Lily Lawrence sat alone in the same room in which she had first been incarcerated when in her cataleptic state she had been brought to this house of captivity. Peter Leveret had made the window secure again, and she had been removed here the day after her recapture in her father's hall by Colville.
Consequently she had had no means of ascertaining whether or not the miserable wife of Colville still survived.
She thought it more than likely that the poor creature was dead and beyond all suffering which the vindictive spirit of old Haidee might still inflict upon her while a spark of life remained in her body.
A profound sympathy and regret for poor Fanny's wretched fate, mixed up with Lily's deep solicitude for herself, added to the melancholy air which began to overshadow her like a cloud.
It is a month since we have seen her and she has changed greatly since that time.
Her jailers have strictly carried out Colville's injunction to allow her nothing but bread and water, and the result is plainly seen in an added frailty of face and form.
As she sits in the old arm-chair with her small head thrown wearily back, she looks almost too transparently pale and pure for an inhabitant of earth.
The blue veins show plainly as they wander beneath the white skin, the blue eyes look larger and darker by contrast with the purple shadows beneath them, the once rounded cheeks are thin and hollow.
Even the lips, once so rosy and smiling with their arch dimpled corners, have taken on an expression of pain and endurance pitiful to see in one so young and fair.
The small white hands, growing thin and weak, are listlessly folded across her lap, while she looks wearily at the smouldering ashes of a fire that had been kindled on the hearth that morning, for the September mornings are chilly and the girl's enfeebled frame feels cold keenly.
Thus the two confederates found her when, after a premonitory rap, they unlocked the door and entered. She looked up and her white face blanched still whiter at their presence, but beyond that she took no notice save in a fixed and slightly scornful curl of the lip.
"I trust that I find you well, Miss Lawrence," said her suitor, with an air of devotion.
"Is it possible I should feel well after subsisting for a month on bread and water?" asked the girl, in a languid voice of unutterable contempt.
"Lily, forgive me, but you force me to adopt these stringent measures. It is my love that drives me thus to extremes in hope of forcing your consent at last. Oh! why will you not relent and make yourself comfortable, and me the happiest of men?" cried Colville, imploringly, as he tried to take her hand in his own. But she drew it away with a gesture of contempt and repugnance to his touch and he desisted. Dr. Pratt withdrew to the window and appeared to ignore the conversation.
"Lily," continued Colville, seeing that she made no motion of replying, "you have now had a month for contemplation and sober reflection. Surely you have profited by the thoughts that must have assailed you in that time. Do you now consent to become my wife?"
"Mr. Colville, I have not changed my mind at all," replied Lily, coldly and firmly.
"But come, now, my dear girl," urged Colville, who had been persuaded by Dr. Pratt to try a little kind persuasion instead of such violent threatenings; "come, now, my dear girl, why should you persist in your first ill-considered rejection of my suit? Look at the matter calmly and dispassionately, and weigh all the advantages in my favor. I am not a bad-looking man, nor an old man. I have a splendid income and I love you to distraction. I would spend all my life in making you happy. This is your one chance of happiness. On the other hand there is nothing but captivity and starvation. Were it not better to become my wife?"
"No!" answered Lily, firmly.
"You are very candid, at least, if not very flattering," said Colville, bitterly.
Lily regarded him sadly and calmly. She could pity him when he showed some sign of feeling. She only hated and feared him when he descended to abuse and threatening.
"Mr. Colville," said she, in her soft, flute-like voice, "I am very sorry for you if you love me as you say you do. I pity you from my heart, but if I yielded to your wish and became your wife I could bring you no happiness. I do not love you, and I should hate you then for the means you used to win me. Oh! believe me, your persistence is unwise and foolish. Let me go away from here, I beg you, to my home and my friends. I will not betray your complicity in my abduction. I will suffer you and your friend there to invent whatever plausible tale you please, and I will try to palm it off on my friends for the truth. See, I bear you no malice for the cruelty and injustice I have sufferedat your hands. I am willing to forgive you everything if you will but restore my freedom!"
"You waste your breath in such appeals, Lily—I will never let you go!" said Colville, inflexibly.
"Oh! I beseech you do not kill me with such refusals," cried Lily, wildly. She slipped from her chair and knelt before him, clasping her fragile white hands in an agony of appeal, and lifting her wan, white face imploringly. "See, I kneel to you. My spirit is broken, my pride is humbled in the dust; I am starving, dying here. I beg you for the poor boon of my liberty and life!"
He stood still with folded arms regarding her as she knelt, while a cold and cruel smile curled the corners of his thin lips. Her pitiful appeal made no impression on him; he was not moved by the sight of her fragile face and hands, wasted into pallor and wanness through his cruelty. His answer fell on her quivering nerves as cruelly as the lash cuts into human flesh.
"Kneel, if it relieves your feelings, but do not suppose that your humility can weaken my resolution, which is as fixed as adamant. And hear me now, proud girl, and remember that I mean what I say. I shall yet give you time to change your mind. I am merciful to you because I love you. But if time does not weaken your perversity, so surely as I live I will make you repent your obstinacy. The time will come when you will kneel to me more prayerfully than you now do, and implore me to marry you and save your honor!"
"Never!" she cried, springing to her feet and waving her white hands aloft like some beautiful, inspired prophetess. "Never! Before that day comes I will die by my own hand! And, Harold Colville, while you exult in your wickedness, remember that there is a God above who punishes the guilty for their evil deeds. Nemesis shall yet overtake you—it is written!"
"Come, come, Miss Lawrence, you overrate your strength by this senseless ranting," said Doctor Pratt, coming forward and reseating her with gentle force. "Remember, you are very weak. You have never fully recovered from the effects of your wound and your subsequent fast during the cataleptic state that succeeded it. Illness and deprivation have sapped your strength and dimmed your beauty until there will soon be nothing left of the fairness that now holds Mr. Colville's heart. Believe me, your wisest course is to yield now, marry Mr. Colville, and set about the restoration of your health by travel, recreation and generous living. A few more months of this reckless obstinacy will break down your constitution irrevocably."
"I thank you for that assurance," she answered, exultingly. "Perhaps death will come to me of his own accord, and save me from the sin of taking my own life and sending my soul, trembling and uncalled, before its dread Creator!"
