The young servant whose loquacious tongue Gerald did not dare to trust was not asleep when he brought Emilia home. She was in bed, it was true, but wide-awake, with a candle alight at her bedside. It was against the rules of the house, but she did not care for that, being deeply engrossed in a thrilling story which set rules at defiance and drove sleep away. She heard the street-door opened and closed, then a murmur of voices, like the distant murmur of the sea, and then the second opening and closing of the street-door. The sounds did not arouse her curiosity, she was so profoundly interested in the fate of the hero and heroine that nothing short of a miracle could have diverted her attention. So she read on with eager eyes and panting bosom, long after Gerald had left the house, and would have continued to read, had she not come to those tantalizing words, "To be continued in our next." Then, with a long-drawn sigh, she turned in her bed--and forgot to blow out the candle.
Emilia had intended not to sleep; she would keep awake all the night, and wait for Gerald in the morning--the morning of the day which was to be for her the herald of a new and happier life. She bore Mrs. Seaton no malice for the indignities she had suffered in her house. There was no room in Emilia's heart for anything but love. With what heartfelt gratitude did she dwell upon the image of Gerald, the noblest man on earth. "I thank God for him," she sighed. "Dear Lord, I thank Thee that Thou hast given me the love of a man like Gerald. My Gerald! Is it true? Can it be real? Ah, yes; I see his dear eyes looking into mine; his dear voice sinks into my heart. Make me grateful for the happiness before me!" It stretched out into the future years, a vista of peace and love and joy. Insensibly she sank upon her knees and prayed, and when she rose the room, the world, and all that it contained, were transfigured. How fair, how sweet was life! She had prayed for Gerald and for herself, had prayed that she might prove worthy of him, and might be endowed with power to brighten his days. Then she sat before the fire, and clasping her knee with her hands, imagined bright pictures in the glowing points of lights. She felt herself sinking to sleep. "I will just close my eyes for a few minutes," she thought. There were warm rugs about the room. Loosening her dress, she threw herself upon the couch, and covering herself with the rugs, fell asleep with joy in her heart and a smile on her lips.
At half-past three in the morning Gerald, after an absence of half an hour or so, was returning to the street in which his house was situated, when he saw an angry glare in the sky, and heard sounds of confusion in the near distance. Almost instantly A fire-engine raced past him. He hastened after it, partly from instinct, but chiefly because it was going in his direction. He had, however, no idea that the danger personally concerned him. Long before he reached his street he was undeceived. Crowds of people encompassed him, and he found it difficult to proceed. Three or four fire-engines were at work; firemen were risking their lives in the enthusiasm of their noble work; policemen were keeping back the excited lookers-on.
"My God!" he cried, as he turned the corner; "it is my house, and Emilia is there!"
Frantically he strove to force his way through the crowd, which would not give way for him at first, but he redoubled his efforts, and running under or leaping over firemen, policemen, and the men and women who were surging round, he tore off his coat, and rushed toward the burning building. He was pulled back, and escaping from those who held him, darted forward again with despairing cries, and was caught in the arms of one who knew him.
"It's all right," cried this man to the firemen. "Mr. Paget has escaped from the house."
He who spoke thought that Gerald, instead of striving to enter the house, had just emerged from it, and his idea was strengthened by the circumstance that Gerald was in his shirt sleeves. One in authority came up to Gerald and said:
"We were getting frightened about you, sir. We got out a young lady and your two servants----"
"A young lady!" gasped Gerald, and inwardly thanked God that Emilia was saved.
"Yes, sir. There's some mystery about her, because your housekeeper said there was no young lady there, but out she came, or was carried, insensible----"
"For God's sake," cried Gerald, "don't tell me she is injured!"
"I think not, sir; but she was in an insensible condition, and some people took her away. Your housekeeper said you were the only one left. Now that we know no lives are lost we can get on with our work. Your house is a wreck, sir; there'll be very little saved out of it."
"Where was the young lady taken to?" asked Gerald, in a state of indescribable agitation, detaining the officer by the sleeve.
"I can't tell you, sir. Excuse me, I must attend to my duty."
Releasing himself from Gerald's grasp, he plunged among his men. Gerald, in his eager anxiety for information of Emilia, asked a dozen persons around him, and obtained a dozen different answers. One said one thing, one said another, and each speaker contradicted the one who had previously spoken. At length he saw on the outskirts of the crowd his housekeeper talking to a lady, and running toward them, he saw that the lady was Mrs. Seaton.
"I am glad you are saved, Mr. Paget," said Mrs. Seaton, with freezing politeness. "I was just asking your housekeeper who is the young lady who was carried out of your house barely half dressed, and she insists that no such person was there. But as a hundred people saw her, there is, of course, no disputing a fact so clear. Perhaps you can tell us who she is?"
A number of neighbors gathered around, some who knew both Gerald and Emilia.
"And I said, sir," said the housekeeper, "that their eyes deceived them----"
"Oh, that is very likely," interposed Mrs. Seaton, in her most malicious tone.
