For an instant the old cashier stood like one suddenly paralyzed before the door of the private office from which that terrified scream had issued.
Great God! was he mad or dreaming, that he should imagine he heard his daughter Margery's voice calling for help from within?
But even as he stood there, trembling, irresolute, the piercing cry was repeated more shrilly, more piteous than before, and it cut through the frightened father's heart like the thrust of a dagger.
"I am coming, I am here, Margery!" he answered, twisting the bronze knob fiercely; But the door did not yield to his touch as usual, and to his horror he realized that it was locked upon the inside!
With the fury of a tiger, David Conway threw himself against it with all his strength; strong as the lock was, it could not withstand the weight that was brought to bear upon it, and in an instant it was snapped asunder, the door falling in with a crash.
With a terrible imprecation Kendale wheeled about, his grasp around the girl's waist slackening for a single instant.
And in that instant Margery sprang from him, darting into the arms of her father, who had leaped over the threshold.
"How dare you enter here?" shrieked Kendale, fairly beside himself with baffled rage.
The old cashier thrust his daughter behind him and walked up to the foiled villain, gazing him steadily, unflinchingly in the eye.
"I am here just in time to defend my child," he cried, white to the lips, "and here to chastise you, you villain, old man as I am"—and with the rapidity of lightning his clinched fist fell upon the face of the man before him with stinging blows, that resounded with all the strength and force of a steel hammer.
Kendale, who was by this time entirely under the influence of the brandy he had imbibed, was no match for the enraged cashier, who followed up his advantage by ringing blows, which fell as thick and fast as driving hail, until the other, coward as he was, fell down on his knees before him, shrieking out for mercy.
The unusual disturbance soon brought a throng of cashiers, bookkeepers and clerks flocking to the scene.
The old cashier turned upon them, holding up his hand to stay their steps as they crowded over the threshold, Mr. Wright, the manager, calling upon him anxiously to explain at once this unusual scene—this disgraceful encounter between his employer, who seemed unable to speak because of his injuries, and himself.
"It is due you all to know just what has happened," replied the old cashier, in a high, clear voice, "but I say to you, by the God above me, if this hound dares arise from his knees ere I have finished, I will kill him before your very eyes. There is something he has to say before you all while still on his knees. Let no man speak until I have had my say, and then you—my companions of years, my fellow-workers, my friends of a lifetime—shall judge of my action in this matter and deal with me accordingly."
The scene was so extraordinary that no man among them seemed capable of uttering so much as a syllable, so great was their consternation at beholding their employer on his knees, groveling before the old cashier, who stood over him like an aroused, avenging spirit.
In a voice high and clear the old cashier, whom they had known and revered for years, told his story in a simple, straightforward way, yet quivering with excitement, drawing his terror-stricken daughter Margery into the shelter of his strong arms as he spoke.
"I am Margery's father—her only protector," he said, in conclusion. "Is there a man among you with a father's heart beating in his bosom who would not have done as I have done to the villain who dared to thus insult his child. Ay, there are men among you who would not have hesitated to have stricken him dead with a single blow—who would have considered it a crime to have spared him."
By this time Kendale was recovering from the stunning blows which had been dealt him—realized that help was at hand; the employees would be in duty bound to protect him from the enraged man before him.
He realized, too, that the old cashier meant that he should remain there on his knees and beg the girl's pardon before all these people.
Ere Mr. Conway could judge of his design the bogus Lester Armstrong had bounded to his feet and into the midst of the crowd.
"You are discharged!" he cried, turning to the old cashier. "I will give you just ten minutes to get out of this building—you and the girl, both of you. It was a plan hatched up between you and her to extort money from me."
The old cashier attempted to spring at him, but the strong hands of indignant, pitying friends held him back.
Suddenly he stopped short, saying, with a dignity wonderful to behold:
"It is not necessary, I think, to ask any of you, who all know me so well and know also my little Margery, not to give credence to so heinous a statement. I am going from this place, friends. I would not stay another moment in this villain's employ, nor would my Margery, though he weighed us down with all the wealth the world holds. Come, Margery."
The crowd slowly parted, making way for them, and together Margery and her father passed through the line of sympathizing faces, hand in hand—the old man white, stern and resolute, pretty Margery sobbing as though her heart would break.
Mr. Wright, the manager, who had been—like the old cashier—fully five and twenty years beneath that roof, turned and faced the throng, saying, huskily:
"Mr. Armstrong, I herewith tender you my resignation. My friend of a lifetime is going, and I shall go, too."
"And I," "And I," "And I," quickly rang out, voice after voice.
"Confound you all, I discharge the whole lot of you!" shouted Kendale, now quite sobered by the excitement he was passing through. "Don't think your going troubles me even a little bit. The set of men don't live who will ever trouble me or my business!"