"You do not mean what you say, Miss Lawrence. You are too young and lovely to welcome death. Life holds many attractions for you even as the wife of the despised Mr. Colville."
"I do not think so," she answered, briefly.
"Well, well, your mind will change perhaps; and in that laudabledesire we will take leave of you for awhile," said the doctor, turning off with a sardonic bow.
"And do me the favor of never returning," said Lily, angrily. "You can never change my decision, and if I am doomed to wear out the remnant of my days here, let me at least be spared the sight of your hated faces again!"
"You ask too much," said Colville, airily. "Captives are not permitted to make their own conditions, or select their visitors. Adieu, obdurate fair one."
His gaze lingered on her a moment, noting her beauty and grace which still shone pre-eminent, though her beautiful coloring was all faded and gone, and she looked like a picture looked at by moonlight alone with all the bright tints of daylight invisible. Loving her for her beauty, and hating her for her scorn, he went away, but carried the picture in his heart, at once a joy and a torment, for his conscience could not but reproach him for the change that was so sadly visible in her fragile, drooping form.
Lily remained sitting motionless in her chair, lost in painful revery, until twilight filled the room with shadows. The room grew chilly, and she shivered now and then in her thin dress, but she never stirred until old Haidee entered with a light and supper, the latter consisting of a scanty portion of dry bread and a pitcher of water. Lily cast a glance of loathing upon the food and turned away. Her weak appetite could not relish the dry bread, and it often was taken away untasted.
"Haidee, I wish you would light a fire," said she, shivering in the chilly atmosphere. "The night is cool, and I am very thinly clad."
"There will be no fire to-night," said Haidee, curtly. "If you are cold go to bed and cover up under the bed-clothes."
"At least bring me a shawl to wrap about my shoulders," pleaded the girl.
"Not a rag," retorted the old woman, whose sharp temper was even more acid than usual to-night on account of her rencontre that evening.
"Does Mr. Colville wish me to suffer from cold as well as hunger?" inquired Lily, bitterly.
"I wish it whether he does or not!" answered Haidee, viciously.
"What noise was that I heard this evening?" inquired Lily, looking curiously at the old woman. "I was very much frightened by a succession of screams and oaths as if people were fighting—ah, and now that I look at you, Haidee, I see that there is something the matter with your face."
"Old Peter whipped me, if you must know the truth," snapped the witch.
"Whipped you!" said Lily, with an incredulous look; "oh, no, he would not whip his wife, would he?"
"Yes, he would, and did," retorted Haidee, with a grim sort of smile, as if she took a certain sort of pride in Peter's ferocity. "Oh, we think nothing of a rough-and-tumble fight now and then. Sometimes I get the better of him, sometimes he overpowers me, but it's often an even thing. Old Peter is a ferociousone, I can tell you. If you had knocked him down as you did me the time you escaped, he would have killed you when they brought you back."
Lily shuddered at this intimation of Peter's cruelty.
"Haidee, I did not mean to hurt you that day," said she, earnestly. "I would not hurt the meanest thing that lives if I could help it. I only pushed you to throw you off your balance, so that I might get away."
"You had better eat your supper," said Haidee, not caring to recall that day, for she still harbored a furious resentment against the girl on the score of it, and often felt tempted to wreak revenge upon her. "You had better eat your supper, for old Peter will be angry with you if you keep him waiting outside the door so long."
"Take the bread away. I cannot eat any to-night," answered Lily, with a hopeless sigh.
The autumn sunlight fell goldenly on the handsome face and form of Lancelot Darling as he stood on the broad marble steps of the grand hotel where he boarded, his glance roving carelessly up and down the crowded street.
Our hero was thatrara aviswhose species is almost extinct at the present day—a young man of wealth and fashion, yet totally unspoiled by the flattery and adulation of the world.
Carefully raised by judicious parents, whom he had unhappily lost by death in the dawn of manhood, he had been shielded from many temptations that would have assailed one less carefully guarded than this only and beloved child of fond and doting parental care.
Enjoying the possession of an almost princely fortune, which precluded the need of work, one would have thought him liable to be whirled into the maelstrom of vice and dissipation, and engulfed in its fatal whirlpool forever.
But such was not the case. He was only twenty-three when he met and loved the beautiful Lily Lawrence, and her love had been to him a talisman and safeguard against evil.
Even now, amid the total wreck of all his hopes, and the despair that filled his own being, he was no less the pure-hearted man and perfect gentleman than when the happiness of Lily's love had crowned his life with bliss.
As he stood there on the marble steps he did not note the many admiring glances that fell on him from passers-by—the appreciative looks of women whose gaze lingered on the tall, elegant figure and handsome face, nor the approving nod of men who, while they made no endeavor to reach his lofty standard, could yet admire him as a gentleman "sans peur et sans reproche."
While he stood thus abstracted a boy approached, and placing in his hand a delicate envelope, scented with heliotrope, turned away.
Lancelot turned the envelope in his hand for a moment in some surprise, for the writing was unfamiliar. In a moment he toreit open, however, and read these few lines on the perfumed sheet:
"My Dear Friend:—I enclose a list of some new songs which I wish to try. Will you do me the favor to select them for me, and bring them up this afternoon?"Yours faithfully,"Ethel Vance."
"My Dear Friend:—I enclose a list of some new songs which I wish to try. Will you do me the favor to select them for me, and bring them up this afternoon?
"Yours faithfully,
"Ethel Vance."
This was a bold move on the part of the fascinating widow. She knew perfectly well that she could have sent the boy to a music store and secured the songs at less trouble than by entrusting the commission to Lancelot Darling.
The young man was aware of the fact also; but in the integrity of his own heart he suspected no art in her, and made an excuse for her in his mind.
"How tender-hearted she is," he thought. "She knows how wretched and forlorn I am, and charitably devises schemes for drawing me away from my gloomy retrospections, and cheering me with her gentle society."
Thus thinking Lancelot turned away and proceeded to execute the widow's commission. And punctually he appeared at Mr. Lawrence's drawing-room that afternoon.
The artful woman was alone, and rose to greet him with a beaming smile of welcome.
