravely reviewing the case. It was a +baffling one, she confessed to herself, with a sigh. + +"What shall we do?" she asked him, at last. "Shall we take Mr. Stuart +and Irene into our confidence?" + +"Not yet," he replied, thoughtfully. "Let us deal with Julius Revington +first. We must study out a plan to bring that villain to confession." + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + + +Irene sat still where her angry lover had left her, lost in a +trance-like maze of troubled thought. With her small, white hands folded +in her lap, and her dreamy blue eyes fixed on vacancy, she remained +there, statue-like and unheeding, and time, albeit its wings were +clogged with sorrow, flew past unnoted, until the noon-day sun rode high +in the heavens. + +A step, a voice, startled her from her dreamy revery. + +"Ah, Miss Berlin, you see I have discovered your charming retreat," said +Guy Kenmore. "Will you permit me to share it?" + +The swift color flew to her brow, as she looked up into the handsome +face, with the slightly wistful smile about the firm lips. + +"This spot is free to all Mr. Stuart's guests," she replied, coldly. "I +have no right to forbid you to come here." + +"Would you, if you had?" he asked, throwing himself down in the grass at +her feet, and lifting to her face his slightly quizzical brown eyes. + +"Why should I?" she retorted, gazing down into his face with an air of +the most serene indifference. + +"Why, indeed?" he asked himself, with sudden bitterness. "Serene, in her +fancied incognito, she cares not whether I go or stay. I am no more to +her than the earth beneath her feet," and aloud, he answered calmly as +he could speak, and in a slight tone of banter: + +"I fancied you might prefer to share this lovely solitude with some more +favored friend--for instance, Mr. Revington." + +The hot flush deepened on the beautiful face, and she answered with an +impulse of passionate willfulness: + +"That would be natural, would it not? I suppose you have heard that I am +to marry, Mr. Kenmore?" + +His brown eyes flashed beneath their shady lashes. + +"She dares to twit me with her preference for that puppy," he said, +angrily to himself. "Does she indeed believe that I am blinded by her +borrowed name, and that I am unaware of her real identity? Will she +attempt to carry the farce through to the end?" + +An impulse came over him to claim her then and there as his own; to take +the slight young figure in his arms and press it to his beating heart; +to kiss the beautiful, proud face and the defiant eyes, and to say, +jealously: "You are my own wife, Irene, and whether you love me or not, +no one shall take you from me." + +Ah, if only he had obeyed the prompting of his heart, how much sooner +happiness would have come home to them to crown their lives with bliss; +but their mutual pride stood like a wall between. He shook off the +tempting impulse to claim his own, and believed that he was but obeying +the command of chivalry and honor in keeping stern silence. + +"What, claim an unwilling, reluctant bride?" he thought to himself, +sadly. "No, no! never! I must wait until of her own free will she owns +her fealty to me. I must woo and win her before I claim her." + +Perhaps the struggle in his heart betrayed itself on his face, for the +resentment died out of her blue eyes and they were filled with a mute, +pathetic longing. + +"Ah, if he would only love me, if he would only claim me," she thought. +"I would tell him how I hate and despise Julius Revington! He might help +me to right my mother's wrongs!" + +At that moment his downcast gaze fell on Julius Revington's guitar which +that worthy had forgotten in his hurried and angry exit from Irene's +presence. A jealous gleam lightened in his brown eyes. + +"Ah, I see that Mr. Revington has already been with you this morning," +he said frigidly. + +"Yes," she replied, with coldness equal to his own. + +"Are you fond of music?" he inquired, taking up the instrument, and +striking a few chords, softly. + +"Passionately," she replied. + +Obeying a sudden impulse he played a soft, sweet symphony and began to +sing in a mellow baritone. He had chosen the beautiful song, "My Queen," +and the girl's heart vibrated painfully to the sweetness of the strain. + +"Who will be his queen?" she asked herself, with a jealous pang at her +heart. "He is so grand and handsome, he will only love some one gifted +beyond her sex with beauty and genius. Ah, why did I come between him +and his future?" + +She looked at him wistfully when he had finished. + +"I did not know you could sing like that," she said. + +"Is it equal to Revington's performances?" he inquired, smiling at her +implied compliment. + +To his dismay she sprang up crimson with anger and resentment. + +"Revington, Revington! It is always Revington with you," she cried, and +flung away disdainfully from him. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + + +Irene preserved a dignified reserve toward Mr. Kenmore after that day +when he had so angered her by his allusions to Julius Revington. She +never spoke to him when she could avoid it, she never looked at him, she +never seemed to know that he was in the room. She froze him by her +coldness and indifference. He did not even dare speak to her unless +courtesy strictly required it. Yet all the while her heart was aching +with its doubt and pain, while as for him, his love for his beautiful, +willful girl-bride grew stronger every hour, though in his pride and +resentment at her coldness and scorn he would have died rather than avow +it. + +A few days after his arrival at the villa some of the gentlemen rode +into Florence, and when they returned they brought tickets for a grand +concert to be given that night. They reported that the music-loving +Italians were in ecstasies over it. + +It appeared that one of their countrymen, a musician, had gone to +America twenty years before, where he had remained until two months ago, +when he had returned to Florence, bringing with him a beautiful young +lady whose voice he designed to cultivate for the operatic stage. The +curiosity of the volatile Italians had run high over this pupil of the +great musician, and unable to resist the importunities of his +countrymen, Professor Bozzaotra had promised a public concert in which +the American singer would make her _debut_. Her name was down on the +programme as Miss Brooke. Strange to say, not one of the villa +inhabitants to whom that name was so sadly familiar, were struck by its +similarity to Clarence Stuart's first wife's. It failed to suggest any +probabilities to their minds. One and all were eager to attend the +promised feast of music. + +But at the very last moment Irene declined to accompany the merry, +expectant party to the concert. + +A headache was the alleged feminine excuse for her refusal. + +In vain Mr. Revington pleaded and Mrs. Leslie added her protests. They +could not persuade Irene that the ride in the fresh air would benefit +her head, or that the music would cause her to forget indisposition. + +"I do not wish to go," she reiterated, firmly, and Mrs. Leslie wondered +a little at the tears in the girl's blue eyes, as she kissed her +good-night, and the more than usual fervency of her embrace. + +When they were all gone, and the villa was left to the occupancy of +herself and the servants, Irene retired to her room. She sat down and +wrote a hasty letter to Mrs. Leslie, which, after sealing and +addressing, she placed in a conspicuous place on the toilet table. + +"She will think me unkind and ungrateful," she sighed to herself; "but +what can I do?" + +She removed her pretty blue dinner dress, and substituted a plain, black +cashmere. Then, with trembling fingers and nervous haste, she packed a +change of clothing into a small hand-bag. Lastly she took out her little +shell purse, and counted its contents. There was something more than a +hundred dollars, the gift of her munificent friend, Mrs. Leslie. + +"She little thought for what purpose I would use it," sighed poor Irene. +"But I have no other refuge left me!" + +She put the purse into her pocket, drew on a dark gray travelling +ulster, and a little cap with a thick veil. Then taking the hand-bag in +her little trembling hands, she stole silently as a ghost from the great +house, and did not draw a free breath until she stood alone in the +moonlighted garden. + +Then she paused and lifted her white face and tear-wet eyes to the +starry sky. + +"If only _he_ had loved me I need not have gone," she sighed. "Ah, my +husband, my darling, farewell!" + +Without another word she was gone, flitting away, a small, dark shadow, +to mingle with the shadows of the night. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile the party from the villa were seated in the great concert +hall awaiting the appearance of the lovely American _debutante_. + +They occupied two boxes, and conspicuous in the foremost one was Mrs. +Stuart, with her daughter and her husband. + +Mrs. Stuart was elegantly dressed in rose-colored satin and point lace, +with magnificent diamonds. With the aid of pearl powder and rouge she +had been made up by her maid into quite a beauty for this occasion. + +Lilia wore soft white mull and pearls. As she sat by the side of her +handsome, dark-eyed father her likeness to him was marked and +conspicuous. No one could have failed to see that they were father and +child. + +Impatience was at its hight. The orchestra had rendered its overture, +and been vociferously applauded by the enthusiastic Italians. Professor +Bozzaotra himself had executed a magnificent violin solo, and responded +twice to encores that could not be suppressed. The curtain had fallen, +to rise the next time on the lovely _debutante_ whom Rumor credited with +the beauty of an angel and the voice of a siren. + +It rose at last, and the hundreds of curious eyes fell on her, standing +there with modestly drooping head, yet quiet, calm, and self-possessed, +and so lovely, withal, that before she opened her lips for a single note +a thunder of applause shook the building. Silently and by the mere force +of her peerless beauty she had carried all their hearts by storm. + +For Clarence Stuart, sitting pale and silent by the side of his dying +daughter and his faded wife, it seemed as if a ghost had sprung up +before his eyes. + +He knew her instantly--that fair, false wife who had forsworn him so +long ago, and whom all these long, long years he had believed to be +lying dead under foreign skies, with her baby on her breast. It was +Elaine, the woman, lovelier in her splendid prime than she had been in +her spring. As she stood there, "gowned in pure white that fitted to the +shape," her only ornaments the clusters of pure white roses on her +breast and in her golden hair, she looked queen-like, bride-like, and +the man's heart swelled with a great despair as he gazed upon her, +remembering how he had lost her forever. But he spoke not, he scarcely +breathed, only sat and gazed with an eternity of despair shining out of +his wide dark eyes. + +There was one other, too, who gazed as if petrified upon that beautiful +vision. + +It was Guy Kenmore, who instantly recognized Elaine Brooke, but whose +great wonder and surprise held him still and speechless, while her rich, +clear voice rose and fell in waves of mellow sweetness on the tranced +air. She sang a difficult, classic song, which the professor had chosen +to display the great beauty and volume of her voice, and every note rung +clear and true as liquid gold. When the first verse was ended, and she +stood waiting for the tumultuous applause to die away, she suddenly +lifted her eyes to the box above, as if drawn by some strange, magnetic +power, and her glance met full those dark, burning, anguished eyes with +which her husband gazed upon her. + +A start, a shiver! Those who gazed closely at the beautiful singer saw +her reel slightly; saw her white-gloved hand pressed convulsively upon +her heart as if in pain. She stood thus, statue-like and immovable, for +an instant, her eye held as if fascinated by that conspicuous group in +the box; then suddenly, as the professor struck the opening notes of the +next verse, she seemed to recall her wandering senses by a supreme +effort of will. For weary years she had nerved herself for this chance +meeting, which had come about so strangely at last. She would not let +herself be conquered by it. + +The beautiful voice rose clear, strong, delicious. There was just one +falter in the first notes, just one tremor like a sob of agony. Then the +woman's will conquered the woman's heart. She sang on to the end +sweetly, bravely gathered up one or two of the fragrant floral tributes +that rained at her feet, and with just the proper bow and smile retired. + +Tumultuous applause, passionate encores followed her retreating +footsteps. She did not respond to them. They thought her chary of her +exquisite voice; they did not know that she had fallen down like one +dead on the floor of the little dressing room, and that the lips that +had sang to them so sweetly were now flecked with drops of blood forced +out by the heart's great emotion. The flowers had fallen from her hands, +and they were clenched so tightly that the white gloves were torn and +spoiled. + +"Oh, Clarence, Clarence, my traitor-love, we have met at last," she +moaned. "Oh, God, how hard it is that I love him still! That perjured +wretch who blighted my life and that of our innocent child! He has not +forgotten me! It was remorse that looked out from his eyes at me +to-night. Yet that was his wife and child who sat beside him! Oh, +heavens, what humiliation for me who stood there beneath their cold, +critic eyes to remember that I was once his wife, that I rested in his +bosom, that my arms cradled his child! Oh, Irene, my lost one, my +darling, I must crush down this weak love that blazed afresh in my heart +when I met the eyes of the man I once held as the truest and noblest of +men! I must remember that the knowledge of his sin drove you to death, +my darling, and I must hate him for your wrongs and mine!" + +So she raved on in her impotent despair, while the thunders of the +orchestra filled the house, and people chanted her praises, prophesying +for her a career equal to Patti or Nilsson. She, whose voice was sweeter +than nightingale's notes or the sound of falling waters, lay there like +a broken flower, crushed by her terrible despair. + +When she had retreated from the stage, Mrs. Leslie touched Guy Kenmore's +arm. Turning to look at her face, he saw that her eyes were wide and +startled. + +"Well!" he said. + +She answered in a voice that was hoarse with emotion: + +"It was the face that Irene wears in her locket. What does it mean?" + +He whispered back softly, "It was Irene's mother! It was Elaine +Brooke." + +"Merciful heavens," exclaimed the lady, and turned to look at Mr. +Stuart. + +Then she saw Mrs. Stuart and Lilia hanging over him in an agony of +despair, and gentlemen crowding into their box. Mr. Stuart was a brave +and a strong man, but when that ghost from the past had risen to +confront him, then faded quietly again, heart and strength had failed +him, and sitting in his chair, he had silently swooned away. + +They said that the heat had overcome him, and bore him out into the +fresh air, where he revived a little. Some advised him not to return to +the concert hall, but he waved them quietly aside, ashamed of his +womanly weakness, and returned to Lilia, who was sobbing with grief and +fear. + +"It is nothing, my dear. I am quite well again," he said, gravely. "But +shall I take you home now?" + +"No, no, papa, I wish to hear the beautiful lady sing again," she +replied, turning eagerly back to the stage. + +Mrs. Stuart said nothing to her husband. She was whispering with Julius +Revington, who had come into her box a little while before. The gleam of +hate in the lady's eyes flashed almost brighter than her diamonds, her +cheek glowed through its rouge with a deep natural red, and her jeweled +hands clenched each other nervously in her lap. + +Miss Brooke came again after a little interval, which was filled up by +other performers. She had fought down her terrible emotion, but her +lovely face was very pale and sad, and she never lifted her dark blue +eyes while she sang. This time it was an Italian _chanson_, and the +words flowed easily from her lips in that liquid southern tongue that is +so sweet and soft. The Florentines were charmed, as the professor had +intended they should be, at hearing one of their native songs warbled by +the sweet lips of the stranger. She retired again under a storm of +bouquets and applause, but, as before, she did not respond to their +encores. It was too keen an agony to go back and sing to them again +before those burning dark eyes, whose gaze she intuitively felt upon +her, though she would not lift her own to meet their flashing light. It +was all that she could bear to go on when her turn came. + +But when she had sung her last song and the liquid Italian recall +followed her again, Professor Bozzaotra went to her. He was radiant with +joy. + +"Let me beg you to humor them, my child," he said, radiantly. "You have +carried their warm hearts by storm. Be kind to them. Sing them +something, anything to satisfy their craving." + +She went back and stood before them, with bowed head and an almost +divine sadness on her face. She sang some words that were "as sad as +earth, as sweet as Heaven." + + "I stand by the river where both of us stood, + And there is but one shadow to darken the flood; + And the path leading to it where both used to pass, + Has the step of but one to take dew from the grass; + One forlorn since that day! + + "The flowers of the margins are many to see, + But none stoops at my bidding to pluck them for me; + The bird in the alder sings loudly and long, + For my low sound of weeping disturbs not his song, + As thy vow did that day. + + "I stand by the river--I think of the vow-- + calm as the place is, vow-breaker, be _thou_! + I leave the flower growing--the bird, unreproved-- + Would I trouble _thee_ rather than _them_, my beloved, + And my lover that day? + + "Go! be sure of my love--by that treason forgiven; + Of my prayers--by the blessings they win thee from Heaven; + Of my grief--(guess the length of the sword by the sheath's) + By the silence of life more pathetic than death's! + Go! be clear of that day!" + +Then the concert was over! + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + + +The concert was over, and hastily excusing himself to his companion, Guy +Kenmore made his way around to the private entrance; with some +difficulty he elbowed his way through the eager throng that waited to +see the lovely singer pass to her carriage, and was fortunate enough to +meet her coming down the steps on the professor's arm. He touched her +eagerly. + +"Miss Brooke," he said, and she turned with a start and a cry. Her eyes +dilated with wonder as she saw by whom she was addressed. + +"Mr. Kenmore--you here!" she exclaimed, and put out her delicate hand +graciously. + +He pressed it warmly in both his own. + +"I am delighted to meet you," he said, "I have news for you--good news. +May I call on you at the earliest admissible hour to-morrow morning?" + +She glanced at the carriage. + +"You may come with us in the carriage now if you will," she replied. +"The hour is not too late for good news from an old friend." + +Then she introduced her friend to the professor. The gentlemen shook +hands cordially, and Bozzaotra repeated Elaine's invitation to come with +them in the carriage. + +"Gratefully, if you can wait for one moment while I make my excuses to a +friend," he said. + +They promised to wait, and Mr. Kenmore hurried back to inform Mrs. +Leslie that he would not return to the villa that night. He heard Julius +Revington saying that he should remain at the hotel that night and walk +out to the villa in the morning; but he paid small heed to the words, in +the preoccupation of his mind. He was longing to tell Elaine that her +daughter lived; and as soon as he had handed Mrs. Leslie to her +carriage, he hurried back to her. + +She received him with a pensive smile of pleasure, and made room for +him by her side, the professor being seated opposite. The carriage door +was closed, and they were whirled away. + +"It is a great surprise to see you here, Mr. Kenmore," Elaine began, in +her musical voice. "Is your news from mamma and Bertha? I have so longed +to hear from them; but, though I have written them several times, I have +had no news of them since I left Bay View." + +"Bang! Whirr!" + +His answer is not on record. + +A pistol had been fired close to the horses' heads, and they plunged and +reared, almost upsetting the carriage. The shriek of the driver was +heard as he tumbled from his seat upon the stony pavement; then the +maddened steeds, without check or hindrance, dashed blindly forward in a +mad, terrified pace, dragging after them the rocking carriage, with its +precious, living freight. + +Meantime, the man who had fired that reckless, murderous shot had been +overtaken by Nemesis. + +In his eager excitement he had gone too near the horses' heads, and, +making his retreat, he had stumbled and fallen. In an instant they had +trampled his fallen body with their plunging hoofs. Compassionate hands +lifted him up from the stony street, a crushed and bleeding mass, in +which the spark of life yet feebly lingered. + +The carriage driver was picked up senseless in the street, where the +maddened horses had hurled him in their swift rush to destruction. +Luckily, he had escaped the contact of their iron hoofs, and his +injuries, though serious, were not mortal. + +But that poor sinner who, in the commission of a dastardly crime, had +been overtaken by a swift and just Nemesis, how fared he? + +They placed him on a litter and bore him into the nearest house. Men +looked at that crushed and bleeding semblance of poor humanity, and, +turning away, shuddered with horror. The physician came, and shook his +head. + +"My poor fellow, you can live but a few hours more," he said. "Tell us +who your friends are that we may summon them." + +"Are you sure, quite sure, that I must die?" moaned the sufferer, while +the dews of terror beaded the weakly, handsome face which had escaped +the vicious hoofs that had beaten the life from his body. + +"You cannot possibly live but a few hours longer," repeated the +physician as kindly as he could speak, and with a deep pity on his face +that would not have been there could he have guessed that the wretch had +wrought his own destruction. + +Moans of terror and despair welled over the man's blanched lips when he +realized that death was so near him. He begged that a priest might be +sent for to pray the pardon of Heaven on his sinful soul. + +"And your friends," they asked him, "shall we not bring them, too?" + +With a moan of pain he answered: + +"Send some one with a swift horse to overtake Clarence Stuart, who is +returning to his villa in the suburbs. Tell him Julius Revington is +dying, and--the lady--who was in the carriage--with the runaway +horses--if she is living, bring her to me with all haste." + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + + +The willing hearts were not wanting to do the bidding of the dying man. +Messengers went in three different directions, while the physician +remained to assuage by all means that lay in his power the agonies that +racked that tortured form. Anon the priest came, and with prayers and +holy words strove to comfort the poor departing soul. + +The swiftest horse in Florence went clattering over the road in pursuit +of the carriage that held Clarence Stuart and his wife and daughter. It +was soon overtaken, and the ominous message flashed like a thunder-clap +upon their startled senses. + +Mrs. Stuart and Lilia uttered shrieks of the wildest dismay. + +But Clarence Stuart, after the first shock of surprise, regained his +self-possession. + +"I must go to him at once," he said. "Mrs. Stuart, I must transfer you +and Lilia to one of the other carriages while I return to poor Julius." + +To his surprise the lady answered, in sharp, hysterical tones: + +"Lilia may go in the carriage with Mrs. Leslie, but I shall return with +you to the death-bed of poor Julius." + +"I object to your doing so. It may be an unpleasant ordeal for a lady of +your delicate nerves," Mr. Stuart said, almost sternly. + +"I insist upon going. All the arguments against my doing so will be +quite wasted," she exclaimed, doggedly. + +"Oh, mamma, do not leave me," cried her daughter, in almost hysterical +distress. + +But Mrs. Stuart shook off the clinging hands of the weeping girl almost +rudely. + +Mr. Stuart regarded his wife in silent amaze and displeasure. Nothing +angered him more than for anyone to speak unkindly to his child, but he +well knew how useless it would be to remonstrate with his wife, so +without more ado Lilia was transferred to Mrs. Leslie's care, and the +husband and wife returned to the city. + +No more unpleasant sight could have greeted Julius Revington's eyes than +the face of Mrs. Stuart as she entered the room where he lay attended by +the priest and the physician, the only helpers left to him on earth. The +eyes already dim with the film of death gazed at her with weak +repugnance and horror. + +Unheeding his gaping wounds and his blood-stained garments, she knelt +down by his side and whispered frantically in his ear. + +With all the strength that was left in his mangled arms he pushed her +from him. + +"Do not tempt me to die with all this load of sin on my soul!" he cried. +"I must confess, confess! The priest is waiting to shrive me of my sins! +Clarence, Clarence," he cried out wildly, "take her away, take her +away! She has been my evil genius. I was weak, but never guilty until +she whispered her evil suggestions in my ear and bribed me with her +gold!" + +"It is false, false! Let no one listen to him. These are but the ravings +of delirium!" cried the woman angrily. + +Her looks and actions were those of a desperate, maddened woman. The +physician came up firmly to her side and attempted to draw her away. + +"Let me entreat you, madam, not to shorten the brief span of my +patient's life by your unjust charges," he cried. "I assure you he is +not delirious, but in the full possession of his senses. Come away from +him." + +They were about to drag her forcibly away when the door opened suddenly +and Guy Kenmore entered the room with Miss Brooke clinging to his arm. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + + +It was a strange sight on which the flickering gaslight fell in that +little room. The dying man, lying on the litter on which he had been +borne into the room, and from which the physician declared it impossible +to remove him, was a ghastly sight that sickened human sensibilities. + +Mrs. Stuart, crouching on the floor beside him in her rose-tinted satin, +her priceless lace and flashing diamonds, looked like a maniac. Her eyes +flashed with hatred and desperation, her face was death-white, her +breath fluttered over her lips in short gasps, and she defiantly +resisted the efforts of Mr. Stuart and the physician to draw her away +from the side of the dying man whose looks all too plainly expressed his +abhorrence at her presence. At a little distance the old priest was +devoutly crossing himself while he muttered an inaudible prayer. No +wonder that Elaine Brooke reeled with horror as her gaze fell on that +strange and dreadful scene. + +"Be brave. Do not lose heart," Guy Kenmore whispered to her as he felt +her weight grow heavier on his arm. "That dying man may have an +important confession to make to you." + +"I _will_ be brave," she whispered back, but when she saw Clarence +Stuart and the woman who had rivalled her in his heart--the woman who +was his wife--it seemed to her that she could not breathe, that she must +rush from the room, or surely she would fall down dead there at her +traitor husband's feet. + +They turned and saw them, the tall, gracious-looking man with his +gentle, protecting air as he looked down upon Elaine--Elaine all in +white, with her golden hair fallen down upon her shoulders in shining +disorder, the snowy roses dying on her breast, and the pathos of a +terrible despair written all over her lovely, pallid face--they saw her, +and from Mrs. Stuart's lips shrilled a cry of rage and despair, from +those of the dying man an exclamation of joy. + +"You live!" he cried, "thank God, you live! Your death is not upon these +dying hands!" + +"Then it was you who fired that terrible shot!" cried Elaine, in horror. + +"God forgive me, yes," he wailed. "Come nearer, Elaine Brooke. I have a +story to tell you before I go hence. I have a legacy to leave you. Oh, +horrors, will not some one take this mad woman away from me?" + +Mrs. Stuart had sprung upon him in such insane fury that it seemed as +though she meant to hurry his remorseful soul into the eternity to which +it was hastening. Mr. Stuart hastened to draw her away, dreading the +struggle that must ensue, when suddenly, with a choking gasp, she fell +senseless into his arms. The tension on her nerves had given way, and +she had instantly fainted. + +"That is much better than having to remove the lady by violence," said +the physician, relieved. "We will remove her to another room now where +she cannot distress my patient." + +"Clarence, you must return in a moment," moaned Julius Revington. "I +have a confession to make to this lady--one that you must hear." + +Mr. Stuart looked back a moment, and his glance met Elaine's large blue +eyes, true as those of an angel, yet full of dumb agony. His glance fell +and he turned away, with a strange thrill at his heart. + +"She repents of her cruelty to me," he said in his heart. Meanwhile Guy +Kenmore had spread a dark covering over Revington's mangled form, and +Elaine knelt down beside him on a low cushion which Mr. Kenmore had +arranged for her. She looked with compassionate gentleness at the +sufferer who was passing away so fast from the reach of all earthly +resentment. + +"You are a stranger to me," she said, wonderingly. "Why did you try to +harm me, and what can you have to confess to me?" + +"You shall know presently," he answered. "Wait until Clarence Stuart +comes back. You must hear my story together--you two who have been so +foully wronged and parted." + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + + +A startled look came over Elaine's face at those strange words from the +lips of the dying man. + +"Wronged and parted," she repeated, vaguely. + +"Yes," he replied, and at that moment the door unclosed and Mr. Stuart +came again into the room. + +"Let all go out now except Mr. Stuart and this lady," said Julius +Revington, feebly. + +But Elaine interposed: + +"I should like for my friend, Mr. Kenmore, to stay," she said. "He knows +all the story of my life, and if I have been deceived beyond what I know +I should like for him to hear it." + +Julius Revington looked curiously at the man whom Elaine claimed as her +friend. + +The doctor and the priest had retired, and the four were alone in the +room. + +"What is he to you?" he asked, in his weak, painful tones. + +Elaine looked up at Guy. + +"Shall I tell him?" she asked. + +He bowed his head in acquiescence, and she replied: + +"He is my daughter's husband." + +"Irene's husband!" exclaimed the dying man, feebly, and Clarence Stuart +echoed the startled cry, "Irene's husband!" + +"Yes, she is my wife, but she believed me dead when she promised to +marry you," replied Guy Kenmore, looking at the dying man. + +"My God," exclaimed Julius Revington, and for a few moments he lay +silent contemplating this strange piece of news, then he looked +curiously at the handsome, noble-looking man. + +"You did not claim her when you came," he said. + +"It was her secret. I was waiting until she gave me leave to divulge +it," was the quiet reply. + +Elaine had been listening with startled eyes. She sprang up and caught +Mr. Kenmore's arm. + +"I--do not--understand you," she panted. "You speak as if--as if my +child were yet alive!" + +He took her trembling hands and held them gently in his own. + +"I meant to break it to you gently," he said. "But do not be shocked. +That is the news I had for you. Irene is alive, and but a few miles away +from you. You shall see her soon." + +An ominous gasp from Julius Revington recalled them to his side. + +"That news will wait," he said. "But I--I have but a little while to +live. Listen to me first." + +With a beating heart and a face radiant with sudden joy Elaine knelt +down beside him. She could have touched Clarence Stuart as he sat by the +litter, but she shrunk sensitively back, without looking at him. Guy +Kenmore stood apart at a little distance, with his arms folded over his +broad breast, his clear brown eyes fixed gravely on the little group. + +"Clarence," said the dying man, turning his dim eyes on the face of his +cousin, "you believed that this lady deserted you sixteen years ago of +her own free will and desire. It was not true." + +"Not true!" gasped Clarence Stuart. + +"No, it was not true. She loved you and she was true to you. The wicked +machinations of your father parted you from each other." + +"My father! Oh, God, no!" exclaimed Mr. Stuart, in an agony of grief. + +"It is horrible, but it is true," said Julius Revington. "He was +bitterly enraged against you because of your marriage with Miss Brooke +instead of the heiress he had selected for you. He laid his plans +cleverly to circumvent you. Your severe illness that prevented you from +returning to your wife was caused from drugs administered by him in the +wine you drank that night." + +"What authority have you for making these statements? Remember that you +are dying, Julius, and do not try to falsify anything," exclaimed Mr. +Stuart, almost sternly. + +"I do not forget that I am dying," moaned the sufferer. "I speak the +truth as God hears me--the truth as I received it from the lips of your +father upon his death-bed." + +"He revealed the truth to you instead of to me--strange!" cried the +tortured man, almost incredulously. + +"Yes; can you guess why?" + +"I cannot." + +"He repented of his sin, but he was afraid to confess it to you. He +dreaded your terrible anger and dreadful despair. He feared that you +would curse him upon his dying bed." + +"I am afraid I should have done so, indeed," muttered Clarence Stuart. + +"So he selected me as the instrument to right the wrong," went on +Revington. "He wrote out a full confession of his sin, detailing the +means he had used to separate you, and he deputed me to carry it to Bay +View, where your first wife had been living all the time while you +believed her dead in a foreign land." + +"And you failed in your promise to the dead," exclaimed Mr. Stuart, +fixing a glance of deep reproach upon his cousin. + +"No, I kept my promise. You remember the night we stopped at Brooke +Wharf on our way to Italy, Clarence?" + +"Yes, I remember." + +"Well, that night while you lay in your stores of fruit, and the rest of +our party rambled about, I fulfilled my mission. I went to Bay View +Hall, and I persuaded old Mr. Brooke to come out on the shore with me. I +told him of your father's death-bed repentance, and I confided to his +care the written confession. He promised to deliver it to his daughter +Elaine, and I came away and left him." + +Elaine hid her face in her hands and low moans of pain came from her +lips. + +Julius Revington lay still a moment, breathing hard and painfully, then +he resumed slowly: + +"There was one who, by some means, had become cognizant of the secret +confided me by the dying man. I will call no names. Your own heart may +suggest who that person was, Clarence Stuart. She sought me and +endeavored to buy my silence by costly bribes. I refused her +importunities. I was bound by a solemn pledge to the dead, and I kept my +vow. God knows how she learned my mission that night, but she followed +me at a distance. She concealed herself, and when I had gone she felled +the old man with a sharp blow on the temple from a thick stone she +carried, and then she wrested the precious confession from his clenched +hand and fled back to the yacht." + +A piercing cry broke from Elaine's lips. + +"Oh, God, papa, my own papa, you were most foully murdered," and +throwing up her arms, she fell like one dead upon the floor. + +Guy Kenmore placed a cushion beneath her head with gentle care, but he +made no effort to restore her to consciousness. + +"It is better thus," he said. "I have long known or believed, that +Ronald Brooke met his death by violence, but I would have been glad to +spare this poor soul that harrowing knowledge if I could." + +"You knew it!" both Clarence Stuart and the dying man reiterated in +surprise. + +"I suspected it," said Mr. Kenmore, "but the physician said that he died +of heart disease, and I had no right to go beyond his verdict. I alone +observed the purplish mark of a blow upon his temple. I alone knew that +some important paper had been wrested from his hand in that last +dreadful struggle. I kept silence, but I have been on the track of his +slayer ever since. But go on with your story, Mr. Revington. Do not wait +for this broken-hearted woman to recover. She has heard enough." + +"There is little more to tell," he answered, weakly. "When I went back +to the yacht, I missed the lady who was so interested in old Mr. +Stuart's dying confession. Suspecting and dreading I scarcely knew what, +I hurried back along the path I had come, and met her flying like a mad +thing toward me, with the precious confession clasped tightly in her +hand. Wrenching it rudely enough from her, I ran forward to restore it +to Mr. Brooke, and found the old man's dead body lying on the sands, +with its convulsed face upturned to the moonlight." + +"A murderess--the mother of my loved Lilia a murderess!" groaned +Clarence Stuart, hoarsely. + +"I went back and charged her with her sin," continued Julius Revington. +"She was horrified. She declared that she had not meant to kill him, +only to stun him that she might obtain the coveted paper. It was then +that she bribed me to keep the secret. But it was not alone her gold +that bought me, I was sorry for her. She had been my friend for years, +and I was not acquainted with Miss Brooke, although I had seen her +portrait, and knew that she was the loveliest of women. But I thought it +best to leave matters as they were. I reflected that if the secret were +revealed, it would only shift the disgrace from one innocent wife and +child to another, for Mrs. Stuart believed her husband free when she +married him. So I kept silence, and now I realize my sin. I have here +your father's death-bed confession, but I fear it will prove valueless +to you, for the signature is gone." + +He drew it from his breast, all dabbled with his life-blood, and +Clarence shuddered as he took it in his hand. Guy Kenmore came slowly +forward with a narrow slip of paper. + +"Here is the signature and the remainder of the confession which I found +clinched in Mr. Brooke's hand after death," he said; "I restore it to +you, Mr. Stuart, and I also have a brief confession to make." + +"You?"