Wearied with the long festivities of the night, Reine goes to her room, in the pale light of the new day, and lays aside the bridal veil and dress, donning a cool white wrapper instead. She bathes her face in some fresh water, brushes out her silky, dark tresses, and loosely tying them back with a scarlet ribbon, slips quietly down the stairs again.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Langton and Vane Charteris coming into the deserted parlor, find her standing with one of the maids before the long table, on which the numerous and costly bridal presents have been displayed. Friends have vied with each other in the elegance and beauty of their gifts to Mr. Langton's heiress. Silver and gold, and precious stones flash back the expiring light of the flickering lamps. The house-maid has brought in a large box, and she and Reine are deftly restoring the wrappers to the various articles, and packing them carefully into its capacious recesses.
Mr. Langton stares.
"Child, what upon earth are you doing?" he exclaims.
Reine looks around, brightly.
"Only packing these things away for Maud," she explains.
"For Maud?" Mr. Langton gasps.
"Yes, sir. I shall forward them to her as soon as I find out where she is staying," she replies, pausing to admire a richly-chased bracelet, set with rubies, before she closes the satin-lined case.
"The deuce you will," Mr. Langton growls. "Upon my word I never saw such cool impertinence in my life. Who authorized you to do such a thing?"
"I took the liberty myself," Reine responds, flashing a laughing glance upon his indignant face.
"Very well. Let me inform you, Mrs. Charteris, that these things belong to you, not to Maud. They were given to my heiress, and Vane's bride, therefore they are your own."
The beautiful color flows into her face, but she shakes her small head resolutely.
"You must pardon me, uncle," she says, "but, indeed, I think your ideas of meum et tuum are rather confused. All these pretty things belong to my cousin by every right in the world, and I am determined she shall have them."
"I say she shall not," he cries, violently.
"And I say she shall," Reine reiterates, laughing, but in earnest, the golden lights fairly dancing in her eyes.
"Why, you audacious little spitfire," the old man begins to splutter, but Vane Charteris interrupts him gravely.
"I think Reine's idea is the true one," he says. "The gifts really belong to Maud, and she ought to have them."
The bride flashes him a dazzling look of gratitude from her brilliant eyes.
"There, now, Uncle Langton," she cries, with pretty triumph. "You see my husband sides with me."
"Sides with Maud, you mean," Mr. Langton mutters, between his teeth.
"He will always be on the side of justice, I hope," Reine says, with a smile at her husband, that he does not see, consequently does not return.
But Mr. Langton frowns at the pert little lady.
"See here, Reine," he says. "I won't be set at naught by a child like you, if you were fifty times my niece. Have your way this time, but don't begin your rule too soon. Remember, I haven't made my will yet."
"That does not frighten me one bit," she laughs; then she rises on tiptoe to put her rosy lips to his ear. "You cannot take my husband from me," she whispers, archly. "I do not care for the rest."
He looks at her half-pityingly, and turns away without a word.
But something born of that pitying thought makes him say to Vane Charteris, as they pass from the room:
"There is no reason you should regret Maud. Reine is quite as charming and beautiful, though in a different way from her cousin."
And Vane answers, readily enough:
"She is beautiful, certainly no one can deny that. She has the brilliant beauty of the rose. But one must beware the thorns. She is a perfect contrast to Maud, who always reminded me of a tall, white, stately lily."
"The rose is the sweeter, to my thinking," Mr. Langton replies. "Besides, the rose is the true emblem of love."
They pass through the hall, and out into the soft light of the early day. The cool, dewy breath of the morning, freighted with the scent of countless flowers, blows in their faces, the matin songs of myriad birds make music in their ears. Roses, honeysuckles, jessamines and lilies, open their perfumed chalices to greet the rising sun that begins to color the eastern sky with tints of purple and rose and gold.
And up the graveled path came a trio of young men who had left the house but a little while ago, laughing and jesting in the light-heartedness of youth. They come silently now, with blanched and solemn faces, and heavily-beating hearts.
"Something dreadful has happened," they tell Mr. Langton. "We have found a dead man in the woods. It is Mr. Clyde. He is cold and stiff—has certainly been dead several hours. And, worst of all, he has most probably been murdered. There is a bullet-hole through his heart."
Found murdered! With what an icy chill the words strike upon the senses in that beautiful, peaceful summer dawn.
Having finished the packing of the box, Reine comes out, attracted by the hum of voices.
The rich color pales in her cheeks at the dreadful news.
"Oh, how terrible," she cries. "It was Maud's lover, and she loved him, poor girl!"
She sees Vane Charteris wince, and feels as if she could bite her tongue off for the thoughtless words. Her heart sinks heavily.