She had laid aside her usual dress of half mourning, and appeared in a becoming costume of costly black velvet and cream-colored brocade, profusely trimmed with rich lace. Diamonds twinkled in her ears and on her breast, and a bunch of vivid scarlet roses was fastened in the jetty braids of her beautiful hair.
"It issokind of you to come," she said, pressing his hand in her soft, pink palm as he bowed before her. "Ada has gone riding with her father, and I am very lonely."
"It is not much kindness on my part," said he, bluntly: "for I am aware that I am not very cheerful company for anyone these days. I only came because you asked me."
"And not at all that you wished to see me," said she, with a very becoming pout of her rich, red lip.
"Oh, pardon my rudeness," said Lance, contritely. "You know I did not mean that. Of course I like to see you. You are very kind to me always. I meant that I would not presume to inflict my sad countenance and heavy heart upon you unless you insisted I should do so."
"You are very sad, certainly," answered she, with a pensive air. "Indeed, I sometimes wonder, Lance, that the natural light-heartedness of youth does not begin to assert itself within you. It is almost five months since your bereavement, and we do not grieve forever for the dead."
"Do we not?" he asked, with a heavy sigh. "Ah, Mrs. Vance, my grief does not lessen with time. My love was deeper than a common love, and my regret will be eternal!"
"That is all romantic nonsense," she answered, impatiently. "It is not the nature of any human creature to cherish the memoryof one dead forever. 'Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness; love's presence warm and near.' You will be happy again, Lance, and you will love again."
"You judge me wrongly, Mrs. Vance, and under-rate the constancy of a heart like mine. You used a quotation just now, Permit me to reply with another one."
In a voice like saddest music he repeated those exquisite lines from Leigh Hunt:
"The world buds every year,But the heart, just once, and whenThe blossom falls off sere,No new blossom comes again.Ah! the rose goes with the windBut the thorns remain behind!"
"The world buds every year,But the heart, just once, and whenThe blossom falls off sere,No new blossom comes again.Ah! the rose goes with the windBut the thorns remain behind!"
"Your poetry reminds me of the new songs," said she, dropping the argument. "It was very kind of you to bring them. Will you come to the piano and turn the leaves while I try them?"
"Certainly," he answered, rising and attending her.
It was the hardest thing she could have asked of him, but Lance was very unselfish. He put down the throb of pain that rose at the remembrance of the new songs he and Lily had been wont to practice at the same piano, and turned the leaves with a steady hand while her fingers flew over the keys. But one thing she had asked more than once. It was that he should sing with her. This he always quietly declined to do.
"That is rude of you," she would say, in a voice of chagrin. "Your tenor is so perfectly splendid, why should you refuse?"
"I shall never sing again," he would answer, quietly but firmly, and no persuasion on her part could induce him to change his mind.
It was agony for him to stand there and turn the leaves, looking down upon that dark head instead of the golden one he had been wont to gaze upon so fondly. When the face was lifted with a smile to his, and instead of Lily's soft, blue eyes he met the gaze of the black ones, his heart thrilled with pain. Perhaps she guessed it, but she kept him there all the same, thinking that time would blunt the keenness of his remembrance and teach him to adore the brunette as fondly as he had loved the blonde.
She played at him, she sung at him, lifting her passionate glance to his whenever some appropriate sentiment in the song seemed to warrant such expressiveness. Lance never dreamed of the reason for her pantomime. He had seen the same thing practiced by ladies in society. He deemed it a harmless kind of flirting, but never thought of responding to it.
She kept him there perhaps an hour patiently waiting on her pleasure, and passing his opinion only as it was called for on the various pieces she was practicing. At last, to his great relief, she grew weary of her amusement, and left the piano.
"Come and read to me, Lance," said she, with a pretty tone of proprietorship in him; "I am tired of the music, I do not like the songs. There is not a passable one in the whole selection."
She threw herself down half-reclining on a rich divan and settled herself to listen. Lance selected a volume of Tennyson, and seating himself near her, began to read quite at random the celebrated poem of Lady Clara Vere De Vere.
"Lady Clara Vere De Vere,Of me you shall not win renown;You thought to break a country heartFor pastime ere you went to town.At me you smiled, but unbeguiledI saw the snare, and I retired;The daughter of a hundred Earls,You are not one to be desired."
"Lady Clara Vere De Vere,Of me you shall not win renown;You thought to break a country heartFor pastime ere you went to town.At me you smiled, but unbeguiledI saw the snare, and I retired;The daughter of a hundred Earls,You are not one to be desired."
"Oh! no more of that," she cried, as he paused after the first verse. "I have never fancied that poem—try something else."
Patiently he turned the leaves and came upon the exquisite little poem of "Edward Gray"—a dainty bit of versification admired by all women.
"This will please her fancy," he thought, and began again:
"Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder townMet me walking on yonder way,'And have you lost your heart?' she said;'And are you married yet, Edward Gray?'Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me;Bitterly weeping I turned away:'Sweet Emma Moreland, love no moreCan touch the heart of Edward Gray.'"
"Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder townMet me walking on yonder way,'And have you lost your heart?' she said;'And are you married yet, Edward Gray?'Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me;Bitterly weeping I turned away:'Sweet Emma Moreland, love no moreCan touch the heart of Edward Gray.'"
"You need not finish that one," said she, impatiently. "Pray excuse me, Lance, but I do not think you make very pretty selections, or perhaps I am not in the humor for listening. Put the book aside—let us talk instead."
"As you will, fair lady," said he, gallantly. "I shall listen to you with pleasure; but I must warn you that my conversational powers are not great."
"Perhaps the will is wanting," said she, trying hard to repress all signs of vexation. It was terribly hard to lead him on, this frank-spoken young ideal of hers.
"Oh, no," said he, smiling slightly. "It is a real inability for which I ought to be excusable."
"And so you are excusable," said she, with a tender glance. "There are but few things I would not excuse in you, Lance."
"You are very good to say so," he answered, quite gravely. "I am very faulty, I know, and it needs the eyes of a true friend indeed to overlook my manifold imperfections."
"A true friend," she sighed, softly. "Ah! would that I might find such an one."
Lance was about to make some commonplace reply to this aspiration when he suddenly observed that her face had dropped into her hands, and she was crying softly, her graceful form heaving with deep emotion.
