A SHREWD SCHEME.
An elegant apartment, one of a suite in a magnificent block such as
are the pride of our great cities.
Softest carpets, of most exquisite pattern; curtains of richest lace;
lambrequins of costly texture; richly-embroidered and velvet-covered
sleepy-hollows and lounging chairs; nothing stiff, nothing that did
not betoken abandonment to ease and pleasure; downy cushions; rarest
pictures; loveliest statuettes; finest bronzes; delicate vases;
magnificent, full length mirrors, a bookcase, itself a rare work of
art, containing the best works of the best authors, all in the richest
of bindings--nothing here that the most refined and cultivated taste
could disapprove, and yet everything bespoke the sybarite, the
voluptuary. A place wherein to forget that the world held aught save
beauty; a place for luxurious revelry, and repose filled with lotus
dreams.
Such was the bachelor abode of Lucian Davlin, as the glowing gas
lights revealed it on the dark night of the arrival of this gentleman
in the city.
Moving restlessly about, as one who was perfectly familiar with all
this glowing richness, only because movement was a necessity to her;
trailing her rich dress to and fro in an impatient promenade, and
twisting recklessly meantime a delicate bit of lace and embroidery
with plump, white fingers--a woman waited and watched for the coming
of Lucian Davlin.
A woman, fair of face, hazel-eyed, sunny-haired, with a form too plump
to be quite classical, yet graceful and prepossessing in the extreme.
A very fair face, and a very wise one; the face of a woman of the
world, who knows it in all its phases; who is able, in her own
peculiar manner, to guide her life bark successfully if not correctly,
and who has little to acquire, in the way of experience, save the art
of growing old gracefully and of dying with an acquitted conscience.
No unsophisticated girl was Cora Weston, but a woman of
eight-and-twenty; an adventuress by nature and by calling, and with
beauty enough, and brains enough, to make her chosen profession
prosperous, if not proper.
She paused before a mirror, carefully adjusting her fleecy hair, for
even in pressing emergencies such women never forget their personal
appearance. This done, she pondered a moment and then pulled the bell.
A most immaculate colored gentleman answered her summons and, bowing
low, stood waiting her will.
"Henry, is it not time that your master were here? The train is
certainly due; are you sure he will come? What did he telegraph you?"
"That he would arrive on the one o'clock express, madame; and he never
fails."
"Very well. If he does not appear soon, Henry, you must go and inquire
if the train has been delayed, and if so, telegraph. My business is
imperative."
The well trained servant bowed again, and, at a signal from her,
withdrew. Left alone, she continued her silent march, listening ever,
until at length a quick footstep came down the passage. Flinging
herself into the depths of a great easy chair, she assumed an air of
listless indifference, and so greeted the new comer.
"Gracious heavens, Cora! what brings you here like this? I thought you
had sailed, and was regretting it by this time."
He hurried to her side and she half rose to return his caress. Then
sinking back, she surveyed him with a lazy half smile. "I wonder if
you are glad to see me, Lucian, my angel; you are such a hypocrite."
He laughed lightly, and threw himself into a seat near her. "Candid
Cora, you are not a hypocrite,--with me," and he looked admiringly yet
impatiently at her. "Come," he said, at length, as she continued to
tap her slender foot lazily, and to regard him silently through half
closed lashes: "what does it all mean? Fairest of women, tell me."
"It means, _Mon Brave_, that I did not sail in the _Golden Rose_; I
only sent my hat and veil."
"Wonderful woman! Well, thereby hangs a tale, and I listen."
"I came back to see--"
"Not old Verage?" he interrupted, maliciously.
"No, hush: he saw me safely on board the _Golden Rose_--very gallant
of him, wasn't it?"
"Rather--yes, considering. And if I did not know Miss Cora Weston so
very well, I should be surprised at all this mystery; as it is, I
simply wait to be enlightened."
"And enlightened you shall be, monsieur."
She threw off her air of listlessness and arose, crossing over and
standing before him, leaning upon a high-backed chair, and speaking
rapidly.
Lucian, meantime, produced a cigar case, lit a weed, and assuming the
attitude and manner she had just abandoned, bade her proceed.
"You see," she said, "I did not like the idea of quitting the country
because of a little difference of opinion between myself and an old
idiot like Verage."
"A difference of some thousands out of pocket for him; well, go on."
"Just so, comrade mine. Well, fortune favored me; she generally does.
