The Lady Van Tyne was standing before the long pier-glass arranging the final touches of her elaborate coiffure when Dr. Seward was announced. The excitement caused by his sudden departure for America had hardly subsided when it was again aroused by his unexpected return.
Even Lady Van Tyne, revolving as she was in the whirlpool of social duties and pleasures, stopped long enough to express some wonder at the eccentricities of her staid and venerable physician. But her eagerness to greet him now as he entered her private sanctum did not deter her from once more altering the position of a jeweled pin in her abundant hair and turning again, glass in hand, to note the effect of her artistic alteration.
"Ah, doctor," she exclaimed, as she laid the costly glass carefully upon the dressing-case, "I heard that you had returned but I hardly expected you would so soon honor me with a call;—but what is the matter? you look ill" she said as she noted the unusual pallor of his face.
"No not ill," was his reply, as he stood looking down upon her while his hands toyed nervously with a heavy walking stick. Then making a determined effort as if to have it over as soon as possible, he said abruptly, "Lady Van Tyne, forgive me, but for nearly thirty years I have kept silence upon this subject, but to-day I must speak. I have found your son, and if ever man needed a mother's love, he does. I beg you to hear his story and then let us try together to undo the sin committed so many years ago." The physician's face was flushed with shame and eagerness when he had finished speaking, but the wave of violent anger that swept across his hearer's features left her with blazing eyes and tightly compressed lips, and for a moment he wondered vaguely what the outcome of her emotions was to be.
It was only an instant's wonderment, for with swift and decided movement she withdrew the heavy portieres, and motioned him to enter a more secluded room, then following, she came close beside him and clutching his arm, exclaimed fiercely, "How dare you speak of this to me? were you not paid for silence as well as for assistance in the matter?"
The physician winced beneath her words but she continued angrily, "learn what you will of this child, but remember, please, that I will hear no word regarding him or his whereabouts. You undertook his concealment,—see you to it that it is continued, at least, so far as I am concerned," and she drew herself to her stateliest carriage before the shrinking form of the unhappy man.
"But he is your first born, dear Lady Van Tyne,—have you no love in your heart for the child of your happy days? No feeling of remorse for the crime committed against humanity? no pity for the unfortunate boy, thrust nameless and alone upon the careless mercy of this cruel, heartless world?"
"You plead well, Dr. Seward," she sneered as the physician wiped the beads of sweat from his heated brow. "You plead for the very child whose abandonment you first suggested, have you forgotten that?"
"Alas, no," said Dr. Seward, sadly. "I have forgotten nothing. I humbly admit the sin which youth and thoughtlessness permitted, but believe me, I have suffered greatly for that error and now when I have found the innocent babe, grown to full manhood, with his nature cramped and dwarfed by bitterness of spirit; his hand turned fiercely against himself and every man's hand against him, I feel that it is our duty, yours and mine, to come forth boldly in his cause and help if possible to redeem from death and eternal condemnation, the human soul we have so inexpressibly wronged.
"It can not be that you, his mother, will refuse to aid me in this undertaking?" he questioned pleadingly.
But the Lady Van Tyne was weary of the subject. The self control that at first deserted her had now returned, and curving her lips in a disdainful smile, she said distinctly, "Dr Seward, I have valued your advice for many years but it seems to me that now your judgment is deserting you. If this is true that you have found the child, I can only say, do what you please regarding the matter, but depend upon it, I shall deny your accusations and defend my position before the world with the unlimited means that you well know are at my disposal. I have the dignity of my family to sustain and the claims of unwelcome offspring shall never interfere between Lady Van Tyne and her social position, so"—she continued, as she drew aside the heavy curtains, "if you are determined to play the fool we may as well shake hands and consider our acquaintance at an end forever."
But Dr. Seward did not touch the jeweled fingers that were extended to him so graciously. He merely bowed his head and passed silently out of her presence, feeling in all humility that the sorrow of the moment was but another expiation of the never forgotten error of his youthful days.
After he had gone the Lady Van Tyne returned again to her mirror and took a long survey of herself in the polished glass, but some way the reflection of her person was not as pleasing as it had been an hour before and she jerked the lace awkwardly about her throat, while wrinkles hitherto unnoticed crept stealthily about her eyes and the wave of fine grey hair upon her brow looked singularly old and unbecoming. She had not deceived herself by her apparent calmness of demeanor during the physician's strange entreaty, and now that she was alone her courage forsook her entirely and she sank heavily upon the sofa in a paroxysm of fear and trembling while she felt the foundations of her respectability shaking beneath her feet and pictured her humiliating position if the truth should ever be revealed. Not a thought of her son's surroundings entered her mind, and, as she finally controlled herself for the evening's pleasure, a prayer for her own protection was the one vague sentiment of her selfish, worldly heart.
It was late that night before Dr. Seward retired to his private office for an hour with his books and drugs, for he had extended his ride after leaving Lady Van Tyne's residence and called upon his friend at the hospital across the bridge. Here his scientific curiosity returned and he again became possessor of the little vial of brownish powder. That night in the privacy of his professional den, he again investigated the mysterious contents.
Over and over again the breakfast bell was rung in the early morning, but not until the household was thoroughly alarmed at his continued absence, did any one think to try the handle of the office door. There they found him, cold and breathless upon the well worn sofa, while by his side upon the carpet was a curious shaped vial, empty, and bearing on one side a label whereupon was written in Dr. Seward's own handwriting, the extraordinary warning, "Death to the Inquisitive."
The news of Dr. Seward's mysterious death fell like a thunder bolt upon the household he had left so recently across the water.
Mrs. Sinclair mourned sincerely for the loss of a life long friend, and Stella, for a fatherly counsellor.
For hours after the arrival of the cablegram announcing the physician's death, Sir Frederic paced the floor of his apartments, pondering deeply on a secret which he felt must be shared by none. He was thinking of Dr. Seward's suspicions as to the parentage of the young man now safely guarded within the ponderous walls of the "Tombs." It had been only a suspicion and now the one human being who knew aught of the matter was silent in the sleep of death.
It was left for him to speak the words which should wound Mrs. Sinclair's faithful heart and destroy forever the sacred memory which was a part of her very being.
It was plain to him that the unhappy prisoner knew nothing of his birth and only suspected Dr. Seward of knowledge on the subject through some recollection of old associations. If this was the case there could be no harm in remaining altogether silent on the subject, but then, when this conclusion was reached, he thought of Lady Van Tyne and her probable knowledge and realized how impossible it would be to conceal the identity of her son from his mother when the question of his parentage was raised, as it must be, during his trial by English law.
Whether Dr. Seward had succeeded in obtaining an interview with Lady Van Tyne before his death, Sir Frederic did not know, and although greatly distressed, he determined to defer the matter as long as possible as Mrs. Sinclair and Stella were happier now than they had been for many days, not only in their freedom from all supposed relationship to the guilty man, but in the anticipation of a new joy that had recently crept mysteriously within their hearts.
Elizabeth's sorrow was pitiful to behold, but the winds of grief were tempered with kindness, in the fact of her lawful wifehood and the love of her baby girl she found much happiness and comfort.
It was a pleasure to them all one chilly evening as they gathered about the roaring fire, the butler entered and unceremoniously ushered into their presence the jolly old Commander whose story of Maurice Sinclair's death brought them sorrow and rejoicing, and the kindly young officer of the Cunarder whose interest had been the means of so much prosperity to Elizabeth and her child.
"Ha, Ha," laughed the bronzed old Captain as he tossed little Elsa high in the air; "You don't look much as you did on the Steamer, little one. I guess you've anchored in a pleasant port, Ay?"
"Indeed we have sir," responded Elizabeth, softly, as she gave her hand to him in greeting.
"Well, well," he continued, looking appreciatively at her rounded cheeks. "'Pon my soul, I never expected to see you looking like this. Here, Mate, look at her red cheeks," he continued gaily, turning to the young officer.
The young man blushed like a girl, for all his manly proportions, as he took Elizabeth's timid hand and bent his head modestly as she said, "I have you to thank for my home and happiness, Mr. Moore. You were the first to think of me when I was lying sick in that dreadful place."
"Indeed, Madam," he answered hurriedly, "it was the Chinaman that mentioned the matter to me, you must not forget him."
"That is so, what became of the Ching Chong, Sir Frederic?" asked the Captain as he lowered himself slowly into the massive rocker by Mrs. Sinclair's side.
Sir Frederic told him briefly of his last interview with Sam Lee and the capture of the imposter, touching as lightly as possible on the facts of the case in deference to Elizabeth's presence, and both men sat silently and listened with great interest to the recital.
When it was ended the Captain asked anxiously, "Did he give his name or any clue to his identity?"
"He said that Jack Fenton was not his name, although he had been called by that, and only knew himself as an illegitimate child, cast off by his parents and reared by those who were equally ignorant of his birth with himself.
"There is no doubt in my mind, Captain, but that he is the other lad in your story, but you shall see him yourself to-morrow and that will remove the last suspicion of doubt regarding his identity."
"And this Chinaman," continued the Captain, "you say he conversed with him in that heathenish tongue, that in spite of a dozen stops in Chinese ports, I could never make head or tail out of, does he give him a name or know anything of his past?"
Here, Elizabeth rose quietly and making some trivial excuse, passed hastily from the room, but not so quickly but that Stella, who had both felt and seen her uneasiness, immediately joined her outside the door.
"Oh, Lady Atherton," Elizabeth cried as Stella drew her closely to her side in mute sympathy when they were alone. "How dreadful it all is. To think that the man I loved and trusted; the father of my darling child, should be nameless, friendless and alone, with sin upon his soul and no one to breathe a word of sympathy in his hour of need. Oh, Lawrie!" she sobbed, "If I could only come to you."
"But, dear Lizzie," whispered Stella, "You must think of yourself and Elsa first of all. You have suffered enough and it can do no possible good for you to go to him. Wait, Lizzie, wait until he is penitent and expresses a wish for his wife's forgiveness."
"Yes, I know that he does not care," cried Elizabeth, "but my heart aches for him and I would gladly forgive all if he would only say that he loved me. Oh, My Husband. You were merciful,—you spared my honor and gave my child a stainless birth when, body and soul, I would have been your slave. Yes, I too, will be merciful," she continued suddenly with a determined voice as she raised her streaming eyes to Stella's face.
"Let me go to him, dear Lady Atherton, my place is at my husband's side. Let me plead for him at his trial and bear with him the penalty of his sins."
"Do you love him so dearly, Lizzie?" asked Stella sadly.
"I loved him once—Yes, yes I love him now," she added,—then facing Stella she asked abruptly, "would you not do the same? Would you not cling to him and work for him, if the man you loved was trembling on the verge of awful danger?"
"I don't know," said Stella, doubtfully. Then a proud smile curved her lips and her dark eyes flashed as she added, slowly, "I am afraid, dear, that my love would never stand the test of sin and crime in one I loved. Weakness and error I would shield; I would face danger and bear humiliation, but I feel that I could never endure to blush with shame for a loved one's infamy or drink the dregs of degradation, although pressed to my lips by my husband, himself. No! Lizzie," she said decidedly, "when my lover falls from his pedestal of honor and virtue and descends to the crimes and vices of this earth, I shall cease to love him, and though it tore the weak, fleshy heart from my bosom, I would never voluntarily look upon his face again." There was silence for several moments between the two when she finished speaking, but at last Stella rose and said gently, "Wait here a little and compose yourself, dear, while I return to our friends and when you join us again there shall be nothing said to distress you, for I know," she added roguishly, "the young officer has not come to see either mamma or me and you know Elsa is hardly old enough to receive young gentlemen callers without her mother to act as chaperone."
When Stella returned to the parlor it was as she thought. Her husband had made his guests familiar with Elizabeth's story and she was a little surprised to see the young officer holding Elsa carefully on his knee while his eyes blazed and his features were set in a look of stern resolve that boded no good for the villain of the narrative, should he by any chance cross his path.
The wheels of the law moved slowly but steadily forward until but one short day remained before the extradition of the nameless prisoner to the legal guardianship of his native country. Much interest had been excited in his case and great scope given the imagination of the curious regarding his identity, but all to no avail. The cloud upon his birth pursued him and now that Dr. Seward was dead there seemed little fear of its ever being lifted.
None but the idly inquisitive seekers after morbid sensations called upon him in his prison home until the day before his anticipated departure, when a Mongolian, wearing the full regalia of his country, begged a brief audience with the carefully guarded man.
No one knew what was said during that short interview as the conversation baffled the linguistic ability of the Irish guard, but when it was over he was promptly ushered out by the son of Erin who had listened with open mouthed astonishment to their unintelligible chatterings.
It was only a brief five minutes that the guard remained away, but when he returned to his post, after seeing the Celestial visitor safely outside the building, he thought he detected an unusual odor, and going immediately to his prisoner's door demanded to know "what koind of shmell the grasy yaller shkin had lift behoind him, to be shure!"
But there was no answer to his inquiry and promptly opening the door he was horrified to find that in spite of all his vigilance his prisoner had escaped him. Not by disappearance of body, for the still cold form remained, but by flight of soul, instantaneous and complete, while the sickish odor of some unknown drug spoke only too plainly of the method employed for his escape from earthly bondage.
For a moment the horrified guard was speechless with concern, then closing the door silently, he repaired to the warden's office, and in a few short hours all New York was ringing with the news of the mysterious death and clamoring wildly for the capture of the prisoner's only visitor.
Five years have passed away since that death in the lonely prison cell, but from that day, Sam Lee disappeared as completely from the gaze of man as if he, too, had journeyed to the world from whence there is no returning.
Search was unavailing and inquiry and investigation alike, fruitless.
The autopsy made upon the dead man's body revealed nothing other than asphyxiation by an unknown drug, but whether administered by his own or other hands, was never ascertained.
Men reasoned, argued and theorized, and at last lost interest.
For Elizabeth's sake, Sir Frederic saw that the body was decently interred and then made haste to return once more to Portland Place, as it was Stella's ardent wish that her child should be born in the home so dear to her own youthful associations.
Little Archie is now nearly five years old and baby Millie just turned one, but they have thus early demonstrated their importance in the Atherton family, and no one dreams for a moment of denying their claims to attention and worship.
Mrs. Sinclair is radiantly happy.
Little Archie is her husband's namesake, and on him she lavishes so much of her tender love that Stella often wonders if baby Millie will not some day look with jealous eyes upon her grandma's preference.
The children are frequent visitors at the house in G—St., where Elsa watches carefully over their frolics with the conscious dignity of her mature years.
Elizabeth thought at first that she could not endure to live again beneath the walls that had been the scenes of her perilous infatuation, but of late a peaceful smile lights up her lovely features and the old house has been turned completely upside down with her tasteful renovations.
Perhaps little Elsa explains matters somewhat when she grasps Mr. Morris' extended hand and leading him gaily to her playmates, says confidentially, "This is my new papa, Archie, mamma says so!" and "Mamma," who has entered at that moment, comes blushingly forward to be held for a moment in her young husband's arms, while the first deep feeling of perfect love thrills her long sorrowing heart with joy unspeakable.
As for Sir Frederic, he has watched carefully for any signs of knowledge on the part of Lady Van Tyne regarding the suspicions which Dr. Seward so conscientiously revealed to him, but the years go by and there is no word.
The Lady Van Tyne sits calmly on her pedestal of virtue, and although its foundations are of gold, still there is enough of that precious metal to secure her position for many years to come, and positive that no word of hers will ever destroy her social prominence, Sir Frederic locks the guilty secret in his heart and turning to the sweet faced women whom he loves, breathes silently a solemn vow of "Death to the Inquisitive."
THE END.
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