With great rapidity the men fled from the private office, and, without waiting even to close their ledgers, took down their coats and hats, got into them quickly and filed downstairs.
Kendale never could fully comprehend how it happened that in five minutes' time the five hundred employees of the place heard what had occurred, and in less time than it takes to recount it the strangest event that had ever taken place in the annals of a great New York business house occurred—there was a mighty uproar and by one accord the great throng of employees quitted their tasks—badly as they needed work—and dashed out into the street, leaving the vast emporium to the hundreds of astonished customers with which it was crowded at that hour.
For an instant Kendale was horror-stricken when he realized what was occurring.
"God Almighty!" he gasped, "I am ruined, disgraced! A thousand furies take that girl; but she shall pay dearly for this. The police will be here to quell the riot and disperse the crowd outside, and turn out the people who are still inside!"
Looking from the window, he saw that the throng of angry employees were gathered around the old cashier and his daughter in a mighty mob.
"Good Lord! if Halloran were only here, to advise me this time," he muttered, turning pale with fear. He could hear their loud, angry voices hurling imprecations at him, and he knew full well that he would never be able to pass through that throng of thoroughly aroused and angry men without their doing him bodily injury, and he told himself in affright that all the Marsh millions for which he had bartered his soul would not save him from the hands of that raging mob.
Kendale was clever and quick of resource. He realized that there must be sudden action on his part. Should he fly headlong from the place and give up all? Then a remembrance of the yacht and the horses came to him, and he set his teeth hard together.
"I will see this game through, come what may," he muttered.
At that instant a daring thought came to him, and he acted upon it before he could have time to back down through cowardice.
Throwing open the window wide, he stepped boldly out upon the ledge in full view of the angry crowd of five hundred employees.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he exclaimed, raising his voice to a high key that all might hear, "I have something to say, and it is only due me that you should listen and then pass judgment.
"Please believe me, one and all, I had no thought, no wish to offend Mr. Conway's pretty daughter Margery. I may as well own the truth. I had fallen desperately in love with the girl and was telling her so, and was just on the point of asking her to accept me as a suitor for her hand when she, mistaking my motives, it appears, called for assistance, and I was not permitted to speak in order to explain.
"Assuring her and all of you that my motives were most honorable, I beg of you to reconsider leaving me in this abrupt fashion. Return to your posts of duty, and this little difficulty will be adjusted satisfactorily to you and to Miss Conway."
Kendale was used to making a hit with an audience—used to throwing his soul, as it were, into anything he had to say.
The effect on the crowd below was magical; for a moment they were stunned.
The old cashier was almost stunned. The young millionaire was just about proposing marriage to Margery! Why, what a mistake he had made—what a terrible mistake! Even Margery had fallen back a step or two and was clinging to her father's hand in the greatest amazement.
"I—I think I was mad, friends and fellow-workers," he exclaimed, huskily. "I believe I was too precipitate in this affair.
"It is so long since I was young I—I had forgotten that it is the custom of men now, as in the years long since gone by, to speak to a maiden of love before he said anything of marriage.
"It did not occur to me that the great millionaire wanted my little girl for his wife, as he now says.
"Hear me, friends, one and all. I most heartily regret causing this disturbance and I move that we return to our places, as our employer suggests."
There was a murmur of assent among the throng; then, all in a body, they moved forward, entering the building again; and in less than five minutes' time matters were moving on quite as smoothly once more as though no sudden upheaval had ever occurred in the great dry goods establishment.
Mr. Conway, however, was too upset to attend further to his duties that afternoon, and accepted the manager's suggestion that he should go to his home, Margery accompanying him.
Meanwhile Kendale had thrown himself down into the nearest chair, breathing hard, feeling like a general who had achieved a most wonderful victory.
"A few soft, silvery words saved me this time," he muttered, "but it throws the girl on my hands. Well, I suppose I will have to propose marriage to her now—every one expects it; there would be a terrible rumpus kicked up if I did not. Well, let there be an engagement between us; that doesn't mean that there will be a marriage, by any means. The engagement can drag along three or four years, and then we can break off. By that time I shall be ready to marry the heiress of the Fairfax millions. Ah, how much easier it is to scheme for a fortune than to toil for one, as most poor mortals do."
The entrance of the manager with the bill for the hundred and twenty-five thousand put an end to his musings and plans for the present. Mr. Wright emerged from the office ten minutes later with a very troubled expression on his face. It was dearly patent to him that Mr. Lester Armstrong did not care how badly the business was crippled, so long as he secured the yacht and the fast horses.