"He has given me his hand, but not his heart," she says to herself. "I must be very patient. Perhaps I may win his love yet. I must do so, for I cannot live without it."
As she thinks all this, he comes to her side. The heart of the unloved bride beats quick and fast as the blue eyes fall upon her.
But he has only come to say, coldly and carelessly:
"Reine, you had better go in. This is too terrible a thing for a young girl's ears."
Yesterday, Reine would have defied Vane, and taken her own way, recklessly. To-day, filled with the yearning wish to win her husband's heart, she obeys with gentle dignity, and retires into the house.
"I have read somewhere that love wins love," she says to herself. "If that be true, surely my patience, my gentleness, my devoted love will sometime win a return from him."
They hold an inquest over Mr. Clyde's body that day. No facts are elicited that throw any light on the manner of his death.
He was a stranger in the neighborhood, boarding at a quiet farm-house for his health, he said. He had few friends and fewer enemies. The people who lodged him deposed that they had not seen him since their early seven o'clock supper, the evening previous. He had been in very gay and brilliant spirits then; had dressed himself elegantly and gone out before dark. No one had seen him until he was found dead in the woods this morning, shot through the heart. The physicians examine the corpse, and decide that he has been dead since nine o'clock last night, and suddenly a baleful whisper runs from lip to lip.
There are a hundred people, guests of the grand wedding at Langton villa last night, who remember Maud Langton's abrupt entrance a little after nine o'clock, and her frank confession that she had gone away to marry Mr. Clyde, but had repented, and left him in spite of his threats.
These facts are communicated to the coroner. He looks exceedingly grave.
"It will be quite necessary to examine Miss Langton on the subject," he declares.
Someone is found who remembers to have heard that Miss Langton is at the hotel in the village, near by.
An officer is dispatched to bring her in to the inquest.
So they wait in the odorous sweetness of the green wood, the officers of justice, the silent corpse, the curious crowd; the wild birds sing on as gayly as if no dead man lay there on the sweet, green grass, with his handsome white face upturned to Heaven as if pleading for vengeance on his slayer.
He has not been murdered for purposes of robbery. His gold watch, his diamond ring, his purse, containing a hundred dollars in bills, are all secure upon his person. It is not known that he had an enemy in the world. A strange mystery centers around his death.
A few notice that old Mr. Langton goes away quietly before the officer's return with Maud. And Vane Charteris stays. Standing apart beneath the shade of a towering maple, he waits, with a strange, incensed look in his dark blue eyes, and on his handsome face that is almost as white as that of the dead. Many eyes regard him curiously; but the cold, white, inscrutable face tells nothing to their wondering gaze.
At last, after what seems a long and wearisome interval of waiting, the rumble of the carriage wheels is heard. They pause in the road near by, they catch the impatient neigh of horses, and the officer appears leading a lady through the trees and grass toward them.
She comes toward them, trembling so that, but for the support of the officer's arm, she must certainly fall to the ground. At the coroner's request she lifts her veil and looks at him with frightened, blue eyes, and a wild, white face—whiter than the lilies to which Vane Charteris likened her that morning.
She is duly sworn, and they re-cover the dead, white face, with its staring eyes they cannot close, and mute, cold lips.
"Do you recognize this man?" they ask her, and after one shuddering, quickly-withdrawn glance, she averts her face, and answers with white, pain-drawn lips:
"It is Mr. Clyde."
She is asked next:
"When and where did you see him last?"
A quiver passes over the pale, beautiful face.
"Last night, at or near nine o'clock, near this spot," she falters, yet standing suddenly erect, with stately, lily-like grace, and a proudly-poised head.
"Was he living or dead?"
"Living, of course," haughtily.
"Mr. Clyde was your lover?" the coroner interrogated.
"I have not said so," she says, flashing him a haughty look.
"The fact is well known," he answers. "You went away to marry him last night?"
The deep color flows into her cheeks, then recedes again, leaving her pale as marble.
"I cannot deny it," she murmurs, in a crushed voice.
"Then you changed your mind, as it is a lady's privilege to do, and left him. He was very angry, and used threats toward you," the coroner pursues, politely.
"Yes," Miss Langton answers, in the same low, sad voice.
"Of what nature were those threats?" they ask her.
"He threatened to destroy himself if I did not become his wife, but, oh, I did not believe it, really—I thought he was only trying to frighten me into compliance with his wish," she cries, while a look of regret and sorrow transforms this fair, beautiful face. A hum of surprise goes through the eager throng of listeners.
"Do you believe that he really killed himself?"
"Yes; how else should he have met his death?" she inquired, fixing a look of grave wonder upon him.
A slight whisper goes through the crowd again—some shrug their shoulders.
The coroner pursues without answering her question:
"Was Mr. Clyde in the habit of making such suicidal threats?"
