The inquest that was held over the dead bodies of Peter and Haidee Leveret developed no information that could lead to the conviction of their destroyer.
An expert examined the bodies and declared that the cause of their death was strychnine poison.
Large quantities of this baneful drug was found in the tea pot and in the partly emptied cups of the victims.
Mr. Shelton testified to the accidental finding of the bodies, and to his extinguishing the flames which had been lighted for their funeral pyre—also to the finding of the chained prisoner in the gloomy dungeon. His evidence threw no light on the subject.
Fanny Colville testified to the names and general bad character of the deceased, but knew nothing which was calculated to enlighten the jury as to the mystery of their death.
She had not seen Peter for two years. Haidee had been in the habit of bringing her some bread and water once a week, but had neglected to return the last time, and nine days had elapsed since Fanny had seen her, two of which days she was entirely without food.
She supposed that the old witch was putting into execution her often-reiterated threat of starving her to death.
This was all they learned of Fanny. She had given her evidence with many pauses and turns of faintness. At length she became so ill and exhausted that it seemed cruel to weaken her with farther questioning, and it was decided to defer it until she became stronger and better.
The jury, in accordance with the facts elicited, rendered a verdict that the pair had come to their death by strychnine poisoning at the hands of some person unknown.
Search was made for the hidden treasure the misers were supposed to have concealed about the house, but nothing of value was found, and the bodies of the iniquitous pair were committed to burial at the expense of the city. They had lived their evil life, and the world being rid of them was better off.
Mrs. Colville was removed to the home of Mrs. Mason, and the kind soul was shocked at the spectacle of human misery thus presented to her view.
She gave the poor creature a warm bath, clothed her skeleton limbs in soft and comfortable apparel, and shingled her long, inextricably tangled hair close to her head.
This done she proceeded to put her to bed and feed her with warm and nourishing food.
The poor, starved woman could scarcely realize her good fortune.
She lay looking about her at the pleasant little room with its neat carpet and curtains, its comfortable bed and cheery fire, and feared it was all a dream from which she would awaken to the horrors of her lonely, fireless dungeon.
But the gentle voice of her hostess soothed away her fears and lulled her into profound and restful sleep.
For several days the most of her time was spent in eating and sleeping.
The warm room and nourishing food seemed to induce slumber, and she began to improve very slowly, but still so perceptibly that when the detective came to see her after the lapse of a week he was delighted at the change.
"Mrs. Mason, you must be a capital nurse," said he, smiling. "Your patient looks very well, and begins to improve at a rate I hardly dared hope for; I should scarcely have known her."
"And, but for your timely help I should have been dead ere this," said the invalid, giving him a grateful look from her large, hollow, dark eyes. "I owe you my life. I do not know how to thank you."
"Do not try," answered the detective, feeling shy under thegratitude that was about to be showered upon him. "The revelation you made me when I found you fully repays the debt."
"Ah! that dear girl," sighed Fanny. "Have you learned anything further about her, Mr. Shelton?"
He shook his head sadly.
"I am sorry to say I have not. The wretches have eluded me in some way, and managed to remove her without my knowledge. But I do not despair of catching up with them yet, and restoring the unfortunate young creature to her friends."
"God grant you may," she murmured, fervently.
"There is one thing I wish to ask you," said he, suddenly. "When you were telling me your story that day in the dungeon, you made an assertion that threw a new light on the subject of Miss Lawrence's supposed death."
"Ah! what was that?" she inquired.
"You know, or, perhaps, you do not know," said he, "that the jury's verdict was suicide. Yet you made the assertion that she was murdered by a jealous woman."
"Miss Lawrence was my informant, sir," answered Mrs. Colville. "Perhaps she knew all the circumstances better than the jury."
"No doubt she did," he answered, smiling at her demure tone. "And the woman?"
"Was a beautiful widow who lives under the Lawrence roof, and is dependent on the banker for the very means of existence. I cannot recall her name, for I have a peculiar faculty for forgetting names, but perhaps you have heard it."
"I have," he answered, gravely. "And indeed it amazes me. It passes belief that she should have struck a blow so terrible at the heart of Mr. Lawrence, to whom she owes nothing but gratitude."
"She was maddened by jealousy, sir. She loved the young man whom Lily Lawrence was on the point of marrying. I heard this from the young girl's own lips. She told me she had long before suspected her love, and pitied her sincerely, without a thought of the cruel vengeance she was about to take."
"Cruel! It was fiendish," said Mr. Shelton.
"Yes, sir, it was fiendish. She crept into the room while Miss Lawrence was trying on her wedding-dress, caught up a dagger from the table, and exclaimed, as she plunged it into her victim's heart: 'Girl, you shall die because Lancelot Darling loves you!'"
"Horrible!" exclaimed the detective.
"Miss Lawrence became immediately unconscious," continued Mrs. Colville, "and does not know how the woman left the room after locking her door on the inside, but thinks it probable she slid down the long vine that runs up to her chamber window."
"It is very probable she did," said Mr. Shelton. "Heavens! what a tissue of crime and villany has been woven about the innocent life of that beautiful girl! But I will see her righted, I swear it by all that I hold most sacred. And then let Mrs. Vance and Pratt and Colville look to themselves. I hold the evidences of their crime in my hands now. They only bide my time to see the inside of a prison cell!"
Mrs. Mason, sitting with her knitting, had been an interested listener to the above conversation. The detective turned to her now, saying kindly:
"We have been discussing secrets very freely in your presence, my kind hostess, but I suppose you know how to keep silence regarding them."
"Wild horses should not drag a word from me, sir, without permission," replied she, earnestly.
"I fully believe it," answered Mr. Shelton. "Therefore I shall commission Mrs. Colville to take you fully into our confidence after I leave here. You will thereby hear a very romantic story regarding the young lady whom you so nobly befriended some time ago."
"Bless her sweet face! I never shall forget her," said Mrs. Mason, on whom indeed that little incident had made a deep and lasting impression.