"Mrs. Vance," said he in alarm, "what is the cause of your distress? Have I said or done anything to wound you? If I have, pray forgive me. It was unintentional, I assure you."
There was no reply. She continued to sob violently for a fewminutes while Lancelot sat silent and perplexed at her unusual emotion. At length the storm of grief ceased in low sighs, and she lifted her head and carefully wiped off a few genuine tears that hung pendent on her silky lashes and threatened to fall upon her cheek and wash off the delicate rose-tint so carefully put on. Lance at once renewed his apologies and regrets.
"It is I who should beg your pardon, Lance, for this childish and undignified outburst of mine," said she, with quivering lips, "But indeed I could not help it. Our chance words struck a chord so tender that it vibrated painfully. Oh! Lance, I am very unhappy!"
"I should not have thought it," said he, quite surprised at her admission.
"No; because I mask my aching heart in deceitful smiles," was the mournful answer.
"But you have no present cause for unhappiness," said Lancelot, quite perplexed as to the means of comforting her. "Your home is pleasant, your friends are kind and loving."
"Ah! you think so," said she, with a bitter smile, "but you do not know what I have to endure. You could scarcely believe how bitterly Ada Lawrence taunts me with my poverty and dependence. Were it not for Mr. Lawrence, whom I will admit is kind in his way, I believe she would drive me forth homeless and shelterless."
"Surely you misjudge Ada," said he, warmly, "I am sure she has a tender heart."
"Ah! her sweet face is no index of her mind," answered Mrs. Vance, with a gloomy shake of her head. "God knows what insolence I daily endure from that ill-natured girl! Ah! Lance, this life of dependence is a bitter one. I would leave here to-morrow and seek to earn my own bread with my own weak hands were it not for one dear tie which holds me with a power stronger than my woman's will."
"And that tie?" asked the unconscious young man, in a voice of gentle interest.
"Is my passionate, uncontrollable, hopeless love for one whom I will not name," she answered, in a broken voice, and drooping her eyes from his earnest gaze.
"You mean Mr. Lawrence?" Lance queried, in surprise.
"Can you think so?" inquired the lady, in a low and meaning tone, lifting her eyes with one swift glance to his face, then quickly letting them droop again beneath their sweeping lashes.
"It seems incredible," pursued Lancelot, quite oblivious of the meaning she had so delicately conveyed. "Mr. Lawrence, though a very fine looking man, is at least double your age, and is not at all the kind of a man I should have supposed as likely to win your love, Mrs. Vance."
"Heavens, what obtuseness!" thought the almost distracted woman. "Hewillnot understand. I shall have to tell him plainly, and then see what will become of his sublime unconsciousness!"
"Oh! Lance," she cried, shading her burning cheek with her hand, "why will you misunderstand my meaning? I did notmean to tell you the truth, but your assumption of my love for that old dotard forces me to vindicate the choice of my heart! Oh! Lance, do you not know, can you not see what I am ashamed to put in these plain words, that it isyouwhom I love and no other?"
If a bombshell had exploded at Lancelot Darling's feet he could not have been more surprised and actually alarmed than he was at this avowal of love from the woman whom he had honestly admired and reverenced as one among the gentlest and loveliest of her sex. He sprang up and stood looking down at her while a blush of honest shame for her burnt on his cheek.
"Oh, no," he stammered, finding breath after a long, embarrassed pause. "You cannot mean what you say!"
She arose at his words, and drawing near him laid a fluttering hand on his coat-sleeve. Her dark eyes still drooped before his, and her shamed yet imploring posture was the embodiment of grace.
"Do not be angry," she pleaded. "I do mean it; how could I help it when you are the only living creature that is kind to me? Oh, forgive me, Lance, for my wild words, and let me love you a little."
"Mrs. Vance, it is a shame for a woman to love unsought," said he, in a low, rebuking tone.
"Oh, do not say so!" she answered, wildly. "You men are too hard upon us women. You tie us down and restrict us in everything, and if we let our poor, clinging hearts go out to you ever so little before you give us leave, then you cry out shame upon us. Oh, Lance, is it so strange that I should love you? You have been kind to me, you are dangerously handsome and winning, and a woman's heart must cling to something. I have not a true friend on earth, Lance; I have no one to love and no one to love me. I am lonely and wretched beyond expression. Let me love you and say that you will love me in return."
Her forlornness moved his generous heart to pity and sorrow for her. He stood still as if rooted to the spot, listening to the wild torrent of words she poured forth so eagerly.
"Why should you be angry because a woman's heart lies at your feet, Lance, to trample on or to cherish as you please? Am I not young, beautiful, accomplished? If you chose me for your own before the world what could any one say against me, save that I could bring you no wealth but myself?"
Still no word from the appalled listener.
She raised her eyes beseechingly to him and drew a step nearer.
"Lance, do speak to me—do tell me that I am not wasting the wealth of my woman's heart in vain!"
He gently removed her clinging hands and seated her in a low arm-chair, standing beside her and looking down with visible embarrassment, yet with a steady purpose.
"Mrs. Vance," he said, gently, "words would fail me if I tried to express the unutterable regret I feel for the revelation you have made. You must know how hopeless your affection is, rememberingall that I have said on that subject this afternoon. There is no woman living, no matter what her attractions may be, who could take the place of Lily Lawrence in my heart."
"But she did not love you—she died by her own hand rather than wed you."
"Perhaps so—we cannot tell. Be that as it may, I shall keep her image in my heart forever, and no other woman shall come between us," earnestly answered Lily's loyal lover.
"Then there is no hope for me," she moaned, faintly.
"None, Mrs. Vance—absolutely none. Pardon me that I have been forced to wound you thus, and forget this madness if you can. No one shall ever know of it from me," said he, gently, as he turned to go.
"Are you going?" she asked, rising.
"Yes," he asked, pausing reluctantly.
"One word, Lance. I have been mad and blind in allowing my feelings to find vent as I have done. I beg your pardon, and ask you as a priceless boon to forgive and forget my madness. Will you try and do it?"
"Gladly," he answered, with a sigh of relief.