"He had done so on several occasions."
"In the presence of witnesses?" the question is asked with strange gravity.
Maud looks at him with a grave wonder on her fair, proud face.
"No, of course not," she answers, a little annoyance in her clear tone.
"Then you cannot prove that the deceased made those threats against his own life?" the coroner asked in a troubled tone. It is very plain to him that she cannot see the cloud of distress and suspicion gathering around her.
"Cannot prove it!" she says, indignantly. "You have my word under oath."
"Other evidence would make it all the stronger," he replies, evasively.
The officer who has brought her goes forward and whispers something in the coroner's ear. He starts and looks at the girl fixedly a moment from head to foot, then proceeds with the examination.
"When you left your uncle's house last night, did you return to your trysting-place with your discarded lover?"
She stares at him with strangely dilated eyes, and parted lips.
"Why should I?" she says. "I had dismissed him, and parted from him. I supposed he had gone away."
"Please answer, yes or no, to the question," he urges.
"What question?" a little shortly.
"The one I asked you just now. Did you return to your discarded lover at this place when you left Langton Villa the second time? Yes, or no."
"No, then," with a slight touch of defiance.
A minute of dead silence. The coroner resumes, almost irrelevantly, it would seem:
"Is the dress you wear now the same one you had on last night, Miss Langton?"
"Yes, the same. I have not slept all night, she replies, wearily.
"Please observe that on the front breadth of your dress there are some dark, reddish-looking splashes and stains that resemble blood. Can you account for them?"
A cry of mingled horror and fear comes from her lips. All eyes turn on the stylish, dark-gray silk that clings so gracefully to the tall, finely molded figure. True enough, there are some dark red stains on the middle breadth between the lower frills and the upper drapery.
"Can you account for them?" the coroner repeats.
But after one swift glance at the tell-tale marks, Maud crimsons, and the tears start into her eyes.
"You must pardon me; I spoke falsely to you just now," she says, with desperate calmness. "I can tell you how those stains came there. They are Vernon Clyde's blood."
Again an ominous whisper runs through the circle of listeners. Maud glances around her fearfully. She meets strange, averted glances from faces that have been wont to smile upon her before. A strange light comes into her eyes.
"Oh, what do they mean?" she cries. "They do not think, do they, that I killed Mr. Clyde? I tell you he killed himself. He told me he would do so if I refused to marry him."
"Tell us how those blood-stains came upon your dress," the coroner answers, briefly and gravely.
She clasps her hands and shivers through all her imperially perfect form.
"I did come back here last night," she says, in a fearful whisper. "My uncle had discarded me. Mr. Charteris had married another, and I had no one to turn to but the lover I had discarded a little while before. So I hurried back, thinking I would be Clyde's wife after all, but when I came, he," with a gasp, "he lay dead before me. I had thought it but a mere idle threat to frighten me, but he had kept his word faithfully. He had shot himself through the heart. I knelt down beside him, and laid my hand on his breast, but it was cold and still. Oh, you must not think I killed him! I loved him, and I would have gone away with him, but I was afraid of losing my uncle's money," she ends, with a choking sob.
"Why did you not raise an alarm when you found him dead?"
"I was afraid they would charge me with his murder, so I hurried away, not knowing of those tell-tale stains on my dress where I had been down on my knees beside him. I did not kill him, no, no, but my fatal weakness drove him to take his own life."
There is a moment's perfect silence, then the voice of the coroner is heard, with a troubled cadence in its sternness:
"I regret my painful duty, Miss Langton, more than I can say. The high position you have always held in this county would forbid the thought of your criminality, but the evidence against you is of such a nature that we shall be compelled to commit you to prison until further developments."
Her cry of terror and indignation echoes to the blue sky above her golden head. The sweet song-birds fly affrighted from its shrill, eerie sound.
"You believe me guilty," she exclaimed. "Yet I have told you again and again that Vernon Clyde died by his own hand."
"If you could prove it to us," he says, "if you could even prove by a competent witness his threat of self murder, you should go free this hour."
She looks at him dumbly and strangely. Suddenly a light of dazzling joy breaks over her face. She slips her gloved hand into the folds of her dress, withdrawing it with a gasp of disappointment.
"Let me tell you," she says, hurriedly and eagerly. "Yesterday Mr. Clyde sent me a note relative to my promise to meet him last night. In it he says, distinctly and clearly: 'If you do not marry me, I swear I will shoot myself through the heart.' I remember that the note is in the pocket of the blue dress I wore yesterday. Tell me, for Heaven's sake, would that be proof sufficient?"
"If the writing could be proved as Mr. Clyde's, it would entirely clear you from suspicion."
"Then let them take me to Langton Villa," she cries, anxiously. "I can lay my hand upon the note in one moment."
All eyes are turned upon her glad, triumphant face. No one remembers Vane Charteris where he stands in the shade of the tall maples. Yet a strange look has come upon the fair, handsome face. The lips curl nervously beneath the golden-brown mustache, the blue eyes gleam with a strange, mocking triumph.
Mr. Langton is nowhere to be seen when Maud re-enters the home, so late her own. Reine comes to meet her, pale, troubled, sympathetic. They have not been very fond of each other in the past—Maud has been too proud to encourage the friendship of her poor cousin—but now the heart of the younger girl goes out to the other in a gush of sympathy and sorrow.
"Maud, I am so sorry," she says, putting her hand gently on the girl's arm; "but never fear, dear. All will come right. Of course you would not have harmed a single hair of Mr. Clyde's head. Everybody must know that."
"Come with me to my room, Reine," Maud answers.
Inside that quiet room she had quitted only yesterday eve in such high hope Maud's proud self-possession breaks down. Throwing herself on a luxurious sofa, she gives way to hysterical weeping.
"I am so sorry, Maud," Reine can only repeat, in gentlest sympathy.
Maud gives her an angry glance through her tears.
"Sorry," she says. "Sorry! Why should you be? Your fortune is built on the wreck of mine."
"Oh, Maud, do not say so," the girl cries, deeply pained. "Indeed, indeed, I do not want the money. I will ask Uncle Langton to give it all to you. I have Vane, I care for nothing else."
"You love him?" Maud says, with lifted brows, slightly incredulous.
"Yes," with a deep, beautiful blush.
"You cannot suppose that he cares for you," Maud says, with subdued contempt.
"Not yet—not as he cared for you, of course, Maud. But I hope to win him after awhile. You know," hopefully, "he must have thought he could learn to care for me, else he would not have married me."
"What a little simpleton you are," Maud says, disdainfully. "Ring the bell for my maid, please."
The maid comes, her eyes red with weeping. She has been mourning over the troubles of her late mistress, and now, with dejected brow, stands waiting.
"Nellie, you remember the note you brought me from Mr. Clyde yesterday?"
"Yes, miss, an' if I'd known what trouble it would bring, I'd never have carried the first note back and forth," says Nellie, with vain lamentation.
"It's too late for regrets now," Maud answers her impatiently. "I want that note, Nellie. It is in the pocket of the blue dress I wore yesterday. Get it for me."
Barely a minute—and a cry of dismay from Nellie's lips.
"Oh, Miss Maud, 'tisn't there."
Maud's face grows suddenly white and scared.
"Look again," she says, with a gasp.
"'Tisn't there," the maid reiterates, after a second flurried search.
"Then it's somewhere else," confidently. "I know it is in this room. Look until you find it, Nellie."
Then she turns to Reine.
"Can you guess why I came back last night?"
"You told us the reason when you came, didn't you?" Reine says, blankly.
"Not exactly. I will tell you now while Nellie is searching for the note. Of course you knew when I went away I didn't expect to lose my uncle's fortune?"
"I thought you did. Hadn't he said——" begins simple Reine.
"That I should marry Charteris, or lose the money—yes, I know, but I give you my word I never believed it. I honestly thought I could marry Mr. Clyde and return here. I thought it would be an easy matter to wheedle my doting uncle into taking us both back. I never dreamed that you would throw yourself into the breach and help them to their revenge against me."
"I never thought of such a thing myself, until—until Vane asked me!" Reine murmurs, blushingly.
"Do you know why he asked you?" sneers the beautiful girl before her.
"To spite you for having jilted him so publicly, Maud, and, perhaps, because he liked me a little after all," she says, a little wistfully.
"I gave you credit for just a little more sense, Reine," Maud answers, bitterly. "Vane Charteris disliked you exceedingly. He thought you a vixen, neither more nor less. He made you his wife because Mr. Langton literally forced him to it."
"It is not true. Why do you say such things? You are cruel, Maud," the bride cries out, starting indignantly to her feet.
"It is the truth. Nellie, have you found the note yet?"
"No, miss, nor I don't think I can. Was it so very important?" returns the girl.
"Important! My very life hangs on its production," Maud says, wildly. "You have looked carelessly. I could swear that it is in this room. It must be found."
"I'll look again. Perhaps I've overlooked it, being in a hurry," the maid returns, patiently, and Maud turns again to her cousin.
"Nellie has always been very faithful to me," she says. "She was in my confidence. She knew the trysting-place in the woods where I was to meet Mr. Clyde. As soon as she learned that it was likely you would marry Vane Charteris and cheat me out of Uncle Langton's fortune, she hastened after me, and urged me to return and prevent such a catastrophe. I decided at once to return. I had no notion of doing the love-in-a-cottage business with my poor, but handsome lover."