--and Mr. Stuart looked up in wonder. + +"Yes, and it is this: I believed that you were old Ronald Brooke's +murderer. I followed you to Italy to ferret out your secret, if I could, +for the sake of poor Elaine Brooke, for I believed that Irene, my little +bride, was dead then. I will tell you my own strange story by-and-by. +Now, I wish to ask your pardon for the wrong I did you in my thoughts. +Instead of the guilty sinner I believed you, I find that you are a +wronged and miserable man." + +He held out his hand, and Mr. Stuart pressed it firmly in his own, +while his dark eyes wandered to the still white face of the woman whom +he had never ceased to love, even while he thought her dead. Heavy sighs +breathed over his lips. + +"And Irene is your wife?" said Julius Revington's gasping voice. + +"Irene is my wife," replied Guy Kenmore. + +"And you love her?" said the dying man, wistfully. + +"As my life," was the low, fervent reply. + +"I loved her, too, but it was a selfish love," sighed the sufferer. "She +despised me, but I bought her promise to be mine by a selfish barter. I +had told her that her mother was legally married, and that I would give +her her grandfather's confession on the day she became my wife. I was +hard and cruel to her. Ask her to forgive me if she can, Mr. Kenmore." + +"I will," answered Guy Kenmore, whose grave face had suddenly grown +radiant. + +A moment later Mr. Stuart asked, gravely: + +"And did you really fire a pistol at Elaine's horses to-night, Julius?" + +"Yes, and found my death in doing so," he groaned. "The same hand +incited me to that desperate deed that did old Ronald Brooke to death. +She was furious with rage and fear when she saw her rival on the stage, +and she conceived that terrible plan for putting her out of the way. But +I am thankful that my nefarious deed failed, although I can scarcely +conceive how my victims escaped." + +"I can tell you in a moment," answered Guy Kenmore. "In turning an +abrupt corner of a street, the carriage parted from the horses, and left +us safe, though sadly bruised and frightened in the battered vehicle." + +"Thank God!" echoed Julius Revington, in his weak tones, and then he +added, plaintively: "Call the priest in now, I wish to take my solemn +oath to the confession I have made." + +At that moment Elaine gasped and opened her eyes. They fell upon +Clarence Stuart, who bent over her wistfully regarding her. + +"Elaine, my poor, wronged darling, what can we say to each other?" he +whispered, mournfully. + +She regarded him with grave, reproachful eyes. + +"Nothing," she answered, firmly. "You forged other ties when you thought +me dead. Be true to them." + +She could not repress that little outburst of jealous reproach, pure and +angelic as she was, and with the words she took Guy Kenmore's arm and +passed from the room. + +With a heavy sigh, Clarence Stuart bent over the dying man. Death had +blotted out all resentment. + +"My poor fellow, what can I do for you?" he inquired. + +"Nothing, only leave me with the priest," he answered, heavily. "I want +him to pray for me. I have done with the things of this world." + +And when he had sworn solemnly to the truth of his confession, he bade +his cousin a long and last farewell, and sent him from the room. + +On the threshold he met the physician coming in with a solemn face. +Taking him by the arm, he said, gravely: + +"My dear sir, prepare yourself for a great shock. The lady's swoon was +more serious than we thought. She never revived from it. Her terrible +excitement killed her." + +Well, it was best so. How could he have ever looked in her face again, +knowing that the death of old Ronald Brooke lay on her white, woman +hands? + +Just before daybreak they brought him word that Julius Revington was +dead. He went and looked a moment at the still, white face, and the old +priest told him that his cousin had died peacefully, trusting to the +full in the mercy and pardon of Heaven. + +Clarence Stuart shuddered and thought of that other one who had gone +swiftly and unrepentantly before the bar of that God whose commands she +had outraged. + +All the morning he remained in Florence making arrangements for the +double burial. Elaine had returned to her hotel, and Mr. Stuart sent her +by Guy Kenmore the blood-stained confession to read at her leisure. Then +he gave up his time to the burial of his dead. He sent a messenger out +to the villa to break the tidings of death to all but Lilia, who was to +be kept in ignorance of her mother's fate until he could tell her +himself. + +The messenger returned with tidings as sad as he had carried away. Lilia +lay unconscious and dying, having suffered a relapse of her insidious +disease that morning which had brought on fatal hemorrhage. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. + + +It was more than Elaine could bear to read the dying confession of the +wicked old man who had blighted her life and branded her daughter's +young life with shame. + +It almost killed her to look at it and to feel that through it her kind, +noble old father had lost his life. + +"Better, far better, if old Clarence Stuart had died with the secret of +his villainy untold!" she cried. "Better that I should have borne the +brand of shame forever than you to have died by the assassin's hand, my +father, oh, my father!" + +Yet she knew, even while she bewailed him, that her father would have +given his life twice over to purchase honor and happiness for her, his +best-loved child. + +"Irene must never know," she said to Mr. Kenmore. "She loved my father +so dearly, and she is so passionate and impetuous that it would break +her heart. We must spare mamma and Bertha, too. That wicked woman is +dead now, and earthly vengeance cannot reach her, so for her husband's +sake we will shield her memory." + +He agreed with her that it was best so, and she gave him the confession +to read for her, telling him frankly that she could not bear to hold it +in her hand. Yet her heart burned and her cheek glowed as she heard the +story of the deep-laid scheme by which she and her adoring young husband +had been separated. + +"Irene must read that--and mamma and Bertha," she said, wistfully, and +Guy Kenmore understood then how bitterly the woman's pure heart had +shrunk under the lash of scorn they had laid upon her shoulders. + +"It is almost impossible to imagine anyone so heartless as that old +man," he said. "With what devilish art he laid his plans. To you he told +the story of the fraudulent marriage ceremony, and your husband's second +marriage. To his son he presented your fraudulent letter of +renunciation, and later on the false notice of your death abroad. No +wonder the wings of his soul were clogged in dying by the weight of his +terrible sins." + +He told her the story of Irene's rescue from death, and how he had +subsequently met her at Mr. Stuart's villa on the Arno. + +"Does it not seem like some strange recompense of Providence that she +should have been saved from death by her father?" he said, thoughtfully. + +She agreed with him, and then he saw a wistful look stealing into her +gentle eyes. + +"You are longing for your child?" he asked. + +"My heart aches to clasp her again," she answered. + +"Be patient. In a few hours I will bring her to you," he answered. + +"And you?" she asked, slowly. "Are you glad or sorry that the waves gave +her back to us?" + +"I love her," he answered, simply, and with that she was content. + +He went away on his mission to restore the child to her mother's arms, +and Elaine waited with eager impatience for his return. + +"He has a brave, true heart," she said. "Irene will have a noble +husband. After all, the mistake of that dreadful night may prove a +providence to them both." + +For it seemed to her that they could not help from loving each other. It +seemed like a match made in Heaven. He was so handsome, so noble, so +kind. Irene was so lovely, so tender, and her mother knew that beneath +her pretty, wilful ways, that were but as the foam on the sea, she had a +heart of gold. + +So Elaine was well content with her son-in-law for her daughter's sake, +though when she looked into her mirror it seemed almost ridiculous to +reflect that she was a mother-in-law. Time had touched her very lightly +in its flight, and she was as beautiful as her daughter. Indeed, +Clarence Stuart pronounced her lovelier. Sorrow had brought such soul +and expression into her face, even as "night brings out the stars." + +When several hours had passed and she heard footsteps in the hall +outside her door, the glad tears rose to her eyes and the rapturous +beats of her heart were almost painful. + +"Irene, my love, my darling," she murmured, longingly. + +The door unclosed and Guy Kenmore entered--alone! + +Elaine looked past him--her face paled, her eyes filled. + +"Oh, do not tell me she would not come," she cried. + +Then she saw the shadow of heavy trouble brooding over his face. + +"Not dead!" she wailed. + +He took her hands in his firm, strong clasp. + +"Be brave," he said. "She is not dead. It is not so bad as that. But +last night while we were away at the concert, Irene fled from the villa, +and her absence was not discovered until late this morning. She left +this note for Mrs. Leslie, and she has sent it to you." + +He drew the dainty white envelope from his breast and laid it in her +hand. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + + +Elaine took the letter in her trembling hands, and, through a mist of +bitter tears, saw the pretty girlish writing of the daughter she had +mourned as dead. She wiped the dew from her eyes and read the sorrowful +words that had flowed from the girl's burdened heart. + + "Dear Mrs. Leslie, my true friend," Irene had written, "forgive me + for going away in seeming ingratitude for all your kindness to me. + Troubles encompass me, from which I have no refuge but in flight. I + do not love Mr. Revington, and I am not free to marry him. But he + has it in his power to work me ill, and I must fly far, far away, + beyond the reach of his power. I have a sorrowful secret, but I + cannot tell it to you; my heart is broken, but I cannot tell you by + whose coldness and cruelty. Enough that I leave you reckless and + despairing, not knowing if we may ever meet again. God forever + bless you for your friendship and kindness to the mysterious + stranger. + + "IRENE." + +"You have read this?" said Elaine, lifting her tearful eyes to Mr. +Kenmore's grave, sad face. + +"Yes; by Mrs. Leslie's kind permission," he replied. + +"Is it your coldness and cruelty to which she so sadly refers?" asked +Elaine. + +"Mine? by no means," he answered, startled. "I cannot at all understand +what she means by those phrases." + +"You are willfully blind," she answered. "I am quite sure she referred +to you. Ah, Mr. Kenmore, my poor child had learned to love you. You +should have claimed her before them all as your wife, if you really +loved her." + +He looked very grave and perplexed. A deep flush colored his face. + +"God knows I would have done so, gladly enough, but I feared to offend +her. I believed she would be angry if I attempted to claim her for my +own. And you must remember that she bore an assumed name. I was waiting, +with what patience I could, hoping she would relent toward me and +acknowledge her identity." + +"Waiting for the child to throw herself into your arms," said Elaine, +with one of her sweet, pensive smiles. "Ah, Mr. Kenmore, you are very +noble and chivalrous, but you know little of the subtle workings of a +woman's heart. My little Irene is very proud, and the circumstances of +her marriage were not such as to make her feel confident of a welcome +from you. I believe she would have died before she would have come to +you and said: 'I am your wife, whom you believed to be dead!'" + +"She was cold, proud, indifferent to the verge of rudeness," he +answered, gravely. "She seemed bent on showing me that she loved Julius +Revington." + +"Yet you see now that she did not care for him. Ah, Mr. Kenmore, I can +see plainly how pride and sensitiveness stood between you. While you +waited for her to declare herself, she waited for you to claim her, and, +despairing of your love at last, went away." + +She extended her white arms to him, imploringly. + +"Oh, Mr. Kenmore, you will find her for me, my little girl, my darling," +she pleaded, piteously. + +"Yes, I will find her for you, and for myself--I swear it," he said, +passionately. "I will never give up the search until I find my proud and +willful little wife." + +He paused a moment, then went on, anxiously: + +"But before I go I have somewhat to ask of you. Perhaps it may be too +great a favor." + +"Name it," she answered, gently, and he replied: + +"Lilia Stuart--your husband's child, and who should have been yours, +too--lies ill unto death at her father's villa with that fatal malady, +consumption. Last night you carried the child's heart by storm. To-day, +in her illness and pain, she sings over fragments of your songs--they +think if--you would come--that it might make happier her dying hours." + +"Let her father comfort her," she said, bitterly, jealous in her heart +of that other woman's child. + +He took her hand and gazed deep into her soft, pure eyes, tinctured with +a certain womanly pride. + +"Mrs. Stuart," he said, letting his voice linger firmly on the name, +"this is not worthy of you. Your heart harbors resentment against your +husband when he has never wronged you. He has not sinned, he has been +sinned against. Just now he cannot come to the child. He must first bury +his dead." + +"How can I sing to her when my heart is so empty and full of pain?" she +asked, drearily. + +"Because God will bless your efforts to cheer the last hours of that +motherless child," he said. "Clarence Stuart loves the child, and it +might have been yours as well as his. You must love it for his sake. +Think if it were your own loved Irene, dying in the spring of her life." + +"I will go," she answered, tremulously. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + + +When Elaine went to the villa her strange, romantic history was known to +all the inhabitants except Lilia. Mrs. Leslie, in her woman's wisdom, +had judged it best to tell all the rest, but no one breathed it to the +dying child. She alone never knew that the beautiful singer who had +taken her young heart captive was her father's real wife. When he came +and found her singing like an angel by Lilia's dying bed, he made no +sign save by the silent gratitude in his dark eyes, and Elaine was best +pleased thus. + +There were several days of fluctuating hope and fear before the fair bud +faded on its drooping stem. Sometimes she would have every appearance of +rallying, but it was only the deceptive flattery of her insidious +disease, and she would immediately fall back into the most alarming +symptoms. + +The day came when Mr. Stuart could bear it no longer to hear the weak +voice asking for her mother, and wondering why she came not. + +He told his child the truth with such infinite pity and gentleness that +it softened the blow to her young heart---- told her that her mother had +gone before her to the unknown Land. + +Lilia bore it more bravely than he had expected. + +"She has only gone before me a little," she said, sadly. + +And later on she asked Mrs. Leslie for Irene. + +"I loved her at first until mamma bade me not to," she said, +plaintively. "Then I was cruel and unkind. Is she angry still, that she +does not come to me when I am so sick?" + +They told her gently that Irene did not know of her illness, that she +had gone away. + +"Then I shall never see her again," said Lilia, sadly. "Tell her I was +sorry for my cruelty, Mrs. Leslie, and ask her to forgive me. Tell her +she should have been my sister only mamma was not willing. She was good +and pretty and I loved her even when I tried to hate her." + +Mrs. Leslie promised to deliver the message when she found Irene. + +"I know she will forgive you, Lilia, for she loved you even when you +were unkind to her," she said, marveling to herself how the tie of blood +had asserted itself in the spontaneous love of the two girls whom the +dead woman had so maliciously sundered. + +"Poor little misguided Lilia. She will know in Heaven that they were +really sisters, and it will be a comfort to her," she said to herself. + +That evening in the glow of the golden Italian sunset Lilia closed her +heavy-lidded eyes softly as flowers shut their petals at twilight, and +forgot to open them again in the world in which she had tarried a little +while. Elaine had held her hand and sung her to sleep in soft, sweet +numbers that breathed of a Better Land. + + "A land whose light is never dimmed by shade, + Whose fields are ever vernal; + Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, + But blooms for aye eternal." * * * + +It was over the child's grave where they lingered together one twilight +eve, strewing lovely, pure, white flowers, that Clarence Stuart made his +first appeal to the wife he had so fondly worshiped, and from whom he +had been so cruelly sundered. + +"Elaine, my house is left unto me desolate," he said. "Will you ever +consent to return to me?" + +The fair flower-face drooped, crimson with the warm tide of her heart's +emotion, but for a moment she could not speak, and he continued, sadly: + +"I have never ceased to love you, Elaine, even when I believed you +false, even when they told me you were dead, even after another bore my +name, and shared my home. I never loved her. She was my father's choice, +not mine, and she could not make me happy. Elaine, my early choice, my +own worshiped wife, will you not come home to my heart?" + +He held out his arms to her eagerly, but she drew back, though not +unkindly. + +"Not yet," she answered, gently. "It is too soon. Let us give a few +months to the dead who filled your life so long, then---- come for me." + +"And this contemplated public career---- I am very selfish, love," he +said. "Will you sacrifice your ambition for my sake? Will you give up +that sweet voice to me to be heard only in the walls of my home? It is +sacred to me since it sang my child into her last, long sleep." + +"It shall be as you wish, Clarence," she answered, gently; and though +Professor Bozzaotra was disappointed at the loss of that grand voice to +the world, he acquiesced in her decision. He was glad that Elaine's +romance had ended so happily. + +"Although it is a sad disappointment to me," he sighed. "When she was +but a girl at school I told her that her voice belonged to the world, +and when she came to me at last to teach her again I was charmed that +the public should have its due. Ah, well, I must not spoil her happiness +with my vain regrets!" + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. + + +The moonlight lay on Bay View House--not the tender moonlight of June as +when we saw it first--but the cold, wintry whiteness of November. The +ground was covered with a thin, light carpeting of snow, and a wind from +the bay swept coldly across the land, almost freezing those who were so +unfortunate as to be exposed to its piercing rigor. In the sky the stars +were glittering coldly bright. + +But no hint of the outdoor cold and discomfort penetrated to the +luxurious parlor where we first met our pretty, willful Irene. A bright +coal fire burned in the wide, steel bars of the grate, and diffused a +lazy, luxurious warmth through the large apartment. Basking in its +comfortable rays sat Mrs. Brooke and Bertha, the lamplight falling +softly on their black silk dresses and the delicate lisse at throat and +wrists. A white rose fastened in Bertha's silky, dark hair diffused the +pleasant fragrance of summer amid their wintry surroundings. + +A dark frown disfigured the handsome face of the brunette, evoked by her +mother's words, uttered a moment ago. + +"To-morrow, Bertha, we must go up to New York and sell my diamonds," +Mrs. Brooke had said. "There is no help for it. They will have to be +sacrificed." + +"A pretty appearance we shall make in society when we lay off our +mourning--no jewels to wear!" snapped Bertha, discontentedly. + +"You will have your pearls and rubies; I have not asked you to part with +them," said Mrs. Brooke, soothingly. + +"You needn't to, for I shall not do it--no, not if it came to starvation +with us!" declared the brunette, passionately. + +"You talk foolishly, Bertha," declared her mother. "Do you not suppose +that it grieves me also to part with my jewels, the gift of your poor +dead father? Yet I make no foolish lament over it. I consider the +necessities of the case; but I also remember that if you had not forced +me to make the tour of the summer resorts this season I should have been +able to live through the winter without selling my beautiful diamonds!" + +"Oh, yes, everything is my fault!" cried Bertha, angrily. "Could I help +it if Guy Kenmore went gadding off to Europe instead of going to the +summer resorts where I expected to find him? I am sure I should not have +asked you to spend the money if I had not felt perfectly sure of finding +him somewhere. And if I had found him I should have won him, I know, for +I am very sure he was in love with me last year." + +"I am afraid you were mistaken, my dear. I think it was Elaine he was +smitten with. You had as well turn your attention to some one else with +money, if you can find one, for it is very important that you should +marry soon, and it is very evident that Guy Kenmore cares nothing for +you," Mrs. Brooke said, tartly. + +"Elaine--always Elaine!" cried Bertha, in a passion. "Do you suppose he +could care about her after I betrayed her shameful story to him?" + +Before Mrs. Brooke could reply there came a sharp peal at the door-bell +that echoed weirdly through the great, silent house. Both ladies started +violently. + +"Who can this be?--at this hour?" exclaimed Bertha, glancing at the +clock, whose hands pointed to nine. + +"Some one who has come by the boat or the train," exclaimed Mrs. Brooke, +nervously. "Perhaps Elaine!" + +"You are always harping on Elaine--you forget that Professor Bozzaotra +has taken her to Europe to make her a _prima donna_," Bertha exclaimed, +sharply. + +They heard old Faith, who was the only servant they retained now, +waddling down the hall to the door, and waited a moment silently to +learn whom their guest might be. + +The heavy hall-door opened, light steps sounded on the threshold, then +suddenly a shriek of terror resounded through the house, and staid old +Faith rushed back to the parlor door, tore it wildly open, and fled to +the side of her mistress as if for protection. + +"Why, Faith, you old simpleton, what ails you? Have you seen a ghost?" +exclaimed haughty Bertha. + +"Yes, Miss Bertha, that's just what I saw! I opened the door and there +stood the ghost of Miss Irene, just risen from the sea," panted old +Faith, overcome with terror and exhaustion, for she was very fat, and +her flight had been sudden and rapid. + +"Ridiculous," sneered Bertha, and just then light feet came pattering +along the hall, a slight figure flashed over the threshold--Irene, with +the dark hood of her cloak fallen back on her shoulders, and all her +wavy golden hair flying like an aureole around her beautiful, pale face! + +She ran up to the old housekeeper and shook her laughingly by the +shoulders. + +"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, old Faith?" she said. "_I'm_ not a +ghost--I am Irene, living and breathing! Pinch me if you don't think I'm +telling the truth. I've come to see my mother," her eager glance roving +around the room. "Oh, where is she, where is she?" + + + + +CHAPTER L. + + +For a moment Mrs. Brooke and Bertha were almost as much unnerved and +startled as the old housekeeper had been. They stared in speechless +amaze at the fair, young face, like, yet unlike, Irene Brooke's--like it +in the bright, captivating beauty that had been the girl's glorious +dower, yet changed because a woman's soul with all its love and sorrow +had subtly transformed it, adding the one only grace it needed to make +it simply peerless. + +At last-- + +"You are not Irene," gasped Bertha, "she is dead!" + +"I was not drowned," the girl answered, simply. "God did not let me +perish in my wickedness that night. I was saved by a passing yacht after +floating several hours on a plank in the water. Look at me, Bertha. Do +you not see that I am Irene, alive and in the flesh?" + +Bertha regarded her a moment with steady, contemptuous eyes and curling +lips. + +"No, you are not Irene! You are a miserable impostor!" she flashed out, +in scathing anger and bitterness. + +Irene stood regarding her, disconcerted and amazed for an instant. It +had never occurred to her that they would deny her. + +Her lips quivered and the tears sparkled into her sweet, blue eyes. + +"How dare you utter such a falsehood, Bertha?" she cried, with something +of her old, imperious anger. "You know who I am perfectly well. You are +wicked and cruel to call me an impostor." + +Then she turned from the scornfully silent girl and crossed the room to +Mrs. Brooke, who still sat in her easy chair with old Faith crouching in +dumb terror at her feet. + +"Grandmamma, you will not deny me," she pleaded, "I am Elaine's +child--she whose shame and sorrow you shielded so long beneath the +honest name of Brooke. Will you not speak to me, little Irene that +grandpapa used to love so dearly?" + +The handsome old lady returned her gaze with a hard, cruel stare. She +was not ready to acknowledge her granddaughter yet. It flashed dimly +over her bewildered mind that Irene had come back to claim her +protection and support. + +In her straightened circumstances she was not ready to accord her +either, and the faint pity that was struggling in her heart was +smothered by the warning flash of Bertha's black eyes. + +Irene saw herself disowned and rejected again. She looked at them in +hapless bewilderment. Nothing equal to this cavalier scorn had ever +occurred to her. She had been girlishly amused at the housekeeper's +terror, but this was worse. Her young bosom heaved with stormy +indignation. + +"Where is my mother?" she asked, bitterly. "Will she deny me, too? Will +she be sorry that the sea has given up its dead?" + +No one answered her except old Faith, who gave a low, whimpering moan +that might mean everything or nothing. + +Irene went up to her and shook her by the arm with gentle violence. + +"Come, old Faith, you are not quite daft, I think," she said, bitterly. +"Tell me where to find your Miss Elaine!" + +The fat old housekeeper seemed to be somewhat reassured by the very +realistic touch of the warm, white hand. She shook herself like a big, +shaggy dog, and rose to a standing posture. Some of the abject terror +died out of her face. + +"Is my mother up-stairs in her room?" inquired Irene, impatiently. + +"Miss Irene, where have you been all these long months?" inquired Faith, +irrelevantly. + +"I have been in Italy, Faith. I was rescued that night when I tried to +drown myself, by a yacht bound for Italy. The people were very kind to +me, and I went there with them. But I have come back to find mamma. +Where is she, Faith? Go and bring her to me," exclaimed the young girl, +impatiently. + +"Oh, miss, she isn't here. She went away after you did, She's gone away +off to that place where you said you were," stammered Faith. + +"To--to Italy?" exclaimed Irene, blankly. + +"Yes, Miss Irene--she went away with her old music teacher to learn to +be a great singer. Oh, Mrs. Brooke," sighed the old woman, turning +anxiously to her mistress, "you can tell her better than I can about the +letter that Miss Elaine wrote you before she went away." + +"How dare you tell our private matters to this impostor, Faith?" +demanded Bertha, fire flashing from her brilliant eyes. "Have you no +sense, no judgment?" + +"Oh, ma'am, 'tis certainly _our_ Irene. I was an old fool at first and +took her for a ghost, but now I could swear 'tis Miss Elaine's own +little daughter," pleaded Faith, with a loving glance at the shrinking +young girl who stood anxiously awaiting her reply. + +"Hush, not another word!" raged Bertha. "How dare you set yourself up +against me? I tell you this girl is nothing to us and she shall leave +this house! Go to your room, Faith, and remain there. You have no +business in the parlor." + +"Go," echoed Mrs. Brooke, bestowing a glance of stern displeasure upon +the old housekeeper. + +Faith slowly left the room, after bestowing a glance of love and pity +upon the forlorn young creature who looked after her as if her last +friend on earth were departing. + +A rush of cold air met the old woman in the hall, and she went to close +the heavy door which was banging loudly back and forth. + +To her dismay she met a gentleman just crossing the threshold. Ashamed +of her recent idiotic display of fear, the old woman held her ground +bravely, and stopped to hold a parley with the intruder. + +Irene remained standing in the center of the room looking blankly from +one to the other of the two cruel women who so coldly denied her. A look +of pain and grief shadowed her fair face. + +"Is it true that your daughter has gone to Italy, madam?" she asked, +timidly, looking at her grandmother whom she dreaded less than the +wrathful Bertha. + +"Yes, it is true," Mrs. Brooke replied, without raising her eyes from +the contemplation of the shining rings on her plump fingers. + +"When is she coming back?" inquired the girl. + +"What is that to you?" demanded Bertha, pitilessly. + +The beautiful girl flashed a look of deep reproach upon the cruel woman. + +"It is everything to me," she said, mournfully. "She is my mother. I +love her, and she is all I have to love me. I have crossed the sea to +throw myself into her arms, and now that I am here she is gone--she is +gone, oh, God, have pity on me," she wailed, despairingly, while the hot +tears of disappointment and sorrow streamed down her cheeks. + +"This is all very fine acting, but it does not impose upon mamma and +me," sneered Bertha. "You are nothing to us, and you are nothing to my +sister. You are a vile adventuress and impostor. You are trying to trade +upon my sister's unfortunate secret which you have somehow discovered, +but you will get nothing from us--nothing! Begone now, before I call the +servants to put you out," she concluded, loftily. + +Irene turned her pale, distressful face upon the merciless woman. + +"Do you know that I have nowhere to go?" she asked, in a low, fearful +voice. "I have spent the last penny in my purse coming here to find my +mother. If you turn me out to-night I must perish in the cold." + +"That is no concern of mine," Bertha answered, angrily. "Go, I tell +you!" + +"Do you sanction Bertha in her cruelty, madam?" said Irene, appealing to +her grandmother. "Must I indeed go forth to my death?" + +"Go where you please, so that you leave my room instantly," replied the +hard-hearted woman, resolutely sustaining Bertha in her cruelty. + +"You hear my mother's decision. Now go!" cried Bertha flinging wide the +door, and pointing to it with her white, ringed hand. + +But even as she was about to thrust Irene out of the room, her hand +fell, and she uttered a shrill scream of dismay. + +Her malevolent black eyes had encountered the gaze of a pair of flashing +brown ones, whose scathing contempt and bitter anger seemed to wither +her where she stood. + +"May God forgive you both!" said the poor forsaken girl, as she turned +to obey their wicked mandates; "for I am surely going out to meet my +death!" + +Blinded by her bitter tears, she crossed the threshold, seeing nothing, +and so ran into the manly arms that were outstretched to clasp her. + +"You are going no further than your husband's arms, my darling," said +the low music of the voice she had learned to love beneath the blue +Italian skies. "To your husband's arms, never to leave him again!" + +And holding his little wife tightly clasped to his beating heart, Guy +Kenmore turned to Bertha. + +"God may forgive you for this wanton cruelty," he said, "but I never +will. None but fiends in human form could have showed themselves so +pitiless to this helpless child. I hope I may never see either of your +faces again." + +And with no more words, he led his little bride from those inhospitable +doors out into the cold, bleak night again. But they were no longer +conscious of the cold, sharp wind and the driving snow. There was a +warmth and summer in their hearts that made the night more fair to them +than that June-tide with all its moonlight and roses when they had first +met. + +"I followed you from Italy here, my darling," he said, "and I shall +never lose sight of you again. I love you, Irene. I have loved you ever +since the night that made you my unwilling bride. Will you promise to +stay with me always now, my little wife?" + +And in her tender, timid "yes," and the pressure of the small hand on +his arm he read the sweet, wifely love he was too generous and too +chivalrous to ask his shy little bride to avow. + + + + +CHAPTER LI. + + +There was a very good hotel in the vicinity of Bay View House, and Guy +Kenmore and his little bride went there to await the coming of the +midnight train by which they proposed returning to Baltimore. + +He secured a comfortable private parlor, and sitting by the cheerful +fire never hours of waiting passed more rapidly than these. + +With her lover-husband's arm drawn close and fondly round her graceful +form, Irene listened to the story of that momentous night when she had +so unwisely fled. She learned that the man she had both feared and +despised was dead, that Mr. Stuart was her father, and that Lilia and +her mother were both dead. + +"And it was my own precious mamma whom I refused to go and hear that +night," she said. "Oh, if I had only known! But I was driven wild by my +fears. In my trouble it seemed to me that there was no refuge on earth +for me but in my mother's arms, and so I came back to America as fast as +wind and tide could bring me!" + +"If you had known then that I loved you, Irene, would you have gone?" he +asked her softly, while he gazed deep in the lovely sapphire blue eyes. + +The warm color surged into her cheeks at his earnest gaze, and she +hesitated. + +"Tell me," he pleaded, and then she answered frankly: + +"No, I should not have gone. If you had claimed me then I should have +come straight to your arms and told you all my doubts and fears. I could +not have left you." + +"My proud little darling," he murmured, "we were both mistaken in +holding aloof from each other; but, please God, we will make up the loss +of those months of separation by long years of happiness spent together. +Do you remember those sweet lines of Jean Ingelow, my darling? + + "It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, + All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay. + Like a laverock in the lift, sing, oh, bonny bride! + All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. + + "What's the world, my love! what can it do? + I am thine, and thou art mine, life is sweet and new; + If the world have missed the mark let it stand by, + For we two have gotten leave and once more we'll try." + +In his deep, sweet tones and the fond glances of his eyes, Irene read +that she was beloved even as she had longed to be in those days in +Italy, when she had believed him cold, careless, indifferent, and +determined not to acknowledge the tie between them. Tears of happiness +sparkled in her eyes, and with a low sob she hid her face on his breast. + +He held her close, and kissed her tears away, silently, thanking Heaven +for the priceless gift of her innocent young heart. + +He told her the gay yachting party had returned to Richmond, sobered and +saddened by the loss of Mrs. Stuart and Lilia. + +"The child--your half-sister, Irene--have you thought of that?--sent you +some kind messages by Mrs. Leslie before she died," he said. + +Irene was sorry to know that the spoiled, pretty Lilia was dead; but it +pleased her to know that her mother had been kind to her--that she had +soothed her dying hours with her soft, sweet songs. + +"Dear, dear mamma--when shall I see her, Mr. Kenmore?" she asked, +wistfully. + +"I meant to surprise you," he said; "but I cannot keep you in suspense. +You have already borne too much. You will see her to-morrow. She is the +guest of my sister in Baltimore. When I found out in Florence that you +had started to come back to America, I crossed in the next steamer, and +your mother came with me. We landed in a few hours after you did, and I +had no difficulty in tracing you. I learned that you had started for +Bay View by the water route, and followed you on a fast train, by which +means I was enabled to reach your old home in time to learn the +wickedness and heartlessness of Bertha." + +"In time to save me from perishing in the cold, for I had exhausted my +last cent in the purchase of that ticket to Bay View," she said, with a +shudder. + +"I am most happy that I came, but in any case, you would not have +suffered," he replied; "for old Faith assured me that, had they turned +you out of the house, she would have gone with you and taken care of +you." + +"Dear old Faith, she was always kind to me," said Irene. "But Bertha +always hated me, and I am sure that she will never forgive me for taking +you away from her." + +"Do not say that," he answered, "for I never belonged to Bertha. I +admired her stately beauty, but the thought of taking a wife had never +occurred to me until that night when," laughing, "you married me, +willy-nilly." + +Irene blushed very much, but ended by laughing, too. In a minute she +grew very serious again, and, slipping her soft little hand into his, +said, gently: + +"Do you know, dear Guy, that since--since we love each other--that +marriage in play seems very light and flippant to me? Shall we +not--shall we not"---- pausing, bashfully. + +"Plight our marriage vows over again," he finished for her. "Yes, love, +we will do so again, and this time our hearts shall go with our hands." + +And the very next day they were married over again in the quiet little +church in Baltimore, with their nearest relatives for witnesses, and +although Irene wore the plainest pearl-gray silk, and the demurest +little bonnet, Mr. Kenmore's handsome, fashionable sisters declared that +she was the loveliest bride they had ever beheld. + +They went away on a little southern tour to see Mrs. Leslie, who +received her favorite with the gladdest of embraces and some incoherent +reproaches, calling her a "naughty little runaway." + +"I can never quite forgive you for not confiding your secret to me," she +said. "I could have helped you so much, dear, if only you had let me." + +Mr. Stuart came to see her and they sent her in alone to meet him. All +felt that their meeting as father and child would be too sacred a scene +for other eyes to gaze upon. She came from his presence weeping, but +they were the placid tears of joy that her father was proven good and +noble, and that his heart was full of love for her and her +long-suffering mother. + +"He is waiting in sorrowful patience for mamma to relent," she confided +to her husband, when they were alone. "I hope she will go back to him +soon. Only think! They have been cruelly separated for almost seventeen +years!" + +And looking into the beautiful, loving young face, Guy Kenmore realized +something of Mr. Stuart's pain in the sudden pang with which he wondered +how he could bear to be separated from his beautiful Irene for such an +eternity of years. + +He kissed the sorrowful young face into brightened smiles again. + +"When we go home we will talk to mamma," he said. "We will tell her that +life is too short to spend away from those we love and who love us. We +will persuade her to shorten the span of his probation." + +"He deserves it I know, for he tells me that he has suffered deeply," +said Clarence Stuart's daughter. "Oh, Guy, I love him dearly already. He +saved my life, you know, and I believe I have loved him ever since, +although I could not understand the subtle nearness of the bond that +drew me to him." + + + + +CHAPTER LII. + + +Mrs. Brooke and Bertha did not go to New York the next day as they had +intended doing. + +Both of them were overcome by the scene of last night. Bertha's +malevolence and angry bitterness made her almost ill. Mrs. Brooke was +chagrined and regretful. She had permitted Bertha to rule her affairs +with a high hand, believing in the wisdom of her ruling, and now she +found that she had over-reached herself. + +If she had dreamed that Guy Kenmore would claim Irene for his own, she +would never have allowed her granddaughter to be driven from her doors. +She had too keen a sense of the advantage to be gained from such a +wealthy connection. + +But it was too late now to recall the heartless deed by which she had +closed Guy Kenmore's doors against her. His stern face remained in her +memory, and his parting words rung like the clash of steel in her +hearing: + +"I hope I may never see either of your faces again." + +It was just. She acknowledged it to herself, but it galled her none the +less bitterly. She upbraided Bertha for her share in the transaction, +and Bertha replied insolently. They spent their time in bitter +recriminations, these two women who had so cleverly over-reached +themselves. + +In a few days a letter came from Elaine. The gentle reproach of its +preface touched a painful chord in the mother's heart, for she had sadly +missed her eldest daughter, though she would not have dared to say so +before the overbearing Bertha. + +"I have written to you many times since I left home, mamma," wrote +gentle Elaine, "but as you never answered any of my letters, I conclude +that they were unwelcome, and that I am forgotten and uncared for in my +old home. I am writing you once again, probably for the last time." + +Then in a few closely written pages Elaine told them the whole story of +her new-found happiness. + +"My plan for becoming an opera-singer is abandoned by the desire of my +husband," she wrote, simply. "He is very wealthy, and there is no longer +any need for me to work. I shall live in Baltimore. Irene's home will be +here, and I cannot consent to live apart from my child. Mr. Kenmore has +a superb residence here, and my husband has promised to secure a similar +one for me on the same street, so that I may see my little Irene every +day. Dear mamma, it seems to me that if you had loved your poor Elaine +as warmly as I love my little girl, you could never have treated me so +unkindly!" + +It was the last drop of bitter in Bertha's cup of humiliation. Elaine, +whom she had trampled upon for years, despising her for her sorrow, +envying her for her beauty--Elaine to be loved, honored, crowned with +wealth and happiness! It stung Bertha to the depths of her little soul. +She would have sold her soul to the powers of evil for the power to drag +Elaine and her daughter down from their high estate. + +But there was no convenient demon about to gratify Bertha's malevolent +desires, and her mother began to assert her own will, which she had long +permitted Bertha to dominate. She forced her to accompany her to +Baltimore to see Elaine, though she rebelled bitterly against this +eating of "humble pie." + +They found the long despised daughter and sister the guest of Mrs. +Livingstone, one of the leaders of fashion in the monumental city. She +was a sister of Guy Kenmore, and it almost maddened Bertha to sit +quietly and listen to the enthusiastic praises she bestowed on her +brother's beautiful bride. "I have never seen anyone so artlessly lovely +and charming," she said. "She will be the rage in society. While they +are taking their little tour, the Kenmore diamonds and pearls are being +reset for her, and her bridal reception dress is ordered from Paris. It +will be a marvel of beauty." + +"All might have been mine but for that fatal night's work," Bertha told +herself, full of maddening envy, and no words could have told her hatred +for innocent, willful Irene. + +Elaine had become like a young girl again in the sunshine of her great, +new happiness. Her blue eyes beamed with love and hope, her cheeks were +tinted softly like the lining of the murmurous sea-shell, she had the +sweetest smile in the world. There was only one shadow on her joy: + +"If only my father could have lived to see my honor vindicated and my +happiness restored," she would sigh, and when she remembered the cruel +blow that had struck him down to death, she would steal away to her room +to weep unavailing tears for his untimely fate. But she bore her pain +alone, and none of those who had been bound to old Ronald Brooke by the +tie of kinship ever knew the sorrowful secret hidden in Elaine's breast. +Bertha did not let her mother stay long, though Elaine was very kind and +gentle, and did not reproach them for their heartless denial of her +daughter. The cruel, unkind sister could not bear the sight of Elaine's +happiness, and so dragged her mother away, but not before the old lady +had secretly whispered in the ear of her elder daughter that "everything +had all been Bertha's fault." + +Elaine did not doubt it, for she well knew her sister's malice and +ill-nature, but seeing how their unkindness had recoiled upon their own +heads, she tried to forgive and forget. + +When beautiful, happy Irene came home, she pleaded her father's cause so +well that Elaine, whose own heart was pleading for him, too, relented, +and suffered her daughter to write for him. He came gladly, but the +reunion of the long-parted husband and wife is too sacred a subject for +us to dwell upon. It was the realization of the poet's dream: + + "Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, + Round my true heart thine arms entwine; + My other dearer life in life, + Look thro' my very soul with thine." + + * * * * * + +One bit of gossip, reader. Mrs. Brooke never sold her diamonds. Ten +thousand dollars settled on her very quietly by her wronged and despised +elder daughter, enables her and Bertha to keep their heads above water +and to hold their place in society. They flash in and out from one gay +resort to another, for Bertha is very restless and never contented long +in one place. Mrs. Brooke is very fond of talking about "my daughter, +Mrs. Stuart, and my granddaughter, Mrs. Kenmore," but it is noticeable +that she is not very intimate with either. Indeed, she and Bertha have +never yet crossed the threshold of the palace where Irene reigns a +queen. + +Bertha is an old maid now, faded, sour, and given to saying sharp things +to everyone, so that no one enjoys her company, and no one dreams of +seeking her for a wife. Proud, envious, spiteful, she seems to hate all +the world, but no one with such concealed malice and galling bitterness +as Guy Kenmore's wife. + +[THE END.] + +[Illustration] + + + + + The Rose and the Lily + + OR + + LOVE WINS LOVE + + + BY + + MRS. ALEX. MCVEIGH MILLER + + AUTHOR OF + "BONNIE DORA," "COUNTESS VERA," ETC. + +[Illustration] + + NEW YORK + STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS + 238 WILLIAM STREET + + + + + Copyright, 1883, + By NORMAN L. MUNRO + + Copyright, 1901, + By STREET & SMITH + + + + +THE ROSE AND THE LILY; OR, _LOVE WINS LOVE_. + +By MRS. ALEX. MCVEIGH MILLER. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +A dusky, _piquante_ face, arch, sparkling, bright, as only brunette +faces _can_ be, dark, waving hair, and pansy-dark eyes with golden +lights in their soft depth, delicious lips, tinted with the velvety +crimson of the rose, a slight girlish figure, unformed as yet, but with +a willowy grace all its own--Reine Langton. + +She comes singing along the graveled path between the trim borders of +bright verbenas, velvety pansies and fragrant pinks, swinging her large +straw hat by its scarlet ribbons. The golden light of the summer day +falls on the uncovered head, and on the fair, low forehead with its +silky rings of clustering hair, and its slender, straight, black brows. +She sings shrilly, but sweetly + + "'Love not--love not, ye hapless sons of clay; + Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers; + Things that were made to fade and fall away + When they have blossomed but a few short hours; + Love not--love not.'" + +The handsome, blonde face of a young man lifts itself from the reclining +depths of a hammock-chair, swung under a wide-spreading tree; as she +draws nearer, he breaks out with careless raillery: + +"Pray forbear, Miss Langton! your shrill soprano has frightened me from +a charming dream. I do not believe your match could be found for +keeping one's nerves continually on edge." + +"Men have no business with nerves," she retorts, coolly. "For shame, Mr. +Vane Charteris. Get out of that hammock and stir yourself. I can't abide +a lazy man." + +He looks at her with sleepy, half-shut eyes that mirror the deep, +beautiful blue of the sky overhead. + +"Fortunately you do not have to abide me," he says, bruskly. "After +to-morrow I shall forever be out of reach of your shrill voice and +scolding tongue!" + +A strange look comes into her dark eyes a moment. Some of the golden +light dies out of them, they grow darker and vaguely sad, but she +laughs. + +"A pity for you, too. My influence and example might rouse you otherwise +from your stupid inertia. Tennyson must have had a lazy man in his +mind's eye when he wrote the Lotos-Eaters." + +He smiles, and quotes with careless good-nature: + + "'In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined + On the hills, like gods together, careless of mankind.'" + +"Is not that an idyllic life, Reine?" + +"No," she says, promptly. "I have no patience with the _dolce far +niente_ of some people. It is a pity you are to marry Maud Langton!" + +He colors, and asks: + +"Why?" + +"Because she is as lazy as you are. When you marry her and come into +Uncle Langton's money, you'll both be too lazy to breathe, just _that_! +You will die for lack of energy to live." + +She has stopped beside the hammock-chair, and leaning against the tree +looks down into the handsome, debonair face with a gleam of audacious +levity in the dusky eyes. He starts up to a sitting posture, thoroughly +aggravated. + +"Thank you," he remarks, with immense dignity. "I understand," with +cutting irony, "the reason of your spite. You wanted Mr. Langton's money +yourself." + +"Not a bit of it," decidedly. "Thank goodness, I know how to earn my own +living. Not but that Uncle Langton has treated me unfairly, though. I am +as near kin to him as Maud. My father was his own brother. Why should +he make her his heiress, and marry her to the son of his old sweetheart, +cutting me off with a beggarly invitation to spend three weeks, and be +her bride's-maid?" + +"Why don't you tell him that?" he queries, watching the rich color +deepen on the delicate cheek. + +"I don't care to," with careless indifference. "I don't want his money." + +"No--do you mean to say you do not care for all this?" He glances around +him at the spacious white villa, set in the midst of a green, +flower-gemmed lawn, shaded by stately trees. "Only think, my lady +disdain: A summer home in these grand old mountains, a winter palace in +Washington, a cottage by the sea, and a fabulous bank account; does it +all count for nothing in your eyes?" + +"Yes," pertly, "if, like poor Maud, I had to take _you_ as an +incumbrance with it all!" + +He flushes with wounded vanity and anger. + +"The feeling is mutual," he retorts, under the spur of pride. "If I had +to take _you_ with Mr. Langton's money, it might go to found an idiot +asylum." + +"Vane Charteris, I hate you!" she exclaims, with a flash of childish +passion. + +"I take it as a compliment," he replies, with a profound bow. + +"Quarreling as usual," says a clear, sweetly modulated voice, and both +turn with a start. + +A tall, imperially stately woman has come sauntering down the path from +the house. You think of Tennyson's description: + + "A daughter of the gods, divinely tall. + And most divinely fair." + +Vane Charteris' face lights with languid pleasure. It is Maud Langton, +his betrothed. This very night she is to be his bride. + +"Ah, Maud," he says, "I am glad you are come. Perhaps you will deliver +me from this little vixen!" + +There is a grave, far-away look in the light blue eyes of the +bride-elect. She looks at Reine, not at her lover, as she answers +lightly: + +"It is very undignified to call names, Vane, and how often have I told +you, Reine, that you must bridle that sharp tongue of yours?" + +"_He_ began it," mutters Reine, with a childish petulance. + +"You should have known better than to tease the child, Vane," says Miss +Langton. "If you are in fault, you must apologize, of course." + +"I'll be shot if I do," he begins, stoutly, then stops at her look of +dignified amaze, and says, with a gleam of tender relenting: "Very well, +Maud. Of course I can refuse _you_ nothing on this day of _all_ days. +See here, Reine, I beg your pardon for what I said. Will you forgive +me?" + +"No, I won't--so there!" she flashes, with some wrathful tears splashing +down her cheeks. + +"Reine!" Miss Langton cries, horrified. + +"Reine!" mimics the girl, provokingly. + +"Ah, me!" with a pretty sigh of resignation, "I see it is no use trying +to train you," but Reine Langton is already out of hearing. They catch +the distant gleam of her white dress among the trees. + +Vane Charteris rises from his indolent pose in the hammock-chair and +installs his blonde angel in his place. Tall, graceful, with the fair +beauty of a Greek god, he might hold any woman's heart, but as he stands +by her side, lightly swaying the chair, Miss Langton's large, blue eyes +wander from him to the line of the distant hills that stand around about +her beautiful home in a glorious green wooded circle. + +"Ah, Maud, my beautiful, gentle darling," he says, "how hard it is to +believe that Reine Langton is your cousin. You are so utterly unlike. +You are so calm and sweet and gracious, she is so rude, so pettish, so +like a chestnut burr!" + +"Poor Reine," she says, not disputing him, yet a little apologetically, +"she has had no training. Her mother died in Reine's infancy, and her +father brought her up after his own fashion, dying two years ago, and +leaving her to get her own living. You cannot expect an underpaid +teacher to have the manners of a lady." + +"She is rather young to teach others, isn't she?" he says. + +"Rather," she replies. "Sixteen or seventeen at the most, I should say. +But now, Vane, I really must go in; I have fifty things to attend to. +All my bride's-maids will be coming presently." + +"My sweetest, how shy you are," he laughs; "you will barely look at me, +yet in a few hours more you will be my own. Mine to love and caress as +much as I please. Do you realize it, my dignified darling?" + +A slight, a very slight shiver passes over the imperially-molded form. +She looks at him, then, half-fearfully, half-questioningly-- + +"Vane, tell me the truth," she says. "Is it me you love or is it my +uncle's money?" + +A dark-red flush stains his handsome face. + +"Maud, that question is unworthy of you. I have loved you from the first +hour I saw you. I have told you how irritated I was at first when my +mother's old friend wrote to me offering me a wife and a fortune. Poor +as I am I was determined not to marry you unless I loved you. But your +peerless beauty conquered me as soon as I saw you." + +Something very like a sigh ripples over the delicate rose-leaf lips. She +does not smile nor blush as if she felt flattered. + +"I will tell you something else, now, my Maud, if you'll promise not to +laugh," he goes on; "I was jealous at first of that handsome, black-eyed +Clyde that came so frequently to call on you. I was very glad when you +sent him away. You never cared for him, did you, dear?" + +"Of course not, you foolish boy," she laughs, and with that she slips +away from him. + +He watches the flutter of her pale blue robe out of sight, then, +dropping his eyes, sees a folded slip of paper lying on the ground at +his feet. In a careless, mechanical way he picks it up and reads the few +lines hastily scribbled in a man's strong hand. + +"My darling," it says, "you have relented at the last and made me the +happiest of men. God forever bless you. Do not fail to be at the +appointed place. If you do not marry me I swear I'll shoot myself +through the heart, but if you keep your promise I promise to make you +the happiest woman on earth." + +The note was signed with a blurred, undistinguishable initial. Vane +Charteris tucked it into his vest-pocket in happy unconsciousness of the +fatal truth. + +"Reine Langton must have dropped this," he thinks to himself. "I'll +restore it to her the first opportunity. I wonder who her suicidal +correspondent may be?" + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +Inside the elegant, ornate white villa all is confusion and excitement. +The house is crowded with guests, and the preparations for the wedding +are going blithely on. + +In the dining-hall the long table glitters with plate of silver and +gold, and all the luxuries of home and foreign countries are temptingly +spread thereon. Flowers are lavishly arranged everywhere. Trained +domestics hurry to and fro, bent on perfecting every arrangement, for +the wedding of Mr. Langton's beautiful niece is a very grand occasion +indeed, and every honor must be paid to the heiress, and the husband of +her uncle's providing. + +Mr. Langton himself was an old man, old and peculiar to the verge of +whimsicality, as was proved by the fact of his adopting one orphan niece +as the heiress to all his possessions, and leaving the other, a frail, +weak girl, to fight her battle with the cold world alone. + +Latterly Mr. Langton had become displeased with his favorite, Maud, +because she had countenanced a suitor of whom he did not approve--a +rascally fortune-hunter, he irascibly declared. The upshot of the whole +matter was that he wrote to a clever young lawyer, the son of an old +sweetheart long dead, and bade him come and marry Maud, to which the +young man replied that he would marry her if she was pretty, and he fell +in love with her, but not otherwise. + +We have heard the result announced in the words of Vane Charteris to his +betrothed. He was conquered at once by her peerless beauty. Mr. Langton +privately confided to the young lady that she must marry the husband he +had selected for her, or he would cut her off with a shilling. Maud +acquiesced meekly, prudently banished her obnoxious lover, and Mr. +Langton announced to his friends the near consummation of what he +happily termed a love-match. + +That it was a love-match on one side, the words of Vane Charteris have +assured us. Whether it was the same on Maud's part remains to be seen. + + * * * * * + +"Can we assist you in any way?" asked the gay bevy of bride's-maids, +coming into Maud's room _en masse_ as the dressing hour drew near. + +The beautiful bride-elect sat in the midst of the bridal finery, loosely +wrapped in a dainty dressing-gown, her beautiful golden hair unbound, +and flowing over her shoulders. She was very pale, and her blue eyes +glittered with excitement. + +"Thanks, no," she answered, in her languid, well-trained voice. "My maid +can do everything, and you will need all your time to beautify +yourselves." + +They laughed and protested, but lingered in the room, admiring the +elegant white satin dress, with its frosting of seed-pearls, the +beautiful Brussels veil, and the costly set of pearls, Mr. Langton's +bridal gift to his well-beloved niece. Maud did not talk to them much, +and Reine Langton's quick eyes saw that she was growing nervous and +impatient. + +"Come, girls, let us go," she said. "It is time to dress, and Maud wants +a little time to herself. Remember that this is her last hour of 'maiden +meditation, fancy free.'" + +The gay, pretty troop ran away, nothing loth, to don their bridal +finery. Reine went to her own airy chamber thoughtfully. + +"How calmly and coolly my cousin takes it all," she thought, "while I--I +would give my two ears, I know, to be in her place. Oh, Vane, Vane! how +cruel you are to me, and how much you despise me. What a fool I am to +love you so!" + +And full of indignant self-scorn, she threw herself into a chair, and +wept until her eyes were red, a calamity which necessitated a copious +mopping with cologne water. + +"My looks are spoiled for the evening, that's clear," she says to +herself, ruefully. "I shall look a fright; no one will give me a second +glance. But who will care for poor Reine Langton, anyway?" + +But when the pretty bride's-maid dress, Mr. Langton's gift, is on, and +the dark, curling tresses are looped back with pale rose-buds and some +long, trailing sprays of feathery white, she is well worth looking at. + +The mellow _brune_ tint of her skin is brightened by the vivid, yet +changeful rose-flush on the round, dimpled cheeks; the dark eyes are +none the less dazzling for the new touch of dreaminess that has come +into their subtle depths beneath the drooping lashes, "like to rays of +darkness." + +Dressing has taken but a little time. It is a process over which Reine +never lingers. She adjusts the last flower with one careless glance into +the mirror, and goes to the window. The dim, mysterious twilight has +fallen over everything. The silver sickle of a young moon hangs in the +amethystine sky, the summer air is heavy with perfume and dew. Reine +props her dimpled chin in the hollow of one small hand, and falls to +musing. + +To-morrow she goes back to the old dull life of care and labor, to the +made-over dresses, the shabby boarding-house, the stupid, stubborn +pupils of her village school. + +These three weeks she has "fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of +life." Servants have waited on her, she has had her time at her own +disposal, she has thoroughly enjoyed every hour of it in her eager, +active fashion. This brief visit has been like a green oasis in a desert +land. To-morrow she will step across its green borders, and journey on +through the sandy reaches of a dreary, uncongenial life again. + +"The same old, tiresome life," she says, yet even as she speaks she +knows it will not be the same. + +Something has come into her life these brief, bright summer days that +she knew not of in the old days--even love. + +"After to-morrow I shall never see him again," she says to herself with +patient gravity, and there comes to her a shamed remembrance of his +words that morning: "After to-morrow I shall be forever out of reach of +your shrill voice and scolding tongue." + +"Forever!" The word, never dwelt upon before, acquires a strange, +terrible meaning in her thoughts. She realizes, with a gasp of terror, +what Maud's lover really is to her. Though she has gibed him, teased +him, pitilessly derided him, she has given him her whole, foolish, +girlish heart. She flushes hotly with a passionate shame. + +"I love him--when he will be Maud's husband in less than an hour!" she +cries to herself. "For shame, Reine Langton. Shake off this disgraceful +weakness, and be your own brave self again." + +There is a tap at the door, unheeded and unheard in her preoccupation. + +It opens, and the house-maid enters, flurried and excited. + +Reine starts up in a panic and looks at the clock. + +"Oh, dear, it is past the time," she cries. "How could I be so careless? +Are they all waiting for me, Mary?" + +"No, Miss Langton--leastways I don't think they need you." + +"Not need me? What do you mean? Isn't the bride dressed yet?" + +"No, miss--yes, miss--that is, I don't quite know. _She's_ run away," +the girl stammers, blankly. + +"Who has run away?" Reine demands, sharply. + +"The bride--Miss Maud," is the startling reply. + +"Where has she gone? What for?" Reine demands, inelegantly, in the shock +of her great surprise. + +"To marry her old lover, Mr. Clyde, that she loved, and she couldn't +love Mr. Charteris, miss," said the house-maid, succinctly. + +There is a moment's silence. Reine drops back into a chair, dazed with +the suddenness of the news. + +"You see she left a little note to her uncle, miss, to let him know +where she'd gone, and the old gentleman's that mad, miss, he up and +swore bad enough to lift the roof off!" + +There is a quick, startling rap at the door. Mary runs to open it in a +hurry, and Reine glances up with dark, anxious eyes. + +The next instant she starts to her feet with a smothered cry. + +On the threshold stands Vane Charteris, pale as death itself, but +superbly handsome in the customary suit of solemn black that makes +gentlemen appear like mourners on all festive occasions. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +Fifteen minutes before, while Reine Langton dreamed at the window, there +had been great excitement in the villa. The house-maid's tale was a +true one. The bride-elect has eloped with another man. + +They have the terrible story down in uncompromising "black and +white"--in her own hand-writing. She has gone away to marry Mr. Clyde. + +"Because I loved him all the while, uncle," she writes, pleadingly, "and +at last I found it would break my heart to give him up. I could not love +Mr. Charteris, though I tried hard, because you wished it. And indeed, +Uncle Langton, you are deceived in Vane Charteris. It was your money he +wanted, not me; but poor Clyde loves me for myself alone. I know you +will forgive me when I come back to you, for you cannot long be angry +with your own loving Maud." + +All this to the uncle she had disobeyed, but not one word to the lover +she had betrayed and deserted. He stands silent, biting his lips to keep +back the words that rush to them, a lurid flame of angry scorn burning +in his dark blue eyes. + +"I could bear all else but that most cruel thrust," he says to his old +friend, hoarsely, when the dismayed bride's-maids have left them +together, amid the splendid paraphernalia of the bridal chamber. "When +she knew how I loved her, to cast that wretched money into my face! +Great God! the falsity of women! Henceforth I live only for revenge!" + +The old man, so old and feeble that people said of him already that he +had "one foot in the grave and the other on the brink," whirled around, +and paused in his terrible revilings of Maud and her chosen lover, and +looked strangely at his favorite. + +"So you want revenge, my boy," he said, chuckling wickedly. "You are +right to live for it. Very well, you shall have it ready made to your +hand." + +"How?" Vane Charteris asked, eagerly. + +"That false, deceitful jade shall never receive a penny from my hoarded +wealth!" declared Mr. Langton. "You shall have all." + +But Vane Charteris shakes his head, decisively. + +"No," he says, firmly, "I will not have my revenge that way. It would be +defrauding another. You have another niece." + +"I have not forgotten her claims," Mr. Langton says, grimly. "I was +going on to speak of her when you interrupted me. What I was about to +say was this: Reine Langton shall be my heiress, and you shall be her +husband." + +Vane Charteris starts and recoils. + +"No, no!" he exclaims. + +"What! you refuse my niece's hand when I offer it to you?" he storms. + +"Yes; I cannot marry her, for I do not love her," Vane answers, firmly. + +"You handsome idiot! Who said anything about love? I thought we were +discussing revenge," cries the old man, testily. + +"So we were, but I cannot take my revenge like that! I would sooner die +than have an unloved wife tied around my neck like a mill-stone," Vane +Charteris answers, gravely. + +"An unloved wife," the old man repeats; "and pray, couldn't you love my +niece, Reine? She's a bright little beauty to my thinking." + +"Love that little hoiden, that incorrigible vixen!" the young man cries, +regarding his mother's old friend as if he thought he had taken leave of +his senses. + +Mr. Langton frowns darkly. + +"Take care," he says, "you are speaking of my heiress, remember. I see +how it is. Maud disliked Reine--jealous of her bright prettiness, +perhaps--she has set you against her." + +"She has not," declares Vane. "Reine has done it, herself. You cannot +deny her brusk manners, and her sharp, ungoverned tongue, Mr. Langton." + +"Pooh! mere girlish fun," retorts Mr. Langton. "I have never disliked +her sprightly ways, myself; I like the vim and spirit of Reine. She +makes me think of Lelia, a 'rosebud set with little willful thorns,' +much more charming than Maud's 'passionless, pale-cold calm.'" + +"'The king is dead, long live the king,'" Vane Charteris quotes with +grim sarcasm. + +"Yes, Maud is dethroned, and Reine shall reign in her stead," Mr. +Langton replies; "and if you are wise, Vane Charteris, you will reign +with her." + +There is a moment's silence, and then Mr. Langton goes on: + +"You talk of revenge. Marry Reine and you have it in full measure. Maud +believes that she can marry Clyde, and come back and wheedle me into +taking them both into my good graces. How glorious for Reine to take her +place in my favor and in your heart!" + +"She could not do that," Vane answers. "I was proud of Maud's beauty, +and grace, and refinement. I loved her gentleness." + +"The silky, purring deceitfulness of a treacherous cat," interpolates +Maud's outraged uncle. + +Vane flushes deeply. + +"Still I should never love Reine," he said. "She continually jars upon +me. She keeps my nerves upon edge. You are right to make her your +heiress, but forgive me for saying that I can never make her my bride." + +"She shall not be one without the other," declares the old man +stubbornly. + +"You mean--" Vane says, aghast. + +"That if you refuse to marry Reine, she shall go back to her life of +toil to-morrow, and I'll leave my money to found an asylum for idiots +and fools," storms the old man, violently. + +"You would never be so unjust, Mr. Langton," Vane exclaims, +incredulously. "Let me reason with you. Though I do not admire Reine, I +pity her. She has a hard life. Let me plead for the poor orphan girl. +Take her in the place of Maud, and give her your love and your wealth." + +"No, I have announced my ultimatum. To-morrow she leaves here, and +to-morrow you leave here. She to her life of slavery, you as a mark for +the finger of scorn to point at, a jilted man! How false-hearted Maud +and her successful husband will laugh at the misery of the man they +fooled so shamelessly; how the minister, waiting down-stairs, and the +wedding guests will laugh in their sleeves at the deserted bridegoom. +Go, now, sir, and remember that your cursed obstinacy has beggared you, +and cheated Reine Langton of fortune." + +He glares with bleared, furious eyes at the uncompromising young fellow. +Vane looks troubled, reckless all at once. + +"I do not want to cause Reine such a misfortune," he says, sadly. "Give +me five minutes to decide in, Mr. Langton." + +"Take them," the host says, shortly. Vane walks to the window and stares +silently out at the dewy, odorous, tranquil summer night. Many thoughts +crowd into his mind. + +He has loved Maud Langton dearly, and he is cut to the heart by the +bitter humiliation she has put upon him. He is a jilted man. How shall +he face the sneering world again? that world that but a little while ago +fawned upon him because he was going to marry Mr. Langton's heiress. + +Mr. Langton waits impatiently, watch in hand, for the stipulated five +minutes to pass. He is very anxious to have his way and spite Maud for +her falsehood and disobedience. Inwardly he curses Vane's Quixotic +foolishness in refusing a fortune, no matter how burdened. + +"The time is up," he says, impatiently. "Yes or no. Marry Reine to-night +and I will make my will to-morrow, and leave everything to you and your +wife. For the present, until my death, which can't be far off," with +sardonic humor, "I'll settle twenty-five thousand a year upon you; +refuse, and you both go." + +Vane Charteris turns upon him a white, desperate face. + +"For myself I despise your threat," he says. "I am a man. I can carve my +own way to fortune, yet I should hate for Reine to blame me with her +loss of fortune. Mr. Langton, I will marry her if she will have me." + +"Of course she will; no girl in her senses would refuse a handsome man +like you, let alone the fortune," Mr. Langton cries, with returning good +humor. + +"On one condition," Vane continues, haughtily. + +Mr. Langton lifts his eyebrows interrogatively. + +"This: that I may go abroad to-morrow to be absent a year--you may offer +any evasive excuse to the bride--and that while I am gone you will train +Reine to be a graceful, dignified woman, whom I can respect and honor." + +"Like Maud, for instance," Mr. Langton says. + +"Maud's manners were perfect," Vane answers, flushing. "I could not wish +more grace and refinement for my own wife so that her heart is kept +truer." + +"You are quite decided to go away?" Mr. Langton inquires, disappointed. + +"Yes," decidedly. "I can marry Reine, but I cannot live with her just +yet." + +"Very well, you shall have your way. Now go and ask her if she will have +you." + +"Where shall I find her?" + +"In her own room, I think. I have not seen her in all the bustle. I will +wait here. If she says yes, bring her to me." + +And Vane turns away with a white, set face, to obey him. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Vane Charteris enters the room and motions the maid to withdraw, closes +the door, and stands face to face with Reine Langton. It strikes him +suddenly on what a ridiculous errand he has come. This morning he +offended her, and she refused to pardon him. Tonight he has come to ask +her to be his wife. + +But Reine--passionate, impulsive Reine--has quite forgotten all that +now. After that one startled moment of indecision and surprise, she goes +forward to him, she puts her small hand on his coat sleeve, she looks up +into his white, haggard face with dark, pitying eyes. + +"You are come to tell me," she says, forgetting in her eager excitement +how strange it would be for him to seek _her_ sympathy. "But I have +heard. Believe me, I am very sorry for your disappointment. It was mean +and cruel," indignantly, "in Maud. I would not have done it, _bad_ as +you think me." + +How soft the dark, uplifted eyes; how gentle the pitying voice, how kind +the words! Can this be Reine--sharp-tongued, restless, gibing Reine? He +stares in great surprise. + +"I should not care if I were you," she goes on. "I should be too proud +to grieve for one so false and unkind. She never loved you; I saw _that_ +as soon as I came here, but I did not know she could be so mean. I will +never speak to her again." + +"You take my part," he says, unconsciously pleased. + +"Yes, because you have been treated unfairly," she says, warmly. "You +have been jilted at the very altar--you so handsome, so noble----" she +stops, biting her lips, vexed at herself for these outspoken words. + +But Vane Charteris smiles. + +"Thank you for those words," he says. "They give me courage to ask what +I came for--Reine, will you be my wife?" + +The white hand falls from his arm, she steps backward a pace, and stares +at him mutely, with great, wondering, dark eyes. + +He repeats the words: + +"Reine, will _you_ be my wife? Will you go down-stairs and marry me, a +jilted man? Will you take the man your beautiful cousin deemed +worthless?" + +A passionate sarcasm quivers in his tone. She looks at him, the deep, +rich color flushing into her cheeks. + +"You do not mean it; you are jesting!" she cries, in a vaguely troubled +tone. + +"I do," he answers. "The guests are here; the feast is provided; the +minister waits. Nothing is lacking but the bride, who has fled to the +arms of another. Will you throw yourself into the breach, Reine, and +make everybody happy?" + +"If I thought I could," she begins, with a questioning glance, and a +delicious thrill at her heart. Something whispers to her that he would +wed her to spite Maud, yet her instinct prompts her to take him at his +word. In time her tender love must win a return from him. + +"You must not stop to think," the strange wooer says, impatiently. +"Everyone is waiting, and your uncle is most impatient. I have his +permission to win you if I can." + +"Uncle Langton wishes it?" she asks, wondering. + +"Yes. What is your answer, Reine?" + +"It is yes," she answers, simply, frankly, and happily. + +"Thank you," he says; "come, then, Mr. Langton is waiting for us." + +Then, softened by her gentle mood and the sparkling beauty he cannot +help but acknowledge, he says, with a dash of mischief: + +"You are changed from this morning Reine. So you do not hate me after +all?" + +A spark of the morning's _diablerie_ flashes into the bright eyes again. + +"Yes, I do," she retorts, "and I am only taking you that I may torment +you to death." + +He checks the impatient sigh, and leads her to Mr. Langton. + +"Sensible girl," he chuckles, beaming upon her. "Knew better than to +refuse uncle's fortune, didn't you, Reine?" + +She stares at him, her rosy cheeks grow pale. + +"I don't understand," she falters. + +"Didn't you tell her?" Mr. Langton demands of Vane. + +"No, I forgot. After all, it wasn't necessary," he answers. + +"Cunning dog," the old man laughs. "So she took you for yourself alone? +Well, I told you so. She has a true heart in spite of her wild ways." + +But Reine stares from one to the other, vaguely troubled. + +Mr. Langton bends and kisses the fair, low brow. + +"Reine, you are my heiress now," he says. "I shall cut Maud off with a +shilling. You and Vane will have all my money when I am dead." + +"Oh, if you please, Uncle Langton, I'd rather not," she cries, +breathlessly, then she looks at Vane. "Is he taking me for the money?" +she says, with a flash of disdain in her great, black eyes. + +Vane flushes an angry crimson, but his old friend interferes. + +"No, you little goose," he replies, severely, "He's taking you because +you're a deuced pretty girl, and worth a dozen disobedient Mauds. Now +will you put on that wedding-veil there, and go down-stairs with him and +show those gaping, gossiping simpletons that there's a bride after all, +and the wedding-feast will not be spoiled by the groom's sorrow?" + +He rings the bell with the words. A trim maid appears with a quickness +that would argue that she had been listening outside the door. + +"Put that wedding-veil on Miss Langton," commands her master. "She will +be the bride, and also my heiress." + +"Miss Reine, let me congratulate you," the girl exclaims, with a +heartiness that shows how Reine has won her way since she came to +Langton Villa. + +In five minutes the veil is on, with the trailing sprays of orange +flowers meant for Maud. The rich, white silk, with its lace flounces, +makes no inappropriate bridal dress. But Reine stands still, a lovely +bride, grown suddenly strangely pale and grave-looking. + +"Now, Mary, hunt up the bride's-maids while I go down and notify the +minister," adjures Mr. Langton. + +They go, and the bride and groom remain alone together. She stands shyly +in the center of the room, with drooping eyes, dark, slender, lovely, +but strangely unlike the fair and stately Juno Vane Charteris has +pictured these many days as his bride. + +They speak no word to each other, and the laughing "men and maidens" +come in and surround them. + +"It is just like a novel," one says; and another: "It serves Maud +right," and all agree that it is "just too romantic for anything," and +are glad there will be a wedding after all. + +But the two principals say nothing in all the babble of idle tongues. +Arm in arm they go forward to the marriage altar, side by side they +breathe those solemn vows that bind together their antagonistic lives. +It is all like a dream to Reine: the wedding march, the wedding flowers, +the curious faces, the solemn words, the circle of gold upon her finger. +But as she turns to meet the congratulations of the guests, one precious +thought is blooming like a full and perfect rose in her passionate +heart: + +"He is all my own now. I shall not be parted from him to-morrow." + +After the hum of congratulations is over there ensues a momentary pause. +The bride is led to a seat, and Vane Charteris drifts away from her +side. The good wishes, the pretty sentiments of the guests fall +meaningless on his ears. + +"What happiness can I promise myself as the husband of that little +vixen?" he says to himself, darkly. + +So he stands apart in moody silence, and the curious glances of a +hundred eyes note the handsome, troubled white face, and turn again +pityingly on the girlish young bride. + +"She will never be happy with him," they say, decidedly. "He has only +married her to spite Maud." + +Suddenly, in that momentary lull and stillness, the door is flung +violently open, a tall, queenly figure, clad in a gray traveling-dress, +wavers a moment on the threshold, then rushes across the room to Mr. +Langton. She falls on her knees before him. + +"Oh, for God's sake, tell me I am not too late," she cries. "Uncle +Langton, I have repented my folly before it was too late. Forgive me, +uncle. I have come back to marry Mr. Charteris." + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +Dead silence falls. Every eye turns on that graceful, kneeling figure, +and fair, uplifted face, with the gold braids crowning the graceful head +so royally. + +Mr. Langton stares stupidly a moment. + +Maud puts her hand on his arm and shakes him. + +"Uncle, don't you understand?" she says. "I have come back to marry +Vane. I repented as soon as I saw Mr. Clyde. I knew in a moment that I +did not care for him enough to sacrifice everything for him. I told him +so, and he was very angry, but I came away in spite of his terrible +threats. I--I like Mr. Charteris best." + +Vane Charteris starts forward like one awakening from a nightmare. + +"Hush; do not perjure your soul, Maud," he breaks out, sternly. "Say +what you mean. You do not care for Vane Charteris, but you love Mr. +Langton's money too well to give it up for love in a cottage with Mr. +Clyde." + +She starts to her feet, half extending her arms. + +"This from you, Vane!" she cries, dramatically. "Surely you have not +turned against me after all your professions of love. Do not be so hard, +Vane. You see I have come back to you. Forgive me, I pray you. I _do_ +care for you, I want to be your wife!" + +"You can never be my wife. By the folly of an hour you have barred +yourself out of my life forever," he answers her with a strange, icy +sternness. + +She stares at him mutely a moment, then turns to Mr. Langton. + +"You see," she says, triumphantly, "it is Mr. Charteris who refuses +me--I do not refuse him. I am willing to keep to my contract--he +declines my hand. Surely you will forgive me now, dear uncle, and take +me back. I have not forfeited your love nor your fortune." + +And Mr. Langton, finding voice at last, answers her, angrily: + +"You have forfeited both by your cursed madness. Henceforth you have no +part in my heart nor my home. Yonder sits my heiress, and Vane +Charteris' _wife_!" + +With a gasp like one dying, Maud follows the direction of his pointed +finger. + +She sees a slight, girlish figure that has suddenly come forward to the +side of Vane Charteris as if mutely claiming him for hers. Her own +costly wedding veil drapes the dainty, lissome figure. + +"Reine Langton," she cries, furiously, "have you dared to rob me of my +fortune and husband?" + +Reine lifts her flashing, dark eyes. + +"Remember, Maud, you flung them both away," she answers, indignantly. + +"Fool that I was," Maud wails, despairingly. "I have lost all, all, by +my brief madness! Oh! Uncle Langton, surely you will forgive me, and +take me back now when I am so bitterly repentant. Let her have Mr. +Charteris--I can do without him--but do not send me away!" + +He looks coldly at the pleading blue eyes, and the eager, upraised +hands. If possible he is more bitterly angry with her now than he was +when he received her note an hour ago. + +"It is useless to plead with me," he says, coldly. "You should have +thought of all this before. It is too late now. I have flung you out of +my heart forever. Reine will be my heiress--you can go." + +"I have nowhere to go," she says, looking at him with wide, frightened +eyes and parted lips. + +"It matters not to me," he answers, cruelly. "Go back to the fine, gay +lover that lured you from your duty and your plighted word. See if he +will take you, now that you have lost all chances of the Langton +fortune." + +Reine comes bravely forward to the side of the discarded girl. + +"Oh! uncle, let her stay," she says, imploringly; "I do not want your +fortune, I have _Vane_. That is enough for me. Let Maud come home and +have the money--or at least _share_ it." + +"No," he thunders, stormily; "I have said my say--I will abide by it. +She is nothing to me henceforth. Let her go." + +Maud looks around at the bride. + +"It is all your fault," she says, bitterly. "If you had not married Vane +before I came, my uncle would have forgiven me. Vane does not love you, +he has only taken you for my uncle's money. Beware that you do not rue +this night in dust and ashes." + +"If I had only known that you would come back, Maud, like this," Reine +begins, wringing her hands in a passionate kind of self-pity. + +Maud crosses to the door before them all, with that proud, imperial step +that had become Mr. Langton's heiress so well, but is mockingly out of +place now. The bride follows her. + +"Maud," she whispers, anxiously, "send me your address to-morrow, and I +will come to you. Indeed, indeed I am anxious to befriend you." + +Maud puts her aside without a word, and steps over the threshold. She +walks with her light, proud step down the hall, and disappears in the +outer darkness, looking regretfully back, as Eve might have looked when +she was driven from paradise. + +"My friends," Mr. Langton says, rising, "do not let this unpleasant +episode damp the wedding festivities. You came to do honor to my +heiress, and Vane Charteris' bride. _She_ is here, and the banquet +waits." + +"The queen is dead, long live the queen!" that is what he means. They +understand that Maud is dethroned, and Reine reigns in her stead. They +obey his implied wish. No one speaks the name of Maud either in praise +or blame. The festivities go on. The luxurious banquet duly discussed, +the joyous music invites the young and gay to "trip the light fantastic +toe." This is a country wedding where all is freedom and simple +enjoyment. The guests "don't go home until morning." + +In the pale dawn-light some of the young men, who left with gay words +and light hearts, came hurrying back with blanched faces and startled +eyes. In the woods near-by, they have found the blood-stained body of a +dead man--Maud's lover, Mr. Clyde. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +Wearied with the long festivities of the night, Reine goes to her room, +in the pale light of the new day, and lays aside the bridal veil and +dress, donning a cool white wrapper instead. She bathes her face in some +fresh water, brushes out her silky, dark tresses, and loosely tying them +back with a scarlet ribbon, slips quietly down the stairs again. + +Ten minutes later, Mr. Langton and Vane Charteris coming into the +deserted parlor, find her standing with one of the maids before the long +table, on which the numerous and costly bridal presents have been +displayed. Friends have vied with each other in the elegance and beauty +of their gifts to Mr. Langton's heiress. Silver and gold, and precious +stones flash back the expiring light of the flickering lamps. The +house-maid has brought in a large box, and she and Reine are deftly +restoring the wrappers to the various articles, and packing them +carefully into its capacious recesses. + +Mr. Langton stares. + +"Child, what upon earth are you doing?" he exclaims. + +Reine looks around, brightly. + +"Only packing these things away for Maud," she explains. + +"For Maud?" Mr. Langton gasps. + +"Yes, sir. I shall forward them to her as soon as I find out where she +is staying," she replies, pausing to admire a richly-chased bracelet, +set with rubies, before she closes the satin-lined case. + +"The deuce you will," Mr. Langton growls. "Upon my word I never saw such +cool impertinence in my life. Who authorized you to do such a thing?" + +"I took the liberty myself," Reine responds, flashing a laughing glance +upon his indignant face. + +"Very well. Let me inform you, Mrs. Charteris, that these things belong +to you, not to Maud. They were given to my heiress, and Vane's bride, +therefore they are your own." + +The beautiful color flows into her face, but she shakes her small head +resolutely. + +"You must pardon me, uncle," she says, "but, indeed, I think your ideas +of _meum et tuum_ are rather confused. All these pretty things belong to +my cousin by every right in the world, and I am determined she shall +have them." + +"I say she shall not," he cries, violently. + +"And I say she _shall_," Reine reiterates, laughing, but in earnest, the +golden lights fairly dancing in her eyes. + +"Why, you audacious little spitfire," the old man begins to splutter, +but Vane Charteris interrupts him gravely. + +"I think Reine's idea is the true one," he says. "The gifts really +belong to Maud, and she ought to have them." + +The bride flashes him a dazzling look of gratitude from her brilliant +eyes. + +"There, now, Uncle Langton," she cries, with pretty triumph. "You see my +husband sides with me." + +"Sides with Maud, you mean," Mr. Langton mutters, between his teeth. + +"He will always be on the side of justice, I hope," Reine says, with a +smile at her husband, that he does not see, consequently does not +return. + +But Mr. Langton frowns at the pert little lady. + +"See here, Reine," he says. "I won't be set at naught by a child like +you, if you were fifty times my niece. Have your way this time, but +don't begin your rule too soon. Remember, I haven't made my will yet." + +"_That_ does not frighten me one bit," she laughs; then she rises on +tiptoe to put her rosy lips to his ear. "You cannot take my husband from +me," she whispers, archly. "I do not care for the rest." + +He looks at her half-pityingly, and turns away without a word. + +But something born of that pitying thought makes him say to Vane +Charteris, as they pass from the room: + +"There is no reason you should regret Maud. Reine is quite as charming +and beautiful, though in a different way from her cousin." + +And Vane answers, readily enough: + +"She is beautiful, certainly no one can deny that. She has the +brilliant beauty of the rose. But one must beware the thorns. She is a +perfect contrast to Maud, who always reminded me of a tall, white, +stately lily." + +"The rose is the sweeter, to my thinking," Mr. Langton replies. +"Besides, the rose is the true emblem of love." + +They pass through the hall, and out into the soft light of the early +day. The cool, dewy breath of the morning, freighted with the scent of +countless flowers, blows in their faces, the matin songs of myriad birds +make music in their ears. Roses, honeysuckles, jessamines and lilies, +open their perfumed chalices to greet the rising sun that begins to +color the eastern sky with tints of purple and rose and gold. + +And up the graveled path came a trio of young men who had left the house +but a little while ago, laughing and jesting in the light-heartedness of +youth. They come silently now, with blanched and solemn faces, and +heavily-beating hearts. + +"Something dreadful has happened," they tell Mr. Langton. "We have found +a dead man in the woods. It is Mr. Clyde. He is cold and stiff--has +certainly been dead several hours. And, worst of all, he has most +probably been murdered. There is a bullet-hole through his heart." + +Found murdered! With what an icy chill the words strike upon the senses +in that beautiful, peaceful summer dawn. + +Having finished the packing of the box, Reine comes out, attracted by +the hum of voices. + +The rich color pales in her cheeks at the dreadful news. + +"Oh, how terrible," she cries. "It was Maud's lover, and she loved him, +poor girl!" + +She sees Vane Charteris wince, and feels as if she could bite her tongue +off for the thoughtless words. Her heart sinks heavily. + +"He has given me his hand, but not his heart," she says to herself. "I +must be very patient. Perhaps I may win his love yet. I must do so, for +I cannot live without it." + +As she thinks all this, he comes to her side. The heart of the unloved +bride beats quick and fast as the blue eyes fall upon her. + +But he has only come to say, coldly and carelessly: + +"Reine, you had better go in. This is too terrible a thing for a young +girl's ears." + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +Yesterday, Reine would have defied Vane, and taken her own way, +recklessly. To-day, filled with the yearning wish to win her husband's +heart, she obeys with gentle dignity, and retires into the house. + +"I have read somewhere that love wins love," she says to herself. "If +that be true, surely my patience, my gentleness, my devoted love will +sometime win a return from him." + + * * * * * + +They hold an inquest over Mr. Clyde's body that day. No facts are +elicited that throw any light on the manner of his death. + +He was a stranger in the neighborhood, boarding at a quiet farm-house +for his health, he said. He had few friends and fewer enemies. The +people who lodged him deposed that they had not seen him since their +early seven o'clock supper, the evening previous. He had been in very +gay and brilliant spirits then; had dressed himself elegantly and gone +out before dark. No one had seen him until he was found dead in the +woods this morning, shot through the heart. The physicians examine the +corpse, and decide that he has been dead since nine o'clock last night, +and suddenly a baleful whisper runs from lip to lip. + +There are a hundred people, guests of the grand wedding at Langton villa +last night, who remember Maud Langton's abrupt entrance a little after +nine o'clock, and her frank confession that she had gone away to marry +Mr. Clyde, but had repented, and left him in spite of his threats. + +These facts are communicated to the coroner. He looks exceedingly grave. + +"It will be quite necessary to examine Miss Langton on the subject," he +declares. + +Someone is found who remembers to have heard that Miss Langton is at +the hotel in the village, near by. + +An officer is dispatched to bring her in to the inquest. + +So they wait in the odorous sweetness of the green wood, the officers of +justice, the silent corpse, the curious crowd; the wild birds sing on as +gayly as if no dead man lay there on the sweet, green grass, with his +handsome white face upturned to Heaven as if pleading for vengeance on +his slayer. + +He has not been murdered for purposes of robbery. His gold watch, his +diamond ring, his purse, containing a hundred dollars in bills, are all +secure upon his person. It is not known that he had an enemy in the +world. A strange mystery centers around his death. + +A few notice that old Mr. Langton goes away quietly before the officer's +return with Maud. And Vane Charteris stays. Standing apart beneath the +shade of a towering maple, he waits, with a strange, incensed look in +his dark blue eyes, and on his handsome face that is almost as white as +that of the dead. Many eyes regard him curiously; but the cold, white, +inscrutable face tells nothing to their wondering gaze. + +At last, after what seems a long and wearisome interval of waiting, the +rumble of the carriage wheels is heard. They pause in the road near by, +they catch the impatient neigh of horses, and the officer appears +leading a lady through the trees and grass toward them. + +She comes toward them, trembling so that, but for the support of the +officer's arm, she must certainly fall to the ground. At the coroner's +request she lifts her veil and looks at him with frightened, blue eyes, +and a wild, white face--whiter than the lilies to which Vane Charteris +likened her that morning. + +She is duly sworn, and they re-cover the dead, white face, with its +staring eyes they cannot close, and mute, cold lips. + +"Do you recognize this man?" they ask her, and after one shuddering, +quickly-withdrawn glance, she averts her face, and answers with white, +pain-drawn lips: + +"It is Mr. Clyde." + +She is asked next: + +"When and where did you see him last?" + +A quiver passes over the pale, beautiful face. + +"Last night, at or near nine o'clock, near this spot," she falters, yet +standing suddenly erect, with stately, lily-like grace, and a +proudly-poised head. + +"Was he living or dead?" + +"Living, of course," haughtily. + +"Mr. Clyde was your lover?" the coroner interrogated. + +"I have not said so," she says, flashing him a haughty look. + +"The fact is well known," he answers. "You went away to marry him last +night?" + +The deep color flows into her cheeks, then recedes again, leaving her +pale as marble. + +"I cannot deny it," she murmurs, in a crushed voice. + +"Then you changed your mind, as it is a lady's privilege to do, and left +him. He was very angry, and used threats toward you," the coroner +pursues, politely. + +"Yes," Miss Langton answers, in the same low, sad voice. + +"Of what nature were those threats?" they ask her. + +"He threatened to destroy himself if I did not become his wife, but, oh, +I did not believe it, really--I thought he was only trying to frighten +me into compliance with his wish," she cries, while a look of regret and +sorrow transforms this fair, beautiful face. A hum of surprise goes +through the eager throng of listeners. + +"Do you believe that he really killed himself?" + +"Yes; how else should he have met his death?" she inquired, fixing a +look of grave wonder upon him. + +A slight whisper goes through the crowd again--some shrug their +shoulders. + +The coroner pursues without answering her question: + +"Was Mr. Clyde in the habit of making such suicidal threats?" + +"He had done so on several occasions." + +"In the presence of witnesses?" the question is asked with strange +gravity. + +Maud looks at him with a grave wonder on her fair, proud face. + +"No, of course not," she answers, a little annoyance in her clear tone. + +"Then you cannot prove that the deceased made those threats against his +own life?" the coroner asked in a troubled tone. It is very plain to him +that she cannot see the cloud of distress and suspicion gathering +around her. + +"Cannot prove it!" she says, indignantly. "You have _my_ word under +oath." + +"Other evidence would make it all the stronger," he replies, evasively. + +The officer who has brought her goes forward and whispers something in +the coroner's ear. He starts and looks at the girl fixedly a moment from +head to foot, then proceeds with the examination. + +"When you left your uncle's house last night, did you return to your +trysting-place with your discarded lover?" + +She stares at him with strangely dilated eyes, and parted lips. + +"Why should I?" she says. "I had dismissed him, and parted from him. I +supposed he had gone away." + +"Please answer, yes or no, to the question," he urges. + +"What question?" a little shortly. + +"The one I asked you just now. Did you return to your discarded lover at +this place when you left Langton Villa the second time? Yes, or no." + +"No, then," with a slight touch of defiance. + +A minute of dead silence. The coroner resumes, almost irrelevantly, it +would seem: + +"Is the dress you wear now the same one you had on last night, Miss +Langton?" + +"Yes, the same. I have not slept all night, she replies, wearily. + +"Please observe that on the front breadth of your dress there are some +dark, reddish-looking splashes and stains that resemble blood. Can you +account for them?" + +A cry of mingled horror and fear comes from her lips. All eyes turn on +the stylish, dark-gray silk that clings so gracefully to the tall, +finely molded figure. True enough, there are some dark red stains on the +middle breadth between the lower frills and the upper drapery. + +"Can you account for them?" the coroner repeats. + +But after one swift glance at the tell-tale marks, Maud crimsons, and +the tears start into her eyes. + +"You must pardon me; I spoke falsely to you just now," she says, with +desperate calmness. "I can tell you how those stains came there. They +are Vernon Clyde's blood." + +Again an ominous whisper runs through the circle of listeners. Maud +glances around her fearfully. She meets strange, averted glances from +faces that have been wont to smile upon her before. A strange light +comes into her eyes. + +"Oh, what do they mean?" she cries. "They do not think, do they, that I +killed Mr. Clyde? I tell you he killed himself. He told me he would do +so if I refused to marry him." + +"Tell us how those blood-stains came upon your dress," the coroner +answers, briefly and gravely. + +She clasps her hands and shivers through all her imperially perfect +form. + +"I _did_ come back here last night," she says, in a fearful whisper. "My +uncle had discarded me. Mr. Charteris had married another, and I had no +one to turn to but the lover I had discarded a little while before. So I +hurried back, thinking I would be Clyde's wife after all, but when I +came, he," with a gasp, "he lay dead before me. I had thought it but a +mere idle threat to frighten me, but he had kept his word faithfully. He +had shot himself through the heart. I knelt down beside him, and laid my +hand on his breast, but it was cold and still. Oh, you must not think I +killed him! I loved him, and I would have gone away with him, but I was +afraid of losing my uncle's money," she ends, with a choking sob. + +"Why did you not raise an alarm when you found him dead?" + +"I was afraid they would charge me with his murder, so I hurried away, +not knowing of those tell-tale stains on my dress where I had been down +on my knees beside him. I did not kill him, no, no, but my fatal +weakness drove him to take his own life." + +There is a moment's perfect silence, then the voice of the coroner is +heard, with a troubled cadence in its sternness: + +"I regret my painful duty, Miss Langton, more than I can say. The high +position you have always held in this county would forbid the thought of +your criminality, but the evidence against you is of such a nature that +we shall be compelled to commit you to prison until further +developments." + +Her cry of terror and indignation echoes to the blue sky above her +golden head. The sweet song-birds fly affrighted from its shrill, eerie +sound. + +"You believe me guilty," she exclaimed. "Yet I have told you again and +again that Vernon Clyde died by his own hand." + +"If you could prove it to us," he says, "if you could even prove by a +competent witness his threat of self murder, you should go free this +hour." + +She looks at him dumbly and strangely. Suddenly a light of dazzling joy +breaks over her face. She slips her gloved hand into the folds of her +dress, withdrawing it with a gasp of disappointment. + +"Let me tell you," she says, hurriedly and eagerly. "Yesterday Mr. Clyde +sent me a note relative to my promise to meet him last night. In it he +says, distinctly and clearly: 'If you do not marry me, I swear I will +shoot myself through the heart.' I remember that the note is in the +pocket of the blue dress I wore yesterday. Tell me, for Heaven's sake, +would that be proof sufficient?" + +"If the writing could be proved as Mr. Clyde's, it would entirely clear +you from suspicion." + +"Then let them take me to Langton Villa," she cries, anxiously. "I can +lay my hand upon the note in one moment." + +All eyes are turned upon her glad, triumphant face. No one remembers +Vane Charteris where he stands in the shade of the tall maples. Yet a +strange look has come upon the fair, handsome face. The lips curl +nervously beneath the golden-brown mustache, the blue eyes gleam with a +strange, mocking triumph. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +Mr. Langton is nowhere to be seen when Maud re-enters the home, so late +her own. Reine comes to meet her, pale, troubled, sympathetic. They have +not been very fond of each other in the past--Maud has been too proud to +encourage the friendship of her poor cousin--but now the heart of the +younger girl goes out to the other in a gush of sympathy and sorrow. + +"Maud, I am _so_ sorry," she says, putting her hand gently on the girl's +arm; "but never fear, dear. All will come right. Of course you would not +have harmed a single hair of Mr. Clyde's head. Everybody must know +_that_." + +"Come with me to my room, Reine," Maud answers. + +Inside that quiet room she had quitted only yesterday eve in such high +hope Maud's proud self-possession breaks down. Throwing herself on a +luxurious sofa, she gives way to hysterical weeping. + +"I am _so_ sorry, Maud," Reine can only repeat, in gentlest sympathy. + +Maud gives her an angry glance through her tears. + +"Sorry," she says. "Sorry! Why should you be? Your fortune is built on +the wreck of mine." + +"Oh, Maud, do not say so," the girl cries, deeply pained. "Indeed, +indeed, I do not want the money. I will ask Uncle Langton to give it all +to you. I have Vane, I care for nothing else." + +"You love him?" Maud says, with lifted brows, slightly incredulous. + +"Yes," with a deep, beautiful blush. + +"You cannot suppose that he cares for you," Maud says, with subdued +contempt. + +"Not yet--not as he cared for you, of course, Maud. But I hope to win +him after awhile. You know," hopefully, "he must have thought he could +learn to care for me, else he would not have married me." + +"What a little simpleton you are," Maud says, disdainfully. "Ring the +bell for my maid, please." + +The maid comes, her eyes red with weeping. She has been mourning over +the troubles of her late mistress, and now, with dejected brow, stands +waiting. + +"Nellie, you remember the note you brought me from Mr. Clyde yesterday?" + +"Yes, miss, an' if I'd known what trouble it would bring, I'd never have +carried the first note back and forth," says Nellie, with vain +lamentation. + +"It's too late for regrets now," Maud answers her impatiently. "I want +that note, Nellie. It is in the pocket of the blue dress I wore +yesterday. Get it for me." + +Barely a minute--and a cry of dismay from Nellie's lips. + +"Oh, Miss Maud, 'tisn't there." + +Maud's face grows suddenly white and scared. + +"Look again," she says, with a gasp. + +"'Tisn't there," the maid reiterates, after a second flurried search. + +"Then it's somewhere else," confidently. "I know it is in this room. +Look until you find it, Nellie." + +Then she turns to Reine. + +"Can you guess why I came back last night?" + +"You told us the reason when you came, didn't you?" Reine says, blankly. + +"Not exactly. I will tell you now while Nellie is searching for the +note. Of course you knew when I went away I didn't expect to lose my +uncle's fortune?" + +"I thought you did. Hadn't he said----" begins simple Reine. + +"That I should marry Charteris, or lose the money--yes, I know, but I +give you my word I never believed it. I honestly thought I could marry +Mr. Clyde and return here. I thought it would be an easy matter to +wheedle my doting uncle into taking us both back. I never dreamed that +you would throw yourself into the breach and help them to their revenge +against me." + +"I never thought of such a thing myself, until--until Vane _asked_ me!" +Reine murmurs, blushingly. + +"Do you know why he asked you?" sneers the beautiful girl before her. + +"To spite you for having jilted him so publicly, Maud, and, perhaps, +because he liked me a little after all," she says, a little wistfully. + +"I gave you credit for just a little more sense, Reine," Maud answers, +bitterly. "Vane Charteris disliked you exceedingly. He thought you a +vixen, neither more nor less. He made you his wife because Mr. Langton +literally forced him to it." + +"It is not true. Why do you say such things? You are cruel, Maud," the +bride cries out, starting indignantly to her feet. + +"It is the truth. Nellie, have you found the note yet?" + +"No, miss, nor I don't think I can. Was it so very important?" returns +the girl. + +"Important! My very life hangs on its production," Maud says, wildly. +"You have looked carelessly. I could swear that it is in this room. It +_must_ be found." + +"I'll look again. Perhaps I've overlooked it, being in a hurry," the +maid returns, patiently, and Maud turns again to her cousin. + +"Nellie has always been very faithful to me," she says. "She was in my +confidence. She knew the trysting-place in the woods where I was to meet +Mr. Clyde. As soon as she learned that it was likely you would marry +Vane Charteris and cheat me out of Uncle Langton's fortune, she hastened +after me, and urged me to return and prevent such a catastrophe. I +decided at once to return. I had no notion of doing the +love-in-a-cottage business with my poor, but handsome lover." + +"You were heartless, Maud," Reine says, with a flash of her superb, dark +eyes. + +"So Mr. Clyde said," carelessly. "Anyway, I told him I should come back. +He was very angry. He drove Nell back, and swore I should stay and go +with him to the preacher that was even then waiting to marry us. I would +not yield an inch, and as soon as I could I got away." + +"Why do you tell me all this, Maud?" Reine says, with something like +royal scorn. "You make me think very little of you." + +"You will perhaps think very little of yourself presently," beautiful +Maud answers, maliciously. "Come here, Nellie, and tell Mrs. Charteris +all the hard things her husband said about her when Mr. Langton almost +went down on his knees to him to marry her." + +"How can she know?" Reine says, puzzled. + +"I was hid in a closet, listening, if you'll please to excuse me, +ma'am," the maid says, timorously, to the new mistress of Langton Villa. +Then she looks at Maud. "Oh, I'd rather not," she exclaims. "It would +only hurt Mrs. Charteris' feelings." + +"Do as I bid you," Maud answers, with her imperious tone of command. +"When Mr. Langton asked Vane Charteris to marry Reine, what words did he +use in reply?" + +Nellie looks at the bride with scared eyes. + +"Mrs. Charteris, you mustn't get mad at me. I wouldn't tell it, no, not +to save my life, only that Miss Maud will be angry if I don't," she +says, deprecatingly. + +No words come from Reine's pale lips. She stares with great, troubled +dark eyes alternately at the beautiful, cruel mistress and the shrinking +little maid. + +"Tell her," Maud repeats, imperiously. + +"Well, then, he said," the maid begins, nervously, "he said, Mrs. +Charteris, a flat no that he wouldn't marry you, that he couldn't love a +vixen and a hoiden like you, an' he'd sooner die than have you hanged +like a mill-stone around his neck." + +"Why, then, did he consent to marry me?" the bride gasps, after a shiver +and moan of unspeakable humiliation. + +"For your own sake, ma'am, 'cause Mr. Langton said he'd make you his +heiress if the gentleman would marry you, and if he wouldn't, why he +would leave his money to some asylum for fools. An' so Mr. Vane he said +he would marry you, 'cause he wouldn't want you to lose the fortune on +his account." + +"On one condition," Maud says, in her clear, high-pitched voice, gazing +with pitiless eyes at the beautiful, scarlet face before her. + +But Reine lifts her small hand with a sudden imperious gesture of +command. + +"I will not hear another word," she says, in a tone of mingled sorrow +and pride. "You must obey me now, Nellie; I am your mistress, not Maud. +And I command you never to open your lips on this subject again." + +Nellie shrinks abashed. Her whilom mistress laughs low and mockingly. + +"You have heard enough, eh? Well, I don't blame you. Well, Nellie, the +note?" + +"Oh, miss, I haven't found it yet, and indeed--indeed, I've looked in +every spot in this room where it could possibly be. Sure, you've tucked +it away somewhere and forgot, Miss Maud. Try to remember where you had +it last," the girl says, soothingly. + +Startled and half afraid, Maud springs to her feet putting her white +hand to her brow. + +"Let me think," she says, confusedly; "ah, now I remember; yesterday, +when I went down the path to Mr. Charteris and Reine under the tree I +had the note in my hand. I slipped it into my pocket." + +"It must have fallen on the ground," Nellie says, quickly. "Shall I go +and see?" + +"Yes," Maud answers, anxiously. + +Reine, grown suddenly, strangely pale, looks at the beautiful, harassed +face of her cousin. + +"That note, Maud," she says, in a voice of repressed excitement. "Is it +so very important?" + +"Important?" Maud says, peevishly. "Did I not tell you my very life +hangs on it? They believe that I killed Mr. Clyde. I must go to prison +unless I can find that note, which would establish my innocence." + +"Then it must be found," Reine says with sudden nervousness. "I will go +and help Nellie find it." + +"No--no, Reine; where is my uncle?" + +"Shut up in the library, I think, Maud." + +"Is he so very--very angry with me," she asks, lifting her large blue +eyes to Reine's troubled face. + +"I--I'm afraid so," Reine stammers, with marked hesitation. + +"Would he see me, do you think?" Maud inquires. + +"I do not know," Reine answers, with an unconscious sigh. + +"Go and ask him, Reine. Oh, I must make friends with him! What shall I +do without a friend in this perilous time?" + +"I will be your friend," Reine ventures, wistfully. + +Maud measures the slight figure with scornful eyes. + +"_You!_ what good could you do me?" she asks, disdainfully. + +"I do not know. I am small, but I am willing," Reine answers to that +look. "Remember, Maud, a little mouse once saved a lion." + +"Go and ask my uncle if he will let me come in and speak to him," Maud +answers, ignoring her offer with proud indifference. + +The slight, girlish figure turns away without a word. In the hall she +meets Nellie returning. + +"You have not found the note?" she says. + +"No, ma'am, and whatever will my poor Miss Maud do? Oh, Mrs. Charteris, +will they hang her for Mr. Clyde's murder? Oh, I daren't go in and tell +her I cannot find it," whimpers poor Nellie. + +"Nellie," abruptly, "tell me where to find Mr. Charteris." + +"Oh, ma'am, at the inquest, most probably," returns Nellie, surprised; +then, with an imploring look, "oh, Mrs. Charteris, please'm don't tell +him what I told you. I know Mr. Langton would discharge me for +listening. I shouldn't have told you, never, but for Miss Maud." + +Reine looks at her sadly. A far-away look in her "dark--dark eyes." + +"You needn't be afraid, Nell. I shall never tell him," she says, slowly, +and passes on. + +She opens the library door softly, and goes in. Mr. Langton is sitting +dejectedly in his arm-chair. + +"Uncle, dear," she says, in a strange, low voice, "tell me where to find +Mr. Charteris." + +He starts, guiltily, it seems to her. His fingers close over a slip of +paper in his hand. + +"You want Vane--oh, ah, yes, of course," he says, confusedly. "What can +you want of Vane?" + +She smiles sadly to herself. Her own husband, yet "what can she want of +him." + +"A matter of business, sir," she replies, with cold brevity. + +"Business!" He glances up and sees how white and strange her face is. +"Is it important? It will wait, won't it?" + +"No; it's a matter of life and death," she says, with trembling lips. + +"Life and death? You are jesting, child, surely. I am very sorry, dear, +but Vane has just sent me a line. He has gone--I mean he has been called +away suddenly. He may be compelled to remain some time. You will have to +be satisfied with my poor society. Vane sent you his love, and regrets +that he could not bid you farewell." + +A slight, cold smile touches the scarlet lips that curl in faint scorn. + +"Do not fib to me, Uncle Langton. You know very well he sent me no such +message. Let me see that note." + +She draws it deliberately out of his fingers, and reads the curt +message: + +"Mr. Langton, I am about going away as we agreed upon. I will write you +from abroad. Invent some excuse to satisfy the curiosity of Reine." + +"So that is the love he sent me," she says, looking at him with +reproachful, dark eyes. "How charmingly affectionate he is! Aren't you +afraid that you'll never get to Heaven, Uncle Langton, after that +tremendous fib?" + +"Don't tease, child, I have vexation enough. I did not think it of +Charteris, really. I wish now I hadn't----" he stops and gnaws his gray +mustache, fiercely. + +"I wish so, too," she says, with subdued bitterness. "It was a sad +mistake all round. It cannot be helped now. But, uncle, I _must_ see +him. Tell me where to find him." + +"You may find him in New York to-morrow. He left on the ten o'clock +train to-day." + +"This is dreadful--poor Maud," she says, incoherently. "Oh, uncle, Maud +is up-stairs. She prays you to see her. Uncle, you _must_. She has no +one to turn to but you. The shadow of a terrible crime is hanging over +her head. She must go to prison unless something happens to help her." + +"She has made her bed, so let her lie," he says, petulantly. + +"Oh, uncle, you must forgive her and befriend her; say that you will." + +"I won't," he says, with bitter brevity. + +"Let her come to you for five minutes; she can plead her own cause +better than I can." + +"I decline to see her. Tell her so. Tell her I will never have anything +more to do with her," he replies, sternly, leading her to the door, and +shutting her out into the hall. + +She goes back to her cousin, stumbling over Nellie, who is crouched +outside the door, dreading to enter with the story of her non-success. + +"He will see me?" Maud says, hopefully, as she enters. + +"I am very sorry, dear, but he utterly declines," Reine says, +sorrowfully. + +"Of course! I doubt if you ever asked him," Maud cries, irritably. "But, +Reine, what is the matter? You look white and scared? What has +happened?" + +"Vane--Mr. Charteris has gone away," Reine falters, miserably. + +"Gone away--of course. That was the condition on which he married you. +He said he could marry you, but he could not live with you." + +"Maud, why do you tell me these horrible things?" falters the wretched +young bride. + +"To make you as wretched as I am," Maud breaks out, with vindictive +passion in her voice and face. "But it is all true, every word. He said +he would stay away a year, and Mr. Langton must train you to be such a +woman as he could respect and honor; a woman," triumphantly, "like me." + +"God forbid!" Reine says, with a stifled gasp, turning her white face +away that Maud may not see the hopeless pain that shadows the +brightness. + +The door opens and Nellie creeps forlornly in. + +"Oh, Miss Maud," she says, tearfully, "I can't find it, I can't find it! +I've searched high and low but it's nowhere to be found!" + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +How strange are the turns of fortune. Yesterday the beautiful queen of +the county, the heiress of a millionaire, the betrothed of a handsome, +adoring lover; to-day the inmate of a prison, the shadow of a crime +hanging over her head, looked upon with horror and suspicion by those +who, twenty-four hours ago, were ready to fall down and worship her. So +Maud Langton muses drearily. + +Out of all the throng of defaulting friends only one remains to her--the +girl she hates with cordial good-will, the rival who has spoiled all her +hopes, who has married her lover, and who reigns at Langton Villa in her +stead. What bitterness to acknowledge that slight, dark-eyed girl she +has always despised, as the only human being who clings to her, and is +kind to her in this, her dark hour. + +But it is true. It is Reine who takes her by the hand when others fail +her; it is Reine who stands up bravely by her side and declares her +belief in the existence of the mislaid note; it is Reine who almost +pledges herself to find it if only they will give her time--hours, or +days, or weeks, as the case may be. + +And when she has thus declared her purpose, she goes back to Langton +Villa to "beard the lion in his den." + +"Uncle Langton, I am going to New York after Mr. Charteris," she says to +him, coolly. + +"Eh? what--after Vane?" he growls, in his curt fashion. "What's up?" + +"I have important business with him. I _must_ see him, if only for five +minutes." + +The old millionaire looks keenly at the dusky, beautiful face. Some of +the brightness has gone out of it since yesterday. The large, dark eyes +have a strange, intent, far-off look, the lips droop like a grieved +child's, the white rose instead of the red, blooms on her cheek. + +"Child, you look tired and pale. All this excitement has been too much +for you. What is this business with Vane, eh? To scold him for running +away?" + +"Nothing of the sort," with impatient wrath; "a mere matter of business, +as I said to you just now." + +He does not believe her, and in his proud old heart there is a secret +indignation at Vane for his cavalier flitting. Reine shall not run after +him. + +"You mustn't go," he says, bluntly. "I won't have you run after him. +He'll come to of himself, only give him time and let him have his fling +undisturbed. You will only disgust him, going after him. You shall hold +your own, and be as stiff as he is." + +She stares at him, her white hands locked before her, her sweet lips +apart. + +"But, uncle----" she begins. + +"I know," he interrupts, "but believe me, child, I know men better than +you do. You must not seem to care. Remember that you are a bride, +unwooed, as yet, married for spite, not for love. In fact, Vane has gone +away for a time just to accustom himself to the idea of his strange +marriage, and to give you time to--to train yourself for your new +position." + +"To make myself over into a woman like Maud," she breathes, low and +bitterly. + +He starts, evidently disconcerted. + +"Eh? what? Who told you that, Reine?" + +"A little bird in the air whispered it," she retorts, with grim +pleasantry. + +"No such thing. I wish I knew who had been telling tales to you. I'd +wring their necks!" testily. "But you understand, don't you," anxiously, +"how premature it would be to follow him? Give him a little time. He'll +come to his senses fast enough, and thank fortune for his pretty little +wife!" + +"Uncle Langton," indignantly, "do give me leave to speak. Do you think +I'm a love-sick fool to go running after a man that despises me?" + +"I thought you had more sense," he says, beaming upon her; "you give it +up, then?" + +"No, I am determined to go. Try to understand, sir, that it is on no +personal business I wish to see him. It is for--for another. He will +understand." + +"Write to him, then, Reine." + +"It would not do. He is very obstinate, I fancy. I may have to urge him +very persistently." + +Mr. Langton peers at her curiously beneath his shaggy brows. + +"What is this mysterious mission on which you are going, Reine? +Explain." + +The dark lashes fall, veiling her troubled eyes from his keen scrutiny. + +"I cannot tell you; it may turn out a mere chimera; say that I am going +on a 'wild-goose chase,' and you will hit the truth." + +"Of course you know there is not another train until to-morrow," he +observes. "Vane will have had twenty-four hours the start of you." + +"I know that. Still I must follow him," she says, persistently. + +"Then I must tell you. I didn't mean you should know just yet; it is not +likely you will find him in New York when you go. He's off for the other +side of the 'herring-pond.'" + +"Gone abroad!" She starts, and her tortured face whitens. Into her eyes +comes a look of despair. + +"You know he was booked for Europe--he and Maud were, I mean. Their +passage was taken on the steamer which leaves New York to-morrow. Vane +has obstinately chosen to go alone. Never mind, lovey. The young +simpleton will be suing your pardon some day." + +"Never mind me, uncle, I am not thinking of myself," she says, through +white, quivering lips. "Oh, tell me what to do! I must see him for five +minutes only--I must, I must, I _must_! if I have to follow him to +Europe!" + +"Is the case so desperate as that?" he asks; "I will help you, then. +Shall I telegraph him to stay in New York until----" + +"Not until I come," nervously. "_That_ might make him very angry." + +"Until _I_ come, then. For I shall go with you, of course. What could +you do all alone by yourself in big New York?" + +"You will go--oh, you dear, kind uncle, how thankful I am!" she cries, +kissing his withered old cheek in the fervor of her gratitude. "Now, I +shall be brave as a lion. Oh, pray telegraph him this hour, if +possible!" + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +"Now, Reine, I know the hotel where Vane stays when he comes to New +York. If he received my telegram he will be waiting there for me. I will +go and bring him to you." + +They are in a small, private parlor of a hotel in New York. Reine, very +dusty and anxious-looking, is walking up and down the floor, never +having even removed her hat. + +"I will bring him to you," Mr. Langton repeats. "Now, dear, go to your +room and bathe your face and hands, and brush your hair. Do not let your +husband find you so dusty and travel-stained." + +"As if he cared," she says, with infinite mournfulness, yet obeying his +hint all the same. + +She looks with dim, pathetic eyes at the pale, grave face in the mirror. + +"How these few days have changed me," she sighs. "No wonder! Yet I did +not know it was in my nature to suffer such pain. If Vane cared for me +he must be startled at the change. But he does not love me, and never +will, alas!" + +She waits, perhaps the longest half an hour she ever knew in her gay, +careless life. Mr. Langton comes at last--alone! + +"Whew! how confoundedly hot and dusty is New York at this season," he +splutters, mopping his face with his handkerchief. "The thermometer up +in the nineties, and the dust in clouds that choke and blind one. An +hour of life at Langton Villa is worth a year in this noisy, abominable +place. Reine, let us go home." + +She stares at him with wide, dismayed dark eyes. + +"Uncle, he--he is gone?" she falters. + +"Gone, yes, the impertinent young puppy," he growls. "Gone without a +word, utterly ignored me and my telegram. I wish to Heaven----" he +pauses with a dark frown. + +"What, Uncle Langton?" with pathetic wistfulness. + +"That--that I'd never married you to him, the scamp!" he blurts out in a +fury. "He has treated us both with the most distinct contempt. We will +go home, dearie, and Vane Charteris may go to the devil!" + +This from the irate old man, but Reine looks at him bravely. + +"Uncle Langton, I object to your calling names," she says, distinctly. +"Mr. Charteris is my husband. I insist that you shall respect that +fact." + +"A pretty husband," he mutters. + +"No one shall blame him in my hearing," she goes on with shy, pretty +dignity. "After all, it was unfair to hang an unloved wife like a +millstone around his neck." + +"You know all," Mr. Langton mutters, darkly, "but where the deuce you +found out is beyond my ken. If I knew, I'd shoot the fellow that told +you. Well, are you ready to go back to the mountains to-morrow? + +"No, oh, no," she clasps her small hands in anguish. "Oh, uncle, you +promised to leave me your fortune. Give me only just enough money to +follow Vane across the ocean, and I'll resign all the rest!" + +"What, you obstinate little vixen! You are quite determined to follow +him?" + +"I _must_, uncle. Oh, you do not know how much depends on my seeing +him!" + +"And you would cross the great 'herring-pond' alone? I should think you +would be frightened at the thought, you, a green little country girl. +Who knows where Vane may cast his lines? Perhaps among the frog-eating +Frenchmen, or the garlicky Italians. Can you speak French?" + +"Like a native," she responds, with an arch little _moue_. + +"Italian?" + +"Perfectly, and Spanish, too. You know I get my living by my learning," +she laughs, trying hard to be her own bright, careless self. + +He is plainly delighted. + +"Very well, you shall go," he replies. "A steamer sails to-morrow. We +will go in her." + +"_You_," she cries, with incredulous joy. "It will be too wearisome for +you. You are so old." + +"Not a bit," contemptuously. "Do you think I will let you go alone?" + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +The _Sea Gull_ wings her flight blithely and rapidly across the "dark +blue waves," as if she were not freighted with the heaviest heart that +ever beat in breast of mortal man. + +For Vane Charteris, although his passionately longed-for revenge has +come to him in such strange and subtle fashion, is a most unhappy man. + +Mingled with his almost fierce joy at the speedy retribution that has +been dealt out to Maud, his false love, is a stinging, unconquerable +remorse that pursues him like an evil spirit, although he cannot bring +himself to repentance for what he has done. A shuddering horror takes +possession of his soul when he thinks of the cloud of shame and +disgrace, and impending peril lowering darkly over that golden head he +has loved so dearly, but his passionate anger and resentment are +stronger than the languid, admiring affection he had cherished for his +fair, queenly-looking betrothed. + +In the madness of his insulted pride it seems to Vane impossible that he +should lift a finger to save the treacherous one from her terrible fate. + +Arriving in the great, smoky city of London, that is hot and smoky and +altogether unbearable, Vane throws himself into whatever excitement is +going with an _abandon_ and recklessness altogether unlike himself. + +He is bent on losing himself and his tormenting thoughts in the deepest +oblivion he can find, but in less than a week he succumbs to fatigue and +mental agony, and decides that he is "fagged out." Either he must +recuperate or he must die. + +Life is sweet to us all; even to Vane, with his dearest hope gone from +him. + +He decides to run down to the sea-shore a little way, and brace his +constitution with the life-giving sea-breezes. + +He hears of a quiet place, frequented by invalids, authors, and poets, +and such quiet people, "packs his traps" and goes down by the first +train. Behold, it is a coast such as Tennyson portrays: + + "All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave." + +"I shall die of memory and stagnation here in less than a week," he +tells himself grimly, as he paces along the yellow sands up to his +balconied hotel, where a few dispirited invalids and long-haired poets +eye the handsome young American with a dreamy, listless curiosity. "I +shall find health and quiet here with a vengeance. I shall go mad with +this eternal sea!" + +And after one night with the long, low moan of the "sad sea waves" in +his ears, and the ghosts of the past stalking drearily in the haunted +darkness, he stoutly prepares to "fold up his tent like the Arabs, and +silently steal away" to "fresh fields and pastures new." The spirit of +unrest is upon him; strange mood for one who all his life-long had been +indolent, languid, not to say, in Reine's plain English, _lazy_. + +But while he chews the end of his morning segar, and restlessly +meditates on the where to go next, a boy comes to him with a pretty +little three-cornered note. In stupid astonishment he takes it and holds +it unopened in his hand. + +"I was to take back an answer, sir," the lad ventures, as a gentle +reminder. + +Then Vane turns it over and looks at the superscription. It is addressed +to himself in a pretty, graceful hand, with a good deal of character in +it. + +Unfolding it, he reads, with staring eyes: + + "MR. CHARTERIS:--Arriving at the hotel an hour ago, I learned, on + inquiry, that you were at the 'Haven of Rest.' Will you come to me + for ten minutes? Hastily, + + "REINE LANGTON." + +The earth seems to yawn beneath Mr. Charteris' feet. He mutters, on the +uncontrollable spur of the moment, a profane expletive: + +"_The_ devil!" + +"Eh, what, sir?" the lad mutters, uncomprehendingly. + +The words recall Mr. Charteris to his senses, he having been momentarily +shocked out of them. + +"Who gave you this note, boy!" he demands, sternly. + +Really, it seems to him there must be some mistake. Reine, his unloved +wife, here on Albion's wave-washed shore--impossible. + +But the lad replies, distinctly: + +"A young lady at the Sea View Hotel, a very pretty lady, with big black +eyes." + +This description is too suggestive of Reine to admit of further doubt. + +With a suppressed groan, Vane tears a leaf from his memorandum book, and +scribbles, hastily: + + "Reine:--I will be with you in fifteen minutes. + + "VANE." + +Totally forgetting, in his flurry, to put her name upon it, he doubles +the sheet and puts it into the lad's hand with a generous silver piece. + +"Now, fly back to the lady, you young scamp," he apostrophizes. + +As if the reward had lent wings to his feet, the urchin runs lightly +along the sandy shore, and disappears in the distance. + +Vane takes a turn up and down the balcony to steady his nerves. He has +had what some people are wont to call a "turn." + +The authors and invalids eye him with blended curiosity and admiration. +It is not often that a handsome, comely young fellow like this anchors +his bark in this "Haven of Rest." + +"She has followed me here," Vane is saying to himself, through his +compressed lips. "Now, I call _that_ downright bold and unwomanly. It +proves to me more and more how unwise a choice was forced upon me by Mr. +Langton's perverse will. Why did he let her come? And how the deuce am I +to get rid of her? For I swear I won't live with her, at least not yet." + +So saying, he flings on his hat and starts off at a swinging pace along +the sands toward the hotel. + +"I must see what she wants," he says, under his breath, and gnawing the +ends of his golden-brown mustache savagely, while the _habitues_ of the +place watch him carelessly, little thinking that the handsome American +is going unwillingly to the bonniest bride all England holds. + + * * * * * + +He had called her "bold and unwomanly," yet in his heart he is forced to +retract the words when he finds himself in her presence, and the spell +of her dark, bright beauty throws its glamor over him, against his will. + +For Reine, with the pardonable vanity of "lovely woman," has hastened to +make herself fair for her husband's coming. + +In London, while they rested and searched for Vane, Mr. Langton has +bought her a box of what he calls "fine things." Among them is a sheer, +white India muslin morning robe, trimmed with a profusion of fine, rich +lace. Nothing could be lovelier than Reine in this dainty robe, with +deep-hearted crimson roses in her hair and at her belt. + +The slight, graceful figure advances to the center of the pretty morning +parlor, then pauses suddenly, while the curling, black lashes flutter +and fall till they waver against the burning crimson cheeks. + +"You sent for me?" he says, abruptly, noting her sudden shame and +confusion with ungenerous malice. + +"Yes, I--I----" she pauses, and throws up her girlish white hands as if +to ward off a blow. "Oh, do not look at me so," she says, imploringly. +"I _know_ what you are thinking and saying to yourself. It is that--that +I am bold, forward, unlady-like, to have followed you here, when you," a +choking sob, quickly suppressed, "when you despise me so!" + +It is his turn to blush now under the dazzling light of the "dark, dark +eyes" she opens wide upon his face, while she makes her frantic plaint. + +"It is no such thing, pray do not say so," he retorts, fibbing +unblushingly, in that he feels himself, to use his own graphic inward +phrase, "cornered." "Of course you had a perfect right," dejectedly, "to +come after me." + +"Not at all," she says, decidedly. "No right that I would presume upon +thus far. Oh, Mr. Charteris," with a sudden transition from shame and +self-pity to irrepressible mirth, "pray, pray, do not look so dejected +and forlorn. I have not come after you, indeed; that is, not as you +think. I hope to leave here for America to-morrow." + +"Leading me as a captive in your train?" he inquires, not feeling half +so bad at the prospect as he could have imagined ten minutes ago. + +"Certainly not," she replies, in her frank, decisive way; then, a little +frigidly, "pray be seated, sir, and I will unfold to you the business +upon which I have followed you to England." + +He bows silently, turning a little pale beneath his healthy, florid +tinge. + +What an ominous sound that dull, prosaic word, "business," has from her +lovely, heart-shaped, crimson lips. Besides, he feels, to use his own +inward thought again, "_wilted_." She does _not_ want him, as he has +vainly imagined, and ridiculously resented in secret. She is come on a +mere matter of business. She makes him understand that thoroughly by her +pretty, dignified manner that has stiffened into ice. + +"I should not have come--nothing could have induced me to," she goes on, +with sensitive deprecation and lowered eyelids, "only for the sake of +_Maud_." + +"Of Maud!" he starts, and his pallor grows death-like. "What has she to +do with you and me, Reine?" + +She looks up silently, and their glances meet and hold each other a +moment; the velvety black orbs, swimming in golden light, hold a mute +and stern reproach before which the proud, defiant blue ones waver and +shrink, pained and ashamed. + +"I do not understand," he says, sullenly, answering her look against his +will. + +"Oh, yes, you do, you know," she returns with airy frankness. "You +remember poor Mr. Clyde wrote Maud a note, swearing he would kill +himself if she didn't marry him. And Maud lost the note that day she was +in the hammock-chair under the tree. You, Mr. Charteris, found it, and +tucked it into your vest pocket, thinking it of no consequence. But in +that you were mistaken, as you learned the day of the inquest. Oh, Mr. +Charteris, will you give up that note, and pray God to pardon your +wicked revenge?" + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +There is a moment's perfect silence. From deathly white Vane Charteris +has turned to a burning crimson, then marble-pale again. No sound is +heard save the low, hoarse swell of the waves as they break on the rocky +shore. + +"Oh, you did not realize, surely," the girl goes on, with pained eyes, +and clasped hands, "what a terrible thing you were doing when you went +away silently with that note in your possession, that is worth the +wealth of the world to poor Maud Langton. You were blinded by your +wounded pride and insulted love, or you could not have stooped to take +such an ignoble revenge for your wrongs." + +He stares at her still, like one dreaming. Is the girl a witch? How does +she know? + +"Oh, speak!" she breaks out, impatiently. "Have you nothing to say?" + +"You have taken my breath away," he answers. "Why do you bring this +absurd charge against me? Who says," with a sneer, "I have that +wonderful note?" + +"I am your accuser," she answers, fixing upon him the full fire of her +magnetic dark eyes. "I saw you, I was not very far away when Maud left +you that day, I saw you pick up a note from the ground and read it, then +you slipped it into your vest pocket. I am quite sure it was Maud's +note. I do not believe you will deny it." + +"Since you know so much, I will not," he answers, with blended amaze and +defiance. "What then?" + +The beautiful dusky face lights up with the lovely earnestness of hope. + +"You will give it to me," she says. "I have followed you across the wide +ocean to ask you for it." + +"Why should I give it to you?" he asks, with distinct coldness. + +She gives him a glance of blended pride and patience. + +"Not for any grace you owe me, certainly," she says, with gentle +calmness, "but for Maud's sake." + +"Do I owe her any kindness?" he asks, sardonically. + +"You owe her forgiveness, which is divine," she answers, anxiously. + +"I prefer _revenge_. Do you remember these lines? + + "'The sweetest thing upon this earth is love, + And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.'" + +She rises and faces him, something of proud scorn in her free and +girlish bearing. + +"Yes, I remember them, but such sentiments are unworthy of you, Mr. +Charteris. What! are you not the brave, noble gentleman I deemed you? Am +I to blush for my--husband?" + +A subtle thrill, he cannot tell whether it be of pain or pleasure, it is +so intense, shoots through him as the low word falls from her lips. A +passionate shame, evoked by her proud scorn, tingles through all his +frame, yet he says, mockingly: + +"So you own the tie that binds us? I thought not, as when I came just +now and inquired for Mrs. Charteris I was told there was no such person +staying in the hotel. I had to ask for Miss Langton." + +"I am traveling as Miss Langton," she explains, simply, yet coloring +crimson under his keen, cool gaze. + +"May I ask why?" with an unconscious touch of pique in his tone. + +"No, you may not ask," with a great deal of dignity in her tone; then, +suddenly: "Yet I think you should know I am too sensitive to claim the +name you will not accord me of your own free will." + +She opens the scrawl he has sent her awhile ago, holding it open before +his eyes. There is neither name nor address upon it. + +"I, upon my word, I beg your pardon. It was entirely--I give you my word +of honor--unintentional; a mere omission. I was so flurried, you see, +and somehow I forgot. Can you forgive me?" he stammers. + +"With pleasure," she returns, coolly, looking away from his shamed +countenance. "But we have digressed from our subject. We were talking of +Maud and the note you hold. How can you withhold it from her when you +know that her very life hangs upon it?" + +"Reine, do you know that I hate that woman?" he cries, with subdued +fierceness. + +"Then you never loved her," she replied, decisively. + +"I did; but her falsity turned my love to hate," he answers, moodily. + +"No," she answers. + + "'That is not love + That alters where it alteration finds, + Or bends with the remover to remove.'" + +An utter silence which she breaks again, anxiously: "You will not refuse +my prayer? Give me the note and let me go to Maud." + +He turns from her sullenly and looks out of the window at the blue, +sun-gilded waves breaking in snowy foam against the shell-strewn shore. + +"You could not let her suffer for a crime of which she is innocent," the +pleading voice goes on. + +"I suffered innocently," he says, shortly enough, without turning +around. "Why did she make me a mark for the finger of scorn?" + +"You can live _that_ down," she answers. "But she, her very life is at +stake. Do not forget that if she suffers the full penalty of the law, +for this crime of which she is not guilty, her blood will be on your +hands. You will, in the sight of God, and to my knowledge, be Maud's +Langton's murderer." + +Though he will not turn around, she sees the strong shudder that shakes +his frame. + +"You will be a haunted man," she goes on, relentlessly. "By day and by +night you will dream of the girl you have slain. You will remember +always that the golden head you hoped to pillow on your breast is laid +low in a dishonored grave." + +"For God's sake, Reine, why do you torment me so?" he cries, turning +fiercely round upon her. + +"For Maud's sake, and your own sake, and for humanity's sake, and my own +sake," she retorts, bravely. "That Maud's innocence may be vindicated, +that you may be saved from the evil consequences of your wicked revenge, +that the world may see how divine a thing is repentance and forgiveness, +and that I," her brave voice falls to a low, pathetic cadence, "that I +may not have to die of shame because I have given my heart to one so +lost to honor, truth and mercy." + +Vane Charteris stands like one stunned a moment. + +"What a little vixen it is," he says to himself, darkly. "There is no +end to her tongue." + +"I know what you are saying to yourself," the girl breaks in, +vivaciously; "you are wishing I would go away and leave you alone----" + +"You are mistaken," he replies, thinking of a way to put her to +confusion, and silence her tongue that is but a little louder than his +own accusing conscience. "I was thinking of what you said just now. Is +it really true that you have given me your heart?" + +The warm, red color creeps up to her temples under the blue fire of his +steady, curious eyes. She rallies herself with a brave little effort of +will. + +"Yes," she answers, with a little touch of pathos in her low voice. "It +is quite true. Does it amuse you? It is only a girl's heart. You will +break it and throw it from you of course. I have often heard that +women's hearts were men's playthings." + +He regards her in curious silence. Few women would be brave enough to +make that frank admission to a cold, careless, unloving husband. Yet +Reine is as proud as the most, she lacks none of the modesty of her sex. + +There is a curious, restrained pride in her every look and movement now. +And, strange to say, he does not feel disgusted at her pathetic +admission of her love for him. + +"She _loves_ me," he repeats over and over to his heart, looking at the +lissome, daintily rounded figure, and the brilliant face, bright and +rich like a tropical flower, with the softness of emotion lying on it +like dew. "She loves me," and there is a certain masculine vanity in the +thought that he, Vane Charteris, is the lode-star of her girlish dreams. + +But before he can think of anything to say, she goes back, pertinacious, +to the old theme: + +"But we have digressed from the original subject. Once more, Mr. +Charteris, will you give me the note?" + +And he answers, bluntly, almost angrily: + +"No, I will not." + +And for the first time since their interview, Reine shows a sign of +weakness. She reels unsteadily, and throws up her white hands in the +air. + +"I have failed, I have failed," she cries, despairingly. "Oh, you are +merciless; you are a veritable Shylock. Nothing will sate your thirst +for vengeance but a pound of flesh!" + +He catches the falling figure in his arms. For one moment the white, +anguished face rests against his breast, then she opens her eyes and +struggles from his clasp. + +"Do not touch me," she says, with indignant scorn. "You are a monster!" + +And his own conscience, knocking loudly at the door of his heart, echoes +the words. + +"Reine, Reine," he falters, hurriedly, "do not be hasty. Give me a +little time. I will answer you to-morrow." + +"You take back your refusal?" brightening so swiftly that you think of +the sun coming out from under a cloud. + +"Until to-morrow--yes," he says, feeling a sort of relief at his own +words. "You can wait until then?" + +"Yes, for I cannot go until to-morrow. Did I forget to tell you that +Uncle Langton is with me?" + +"Is he, really?" + +"Yes, and I fear the trip has been too much for him, poor old dear," +with loving compassion. "He feels worn and tired. He is lying down this +morning. Will you go to him?" + +"I shall be very glad. Does he--does he know why you came?" + +"No," quietly; then, flushing: "You will not mind if he is a little +cross, and--and fault finding? He is so old, you know, and then he is +tired and half sick." + +"I shall not mind," he answers, a little grimly, as he follows her +through a small suite of rooms to Mr. Langton's own especial one. + +"Mr. Charteris is here, uncle," she says, quietly ushering the visitor +in, and sensitively withdrawing. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +Vane Charteris, entering the cool, breezy white room, with its wide +windows opening upon the sea, encounters the half-indignant gaze of his +old friend, who is lying on a low couch in a silken dressing-gown and +tasseled cap, his wrinkled old hands grasping the knob of his +gold-headed cane, which he proceeds to thump viciously on the floor at +the young man's entrance, thereby expressing the war-like state of his +mind. + +"I hope I see you well, Mr. Langton," airily observes the handsome young +"reprobate," as Mr. Langton mentally dubs him. + +"Then you'll be disappointed," snaps the old millionaire, irefully. +"Never was so mortally used up before in my life. Soul and body will +scarcely hold together. And all on your account, you disobedient young +rascal." + +"Disobedient?" Mr. Charteris queries, in a mild tone, slightly arching +his eyebrows. + +"Disobedient, yes;" with an emphatic thump of the cane. "Didn't you +receive my telegram ordering you to remain in New York until I came?" + +"Ye-es, I did," admits the culprit, with no great show of repentance, +"but being, according to the old law, free, white, and twenty-one, I +didn't seem to see that I was under any man's orders." + +"Nor any woman's either?" testily. + +"Nor any woman's either," Vane repeats, undauntedly. + +"At least I expected a show of courtesy from a young fellow whom I had +tried hard to benefit," Mr. Langton retorts, with his stiffest air. + +Whereat Mr. Charteris, after a little ambiguous cough, puts on a show of +meekness. + +"Ah, there I see my naughtiness," he says. "I acted like a churl. There +can be no two opinions as to _that_. But, sir, if you could only know +the madness of the passion that drove me on, I think you might find some +excuse for me in your heart." + +Mr. Langton, differing from him on this latter point, says nothing in +reply, but discreetly changes the conversation. + +"You talked with Reine?" he inquires. + +"Oh, yes; or, I may say, she talked with me," this ruefully. + +Mr. Langton at this chuckled heartlessly. + +"She has a sharp tongue of her own, I warrant you," he says. + +"Inherited honestly enough," replies Mr. Charteris, with a pointed bow +at the old gentleman. + +"Yes--yes; chip of the old block," Mr. Langton retorts, in nowise +disconcerted at the hint of his niece's resemblance to himself. "Well, +Vane, this mission on which she has followed you abroad--has she +broached it?" + +His yet keen eyes detect the flush that steals up to the young man's +temples as he replies in the affirmative. + +"I hope it was concluded to her satisfaction." + +"It has not been decided yet," Vane replies, with no little +embarrassment. + +"I may not venture to inquire into its nature?" Mr. Langton asks, +curiously. + +"No, I think not--at least, not just yet. Later on you shall hear, +perhaps," Vane responds, ambiguously, and with very palpable confusion. + +They have some desultory conversation, then Mr. Langton asks, casually: + +"Well, and have you enjoyed your '_outing_?'" + +"Recklessly," responds he. + +"I don't think I quite enter into your meaning," the old millionaire +retorts; and Vane, laughing carelessly, replies: + +"I mean I have enjoyed it down to the ground, as the fellows say here." + +"Humph! looks as if you had been dissipating straight through," Mr. +Langton comments, glaring keenly at him under his shaggy brows. "You +don't ask me anything about that wretched girl," he says, startlingly. + +"Reine has told me," Vane replies, pale to the lips. + +"Serves her right. I can't, for my life, feel sorry for the treacherous +little cat! To think that she should have treated me so!" said the +vindictive old man. + +"This affair is likely to go hard with her," says Vane, with +admirably-acted indifference. + +"Pooh! nothing of the sort," Mr. Langton returns, trying to salve his +uneasy conscience. "No danger of such a pretty girl as Maud coming to +grief. That cold, white beauty that reminds you," maliciously, "of a +lily, would win over any jury in the world." + +They discussed the subject a little while, carelessly, almost +unfeelingly, it would seem, since Maud Langton has been so much to them +both a little while ago; then the old millionaire turns carelessly, to +all intent, to another subject. + +"Do you know it seemed to me superlatively ridiculous to be dragging my +old, sapless bones so far as this, dancing attendance on another man's +wife?" + +Vane colors, then turns aside the implied reproach. + +"It must have weighed upon you, certainly," he responds. "I am rather +surprised at such thoughtlessness, even on the part of Reine. Why did +you let her persuade you?" + +"Nothing of the kind. I simply came in spite of her. Did you think I +would have suffered your wife to come alone, Vane?" + +"Will you smoke?" Mr. Charteris inquires, proffering a choice Havana, +and lighting one himself. + +Mr. Langton, taking one gingerly between his fingers, resumes: + +"There is a good deal more to Reine than we thought for. I am downright +pleased over the exchange of heiresses I made. I wish now, seeing how +all fell out, that I had taken her without encumbrance." + +"Meaning me?" Vane asks, with an uncomfortable flush. + +"Meaning _you_," Mr. Langton replies, beginning to puff away furiously +at his Havana, as if he were a smoke-stack. "You see I am mistaken in +you, Vane. After all you said I didn't believe it was in you to treat +your bride in such a cavalier style. If I had thought you would really +run away from Reine the next day, and set all the country talking and +sneering, you might have gone to the devil before I'd have given you my +pretty little niece!" + +"The regret is mutual, sir," Vane replies, with some heat; and then, +glancing up, warned by some strange instinct, he sees his unloved wife +standing just within the door. + +She has entered just in time to catch Mr. Langton's closing speech and +the angry answer. + +Vane sprang to his feet, very red and confused. + +"I--I beg your pardon," he says, in the utmost confusion. + +She bows, speechlessly. Her face has gone quite white; her eyes shun +his in a kind of fearful shame. She says at last, in a strange voice, +but with desperate calmness: + +"I feared Uncle Langton would be rude to you. You must pardon him, and +pardon me." + +"For what?" he gains courage to ask, a little blankly. + +"For our share in making you unhappy," she answers, very low. + +Something in the proud humility of her attitude strikes a remorseful +pang through his heart. + +She stands alone in the center of the room, slender and graceful as a +young palm tree, her head drooped slightly forward, the dew of unfallen +tears shining like pearls in her long, dark lashes. She is like, yet +unlike, the giddy Reine of a month ago. + +"There is nothing to pardon," he says, in a flurried tone, "Mr. Langton +was right. I have acted very badly--like a brute, in fact. You must wish +you had never seen me." + +"Yes," she says, low, but steadily. "It would have been so much better +for you." + +"I did not mean that," says he, disconcerted. + +"You are good enough to say so," she replies, with delicate disbelief, +and then she goes up to her uncle. + +"The physician you sent for is here," she says. "Shall I send him in?" + +"Are you so bad as that?" Vane asks, with a slight start. + +"Yes; I can scarce hold myself together," Mr. Langton replies, and his +trembling old hands attest the truth of his words. "I must have +something for my nerves or I shall not be able to stir from this +to-morrow." + +Vane rises, glad to get away under any terms. + +"_Au revoir_," he says. "I will call again to-morrow." + +He goes back to the Haven of Rest with the poets, æsthetes and such +people, lounging on the balconies. That name is a misnomer. It appears +to him a haven of unrest. He wanders away to the shell-strewn beach, and +smokes like a chimney while he reviews the situation. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile, the physician attending Mr. Langton has thrown a bomb-shell +into that camp. + +"You are quite broken down and exhausted," is his dictum. "Rest and +recuperation are what you need. I will leave you a tonic, and in about +ten days you may be well enough to be taken for a short drive, and in +two days more you may be strong enough to walk down to the sea-shore, +and----" + +"Distraction, man!" thunders the irascible invalid. "Do you think I have +come to this place to stay a year? No, sir. I am going to start back to +America to-morrow." + +"But, my friend, you know that is quite impossible," laughs the stout, +good-natured physician. "At your time of life, recuperation goes on but +slowly, and----" + +"I tell you I'm as young as I ever was," this from Mr. Langton, in tones +of mulish obstinacy. + +"And I tell you you're breaking down of old age, and you'll not stir +from this for two weeks; if you do you'll risk your life. You understand +me, young lady?" turning to Reine. + +"Yes, sir, and your directions shall be implicitly carried out." + +"But, Reine," he objects when the doctor has gone, "you know you said it +would be impossible we should stay beyond to-morrow." + +"We must manage some way--you must not be hurt by our haste. We will go +as soon as we can, that is all," she answers, patting his cheek, then +turning gently from him to the window. + +The dark, blue waves go splashing softly past under the gaze of her +dark, sad eyes. A thought comes into her mind: + + "But most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love. + The honey of poison flowers, and all the measureless ill." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +"Another day. Never was mortal so glad to behold daylight," ejaculated +Vane Charteris, yawning with all the weariness of one who has seen the +long hours of a sleepless night glide past. + +This is somewhat an unusual experience for our hero, but for once mind +has so far triumphed over matter as to keep the drowsy god Somnus far +away. A day and a night have been passed in vexing thought. Now when +the first golden beams of sunshine gild the sea, he rises weary and +unrefreshed, and goes for a stroll on the shore, this early outing being +also a novel experience for him. + +Early as it appears to him, others are astir before him. He meets +several people returning from an early morning dip in the briny element. + +Down on the sands he comes face to face with a vision fresh and fair as +the summer morn itself--Reine, in a graceful boating dress, stepping +lightly into a little boat that rides at anchor on the tide. + +As she takes up the oars with consummate skill, his voice falls on her +hearing, giving her a shock of surprise: + +"Good morning; will you carry a passenger?" + +She lifts to him her lovely face, flushed with a Hebe-like bloom, the +light of the new day sunning itself goldenly in her pansy-dark eyes. + +Somehow in this out-of-doors chance encounter there is none of the +embarrassment that would attend a formal meeting in the house. There is +even some of the old time _badinage_ and sauciness in her tones as she +replies: + +"Can I believe my ears or my eyes? Mr. Charteris out at this unheard-of +hour? I thought you 'never, never----'" + +"'Well, hardly ever,'" he returns, with a spice of malice. "How came you +to do it yourself?" + +"Because I always _do_, you know," she returns, smilingly. "I have been +out some time; I have had a glorious bath in the sea this morning, have +you?" + +He laughs no, and again renews his petition to be taken in, to which she +assents, carelessly. + +"I did not know you could manage a boat," he observes, as with a +skillful sweep of the oars she turns the little craft forward, dancing +lightly on the crest of the waves. + +"Did you not? Well, that is not strange, seeing how little you know of +me anyway. I am a good swimmer, too. You would not have guessed that?" +she says, lightly. + +"No, and yet it is a knowledge all women should possess," he returns. +"Where have you learned these things?" + +"My father taught me. He wanted me to be thorough in such things as well +as in more lady-like accomplishments." + +"He must have been a sensible man," Mr. Charteris comments to himself, +and then there is a silence broken only by the soft, steady splash of +the oars in the water. An embarrassing consciousness has fallen over +both. Vane is thinking to himself that after all there may be some +excuse for the _brusquerie_ and wildness of the little savage, as he +sometimes unkindly termed her in his thoughts. He remembers what Maud +had told him of her tuition under her father. Masculine training would +be apt to give her that touch of wildness. + +She in her turn studies him shyly, but intently. She sees the haggard +impress of the sleepless night on the pale, handsome face, and about the +dark-blue eyes, with their slight heaviness and the faint blue circles +around them. Impulsively she speaks: + +"You have thought the matter well over. You will forego your revenge and +save Maud?" + +"Why should you think so? What sign have I given of yielding?" he asks, +curiously. + +"Your face, even your voice betrays you. If you had decided to refuse my +prayer, you would look and speak differently. You would despise +yourself, and your very looks would reveal it." + +"I did not know you were such a close observer," he replies, "but it is +true. You have saved me from myself, Reine." + +As he speaks he leans forward, tossing a folded paper into her lap. The +oars lie idle a moment, as they drift at the mercy of the wind and tide, +while she reads the precious note. + +Then she lifts her eyes, full of eloquent thankfulness, to his face. + +"I expected no less of you," she says. "I knew you could not be so cruel +to Maud." + +The handsome blonde face darkens. + +"It was not solely for Maud's sake," he replies. "Pray remember that I +would not have yielded to you, Reine, only--only you showed me so +plainly what a monster I was, and how truly I would be that false girl's +murderer if I persevered. And then--then, I could not bear to have my +wife ashamed of me." + +He looks away consciously as he speaks. A thousand tingling little +arrows of rapture shoot through her frame as the low words, "my wife," +fall from his lips; spoken not harshly nor sneeringly, but kindly, +almost tenderly. Is it possible, she asks herself, in thrilling silence, +that he may one day forgive her, and be kind to her--nay, even give her +love for love? + +"I remembered," he goes on, even more kindly, "that this was the _first_ +request my wife had made of me, and I could not choose but grant it." + +He can be dangerously winning when he pleases. It pleased him to be so +then--perhaps to try his power over her. The result is quite +satisfactory. The rich color leaps to her cheeks, the light of joy +flashes into her deep, dark eyes, the low-breathed answer is freighted +with emotion. + +"I thank you more than I can express for your kindness," she answers, +earnestly. "You make me very happy." + +"Then, while you are in that pleasant mood, there is something I must +ask you," he ventures. + +"Yes?" She flashes him a bright, swift look of inquiry. + +He is silent for a moment. He has an air of confusion that does not sit +ill upon him. + +"Reine," he says, "it was all a mistake, your traveling under your +maiden name. It--it places you in a false position." + +"No one knows aught of us here--it cannot matter," she replies, with a +blush, and quickly-drawn breath. + +He studies the beautiful face attentively. How fair, how young, how +lovely it is. How sweet the heart-shaped, crimson lips, how long and +dark the lashes that droop against her cheeks. How luxuriant and long +the silken tresses that float like a banner on the fresh morning breeze. +And she loves him; some strange, sweet thrill strikes through him +whenever he recalls the truth she had owned with such pathetic +frankness. + +"I have acted badly--no one realizes that fact more than I do," he +continues, gravely; "but, Reine that is past. I am your husband; you are +my wife, shall we let bygones be bygones and begin again?" + +"You mean----" she says, giving him a little wondering look. + +"I mean," he replies, "that I will go back to America to-day with you, +and I will try to do my duty by you in future if only you will forgive +me for shirking it in the first instance, and running away in such a +dastardly fashion." + +Two crimson spots rise into her cheeks, her lashes fall lower. + +"But--but we are not going back to-day," she explains, in an agitated +voice, telling him what her uncle's physician had said. + +"Not get away for two weeks?" he says. "Very well, Reine, then I shall +leave the Haven of Rest and come to stay at Sea View Hotel, and it must +be publicly made known that you are mine." + +"Indeed you will not, then," she breaks out with sudden self-assertion. +"I am not willing." + +"Not willing?" he cries, and Reine's quick ear fancies it detects a tone +of relief in his voice. "You refuse to be my wife, Reine--woman-like, +taking revenge for a transient wrong." + +"It is not that," she says, falteringly; "I am not angry with you, Vane, +but it is best to--to wait." + +"Until when?" he asks, bending his curious eyes on the bright, arch +face. + +And looking frankly at him, she replies, gently: + +"Until love comes." + +"Until love comes?" he repeats, blankly. "But I thought you owned----" + +"Yes, I know," she says, checking him with uplifted finger, "but I mean +mutual love." + +With a light dip of the oars she whirls the boat around on its homeward +way. The graceful head is poised in a free, half-haughty fashion. He +cannot understand the strange look on the dusky, lovely face. It is +neither pride nor humility, yet a strange blending of both. + +After a moment she says in her clear, sweet voice, toned to a softer +cadence than usual: + +"Do not think me stubborn that I refuse to own your claim just now, +Vane--I am proud in my own way. I cannot come to you until you wish it +from your heart." + +He is silent, gazing at her in sheer perplexity. She goes on gently: + +"You see I was deceived at first, Vane--not willfully--I do not accuse +you of _that_, but I fancied there must be in your heart some little +spark of tenderness for love to grow upon. When I found out my +mistake--how my uncle had forced the match upon you, and how but for my +too eager consent Maud might have been yours, I--well, _it was hard to +bear_! So I would rather wait, Vane--until the year you wished is over. +Perhaps by then, the soreness of your regret for--another--will be past, +and your heart may be open to me." + +Has the moisture of the sea got into his eyes that they look so dim? He +draws his handkerchief across them, and can find no words to answer. So +she resumes, after a minute's weary waiting: + +"I am not perverse, Vane. I am not fighting against my fate--only trying +to make the best of it. You will give me a fair chance to win your heart +before I wear your name? Will you not?" + +"Yes," he answers, wondering at her strangeness. + +"Thank you. Now we will return to my uncle. I will take the liberty to +invite you to breakfast with him. Will you come?" + +"Yes, thank you," he replies, and the little boat touching the shore, +they spring out and go up the walk together, both very silent and +thoughtful. He begins to think that Mr. Langton's quaint phrase of +yesterday is true. "There is more in Reine than we suspected." + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +A sociable breakfast for three being laid in Mr. Langton's room, the +small party proceed to enjoy it, Vane and Reine with appetites sharpened +by the early morning air, and the sharp sea-breeze. + +The old millionaire regards the young people curiously beneath his +shaggy brows. Something in their expressions makes him say, confidently: + +"You have come to an understanding regarding that secret mission, you +two, I see." + +"Yes," Reine answers, giving him a radiant glance from under her +drooping, black-fringed lashes. + +"And you are ready to return to America?" + +"As soon as you are strong enough," Reine makes answer, trying not to +let him see her inward anxiety to be gone. + +"It is too bad that this old hulk of mine should be the means of +detaining you," he grumbles. "What shall you do now?" + +She lifts her dark, inquiring eyes to the face of Mr. Charteris. He +nods, affirmatively. + +"I will tell you, uncle," she replies. "I shall write to Maud's counsel, +and tell him I have found the missing note, and that I shall soon +return, bringing it with me. He must obtain a stay of proceedings until +my return." + +"And this was your mission abroad?" Mr. Langton queries, surprised. + +She smiles and nods, and Mr. Charteris comes in for his share of the old +man's scrutiny. + +"Then _you_ had the note, Vane!" he says. + +"Yes, sir," he responds, rather shame-facedly. + +Mr. Langton looks from one to the other of the expressive faces, and +comes to a very fair comprehension of the truth. + +After a moment passed in silent thought, he breaks out with +irrepressible enthusiasm: + +"Reine, you are a trump!" whereat both the young people laugh with +contagious merriment. + +"Where are you staying, Vane?" Mr. Langton queries. + +"At the Haven of Rest. I wished to change my quarters to the Sea View +Hotel, but this imperious little lady here forbids me," he replies. + +The keen little old eyes turn curiously on the crimsoning face of the +girl. + +"Why should you do that?" he asks, and stammering some incoherent excuse +Reine flies from the room. + +Then Vane rather ruefully explains the reason. To tell the truth he +begins to feel ashamed of himself, the more so that Mr. Langton applauds +Reine's determination. + +"I am proud of her," he declared. "I was vexed at first. I thought she +meant to follow you and plead her own case. Now I cannot help but glory +in her nobility and her reasonable pride. She has the head of a Solomon +on her young shoulders. If you were not blind, Vane, you could not fail +to see what an adorable girl you have married." + +"She is different from what I thought, certainly," Vane admits, gravely. + +"She can hold her own--I am glad of that," Mr. Langton grunts, amicably. +"You see you could not have her for the asking. Serves you right. There +is hardly any excuse for the way you acted." + +"It was outrageous, certainly," Vane answers, with admirable penitence, +"but I wish she would have made it up and let me come here. The Haven of +Rest is a dry place certainly--given up to invalids and poky people." + +"I hear that Sea View is rather gay," Mr. Langton replies. "Some new +people arrived this morning. There is talk of a ball to-night." + +"A ball! Will Reine go down?" Mr. Charteris inquires. + +"Scarcely, I think. You see I shall not be able to escort her." + +"Perhaps she will allow me that honor," Mr. Charteris observes, +promptly. + +"Perhaps so," Mr. Langton responds, with a dry smile. + +The ball comes off. Vane constitutes himself the attendant cavalier of +Reine. In a white lace dress with Marechal Neil roses on her breast and +in her hair, she has never looked more brilliant and beautiful. There is +a softened grace about her, a new light in her eyes that is wondrously +winning. She is withal a perfect dancer, embodying the very poetry of +motion. + +Some very pretty girls are present, some very nice men, but Reine is the +belle of the ball. Mr. Charteris looks on in surprise. Reine had not +been appreciated at Langton Villa. + +"You have not given me a single dance," he says to her late in the +evening. + +"You have not asked me," she replies, in just the slightest tone of +reproach, "and now I cannot; my card is full." + +She floats away with a partner who has just claimed her. Vane, leaning +carelessly against a chair in the corner, watches her languidly. She +seems to enjoy herself. Smiles hover on the crimson lips, the dark eyes +flash beneath their curling lashes. + +Suddenly someone comes up to him--an acquaintance he has formed in +London, and who has, somehow, found his way to this secluded spot. + +"Ah, Charteris, how-de-do," the new-comer says, unceremoniously. "Who is +the dark-eyed beauty? I've been watching her this half hour." + +"Which one, Sir George?" with affected nonchalance. + +"By Jove! there is but one, you know, the divinity in white lace and +yellow roses. I saw you speaking to her just now," returns Sir George +Wilde, with a look of interest in his handsome brown eyes. + +"_That!_" says Mr. Charteris, "oh, that is--Miss Langton," with a +curious hesitation over the name. + +"Friend of yours?" inquires the dashing young baronet. + +"Slight acquaintance," Charteris answers, warily. + +"A compatriot, I take it," pursues Sir George. + +Vane nods affirmatively. + +"You'll introduce me, then?" + +"With her permission," Vane responds, a trifle stiffly. + +"_That_, of course," laughs Sir George. + +A little later Vane goes to her to proffer his request. She stands for +the moment alone in the embrasure of a window, her dark eyes turned from +the giddy dancers out upon the mystic, lonely sea, with the moon and +stars asleep upon its breast. He tells her, watching the bright face +narrowly, that an English baronet has been so attracted by her beauty +that he desires an introduction. Will she accord it? + +The laughing, dark eyes, a spice of mischief in their starry depths, +glance up into his own. + +"A baronet!" she says, making a little round O of her rosy mouth. "Do +you think, Mr. Charteris, I could really bear the burden of such an +honor without being crushed by it?" + +"You can but try," he retorts, lightly. "England expects every man and +every woman to do their duty." + +"Then I am ready for the sacrifice," she laughs, as lightly. + +He looks at her a moment in thoughtful silence. + +"Well?" she asks, interpreting a question in his look. + +"It is this, then, Reine: I am placed in an awkward position. How shall +I introduce you--as Miss Langton, or as--as Mrs. Charteris?" + +He flushes uncomfortably as the words leave his lips. His bride's face +reflects the crimson glow. After a minute she replies, with outward +indifference: + +"Better, perhaps, as--Miss Langton, according to our agreement this +morning." + +Some slight feeling of pique rises in his heart. He will not own to +himself that when he condescended to ask her the question he had thought +to give her pleasure, and had felt, too, that he should not be ashamed +to see this peerlessly-lovely girl wearing his name. + +"Perhaps she does not really care for me as she pretended," he thinks to +himself, and the first spark of jealousy is lighted in his heart when he +sees her long lashes fall before Sir George's admiring gaze, and sees +with what calm and graceful self-possession she acknowledges the +introduction to the handsome, titled nobleman. "Who would have thought, +when she first came to Langton Villa, that the wild little 'school +ma'am' had so much dignity?" he thinks. "Is it, after all, a new phase +of her character, or was I simply blinded then by my admiration for +Maud? It seems that Sir George is irresistibly attracted by her graces. +What can he see in the girl that I was blind to?" + +And full of this wonder, he sets himself to watch the young baronet, who +hovers around Reine with the palpable desire of the "moth for the star." + +The whole room sees his admiration, and smiles at the fair American's +conquest. + +Vane is a good deal amused, and unknowingly piqued. + +"What barefaced admiration," he says, within himself. "The young dandy +is falling in love with my wife, confound him!" + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +At a rather early hour the next morning, Mr. Charteris is astir, and out +upon the sands. + +Not so early as some others, though, he finds, for in a merry group of +young people on the sands, he meets Sir George Wilde in close proximity +to Reine. Vane, giving them a careless good-morning, passes on to some +little distance, where he pauses with folded arms, and a slightly sulky +aspect, to look out over the wide waste of heaving sea, his shapely +back turned resolutely on the merry-makers. + +"Confound the fellow's impudence," he remarks to himself, with needless +savagery. "How he follows her around. Of course she would rather be with +me. She loves me, or pretends to." + +Why he should feel vexed at Sir George's monopoly of his, Vane's, +unloved bride he could not explain to himself. Yet the feeling is there. + +Glancing furtively over his shoulder, and seeing the undeniably handsome +and well-matched pair strolling on side by side, creates a feeling of +decided ill-humor within him. + +"It is quite a flirtation," he tells himself. "Reine should know better, +being a married woman. But perhaps she has taken a fancy to the fellow. +Perhaps she was mistaken in the notion that she cared for me. She had +seen no one else then. But now, meeting this handsome, spoony young +baronet, she may regret this nasty marriage as much as I do." + +While these thoughts flash through his mind, the gay hum of voices die +away. The party have gone out of sight, and a sudden resolution comes +into Vane's mind. + +"I'll go and breakfast with the old gentleman again," he thinks. "After +all it's only the proper thing to call and inquire for his health. Of +course Reine will not have come in from her walk yet." + +In this he deceives himself. Reine is there by the side of the old man's +couch, with a lapful of rosy-tinted shells which she is displaying with +a good deal of childish pleasure in their acquisition. + +"Sir George found this one; isn't it a beauty?" she is saying, +vivaciously, as the door opens, and Mr. Charteris is ushered in. + +A start, a blush, a dimpling smile. She rises, gathering her treasures, +child-like, in her apron overskirt. + +Mr. Charteris, vouchsafing her a careless nod, passes on to Mr. Langton. + +"I hope I find you better this morning, and rested?" he observes, taking +the chair Reine places, without seeming to see her. + +"A trifle easier, yes," Mr. Langton responds, with more than ordinary +graciousness, and then Vane steals a furtive glance at Reine. + +Some of the brightness that came into her face at his entrance has faded +from it. She has quietly seated herself again, her long lashes droop to +the shells in her lap, which she fingers rather at random. + +"So the baronet helped you gather shells," he remarks, condescendingly. + +She looks up, with returning smiles. + +"Yes," she returns, spreading the pretty collection out to view. "Will +you look at them? Some are quite pretty." + +"Reine has been telling me about your friend," put in Mr. Langton. "He +was very kind." + +"Not my friend, a mere acquaintance," Vane replies with acerbity. "I saw +him a few times in London; he is wild, rather." + +"Indeed! and _I_ thought him so nice," Reine says, with dismay. + +"So he _is_ nice; wildness, a little, you know, doesn't count," Vane +hastens to say, ashamed of the spirit in which he has spoken a moment +before. "Sir George is unexceptionable, rich, titled, and all that. He +is what the ladies term a most desirable _parti_. A pity you are +a-a-already married, Reine." + +"Were I free he could be nothing to me," Reine retorts, a crimson flame +coming to her cheeks. + +Mr. Langton, struck by something in Vane's tone, looks from one to the +other of the flushed faces, and says, laughingly: + +"O-ho, my fine young lad, jealous, are you?" + +Mr. Charteris is positively indignant. + +"Don't tease, if you please, Mr. Langton," he retorts, with immense +dignity. "Jealousy only exists with love, you know. And I haven't +pretended to fall in love with my wife yet!" + +With this most ungenerous stab, he flies out of the room in a passion. + +The rosy-lipped shells fall unheeded from Reine's lap to the floor as +she rises and stands before her uncle, the bitter tears of shame +crowding into her eyes. + +"Oh, Uncle Langton, how _could_ you--how _could_ you?" she cries, in +bitter distress. "It--it is too--too absurd. He never could, you +know----" + +"There--there, don't cry, dear," he soothes, gently. "I am an old +bungler, I know, and I shouldn't have said it so plain, but the fact +remains. Vane Charteris, whether he knows it or not, is falling in love +with you, my dear, and is correspondingly jealous of the baronet's +attentions to you." + +The beautiful dark eyes looked at him incredulously. She shakes her +head. + +"You are mistaken," she answers, decidedly. "Your hopes mislead you. +Confess now," smiling pensively through her tears, "that 'the wish was +father to the thought.'" + +"Perhaps so," he answers, willing to drop the subject and sorry he had +agitated it. + + * * * * * + +Vane goes home rather ruefully, without breakfasting with Mr. Langton, +as he had promised himself. + +"What possessed me to be so rude, I wonder?" he soliloquizes. "Though I +did not love her, it was awkward and ill-considered to cast it in her +teeth. I begin to believe that it is I who am brusk and unmannerly, not +she." + +The day goes, long and wearily it seems to Vane, who is conscious of +some new feeling he cannot realize, perhaps does not try to. + +He smokes and reads, turning an unsociable cold shoulder on the rather +dry _habitues_ of the hotel. In the evening, drawn by "a spirit in his +feet," and thoroughly _ennuyed_ with his own society, he saunters over +to the Sea View Hotel. + +On his way he meditates rather slowly. + +"It is doubtful whether she will receive me," his musings run. "I was +rude this morning. Of course the little spitfire will resent it. She has +too much spirit to tamely brook such shameless impudence. I certainly +forgot myself in my vexation at that stupid old man." + +The wide balcony of the Sea View presents a pleasant sight. A dozen or +two of "young men and maidens" are assembled on it, some sitting, some +walking, but one and all flirting with the greatest interest and +delight. + +Vane's quick eye singles out one solitary figure sitting apart from the +rest, a slight, girlish one in white, the dark head bent over a book. + +To this figure Vane goes forward, not without a lurking dread of meeting +a petulant repulse. + +He stops behind her chair, and Reine, startled, looks around. + +Vane is relieved to find that there is no resentment in her face, only a +new, sweet gravity a little strange to see on the piquant, girlish face. + +"Ah, it is you, Mr. Charteris!" she says, carelessly. "You left us so +unceremoniously this morning, I fear--thought you would not return." + +Vane slips into the chair beside her, his heart unconsciously lightened +of the burden that has weighed it down all day. + +"To tell the truth I was half-afraid to come," he answers; "I was very +rude to you this morning, and I knew you had reason to resent it, and +expected you would. You remember you were wont to give me a piece of +your mind very often in the days 'when we were first acquainted.'" + +"Yes, but things are changed, you know," she returns, gently. + +Reine is changed too. The thought flashes over him suddenly as he looks +at her keenly, taking advantage of her momentary obliviousness of his +presence. + +She has folded her very small and slender white hands across the book in +her lap, and is gazing a little dreamily out to sea. + +The dark eyes are not so free and glad as they were of old. + +They have grown larger and vaguely sad, the peachy cheek, rounded +daintily like a child's, is pale to-day, the crimson lips have a slight, +pathetic droop. Something in the softened loveliness of the brilliant +face goes to his heart like a wordless reproach. + +For a moment he regrets the arch, daring, sparkling face that used to +flash defiance at him and his opinions. + +"You are changed, too, Reine," he says, unconsciously putting his +thought into words. "You used to scold me when I was naughty. I hope you +are not afraid of me now because you are my wife?" + +A great wave of color surges into her cheek at his words. She turns on +him the half-shy gaze of the frank, dark eyes. + +"Afraid of you--oh, no, it is not that," she says. "But you disliked my +wild ways so much that I have tried to be more what you wished me, more +dignified, more gentle." + +He looks at her with a half question in his blue eyes, a flush on his +handsome face. + +"Like Maud," she explains, further. + +"Like Maud--why, really," he begins, with supreme anger and sarcasm, but +she interrupts him, somewhat incoherently: + +"I thought--I was told, I mean that--that I was to stay with Uncle +Langton a year, and be formed over into a woman like Maud." + +His blue eyes darken with shame and anger. + +"So you have heard _that_!" he says, with self-contempt. "I was a fool, +a dolt. Give over the attempt, Reine. You can never be like Maud any +more than--than a rose is like a lily!" + +"So I thought," she answers, visibly abashed. "Maud is so grand, and +white, and queenly, and I am so little, and dark, and ugly." + +"That is not true," he answers, hastily. "You are beautiful, Reine. I am +sure you know _that_. You are like a beautiful 'queen-rose,' all +sweetness, color and dew, 'set round with little willful thorns.' Maud +is like a grand white calla lily, beautiful, but devoid of sweetness and +perfume." + +"The lily is the most beautiful of all flowers," the girl answers, +sighing. + +"But the rose is the emblem of love," he replies, smiling as the swift +color floods her cheeks. + +She has no answer ready, and he goes on with some embarrassment: + +"Do not try to be like Maud, Reine. Though so beautiful and stately, +she was mercenary and treacherous. Perhaps a less perfect manner is +preferable with a heart free from guile. Do you not think so?" + +Before she can reply, Sir George Wilde comes up to them. His eyes rest +admiringly on the beautiful, graceful, dark-eyed girl by the side of +Vane Charteris. + +"Sentimentalizing and reading poetry?" says the intruder, looking at +Reine's book. "Upon my word it is simply shocking, the number of +flirtations going on this evening. Miss Langton, let me see your +verses," coolly taking the open volume from her hand. + +Vane, looking off to sea, unreasonably vexed, and out of humor, hears +him reading in a clear, full voice, the lines on which Reine's hands +have been closely folded since he sat down by her. + + "'We stand at the window watching, + Oh, God! through the glass of time, + For the sails of our hopes to blossom + Out on life's horizon line. + + "'And we see not across the islands + The clouds that come up the sun, + Until they have folded in silence + The headlands one by one. + + "'And the winds to each other calling + Over the waters pass, + And we say: "They are wrecked at dawning, + The hopes of our lives, alas!"'" + +"Lugubrious reading, certainly," comments the lively young baronet. +"Does Charteris enjoy that style of poetry for a summer evening by the +sea?" + +"I--I was not reading to Mr. Charteris," the girl stammers, vaguely +confused. "I was reading when he came, and then I laid the book down." + +Both men regard her a little gravely. + +The touch of sadness in face and voice is strange, yet sweet, in the +young and lovely girl. + +Sir George tells himself that there is some depth to this lovely +American girl, and wonders why Charteris doesn't fall in love with her. + +For himself, he is very far gone indeed, and Vane, irritated by his +society, abruptly announces that he will go up and see Mr. Langton. + +"He will be very pleased, I know," Reine answers, brightening suddenly, +and Vane turns away with a sudden angry conviction that she is glad to +have him gone. + +Sir George is glad at least, there can be no two opinions as to that. He +settles himself delightedly in Vane's vacated chair. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +"I have a proposition to make to you," Vane says, after he has conversed +with Mr. Langton awhile on indifferent subjects. + +Mr. Langton, lying on his couch, looking dull and weary, glances up with +some interest. + +"Well?" he says, abruptly. + +"I saw your physician to-day," Vane observes, slightly embarrassed. "He +thinks it would be at the risk of your health if you left this place +under a month." + +"The rascal! He's keeping me here to swell his fee for attendance, +that's all," groans the millionaire; "well, and what has that to do with +your proposition, eh?" + +"A great deal. You know your delay in returning to America is attended +with serious risk to Maud Langton, languishing in prison, and waiting +for a release that cannot come until she regains possession of that note +that is to prove her innocence." + +"I have urged Reine to return alone, but she is unwilling to leave me," +Mr. Langton answers, hastily. + +"There would be no risk in doing so," Vane replies, "with a competent +nurse left in charge of you. It is of that I wished to speak to you. +Persuade Reine to go back without you. I will myself accompany her." + +"_You!_" Mr. Langton exclaims, in such thorough surprise, that Vane +flushes a deep red. + +"Yes," he answers, a little testily, "I will go with her. Why not? She +is my wife." + +"Certainly, and it will be a very good plan," Mr. Langton replies, +secretly delighted at Vane's repentance, but pretending to be very calm +and non-committal. + +"You see," Vane continues, with a sigh of relief, "after the business +that took us home was concluded, I should bring Reine back. By that time +you would be well and strong again, and we would travel some, the three +of us, and remain abroad some time. Do you like my plan?" + +"Very much. I am pleased with the idea. Have you spoken with Reine on +the subject?" + +"No, not yet. To tell the truth I have relied on you to persuade her. I +might fail, you know. Will you undertake to plead my case for me?" +inquires Vane, blushing like a girl. + +"I thought you were lawyer enough to plead your own case," laughs the +old millionaire. + +"You see, this is different," answers Vane. "I--I do not quite +understand Reine. I do not know how she would receive such a proposal. +Perhaps she would laugh at me. I should have to plead as a lover, not as +a lawyer. Only imagine the spirited little lady laughing in my face." + +"I do not believe it is likely," Mr. Langton replies. "But since you are +so afraid of your wife, I will speak to her about the matter. But, pray +tell me, is your anxiety solely over Maud, or are you reconciled to your +strange marriage?" + +A step at the door, a hand at the latch, and Reine comes in, +interrupting the answer hovering on his lips. Vane rises abruptly. + +"I will go down and smoke my segar on the balcony," he says, then, +looking at his wife: "Reine, will you walk on the sand with me +afterward? It will be moonlight, and the nights are very pleasant." + +A smile of surprise and pleasure lights the changeful face into +splendor. + +"Thank you, I shall like it very much," she answers, with some inward +wonder at his kindness. + +"I will wait for you, then, on the balcony," he replies, and when he's +gone, Mr. Langton hastens to tell her of Vane's proposal. + +Her color comes and goes, her bosom heaves as she listens. + +"But you know I could not leave you here alone with only a hired nurse," +she remonstrates. + +"You could, and you must," he replies, seriously. + +"Listen, Reine, your husband has held out the olive-branch of peace, and +you must not decline to accept it if you care for him. I shall do very +well here with the doctor and the nurse. After all, I am not sick, only +weak and fatigued. Remember Maud's peril before you refuse." + +"I have written to Maud's lawyer. He will know that I have the note, and +they will wait until I come," she replies. + +"Delays are dangerous," he answers, "and the mails are not sure. Suppose +your letter should not reach them. Letters have been lost before now," +he says, artfully. + +The girlish face grows white and troubled. + +"If I thought that mine would be lost----" she begins. + +"You would go," he finishes for her. "Very well, Reine, take my advice +and go. I will remain here until you return. Go down now to your husband +and tell him you will be ready to accompany him to-morrow." + +"If anything should happen to you, I should never forgive myself," she +says, with lingering hesitation. + +"Nothing _will_ happen," he answered. "You will find me here, when you +come back, safe and well. Go, now, to Vane, and tell him you will go." + +She lingers a moment, warned by some strange presentiment of evil; then, +conquered by his renewed persuasions, and her own anxiety over Maud's +fate, she goes from the room with a strangely beating heart to seek her +husband. + +He throws away his segar with a smile at sight of her, and comes out +from a little knot of men who have clustered around him. + +"You are ready?" he says, with a new tone of tenderness in his voice +that makes the girlish heart beat all the faster, and drawing her hand +through his arm they bend their steps to the shore. + +It is twilight, that most seductive hour of all the twenty-four. The +moon is rising softly, a few stars shine in the purple vault above, and +mirror themselves in the laughing waves below. + +The murmurous sound of the great deep is all that breaks the silence. + +"Mr. Langton has told you, Reine," he says, looking down into the +brilliant face that is "luminous, star-like, gem-like," in the soft, +twilight haze. + +"Yes," she answers, in a low voice, as if she scarcely cared to break +the charmed silence brooding around them. + +They walk slowly arm-in-arm along the sandy shore. Vane has drawn her +hand very closely through his arm, and the tips of her velvet-soft +fingers lie against his wrist, sending thrills of sweetness along every +nerve. To him also "silence seemed best," so they stroll on quietly +awhile. Reine lost to everything but the magic charm that lies in the +presence of the man she loves, and Vane held in thrall also by some new +feeling, whose power he is scarcely prepared to acknowledge. + +He looks down at the young face that is strangely fair and tender in the +mystic light, and wonders at his own blindness that he has never quite +realized the charm of her beauty before. She has thrown some soft trifle +of filmy lace over her waving dark hair, with soft ends knotted beneath +the round, dimpled chin. Nothing could be more becoming. It frames the +glowing face so delicately and so exquisitely, making her fairer than +she knows. A strange, delicious thrill goes through Vane's heart as he +remembers that this girl belongs to him--she is his wife. + +"And she loves me," he says to himself, with the same wonder he had felt +when that truth first flashed upon him. It flatters his manly vanity, +cruelly hurt by Maud's treachery, to know that one true heart clings to +him and loves him, though the woman he had loved had deceived him. + +Suddenly her lips part with an anxious question: + +"And you think it wise and prudent that I should go back to Maud leaving +Uncle Langton here?" + +"Yes," he answers, and there is a silence which she does not break. + +"What do you think of the plan?" he asks. + +"I hardly know," the girl answers, with some embarrassment. + +"But you will do as I wish you--you will go back--in my care, Reine?" + +"If you think it for the best," she answers very low. + +"I do think so, otherwise I should not urge it. You need not be afraid +to go with me, Reine. I will care for you with every tenderness--you are +my wife, you know." + +And, stooping over her, he lays his lips full and softly upon her own. + +The shock of a great, new happiness tingles through the girl's sensitive +frame. It is the first caress her unloving husband has ever offered her. +With that impulsive kiss hope, which has almost died in her wounded +heart, is born anew. + +"You are my wife," he repeats, gently. "I shall not lose sight of that +fact again. I shall remember my duty better." + +She sighs a little. That word "duty" sounds so cold. + +"I will try to make you happier," he continues; "I fear you have not +been so light-hearted as you used to be since _that_ night. Do you know +those verses you were reading this evening sounded like a reproach to +me?" + +She glances up, inquiringly. + +"The verses you shut your hands over when I came up to you," he +explains. "The sad words ring in my head: + + "'And we say: "They are wrecked at dawning. + The hopes of our lives, alas!"' + +"Did you think, my child, that they applied to your own case?" + +"I was tempted to think so--can you blame me?" she says, with a gentle +reproach in her voice. + +"Do not fall into such despondent thoughts again," he answers, +evasively. "You are too young for sorrow, Reine. Look on the bright side +of the picture. I foresee that this play will end with my falling +desperately in love with my own wife." + +"I hope so," she answers, with sudden, piteous earnestness, and a quiver +of passionate sorrow in her voice. + +"So do I," he says, filled with sudden penitence. "I am sure it cannot +be hard to learn to love so fair and noble a wife. You have saved me +from my own sinful passions, Reine. I can never forget that." + +"And now I must go back," she says, with a bitter sigh of regret. "Uncle +Langton will be lonely, and if--if I go to-morrow I have a great deal of +packing to do first." + +They walk slowly back to the hotel through the murmurous silence of the +summer night by the sea, with the strong, sweet smell of the brine in +their faces. It is the first time they have been together without cold +words from one or the other, the first time her husband has caressed +her. + +And when he leaves her at the balcony steps he presses his lips to her +white hand, and whispers, kindly: + +"After to-night, little wife, we are never to be parted any more, +remember." + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +No one can recall without a shudder of horror the midnight burning of +the steamer _Hesperus_ in mid-ocean in 188-, and the terrible loss of +life consequent upon that marine disaster. + +She had been five days out, with fair skies and smooth seas, and every +prospect of a prosperous and speedy voyage, when that disastrous fire +stole upon her like a thief in the night, and wrapped her noble and +majestic form in a winding sheet of flame. + +Fifty souls perished miserably, including the captain and a part of +crew. + +In that terrible holocaust of fire and water, Reine Charteris was +_lost_. + +Her husband was saved--saved through such a tragedy of horror as sowed +silvery threads in his fair, clustering locks, and almost broke his +heart with remorse and pain. + +We will hear him tell the story in his own words, as he told it that day +when seated in the gloomy prison-cell, where Maud Langton was expiating +her folly in bitterness of soul, he placed in her hands a small metallic +case, locked with a tiny key, and said, solemnly and slowly: + +"This means freedom and release to you, Maud. It is a legacy to you from +the dead." + +The beautiful, queenly-looking girl, wasted and worn from long +confinement, and sickening dread and terror, looks up at the man's pale, +haggard face, at the deep crape band on his hat, and shudders. + +"You mean----" she says, then pauses, struck dumb by the white agony of +his face. + +"I mean I have lost my wife; Reine is dead." + +"Dead!" the beautiful prisoner cries in wonder--not sorrow. + +_That_ is so plain to his senses, sharpened by grief, that he cries out +bitterly: + +"Yes, dead! But look at your legacy, Maud. That is all your selfish soul +will care for!" + +She gives him one look of cold surprise, and then turns eagerly to her +treasure. + +The small key grates in the lock, the lid of the box flies open. + +Within lies a package wrapped in oil silk. Undoing this with eager +fingers, Maud comes upon the precious note that means so much to her in +this terrible plight, the note poor Reine had crossed the seas to win +from the vengeful grasp of Vane Charteris. + +All of Maud's cold, superb dignity breaks down at sight of that little +slip of paper. She weeps and laughs together. + +"This means hope, freedom, happiness to me," she cries, tearfully. "And +you had it all the time, Vane. And Reine knew. It was for that she +crossed the seas?" + +"Yes," he answers, "and it was for that she died." + +"No, no!" Maud says, and shakes her head; "how could that be? Oh, how I +thank you for bringing me this! You did not know when you went away how +much it was worth to me, did you? That my very life would depend upon +it?" + +He looks at her with steady, somber eyes. + +"Yes, I _knew_," he answers. "I knew, but I did not care. My love for +you was turned to hate by the crushing indignity you had put upon me. At +that time I would have sold myself to the evil one for the chance of +revenge upon you. Guess how I felt when, at the inquest over the dead +body of the lover you had preferred to me, I found what terrible power +fate had put into my eager hands. I rejoiced wickedly. I went away that +the great ocean rolling between us might keep from me the tidings of +your too probable fate, for I shuddered at the horror of my revenge, +although I could not forego it. Yes, Maud, I, who had loved you dearly +once, would not have lifted my finger to save you from the horror of a +shameful death upon the scaffold; do you realize, now, the intensity of +my hate?" + +She puts her delicate hand to her grand, white throat and sobs +hysterically. By day and by night she has dreamed of that horrible, +impending death. She knows that all believed her guilty of her lover's +death, and that no jury would have cleared her without that note in +Clyde's own writing, swearing that he would shoot himself if she failed +to marry him. + +"You were cruel, cruel," she moans. + +"Say rather that I was insane," he answers; "my heart and my brain were +on fire, and my soul was numb within me until Reine came to me and +showed me what a wretch I was, and how I should be your murderer if I +persisted in my wicked silence. Then I yielded to that white-souled +child who was far too pure to be my wife, and I prayed God to forgive +my sin, as I now pray you, Maud." + +She looks at him with her large, clear blue eyes, with the glad tears of +joy still pendant on the golden lashes and holds out her hands. + +"I cannot refuse to forgive you since you have relented and brought me +this invaluable paper," she answers, "and more especially since I know +that I did you a cruel wrong. Can _you_ forgive _me_, Vane?" + +"Once I thought I could not, but it is easy enough now," he answers, +gravely, just touching for a moment the soft, white, extended hands. "I +have no longer any room in my heart for anger or resentment. I think +only of my grief." + +"For Reine!" she asks, with an almost imperceptible lifting of the +golden eyebrows indicating surprise. + +"For Reine," he answers, with a tortured sigh. + +"Did she die abroad?" Maud asks in an awed and softened voice. + +"She was drowned at midnight in the Atlantic Ocean, amid all the horrors +of fire and flood," he groans. + +"On the ill-fated _Hesperus_," she exclaims. "Oh, I read the news in the +papers, but there were no particulars, and I did not dream of such a +tragedy. You were with her, were you not? Why was it that you could not +save her?" + +His gloomy eyes fell with a look of loathing on the paper in her hand. + +"She died, Maud, to save _you_ from the consequences of your folly. She +might have been saved but for that paper you hold in your hand," he +answers, sternly. + +"I do not understand you, Vane. Surely you know not what you say," Miss +Langton utters in perplexity. + +"Listen, and you shall be the judge," he answers, with a heavy sigh. "I +sailed with my wife on the _Hesperus_----" + +"And Uncle Langton?" she interrupts him to ask. + +"We left Mr. Langton resting at a quiet summer resort. He was too much +indisposed to return with us so soon. We were to have gone back for him +as soon as your freedom had been secured," he explains. + +She bows, silently, and he goes on, the pale, beautiful girl listening +attentively. + +"Reine came to me the day that we had been five days out, with that +little metallic case in her hand. She had been very bright and happy +since we started, but just then she was pale and grave. 'Vane,' she said +to me, 'I have put Maud's precious paper in this little case for greater +safety. But I have a strange dread of losing it. Put it in your breast +pocket and keep it for me!' I--oh, Heaven! I obeyed her," he exclaims, +struggling with a bitter remorse. + +The beautiful prisoner regards him with silent sympathy. + +"I obeyed her," he repeats, with a passionate remorse, "and that night +when we sprang into the water together, fleeing from the devouring +flames, it was still on my person. All hope seemed gone, and we clung to +each other in the desperation of despair, determined at least to die +together. Suddenly a crowded life-boat came in sight. A man shouted +there was room for one more and that they would take the woman in. At +these words she cried out frantically that I had Maud's precious paper, +and that I was the one to be saved, and with that she loosed her hold, +and with an awful suddenness pushed me from her, and sank down, down in +the terrible water. With the awful shock of her loss I became +unconscious. They drew me into the boat in the place of my poor girl, +and the boat swept on over her awful burial-place. It was for you, Maud. +She gave her beautiful, innocent life freely for you rather than risk +the loss of the legacy I have brought you!" + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +Even Maud Langton's cold and shallow nature, utterly incapable of such +an act of dauntless heroism as Reine's, is touched by the man's +overmastering grief and the story of the woman's devotion. + +"Poor little Reine! I did not deserve such a sacrifice from her," she +exclaims, with a guilty consciousness of her cruel and contemptuous +treatment of her generous rival. + +Vane Charteris makes her no reply. He has dropped his pale, handsome +face into his hands, his strong frame quivers with silent sobs. Maud +watches him in amazement. + +"You take it hard," she says; "yet I thought you did not love her, that +you would not care." + +"Not care!" lifting his somber blue eyes a moment to her pale, wondering +face. "I care so much that by night or by day, sleeping or waking, her +image is never absent from my thoughts. I would give the whole world to +have her back, my poor lost darling!" + +"Then you learned to love her?" Miss Langton exclaims, recalling his +fastidious dislike of Reine's wild ways and sharp little speeches. + +"Yes; now, when it is all too late," he answers, in a wild burst of +remorse and sorrow. + +Then there is a brief silence. How often those sad words, "too late," +come home to stricken hearts with a pathos that words are all too +powerless to express. Could Reine but have known--in that fair land to +which her soul had flown--her husband's poignant repentance, she might +well have answered with the poet: + + "Too late, too late, thy beaming smile rests on me, + Warm sighs and loving whispers come too late + Since thou hast lost that true and loving passion + Which, while it lived, met but thy scorn or hate. + + "It might have been--had but thy love awakened + Before my ruined life no power could save; + But now, alas! thy warm and tender glances + Fall on my heart like sunlight on a grave." + +"Believe me, Vane, I am very, very sorry," Maud says to him in her +gentlest tones. "Perhaps you think I was not worthy little Reine's +generous self-sacrifice." + +He has no answer ready for her. She begins to realize that he is +strangely changed. The fair and handsome face that used to be so gay and +debonair has grown wan and haggard. Some silver threads shine in the +fair, clustering locks on his temples. His step is slow and heavy as he +turns to go. + +"How long will it be before I shall be free?" she asks him, wistfully, +as he turns to go. + +He starts, and turns back, remembering suddenly what the petted beauty +must have endured in these weary weeks of confinement, with the shadow +of an awful fate hanging over her. + +Looking closer into the white face with its finely-chiseled features, +sharpened and refined by the agony she has endured, his heart swells +with momentary pity for the cold beauty who has wronged him so deeply. + +"But a little while, I think," he answers, kindly. "I have seen your +lawyer. He told me that the trial which he has been staving off from +time to time, will take place to-morrow. He is quite sure that your +innocence will be indisputably proven by the paper you hold, together +with other facts in his possession. I congratulate you, Maud, upon your +narrow escape from the terrible web that circumstantial evidence had +woven around you." + +She shudders, and grows deathly pale at the thought of it, and Vane +hurries from the room and from the presence of her who had been, for a +brief while, the sun of his existence. + +Hurrying back to his hotel, he finds there a letter which has followed +him across the sea from the quiet watering-place where he had left Mr. +Langton. It is from the genial, kindly physician, and the news is +startling. + +The old millionaire, the sharp-tongued, irascible, yet kindly-hearted +old gentleman, is dead--has died suddenly and strangely of disease of +the heart in two days after Reine and Vane had left him in the confident +hope of soon rejoining him. They have buried him there in the quiet +churchyard by the sea, far away from his native land, and the friends he +loved. All unknowing of Reine's fate, he has gone to rejoin her in the +unknown land. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +Mr. Langton's favorite axiom: "Delays are dangerous," which he had +quoted so effectively to Reine, would seem to have made less impression +on his own mind. The new will, which was to have disinherited Maud +Langton and made Vane Charteris and his wife his sole heirs, had been +carelessly and fatally postponed. Beautiful Maud, but yesterday +penniless, imprisoned, suspected, goes back to-day, free, joyous, +triumphant, to her old home, the undisputed mistress of Langton Hall and +her uncle's great wealth. Vane Charteris, in nowise disconcerted, and +scarcely disappointed, returns to the musty little law office in +Washington, from whence his old friend's letter had summoned him a few +months before to marry his heiress. + +It is a dull, prosaic life enough. Vane is young yet, and has not made +his mark. Very few clients come to seek his assistance out of their +difficulties. Some dreary days go by, and life does not look quite the +same through his office windows as it did in the golden spring before he +went to Langton Hall. It is autumn now. The leaves are turning red, and +brown, and yellow, the petals are falling from the flowers. Not that +Vane takes note of this. One flower that faded in the summer gone, is +worth all the world to him. For a time ambition, energy, hope, seem to +forsake him. Always before his eyes floats a vision of a fair, dead face +with waving tresses, tangled with seaweed; always against his breast he +feels the pressure of small hands pressing against him, pushing him from +her in the mad resolve to die in his stead. For in his heart Vane feels +that it was not alone for Maud's sake she died. She had meant to save +him, whom she loved far more than life. + +So the autumn days go by. By-and-by the gay, brilliant, beautiful city +of Washington begins to fill up with its usual winter throng. Congress +assembles, and the brilliant crowds that follow in its train. And one +day there comes a delicate, perfumed note to Vane from one of the most +fashionable avenues of the fashionable city. + + "Dear Vane," it says, "I have come to Washington for the winter, + but shall be very quiet, of course, being in deep mourning for my + dear uncle. I have invited the Widow Baird and her + daughter--unexceptionable people, you know--to stay with me. But I + am very lonely, very repentant, and very sad. Will you let by-gones + be by-gones, and come and see me? + + "MAUD LANGTON." + +A delicate, dainty, seductive note. With a start, Vane remembers the +elegant house on ---- avenue, which had been Mr. Langton's property. +Here it is that his heiress had pitched her tent, figuratively speaking, +and opened the campaign, for she is determined not to lose the delights +of the winter wholly, although in ostensible mourning. + +Vane is roused to indignation at first. Why should she ask him to call? +Does she take him for a simpleton? He has forgiven her for Reine's sake. +That is enough. + +He stays away, and in three days an elegant private carriage sets Maud +down in front of his office. She rustles across the threshold in a +costly costume, designed to represent slight second mourning--a black +silk with jetted trimmings, white _crepe lisse_ at throat and wrists, a +jetted bonnet with white _lisse_ strings, a dress that is marvelously +becoming to the pearl-fair beauty, framed in soft waves of golden hair. + +"Perhaps you think I have come to scold you," she says, with infinite +tact, as he comes forward, visibly embarrassed; "but I have not. Of +course you had a right to decline my invitation, if it did not please +you to come. I shall not trouble you long now. I am here on a matter of +business." + +Mr. Charteris bows and hands her a chair. She seats herself, making +_moonlight_, not "sunlight," "in a shady place," with her cold, white +beauty. + +Then her large, light-blue eyes turn scrutinizingly on his worn, +handsome face. + +"You are not looking well," she pronounces. "Business, perhaps, is +driving you too hard?" + +Vane smiles rather grimly. + +"I cannot make any complaint of that nature," he responds. + +The blue eyes light, unmistakably, with pleasure. + +"Then you are not busy," she says; "I am rather glad to hear it. Perhaps +you will have time to manage my property for me?" + +He looks inquiringly at the beautiful, smiling face. + +"I have quarreled with my lawyer," she explains. "I intended to take the +management of my affairs out of his hands. Will you take his place, +Vane?" + +A dark, red flush creeps up to his temples at her air of condescending +patronage. + +"Excuse me, I must decline," he answers. + +"You decline--surely not!" says the proud beauty, with incredulous +surprise. + +"Why should I not decline?" Vane Charteris asks, with a certain +haughtiness, before which Maud lowers her proud tone of patronage +visibly. + +"I thought you could not afford to decline," she falters. "Are you +not--not poor?" + +"Granted," he answers, with a slight, cold smile. "I am not yet poor +enough to barter my self-respect. For the rest, you know, Miss Langton-- + + "'Man wants but little here below, + Nor wants that little long.'" + +Maud, who has come bustling with pretty patronage and self-importance, +is visibly disconcerted. She takes a new tone. + +"You are harsh and cruel to me, Vane," she says, petulantly. "I came +with the best intentions. I only meant kindness." + +"Thank you," stiffly. + +"I thought you had forgiven my--my folly," she goes on further, with a +killing glance from the long-lashed, seraphic-blue eyes. + +"I hope I have," he replies, still coldly. + +"Then why--why will you refuse my request?" she asks. + +Something like scorn flashes on her from the man's sapphire-blue eyes. + +"Miss Langton, I have forgiven the indignity you put upon me last +summer," he answers, shortly, "but do you think I could stoop to serve +you--_you_?" + +The heiress colors under his glance of haughty scorn. + +"_You_ will never forget _that_," she sighs. "You will not believe how +eager I am to make atonement for my sin against you. I see you are +determined to be hard and cold with me. You will not make friends." + +Vane turns round upon her a little fiercely. + +"What are you driving at, Maud?" he asks, with positive rudeness. "Do +you wish to make a fool of me again? To win my heart from me again and +trample it under your feet?" + +And then a sudden impulsive shame seizes upon him as she shrinks before +his quick wrath with something very like fear in her face. + +"I beg your pardon--I was talking foolishly to you," he says. "You do +not at all understand me, I think, Miss Langton, or you would never +have----" + +"Never have come here, you mean," she says, as he pauses. "Aren't you +just a little rude, Mr. Charteris? But I am determined not to be angry +with you. Forgive me for trespassing on your time. I am going now." + +Swish! goes the rich silk against her chair with a waft of delicious +perfume. + +The tips of her gloved fingers settle lightly against his coat-sleeve, +the great, blue eyes look straight into his own, persuasively. + +"Vane, think better of your refusal, pray do," she says. "I did not come +here to insult you, neither to wheedle you back to your old allegiance. +I thought you would help me about this great, troublesome property. I am +so ignorant and helpless." + +"Any lawyer in the city would be glad to manage your business for you," +he returns, with cool courtesy. + +"I shall not ask any of them till I hear from you again. Perhaps you may +change your mind, and let me know that you will take this trouble off my +hands," she answers, good humoredly, moving toward the door. + +Vane attends her to her carriage, and with a formal bow returns to his +lonely office. How lonely he never quite realized till now, looking at +the empty chair where the brilliant heiress had sat just now, queenly +and graceful like the tall, white lily to which he had once likened her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +We will return to Reine Charteris on that terrible night of fire and +flood, when, with all the deathless devotion of a true woman's heart she +sacrificed herself to save her husband and her friend. + +In the minute before the life-boat came into sight Reine's mind had been +comparatively calm and contented. + +Though she believed that certain death stared her in the face, it had no +special terrors for her. Her life had been good and pure, and she had no +dread of the hereafter. + +The thought of dying with the husband she loved had a strange, romantic +sweetness for her heart. + +In the bright and awful glare of light thrown upon the waters by the +burning ship, her pale and lovely face had upon it an expression of +rapt and Heavenly sweetness and content, untouched by dread or fear. + +Vane's arm was drawn around her, and they were slowly swimming about and +looking for some drifting desperate hope of rescue. + +A few minutes ago the black waves, weirdly illumined by the red glare of +the flames, had been filled with a writhing, despairing, shrieking mass +of anguished humanity, but now they had all disappeared. Some had +floated off to a distance, some had sunk beneath the waves and found a +watery grave-- + + "Unknelled, uncoffined, and unsung." + +Vane and Reine were quite alone for a moment--alone, and drawn seemingly +nearer together than they had ever been in life by the deadly peril that +menaced them. They had made up their minds to death. Both were good +swimmers, but they were too far from land for their strength and skill +to avail. They clung together, each feeling instinctively that death +would be less hard if shared together. + +At that moment one of the life-boats that had been seized upon in the +first moments of peril by a fortunate few, came in sight of them. It was +crowded, already, but one manly heart saw and pitied the terrible case +of the two victims. He shouted that they would make room for one +more--they would take the woman in. + +"Come, Reine, they will save you, my darling," Vane Charteris cried out, +tenderly and joyfully, yet with the solemnity of a last farewell in his +eyes, as he drew his young wife forward. + +But with a sudden cry of anguish, the girl resisted him. + +The bare thought of forsaking her husband and leaving him to die alone, +was more bitter than death. With that thought came the remembrance of +the precious paper she had crossed the sea to win from Vane's vengeful +keeping. + +"Let me save you--remember you have Maud's precious paper," she cried +out, hoarsely, and pushing him frantically from her with both extended +hands, she sank down--down into the depths of the sea. They waited a +moment, but she did not rise again, and seeing that Vane had lost +consciousness, they drew him into the life-boat, and in the efforts to +revive him, they soon drifted out of sight of the spot where the devoted +girl had disappeared beneath the fire-illumined waves. + +In the meantime Reine, who was really a strong and expert swimmer, had +only dived beneath the waves, and had come up again in a few seconds +later at a different spot where, herself unseen, she could behold the +life-boat with its living freight drifting swiftly out of her yearning +sight. She had freely given her one chance of life to her husband, but +with the thought that he would live there was born in her own young +heart an agonizing desire for life. She loved Vane so dearly that she +could not bear to leave him in the bright, gay world, and go down to +death alone. Though not regretting that she had saved her husband by so +great a sacrifice, she breathed a silent, fervent, yet seemingly +hopeless prayer, that she might also be rescued and restored to him. + +Yet who can tell how often God is near, listening to the wild appeals of +those who, despairing of human help, cry out to Heaven. Alone in the +wide waste of the ocean, with the midnight stars shining down upon her +like the pitying eyes of angels, a friendly plank drifted to her reach. +She clutched it eagerly with her hands, threw herself upon, and embraced +it with her bruised and weary arms. Now she felt, with a thrill of hope, +that there was at least one plank between her and eternity. + +The night wore on. Wind and tide bore her far away from the terrible +burning ship that towered aloft like a ghastly funeral pyre, throwing +its awful glare far and wide upon the sea. + +Tossed hither and yon, bruised and buffeted by the heavy waves, the +slender form of the fair young girl still held in its breast the faint +spark of life, though looking forward to death as inevitable, and +drawing nearer and nearer. + + * * * * * + +The blushing rose of dawn opened its petals at last. The morning light +glimmered palely in the east. It shone upon a deathly-white face with +pale lips, half apart, and eye-lids closed in unconsciousness, with the +long, thick lashes lying on the cheek like to "rays of darkness." + +At that moment a small sailing-vessel hove in sight. The floating plank +with its precious burden was sighted by the pilot, and in a few minutes +more the unfortunate girl was safe on deck. + +The crew gathered around her, filled with wonder and curiosity at the +sight of the beautiful ocean-waif. + +"She is dead," said the mate, with a sorrowful shake of the head. + +"I do not think so," said the captain, decidedly. "Look at her right +temple. You see it still bleeding from a slight wound that must have +been received from something that has struck her in the water. She has +been stunned by it, perhaps, and will revive presently. Call Doctor +Franks." + +Doctor Franks came and agreed with the captain. The girl was not dead, +but there was no telling how soon she would be, from the bad effects of +her exposure in the water, and the jagged wound on her head. + +"A bed must be prepared for her at once, and I will see what I can do +towards resuscitating her," said the kind-hearted Doctor Franks. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + +"Go and tell the stewardess to prepare a bed quickly for this young +lady," said the captain, turning to the cabin-boy. + +The boy disappeared in the lower regions of the vessel, returning +presently with a plump, good-natured-looking woman, who had a "full +blown comeliness, white and red." + +"An' indade, Cap'en Dill, sorra a bit spare bed is there, saving the +little cuddy-hole where Mrs. Odell's maid slept afore she died." + +"Prepare that, then, Mrs. McQueen. Don't you see what a deuce of a hurry +we are in?" returned Captain Dill. + +"Faix, and it'll be by Mrs. Odell's leave, then," says Mrs. McQueen. +"Shall I ask her? It's a bit cross and ailing she is the day." + +"Ask her then, and be in a hurry," he answers. "If she refuses, the +poor girl shall have my bed, and I'll bunk on deck with a blanket." + +He is saved the necessity of the sacrifice, however, for Mrs. Odell, +whoever she may be, yields an ungracious consent to the appropriation of +the defunct maid's bed, and the still unconscious girl is removed +thereto. + +Long days afterward she opens her eyes consciously for the first time +upon this world, after a long battle has been fought with fever, and +delirium, and greedy death; opens her eyes with a passionate heart-cry +on her poor, fever-parched lips: + +"Vane, dear Vane!" + +There is a soft swish of silk as of a lady rising from her chair, and +Reine's large, hollow, dark eyes follow the sound. + +She lies on a small, white bed in a "cuddy-hole" indeed, herself, but a +small door is propped open, showing just beyond a very tiny, but elegant +saloon, furnished royally enough for a princess, with hangings of purple +velvet and gold, and softest couches and chairs, a carpet of velvet +pile, picturesque rugs strewn about the floor, small paintings, each +perfect gems of art, adorning the walls. Moving slowly through this +luxurious saloon comes a lady, on whom Reine's feeble gaze is instantly +riveted. + +A form of medium hight, with narrow, stooping shoulders, and a +middle-aged face with a strange beauty all its own--the beauty of +brilliant eyes, waxen pallor, and hectic-flushed cheeks, that the deadly +disease, consumption, bestows upon its victims. Clothed with almost +barbaric splendor, with rustling silks and velvets, and sparkling jewels +that seemed to flash fire in the dim saloon, she was yet one upon whom +the heart ached to gaze, for by her terrible emaciation, and hollow, +fever-flushed cheeks, and pain-drawn lips, she was one that cruel death +had plainly marked for his own. + +In wondering silence Reine's dark eyes lift to the strange woman's face +as she comes to her side, diffusing a delicate odor of _attar du rose_ +as she moves. She speaks in a low, pleasantly-modulated voice, +interrupted by a slight, hacking cough: + +"You spoke, did you not? Is there anything you wish?" + +"Yes, I want Vane," Reine answers, in a weak, childish voice, forgetful, +or momentarily unconscious, of all that has passed since she was +sundered from her husband's side. + +An expression of pity comes into the emaciated face regarding her. + +"I hope you will see Vane after a while," she replies, evasively. "Do +you feel better, my dear?" + +"Better?" the girl echoes, startled. "Have I been ill?" + +"Yes, with fever. But you are convalescing now. Do you remember nothing +of your illness?" + +"Nothing," Reine answers, dreamily. "And--and your face is strange to +me. Have I ever seen you before?" + +"Not to your knowledge, I think," Mrs. Odell replies, with a slight +smile. + +A puzzled look comes into the pale, thin face lying on the pillow, with +its great, hollow, black eyes. Reine is slowly gathering up the links of +memory. + +"Are--are we not on the Atlantic Ocean?" she inquires, after a dreamy +pause. + +Mrs. Odell, drawing her handkerchief across her lips after a slight +spell of coughing, answers: "Yes." + +Another dreamy pause. The dark eyes that have half-closed, open slowly +again. + +"Is this steamer the--the _Hesperus_?" she queries, half-doubtfully. + +Mrs. Odell draws back with a slight expression of alarm on her face. + +"I--I fear you are talking too much for an invalid," she says. "I will +call the doctor." + +Retiring into the saloon, and touching a silver call-bell, the fat +stewardess appears. + +"Send Doctor Franks in," Mrs. Odell commands. "His patient begins to +recover consciousness." + +Doctor Franks comes, eager, and on the alert, smiling a little as +Reine's curious eyes seek his face. + +"Another stranger," she complains, with almost childish petulance. + +"Well, and what would you have?" he answers, cheerfully, as he touches +her pulse. "Though strangers, we are all friends." + +"I want Vane," the girl answers, with a hungry yearning in her weak +voice. + +"After awhile--after awhile," he answers, evasively, as the lady had +done. "Are you feeling better to-day?" + +"Yes, if I have been ill--have I?" Reine inquires, with some of her old +sharpness of tone, for in her weak state she is easily irritated. + +"Have you? Well, I should say so," he responds, smilingly. "At present +you are nothing but a pair of big black eyes and a lot of hair that I +should have cut off only that you were so pretty with it that I hadn't +the heart." + +"Do not believe him," Mrs. Odell puts in, good-naturedly. "If I had not +scolded and begged, and almost gone down on my knees to him, he would +have shaved your pretty head bare." + +"I should not have liked that," Reine says, putting her small fingers to +the thick, glossy plaits. "Vane liked my hair. He thought it pretty; he +said so that very night when----" But, with the effort of recalling the +long-past time, a great wave of memory suddenly breaks over Reine's +heart. Her wan face grows paler, her eyes dilate wildly and fill with +swift, passionate tears. + +"I remember," she gasps, in a voice of pain, "oh, Heaven! I remember." + +There is a moment of silence and they watch her closely. All along Dr. +Franks had dreaded this moment of re-awakened memory in the girl's +heart. But her agitation is not so great as he had anticipated, for +though she is sobbing softly behind her hands, it is not with the +bitterness of an utter despair. + +"What is it you remember, Miss Langton?" he asks, touching her arm +gently. + +She starts and looks at him with her great, tear-filled eyes. + +"Who told you my name?" she asks, curiously. + +"It was marked upon your clothing," Mrs. Odell gently explains, and +again Dr. Franks says, curiously: + +"You were saying that you remembered----" + +"The burning of the _Hesperus_ and the loss of life, and our deadly +peril, yes--yes," Reine answers, weakly. "But Vane was saved; oh, thank +God for that. And now my life, too, is spared," she exclaims, with the +glad tears of joy falling through her white fingers. + +They regard her in sympathetic silence awhile, then Dr. Franks says, +kindly: + +"I am very glad your friend was saved, Miss Langton, and very happy to +think that we had the pleasure of seeing you. Were you bound for +America?" + +"Yes--returning home from a trip to England," she answers. + +"I knew you were American instantly," says Mrs. Odell. "We are also of +that nationality." + +"I am very glad," Reine answers, giving her a pensive smile. "Are you +also bound for your native shore?" + +"Not just now," the consumptive returns, with a smothered sigh. "I am in +delicate health, and Doctor Franks here has recommended the climate of +Italy for my health, with the additional advantage of a leisurely +sea-trip in a sailing vessel. We are now making our way to Mentone, +Italy." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +"You are bound for Mentone, Italy!" Reine repeats, with a quiver of +disappointment in her low voice. "Then I am going farther away from home +every hour!" + +"Yes," replies Doctor Franks. "Lucky thing for you, too, in your weak +and debilitated condition. Mentone is a charming climate for invalids. +Will set you up in less than no time. Then, when your roses are blooming +again, we'll send you home to America." + +"How long since you picked me up out of the water?" she asks. + +"Three weeks," he replies. + +Three weeks!--she shuts her eyes ever so tightly, but the traitor tears +creep through beneath the black fringe of her lashes. + +Three weeks since she parted from Vane amid the horrors of that awful +night. Three weeks he has believed her dead. Has he mourned her much? +she wonders. Perhaps time has already dulled the sharp edge of grief. + +Then graver thoughts chase these self-regrets from her mind. + +A terrible doubt chills the life-blood around her heart. + +After all, was Vane really saved? + +She remembers that crowded little life-boat, already so full that it +seemed rash and perilous to take in even one more passenger. + +Has the little bark survived the dangers of the sea, or gone down with +its precious freight of souls to swell the treasures of the "vasty +deep?" + +Truly has the poet written that: "Love is sorrow with half-grown wings." + +Reine lies silent, with quivering lips and closed eyelids, thinking with +grief unutterable of the beloved one's unknown fate. From first to last +this passionate love of hers has brought her nothing but bitter pain and +sharp humiliation. + +Doctor Frank's genial voice rouses her from her bitter absorption. + +"Come, come, mademoiselle, this will never do. No fretting and grieving +if you please. It will only retard your recovery and return to America. +Hold up your head now, and swallow this bit of refreshment our good +stewardess has brought you. Then you must go to sleep." + +"Do, that's a dearie," admonishes Mrs. McQueen, rather vaguely, +proceeding to feed the patient with a spoon from the bowl of gruel that +she has brought in, but after a sip or two Reine declares that she +cannot swallow, and begs to be let alone. + +To this the physician blandly consents after administering an +infinitesimal dose of a dark liquid. As a result Reine goes away on a +journey to the land of Nod in precisely fifteen minutes. Talking and +emotion have thoroughly wearied her exhausted frame. + +She sleeps soundly and dreamlessly till the light of another day shines +broadly over the world. + +Waking silently, and in her senses this time, the girl lies still with +wide dark eyes gazing around her. The door into the tiny saloon is open +as before. + +She sees Mrs. Odell lying on a satin couch, wrapped in a crimson +dressing-gown, and covered with a costly India shawl. Her eyes are +closed, her face is ghastly in its deep pallor and emaciation. + +Suddenly she starts broad awake, seized by a terrible fit of coughing +that convulses her slight frame. When she withdraws the snowy +handkerchief she has been holding to her lips, Reine sees that it is +streaked with blood. + +"Oh, dear!" she exclaims, terrified, and Mrs. Odell looks around. + +"So you are awake--what a sleep you have had. What made you cry out so?" +she inquires in a weak, exhausted voice. + +"It was the sight of the blood," Reine stammers. "I was frightened. You +are very ill, are you not?" + +Mrs. Odell, who has sunk wearily into a chair by her bedside, looks down +at her with a ghastly smile on her blood-stained lips. + +"Oh, no," she answers, with the hopeful confidence peculiar to that +flattering disease, consumption, "my lungs are a little weak, that is +all my trouble. The sea air and the Italian climate will quite restore +my health, I think. The American climate is too harsh for me. I shall be +better at Mentone." + +"You will make your home there?" Reine asks, and Mrs. Odell answers +readily: + +"Yes, until my health is restored. Then I shall return to my native +land. There is no place like America to me. Besides, all my property is +there." + +"Your friends and relatives, too?" Reine asks, and Mrs. Odell answers, +sighing: + +"Relatives I have none. My husband and children have all gone before to +the better land. My friends are few. A woman as rich as I am does not +know how to trust in friendship. Only think, child, my husband has left +me two millions of dollars, and I have neither kith nor kin of my own to +leave it to. I am utterly alone in the world." + +"As I was until I met--Vane," Reine murmurs silently to herself, while a +look of sympathy flashes from her beautiful eyes upon the lonely rich +woman. + +"The friend I cared most for on earth," Mrs. Odell continues, sadly, +"was my maid, who died just a few days before you were rescued. She was +a girl of culture and refinement, rather above her position, and a +friend, rather than a servant. I have missed her sadly, as much for her +company as her services." + +"Did she die suddenly?" Reine asks, with a sigh for the poor girl who +had found a watery grave far from her native land. + +"Yes, very suddenly, from an unsuspected heart disease." + +After a minute's silence Mrs. Odell resumes, pensively: + +"Do you know what I have been wishing, Miss Langton?" + +"I cannot even guess," Reine replies, wonderingly. + +"I have been wishing that you could take that poor girl's place with me. +Not as my maid, of course, but as my friend and companion. I have grown +to like you so much since you have been lying here ill and suffering. I +have taken care of you as far as my own feeble state would allow. Do you +think you could be my friend, child?" + +"I am sure I could; that is, if you would not suspect me of designs on +your property. I am an heiress, myself," Reine returns, with such naive, +innocent pride that Mrs. Odell's pain-drawn lips part in an amused +smile: + +"You simple child. No one could suspect you of anything. There is no +guile in that charming face," she answers kindly. + +"Thank you. I shall be very glad of your friendship, and hope I may be +of some account to you," Reine murmurs. + +"It is settled then," Mrs. Odell says, with evident satisfaction. "You +are to be my friend and my guest, the same as a daughter to me, until +you leave me to return to America, which time, I hope, may be far off +yet, for I shall not like to lose my little friend." + +"Do not say that," Reine cries out quickly. "I should hate to grieve +you, but I have two dear ones who would grieve to think that I was dead. +I must let them know the truth as soon as I can." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +Poverty is a great persuader. Numberless times it has forced people to +put their pride in their pocket. + +Vane Charteris, moping along in his law-office, finds such a dearth of +clients that it would seem the world is for once at peace. + +Nothing happens to break up the dull monotony of his life, or put a fee +into his lank pockets. True, invitations pour in upon the "handsome +rising young lawyer," but these he declines on the score of his +mourning. + +The city wakes up to the gayety of its winter season, but the ripple of +joyous life flows past him unheeded. The lethargy of a hopeless grief is +upon him. At last, with something of a shock, the vulgar and prosaic +question of: "What shall we eat, and what shall we drink, and +wherewithal shall we be clothed?" forces itself upon his consideration. + +For Vane, handsome, careless, ease-loving Vane, has suddenly and +thoughtlessly come to the end of his resources. + +Bills, formidable, some of them, begin to pour in. Our hero, anxiously +debating the question of "ways and means of raising the wind," begins to +realize that business is strangely dull, and himself placed in a +dilemma. + +You understand that Vane Charteris is no perfect hero, my friends, you +have seen that from the first. Self has in almost every instance ruled +his thoughts; he has yielded to temptation, he has shown himself daily +one of those petulant, faulty, yet daring types of men whom, after all, +women cannot help loving. + +So in this instance, instead of loftily adhering to his stubborn +rejection of Maud Langton's offer, Vane Charteris suddenly remembers, +with a sensation of relief, that all this while, a long month, indeed, +the offer has lain in abeyance, waiting on his pleasure. Maud, like a +skillful general, having made one artful move, is now waiting to see +what the enemy will do. + +Vane, like the thoughtless and innocent fly that he is, walks straight +into the trap she has set. He decides to call. After all he may be +forced to accept the management of her property. At this critical period +of his fate, he cannot afford to be proud. + +Yet it is with strange reluctance he climbs the marble steps and rings +the bell. A memory of the dead seems to hold him back. The perfume of a +white rose he has purchased and placed in his coat in passing a little +flower shop, rises strong and sweet, thrilling him with the thought of +her who has been like a rose herself. + +"A rosebud set with little, willful thorns." + +"I am foolish," he says to himself, disobeying the impulse to turn and +descend the steps. "I must go through with it, I have to live." + +He rings the bell again, and when the door is opened, sends in cards for +Miss Langton, and Mrs. and Miss Baird, with whom he has some slight +acquaintance. + +The two latter are out. Miss Langton receives him in the elegant library +where she is alone among the books, basking in the ruddy glow of +firelight and gaslight. As his eyes light upon her, he recalls the +English laureate's Maud: + + "Maud with her exquisite face, + Maud in the light of her youth and her grace." + +She is like a rare picture in her black velvet dress, with its +picturesque trimmings of cream-white lace, and the pearls that clasp her +throat and wrists. She rises with that slow and languid grace that Vane +was wont to admire so much. + +"At last," she says, in her well-trained, softly-toned voice. "Welcome, +Vane!" + +He touches the white, extended hand very lightly, and takes the chair +she places. + +"I was passing, and I thought I would look in upon you a few moments," +he observes, with unblushing nonchalance. + +"I am thankful for even that small grace," Maud answers, with her most +winning smile. "I know I have been a very bad girl to you, Vane, but I +think if you knew how sincere my repentance is you would not mind coming +now and then to cheer my lonely hours." + +Then she drops her eyes and sighs. Vane looks at the fair, calm, languid +beauty in wondering silence. A little while ago this had been his idea +of perfect beauty. Since then he has learned to love the slumberous fire +that glows in dark eyes and the soul that dwells on scarlet lips and +dusky, brunette complexions. The sweetness of the rose has won his +heart, but the beauty of the lily unconsciously charms his eyes even now +when he knows how false she is at heart, and only fair in outward +seeming. + +"I--I have no time for calling," he responds, with cool politeness. "I +am always busy." + +"Always?" she arches her golden brows slightly. "That is unfortunate. I +suppose, then, that I may abandon the hope that I have been secretly +cherishing, that you would relent and take the management of my +property." + +Vane regards her in apparent surprise. + +"Is it possible you have found no one else?" he inquires, carelessly. + +"I told you I should not try until I heard from you," she answers. + +"True, I had forgotten that," he answers. "And so you have been waiting +all this time. I wish you would tell me why you wish me to do this for +you when there are others equally capable, and far more willing." + +Of this pointed reminder Maud wisely takes no heed save a gentle, +quickly suppressed sigh. + +"Perhaps you would be angry if I told you my reason," she says, gently, +removing her eyes a moment from the contemplation of her folded, +milk-white hands to glance into his fair, grave, handsome face. + +"Oh, no, I am quite curious to hear," he replies. + +"I think you know that Mr. Langton allowed his lawyer a very liberal +salary," she begins. "You know there is a great deal of work, really, a +number of tenements here, several farms in the country----" + +"I know all that," he interrupts, with a slight air of brusqueness. + +"I should like," she answers, with a very becoming blush, "that you +should have that salary, Vane. It would only be fair, seeing that the +whole property would have been yours but for my foolish, deeply repented +error. + +"Thank you, you are very kind," Vane replies, with grim brevity. + +"Do you think so?" she asks, simply, then with an anxious look into his +unmoved face, she continues: "Will you be kinder still, Vane, and permit +me to offer this salve to my accusing conscience?" + +"If only I were not so busy," Vane says, with artful reluctance. + +"Cannot you make the time? I should feel so much better over this +unfortunate thing," she says, lifting her blue, pleading eyes to his +face. + +Vane pretends to meditate within himself. + +"Well, yes, since you make a point of it, I will try to take the trouble +off your hands," he says, after that pause. "But as for losing Mr. +Langton's money, pray don't think that I consider it hard lines, your +inheriting it. I think you know that it wasn't for the sake of that I +was--" he cuts his speech off short there, finding himself getting +unwittingly on sentimental ground. + +"I know," she says, quickly; "you mean you were going to marry me +because you loved me. How foolish I was to doubt it then! Oh, Vane, if +only we had it all to go over again, how different all would be!" + +Vane turns on the beautiful, sighing coquette a look of steady contempt. + +"If you had it all to do over again you would do precisely as you did +then," he replies, with quiet scorn. "Don't play the coquette with me, +Maud. I am in no mood for trifling." + +"Nor I," she answers. "I am in earnest, Vane. It _would_ be different; +but I will not dwell on it since it annoys you. I fully understand that +I am at liberty only to regard you as my man of business, not my +friend." + +There is just the right touch of sad and patient humility in the musical +voice, and a dewy moisture gathers on the golden lashes. Vane is +inwardly mollified by her repentance, but is careful not to show it. + +"My friendship can be of no value to you," he says, coldly. "You are +rich, and can number your friends by the score. I will serve you +faithfully in my legal capacity. That is all I can promise." + +"That is all I can ask, then," she answers, resignedly, and with such +sweet patience that Vane takes his leave with a vague feeling that he +has been unnecessarily cruel to the fair woman who had jilted him. + +"Has she really repented? Does she indeed care for me now, as her words +would imply, or is she the most consummate actress upon earth?" he asks +himself. + +And this is the beginning of the end. + + * * * * * + +Maud, left alone in the silent, stately library, throws off the mask of +meekness and patience that had set so becomingly on her beautiful face. + +She walks up and down the floor impatiently, with blended triumph and +vexation in her soft, blue eyes. + +"I have gained one point at least," she murmured to herself. "And I +will gain the rest, I swear it," clenching her jeweled hands tightly. "I +love him. How strange that I should grow to care for him when once I +fled from him in the hour that would have made me his own. I was mad and +blind. I was deluded by my romantic fancy for Clyde. Ugh! how the +remembrance of that man's face troubles and haunts me. I see it always +as I did that night, upturned in the moonbeams, dead and white. If I had +loved him really, the shock must have killed me. But I did not love +him--at least not half so well as I love Vane Charteris now. How proud +and independent he is. But I love him all the better for that. If he had +not come back and brought me that paper I might have been hung, or at +least imprisoned for life. I hate to think that I owe it to Reine +Langton, whom I never liked. How fortunate for me that she and Uncle +Langton died. I have the fortune now, and I am determined that I will +yet be the adored wife of Vane Charteris." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +"Is the English mail in yet, Mrs. Odell? I do so want my English +letter!" + +Mrs. Odell turns a compassionate look on the pale, wistful face of the +girl, into whose white cheeks all the life-giving breezes of Mentone +have failed to restore the vanished rose. + +Reine has been in Italy three weeks now. Thrice she has written to +England to her Uncle Langton relating the story of her escape, and +begging for news of himself and Vane. + +No answer has come to these eager appeals, and she is half wild with +anxiety. + +"There is no letter yet, my dear," Mrs. Odell answers, sorrowfully, for +she knows of Reine's strange story now. "I will tell you what to do now, +Reine. Write to the postmaster there, and ask him for news of your +uncle. Perhaps Mr. Langton has gone to another place." + +"It is not probable," Reine answers, sighing, but she takes her friend's +advice, and writes the letter of inquiry. + +This time the answer comes all too soon. Her own three letters are +returned unopened, with the information that Mr. Langton is long since +dead! The physician encloses a certificate of death. + +"He is dead, my dear, kind uncle is dead, Mrs. Odell!" Reine cries, +lifting her dark eyes, heavy with grief, to the pale face of her friend. + +"My poor darling, I feared as much," the lady answers, compassionately. +"Now, darling, you belong wholly to me." + +"You forget my husband," Reine answers, through her tears. + +And Mrs. Odell, clasping tighter the paper she holds in her hand, speaks +no word at first. How can she stab that tender heart yet deeper, already +bleeding with the sad news of her uncle's death? + +"You will be your uncle's heiress, dear," she says to her presently, +thinking to check the flowing tide of grief. + +The girl starts and looks up, bewildered. + +"I said, you will be your uncle's heiress," Mrs. Odell repeats. + +And Reine, growing a trifle paler, shakes her head + +"Not if he has died so suddenly," she answers. "He intended to alter his +will, but he had not done so when I left him. The old will left +everything to my cousin, Maud Langton. It is more than probable that I +am penniless." + +"It does not seem to distress you, losing the fortune, I mean," the pale +invalid remarks, with some surprise. + +"It does not," the girl answers, calmly; "I never cared to have my +uncle's money; I know that Vane will take care of me," she adds, with +tender confidence. + +And again Mrs. Odell's sad, white face grows sadder. + +"Dear, you forget that you have no assurance that your husband is +living," she exclaims abruptly. + +Reine presses the small white hand that loosely wears the wedding-ring +upon her poor aching heart, and lifts her dark, solemn eyes to the +lady's face. + +"My own heart tells me he is living," she says, with passionate energy. +"He cannot be dead, my darling, just as I had almost won his heart. He +lives to bless me yet with his love. Ah, if I only knew where to find +him," she breathes, with despairing earnestness. + +"My poor, poor child," Mrs. Odell says, with impulsive tenderness. "You +must not be too sure. We can be sure of nothing in this world." + +"You have heard--something!" Reine says, with vague terror, looking +fixedly at the lady. + +"Yes, dear. I have here some papers that I have been trying for sometime +to get, the English and American papers with the accounts of the burning +of the _Hesperus_ and the list of those lost." + +"And--my husband?" Reine says, looking at the lady with burning eyes. + +"Is reported among the lost," Mrs. Odell replies, the papers trembling +in her trembling hands. + +A moment's silence, then Reine, trembling all over with emotion, rallies +bravely from the shock. + +"Am not I, too, reported among the lost?" she inquires. + +"Yes, here it is, dear," and Mrs. Odell reads, under the heading of +"Lost:" "'Vane Charteris and wife.'" + +"So you see that does not really signify anything," Reine says, +momentarily radiant. "Here I am safe and sound on _terra firma_. And +Vane had so much better a chance than I had that he cannot be dead. Did +I not see him safe on board the life-boat myself?" + +"But, listen, dear," Mrs. Odell answers, sorrowfully. + +She folds down the paper and reads, in a weak voice, a short paragraph: + +"The _Sea-Gull_ rescued one life-boat after it had drifted two days at +the mercy of the wind and waves. It was filled with thirsty, famishing +women and children. They reported that the boat had been on the point of +sinking from too great a load, when the four men who were in it had +leaped into the water, heroically resigning their only chance of life in +favor of the weaker sex. There is no ground for hoping that either of +these noble, manly hearts survived their self-sacrificing act, as none +have been heard from since." + +"Well?" Reine says, in a hushed voice, with a strange, prescient dread +on her white face. + +"Oh, my poor, bereaved girl, how can I tell you?" exclaims the frail +invalid, the dew of womanly sympathy starting into her eyes. + +And Reine, with a horrible weight pressing on her heart, gasps faintly: + +"My husband----" + +"His name appears in the list of the four who leaped into the water," +Mrs. Odell replies in an awe-struck voice. + +One cry, whose terrible despair pierces to the blue heavens, then blank +silence. Reine has fallen forward, face downward, on the floor. For a +brief space, time, love, sorrow, all the things of life, are blotted +from her mind in a merciful semi-death. + + * * * * * + +The days go by--"time does not stop for tears"--and one day there comes +out of the room where Reine, the girl, was carried in senseless, a +beautiful, sad-eyed woman in sables. Sorrow has touched her with its +transfiguring finger. The beautiful dark eyes droop always beneath the +black-fringed lashes, the lips forget to smile, the white cheeks have +lost their dimples and roses. For the passionate, loving heart, life is +over and done--yet she lives on. + + "Death does not always bring its balm + To every aching ill-- + Life may outlast its dearest charm, + And heart-break does not kill." + +After a time there comes to the crushed heart a thought crowded out at +first by the intensity of woe--the remembrance of Maud. Maud, whose +hopes, like her own, have hung trembling on the life of Vane Charteris. + +"I must go home," she says, sadly, to her friend. "Maud will need me. +God only knows what has happened to her in these long months." + +And Mrs. Odell, who has daily grown weaker and frailer, looking up from +the couch where she rests almost all day now, cries out, sorrowfully: + +"Oh, Reine, you will not let this Maud come between us? She cannot love +you as well as I do." + +The girl answers her a little sadly. + +"I do not think she loves me at all." + +"Then, why go to her?" Mrs. Odell exclaims. + +"Because it seems my duty," Reine answers calmly. + +"Write to her," suggests the invalid eagerly. + +"There is no surety in the mail. It is safer to go," Reine objects. + +But that evening, faithful Dr. Franks, who has come across the ocean to +watch over the invalid's health, requests a private interview with Mrs. +Charteris. + +"I hear that you wish to return to America?" he says, fixing his kind, +smiling gray eyes on her quiet face, with its grave, sweet lips and +drooping eyes. + +"Yes," she answers. + +"Is it imperative?" asks Dr. Franks. + +"I think so," Reine replies, with some little wonder at his curiosity. + +"You are the best judge," he answers, gravely. "Were it otherwise I +would beg you not to go." + +"Why?" Reine asks, surprised. + +"For that poor lady's sake in yonder. Do you know that your going will +shorten her days upon earth?" + +"Dr. Franks, how can you speak so? You know I would not harm one hair of +her dear, kind head," Reine says, with subdued indignation. + +"I know," he says, gently for him, usually so brusque and careless. "But +she will grieve for you so. She has grown to love you as a daughter. She +has no one else to cling to--she is sensitive and loving, who has buried +all she loves, and is so ill and lonely." + +"What would you have me do?" Reine asks, irresolute and pained. + +"Stay with her till the last, if that were possible," he answers. "It +cannot be for long. Do you know that her days are numbered?" + +She starts, and trembles. + +"No, I thought that this genial climate was to restore her health," she +exclaims. + +"We hoped it, but all has failed," he answers, sadly. "She fails daily +and rapidly. There is no power in medicine, no magic in these balmy airs +to lengthen her life. She is surely fading from us." + +The dark eyes brim over with sorrow. + +"How long?" she asks, faintly. + +"I cannot tell," he answers, sadly. "Her disease is too insidious for +one to say with any certainty. It may be hours, days, weeks, months, for +who can prognosticate surely the coming of that dread enemy that +flatters only to destroy." + +"Then I must not leave her," she answers, warmly, "and yet, I know that +I ought to go back to America." + +"Can you not write?" he inquires. + +"I must do so," she answers, "and trust to God that my letter may go +safely across the ocean. Mrs. Odell has been too kind and tender to me +for me to desert her now. Believe me, I did not know that the end was so +near. I thought, I hoped, she would get well, but now I will not leave +her while she lives." + +"God bless you!" Doctor Franks exclaims, with strong but repressed +emotion. "Will you go in and tell her that? I left her in the bitterest +distress over the thought of your going." + +"Yes," Reine answers, but when he has left her she lingers a little to +regain her composure before returning to the presence of the hapless +lady whom death had marked for his own. + +The sun is shining on the soft, blue water, the flowers are blooming, +the birds are singing. + +Surely, this clime is fair and balmy enough to woo expiring life back to +its tenement of clay. And yet, she, too, her last loved friend, thinks +Reine, must go from her out into the darkness and dreariness of death. + +Crushing back one hopeless sigh, Reine goes back to the shaded, quiet +chamber, where the sick woman lies on her silken couch, with tearful +eyes veiled by the thin, emaciated fingers on which the shining wealth +of rings hang loosely. + +She kneels down and presses her soft, loving lips on the thin, +fever-flushed cheek. + +"You are crying for me," she says, with an earnest penitence and regret. +"I was cruel and ungrateful to talk of leaving you. Can you forgive me?" + +"You are sorry; you will stay!" the sick woman murmurs, with piteous +eagerness. + +"Yes, as long as you live, I will never leave you nor forsake you," +Reine murmurs, with all the solemnity of a vow, thinking sadly to +herself that this is the only heart left on earth to which she is near +and dear. + +"God bless you, you shall be like my own child, Reine. And it may not be +for long," Mrs. Odell sighs. "I am afraid--afraid, dear, that I shall +never see my native land again." + +"We will hope for the best," the girl answers, gently, "and if--if it +should be as you fear, you will not forget that Heaven is as near to +Italy as to our native land." + +Heaven! to these two who have lost the treasure of life, that word is +sweet and potent. + +Drawn nearer together by the waves of sorrow that have gone over their +heads, they cling together in the falling twilight, and talk softly of + + "A land whose light is never dimmed with shade, + Whose fields are ever vernal; + Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, + But blooms for aye eternal." + + * * * * * + +The soft Italian winter comes and goes. To Reine's young and +inexperienced eyes, as she ministers lovingly to her dying friend, it +seems as if a change for the better is taking place. But Doctor Franks +shakes his head. + +"Impossible," he tells her, sadly. "It is a marvel she has lasted so +long. It almost seems as if your love and tenderness have held her +fluttering spirit back from the other world. The end is not far now." + +But the spring days pass with such gentle touches on the wasting frame +that the spirit lingers still. + +At last, in the golden sunset of a golden June, Mrs. Odell's summons +comes, gently, as if angels had borne it down the golden stairway of the +sky, closing her tired eyelids on the fair land of Italy, with her thin +hand nestled in Reine's warm clasp, she opens them again on the +"stiller, fairer world of the dead." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +Standing alone and sadly by the marble cross that marks Mrs. Odell's +quiet grave, Reine's thoughts turn homeward. The longing for native land +inherent in humanity begins to stir in her heart. + + "'Tis hame, hame, hame, hame I fain would be, + Hame, hame, hame, in my ain countree." + +The slim, dark figure standing quietly with the pale face turned +seaward, has a pathetic grace and beauty all its own. + +So thinks one who approaches so quietly along the grass-grown paths of +"the city of the dead," that she starts with a frightened little cry +when he stands before her. + +"Oh! Dr. Franks, how you startled me," she says, with one slim, white +hand pressed against her heart to still its rapid beating. + +"Did I? Pardon me," he answers, with an irrepressible glance of +admiration. "I forgot you might be nervous in this quiet, lonely spot. +Do I intrude upon you?" + +"The place is free to all," she answers, somewhat confusedly. + +"That would be no excuse for me if you did not desire my company," he +answers, quickly and humbly, then in a lower tone: "Oh! Mrs. Charteris, +you must pardon me that I have followed you here! I had something to say +to you. Can you not guess?" + +"Do not say it, please. I would rather not hear," she answers, with +weary indifference in face and voice. + +His handsome, eager face grows blank and dismayed. + +"You will not listen?" he says. "Oh! Reine, think a minute. Is it best +to refuse such love as mine--so ardent, strong, and devoted? You are so +young and lovely, yet so lonely and unprotected. Let me throw the strong +shield of my love around you--let me make you my wife!" + +Reine waves him away with a quiver of pain on the beautiful face, that +is even more lovely in its pallor and gravity than it used to be in its +blushes and dimples. + +"I shall never love--never marry--again," she answers, in a choking +voice. + +"Then you can give me no hope?" Doctor Franks asks sadly, and she shakes +her head. + +"You do not know how long I have loved you," he says, pleadingly. "Ever +since I first saw you you have been the delight of my eyes and heart. +But I have tried to be patient. I have respected your widowhood and your +sorrow. But now, Reine, seeing you so utterly alone in the world, the +time seemed come for me to speak. Are you sure--quite sure, dear, that +you can never love me?" + +The sound of the sea comes to them soft and sad; the wind sighs through +the long grass above the quiet sleepers, whom the things of this world +trouble no more. Tears rise into the dark eyes of the girl as she looks +into the man's troubled face. It is no slight thing to a true woman to +hold the great, throbbing pulse of a man's heart in the hollow of the +hand. + +She lifts to his the great, dewy, pain-filled eyes. + +"I am so sorry," she falters; "but you must have seen how little I cared +for you, for anyone, and that my heart was broken." + +Before that grave and pathetic confession the man's passion is mute. + +"And I have wounded you," he says, in self-condemnation. "Forgive me, +Mrs. Charteris, I have heard of women who were faithful unto death. I +did not know there were those who carried love beyond it." + +She sighs wearily and rests her cheek against the cold marble cross. + +"My heart is broken," she repeats sadly. "I shall never have any more +room in my life for love and lovers." + +"Nor friends?" he asks, pleadingly, and Reine impulsively holds out her +hand. + +"Yes, if you care to claim me," she answers, gently. + +"Rather your friendship than any other woman's love," says the rejected +lover, loyally. + +"You must not feel like that, it is so very hopeless," the girl answers. +"I am going home soon. You may never see me again. I hope that you may +love and marry some happier woman." + +And when he has gone away and left her to the loneliness of her own +thought, she sinks down in the long, sweet grass, weeping long and +bitterly. + +Until now she has never quite realized the truth of her widowhood. It +comes to her with a great pang of agony that Vane Charteris has no +longer any place among men. + +His place in her poor life is vacant forever. + +"And I loved him so dearly," she sighs, lifting her desolate, tear-wet +eyes to the fair, blue heavens. "I loved him, and if he had lived he +would have loved me. My patient love must have won him in the end." + +And again her thoughts turn homeward as if drawn by some irresistible +power. + +"I will return to my native land," she resolves. "I will seek out Maud, +if indeed she has escaped from the terrible web that encompassed her. I +am so lonely and sad perhaps she will be kinder to me than of old." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + +A year has passed since the ill-fated _Hesperus_ was burned in mid-ocean +with such terrible loss of human life. + +In the sultry heat of August, Vane Charteris has forsaken the +breathless, dusty city for the coolness and verdure of that terrestrial +paradise among the hills, Langton Villa. + +He is the guest of Miss Langton, who queens it right royally here over +the grand domain she had nearly lost by her folly of one year ago. + +They walk up and down beneath the trees, Maud and her handsome lawyer, +in the glow of the evening sunset, with the lovely sights and sounds of +summer all around them. + +The heiress, in a robe of palest blue, with creamy lace, looks her +fairest. Mr. Charteris, always handsome, is none the less so for the +shadow brooding darkly in the deep blue eyes, lending its touch of +earnestness to the grave, pale face. + +"How dull and _distrait_ you are," she says at length, impatiently. "Let +us sit down here beneath this tree, and I will try to charm this dull +mood away." + +But for once she finds her fascinations fail. Vane, always inclined to +be taciturn, is more than usually so to-night, even to the verge of +embarrassment. + +She wonders why his eyes evade her own, why he makes no reply to some +tender epithets that falls cooingly from the beautiful lips. + +"I thought you loved me, Vane," she breaks out at last, with some +indignation. + +"Yes, I thought so too, for a little while, under the glamour of your +beauty and my own loneliness, but when you were gone, I found that I was +mistaken. I am here to tell you this. Can you forgive me, Maud?" he +blunders out, with all the shame of a man who feels himself placed in an +uncomfortable position. + +"Mistaken!" she cries, transfixing him with the angry gleam of her blue +eyes. "Why, only the last time we met you said that you loved me." + +Vane, rather red and ashamed, still holds his ground bravely. + +"I was mistaken, as I told you just now," he says. "I do not, I cannot +love you." + +"Cannot!" she repeats, a little blankly. + +"I cannot," he answers. "I find in the light of my later experiences +that I never really loved you, not even when I was about to make you my +wife. I was under the spell of your beauty. I know now that my heart was +untouched." + +"What do you mean by later experience?" the beautiful woman asks, +sneeringly. + +"I mean that the love I feel now, when too late, for my lost wife, +Reine, is the only love my heart can ever know," he answers, speaking +low and reverentially, as if in the presence of the dead. + +The cold blue eyes of the beautiful heiress kindle with pride and +resentment. + +"You expect me to believe this?" she cries, hotly. "Do I not know how +you despised Reine Langton! How you called her vixen, spit-fire, scold! +How you longed to be out of her presence and rid of her?" + +"For all of which I would beg her pardon on my knees if she were +living," he answers, still low and reverentially; "I did not understand +her then. I was a simpleton, an indolent, fastidious fool. I know now +that those bright, wild ways were but the ripple and effervescence on +the water that ran deep, and calm, and sweet beneath. She was like a +lovely rose that hid its sweetness behind 'little wilful thorns.' At +heart she was true, and sweet, and womanly. Too late I learned that I +loved her, and in honor to her memory I will make no other woman my +wife." + +The angry color rises into Miss Langton's fair cheek. + +"You forget that you are pledged to me," she says, in a low, fierce +whisper. "You forget that our marriage day is already set." + +"I forget nothing," he returns, sadly. "Nothing except that I was +blinded for a moment by your subtle charm, and offered you what was not +mine to give, what belongs irrevocably to the dead--my whole heart. I +came to ask you for my freedom, Maud." + +"What if I refuse?" she asks, with a subtle flash in the blue eyes. + +"Then God help me and forgive you," he answers, solemnly, "for we can +never be happy together. There are two ghosts between us, Maud. The man +who murdered himself because of your falsity, and the fair, sweet girl +who gave her life to save yours. They would haunt us and reproach us +with their slighted and forgotten love. They would come between us +ever." + +Her cheeks and lips are paling, her eyes stare before her, wild and +frightened; she shivers, and puts up her white hand as if to ward off +some threatening danger. + +"I--am haunted already," she says, in a low and trembling voice. "Do you +think I do not see him in my dreams, with menace in his staring eyes and +reproaches on his lips? He was my dreaded companion in the lonely +prison-cell. He stalks before me grimly in the grand saloons of wealth +and pride, always with a look of terrible reproach and despair on his +dead, white face. I am a haunted woman. It is for this I have sought to +win back your heart. I would fain put your warm, living love and +tenderness between me and the pursuing ghost of the man whom I betrayed +to his death. I am afraid of the dark, the loneliness, the terror of my +own thoughts. Do not put me away from you, Vane. My only hope is in +you." + +They gaze at each other silently a moment. The soft wind, odorous with +the breath of honeysuckles, pinks and roses, sighing through the garden, +whispers to them of a slight form bowed behind the tree, a white face +convulsed with passionate emotion. But they neither hear nor heed its +admonition. Maud speaks again, pleadingly: + +"I cannot release you, Vane. I love you. Surely you can give me some +little tenderness and love when once I am your wife? I will make you +happy--I swear it." + +"The only woman who could make me happy rests in her ocean grave," Vane +answers, with deep solemnity and truth. + +Miss Langton regards him in wonder. + +"Yet once you scorned her," she says slowly. "How did she win you at +last, Vane?" + +He is silent a moment, as if the question has struck home to his own +heart, awakening thought and memory to life. His lips grow strangely +tender in their saddened curve. + +"How can I tell?" he says slowly. "Perhaps it was the softened sweetness +that hung about her after that night when our lives became one. Perhaps +it was her proud, sweet patience under my unkindness. Perhaps, yes, +after all! I believe it was the charm of her love that won me. Can you +realize such a thing as this, Maud, that love should win love?" + +"Yes," she answers, hopefully. "Did I not tell you just now that my love +would win you and make you happy?" + +He shakes his head impatiently + +"That could never be, Maud. You and I are better apart. I can never +forget Reine, my slighted girl-bride. She is ever in my thoughts. I +think of her as of one living, not dead. I recall her rose-leaf lips, +her dark, laughing eyes, the nameless charm that clung about her, and my +very heart aches with the intensity of its yearning to find my loved and +lost one again." + +"Thank God!" exclaimed a low, rapturous, thrilling voice almost at his +very side. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + +At that heart-thrilling cry of rapture, Vane Charteris and his companion +turn around simultaneously. + +Within a few feet of them they behold Reine, the long-lost bride, Reine, +in the long, trailing sables of widowhood, yet with a face fairly +transfigured by happiness, love and triumph. + +The effect of her sudden appearance upon Maud is most startling. + +The beautiful blonde, after one terrified glance at her +strangely-restored cousin, shrieks out: + +"A ghost, a ghost!" and flies in the wildest dismay toward the house. + +Vane Charteris, half-bewildered, yet full of gladness, flies to clasp +the beautiful phantom to his heart. + +As his arms close around the palpitating figure, and he realizes that +she is truly a creature of flesh and blood, a cry of thanksgiving +escapes his lips, the tears of not unmanly emotion burst from the eyes +and rain down on the dark head, nestled closely and lovingly against his +breast. + +He holds her close and tight, raining passionate kisses on the sweet, +scarlet mouth, the blushing cheeks, the dark eye, tearful with this +sudden happiness. + +"You love me, Vane," she murmurs, softly and half-incredulously, "and +yet I thought, I feared----" + +"You feared what?" he asks, breaking in upon her shy pause. + +"That you loved Maud best," she answers. "When I came up the path and +saw you two together, I crept behind the tree and listened. If I had +learned then that she was the desire of your heart, I should have crept +away quietly to die of my sorrow, I should not have come between you and +your love. You never should have known." + +"But since you found me faithful to your memory, Reine, you will forgive +all the past, will you not, my darling?" he pleads. + +"Freely," she answers, with a smile that is all the brighter because it +breaks through tears. + +"And now," he says, drawing her down to a seat beside him on the bench +beneath the tree, "now, dear, you will tell me all your story. Where +have you been through all the long months in which I mourned you as +dead?" + +Resting in his arms she tells him the story of those long months of +sorrow while she believed him dead, sobbing even now in the deep, sweet +gladness that has come to her so suddenly, over the remembrance of her +despair. + +"I knew no better until I reached the village yonder, seeking Maud," she +concludes. "There I learned the whole truth, that you lived, and were +again the betrothed of my cousin. I came here to have one secret, +farewell look at you, my husband, to go away and leave you to your love +and your happiness. But I heard all you said, and I could not give you +up to Maud's selfish claim after that." + +"I thank God that I have found you again, my precious wife. We shall +never be parted any more," he answers, earnestly. + +"You have not told me how you were saved that night after you sprang +from the life-boat in which I last saw you," the young wife says after a +little, lifting to his her shy, yet radiant eyes. + +"I floated on a plank a few hours, and was picked up by another +life-boat, that is the whole story, simply told," he replies. + +"And you did not forget me when you thought me dead--you loved me after +I was gone from you?" she says, with a note of gladness in her deep, +sweet voice. + +"I loved you before I had lost you, darling. Did you not guess the +truth, Reine?" he inquired, earnestly. + +"No," she answers, with blended wonder and delight in her beautiful, +glowing face. + +"It is true, dear," he answers. "I loved you before I became aware of it +myself. I was abominably jealous of the young lord who admired you in +England. Yet at the time I was scarcely conscious of the meaning of my +annoyance. My proposal to accompany you to America was an outgrowth of +the longing to have you all to myself. And Reine, my darling wife, you +remember that last night when the terrible trial of fire came to us, +that night I had resolved that our strange alienation should exist no +longer. I had determined to ask you, to pray you to come to your true +resting-place upon my heart. But, my bride, my wife, there will be no +more separation between us. You will share my home and my heart +henceforth." + +"You used not to like me," she says, filled with a glad surprise. "Why +did you love me at last?" + +The lover-husband looks down with a half-mischievous smile into the +dark, questioning eyes. + +"Why did I love you," he says, lightly, yet tenderly. "Shall I tell you, +little one? Well, then, I believe it was because you loved me." + +The sweet face, covered with blushes, droops from his gaze. He bends to +kiss it, then continues, less teasingly: + +"You remember how you used to gibe and tease and ridicule me, Reine, and +how I retaliated in likewise? Well, when it came to me suddenly that you +really loved me, it filled me with a certain, indefinable triumph and +pride which grew and grew upon me until when you came to England the +feeling blossomed into passion. Every time I looked at you I said to +myself: 'She loves me, that beautiful, spirited girl loves me,' and +there was such strange, thrilling sweetness in the thought that it +seemed to compel my love in return. Now, Reine, my own adored one, I +feel and know that my love for you is the one great passion of my life. +That which I felt for Maud was a mere empty fancy, born of her lily-like +beauty, and fading when I saw that her soul was not fair and angelic +like her face. Henceforth, my wife, you will embody all the beauty of +earth to me. You are 'queen, lily and rose' in one." + +She has no answer for him, her tears are falling so fast--the tender +tears of happiness, soft and cooling, like the rain of summer that falls +like a blessing. Vane kisses them away with tender solicitude. They are +the last that dim her eyes for many years. The sunshine of her future +happiness shines too bright on her life for clouds and tears to dim its +glory. + + * * * * * + +After awhile, Miss Langton, who has been silently reconnoitering from an +upper window, comes out to them. + +"You see I was not a ghost after all," Reine exclaims, advancing to meet +her. "Will you not bid me welcome, Cousin Maud?" + +"You are an imposter!" Miss Langton answers, angrily, recoiling from the +white, extended hand. "I will never acknowledge you as a cousin of +mine!" + +"For shame, Maud!" Vane Charteris cries out, warmly, drawing his young +wife to his side. "This is my wife, and you know it!" + +"I have your own assurance that your wife was drowned before your eyes +on the night of the burning of the _Hesperus_," Maud answers, icily. + +"That was a mistake, Maud. I only dived beneath the water and came up +again out of his range of vision," Reine explains, eagerly. + +But Vane checks her gently. + +"Do not trouble yourself to explain to her, my darling," he says. "It +matters very little to us whether she recognizes you or not. We can be +happy without her favor." + +"Happy! oh, I dare say," Maud laughs, hysterically. "No doubt you, Mr. +Charteris, will be exceedingly happy in a squalid cottage, with a +sharp-tongued little vixen for your companion. Permit me to remind you +of the o'er-true adage that 'When poverty comes in the door, love flies +out of the window.'" + +Something in the blue fire of the eyes he bends upon her makes her quail +momentarily. He answers with chill brevity: + +"Fortunately I may take my wife to a palace, not a cottage, so we need +run no such risks as you apprehend, Miss Langton. To convince you, will +you look at this?" + +He draws a folded paper from his breast and holds it open before her +startled eyes. + +"You see," he says, icily, "it is the will with which Mr. Langton +threatened you the night you jilted me. I am a lawyer, you remember. I +drew this up for him at his own request. It is signed by competent and +available witnesses. It is perfectly legal, and I can prove it so in any +court in the land. It bequeathes Mr. Langton's whole fortune equally +between my wife and myself, cutting you off without a shilling." + +Maud stares at the terrible legal-looking document with frightened eyes +and a corpse-like pallor. + +"You--you are deceiving me," she says, faintly. "If it is really true, +why have you kept the will so long and allowed me to usurp the +property?" + +"Through pity and kindness for you," he answers, with cold contempt. "As +long as Reine was supposed dead, no one suffered from the fraud but +myself, and I was content to be poor that you might have the wealth your +soul coveted. But now my wife's claims must be considered above all +others." + +"I would sooner die than be poor!" Maud weeps, wildly. + +And Reine, taking the legal document between her white fingers, turns +her shining eyes on her husband. + +"Could you be happy with me, Vane, if we had really to live in a cottage +and work hard for each other?" she asks, earnestly. + +"Yes, Reine, I am quite sure I could," he answers, as earnestly. + +"Then may I do as I like with this paper?" she inquires. + +"You must not defraud yourself, dear," he says, startled. + +She laughs--her old, ringing, joyous laugh, with a new tone of +tenderness in its musical cadence. + +"I do not intend to," she answers. "_You_ are everything to me, Vane; +Maud may have all the rest." + +With the words, the white paper flutters in her whiter fingers, there is +a sound of tearing paper, and the old millionaire's will flutters in a +heap of snowy fragments on the soft, green grass. + +Then Reine laughs in pretty, childish exultation. + +"You are the heiress still, Maud," she says, gayly. "I have only Vane. +From first to last, he is all I have cared for or wanted." + +There is a moment's stunned silence, then the ice around Maud's selfish, +worldly heart melts in the sunshine of this warm and loving nature. She +is conquered by this heavenly forgiveness and love. + +"Reine, Reine," she cries, in hoarse, half-choking accents, "forgive me +for my cruel and wicked denial of you. I know you now. No other woman +but Reine Charteris could be so forgiving, so generous, so +self-sacrificing." + +"You have beggared yourself," Vane says to his wife, a little vexed. + +"I have you," she answers, with a glance so radiant and loving that he +cannot but forgive her folly. + +So there is peace between the three--a peace that is never more broken, +for Maud's heart has gone out to her cousin in a love never to be +recalled. She even offers to divide the fortune so generously bestowed +on her, but Vane and Reine decline the compromise. They have each other, +and as each laughingly declares, "that is the world and all." They try +"love in a cottage" for a year, and declare it a perfect success. + +One of the world's great bards has written: "The secret of genius is +dogged persistence." Vane Charteris, toiling early and late in his dusty +office for his little wife, finds it true. The laurels he would never +have won in ease and indolence, begin to circle his brow with a chaplet +that is the pride of his young wife's heart. + +Yet he goes home one evening with a sigh instead of a smile for the +dark-eyed wife who meets him in the homely little parlor, made +beautiful only by her beautiful presence. + +"Reine, how lovely you are," he murmurs, bending to kiss the upturned +lips. "Ah!" with a discontented sigh, "if I only had jewels and laces, +satins and velvets to adorn that glorious beauty." + +"What is it, dear?" she asks, trying to smooth the frown from his brow +with her dainty forefinger. + +"It is only this, dear: Invitations are pouring in upon us which we +cannot accept because we are too poor to enter into that circle where we +rightfully belong by reason of my talent and your beauty. Darling, how I +hate to seclude you from the gaze of men because I am too poor to adorn +you like the rest. What shall we do?" + +"Do? Why, we must go into the world and shine with the rest," she +answers, promptly and gayly. + +"We are too poor," he replies, gloomily. + +"We are worth a million of dollars," Mrs. Charteris answers, calmly, +with her dainty head perched sidewise like a bird's. + +"Reine!" + +"Vane!" + +"Whatever do you mean?" he inquires. + +"I mean," contritely, "that Mrs. Odell divided her fortune between Dr. +Franks and me, and I have kept the secret, like a naughty girl, just for +the pleasure of having you work for me. You see, Vane, you were +careless, indolent, ease-loving. You never would have made a name if you +had not an object to work for. Now, dear, will you forgive me for +keeping the secret a whole year?" + +"I forgive you and thank you, too," he answers, earnestly. "You have +made a man of me, little wife." + +"Yes, indeed," she says, with a pretty, happy triumph "And now, Vane, we +will share the fortune and all the pleasures it can give together. My +dear friend left me all her jewels, too. Only think," gayly, "how I +shall shine in them." + +In society they meet Maud, and--actually--Doctor Franks, who has also +returned to America. Putting aside his own regret, he rejoices heartily +in Reine's happiness. Maud's blue eyes heal the wound that Reine's dark +eyes made, and a year later the pair are happily married, the selfish +woman having developed into a nobler creature under Reine's lovely +example. + +The current of Reine's life glides on smoothly and brightly under the +blue and sunny sky of love. At times the old, gay, teasing nature +bubbles up to the surface; at times Mr. Charteris calls her "vixen and +scold," but never in spite or vexation, only in the gay and careless +_badinage_ in which it pleases them sometimes to indulge, as when under +the green trees of Langton Villa, where the separate streams of their +lives first met and mingled into one. + + +[THE END.] + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Most Popular American Novelist + + +Mrs. Georgie Sheldon + +writes exclusively for Street & Smith. Her stories are among the leading +attractions of their famous EAGLE SERIES. The following is a complete +list of this favorite author's works now published at =10 Cents= by +Street & Smith, who are the sole authorized publishers of her latest +works, and the only house issuing her complete list of novels. + +List of titles: + + Audrey's Recompense Eagle, No. 99, 10c. + Dorothy Arnold's Escape " " 188, " + Dorothy's Jewels " " 144, " + Edrie's Legacy " " 12, " + Faithful Shirley " " 111, " + Grazia's Mistake " " 122, " + Masked Bridal, The " " 166, " + Max " " 133, " + Nameless Dell " " 155, " + Queen Bess " " 1, " + Ruby's Reward " " 2, " + That Dowdy " " 44, " + Thrice Wedded " " 55, " + Tina " " 77, " + True Aristocrat, A " " 177, " + Two Keys " " 7, " + Virgie's Inheritance " " 88, " + Witch Hazel " " 66, " + + +Street & Smith, Publishers, New York + + + + +Mrs. Sheldon's Works + +In Cloth, at 35 Cents + + Geoffrey's Victory _Rose Series_, No. 1 + Queen Bess " " No. 4 + Trixy " " No. 11 + + * * * * * + +Mrs. Sheldon's Works + +In Paper, at 25 Cents + + Brownie's Triumph _Princess Series_, No. 5, 25c. + Earle Wayne's Nobility " " " 20, " + Forsaken Bride " " " 16, " + His Heart's Queen " " " 4, " + Lost, a Pearle " " " 7, " + Mona " " " 10, " + Stella Rosevelt " " " 2, " + Sybil's Influence " " " 13, " + A Wedded by Fate " " " 1, " + Wild Oats " " " 8, " + +For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail, postpaid, by the +publishers, at the stated price. + + +STREET & SMITH, Publishers, New York + + + + + EAGLE SERIES + + A weekly publication devoted to good literature. + By subscription $5 per year. Dec. 10, 1900. + Entered as second-class matter at N.Y. post-office. + + NO. 198 + + +Ainslee's Magazine _Awarded_ GRAND PRIZE _at the_ Paris Exposition + +United States Commission to the Paris Exposition of 1900 + + PARIS + 20 AVENUE RAPP + + _Aug., 31, 1900._ + + AINSLEE'S MAGAZINE, + _STREET & SMITH_, + New York City, U. S. A. + +I have the honor to inform you that, in accordance with the official +announcement of awards at the Paris Exposition of 1900, * * * you are +entitled to the award of Grand Prize. + + _A. S. CAPEHART,_ + _Director of Liberal Arts and Chemical Industries._ + +Ainslee's is the only 10-cent magazine in the _Gold Medal Class_. This +splendid compliment speaks volumes for the literary and artistic +excellence of the magazine. + + +STREET & SMITH, _Publishers_, New York + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + + +Added table of contents. + +Underscores are used to represent _italics_, equals signs for =bold=. + +Some missing punctuation added in series lists. + +Archaic spellings (e.g. hight, woful) retained from original. + +Some inconsistent spacing retained (e.g. "a while" vs. "awhile"). + +Some inconsistent spelling retained (e.g. "glamor" vs. "glamour"). + +Some inconsistent hyphenation retained (e.g. "master-passion" vs. +"master passion"). + + +_Guy Kenmore's Wife_ + +This story was originally serialized in the _New York Family Story +Paper_ under the title _Irene Brooke; or Her Mother's Secret_ in 1883. + +Page 9, changed "gittering" to "glittering." + +Page 12, changed "addressed" to "addresses" for tense consistency. + +Page 28, changed "chagrim" to "chagrin." + +Page 30, changed "verry" to "very." + +Page 45, merged last paragraph of this page with first paragraph of +following page. + +Page 46, italicized "protege" for consistency. + +Page 47, added missing close quote after "we are about the same size." + +Page 53, removed unnecessary close quote at end of Chapter XXI. + +Page 55, added missing period after "the gateway of the sky." + +Page 58, changed "mutinuous" to "mutinous." + +Page 64, italicized "robe de nuit" and "eau de cologne" for consistency. + +Page 68, added missing close quote after "extremely small." + +Page 69, changed "fized" to "fixed" and "favarite" to "favorite." + +Page 73, added missing close quote after "her worshiped face." + +Page 79, changed "easy" to "ease" in "charming ease and grace." + +Page 80, added missing period after "astonishment and delight." + +Page 83, added missing quote before "I see you are not disposed" and +changed ? to ! in "They would not hear of such a thing!" + +Page 84, changed "Mr Rivington" to "Mr. Revington" and "Julius +Rivington" to "Julius Revington." + +Page 91, changed "surprice" to "surprise." + +Page 92, changed "guaged" to "gauged." + +Page 95, added missing comma in "...marry, Mr. Kenmore?" + +Page 97, changed comma to period after "toilet table." + +Page 99, changed "far" to "for" in "for your wrongs and mine." + +Page 101, changed "repeat" to "repeated" in "Bozzaotra repeated Elaine's +invitation." + +Page 107, changed "seperate" to "separate." + +Page 108, changed "Beooke's" to "Brooke's." + +Page 110, added missing close quote after "shield her memory." + + +_The Rose and the Lily_ + +This story was originally serialized in the _New York Family Story +Paper_ in 1882. + +Some apparently erroneous tense changes have been retained from the +Eagle Library edition; it is possible that these errors did not exist in +the original story paper appearance. Errors have been corrected (and +noted below) where the original story paper issues were available for +consultation. + +Page 2, changed "smiled" to "smiles." + +Page 11, changed "Langdon" to "Langton." + +Page 12, added close quote after "cheated Reine Langton of fortune." + +Page 24, added missing close quote after "return from him." + +Page 40, removed unnecessary quote after "alone!" + +Page 51, changed "swifty" to "swiftly." + +Page 53, changed "thaat" to "that." + +Page 54, removed unnecessary quote before "Mr. Langton, taking one." + +Page 61, changed "handerchief" to "handkerchief." + +Page 63, changed "were present" to "are present." (Inconsistent tense +was not present in original story paper appearance). + +Page 64, changed "prefer his request" to "proffer his request." + +Page 67, added missing period in "Mr. Charteris." + +Page 70, changed "Reinie" to "Reine." + +Page 71, changed "Renie's" to "Reine's." + +Page 74, added "to" to "If anything should happen to you." + +Page 79, changed "atttentively" to "attentively." + +Page 80, added missing quote after "keep it for me." + +Page 86, changed "has been" to "had been" for proper tense (corrected to +match original story paper appearance). + +Page 89, changed "beatiful" to "beautiful" and "stuned" to "stunned." + +Page 90, changed "medieum" to "medium." + +Page 91, changed "unconcious" to "unconscious." + +Page 93, changed "CHAPTER XXII" to "CHAPTER XXIII." + +Page 94, changed "the the" to "the" before "tiny saloon." + +Page 95, removed stray quote before "Mrs. Odell, who has sunk wearily +into a chair." + +Page 96, changed "a minutes' silence" to "a minute's silence." + +Page 100, changed "begining" to "beginning." + +Page 101, changed "Renie" to "Reine" and added missing close quote after +"my dear." + +Page 106, changed ? to . in "I was cruel and ungrateful to talk of +leaving you." + +Page 111, changed double quotes to single quotes around "little wilful +thorns." + +Page 116, changed ? to ! in "For shame, Maud!" + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Guy Kenmore's Wife and The Rose and +the Lily, by Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43037 *** |