The house had barely become quiet again than a noiseless step descended
the stairs, a light hand turned the key in the door of the library, and
Evelyn Chandler once more entered the presence of her sister.
"I have risked my father's displeasure to give you your liberty,"
said Miss Chandler, coldly. "If you are wise, you will leave here at
once and forever. My father is a man whose justice is not tempered
with mercy. I tell you frankly that if he can find you he will most
certainly punish you as he has threatened to do."
"You mean that you would allow him to do that?" Leonie asked, her voice
still unsteady almost to inarticulation.
"What have I to do with it?" asked Miss Chandler, with calm scorn. "I
am not one of the emotional kind to become interested in criminals."
"And is that all that you have to say to me?"
"All? What more would you have me say?"
"At least that you are sorry."
"I repeat that I am not of a sentimental nature. I will say, however,
that I am sorry you forced this story from me."
"Not for what you have done? Oh, my sister--for you are my
sister--listen to me. I don't know what that man is to you, but I beg
of you, for your own sake, not to do again the dreadful thing you have
done to-night. Think of the consequences!"
A hard, cruel, sneering laugh rippled quietly through the elder girl's
lips.
"Fancy the daughter of Lena Mauprat preaching honesty!" she exclaimed,
with heartless sarcasm. "My dear, are you anxious to know who that man
was who forced me to produce that money for him? Well, since I have
seen how perfectly I can trust you, I don't mind telling you that he
is my father, your mother's husband, an ex-convict, a gambler, and
presumably a thief. I am very anxious that his relationship to me
should not be known to my respected adopted father, who knows nothing
whatever of my parentage, save that they were poor. I am expecting to
make a brilliant marriage, thanks to my prospective millions, and I
cannot afford to spoil it with any romantic stories of convict fathers
and mothers. You are sensible enough to understand that, I am quite
sure, and will do nothing to spoil your sister's chances. Am I not
correct?"
The speech was so heartless, so utterly cold-blooded, that Leonie, even
in her half-stunned condition, shuddered.
"You have nothing to fear from me!" she answered wearily. "I don't seem
to realize just yet what has happened, but as I have been in ignorance
of your existence until to-night, I can try to forget, if you so wish!
Is there nothing kind that you can say to me, for our----"
She had meant to say, "for our mother's sake," but the words stuck in
her throat and refused to be uttered.
Miss Chandler laughed again.
"Why did not you finish your sentence?" she asked brutally. "If you
will take my advice, my dear Leonie, you will leave here at once. I
cannot answer for the result if you remain until to-morrow."
"At least you will say good-bye?"
"With all the pleasure in life!"
Weary, heart-sore, Leonie turned away. There was nothing that she could
say--nothing that she could do.
Bowed down, feeling as though a century had been added to her years
since the night before, she crept away, and out to where the pale
streaks of red in a cool gray sky showed that the morning had broken.
She was without hat or wrap, but did not seem to realize it as she
tottered on, apparently oblivious of surroundings, even of suffering!
And so she reached the house that had been her happy home! How changed
everything seemed! Slowly, wearily she ascended the stairs and entered
the room where she and "dad" had passed so many pleasant hours.
As she opened the door she saw that the room was not empty.
In a large chair near the open window Godfrey Cuyler sat, his long
white hair slightly lifted by the breeze, his head resting upon the
back of the chair, his eyes closed in sleep.
She stood above him, gazing silently down upon him, trying to think
while her brain seemed to be an impenetrable maze, yet through all the
gloom that surrounded her a single thought struggled through! How white
and wan he looked! Was she about to lose him in addition to the other
terrible trouble that had come upon her?
As the thought came to her, a low groan of indescribable misery fell
from her lips. It awakened the sleeper.
His eyes opened, and with a start he straightened himself in his chair.
"You, Leonie!" he gasped. "In Heaven's name, what has happened?"
She kneeled beside him and laid her lips upon his hand without
answering.
The act frightened him as perhaps no other would. He fell back, his
face became ashen, his lips blue. A cold moisture, like the dew of
death, stood thickly upon his brow.
"Leonie," he said, his voice sounding strangely thick and guttural,
"where have you been for the past week that you could not tell dad?"
She lifted her white, anguished face and allowed her eyes to rest upon
his.
"I have been with Leonard Chandler!" she answered dully.
Why he did not die at that moment was a mystery, but the shock seemed
to rather paralyze than excite him. His lips grew a shade bluer and
trembled, but that was the only evidence of emotion.
"And you know all?" he asked hoarsely.
"Not all, but, oh, dad, I know I am the daughter of a thief, and it is
enough, enough. Dad, dad, why did you do it?"
The misery of the young voice would have been exquisite torture to him
had he not been deprived of the capacity of feeling. His brain seemed
to act in a way, yet his emotional organs were stunned. He took her by
the shoulders and looked her earnestly in the eyes.
"My darling," he murmured, his voice scarcely audible, "do you think
I brought that shame into your life? Your mother was my daughter, my
dearest! Oh, Leonie, Leonie, I have tried so hard to keep this hideous
thing from you, for this--for this! Child, child, why did you do it?"
"It is better so, dad, much better! It has shown me what my life must
be, and my--dreams--were--different. Somehow I feel better to know that
you are not my father, that you did not bring this shame upon me! Oh,
dad, why can we not die together and end it all?"
A curious expression crept over the white, still face of the old man,
but he made no comment, only smoothed down the bright, beautiful hair
with a hand that trembled peculiarly.
"Now that you know so much, my little one, I must tell you all," he
stammered, wearily.
He tried to rise, but the effort it cost was beyond his strength.
"Look in the desk there and get me the picture you saw," he whispered,
handing her a key.
Mechanically she obeyed, and handed it to him with the case unopened.
He pressed the spring and revealed the pictured face to her.
"It was your mother," he said, almost reverently.
She took the portrait from his hand and gazed upon it. For the first
time the glazed eyes filled with tears, but they did not fall.
"It is very like--her," she said, slowly. "Oh, dad! what have I done
that God should send a curse like this upon me?"
"Hush, dear! You must not question the wisdom of God. Bear your burden
meekly, and He will help you in the end. Oh, Leonie! why would not you
let me save you?"
"I could not, dad. You must not blame me. What right had I, the
daughter of a thief----"
"You shall not say that--she was your mother! Listen to her story,
and see if you cannot find an excuse for her, even as I did. Listen,
Leonie! I will make the story as short as I can."