Lillian's vow or, The mystery of Raleigh House
“‘To be with you--that’s my heaven:
Without you--that’s my hell.’
And I have been cast out into utter darkness, and my life has been
desolate and barren long enough. I am going to accept the cup of
happiness held to my lips, and thank God for the love that has come
back to me--Heaven be praised, not too late!”
He drew her to his side and kissed the red lips with a long, lingering
kiss.
“My love! my love!” he cried; “you are mine--mine by the laws of heaven
and earth! Thank God for that. Now, Lenore, tell me, where shall I
meet you to-morrow night? The ‘Caspian’ sails the next morning; she is
anchored out at sea. We can go on board my friend Thornton’s yacht at
any hour you name to-morrow night, and he will take us out to where the
‘Caspian’ lies. Once on board her, we are safe. Tell me what hour to
meet you, Lenore.”
She bent her head for a moment in deep thought.
“We entertain again to-morrow night,” she said, slowly. “Van Alstyne
would fill his house every night if it were feasible. To-morrow at
eight we give a dinner to some foreign embassadors and half a dozen
bewhiskered, beribboned officers--a score of guests. I can manage to
slip away unobserved from the house at ten, perhaps, and will meet you
in the grounds down by the ornamental lake. You can easily find the
place; there is a marble basin full of gold-fish, and the water is
white with pond-lilies. Be there at ten precisely, Cyril, and I will
join you as soon as possible.”
“Prepared to go with me at once?” he queried, breathlessly.
A quick flush shot athwart the ivory whiteness of her face and a tender
light stole into her luminous eyes.
“Prepared to go with you? Yes,” she made answer. “My life here must
come to an end. Oh, Heaven! if it had only come to an end long ago,
or, better still, had never begun. I hate and scorn and loathe myself,
Cyril, and oh--”
She stopped short, and her face grew ghastly white.
“Stay!” she whispered, hoarsely, “I have something to tell you--a
revelation to make, Cyril. Listen: I must tell it quickly, for my
guests will miss me, and I must leave you now.”
She whispered a few words in his ear.
He grew pale as death, then he stooped and kissed her.
“How you have suffered, oh, my love!” he cried; “but all that is
ended now. Good-night, Lenore. I will meet you to-morrow night at the
ornamental lake in the Van Alstyne grounds at ten precisely, and then--”
His voice died away into a murmur. He stole from the conservatory into
the grounds through a side door which opened for him; and then, pale as
a marble statue, Lenore went back to her guests.
As soon as she was gone there was a rustling among a group of tall,
feathery palms which grew near, and directly afterward a slight,
_petite_ figure in auburn satin and lace and gleaming, glowing rubies
crept slowly forth. It was Bessie Vernon. Her face was flushed with
unholy triumph, her eyes were scintillating with hatred.
She had witnessed the entire interview; but they had spoken in such low
tones that she had not caught the conversation, only the last few words
which told of the appointed tryst.
Her white hands clinched themselves tightly together, and low under her
breath she muttered, hoarsely:
“He kissed her! I saw him. And they are to meet to-morrow night at ten,
in the grounds. My dear Mrs. Van Alstyne, immaculate Lenore! when that
meeting takes place I shall be there also!”
And then she went back to the ball-room, and danced all the rest of the
night, with as much carelessness and _abandon_ as though she were not
plotting the downfall of a sister woman.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“BEWARE!”
The clocks throughout the Raleigh mansion were just striking twelve the
day after that exciting scene within its stately walls when the door
bell rang, and Rosamond heard the sound of Bessie Vernon’s voice in
the hall. She had given orders to the footman to show Mrs. Vernon up
to her own room; so a few moments later that lady, in all the glory of
a stylish brown velvet street suit, a big plumed hat shading her arch,
piquant face, entered Miss Raleigh’s presence and sunk wearily into a
seat.
“Oh, dear, I am tired to death!” she cried, when the greetings were
over; “the demands of society are fearful upon a weak, delicate woman
like me! You know, Rosamond, how we leaders of society are overworked.
Why, we are perfect martyrs. I have attended five balls this week,
the opera and theater, a flower show and a matinée. To-night is the
Van Alstyne dinner, and to-morrow night I have promised to hear ‘Il
Trovatore’ with Vernon’s old uncle, the rich Californian. Awful bore,
and I know the opera by heart; but Charlie Stuart will be there, and I
imagine I shall be able to pull through the evening. You did not appear
at the Van Alstyne’s reception, Rosamond? I forgot to ask you why last
night when I called, on my way to the reception, you know. I thought
then that I had something to tell you--but, dear me! I went straight
to the discovery of developments of a startling nature. I wish you had
been there, Rosamond.”
Rosamond looked bored. She was out of temper this morning, that was
plain to be seen.
“Mamma and I had a previous engagement,” she said, coldly, “and were
compelled to decline. But tell me, Bessie, what it is that you have
discovered? I am just dying to know. Something about Lenore--I think
you intimated.”
Mrs. Vernon’s face assumed a look of awful solemnity.
“I shrink from telling you, Rosamond!” she said, in a stage whisper.
“After all, Lenore is your own cousin, and it may have an influence
upon your social standing.”
“What do you mean, Bessie Vernon?” Rosamond started to her feet, pale
with anger. “Explain yourself!” she commanded imperiously.
Bessie laughed aloud, a clear, ringing, half-mocking laugh.
“Dear, dear! High tragedy and all that sort of thing! Beats Janauschek
completely! Now, Rosamond, just be calm, and sit down quietly and
listen to me. What I said, I meant; but you will understand me better
later on when I have told my story. First, let me ask you a question:
Have you ever heard of a Mr. Fayne--Mr. Cyril Fayne?”
Rosamond started uneasily.
“I have heard the name, I believe,” she returned, evasively.
“Well, then, possibly you may be better informed than I, and perhaps be
able to account for the strange--the _remarkable_ intimacy between Mr.
Cyril Fayne and Mrs. Lenore Van Alstyne.”
“Bessie!”
“Mrs. Lenore Van Alstyne!” repeated Bessie, laconically. “Rosamond, we
are on the track at last of your cousin’s secret. We have long been
convinced--you and I--that she had a secret, and I have found it out.
That secret is her love--her guilty love--for Cyril Fayne!”
A slow, cruel smile crept over Rosamond’s fair face; her eyes flashed
with a look which was neither sorrow nor regret; one small, pearly hand
clinched itself involuntarily.
“Go on,” she said, slowly.
Bessie nodded.
“I was going on. I am prepared to tell the whole story--just what I
know and saw and heard. I know that Lenore Van Alstyne wears Cyril
Fayne’s portrait in a medallion--the chain riveted about her neck. I
saw them alone together in the conservatory at Van Alstyne’s; she was
in his arms, and he was kissing her for all he was worth! And lastly,
I heard them lay a plot to elope to-night! There! What do you think of
that?”
For a moment Rosamond Raleigh sat staring her visitor in the face, in
blank horror too deep for expression.
At last:
“Bessie, this is--it must be--a practical joke of your own. And I think
it very small in you, and decidedly bad form, knowing as you do how
proud the Raleighs are.”
Bessie’s face flushed angrily.
“It is no practical joke, I assure you, Rosamond Raleigh!” she
retorted. “And if you doubt me I can easily prove the truth of my
words. You will be at the Van Alstyne dinner to-night, I suppose. It
is the dinner for the foreign embassadors. I would not miss it for the
world.”
Rosamond nodded.
“Of course we will have to attend, since we were not at the reception.
And what is your plan, Bessie?”
Mrs. Vernon bent her head close to Rosamond’s ear and began to speak in
low, cautious tones. When her story was done she rose to her feet.
“And now I really must go. I’ve some shopping to do, and time is
flying. What do you think of my plan, Rosamond? Don’t you think it
will be a grand _exposé_? Ah! I have waited and longed for this for
many a long day. My time has come at last. There was never any love
lost between Lenore Van Alstyne and myself, and I imagine that you know
how to appreciate the situation also; for if I am not mistaken, you
never loved her!”
“I hate her!” cried Rosamond, excitedly. “I have hated her always, and
of late her cold, calm superiority has driven me nearly wild. I would
give something to put down her pride and humble her as she deserves.
All right, Bessie. We will be at the Van Alstynes’ to-night, and then
the curtain will rise upon the overthrow--the everlasting disgrace and
utter ruin of Lenore Van Alstyne.”
As the words left her lips she turned swiftly about. Something like a
chill seemed creeping slowly over her, and a strange, subtle instinct
warned her of another presence in the room. _What was it?_
She caught her breath with a gasp of horror, then shriek after shriek
burst from her lips. For there before her--for bolts nor bars have no
power over spirits--stood the apparition which had so persistently
haunted her, and of which she had fondly persuaded herself she was rid
forever--Noisette!
She held the amber satin panel in one shadowy hand; the other was
uplifted with a warning gesture; upon the wan, white, shadowy face
a look of angry menace. Slowly the pale lips opened and--oh, it was
horrible to witness--the apparition spoke.
“_Lenore!_” it said, in a hollow voice. Then, after a moment’s pause,
one more word broke the awful silence. That one word was: “_Beware!_”
CHAPTER XIX.
BESSIE SEES THE GAME.
“Rosamond! For the love of Heaven, _what is it?_”
Mrs. Vernon stood like one turned to stone; her big dark eyes, dilated
with horror, fixed wildly upon the apparition.
“What--is--it?” she gasped once more, in a faltering whisper.
No answer--no answer. Rosamond stood, wringing her hands in horror and
affright, screaming like a lunatic. One more glance, and Bessie Vernon
turned and fled, with Rosamond close at her heels--fled from the room
and down the stairs, bursting into the library, where Grafton Raleigh
sat deeply engrossed in the contents of a formidable-looking document
before him. Bursting into the room, they sunk down upon a low couch,
too overcome by terror to utter a word. “The wicked flee when no man
pursueth.” Grafton Raleigh glanced up with a start of surprise at the
interruption--this unceremonious bursting in upon his privacy--and
arose to his feet, his face dark with displeasure.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Vernon”--in a cold tone. “Why, what is the matter
with my daughter? Rosamond, are you mad?”
“Mad?” with a hysterical outburst. “No, no! But I shall be mad indeed
before long if that dreadful apparition continues to appear. Oh, papa,
listen! You had the round room closed up, and no one can get in or
out of it, yet I saw just now in my room, standing just where the
communicating door used to be, the apparition--the _something_ of which
I have been telling you so long. And Bessie saw it also.”
“It is true, Mr. Raleigh, and no mistake about it!” corroborated Mrs.
Vernon. “I saw it just as certainly and distinctly as I ever saw
anything in my life--just as plainly as I see you at this moment!
And--worse than all else--it--”
“Yes, yes, papa!” interrupted Rosamond, trembling like a leaf and
weeping copiously--“something dreadful occurred! Something which has
never happened before! It--it--_spoke_!”