"You were heartless, Maud," Reine says, with a flash of her superb, dark eyes.
"So Mr. Clyde said," carelessly. "Anyway, I told him I should come back. He was very angry. He drove Nell back, and swore I should stay and go with him to the preacher that was even then waiting to marry us. I would not yield an inch, and as soon as I could I got away."
"Why do you tell me all this, Maud?" Reine says, with something like royal scorn. "You make me think very little of you."
"You will perhaps think very little of yourself presently," beautiful Maud answers, maliciously. "Come here, Nellie, and tell Mrs. Charteris all the hard things her husband said about her when Mr. Langton almost went down on his knees to him to marry her."
"How can she know?" Reine says, puzzled.
"I was hid in a closet, listening, if you'll please to excuse me, ma'am," the maid says, timorously, to the new mistress of Langton Villa. Then she looks at Maud. "Oh, I'd rather not," she exclaims. "It would only hurt Mrs. Charteris' feelings."
"Do as I bid you," Maud answers, with her imperious tone of command. "When Mr. Langton asked Vane Charteris to marry Reine, what words did he use in reply?"
Nellie looks at the bride with scared eyes.
"Mrs. Charteris, you mustn't get mad at me. I wouldn't tell it, no, not to save my life, only that Miss Maud will be angry if I don't," she says, deprecatingly.
No words come from Reine's pale lips. She stares with great, troubled dark eyes alternately at the beautiful, cruel mistress and the shrinking little maid.
"Tell her," Maud repeats, imperiously.
"Well, then, he said," the maid begins, nervously, "he said, Mrs. Charteris, a flat no that he wouldn't marry you, that he couldn't love a vixen and a hoiden like you, an' he'd sooner die than have you hanged like a mill-stone around his neck."
"Why, then, did he consent to marry me?" the bride gasps, after a shiver and moan of unspeakable humiliation.
"For your own sake, ma'am, 'cause Mr. Langton said he'd make you his heiress if the gentleman would marry you, and if he wouldn't, why he would leave his money to some asylum for fools. An' so Mr. Vane he said he would marry you, 'cause he wouldn't want you to lose the fortune on his account."
"On one condition," Maud says, in her clear, high-pitched voice, gazing with pitiless eyes at the beautiful, scarlet face before her.
But Reine lifts her small hand with a sudden imperious gesture of command.
"I will not hear another word," she says, in a tone of mingled sorrow and pride. "You must obey me now, Nellie; I am your mistress, not Maud. And I command you never to open your lips on this subject again."
Nellie shrinks abashed. Her whilom mistress laughs low and mockingly.
"You have heard enough, eh? Well, I don't blame you. Well, Nellie, the note?"
"Oh, miss, I haven't found it yet, and indeed—indeed, I've looked in every spot in this room where it could possibly be. Sure, you've tucked it away somewhere and forgot, Miss Maud. Try to remember where you had it last," the girl says, soothingly.
Startled and half afraid, Maud springs to her feet putting her white hand to her brow.
"Let me think," she says, confusedly; "ah, now I remember; yesterday, when I went down the path to Mr. Charteris and Reine under the tree I had the note in my hand. I slipped it into my pocket."
"It must have fallen on the ground," Nellie says, quickly. "Shall I go and see?"
"Yes," Maud answers, anxiously.
Reine, grown suddenly, strangely pale, looks at the beautiful, harassed face of her cousin.
"That note, Maud," she says, in a voice of repressed excitement. "Is it so very important?"
"Important?" Maud says, peevishly. "Did I not tell you my very life hangs on it? They believe that I killed Mr. Clyde. I must go to prison unless I can find that note, which would establish my innocence."
"Then it must be found," Reine says with sudden nervousness. "I will go and help Nellie find it."
"No—no, Reine; where is my uncle?"
"Shut up in the library, I think, Maud."
"Is he so very—very angry with me," she asks, lifting her large blue eyes to Reine's troubled face.
"I—I'm afraid so," Reine stammers, with marked hesitation.
"Would he see me, do you think?" Maud inquires.
"I do not know," Reine answers, with an unconscious sigh.
"Go and ask him, Reine. Oh, I must make friends with him! What shall I do without a friend in this perilous time?"
"I will be your friend," Reine ventures, wistfully.
Maud measures the slight figure with scornful eyes.
"You! what good could you do me?" she asks, disdainfully.
"I do not know. I am small, but I am willing," Reine answers to that look. "Remember, Maud, a little mouse once saved a lion."
"Go and ask my uncle if he will let me come in and speak to him," Maud answers, ignoring her offer with proud indifference.
The slight, girlish figure turns away without a word. In the hall she meets Nellie returning.
"You have not found the note?" she says.
"No, ma'am, and whatever will my poor Miss Maud do? Oh, Mrs. Charteris, will they hang her for Mr. Clyde's murder? Oh, I daren't go in and tell her I cannot find it," whimpers poor Nellie.
"Nellie," abruptly, "tell me where to find Mr. Charteris."
"Oh, ma'am, at the inquest, most probably," returns Nellie, surprised; then, with an imploring look, "oh, Mrs. Charteris, please'm don't tell him what I told you. I know Mr. Langton would discharge me for listening. I shouldn't have told you, never, but for Miss Maud."
Reine looks at her sadly. A far-away look in her "dark—dark eyes."
"You needn't be afraid, Nell. I shall never tell him," she says, slowly, and passes on.
She opens the library door softly, and goes in. Mr. Langton is sitting dejectedly in his arm-chair.
"Uncle, dear," she says, in a strange, low voice, "tell me where to find Mr. Charteris."
He starts, guiltily, it seems to her. His fingers close over a slip of paper in his hand.
"You want Vane—oh, ah, yes, of course," he says, confusedly. "What can you want of Vane?"
She smiles sadly to herself. Her own husband, yet "what can she want of him."
"A matter of business, sir," she replies, with cold brevity.
"Business!" He glances up and sees how white and strange her face is. "Is it important? It will wait, won't it?"
"No; it's a matter of life and death," she says, with trembling lips.
"Life and death? You are jesting, child, surely. I am very sorry, dear, but Vane has just sent me a line. He has gone—I mean he has been called away suddenly. He may be compelled to remain some time. You will have to be satisfied with my poor society. Vane sent you his love, and regrets that he could not bid you farewell."
A slight, cold smile touches the scarlet lips that curl in faint scorn.
"Do not fib to me, Uncle Langton. You know very well he sent me no such message. Let me see that note."
She draws it deliberately out of his fingers, and reads the curt message:
"Mr. Langton, I am about going away as we agreed upon. I will write you from abroad. Invent some excuse to satisfy the curiosity of Reine."
"So that is the love he sent me," she says, looking at him with reproachful, dark eyes. "How charmingly affectionate he is! Aren't you afraid that you'll never get to Heaven, Uncle Langton, after that tremendous fib?"
"Don't tease, child, I have vexation enough. I did not think it of Charteris, really. I wish now I hadn't——" he stops and gnaws his gray mustache, fiercely.
"I wish so, too," she says, with subdued bitterness. "It was a sad mistake all round. It cannot be helped now. But, uncle, I must see him. Tell me where to find him."
"You may find him in New York to-morrow. He left on the ten o'clock train to-day."
"This is dreadful—poor Maud," she says, incoherently. "Oh, uncle, Maud is up-stairs. She prays you to see her. Uncle, you must. She has no one to turn to but you. The shadow of a terrible crime is hanging over her head. She must go to prison unless something happens to help her."
"She has made her bed, so let her lie," he says, petulantly.
"Oh, uncle, you must forgive her and befriend her; say that you will."
"I won't," he says, with bitter brevity.
"Let her come to you for five minutes; she can plead her own cause better than I can."
"I decline to see her. Tell her so. Tell her I will never have anything more to do with her," he replies, sternly, leading her to the door, and shutting her out into the hall.
She goes back to her cousin, stumbling over Nellie, who is crouched outside the door, dreading to enter with the story of her non-success.
"He will see me?" Maud says, hopefully, as she enters.
"I am very sorry, dear, but he utterly declines," Reine says, sorrowfully.
"Of course! I doubt if you ever asked him," Maud cries, irritably. "But, Reine, what is the matter? You look white and scared? What has happened?"
"Vane—Mr. Charteris has gone away," Reine falters, miserably.
"Gone away—of course. That was the condition on which he married you. He said he could marry you, but he could not live with you."
"Maud, why do you tell me these horrible things?" falters the wretched young bride.
"To make you as wretched as I am," Maud breaks out, with vindictive passion in her voice and face. "But it is all true, every word. He said he would stay away a year, and Mr. Langton must train you to be such a woman as he could respect and honor; a woman," triumphantly, "like me."
"God forbid!" Reine says, with a stifled gasp, turning her white face away that Maud may not see the hopeless pain that shadows the brightness.
The door opens and Nellie creeps forlornly in.
"Oh, Miss Maud," she says, tearfully, "I can't find it, I can't find it! I've searched high and low but it's nowhere to be found!"
How strange are the turns of fortune. Yesterday the beautiful queen of the county, the heiress of a millionaire, the betrothed of a handsome, adoring lover; to-day the inmate of a prison, the shadow of a crime hanging over her head, looked upon with horror and suspicion by those who, twenty-four hours ago, were ready to fall down and worship her. So Maud Langton muses drearily.
Out of all the throng of defaulting friends only one remains to her—the girl she hates with cordial good-will, the rival who has spoiled all her hopes, who has married her lover, and who reigns at Langton Villa in her stead. What bitterness to acknowledge that slight, dark-eyed girl she has always despised, as the only human being who clings to her, and is kind to her in this, her dark hour.
But it is true. It is Reine who takes her by the hand when others fail her; it is Reine who stands up bravely by her side and declares her belief in the existence of the mislaid note; it is Reine who almost pledges herself to find it if only they will give her time—hours, or days, or weeks, as the case may be.
And when she has thus declared her purpose, she goes back to Langton Villa to "beard the lion in his den."
"Uncle Langton, I am going to New York after Mr. Charteris," she says to him, coolly.
"Eh? what—after Vane?" he growls, in his curt fashion. "What's up?"
"I have important business with him. I must see him, if only for five minutes."
The old millionaire looks keenly at the dusky, beautiful face. Some of the brightness has gone out of it since yesterday. The large, dark eyes have a strange, intent, far-off look, the lips droop like a grieved child's, the white rose instead of the red, blooms on her cheek.
"Child, you look tired and pale. All this excitement has been too much for you. What is this business with Vane, eh? To scold him for running away?"
"Nothing of the sort," with impatient wrath; "a mere matter of business, as I said to you just now."
He does not believe her, and in his proud old heart there is a secret indignation at Vane for his cavalier flitting. Reine shall not run after him.
"You mustn't go," he says, bluntly. "I won't have you run after him. He'll come to of himself, only give him time and let him have his fling undisturbed. You will only disgust him, going after him. You shall hold your own, and be as stiff as he is."
She stares at him, her white hands locked before her, her sweet lips apart.
"But, uncle——" she begins.
"I know," he interrupts, "but believe me, child, I know men better than you do. You must not seem to care. Remember that you are a bride, unwooed, as yet, married for spite, not for love. In fact, Vane has gone away for a time just to accustom himself to the idea of his strange marriage, and to give you time to—to train yourself for your new position."
"To make myself over into a woman like Maud," she breathes, low and bitterly.
He starts, evidently disconcerted.
"Eh? what? Who told you that, Reine?"
"A little bird in the air whispered it," she retorts, with grim pleasantry.
"No such thing. I wish I knew who had been telling tales to you. I'd wring their necks!" testily. "But you understand, don't you," anxiously, "how premature it would be to follow him? Give him a little time. He'll come to his senses fast enough, and thank fortune for his pretty little wife!"
"Uncle Langton," indignantly, "do give me leave to speak. Do you think I'm a love-sick fool to go running after a man that despises me?"
"I thought you had more sense," he says, beaming upon her; "you give it up, then?"
"No, I am determined to go. Try to understand, sir, that it is on no personal business I wish to see him. It is for—for another. He will understand."
"Write to him, then, Reine."
"It would not do. He is very obstinate, I fancy. I may have to urge him very persistently."
Mr. Langton peers at her curiously beneath his shaggy brows.
"What is this mysterious mission on which you are going, Reine? Explain."
The dark lashes fall, veiling her troubled eyes from his keen scrutiny.
"I cannot tell you; it may turn out a mere chimera; say that I am going on a 'wild-goose chase,' and you will hit the truth."
"Of course you know there is not another train until to-morrow," he observes. "Vane will have had twenty-four hours the start of you."
"I know that. Still I must follow him," she says, persistently.
"Then I must tell you. I didn't mean you should know just yet; it is not likely you will find him in New York when you go. He's off for the other side of the 'herring-pond.'"
"Gone abroad!" She starts, and her tortured face whitens. Into her eyes comes a look of despair.
"You know he was booked for Europe—he and Maud were, I mean. Their passage was taken on the steamer which leaves New York to-morrow. Vane has obstinately chosen to go alone. Never mind, lovey. The young simpleton will be suing your pardon some day."
"Never mind me, uncle, I am not thinking of myself," she says, through white, quivering lips. "Oh, tell me what to do! I must see him for five minutes only—I must, I must, I must! if I have to follow him to Europe!"
"Is the case so desperate as that?" he asks; "I will help you, then. Shall I telegraph him to stay in New York until——"
"Not until I come," nervously. "That might make him very angry."
"Until I come, then. For I shall go with you, of course. What could you do all alone by yourself in big New York?"
"You will go—oh, you dear, kind uncle, how thankful I am!" she cries, kissing his withered old cheek in the fervor of her gratitude. "Now, I shall be brave as a lion. Oh, pray telegraph him this hour, if possible!"
"Now, Reine, I know the hotel where Vane stays when he comes to New York. If he received my telegram he will be waiting there for me. I will go and bring him to you."
They are in a small, private parlor of a hotel in New York. Reine, very dusty and anxious-looking, is walking up and down the floor, never having even removed her hat.
"I will bring him to you," Mr. Langton repeats. "Now, dear, go to your room and bathe your face and hands, and brush your hair. Do not let your husband find you so dusty and travel-stained."
"As if he cared," she says, with infinite mournfulness, yet obeying his hint all the same.
She looks with dim, pathetic eyes at the pale, grave face in the mirror.
"How these few days have changed me," she sighs. "No wonder! Yet I did not know it was in my nature to suffer such pain. If Vane cared for me he must be startled at the change. But he does not love me, and never will, alas!"
She waits, perhaps the longest half an hour she ever knew in her gay, careless life. Mr. Langton comes at last—alone!
"Whew! how confoundedly hot and dusty is New York at this season," he splutters, mopping his face with his handkerchief. "The thermometer up in the nineties, and the dust in clouds that choke and blind one. An hour of life at Langton Villa is worth a year in this noisy, abominable place. Reine, let us go home."
She stares at him with wide, dismayed dark eyes.
"Uncle, he—he is gone?" she falters.
"Gone, yes, the impertinent young puppy," he growls. "Gone without a word, utterly ignored me and my telegram. I wish to Heaven——" he pauses with a dark frown.
"What, Uncle Langton?" with pathetic wistfulness.
"That—that I'd never married you to him, the scamp!" he blurts out in a fury. "He has treated us both with the most distinct contempt. We will go home, dearie, and Vane Charteris may go to the devil!"
This from the irate old man, but Reine looks at him bravely.
"Uncle Langton, I object to your calling names," she says, distinctly. "Mr. Charteris is my husband. I insist that you shall respect that fact."
"A pretty husband," he mutters.
"No one shall blame him in my hearing," she goes on with shy, pretty dignity. "After all, it was unfair to hang an unloved wife like a millstone around his neck."
"You know all," Mr. Langton mutters, darkly, "but where the deuce you found out is beyond my ken. If I knew, I'd shoot the fellow that told you. Well, are you ready to go back to the mountains to-morrow?
"No, oh, no," she clasps her small hands in anguish. "Oh, uncle, you promised to leave me your fortune. Give me only just enough money to follow Vane across the ocean, and I'll resign all the rest!"
"What, you obstinate little vixen! You are quite determined to follow him?"
"I must, uncle. Oh, you do not know how much depends on my seeing him!"
"And you would cross the great 'herring-pond' alone? I should think you would be frightened at the thought, you, a green little country girl. Who knows where Vane may cast his lines? Perhaps among the frog-eating Frenchmen, or the garlicky Italians. Can you speak French?"
"Like a native," she responds, with an arch little moue.
"Italian?"
"Perfectly, and Spanish, too. You know I get my living by my learning," she laughs, trying hard to be her own bright, careless self.
He is plainly delighted.
"Very well, you shall go," he replies. "A steamer sails to-morrow. We will go in her."
"You," she cries, with incredulous joy. "It will be too wearisome for you. You are so old."
"Not a bit," contemptuously. "Do you think I will let you go alone?"
The Sea Gull wings her flight blithely and rapidly across the "dark blue waves," as if she were not freighted with the heaviest heart that ever beat in breast of mortal man.
For Vane Charteris, although his passionately longed-for revenge has come to him in such strange and subtle fashion, is a most unhappy man.
Mingled with his almost fierce joy at the speedy retribution that has been dealt out to Maud, his false love, is a stinging, unconquerable remorse that pursues him like an evil spirit, although he cannot bring himself to repentance for what he has done. A shuddering horror takes possession of his soul when he thinks of the cloud of shame and disgrace, and impending peril lowering darkly over that golden head he has loved so dearly, but his passionate anger and resentment are stronger than the languid, admiring affection he had cherished for his fair, queenly-looking betrothed.
In the madness of his insulted pride it seems to Vane impossible that he should lift a finger to save the treacherous one from her terrible fate.
Arriving in the great, smoky city of London, that is hot and smoky and altogether unbearable, Vane throws himself into whatever excitement is going with an abandon and recklessness altogether unlike himself.
He is bent on losing himself and his tormenting thoughts in the deepest oblivion he can find, but in less than a week he succumbs to fatigue and mental agony, and decides that he is "fagged out." Either he must recuperate or he must die.
Life is sweet to us all; even to Vane, with his dearest hope gone from him.
He decides to run down to the sea-shore a little way, and brace his constitution with the life-giving sea-breezes.
He hears of a quiet place, frequented by invalids, authors, and poets, and such quiet people, "packs his traps" and goes down by the first train. Behold, it is a coast such as Tennyson portrays: