Lillian's vow or, The mystery of Raleigh House
“Are you satisfied that Jack Lyndon is at least a flirt?” he asked,
softly.
She made no reply. What could she say? If Jack Lyndon were false and
treacherous, in whom could she believe? Sick and faint, she turned
away, and seating herself upon the rustic seat, she covered her face
with her hands. How long a time passed in silence she knew not. The
silence was broken at last by Raleigh’s voice.
“Lillian, would you know the truth--the bad, black, dreadful truth?
Listen to me, then, and believe that I speak truly, Lillian Leigh.”
He stooped and spoke a few words in a low tone.
With a moan of anguish she fell at his feet, and lay there for a time
quite oblivious to all that had come upon her. Not unconscious, not in
an ordinary swoon. There are blows which fall crushing upon the human
heart with such force, such awful paralyzing force, that they benumb
the brain and bring a dull torpor upon the senses, crushing the mind
and the reason for the time being, because they are not strong enough
to believe and accept the full force of the awful shock. In some such a
trance poor Lillian lay for a time. At last Raleigh stooped and lifted
the slight black-robed form in his arms, adjusting the white cloak
about her with a tender touch. It was certain that with all his vices
there was a soft, tender spot in his heart for Lillian. But his face
was set and stern, and low under his breath he murmured, faintly:
“I have half a mind to give up the whole business and run away. But,
no; there is too much involved. Father has revealed too much; I have
promised, and I can not go back now that I have started on the road to
success. I have put my hand to the plow and must not turn back. I must
go on to the bitter end, no matter what the consequences may be.”
And as he lifted Lillian in his arms to place her upon the rustic seat,
just at that juncture Rosamond had appeared with Jack Lyndon. But
neither Lillian nor Richard Raleigh dreamed of such a thing.
One swift glance of horror, just long enough to know and realize that
his eyes had not deceived him, or the moonlight played any trick with
his eyesight, and Jack Lyndon wheeled swiftly about and retraced his
steps to the house, followed at a little distance by Rosamond, her
heart full of gratified triumph. She had succeeded beyond her wildest
hopes.
The goal was very nearly won. If only she were patient and played her
cards properly all would yet be well.
Back in the drawing-room once more, Jack seated himself without a word.
He felt in a mood for anything now--reckless and desperate--fit for any
mad deed. Lillian was false. If that were so--and how could he doubt
the evidence of his own eyesight?--then there was not a woman in the
world worth caring for, worth trusting in. As he sat in moody silence a
soft hand was laid upon his forehead, smoothing the hair from his brow,
and a low, magnetic voice murmured, sweetly:
“Jack, don’t look so down-hearted. What in the world is the matter?
There,” with a low, rippling laugh, “I hear Lillian coming into the
house--the little deceiver. Shall I call her in here and question her?”
He shivered all over as with a chill.
“Forbear!” he cried, lightly. “To intrude upon her happiness would be
unkind. Come, Rosamond,” calling her by that name for the first time in
his life, “let us sit here and have a pleasant chat and shut out all
the world--all false women and men, all deceit and wrong-doing. Let us
be a veritable Darby and Joan, for one night only, as the play-bills
say.”
He was in just the mood to fall into her snare, and Rosamond Raleigh
knew it.
Poor though he was, she had learned to love the brilliant young
journalist with a mad, unceasing love of which no one believed her
capable. And she had made up her mind to marry him.
“I have money enough for both,” she had decided.
To-night he was so reckless and defiant, so desperate and bitter, that
Rosamond’s gentle sympathy, her ignoring of the possibility of Lillian
having any claim upon his affections, all had its own deadly effect.
And sitting at Rosamond’s side in the dimly lighted drawing-room,
fully convinced of Lillian’s falseness and unworthiness, and therefore
considering himself free from her, Jack Lyndon made the mad mistake of
his life. He asked Rosamond Raleigh to be his wife, and Miss Raleigh
promptly accepted him.
CHAPTER XI.
IN THE CONSERVATORY.
Senator Van Alstyne’s splendid mansion was ablaze with light. It looked
like a fairy palace, glittering with its brilliant illumination.
Within, the great rooms were thrown open, and wreathed and decorated
with flowers, with banks of roses and jasmine, and a flower-wreathed
nook from behind which a band of musicians sent forth strains of music
maddening, intoxicating. A grand reception was taking place, and
Senator Van Alstyne, in all the ugliness of conventional evening-dress,
was prominent among his aristocratic guests, his red face fairly
shining with gratified pride and flattered vanity. In the center of the
great drawing-room stood a queenly figure in a sweeping robe of white
velvet, with diamonds sparkling all over her white lace overdress like
fairy frost-work glittering with dew-drops. She was pale and cold and
proud, and in the depths of the beautiful dark eyes there was a weary
look--a look of self-scorn.
“I am pitiably weak,” she was saying to herself, with bitter
self-contempt, “for I ought to have asserted my dignity as a woman;
and when that blow was struck me--that cowardly, unmanly blow--it
would have been better, and I would have more self-respect now, if I
had gone away. Gone to toil and hardship--to work, to starve and die,
and be out of all this gilded misery. For, oh! if it be true, and if
he is living, what am I? I dared not read the entire letter, for Van
Alstyne would have taken forcible possession of it; so I do not know
his address, or where he is, or where to write. Heaven help me!” she
murmured, feebly. “What shall I do?”
Yet all the time these bitter thoughts were running riot through her
brain she was standing, the cynosure of all eyes, in the sumptuous
drawing-room, in her white velvet and point lace and sparkling
diamonds, the most admired, even as she was the most beautiful, woman
present. And like a huge watch-dog Senator Van Alstyne moved about
near her, his keen, ferret-like eyes keeping vigilant watch upon her
movements.
“I will find out what is tormenting her so!” he declared, resolutely.
“There is something wrong--some secret--and it is connected with that
letter. The next letter that arrives for her shall be opened by my
hands before ever she sees it. It is no more than right that I should
know the contents of her letters. By Jove! she is my wife, and I am her
lord and master!”
Just then his eyes fell upon a stylish, graceful little figure in
trailing yellow silk and blood-red rubies. A pair of big, black,
velvety eyes were uplifted with an admiring expression to his
face--with a look which drew him to her side--and the great Senator
Van Alstyne was soon engrossed with Mrs. Vernon, a notorious flirt and
belle, who looked upon all men as lawful prey, and lost no opportunity
of subjugation. There was a Mr. Vernon, too; but then nobody ever
troubled themselves in regard to him, save only as Mrs. Vernon’s
husband. She monopolized all masculine attention, and in her sweet,
innocent, childish way had been guilty of more cruelty, responsible for
more family feuds and conjugal infelicities than any other woman in
the city. Yet she had always contrived to escape blame or censure, and
if any one ventured to blame her she posed as a martyr, and was looked
upon as the victim of envious foes.
“My dear senator,” she cooed sweetly, as she laid her white-gloved
finger-tips upon his black coat-sleeve, and prepared for an agreeable
promenade, “I really must congratulate you upon the success of your
entertainment. It is _recherché_; it is the most perfect that I have
ever witnessed. And how superbly beautiful Mrs. Van Alstyne looks
to-night! No wonder everybody falls in love with her. That reminds
me to ask you the name of her new admirer--the stranger who haunts
her like a shadow. He is so handsome--perfectly splendid. With such
an interesting pallor, and large, dark, melancholy eyes, silky black
mustache and wavy dark hair. I declare he is just for all the world
like the Giaour and all of dear, delightful, awfully wicked Lord
Byron’s heroes! And he looks at Lenore--Mrs. Van Alstyne--with such a
look! What is his name, did you say, senator?”
And she knew full well that the jealous old senator had not said, and
did not know, and it was for that very reason that she had broached the
subject. For Lenore had been so coldly proud in her reception of Mrs.
Vernon that that lady could not find it in her heart to forgive her,
and instead had vowed to pay her back.
She watched Van Alstyne’s face change from smiling red to angry purple,
and his small eyes snap with displeasure. She noticed, too, the
clinched hand and hard, labored breathing. Nothing escaped her eager,
malicious eyes.
“I have not the pleasure of knowing all Mrs. Van Alstyne’s friends,” he
returned, stiffly. “Be good enough to point him out to me, Mrs. Vernon.
Perhaps I can tell you his name if I have the pleasure of seeing the
gentleman.”
“Ah, yes, to be sure! I am always doing foolish, childish things,” in
a tone of mock sorrow. “Forgive me, senator--please; and I’ll promise,
like the naughty boy, never to do it again. There! I see my fascinating
hero--the mysterious unknown. He is standing not far from Mrs. Van
Alstyne. She does not appear to see him at all; but some magnetism
draws him thither--sort of needle and the pole attraction, you know,”
with a silly laugh.
Van Van Alstyne’s greenish eyes followed the direction in which
Mrs. Vernon was gazing. He saw a tall, graceful figure in faultless
evening-dress standing near Lenore. A wondrously handsome man with a
decidedly foreign aspect, dark Oriental eyes, and pale, statuesque
face. Lenore evidently did not observe him. She was engaged in
conversation with a group of ladies and their attendant cavaliers, but
the stranger stood still as a statue, his eyes fastened upon her like
one who is biding his time, waiting patiently for his hour to come.
And still without observing him she turned aside and wandered away to
the conservatory. Van Alstyne’s eyes shone with a lurid light, and
he set his yellow teeth close together, hissing forth a naughty word
from between them. He arose to his feet; Mrs. Vernon arose also and
laid her hand upon his arm. He could not shake her off, and he knew
it; it was best also to keep in Mrs. Vernon’s good graces, so the wily
senator was compelled to stifle his yearnings in the direction of
the conservatory--the conservatory which Lenore entered and went on
straight to her doom.
She wandered down the flower-scented aisles with a tinkling fountain
splashing dreamily and tropical birds singing overhead in their gilded
cages--birds that, like herself, had been taken in their wild beauty
and imprisoned in a glittering prison against which they might beat
their wings in vain, for they could never escape--nothing would free
them but death. Lenore caught her breath with a weary little sigh.
“Nothing but death,” she murmured, softly; “and I have the means of
escape always with me.”
She gazed upon one white finger on which a large solitaire diamond
glittered in the gas-lighted conservatory like living fire.
“No one would ever dream,” she went on, drearily, “that under this
shining stone there lies a drop of poison--such subtle, deadly poison,
and so swift in its effect, that I have only to press the hidden spring
in this ring to find death and eternal quiet.”
“Lenore!”