"Because," continued the housekeeper, "when we went to bed last night there was nobody but me and that little wretch of a Susan in the house. It was her who set the place on fire, sir, with her novel reading. I hope she'll be put in prison for it."
"But enlighten us, Mr. Paget," said Mrs. Seaton. "Who was the young lady?"
"You are a malicious scandal-monger," cried Gerald, and tore himself away, feeling that he had made for himself and Emilia a more bitter enemy in calling Mrs. Seaton by that name.
He continued his inquiries for Emilia, but could obtain no satisfaction. So many different stories were related to him that he could not tell which was the true one.
The truth was that Emilia, being aroused from sleep by the fire, unlocked the door of the room in which Gerald had left her, and rushed into the passage. The place was strange to her, and she might have been burned to death had not a fireman, who was making his way past her, pulled her into the street. There she was taken up by one and another, striving all the while to escape the prying eyes of those around her, until, overcome by the complicated horror of her position, she swooned away. Two compassionate maiden ladies, sisters, pitying her state, said they would take care of her, and conveyed her to their home.
There they tended her, wondering who she was, for she was a stranger to them, as they were to her. But the terrors through which Emilia had passed had completely prostrated her; the whole of the succeeding day she fell from one faint into another, and the doctor who was called in said it would be best to wait awhile before they questioned her too closely. "She has had a severe mental shock," he said, "and if we are not careful she will have an attack of brain fever." On the evening of the following day she was somewhat better, but her mind was almost a blank as to what had transpired during the past twenty-four hours. The image of Gerald occasionally obtruded itself, and if he had appeared, all would have been well; he was her rock, her shield, and, incapable as she was of coherent thought, his absence weighed upon her as a reproach, and she felt as if God and man had forsaken her. An experience still more cruel was in store for her.
It was night, and she heard a voice in the adjoining room that smote her with terror, the voice of Mrs. Seaton speaking to the ladies who had befriended her. More successful than Gerald, Mrs. Seaton had hunted her down.
"It's a neighborly duty," Mrs. Seaton was saying, "to prevent kind-hearted ladies like yourselves from being imposed upon. I have suffered from her artfulness and wickedness myself, and there was no one to warn me; but if you allow yourself to be taken in by her you will do it with your eyes open."
"She is very gentle-mannered," said one of the two ladies who had befriended her, "and we have a great pity for her. Surely she cannot be so bad as you paint her."
"Facts are facts," said Mrs. Seaton. "You do not even know her name."
"She is too weak to enter into particulars," said the lady, "and we forbore to press her."
"Too weak!" exclaimed Mrs. Seaton, with a derisive laugh. "Fiddlesticks! Excuse me for speaking so, but I hardly have patience with her. Her weakness is put on; you are no match for the creature. Of course if you do not mind being disgraced by association with such a character it is no business of mine; but I ought to know her better than you do."
"You use strong words," said the lady very gravely. "Disgraced! It is too dreadful to think of. What is her name?"
"Emilia Braham. Her father died deeply involved, and would no doubt have swindled his creditors if he had lived; fortunately for them he died suddenly, and they were able to step in and save something from the wreck. I will tell you the whole story if you care to hear it."
"We ought to hear it."
"You shall. After her father's death she came to me and begged me to give her a situation. I took her out of pity. 'I will give you a trial,' I said to her. So she came into my house, and I treated her as a daughter. After a time I had my suspicions, and I do not mind confessing that I set a watch upon her. Then I discovered that she was carrying on a disgraceful intimacy with Mr. Gerald Paget, meeting him regularly and secretly, and keeping out at all hours. When she found that all was known she told her gentleman friend, who came to me and bullied me. In return for his insults I showed him the door, and forbade his ever entering my house again. Then in the evening I sent for the creature and informed her that she must leave my service the following morning--that is, to-day. The language she used to me was dreadful, and she said she would go at once. I told her I would not allow it; badly as she had behaved, I felt that it was not right for her, a single girl, to leave the house at night. However, she insisted, and I had to give way. To protect myself from her malicious slanders, I wrote out a paper which she signed in the presence of another servant, who is ready to testify that the creature knew perfectly well what she was doing. Here it is; you can read it. The other servant witnessed her signature, as you see. Then she left the house, and I soon found out why. She had arranged a clandestine meeting with Mr. Paget that very night--I saw her with my own eyes in his embrace. An hour or two afterward they got into a cab--I can give you the number of the cab and the name of the driver--and drove to Mr. Paget's residence, he being a bachelor, mind you, and living alone with only two female servants in his employ. When he took the creature home he knew quite well that his domestics were abed and asleep, and that there was no risk of his scandalous doings being discovered. But he reckoned without his host. There is a Providence--yes, happily there is a Providence. The fire occurred, and the creature you are harboring rushed out of Mr. Paget's house. Ask her how she got into it. In the middle of the night, too. I ask you, as ladies of common-sense, what construction does it bear? No artfully-invented tale can explain it away. You should be thankful to me for putting you on your guard. Oh, you don't know these creatures!"
"It is a dreadful story," said the lady.
"I hope you will do your duty, as I have done mine. Have I put it too strongly in saying that her presence here is a disgrace?"
"No. We are obliged to you for the unpleasant task you have performed. To-morrow, if she is strong enough, I will request her to take her departure."
"Too lenient by far. In your place I should bundle her out, neck and crop. If you wait till she says she is well enough to go you will wait a precious long time. I shall take care, for my part, that everybody knows the truth."
"Is it not strange," asked the lady, "that Mr. Paget has not called to inquire after her?"
"Not at all; he wishes to keep his name out of the disgraceful affair if he can. It is perfectly clear that he is ashamed of the connection, and wants to be rid of it. So long as it could be kept quiet he didn't mind, but now that it is made public--I can't help repeating, in the most providential manner--it is another pair of shoes. Why, the whole town is talking of it. When the creature shows her face, if she has the hardihood to do it, she will meet with a proper reception. I shouldn't at all wonder if it gets into the papers. Good-night."
Then there was a rustling of skirts, and Emilia knew that her cruel persecutor had taken her leave. She pressed her hands upon her eyes, and the scalding tears ran down her fingers. The horror of the situation was almost more than she could bear. She could not think clearly, but through her aching brain one conviction forced itself. She was disgraced, irretrievably disgraced. Her good name was lost forever. Nothing could restore it, nothing. If an angel from heaven were to declare it, no man or woman would hereafter believe in her purity and innocence. What should she do? Wait till the morning to be turned from the hospitable house of these kind sisters? Go forth into the broad light of day, and be pointed at and publicly shamed? No, she would fly at once, secretly and alone, into the hard, cold world, far, far from the merciless men and women who were ready to defame her. The story which Mrs. Seaton had related to the maiden sisters was false and malignant, but it was built upon a foundation of truth. If she herself had to give evidence in her own defence she would be pronounced guilty. She had been turned from Mrs. Seaton's house late in the night, but she had signed a paper saying that she went of her own free will. She and Gerald had been together in the streets--for how long? She could not remember, but it seemed to be hours. And as if that were not shame enough she had taken refuge in his house and had accepted his hospitality at an hour that would make virtuous women blush. He had pledged his faith to her, he had asked her to be his wife, and now, when she most needed a defender, he was absent. It was true, then, that he had deserted her. Had it been otherwise would he not have sought her long before this, would he not have been present to cast the malignant lie in Mrs. Seaton's face? She had believed so fully in his faith and honor, in his professions of love! But he was false, like all the rest of the world, from which sweetness and life had forever fled.
"Oh, God!" she moaned. "In your Divine mercy, let me die to-night!"
A revulsion took place within her which, for a few moments, imbued her with strength. Upon a piece of blank paper she wrote the words, "I am innocent, as Heaven is my judge. God bless you for your kindness to me--Emilia Braham." Dark as it was she managed to form the letters fairly well, and she laid the paper upon the dressing-table. Then despair overtook her again. What had Mrs. Seaton said? "The whole town is talking of it. When the creature shows her face she will meet with a proper reception." But she would not give her revilers the opportunity of publicly hounding her down.
With stealthy steps she crept into the passage. No one was near. Softly she glided to the door. The next moment she was in the street, flying she knew not whither. All that she was conscious of was that the direction she was taking led her away from the town. It was her wish; no person who knew her must ever look upon her face again. First solitude, then death--that was her prayer. She reached the outskirts of the town and plunged into a wood. A part of her desire was accomplished. In her flight no one had recognized or noticed her, and now she was alone with her shame and her despair. For the consciousness of her innocence did not sustain her. Judgment had been pronounced; she was condemned.
Meanwhile the maiden ladies, believing that Emilia was asleep, sat in their room overcome with grief. The revelation which Mrs. Seaton had made to them was a great shock to these simple ladies, who were almost as ignorant of the world's bad ways and of the worst side of human nature as Emilia herself. They did not hear the young girl's footfall in the passage, and Emilia had made no noise in opening the street door, which she left open, fearing that the sound of its closing would betray her. They were silent for many minutes after Emilia's departure, and when they spoke it was in whispers.
"It is a frightful story," said the younger lady. "Can it be true?"
Her sister did not reply immediately; she was thinking of the sweet and innocent face of the hapless girl, and of the impossibility that it could be a mask to depravity. Presently she clasped her sister's hand and said:
"We will not judge, dear, till we hear what she has to say."
"You are always right," said the younger sister, and both experienced a feeling of relief. "Let us go to her; she may be awake."
They stole into the adjoining room, and one said gently, "Are you awake?" Then, presently, "We do not wish to disturb you."
They listened in the darkness and heard no sound of breathing.
"I will get a candle," whispered the elder sister. Returning with it they looked around in alarm. "She is gone! Poor child, poor child! She must have heard what the lady said, and would not wait to be thrust forth. Oh, sister, is it innocence or guilt?"
"Innocence, dear sister, innocence!" replied the younger lady, snatching up the paper upon which Emilia had written. "See sister; 'I am innocent, as Heaven is my judge. God bless you for your kindness to me.--Emilia Braham.' She speaks the truth. She is innocent, she is innocent!"
"Yes," said the elder sister, solemnly. "She is innocent. Thank God!"
Tears ran down their cheeks; their faith in goodness was restored.
"But where has she gone? Oh, sister, so young, so sweet, so helpless!"
They threw shawls over their shoulders, and ran to the street door, observing that Emilia in her flight had left it open. As they stood there, looking anxiously up and down the dark street, two gentlemen approached and accosted them. They were Gerald and his half-brother Leonard.
In explanation of their presence a retrospect of a few hours is necessary.
Leonard, having been absent upon his selfish pleasures for the better part of a year, had returned home upon the morning of the fire. It was a startling reception for the wanderer; regarding Gerald's money as his own his first concern was whether the house and furniture were insured. Ascertaining that they were, and that there would be no pecuniary loss, his next business was to find Gerald. But in his quest he heard something more; "slander, whose edge is sharper than the sword," was already doing its horrible work, and from one and another he heard for the first time of the existence of Emilia and of her having been found in Gerald's house in the middle of the night. "So," thought he, "Gerald is no saint. Well, that sort of thing is better than marrying. I must keep him from that, at all hazards. It seems I have come home just in time." Soon afterward he met with Gerald, who was striving vainly to discover where Emilia was. Despite Gerald's agitation he greeted Leonard with much affection.
"It is a stroke of good fortune," he cried, "that you have arrived to-day. I need a friend. You will help me to find Emilia."
"Emilia!" echoed Leonard, pretending not to have heard her name before.
Then Gerald began to confide in him, but his story threatened to be long, and Leonard drew him away from the curious people who thronged about them. They went to an hotel, Leonard insisting that it would be best, for Gerald wished to continue his inquiries for Emilia in the streets.
"Be guided by me," said Leonard; "I can do what you want in half the time that you would do it yourself. Can you not trust me?"
"Yes, with my life, Len," replied the warm-hearted young fellow, and allowed himself to be persuaded. In a private room in the hotel Leonard heard the whole story, and saw that Gerald was very much in earnest. This did not please him, but he said not a word to Emilia's disadvantage; he was a cunning worker, and he knew which roads were the best to compass any designs he had in view. He no more believed in Emilia's innocence and purity than the worst of her detractors, but he was not going to tell Gerald this. Gerald was trying to throw dust into his eyes, but that was a game that two could play at. With his own cynical disbelief in womanly purity he laughed at the idea of Emilia innocently occupying Gerald's house for a whole night.
"You must not be too angry with people," he said, "for speaking against the young lady. We live in a frightfully ill-natured world."
"I know, I know," groaned Gerald, "and it makes it all the harder for my poor girl. It was I who thrust her into the position; she was insensible when I took her into the house. Can you not see there was nothing else to be done?"
"I see it of course, my boy, and I am sincerely sorry for the pair of you."
"She must be suffering agonies"----
"Be reasonable, Gerald," said Leonard with affectionate insistance; "it's a hundred to one she knows nothing of it. I must exercise my authority as an elder brother over you, and as more of a man of the world than you are. Now, what is it you want to do?"
"To find out where she has been taken to, and to insist upon her marrying me at once. That is the surest way to silence the slanderer. I have done her a wrong--not wilfully, Len, you know me too well for that--and I must repair it at the very earliest moment. Thank God she believes in me, and knows that I am faithful and true. Oh, Len, she is an angel, the sweetest, dearest woman that ever breathed! No man could help loving her."
"From what you tell me of her, Gerald, we must proceed carefully. A nature so sensitive as hers must be dealt with delicately. You see, my boy, there is no disguising that if people are speaking against her, you are the cause of it. I was wrong in saying that it's a hundred to one she knows nothing of it; I ought to have put it the other way. Very well, then. Your Emilia is an angel--granted; I believe every word you say of her. But she is a woman, nevertheless, and you are responsible for dragging her name through the mud."
"Good God!" exclaimed Gerald. "You put it strongly."
"I am bound to do so, as the sincerest friend you have. I hope you give me credit for being that, Gerald."
"Len, if you were not here I should go distracted."
"I am only too glad I have come in good time to assist you. To continue about Emilia. What does such a woman as she value most in the world? Her good name. You have jeopardized hers, Gerald, with the best intentions I admit, but jeopardized it is. Hearing the scandal she will naturally ask herself, 'Why did Gerald take me into his house when I was in a fainting condition, and unable to have a voice in the matter? Could he not have waited till I recovered? And now see what people are saying of me? He has degraded me; I shall never be able to look honest people in the face again.' Is it entirely unnatural, my boy, that she should not rush into your arms when you present yourself? Just think a bit."
"I have not thought of it in that light," said Gerald ruefully.
"Because you have considered it from your point of view, not from hers. Answer me candidly. If she had been in possession of her senses would she have consented to enter your house clandestinely with you at such an hour last night--you, a single man, and her lover?"
"No, I see it now. Wretch that I am! I deserved to be pilloried for it."
"Don't rush into the other extreme. You acted unwisely, but honestly." (Leonard had no more belief in the professions he was making than Mrs. Seaton would have had, but he knew the nature of the man he was playing upon.) "Now, what you want in this crisis is a friend like myself, who, a stranger to your Emilia, can explain everything to her in a considerate, sensible way. Otherwise she may refuse to have anything more to say to you."
This suggestion frightened Gerald. "What do you advise me to do?" he asked.
"To place yourself entirely in my hands, and letmebring this unfortunate matter to a satisfactory conclusion."
"I will do so, Len. Thank you a thousand, thousand times. I am eternally grateful to you."
"Nonsense. I love you, Gerald; our interests are one. Look at yourself in the glass; you are a perfect scarecrow."
"I have had no sleep since the night before last.
"Is that a fit condition in which to set about a task so delicate? It would be inviting failure. First, you must have some breakfast."
"I can't eat, Len."
"You must. A devilled bone and a glass or two of champagne." He rang the bell, and gave the order, and ordered also a warm bath to be prepared. "Now, Gerald. The bath first, the devilled bone and a pint of champagne next, and then to bed for two or three hours. When you awake, refreshed and with a clear mind, I will tell you all about Emilia."
"You will find out where she is?"
"I will--if it is to be found out."
"And you will explain everything to her?"
"I will."
"And you will tell her I love her more devotedly than ever?"
"I will; and that your only wish is to hear the wedding bells ring."
"You're a good fellow, Len. I can never repay you. You are my good angel. But what a selfish brute I am, to talk only of myself and my troubles. You cabled for money, Len, and it was sent to you. How's the exchequer?"
"Thank you for the inquiry, dear boy. It never was lower. I have been deucedly unfortunate; plunged into a land speculation which I thought was going to make my fortune, but which cleaned me out to the last sovereign. How on earth I made my way home I don't know. I was consoled by one reflection, that I was coming home to the dearest brother an unfortunate devil ever had."
Gerald took out his check-book and put his name to a check.
"Here is a blank check, Len. Fill it in for what you like."
"Good boy. I am in debt, Gerald."
"Never mind; there's a balance of over two thousand in the bank."
"May I fill in for a thou----?
"And welcome. I've a lot of money in securities."
"I won't thank you, Gerald," said Leonard, handing the pen to his step-brother; "you know what my feelings are toward you. Write the sum in yourself."
Gerald wrote, and gave the check back. Leonard just glanced at it, and saw that it was drawn out for twelve hundred pounds, payable to bearer. He passed his hand over his tearless eyes, and turned his head. A very skilful actor indeed was Leonard Paget; he knew to a nicety the value of a light touch. The waiter entered and said the bath was ready.
"Don't bring up breakfast till I ring for it," said Leonard to the man. "Off with you, Gerald. I give you just twenty minutes."
Gerald gone, he looked at the check again. "It is only an instalment," he murmured. "Every shilling he has belongs to me; and I mean to have it. As for this girl--bah! They must never come together again."
Upon Gerald's appearance from the bath he greeted him with a smile. "You look twice the man you were. Now for breakfast. Tuck in, Gerald."
In any other circumstances Gerald would not have been able to eat, but with such a friend and counsellor by his side he made a tolerably good meal. Then Leonard saw him to his bedroom, and did not leave it till the honest fellow was in bed, and had drank another glass of champagne into which Leonard had secretly poured a dozen drops Of a tasteless narcotic which he was in the habit of carrying about with him to insure sleep.
"That will keep him quiet for six or seven hours," he said. "I must have a little time to myself to settle my plans."
The first thing he did when he went from the hotel was to cash the check. He was a man again, his pockets well lined, and he was ready for any villainy. He had little difficulty in discovering where Emilia was, and in ascertaining the character of the ladies who had given her shelter. This knowledge conveyed with it a difficulty; the character for kind-heartedness which he received of the maiden sisters was not favorable to his schemes, and he deemed it best to take no definite step on this day. But he was not idle; he learned all there was to be learned of Emilia, and, reading between the lines, found himself confronted with fresh difficulties. It would not be easy to deceive such a girl--a girl who might have committed an imprudence, but who was not the artful creature he had supposed her to be. He came to the conclusion that the love which existed between her and Gerald was a genuine, honest love. "I must trust a little to chance," he thought. In the afternoon he returned to the hotel. Gerald was still asleep; he waited till the evening, and then heard Gerald moving. He went into the bedroom as Gerald jumped out of bed.
"At last!" he exclaimed, before the young man could utter a word. "I have been trying these last three hours to rouse you. How thoroughly dead beat you must have been to have slept so long!"
Gerald looked round in dismay; evening was fast deepening into night.
"What time is it, Len?"
"Nearly eight o'clock. Do you feel refreshed?"
"I'm a new man. How about Emilia? Have you seen her? Can I go to her?" He dressed rapidly as he spoke.
"I am sorry to say," continued Leonard, "that I can obtain no news of her. Wait yet a little while; I will go out again and endeavor to find her."
"I cannot wait I will go with you."
"I forbid it, Gerald. You will spoil all if you don't mind. I should not be here now, but I was getting alarmed about you. I will return in an hour."
He hastened away before Gerald could reply. "What am I to do now?" he thought. "If Gerald makes inquiries himself he will be certain to learn where she is. I have twelve hundred pounds in my pocket. If the devil would range himself on my side I would give him half of it with pleasure."
He little knew how near he was to the accomplishment of his wishes. At that moment Mrs. Seaton was making her way to the house of the maiden sisters. He himself was wending his course toward the house, moodily debating how he could drive Emilia from it, and from the town forever. He knew all about Mrs. Seaton and her animosity against Emilia; the woman had been pointed out to him early in the day, and her face was familiar to him. He walked slowly, she quickly; thus she overtook and passed him, but he had seen and recognized her. He quickened his steps, and paused as she paused, before the house of the maiden sisters. With unerring intuition he guessed her errand.
"Are you going to see the ladies who live here, madam?" he asked in his most respectful tone.
"I am, sir," she replied with asperity. "Who are you, may I inquire?"
"I am a stranger in the town, madam," he said, speaking with the greatest deference. "Is it not to this place that the young person was taken who was found in Mr. Gerald Paget's house last night?"
"It is, and my business is to expose her. Have you any objections?"
"Not the slightest, madam. I think you are performing a Christian duty."
"I am not obliged to you, sir," said Mrs. Seaton, haughtily. "I am in the habit of doing my duty without being prompted. The creature who is harbored there shall be turned adrift before many hours are over. She is a disgrace to the neighborhood, and I will see that she is hunted out of it."
"Madam," said Leonard, "the whole town will be in your debt if you rid it of the person in question, and I myself shall be deeply grateful to you."
He raised his hat and walked away, thinking, with a blithe laugh, "The devilison my side and I have the twelve hundred pounds safe in my pocket." After this agreeable reflection he idled an hour, singing little snatches of song to himself, and then returned to the hotel with a plausible tale which he had invented to put Gerald off the scent till the following day, by which time he hoped that Emilia would be gone and all traces of her lost. He was a keen judge of human nature, and knew what effect Mrs. Seaton's calumnies would have upon a young and sensitive girl. Her first impulse would be to fly from a spot where she was known--to hide her face anywhere so long as it was among strangers. With a strong, determined woman it would be different; she would brazen it out, and, give back scorn for scorn, and although she could not hope for victory she would have the satisfaction of saying bitter things to her revilers. Emilia was not this kind of woman; Gerald's descriptions of her had enabled Leonard to gauge her correctly, and to forecast how she would act in the face of an accusation so vile and degrading. Believing firmly in the judgments he formed of matters in which he was personally concerned, he had, therefore, reason to congratulate himself upon the course which events had taken, and he skipped up the steps of the hotel with a mind at ease. Its balance, however, was disturbed when he was informed that Gerald was gone.
"Did he say where he was going?" he asked.
"No, sir," was the reply.
"Nor when he would return?"
"No, sir."
"But he left a message for me?"
"No, sir."
"Can you tell me which direction he took?"
"No, sir."
These unsatisfactory iterations produced no outward effect upon Leonard; he was a man who never showed his hand. With a pleasant smile he left the hotel thinking, "Now where the devil has the young fool gone? To make inquiries for his goddess, no doubt. Does that indicate impatience merely, or that he cannot trust me? I must no lose my hold on him. If it is necessary to humor him, humored he shall be. There is more than one way out of a wood." As a measure of precaution he walked in the direction of the house of the maiden sisters, and reaching it, walked slowly back toward the hotel. This was done with the intention of intercepting Gerald, and learning whether the young man had discovered Emilia's refuge--in which event he was prepared to disclose that he himself had at length discovered it, and was hurrying to his dear brother to communicate the welcome intelligence. "By the Lord Harry," he muttered, as he stood at the corner of the street, "here comes the young fool! It is lucky I am prepared." He strode rapidly toward Gerald, and almost upset him in his haste.
"Hallo, Gerald!" he cried. "I meet you by the most fortunate chance. I have been hunting for you everywhere."
"I could not wait for you at the hotel," said Gerald, "and had to go out and make inquiries for myself. What is the name of this street?"
"Never mind the name of the street," said Leonard, jumping at the safe conclusion. "The house is the important thing, and I have discovered it."
"Where my Emilia is?"
"Yes, where your Emilia is."
"I also have been told where she was taken to, and I was hurrying to her. Have you seen her, Len, have you seen her?"
"I have not, and have not attempted to do so. You see, Gerald, it is night, and I am a stranger to her and to the people who have taken care of her. It will be best, after all, for you to go first, especially as you are no longer the scarecrow you were, and will not alarm her by your haggard appearance."
"I am quite fresh now. Are we going to the house?"
"Yes, I am taking you there. Oh, Gerald, how I have hunted for your Emilia! If I had been in love with her myself, if she were my sweetheart instead of yours, I could not have worked harder to find her."
"I am sure you could not. You are a true friend. Forgive me for leaving the hotel; I could not bear the suspense."
"You acted naturally, Gerald--as I should have done in your place. I am something more than a friend, I am your loving brother, dear boy, ready to go through fire and water to serve you."
"God bless you, Len! Are we near the house?"
"There it is, Gerald, on the opposite side, just beyond the lamp-post."
"Come, then, come!"
They had scarcely started to cross the road when the street-door was opened, and the maiden sisters appeared on the threshold, peering up and down the street.
"Which is Emilia?" asked Leonard, grasping Gerald's arm, detaining him a moment.
"Neither. Let us go to them."
"It is hard to say to so devoted a lover," said Leonard, "but be a little prudent. Any appearance of violent haste might cause them to shut the door in our faces."
Thus advised Gerald curbed his impatience, and crossed the road in a more leisurely manner. The maiden sisters started back as the two gentlemen halted before them.
"I beg your pardon," said Leonard, raising his hat; Gerald was so agitated that he could scarcely speak; "but we have been directed here to see a young lady who was rescued from the fire last night, and who found a refuge in your hospitable house."
"We brought Miss Braham home with us," said the elder lady, "and are now in great distress about her. I presume you are friends of hers."
"We are her most devoted friends," said Leonard, "and have been searching for her the whole of the day. My name is Leonard Paget; this is my brother Gerald."
The sisters were standing hand in hand, and at the mention of these names their fingers fluttered, then tightened in their clasp. Gerald found his voice.
"Is she ill?" he exclaimed. "Do not hide anything from me, I beg!"
The sisters looked nervously at each other; the elder was first to speak.
"Are you aware that we have received a visit from a lady well known in the town?"
"No," said Gerald. "Who is the lady and what has her visit to do with Miss Braham?"
There was a ring of genuine honesty in his voice, and it made its impression. The elder lady touched his arm gently.
"Tell me," she said, "In what special manner are you interested in Miss Braham?"
"Madam," replied Gerald, "I hope very soon to have the happiness of calling her my wife."
The sisters gave each other a bright look, and the younger lady said, "It is cold standing here, and my sister is not strong. Will you not walk into the house?"
They accepted the invitation, Gerald gladly, Leonard with curiosity as to what the sisters meant when they said they were in great distress about Emilia.
"Excuse my impatience," said Gerald, "but I implore you to allow me to see Miss Braham at once."
Their pity for him would not admit of Emilia's departure being immediately communicated to him; it must be led up to gently. But Gerald's indignation would not be restrained; before the conclusion of Mrs. Seaton's visit was recounted he interrupted the maiden sisters with the truthful version of Emilia's misfortunes and of the unhappy circumstances which compelled him to take her to his house a few hours before the fire. He blamed himself bitterly for the indiscretion, but asked them what else he could have done; and they, completely won over by his indignation and by the manifest honesty of his professions, threw aside for once all reserve and hesitation, and boldly declared that he could not have acted otherwise.
"Sister," said the elder to the younger, "the sweet young lady deserves our deepest pity, and is worthy of our love. Mr. Paget"--turning to Gerald--"Miss Braham will find a home here, and if she will consent, shall be married from our house."
"You are angels of goodness," said the young man, "but do not keep her from me any longer. If you do not think right that I should see her alone, let me see her in your presence."
"Alas!" said the elder lady; "she must first be found."
"Found!" echoed Gerald, in bewilderment.
"Do not alarm yourself. The dear child cannot have gone far. We have not finished what we have to tell you. Listen patiently to the end."
When all was related Gerald stood stupefied for a few moments, holding in his hands the pathetic vindication of her innocence which Emilia had left behind her. Leonard was secretly exultant. Emilia was gone, and if he assisted in the search for her she should never be found. He was confident that she had flown from the neighborhood, and that her one desire would be to hide herself and her shame among strangers. It was not in his nature to believe in womanly purity, and it was not likely that he would make an exception in Emilia's favor. She was his enemy; she stood in his path; she barred his way to affluence; let her sink into the obscurity she was seeking.
These sentiments were not expressed in his eyes, which were full of sympathy.
"Come, Gerald," he said, passing his arm around the young man's neck, "be a man. As these good ladies say, it will not be difficult to find Emilia. Let us seek her; in an hour or two all your troubles will be over."
"Your brother is right," said the elderly lady, "no time should be lost, for the poor child must be suffering. We rejoice that you have so true a friend to assist you. Do not desert him, sir; he is not fit to be left alone."
"Desert Gerald!" cried Leonard. "Desert my dear brother in the hour of his distress! No, indeed. He will find me true to the last."
The ladies pressed his hands, and gazed at him approvingly and admiringly. His face beamed with earnestness and enthusiasm. He had in him a touch of the actor's art; he was playing a part in a fine comedy of manners and intrigue, and he thoroughly enjoyed it, and commended himself for his masterly performance.
The maiden sisters saw the brothers to the street door, and impressed upon them that Emilia should be brought to their house at the earliest opportunity, and that her room would be ready for her.
Then commenced Gerald's search for Emilia, a search not only without a clue to guide him, but with a cunning man at his elbow, suggesting that they should go here and there, where he was certain there was chance of finding her. There were times, however, when Gerald himself said he would go to such and such a house and make inquiries, and Leonard never opposed him. It was his one wish to keep Gerald in the town, and he breathed no hint of his conviction that Emilia had flown from it. Everything was against Gerald; it was late when the search commenced, and at an hour past midnight he and Leonard stood in the quiet streets, gazing at each other, Gerald helplessly, Leonard inquiringly.
"Where now, Gerald?"
"God knows! I think I am losing my mind."
"May I make a suggestion, dear boy?"
"Yes, Len."
"You will not think it treason; you will not blame me for importing a little common-sense into our sad position?"
"How can I blame you, Len--you, the truest friend that a man ever had? Do not think me ungrateful. I have only one desire in life--to find Emilia. I can think of nothing but her."
"Then I may make my suggestion?"
"Yes."
"Understand, Gerald, that I make it entirely in Emilia's interests."
"I do, Len."
"Our best plan will be to go to the hotel and jump into bed----"
"Len!"
"There, I knew you would storm at me; but just be reasonable."
"I can't be reasonable. I must find Emilia."
"All right, dear boy. I'll stand by you till I drop. Which way shall we turn?"
Gerald, in response to this heartless question, led the way aimlessly down one street, up another, and on and on, Leonard trudging by his side, and neither of them speaking a word. At last Gerald stopped, and gazed pitifully around; his eyes fell upon Leonard, who, conscious that the gaze was coming, and timing it, closed his with an air of pathetic weariness.
"You are tired, Len."
Leonard instantly opened his eyes, and said briskly, "Tired, dear boy! Not a bit of it. What should make me tired? Come along, old fellow. Let's be moving."
"No, Len, I don't see much use in it."
"It is not I who say that, Gerald."
"No, it is myself. What o'clock is that striking?"
Leonard put up his finger, and they listened to the chiming of the bells.
"Two o'clock, Gerald."
"What is Emilia doing now?" murmured Gerald, more to himself than to his companion.
"She is asleep, I should say."
"No, Len. I know her better than you do. She is awake, thinking of me, as I am thinking of her. You are some years older than I, dear brother; have you ever been in love?"
"Yes, Gerald," replied Leonard, quietly.
"And you are still unmarried," said Gerald, pityingly. "How did it end?"
"Do not ask me, Gerald."
"Forgive me; it is a painful remembrance. She is dead?"
Leonard did not reply, and Gerald repeated,
"She is dead? I am sorry, very sorry."
"You need not be. She lives."
"How did it happen? You were true to her, I am sure."
"For heaven's sake, Gerald, do not force me to answer you. Let us talk of something else."
"I open my heart to you," said Gerald, with sad insistence, "and you close yours to me."
"You cut me to the quick. Yes, I was true to her, but she was not true to me. There is the tragedy or the comedy--which you like, Gerald--related in less than a dozen words. It is a story which all men live to tell--all men, I mean, with the exception of yourself."
"I am a selfish brute, to compel you to expose your wounds. Poor Len! If she had been like my Emilia you would not have had to tell the tale. We can do nothing more to-night."
"Nothing that I can see."
"I am so full of my own grief that I forget to sympathize with yours, but I am truly sorry for you. At this moment Emilia is thinking of me; there is a spiritual whisper in the air which assures me of this. Would it be really best to go back to the hotel?"
"It would be wisest, both for your sake and for Emilia's. Early in the morning we can commence again. Gerald, to stop out any longer would be folly. You would not dare to knock at the door of any house at this hour and inquire for Emilia; it would be the ruin of her. You have her honor to guard, as well as your own happiness to look after."
"I am blind, and utterly, utterly selfish. Heaven has sent you to guide and counsel me. Yes, we will go."
They returned to the hotel, and Gerald gave directions that he should be called early in the morning. He and Leonard wished each other good-night, and retired to their separate rooms. As Leonard undressed he chuckled at the successful progress he had made. Everything had worked in his favor, and would so work to the end. He had no doubt of that, with his hand on the wheel. So he closed his eyes, and went to sleep contented and happy.
Gerald stood by the window and thought of Emilia. To-morrow they would be together; to-morrow all would be well. He threw the window open and looked out. Could his sight have reached the distance he would have seen a pitiful figure staggering on through country roads, stopping ever and anon to recover her breath, then starting feverishly on again, with panting bosom and streaming eyes, mournfully grateful for the darkness that encompassed her, and dreading the coming day. Slander's foul work was being accomplished. Dark as it was, Emilia saw the malignant eyes; silent as it was, she heard the hard voices. On and on she stumbled, praying for rest. Gerald was false; she did not care to live.