Lillian's vow or, The mystery of Raleigh House
Mrs. Van Alstyne had been taken suddenly ill, and had gone to her room.
She would be down directly. Senator Van Alstyne had been summoned away
for a short time upon imperative business.
Lame excuses, but all that could be invented upon short notice.
The evening wore away, and the guests seemed to have accepted the
strange absence of both host and hostess with unprecedented good nature.
Bessie Vernon was in her element, for Charlie Stuart never left her
side. And Arnold Vernon, watching the pair from the corner where he sat
conversing with some ladies, frowned severely and looked as black as a
thunder-cloud; but all of no avail. He could no more prevent his wife’s
mad flirtations than he could turn the waves of the ocean from their
course. He could only sit and glower moodily upon the scene, and, as
Bessie definitely declared, hate himself to death.
She flitted past him leaning upon Charlie’s arm, her piquant face
uplifted to his, while saucy retort and witty repartee flashed from one
to the other. And gradually the elements of a tragedy were evolved from
the giddy foolishness--the overweening vanity of this pleasure-loving
wife.
In the meantime Cyril Fayne was hastening on with Lenore toward where,
in a secluded corner, a closed carriage stood in waiting. A little
later they were safe inside, and the carriage drove away like mad in
the direction of the harbor, a half mile distant. Pale as marble and
trembling like a leaf, Lenore crouched upon the seat at his side, one
hand pressed over her heart throbbing madly, the other grasping his arm
with a despairing clutch, as though she feared that he might be taken
from her.
“Cyril,” she cried, fearfully, “what if he discovers our flight and
follows us? Oh, he is fearful in his anger and brute violence. It makes
my heart quail to even think of him and the day that he struck me--”
She stopped short, the words dying upon her lips, as Cyril Fayne caught
her in his arms, muttering a mad imprecation.
“Struck you? Oh, Lenore, Lenore, you never told me that. Struck you?
How dared he, the villain, the base, vile wretch! Ah, Senator Van
Alstyne, ours will be a terrible reckoning when the day comes in which
we shall stand face to face. Hear me, Lenore: If the day ever comes
when I shall stand in that man’s presence, I shall shoot him down as I
would shoot a mad dog!”
“Cyril!”
“I shall kill him!” he repeated, grimly. “The same world can not hold
Van Van Alstyne and me. For your sake I submit now and will do no
violence, but Heaven help him if we chance to meet. It drives me mad to
think of it. To dare raise his cowardly hand against a woman, and that
woman--you--my own wife!”
He kissed the sweet red lips again and again as the carriage rolled
onward. It came to a halt at last and Cyril hastily alighted. Lenore
peered cautiously forth into the night. The moon had gone down and all
was in darkness--a heavy gloom which hung over the earth like a pall.
But a short distance away she caught the gleam of waves rising and
falling with a low musical murmur, while off upon the water, a faint
light twinkled like a star. The light is Harvey Thornton’s yacht,
“White Wings.” Cyril lifted Lenore to the ground. She clung to him
with a frightened gesture.
“Oh, Cyril, has any one followed us? Has he--found out--do you think?”
Cyril shook his head.
“I see no one--nothing,” he made answer. “And now, my darling, we must
make haste to the boat, and in a short time we will be safe upon the
‘White Wings.’”
One long, eager, searching glance up and down the beach, and down the
long, winding country road by which they had come, then Lenore slipped
her hand through his arm, and he led her away to where a tiny skiff
rocked idly to and fro at the end of its long chain. A little delay and
they were safe within the boat, flying over the water like a bird, in
the direction of the anchored yacht.
“Love,” he bent his head and looked into her eyes, “it is you and I
will move upon life’s tempestuous sea. Do you regret the past? Are you
glad that I came back to you?”
“Cyril!”
One swift glance into his handsome dark face, but it told plainer far
than words her heart’s content. He bent with fresh energy to the oars,
and so at last the yacht was reached and they were safe on board. Half
an hour later the yacht was pushing on, making rapid headway far out at
sea.
* * * * *
Van Van Alstyne read the letter that Cyril Fayne had written--read
it in ominous silence--his lips sternly compressed, his face ghastly
white, his eyes blood-shot and fierce with rage. It was finished at
last. He crushed the letter up into a ball, and tossed it into a drawer
in his escritoire, locking it securely. For a few moments he stood
as still as death, an awful look upon his white, drawn face. Then he
wheeled about sullenly and entered his dressing-room. Having bathed
his face and restored his disordered attire, he was quite himself
once more. Forcing a smile to his bloodless lips, he went down to the
drawing-room from which he had so long absented himself. He advanced
into the center of the room and the sight of him somehow checked the
merry badinage of the gay crowd, and laughter died a speedy death.
Pale and stern he faced them. Ah! he was going to taste the sweets of
revenge now.
“My friends,” he began in a clear, distinct voice, “I must apologize
for my unwarrantable neglect of my guests to-night. I have a revelation
to make. Mrs. Lenore Van Alstyne has left her home forever. She has
gone away in the night and darkness. She has disgraced herself and me,
and heaped humiliation upon the name of Van Alstyne. She has fled with
her lover, Cyril Fayne.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
VAN ALSTYNE’S REVENGE.