"I hope you may yet have the pleasure of meeting her under more favorable auspices," said the detective, strong in the faith that he should yet rescue Lily from her cruel and unrelenting captors.
"Mr. Shelton," said the invalid, abruptly, "I have been thinking of sending for my poor old mother from the country. I must tell you that I ran away from home to marry that villain, Colville. I have never seen my poor old mother since, but I sent her my marriage certificate to keep for me, and to assure her that I was an honorable wife. I have never seen or heard from her since. I would like to see her very much."
"Well?" he said, as she paused, looking wistfully at him.
"Would you advise me to send for her?" asked Fanny.
Mr. Shelton took down a little mirror hanging over the small toilet table and held it before her face.
"Is it possible your mother would recognize you?" he inquired, gently.
Poor Fanny did not know how sadly she was changed before. She looked at herself and shuddered.
"Oh! no, sir!" said she, mournfully; "I was a black-eyed, rosy-cheeked young girl when I left home. I am a gray-headed skeleton now."
"Then take my advice and wait a little while. In the meantime, let Mrs. Mason feed you and nurse you until you get some flesh on your limbs, and some color in your ghostly face. Then as soon as you get strong enough to travel, I myself will take you home to your mother."
"Oh! thank you, thank you; that will be best," she murmured, gratefully.
"No thanks," he answered, and bidding them adieu, he went hurriedly away.
Lily Lawrence leaned back in the physician's carriage and wept silently as she was whirled onward to her new prison.
Her companions were very taciturn. Doctor Pratt was drivingand gave the most of his attention to his task. Beyond one or two questions as to her comfort he did not address either Lily or Colville. The latter sat entirely silent opposite the young girl through the whole time.
At length, after several miles of rapid driving the carriage came to a pause, and the young girl was lifted out in front of a large, frowning brick edifice which loomed up gloomily in the darkness of the chilly night. She was led up a flight of stone steps and Doctor Pratt rang the bell.
The summons was quickly answered by a small dark man, who showed surprise at the visit, but welcomed Doctor Pratt with the cordiality of an old friend.
"Doctor Heath, this is Mr. Colville, a friend of mine," said Doctor Pratt as they stepped into the hall. "We have brought you a patient in the person of this young lady."
"Indeed!" said the host, bowing gracefully to these two new acquaintances, and ushering them into a small reception-room on the right. "Pray take seats, my friends, and draw near the fire. The night is raw and chilly."
Mr. Colville placed a comfortable chair near the fire for Lily, and she sat down and held out her numbed hands to the cheerful blaze that burned on the hearth.
Doctor Heath took a seat near her regarding her with looks of surprise and admiration. Her colorless beauty shone out like a lily indeed from the dark hood over her head.
"She looks very ill," said he in an undertone to his colleague, and unseen by Lily, he tapped his forehead significantly.
Doctor Pratt gave a shy affirmative nod.
"She has been very ill," he answered, "and has had a tiresome drive to-night in addition. Perhaps it would be better to let her have some refreshments and retire at once. I wish to have a private conversation with you."
Doctor Heath retired to give the necessary order. Lily's blue eyes turned upon her captors with a look of dread in their soft depths.
"Doctor Pratt," said she, "what new trials am I about to experience here?"
"None at all, I hope," said he, smoothly. "Your health is visibly declining, Miss Lawrence, and I have concluded to place you under the constant care of my friend, Doctor Heath. I think you will find this a more comfortable place than old Haidee Leveret's and you will have kinder treatment; I shall leave orders for a rather more generous diet than has been lately allowed you, for I fear your constitution may be ruined by your recent course of starvation. Yet I must say your own obstinacy brought it upon you. One kind word from your lips to Mr. Colville would have placed every luxury at your command."
"And I would die rather than speak that word!" said Lily, with a scornful curl of her beautiful lip.
"You will change your mind, doubtless, before you have remained long in this place," said Mr. Colville, in a tone so significant that she stared and looked at him keenly, as if trying tofathom its hidden meaning, but she could not read the expression on his face, and dropped her eyes with a weary sigh.
Doctor Heath came in, followed by a neat young woman with a large and apparently very strong frame. She came in and stood behind Lily's chair.
"This young woman will attend you to your room," said Doctor Heath, with a polite bow. "I dare say you are tired and would like to seek repose."
Mr. Colville approached Lily and bent down to say, softly:
"I may not see you again for several weeks, Lily; but if you should change your mind and wish to recall me sooner, you need only signify it to Doctor Heath, and he will communicate with me at once."
"I am not likely to change my mind," she answered, coldly, turning from him and following the strong-limbed young woman out of the room.
Her guide led her up a stairway and along a wide hall, with a number of closed doors on each side. At length she paused and threw open the door, saying, politely:
"This will be your room for the present, miss."
Thus addressed, Lily stepped reluctantly across the threshold and looked around her.
She found herself in a small and neatly-furnished room. The floor was covered with a bright, warm carpet, a nicely-cushioned chair was drawn before a comfortable fire, and a tray containing refreshments was placed on a little stand in front of it.
The attendant entered behind her and closed the door.
"Allow me to assist you," said she, removing Lily's cloak, and seating her in the easy-chair before the fire.
Lily's lip quivered slightly at the gentle kindness of the woman's tone. Poor girl! harshness and coldness and threatening had become the only familiar sounds to her ears. This woman, though she looked young herself, assumed a motherly tone like one talking to a sick child.
"You would like a cup of tea, I reckon," said she, pouring out the fragrant beverage, and putting in cream and sugar, "and a bit of this toast and cold chicken? You look very cold and tired, my dear."
"Thank you," answered Lily, taking the tea and drinking it thirstily.
After her long fast upon bread and water the food tasted simply delicious to her. She did not know how much its quality was sweetened by the kind looks of her attendant, who sat by and watched her with a good-natured smile on her round and rosy face.
"Perhaps you would like me to help you to bed before I take away the tray," said she, as Lily finished her tea and leaned back wearily in her chair.
"Thanks; presently I will avail myself of your kindness, but now I wish to ask you some questions," said Lily, quietly.
"Yes, miss," said the woman, kindly, but she looked at Lily with a great deal of surprise at her tone.
"What is your name?" inquired the young prisoner.
"Mary Brown, if you please, miss," answered the woman in her kind, soothing tone.
"You live here, I suppose, Mary?" pursued the young girl.
"Yes, miss."
"Then, Mary, I wish you would tell me what kind of a house this is. I have been fancying that it must be a hospital, as there seems to be a resident physician. Am I right?"
"Oh! yes, miss, certainly, this is a hospital. We have a number of sick people here," said the woman, like one humoring an inquisitive child. "But don't you wish to retire now, miss? It's about midnight I should think."
"In a minute, Mary. Tell me first, is it a public hospital?"
"Oh! no, miss. It's perfectly private, and very select indeed. We receive none but first-class people here—we don't indeed."
She was turning down the covers of the bed as she spoke, and now she said, persuasively:
"Come, now, let me help you to bed, miss, I want to tuck you up warm and comfortable before I leave you."
Lily submitted patiently, but as she laid her tired head on the pillow, she asked, suddenly:
"Is Dr. Heath a good man, Mary?"
"La, now, miss, you must judge of that yourself. You will see him often enough before you get well," said Mary Brown.
Lily was about to open her lips to refute the charge of her illness, when she was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a wild and piercing shriek which seemed to come from the room that was next her own. In her alarm she sprang up and caught Mary Brown's arms in both hers, shuddering with surprise and terror.
"Oh! what is it?" she cried, as the wild shriek was repeated again and again, mingled with frenzied shouts and peal after peal of frightful, demoniacal laughter.
"It's only one of the sick ones, miss," said Mary Brown, uneasily. "Don't fret yourself, my dear. Lie down again. He will soon be quiet, and then you can go to sleep."
A horrible suspicion flashed into Lily's mind.
"Mary Brown, you have been deceiving me with your kind face and friendly talk. This is not a hospital for the sick. It is a private mad-house—is it not?"
"Well, it is for people who are sick in their heads," admitted Mary.
"You mean for people who are insane," said she, holding tightly to the woman's arm.
Mary Brown nodded acquiescence.
Lily was silent a moment, lost in painful thought. At length she said, sadly:
"I hope you do not think that I am insane, Mary Brown?"
"Oh! dear, no, miss," said Mary, in her placid tone. "Of course not."
"But youdobelieve it. I can see that plainly," cried Lily, in an anguished tone. "You have been humoring and petting me, taking me for some insane creature. But I assure you I am not. I am perfectly sane, though I have suffered cruelty and injusticeenough to have driven me mad long ago. I have been brought here by two wicked men to be made a prisoner because I will not marry a man whom I hate."
"You poor, injured dear," said the good nurse, affecting to believe the young girl's story, though in her heart she set it down simply as one of the vagaries of madness.
"You do not believe me," cried Lily, passionately. "Oh! God, is this crowning insult to be added to my sufferings? Must they represent me as mad, and thus drive me into insanity indeed?"
The attendant began to think that her beautiful and gentle patient was becoming violent. She gently but forcibly released her arms from Lily's clasp, and laid the moaning girl back on her pillow.
"My dear," she said, "you must not excite yourself. You look too ill to stand agitation. I must go now and help Doctor Heath to manage that poor shrieking maniac in the next room. Try and go to sleep, my pretty dear."
She drew the warm covers up carefully over the patient, brushed back the disordered golden hair with a coarse but kindly hand, extinguished the light, and, taking up the tray of dishes, went out, carefully locking the door after her.
In the hall she encountered Doctor Heath about entering the room of the shrieking patient. He paused at sight of her.
"How is your new patient?" he inquired, abruptly.
"A little excited at present, sir. She appeared very quiet and sensible at first, but after the violent patient began his shrieks she became violent and wild, sir!"
"Did she tell you her name?" he inquired.
Mary Brown replied in the negative.
"Her case is rather peculiar," said Doctor Heath. "She is the victim of a strange hallucination. A wealthy young lady of New York committed suicide last summer under very romantic circumstances. This young person imagines herself to be the identical young lady who killed herself, and asserts that she was resurrected by a physician and his friend, who detain her in durance vile because the latter wishes to marry her. She will tell you her story, of course. Do not contradict her, but gently humor her. She will not give you much trouble, I think, as it is a mere case of melancholy madness. The young lady she personates was named Miss Lawrence. Be particular and call her by that name, Mary."
"I will, sir," said Mary, passing on.
Mrs. Vance read in the daily papers an account on the inquest that had been held over the dead bodies of her two victims.
She was surprised and troubled at first because her scheme for burning the house down and destroying the bodies had failed, but as she saw that no clew to the perpetrator of the poisoning had been discovered, her courage rose in proportion.
"I am free now," she thought, with a guilty thrill of triumph. "The two old harpies who preyed upon me are dead, and theirsecret with them. No one will ever discover my agency in their death. Suspicion would never dream of fastening upon me. Who would believe that these white hands could be stained with crime?"
She held them up, admiring their delicate whiteness and the costly rings that glittered upon them, then went to the mirror and looked at her handsome reflection.
"I am beautiful," she said to herself with a proud smile. "There is no reason why I should not win Lancelot Darling. A woman can marry whom she will when she is gifted with beauty and grace like mine. And I will yet be Lancelot Darling's wife. I solemnly swear that I will!"
In the exuberance of her triumph and her pride in herself, she ordered the carriage and went out to spend the money she had rescued from Peter and Haidee in some new feminine adornment wherewith to deck her beauty for the eyes of the obdurate young millionaire.
Time flew past and brought the cold and freezing days of November. The latter part of it was exceedingly cold, and snow covered the ground with a thick, white crust.
Lancelot Darling came into the drawing-room one day where Ada and the beautiful widow sat by the glowing fire, Mrs. Vance busy as usual with some trifle of fancy work, and Ada yawning over the latest novel. They welcomed him without surprise or formality, for he had fallen into a habit of dropping in familiarly and with the freedom of a brother. Mrs. Vance, after the first few weeks of affected shyness and prudence, had resumed her old frank relations with Lance, though but feebly seconded by that young man, who had not recovered from the shock of her unwomanly avowal of love for himself.
"Well, Ada, how does the novel please you?" he inquired, looking at the book that she had laid aside.
"Either the author is very dull, or I am out of spirits," she returned, smiling, "for I have failed to become interested in the woes of the heroine, this morning. Have you read it, Lance?"
"Oh, yes, a week ago," he answered, carelessly. "I found it readable and interesting. I dare say you are in fault to-day, not the author. You are out of tune."
"Perhaps so," said Ada, "but what am I to do about it? Can you suggest a remedy?"
"The sleighing is very fine just now," he returned. "It thrills one very pleasurably. Have you tried it?"
"Oh, yes, Mrs. Vance and myself have been out twice with papa this week."
"By daylight?" he queried.
"Yes, by daylight," she answered.
"The latest sensation, however, is sleigh-riding by moonlight," rejoined Lance. "There is a full moon, you know, and the nights are superb. Parties go out to Dabney's hotel—it is far out on the suburbs—and have hot coffee and oysters by way of refreshment, you know—then they return to the city, getting home near midnight usually. Altogether it is very exhilarating."
"You speak from experience, I presume?" said Ada.
"Yes. I tried it myself last night, being induced thereto by the glowing representations of two young friends of mine. I found the drive quite as bracing and delightful as they described it. I should be tempted to try it again to-night if I could persuade you, Ada, and Mrs. Vance to accompany me."
"Why, that would be delightful," said Ada, clapping her hands, with the pleasure of a child over a new toy. "I think that is just what I am needing—a new sensation."
"You consent, then?" said he, smiling at her pretty enthusiasm.
"Oh, yes, if Mrs. Vance will go, too. Will you do so?" inquired she, turning to the lady, who had as yet taken no part in the conversation.
"Do you wish to go very much?" inquired she, looking up from her work with a very pleasant smile.
"I think I should enjoy it very much."
"I don't know that I care for it very much," said the widow, with a light sigh; "but I will go to please you, Ada."
"It is settled then," said Lance. "We will go, and I think I can promise you both a very enjoyable evening."
It could not fail to be otherwise, Mrs. Vance thought to herself, with a thrill of pleasure at the knowledge that she would be seated beside him for hours, hearing his musical voice and looking into his handsome face.
"If it were not for that hateful Ada going, too," she said to herself, "what a chance I could have to make an impression on his heart!"
But regret it as she would she could not prevent Ada from going, for she saw plainly enough that the excursion was planned for the young girl's pleasure, not her own. She was merely secondary in the affair. A thrill of jealous pain cut through her heart like a knife, and the furtive glance of hatred she cast upon Ada boded no good to the lovely and high-spirited young girl.
Night came, and Lance appeared with his elegant little sleigh. The ladies, comfortably arrayed in sealskin cloaks and hats, were helped into the sleigh, the warm buffalo robes were tucked around them, and taking the reins in hand, Lance started out at a dashing pace over the smooth and shining crust of snow.
The moon shone gloriously, making the ground look as if paved with sparkling gems, the silver bells rang out a merry chime, and the hearts of all three seemed to fill with pleasure at the joyous sound, and the breath of winter seemed like a caress as it sighed past their warm and glowing cheeks.
Numbers of merry pleasure-seekers were out enjoying the fine sleighing and the beautiful night. Gay words and happy laughter rang out from youthful voices, and many a heart beat high with hope and love.
Mrs. Vance and Ada enjoyed their moonlight ride very much, and found their appetite sharpened for the delicious supper which was ready for them when they arrived at their destination.
They met several of their friends at Dabney's hotel on the samepleasant mission as themselves, and enjoyed an hour of social converse before starting on their homeward way. They were the last to leave.
"It has been very pleasant," said Ada, impulsively, as Lance tucked the buffalo robes around them preparatory to starting.
"I am glad you have enjoyed it," answered the young man, touching up his spirited horses and starting off in gallant style.
They had gone about half a mile when, in turning a corner, the mettlesome young horses became suddenly frightened at something, and reared upward, nearly upsetting the sleigh and its occupants. With a grasp of steel, Lance tried to bring them down upon their feet, but succeeded only to see them start away at a maddened and furious pace, entirely beyond his control, while shriek after shriek of terror burst from the two ladies as they clung to Lance.
Impeded by the clinging arms of the two, and distressed beyond measure by their frightened screams, it was impossible for Lance to do anything to help them. Though he held on to the reins so tightly that his hands were wounded and bleeding, his utmost strength was insufficient to arrest the speed of the horses. They ran faster and faster, as though incited to greater speed by the screams of the women. At length, with a frantic effort, they cleared themselves of the sleigh and bounded away, leaving the dainty vehicle overturned and broken, and its occupants reposing in a snow-drift.
Lance was the first to lift himself up and look about. He felt as if every bone in his body were broken, so swift had been the impetus that hurled him out; but repressing his own pain he hastened to his two companions.
"Ada, Mrs. Vance, are either of you hurt?" he inquired, anxiously.
Mrs. Vance was already on her feet, shaking the loose snow from her hair and dress.
"I believe I am quite uninjured beyond the shock of the fall," said she. "Are you, Lance?"
"Oh! I am all right," said he; "but, Ada, my dear girl, are you hurt?"
Ada answered his query with a moan of pain, but made no effort to rise. He bent over her and lifted the slight form in his strong arms.
"Can you stand?" he inquired, anxiously.
"Oh, no—no!" she moaned. "My ankle seems to be twisted or sprained, and my head struck something hard like a rock in falling. It aches dreadfully."
She burst into tears, sobbing aloud in her pain. Lance looked about him in despair.