"And one thing more. You will not suffer this act of mine to alter your pleasant relations with the household here. You will come and go as usual that they may not suspect anything has occurred. I promise you that I will not obtrude my company upon you," said she, humbly.
"It were better that I should remain away," he said, hesitatingly.
"But you will come sometimes," she said, and he did not answer nay, but only said: "Good-bye."
Mr. Shelton, the famous detective, was slowly but surely gaining ground in his mysterious and interesting case.
For a long time it had puzzled him and baffled his investigations, but having at last obtained a single clew, he began to push on, slowly, to be sure, but certainly, to eventual success.
He had discovered, after patient and almost incredible labors, that Doctor Pratt was the man who had bribed the sexton and obtained the key of the Lawrence vault the night of Lily's interment there. He had also learned that Harold Colville wore the missing half of the broken locket found in Mr. Lawrence's hall the night on which the specter of the banker's daughter had appeared to the assembled family. As yet he had not thought of linking these separate facts together, but the day was not far away when he would do so.
He adopted quite a bold method of obtaining the desired knowledge regarding Mr. Colville.
He called upon that gentleman attired in a very plain business suit, and still further disguised by a rather long wig of reddish hair, set off by beard and eyebrows of the same ruddy hue. He sent up a card to the gentleman of pleasure, simply engraved: "J. Styles."
After some delay he was ushered into Mr. Colville's parlor. That gentleman, attired in the extreme of fashion, merely nodded at his visitor's entrance. He did not think it necessary to rise for such a plain-looking personage.
"I have not the honor of knowing you, sir," said he, stiffly.
"J. Styles, under-clerk to the bankers, Lawrence and Co.," explained the visitor, briskly.
"Indeed!" said Mr. Colville, affecting nonchalance, but he started violently and the keen eyes of "J. Styles" saw that he turned a trifle paler.
"You have met with a loss, I see," said the under clerk, abruptly bending forward and taking hold of the broken locket that dangled among the charms of the gentleman's watch-chain.
"A personal affair that does not concern strangers," answered Mr. Colville, haughtily, as he drew back.
"I beg your pardon—it is the very business on which I called," replied the visitor, imperturbably. As he spoke he slipped his fingers into his breast pocket, produced the missing half of the locket, and deftly fitted it to the broken part that dangled from the chain. "I have the honor to return this to you, sir," said he, slipping the jewel into Mr. Colville's hand.
The gentleman's fingers closed over it mechanically.
"Why, what—the devil—where did you find it?" asked he, thrown off his guard by the unconcerned and business air of the under-clerk.
"I did not find it at all," answered "J. Styles," calmly. "I was commissioned to return it to you by Mr. Lawrence. It was found in the hallway of his residence on the evening of the twenty-first instant."
Mr. Colville started as if a bullet had struck him. He grew deathly white even to the lips, and stared at the visitor a moment in silence. At length he recovered himself with a powerful effort, and asked, curtly:
"Well, why did Lawrence think of sending it to me? I did not lose it there. Lawrence is a friend of mine, certainly, but I have not called on him for several months."
"He recognized it as your property, and supposed that you might have called on the ladies that day in his absence," returned the visitor, fabricating this lie with bare-faced effrontery.
"Yes, that seemed plausible," answered Colville, with evident relief.
"I suppose now that you have no idea where you actually lost it?" inquired the clerk, respectfully.
"Not the slightest—indeed, it was but yesterday that I discovered the loss. That must have been several days afterwards if, as you said, it was found on the twenty-first," replied Colville, more affably than he had yet spoken. "You will return my thanks to Mr. Lawrence for its prompt return."
"It appears strange that it should be found in the hallway of a house which you have not entered for months—does it not, sir?" remarked the clerk with a musing air.
"Exceedingly strange," returned Colville, uneasily. "But perhaps it had been found on the street by some person whomight have lost it in Mr. Lawrence's hall that day. That is the only explanation of the mystery I can think of, for I assure you I have not been to the house for months. Not since long before the—the tragic death of his daughter," said he, growing pale as the words left his lips.
"By the way, a most startling event occurred at the home of Mr. Lawrence the same night on which your locket was found," said the clerk, who seemed in no haste to leave. "Your mention of Miss Lily recalls it to my mind."
"Indeed, and what was that?" inquired Colville, with an affectation of carelessness.
"Why, the spirit of the deceased young lady actually appeared to the family, who were all assembled in the drawing-room in company with the gentleman to whom she was to have been married," replied the visitor in a voice of awe.
"Can it be possible?" inquired Mr. Colville in a tone of surprise and interest. "In what manner did the apparition appear?"
"She appeared in the doorway, sir, with her arms extended towards her lover. She was heard to utter her father's name twice, then the whole illusion faded out in the thick darkness."
"Dear me, how very interesting," said Colville, shifting uneasily on his chair as though it were set round with thorns. "I have heard of such things, but never witnessed any manifestations myself. Miss Lawrence was a charming girl. A pity she should have destroyed herself."
"Yes, sir—a most lamentable affair—well, I must be going," said "J. Styles," rising.
"You will let me offer you a reward for your trouble in returning my property?" inquired Mr. Colville.
"Oh! no, I thank you, sir—but perhaps the housemaid who found it would be glad of a trifle, sir!"
Mr. Colville placed a bill in his hand, and the pair separated courteously, the fine gentleman returning to his seat in a tremor of anxiety and trepidation, while the detective took himself to the office of Mr. Lawrence, and after revealing his identity (for his disguise completely deceived that gentleman) he proceeded to detail the interview with Mr. Colville and its result as we have already described it.
"I took the liberty of borrowing the name of one of your under-clerks," said he. "I suppose there is no harm done."
"None at all, I should say," returned the banker, with a smile.
"And here is the reward the gentleman gave me for the housemaid who found the locket," continued the detective, producing the money.
"Ah! he was generous," commented the banker, tucking the five-dollar bill into his vest pocket. "Well, and what do you make of all this, Shelton?"
"Much, if I could guess at the meaning of it," returned the detective, frankly. "At present I am all at sea, but from this day forward until I get at the truth, Colville will be a shadowed man. I shall be on his track like a bloodhound. His agitation and alarm at learning where his locket had been found meantmuch, and his lying assertion that he had not been at your house that night meant more. I assure you that Harold Colville was in your house that night and with no good purpose. I will yet give you proofs of my assertion."
"You have done well so far," said Mr. Lawrence, approvingly; "I believe you will succeed in ferreting out that mystery, and I will try and bide the time patiently. And now about the man who had the key of my vault the night of my daughter's interment. Have you tracked him yet?"
"I have," answered Mr. Shelton, triumphantly.
"You have?" cried the banker, eagerly. "His name?"
"You remember the physician who was called in to examine your daughter's body the morning she was found dead—the same man who testified at the inquest? The man is one Doctor Pratt, a physician of fair repute in this city and of some skill in his profession."
"A physician, Shelton? My God! Then poor Lily's body was stolen for purposes of dissection!"
"I do not think so. They would not have run so great a risk to gain so little. No, Mr. Lawrence, I still firmly believe that it was done for the sake of a large ransom."
"Then why do the thieves not return the body, since I have long ago offered a ransom for it and no questions asked?" said the banker, impatiently.
"Perhaps you have not offered as much as they expected," answered Shelton.
"Would you advise me to increase the amount? I would willingly double and treble it if necessary," said Mr. Lawrence, earnestly.
"Do not do so at present, sir. I hope that we shall succeed in finding the body and punishing the knaves for their unholy sacrilege. I am loth to reward their treachery and suffer them to go scot-free," answered Shelton, earnestly.
"Well, you know best, Shelton. I will wait yet a little longer, then—but, oh, Heavens, this suspense is very dreadful. I feel myself growing old before my time with the pressure of my troubles," said Mr. Lawrence, passing his hand wearily through his fast whitening hair.
"Have patience yet a little longer. Indeed, Mr. Lawrence, I feel deeply for your distress, and will do all I can to alleviate it," said the detective, in a tone of respectful sympathy.
"Thank you, Shelton. I believe that you will," said the banker, gratefully. "And now about this rascally physician. You were very clever in finding him out. How did you manage it?"
"It would weary you if I went into details, Mr. Lawrence. I arrived at my knowledge after much time and labor. But I will briefly explain that I furnished the old sexton who helped on this trouble a deputy in his business, and disguising the old fellow thoroughly, I took him about with me night and day until he recognized his man and pointed him out to me."
"It seems incredible that a man with a good profession and offair repute should be found engaging in such a nefarious scheme," said Mr. Lawrence, in amazement.
Mr. Shelton smiled knowingly.
"My dear sir," he said, "there is nothing incredible, nor even uncommon about it. My experience in the detective line has made me familiar with a hundred such cases. Men steeped in every iniquity are found concealed under the guise of respectable professions or genteel business. Wolves in lamb's clothing, you know."
"It is shocking to think of," said the banker. "Well, can anything be done with this Pratt? Should not he be arrested at once on the charge of bribery?"
"And thereby lose the chance of tracking him to the hiding-place where he has the body concealed?" said Mr. Shelton. "Oh! no, Mr. Lawrence, we will not molest him yet. I have my eye upon him. Like Mr. Colville, he is a shadowed man; I have a colleague in this business, and we each have our marked man to watch. Dr. Pratt's profession takes him abroad so much and into so many houses that it will be difficult to track him, but depend upon it we shall run him to earth at last."
"I truly hope so; your recent discoveries have put new heart into me, Shelton; may God prosper you in your undertaking," said the banker, supplementing this aspiration with a very large roll of bank-bills which he slipped into the detective's hand.
"Thank you, sir," smiled Shelton. "That material way you have of supplementing a prayer is not a bad thought. I may count upon your silence about what I have disclosed—may I?"
Mr. Lawrence placed his fingers on his lips with a nod and smile.
"All right, I'll rely upon you," said the disguised detective, and with a brief "good-day, sir," he went buoyantly away on the secret mission that meant detection and ruin to Messrs. Pratt and Colville.
The banker returned to his counting-room with renewed hope and vigor. The impenetrable darkness that had hovered over Lily's disappearance so long seemed to be lifting at last and a gleam of light shone through the little rift in the clouds.
Mr. Shelton spoke truly when he said to Mr. Lawrence that he would shadow Harold Colville like a bloodhound.
By day and by night, on foot or on horseback, in various disguises, he kept himself on the track of the fine gentleman.
For several weeks he kept up this close espionage, but at the end of that time he seemed no nearer his object than when it was first begun.
Mr. Colville's comings and goings seemed to be quite the same with those of other gentlemen of his means and position.
He frequented theaters and gaming-houses; he was a welcome and much sought-for partner in ball-rooms, and was smiled upon by scheming mothers with marriageable daughters.
Thus far Mr. Shelton had seen nothing on which to seize as apossible clew to Mr. Colville's mysterious presence in Mr. Lawrence's house the night of Lily's appearance.
Mr. Shelton had made one discovery, however, though he did not begin to attach much importance to it. It was that Doctor Pratt and Harold Colville were acquainted with each other, and, moreover, that they sometimes "hunted in couples."
That is to say, the worthy physician occasionally stopped his carriage on meeting Colville, whereupon the latter would spring in and accompany the doctor on his round of visits, seeming deeply interested in the conversation they pursued together.
Mr. Shelton was puzzled to decide whether there was any collusion between the gay man of fashion and the busy physician, or whether it was only one of those odd friendships that are sometimes observed to exist between persons of totally different temperaments and pursuits. Sometimes he was inclined to believe it was only the latter.
But he noticed a fact at last that struck him as rather peculiar. Following the pair closely on his stout, black horse, he had seen that Colville always remained in the carriage while the physician went into the houses to pay his visits to the sick.
On this occasion, which struck him so forcibly, they drove quite out upon the outskirts of the city, and stopped before a house standing almost a half mile distant from any other.
This house, the detective observed, had a gloomy and forbidding aspect, being closely shuttered and surrounded by a very high stone wall.
Here Dr. Pratt descended and fastened his horse. Mr. Colville also sprang out, and they entered with a familiar air, the heavy gate closing and shutting them in.
"Now, that is rather strange," thought the detective as he walked his horse slowly past the deserted-looking place.
