Godfrey Cuyler paused.
His face was growing more gray momentarily, his breathing seemed forced and unnatural, there was a curious, quick throb about his heart that was ominous, but Leonie did not observe it in her bewildered state. She might have noticed that he was pale, but she attached no significance to it.
When he could control himself sufficiently, he began his story.
"I don't know how to tell you what Lena was to me in her childhood," he said, brokenly. "Her mother died when she was a little child, and I had only her. Ah, Leonie, I worshiped her! We were wealthy then, and there was never a desire of hers that I left ungratified. I devoted my life to her—watching her grow as a miser does his fortune. She was my idol, and God punished me, as He promised to do all those who worshiped outside of Himself. She was only eighteen—young, lovely; oh! I can never describe her to you as she was when she met Ben Mauprat. She could have married a prince, but she fell in love with that scoundrel, and while I pleaded with her upon bended knee to give him up, she eloped with him as soon as my back was turned, and the tragedy of her life began. He was a gambler, a libertine—there was nothing under heaven that was low and vile that he was not. To save him from the penitentiary I spent money—thousand after thousand, until I had reduced myself almost to beggary—and the end came! When he could get no more money from me he robbed a bank, was detected, and sentenced to the penitentiary for ten years."
There was a long pause for rest, then, with only an increased pallor in the face, Godfrey Cuyler continued:
"At that time I was living in New Orleans, but that city, being too small for Ben Mauprat, he brought his wife to New York. Evelyn was then about three years of age, and as like her in appearance as could be. When Ben was sent to the penitentiary my poor girl wrote to me, but the letter never reached me. That was the cause of all the after suffering. She thought that I had deserted her, and that made her reckless. Oh, Lena, Lena! You should have known me better, my darling!"
For the first time emotion overcame him, and bowing his head upon his hand, the old man sobbed aloud.
A choking sensation followed. He gasped once or twice for breath, then in a much more feeble and broken voice, he continued:
"She was penniless, helpless, and had that child to support. Well, Leonie, the result of it was that Mrs. Chandler, in her charity rounds, saw the child, fell in love with it, and convinced by Lena of the perfect respectability of the child's parentage, she adopted it. She knew nothing of the baby's father, but believed him to be dead. How can I tell you the rest?"
The white lips trembled. He endeavored to moisten them, but his tongue seemed as dry and parched as the lips. Still by a mighty effort he went on:
"Lena went to live with a family of decent surroundings, though poor. She had a little room in the house, and took in sewing enough to support herself; but it was a terrible existence, one day having bread, the next day none, haunted continually by the fear of starvation. Well, at last Satan succeeded in accomplishing her utter destruction. So small a matter as the water-works in the house where she lived, almost upon the charity of the people, got out of order. The owner of the house came himself to see what repairs were necessary. He saw Lena. I have told you that she was beautiful. Leonie, he fell in love with her. Then the temptation of her life began. They told her how rich and proud he was, that there was scarcely a family in the city who could compare with his in point of birth and wealth, but that pride was his fault. Darling, that man was Roger Pyne!"
"What!"
That name had power to arouse Leonie from a lethargy as none other had.
She sprung to her feet, but as she caught sight of Godfrey Cuyler's face, she sunk back again with a low sob of anguish.
"He was the uncle of the man who was your employer," he continued, the effort to speak growing more painful with each moment. "He fell in love with her. Believing that poverty was the only disgrace that attached to her, Roger Pyne called upon her and proposed marriage. Leonie, she was starving. She was so bitterly alone, so helpless, there was none near to guide her in the right path, every hope had been taken out of her life—— Oh, what shall I say to make you see her fault in a merciful light? God knows how hard it is to resist a temptation like that! She knew that if he knew the story of her life he would never marry her, and to her the protection he offered meant heaven. Leonie, Leonie, she married him, never telling him the history of her life, or that she had a living husband in the penitentiary!"
"My God!"
The exclamation fell like ice from the cold lips, but the expression of Leonie's face did not alter.
"A week later he discovered all," the old man went on dully. "In his terrible anger he cast her off without a penny; he went to Europe and left her here to starve. For several months she lived the same way that she had done before, barely keeping soul and body together; then you were born! I can never tell you what it was after that. Mrs. Chandler was also in Europe. Lena wrote to me many times, but the letters never reached me, and at last starvation came! She saw you dying before her very eyes, dying for want of food, and she unable to help you.
"Made desperate by her terrible extremity, she rushed out into the street and snatched a purse from a man. It contained only twenty little pitiful dollars, not one of which she had used; but she was arrested, tried, as her husband had been, and—God! how can I say it?—was convicted. I read the story in the papers. How I ever lived to reach her is more than I can tell. There were no extenuating circumstances printed, she was poor and friendless. There was no mention made of her marriage to Roger Pyne, but only the cold story of her crime. Oh, Leonie, my child—— But what is the use in attempting to tell you what I suffered? No words could ever describe it. I reached her in time to see her die, to hear her story, to have you confided to my care, and that was all. She died in the Tombs prison. It took all the soul out of my body, but I knew that I must live for your sake. I could not go back again to my old home, where everything reminded me of her, and so I settled here in this great city, where no man knows his neighbors' business or cares to know. As I watched you grow, the same love that I had given to Lena I felt for you. Then the desire that grew to mania came that you might never know of the shadow upon your birth. Oh, how I prayed that you might be spared that; and now—Leonie——"
There was another gasp for breath, a wild clutching at the collar, and for the first time Leonie saw. She sprung to her feet and seized his hand wildly.
"Dad," she gasped—"dad! in Heaven's name what is the matter?"
"Nothing," he answered, his throat closing over the word with a peculiar choking. "You must—not be—frightened. I—am—often—so."
"Not like that. Oh, God, dad! it looks like—death!"
His face was not more ghastly than her own. She had forgotten the terrible secret of her birth, forgotten her mother's suffering, forgotten everything save the danger that was menacing him.
