Lillian's vow or, The mystery of Raleigh House
followed Miss Raleigh to the drawing-room:
“At last! At last! The hour for which I have longed is here! Oh, to see
her once again--to--”
They had reached the drawing-room door. A few words of explanation, and
all the company gathered in eager excitement about the old woman, who
had sunk into a low seat and sat as still as a statue. At last:
“Murdered!” she cried, in a shrill voice, which penetrated to every
corner. “Murdered! Poor Gilbert Leigh! My friends, the guilty wretch
who took that old man’s life is present within this very room.”
There was a stifled shriek, followed by a heavy fall; the gas-lights
had gone out suddenly, leaving the great room in darkness, and an awful
silence settled over the scene.
CHAPTER IV.
APRES!
Some one lighted the gas in a moment, and its yellow rays revealed a
pale-faced, terrified group. Lillian, who had been sent to bring Mrs.
Raleigh a fan, was standing in the open door of the library, pale as
marble, one hand clutching the white satin fan with its delicate spray
of wild roses, the handiwork of the girl who had gone to her long rest
such a short time before; the other hand, cold and trembling, pressed
tightly over her wildly throbbing heart; her big, dark eyes, dilated
with horror, fixed blankly before her. Richard Raleigh crouched in a
corner, glaring about him like a wild beast suddenly brought to bay,
and prone upon the velvet-carpeted floor Lenore Van Alstyne lay in a
dead swoon, and the old woman--fortune-teller or whatever she might
be--had disappeared.
For a few moments everybody stood staring helplessly about them, too
overcome by the shock of the surprise--the audacity of the affair--to
collect their scattered faculties.
With a muttered execration, Richard Raleigh strode over to the door and
caught Lillian by the arm.
“You are responsible for all this jugglery!” he hissed, his angry black
eyes devouring the pale face of the shrinking girl. “You are to blame,
Lillian Leigh, and rest assured that you shall suffer for it!”
The stately little head was crested proudly, and the dark, flashing
eyes gave him back scorn for scorn.
“Take your hand from my arm, Mr. Raleigh!” the low, level voice
commanded, calmly. “How dare you touch me? And as for your insulting
words, you shall answer for them! My father--”
Good heavens! what had she been about to say? It came home to her, with
a sharp, keen pang of bitter memory, that she who had never before been
separated from her father, her protector and defender, was all alone.
She had no father now--never any more! She had been so accustomed to
look to him for help, for love, for protection, that for a brief moment
she had lost sight of the cruel truth. Her heart turned to her father
as the sunflower turns to the sun--and--she had no father now! With
one swift, lightning stroke of memory the poor girl came back to the
consciousness of her loss--that bitter, irretrievable loss--and she
saw the blank, empty future stretched out before her eyes--without her
father! Ah! cruel, cruel fate! To be bereft of his tender care--his
loving words of counsel--his kindly guidance!
For just a moment the orphan girl forgot even Richard Raleigh’s dreaded
presence, as the full knowledge of her desolation rushed over her
heart like a swirling flood. But still Richard Raleigh gazed with bold
eyes into her face, and still the stern, dark hand, crowned with a
glittering diamond, clutched the girl’s white arm.
“Let go my arm, sir!” she commanded once more, in a low, scornful tone.
“How dare you insult me?”
“Mr. Raleigh will be good enough to obey this lady’s command!” said a
cool, low voice close by, and Lillian, turning swiftly, saw Jack Lyndon
at her side. Not another word; but Raleigh’s grasp relaxed, and he
loosened his hold; then, with a sneer, he turned upon his heel and left
the room.
There was a great deal of excitement over Lenore, and, therefore,
this scene had been almost unobserved. Senator Van Alstyne bustled
forward, and lifting his wife’s graceful form as though she had been
an infant, placed her carefully upon a sofa, while a group of pale,
excited people gathered around, and restoratives were brought. But one
pair of eyes had watched the scene between Lillian and Jack Lyndon--one
pair of steely orbs, glinting now with anger too deep for words--and a
white-robed figure, which hovered ever in the vicinity of Jack Lyndon,
was trembling with excitement and jealous wrath.
“I will send that girl away to-morrow as surely as I live,” muttered
Rosamond, low under her breath. “I will not be tormented by the sight
of her any longer. And yet,” with a strange sinking of the heart, or
“the muscular viscus” which did duty for that organ with Miss Rosamond
Raleigh--“it would be just my luck to have Jack Lyndon fall desperately
in love with her and marry her if I were to send her away--cast her
adrift without a home. Oh, dear! was any woman ever so tormented
before? First, I must lose my waiting-maid--ugh! I can’t get Noisette
out of my mind!--and now Lillian gives me trouble. First one maid and
then the other. One thing certain, and upon that point I shall be
adamant hereafter: Lillian Leigh shall not be allowed to show herself
among my guests. What evil genius sent her here at this particular
juncture? Oh, yes!” catching sight of the white satin toy in the girl’s
trembling hand, “mamma’s fan! It is the very last fan that Noisette
painted. Ugh! there it is again. I can not forget for a moment. And now
I think that Mr. Lyndon has had quite enough to say to my servant. I
intend to put a stop to it.”
She glided swiftly over to the retired corner near the door where
Lillian stood, while Jack Lyndon bent his handsome head and spoke
in low, eager tones. He was learning the reason for her sudden and
unexpected appearance at the Raleigh mansion.
