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_Leonie,
The TypeWriter._
A _Thrilling Romance of actual Life
BY A CELEBRATED AUTHORESS_.
[Illustration: LYNDE PYNE WATCHED THE GRACEFUL MOVEMENTS OF LEONIE'S
FINGERS OVER THE KEY BOARD]
New York:
MUNRO'S PUBLISHING HOUSE
Vandewater St.
Leonie, the Typewriter.
A ROMANCE OF ACTUAL LIFE
BY A CELEBRATED AUTHOR.
_Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by Norman L.
Munro, in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER I.
The day was delicious! A warm, soft breeze, that seemed to suggest
sunny Italy, or the luxurious indolence of far-off Japan, tinted the
atmosphere with a golden hue.
It rested like a halo upon the head of a young man who sat beside a
desk, idly twisting a pen between his fingers. It was a beautiful head!
Too beautiful for a man, too strong for a woman.
From the large, velvety eyes, Italian in color and softness, but
Mexican in their occasional gleams of thrilling brilliancy, to the
clear complexion with the touch of crimson in the cheeks; from the
dainty, curly hair that lay in tiny rings upon the broad, white
brow, to the mouth, with its sweeping, silken mustache, the face was
absolutely without flaw or blemish. And yet no man ever laughed at
Lynde Pyne for his beauty, or would have thought of pronouncing him
effeminate.
"He is one of the best fellows in existence," they told each other at
the club; "and it is a confounded shame that he was cut out of his
uncle's will in the manner in which he was. There was never a more
honorable man than Lynde Pyne, and for all he knows by what means
Luis Kingsley came in possession of the money that is rightfully
his, he never says a word, but works away, early and late, with but
poor reward. It is a queer world that robs an honest man to give his
birthright to a scoundrel."
But Lynde Pyne was giving little thought to that as he sat dreamily
twirling his pen on that golden day in June.
His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of his office boy.
"If you please, Mr. Pyne," he said respectfully, though not servilely,
"there is a young lady here to see you."
Lynde glanced up slowly, evidently not pleased at the interruption.
"Her name?"
"She is a typewriter!"
"Oh! Show her in."
He returned to his idle dreaming, but was aroused again at the
expiration of a moment.
"I came to see about the position you advertised, sir," a cool, refined
voice said.
He arose and offered her a chair, looking at her in his own
irresistible fashion.
And what he saw he never forgot!
The face was as flawless as his own. The short, curling, red-brown
hair, that looked as though the sun had become entangled in a
shadow, the violet eyes, the graceful sweep of the perfect chin, the
exquisitely fitting gown of cheap gray tricot, all appealed to him with
irresistible force.
"What machine do you operate? and what is your record for speed?" he
asked, scarcely conscious that he had spoken at all.
"I use the Hammond mostly, and can write seventy words to the minute,
provided they are not too long."
"You can write from dictation?"
"Yes, sir. I am a stenographer and typewriter. My last position I lost
through the death of Mr. Carl Lefevre, my employer."
"Then you are Miss Cuyler?"
"I am."
"Your reputation has preceded you!" exclaimed Lynde, with one of his
most entrancing smiles. "I shall be only too glad to engage you. You
know the duties without my going into detail. There is only one thing
that I shall require that he did not, perhaps, and that is, in addition
to a typewriter, I wish you to act rather as a private secretary. You
are to open all of my mail that is not marked personal, reporting the
contents to me, that I may not be bothered with it. You think you can
do that?"
"Perhaps not just at first, but I am so familiar now with the work of
a lawyer's office that I don't think I would have much difficulty in
learning."
"That will be quite satisfactory. And the salary?"
The charming face colored crimson.
"I know so little of business," she answered, hesitatingly. "Of course
beginning with you is quite different from what it would be if you were
sure that I could do your work."
"But I am sure! I should expect to pay the same that Mr. Lefevre did,
with a suitable addition for the extra amount of work. I suppose that
would be reasonable?"
"More than I could expect."
"Can you begin to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. There is a whole raft of copying in that drawer to be done.
You will find a dressing-room on that side."
Leonie Cuyler did not wait to be told a second time. With a bow in
Lynde's direction, she withdrew, laying her hat and a soft lace scarf,
that had been wrapped about her neck, upon a table.
She glanced carelessly into the small mirror, endeavoring to smooth
down the rebellious curls that were one of her chief attractions.
For a single moment she stood gazing idly about her, a dreamy smile
upon her lips, then shaking herself together with a little impatient
jerk, she walked into the room where Lynde Pyne awaited her.
With almost tender care he showed her the position of his papers,
explained to her what would be expected of her, then sat down, watching
the graceful movements of her fingers as they flew lightly over the
key-board.
He felt dizzy, as though from drinking wine, when the evening came and
he saw that he must let her go.
He watched her from the room, then put on his own hat with a weary sigh.
"I am afraid I have not done a wise thing to bring Leonie Cuyler here,"
he muttered, "and yet what can it matter?"
There was something half bitter, wholly defiant in his mental question,
and he walked from the office with anything but a pleasant expression
upon his handsome face.
And Leonie?
After her little home had been set to rights, she sat down by the
single window the room contained, her arm resting upon the sill
dejectedly.
An old man, aristocratic in appearance, notwithstanding the poor
clothing that he wore, a man strangely white of hair and beard, bent
from age and sorrow, sat near her, playing with a string that he was
twining about his fingers.
"What is the matter with you to-night, my darling?" he asked, breaking
a long silence. "My little one is not at all like herself! Dad is not
going to lose his sunshine at this time of life, is he? I did not know
that I should miss the chatter of my little magpie so much. What is the
matter, Leonie?"
She leaned over and kissed him, but even that was not done in her usual
way.
"Nothing, dad!" she answered dreamily. "That is, there is nothing
wrong! I was only thinking. That is something unusual, I confess."
"Of what were you thinking?"
"Of a picture that I saw to-day. It was a woman's face--a woman that I
think Rembrandt or Guido would have given half their lives to paint.
I couldn't describe it to you, because any description would sound
commonplace applied to such an original. Her name is Miss Evelyn
Chandler."
When she had finished speaking she turned her eyes slowly, and allowed
them to rest upon Godfrey Cuyler's face.
She was startled at the change that flashed over it. His chin dropped,
his eyes set, his brow was covered suddenly with a moisture that
resembled death.
"Where did you see it?" he asked hoarsely, his voice scarcely more than
a whisper.
"In the private drawer of Lynde Pyne's desk."
"Lynde Pyne! In Heaven's name what do you know of him?"
"He is my employer."
"Lynde Pyne? Impossible! And you stood by his side, looking at Evelyn
Chandler's portrait?"
"No. I saw it in the drawer by accident. Her name was written beneath
it. Dad, who is Miss Evelyn Chandler, and why should I not look at her
portrait with Lynde Pyne beside me?"
"I cannot tell you that," he gasped. "I am pledged by an oath that I
can never break. Child, child, what miserable fate was it that led you
to Lynde Pyne's office?"
"Miserable fate?" she cried, rising and standing before him. "Is it a
miserable fate that gives us bread to eat? Do you forget that we could
not have lived more than a week longer from the savings of my little
salary? Summer is coming on now, and lawyers do not want typewriters,
or the positions are filled. See how often I have tried and failed. Oh,
dad----"
"Hush!" he interrupted. "If we starve, you must not remain there! There
is a reason stronger than either life or death. Leonie, you must listen
to me!"
"Dad, I have no wish not to do so. There is but one thing--I am no
longer a child, and you have no right to demand a thing of me without
explanation. If there is a reason why I should not remain in Lynde
Pyne's office, I am ready to go, though such a course seems to
indicate nothing short of starvation to me, but unless you give me the
reason, for both our sakes I must decline."
"You don't know what you are saying! I know your nature, your
overwhelming pride. Leonie, listen! If you refuse to hear me now,
some day you will hear a secret the horror of which will kill you! My
darling, what am I to say? Tell me that you will give it up?"
"I cannot!" she gasped, bowing her head upon her hands. "Oh, dad, if
you asked me for the heart out of my body it would be easier for me to
give you!"
With a cry that resembled that of a wild animal, Godfrey Cuyler seized
the girl by the shoulder.
"Answer me, quickly!" he cried, in a choking voice--"you do not love
Lynde Pyne?"
She lifted her white face and looked at him. It was enough!
The old man fell upon his knees beside her and buried his face in her
lap.
"My darling--my darling!" he moaned; "how can I ever ask you to forgive
me?"