"Hush!" he whispered, the sound a feeble effort. "My little one, my little one—you do—not—blame dad?"
"Blame you? Oh, my darling, my darling! what does life contain for me but you? Dad, dad! look at me. Tell me that you will not leave me. Dad, speak to me."
"The—will of—God——"
"Surely God will not take you from me when you are all I have! Let me go for a doctor, quick."
"No; I should die alone while you were gone. I knew—the end—was near before—you came—and I prayed—God—to send—you before—it was—too late. He heard—my prayer—I am—grate—ful. Darling—it has come. It is—— Good-bye forever now!"
"Oh dad, dad, dad! take me with you. I cannot remain here so bitterly alone with this hideous disgrace, this frightful secret bearing me down. Let me go, too."
She leaped to her feet wildly, unmistakable insanity glittering in her eyes, and seized a knife that lay upon the table.
Godfrey Cuyler lifted his half glazed eyes and looked at her. Although death was upon him he realized her intention. Struggling to his feet he caught the back of his chair with one hand, and with the other he grasped the knife.
God lent him strength for the moment; he wrenched the knife from her and flung it from him. It fell through the open window.
She pitched headlong upon the floor insensible. He fought back death to lean above her, but a spasm of the heart seized him. He flung himself around and fell back into his chair. The muscles relaxed after a moment, the eyes rolled upward, and limp, utterly lifeless, the body of Godfrey Cuyler lay, when they found him there an hour later, with Leonie still upon the floor at his feet.
It was the girl whom Leonie had engaged to cook Godfrey Cuyler's meals during her sojourn at Leonard Chandler's who found them there.
She gave the alarm, and several women, and men, as well, hastily answered the summons.
Little was known of the Cuylers among the tenants of the house, as they were people who had few associates, but a doctor was brought, and the living separated from the dead.
He it was who examined some of their effects, and finding only the address of Lynde Pyne, sent a messenger to his office.
He was not in so early in the morning, and it was not until nearly ten o'clock that the note the physician had sent reached him.
He did not even remove his coat and hat, but turning to his office boy, gave a hasty order:
"If any one calls, say that I will return by noon, if not earlier."
"But, sir, Mr. Chandler has been here already. He seemed very much put out that you were not here, and said that he would call again at half-past ten."
For a moment Lynde stood gnawing the ends of his mustache in perplexity, then, with an impatient wave of the hand, he turned away.
"Say that I could not wait, but that I will call at his office at one," he exclaimed, leaving the room almost at once.
Once in the street, he called a cab, and giving the driver the address the physician had provided, he ordered him to drive quickly.
It was with feelings of decided relief that he sprung from the cab as it paused before the door of a poor but respectable lodging-house.
Five minutes later the door of Leonie's room opened to admit him. She had recovered from her swoon, but lay almost lifeless upon the chair in which her grandfather had died.
In as few words as possible the physician explained what had occurred, after Lynde had introduced himself, and at the latter's request he was left alone with Leonie.
She was not even cognizant of his presence when he drew a chair to her side and took her hand.
She drew back when she recognized him, as though another terrible misfortune had befallen her.
"You!" she whispered. "How came you here?"
"They told me you were in trouble and I came at once," he answered tenderly. "My poor little girl, is there nothing that I can do for you?"
"Nothing! nothing, but to leave me alone! That is all, that is all!"
She shivered horribly and arose, pacing up and down the floor, her great wild eyes restlessly roving from one object to another.
He watched her for a few moments, fascinated by the peculiar magnetism of her sufferings, then arose, and laying his arm about her shoulders, he took her hand. There was nothing impertinent in his act, only the sincere interest of one whose heart is deeply touched.
"Leonie," he said, gently, "let me do something to help you bear your terrible sorrow. It breaks my heart to see you like this while I sit helplessly by. You must not grieve so. They tell me he was old. Think, dear! He has borne his burden of life, and perhaps now is happy and at peace with God. You could not expect to keep him with you always. Are you not a little selfish, dear? Try to think of it as the will of God, and——"
"Oh, I can't!" she interrupted, her teeth chattering under her fearful suffering; "he was all on earth I had. In the whole world there is no human being left for me. I am as much alone as though my little craft rocked in mid-ocean with only the waves surrounding me. Oh, God! You cannot think what that means until you have been left so. I have nothing left me but suffering and——"
She had meant to say disgrace, but the word was drowned in a horrible groan. She fell into a chair, and holding to the back buried her face upon her arm. Lynde Pyne stood beside her. He laid his hand upon her bowed head, and smoothed the soft hair caressingly.
The expression of his face was one of keenest pain.
"Leonie," he said, pausing between each word as though to control an almost irresistible desire, "you must not speak with such despair. You are not—alone. If a steadfast friendship—the love of a—brother—will be a consolation to you, I offer you myself. Leonie, little girl, trust me."
"Trust you?" she echoed; "with my whole heart. Ah! what am I saying? Forget it! I—I am weak—too miserable to think. Mr. Pyne, if you have any pity for me, I beg that you will go away. I cannot—come to—you again to do the work——"
"Don't speak of that now. What do I care for the work or anything else, when you are in trouble like this? Leonie, don't look like that! Oh, child! if I might only bear it for you. You must not send me away, dear! There is so much to be done, and I must do it for you. Have you no woman friend?"
"No. Dad and I have lived all alone, caring only for each other. Oh, dad! why did you leave me with this frightful burden to bear alone? Why could you not take me with you? I feel as if I were going mad."
"Hush, dear! There are others to whom you are necessary. Leonie, I must tell you, great sin though I am committing in doing so. My darling, I love you with all the soul in my body, with all the strength of my being. Can you not see it? Do you not know it? Leonie, what have I said to cause you to look at me like that?"
"You love me?" she whispered, the words more a breath than an articulation—"you love me?"
