Lillian's vow or, The mystery of Raleigh House
proposal for Rosamond’s hand from a poor devil of a writer. Ah, me! I
can only leave it to time and fate. How beautiful she was to-night!”
he went on, suddenly breaking the silence which had fallen over him;
“the woman who has blighted my faith in all womankind, and has caused
me to make shipwreck of my whole life! She loved me only a few hours
ago!” he added, bitterly. “Yesterday she told me with tears in her eyes
and kisses upon my lips that she loved me. To-night she is betrothed
to a millionaire’s son. Good God! I would give my life to know the
truth, and why she has changed so! Bah! what a fool I am! As though
it were anything but the glittering bait which Richard Raleigh holds
out to her! Yesterday morning she did not know that he meant marriage,
so the poor newspaper scribbler was in favor. To-night there is the
prospect of life in a fine house, with servants and jewels and costly
dresses--bah! all that goes to make up a woman’s heaven--and for these
she turns her back upon love and me, and accepts the glittering future.
But one thing puzzles me.”
He came to a halt upon the deserted streets, and stood staring blankly
through the semi-darkness.
“Why should Richard Raleigh wish to marry a poor girl like Lillian
Leigh?” he went on, slowly. “And he really means honorable marriage,
or he would never have taken the bold step of presenting her to his
family as his betrothed wife. And why--why is Grafton Raleigh, the
purse-proud millionaire, so resigned? Nay, more--I firmly believe that
he is willing--is even pleased; for I surprised a look of intense
satisfaction and relief upon his face while he listened to Richard’s
words. Ah, well, it is a mystery to me,” he went on, as he plunged into
the gloom of the nearest street corner and hastened on down-town--“a
mystery which I may never unravel. But, for my own part, I am the most
miserable man alive, and the sooner the Gordian knot of life is cut the
better for me!”
In the meantime, a terrible scene was taking place at the Raleigh
mansion. Mrs. Raleigh, recovered from the hysterics, was still able to
enact the rôle of the injured mother, the insulted and outraged lady,
and she spared no words to impress upon her hearers the full enormity
of the crime from which she was suffering.
“A common servant-girl!” she panted, angrily, pacing madly up and down
her handsome chamber, whither her husband and Rosamond had followed
her. “A working-girl--daughter of one of my husband’s employees! A
low-born creature like that to be the wife of my son--my handsome
Richard--who might have his choice among the ladies of the land!
Grafton, I can not endure it!” she shrieked, madly. “Drive that girl
from the house--I command you! She shall not remain here! I hate
her--hate her! I hate her pretty baby face and silly ways, her cat-like
deceit, her snaky way of winding herself about everybody’s heart but
mine! Ah, no! not mine--nor Rosamond’s! We are women, and we know a
bad, designing woman--a base adventuress--when we see one. It takes a
woman to know a woman’s real nature, I tell you, Grafton Raleigh.”
“On the principle that it takes a thief to catch a thief, I presume,”
intervened that gentleman, dryly. “Now, Mrs. Raleigh, are you done?
Have you finished your tirade? If so, then perhaps--possibly you
may listen to me. For I have something to say to you and also to
my daughter--a revelation to make. Richard and I have been hiding
something--an important discovery--from you both, for our own private
reasons. Mrs. Raleigh--Rosamond--listen both of you. How would you
like--how would you both like--to be poor? Poor! Not simply deprived
of extravagances--a few extra jewels, an unnecessary servant, a
useless superfluity of some sort; but poor--plainly, horribly,
uncompromisingly poor? How would you like to live on a back street
in a six-room cottage, and be your own servants, and exist without
jewels, walk instead of drive in your carriage with liveried footman,
forego Newport, Saratoga, and all that? How would you like to give up
Jack Lyndon, Rosamond? For, of course, without money that marriage is
off. Answer me, both of you, how would you like to be poverty-stricken
paupers?”
Mrs. Raleigh’s eyes were riveted upon Grafton Raleigh’s pale, earnest
face.
“You are mad!” she was beginning.
He bowed.
“So you have remarked before, madame!” he interrupted, coldly. “I
repeat my question, how would you like to be poor? Now listen. The
great house of Raleigh & Raleigh stands upon the verge of ruin,
and although it may sound absurd and incredible to you, there are
reasons--real, tangible reasons--why a marriage with this girl will
obviate all this; will save us from ruin--utter ruin and black
disgrace--a disgrace which will tempt you to end your lives to escape
its obloquy; a disgrace which would turn Jack Lyndon from you,
Rosamond, and would make our best friend pass us by. I can explain
no further now; you must take my simple word for it. But if Richard
Raleigh does not make that girl Lillian Leigh his wife, and soon, we
will all be beggars, and I--I shall die in prison, the death of a
felon!”
He paused to mop the cold perspiration from his clammy forehead with
his handkerchief. He was as pale as death, and trembled visibly.
“Now, Helen Raleigh,” he continued, glancing into his wife’s white,
startled face with fierce, eager eyes, “will you keep on with your
senseless ravings, or will you make the best of the situation and
consent to the marriage without asking me unpleasant and troublesome
questions? will you relieve us from the scandal of a marriage without
your consent? in short, will you save us from ruin, disgrace, and me
from a felon’s death?”
CHAPTER XVII.
A SNAKE IN THE GRASS.
The music surged in sweet, soft strains, the dancers danced, and the
moments went by. And still the mistress of all this splendor lay
white and unconscious upon the low seat in the conservatory, where the
banksia roses were heaped in great clusters, and the dreamy splashing
of the little fountain not far away alone broke the silence. Out in the
ball-room Senator Van Alstyne was dancing with Mrs. Vernon. Her face
was flushed with triumph, and her eyes held a look of exultation in
their black, velvety depths.
“I will be even with Lenore Van Alstyne yet!” she was muttering low
under her breath. “I will pay her off for her cold, calm superiority
over me--her airs and graces, her assumption of goodness! I hate her,
the stuck-up, haughty creature. I have always suspected that there was
something hidden--a secret in her life--which she would not like the
world to know. I am sure of it now. I shall tell Rosamond all about
it, and if between us we can not punish and humiliate my lady, then I
imagine nobody can.”
And the black, velvety eyes shone like diamonds, and the pretty face
was full of eager exultation at the thought--the alluring prospect of
blackening and defiling a sister woman’s name, and dragging her down
into the dust of shame and humiliation. Lenore was pure and true and
noble, though the victim of strange circumstances. And this woman--who
was no more to be compared with her than the bright blue, sunshiny
summer day can compare with the black, cold, tempestuous winter’s
night--this woman had power to drag her down from her pedestal of
innocence, simply because Bessie Vernon was unprincipled, and had set
her whole heart upon the ruination of Lenore, whom she hated with that
hatred of her own sex which is a woman’s Cross of Honor--such women as
Bessie Vernon. And as she floated down the long room on the arm of the
senator, to the sweet waltz music, her thoughts were busy with a scheme
of vengeance.
And the moments slipped by, and still Lenore did not return to
consciousness. Mrs. Vernon had wandered away to the furthest extremity
of the drawing-room, and alone, for a wonder, was watching the
conservatory with furtive, cat-like eyes; but still Lenore lay in that
death-like swoon in the secluded corner among the banksia roses, and
the guests did not dream the truth.
At length a tall form emerged from the depths of the fernery just
beyond the main conservatory, separated by a screen of luxuriant
flowering vines, and slowly approached the unconscious woman. It was
Cyril Fayne; his face white and set, his eyes full of smoldering light
which was not good to see. He looked like a man who is bent upon some
desperate errand as he came swiftly forward and fell upon his knees at
her side.
“She is dead--my love, my wife!” he panted, hoarsely. “Lenore! Lenore!
Open your eyes, my darling, and tell me that you love me, and will go
with me at once--this very night!”
Slowly the soft dark eyes opened and met his eager, impassioned gaze.
She half arose, putting out her hands in a pleading, beseeching way.
“Don’t! Oh, Cyril! do not let them hear you!” she cried. “He would
listen to no explanation; he would put a bullet into your heart without
a moment’s hesitation. And if he knew all--if he knew--”
She stopped short, breathing hard, like one in pain. Cyril Fayne
started.
“He shall know--he must know soon!” he panted, softly. “I will only
wait for this affair to be ended and the guests dispersed; then I
will demand a private interview with Senator Van Alstyne. Lenore, my
darling, I am going to take you away from this place--away from the
awful position that you are filling--not your fault, my love! but it
must end now--at once, before another sun shall set. Think of the
horrors of your position--this sham existence must end at once! Let it
be to-morrow night. Ah! I have a better plan. We need say nothing to
him until all is over with; we would only make a terrible scene; and
once away from here, we will be with each other, never more to part!
You shall learn all the dark and dreary past, Lenore--the truth of our
long parting. I have written a full confession and explanation for you
to read before you join your fate with mine. Take this and read it at
your leisure,” he added, swiftly, drawing a letter from his pocket and
laying it in her trembling hand.
“We must be silent as the grave,” he went on, hurriedly; “keep our own
counsel, and all will yet be well. Lenore, you can not, must not, live
on in this way a day longer, now that you know the truth. Go with me
to-morrow night. I will meet you at any place you may designate, and we
will take passage for Europe at once. Does that please you, Lenore?”
She smiled, a sad, dreary smile it was, yet her eyes were full of
tenderness.
“Anywhere with you, Cyril,” she whispered. “Oh, to be with you always,
after all these long years, will be like heaven.”
“Then will you go away with me to-morrow night?” he panted, eagerly.
“I will defer my explanation until we are gone; then Van Alstyne shall
receive a written statement, with all necessary proofs of the truth,
and you will be out of his way, so that the horrors of his anger shall
not fall upon your head. And he is so violent and brutal, it is best
for you to be gone before he learns the truth, and that it is no sin.
The sin would be in remaining, Lenore!” She bowed her head like a
beautiful white lily--drooping and pale. “You will go with me?” he went
on, eagerly; “there is no other resource; and--surely you are willing,
Lenore?”
“Willing?”
She started to her feet, pale and trembling with excitement, her hands
clasped, her eyes shining like stars.
“Willing? Oh, Cyril! Ask a starving, freezing wretch if he is willing
to be taken to a warm, luxurious home, with every comfort; ask a dying
consumptive if he would be glad to have his health and strength again;
ask the bleeding, fainting heart if it would be happy with the one it
loves--and you will have my answer. Yes, yes; a thousand times yes. As
the old German song says: