A nebulous gleam of light from an almost exhausted candle fell upon
Leonie and Liz as they sat silently in the room where Dick lay in a
disturbed slumber.
He had been placed upon the almost comfortable bed that Ben Mauprat had
used as his exclusive resting-place, and appeared more comfortable than
they could have hoped.
An old-fashioned clock upon the mantelpiece tolled the hour of two,
and, with a shiver of horror and dread that she could not control, Liz
drew nearer to Leonie.
"You go to bed," she whispered in a tone that would not disturb the
child. "You must be almost dead!"
"I am not in the least sleepy," answered Leonie. "You go. You will need
all your strength to-morrow."
Liz shook her head.
"I couldn't sleep. I don't feel as if I ever could again!" she
answered, drearily.
"Then let us both sit up. I think he is better, don't you?"
The question was asked with a nod of the head to indicate Dick, and Liz
glanced in his direction eagerly.
"God knows I hope so," she said, with some degree of color warming her
pale cheeks. "I should go mad if he died!"
"You must not say that, Liz. You must not rebel against the will of the
Lord. Why should you wish to keep him here for your sake, when your
own reason must tell you that it would be for his happiness to be in
Heaven?"
"You don't know what it is! You don't know how alone I should be, and
how I love him!" cried the woman, passionately.
"Do I not?" answered Leonie, sadly. "There was one to me as near almost
as he to you. I loved him with all the strength of my nature, and I
lost him. You may be sure that you have a sympathy for me which only a
similar experience can bring."
"Tell me of it."
"I cannot. The wound is too new. Liz, you told me that you were married
to Ben Mauprat thirty years ago, did you not?"
"Yes."
"And that he deserted you and married another woman. Was there ever any
divorce that enabled him to do that legally?"
"No. He married her knowing that she never could be his wife so long
as I lived. He was not then what he is now. You would never believe
that he was the same man, nor me the same woman, for that matter. We
had a daughter that Ben was mad about. He seemed to love her as he
never loved anything before or since, and she died. He blamed me with
her death, when my own heart was breaking. He said that it was my
neglect that had killed her. We had a terrible quarrel, he beat me and
left me. I did not hear anything more of him for years, then one day
I heard that he was married. I searched for the truth and found it.
He was married to a young woman whose name was Lena. I saw her, and I
heard him call her name. They had a child, a little girl, but Ben never
seemed to care for her as he had done for our little one. I went to Ben
and tried to persuade him to come back to me, but he only laughed at
me. I did not tell the poor young thing that he called his wife the lie
with which he had deceived her. What would have been the good? It was
too late then to save her the disgrace that would have been upon her,
and she was a beautiful, delicate girl. Soon after that Ben committed a
crime and was put in the penitentiary. Before he was released she died.
I knew that the child had been adopted by some wealthy people, but I
never saw Lena again after that night. The girl who told us who you
were was the child. She is his own daughter."
"Are you sure of that?" asked Leonie, endeavoring to control her
agitation.
"Of course I am! He has told me so often."
"But is there no other proof than just his words?"
"I have seen letters from her, making the acknowledgment virtually."
"Have you them?"
"No, but I think I could find some of them easily enough!"
"Liz, that girl is a thief!"
"I know it! Her own father made a thief of her!"
"If it had not been in her naturally, he could never have done it! She
would have died first! Do you think any one could ever have made a
thief of me?"
"That was why Ben broke Dick's back; because the poor child refused to
steal!"
"But Evelyn Chandler did not refuse, because I saw her do it! Liz, the
only man who has ever stood my friend, the man to whom I owe a debt
that never can be paid, is engaged to marry Evelyn Chandler, and I have
sworn to save him. There is but one way to do it, and that is to prove
her parentage, and the crime that she has committed! God knows if I
could give my life and save Lynde Pyne, I had rather do it, but that
would do no good! It would but insure the sacrifice."
"Lynde Pyne! Lynde Pyne, did you say?" asked Liz, in a whisper, leaning
excitedly toward Leonie.
"Yes! What do you know of him?"
"Is not he the man who expected to be his uncle's heir, but his uncle
left all his money to Luis Kingsley instead?"
"I don't know, but I think now that you mention it that I have heard
something of that kind!"
"Yes, that is who it is! Ben knows where the will is that was made
after the one that gave Luis Kingsley the money. It gives everything to
Lynde Pyne! I have heard Ben and his daughter speak of it frequently.
They had it planned that she was to marry Lynde Pyne, and then the
will was to be produced. It makes him one of the wealthiest men in the
state."
"I see it all now."
"All what?"
"Very many things that I could not understand before. Have you any idea
where that will is?"