When Van Van Alstyne spoke those words--those cruel, awful words--he
was speaking falsely, and he knew it. For the letter which he had found
in his room--the letter which Cyril Fayne had written--had told the
whole truth. And Van Alstyne had set his teeth hard together over a
fearful imprecation, while he vowed an awful vengeance upon the woman
who had left him forever.
“I will not kill her,” he muttered, hoarsely. “Oh, no! she would be
out of her misery then. And I will not pursue them and punish them;
for they would publish their story far and near, and would win all
sympathy; and I would be looked upon as an old tyrant from whose
clutches Lenore had escaped to a brighter, happier life. If the world
knew the truth--knew the contents of this letter--she would have all
sympathy and her course would be universally approved. And they have
played directly into my hands by not coming out openly and declaring
the truth. But Cyril Fayne--curse him!--would spare her every pang,
every sorrow. He has taken her away to a foreign land, but they will
return some day; and when that time comes, they will return to find
themselves ostracized by all respectable people, condemned by public
opinion, shunned as moral lepers. That is my revenge! Who shall say
that it is not sweet?”
And then he had walked quietly down-stairs to the drawing-room, and
repeated to the assembled guests the story of Lenore Van Alstyne’s
downfall. He attempted no palliation, asked no leniency for the fallen
woman; but coarsely, brutally told the tale which was destined to
blight a woman’s whole life.
After that there was little desire for merry-making. Not that they
grieved so much over Lenore; she was not a general favorite. She was
too cold and quiet, too honest and sincere to be appreciated or widely
liked. Not being a hypocrite, she would not sully her white soul with
deceit, and pretend to a friendship which she did not feel. She
“Walked too straight for fortune’s end
And loved too true to keep a friend.”
And now she must suffer for her honesty and sincerity. In fashionable
society this is inevitable.
One by one the guests took their departure. A few of the older
gentlemen seemed inclined to tarry; perhaps for the purpose of offering
sympathy and consolation. But Van Alstyne coolly dismissed them all
with a stiff “Thanks for your sympathy, old friend; I do not require
it. I have seen the coming ruin for some time, and I have shielded her
and covered up her sins and short-comings because she was my wife. But
now that that which was hidden has become clear, I have no more to say.
I prefer to be alone. Good-night, gentlemen.”
Once left alone in his deserted house, Van Van Alstyne went quietly
upstairs, where he lighted a bronze hand-lamp. Then, lamp in hand, he
turned in the direction of the suite of rooms which had been occupied
by his wife, separate and distinct from his own. He paused upon a
white fur rug before the great carved Gothic door, and slowly turned
the silver knob. There were three rooms in the suite--sleeping-room,
dressing- and bath-room--all connected, and only separated from each
other by crimson velvet portières. The sleeping-room was all in
crimson, with dashes of old gold, with exquisite lace hangings, and
carved rosewood furniture. The dainty satin-covered bed was smooth
and untouched. The black lace robe which she had worn that night was
flung across the foot, and heaped upon the marble toilet-table were
the topaz ornaments, gleaming and glittering like weird, uncanny eyes.
Van Alstyne opened a drawer in the toilet-table. There were her jewel
cases; every jewel reposed upon the white satin bed; not one had been
removed. A second drawer was filled to the brim with rare and costly
laces--point, Mechlin, duchess, Valenciennes--of the most costly
pattern and dainty workmanship.
The great carved wardrobes were overflowing with rich and costly
garments. Silks, satins, velvets, furs. Her Russian sables had been the
envy of half the city that winter.
Van Alstyne paused to place the bronze lamp upon the toilet-table,
while he stood glaring about him with ferocious eyes. He looked like a
tiger--blood-thirsty, cruel--as he stood there, his small, snaky eyes
growing red and blood-shot, his hands clutching the empty air as though
his fingers were about her throat. Then, with a sudden bound and a
hoarse imprecation, he darted forward like one possessed with the very
frenzy of madness. He snatched up the costly lace robe--the dress which
she had last worn--and rent it into unsightly fragments, heaping them
upon the fire which burned smolderingly upon the marble hearth.
Once given over to the evil spirit which had entered his body, he
behaved like a demon. He tore down the beautiful dresses from the
wardrobe, and tearing them into tatters, piled them high upon the
hearth. The flames crawled over them and thrust their fiery tongues
through the silk and satin and velvet sheen, consuming, ruining,
blackening, destroying. Then he opened the jewel caskets and tossed
their contents upon the velvet carpet, setting his boot-heel upon them
in vindictive fury, grinding them into fragments. It was an awful sight.
He came to a pause only when he had wrought utter ruin and desolation.
The frightened servants, aroused from the slumber which they had
only just sought, made their way at length to their lady’s chamber.
It was then that the maniac grew quiet, and turning abruptly upon
them, ordered the fire to be extinguished and the servants to retire.
Tremblingly they obeyed him; and when they had gone away again Van Van
Alstyne locked the outer door of the suite of rooms which had been
Lenore’s, and slipping the key into his pocket, went slowly down the
great carved staircase, through the outer door into the gloom without.
It was the dark hour which always comes before day, a dense darkness
which could almost be felt. But through the gloom Van Alstyne made
his way as straight as a die down to the fountain in the midst of the