There he was in the road, several miles from the city, with two helpless females to take care of, and his broken sleigh lying useless, the horses quite out of sight. Worse than all, Ada lying helpless in his arms, unable to stand or walk, and moaning like a child in her acute suffering.
"This is terrible," he said. "What can we do, Mrs. Vance?"
"Nothing," said she, coldly, maddened by the sight of Ada'shead resting against his shoulder, "except to remain here and freeze to death waiting for some other vehicle to happen along and take us home."
"Something may happen along at any minute," he answered, encouragingly. "There are numbers of people out to-night as well as ourselves."
"It is quite probable that we are the last on the road," said she doubtfully. "Indeed, I believe that we are. If Ada were unhurt I should suggest that we walk home, or back to the hotel at least. Ada, my dear, rouse yourself and do not weep so childishly. Do you not see what a plight you are putting us in? I am quite sure you can walk a little if you will only try to make an effort."
Thus adjured, Ada lifted herself and tried to put her foot on the ground and stand up.
"It is useless," said she, falling back with a sharp cry. "My ankle is too badly hurt. I cannot stand upon it."
Ere she ceased to speak, the welcome tinkle of sleigh-bells in the distance saluted their ears.
"Thank Heaven!" ejaculated Lance, "we have but a moment to wait. Relief is at hand."
"How fortunate!" chimed in Mrs. Vance, recovering her good humor at the prospect of help in their extremity.
Directly a splendid little sleigh drove up to them, stopped, and the single occupant, a handsome young man, jumped out.
"What is the trouble here?" he inquired, in a genial, friendly voice. "Why, upon my word," with a start of surprise, "it's you, Lance, is it not?"
"Yes, it is I, Phil, and I was never so glad to see you before in my life," answered Lance, in a tone of relief. "Mrs. Vance, Miss Lawrence, this is my best friend, Philip St. John."
"You have met with an accident?" said Mr. St. John, after briefly acknowledging this off-hand presentation to the ladies.
"Yes, my horses ran off and overturned the sleigh, pitching us into the road. Mrs. Vance and myself luckily escaped unhurt, but Miss Lawrence has sustained an injury that incapacitates her for walking."
"Perhaps I can help you," said the new-comer, cordially. "My sleigh is very small, but it will be roomy enough to accommodate one of these ladies, I am sure. Now, if Miss Lawrence will trust herself to my care, I will take her home immediately. And, Lance, if you and Mrs. Vance can stand a walk of a mile back to Dabney's hotel, you will find that they keep a good trap there and you can get it to return in."
"What do you say to my friend's plan, Ada?" asked Lance, looking down at her as she leaned upon his arm. "Will you allow Mr. St. John to take you home? I assure you he will take the kindest care of you."
"I accept his offer with thanks," said Ada, gratefully, "but it seems selfish to leave Mrs. Vance and you to trudge back to the hotel on foot."
"My dear child, pray do not distress yourself on that score," said Mrs. Vance, in her kindest tone. "I feel so thankful for thistimely assistance in your behalf that I shall not mind the long walk at all."
"It is the best thing they can do, Miss Lawrence," said Mr. St. John, respectfully. "They would freeze if they remained here waiting till I sent a conveyance out from the city, but if they walk back to the hotel they can get Dabney's sleigh and follow us directly."
Ada was accordingly lifted into the very small sleigh of Mr. St. John; the robes from Lance's useless sleigh were brought and tucked around her, and in a minute she was off like the wind for home, feeling in spite of her pain a very shy consciousness of her proximity to the handsome young stranger.
Lancelot and his fair companion in distress set off rather soberly on their return to Dabney's hotel.
It was rather an embarrassing position to be placed in both for Lancelot and the handsome widow. After some little desultory conversation they both relapsed into silence and walked soberly on their way.
Mrs. Vance at length broke the silence in a low and very faltering voice.
"Lance," she murmured, "I must avail myself of this, the only opportunity I have had, to crave your pardon and forgetfulness for a confession which I too sadly remember with blushes of shame for my madness and folly. Forgive me for recurring to that moment of frenzy and shame. I only do so to entreat your pardon and crave your forgetfulness."
He felt the small hand trembling within his arm where it rested, like a fluttering bird; looking down in the brilliant moonlight he saw tears shining like drops of dew on her down-drooped lashes.
He did not answer, and she continued, in a voice full of sadness and shame:
"Words cannot paint my grief and shame for that deeply deplored confession. Not shame that I love you, Lance, but shame that in an hour of impulsive and passionate abandonment, I showed you the secret of my heart and gained in return your bitterest scorn."
"No, no, you mistake me, dear madam," said he, struggling for words to reassure her. "It was not scorn—it was grief that moved me to speak as I did. I felt your words dimly as an outrage on the modesty of womanhood—oh, forgive me, I do not know how to express myself," cried he, feeling himself floundering into deeper depths with every effort he made to extricate himself.
"You express yourself only too clearly," she cried with inexpressible bitterness; "I see that my fault will never be forgiven or forgotten."
"Oh! indeed it will," cried Lance eagerly, trying to condone his offensive words. "What I meant to say was this; I felt very badly over your words at first, but since I have seen how muchyou regret your rashness I have ceased to consider it anything but a momentary indiscretion which I trust soon to wholly forget, when you will again be reinstated in my whole confidence and respect."
"Oh! thank you, thank you," she cried, chafing at the coldness of his words, but trying to content herself since she could extract no kinder speech from him. "Believe me, Lance, I will try to merit your confidence, and no indiscretion of mine shall wound you again."
"And we will drop that subject forever, will we not?" said he, leading her up the hotel steps and into the warm, lighted parlor.
"Forever!" she answered with a quivering sigh.
He drew forward a chair before the glowing coal fire and led her to it.
"You must feel tired and cold after your long walk," he said; "I will have something warm sent in while I inquire about the sleigh."
He went away and directly a neat serving-maid entered, bearing a tray of warm refreshments.
Mrs. Vance drank some coffee, but had no appetite for the viands, warm and delicious as they appeared, so the maid, with a courtesy took the tray and retired.
She waited some time before Lance returned. He came in looking pale and troubled.
"It is too bad," he said in a tone of vexation, "but Dabney's sleigh which I counted on confidently as being available was hired out in the earlier part of the evening to a couple of young fellows off on a lark into the country. They will not return until to-morrow evening."
"Then what are we to do?" she asked.
The young fellow smothered some sort of a vexed ejaculation between his mustached lips.
"We are to be patient," he answered, grimly. "Dabney knows a man a mile away from here who keeps a sleigh. He has sent off on the mere chance of its being at home to secure it for us."
He went out and left her sitting before the fire gazing into the glowing coals thoughtfully.
After he had gone she took out her watch and looked at it.
"Twelve o'clock," she repeated to herself, putting the watch quietly back.
Lance returned after an hour of patient waiting, accompanied by Mr. Dabney himself.
"We have been very unfortunate, indeed, in being unable to secure you a conveyance of any sort to-night, madam," he said, courteously. "It is now after one o'clock and all efforts have failed. Would it please you to retire and wait until morning? We will then provide comfortable means for your return."
She looked at Lance timidly.
"It is the only thing to be done," he answered, moodily. "I would walk to the city myself if it were the slightest use; but I am an indifferent walker, and could not possibly get back heretill long after daylight; so the only course I see open is to wait for a sleigh which is promised me in the morning."
"If that is the case," she answered, sadly, "I should be glad to retire. I am very tired, and feel the shock of my accident painfully."
The gentlemen retired, and a maid came in and showed Mrs. Vance to a sleeping apartment. She locked the door, and threw herself wearily across the bed. She was laboring under some strong excitement. No sleep refreshed her burning eyelids that night. At daylight the little maid knocked at the door with a tempting breakfast arranged on a tray.
"The sleigh has arrived, and is waiting until you have your breakfast," said she, politely.
Mrs. Vance bathed her face and hands, re-arranged her disordered hair, and after doing full justice to the tray of viands, descended to Lance, who impatiently waited her coming.
He helped her into the sleigh, took up the reins and set off homeward.
"I hope you slept well?" he remarked, to break the awkward silence.
She turned her dark eyes up to meet his questioning glance. He saw with surprise they were hollow, languid and sleepless, while a glance of ineffable anguish shone upon him.
"Could I sleep well, do you think?" she inquired, in a voice full of passionate reproach. "Could I sleep at all, knowing the dreadful fate which awaits me?"
"I fail to understand you," said he, in a voice of perplexity.
"You cannot be so blind, Lance. You are only playing with me," she murmured, sadly.
"Pray explain yourself," he answered. "I give you my word of honor that your speech and manner simply mystify me. What dreadful fate awaits you, Mrs. Vance?"
She turned upon him a moment with flashing eyes, then looked down again as she answered in low, intense tones:
"Do you not understand, Lance, what my pride shrinks from telling you in plain terms?—the bitter truth that my stay with you last night at the Dabney Hotel has irretrievably compromised my fair fame in the eyes of the carping and censorious world?"
She paused, and Lancelot Darling sat still and motionless like one stricken with paralysis.
"Oh! that is impossible," he said at last. "No one knows of our accident."
"All New York will know it to-morrow," she said, bitterly. "Ill news flies apace. To-morrow the finger of scorn will be lifted against me on every hand. Perhaps even Mr. Lawrence will turn me out of doors."
The reproach and passion had died out of her voice. It was full of pathetic pity for her own sorrow.
"Surely it cannot be as bad as you fear," said Lance, startled and troubled.
"Alas! it is too sadly true!" she said, mournfully.
"What can I do to remedy your trouble?" he inquired, hisnative chivalry rising to the surface in defense of the woman he had unwittingly injured.
"Whatcana man do in such cases?" she asked, in a low and meaning tone.
"Marry, I suppose?" he said, after a long hesitation.
"Yes," she answered, quietly.
Silence fell for the space of a few moments. Lance drove on mechanically, drawing his breath hard like a hunted animal.
He roused himself at last and spoke in a cold, constrained, unnatural tone.
"Then I will marry you, Mrs. Vance," he said. "I cannot promise to love you, nay, I can hardly give you the respect I would think the natural due of some other woman. But since I have injured your honor I will give you the shelter of my name."
"Thanks, a thousand thanks," she murmured.
Mr. Shelton did not think it expedient to communicate to Mr. Lawrence the startling fact that the beloved daughter whom he mourned as dead was yet numbered among the living.
He had not the heart to give him this joyful assurance and then offset it by the statement that she was immured somewhere in the walls of a prison in the power of two wicked and unscrupulous men.
He determined, if possible, to trace out her whereabouts and rescue her before revealing the whole truth to the sorrowing father.
He therefore compromised the matter by telling a portion only of the truth to the banker.
Namely, that he had traced the body of the young girl to a certain house in the suburbs, but that it had been removed thence when he went to look for it, and that he was following up a new clew which he confidently hoped would soon lead to its recovery.
He also added the fact that Doctor Pratt and Harold Colville were the guilty parties in the matter.
Mr. Lawrence was anxious at first to have these two men arrested and forced to acknowledge their guilt and return the missing body, but he yielded to Mr. Shelton's contrary persuasions on being assured that such a proceeding might result in the disastrous failure of his plan.
"For though we might imprison them, Mr. Lawrence," said he, "the rigor of the law could not force them to divulge their dreadful secret unless they chose to do so. It is only too probable that they would maintain the most obstinate silence on the subject. Therefore let them go free a little longer, and let us oppose cunning to cunning, and fraud to fraud until we attain our end."
The banker acquiesced, and the detective hurried away, for he was resolved that the wily schemers should not elude him again as they had certainly done on the occasion of the removal of Lily Lawrence from the Leverets' house.
Once more he and his faithful colleague took up their task of espionage, but it was unavailing for weeks. Harold Colville had conceived a dim suspicion that he was watched, and was therefore doubly vigilant and wary. For more than a month he did not visit Lily, but contented himself by receiving cautious bulletins of her welfare from Doctor Heath, weekly. The messages went through the mails and were directed to a fictitious address.
In these careful weeks a new scheme was revolving in Colville's brain, always fertile in evil. He was growing heartily tired and impatient at Lily's obstinacy, and was frightened lest some unforeseen accident should snatch his lovely prize from him. He began to realize that Lily would never yield her consent to become his wife, yet he swore to himself that he would never give her up. He determined, therefore, on a forced marriage.
"What do you think of it?" said he to his familiar, Pratt, after detailing his fears and anxieties to that worthy, and stating his final resolution. "Would that do?"
"Excellently well," said Pratt, who began to feel as anxious as Colville about the obstinacy of their prisoner. "It is the best thing we can do. Our position is becoming environed with difficulties. If we had not removed her from Leveret's just in the nick of time, that detective, Shelton, who found the bodies of Haidee and Peter, must inevitably have discovered her, and ere this hour we must both have seen the inside of a prison. Yes, it would be infinitely wiser to force a marriage with the perverse little jade and carry her off to Europe if need be. Seeing herself thus irrevocably bound to you, she would understand that her only hope of happiness lay in reconciliation and she would act accordingly."
"Marry it shall be then," said Colville, with a brightening face. "But when, and by whom? Could we find a priest who would read the ceremony over us under the peculiar circumstances of the case?"
"Never fear for that," said Pratt, laughing. "I can find you a priest in New York who would do the deed without any twinges of conscience for a pocket full of money. Leave that to me, and when I have found him I will report progress and you shall name the happy day."
"It will be a speedy bridal if I am allowed to usurp the lady's usual prerogative and name the day," returned Colville, in a fine humor with himself at the near prospect of his union with the beautiful Lily.
"It will be better to allow her the chance of doing so," replied Pratt, sarcastically. "Ladies are great sticklers for these small points of etiquette, you know. After we have settled the preliminaries we will slip out there some dark night in disguise and acquaint her with the good fortune in store for her, and give her a chance to yield gracefully. Should she still refuse we will make no more ado about it, but take the priest out there next day and marry the beauty willy-nilly."
"It is settled, then," said Colville, "and I shall write myself'Benedick, the happy man.' But, apropos of that, Pratt, whom do you imagine the chained prisoner found at Leveret's could be? I had no idea the devils were carrying on such a double game."
"Nor I," said Pratt. "I have indulged in a great many surmises respecting that mysterious prisoner, but cannot arrive at anything satisfactory."
"Have you fancied it might beFanny?" inquired Colville, fearfully, while drops of perspiration broke out upon his brow.
"Yes, I have fancied it might be she," answered Pratt, coolly. "Perhaps old Peter and Haidee played us false, and did not kill her as you desired. We were not strict enough with them. We should have demanded a sight of the body for our assurance."
"Where is the woman they found?" asked Colville.
"I have tried to learn her whereabouts diligently," said Doctor Pratt, "but only ended by asking myself the same question you asked now. It is rather strange, too; I should have thought there would be no difficulty, but there seems to be a mystery connected with her removal."
"If I could find her, and it prove to be Fanny, I would kill her," muttered Colville, with a fearful oath.
"Perhaps she is dead already," replied the physician. "The papers described her as being too far gone to give her name or any evidence regarding herself. Probably she has succumbed to her great weakness and died."
"I hope so," replied the other, "for I have felt horribly afraid that she might prove to be Fanny."
"The killing of those two wretches was a most mysterious affair," remarked Pratt, musingly.
"Have you any suspicion as to the perpetrator?" asked Harold Colville.
"Not the slightest. It is a most mysterious affair to me. The wildest conjecture fails to fathom it."
"Whoever the mysterious poisoner may be he has my sincere thanks and best wishes," said Harold Colville, sardonically. "I owed the wretches a grudge for their attempt on Lily's life!"
"Yes, their death is eminently satisfactory to me," remarked Pratt. "I was casting about in my mind for some safe way to punish their perfidy without getting into trouble myself, when this opportune accident to their health stepped in between me and my meditated revenge. A pious person might almost call it an intervention of Providence.
"I dare say we should have called it an intervention of the devil if we had not been fortunate enough to carry my lady off safely the night before it happened," laughed Colville.
"After all, their plot to kill her was rather fortunate, since we came in just in time to frustrate it," answered Pratt, "for if they had not conspired against her life we should not have thought of removing her that night and she must have fallen into the detective's hands on the ensuing day."
"The devil takes care of his own. I am certain his satanic majesty helped us in that affair," was the laughing reply.
The two villains continued to indulge in these pleasing retrospections of the past for some minutes, then separated, the physiciangoing off on his medical duties, and the man about town to some of his familiar haunts of dissipation.
As they emerged from the hotel, each man, unconsciously to himself, was followed by another man who stole forth from the corridors of the building.
One of those men—the same who now followed Pratt—had been outside of Colville's door, with his ear glued to the keyhole during the progress of their interesting conversation. It was Mr. Shelton, the detective.
How little the two conspirators dreamed of what ears had listened to their nefarious schemes of forcing their victim into a loathsome marriage by the aid of some priest who disgraced the holy robe he wore by such sacrilege.
Fate was weaving her web silently but rapidly around the two wicked plotters, and ere long they would receive their reward.
Mr. Shelton had learned several facts unknown to him before while listening to that private conversation. He resumed his weary task of espionage, infused with new hope and courage, feeling within himself the consciousness that he must and would succeed.
Lancelot Darling's unfortunate sleigh-riding accident had achieved for Mrs. Vance a victory that all her previous arts and maneuvers had failed to conquer.
Lancelot's noble and chivalrous spirit could not brook the thought that any woman's fair name should suffer through his fault or accident.
He therefore fell an easy victim to her artful wiles, and prepared to sacrifice himself on the altar of her imperious will, while deploring with all the passion of his manly nature the cause that demanded it.