"No. But it must be somewhere in Ben's things, because the producing of
it depended upon him exclusively. His daughter wanted it, but Ben would
not let her have it. I am not sure, though, whether it is here or in
Luis Kingsley's office."
"What did Ben have to do with him?"
"He made a pretense of working there, but he was not in the office more
than half an hour during the week, and then only when he wanted to be.
Luis Kingsley knew that Ben had him in his power, and he did not dare
oppose Ben. Ben played the respectable because of his position down
there."
"Liz, listen to me. You have said that you owed me a debt of gratitude
for what I did for Dick to-night. For myself, Heaven knows I would
never ask anything of you, but would be glad enough if there were
anything that I could do to make life more endurable to you. But, Liz,
there is another! One who is as dear to me as life itself, and for his
sake I ask that you help me to prove this. Help me to gain possession
of that will, to prove the unworthiness of Evelyn Chandler, and I will
stand by you and bless you until life leaves me! Promise me that you
will do this, Liz."
"I promise with all my heart. I would do it, even if I knew that I
should never see you again, for the kindness that you have already
shown my poor boy, and for which God will surely bless you. I don't
know exactly how we are to find the will, but I do know about the proof
concerning Ben's daughter, and I can get that for you before morning if
you want it."
They were interrupted by the sound of a groan, and rising, Leonie
glided noiselessly to the bed. The boy was awake, and in his eyes could
be plainly seen the presence of death.
Leonie raised him in her arms. Her heart ached for the grief that she
knew the unfortunate mother must endure, and in the sympathy that was
aroused she forgot her own matters for the time.
"What is it, Dick?" she asked tenderly. "Is there anything that you
want?"
The suffering child tried to speak, but the painful effort ended in a
moan.
The glassy eyes wandered to Liz's face and remained there as though in
dumb pleading.
The woman came forward and knelt beside him.
"Are you suffering, my boy?" she asked, endeavoring to strangle the
sobs that arose in her throat.
He made a gesture of annoyance.
With all his frail strength he was striving to say something, but the
words died upon his lips before a sound was articulated.
He beat the air with his small hands madly, as though unable to bear it.
"Is it water that you want, dear?" asked Leonie. "If so, nod your head!"
He shook it as vigorously as his weakening strength would allow.
"Is it anything that you want?"
He indicated the negative. Another violent effort was followed by the
word:
"Will!"
"You mean that you know where the will is?"
He nodded in the affirmative.
"Well, never mind it now, dear. That will do when you are well and
strong. Now you must take the medicine that the doctor has left,
and----"
"No!" he gasped. "No use. Good-bye--mother. It is all--over now, and he
can't--beat me--again. The will--is--in----"
He caught his throat with his hands and seemed trying to tear the words
from it, but a fit of strangling ensued that was horrible.
"Go for the doctor, Liz. Quick!" cried Leonie, ghastly with fear.
Dick put out his hand.
Once again he endeavored to speak, but it was followed by one gulp that
turned him purple in the face.
Liz uttered a groan of anguish.
He lifted his eyes once pleadingly; then settled himself back after a
long sigh in Leonie's arms.
For many moments she held him closely; then with an expression of
terror, placed her ear near his heart.
She lifted him tenderly and laid him back upon the bed.
"What is it?" cried Liz, hoarsely. "Not--dead!"
Leonie laid her arms around the woman's neck.
"Remember that he is with God," she said gently. "In wishing to resist
the will of Heaven you wish to place him back here again where----"
There was no need for the sentence to be completed, for it would have
been uttered to deaf ears.
Liz had fainted.
Unconsciousness was the kindest thing that Heaven could have sent, for
it relieved her for the time of the terrible grief of knowing that she
had lost the only being who held her to life.
Utterly helpless and alone, Leonie left the room, and running
down-stairs, endeavored vainly to find help, then went back feeling
that she could not leave the living and the dead together under
circumstances so ghastly as those.
She hurried back to the room where she had left them.
It was a piteous scene that greeted her.
Upon the floor Liz sat with the body of the boy clasped to her breast,
rocking him to and fro while she sung to him the lullaby with which she
had soothed him to sleep in infancy.
"Hush!" she whispered, lifting her finger warningly as Leonie entered
the room. "The baby is asleep. He has not been well, and you must not
wake him."
Acting upon an impulse, Leonie sprung to her side and took the child
from her.
"What are you thinking of?" she gasped.
But before she could lay the child upon the bed, she felt ten long
fingers close over her throat from the back.
She endeavored to cry out, but they clung all the more closely, closing
tighter and tighter until she was as helpless as the child upon the bed.
Then for the first time she seemed to understand.
She was in the hands of a maniac.