Godfrey Cuyler paused.
His face was growing more gray momentarily, his breathing seemed forced
and unnatural, there was a curious, quick throb about his heart that
was ominous, but Leonie did not observe it in her bewildered state. She
might have noticed that he was pale, but she attached no significance
to it.
When he could control himself sufficiently, he began his story.
"I don't know how to tell you what Lena was to me in her childhood,"
he said, brokenly. "Her mother died when she was a little child, and I
had only her. Ah, Leonie, I worshiped her! We were wealthy then, and
there was never a desire of hers that I left ungratified. I devoted
my life to her--watching her grow as a miser does his fortune. She
was my idol, and God punished me, as He promised to do all those who
worshiped outside of Himself. She was only eighteen--young, lovely; oh!
I can never describe her to you as she was when she met Ben Mauprat.
She could have married a prince, but she fell in love with that
scoundrel, and while I pleaded with her upon bended knee to give him
up, she eloped with him as soon as my back was turned, and the tragedy
of her life began. He was a gambler, a libertine--there was nothing
under heaven that was low and vile that he was not. To save him from
the penitentiary I spent money--thousand after thousand, until I had
reduced myself almost to beggary--and the end came! When he could get
no more money from me he robbed a bank, was detected, and sentenced to
the penitentiary for ten years."
There was a long pause for rest, then, with only an increased pallor in
the face, Godfrey Cuyler continued:
"At that time I was living in New Orleans, but that city, being too
small for Ben Mauprat, he brought his wife to New York. Evelyn was then
about three years of age, and as like her in appearance as could be.
When Ben was sent to the penitentiary my poor girl wrote to me, but the
letter never reached me. That was the cause of all the after suffering.
She thought that I had deserted her, and that made her reckless. Oh,
Lena, Lena! You should have known me better, my darling!"
For the first time emotion overcame him, and bowing his head upon his
hand, the old man sobbed aloud.
A choking sensation followed. He gasped once or twice for breath, then
in a much more feeble and broken voice, he continued:
"She was penniless, helpless, and had that child to support. Well,
Leonie, the result of it was that Mrs. Chandler, in her charity rounds,
saw the child, fell in love with it, and convinced by Lena of the
perfect respectability of the child's parentage, she adopted it. She
knew nothing of the baby's father, but believed him to be dead. How can
I tell you the rest?"
The white lips trembled. He endeavored to moisten them, but his tongue
seemed as dry and parched as the lips. Still by a mighty effort he went
on:
"Lena went to live with a family of decent surroundings, though
poor. She had a little room in the house, and took in sewing enough
to support herself; but it was a terrible existence, one day
having bread, the next day none, haunted continually by the fear of
starvation. Well, at last Satan succeeded in accomplishing her utter
destruction. So small a matter as the water-works in the house where
she lived, almost upon the charity of the people, got out of order. The
owner of the house came himself to see what repairs were necessary. He
saw Lena. I have told you that she was beautiful. Leonie, he fell in
love with her. Then the temptation of her life began. They told her how
rich and proud he was, that there was scarcely a family in the city who
could compare with his in point of birth and wealth, but that pride was
his fault. Darling, that man was Roger Pyne!"
"What!"
That name had power to arouse Leonie from a lethargy as none other had.
She sprung to her feet, but as she caught sight of Godfrey Cuyler's
face, she sunk back again with a low sob of anguish.
"He was the uncle of the man who was your employer," he continued, the
effort to speak growing more painful with each moment. "He fell in love
with her. Believing that poverty was the only disgrace that attached to
her, Roger Pyne called upon her and proposed marriage. Leonie, she was
starving. She was so bitterly alone, so helpless, there was none near
to guide her in the right path, every hope had been taken out of her
life---- Oh, what shall I say to make you see her fault in a merciful
light? God knows how hard it is to resist a temptation like that! She
knew that if he knew the story of her life he would never marry her,
and to her the protection he offered meant heaven. Leonie, Leonie, she
married him, never telling him the history of her life, or that she had
a living husband in the penitentiary!"
"My God!"
The exclamation fell like ice from the cold lips, but the expression of
Leonie's face did not alter.
"A week later he discovered all," the old man went on dully. "In his
terrible anger he cast her off without a penny; he went to Europe and
left her here to starve. For several months she lived the same way that
she had done before, barely keeping soul and body together; then you
were born! I can never tell you what it was after that. Mrs. Chandler
was also in Europe. Lena wrote to me many times, but the letters never
reached me, and at last starvation came! She saw you dying before her
very eyes, dying for want of food, and she unable to help you.
"Made desperate by her terrible extremity, she rushed out into the
street and snatched a purse from a man. It contained only twenty little
pitiful dollars, not one of which she had used; but she was arrested,
tried, as her husband had been, and--God! how can I say it?--was
convicted. I read the story in the papers. How I ever lived to reach
her is more than I can tell. There were no extenuating circumstances
printed, she was poor and friendless. There was no mention made of
her marriage to Roger Pyne, but only the cold story of her crime. Oh,
Leonie, my child---- But what is the use in attempting to tell you what
I suffered? No words could ever describe it. I reached her in time to
see her die, to hear her story, to have you confided to my care, and
that was all. She died in the Tombs prison. It took all the soul out
of my body, but I knew that I must live for your sake. I could not go
back again to my old home, where everything reminded me of her, and so
I settled here in this great city, where no man knows his neighbors'
business or cares to know. As I watched you grow, the same love that I
had given to Lena I felt for you. Then the desire that grew to mania
came that you might never know of the shadow upon your birth. Oh, how I
prayed that you might be spared that; and now--Leonie----"
There was another gasp for breath, a wild clutching at the collar, and
for the first time Leonie saw. She sprung to her feet and seized his
hand wildly.
"Dad," she gasped--"dad! in Heaven's name what is the matter?"
"Nothing," he answered, his throat closing over the word with a
peculiar choking. "You must--not be--frightened. I--am--often--so."
"Not like that. Oh, God, dad! it looks like--death!"
His face was not more ghastly than her own. She had forgotten the
terrible secret of her birth, forgotten her mother's suffering,
forgotten everything save the danger that was menacing him.
"Hush!" he whispered, the sound a feeble effort. "My little one, my
little one--you do--not--blame dad?"
"Blame you? Oh, my darling, my darling! what does life contain for me
but you? Dad, dad! look at me. Tell me that you will not leave me. Dad,
speak to me."
"The--will of--God----"
"Surely God will not take you from me when you are all I have! Let me
go for a doctor, quick."
"No; I should die alone while you were gone. I knew--the end--was near
before--you came--and I prayed--God--to send--you before--it was--too
late. He heard--my prayer--I am--grate--ful. Darling--it has come. It
is---- Good-bye forever now!"
"Oh dad, dad, dad! take me with you. I cannot remain here so bitterly
alone with this hideous disgrace, this frightful secret bearing me
down. Let me go, too."
She leaped to her feet wildly, unmistakable insanity glittering in her
eyes, and seized a knife that lay upon the table.
Godfrey Cuyler lifted his half glazed eyes and looked at her. Although
death was upon him he realized her intention. Struggling to his feet
he caught the back of his chair with one hand, and with the other he
grasped the knife.
God lent him strength for the moment; he wrenched the knife from her
and flung it from him. It fell through the open window.
She pitched headlong upon the floor insensible. He fought back death
to lean above her, but a spasm of the heart seized him. He flung
himself around and fell back into his chair. The muscles relaxed after
a moment, the eyes rolled upward, and limp, utterly lifeless, the body
of Godfrey Cuyler lay, when they found him there an hour later, with
Leonie still upon the floor at his feet.