"What business has Colville in there? I can imagine that Pratt may have a patient inside those gloomy walls; but what the deuce can Colville have to do with it? I am almost positive that I heard shrieks issuing thence when they went in at the gate. I wonder can it be a private asylum for the insane?"
He spurred his horse ahead and rode on for some distance, then paused, and remained as erect and still as a statue while he watched and waited for the pair of confederates to come forth. But at least an hour elapsed before they emerged, and pursued the devious tenor of their guilty way.
"Now, upon my word," thought the wary spy, "Doctor Pratt must have a very interesting case inside of those gloomy, prison-like walls. I have a mind to stop somewhere in the neighborhood and inquire about the inhabitants thereof."
He accordingly suffered Doctor Pratt's carriage to drive on out of sight, and stopping before a cottage on the road with the ostensible purpose of obtaining a drink of water, he inquired of the woman who gave it to him as to the names of the people who inhabited the old house with the stone wall.
"And indade, it's mesilf that cannot tell ye, sor," said she, with a very broad Hibernian accent, "for shure, Mickey andmesilf have but lately moved intil the cot, and knows naught about the nayburs!"
Mr. Shelton rode on and made the same inquiry at the next house, but elicited no encouraging answer. People did not seem to know anything about the deserted-looking old house in such close proximity to them.
After several similar experiences he rode on quite disgusted with the general stupidity of the neighborhood.
Almost two miles from the old house that had so powerfully attracted his interest, he came upon a little house standing close to the roadside.
A kind-looking woman sat in the doorway, though the day was chilly, and as she kept knitting away on the homely gray stocking, sang cheerily at her work.
"Now that is a pleasant-looking old soul," he thought. "Perhaps her intellect is above the average of her neighbors. Perhaps she is better informed than they are. At any rate, I will speak to her."
He dismounted from his horse this time, fastened him at the gate-post, and walked up the narrow path to the door.
The good woman arose in quite a flutter.
"Do not let me disturb you," said he, courteously. "I only wish to trouble you for a drink of water. I have ridden far and feel very thirsty."
"Certainly, sir," said the woman, in a voice as pleasant as her face. "Come in and have a seat, sir, and you shall have a draught fresh from the spring."
She hurried away on hospitable thoughts intent, and soon returned with a glass of pure cold water. The guest sat still in his homely chair and sipped at the water very slowly considering how thirsty he had professed himself to be.
The fact was, he had drank several glasses of water already while prosecuting his inquiries, and began to feel himself almost unequal to this latter one.
"You do well to sip your water slowly, sir," said the woman, observing him, "for the doctors do say that it is very imprudent to drink rapidly when tired and overheated."
"Bless the good, unsuspecting soul," thought the detective. Aloud he said very politely: "Yes, madam, I am aware of that fact, and I believe some very severe illnesses have resulted from injudicious gulping down of cold water by thoughtless persons. I always make a point of sipping mine very slowly."
"And very right of you, too, sir," said the kind soul, approvingly.
"Ah, by the way," said he, "I am a stranger in this neighborhood, and I passed a house about two miles back that powerfully attracted my curiosity. It was an old, deserted-looking building, inclosed by a high stone wall. Its prison-like aspect repelled me. Do you know anything about it?"
"They do say it was a convent once, sir," answered the good woman, readily. "I know the place you speak of, and as you say, sir, it has a very repelling aspect."
"Is it inhabited now?" inquired the wayfarer.
The hearer shuddered.
"That it is, sir," said she; "and by a wicked lot, I assure you."
"Is it possible?"
"It is quite true, sir. The place has been inhabited for many years by an old couple of the name of Leveret. They have no family at all, and live there alone, having no friends or neighbors, and it is said that they keep a powerful bloodhound upon the place. Strange tales are told of these people, but nothing is known certainly. Both of them are hideously ugly, and many people declare that the old woman is a witch."
"Is either of them sick, do you know?" inquired the detective.
"That I cannot tell you, sir. They are all very reserved, and hold no intercourse with people around them. I have heard that they are misers, and have large quantities of gold buried in their garden, and guarded by the great bloodhound. They might both sicken and die, and not a living soul be the wiser. May I inquire why you asked that question, sir?" asked she.
"Certainly. I saw a doctor's carriage standing in front of the gate, and concluded that someone must be sick, within."
"Perhaps there may be, sir, but I would not have thought they would have called in a doctor. These old witches, like Haidee Leveret, as they say her name is, usually cure sickness with their own herbs and simples."
"Perhaps they failed on this occasion. Well, I must be going," said the detective. "Many thanks for your information. Permit me to offer you a trifle for your kind entertainment," said he, politely tendering a piece of silver.
"Not a penny, sir. The water costs nothing, and as for changing a bit word with you, why, that's a pleasure to a lonesome old lady like me, with few neighbors and friends. Why, it was only last month that a young thing in trouble, passing this way, offered me her fine diamond ring to pay for a bit kindness I showed her. But I refused it, sir. I want nothing for showing a little kindness to the wayfaring," said the good woman, pausing to take breath.
Shelton's attention had been caught unaccountably by the mention of the diamond ring.
"You stimulate my curiosity," said he, deliberately sitting down again. "The young person must have felt your kindness very sensibly to have offered such a costly reward as a diamond ring."
"Aye, she was in sore trouble, sir, that I believe. But now I bethink me," said the good creature, stopping short, "she charged me if any one came here inquiring for her to say she had not been here, and here I am blabbing away at this thoughtless rate."
"But you see I am not inquiring for her," said the visitor briskly. "I am a perfect stranger in these parts, and I am not looking for anyone, so there is no harm done in relating this interesting story to me."
"Why, that is very true, sir," said she, and thereupon followed a minute and detailed account of the visit of Lily Lawrence, andthe disguise she had furnished her. Mr. Shelton listened to the story with very close attention.
"How long ago has it been since this happened?" he inquired when she had finished her relation.
"Several weeks, sir. Stay, let me see—I was so excited by it that I put down the date in my little memorandum book," she said, as she began to fumble in her pocket. Presently she produced the book in question, and turning a leaf announced triumphantly, "it was fully two months ago, sir. It was August—the 21st of August."