From that first day, so full of awkward and almost fatal mistakes, Kendale spent as little time as was absolutely necessary in the establishment of Marsh & Company, as it was still called, preferring to let all of the business cares fall upon the manager's already weighted shoulders.
In less than a week it was noised about social circles that the young man who had so suddenly dropped into millions of money was something of a sport—a yachtsman whose magnificent yachting parties were the wonder of the metropolis; a horseman whose racing stables were second to none and were worth a handsome fortune; and it was hinted that he seemed no stranger at cards and gambled sums of gold that would have purchased a king's ransom at a single game—until those who looked on in speechless wonder were sure he must have exhaustless wealth. Every one prophesied, however, that this reckless extravagance must have an ending some time. Meanwhile society held out its arms to the young millionaire, welcoming him with its sweetest smiles.
The date which he had set to dine with the Fairfaxes, of Beechwood, rolled around at last, and for once in his life Kendale, or rather the bogus Lester Armstrong, was punctual in his appointment.
He was ushered into a drawing-room of such magnificence that for a moment he fairly caught his breath in wonder.
"So this was the home of Faynie Fairfax, the girl whom I wedded in the old church and who died so suddenly on her bridal eve," he soliloquized. "Well, all this could be mine for the fighting for it as Faynie's husband, who has survived her, but, as Halloran would say, 'It's a deal easier getting the same fortune by marrying the stepmother's daughter, who has come into it by Faynie's father cutting her off at the eleventh hour.'
"I wonder what the girl Claire is like."
There was a portrait of a young girl done in water colors over the mantel. He stepped over to examine it.
"If this is Claire's portrait she's certainly not bad looking," he mused, "but she is one I should not care to cross."
The figure was slight, draped in a gown of some light, airy fabric. The head was small, crowned in a mass of waving dark hair. The contour of the face was perfect; a pair of deep gray eyes looked out of it straight at you; the lips were small, but a little too compressed, showing that the owner of them had certainly a will of her own, which it was neither wise nor best to cross.
He was startled from his contemplation by the sound of silken robes rustling across the carpet, and, wheeling suddenly about, he was confronted by a tall, slim, magnificent woman, who welcomed him most graciously to Fairfax House.
"My daughter Claire will join us in a very few minutes. Ah, she is here now," she announced, as a swift step was heard in the corridor outside; a moment later the portières parted, and the young girl whose portrait he had been critically analyzing entered the room.
"I shall know at once by the first words he utters whether I shall like him or not," thought the girl, looking straight into his face with her fearless, keen, gray eyes. "He is handsome, and that generally goes with great conceit, Faynie always said."
"I hope we shall be friends, Miss Fairfax," he said, extending his hand and bowing low over the little brown one that lay for an instant in his palm.
"There is a great mistake evident at the outset," said the girl, looking up into his face. "Mamma said just now: 'This is my daughter Claire.' I think mamma intended to add, 'Miss Claire Stanhope.' Mr. Fairfax was my steppapa."
Kendale smiled amusedly, both at the mother's momentary discomfiture and the young girl's brusque straightforwardness.
"I like her better than any one I have ever met. I shall marry her," he promised himself.
During the dinner that followed Kendale longed to introduce the subject of "Faynie," but found no opening. His eagerness to know what they thought and what they had to say concerning her disappearance was intense, but he had to bide his time to find out.
Meanwhile he paid the most flattering attention to Claire.
He had noticed with a keen sense of regret that the girl limped most painfully in her walk, but, despite this defect, for the first time in his reckless life, he was thoroughly fascinated with her.
He took his leave early, promising them that he would certainly avail himself of their gracious permission to call again, very, very soon.
Long after his departure the mother and daughter still sat in the drawing-room discussing him eagerly.
"It is a good thing for you that Faynie declines to come down to the drawing-room to see visitors and insists upon having her meals in her own room. If she had seen this handsome Mr. Armstrong, you would have stood little chance of winning him, my dear," declared Mrs. Fairfax.
Claire rose slowly to her feet, turned and faced her mother.
"You and I do not agree on that point, mamma," she said, quickly, "I have what you call a Quixotic notion, perhaps, and that is that we are attracted toward those whom Heaven intended for us, and if this be so he would not have been attracted toward Faynie if he were intended for me."
"We will not argue the matter, Claire, for we shall never agree," declared her mother, adding: "I shall always be opposed to Mr. Armstrong meeting Faynie or ever hearing one word concerning the existence of such a person. If he should, mind, I predict harm will come of it."
Those were the words that rang in Claire's ears long after she retired to her room.
"I shall tell Faynie that we had a caller last evening and how handsome he was; but I shall take good care to follow mamma's advice and never let her know his name," the girl ruminated.
She was only a young girl, full of girlish enthusiasm, and it was certainly beyond human expectation to believe she could refrain from mentioning that much to Faynie the next morning.
Faynie laid a little white hand on Claire's nut-brown head.
"Take care not to fall too deeply in love with this handsome stranger," she said, "for handsome men are not always good and true as they seem."
"I am sure this gentleman is," declared impulsive Claire emphatically. "He has the deepest, richest, mellowest voice I ever heard, and such eyes—wine dark eyes—those are the only words which seem to express what they are like—and when he takes your hand and looks down into your face, the hand he holds so lightly tingles from the finger tips straight to your heart."
"I am afraid he has been holding your hand, Claire. Ah, take care—beware!" warned Faynie.
During the fortnight that followed Kendale was a constant visitor at the palatial Fairfax home.
And those two weeks changed the whole after current of Claire's life, as Faynie observed with wonder. It was certainly evident the girl was deeply in love, and Faynie trembled for her, for love would bring to such natures as hers the greatest peace or the bitterest sorrow.
She wondered if her stepmother saw how affairs were drifting.
If it had not been that she and her stepmother were always at cross-purposes with each other, she would have gone to her and warned her that it was dangerous to throw this handsome young man so often into Claire's society, unless she could readily see that he was pleased with the girl—realizing that poor Claire had a sad drawback in her lameness and that many would seek her society because she was bright and witty, who would never dream of asking her hand in marriage because of it.
Once she attempted to warn Claire of the hidden rocks that lay in love's ocean, but the girl turned quickly a white, pained face toward her.
"Say no more, Faynie," she cried; "the mischief, as you call it, has already been done. My heart has left me and gone to him. If I do not win him I shall die. You know the words:
"Some hold that love is a foolish thing,A thing of little worth;But little or great, or weak or strong.'Tis love that rules the earth."The tale is new, yet ever told;It has often been breathed ere now—-'There was a lad who loved a lass'—'Tis old as the world, I trow!"The song I sing has been sung before,And will often again be sungWhile lads and lasses have lips to kiss,Or bard a tuneful tongue."And this is the burden of my rhyme—Though love be of little worth,Yet from pole to pole and shore to shore,'Tis love that rules the earth."
"Some hold that love is a foolish thing,A thing of little worth;But little or great, or weak or strong.'Tis love that rules the earth.
"The tale is new, yet ever told;It has often been breathed ere now—-'There was a lad who loved a lass'—'Tis old as the world, I trow!
"The song I sing has been sung before,And will often again be sungWhile lads and lasses have lips to kiss,Or bard a tuneful tongue.
"And this is the burden of my rhyme—Though love be of little worth,Yet from pole to pole and shore to shore,'Tis love that rules the earth."
"And it is love that breaks hearts and wrecks lives," murmured Faynie, with streaming eyes and quivering lips. "Oh, Claire! again I warn you to take care—beware!"
For one brief moment she was tempted to tell Claire her own story.
Ah, had she but done so, how much misery might have been spared the hapless girl! But she put the impulse from her with a shudder.
No, no, she could not breathe to human ears the story of her false lover and the tragedy that had ended her dream of love.
She had never permitted her thoughts to dwell upon Lester Armstrong since that fatal night.
If there were times when she thought of him as when she knew him first, seemingly so loving, tender and true, she put the thought quickly from her, remembering him as she saw him that fatal night—transformed suddenly into a demon by strong drink, when he struck her down upon finding that she had just been disinherited—that she was not the heiress that he had taken her to be.
He thought his crime buried fathoms deep under the drifting snow heaps. Ah, how great would be his terror to find that the grave to which he had consigned her had given her back to the world of the living! No, no, she could not shock Claire's young ears with that horrible story!
It would be bad enough for her to learn of it in after years.
Thus Faynie settled the matter in her own mind, and her lips were sealed.
One morning Claire burst eagerly into the room, quite as soon as it was light.
"I was here late last night, but you were asleep, Faynie," she said, "and I came away, though I could scarcely wait to tell you the wonderful news."
"I think I can guess what it is," replied Faynie, stroking the girl's brown curls, "Your lover has declared his love for you and asked you to be his wife. Is it not so?"
"You know it could be nothing else which could make me so very, very happy," laughed Claire, her cheeks reddening.
"And you have answered—yes?" asked Faynie.
"Of course I said yes," responded Claire.
"And when is the wedding to take place?" queried Faynie, hoping with all her heart that this lover of whom the girl was so desperately fond loved Claire for herself—not for the wealth she had fallen heir to.
Claire raised her bright, blushing face shyly, the dimples coming and going, making her rather plain little face almost beautiful at that moment.
"Mamma wanted the marriage put off for a year—I am so young—but Lester was so impatient that he would consent to no such arrangement. He wants the ceremony performed with as little delay as is absolutely necessary."
"Lester!" The name went through Faynie's heart like the thrust of a knife.
For an instant every nerve in her body seemed to tremble and throb with quick, spasmodic pain, then to stand still as though the chill of death were creeping over her. Her eyes grew dim with an awful darkness, and Claire's voice seemed far off and indistinct. Then the world faded from her altogether and she fell at Claire's feet all in a little heap, in a dead swoon.
With all possible haste Claire summoned the housekeeper and gave Faynie into her charge.
It was more than disappointing to her to have Faynie lapse into unconsciousness just as she had reached the most interesting part of her story and was about to tell her how very romantically handsome Lester had proposed. It had been just like a page from a French novel.
She little dreamed that the art of making love was an old one to him.
Kendale had gone to the Fairfax mansion with the express purpose of proposing marriage that evening, for only that day Mr. Conway, the old cashier, had told him confidentially that the affairs of the great dry goods concern were in a bad shape—that the check for the hundred and twenty-five thousand which had just been paid out had crippled them sorely.
And, after a moment's pause and with a husky voice, he added slowly: "If something like three hundred thousand dollars is not raised within the next sixty days you are a ruined man, Mr. Armstrong."
This announcement fell with crushing force upon Kendale, who had imagined that there could be no end to the flow of money that was pouring in upon him.
"There's only one way of raking in that much money in a hurry, and that is by marrying the little lame heiress," he soliloquized.
It so happened that he had an engagement to call there on this particular evening, and he resolved that he would not let the opportunity slip past him—that there was no time like the present.
Fortune, fate, call it what you will, favored Kendale on this particular occasion, as it usually did. He found Claire alone in the drawing-room practising some sheet music which he had sent her a few days before.
She started up in confusion as the servant ushered him into the room, a swift blush crimsoning her cheeks.
"Mamma will be down directly, Mr. Armstrong," she said, looking at him shyly from beneath her long lashes.
"Miss Stanhope—Claire!" he exclaimed impulsively, seizing both of her little hands in his, "may we not have a few words together before my card is sent up to your mother? Oh, Claire, you would surely say yes if you knew all I had to say to you. Be kind and consent."
"Since you seem to desire it so earnestly, I am sure I have no wish to object," she answered, trembling in spite of her efforts to appear unconcerned under the fire of his keen, ardent gaze.
"You are an angel," he cried, seating himself in a chair so near her that he could still hold the little fluttering hands, which she fain would have drawn from his clasp, for, although she had never before had a proposal of marriage, she guessed intuitively what was coming.
"Since I have but a few minutes alone with you, Claire, what I have to say must be said quickly," he began.
For the first time in her life Claire was at a loss for an answer.
"I am sure you have guessed my secret, sweetest of all sweet girls," he murmured. "Every glance of my eyes, every touch of my hand, must have told it to you from the first moment we met. Did it—not?"
"No," faltered Claire, her eyes drooping like a flower under the sun's piercing rays.
"Then my lips shall tell you," he cried. "It is this—I love you, little Claire—love you with all my heart, all my soul. You are the light of my life, the sunshine of my existence, my lode-star, my hope—all that a young girl is to a man who idolizes her as the one supreme being on earth who can make him happy. Oh, Claire, I worship you as man never worshiped woman before, and I want you for my wife."
She opened her lips to speak, but he went on rapidly, hoarsely:
"Do not refuse me, for it would be my death warrant if you did. I tell you I cannot brook a refusal from those dear lips of yours. If you do not consent I shall make away with myself in your presence here and now with a revolver which lies in my breast pocket."
A scream of terror broke from Claire's terrified lips.
"Oh, do not make away with yourself, Mr; Armstrong!" "I—I will promise—anything you—you want me to! Only don't shoot yourself—don't!"
"Then you accept me?" queried Kendale in a very businesslike manner.
"Ye-es—if mamma does not—object," she answered in a stifling manner.
"There must be no ifs," he declared. "You must take me, no matter who objects. If we cannot bring your mamma around to an amicable way of thinking, we must elope—that is all there is about it."
"Elope!" gasped Claire in affright.
"Why, what else would there be left to do?" he asked, with asperity. "I love you and I must have you, Claire, and if you are willing to take me, why, we will marry in spite of anything and everything that opposes.
"Of course, if your mamma sees things as we do, all well and good; but I say now to you, her objections must make no difference whatever in our plans."
"Oh, Mr. Armstrong!" gasped Claire, not knowing what in the world to say to this ardent lover, who was so impetuous in his wooing.
Before he could add a word Mrs. Fairfax came down the grand stairway, her silken gown making a rustling frou-frou upon the velvet carpet.
She looked much surprised at finding him there, as she had not been apprised of his coming.
Kendale arose to greet her in his usual impressive, languid, courteous fashion, managing to whisper in Claire's ear hastily:
"Make some excuse to leave the drawing-room for a few minutes, dear, and while you are gone I will broach the all-important subject to your mother."
Mrs. Fairfax greeted the handsome young man cordially, pretending not to have noticed how near to each other they had been sitting upon her entrance to the drawing-room, and how suddenly they had sprung apart.
Her daughter's blushing face and confused manner told her that the propitious moment had arrived—the handsome heir to the Marsh millions had proposed.
And underneath her calm exterior Mrs. Fairfax's heart beat high with exultation. Her quick ear had also caught that rapidly whispered last remark to Claire, and, realizing that her daughter was too much flustered to act upon it, gave the young man the opportunity to be alone with her which he seemed to desire by remarking:
"Dear me, I have left my fan in my boudoir, Claire, dear, would you mind ringing for my maid to fetch it to me?"
"I will go for it, mamma," returned Claire, shyly, without daring to look at her lover.
"As you like, my dear," returned Mrs. Fairfax, with very natural appearing carelessness.
Claire was gone quite half an hour in search of the fan. When she returned to the drawing-room her mother met her with open arms.
"Mr. Armstrong has told me all, my darling," she murmured, "and I give my consent. You may marry him if you love him, daughter, and quite as soon as he wishes."
Kendale left the mansion two hours later with a self-satisfied smile on his lips.
"Marrying heiresses is much easier than most men suppose," he muttered—and he stopped short in the grounds, standing under a tree until the lights went out one by one, shrouding the house in gloom.
Meanwhile, girl like, Claire had flown to Faynie's apartment to tell her the wonderful news—that her handsome lover had really proposed and her mother had given her consent, and she was to be married at once.
Faynie's swoon had put a stop to confiding to her all the wonderful things Lester had said. "I will tell her in the morning," she promised herself, little dreaming what was to transpire ere the morrow dawned.
When Faynie awoke to consciousness she found the housekeeper bending over her. Hours had passed and Claire had long since retired to her room.
Faynie opened her eyes slowly, in a half-dazed manner, but as she did so memory returned to her with startling force; but she bravely restrained the cry that rose to her lips.
Claire had called her lover "Lester!" She wondered that the sound of that name had: not stricken her head.
Could Claire's lover be—Ah! she dared not even imagine such a horrible possibility. Then she laughed aloud, thinking how foolish she had been to be so needlessly alarmed.
The false lover who had wooed and won her so cruelly was not the only man in the world who bore the fateful name of Lester.
"Ah, you are better, my dear," exclaimed the old housekeeper in great relief. "Your swoon lasted so long that I was greatly alarmed; What caused you to faint, my dear child?"
Faynie murmured some reply which she could not quite catch, for the housekeeper was old and very deaf.
"Take this and go to sleep," she said, holding a soothing, quieting draught to the girl's white, hot, parched lips. "You will awaken as well as ever to-morrow."
Faynie did as she was requested, closing her eyes. She was glad when the kindly old face was turned away and she was left alone—not to sleep, but to think.
Of course it could not be Lester Armstrong who was Claire's suitor, for he was poor, and her haughty stepmother would never encourage the suit of a man who did not have wealth at his command.
If Faynie had but read the papers she would have known what was transpiring, but, alas! she did not and was utterly unaware of the strange turn of fortune's wheel which had occurred in the life of the young assistant cashier to whom she had given the wealth of her love, when he was poor.
Lying there, going over every detail of, the past, which seemed now but the idle vagaries of a fleeting dream, she hardly knew, Heaven help her, whether she still loved—or hated with all the strength of her nature—Lester Armstrong.
Her heart would fill with yearning tenderness almost unbearable when she looked back at the early days of that brief, sweet courtship.
How strong, noble, true and brave he had seemed—how kind of heart!
She had seen him pick up a little birdling that had fallen from its nest, lying with a bruised wing in the dust of the roadside, and restore it to the mother bird to be nursed back to health and life, and go out of his way to rescue a butterfly that had fallen in the millpond.
It seemed like the distorted imagination of some diseased brain to bring herself to the realization that this same gentle hand that had rescued the robin and the butterfly had struck her down to death—that the kind, earnest voice that had been wont to whisper nothing but words of devotion and eternal love should fling out the vilest and bitterest of oaths at her, because she was not the heiress he had taken her to be.
And without one tear, one bitter regret, he had consigned her to that lonely grave and gone back to the life which he had declared he could never live without her.
Where was he now? she wondered vaguely; then she laughed a low, bitter laugh, sadder than any tears.
He had missed the fortune he had hoped for and was back again in the office of Marsh & Co.
Then the thought came to her again with crushing, alarming force—would he not (believing her dead and himself free to woo and wed again) seek out some other heiress, since that was his design? Many young girls came to the assistant cashier's window just as she had done; he would select the richest and marry her.
The very thought seemed to stab her to the heart with a keen, subtle pain which she could neither understand nor clearly define, even to herself.
"Heaven pity her in the hour when she finds that she has been deceived—that he married her for gold, not love," she sobbed, covering her face with her little trembling hands.
She prayed to Heaven silently that Claire's lover, whoever he might be, was marrying her for love, and for love alone.
So restless was she that, despite the quieting draught which the housekeeper had induced her to swallow, she could not sleep.
But one thing remained for her to do, and that was to get up and dress and go down to her father's library and read herself into forgetfulness until day dawned.
Faynie acted upon the impulse, noting as she stepped from her room into the corridor that the clock on her mantel chimed the hour of two.
She had proceeded scarcely half a dozen steps ere she became aware that she was not alone in the corridor.
She stopped short.
The time was when Faynie would have shrieked aloud or swooned from terror; but she had gone through so many thrilling scenes during the last few weeks of her eventful young life that fear within her breast had quite died out.
Was it only her wild, fanciful imagination, or did she hear the sound of low breathing? Faynie stood quite still, leaning behind a marble Flora, and listened.
Yes, the sound was audible enough now. There was somebody in the corridor creeping toward the spot where she stood, with swift but noiseless feet.
Nearer, nearer the footsteps crept, the soft, low-bated breathing sounding closer with every step.
With a presence of mind which few young girls possessed, Faynie suddenly stepped forward and turned on the gas jet from an electric button, full head.
The sight which met her gaze fairly rooted her to the spot.
For one brief instant of time it seemed to Faynie as though her breath was leaving her body.
She stood paralyzed, unable to stir hand or foot, if her very life had depended upon it.
Outside the wind blew dismally; the shutters creaked to and fro on their hinges; the leafless branches of the trees tapped their ghostly fingers against the panes.
Faynie tried to speak—to cry out—but her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth, powerless. Her hands fell to her side a dead weight, her eyes fairly bulging from their sockets.
It almost seemed to the girl that she was passing through the awful transition of death.
The blood in her veins was turning to ice, and the heart in her bosom to marble.
In an upper room, afar off, she heard one of the servants coughing protractedly in her sleep.
Oh, God! if she could but burst the icy bonds that bound her hand and foot and cry out—bring the household about her. Her lips opened, but no sound came from them.
The very breath in her body seemed dying out with each faint gasp that broke over the white, mute lips.
Outside the night winds grew wilder and fiercer. A gust of hail battered against the window panes and rattled down the wide-throated chimneys. Then suddenly; all was still again!
Oh, pitiful heavens! how hard Faynie tried to break the awful bonds that held her there, still, silent, motionless, unable to move or utter any sound, staring in horror words cannot picture at the sight that met her strained gaze.
It had only been an instant of time since the bright blaze of the gas had illuminated the darkened corridor, yet it seemed to Faynie, standing there, white and cold as an image carved in marble, that long years had passed.
Before going on further with the thrilling event which we narrated in our last chapter it will be necessary to devote a few explanatory lines to the still more thrilling scene which led up to it, returning to the real Lester Armstrong, whom we left in the isolated cabin in the custody of Halloran.
Lester's intense anxiety when Kendale forcibly took the keys from him and disappeared can better be imagined than described.
In vain he pleaded with Halloran to release him, offering every kind of inducement, but the man was inexorable.
Your Cousin Kendale will pay me twice as much for detaining you here," he answered with a boisterous laugh, adding:
"Besides, I have a grudge against you of many years' standing, Lester Armstrong, which this affair is wiping out pretty effectively."
"I was not aware that I had ever seen you before," replied Lester.
"Permit me to refresh your memory," exclaimed the other grimly. "When you were a boy of about fourteen years you attended the public school on Canal Street."
"Yes," said Lester, still mystified.
"At that time," went on Halloran, "the school was unusually crowded, owing to the enforcement of the law that the children of the neighborhood must attend school, thus bringing in all the urchins of the poor thereabouts; you surely remember that?"
"It seems to me I have a faint recollection of some such circumstance," replied Lester, eying the man who stood over him, his dark, scowling face growing more foreboding with each word he uttered.
"If you carry your mind back you will also remember that there was a ragged boy sitting to the right of you, who seemed to have a weakness for purloining your pencils and other like articles."
Lester did not answer; his mind was traveling back to the time this man recalled.
"You will also recollect the boy who sat in front of you, who was the envy of all the boys in the school by being the possessor of a fine, new five-bladed jackknife, with which he used to whittle kites and whistles during recess. Ah! I see you do remember," said Halloran grimly, "and you also remember the day the ragged boy, sitting at the right of you, believing no one was looking, reached over and quietly, deftly, inserted his hand in the other's pocket and abstracted the coveted jackknife.
"He meant to as quietly replace it in the other's pocket after he had whittled out a kite and whistle for himself; but, lo! without giving him time to carry out his intentions, you, good boy that you were, squealed and brought all the teachers in the room to the spot. You cried out to them what had occurred, and the ragged lad was caught red-handed with the knife in his possession. He was expelled from the school that day, but the affair did not end there. The father of the boy who owned the knife was a great judge, and he caused the ragged lad to be sent to a State reformatory, where the next five years of his life were spent in rigid discipline—stigmatized as a common thief! And all these years the bitterness of a terrible hatred rankled in his bosom against you—who were responsible for all this.
"And he vowed a bitter vow of vengeance, that he would repay that act of yours if it took him a lifetime to accomplish it; that he would make you suffer like one on the rack for thrice five years, and then tell you why.
"It will not take much stretch of imagination for you to surmise, Lester Armstrong, that I am that boy upon whom you peached, and on whom, through you, such a severe penalty was inflicted.
"My hatred against you has intensified as the years rolled on, Lester Armstrong. You are in my power; I hold your life in my hands. Do you think if you were to pray to me on your bended knees that I would release you? No, a thousand times no! Every groan that falls from your lips is music to my ears.
"Again I repeat, you are at my mercy, and I will give you a dose of that same mercy which you showed me in those other days. Ha! you turn pale, as well you may!
"Listen! Let me tell you what I intend to do. I think you guess it from all that has gone on before, but I will repeat it. I intend to watch you die, inch by inch, day by day!
"They tell of a man who put himself on exhibition in New York, challenging the people to come and see him fast forty days, during which time neither food nor drink should pass his lips.
"But you will not last so long, Lester Armstrong; I think a week's time will be your limit. You will understand now how perfectly useless it would be to plead with me."
"Do not imagine for one moment that I intend to do so. I am a man of nerve and iron will, and I can die like one. You have shackled me hand and foot and placed me in this death trap, but your ears shall not be greeted with any moans or cries of complaint. The vengeance you have mapped out will fall short in that."
A sneer broke from Halloran's lips; he could not help but admire the dauntless courage of the man before him, but he would not have admitted it for anything the wide world held. With a fiendish laugh that rang in Lester's ears for long hours afterward, Halloran turned and left him, sauntering into the outer room and banging and locking the door after him.
It was a night never to be forgotten by Lester to the last day of his life. His mouth was parched with thirst; the blood in his veins seemed turning to lava, and his eyes were scorched in their sockets.
Once the door suddenly opened and Halloran thrust in his head, exclaiming:
"Let me give you a piece of news to dream over, my dear fellow: Your Cousin, Kendale, is with the beauteous Faynie just now, probably holding her in his arms, kissing the lovely rosebud mouth. 'Pon my honor. I envy the lucky dog; don't you?"
The door closed quite as quickly again, and Lester was alone with his bitter thoughts.
"What have I done that a just God should torture me thus?" he cried out in an agony so intense that great beads of cold perspiration gathered on his forehead and rolled unheeded down his white cheeks. "If he tortured me to the gates of death I could endure it, but the very thought that my innocent darling, my beautiful, tender little Faynie, is in that dastardly villain's power, fairly goads me to madness. Oh, Heaven! if I but had the strength of Samson for but a single hour, to burst these cruel bonds asunder and fly to my dear one's side!"
But, struggle as he would, the thongs which bound him, rendering him powerless to aid the girl he loved, would not give way.
Thus a fortnight passed, and Halloran was beside himself with wonder to find each morning that Lester was still alive and that he had not gone mad.
But Lester Armstrong's guardian angel had not quite forgotten him; Heaven had not intended that he should die by thirst and starvation in that isolated cabin, and served him in a strange, unlooked-for way.
He soon discovered that a family of squirrels had made a home beneath a piece of flooring within easy reach of where he lay, and upon forcing up the piece of rotten plank he found to his intense joy an almost endless supply of nuts, and close beside their burrow a running stream of clear, cool, fresh, bubbling spring water.
In an instant he had slaked his thirst and laved his burning brow.
From that hour he felt sure that Heaven intended him to escape from his foes. He took good care, however, to conceal his wonderful discovery from Halloran's keen, sharp eyes when he looked in each day.