“It is no place for you, Miss Leigh,” he said, gravely; “we must try to
find you more suitable employment; and--and (pardon me, but I can not
refrain from a few words of warning) it is better for you not to remain
longer under the same roof with--”
“Lillian!” Miss Raleigh’s sharp, cutting voice broke in upon his
low-spoken words with a suddenness that made her start. “What are
you doing here? Don’t you see that mamma is suffering--absolutely
suffering--for a fan? Go give it to her; and then,” in a low tone, “go
up to my room and stay there!”
Lillian bowed. Well, of course Miss Raleigh was right. It was not
Lillian’s place to stand among Miss Raleigh’s select and fashionable
guests; she--a hired companion--waiting-maid--upper servant!
With a grateful “I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Lyndon,” Lillian
glided away, leaving Rosamond, nothing loath, to take the place at Jack
Lyndon’s side which she had just vacated.
“How annoying and unpleasant it is, Mr. Lyndon, to be troubled with
servants who are above their stations, and who, in common parlance,
‘have seen better days.’ Now that girl really knows nothing of the
duties and proprieties of her position here; and I want to be kind
and gentle with her, yet I must be firm, and I fear that I have a
disagreeable task before me. For it is so difficult to train such
people without wounding their sensibilities; and when they once imagine
themselves slighted or insulted, there is no hope of doing anything
with them. And so,” with a pretty deprecatory gesture of the small
gloved hands, “you see how it is.”
It was a slightly ambiguous speech, but it had its own effect. Jack’s
conscience gave a queer little twinge of remorse.
He had been too hard in thought upon Miss Raleigh--too hard and stern,
after all. She meant well--she did the best that she knew. And hers had
been but a superficial and artificial education, a life without aim
or object, an empty fashionable career, with only the false lights of
pleasure and worldly amusements to lure her on.
How vapid and unsatisfying it must be. And he little dreamed--this
grave young knight of the quill--that that same life of fashionable
dissipation was Rosamond Raleigh’s highest ideal, filled every vacant
corner of her heart, was, in fact, the only existence for which she
cared, or which it was possible for her to know and be content. His
grave eyes met her appealing glance kindly, and his voice took on a
gentler tone as he returned:
“You have my sympathy in your grievous trials, my dear Miss Raleigh!”
A low cry resounded through the room and startled the two. Lenore had
opened her eyes and returned to consciousness. She was struggling
and panting and gasping for breath, her eyes--beautiful dreamy dark
eyes--were dilated with horror; the small, cold hands were tearing
wildly at the frosty white lace upon her breast, and she looked like
one distraught.
“Take me away! take me away!” she panted, feebly. “Oh, Van!”
burying her pale face upon the black coat-sleeve of the pompous
senator--“has--has he gone?”
Van Alstyne bent his head and gazed into his wife’s frightened face
with eyes full of undisguised wonder. He was coarse and red faced and
hard featured, with small, ferret-like eyes and iron-gray hair and
beard.
“Lenore!” in a deprecatory tone, “whom do you mean, dear? Don’t you
remember you were frightened by an old woman--witch--beldame--whom
your cousin Rosamond saw fit to introduce among her select guests. By
Jove!” with a fierce assumption of dignity, “it has come to a pretty
pass indeed if a man is compelled to meet such trash at the very first
houses! Lenore, try to be calm. There is nothing to fear, you have had
a fright--a foolish fright--followed by a fainting fit, which latter
I must say does not surprise me. My dear, I never knew you to faint
before but once,” he added, briefly, with a significant glance which
brought the red blood to her pale cheek.
Ah, yes! she remembered that other swoon. Heaven knows she had reason
to remember it. It had occurred at her own marriage. In memory she saw
it all--went through the same scene once more. The brilliantly lighted
church; the gay, glittering crowd; the bridal procession, with the
bride, whiter than death itself, leaning upon the arm of the pompous
bridegroom, while they made their triumphal exit from the sacred
edifice, out to the long line of waiting carriages drawn up beside the
curb; the crowd in the street without surging, swaying to and fro;
and above all others one face--a face which appeared amid the throng,
gazing upon her with great dark eyes full of mute reproach. One swift
instant their eyes had met, and like one suddenly stricken dead, the
bride fell to the pavement.
It all came back to her now in a swift, hurried flash; then there was
a sudden transformation scene. Lenore Van Alstyne started to her feet.
She looked like a galvanized corpse, but the pale lips shut themselves
down closely, and the white hands clinched and unclinched each other
fiercely; and then a light silvery laugh rang out, and she turned to
the watching, lynx-eyed man at her side.
“Come, let us dance! Rosamond said that we should have the lancers, and
now is as good a time as any. Waltz, did you say, Captain Burnham?” as
a tall, soldierly man bowed before her with a few low, eager words.
“Ah, pray excuse me from that. I am not very strong. My foolish nerves
have played me a sad trick, and I do not feel equal to a waltz. But
the lancers--I shall be delighted. Rosamond, _ma cousine_, where is
the music?” turning as she spoke with a light laugh to meet Rosamond’s
astonished gaze, as she still conversed with Jack Lyndon.
“Surely you are not able to dance, Lenore,” she was beginning; but Mrs.
Van Alstyne cut the remonstrance short.
“Nonsense!” she cried, lightly.
And then Jack Lyndon found himself offering his arm to Miss Raleigh,
and the business of dancing the lancers was begun.