For a full minute Neil Lowell and Lynde Pyne stood there facing each
other, each seeming to measure the other's strength, not physically,
but mentally.
Neil was striving to decide what course it would be safest for him to
pursue; then, seeming to have arrived at a definite conclusion, he
stepped back a pace, his eyes growing colder.
"What I know of Miss Evelyn Chandler," he said, frigidly, "is my own
concern, and there is no reason why I should make it known to you or to
any one else, unless it is my desire so to do. I have made no charges
either for or against her, and I deny your right to question me upon
that or any other subject."
Pyne threw out his hand with a deprecatory gesture.
"I did not ask my question in the spirit that you seem to ascribe to
me," he replied, without anger; "the expression of your face, when
these family affairs were spoken of, was such as to give birth to
suspicion. I do not demand that you answer me; I simply request it."
Neil turned aside, lowering his eyes.
"There is nothing that I can tell you concerning Miss Chandler."
"Then answer my second question. What are you to Leonie Cuyler?"
Slowly the boy lifted his eyes, fastening them on the face of the man
before him, determined that no weakness, however great, should make him
betray the identity that it was so necessary for him to conceal.
"I had a cousin by that name," he said, slowly. "I never saw her but
once."
He had told the truth, and he had told it with such perfect frankness,
such entire candor, that Pyne was staggered.
"Then if you have seen her once, you will excuse me for my inquiry into
your affairs, knowing how much you are like her."
"There is little in resemblances. You heard Miss Pryor speak to-night
of my resemblance to Miss Pyne, your cousin."
"That is strong, I grant you, but weak by comparison with the other
likeness. In asking your pardon I must tell you that my interest in
Miss Cuyler was so strong at one time that it has shadowed all my life.
I cannot speak further without betraying a secret that is not all
mine. But for her sake, because you were her cousin, I offer you my
friendship, if you will have it. I am not rich, but whatever I can do
for you you may be sure that I will. You promise?"
The eyes of the boy were averted to conceal the tears that would rise
in them.
"I will remember!" he answered, in a voice so choked from emotion that
vision was not necessary to know the nearness of tears.
"Will you give me your hand that I may know you have forgiven me for my
presumption?"
Without a word the little hand was extended, and as that of the man
closed over it, a quick, low cry escaped his lips.
"You cannot deceive me longer!" he cried, hoarsely. "I knew that you
were Leonie in the beginning, but I wanted to have some proof before
making my assertion. Oh, Leonie, child, child! why did you think it
necessary to conceal your identity from me? Did you not know that I
would have given my life, my soul, if needs were, to have saved you?"
Startled almost beyond self-control, Leonie listened to the words.
She knew that the ring she wore had betrayed her, but she could think
of no way in which it was possible to cover the fact that he had
discovered.
Very gently Lynde closed the door, then turning, took her hand and drew
her down upon a couch beside him.
"Leonie," he said, "could you not have trusted me?"
"I did trust you," she cried desperately, "and you are to marry Evelyn
Chandler!"
She had not meant to say that, but somehow the words had escaped her
without her will. She would have recalled them if she could, but now it
was too late. She lifted her eyes helplessly to his face.
"You trusted me by leaving me at the time that I needed you most.
You trusted me by going away and leaving me in ignorance as to your
whereabouts. You might have known that at any price I would save you,
and I have. It is not necessary that you should longer disguise your
sex from the world. The charge that Leonard Chandler made against you
has been withdrawn."
Leonie started up excitedly.
"Withdrawn!" she gasped. "How did he happen to do that?"
"Through the persuasion of his daughter."
For a moment she was silent, then she sprung up, standing before him,
her lovely face quivering with emotion.
"Then that is the secret of your renewed engagement with Evelyn
Chandler. Tell me the truth, Lynde. Is it not so?"
His eyes were downcast for a moment, then raised bravely.
"Yes," he answered. "You must not ask me anything further, because
honor forbids that I should answer you. But you are free as air."
"I am free, but you!" she cried, her voice scarcely more than an
agonized whisper--"you are worse than a prisoner! You do not love her,
and, not loving her, you will marry her for my sake. Listen to me,
Lynde. You must not do it--you must not, if I go to the gallows instead
of to the penitentiary! You have taught me a lesson in self-sacrifice.
I shall not tell you now the secret that has moved my life, that has
robbed it of every hope, of every joy, because my unsupported testimony
would count for little; but I will find a way to prove my words; and I
will save you from the woman whom you would make your wife!"
"I beg that you will not do that, Leonie. There is nothing now that
could relieve me of the sacred promise that I have taken upon myself,
and anything that you might say would but be a useless sacrifice upon
your part, and would but increase my burden. Promise me that you will
do nothing!"
"I will promise to say nothing to any one until you know all the truth,
and that you shall be the judge yourself. Will you be content with
that?"
"I will!"
"And there is a promise that I have to demand of you in return."
"I am ready to make it!"
"Then say nothing of what you have discovered to-day regarding my
sex to any one! I have reasons for wishing to preserve myself from
recognition, and there is little hope for me unless I preserve the
costume that I have assumed. If I am forced to leave here, as I should
be were it known that I am not a boy, Heaven knows into what a position
I might be thrown."
"I promise. You will not refuse to allow me to see you sometimes? You
will not refuse to grant me----"
"It is better not!" she interrupted, sorrowfully. "There is nothing
that can ever lift the barrier that lies between you and me, Mr. Pyne.
That is as irrevocable as death itself. I am not saving you from Evelyn
Chandler to secure you for myself. The reason that makes it almost a
crime that she should be your wife, extends to me, and though I have
brought you sorrow, I will never bring you disgrace. When you are here
I shall find a pretext for remaining out of your presence, for it is
much better that we should not meet! You believe that, do you not?"
"I beg that you will----"
"I am deaf to your words. You know where to find me; you know where
I shall remain, unless the object that I have in view requires that I
shall go elsewhere; but unless necessity demands it, I beg that you
will not seek me. I will come to you when I have discovered the proofs
that are necessary."
She left the room as she ceased speaking without a backward glance,
turning a deaf ear to his pleading tones, and walked unsteadily up the
stairs to her own room.