"I thought myself the most miserable of all men on earth before this happened," said he to Mr. Lawrence, after confiding to him his unhappy position. "Life has held nothing but despair for me since Lily died. But now that I must take to my heart, in place of my worshiped darling, this mature woman, with her bold beauty and coquettish arts, I feel myself, if possible, driven nearer than before to the verge of madness."
"I believe you are sacrificing yourself unnecessarily, my boy," said the banker, warmly, for he saw through the widow's arts directly, and lamented the chivalrous nature that made Lance become her prey easily. "I believe Mrs. Vance, in order to secure a rich husband, has represented matters in a much stronger light than truth would sanction. Your unfortunate accident is unknown save to a few, and by a timely whisper to those who are cognizant of it, it need never transpire to the world. And even if it should there is no harm in it."
"It would be impossible to convince Mrs. Vance of that," said Lance, with a heavy sigh.
"Because she does not desire to be convinced of it," said the banker, grimly. "In her eagerness to secure you she will makethe most of her small capital that she may delude you into becoming her husband."
Lance felt that Mr. Lawrence spoke the truth; but he was too modest and honorable to tell his friend of the previous attempt of the wily widow to secure him by her bold declaration of love. He felt that he had gotten into her toils, and that she would never allow him to extricate himself; so he answered, sadly enough:
"Be that as it may I have given her my word to make her my wife, and I cannot now withdraw from it."
"You would if you were of my mind, though," said his friend; "you are at least ten years younger than she is, Lance, and the match is totally unsuitable. Take my advice and withdraw from it. Make over to her a sum of money. Perhaps that would heal her wounded honor."
"I do not think she would release me on any terms were I brave enough to propose it," said Lance; "and to tell you the truth," he added, with a blush, "I actually believe that the woman really loves me."
Mr. Lawrence laughed at the blush and the assertion.
"Perhaps she does," he admitted. "I suppose that would not be difficult for her to do. Women run mad over handsome faces, you know. But, seriously, Lance, jesting aside, I would be off with the whole thing. If you loved her it would be different. She is handsome enough to grace your home and queen it royally there. But to burden yourself with an unloved wife will be like hanging a mill-stone about your neck."
"I wish I could take your advice, sir," said Lance; "but I think it would be useless to try to get loose from Mrs. Vance. She is quite determined to write her name Mrs. Darling."
"How soon does she propose to immolate her victim on the altar of sacrifice?" inquired the banker, grimly.
"At a very early day," answered the young man. "The twenty-fourth of December is her choice."
"Shameful!" ejaculated the banker. "She is determined to push her power to the utmost. And you permitted it?"
"Naming the day is the lady's prerogative, you know, sir," said Lance, bitterly. "I confess I did hint for a rather longer extension of my bachelor freedom; but she asserted that the peculiar circumstances attending our engagement would not admit of farther delay."
"She was afraid you might possibly escape her toils if you were afforded a longer time in which to reflect on your position," asserted Mr. Lawrence. "Well, Lance, if you are determined to sacrifice yourself for a scruple of overstrained chivalry I need not urge you further. It would be useless. I am tempted to drive the deceitful jade forth from the shelter of my roof within the hour."
"Oh, pray do not," said Lance, earnestly. "It would only precipitate the evil day of our union. She would claim my protection immediately then."
"It is very probable she would. For your sake, then, Lance, I will let her remain, and even allow her marriage to take placein my house; but I can never like or respect her again, even as your wife."
"I will leave you to make the truth known to Ada," continued Lancelot, bitterly; "do not allow her to believe that I am faithless to Lily's precious memory, Mr. Lawrence."
"I will tell her the whole truth," answered Mr. Lawrence, deeply moved.
Lance went away, and Mr. Lawrence hastened to communicate the astonishing news to Ada, who was confined to her sofa with her sprained ankle.
"Papa, I am not so surprised as you expect me to be," said the young girl, frankly. "I have long seen that Mrs. Vance was using every art in her power to win poor Lance. Indeed, I incurred her everlasting displeasure some time ago by boldly charging her with it. She did not deny it, but retaliated by saying that I wanted him myself. She seized upon the occurrence of last night as a pretext for winning what she has long been angling for—the hand of our poor, unhappy Lance."
"He will live to repent his boyish notion of chivalry, I am sure," he added; changing the subject abruptly, "I called on young Philip St. John to-day, and thanked him for his friendliness to you last night, and invited him to dinner. I had to show him some attention, you know," he said, observing the flush that colored Ada's cheek so suddenly. "You do not object, I hope?"
"Oh, no, no," she murmured; "he was exceedingly kind."
"He is a very superior young man," said the banker, cordially. "Well born, wealthy, and a lawyer by profession. He is a particular friend of Lance, which in itself is a recommendation to any young man," continued Mr. Lawrence, in whose eyes Lancelot Darling appeared thebeau idealof human perfection.
If Mrs. Vance had expected to be congratulated by the banker and his daughter upon her approaching marriage she was doomed to disappointment. Neither one of them alluded to it at all, though she knew that Lance had told them, and that they resented her conduct bitterly by the cold and altered manner, almost amounting to contempt, with which they treated her.
She was obliged to broach the matter to Mr. Lawrence herself, coupled with a modest request for the funds wherewith to purchase as elaborate atrousseauas could be gotten in the short time intervening between then and Christmas.
Mr. Lawrence, in the grimmest and coldest manner imaginable, presented her with a check for a thousand dollars, and with profuse thanks she hurried out to expend it in finery.
She was very happy now in the coming fulfillment of her cherished desire, and no coldness, not even the lowering shadow on Lance's face when he came and went, had power to alter her imperious will.
To win him she had steeped her hands in human blood and risked the dangers of the scaffold. It was not likely she would relent now, when the sin and sorrow lay behind her in the past, and the happy consummation of all her efforts loomed brightly before her.
She went on blithely with her task of preparation for the grandevent, seeing dressmakers and milliners daily, and leaving herself no time for retrospection in her whirl of engagements. And time, that "waits for no man," hurried on and brought the day of fate.