"The very day that Lily Lawrence appeared to her friends," thought the detective, with a start. "Can there be any connection between the two?"
"She was young and beautiful, you say?" asked he.
"Aye, she was, sir. Not more than seventeen or eighteen, and beautiful as a white lily, sir. She put me in mind of that flower, she was so delicate and pale, sir—not a tint of color in her poor lips and cheeks. Her hair was pale golden too, sir, falling down upon her shoulders, and her eyes of a beautiful deep blue."
"I suppose no one came by to inquire for her?" said Shelton.
"No one, sir; I did not see anyone passing that day except a doctor's carriage that whirled past in a desperate hurry soon after she left here."
"Let us hope she made her escape from whatever evils menaced her," said he, fervently. "Well, I must be going in earnest now. My kind friend, will you tell me your name? I may call on you again."
"My name is Mrs. Mason, sir," she answered.
"Do you live here alone?" asked he, as he jotted it hastily down in his note-book.
"Quite alone, sir. My poor husband and my only child have been dead these ten years—I am quite alone in the world," answered Mrs. Mason with a sigh.
"Good day, Mrs. Mason, and many thanks for your kindness to a wayfaring man," said the detective as he went down the path, leaped into the saddle and rode away.
Mrs. Mason's revelation had thrown his mind into a chaos of doubt, perplexity and suspicion. New light began to break in on him, startling him with a wondrous possibility he had not suspected.
Mrs. Vance had done herself more harm than good by the bold avowal of her love for Lancelot Darling. The innate delicacy and almost womanly refinement of his character revolted at the idea of her imprudent and ill-considered step. He could not understand why she should have lowered herself by declaring her love after all he had said regarding the constancy of his affection for his loved and lost Lily. He pitied, and yet the feeling of pity was more closely allied than he knew to a feeling that bordered on contempt.
The fair widow herself was not by any means cast down byLancelot's firm and resolute repulse. She thought, from her knowledge of masculine character in general, that Lancelot's vanity would soon overcome his first shocked repugnance to her unfeminine avowal, and cause him to exult in the knowledge that he was so madly beloved by so beautiful and accomplished a woman.
From that there would be but a slight step to giving his love in return. She had not driven him away from her, for he had not said he would not come again. She would see him often, and work on his feelings by every art of which she was mistress. Surely she could not fail to win him. He was young, impressible, and youth is not prone to constancy to the dead. True he had an idle, romantic fancy that "love is love forevermore," but time and her artifice would cure him of that.
"I will be very shy and humble when he first comes back again," she thought. "No young maiden in her teens shall outdo me in coyness and reserve. I will make him think that my wild outburst that day was entirely unpremeditated and that I am thoroughly ashamed and repentant. He will begin to excuse me to himself, then he will pity my hopeless love, and then—ah, then, 'pity is akin to love!'"
She was sitting in the drawing-room, rocking leisurely back and forth while she trifled over a delicate bit of fancy-work. A fire burned cheerily on the marble hearth, for the late October days were growing chilly, and diffused an air of warmth and comfort in the large, luxuriously appointed apartment. Mrs. Vance herself was quite in keeping with the elegance of the room. Her house dress of delicate pink cashmere, with trimmings of cream-white lace, made a beautiful spot of color in the darker, more subdued coloring of the furnishings around her.
Ada came in from the conservatory with her arms full of flowers, and sitting down opposite the lady, began to arrange them into tasteful bouquets.
"You need two roses to complete the harmony of your dress," said she carelessly, selecting that number and tossing them over to her. Mrs. Vance took the roses and fastened them in her breast and hair. "Now your toilet is perfect," said the young girl in a tone of admiration that was quite sincere, for though she believed Mrs. Vance to be a false and scheming woman, she could not but admit the perfection of her beauty and grace.
There had been no more angry passages between Mrs. Vance and Ada, though the pure-hearted and impulsive girl had in no-wise changed her opinion of the lady. But on mature reflection she began to think that since Mrs. Vance was her father's guest she had acted wrongly in thus declaring war with her. Therefore she treated her as before her sudden outburst against her, with outward politeness and respect.
The young girl appeared very lovely that morning. Her deep mourning dress, with its heavy crape folds, could not obscure her beauty, and set off, like the somber setting of a jewel, her transcendant fairness. All traces of her severe illness in the summer had disappeared. Her cheeks were glowing with a faint, sea shell tint, deepening to glowing crimson on her full and pouting lips. Her large, blue eyes had the serene, innocentlook of a child's tender orbs. Her golden hair, simply drawn back and braided, allowed a soft, curly fringe to escape and flutter caressingly over her low, white brow. Mrs. Vance hated her for the beauty that recalled the image of the rival her jealous hand had ruthlessly slain.
While they sat thus engaged there was a ring at the door-bell, and presently the beloved object of Mrs. Vance's secret thoughts was shown in. He looked very handsome and distinguished as he replied to Ada's unembarrassed and sisterly greeting, "Good morning, Lance," but his face flushed slightly as he bowed distantly to her companion. Mrs. Vance replied to his greeting with a bow that was quite as formal, and sinking languidly back into her seat, fixed all her attention upon her work. Not a single glance of her down-drooped eyes was allowed to wander toward him. She preserved entire silence while the other two entered into a simple and desultory chat with the easy familiarity of old friends. At length, as though her embarrassment were becoming unendurable, she rose with an incoherent apology, and heaving a deep sigh quitted the room abruptly and did not appear again. Ada looked after her departing form in amazement.
"What is the matter with Mrs. Vance?" asked she. "You seem to have frozen her into a statue."
"I am sure I cannot tell," he answered with an assumption of carelessness.
"But you barely spoke to each other. I am sure I thought you two were the best of friends—really intimate in fact. Yet you seemed on the most indifferent terms just now," said she, incredulously.
Lance smiled carelessly, and reached out for one of the roses in her lap.
"My dear little sister," said he, "who can answer for the vagaries of woman? Mrs. Vance has always been exceedingly friendly with me, but she seems to have taken an opposite whim just now. But it would not be fair to question her motives, would it? Men have to bear the caprices of women without complaint—do they not? I believe one of the best of the female poets claimscapriceas aright divineof the fair sex."
"Oh, yes. Mrs. Osgood says: