The golden hue of a dying sun lit up the West, and shone with radiant
glory into the bare chamber where Leonie Cuyler sat, her head bowed
upon the arm of the chair in which her grandfather had died.
She did not hear the knock that sounded upon the door, nor did she hear
it open, nor see the man who entered.
He looked at her for a moment in silence, noting her extreme
gracefulness even in a position like that; he saw where the sun kissed
the bowed head as if in benediction; he understood the terrible grief
that hovered over her, and something like tears gleamed in his eyes as
he went forward and drew a chair close to her.
"Leonie," he said, taking her hand gently, "arouse yourself, dear. Do
you think you are doing right to give way to your grief in this manner?
I know that it is hard to bear; but it must come to us all sooner or
later, and he is at rest! Does that thought bring you no consolation?"
She lifted her head, a terrible shiver shaking her.
"It is the only consolation that I have!" she answered drearily. "When
I remember how full his life was of sorrow that no time could ever have
lightened, I am glad that he is at peace with God. But the burden is
hard to bear, when I am so bitterly alone, oh, God! so horribly alone!"
"Do I count for nothing, then?"
"You are good to me, Mr. Pyne, so good that you are breaking my heart
afresh every hour; but in justice to you I cannot accept the friendship
that is so sweet to me. In mercy to myself I must refuse it! I have
been in the world so long that it is no secret to me what construction
is put upon the friendship of a man like you for a creature in my
sphere and----"
"Leonie, I forbid you to speak like that. You know no more of what you
are saying than a three-months-old child. There is no man that will
have a right to question my motives when I say that I have asked you to
become my wife. I did not come here to-night to speak to you upon this
subject, nor shall I. You must listen to me--you must see the truth of
what I say, for there is no time to be lost. Have you forgotten that
to-morrow is the day set down for the hearing of your case?"
Her hand closed over the arm of the chair, her teeth were set firmly,
her face became a shade more ghastly, but her voice was quiet as she
answered:
"I had forgotten!"
"Then it is quite time that you remember, Leonie. I have, without
your request, or even consent, constituted myself your attorney, and
it is to talk with you upon this subject alone that I have come here
to-night. I want you to feel the strength of my love sufficiently to
know that you may trust me in all things. Do you think that you can do
that?"
"I know that I can trust you!"
"Then tell me who committed that robbery!"
"I cannot!"
"I expected that answer, and yet you said that you could trust me.
"Leonie, I entreat you, for your own sake, to tell me the truth about
this. If there is anything that ought to be concealed, I will help you
to the last day of my life to conceal it; but, for the love of Heaven,
don't place yourself in this hideous position without advice from some
one. Let me be the judge. Tell me the truth, and I swear to you upon my
honor that, if there is reason for the concealment I will help you to
it!"
He paused for a moment, wiping away the moisture from his brow that
earnestness had brought there.
Leonie straightened herself, and leaning forward, laid her hand upon
his.
"I know that what you are saying to me is intended for my good alone,"
she cried, in a choked voice, "and from the bottom of my heart I thank
you, but--I do not seem capable of thought to-night. I do not seem to
understand. You are so good to me that I feel that I can ask anything
of you, and therefore I beg that you will come to-morrow. Leave me this
night, my first without--dad--to myself, and to-morrow----"
She could not complete the sentence, but turned away, hiding her
quivering face upon her arm.
Pyne stood beside her, placing his arm about her.
"I have been cruel, but it was the only way to save you," he whispered.
"Tell me that you forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive," she answered, lifting her dull eyes
piteously. "If there should ever come a time when you feel that you
have something to forgive me for, remember that what I shall do will
always be for your good, will you not? Remember that however unworthy I
may be, that I loved you with all my heart, and---- Oh, go! I beseech
you, go! I am not myself! To-morrow----"
She did not finish the sentence, but raised herself to her full height,
looked him in the face with a long, searching, hungry passion, lifted
his hand to her hot, dry lips, and pressing a burning kiss upon it,
passed hurriedly from the room.
He looked after her for a moment irresolutely, half tempted to follow.
"What does it mean?" he asked of himself. "Her manner was most
singular. Poor little girl. She is almost mad from this grief and
harassing. I wish I could have comforted her instead of adding to
it. Well, I will see her to-morrow, and I will save her in spite of
herself."
He glanced longingly at the door through which she had vanished.
Then restraining his inclination, he picked up his hat and left the
room.
Leonie heard the closing of the door, and entered immediately.
How dreary and desolate it seemed!
Deliberately she had cut herself from him, leaving herself absolutely
alone, with not one human being that she could call her friend.
A great pity for herself surged into her heart, pity for the loneliness
of her situation, for the isolation that had been thrust upon her
through no fault of her own.
She sat down for a moment, burying her face in her hands; then she
lifted it, ghastly with fierce determination.
"This is no time for inactivity or irresolution!" she cried
passionately. "I must follow the life that Heaven has seen fit to
fasten upon me without consent of mine. I am a nameless creature,
but I can still have the courage to save my sister. Lynde Pyne has
pledged himself to pay fifteen hundred dollars to the court to-morrow
in default of my presence. Virtually I am simply forcing a loan upon
him, for it shall be repaid to the last farthing. My weakness has
fallen from me like a mantle. When that is repaid, I can allow my grief
indulgence, but until then----"
She drew pen, ink and paper to her, and began hastily to write the
following:
"MY DEAR MR. PYNE,--Realizing all the truth of what you said to me
last night, I have decided to take matters into my own hands. When
you receive this, I shall be many miles from here. I understand the
fact of your being compelled to pay the fifteen hundred dollars for
which you stand pledged for me, but I promise that it shall be repaid
to the last penny with interest from date. Thanking you for the
kindly interest that you have taken in me, and trusting that you will
forgive me for this step that is the only one left me, I am
"Very truly yours,
"LEONIE CUYLER."
Not once, but many times she read the note, taking it in her hands
to destroy it; then resolutely she placed it in an envelope, sealed,
addressed and stamped it.
"It sounds ungrateful, harsh, unfeeling, but it is better so,
much better," she muttered, her lips drawn together coldly. "What
difference can my love make to him? It could only bring disgrace and
contamination. It could only fill him with loathing if he knew. He will
learn to despise me when he reads what I have written, and it is better
that he should."
She hesitated no longer, but pinning on her hat, she went to the
bureau, and taking from it an old pocketbook, counted the few dollars
that remained in it; then she picked up her letter, and with it clasped
firmly in her hand, went into the street.
An hour later she returned. She went to the glass and removed her hat.
The beautiful hair that had been one of her crowning glories was gone,
and a little boyish head that she could scarcely recognize as her own
was reflected there.
There was no satisfaction, only bitterness in the face that looked back
at her, and she turned without a murmur.
She had begun her battle with life indeed!
She took up a bundle that she had thrown upon the floor upon her
entrance, and took from it a full suit of boy's clothes.
Throwing off her own, she clothed herself in the others, and again
looked calmly into the mirror when the task was completed.
The alteration was complete, absolute.
With the same mechanical movements she opened the drawer to the old
secretary, and took from it the picture that Godfrey Cuyler had told
her was the face of Lena Mauprat, but she thrust it into the pocket of
her coat without a glance at it.
There were one or two souvenirs of "Dad" that she put into her pocket,
then turned to take a last view of the room in which she had been
comparatively happy.
A sob arose in her throat as she pictured the face of her
grandfather--that dear old face that she was never again to see until
she met him in the presence of God!
With an unvoiced prayer in her heart, she kneeled and kissed the chair
in which he had died, then slowly she arose and approached the door.
One last glance, a bursting sob, and Leonie Cuyler passed from the room
forever!