Lillian's vow or, The mystery of Raleigh House
heavy footfalls. A moment more the gleam of a silver badge, a blue
uniform, and a gruff voice demanding sternly:
“Come, now! What’s all this? Why”--in a tone of satisfaction--“if it
ain’t Mr. Lyndon!”
The young man grasped the hand extended.
“Jack Lyndon, of the ‘Daily Thunderer,’ at your service. Your name is
McElroy, I believe? Yes; well, I found this old man just now in the
grasp of a garroter, highway robber, whatever you may choose to call
him. I struck the fellow a blow, he came down with a thud; but he got
off somehow, and the old man is, I believe--McElroy, can he be dead?”
McElroy laid his hand upon the heart of the prostrate man, and a swift
look of horror dawned upon his face, as the electric light flared up
brightly, revealing the features plainly.
“Good heavens! it’s Mr. Leigh! Dear, dear! that’s awful now! And poor
Miss Lillian, it will just kill her! I think, Mr. Lyndon--I really
think and fear that the old man is gone! If it’s so, I tell you what,
I wouldn’t like to face Lillian Leigh with his body. Mr. Lyndon, you
never knew such a case in your life of father and daughter so wrapped
up in each other that they could hardly bear to be out of each other’s
sight. You see, there ain’t none of the Leigh family left but Miss
Lillian and her father. She does type-writing at home, and old Mr.
Leigh himself was an expert accountant, and some folks say a kind of
spy in the big commercial house of Raleigh & Raleigh--to look after
the interests of the firm in a quiet way, you know; it’s the biggest
commercial concern in the whole state--to watch over slippery young
clerks and wild fellows, to keep an eye upon all the employees, in
fact. A number of them--I speak the plain truth--are sons of the best
families here. They need watching, Mr. Lyndon”--shaking his head slowly
and dubiously--“sure’s you are born, they need watching.”
All this time he had been chafing the thin, white hands, and trying to
force a little brandy between the old man’s clinched teeth. He laid the
white head back against Lyndon’s knee at last with a low sigh.
“’Tain’t no use! It really seems like ’tain’t no use, Mr. Jack.
I--I--see--”
He arose to his feet and pointed to a row of buildings, all alike,
with an air of quiet respectability. Their rows of shuttered windows,
each house with its high, arched porch and white stone steps--the neat
brass door-plates at every door--told, without words, that this was a
neighborhood of boarding-houses and “apartments to let.” The policeman
lifted his club and pointed to a side window in the second story of one
of the houses, where a faint light gleamed like a star. Even while they
gazed, the blind was opened softly, and some one peered out into the
night below. McElroy groaned.
“Them’s their rooms up there, Mr. Lyndon!” he said, softly. “Who is
going to bring the old man into the house? And who--” he flashed about
with a tragic gesture--“Good God! Who’s going to tell Miss Lillian?”
The window-blind upstairs was closed softly, and the watching figure
disappeared. A strange pang shot through Jack Lyndon’s big, honest
heart. Years afterward, he was wont to look back upon that moment, and
say that it was a presentiment of what was to come.
“Poor girl! My heart aches for her!” he muttered. “It will be a
terrible blow to bear.” And then, before he scarcely realized it, Jack
Lyndon found himself standing upon the white stone steps of No. 3 ----,
McElroy at his side, ringing the door-bell in a peremptory summons.
One! boomed from the tower of a church not far away. One! repeated a
silvery-toned time-piece somewhere within the silent house at whose
door they were standing. Silence--utter silence--broken at length by
the opening of an upper window, and a masculine voice demanded sternly
who was there, and what they wanted at that time of night.
A few words made clear the sad situation. The window was closed, and
a little later the house-door was opened, and the gas-light burning
dimly in the hall turned up to a cheery blaze. They bore him into the
wide hall and laid him, limp and lifeless, upon a sofa there. Somebody
telephoned for the nearest physician, and a group of half-dressed men
and women gathered round the sofa, gazing, with horror-distended eyes,
upon the sad spectacle. Then the physician bustled in; five minutes’
examination, and the verdict came. Gilbert Leigh was dead. He had died
from the effects of strangulation.
“Who will tell Lillian?”
Somebody asked the question in an awe-stricken voice. Nobody essayed
to reply. It was answered in an unexpected way. The opening of a door
above stairs; a hush of solemn silence; then the rustle of a woman’s
draperies; flying footsteps down the broad stairs descending into the
hall below, and, before any one could realize the situation, a slight
figure, in a flowing robe of white cashmere, with a cloud of golden
hair streaming over her shoulders, dashed into their midst, and fell
upon her knees by the sofa, while a pair of soft, white arms went
around the old man’s neck.
“Papa!” One shrill cry which cut to the heart of every person present.
“Papa! Oh, papa, papa! open your eyes and look at me just once! Speak
to me, papa--just one word! Oh, papa, papa, papa!”
Jack Lyndon ventured to her side at last, and laid his hand--a strong,
white hand--lightly upon the bowed golden head.
“Miss Leigh”--in a voice that quivered with sympathy--“try to be brave!”
She lifted a small, childish face--a beautiful face, with perfectly
chiseled features, and eyes so large and deep and dark that they looked
like black velvet.
“Do you--know--what is wrong, sir?” she faltered, feebly. “Papa went
out this evening--down to the office. He had papers to attend to. Papa
never leaves me alone when he can help it; but he found that he had
forgotten his memorandum-book. It contained business relating to the
private affairs of his employers which was priceless. Papa often said
that if he lost the book he could never enter his employers’ presence
again or expect to be treated with confidence. I know that he would
defend the book, if need be, with his life. Sir”--she arose to her feet
with quiet dignity--“if that book is gone from his body it has been
stolen, and he has been attacked while defending it.”
Then with a swift burst of passionate grief she flashed about, and fell
upon her knees once more, winding her arms about her father’s neck; and
then, drawing the cold face down to her own, she laid her white cheek
against his.
“How cold you are, papa!” in a low, tense voice inexpressibly pathetic.
“You were never so cold before. What is the matter, dear? You are weak
and ill and faint, and--”
Her eyes fell for the first time upon the great purple marks about his
throat--the cruel marks of the assassin’s strong fingers. She started
up with a bitter cry.
“What--what does this mean?” she panted, pointing to the tell-tale
marks. “He is dead--dead!”
The truth had come to her at last. He had been murdered. The book had
been taken from him, and he had died in its defense.
“Oh, papa! papa! speak, and tell your little Lily this awful secret!
My papa, who has gone from me forever--tell me, tell me! You will come
back to me, papa! If disembodied spirits can return to earth, I know
that you will come to me! Speak, papa! Oh, my papa! All I had to love
in the great, cold, cruel world, speak, and tell me--who did this awful
deed?”
And then a strange occurrence took place. Even the physician could not
repress an exclamation of surprise. The dead man’s lips parted slowly,
and a few drops of blood oozed from them and trickled down upon the
snowy beard. To those present it seemed for a moment--so wrought up
were they by the awful tragedy--that Gilbert Leigh had indeed attempted
to speak; that in answer to the pitiful beseeching of his child, the
dumb lips had attempted to frame a reply and utter the name of his
murderer.
The girl’s pale face froze into an icy calm. She lifted her right hand
with a swift gesture, upon her face a look which made the spectators
hold their breath in speechless awe.
“Hear me!” she said, in the same tense voice, “and bear witness to
what I say! I take no oath, I bind myself by no pledge, I make no wild
assertions or prophecies, but, I say this: my father’s murderer shall
yet be found! It may be years before it comes to pass; but sooner or
later, the man who took Gilbert Leigh’s life in this base, dastardly
manner, shall be found and punished! And when the hour comes in which
I shall stand face to face with him, when his guilt is exposed and his
crime revealed, may God have mercy upon him, for I shall have none!”
She sunk upon her knees once more at her dead father’s side, like a
pallid, sad-eyed ghost; and when morning stole in at the shuttered
windows, she was crouching there still. Not a tear had she shed; not
another word had passed her lips; but there was that in her pale young
face which made all who saw her afraid.
CHAPTER II.
MISS RALEIGH’S COMPANION.
“Which shall I wear, mamma, the pale blue silk, with white lace and
pearl ornaments, or the new amber satin with hand-painted panels and
black lace overdress looped with diamonds? Ah, yes, that will be the
handsomest and most striking! And I shall wear _all_ the Raleigh
diamonds!”
“But, Rosamond, _all_ the Raleigh diamonds would be too many jewels
for a single toilet. It would be bad taste, my dear; yet, after
all”--Mrs. Raleigh bent her stately head with its silver-gray puffs in
a meditative way--“it would be something unique! What a woman requires
nowadays in fashionable society is to look as odd and unusual as
possible. But, Rosamond, we live in a great city, and our fashionable
society is controlled by--”
“The woman I hate!” burst forth Rosamond, vindictively, with an angry
gesture. “She is my own cousin, but I hate her, hate her, _hate_ her! I
tell you, mamma, the day upon which Cousin Lenore Vane made her grand
marriage was a bad day for her as well as myself! When she became the
wife of a senator I knew then that my reign was over--that I could
never surpass her in position, in social triumph. And since that day
I have hated her as I have never hated any living creature, and I
shall hate her till I die! To see her surrounded by her satellites is
perfectly nauseating to me, and the absurd flatteries lavished upon
her--why, in her presence I am hardly noticed--nearly drive me mad!”
“I know--I understand”--soothingly; “but never mind, Rosamond! You are
bound to make a grand marriage some day. She is the wife of Senator Van
Alstyne, it is true; but in point of wealth you are--”
“The daughter of Grafton Raleigh, of the great firm of Raleigh &
Raleigh!” interrupted Rosamond, haughtily. “No business house in the
whole United States holds a higher or more enviable position! Do not
forget that, mamma!”
Rosamond Raleigh began to pace up and down the luxurious room, her
delicate blonde face flushed slightly, the big, china-blue eyes drawn
close together with the ugly scowl which puckered her white forehead,
her small, jeweled hands clinched angrily. She came to a halt at
length, and her face wore a very unlovely expression in its jealous
wrath.
“The wife of Senator Van Alstyne! And what of that!” she pouted,
angrily. “He is a great, coarse, pompous creature, most repugnant to
me, or to any civilized taste. If there was any use in wondering over
such matters in this corrupt age, I would marvel exceedingly that he
should ever have been made a member of the United States Senate! But
these affairs are unfathomable. As for Lenore, she was always sly and
underhand. I know that she has never cared for her big, red-faced
senator, and only married him to gratify her vanity, and--mamma, say