"Dearest, can you doubt it? I know that I am the greatest scoundrel living, to tell you so. But how can I see you in such distress and not speak, when my heart is full to overflowing? Darling, look at me."
She had buried her face in her hands, and was rocking herself to and fro in her abandonment to a grief that was well nigh killing her. At his command she dropped her hands exposing to him an expression of agony that he had never seen equaled. With a suppressed cry he took her in his arms and covered her lips with passionate kisses.
"My love, my love, you madden me!" he whispered. "What terrible shadow is it that is darkening your life? You love me! I see it in the expression of your sweet, sad eyes, and yet the knowledge of my love brings you but pain. Leonie, what is it?"
"I cannot tell you," she cried hoarsely. "I entreat you to leave me! I will tell you that there is a shadow upon my life, the knowledge of which reached me within the last few hours, that has forever wrecked my happiness. There is no relief that can ever come to me but death! If I love you, it but makes the curse the greater, and the assurance of reciprocation is anguish!"
"You love me, then? Tell me but that!"
"Love you!"
She crushed his hand beneath hers and arose, staggering as though beneath the weight of a physical burden. He sprung to his feet and took her by the shoulders, his beautiful face quivering with emotion.
"You are tempting me to the first dishonorable act of my life," he cried, almost fiercely. "I love you as no man ever loved a woman before. My whole soul seems swallowed up in my passion! I am the betrothed husband of another woman, but you have but to speak the word to make me false to my promise! I will give up everything for you, even to life itself were that necessary. I care not what shadow darkens your existence. Say but the word, promise that you will be my wife, and I will throw aside every consideration for your sake! Leonie, speak to me!"
His passion seemed to quiet her. Not since her entrance to the library, where she had discovered something of that fearful secret, had she been so calm. She did not attempt to withdraw herself from him, but gazed into his face with a devotion he never forgot.
"I thank you for your words," she said brokenly. "Perhaps they have saved me from suicide or a madhouse. I think I have suffered this day as no woman ever did before, yet I would go through it all again before I would have you false to your vow. There are reasons why, even if no pledge existed, you could never make me your wife. I tell you this because it may be a comfort to you in the after years. It is good-bye now forever, for from this hour to see each other would be dishonor."
"And you can speak of it so calmly?"
"I can, because my heart is broken."
"And you think that I will give you up, knowing that you love me? Never! I will go to Miss Chandler and tell her the truth. I will say to her——"
"Wait!"
The interruption came from Leonie.
She had wrenched herself from his arms, and was standing gazing into his face in an almost stupid way, her eyes expressive of paralyzing horror. She was bending slightly forward, her lips parted, her countenance drawn to distortion.
"You are betrothed to Evelyn Chandler?" she asked, in a strained undertone.
"Yes."
"My God!"
She lifted her hand to her brow as though to clear her brain.
What was she to do? The situation was hideous to her, and yet she felt herself utterly incapable of revealing the story of her own life and her sister's. But could she in justice allow an innocent man to marry a thief, the daughter of a convict, when she could save him?
To speak would ruin her sister, throw her upon the world as a beggar to fall to the lowest depths of infamy, as Leonie knew she would. To remain silent would very likely result in the ruin of the man she loved.
As she stood revolving the terrible alternative in her mind the door opened, and a blue-coated officer entered the room.
"Are you Leonie Cuyler?" he asked, standing before the shrinking girl.
"I am," she faltered.
"Then you are my prisoner!"
He laid his hand roughly upon her shoulder and turned her toward the door.
The horror of the situation struck Lynde Pyne with paralyzing force, but his was one of those natures that recovers all the more quickly, the more powerful the blow.
With instinctive kindness he drew the girl's arm through his own, and by his strength steadied her tottering feet.
"Lead the way!" he said to the officer. "We will follow you."
He turned to Leonie, all his heart seeming to glow through his eyes.
"Do not fear," he whispered. "I will save you. My poor girl, my suffering one, you must trust me, and know that your sorrows are mine. I will bring you back here within the hour. You trust me, do you not?"
She was too much dazed to reply. All intellectuality seemed frozen in her. She was scarcely conscious of what he had been speaking.
He hurried her onward that he might return with her all the sooner, drawing her arm yet closer within his own protectingly.
Once upon the street, he called a carriage, and together with the officer, they entered it.
He spoke but once to her on the way to the station-house, and then she did not reply. He attempted no further conversation, but watched her fearfully, noting with horror the stoniness of her countenance.
She seemed to be unconscious of her surroundings when she was placed in the narrow cell, and when they came to her again some time later, they found her in the exact position in which she had been left. Not a muscle seemed to have been disturbed.
Lynde Pyne entered there with an officer. He took her by the hand, and gently lifted her to her feet.
"Come," he said, gently, "we will return to your home again."
Some intelligence struggled to her eyes.
"I am no longer a prisoner, then?" she asked, dully.
"No!"
"Will you explain it to me?"
"There is so very little to explain! When we get home——"
"No, now! You need not be afraid to tell me the worst. If anything could have killed me or driven me mad, I should be dead to this suffering now. Has—that man withdrawn the charge he made against me?"
"N—o!" stammered Pyne.
"I see! You forget that my experience has been in the office of a lawyer. How much bail was required?"
The interrogation was put to the officer, and not to Pyne.
Disregarding, or not seeing the glance of warning from the latter, he answered with the customary indifference of his class:
"Fifteen hundred."
Leonie groaned. Something in her face sent a quick thrill of apprehension through Pyne, but as she fell back immediately into the old apathy, he said nothing.
Silently he led her to the waiting carriage, and they were driven again to that house wherein death reigned. Wearily Leonie dragged herself up the long, steep flight and into the room where she had only that morning—but how long ago it seemed—heard the hideous story of her mother's shame.
She started to the room in which lay the body of her beloved dead, but a solemn-faced man met her at the door and told her gently but clearly that she could not enter.
She made no resistance, but allowed Lynde Pyne to close the door and place her in a chair beside the open window.
Her faculties seemed to be entirely restored, but not a tear relieved the terrible brilliancy of her eyes.
With the death of hope and the birth of despair, had come a calm that had the appearance of stoicism.
Lynde Pyne kneeled beside her, and taking the small cold hands in his, chafed them tenderly.
"Leonie," he said gently, "I wish that you would trust me, dear! I wish that you would remember that there is nothing in all this world that I would not do for you if you would only let me. I wish that you would try to think there is no trouble that I would not bear for you, if by so doing, I could relieve you of sorrow. You know that I would do that, do you not?"
She bowed her head upon his hand, but neither sigh nor moan escaped her.
"Child, you cannot bear this sorrow alone. Why will you not trust me?"
"Because I cannot. It is part of the curse that is upon me that I must suffer in silence. There is only one thing, and if you would promise that, there would be a load lifted from my heart—a load of shame! What am I saying? You must not listen to me, but—— You know that I love you, do you not?"
"Yes, I know that," he answered, with a curious intonation.
"Well, listen! There are reasons that make it impossible for me to be your wife, but"—holding his hands in a grasp like iron and looking into his eyes with an earnestness that was terrible—"it would kill me—to see—another—in the place—that honor—forbids me—to accept. Lynde! Lynde! promise me, swear to me that you will not make Evelyn Chandler your wife!"
She had arisen and was standing over him, her hands still holding his, her wild eyes gazing into his with a fierceness that was startling.
He arose slowly and stood before her.
"You wish me to break my word without cause!" he said, gently. "Give me some reason for it. Let me say to Miss Chandler that I have been mistaken, that I love another, and that that other will be my wife, with her permission, and I consent. How could I go to her and tell her that I must have my promise back without an excuse to offer?"
"I don't know; but if you love me, if you would save me from a madhouse, you will find a way. Lynde, promise me!"
"Tell me, Leonie, what had Evelyn Chandler to do with this robbery?"
He spoke the words slowly and impressively. She started, and for the moment seemed about to faint, but quickly recovered herself.
"Nothing!" she answered, in a ghastly sort of whisper.
"Don't you know that they will force it from you upon the witness stand? Don't you know that the most minute examination will be made into your life and antecedents and hers? Do you think you can conceal a fact from these men where a family like that is concerned? Why, there will not be an incident from your birth to the present day that they will not discover——"
"Hush! You are driving me mad! I will find a way to prevent that if I must seek death to do it. Oh, my God——"
In her frightful excitement she might have told him all she knew and saved herself from the terrible time that followed, had not the door opened, and the undertaker entered.
"If you wish, Miss Cuyler," he said, gently, "you may come in now."
Bowed, broken in spirit, heart-sore and weary, she followed him.
Mechanically, Lynde Pyne was about to follow her, when a messenger entered bearing a note addressed to himself.
He tore it open and read:
"Come to your office at once. I must see you.
"Leonard Chandler."
Reluctantly enough, Lynde Pyne left the room in which the mortal remains of Godfrey Cuyler lay, after having assured Leonie of his immediate return, and went to the office where Leonard Chandler awaited him.
Upon the way, his reflections were not enviable ones. He felt quite convinced that Leonie's agitation was not the result of her grief occasioned by her grandfather's death. On the contrary, there was something behind that seemed to overshadow death, and cause her almost to forget it.
What was it? and what had Evelyn Chandler to do with it?
Those were the questions that he put to himself persistently, and to which he found no answer.
He gnawed his mustache in helpless silence, his brows drawn in a heavy frown, and decided upon the only course open to him, to wait for the assistance that time renders.
That is not an easy method, particularly to an impulsive man, but it was the only way. His humor, therefore, was not of the pleasantest when he entered the office to which he had been so imperatively summoned.
"Good-morning, Mr. Chandler!" he exclaimed rather somberly, shaking hands. "I am sorry that you were forced to wait for me, but——"
"Never mind that, sir," interrupted Chandler, not even the shadow of a smile lighting the anger in his eyes. "I want an explanation from you, sir. I understand that you furnished the bail under which that girl, Leonie Cuyler, was released from jail. Is that true, sir?"
"It is perfectly true!"
"And you did that, knowing that I wished her to remain there until she had sense enough not to decline to reveal the name of a thief?"
"Pardon me, Mr. Chandler. I am afraid I did not think of your wishes upon the subject at all. Miss Cuyler's grandfather, her only living relative, died this morning. She was as devoted to him as any own child could be, and in common humanity, if there had been no other reason, I could not have allowed her to remain there."
"What do you suppose I cared for her grandfather? That girl shall tell who the thief who robbed my house was, or I will prosecute her to the day of my death. I will spend every cent of money that I possess, but what I will find out the truth of this affair. Do you understand that, Mr. Pyne? Nothing in the shape of sentimentality shall deter me. That girl went there for the purpose of convicting the thief, and she shall do it."
The words were spoken slowly, and with an emphasis upon each that showed Lynde Pyne very clearly that his guest meant every word he uttered, and more.
Pyne raised his foot, placed it upon a chair, and leaned his arm upon his knee with greatest nonchalance.
His eyes were fixed upon Chandler's calmly, almost coldly.
"Mr. Chandler," he said, impressively, "for several years I have been your attorney. You have always followed my advice implicitly in every instance, and there has never been a time when it has been incorrect! Am I right?"
"Yes."
"Then there is reason why you should listen to me in this. Do not press this case against Miss Cuyler. If you do you may regret it to the last day of your life. Withdraw the charges you have made against her."
"But I will not. Do you suppose that I will let a matter like that rest? Never, I tell you. Leonie Cuyler shall speak, or the whole weight of my fortune shall be turned against her. I direct you now to press this thing to the last extremity. Let no stone go unturned. Move heaven and earth to——"
"Pardon me, Mr. Chandler. It is useless for me to allow you to go further. If you persist in this heartless scheme I must resign from the case. I cannot act where my client refuses to follow my directions."
Chandler lifted his eyes aghast.
"What!" he gasped. "You throw up all the business that I have put into your hands because of that girl? You must be mad! Why, man, I will ruin you!"
"If you think you can you are perfectly welcome to try, but I tell you frankly that you have not enough money in your possession to tempt me to lift a finger against Leonie Cuyler."
"And you dare to tell me this? You, the betrothed husband of my daughter!"
"I dare do anything that my conscience and my duty may dictate, Mr. Chandler, regardless of other considerations."
"Then I tell you, sir, that you shall never enter my doors again! Remember that. If you presume to call, the servants will have instructions to throw you out. And as for that Cuyler girl, I am all the more determined that she shall be forced to tell all she knows, if my entire fortune must be spent upon it. Good-morning, Mr. Pyne. I am afraid that you will discover before you are through with it that this morning's work is liable to cost you dear!"
He banged the door behind him, and for many minutes Lynde Pyne stood there looking at it intently, then he turned suddenly, with a short, mirthless laugh.
"I am afraid I have played the dickens!" he muttered. "But there seemed to be nothing else for it. He will leave no stone unturned to force this story from Leonie; she will emphatically refuse to answer, and then—well, God knows what will come after the 'and then!' There is nothing to think of now but burying that man, and getting at the bottom of these facts that threaten such danger to Leonie."
"Mr. Davidge is here to see you, sir!" said the office-boy, at his elbow.
"Tell him that I am out! That I have gone over to the courtroom about a case that I have on. Tell him anything that comes into your head, but don't let me be interrupted again to-day. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
The boy had scarcely closed the door behind him than Pyne leaped to his feet.
"I must go and see about that funeral!" he exclaimed to himself. "That poor child is there all alone, except for that ignorant mob. What a relief it is to think that old Chandler broke that engage—— Bah! that savored very strongly of cowardice and almost dishonor; but somehow I can't help feeling that I am ten years younger."
The golden hue of a dying sun lit up the West, and shone with radiant glory into the bare chamber where Leonie Cuyler sat, her head bowed upon the arm of the chair in which her grandfather had died.
She did not hear the knock that sounded upon the door, nor did she hear it open, nor see the man who entered.
He looked at her for a moment in silence, noting her extreme gracefulness even in a position like that; he saw where the sun kissed the bowed head as if in benediction; he understood the terrible grief that hovered over her, and something like tears gleamed in his eyes as he went forward and drew a chair close to her.
"Leonie," he said, taking her hand gently, "arouse yourself, dear. Do you think you are doing right to give way to your grief in this manner? I know that it is hard to bear; but it must come to us all sooner or later, and he is at rest! Does that thought bring you no consolation?"
She lifted her head, a terrible shiver shaking her.
"It is the only consolation that I have!" she answered drearily. "When I remember how full his life was of sorrow that no time could ever have lightened, I am glad that he is at peace with God. But the burden is hard to bear, when I am so bitterly alone, oh, God! so horribly alone!"
"Do I count for nothing, then?"
"You are good to me, Mr. Pyne, so good that you are breaking my heart afresh every hour; but in justice to you I cannot accept the friendship that is so sweet to me. In mercy to myself I must refuse it! I have been in the world so long that it is no secret to me what construction is put upon the friendship of a man like you for a creature in my sphere and——"
"Leonie, I forbid you to speak like that. You know no more of what you are saying than a three-months-old child. There is no man that will have a right to question my motives when I say that I have asked you to become my wife. I did not come here to-night to speak to you upon this subject, nor shall I. You must listen to me—you must see the truth of what I say, for there is no time to be lost. Have you forgotten that to-morrow is the day set down for the hearing of your case?"
Her hand closed over the arm of the chair, her teeth were set firmly, her face became a shade more ghastly, but her voice was quiet as she answered:
"I had forgotten!"
"Then it is quite time that you remember, Leonie. I have, without your request, or even consent, constituted myself your attorney, and it is to talk with you upon this subject alone that I have come here to-night. I want you to feel the strength of my love sufficiently to know that you may trust me in all things. Do you think that you can do that?"
"I know that I can trust you!"
"Then tell me who committed that robbery!"
"I cannot!"
"I expected that answer, and yet you said that you could trust me.
"Leonie, I entreat you, for your own sake, to tell me the truth about this. If there is anything that ought to be concealed, I will help you to the last day of my life to conceal it; but, for the love of Heaven, don't place yourself in this hideous position without advice from some one. Let me be the judge. Tell me the truth, and I swear to you upon my honor that, if there is reason for the concealment I will help you to it!"
He paused for a moment, wiping away the moisture from his brow that earnestness had brought there.
Leonie straightened herself, and leaning forward, laid her hand upon his.
"I know that what you are saying to me is intended for my good alone," she cried, in a choked voice, "and from the bottom of my heart I thank you, but—I do not seem capable of thought to-night. I do not seem to understand. You are so good to me that I feel that I can ask anything of you, and therefore I beg that you will come to-morrow. Leave me this night, my first without—dad—to myself, and to-morrow——"
She could not complete the sentence, but turned away, hiding her quivering face upon her arm.
Pyne stood beside her, placing his arm about her.
"I have been cruel, but it was the only way to save you," he whispered. "Tell me that you forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive," she answered, lifting her dull eyes piteously. "If there should ever come a time when you feel that you have something to forgive me for, remember that what I shall do will always be for your good, will you not? Remember that however unworthy I may be, that I loved you with all my heart, and—— Oh, go! I beseech you, go! I am not myself! To-morrow——"
She did not finish the sentence, but raised herself to her full height, looked him in the face with a long, searching, hungry passion, lifted his hand to her hot, dry lips, and pressing a burning kiss upon it, passed hurriedly from the room.
He looked after her for a moment irresolutely, half tempted to follow.
"What does it mean?" he asked of himself. "Her manner was most singular. Poor little girl. She is almost mad from this grief and harassing. I wish I could have comforted her instead of adding to it. Well, I will see her to-morrow, and I will save her in spite of herself."
He glanced longingly at the door through which she had vanished.
Then restraining his inclination, he picked up his hat and left the room.
Leonie heard the closing of the door, and entered immediately.
How dreary and desolate it seemed!
Deliberately she had cut herself from him, leaving herself absolutely alone, with not one human being that she could call her friend.
A great pity for herself surged into her heart, pity for the loneliness of her situation, for the isolation that had been thrust upon her through no fault of her own.
She sat down for a moment, burying her face in her hands; then she lifted it, ghastly with fierce determination.
"This is no time for inactivity or irresolution!" she cried passionately. "I must follow the life that Heaven has seen fit to fasten upon me without consent of mine. I am a nameless creature, but I can still have the courage to save my sister. Lynde Pyne has pledged himself to pay fifteen hundred dollars to the court to-morrow in default of my presence. Virtually I am simply forcing a loan upon him, for it shall be repaid to the last farthing. My weakness has fallen from me like a mantle. When that is repaid, I can allow my grief indulgence, but until then——"
She drew pen, ink and paper to her, and began hastily to write the following:
"My dear Mr. Pyne,—Realizing all the truth of what you said to me last night, I have decided to take matters into my own hands. When you receive this, I shall be many miles from here. I understand the fact of your being compelled to pay the fifteen hundred dollars for which you stand pledged for me, but I promise that it shall be repaid to the last penny with interest from date. Thanking you for the kindly interest that you have taken in me, and trusting that you will forgive me for this step that is the only one left me, I am
"Very truly yours,
"Leonie Cuyler."
Not once, but many times she read the note, taking it in her hands to destroy it; then resolutely she placed it in an envelope, sealed, addressed and stamped it.
"It sounds ungrateful, harsh, unfeeling, but it is better so, much better," she muttered, her lips drawn together coldly. "What difference can my love make to him? It could only bring disgrace and contamination. It could only fill him with loathing if he knew. He will learn to despise me when he reads what I have written, and it is better that he should."
She hesitated no longer, but pinning on her hat, she went to the bureau, and taking from it an old pocketbook, counted the few dollars that remained in it; then she picked up her letter, and with it clasped firmly in her hand, went into the street.
An hour later she returned. She went to the glass and removed her hat.
The beautiful hair that had been one of her crowning glories was gone, and a little boyish head that she could scarcely recognize as her own was reflected there.
There was no satisfaction, only bitterness in the face that looked back at her, and she turned without a murmur.
She had begun her battle with life indeed!
She took up a bundle that she had thrown upon the floor upon her entrance, and took from it a full suit of boy's clothes.
Throwing off her own, she clothed herself in the others, and again looked calmly into the mirror when the task was completed.
The alteration was complete, absolute.
With the same mechanical movements she opened the drawer to the old secretary, and took from it the picture that Godfrey Cuyler had told her was the face of Lena Mauprat, but she thrust it into the pocket of her coat without a glance at it.
There were one or two souvenirs of "Dad" that she put into her pocket, then turned to take a last view of the room in which she had been comparatively happy.
A sob arose in her throat as she pictured the face of her grandfather—that dear old face that she was never again to see until she met him in the presence of God!
With an unvoiced prayer in her heart, she kneeled and kissed the chair in which he had died, then slowly she arose and approached the door.
One last glance, a bursting sob, and Leonie Cuyler passed from the room forever!
"Neil?"
"Yes, sir."
Andrew Pryor rushed into his library with every appearance of haste and excitement upon his kindly face, his breathing short, his hair seeming to have taken an upward turn.
"I want you to go down on 'Change for me. Hurry, boy! There is not a single moment to lose. I want you to get there before the market closes, and tell Caswell for me, to buy two thousand Western Union, Buyer 30, and sell five thousand Northwest preferred, Seller 60. I have just had a 'pointer' by which I shall make a pile if the market goes as I have been informed. You have just three-quarters to make it. If you get there—— Ah, that is right. That boy is invaluable."
The sentence was finished to himself, the break being caused by the exit of the boy to whom he had been speaking.
The white-haired old gentleman stood for some time with a smile upon his lips, rubbing his hands together with an expression of profound satisfaction.
But gradually it faded.
First came a look of deep thought, then one of fear, followed by an expression so full of consternation that to a disinterested observer it would have been laughable.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed aloud, "I am positive that I told that boy to buy Western Union and sell Northwest preferred! If he gives that order as I gave it to him, it will ruin me! What in Heaven's name could ever have made me such a colossal fool! It is impossible to do anything now! He has been gone fully fifteen minutes, and—what in the name of common sense am I to do? Nothing, I suppose. Five thousand Chicago and Northwestern preferred short! Caswell will think I have gone mad! Here! Sarah! Sarah! Tell William to bring the cart to the door, quick! There is not a moment to lose! Don't stand staring at me in that insane way, but hurry! There is not a confounded one of them on this place that is worth the salt in their bread but that boy whom I never saw until a week ago. Where the devil is my coat? I never can find it without that boy. Lord! if Caswell has bought that—— Oh, here it is at last. William, what in the name of Heaven are you doing here? Didn't Sarah tell you to bring the cart to the door?"
"I thought——"
"Never mind what you thought, you infernal fool! What business had you to think? It is too late now. I shall take the elevated."
He banged the door after him as he spoke, and hurried down the street to the nearest elevated station, rushed up the steps, and was forced to wait something over five minutes for the train, during which time he looked at his watch about twenty times.
The day was decidedly cool, but in spite of that fact, the perspiration rolled down his face like rain.
"I won't get there until the Exchange closes," he muttered; "and with my affairs in the state they are—— Well, I can't understand what ever made me such an infernal——"
The sentence was interrupted by the arrival of the train.
Andrew Pryor rushed in pell-mell, took his seat, and imagined that the train had never run with such exasperating slowness as upon that occasion.
It came to an end at last, however, and colliding with everything and everybody where collision was possible, he rushed on.
At the very entrance of the Stock Exchange he ran directly into the boy whom he had sent upon the errand.
"What in thunder did you tell Caswell?" cried the old man, excitedly. "Quick!"
The expression of the boy's face was laughable, but partaking of his excitement, he answered, breathlessly:
"I hope I have not done wrong, sir; but going down in the train I remembered that Northwest preferred had been jumping at an astonishing rate the last few days, and I thought you must have gotten the order mixed."
"And you reversed it?"
"I did. Selling Western Union. Seller 60, and——"
Andrew Pryor's month opened as if to say something, but it closed with a sudden snap, and his hand came down on the boy's shoulder with positive affection.
"My boy," he exclaimed, with amusing emphasis, "you have saved me more than you can imagine. The people in this town would have had me adjudged a lunatic without a trial if you had delivered that order as I directed you. Such brains as yours shall not go unrecognized. The fellows have been laughing at me because of your youth and girlishness, but they can laugh and be hanged! You are my private secretary from this day at a salary of one hundred and twenty-five dollars per month. You are the smartest boy of your age in New York to-day."
"I am afraid you overestimate what I have done, sir. You see, I knew the market fluctuations and——"
"Will you let me be the judge of that? I tell you there is not another boy in the city that would have done it. Well, it is something in your pocket. You have made a friend, and I am glad of it. You deserve it!"
The handsome eyes of the youth were downcast. He did not reply, but somehow Andrew Pryor seemed to understand that the silence was not the result of ingratitude.
He preferred it, upon the whole, to a flow of words, and attributed it to feeling upon the part of the boy.
Together they went home, and at the door inside the hall Andrew Pryor paused again, laying his hand upon the shoulder of the young man.
"I shall expect you to dine with the family to-night," he said. "It is the respect your new position demands!"
A brilliant, embarrassed red overspread the handsome face, which the patron was not slow to observe.
"What is it?" he demanded. "Remember perfect frankness is always best."
The boy smiled.
"It seems such an absurd thing, sir," he answered, "and yet I must ask you to excuse me, because I do not possess a dress suit!"
"Then you will come without one until it is purchased. A dress suit does not make the gentleman. If you have not the money that is required, do not hesitate to call upon me. There must be none of that false pride about you that is so despicable in most young men. I have taken a great liking to you, and I am determined to see you succeed in the world. There are very few of us who would have occupied our present positions had there not been a helping hand extended to us. Mine will be the hand to assist you up the ladder to social prominence and wealth. We dine at 6:30. I shall expect you."
Neil Lowell bowed respectfully, but quietly, and passing up the stairs, went to his own room.
Andrew Pryor looked after him.
"That is the most extraordinary boy that I ever knew!" he muttered. "Some day I must get him to tell me the story of his life. I would be willing to stake my head that his parents were somebody!"
And in his own room, a comfortable nest, not elegant, but cozy and homelike, Neil Lowell threw aside his hat and coat, and seating himself in front of the fire, bowed his chin upon his breast and was lost in reflection.
"What a strange world it is!" he muttered. "Only a little while ago, and as a girl, as poor, unfortunate Leonie Cuyler, my heart seemed breaking. I was friendless, and helpless, made desperate by my struggle with life. Driven to bay, I gave myself the appearance of a boy. For a time I feared the tracing of detectives. I lived in constant terror, hiding by day, living in dread at night, subsisting upon the few crumbs that came in my way, or starving, as occasion demanded, until I could bear it no longer! I threw aside fear, and determined that whatever the consequences might be, I would brave it out. I obtained some light work; I went from that to my old work of typewriting, but the girls monopolized that, and I was a—boy. However, I got enough money together to buy a decent suit of clothes, accidentally performed a slight service for Andrew Pryor, was taken into his employ to do anything that came my way that was not menial, though I don't know that I should have refused that had it come my way, and now I am his private secretary. It is a curious world! I wonder what in Heaven's name is in store for me? They must all discover sooner or later that I am not what I appear, but how can I help it? It is useless to repine now! There is no going back. It is forward or die, and I am not ready for that yet. Thank God for one thing. It will enable me to repay the debt that I owe to Lynde Pyne! Suppose that he knew the truth? Suppose that he knew that but yesterday he had stood beside me, Leonie Cuyler? Suppose—— But the time for supposing anything is over. I am Neil Lowell now, and Neil Lowell I shall remain to the end of the chapter. I even intend to try to forget that I am not the boy that I appear. There is no reason why I should not remain Neil Lowell. I have as much right to that name as any other. As a boy, life promises something to me, as a girl, it holds nothing but disgrace and shame. Let me see! If I am to appear at that dinner-table I must be presentable. I shall have just time to go down-town and make some necessary purchases before the dinner hour. Ha! ha! It does seem too absurd to think of Leonie Cuyler in the bosom of the family of Andrew Pryor as a fine young man, and his private secretary. I suppose I shall be making love to one of the girls next."
The expression of the beautiful face was nearer to amusement than any that had shadowed it since that death on the top floor of the tenement, that Leonie Cuyler had called her home.
The black derby was pulled down to carefully conceal the broad brow, and with a very boyish swing to his gait, Neil Lowell passed out of the house again.
The few necessary purchases were made, the suit that Andrew Pryor required at his dinner-table was ordered, and Neil Lowell returned home.
He had scarcely completed his preparations when the chimes announced dinner.
With a heart that thrilled with embarrassment, but well concealed by the most composed exterior, he descended to the dinner-room.
Andrew Pryor received him.
"My dear," he said to his wife, "you have known this young man as a boy to whom I have taken a great liking, but for a service rendered me to-day that shows his capability to fill such a position with credit to himself, I have made him my private secretary. I wish him in future to be received as a member of my family. Gwen, my dear, come here. Miss Pryor, allow me to present Mr. Lowell!"
The formal introduction was made to his eldest daughter, who bowed courteously, then followed by an introduction to the others, two in number.
Gravely, and with the polish of a courtier, Neil Lowell responded to the introduction, filling Andrew Pryor with more surprise than ever.
"Where in thunder did the boy get his polish?" he kept asking himself all through dinner, but the end came without his having found a reply.
"He is a charming boy!" Alice told her sister, Gwendolyn, when they were alone in their own room.
And Gwendolyn, contrary to her custom, did not negative the assertion.
It was altogether a triumph for Neil Lowell, and the tears that moistened his pillow that night were girlish, but they were not tears of sadness entirely.
"Lowell!"
"Yes, sir!"
"What are you doing?"
"Answering that batch of letters that came by the morning delivery."
"Well, stop! I'm tired of it. It seems to me that you do nothing eternally but work from morning until night!"
The sweet face was lifted, all dimpled with smiles.
"Was not that what you engaged me for?"
"Not exclusively. I don't want any fellow to make himself a slave for me. Are you going to the Dorlans to-night?"
"No, sir."
"Why?"—testily.
"Well, I don't know any one, sir, and it did not seem to me that I should be missed. It was very kind of Mr. Dorlan to ask me, but I did not think that he expected me to accept. He only did it because he thought you would like it."
"Then you acknowledge that you have not as much consideration for my feelings as he has."
"I don't see how you make that, sir."
"He, you say, invited you because I wanted him to, and you won't go, knowing that I am very anxious that you should!"
"I did not know that, sir!"
"Well, you know it now. Are you going?"
"Not if you will excuse me."
"I will not press you if you wish that I should not. By the way, Lowell, won't you have a cigar?"
The silver case was lifted and held upward for the young man to select one to his own liking. Half a dozen dimples played about his pretty mouth as Neil Lowell suppressed an outright laugh.
"I never smoke, thank you, sir," he answered.
"What? Oh, hang it, I always forget you are only a boy. You have so few of the frivolities of youth that I can never seem to remember that you are not an old man. I have no prejudice against smoking, though, for old or young, if not carried to excess. You must learn. It is a great comfort, and——"
Andrew Pryor paused as the door of his study was thrown open without permission, and Alice, his youngest daughter, entered.
"Papa," she cried enthusiastically, "I have just had a letter from Edith. It has been delayed somehow upon the road, and I find by comparing the dates that she will be here to-night. Isn't that just perfectly lovely? She said it would be impossible for her to tell exactly by what train she would arrive, but that we need not trouble to meet her, as her cousin would be with her, and he could bring her to the house at once, but that she would arrive in time for dinner! I am so pleased!"
She threw her arms around the old gentleman's neck, and proceeded to half suffocate him in her demonstrations of joy.
"Gwen is as happy as I am," she continued, her black eyes dancing with delight. "I have already planned a thousand different things for her entertainment. The dinner to-night must be just lovely. Don't you think I had better invite a few people, impromptu, don't you know?"
"I dare say that would be very pleasant, but I am going to Dorlan's to a stag dinner," returned Pryor sheepishly, as though knowing that his absence from home would be regarded very much as a crime.
"Oh, papa!"
The pretty face fell, the corners of the little mouth were drawn downward, and the tiny hand fell from his shoulder.
"Now then—now then!" cried Pryor, rising and patting her cheeks lightly. "You need not look as though I had locked you up in the closet. This dinner has been arranged for a week, and I could not possibly decline. But that need not hinder your arrangements at all, for Lowell will be here, and he can act in my place. I shall perhaps be able to make my own excuses before I leave, and just authorize him to do the honors. I don't think I would ask any one but Edith's cousin, then you can make a little family dinner of the first one."
"And are you not going to the stag dinner, Mr. Lowell?" asked Miss Pryor, lifting her sweet eyes to his face, glowing with good humor again.
"No."
"That is just lovely of you. I should kiss you if I dared."
"I shall not resist in the least," laughed Neil.
"Well, some other time! Then we shall have the family dinner to-night. Oh, I shall be so glad to see Edith! I do wonder what her cousin is like? I hope he will be pleasant and companionable for you, Mr. Lowell."
"That is very kind of you, Miss Alice, but I much prefer the society of the ladies."
"Right again, Lowell! Gad! you are the most sensible boy I ever saw!" exclaimed Mr. Pryor admiringly.
"Then we may count upon you for dinner to-night, Mr. Lowell?" interrupted Alice.
"I am always at your service, Miss Alice."
"That is so good of you. But there is one warning that I have to give you. Don't fall in love with Edith. She is already engaged, but the greatest little flirt in existence."
"I am not susceptible, Miss Alice. If I had been——"
A look completed the sentence, a look that brought the quick color to the pretty, round cheeks, which Neil Lowell was not slow to see.
The girl kissed her father and hurried from the room. The old man glanced from Lowell to the closed door, and back again, in much surprise.
"Neil," he said, after a long, thoughtful pause, "that is a subject upon which jests are not admissible."
"I understand you, sir, and I beg that you will feel no anxiety whatever upon that point. I am too young to fear."
"No, you are not. Your face is unusually handsome, and—— Remember, boy, I do not speak for my daughter's sake alone, but yours as well."
"I made up my mind, Mr. Pryor, some time ago, and I shall keep to my resolution, that I shall never marry. I beg that you will feel no concern for either me or—for her. Will you excuse me? We neither of us have much time in which to dress for dinner."
Andrew Pryor nodded a consent, and with infinite amusement in his heart, and amusement that was to be piteously short-lived, Neil Lowell sought his room to dress for that dinner that was to linger long in his memory.