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Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter

by Lawrence L. Lynch · English · Gutenberg #26482 · 682,603 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter

Author: Lawrence L. Lynch


        
Release date: August 29, 2008 [eBook #26482]
                Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

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The Great Detective Story.

MADELINE PAYNE, THE DETECTIVE'S DAUGHTER.

by

LAWRENCE L. LYNCH,

(Of the Secret Service.)

Author of "Shadowed by Three," "The Diamond Coterie,"
"Out of a Labyrinth," etc., etc.







[Illustration: "Yes," she cried, wildly, "I know; you need not say
it"--page 219.]



Chicago:
Alex. T. Loyd & Co.
1888.

Copyright, 1883,
Donnelley, Loyd & Co.,
Chicago.

Copyright, 1883,
Alex. T. Loyd & Co.,
Chicago.

Copyright, 1884,
Alex. T. Loyd & Co.,
Chicago.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                                  PAGE

I.        MAN PROPOSES                                    9
II.       THE OLD TREE'S REVELATIONS                     16
III.      THE STORY OF A CRIME                           25
IV.       THE DIE IS CAST                                44
V.        A SHREWD SCHEME                                54
VI.       A WARNING                                      64
VII.      A STRUGGLE FOR MORE THAN LIFE                  75
VIII.     THREADS OF THE FABRIC                          98
IX.       GONE!                                         104
X.        BONNIE, BEWITCHING CLAIRE                     113
XI.       A GLEAM OF LIGHT                              121
XII.      A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD                       130
XIII.     MISS ARTHUR'S FRENCH MAID                     137
XIV.      WHEELS WITHIN WHEEL                           143
XV.       CORA AND THE FRENCH MAID MEASURE SWORDS       155
XVI.      FACE TO FACE                                  167
XVII.     GATHERING CLUES                               184
XVIII.    THE HAND OF FRIENDSHIP WIELDS THE SURGEON'S
              KNIFE                                     191
XIX.      A DUAL RENUNCIATION                           203
XX.       STRUGGLING AGAINST FATE                       215
XXI.      HAGAR AND CORA                                229
XXII.     TO BE, TO DO, TO SUFFER                       239
XXIII.    SETTING SOME SNARES                           244
XXIV.     A VERITABLE GHOST                             251
XXV.      SOME DAYS OF WAITING                          257
XXVI.     NOT A BAD DAY'S WORK                          265
XXVII.    CLAIRE TURNS CIRCE                            272
XXVIII.   THE CURTAIN RISES ON THE MIMIC STAGE          279
XXIX.     A STARTLING EPISODE                           291
XXX.      WAITING                                       299
XXXI.     MR. PERCY SHAKES HIMSELF                      303
XXXII.    A SILKEN BELT                                 310
XXXIII.   CROSS PURPOSES                                316
XXXIV.    A SLIGHT COMPLICATION                         322
XXXV.     "THOU SHALT NOT SERVE TWO MASTERS" SET AT
             NAUGHT                                     332
XXXVI.    MR. LORD'S LETTER                             337
XXXVII.   "I HAVE COME BACK TO MY OWN!"                 341
XXXVIII.  CORA UNDER ORDERS                             356
XXXIX.    MYSTIFIED PEOPLE                              367
XL.       DAVLIN'S "POINTS."                            378
XLI.      THE DAYS PASS BY                              385
XLII.     A STRUGGLE FOR FREEDOM                        389
XLIII.    THE DOCTOR'S WOOING                           397
XLIV.     A FRESH COMPLICATION                          403
XLV.      MRS. RALSTON'S STORY                          409
XLVI.     CORA "STIRS UP THE ANIMALS."                  416
XLVII.    THE BEGINNING OF THE END                      423
XLVIII.   THE SWORD OF FATE                             427
XLIX.     AS THE FOOL DIETH                             442
L.        "AND THEN COMES REST."                        447





[Illustration: "Lucian Davlin was among the arrivals, and at the end
of the depot platform stood the dainty phaeton of Mrs. John
Arthur."--page 229.]




MADELINE PAYNE,

THE DETECTIVE'S DAUGHTER.


CHAPTER I.

MAN PROPOSES.


"H'm! And you scarcely remember your mother, I suppose?"

"No, Lucian; I was such a mere babe when she died, I have often
wondered what it would be like to have a mother. Auntie Hagar was
always very kind to me, however; so kind, in fact, that my
step-father, fearing, he said, that I would grow up self-willed and
disobedient, sent her away, and procured the services of the ugly old
woman you saw in the garden. Poor Auntie Hagar," sighed the girl, "she
was sorely grieved at our parting and, that she might be near me,
bought the little cottage in the field yonder."

"Oh!" ejaculated the man, more as if he felt that he was expected to
say something, than as if really interested in the subject under
discussion. "Ah--er--was--a--was the old lady a property holder, then?
Most discharged servants go up and down on the earth, seeking what
they may devour--in another situation."

"That is the strangest part of the affair, Lucian; she had money.
Where it came from, I never could guess, nor would she ever give me
any information on the subject. It was a legacy--that was all I was to
know, it seemed.

"I remember," she continued, musingly, "how very much astonished I was
to receive, from my step-father, a lecture on this head. He took the
ground that my childish curiosity was unpardonably rude, and angrily
forbade me to ask further questions. And I am sure that since that one
instance of wonderful regard for the feelings of Aunt Hagar, he has
not deigned to consider the comfort and happiness of any, save and
always himself."

As the girl's voice took on a tone of scornful sarcasm; as her cheeks
flushed and her eyes flashed while memory recalled the many instances
of unfeeling cruelty and neglect, that had brought tears to her
childish eyes and pain to her lonely heart--the eyes of Lucian Davlin
became bright with admiration, and something more; something that
might have caused her honest eyes to wonder and question, if she had
but intercepted the glance. But her thoughts had taken a backward
turn. Without looking up, perceiving by his silence that he had no
desire to interrupt her, she proceeded, half addressing herself:

"I used to ask him about my mother, and was always informed that he
'didn't care to converse of dead folks.' Finally, he assured me that
he was 'tired of seeing my sickly, ugly face,' and that, as I would
have to look after myself when he was dead and gone, I must be
educated. Therefore, I was sent to the dreary Convent school at M----.
And there I studied hard, looking forward to the time when, having
learned all they could teach me, I might breathe again outside the
four stone walls; for, by my step-papa's commands, I was not permitted
to roam outside the sisters' domains until my studies should reach an
end. Then they brought me back, and my polite step-papa called me an
'educated idiot;' and my good old Hagar cried over me; and I made
friends with the birds, and the trees. Ever since, always avoiding my
worthy ancestor-in-law, I have been wondering what it would be like to
be happy among true friends, in a bright spot somewhere, far away from
this place, where I never have been happy for a day at a time, even as
a child."

"Never, little girl?" The eyes were very reproachful, and the man's
hand was held out entreatingly. "Never, darling?"

She looked up in his face shyly, yet trustfully, and then putting her
hand in his, said: "Never, until I knew you, Lucian; and always since,
I think, except--"

She hesitated, and the color fled out of her face.

"Except when I think that the day draws near when you will leave me.
And when the great world has swallowed you up, you will forget the
'little girl' you found in the woods, perhaps."

A smile flitted across the face of the listener, and he turned away
for a moment to conceal the lurking devil gleaming out of his eyes.
Then, flinging away his half finished cigar, he took both her hands in
his, and looking down into her clear eyes, said:

"Then don't let me go away from you, beauty. Don't stay here to make
dismal meditations among the gloomy trees. Don't pass all the weary
Winter with Curmudgeon, who will marry you to an old bag of gold. Come
with me; come to the city and be happy. You shall see all the glories
and beauties of the gay, bright world. You shall put dull care far
behind you. You shall be my little Queen of Hearts, to love and care
for always. Sweetheart, will you come?"

He was folding her close now, and she nestled in his arms with perfect
trustfulness, with untold happiness shining in her bright eyes. She
was in no haste to answer his eager question, and he smiled again; and
once more the lurking devil laughed out of his eyes. But he held her
tenderly to him, in silence for a time, and then lifted the blushing
face to meet his own.

"Look up, Aileen, my own! Is it to be as I wish? Will you leave this
place with me to-morrow night?"

The girl drew back with a start of surprise. "You--you surely are not
going to-morrow, Lucian," and the gentle voice trembled.

"I must, little one--have just received a letter calling me back to
the city. Your sweet face has already kept me here too long. But I
shall take it back with me, shall I not, love; and never lose it
more?"

The girl was silent. She loved him only too well, and yet this
peremptory wooing and sudden departure struck upon her naturally
sensitive nerves as something harsh and unpleasant. She would not
leave behind much love, would be missed by few friends, and yet--to
leave her home once was to leave it forever, and it was home, after
all. She looked at the man before her, and a something, her good angel
perhaps, seemed, almost against herself, to move her to rebel.

"Why must I go like a runaway, Lucian? I can't bear to bid you go, and
yet, if you must, why not leave me for a little time? My father will
never consent, I well know, but let me tell him, and then go openly,
after he has had time to become familiar with the idea."

"After he has had time to lock you up! Recollect, you are not of age,
Aileen. After he has had time to force you into a marriage with your
broken-backed old lover. After he has had time to poison your mind
against me----"

"Lucian! as if he could do _that_; _he_, indeed!" The girl laughed
scornfully.

[Illustration: "She nestled in his arms with perfect
trustfulness."--page 11.]

It is not difficult to guess how this affair would have terminated.
The man was handsome and persuasive; the girl trustful, loving, and,
save for him, so she thought, almost friendless.

But an unexpected event interrupted the eloquence flowing from the
lips of Lucian Davlin, and set the mind of the girl free to think one
moment, unbiased by the mesmeric power of his mind, eye, and touch.

They were standing in a little grove, near which ran the footpath
leading into the village of Bellair. Suddenly, as if he had dropped
from one of the wide spreading trees, a very fat boy, with a shining
face and a general air of "knowingness," appeared before them.

"I beg pardin, sir," proclaimed he, "but as you told me if a
tellergram come for you, to fetch it here, so I did."

And staring at Madeline the while, he produced a yellow envelope from
some interior region, and presented it to Lucian Davlin, who tore open
the cover, and took in the purport of the message at one glance. His
face wore a variety of expressions: Annoyance, satisfaction, surprise,
all found place as he read. He stood in a thoughtful attitude for a
brief time, and then, as if he had settled the matter in his own mind,
said:

"All right, Mike. Go back now, and tell Bowers to prepare to leave
to-night. I'll come down and send the required answer immediately.
Here, take this."

Tossing him a piece of money, Lucian turned to Madeline, over whose
face a look of sorrowful wonder was creeping.

"'Man proposes,' my dear! Well, I am 'disposed of' for a time. It is
only one night sooner, and, after all, what matter? Will you decide
for me at once, Maidie? Nay, I see you hesitate still, and time just
now is precious. Think till to-night, then; think of the lonely days
here without me; think of me, alone in the big world, wishing and
longing for _you_. I could not even write you in safety. Think fast,
little woman; and when evening comes, meet me here with your answer.
If it must be separation for a time, dear, tell me when I shall come
back for you."

The girl drew a breath of relief. He would come back--that would be
better. But seeing his anxiety to be gone, she only said: "Very well,
Lucian, I will be here."

"Then, good-by till evening."

A swift kiss, and a strong hand clasp, and he strode away.

Trampling down the wayside daisies and tender Spring grasses;
insensible to the beauties of earth and sky; smiling still that same
queer, meaning smile, he took the path leading back to the village.
Reaching the site, where the woody path terminated in the highway, he
turned. Yes, she was looking after him; she would be, he knew. He
kissed his hand, lifted his hat with a courtly gesture, and passed out
of her sight.

"Gad!" he ejaculated, half aloud, "she is a little beauty; and half
inclined to rebel, too. She won't go with me to-night, I think; but a
few weeks of this solitude without me, and my Lady Bird will
capitulate. The old Turk, her step-father, won't raise much of a hue
and cry at her flight, I fancy. Wonder what is the secret of his
antipathy to Miss Payne."

He paced on, wrinkling his brow in thought a moment, and then
whistling softly as his fancies shaped themselves to his liking.
Suddenly he stopped, turned, and looked sharply about him.

"I'll do it!" he exclaimed. "Strange if I can't extract from a broken
down old woman any items of family history that might serve my
purpose. I'll call on the nurse--what's her name--to-night."

He glanced across the meadow to where stood the cottage of Nurse
Hagar, and, as if satisfied with himself and his brilliant last idea,
resumed his walk. Presently his pace slackened again, and he looked at
the crumpled paper which he still retained in his hand, saying:

"It's queer what sent Cora to the city for this flying visit. I must
keep my Madeline out of her way. If they should meet--whew!"

Evidently, direful things might ensue from a meeting between Madeline
Payne and this unknown Cora, for after a prolonged whistle, a brief
moment of silence, and then a short laugh, Davlin said:

"I should wear a wig, at least," and he laughed again. "I wonder, by
Jove! I wonder if old Arthur's money bags are heavy enough to make a
card for Cora. Well, I'll find that out, too."




CHAPTER II.

THE OLD TREE'S REVELATIONS.


Meanwhile, strange feelings filled the heart, and troublesome thoughts
the head, of Madeline Payne.

She looked about her sorrowfully. The leafy wood seemed one of her
oldest, truest friends. Since her mother's death, she had lived, save
for the faithful regard of old Hagar, an unloved life. In the only
home she knew, she felt herself an object of dislike, and met only
cold neglect, or rude repulsion. So she had made a friend of the shady
wood, and welcomed back the birds, in early Springtime, with joyful
anticipation of Summer rest under green branches, lulled and soothed
by their songs.

Wandering here, the acquaintance between herself and Lucian Davlin
had begun. Here six long, bright weeks of the Springtime had passed,
each day finding them lingering longer among the leafy shadows, and
drawing closer about them both the cords of a destiny sad for one,
fatal for each.

Standing with hands clasped loosely before her, eyes down dropped, and
foot tapping the mossy turf, Madeline presented a picture of youth and
loveliness such as is rarely seen even in a beauty-abounding land. A
form of medium height which would, in later years, develop much of
stately grace; a complexion of lily-like fairness; and eyes as deep
and brown, as tender and childlike, as if their owner were gazing,
ever and always, as infants gaze who see only great, grand wonders,
and never a woe or fear.

With a wee, small mouth, matching the eyes in expression, the face was
one to strike a casual observer as lovely--as childishly sweet,
perhaps. Yet there was something more than childishness in the broad
brow, and firm chin. The little white hands were shapely and strong,
and the dainty feet pressed down the daisies softly yet firmly, with
quiet but steady movement.

Many a man has been mistaken in baby mouth, and sweetly-smiling eyes.
And whoso should mistake Madeline Payne, in the time to come, for
"just a child and nothing more," would reckon unwisely, and mayhap
learn this truth too late.

Madeline sat down upon a fallen tree, where she had so often talked
with her lover. She looked up into the wide spreading branches
overhead. There was the crooked bough where she had, often and often,
in past days, sought refuge when troubled by her father's harshness,
or haunted by dreams of the mother she had hardly known. It looked
cool and inviting, as if she could think to better purpose shrouded by
the whispering leaves. She stepped upon the fallen trunk, and
springing upward, caught a bending limb, and was soon seated cosily
aloft, smiling at the thought of what Lucian would say could he see
her there. Long she pondered, silent, motionless. Finally, stirring
herself and shaking lightly an overhanging friendly branch she
exclaimed:

"That will be best! I'll stay here for the present. I'll tell
step-papa that I love Lucian, and will never marry his friend, Amos
Adams, the old fright! I'll try and be very calm, and as dutiful as
maybe. Then, if he turns me out, very well. If he shuts me up--" Her
eyes flashed and she laughed; but there was little of mirth in the
laughter--"Why, then, I _would_ lead him a life, I think! Yes, I'll
bid Lucian good-by, for a little while, and I'll try and not miss him
too much, for--Oh!"

She had been very busy with her own half-spoken thoughts, else she
must have sooner discovered their approach, for now they were almost
underneath her, and they were no less personages than her step-father,
John Arthur, and her would-be suitor, Amos Adams.

Madeline was about to make known her presence, but her ear caught the
fragment of a sentence in which her name held prominent place. Acting
upon impulse, she remained a silent, unsuspected listener.

And so began in her heart and life that drama of pain and passion, sin
and mystery, that should close round, and harden and blight, the
darkening future of Madeline Payne.

A more marked contrast than the two men presented could scarcely be
imagined.

[Illustration: "Madeline presented a picture of youth and
loveliness."--page 17.]

John Arthur might have been, evidently had been, a handsome man, years
ago. But it did not seem possible that, even in his palmiest days,
Amos Adams could have been called anything save a fright. He was much
below the medium height. His head was sunken between his shoulders,
and thrust forward, and each feature of his ugly face seemed at war
with every other; while the glance of his greenish gray eye was such
as would cause a right-minded person involuntarily to cross himself
and utter, with perfect propriety, the Pharisee's prayer.

"The mischief fly away with you, man," said Mr. Arthur, seating
himself upon the fallen tree, and striking at the ground fiercely with
his cane; "what is my dead wife to you? Madeline makes my life a
burden by these same queries. It's none of your business why the
departed Mrs. Arthur left her property to me during my life, and tied
it up so as to make me only nominal master--mine to use but not sell,
not one acre, not a tree or stone; all must go intact to Miss
Madeline, curse her, at my death."

"Um-m, yes. Does the girl know anything of this?"

"If she did, your chances would be slim," said the other, scornfully.
"No; I have taken good care that she should not. She has a vixenish
temper, if she should get waked up to imagine herself 'wronged,' or
any such school-girl nonsense. I shall not live many years--this heart
disease is gaining on me fast; and if the girl is your wife, in case
of my death the fortune is as good as yours, you know. I want to have
peace while I do live; and for this reason, I say, I will give you my
step-daughter in marriage, and you shall give me the note you hold
against me for that old debt, the payment of which would compel me to
live like a beggar for the remainder of my days, and the sum of ten
thousand dollars."

"It's making a wife a rather expensive luxury," quoth old Amos,
seating himself; "but the girl's a beauty--no disputing that point;
and--"

"Of course she is," broke in Arthur, impatiently; "worth that, and
more, to whoever wants her, which, fortunately for you, I don't; she
is only a kill-joy to me. If you want the girl, take her, and be
blessed--I'll give away the bride with all the pleasure in the
world--and 'live happy ever after.'"

[Illustration: "What is my dead wife to you?"--page 20.]

There was not much room for argument between these two. It was simply
a question of exchange, and when old Amos had decided that he was not
paying too dearly for so fair a piece of flesh and blood, they came to
terms without more ado, and being agreed that "it's always best to
strike while the iron is hot," Mr. Arthur suggested that his friend
return with him, accept a seat at his hospitable board, and hear
himself announced formally to Miss Madeline, as her future lord and
master. John Arthur had ever exacted and received passive obedience
from his step-daughter. He had little fear of rebellion now. How could
she rebel? Was she not dependent upon his bounty for her daily bread,
even?

Old Amos troubled his ugly head little if any on this point. He
recognized no higher potentate than gold. He had bought him a wife; he
had but to pay the price and take possession of the property.

       *       *       *       *       *

Madeline Payne sat long on her leafy perch, thinking fast and hard,
the expressions of her face changing rapidly as she revolved, in her
mind, different phases of the situation. Surprise gave place to
contempt, as she eyed the departing plotters from her green
hiding-place. Contempt merged into amusement, as she thought of the
wonderful contrast between the two wooers who had proffered their
respective suits, in a manner so very different, beneath that
self-same tree. A look of fixed resolve settled down upon her
countenance at last, and uncurling herself, she dropped lightly upon
the ground.

[Illustration: "Slowly she turned away and very thoughtful was her
face."--page 24]

Madeline had made up her mind. That it would be useless to say aught
of Lucian, she now knew too well. That she could never defy her
father's commands, and still dwell beneath her father's roof, she also
knew. She hesitated no longer. Fate, stronger than she, had decided
for her, she reasoned. Her mind once made up, she gave in it no place
to fears or misgivings. The strength of will and the spirit of
rebellion, that were dormant in her nature, began to stir into life,
roused by the injustice that would rob her of her own. She not only
had a way of escape, but that way her own inclinations lured her. With
never a fear, never a thought of the days to come, she turned from her
mockery of a home, from her parent, unnatural, unloving, and unloved,
to an unknown, untried world, which was all embodied in one
word--Lucian.

The past held for her many dark shadows; the future held all that she
craved of joy and love--Lucian.

In her outraged heart there was no room for grief. She had heard her
dead mother scorned, and by him who, more than all others, should have
cherished her memory and honored her name. She had heard herself
bartered away, as a parcel of goods, and her very life weighed in the
balance as a most objectionable thing. Her happiness was scoffed at;
her wishes ignored as if without existence, and contrary to all
nature; even her liberty was menaced.

Slowly she turned away, and very thoughtful was her face as she went,
but fixed in its purpose as fate itself: and fearless still as if life
had no dark places, no storm clouds, no despair.

Oh! they were lovely, innocent eyes; and oh! it was a sweet, sweet
mouth! But the eyes never wavered, and the mouth had no trace of
weakness in its dainty curves. You have reckoned without your host,
John Arthur. It is no commonplace school-girl with whom you have to
deal. Madeline Payne possesses a nature all untried, yet strong for
good or evil. Intense in love or hate, fearless to do and dare, she
will meet the fate you bring upon her--but woe to those who have
compassed her downfall! If your hand has shaped the destiny of her
life, she will no less overrule your future and, from afar--perhaps
unrecognized, unseen--mete out to you measure for measure!

The grand old tree is sighing out a farewell. The sunlight is casting
fantastic shadows where her foot, but a moment since, rested. The
leaves glisten and whisper strange things. The golden buttercups laugh
up in the sun's face, as if there were no drama of loving and hating,
sin and atonement, daily enacted on their green, motherly bosom. And
Madeline Payne has put her childhood behind her, and turned her face
to the darkness beyond.




CHAPTER III.

THE STORY OF A CRIME.


Nurse Hagar was displeased. She plied her knitting-needles fiercely,
and seemed to rejoice in their sharp clicking. She rocked furiously
backwards and forwards, and sharply admonished the cat to "take
himself away," or she "would certainly rock on his tail." She "wanted
to do something to somebody, she did!" She looked across the fields in
the direction of Oakley, and dropping her knitting and bringing her
chair to a tranquil state, soliloquized:

"It's always the way with young folks; they don't never remember that
old uns have feelings. They run away after a new face, and if it's a
young one and a handsome one, they turn everybody out of their
thoughts; everybody else. Not that I think that city fellow's a
handsome chap; by no means," she grumbled; "but Maidie does; that's
certain sure. And she won't let me say a word about him--oh, no; I'm a
poor old woman, and my advice is not wanted!"

Hagar resumed her knitting and her rocking with fresh vigor. But her
face relaxed a measure of its grimness as, looking up, her eye rested
on a dainty nosegay, tossed in at the window only that morning, by
this same neglectful young girl.

"She don't mean to forget me, to be sure," she resumed. "She is always
kind and gentle to her old nurse. She is lonesome, of course, and
should have young company, like other girls, but--" here the needles
slacked again--"drat that city chap! I wish he had stayed away from
Bellair."

"Goodness, auntie, what a face! I am almost afraid to come in."

Madeline laughed, despite her anxiety, as Aunt Hagar permitted her
opinion of the "city feller" to manifest itself in every feature.

"Get that awfully defiant look out of your countenance, auntie,"
continued Madeline; "for I'm coming in to have a long talk with you,
and I must not be frightened in the beginning."

The lovely face disappeared from the open window, and in a moment
reappeared in the doorway.

To permit herself to be propitiated in a moment, however, was not in
the nature of Dame Hagar.

"I s'pose you think it's very respectful to pop your saucy head in at
an old woman's window, and set her all of a tremble and then tell her,
because she is not grinning for her own amusement, that she looks
awfully cross, and that you are afraid she will bite you. You are a
nice one to talk of being afraid; you, who never showed an atom of
fear of anything from your cradle up. If you were a bit afraid, when
you were out in the woods, for instance, and meet a long-legged animal
with a smooth tongue, and eyes that ought to make you nervous,
'twouldn't be to your discredit, I think. Of course, I don't mean to
say that you don't meet him quite by accident; oh, no! And I don't
_say_ that he ain't a very nice, respectable sort of chap, whatever I
may _think_. You are just like your poor mother, and if this fellow
with a name that might as well be Devil, and done with it--"

"There, now, auntie--" Madeline's face flushed, and she put the cat
down with sudden emphasis; "I won't let you say bad things of Mr.
Davlin, for I think you would be sorry for it afterward."

She drew a low seat to the side of the old lady, and looking her full
in the face, spoke in a voice low, intense, full of purpose.

"Auntie, it is time you told me more about my mother. You have evaded,
my step-father has forbidden, my questioning, but if I am ever to know
aught of my dead mother's history, I intend to hear it from your lips
to-day."

Surprise for a time held the old woman speechless; a look of sorrow
and affection drove the querulousness out of her face and voice.

"What ails you, child?" she said, wonderingly. "Do you want to make
Mr. Arthur hate me more, and keep you from me entirely? Don't you
know, dearie, how he swore that the day I told you these things, he
would forbid you to visit me; and if you disobeyed, take you away
where I could not even hear of you?"

Tears were in Hagar's eyes, and she held out her wrinkled hands
imploringly. "Don't tease your old nurse, dearie; don't. I can't tell
you these things now, and they could not make you any happier, child.
Wait a little; the time will come--"

"So will old age, auntie; and death, and all the knowledge we want, I
suppose, when it is too late to make it profitable. Well, auntie, I
will tell you something in exchange for my mother's story, and to make
it easier for you to relate it. But first, will you answer a few
questions?--wait, I know what you would say," as the old woman made a
deprecating movement, and essayed to speak. "Hear me, now."

Hagar looked at the girl earnestly for a moment, and then said,
quietly:

"Go on then, dearie."

"First," pursued Madeline; "my father dislikes me very much; is this
the truth?" Hagar nodded assent.

"He dislikes you because you were always good to me." Here she paused,
and Hagar again nodded.

"Because you were attached to my mother." Again she paused, and again
the old woman bowed assent.

"And because"--the girl fixed the eyes of the old nurse with her
own,--"because you were too familiar with my mother's past, and his,
and knew too well the secret of his hatred of me!"

Hagar sat silent and motionless, but Madeline, who had read her answer
in the troubled face, continued: "Very good; I knew all this before,
and I'll tell you what else I know. I know why Mr. John Arthur hates
me!"

Hagar opened her mouth, and shut it again quickly.

"He hates me," pursued Madeline, "because my mother left him her
fortune so tied up that he can only use it; never dispose of it. And
at his death it reverts to me."

Hagar still looked her amazement, and Madeline condensed the remainder
of her force into one telling shot.

"If I would be kind enough to die, he would consider it a great favor.
But as I evidently intend to live long, he desires, of course, to see
me happy. Therefore he has bargained me in marriage to Amos Adams, for
the splendid consideration of a few thousand dollars, and the promise
of a few thousand more _if I die young_!"

Still the bewildered look rested upon the old woman's face, and still
she gazed at the young girl before her. Suddenly, she leaned forward,
and taking the fair head between two trembling hands, gazed long at
her. As if satisfied at last with her scrutiny, she drew a deep,
sighing breath and leaned back in her chair.

"It's true," groaned Hagar; "it's too true! She has found it out, and
my little girl has gone away;--my Baby Madeline is become a woman!
There was never a coward in all the race, and a Payne never forgave!
It has come at last," she wailed, "and now, what will she do?"

Madeline lost not a look nor tone; and when the old woman ceased her
rocking and moaning, she suggested, with a half smile:

"Hadn't I better marry old Adams, auntie, worry them both into
untimely graves, and be a rich young widow?"

Hagar gazed at her in silence. And Madeline, taking her hand in her
own, said: "Shall I tell you how I discovered all this, auntie, dear?"

"Yes, child; go on." And she bent upon the girl a look of attention.

Madeline drew close to her side, and briefly related what had
transpired while she sat in her favorite tree; not stating, by the
bye, how it occurred that she was in the grove at that very opportune
time. Hagar's indignation was unbounded, but she continued to gaze at
Madeline in a strange, half fearful, half wondering, wholly expectant
way, that the girl could not interpret.

"And now, Aunt Hagar," pursued Madeline, seriously, "I want to
understand this matter more fully, and I will not say a word of my
plans until you have told me what I came to hear. I shall not come to
you again for this information; it is surely my right, and time now is
precious."

Madeline half rose, seeing that her nurse still rocked dismally and
looked irresolute. "I can bide my time, and fight my battles alone, if
need be," she continued, coldly. "I won't trouble you again, nurse,"
turning as if to go.

"Stop, child!" cried Hagar; "let an old woman think. I'll tell you all
I can; all I know. Don't turn away from your old nurse, dearie; her
only thought is for your good. Yes; you must not be left in the dark
now,--sit down child; sit down."

Madeline resumed her seat, and old Hagar, after another season of
moaning and rocking, proceeded to relate, with many wanderings from
the point, and many interpolations and opinions of her own, the brief,
sad story of Mrs. Arthur's married life and early death. Bereft of
Hagar's ornamental extras, it was as follows:

Madeline Harcourt, an orphan, and the adopted daughter of a wealthy
bachelor uncle, had incurred his displeasure by loving and marrying
Lionel Payne, handsome, brave to a fault, with no other wealth than
his keen intellect, his unsullied honor, and his loving, manly heart.

[Illustration: "I can bide my time, and fight my battles alone if need
be."--page 30]

Lionel Payne had entered upon the study of law, but circumstances
threw in his way certain mysteries that had long been puzzling the
heads of the foremost detectives, and the young law student
discovered in himself not only a marked taste for the study of
mysteries, but a talent that was remarkable. So he gave up his law
studies to become a detective. He rose rapidly in his new profession,
giving all the strength of his splendid ability to the study of
intricate and difficult cases, and became known among detectives, and
dreaded among criminals, as "Payne, the Expert."

He had lived two happy years with his young wife, and been six months
the proud father of baby Madeline, when he fell a victim to his
dangerous pursuit, shot dead by a bullet from the hand of a fleeing
assassin.

John Arthur had been a fellow law student with Lionel Payne, and he
had followed the career of the young expert with curious interest,
being, as much as was possible to his selfish nature, a friend and
admirer of the rising young detective. And Lionel Payne, open and
manly himself, and seeing no trace of the serpent in the seeming
disinterestedness of Arthur, introduced him proudly into his happy
home. Arthur was struck by the beauty of the young wife, and became a
frequent and welcome visitor.

One day, there came to the office where John Arthur earned his bread
reluctantly, as a salaried clerk, the uncle of Madeline Payne. He had
come to make a will, in which he left all his possessions to his
beloved niece, Madeline, and her heirs forever after. This was several
months before the sudden death of Lionel Payne.

Ten months after she became a widow, Madeline's uncle died. Left alone
with her little child, and with no resources but her own efforts,
Madeline's mother struggled on, ever the object of the kind
watchfulness and unobtrusive care of John Arthur, who professed to
adore the child for the sake of the father, and through the baby
Madeline, gradually won his way in the mother's esteem. Mrs. Payne was
deeply grateful, and her mother's heart was touched by the devotion of
Arthur to her little child. So it came about that, after a time, she
gave him her hand, and all of her heart that was not buried with
Lionel. A little later she learned that her uncle was dead, and she
became mistress of a handsome fortune.

Soon came the knowledge that her husband's heart was not all gold, and
the suspicion, as well, that her uncle's will and its purport had long
been no secret to him. But, partly from force of habit, and partly
because he was not yet quiet hardened, John Arthur kept up his farce
of affection for the child. And while his wife awoke to a knowledge of
many of his short-comings, she always believed in his love for her
little one.

The two elements that were strongest in the nature of John Arthur were
selfishness and pride. From his youth up his idols had been gold and
self. Born into the world minus that "golden spoon" for which he
sighed in youth, and schemed in later years, he had ever felt towards
said world a half-fledged enmity. As he reached the age of manhood,
his young sister was formally adopted by the only surviving relatives
of the two; and becoming in due course of time and nature sole
possessor of a very nice little fortune, afterwards held her head very
high. Later, in consequence of some little indiscretions of her
brother at the time when he was set free in the world--the result of
the popular superstition held by him that "the world owed him a
living,"--she held herself aloof from and ignored him completely.

By degrees Mrs. Arthur's eyes became opened to the true character of
the man she had married. Moments she had of doubting, and then of
fearing that she wronged him too deeply, for her nature was a just
one. It was in one of these latter moods that she made her will,
before she had become aware that even his love for her little girl was
only a well acted lie; believing her secure of love and care during
his life, she made sure that, at his death, her darling should be
supplied with all that money could give. She had long been in the
fatal toils of that dread destroyer, heart disease, and suddenly,
before she had found opportunity for securing her little daughter
further, as she had since begun to realize it was needful to do, she
was seized with a paroxysm that snapped the frail cord of life.

A short time before her death, she had given into the keeping of old
Hagar, a package, to be delivered to little Madeline when she should
become a woman, and with the express wish that, should John Arthur
prove a kind guardian meanwhile, she would burn the journal it
contained, unread.

Old Hagar now placed in Madeline's hands the package, which was found
to contain her mother's most valuable jewels, and the tear-stained
journal, which the girl seated herself to peruse, with sorrowful awe.

The last page being turned, and the sad life of her mother fully
revealed, Madeline bowed her head and wept bitterly, heedless of the
attempt of old Hagar to comfort her, until the name of her step-father
upon the old woman's lips brought her suddenly to her feet, the tears
still on her cheeks, but her eyes flashing, and on her countenance a
look that might have been a revelation to John Arthur, had that
gentleman been there to see. Taking the old woman's hand, and holding
it tightly in her own, the girl said:

"Thanks, auntie, for recalling me. I have no time for tears now.
Listen, and don't interrupt me. My poor mother died with a heart
filled with fears for my future, left to that man's keeping. At the
time of her death, he believed himself her unconditional heir. She
feared for her life with him, and her sickness was aggravated in every
possible manner by him, and I fully believe that, in intent if not in
deed, John Arthur is my _mother's murderer_!"

The old woman's face expressed as plainly as words could do, that she
shared in this belief. The girl went on, in the same rapid, firm tone:

"He killed the mother for gold, and now he would sell her child. He
will fail; and this is but the beginning. As he drove my mother into
her grave, I will hunt him into his! He shall suffer all that she
suffered, and more! I know where you obtained your independence now,
Aunt Hagar; and he hates you doubly because my mother's love provided
for you a home, and for her child a haven in time of need. It was
well. Keep the old cottage open for me, Aunt Hagar. Keep an eye on
John Arthur, for my sake. Never fear for me, whatever happens. Expect
to hear from me at any time, to see me at any moment. Don't answer any
questions about me. A thousand thanks for all your love and kindness,
auntie; good-by."

Before the old woman could recover from her astonishment, or utter a
word, Madeline had kissed her, swiftly taken up the precious package,
and was gone! Hagar hastened to the door, but the girl was speeding
swiftly down the path, and was quickly lost to view.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" moaned Hagar, seating herself in the doorway; "her
father's passion and her mother's pride! Sorrow and trouble before
her, and she all alone; dark, dark, dark; the world against her!
Sorrow and trouble--it's in the blood! And she'll never give it up!
She'll fight her wrongs to the bitter end. Oh, my precious girl!" and
she buried her head in her apron and wept.

The sun's last ray had faded from the highest hill-top. The little
birds had folded their wings and hushed their warblings. Dark clouds
came sweeping up from the west, and one, heavy and black, passed above
the roof of Oakley, bent down, and rested there. Hagar, still
sorrowing in the doorway, saw and interpreted. Dark days to come to
the master of that overshadowed house. Dreary days and bitter
nights--ah, how many, before that cloud should be lifted from over it,
or light hearts beat beneath its roof.

"I beg pardon, madame, you appear in trouble; perhaps I intrude?"

It was Lucian Davlin's soft, lazy voice, and that disagreeable half
smile lurked about the corners of his eyes and mouth.

"I've had more welcome visitors," said the old woman, with more truth
than politeness, and rubbing her eyes with the corner of her apron,
"what do you want?"

"Only a small matter of information, which I believe you can give me."

"Well," said Hagar, testily.

"I want to make a few inquiries about Mr. Arthur of Oakley."

"About Miss Madeline, I suppose you mean. I won't tell you a word--"

"My dear, good woman, I don't ask nor wish any information regarding
that young lady--my inquiries solely concern the father. He is said to
be wealthy!"

"What is John Arthur or his money to you?" she questioned, eying him
with much disfavor.

"Nothing whatever," he indifferently replied. "I merely inquire on
behalf of a friend."

"I'll throw him off the scent if he does mean Madeline," thought the
old woman.

"Well, Mr. whatever your name is, if it will satisfy your friend to
know that Mr. John Arthur is master of Oakley, and everybody knows
there's no finer property in the State, and that he has a yearly
income of ten thousand or more, why, tell him or her so. And you may
as well say, at the same time, that he is too stingy and mean to keep
the one in repair, or spend decently the other. And when he
dies"--here she suddenly checked herself--"well, when he dies, his
heirs, whoever they may be, will inherit all the more because of his
meanness."

"And who, pray, may be his heirs?"

"How should I know who a stingy old reprobate will choose to inherit
after him? I think he has a sister somewhere, but I don't know."

"H'm, thank you--for my friend. Good-night."

Smiling that same Mephistophelian smile, Lucian Davlin sauntered away,
apparently satisfied with himself and what was passing in his mind.

"He'll do," he muttered; "and she'll do him. It will be a good thing
for her, just now, and very convenient for me into the bargain. Cora's
a marvellously fine woman, but little Madeline is fresh as a rose, and
a few months of the city will make her sharp enough. Only let me keep
them apart; that's all." Satisfaction beamed in his eye and smiled on
his lip. "Pretty Madeline will be the envy of half the boulevard."

Now he has neared the trysting tree. "I think I'll just smoke here,
and wait for my pretty bird; this is the place and almost the time."

He smoked and he waited; the time came, and passed; his cigar expired;
the shadows deepened--but still he waited.

And he waited in vain. No light form advanced through, the gathering
night; no sweet voice greeted him.

The time was far past now, and, muttering an oath, the disappointed
lover strode away, and was lost in the night.

Madeline was standing in her own room, the threshold of which John
Arthur had never crossed since the day when a silent form was borne
from it, and laid in that peaceful home, the churchyard. She had just
received the summons, for which, only, she lingered--the command of
Mr. Arthur to attend at the altar of hospitality, and pour, for Mr.
Amos Adams, the tea.

She was attired in a neat dark garment which was vastly becoming. She
had made her toilet with more than usual care, as if, perhaps, to do
honor to her ancient suitor--at least so thought Mr. Arthur, when she
presented herself before him.

She had put her chiefest treasures in a little, a very little,
travelling bag. And now she threw across her arm a large cloak, took
her hat, veil, and bag, and descended softly to the hall below. It was
faintly lighted from the lower end, and Madeline deposited her
belongings in a darkened niche near a door, peeped put into the night
that had come on cloudy and starless, and entered the room where
waited the two conspirators, and supper.

John Arthur was more bland and smiling than Madeline had ever before
known him, while as for old Amos, he nearly lost himself in a maze of
grins and chuckles, but displayed a very unloverlike appetite,
nevertheless, and divided his attention pretty evenly between the
beautiful face of Madeline, and the viands on the table.

Madeline betrayed no sign of surprise at her step-papa's unwonted
cordiality, and no annoyance at the ogling and chuckling of her
antiquated suitor. In truth, she favored him with more than one
expressive smile, the meaning of which he little guessed, as she
contrasted him once more with handsome Lucian Davlin, and smiled again
at the picture of his coming defeat.

The meal was partaken of in comparative silence, all apparently quite
satisfied with their own thoughts--ah, how different! It was not until
old Jane, the servant, had been dismissed that Mr. Arthur drew his
chair a trifle nearer that of his friend, and leaning his arms upon
the table, looked across at Madeline, and said:

"My dear, I believe you are aware of the honor this gentleman desires
to confer upon you? I think I have hinted at the truth upon one or two
occasions?"

Madeline veiled her too expressive eyes behind their long lashes, but
made no reply.

"It is my desire," he continued, surveying with satisfaction the
appearance of humility with which his words were received, "and the
desire of Mr. Adams as well, that we should come to a satisfactory
understanding to-night. We will, therefore, settle the preliminaries
at once:--this is your desire, I think, Mr. Adams?"

"Oh, certainly! Oh, yes, yes," ejaculated old Amos, in a transport of
grins.

"And this will, I trust,"--he was growing more stately and polite
every moment--"this, of course, is satisfactory to you, Miss
Madeline?"

"Perfectly." She looked him full in the face now, and somehow her
glance slightly impaired his feeling of dignity and security.

"Very good; and now having formally accepted the proffered hand of Mr.
Adams--"

"Pardon me, sir, you are too fast. Mr. Adams has not offered
himself."

"Nonsense,"--Mr. Arthur suddenly forgot his politeness--"haven't I
just stated his offer?"

Madeline leaned back in her chair, and looked from one to the other
with a tranquil smile.

"Perhaps; but unfortunately there is a law in existence which
prohibits a man from marrying his grandmother, and likewise objects, I
believe, to a young woman's espousing her step-papa, however much
adored. And as you can't marry me, my dear parent and guardian, why I
object to listening to a proposal from your lips."

John Arthur gazed in angry consternation upon the girl's still smiling
face, but before the impatient words that he would have uttered could
find voice, old Amos, who had interpreted her smiles as being
favorable to himself, came gallantly to the rescue.

"Right! quite right," he chuckled. "Of course, you know, Arthur--Miss
Madeline, ahem--that's what I meant, you know. It's the proper way,"
he gasped; and the general expression of his countenance did not tend
to make his observations the more lucid--"I meant, you know--ah,
well--will you honor me Miss Madeline--by--by your hand, you know?"

This effort of oratory was received with smiling attention by the
girl, who now addressed herself entirely to him, without heeding the
effect of her words upon her step-father, or his interpolations, as
she proceeded.

"Mr. Adams;"--she spoke in a low, even tone, and gradually permitted
the real feelings that were seeking for expression to show themselves
in her every feature--"Mr. Adams, I think I appreciate _as it
deserves_ the honor you desire to bestow upon me; believe me, too,
when I say that I am as grateful as it is proper I should be. But, Mr.
Adams, I am only a mere girl, and you might pay too dearly for me."

"What the deuce does the fool mean?" growled Mr. Arthur.

"I don't dispute the fact that I am a perfectly marketable commodity,
and it is very right and proper that my dear step-papa--who dotes on
me, whose idol I have been for long years--should set a high valuation
upon my unworthy head. Yet this little Arcadian transaction is really
not just the thing for the present century and country. And so, Mr.
Adams, I must beg leave to thank you for the honor you proffer, and,
thanking you, to decline it!"

For a moment no one spoke; there was neither sound nor movement in the
room. John Arthur was literally speechless with rage, and old Amos was
just as speechless from astonishment; while Madeline gazed from one to
the other unmoved. As soon as he could articulate, John Arthur
confronted her, and taking her roughly by the shoulder, demanded:

"What do you mean, you ungrateful jade? What are you talking about?"

"About your contract in flesh and blood, Mr. Arthur. About your very
worthy scheme for putting money in your pockets by making me this
man's wife. If I am to be sold, sir, I will make my own bargain; be
very sure of that; and _this_ is not my bargain!"

"Don't talk to me of bargains, you little idiot! Do you think to defy
me? Do you dare to defy me?"

His rage passed all bounds. She put the width of the table between
them and surveyed him across it, mockingly.

"Listen, girl, I am your lawful guardian; you shall obey me!"

"Really, now, don't, step-papa; you are actually purple in the face!
You might die, you know; think of your heart, do, and take a glass of
water."

Old Adams collapsed in the remote corner whither he had fled. The
miser was not at home in a tempest, and this was already beyond his
depth. He gasped in speechless amaze and affright. Was this the girl
he had thought to mold as his wife, this fearless, defiant creature?
Already he began to congratulate himself upon his lucky escape. "She
would murder me some day," he thought, shuddering.

For the time being, John Arthur was a madman. Defied, mocked, by this
girl who had been a burden to his very life! He raged, he raved, he
cursed; and so raging and raving, he cursed her, and then in vile,
bitter words hurled his anathema at her dead mother's memory.

Then the mocking smile was gone, the taunting voice changed its tone;
and as it changed, old Amos, cowering in his corner, shuddered afresh.
Her whole face underwent a transformation. Her form dilated, she
sprang before her step-father and the ring of her voice checked the
imprecations on his lips.

"Stop," she cried; "don't add the last drop to your already overfull
measure! Don't double the force of the thunderbolt that will strike
you some day! Is it not enough that you have hated me all my life
through; that you have loaded down my childhood with unkind words,
curses, and wishes for my death? Not enough that you follow me with
your hatred because my mother's own will be mine at your death? Not
enough that you would barter my life--yes, my _life_--for gold, sell
my heart's blood for your own ease and comfort? And now must you
pollute the name of my mother, as you polluted her life? Never breathe
her name again; never _dare_ to name her! I, her daughter, tell you
that for her every tear, every heart pang, every sigh, _you_ shall pay
dearly; _dearly!_ I will avenge my mother's wrongs, some day; for _you
are her murderer_!"

[Illustration: "I will avenge my mother's wrongs some day; for _you
are her murderer_."--page 42.]

John Arthur gazed in speechless amaze into the space before him--but
she was gone! The stern, vengeful, set face was no longer there. The
proud, ringing voice was no longer sounding in his ear. The uplifted,
warning, threatening hand menaced him only in memory. And before the
might of her purpose, and the force of her maledictions, he stood as
in a trance.

When he had so far recovered himself as to think of her sudden
disappearance, he went out quickly. The entrance door stood wide open;
the dim light flickered on an empty hall and stairway; the sky was
black with clouds, and never a star; the wind moaned about the house;
and across the meadow came the doleful howl of old Hagar's watch-dog.

But Madeline was not to be found.

Always, in the days to come, he remembered her face as it had looked
on him that night. Often in dreams he would start and cry out, haunted
by the sound of her scornful voice, the spectre of her threatening
hand.




CHAPTER IV.

THE DIE IS CAST.


Lucian Davlin paced the platform of the Bellair depot, in a very
unpleasant frame of mind.

His companion,--half servant, half confederate, wholly and entirely a
rascal,--discerning his mood and, as ever, adapting himself to it, had
withdrawn to a respectful distance. Only the shine of his cigar,
glowing through the darkness, betokened his proximity, or the fact
that the dark platform was not in the sole possession of the sullen
man who paced its brief length, and questioned the Fate in which he
trusted, and which, for once, had played him a sorry trick.

[Illustration: "Gad! to be baffled like this!"--page 46.]

He had been deceived by a mere school-girl. She had not even deigned
him a farewell word. He had lost a fair prize.

"Gad!" he muttered, biting viciously at his cigar, "to be baffled like
this; to lose that little beauty; to be foiled like a moon-struck
idiot and never know how or why! I can't write her, with that cursed
old step-father to interfere. I can't return again very soon. And she
_is_ such a little beauty!"

He paused at the end of the darkened platform, and looked down the
track; in the direction of the grove where they had met, and of
Madeline's home. It was almost time for the train. At the upper end of
the platform, the station master flashed his lantern, tumbled the
luggage closer to the track and examined the checks critically; while
the Man of Tact came out from his retirement and overlooked the
proceeding.

Something was coming down the track, swiftly, silently. He could just
discern a shape moving toward him. It came nearer, and he moved up a
few paces, and turned again where the lantern's rays fell upon him. It
came nearer yet and paused in the shadow. It was a woman's form, and
it beckoned. He approached carelessly.

"Lucian!" She came close to him, and placed her hand upon his arm,
drawing her breath hard and quick.

He drew her farther into the shadow and clasped his arms about her.
"Little one! You have walked fast,--how your heart beats! I had given
you up. Is it 'good by,' dear?"

She silently held up the little chatelaine, which he felt rather than
saw, and took from her hand. In the darkness, he smiled again the old
exultant smile not good to see, and pressing her closer in his arms,
said:

"Don't try to talk, sweet one; see, yonder comes our fiery horse and
soon we will be far on our way. Take my arm, little one, and trust him
who loves you. Look your last at the scene of your past
loneliness,--to-morrow comes the gay world."

Rattling and shrieking, the train approached. Lucian hurried his
companion upon the rear platform; and neither his comrade, who entered
the smoking car without looking about him, nor the station master,
busy with his trunks and valises, observed that a third passenger
quitted Bellair station on the night express.

About them, the passengers nodded, yawned or slept. Outside, swiftly
passing darkness. And every moment was hurrying her farther and
farther away from all familiar scenes and objects, out to a life all
untried, a world all new and strange. But she never thought of this.
She was not elated, neither was she cast down. She felt no fear;--and,
afterwards, she remembered that she indulged in no bright visions of
the future during her swift flight.

She had prepared herself to relate her story, to describe the scene
she had just passed through, to tell him all. But he had other things
to occupy his mind, and bidding her to rest and save all she might
have to relate until the morrow, he relapsed into silence and thought,
only now and then gently speaking a word, and looking after her
comfort with a happy grace possessed by few, and so powerful in the
winning of a woman.

On, on, through the black night--youth and age, joy and sorrow, hope
and despair, good and evil; on together through the night; on, on.
Near to the great city; near to the welcome, dark or bright, awaiting
the journey's end. Blacker grew the night, wilder shrieked the wind in
angry protest against the defiant, fiery, resistless monster upon
whom its rage fell impotent. Now pausing; now rushing on with a shriek
and a roar; nearer, nearer to the scene of the new life, dawning
grimly upon the fair girl, all unconscious, unheeding.

They halted at a wayside station--just one of those little hamlets
only a few miles removed from, and really a part of the great city.
One passenger came on board, sauntering down the coach's length
listlessly, wearily. He threw himself into a reversed seat in a half
reclining attitude, and so his careless, wandering gaze fell first
upon Madeline, seated opposite and very near.

She sees him just as she sees the rest, vaguely. She remembers, later,
that he had a good face and that she had thought it then. But confused
and wearied in mind and body, she feels no inclination to observe or
think. So they were hurried on, and no whisper of her heart, no
quickening of the pulses, or sensation of joy or fear, warned her that
she was sitting under the gaze and in the presence of the good and the
evil forces that were to compass and shape her life.

Open your eyes, oh, Madeline, before it is too late. See the snare
that is spreading beneath your feet; read aright the bright glance
that shines on you from those handsome, fateful eyes. Interpret truly
the smile turned on you now. Alas! what woman ever saw guile in the
eyes of the man she loved? Never one, until those eyes have ceased to
smile upon her, and her fate is sealed. What one ever yet recognized
the false ring of the voice that had never, as yet, addressed her save
in honeyed tones, that seemed earth's sweetest music to her ears?
None, until the voice had changed and forgotten its love words; none,
until it was too late.

What Madeline saw, was a man who was to her the embodiment of all
manly grace, her all of joy and love, of truth and trust. And, sitting
opposite, just a young man with fair curling hair, and frank blue
eyes; with a fine manly face, and an air of refinement. A very nice
young man; but not like her hero.

Not like her hero? No, thank heaven for that, Madeline, else your way
would have been far more drear, else your life might have known never
a ray of sunlight, in the long days to come.

On, on; nearer and yet nearer the long journey's end. Both thinking of
her, but how differently!

One pityingly, sadly, fearing for her fate, longing to save her from
the precipice which she could not see and still wear that look of
sweet trustfulness.

One triumphantly, as of a fair prize gained; a new tribute to his
power and strength; another smile from Chance; one more proof that he
was a favored one of Fortune, and that life ever gave him good things
from out the very best.

They are very near their journey's end now, and Lucian Davlin whispers
briefly to Madeline, and lounges out to give some necessary directions
to the neglected companion of his wanderings.

Hastily the young man opposite rises, and crossing to Madeline bends
over her, speaking hurriedly.

"Pardon me, madame, but are you a stranger to the city?"

"Yes." After giving her answer she wonders why she did it, remembering
that it is from a stranger the question comes, and that it is
therefore an impertinence.

"I thought as much!"--the blue eyes look troubled, and the manly voice
hurries on. "The time may come, I hope it will not, when you will need
a friend. If so, this card bears my address,--take it, keep it, and
believe me, I speak from honest motives and a desire to serve you."

He drops a card in her lap, and as she makes a gesture of repulsion,
he says, entreatingly: "Take it; _in the name of your mother_ I ask
it."

She snatches up the card impulsively, and looks for one moment
straight in his eyes. Then drawing a long sighing breath says, simply,
"I will," and turns away as she puts it in her pocket, never so much
as glancing at it.

"Thank you." He lifts his hat, and resumes his seat and his former
attitude just as Lucian reappears.

Now all was bustle and confusion, the journey's end was reached; and
through the hurrying, jostling crowd, past flickering lamps, and
sleepy guards, they went under the dusky arches of the mammoth city
station, out among the bawling 'bus drivers and brawling hackmen, past
them, until a carriage, that seemed to be in waiting for them just
beyond the noisy crowd, was reached. Stepping into this, they were
about to drive away when, in the shadow, and very near them, Madeline
discerned the form of the Unknown of the railway train. Then Lucian
gave the order from the carriage window, and they rolled away.

The man in the shadow heard, and stepping into the nearest carriage,
repeated the order given by Lucian the moment before, adding: "Quick;
don't lose a moment!"

And thus it was that a carriage passed swiftly by that which contained
Davlin and his companion, and the flash of their vehicle's lamp showed
Madeline the face looking from its window.

Again that face seen in the shadow--how strange, thought she; but her
lover was speaking and she forgot all else.

[Illustration: "Take it; _in the name of your mother_ I ask it.--page
50.]

"Darling, I must leave you soon. I came up to-night on a matter of
business, and to meet a friend who will leave to-morrow early. I must
therefore keep my appointment to-night, late as it is; or rather this
morning, for it is midnight and past. You will not be afraid, dear,
left alone for a little while in a great hotel?"

"I am not afraid, Lucian, but--"

"But lonely; is that it? Well, sweetheart, it's only for a little
while, and to-morrow I will come for you, and all shall be arranged.
We'll have no more separations then. Rest well and at noon to-morrow
be ready; I will be with you then. Meantime, your every want will be
supplied, and let the morrow find my little treasure bright-eyed and
blooming."

"Oh, Lucian, Lucian! how strange this seems. I can't realize it at
all."

He laughed lightly. "Not afraid, little one?"

"Not afraid, Lucian, no; but I can't explain or describe my feelings.
I suppose I need rest; that is all."

"That is all, depend upon it; and here we are. One kiss, Madeline, the
last till to-morrow."

He folded her tenderly in his arms, and then sprang lightly from the
carriage.

Up and down, far as the eye could see, the street lamps glittered, and
as Madeline stepped from the carriage she observed another roll away.
High above her loomed the great hotel, and after midnight though it
was, all here was life and bustle. The scene was novel to the half
bewildered girl. Clinging to her lover's arm, she entered the
reception-room and, sitting opposite the door, saw a form pass in the
direction Lucian had taken, as he went to register her name and order
for her "all that the house could afford."

"I did not give your real name, because of your step-father, you
know," said Lucian, upon his return. "I registered you as Miss Weir,
that name being the first to occur to me."

She looked a trifle disturbed, but said nothing. A few words more and
a servant appeared.

"To conduct you to your room," said Lucian.

Together they moved towards the door; there he lifted his hat, with
profound courtesy, and said in a very audible tone: "Good-night, Miss
Weir; I will call to-morrow noon; pleasant dreams."

"To-morrow noon," she echoed.

As she watched his retreating figure, another passed her; a man who,
meeting her eye, lifted _his_ hat and passed out.

"He again!" whispered the girl to herself; "how very strange."

Alone in her room, the face of this man looked at her again, and
sitting down, she said, wearily: "Who is he? what does he mean? His
name--I'll look at the card."

Taking it from her pocket, she read aloud: Clarence Vaughan, M. D.,
No. 430 B---- street.

"Clarence Vaughan, M. D.," she repeated. "What did he mean? I must
tell Lucian to-morrow; to-night I am too weary to think. Search for
me, John Arthur; find me if you can! To-morrow--what will it bring, I
wonder?"

Weary one, rest, for never again will you sleep so innocently, so free
from care as now. Sleep well, nor dream!

She slept. Of the three who had been brought into contact thus
strangely, Madeline slept most soundly and dreamed the brighter
dreams.

It was the last ray of her sunlight; when the day dawned, her night
began.




CHAPTER V.

A SHREWD SCHEME.


An elegant apartment, one of a suite in a magnificent block such as
are the pride of our great cities.

Softest carpets, of most exquisite pattern; curtains of richest lace;
lambrequins of costly texture; richly-embroidered and velvet-covered
sleepy-hollows and lounging chairs; nothing stiff, nothing that did
not betoken abandonment to ease and pleasure; downy cushions; rarest
pictures; loveliest statuettes; finest bronzes; delicate vases;
magnificent, full length mirrors, a bookcase, itself a rare work of
art, containing the best works of the best authors, all in the richest
of bindings--nothing here that the most refined and cultivated taste
could disapprove, and yet everything bespoke the sybarite, the
voluptuary. A place wherein to forget that the world held aught save
beauty; a place for luxurious revelry, and repose filled with lotus
dreams.

Such was the bachelor abode of Lucian Davlin, as the glowing gas
lights revealed it on the dark night of the arrival of this gentleman
in the city.

Moving restlessly about, as one who was perfectly familiar with all
this glowing richness, only because movement was a necessity to her;
trailing her rich dress to and fro in an impatient promenade, and
twisting recklessly meantime a delicate bit of lace and embroidery
with plump, white fingers--a woman waited and watched for the coming
of Lucian Davlin.

A woman, fair of face, hazel-eyed, sunny-haired, with a form too plump
to be quite classical, yet graceful and prepossessing in the extreme.
A very fair face, and a very wise one; the face of a woman of the
world, who knows it in all its phases; who is able, in her own
peculiar manner, to guide her life bark successfully if not correctly,
and who has little to acquire, in the way of experience, save the art
of growing old gracefully and of dying with an acquitted conscience.

No unsophisticated girl was Cora Weston, but a woman of
eight-and-twenty; an adventuress by nature and by calling, and with
beauty enough, and brains enough, to make her chosen profession
prosperous, if not proper.

She paused before a mirror, carefully adjusting her fleecy hair, for
even in pressing emergencies such women never forget their personal
appearance. This done, she pondered a moment and then pulled the bell.
A most immaculate colored gentleman answered her summons and, bowing
low, stood waiting her will.

"Henry, is it not time that your master were here? The train is
certainly due; are you sure he will come? What did he telegraph you?"

"That he would arrive on the one o'clock express, madame; and he never
fails."

"Very well. If he does not appear soon, Henry, you must go and inquire
if the train has been delayed, and if so, telegraph. My business is
imperative."

The well trained servant bowed again, and, at a signal from her,
withdrew. Left alone, she continued her silent march, listening ever,
until at length a quick footstep came down the passage. Flinging
herself into the depths of a great easy chair, she assumed an air of
listless indifference, and so greeted the new comer.

"Gracious heavens, Cora! what brings you here like this? I thought you
had sailed, and was regretting it by this time."

He hurried to her side and she half rose to return his caress. Then
sinking back, she surveyed him with a lazy half smile. "I wonder if
you are glad to see me, Lucian, my angel; you are such a hypocrite."

He laughed lightly, and threw himself into a seat near her. "Candid
Cora, you are not a hypocrite,--with me," and he looked admiringly yet
impatiently at her. "Come," he said, at length, as she continued to
tap her slender foot lazily, and to regard him silently through half
closed lashes: "what does it all mean? Fairest of women, tell me."

"It means, _Mon Brave_, that I did not sail in the _Golden Rose_; I
only sent my hat and veil."

"Wonderful woman! Well, thereby hangs a tale, and I listen."

"I came back to see--"

"Not old Verage?" he interrupted, maliciously.

"No, hush: he saw me safely on board the _Golden Rose_--very gallant
of him, wasn't it?"

"Rather--yes, considering. And if I did not know Miss Cora Weston so
very well, I should be surprised at all this mystery; as it is, I
simply wait to be enlightened."

"And enlightened you shall be, monsieur."

She threw off her air of listlessness and arose, crossing over and
standing before him, leaning upon a high-backed chair, and speaking
rapidly.

Lucian, meantime, produced a cigar case, lit a weed, and assuming the
attitude and manner she had just abandoned, bade her proceed.

"You see," she said, "I did not like the idea of quitting the country
because of a little difference of opinion between myself and an old
idiot like Verage."

"A difference of some thousands out of pocket for him; well, go on."

"Just so, comrade mine. Well, fortune favored me; she generally does.
I learned, at almost the last moment, that a lady of my acquaintance
had taken passage in the same vessel. I interviewed her, and found her
in the condition of the good people in novels who have seen better
days; her exchequer was at low ebb, and, like myself, she had reasons
which induced her to emigrate. I did not inquire into these, having no
reason to doubt the statement, but I accompanied her on board the
_Golden Rose_, bade her a fond farewell, and bequeathed to her my
street apparel and a trifling sum of old Verage's money. In exchange,
I donned her bonnet and veil, and adopted her rather awkward gait, and
so had the satisfaction of seeing, on my return to terra firma, old
Verage gazing enraptured after my Paris bonnet and floating veil as it
disappeared with my friend, outward bound."

"Well, what next? All the world, your world, supposes you now upon the
briny deep. Old Verage will be rejoiced to find you here in the city;
what then?"

"I think he will," said Cora, dryly, "when he does find me. I did not
come here in the dark to advertise my arrival."

"Bravo, Cora," he patted her hands softly; "wise Cora. You are a
credit to your friends, indeed you are, my blonde beauty."

She laughed softly;--a kittenish, purring laugh.

"Well, Lucian, time flies and I throw myself on your mercy. Recommend
me to some nice quiet retreat, not too far from the city, but at a
safe distance; put me in a carriage, at daylight, which will carry me
out to some by-station, where I can take passage behind the iron
horse, unmolested, for fresh fields and pastures new."

Davlin pondered a moment as if he had not already decided upon his
course of action. He knew the woman he had to deal with, and shaped
his words accordingly. "A retired spot,--let me see. I wonder, by
Jove,"--brightening suddenly, "I think I have the right thing for
you."

"Well, when Lucian Davlin 'thinks' he has a point, that point is
gained; proceed, man of might."

"You see," began Lucian, in a business-like tone, "I took one of my
'skips' for change of scene and recreation."

"And safe quarters until the wind shifted," interrupted she. "Well, go
on."

He laughed softly, "Even so. We children of chance do need to take
flying trips sometimes, but I did not set out for Europe, Cora mine,
and I wore my own clothes home."

"Bravo! But old Verage don't want you, and the wind _has_ changed;
proceed."

"Well, as usual, I found myself in luck, and if I had been a nice
young widow, might have taken Summer quarters in the snug little
village of Bellair."

"Not being a widow, relate your experience as a rusticating gentleman
at large. You excite my curiosity."

Lucian removed his cigar from between his lips, and lazily
contemplated his fair _vis a vis_.

"How long a time must elapse before the most magnificent of blondes
will think it fitting, safe, and," with a slight smile, "expedient to
return and resume her sovereignty here, on this hearth, and," striking
his breast theatrically, "in this heart?"

The "most magnificent of blondes" looked first, approvingly, at her
image displayed in the full length mirror opposite, then coolly at her
interrogator.

"Hum! that depends. The lady you so flatter can't abide dullness and
inaction, and too much stupidity might overcome her natural timidity,
in which case even my ardent old pursuer could not scare me into
submission and banishment. If I could only find an occupation, now,
for my--"

"Peculiar talents," he suggested; "that's just the point. And now, I
wonder if you wouldn't make a remarkably charming young widow?"

"So you have an idea, then, Lucian? Just toss me a bunch of those
cigarettes, please,--thank you. Now a light; and now, if it's not
asking too much, will you proceed to explain yourself, and tell me
what fortunate being you desire me, in the character of a fair widow,
to besiege? What he is like; and why?"

"Admirable Cora! what other woman could smoke a cigarette with such a
perfect air of doing the proper thing; so much of Spanish grace."

"And so much genuine enjoyment," she added, comfortably. "Smoke is my
poetry, Lucian. When far from my gaze, and I desire to call up your
most superb image, I can do so much more comfortably and
satisfactorily inspired by my odorous little Perique."

"Blessed Perique! Cora shall have them always. But back to my widow;
an absence of six months, perhaps, would be a judicious thing just
now, you think?"

"More would be safer," she smiled, "if the Peri can keep aloof from
Paradise so long."

"How would the Peri fancy taking up her permanent abode outside the
walls of Paradise?"

She removed the fragrant gilded cigar in miniature from between two
rosy, pursed-up lips, and surveyed him in mute astonishment.

"Provided," he proceeded, coolly, "provided she found a country home,
bank account, and equipage to her liking, with everything her own way,
and ample opportunities for trips to Paradise, making visits to her
brother and her city friends--and a fine prospect of soon becoming
sole possessor of said country mansion, bank stock, etc.?"

She placed the tiny weed once more between her lips, and sending up
perfumed, curling little volumes of smoke, settled herself more
comfortably and said, nonchalantly, "That depends; further
particulars, please."

It was wonderful how these two understood each other. She knew that he
had for her a plan fully matured, and wasting no time in needless
questionings, waited to hear the gist of the whole matter, assured
from past experience that he would suggest nothing that would be an
undertaking unworthy of her talent, and he knew that she would weigh
his suggestions while they were being made, and be ready with her
decision at the close.

Long had they plotted and prospered together, these two Bohemians of
most malevolent type; and successfully and oft played into each
other's hands. Never yet had the good fortune of the one been devoid
of profit to the other; knowing this, each felt safe in accepting,
unquestioned, the suggestions of the other; and because of this, she
felt assured now that, in this present scheme, there was something to
be gained for him as well as herself.

When the looker-on wonders idly at the strength of ties such as those
which bound together these two, and the length of their duration, he
has never considered their nature--the similarity of tastes,
similarity of pursuits, and the crowning fact of the mutual benefit
derived from such association.

Find a man who lives by successful manipulations of the hand-book of
chance, and who bows to the deity of three aces; who finds victims in
fortified places, and whose most hazardous scheme is surest of
success; who walks abroad the admired of his contemporaries, who envy
him his position as fortune's favorite in proportion as they ply their
own similar trade near the foot of the ladder of chance; who shows to
men the dress and manner of a gentleman, and to the angels the heart
of a fiend--and you will find that man aided and abetted, upheld and
applauded, by a woman, his fitting companion by nature or education.
She is unscrupulous as he, daring as he, finding him victims that his
arm could not reach; plying the finer branch of a dangerous but
profitable trade; sharing his prosperity, rescuing from adversity;
valued because necessary, and knowing her value therefore fearing no
rival.

Cora was beautiful in Davlin's eyes, and secure in his affections,
because she was valuable, even necessary, to him. He cared for her
because in so doing he was caring for himself, and placing any "card"
in her hands was only the surest means of enlarging his own pack.
While she, for whether a woman is good or bad she is ever the slave of
her own heart, recognizing the fact of the mutual benefit resulting
from their comradeship, and improving, in her character of a woman of
the world, every opportunity to profit by him, yet she saw in him the
one man who possessed her love. Though the life she had led had worn
out all the romantic tendencies of her nature, and had turned the
"languishing of her eye" into sharp glances in the direction of the
main chance, still she lavished upon him the best of her heart, and
held his interest ever the equal of her own. After the manner of such,
they were loyal to each other.

"Then," pursued Lucian, "listen, and a tale I will unfold."

In his own way, he proceeded to describe the intended victim; his
home, his wealth, his state of solitude, together with the facts he
had gathered up here and there relative to his leading characteristics
and weaknesses, whereby he might be successfully manipulated by
skilled hands. The boldness of his plan made even Cora start, and
instead of her usually ready decision and answer, she favored him with
a wondering, thoughtful stare.

"You see," concluded Lucian, "he can't live forever at the worst, and
the estate is a handsome one. You could easily make yourself queen
absolute of the situation, and go and come at your own sweet will. I
think as a good brother I should be a magnificent success, and an
ornament to your country mansion in the lazy Summer."

"And if I don't approve of the speculation after a trial, I can commit
suicide or vanish," Cora said, meditatingly.

"Just so," laughed he; "and take the spoons."

"You are sure there are no incumbrances; perfectly sure of that?" she
questioned.

"Perfectly sure. There was a step-daughter, but she ran away with some
foreigner;" here he smiled, and veiled his eyes, lest she should read
aright their expression. "He would not give her a penny, or a crust of
bread, were she to return. He hated her from her earliest day; but she
is not likely to reappear in any case."

"If she should, you might marry her, you know," she suggested,
maliciously.

"So I might," he said, shutting his eyes again; "and we would all
settle down into respectable members of society--charming picture.
But, jesting aside, how do you like the prospect?"

She tossed away her cigarette and, rising, paced the room in silence
for a few moments.

Lucian whistled, softly, a few bars from a favorite opera; then
lighted a fresh cigar, and puffed away, leaning lazily back and
watching her face furtively out of half closed eyes.

"I think," she said, resuming her seat, "that I will take a nearer
view of this 'prospect' of yours."

He nodded his head and waited for her to proceed.

"I think the _role_ of widow might interest me for a little time, so
I'll take myself and my 'delicate constitution' down to your promising
haven of rest. I'll 'view the landscape o'er,' and the prospect of an
opportunity for a little sharp practice will make my banishment more
endurable; of course, my resignation will increase as the situation
becomes more interesting."

"Which it is sure to do," he said, rising quickly and crossing to the
window. "The thing is as good as done; you always accomplish what you
undertake; and you'll find the game worth the powder. The fact is,
Cora," he continued, seriously, "you and I have engineered so many
delicate little affairs successfully, here in the city, that, as a
combination, we are pretty well known just now; too well, in fact, for
our own ease and comfort. Your supposed trip to Europe was a lucky
thing, and will throw all officiously-interested ones off your track
completely. I shall limit my operations here for a time; shall make
this merely headquarters, in fact, and 'prospect,' like yourself, in
fresh fields. And now, it being nearly morning, and quite necessary
that you should be on your victorious march, let us consider final
ways and means."

In a concise, business-like way, they arranged and discussed, the
result of the whole being briefly this:

Cora would drive at early dawn to a suburban station, and from thence
go by rail to a village midway between the city and her final
destination; and there await her luggage, and the arrival of Lucian.
He would join her shortly, and proceed with her to Bellair, in his
character of brother; see her comfortably settled, and leave her to
her new undertaking.

And thus it was that in the gray of morning a veiled lady,
sweet-voiced and elegant in manner, stepped from a close carriage at a
little wayside station, and sped away at the heels of the iron horse.

And thus it was that Lucian Davlin, reappearing in Bellair and
listening in well simulated surprise to the story of the sudden
disappearance of John Arthur's step-daughter, effectually put to
flight any idea--forming in the brains of the few who knew, or
conjectured, that these two had met--that he had aught to do with her
mysterious flitting. In truth, none save old Hagar knew of the
frequency of their clandestine meetings, and she never breathed to
others the thoughts and suspicions that haunted her brain.

And thus it was, too, that Cora Weston, in her new _role_ of
languishing widow, secluded carefully from the vulgar gaze, heard
never a word of Madeline's flight. And when, later, the fact was
revealed to her, none save old Hagar could have named the precise date
of the event. So even wise Cora never connected the fate of the
unfortunate girl with the doings of Lucian Davlin.




CHAPTER VI.

A WARNING.


Early morning in the great city, but the buzz and clamor were fairly
under way, and the streets as full of busy, pushing, elbowing life as
if night and silence had never rested above the tall roofs and chimney
pots.

With the rattle of the first cart wheel on the pavement, Madeline had
started broad awake. As the din increased, and sleep refused to return
to the startled senses, all unused to these city sounds, she arose,
and completing her toilet with some haste, seated herself at her
window to look out upon the scene so new to her.

What a world of strange emotions passing and repassing beneath her
eye! What hopes and fears; what carelessness and heartache! How they
hurried to and fro, each apparently intent upon his own thoughts and
purposes.

She gazed down until her vision wearied of the motley, ever-changing,
yet ever the same crowd; and then she reclined in the downy depths of
a great easy chair, closed her eyes, and thought of Lucian. After all,
what meaning had this restless moving throng for her? Only one;
Lucian. What was this surging sea of humanity to her save that,
because of its roar and clamor, they two were made more isolated,
therefore nearer to each other?

The morning wore away, and she began to realize how very soon she
should be with her hero, and then no more of separation. Her heart
bounded at this thought.

Some one tapped softly at her door. She opened it quickly, thinking
only of Lucian. It was not Lucian, however, but a veiled woman who
stepped within the room, closing the door as she came.

Madeline fell back a pace, and gazed at the intruder with a look of
startled inquiry which was, however, free from fear. She had not
thought of it before, it flashed across her mind now that this fact
was odd; but in all her morning's ruminations, she had not once
thought of the mysterious stranger of the railway episode. Yet now the
first words that took shape in her mind, at the entrance of this
unexpected visitor, were "Clarence Vaughan, M. D." She almost spoke
them.

With a quick, graceful movement, the stranger removed the shrouding
veil; and Madeline gazed wonderingly on the loveliest face she had
ever seen or dreamed of. It was a pure, pale face, lighted by lustrous
dark eyes, crowned by waving masses of dark silky hair; exquisitely
molded features, upon which there rested an expression of mingled
weariness and resignation, the look of

    "A soul whose experience
    Has paralyzed bliss."

One could imagine such a woman lifting to her lips the full goblet of
life's sparkling elixir, and putting it away with her own hand, lest
its intoxicating richness should shut from her senses the fragrance of
Spring violets, and dim her vision of the world beyond.

They formed a decided contrast, these two, standing face to face.

One, with the calm that comes only when storm clouds have swept
athwart life's sky, leaving behind marks of their desolating progress,
but leaving, too, calm after tempest; after restlessness, repose.

The other, stretching out her hand like a pleased child to woo the
purple lightning from the distance, buoyant with bright hopes, with
nothing on brow or lip to indicate how that proud head would bear
itself after it had been bowed before the passing storm.

"Pardon me," said the lady, in a sweet contralto. "I think I am not
mistaken; this is the young lady who arrived last evening, and is
registered,"--she looked full in the girl's eyes--"as Miss Weir?"

Madeline's eyes drooped before that searching gaze, but she answered,
simply: "Yes."

[Illustration: "I have not yet introduced myself. Here is my
card."--page 68.]

"You are naturally much astonished to see me here, and my errand is a
delicate one. Since I have seen you, however, I have lost every doubt
I may have entertained as to the propriety of my visit. Will you trust
me so far as to answer a few simple questions?"

The words of the stranger had put to flight the first idea formed in
her mind, namely, that this visit was a mistake. It was intended for
her, and now, who had instigated it? She looked up into the face of
her visitor and said, with her characteristic frankness of speech:

"Who sent you to me?"

The abruptness of the question caused the stranger to smile.

"One who is the soul of honor and the friend of all womankind," she
said, with a soft light in her eyes.

Madeline's eyes still searched her face. "And his name is that," she
said, putting the card of Clarence Vaughan upon the table between
them.

"Yes; and this reminds me, I have not yet introduced myself. Here is
my card."

She placed in the hand of Madeline a delicate bit of cardboard bearing
the name, "Olive Girard."

Silence fell between them for a moment, and then Olive Girard spoke.

"Won't you ask me to be seated, and hear what I wish to say, Miss
Weir?"

She hesitated over the name, and Madeline, perceiving it, said:

"You think Weir is not my name?"

"Frankly, I do," smiled Mrs. Girard; "but just now the name matters
little. Pardon me, but I am more interested in your face than your
name. I came here because it seemed my duty, and to oblige a friend;
now I wish to serve you for your own sake, to be your friend, if you
will let me."

Still Madeline's brain kept thinking, thinking; and she put her
questions rather as commentaries on her own thoughts than as her share
in a conversation.

"Why did Mr. Vaughan send you to me?"

They had seated themselves, at a sign from Madeline, and Mrs. Girard
drew her chair nearer to the girl as she answered:

"Because he feared for you."

"Because he _feared for me_!" Madeline's face flushed hotly; "feared
what?"

"He feared," said Olive Girard, turning her face full upon her
questioner, "what I feel assured is the truth, having seen you--simply
that you do not know aright the man in whose company you came to this
place."

Madeline turned her eyes upon her guest and the blood went slowly out
of her face, but she made no reply, and Mrs. Girard continued:

"I will ask you once more, before I proceed further, do you object to
answering a few questions? Of course I am willing to be likewise
interrogated," she added, smiling.

Over the girl's face a look was creeping that Aunt Hagar, seeing,
could readily have interpreted. She nodded her head, and said briefly:
"Go on."

"First, then," said her interrogator, "are you entirely without
friends in this city? Except, of course," she added, quickly, "your
escort of last night."

"Yes." Madeline's countenance never altered, and she kept her eyes
fully fixed on her companion's face.

"Are--are you without parents or guardian?"

"Yes."

"As I thought; and now, pardon the seeming impertinence of this
question, did you come here as the companion of the man who was your
escort, or did mere accident put you under his charge?"

"The 'accident' that put me in the charge of Mr. Davlin was--myself,"
said the girl, in a full, clear voice. "And he is my only guardian,
and will be."

Olive Girard pushed back her chair, and rising, came and stood before
her, with outstretched hand and pleading, compassionate eyes.

"Just as I feared," she sighed; "the very worst. My poor child, do you
know the character and occupation of this man?"

Madeline sprang to her feet, and putting one nervous little hand upon
the back of the chair she had occupied, moved back a pace, and said,
in a low, set tone:

"If you have come to say aught against Lucian Davlin, you will find no
listener here. I am satisfied with him, and trust him fully. When I
desire to know more of his 'character and occupation,' I can learn it
from his own lips. What warrant had that man," pointing to Clarence
Vaughan's card, "for dogging me here, and then sending you to attempt
to poison my mind against my best friend? I tell you, I will not
listen!"

A bright spot burned on either cheek, and the little hand resting on
the chair back clinched itself tighter.

Olive Girard drew a step nearer the now angry girl, and searched her
face with grave eyes.

"If I said you were standing on the verge of a horrible precipice,
that your life and soul were in danger, would you listen then?" she
asked, sternly.

"No," said Madeline, doggedly, drawing farther away as she spoke; "not
unless I saw the danger with my own eyes. And in that case I should
not need your warning," she added, dryly.

"And when your own eyes see the danger, it will be too late to avert
it," said Olive, bitterly. "I know your feeling at this moment, and I
know the heartache sure to follow your rashness. _What are you, and
what do you hope or expect to be, to the man you call Lucian Davlin?_"
She spoke his name as if it left the taste of poison in her mouth.

The girl's head dropped until it rested on the hands clasped upon the
chair before her; cold fingers seemed clutched upon her heart. Across
her memory came trooping all his love words of the past, and among
them,--she remembered it now for the first time,--among them all, the
word _wife_ had never once been uttered. In that moment, a thought new
and terrible possessed her soul; a new and baleful light seemed
shining upon the pictures of the past, imparting to each a shameful,
terrible meaning. She uttered a low moan like that of some wounded
animal, and suddenly uplifting her head, turned upon Olive Girard a
face in which passion and a vague terror were strangely mingled.

"What are you saying? What are you _daring_ to say to me!" she
ejaculated, in tones half angry, half terror-stricken, wholly pitiful.
"What horrible thing are you trying to torture me with?"

She would have spoken in indignation, but the new thought in her heart
frightened the wrath from her voice. She dared not say "I am to be his
wife," with these forebodings whispering darkly within her.

She turned away from the one who had conjured up these spectres, and
throwing herself upon a couch, buried her face in the cushions, and
remained in this attitude while Olive answered her and for long
moments after; moments that seemed hours to both.

Olive's eyes were full of pity, and her tone was very gentle. Her
woman's quick instinct assured her that words of comfort were of no
avail in this first moment of bitter awakening. She knew that it were
better to say all that she deemed it her duty to say, now, while her
hearer was passive; and stepping nearer the couch, she said:

"Dr. Vaughan, who saw you in the company of a man so well known to him
that to see a young girl in his society he knew could mean no good,
came to me this morning with a brief account of your meeting of last
night. He is too good a physiognomist not to have discovered, readily,
that you were not such a woman as could receive no contamination from
such as Lucian Davlin. He feared for you, believing you to be another
victim of his treachery. Your coming to this hotel assured him that
you were safe for the time, at least; and this being a subject so
delicate that he, a stranger, feared to approach you with it, he
desired me to come to you, and, in case his fears were well founded,
to save you if I could. My poor, poor child! you have cast yourself
upon the protection of a professional gambler; a man whose name has
been associated for years with that of a notorious and handsome
adventuress. If he has any fear or regard for anything, it is for her;
and your very life would be worth little could she know you as her
rival. Judge if such a man can have intentions that are honorable,
where a young, lovely and unsophisticated girl like yourself is
concerned."

She paused here, but Madeline never stirred.

"Come with me," continued Olive, drawing a step nearer the motionless
girl; "accept me as your protector, for the present, at least. Believe
me, I know what you are suffering now, and near at hand you will find
that which will aid you to forget this man."

Madeline slowly raised herself to a sitting posture and turned towards
the speaker a face colorless as if dead, but with never a trace of a
tear. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, and her lips were compressed,
as if she had made, and was strong to keep, some dark resolve.

"What is it that I am to find?" she said, in a low, intense tone.

"A girl, young as you, and once as beautiful," replied Olive, sadly,
"who is dying of a broken heart, and her destroyer is Lucian Davlin."

Madeline gazed at her absently for a moment. "I suppose I had ought to
hate you," she said, wearily; "you have made my life very black.
Lucian Davlin will soon be here,--will you please go?"

"Surely you are going with me?" said Olive, in amaze.

"No."

"You doubt me? Oh, I have not made you feel your danger! You think I
am an impostor!"

"No," said the girl, in the same quiet tone; "something here," putting
her hand upon her bosom, "tells me that you are sincere. My own heart
has abandoned me; it will not let me doubt you, much as I wish to. I
cannot thank you for making my heart ache,--please go."

Still with that air of unnatural calm, she arose and walked to the
window.

Of the two, Olive Girard was by far the more agitated. "Tell me," she
said, in eager entreaty; "oh, tell me, you are not going with _him_?"

Madeline turned sharply around. "I shall not add myself to the list of
his victims," she said, briefly.

And then the two gazed at each other in silence for a moment.

"This is madness," said Olive, at length. "What rash thing do you
meditate? I will not leave you to face this man alone; I dare not do
it."

Madeline came from the window and stood directly before her. "I am not
the weak child you think me. You can do nothing but harm by remaining
here. I will meet Lucian Davlin, and part with him in my own way," she
said, between her teeth.

Olive saw, in the set face, and stern eye, that she was indeed dealing
with a character stubborn as death, and devoid of all fear. She
dreaded to leave her thus, but felt assured that she could do nothing
else.

"Will you come to me afterward?" she asked. "You have no friends here,
you tell me, and you need a friend now. Promise me this and I will
go."

"Thank you," said the girl, wearily; "at least I promise to go to no
one else; good-by."

Turning away, she resumed her position at the window, and never looked
once at Olive after that.

"I will write my address on this card," said Olive. She did so; then
turning on the girl a look full of pitying tenderness, said: "I need
not tell you to be brave; I should rather bid you be cautious.
Remember, your life is worth more than the love and loss of such a
man. Put this behind you, and come to me soon, believing that you are
not friendless."

She lowered her veil and, casting one more wistful glance at the
silent figure by the window, went out and closed the door softly.




CHAPTER VII.

A STRUGGLE FOR MORE THAN LIFE.


It is a fortunate provision of Providence that calamity comes upon us,
in most cases, with a force so sudden and overwhelming that it is
rather seen than felt. As we realize the full torture of an ugly
wound, not when the blow is struck, but after the whole system has
been made to languish under its effects, so a blow struck at the heart
can not make itself fully felt while the mind is still unable to
picture what the future will be like now that the grief has come. We
only taste our bitterest grief when the mind has shaken itself aloof
from the present woe, to travel forward and question what the future
can hold for us, now that our life is bereft of this treasure.

Madeline's condition, after the departure of Olive Girard, was an
exponent of this truth. Fast and hard worked her thoughts, but they
only encountered the ills of the present, and never glanced beyond.

She had set her lover aloft as her ideal, the embodiment of truth,
honor, and manhood. He had fallen. Truth, honor, manhood, had passed
out of existence for her. And she had loved him so well! She loved him
even yet.

The thought brought with it a pang of terror, and as if conjured up by
it, the scenes of the day previous marshalled themselves again for
review. Could it be possible? Was it only yesterday that she listened
to his tender love words, beneath the old tree in Oakley woods? Only
yesterday that her step-father was revealed in all his vileness,--his
plots, his hopes, his fears. Her mother's sad life laid bare before
her; Aunt Hagar's story; her defiance of the two men at Oakley; her
flight; Clarence Vaughan; the strange, great city; Olive Girard; and
now--now, just a dead blank, with no outlook, no hope.

And was this all since yesterday?

What was it, she wondered, that made people mad? Not things like
these; she was calm, very calm. She _was_ calm; too calm. If something
would occur to break up this icy stillness of heart, to convulse the
numbed powers of feeling, and shock them back into life before it was
too late.

She waited patiently for the coming of her base lover, lying upon the
soft divan, with her hands folded, and wondering if she would feel
_much_ different if she were dead.

When the summons came, at last, she went quietly down to greet the man
who little dreamed that his reign in her heart was at an end, and that
his hold upon her life was loosening fast.

When Madeline entered the presence of Lucian Davlin, she took the
initiatory step in the part she was henceforth to play. And she took
it unhesitatingly, as if dissimulation was to her no new thing. Truly,
necessity, emergency, is the mother of much besides "invention."
Entering, she gave him her hand with free grace, and smiled up at him
as he bade her good-morning.

He remarked on her pale cheeks, but praised the brightness of her
eyes, and accepted her explanation that the bustle and the strangeness
was unusual to her, as a natural and sufficient reason for the pallor.

"You will soon grow accustomed to that," he said, as they descended to
the carriage, "and be the rosiest, fairest little woman on the
boulevard, for I mean to drive half the men jealous by taking you
there often."

[Illustration: "She wondered if she would feel _much_ different if she
were dead."--page 76.]

Madeline made no reply, and they entered the carriage.

Davlin was not surprised at her silence; he was prepared for a little
coyness; in fact, for some resistance, and expected to have occasion
for the specious eloquence always at his command. Of course, the
result would be the same,--he had no doubt of that, and so in silence
they reached their destination.

Up a broad flight of stairs, and then a door. Lucian rings, and an
immaculate colored servant appears, who seems as well bred as an
English baronet, and who expresses no surprise at the presence of a
lady there.

Up another flight of softly carpeted stairs, across a wide hall, and
lo! the abode of the sybarite, the apartments of the disciple of
Chance.

"Welcome to your kingdom, fair queen," says Lucian, as they enter.
"This is your abiding place, for a time, at least, and I am your slave
for always," and he kneels playfully before her.

Madeline turns away, and, finding it easiest to do, in her then state
of mind, begins a careless tour of the rooms, making a pretense of
criticism, and finding in even this slow promenade some relief from
absolute quiet and silence.

She guarded her face lest it should display too much of that locked,
sullen calm underneath, and replied by an occasional word and nod to
his running comments upon the different articles undergoing
examination. Fingering carelessly the rare ornaments upon a fine set
of brackets, her eye rested upon an elegant little gold mounted
pistol. She turned away quickly, and they passed to other things.

Her replies became more ready, and she began questioning gravely about
this or that, listening with childlike wonder to his answers, and
winning him into a pleasant bantering humor.

Finally he threw himself upon a chair, and selecting a cigar proceeded
to light it.

Madeline continued to flit from picture to statuette, questioning with
much apparent interest. At last, she paused again before the bracket
which held the tiny toy that had for her a fascination.

"What a pretty little pistol," she said. "Is it loaded?"

"I don't know," replied he, lazily. "Bring it to me; I will see."

He was inwardly wondering at her cool acceptance of the situation; and
felt inclined to congratulate himself. Seeing her look at the little
weapon doubtfully, he laughed and strode to her side, taking it in his
hand.

"It is not loaded," he said. "Did you ever fire a pistol?"

"No; show me how to hold it."

He placed it in her hand, and showed her how to manipulate the
trigger, and to take aim.

"I should like to see it loaded," she said, at last.

"And so you shall."

He smiled, and crossing the room took from a little inlaid box a
handful of cartridges. Madeline watched him attentively, as he
explained to her the operation of loading. At length expressing
herself satisfied, and declining his invitation to try and load it
herself, she turned away.

Davlin extracted the cartridge from the pistol, and returned it to its
place, saying: "You might wish to practice at aiming, and won't want
it loaded."

"I shall not want such practice," she replied.

A rap at the door, and the servant announced that dinner was come.

"I ordered our dinner here, to-day," explained Lucian, "thinking it
would be more cosy. You may serve it, Henry," to the servant.

Dinner was accordingly served, and Lucian found occasion to criticise,
very severely, the manner of his serving man. More than once, his
voice took on an intolerant tone.

Sitting opposite, Madeline saw the man, as he stood behind his
master's chair, dart upon him a look of hatred. Her lips framed a
smile quite new to them; and, after dessert was placed upon the table
and the man dismissed, she said:

"You don't like your servant, I judge?"

"Oh, he's as good as any," replied Lucian, carelessly. "They are
pretty much alike, and all need a setting back occasionally;--on
general principles, you know."

"I suppose so," assented Madeline, indifferently, as if the subject
had lost all interest for her.

Slowly the afternoon wore on, moments seeming hours to the despairing
girl. At length Lucian, finding her little inclined to assist him in
keeping up a conversation, said:

"I am selfish not to remember that you are very tired. I will leave
you to solitude and repose for a little time, shall I?"

"If you wish," she replied, wearily. "I suppose I need the rest."

"Then I will look in upon some of my friends. I have almost lost the
run of city doings during my absence. Meantime, ring for anything you
may need, won't you?"

"I will ring;" and she looked, not at him, but at the bracket beyond.

"Then good-by, little sweetheart. It is now four; I will be with you
at six."

He embraced her tenderly, and went out with that _debonnair_ grace
which she had so loved. She looked after him with a hungry, hopeless
longing in her eyes.

"Oh, why does God make His foulest things the fairest?" she moaned.
"Why did He put love in our hearts if it must turn our lives to ashes?
Why must one be so young and yet so miserable? Oh, mother, mother, are
all women wronged like us?"

Madeline arose and commenced pacing the floor restlessly, nervously.
She had come here with no fixed purpose, nothing beyond the indefinite
determination to defy and thwart the man who had entrapped her. She
had never for a moment feared for her safety, or doubted her ability
to accomplish her object.

A plan was now taking shape in her mind, and as she pondered, she
extended her march, quite unthinkingly, on into the adjoining room,
the door of which stood invitingly open. The first object to attract
her attention was the light traveling coat which Lucian had worn on
the previous day; worn when he was pleading his suit under the trees
of Oakley; and in a burst of anger, as if it were a part of him she
was thinking of so bitterly, she seized and hurled it from her. As it
flew across the room, something fell from a pocket, almost at her
feet.

She looked down at it; it was a telegram, the one, doubtless, that had
called him back to the city the day before. A business matter, he had
said. Into her mind flashed the words of Olive Girard, "a professional
gambler." She would see what this "business" was. Stooping, she picked
up the crumpled envelope, and quickly devoured its contents.

     Must see you immediately. Come by first train; am waiting at
     your quarters.

                                                 CORA.

Madeline went back to the lighter, larger room, and seating herself,
looked about her. Again the words of Olive rung in her ears.

"Cora!" she ejaculated. "He obeyed her summons, and brought _me_ with
him. And she was here only last night--and where has she gone? This
must be the 'notorious,' the 'handsome.' Ah, Lucian Davlin, this is
well; this nerves me for the worst! I shall not falter now. This is
the first link in the chain that shall yet make your life a burden."

She crossed the room and touched the bell.

"Now for the first real step," said Madeline, grimly.

The door opened and the dark face of Henry appeared, bowing on the
threshold.

"Come in, Henry, and close the door," said Madeline, pleasantly. "I
want you to do me a favor, if you will."

Henry came in, and stood waiting her order.

"Will you carry a note for me, Henry, and bring me back an answer? I
want _you_ to take it, because I feel as if I could trust you. You
look like one who would be faithful to those who were kind to you."

"Thank you, lady; indeed I would," said the man, in grateful tones.

Madeline was quick to see the advantage to be gained by possessing the
regard and confidence of this man, who must, necessarily, know so much
that it was desirable to learn of the life and habits of him, between
whom and herself must be waged a war to the very death.

She reasoned rapidly, and as rapidly arrived at her conclusions. The
first of those was, that Lucian Davlin, by his intolerance and
unkindness, had fitted a tool to her hand, and she, therefore, as a
preliminary step, must propitiate and win the confidence of this same
tool left by his master within her reach.

"And will you carry my letter, Henry, and return with an answer as
soon as you can? You will find the person at this hour without any
trouble."

"Master ordered me to attend to your wants," replied the man, in a
somewhat surly tone.

She understood this somber inflection, and said: "He 'ordered' you?
Yes, I see; is your master always as hard to please as to-day, Henry?
He certainly was a little unkind."

"He's always the same, madame," said the man, gloomily. Her words
brought vividly before his mind's eye the many instances of his
master's unkindness.

"I'm sorry he is not kind to you," said the girl, hypocritically. "And
I don't want you to carry this letter because _he_ ordered you. I want
you to do it to oblige _me_, Henry, and it will make me always your
friend."

Ah, Henry, one resentful gleam from your eyes, as you stood behind the
chair of your tyrant, has given to this slight girl the clue by which
to sway you to her will. She was smiling upon him, and the man
replied, in gratitude:

"I'll do anything for you, madame."

"Thank you, Henry. I was sure I could trust you. Will you get me some
writing material, please?"

Henry crossed to the handsome davenport, and found it locked. But when
taking this precaution, Davlin overlooked the fact that Cora's last
gift--a little affair intended for the convenience of travelers, being
a combined dressing case and writing desk, the dividing compartment of
which contained an excellent cabinet photograph of the lady herself,
so enshrined as to be the first thing to greet the eyes of whosoever
should open the little receptacle--was still accessible.

Failing to open the davenport, Henry turned to this; and pressing upon
the spring lock, exposed to the view of Madeline, standing near, the
pictured face of Cora. Spite of his grievances, the sense of his duty
was strong upon him, and he put himself between the girl and the
object of her interest. Not so quickly but that she saw, and
understood the movement. Stepping to his side, she put out her hand,
saying:

"What an exquisite picture--Madame Cora, is it not, Henry?"

She was looking him full in the eyes, and he answered, staring in
astonishment the while: "Yes, miss."

"She is very handsome," mused the girl, as if to herself: "left just
before my arrival, I think?" she added, at a venture.

Again her eyes searched his face, and again he gave a surprised
assent.

"Do you like her, Henry?" questioned she, intent on her purpose.

"She is just like _him_," he said, jerking his head grimly, while his
voice took again a resentful tone. "She thinks a man who is _black_
has no feelings."

He placed pen, ink and paper on the table as he answered, and then
looked to her inquiringly.

"You may wait here while I write, if you will," she said, and took up
the pen.

She had brought away from the G---- House, the two cards of her
would-be friends, and she now consulted them before she asked.

"No. 52 ---- street; is that far, Henry?"

"It's a five minutes' walk," he answered. "I can go and come in twenty
minutes, allowing time for an answer."

"Very good," she said, abruptly, and wrote rapidly:

     _Clarence Vaughan._

            No. 52 ---- street.

     SIR--Having no other friend at hand, I take you at your
     word. I need your aid, to rescue me from the power of a bad
     man. Will you meet me, with a carriage, at the south corner
     of this block, in one hour, and take me to Mrs. Girard, who
     has offered me a shelter? You _know_ the danger I wish to
     escape. Aid me "_in the name of your mother_."

                                          MADELINE "WEIR."

This is what she penned, and looking up she asked: "What is the number
of this place, Henry?"

"91 Empire block," he replied; "C---- street."

She added this, and then folding and enclosing, addressed it to
Clarence Vaughan, M. D., etc.

"There, Henry, take it as quickly as you can; and some day I will try
and reward you."

She smiled upon him as she gave him the letter. He took it, bowed low,
and hurried away.

She listened until the sound of his footstep could be heard no longer.
Then rising quickly, she opened the receptacle that held the portrait
of the woman who, though unseen, was still an enemy. Long she gazed
upon the pictured face, and when at last she closed the case,
springing the lock with a sharp click, she muttered between set teeth:

"I shall _know_ you when I see you, madame."

Crossing to the pistol bracket, she took the little weapon in her
hand, and picking up one of the cartridges left by its careless owner,
loaded it carefully. Having done this she placed the weapon in her
pocket.

She paced to and fro, to and fro; nothing would have been harder for
her than to remain quiet then. Her eyes wandered often to the tiny
bronze clock on the marble above the grate.

Ten minutes; her letter was delivered, was being answered
perhaps;--fifteen; how slowly the moments were going!--twenty; what if _he_
should return, too soon? Instinctively she placed her hand upon the pocket
holding the little pistol. Twenty-five minutes; what if her messenger
should fail her? And that card had clearly stated "office hours three to
five." Twenty-six; oh, how slow, how slow!--twenty-seven; had the clock
stopped? no;--twenty-eight--nine--half an hour.

Where was Henry?

She felt a giddiness creeping over her; how close the air was. Her
nerves were at their utmost tension; another strain upon the sharply
strung chords would overcome her. She felt this vaguely. If she should
be baffled now! She could take fresh heart, could nerve herself anew,
if aid came to her, but if _he_ should come she feared, in her now
half frenzied condition, to be alone, she was so strangely nervous, so
weak!

How plainly she saw it, the face of Clarence Vaughan. Oh, it was a
good face! When she saw it again she could rest. She had not felt it
before, but she did need rest sorely.

Thirty-five minutes,--oh, they had been hours to her; weary, weary
time!

How many a sad watcher has reckoned the flying moments as creeping
hours, while sitting lonely, with heavy eyes, trembling frame, and
heart almost bursting with its weight of suspense--waiting.

Forty minutes--and a footstep in the passage! Her heart almost stopped
beating. It was Henry.

"I had to wait, as he was busy with a patient," said he,
apologetically, handing her the letter she desired.

Madeline tore open the missive with eager fingers, and read:

_Miss Madeline W._:

     Thank you for your faith in me. I will meet you at the place
     and time appointed. Do not fail me. Respectfully,

                                                C. VAUGHAN.

She drew a long breath of relief.

"Thank you, Henry. Now I shall leave this place; promise me that you
will not tell your master where I went or how. Will you promise?"

"I will, miss," said the man, earnestly. "Is this all I can do?"

"If you would be my true friend--if I might trust you, Henry--I would
ask more of you. But I should ask you to work against your master. He
has wronged me cruelly, and I need a friend who can serve me as you
can quite easily. I should not command you as a servant, but ask you
to aid me as a true friend, for I think your heart is whiter than
his."

And Henry was won. Starting forward, he exclaimed:

"He treats me as if I were a dog; and you, as if I were white and a
gentleman! Let me be your servant, and I will be very faithful; tell
me what I can do."

"Thank you, Henry; I will trust you. To-morrow, at noon, call at Dr.
Vaughan's office and he will tell you where you can find me. Then come
to me. You can serve me best by remaining with your master, at
present; and I will try, after I have left this place, to reward you
as you deserve."

"I will obey you, mistress," said the delighted servant. "I shall be
glad to serve where I can hear a kind word. And I shall be glad to
help you settle accounts with _him_. I will be there to-morrow, no
fear for me."

She turned, and put on her wrappings with a feeling of exultation. He
would come soon, smiling and triumphant, and she would not be there!
He should fret and wonder, question and search, but when they met
again the power should be on her side.

She turned to the waiting servant, saying: "I am ready, Henry."

He opened the door as if for a princess. Before Madeline had lifted
her foot from the carpet, her eyes became riveted upon the open
doorway.

There, smiling and _insouciant_, stood _Lucian Davlin_!

Madeline stood like one in a nightmare, motionless and speechless.
Again, and more powerfully, came over her senses that insidious,
creeping faintness; that sickening of body and soul together.

It was not the situation alone, hazardous as it certainly was, which
filled her with this shuddering terror; it was the feeling that
vitality had almost exhausted itself. She suddenly realized the
meaning of the awful lethargy that seemed benumbing her faculties. The
"last straw" was now weighing her down, and, standing mute and
motionless she was putting forth all her will power to comprehend the
situation, grasp and master it.

Like a dark stone image Henry stood, his hand upon the open door, his
eyes fastened upon the man blocking the way.

Davlin, whose first thought had been that the open door was to welcome
his approach, realized in an instant as he gazed upon Madeline, that
he was about to be defied. There was no mistaking the expression of
the face, so white and set. He elevated his eyebrows in an elaborate
display of astonishment.

"Just in time, I should say," removing his hat with mock courtesy, and
stepping across the threshold. "Not going out without an escort, my
dear? Surely not. Really, I owe a debt of gratitude to my friends down
town, for boring me so insufferably, else I should have missed you, I
fear."

No answer; no change in the face or attitude of the girl before him.

"Close that door, sir, and take yourself off," he said, turning to
Henry.

Remembering her words, "You can serve me best here," Henry bowed with
unusual humility, and went out.

[Illustration: "There, smiling and _insouciant_, stood _Lucian
Davlin_!"--page 88.]

"I don't think she is afraid of him," he muttered, as he went down the
hall; "anyhow, I won't be far away, in case she needs me."

Lucian Davlin folded his arms with insolent grace, and leaning lazily
against the closed door, gazed, with his wicked half smile, upon the
pale girl before him.

Thus for a few moments they faced each other, without a word. At
length, she broke the silence. Advancing a step, she looked him full
in the face and said, in a calm, even tone:

"Open that door, sir, and let me pass."

"Phew--w--w!" he half whistled, half ejaculated, opening wide his
insolent eyes. "How she commands us; like a little empress, by Jove!
Might the humblest of your adorers be permitted to ask where you were
going, most regal lady?"

"Not back to the home I left for the sake of a gambler and _roue_,"
she said, bitterly.

"Oh," thought he, "she has just got her ideas awakened on this
subject: believed me the soul of honor, and all that. Only a small
matter this, after all."

"Don't call hard names, little woman," he said aloud. "I'm not such a
very bad man, after all. By the way, I shouldn't have thought it
exactly in your line, to order up my servant for examination in my
absence."

"I am not indebted to your servant for my knowledge concerning you,
sir. I wish to leave this place; stand aside and let me pass."

The red flush had returned to her cheeks, the dangerous sparkle to her
eyes; her courage and spirits rose in response to his sneering
pleasantries. Her nerves were tempered like steel. He little dreamed
of the courage, strength and power she could pit against him.

He dropped one hand carelessly, and inserted it jauntily in his
pocket.

"Zounds; but you look like a little tigress," he exclaimed,
admiringly. "Really, rage becomes you vastly, but it's wearisome,
after all, my dear. So drop high tragedy, like a sensible girl, and
tell me what is the meaning of this new freak."

"I will tell you this, sir: I shall leave this place now, and I wish
never to see your face again. Where I go is no concern of yours. Why I
go, I leave to your own imagination."

"Bravo; what a little actress you would make! But now for a display of
my histrionic talents. Leave this place, against my will, you can not;
and I wish to see your face often, for many days to come. Where you go
I must go, too; and why you go, is because of a prudish scruple that
has no place in the world you and I will live in."

"The world _you_ live in is not large enough for me too, Lucian
Davlin. And you and I part, now and forever."

"Not so fast, little one," he answered, in his softest, most
persuasive tone. "See, I am the same lover you pledged yourself to
only yesterday. I adore you the same as then; I desire to make you
happy just the same. You have put a deep gulf between yourself and
your home; you can not go back; you would go out from here to meet a
worse fate, to fall into worse hands. Come, dear, put off that frown."

He made a gesture as if to draw her to him. She sprang away, and
placing herself at a distance, looked at him over a broad, low-backed
chair, saying:

"Not a step nearer me, sir, and not another word of your sophistry. I
will not remain here. Do you understand me? _I will not!_"

Lucian dragged a chair near the door, and throwing himself lazily
into it, surveyed the enraged girl with a look of mingled
astonishment, amusement, and annoyance.

"Really, this is rather hard on a fellow's patience, my lady. Not a
step nearer the door, my dear; and no more defiance, if you please.
You perceive I temper my tragedy with a little politeness," he added,
parenthetically. "I will not permit you to leave me; do you hear me?
_I will not!_"

His tone of aggressive mockery was maddening to the desperate girl. It
lent her a fresh, last impulse of wild, defiant energy. There was not
the shadow of a fear in her mind or heart now. The rush of outraged
feeling took full possession of her, and, for a second, deprived her
of all power of speech or action. In another instant she stood before
him, her eyes blazing with wrath, and in her hand, steadfast and
surely aimed, a tiny pistol--his pistol, that he had taught her to
load and aim not two short hours before!

He was not a coward, this man; and rage at being thus baffled and
placed at a disadvantage by his own weapon, drove all the mockery from
his face.

He gave a sudden bound.

There was a flash, a sharp report, and Lucian Davlin reeled for a
moment, his right arm hanging helpless and bleeding. Only for a
moment, for as the girl sprang past him, he wheeled about, seized her
with his strong left arm, and holding her close to him in a vice-like
clutch, hissed, while the ghastly paleness caused by the flowing blood
overspread his face:

"Little demon! I will kill you before I will lose you now!
You--shall--not--esca--"

A deathly faintness overcame him, and he fell heavily; still clasping
the girl, now senseless like himself.

[Illustration: "In her hand, steadfast and surely aimed, a tiny
pistol--"--page 92.]

Hearing the pistol shot, and almost simultaneously a heavy fall,
Henry hurried through the long passage and threw open the door. One
glance sufficed, and then he rushed down the stairs in frantic haste.

Meantime, Clarence Vaughan, punctual to the time appointed, had driven
rapidly to the spot designated by Madeline. He was about to alight
from the carriage, when he drew back suddenly, and sat in the shadow
as a man passed up the street.

It was Lucian Davlin, and he entered the building bearing the number
Madeline had given in her note.

Instantly Vaughan comprehended the situation. She had sent for aid in
this man's absence, and his return might frustrate her plans.
Pondering upon the best course to pursue, he descended from the
carriage, and paced the length of the block. Turning in his promenade,
his ear was greeted by a pistol shot. Could it come from that
building? It sounded from there certainly. It was now five minutes
past the time appointed; could it be there was foul play? He paused at
the foot of the stairs, irresolute.

Suddenly there was a rush of feet, and Henry came flying down, the
whites of his eyes looking as if they would never resume their natural
proportions. Clarence intercepted the man as he essayed to pass,
evidently without having seen him.

"Oh, sir!--Oh, doctor, come right up stairs, quick, sir," he
exclaimed.

"Was that shot from here, my man?" inquired Doctor Vaughan, as he
followed up the stairs.

"Yes, sir," hurrying on.

"Any people in the building besides your master and the lady?"

"No, sir; not at this time. This way, sir."

He threw open the door and stepped back. Entering the room, this is
what Clarence Vaughan saw:

Lying upon the floor in a pool of blood, the splendid form of Lucian
Davlin, one arm dripping the red life fluid, the other clasping close
the form of a beautiful girl. His eyes were closed and his face pallid
as the dead. The eyes of the girl were staring wide and set, her face
expressing unutterable fear and horror, every muscle rigid as if in a
struggle still. One hand was clenched, and thrown out as if to ward
off that death-like grasp, while the other clutched a pistol, still
warm and smelling of powder.

It was the work of a moment to stop the flow of blood, and restore the
wounded man to consciousness. But first he had removed the insensible
girl from Davlin's grasp, laid her upon a bed in the inner room and,
removing the fatal weapon from her hand, instructed Henry how to apply
the remedies a skilful surgeon has always about him, especially in the
city.

At the first sure symptoms of slowly returning life, Doctor Vaughan
summoned Henry to look after his master, whom he left, with rather
unprofessional alacrity, to attend to the fair patient in whose
welfare he felt so much interest. As he bent over the still
unconscious girl, his face was shadowed with troubled thought. She was
in no common faint, and feeling fully assured what the result would
be, he almost feared to see the first fluttering return of life.

At last a shudder agitated her form, and looking up with just a gleam
of recognition, she passed into another swoon, thence to another.
Through long weary hours she only opened her eyes to close them,
blinded with the vision of unutterable woe; and so the long night wore
away.

Dr. Vaughan had given brief, stern orders, in accordance with which
Lucian Davlin had entrusted his wound to another surgeon for dressing,
and then, still in obedience to orders, had swallowed a soothing
potion and betaken himself to other apartments.

Henry had summoned a trusty nurse well known to Clarence Vaughan, to
assist him at the bedside of Madeline.

In the gray of morning, pallid and interesting, with his arm in a
sling, Lucian reappeared in the sick room. Evidently he had not
employed all of the intervening time in slumber, for his course of
action seemed to have been fully matured.

"She won't be able to leave here for many days, I should fancy?" he
half inquired in a low tone, sinking languidly into a sleepy-hollow,
commanding a view of the face of the patient, and the back of the
physician.

"Not alive," was the brief but significant answer.

"Not alive! Great heavens, doctor, don't tell me that my miserable
accident will cost the little girl her life!"

"Ah! your accident: how was that?" bending over Madeline.

"Why, you see," explained Davlin, "She picked up the pistol, and not
being acquainted with the use of fire-arms, desired to investigate
under my instructions. Having loaded it, explaining the process by
illustration, she, being timid, begged me to put it up. Laughing at
her fear, I was about to obey, when moving around carelessly, my hand
came in contact with that chair, setting the thing off. The sight of
my bleeding arm frightened her so that I saw she was about to faint.
As I caught her I myself lost consciousness, and we fell together. But
how will she come out, doctor? tell me that; poor little girl!"

"She will come out from this trance soon, to die almost immediately,
or to pass through a fever stage that may result fatally later. Her
bodily condition is one of unusual prostration from fatigue; and
evidently, she has been sustaining some undue excitement for a
considerable time."

"Been traveling, and pretty well tired with the journey. That, I
suppose, taken with this pistol affair--but tell me, doctor, what she
will need, so that I may attend to it immediately."

"If she is living at noon," said Dr. Vaughan, reflectively, "it will
be out of the question to remove her from here, without risking her
life for weeks to come. If she comes out of this, and you will leave
her in my hands, I will, with the aid of this good woman," nodding
toward the nurse, "undertake to pull her through. It will be necessary
that she have perfect quiet, and sees no face that might in any manner
excite her, during her illness and convalescence."

Davlin mused for a few moments before making answer. He did not care
to excite remark by calling in unnecessary attendants. Dr. Vaughan he
knew by reputation as a skilful physician. As well trust him as
another, he thought, and it was no part of his plan to let this girl
die if skill could save her.

In answer to his natural inquiry as to how the doctor was so speedily
on the spot when needed, Henry had truthfully replied that he knew the
medical man by sight, and that, fortunately, he was passing when he
ran down to the street for assistance. Davlin was further convinced
that he, Henry, knew nothing save that the young lady rang for him to
show her out, and he, according to orders, had obeyed.

"Well, sir," Davlin said, at last, "I shall leave the lady and the
premises entirely in your hands, as soon as the crisis has passed.
Then, as my presence might not prove beneficial, while I carry this
arm in a sling, at least, I will run down into the country for a few
days. My man, here, is entirely at your disposal. Don't spare any
pains to pull her through safely, doctor. I will look in again at
noon."

He rose and went softly out of the room, the doctor having answered
him only by a nod of assent.

"Zounds, how weak I feel," he ejaculated. "I hope the girl won't die.
Anyhow, I have no notion of figuring at a death-bed scene. So I'll
just keep myself out of the way until the thing is decided. Then, I'll
run down and let Cora coddle me up a bit. I can explain my wounded arm
as the result of a little affair at the card-table."

Noon came, and slowly, slowly, stern Death relaxed his grasp upon the
miserable girl, for Death, like man, finds no satisfaction in claiming
willing victims. Slowly the life fluttered back to her heart; and
because Death had yielded her up, and to retain it would be to lose
her life, reason forsook her.

Under the watchful care of the skilled nurse, and the ministrations of
the young physician, she now lay tossing in the delirium of fever.

Nothing worse to fear, for days at least, reported the doctor. So the
afternoon train bore Lucian Davlin away from the city and his victim,
to seek repose and diversion in the society of his comrade, Cora.

"She will come out of this now, I think," he muttered. "Then--Oh! I'll
tame your proud spirit yet, my lady! I would not give you up now for
half a million."

And he meant it.




CHAPTER VIII.

THREADS OF THE FABRIC.


What had become of Madeline Payne?

The question went the round of the village, as such questions do. The
servants of Oakley fed upon it. They held secret conferences in the
kitchen, and grew loud and argumentative when they knew John Arthur
was safely out of hearing. They bore themselves with an air of
subdued, unobservant melancholy in his presence, and waxed important,
mysterious and unsatisfactory, when in converse with the towns
folk--as was quite right and proper, for were they not, in the eyes of
mystery hunters, objects of curiosity secondary only to their master
himself?

The somber-faced old housekeeper gave utterance to a doleful croak or
two, and a more doleful prophecy. But after a summons from John
Arthur, and a brief interview with him in the closely shut sacredness
of his especial den, not even the social intercourse of the kitchen
and the inspiration that the prolonged absence of the master always
lent to things below stairs, could beguile from her anything beyond
the terse statement that "she didn't meddle with her master's
affairs," and she "s'posed Miss Madeline knew where she was."

The housemaid, who read novels and was rather fond of Miss Payne,
grieved for a very little while, but found in this "visitation of
providence," as John Arthur piously termed it, food for romance
weaving on her own responsibility. She entertained Peter, the groom,
coachman and general factotum, with divers suggestions and
suppositions, each more soul harrowing than the last, making of poor
Madeline a lay figure upon which she fitted all the catastrophes that
had ever befallen her yellow-covered "heroinesses."

The villagers talked. It was all they could do, and their tongues were
very busy for a time until, in fact, a fresher sensation arrived.
Nurse Hagar was viewed and interviewed; but beyond sincere expression
of grief at her disappearance, and the unvarying statement that she
had not even the slightest conjecture as to the fate of the lost girl,
nothing could be gained from her.

Hagar was somewhat given to rather bluntly spoken opinions of folk who
happened to run counter to her notions in regard to prying, or, in
fact, her notions on any subject. In the present emergency she became
a veritable social hedgehog, and was soon left to solitude and her own
devices.

Whatever were Hagar's opinions on the subject, she kept them
discreetly locked within her own breast. She had received, at their
last interview, a revelation of the depth and force of character which
lay dormant in the nature of Madeline; and she believed, even when she
grieved most, that the girl would return, and that when she came she
would make her advent felt.

John Arthur went to the city "to put the matter in the hands of the
detectives," he said. But as he most fervently hoped and wished that
he had seen the last of his "stumbling--block," and believed that of
her own will she would not return, it is hardly to be supposed that
the Secret Service was severely taxed.

Be this as it may, the Summer days passed and he heard nothing of
Madeline.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meantime, the neat little hotel that rejoiced in the name of the
Bellair House, displayed on a fresh page of its register the signature
of Lucian Davlin once more, and underneath it that of Mrs. C.
Torrance.

Mrs. C. Torrance was a blonde young widow, dressed in weeds of most
elegant quality and latest style, with just the faintest hint of an
approaching season of half mourning.

Mrs. Torrance had now been an inmate of Bellair House some days, and
she certainly had no reason to complain that her present outlook was
not all that could be desired. Already she had met the object of her
little masquerade, and it was charming to see the alacrity with which
John Arthur placed himself in the snare set for him by these
plotters, and how gracefully he submitted as the cords tightened
around him.

Over and over again Davlin thanked his lucky star for having so
ordered his goings that, on his previous visit, he had never been
brought into immediate contact with John Arthur. Over and again he
congratulated himself that his meetings with Madeline had been kept
their own secret, for he knew nothing of the watchful, jealous eyes of
old Hagar.

On a fine summer morning, or rather "forenoon," for Mrs. Torrance was
a luxurious widow, and her "brother," Mr. Davlin, not at all enamored
of early rising,--on a fine forenoon, then, the pair sat in the little
hotel parlor, partaking of breakfast. They relished it, too, if one
might judge from the occasional pretty little ejaculations, expressive
of enjoyment and appreciation, that fell from the lips of the widow.

"More cream, monsieur? Oh, but this fruit is delicious! And I believe
there is a grand difference in the qualities of city and country
cream."

"The difference in the favor of the country living, eh? I say, Co.,
don't you think your appetite is rather better than is exactly
expected, or in order, for a widow in the second stage of her grief?"

Things were moving just now as Mr. Davlin approved, and he felt
inclined to be jocular.

Cora laughed merrily. Then holding up a pretty, berry-stained hand,
she said, with mock solemnity, "That is the last, my greatly shocked
brother. But didn't you inform Mr. Arthur that we should accept of his
kind offer to survey the woods and grounds of Oakley in his company,
and isn't this the day, and almost the hour?"

"So it is; I had forgotten."

It was not long before the pair were equipped, and sauntering slowly
in the direction of the Oakley estate.

Their morning's enterprise was more than rewarded, and the cause of
the widow was in a fair way to victory, when, after having politely
refused to lunch with Mr. Arthur on that day, and gracefully promised
to dine at Oakley on the next day but one, they bade adieu to that
flattered and fascinated gentleman, and left him at the entrance of
his grounds.

Then they sauntered slowly back, keeping to the wooded path. Arriving
at the fallen tree, the scene of so many interviews between Madeline
and Lucian, Cora seated herself on the mossy trunk and announced her
determination to rest.

Accordingly her escort threw himself upon the soft grass, and betook
himself to his inevitable cigar, while he closed his eyes and allowed
the vision of Madeline to occupy the place now usurped by Cora. Very
absorbing the vision must have been, for he gave an almost nervous
start as Cora's voice broke the stillness:

"Lucian, did you ever see this runaway daughter of Mr. Arthur's?"

Lucian started unmistakably now. Then he employed himself in pulling
up tufts of the soft grass, pretending not to have heard.

"Lucian!" impatiently.

"Eh, Co., what is it?" affecting a yawn.

"I ask, did you ever see this Madeline Payne, who ran away recently?"

"I? Oh, no. Old fellow always kept her shut up too close, I fancy.
They say she was pretty, and you are the first pretty woman I have
seen in these parts, Co."

[Illustration: "More cream, Monsieur?"--page 101.]

"Well, then, I'm sorry you didn't," quoth Cora, "for from motives of
delicacy I really don't care to inquire of others, and I have just
curiosity enough to wish to know how she looked."

"Sorry I can't enlighten you, Co. Get it all out of the old fellow
after the joyful event."

"Umph! Well, _that_ business prospers, _mon brave_. We shall win, I
think, as usual."

"Yes; and never easier, Co."

"Well, I don't anticipate much trouble in landing our fish. But come
along, Lucian, this romantic dell might make you forget luncheon; it
can't have that effect on me."

Cora gathered her draperies about her, and prepared to quit the little
grove, her companion following half reluctantly.




CHAPTER IX.

GONE!


Hours that seemed days; days that seemed years; weeks that seemed
centuries; yet they all passed, and Madeline Payne scarce knew, when
they were actually gone, that they were not all a dream.

Life, after that first yielding of heart and brain, had been a
delirium; then a conscious torture of mind and body; next a burden
almost too great to bear; and then a dreamy lethargy. Heaven be
praised for such moods; they are saviors of life and reason in crises
such as this through which the stricken girl was passing.

Madness had wrought upon her, and her ravings had revealed some
otherwise dark places and blanks in her story to her guardian and
nurses. Pain had tortured her. Death wrestled with her, and then,
because he could inspire her with no fear of him, because she mocked
at his terrors and wooed him, fled away.

In his place came Life, to whom she gave no welcoming smile. But Life
stayed, for Life is as regardless of our wishes as is Death.

Forms had hovered about her; kindly voices, sweet voices, had murmured
at her bedside. At times, an angel had held the cooling draught to her
thirsty lips. At last these dream-creatures resolved themselves into
realities:

Doctor Vaughan, who had ministered to her with the solicitude of a
brother, the gentleness of a woman, and the goodness of an angel.

Olive Girard who, leaving all other cares, was ever at her bedside,
and who came to that place at a sacrifice of feeling, after a
wrestling with pride, bringing a bitterness of memory, and a patient
courage of heart, that the girl could not then realize.

Henry, too, black of skin, warm of heart; who waited in the outer
court, and seemed to allow himself full and free respiration only when
the girl was pronounced out of danger.

Out of danger! What a misapplication of words!

From the scene of conflict, at the last flutter of Death's gloomy
mantle, comes the man of medicine; watch in hand, boots a tiptoe, face
grave but triumphant. His voice bids a subdued farewell to the
somberness proper to a probable death-bed, coming up just a note
higher in the scale of solemnities, as it announces to the eager,
trembling, waiting ones,

"_The danger is past!_"

Death, the calm, the restful, the never weary; Death, the friend of
long suffering, and world weariness and despair; Death, the rescuer,
the sometime comforter--has gone away with empty arms and reluctant
tread, and--Life, flushed, triumphant, seizes his rescued subject and
flings her out into the sea of human lives, perchance to alight upon
some tiny green islet or, likelier yet, to buffet about among black
waters, or encounter winds and storms, upheld only by a half-wrecked
raft or floated by a scarce-supporting spar.

And she is out of danger!

Hedged around about by sorrow, assailed by temptation, overshadowed by
sin. And, "the danger is over!"

Buffeted by the waves of adversity; longing for things out of reach;
running after _ignis fatui_ with eager outstretched hands, and
careless, hurrying feet, among pitfalls and snares. And, out of
danger!

Open your eyes, Madeline Payne; lift up your voice in thanksgiving;
you have come back to the world. Back where the sun shines and the dew
falls; where the flowers are shedding their perfume and song birds are
making glad music; where men make merry and women smile; where gold
shapes itself into palaces and fame wreathes crowns for fair and noble
brows; where beauty crowns valor and valor kisses the lips of beauty.
And where the rivers sparkle in the sunlight, and, sometimes, yield up
from their embrace cold, dripping, dead things, that yet bear the
semblance of your kind--all that is left of beings that were once like
you!

Out of danger!

Where want, and poverty, and--God help us!--vice, hide their heads in
dim alleys and under smoky garret roofs. Where beaten mothers and
starving children dare hardly aspire to the pure air and sunlight, the
whole world for them being enshrined in a crust of bread. Where
thieves mount upwards on ladders beaten from pilfered gold, and
command cities and sway nations. Where wantonness laughs and thrives
in gilded cages, and starves and dies in mouldy cellars.

Out of danger!

Madeline, the place that was almost yours, in the land of the
unknowable, is given to another. The waters of death have cast you
back upon the shores of the living. You are "out of danger!"

What was to become of Madeline, now that they had brought her back to
life? This was a question which occurred to the two who so kindly
interested themselves in the fate of the unknown and headstrong girl.

While they planned a little, as was only natural, yet they knew from
what they had seen of their charge that, decide for her how they
would, only so far as that decision corresponded with her own
inclinations would she abide by it. So they left Madeline's future for
Madeline to decide, and found occupation for their kindliness in
ministering to her needs of the present.

Once during her illness, and just as the light of reason had returned
to the lovely hazel eyes, Lucian Davlin came. But he found the door of
the sick chamber closely shut and closely guarded. The slightest shock
to her nerves would be fatal now,--they told him. And he, having done
the proper thing, as he termed it, and not being in any way fond of
the sight of pain and pallor, yielded with a graceful simulation of
reluctance. Having been assured that with careful nursing, there was
nothing to fear, he deposited a check on his bankers in the hands of
her attendants, and went away contentedly, smiling under his mustache
at the novelty of being turned away from his own door.

He went back to Bellair, to Cora, and to the web they were weaving,
little dreaming whose hands would take up the thread and continue and
complete what they had thus begun.

And now the day has come for Madeline to leave the shelter that she
hates. Pale and weak, she sits in the great easy chair that had served
as a barrier between herself and her enemy, and converses with Olive
Girard while they await the arrival of Clarence Vaughan, who is to
take them from the place so distasteful to all three.

It has been settled that, for the present, Madeline will be the guest
of Olive. What will come after health and strength are fully restored,
they have not discussed much. Olive Girard and Doctor Vaughan had
agreed that all thoughts of the future must bring a grief and care
with them, and the mind of the invalid was in no condition for painful
thought and study. So Olive has been careful to avoid all topics that
might bring her troubles too vividly to mind.

But partly to divert Madeline's mind from her own woes, partly to
enable the unfortunate girl to feel less a stranger among them, she
has talked to her of Doctor Vaughan, of her sister, and at last of
herself.

And Madeline has listened to her description of merry, lovely Claire
Keith, and wondered what she could have in common with this buoyant,
care-free girl, who was evidently her sister's idol. Yet she found
herself thinking often of Olive's beautiful sister. Once, in the brief
absence of Olive, she had said to Doctor Vaughan:

"Mrs. Girard has told me of her sister; is she very lovely? And do you
know her well?"

"She is very fair, and sweet, and good. You will love her when you
know her, and I think you will be friends."

[Illustration: "Pale and weak, she sits in the great easy
chair."--page 108.]

She had not needed this; the tell-tale eye was sufficient to reveal
the fact that it was not, as she had at first supposed, Olive Girard,
but the younger sister, whom Clarence Vaughan loved.

"I might have known," she murmured to herself. "Olive Girard has the
face of one whose love dream has passed away and lost itself in
sorrow; and he looks, full of strength and hope, straight into the
future."

As they sat together waiting, there was still that same contrast,
which you felt rather than saw, between these two. They might have
posed as the models of Resignation and Unrest.

The look of patient waiting was five years old upon the face of Olive
Girard. Five years ago she had been so happy--a bride, beautiful and
beloved. Beautiful she was still--with the beauty of shadow; beloved
too, but how sadly! Philip Girard had been convicted of a great crime,
and for five long years had worn a felon's garb, and borne the anguish
of one set apart from all the world.

The hand that had darkened the life of Olive Girard, and the hand that
had turned the young days of the girl Madeline into a burden, was one
and the same.

Afterwards Madeline listened to the pathetic history of Olive's
sorrow.

Sitting in that great lounging chair, Madeline looked very fair, very
childlike. Sadly sweet were her large, deep eyes, and her hair, shorn
while the fever raged, clustered in soft tiny rings about her slender,
snowy neck and blue-veined temples. She had not been permitted to talk
much during her convalescence, and Olive had as yet gleaned only a
general outline of her story.

"Mrs. Girard," said the girl, resting her pale cheek in the palm of a
thin, tiny hand, "you once said something to me about--about some one
who had been wronged by--" Something sadder than tears choked her
utterance.

As Olive turned her grave clear eyes away from the window, and fixed
them in expectation upon her; Madeline's own eyes fell. She sat before
her benefactress with downcast lids, and the hateful name unuttered.

"I know," said Olive, after a brief silence; "I referred to a girl now
lying in the hospital. She is very young, and has been cruelly wronged
by him. She is poor, as you may judge, and earned her living in the
ballet at the theater. She was thrown from a carriage which had been
furnished her by _him_, to carry her home from some rendezvous--of
course the driver took care of himself and his horses. The poor girl
was picked up and carried to the hospital. She was without friends and
almost penniless. She sent to him--for him; he returned no answer. She
begged for help, for enough to enable her to obtain what was needed in
her illness. Message after message was sent, and finally a reply came,
brought by a messenger who had been bidden to insist upon receiving an
answer. The servant said that his master had directed him to say to
any messenger who called, that he was out of town."

"The wretch! He deserves death!"

Madeline's eyes blazed, and she lifted her head with some of her olden
energy.

"Softly, my dear: 'Thou shalt do no murder.'"

"It is not murder to kill a human tiger!"

Olive made no answer.

"Is she still very ill, this girl?" questioned Madeline.

"She can not recover."

"Shall I see her?"

"If you wish to; do you?"

"Yes."

Another long pause; then Madeline glanced up at her friend, and said
listlessly: "What do you intend to do with me?"

"Do with you?" smiling at her. "Make you well again, and then try and
coax you to be my other sister. Don't you think I need one?"

No answer.

"Life has much in store for you yet, Madeline."

"Yes;" bitterly again.

"You are so young."

"And so old."

"Madeline, you are too young for somber thoughts and repining."

"I shall not repine."

"Good! You will try to forget?"

"Impossible!"

"No; not impossible."

"I do not wish to, then."

"And why?"

"Wait and see."

"Madeline, you will do nothing rash? You will trust me, and confide in
me?"

The girl raised her eyes slowly, in surprise. "I have not so many
friends that I can afford to lose one."

"Thank you, dear; then we will let the subject drop until we are
stronger. And here is the carriage, and Doctor Vaughan."

Out into the sunny Summer morning went Madeline, and soon she was
established in a lovely little room which, Olive said, was hers so
long as she could be persuaded to occupy it. Here the girl rested and,
ministered unto by gentle hands, she felt life coming back.

       *       *       *       *       *

And Lucian?

Late in the afternoon of the day that saw Madeline depart from his
elegant rooms, Mr. Davlin arrived, and found no one to deny him
admittance. All the doors stood ajar, and Henry was flitting about
with an air of putting things to rights. The bird had flown.

He gained from Henry the following: "I don't know, sir, where she
went. A gentleman came with a carriage, and the young lady and the
nurse went away with him."

Lucian was not aware what manner of nurse Madeline had had in her
illness. And Henry, having purposely misled him, enjoyed his
discomfiture.

"She told me to give you this, sir," said he, handing his master a
little package.

Tearing off the wrapper, Lucian held in his hand the little pistol
that had inflicted upon him the wounded arm. From its mouth he drew a
scrap of paper, and this is what it said:

     When next we meet, I shall have other weapons!




CHAPTER X.

BONNIE, BEWITCHING CLAIRE.


Four months. We find Madeline standing in the late Autumn sunset,
"clothed and in her right mind," strong with the strength of youth,
and beautiful with even more than her olden beauty.

Fair is the prospect as seen from the grounds of Mrs. Girard's
suburban villa, and so, perhaps, Claire Keith is thinking.

She is looking down the level road, and at the trees on either hand,
decked in all their October magnificence of scarlet and brown and
gold, half concealing coquettish villas and more stately residences.

The eyes of Madeline were turned away from the vista of villas and
trees, and were gazing toward the business thoroughfare leading into
the bustle of the town; gazing after the receding figure of Doctor
Clarence Vaughan as he cantered away from the villa; gazing until a
turn of the road hid him from her view. Then--and what did she mean by
it?--she turned her face toward Claire with a questioning look in her
eyes--the question came almost to her lips. But the words were
repressed.

Bonnie Clair was thinking of anything but Clarence Vaughan just then.
Presently she turned a bright glance upon her companion, who was
gathering clusters of the fallen maple leaves, with face half averted.

"A kiss for your thoughts, beautiful blonde Madeline. I certainly
think it is ten minutes since Doctor Vaughan departed and silence fell
upon us."

She bent down, and taking her companion's head between two dimpled
hands, pulled it back, until she could look into the solemn brown
eyes.

"Come, now," coaxingly, "what were you thinking?"

Madeline extricated herself from Claire's playful grasp, and replied
with a half laugh: "It must be mutual confession then, you small
highwayman; how do you like my terms?"

"Only so so," flushing and laughing. "I was meditating the propriety
of telling you something some day, and was thinking of that something
just now, but--"

"But," mimicked Madeline, with half-hearted playfulness; "what will
you give me to relieve your embarrassment, and guess?"

"You can't," emphatically.

[Illustration: "When next we meet, I shall have other weapons!"--page
113.]

"Can't I? We will see. My dear, I fear you have left a little corner
of your heart behind you in far-away Baltimore. You didn't come to pay
your annual visit to your sister, quite heart free."

Anyone wishing to gain an insight into the character of Claire Keith
might have taken a long step in that direction could he have witnessed
her reception of this unexpected shot. She opened her dark eyes in
comic amazement, and dropping into a garden chair, exclaimed, with a
look of frank inquiry:

"Now, how ever could you guess that?"

"Because," said Madeline, in a constrained voice, and with all the
laughter fading from her eyes; "Because, I know the symptoms."

"I see," dropping her voice suddenly. "Oh, Madeline, how I wish you
could forget _that_."

"Why should I forget my love dream," scornfully, "any more than you
yours?"

"Oh, Madeline; but you said you had ceased to care for him; that you
should never mourn his loss."

"_Mourn his loss!_" turning upon Claire, fiercely. "Do you think it is
for him I mourn my _dead_; my lost happiness, my shattered dreams, my
life made a bitter, burdensome thing. Mourn him? I have for Lucian
Davlin but one feeling--hate!"

Madeline, as she uttered these last words, had turned upon Claire a
face whose fierce intensity of expression was startling. For a moment
the two gazed into each other's eyes--the one with curling lip and
somber, menacing glance, the other with a startled face as if she read
something new and to be feared, in the eye of her friend.

Claire had been an inmate of her sister's house for four weeks. When
first she arrived, she had heard Madeline's story, at Madeline's
request, from the lips of her sister Olive, and now the girls were
fast friends. Generous Claire had found much to wonder at, to pity and
to love, in the story and the character of the unfortunate girl.
Possessing a frank, sunshiny nature, and never having known an actual
grief, she could lavish sweet sympathy to one afflicted. But she could
not conceive what it would be like to live on when faith had perished
and hope was a mockery. She had never known, therefore never missed, a
father's love and care. Indeed, he who filled the place of father and
guardian, her mother's second husband, was all that a real parent
could be. Claire seldom remembered that Mr. James Keith was not her
father, and very few, except the family of Keith, knew that "Miss
Claire Keith, daughter of the rich James Keith, of Baltimore," was in
truth only a step-daughter.

Mrs. Keith, whose first husband was Richard Keith, cashier in his
wealthy cousin's banking house, had buried that husband when Olive was
five years old, and baby Claire scarce able to lisp his name. In a
little less than two years she had married James Keith, the
banker-cousin, and shortly after the marriage, James Keith had
transferred his business interests to Baltimore, and there remained.

So Claire's baby brothers had never been told that she was not their
"very own" sister, for of Olive they knew little, her marriage having
separated them at first, and subsequently her obdurate acceptance of
the consequences of that marriage.

When the law pronounced her husband a criminal, Mr. Keith had
commanded Olive to abandon both husband and home, and return to his
protection. This, true-hearted Olive refused to do. Her step-father,
enraged at her obstinacy in clinging to a man who had been forsaken by
all the world beside, bade her choose between them. Either she must
let the law finish its work of breaking Philip Girard's heart by
setting her free, or she must accept the consequences of remaining the
wife of a criminal.

Olive chose the latter, and thenceforth remained in her own lonely
home, never even once visiting the place of her childhood.

"He called my husband a criminal," she said, "and I will never cross
his threshold until he has had cause to withdraw those words."

Claire, however, announced her intention of visiting her sister
whenever she chose, and she succeeded, in part, in carrying out her
will, for every year she passed two months or more with Olive.

What a picture the two girls now made, standing face to face.

Madeline, with her lithe grace of form, her pure pale complexion lit
up by those fathomless brown eyes, and rendering more noticeable and
beautiful the tiny rosy mouth, with its satellite dimples; with such
wee white, blue-veined hands, and such a clear ringing, yet
marvelously sweet voice. Madeline was very beautiful, and Claire, as
she looked at her, wondered how any man could bear to lose such
loveliness, or have the heart to betray it; as if ever pure woman
could fathom the depth of a bad man's wickedness.

Bonnie, bewitching Claire! Never was contrast more perfect. A scarf,
like scarlet flame, flung about her shoulders, set off the richness of
her clear brunette skin, through which the crimson blood flamed in
cheek and lip. Eyes, now black, now gray, changing, flashing, witching
eyes: gray in quiet moments, darkening with mirth or sadness, anger or
pain; hair black and silky, rippling to the rounded, supple waist in
glossy waves. Not so tall as Madeline, and rounded and dimpled as a
Hebe.

Bringing her will into service, Madeline banished the gloom from her
face and said, with an attempt at gayety:

"I must be a terrible wet blanket when my ghost rises, Claire. But
come, you have excited my curiosity; let us sit down while you tell me
more of this mighty man who has pitched his tent in the wilderness of
your heart, to the exclusion of others who might aspire."

They seated themselves upon a rustic bench and Claire replied:

"Don't anticipate too much, inquisitor; I have no acknowledged lover,
but--" blushing charmingly, "I have every reason to think that I am
loved fondly and sincerely. He is very handsome, Madeline, and--but
wait, I will show you his picture."

Madeline nodded, and Claire bounded away, to return quickly bearing in
her hand a finely wrought cabinet photograph, encased in velvet and
gilt, _a la souvenaire_. Placing it in her companion's hand, she sat
down with a little triumphant sigh, and gazed over Madeline's shoulder
with a proud, glad look in her eyes.

"Blonde?" suggested Madeline.

"Yes," eagerly; "such lovely hair and whiskers,--perfect gold color;
and fair as a woman."

"So I should judge," and she continued to gaze.

Blonde he was, certainly; hair thrown carelessly back from a brow
broad and white; eyes, light, but with an expression that puzzled the
gazer.

"Eyes,--what color?" she said, without taking her own off the picture.

"Blue; pale blue, but capable of _such_ varying expression."

"Just so," dryly; "they look mild and saintly here, but I think those
eyes are capable of another expression. I could fancy the brain behind
such eyes to be--"

"What?" eagerly.

"Cruel, crafty, treacherous."

"Oh, Madeline!"

"There, there; I didn't say that he,"--tapping the picture--"possessed
these qualities. His eyes are unusual ones; did you ever see his
mouth?"

"What a question--through all those whiskers? no; but he has beautiful
teeth."

"So have tigers. There, dear, take the picture; I am no fit judge,
perhaps. Remember, I once knew a man with the face of an angel, and
the heart of a fiend. Your friend is certainly handsome; let us hope
he is equally good."

"He is; I know it," asserted Claire.

Then she told her companion how she had met him at the house of a
friend; how he was very learned and scientific; very grave and
dignified; and very devoted to herself. And how, beyond these few
facts, she knew little if anything of her blonde hero, Edward Percy.

Madeline received this information in a grave silence, whose chill
affected Claire as well, and after a few moments, as if by mutual
consent, they arose and entered the house.

Olive Girard had been absent a week; gone on a journey, sacred to her
as any Meccan pilgrimage, a visit to the place of her husband's
imprisonment. Every year she made this journey, returning home in some
measure comforted; for she had seen her beloved.

She came back on this evening, as the two girls were mingling their
voices in gay bravura duets--by mutual consent they avoided all songs
of a pathetic order, for reasons which neither would have cared to
acknowledge.

The evening having passed away, Claire found herself in her chamber
gazing at her lover's pictured face and thinking how good, how noble,
it was, and what a little goose she had been to allow anything
Madeline had said to apply to him. A sudden thought occurred to her,
and going to Madeline's door, she tapped gently. The door opened, and
Claire, raising a warning finger, said:

"Madeline, I forgot to tell you that Olive knows nothing of Edward
Percy, and--I don't want to tell her just yet. You will not mention
it?"

"No."

"Then good-night, and pleasant dreams."

"Thank you," in a grave voice; "good-night."

Claire returned to her room and penned a long letter to Edward Percy,
full of sweet confidence, gayety and trustfulness. She reperused his
last letter, said her prayers, or rather read them, for Claire was a
staunch little church-woman, and then slept and dreamed bright dreams.




CHAPTER XI.

A GLEAM OF LIGHT.


A few moments after Claire's door had closed for the last time,
Madeline came cautiously from her room, her slippered feet making no
sound on the softly carpeted floor. Passing Claire's door, she paused
before another, opened it gently, and stood in Olive Girard's
bed-chamber.

Evidently she was expected, for a light was burning softly and Olive
sat near it with a book in her hand, in an attitude of waiting.

Madeline seated herself at the little table as if quite accustomed to
such interviews, and said in a low tone:

"I am so glad you came to-night; are you too tired for a long talk?"

"No; tell me all that has happened since I have been absent."

"Olive, I must go away; back to Bellair," said Madeline, abruptly.

"Madeline, you are mad! To Bellair? Why, _he_ is there often now."

"He will not find me out, never fear. I _must_ go to Bellair within
the week."

Olive leaned forward and scanned the girl's face closely and long. At
last, she said: "Madeline, what is it you meditate? tell me."

"Going back to Bellair; keeping an eye upon the proceedings of Mr.
Arthur; finding out what game that man and woman are playing there;
and baffling and punishing them all."

She had been kept informed, through Henry, into whose hands had fallen
a letter in Cora's handwriting, bearing the Bellair postmark, and
addressed to Lucian Davlin, who, so Henry said, "went down, on and
off," and always appeared satisfied with the result of his journey.

Olive argued long against this resolution, but found it impossible to
dissuade Madeline.

"It is useless," the girl said, firmly. "I should have died but for
the expectation of a time when I could be avenged, and this time I
must bring about. All through my convalescence I have pondered how I
could best avenge my mother's wrongs, and my own. Now Providence has
thrown together the two men who are my enemies; why, I do not yet
know, but perhaps it is that I may make the one a weapon against the
other. And now I want to ask you some questions."

[Illustration: "Olive knows nothing of Edward Percy, and--I don't want
to tell her just yet."--page 121.]

"Ask, then."

"I shall touch upon a painful subject, and I will tell you why. After
you went away, the story of your sorrow remained with me. So I thought
the ground all over, and formed some conclusions. Do you wish to hear
them?"

Olive nodded, wearily.

"You have told me," said Madeline, assuming a calm, business-like
tone, "that Lucian Davlin testified against your husband at his trial.
Now the wounded man, Percy, stated that he recognized the man who
struck him?"

"Yes."

"Well, what was Davlin's testimony?"

"That he saw my husband stealing in the direction of the place where
the wounded man was found, but a few moments before he was struck,
wearing the same hat and hunting-jacket that the injured man testified
was worn by his would-be assassin."

"Oh!" Madeline knitted her brows in thought a moment; then--"Was the
coat and hat Mr. Girard's?"

"Yes; he had thrown them off in the afternoon, while the heat was
intense, and had fallen asleep. When he awoke, he heard them calling
him to supper. It was late in the evening when he remembered his coat
and hat, and went back to look for them. He went just at the time when
the man must have been struck, and his absence told against him in the
evidence."

"Did he find his garments?"

"No; they were found by others, not where he had left them, but nearer
the scene of the crime."

"Ah! And who was the first to discover the injured man?"

"Why, I believe it was Mr. Davlin." Olive looked more and more
surprised at each question. "Why do you ask these things, Madeline?"

The girl made a gesture of impatience. "Wait," she said, "I will
explain in good time." Again she considered. "Was there any
ill-feeling between your husband and Davlin?"

"There was no open misunderstanding, but I know there was mutual
dislike. Philip saw that Davlin was making systematic efforts to win
money from the party, and had therefore persuaded one or two of his
friends to give gaming little countenance. No doubt he kept money out
of the man's pocket."

"And what was the standing of that man and the victim, this Percy?"

"They were much together, and Philip tells me he had sometimes fancied
that Davlin held some power over Percy. Davlin had won largely from
him, and the man seemed much annoyed, but paid over the money without
demur."

"And now, how did your husband stand toward the injured man?"

"That is the worst part of the story. They had had high words only
that very day. Philip had been acquainted with Percy at school, and he
knew so much that was not in his favor, that he was unable to conceal
his real opinion of the man at all times. One day high words arose,
and Philip uttered a threat, which was misconstrued, after the attack
upon Percy. They said he threatened his life. But Percy knew that only
his honor was meant. Davlin knew this, too; must have known it, for he
was aware that the two had met before they came together with the
party."

"I can not see why Lucian Davlin should be your husband's enemy."

"I can understand that he hated Philip for the same reason that a
thief hates the light, and Philip had balked his plans."

"True; and yet--"

"And yet?" inquiringly.

"Bad as the man is, I can see but one motive that could induce even
him to swear away the liberty, almost the life, of a man who never
wronged him."

"Still, he did it," said Olive, with a weary sigh.

"True; and he did it for a motive."

"And that motive--"

"Was the strongest instinct of the human race."

"What?" eagerly.

"Self-preservation."

Olive started up with a half cry. "Madeline, in heaven's name, _what_
do you mean!"

"That Lucian Davlin threw suspicion upon the innocent to screen the
guilty," said the girl, in a low, firm tone.

"And the guilty one, then?"

"Himself. Do you think him too good for it?" sneeringly.

"No, no! oh, no! But this I had never thought of--yet it may be true."

She fell into deep thought; after a time she started up. "I must
consult a detective immediately," she said.

"You must do no such thing," cried Madeline, springing to her feet;
"why did not the detectives find this out before? Because they have
not my reasons for hunting that man down. _I_ found this clue, if it
be one. I claim it; it is my right, and I will have it. If he is to be
undone, it shall be by my hands. I swear it!"

They faced each other in silence.

Slowly Olive recalled to her countenance and voice its usual sweet
calm, and then seated herself and talked long and earnestly with
Madeline.

The little bronze clock on the mantel was on the stroke of two when
the conference ended, and Madeline retired to her own room, but not to
sleep. She sat and thought until the dawn shone in at her window.

One link was missing from the chain; no motive had been discovered for
an attack on Percy by Davlin.

"But I will find it," she muttered. Then, as a new thought occurred to
her, she caught her breath. "Claire's lover is named Percy; can it be
the same? Why did not this occur to me sooner? Why did I not ask for
his first name, and a description of him? If this man and Edward Percy
should be one and the same! Pshaw! the name is not an uncommon one,
and it may be only a coincidence. But your face is a bad one, Edward
Percy, and I shall know it when I see it again."

The sun was not high in the heavens ere Madeline was astir, for her
nature was such that strong excitement rendered rest impossible.
Moving impatiently about the grounds, she saw a familiar form
approaching through the shrubbery, and hastened to meet it.

The black visage of Henry beamed with satisfaction as he made a
hurried obeisance and placed in her hand a letter, saying:

"Master was preparing for a two days' journey when this letter came.
He threw it into his desk, and bade me lock it, and bring him the key.
His back was turned, and I took the letter before I locked the desk.
It was a long one, and from _her_; I thought you might want to see
it."

"Right, Henry," said the girl, quietly, as she opened the letter. "You
will wait for it?"

"Yes, miss; it must not be missing when he comes."

"Certainly not."

She returned to the letter, and this is what she read:

                                       OAKLEY, October 11.

     LUCIAN, _Mon Brave_:

     I am in a fine predicament--have made a startling discovery.
     Mr. A----has been sick, and the mischief is to pay; and his
     sickness has brought some ugly facts to light.

     The old man is _not_ the sole proprietor of the Oakley
     wealth. That girl who ran away so mysteriously, and has
     never been heard of, will inherit at his death. He can
     bequeath his widow nothing. Oh, to know where that girl is!
     If she is alive, my work is useless, my time is wasted. I
     think the old chap must have driven her to desperation, for
     he raved in his delirium of her and her words at parting.
     They must have been "searchers."

     Well, to add to the general interest, Miss Arthur, aged
     fifty or so, is here. She is a juvenile old maid, who has a
     fortune in her own right, and so must be cultivated. She
     dresses like a sixteen-year-old, and talks like a fool,
     principally about a certain admirer, a "blonde
     demi-god"--her words--named Percy.

     Something must be done: things must be talked over. Come
     down and make love to Miss Arthur. _Her_ money is not
     entailed.

     Bring me some Periques and a box of Alexis gloves--you know
     the number. Yours in disgust,

                                      CORA MME. ARTHUR.

Madeline dropped the letter, and stood amazed. What did it mean? "Cora
_Mme._ Arthur!"

Henry stooped for the letter, and the act recalled her to herself. She
thanked him for the service he had done her; told him of her intended
departure; gave him some last instructions, and dismissed him with a
kind good-by.

[Illustration: "I took the letter before I locked the desk."--page
127.]

"It is time to act," she muttered. "Good heavens! the audacity of that
man and woman! She is married to my step-father, if that letter does
not lie; has married him for money, and is baffled there. She hoped to
become _his widow_, aha! The plot thickens, indeed! Goodness! what a
household! That bad old man, the still viler woman, dangerous Lucian
Davlin, and that funny, youthful, cross, 'conceited spinster,' Ellen
Arthur, who has a lover, and his name is--heaven save us--Percy! That
name _will_ mix itself up with my fate web, and why? Percy beloved of
Claire; Percy who brought Philip Girard to his doom; Percy the lover
of a rich old maid, are ye one and the same? Percy! Percy! Percy! I
must cultivate the Percys at any cost."

She turned and entered the house, her head bent, thinking, thinking,
thinking.




CHAPTER XII.

A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.


Less than a week after the events last related, and a family group
surrounds the lunch table in the newly furnished morning room of
Oakley.

The fair and fascinating Mrs. Torrance had accomplished the purpose
for which she came to Bellair.

Truly had she said, "There is no fool like an old fool;" for John
Arthur had been an easy victim. He had lost no time with his wooing,
and so, a little less than two months from the day the fair widow came
to Bellair, saw her mistress of John Arthur's household.

A bridal tour was not to her taste, much to the delight of the
bridegroom. So they set about refitting some of the fine old rooms of
the mansion, Cora having declared that they were too gloomy to be
inhabitable.

As it was to her interest to keep up the deception of frank affection,
she had been, during the two months of their honey-moon, a model wife.
But the discovery that John Arthur could leave her nothing save his
blessing, had now been made, and Cora, who was already weary of her
gray-headed dupe, had been for a few days past less careful in her
dissembling.

For this reason John Arthur now sat with a moody brow, and watched her
smile upon her brother with a feeling of jealous wrath.

The bride had thrown off her badge of mourning, and was very glad to
bloom out once more in azure and white and rose--hues which her soul
loved.

Opposite sat Miss Arthur, her sallowness carefully enameled over, her
head adorned with an astonishing array of false braids and curls and
frizzes, jetty in hue to match her eyes, which, so Cora informed
Lucian in private, were "awfully beady."

The lady was perusing a paper, which she suddenly threw down, and said
languidly, while she stirred her chocolate carefully. "Should not this
be the day on which my new maid arrives?"

Miss Arthur, from perusing many novels of the Sir Walter Scott school,
had acquired a very stately manner of speech, and, so she flattered
herself, a very effective one.

"I don't know why Miss Arthur can want a maid; her toilets are always
perfection," remarked Mr. Davlin to the general assembly.

Whereupon, Miss Arthur blushed, giggled, and disclaimed; Mrs. Arthur
disappeared behind a newspaper; and Mr. Arthur emerged from the fog of
thought that had enveloped him, to say brusquely:

"Miss Arthur want a maid? what's all this? A French maid in a country
house--faugh!"

Miss Arthur gazed across at her brother, and said, loftily, and
somewhat unmeaningly:

"It is what I have chosen to do, John." Then to Mr. Davlin, sweetly:
"It is so hard to dispense with a maid when you have been accustomed
to one."

"I suppose so."

"And this one comes so well recommended, you know, by Mrs. Overman and
Mrs. Grosvenor. You have heard of these ladies in society, no doubt,
Mr. Davlin?"

"Oh, certainly," aloud, "not," aside.

"And the name of the maid?" pursued Lucian.

"Her name," referring to the letter, "Celine Leroque--French, I
presume."

"No doubt," dryly.

"Stop him, Miss Arthur," interrupted Cora, prettily; "he will
certainly ask if she is handsome, if you let him open his mouth
again."

Miss Arthur glanced at him suspiciously. "Not having seen her, I could
not inform him," she said, coldly.

"Don't believe my sister," said Davlin, quietly, as he passed his cup.
"Cora, a little more chocolate, please. Miss Arthur, I met Mrs.
Grosvenor at the seaside, two years ago. Her toilets were the marvel
of the day; she protested that all credit was due her maid, who was a
whole 'magazine of French art.' I thought this might be the same."

"I most earnestly hope that it is," pronounced Miss Arthur.

"And I most earnestly hope it isn't," grumbled her brother, who to-day
felt vicious for many reasons, and didn't much care what the occasion
was, so long as it gave him an excuse for growling.

At this happy stage of affairs, the door was opened and the housemaid
announced: "An old lady, who says I am to tell you that her name is
Hagar, wants to see you, sir," addressing Mr. Arthur.

The master of the house started, and an angry flush settled upon his
face. "Send her away. I won't see the old beldam. Send her away."

The girl bowed and was about to retire, when she was pushed from the
doorway with little ceremony, and Nurse Hagar entered. Before the
occupants of the room had recovered from their surprise, or found
voice to address her, she had crossed the room, and paused before John
Arthur. Placing a small bundle upon the table near him, she said:

"Don't think you can order me from your door, John Arthur, when I
choose to enter it. I shall never come to you without good reason, and
I presume you will think me a welcome messenger when you know my
errand."

"Confound you," said the man, angrily, yet with an uneasy look in his
eyes; "if you must chatter to me, come into the library." He arose and
made a step toward the door.

"There is no need," said Hagar, with dignity; "my errand may interest
others here besides yourself. I bring a message from the dead."

John Arthur turned ashen pale and trembled violently. All eyes were
turned upon the speaker, however, and his agitation was unnoticed save
by Hagar.

"Last night," she continued, "a carriage stopped at my door and a
woman came in, bringing that bundle in her hands."

She paused and seemed struggling with her feelings.

"She said," continued Hagar, "that she was requested to come by a
dying girl, else she would have written the message given to her. She
belonged to a charitable society, and visited the hospital every week.
She brought flowers and fruit to one of the patients--a girl who died
asking her to write down what is on this card," holding out a bit of
white cardboard, "and not to tell the officers of the hospital her
true name. She had entered under the name of Martha Gray, and wished
to be buried as such. The lady promised; the girl gave her these
articles, and the lady kept her word, and brought the message. There
is the bundle," in a choking voice, "and here is the card. That is
all. Good-by, John Arthur; be happy, if you can. And may God's curse
fall upon all who drove her to her doom!"

She gathered her shawl about her shoulders and, casting a meaning
glance at Lucian Davlin, passed from the room and the house.

John Arthur sat with eyes riveted upon the card before him. After a
time he turned, and placing it in Davlin's hand, signed to him to read
it, and hurriedly left the room.

The hand that had first stricken the young life, placed the evidence
that the end had come in the hand that had completed what the first
began!

Something of this Lucian Davlin felt, hardened as he was, for he knew,
without waiting for the proof, that the true name of the girl who died
in the hospital was familiar to them all.

"Read!" ejaculated Cora, impatiently, "or give it to me."

Lucian's eyes had scanned the card, and tossing it across to her, he
pushed back his chair and walked to the window. Cora read for the
benefit of her bewildered sister-in-law:

     Madeline Payne, at St. Mary's Hospital, under name of Martha
     Gray, died--brain fever--no friends but nurse.

[Illustration: "May God's curse fall upon all who drove her to her
doom."--page 134.]

On the opposite side of the card was pencilled the full address of old
Hagar, and this was all. Scant information, but it was enough.

Cora pounced upon the bundle and opened it. It contained a little
purse; a few trinkets, which any of the servants could identify as
belonging to Madeline; the cloak she had worn the evening of her
flight; and a pocket-handkerchief with her name embroidered in the
corner.

Satisfaction beamed in the face Cora turned toward Lucian, and away
from Miss Arthur. She was mindful of the proprieties, however, and
turning her eyes back upon the lady opposite, she pressed a dainty
handkerchief to her countenance, and murmured plaintively:

"How very, very shocking, and sad! Poor Mr. Arthur is quite overcome,
and no wonder--that poor, sweet, young girl."

Across Lucian's averted face flitted a smile of sarcasm. How little
she knew of the truth, this fair hypocrite, and how unlikely she was
ever to know now. If Madeline were dead, of what avail was any effort
to break from the olden thraldom--for this is what had been in the
mind of the scheming man.

Cora brushed her handkerchief across her eyes and arose languidly. "I
must go to Mr. Arthur, poor man," she murmured, shaking out her
flounces. "He is terribly shocked, I fear."

Studiously avoiding the necessity of glancing in the direction of Mr.
Davlin, she glided from the room.

And so the news fell in Madeline's home, and its inmates were affected
no more than this:

With Cora a renewal of tenderness toward "Dear John," and an increased
stateliness toward Miss Arthur and the servants. More deference on
Miss Arthur's part towards her brother, and less on his part toward
her, as the possibility of being obliged to ask a small loan faded
away into the past of empty purses and closed up coffers.

Lucian took upon himself the responsibility of visiting the city and
calling at St. Mary's, there to be reassured of the fact that one
Martha Grey had died within its walls and been buried.




CHAPTER XIII.

MISS ARTHUR'S FRENCH MAID.


After this the days flew by very much alike.

Miss Arthur's maid arrived, and proved indeed a treasure, nor was she
as obnoxious to Mr. John Arthur as he had evidently intended to find
her. Perhaps Celine Leroque knew by instinct that the master of Oakley
cherished an aversion to French maids in particular; or perhaps she
was an exceptional French maid, and craved neither the smiles nor
slyly administered caresses, that fell to the lot of pretty _femmes de
chambre_, at least in novels. At any rate, certain it is that Miss
Arthur's maid manifested no desire to be seen by the inmates of the
household, and she had been domiciled for some weeks without having
vouchsafed to either John Arthur or Lucian Davlin more than a fleeting
glimpse of her maidship.

Things were becoming very monotonous to some of the occupants of the
Oakley manor; very, very dull and flavorless.

Cora was growing restless. Not that the astute lady permitted signs of
discontent to become manifest to the uninitiated, but Lucian Davlin
saw, with a mingled feeling of satisfaction and dismay, that the
_role_ of devoted wife had ceased to interest his blonde comrade in
iniquity.

The fact gave him a malicious pleasure because, as fate had dared to
play against him, he would have felt especially aggrieved if a few
thorns had not been introduced into the eider down that seemingly
enveloped his fair accomplice.

But he felt some dismay, for he knew by the swift flash of azure eyes
under golden lashes, by the sway of her shoulders as she paced the
terrace, by the nervous tapping of her slippered foot at certain times
in the intervals of table chat--that Cora was _thinking_. And when
Cora thought, something was about to happen.

It was in obedience to one of those swift side glances, that he
followed her from the morning room, one forenoon about three weeks
after the news of Madeline's death had come to them. The day was
bright but chill, and the woman had wrapped herself in a shawl of
vivid crimson, but stood with bared head in the sunlight waiting the
approach of her counterfeit brother.

"Cover your head, you very thoughtless woman," was his brotherly
salutation as he approached, plunging about in his pockets in search
of a cigar the while.

"Bother!" she ejaculated, tossing her golden locks; "my hair needs a
sunbath. I only wish I dare indulge myself further! If you had any
heart you wouldn't torture me so constantly with the odor of those
magnificent Havanas, when you know how my very soul longs for a weed!"

"Poor little woman," laughing maliciously; "fancy Mrs. John Arthur of
Oakley smoking a _Perique_! Isn't it prime, Co.?" puffing out a cloud
of perfumed smoke.

"Prime! bah! I'd like to strangle you, or--"

"Or?--" inquiringly.

"Somebody," laughing nervously.

"Just so; Miss Arthur would be a good subject and that would confer a
favor on me, too, by Jove!"

"I don't want to confer a favor on you. You had much better try and do
me one, I think."

"With all my heart, taking my ability for granted, of course; only
tell me how."

Cora shrugged her crimson-clad shoulders, and they paced forward in
silence for a time. Then as if his stillness had been speech of a
distasteful kind, she ejaculated, crossly, and without turning her
head: "Stuff! you talk too much!"

Lucian smiled maliciously, removed his cigar from between his lips,
described a smoke wreath in mid-air, replaced his weed, and said: "Do
I? then mum's the word;" and he relapsed into silence.

He seemed bent on annoying her, for there was a laughing glimmer in
his eye, and he obstinately refused to attempt to draw her out, and so
make easier whatever she might have to say, for he knew that she had
signaled him out to-day for a purpose.

Mutely he walked by her side, and contentedly puffed at his cigar
until, at length, she turned upon him, and struck petulantly at the
hand that had just removed it from his lips. The weed fell from his
fingers to the ground, and Cora set her slippered heel upon it, as if
it were an enemy, and laughed triumphantly.

"Now we are on a level," she cried. "Do you suppose I intend to give
you that advantage over me?"

"It seems not," with a shrug expressive of resignation and a smile
hidden by his mustache.

He was not the man to be angered, or even ruffled, by these little
feminine onslaughts. In fact, they rather pleased and amused him, and
he had become well accustomed to Cora's "little ways," as he called
them. Deprived of his cigar, he thrust his hands into his pockets and
whistled softly.

"Lucian, if you don't stop looking so comfortable, and content, and
altogether don't-care-ish, I shall do something very desperate," she
exclaimed, pettishly.

"No?" raising his eyebrows in mock incredulity; "you don't tell me. I
thought you were in a little heaven of your own, Mrs. Arthur."

"Oh! you did? Very clever of you. Well, Mr. Davlin, has it occurred to
you that heaven might not be a congenial climate for me?"

"Not while your wings are so fresh, surely? You have scarcely entered
your paradise, fair peri."

"Haven't I?" ironically. "Well, I am tired of manna, anyhow." Cora was
not always strictly elegant in her choice of expressions. "Now,
Lucian, stop parleying, and tell me, when is this going to end?"

"When?"

He stopped and looked down at her intently. Twice they had traversed
the terrace, and now they paused at the termination furthest from the
house. Just before them a diminutive flight of stone steps led down to
a narrow graveled walk, that skirted a velvety bit of lawn, and was in
its turn hedged by some close and high-growing shrubs from the
"Bellair woods," as they were called. Beyond the steps was a gap in
the hedge, and this, cut and trimmed until it formed a compact and
beautiful arch, was spanned by a stile, built for the convenience of
those who desired to reach the village by the shortest route, the
Bellair woods.

"Don't repeat like a parrot, Lucian." Cora raised her voice angrily.
"I say, when is this to end? and how?"

They were just opposite the gap in the hedge and Lucian, looking down
upon Cora, stood facing the opening. As the words crossed her lips,
his eyes fell upon a figure just behind her, and he checked the
conversation by an involuntary motion of the hand.

The figure came toward them. It was Miss Arthur's French maid, and she
carried in her hand a small parcel. Evidently she was returning from
some errand to the village. Miss Arthur's maid had black hair, dressed
very low on the forehead; eyes of some sort, it is to be presumed, but
they were effectually concealed by blue glasses; a rather pasty
complexion; a form that might have been good, but if so, its beauties
were hidden by the loose and, as Cora expressed it, "floppy," style of
jacket which she habitually wore. She passed them with a low "_Bon
jour, madame_," and hurried up the terrace. At least she was walking
swiftly, but not very smoothly, up the terrace when Lucian cast after
her a last disapproving glance.

"Your lady's maid is not a swan nor a beauty," he said, as they by
mutual consent went down the steps.

Cora made no reply to this, seeming lost in thought. They walked on
for a moment in silence.

But Celine Leroque did not walk on. She dropped her package and,
stooping to recover it, cast a swift glance after the pair. They were
sauntering slowly down the hedgerow walk, their backs toward her.

Probably the falling parcel had reminded the French maid of something
forgotten, for she turned swiftly, silently, and without any of her
previous awkwardness retraced her steps and disappeared beyond the
stile.

"What's the row, Co.?" asked Lucian, kicking a pebble with his boot
toe. "You are getting restive early in the game. Can't you keep to
the track for another two months?"

"No."

"What then?"

"This. We must get that fool out of the way."

"Meaning who?"

"She, of course--Ellen Arthur. The woman will make a raving maniac of
me in two months more."

"By Jove! and of me, too, if I don't get out of this."

"We must get rid of her."

"How?"

"I don't know--somehow, anyhow."

"And then?"

"And then--" she gave him a side glance, and laughed unpleasantly.

"And then? You have a plan, my blonde. Out with it; I am a listener."

And he did listen.

Slowly down the hedgerow path they paced, and at the end, halted and
stood for a time in earnest consultation. There was some difference of
opinion, but the difference became adjusted. And they turned toward
the house, evidently satisfied with the result of the morning's
consultation.

Not long after, Miss Arthur's maid returned also.

"I see by the papers that Dr. LeGuise has come back from Europe,
Cora," announced Mr. Davlin from his seat at the lunch table that day.

"Dr. LeGuise! how delightful! Now one will not be afraid to be
sick--our old family physician, you know," to Miss Arthur; "and _so_
skillful. He has been in Europe a year. The dear man, how I long to
see him!"

"Well!" laughed Lucian, "I will carry him any amount of affection,
providing it is not too bulky. I find that I must run up to the city
to-morrow, and of course will look him up."

"Oh!" eagerly, "and find out if he saw the D'Arcys in Paris; and those
delightful Trevanions!" Then, regretfully, "can't you stay another
week, dear?"

"Out of the question, Co., much as I regret it," glancing expressively
at Miss Arthur. "But I shan't forget you all."

"Pray do not," simpered the spinster. "And when do you return?"

"Not for two or three weeks, I fear. But rest assured I shall lose no
time, when once I am at liberty."

During his lazy, good-humored moments, Mr. Davlin had made most
ridiculous love to Miss Arthur, and that lady had not been behind in
doing her part. Now, strange to say, the face which she bent over her
napkin wore upon it a look, not of sorrow, but of relief. And why?




CHAPTER XIV.

WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS.


"Take especial care with my toilet this morning, Celine," drawled Miss
Arthur, as she sat before a mirror in her luxuriously appointed
dressing-room.

Wise Cora had seen the propriety of giving to this unwelcome
sister-in-law with the heavy purse, apartments of the best in the
newly fitted-up portion of the mansion.

"I want you to be _especially_ careful with my hair and complexion,"
Miss Arthur continued.

"Yes, mademoiselle," demurely. Then, as if the information might bear
upon the question of the toilet, "Does mademoiselle know that Monsieur
Davlin left an hour ago?"

"Certainly, Celine, but I expect a visitor. He may arrive at any time
to-day, and you must do your very best with my toilet."

"Mademoiselle _est charmante_; slight need of Celine's poor aid,"
cooed the little hypocrite, and the toilet proceeded.

At length, the resources of art having been exhausted, Miss Arthur
stood up, and approved of Celine's handiwork.

"I really do look nicely, Celine; you have done well, very. Now go
send me a pot of chocolate and a bit of toast."

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"And a bit of chicken, or a bird's wing."

"Oui."

"And a French roll, Celine, with perhaps an omelette."

"Pardonne, mademoiselle, but might I suggest we must not forget this,"
touching Miss Arthur's tightly laced waist.

"True, Celine, quite right; the toast, then. And, Celine, remain
down-stairs and when Mr. Percy comes," (her maid visibly started at
the name) "show him into the little parlor, and tell him I am
somewhere in the grounds--you understand? Then come and let me know. I
prefer to have him fancy me surprised, you see," smiling playfully.

"I see; mademoiselle has _such_ tact," and the French maid
disappeared.

"Mr. Percy?" muttered the French maid, in very English accents; "I
will certainly look for your coming, Mr. Percy. Can it be that I am to
meet you at last?"

Mrs. John Arthur was restless that morning. She fidgeted about after
the departure of her brother; tried to play the agreeable to her
husband, but finding this a difficult task, left him to his cigar and
his morning paper, in the solitude of his sanctum, and seizing her
crimson shawl, started out for a turn upon the terrace.

The "little parlor," as it was called, commanded a view of one end of
the terrace walk, but no portion of it was visible from the immediate
front of Oakley mansion, the terrace running across the grounds in the
rear of the dwelling, and being shut off from the front by a thicket
of flowering shrubs and trees.

The hall facing the front entrance to Oakley was deserted now, save
for the figure of Celine Leroque, who was ensconsed in one of the
windows thereof. She had been watching there for more than an hour,
and Cora had promenaded the terrace half that time, when a gentleman
approached the mansion from the front gate-way.

Celine's eyes were riveted upon the coming figure, as it appeared and
disappeared among the trees and shrubbery along the winding walk. At
length he emer

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