I learned, at almost the last moment, that a lady of my acquaintance
had taken passage in the same vessel. I interviewed her, and found her
in the condition of the good people in novels who have seen better
days; her exchequer was at low ebb, and, like myself, she had reasons
which induced her to emigrate. I did not inquire into these, having no
reason to doubt the statement, but I accompanied her on board the
_Golden Rose_, bade her a fond farewell, and bequeathed to her my
street apparel and a trifling sum of old Verage's money. In exchange,
I donned her bonnet and veil, and adopted her rather awkward gait, and
so had the satisfaction of seeing, on my return to terra firma, old
Verage gazing enraptured after my Paris bonnet and floating veil as it
disappeared with my friend, outward bound."
"Well, what next? All the world, your world, supposes you now upon the
briny deep. Old Verage will be rejoiced to find you here in the city;
what then?"
"I think he will," said Cora, dryly, "when he does find me. I did not
come here in the dark to advertise my arrival."
"Bravo, Cora," he patted her hands softly; "wise Cora. You are a
credit to your friends, indeed you are, my blonde beauty."
She laughed softly;--a kittenish, purring laugh.
"Well, Lucian, time flies and I throw myself on your mercy. Recommend
me to some nice quiet retreat, not too far from the city, but at a
safe distance; put me in a carriage, at daylight, which will carry me
out to some by-station, where I can take passage behind the iron
horse, unmolested, for fresh fields and pastures new."
Davlin pondered a moment as if he had not already decided upon his
course of action. He knew the woman he had to deal with, and shaped
his words accordingly. "A retired spot,--let me see. I wonder, by
Jove,"--brightening suddenly, "I think I have the right thing for
you."
"Well, when Lucian Davlin 'thinks' he has a point, that point is
gained; proceed, man of might."
"You see," began Lucian, in a business-like tone, "I took one of my
'skips' for change of scene and recreation."
"And safe quarters until the wind shifted," interrupted she. "Well, go
on."
He laughed softly, "Even so. We children of chance do need to take
flying trips sometimes, but I did not set out for Europe, Cora mine,
and I wore my own clothes home."
"Bravo! But old Verage don't want you, and the wind _has_ changed;
proceed."
"Well, as usual, I found myself in luck, and if I had been a nice
young widow, might have taken Summer quarters in the snug little
village of Bellair."
"Not being a widow, relate your experience as a rusticating gentleman
at large. You excite my curiosity."
Lucian removed his cigar from between his lips, and lazily
contemplated his fair _vis a vis_.
"How long a time must elapse before the most magnificent of blondes
will think it fitting, safe, and," with a slight smile, "expedient to
return and resume her sovereignty here, on this hearth, and," striking
his breast theatrically, "in this heart?"
The "most magnificent of blondes" looked first, approvingly, at her
image displayed in the full length mirror opposite, then coolly at her
interrogator.
"Hum! that depends. The lady you so flatter can't abide dullness and
inaction, and too much stupidity might overcome her natural timidity,
in which case even my ardent old pursuer could not scare me into
submission and banishment. If I could only find an occupation, now,
for my--"
"Peculiar talents," he suggested; "that's just the point. And now, I
wonder if you wouldn't make a remarkably charming young widow?"
"So you have an idea, then, Lucian? Just toss me a bunch of those
cigarettes, please,--thank you. Now a light; and now, if it's not
asking too much, will you proceed to explain yourself, and tell me
what fortunate being you desire me, in the character of a fair widow,
to besiege? What he is like; and why?"
"Admirable Cora! what other woman could smoke a cigarette with such a
perfect air of doing the proper thing; so much of Spanish grace."
"And so much genuine enjoyment," she added, comfortably. "Smoke is my
poetry, Lucian. When far from my gaze, and I desire to call up your
most superb image, I can do so much more comfortably and
satisfactorily inspired by my odorous little Perique."
"Blessed Perique! Cora shall have them always. But back to my widow;
an absence of six months, perhaps, would be a judicious thing just
now, you think?"
"More would be safer," she smiled, "if the Peri can keep aloof from
Paradise so long."
"How would the Peri fancy taking up her permanent abode outside the
walls of Paradise?"
She removed the fragrant gilded cigar in miniature from between two
rosy, pursed-up lips, and surveyed him in mute astonishment.
"Provided," he proceeded, coolly, "provided she found a country home,
bank account, and equipage to her liking, with everything her own way,
and ample opportunities for trips to Paradise, making visits to her
brother and her city friends--and a fine prospect of soon becoming
sole possessor of said country mansion, bank stock, etc.?"
She placed the tiny weed once more between her lips, and sending up
perfumed, curling little volumes of smoke, settled herself more
comfortably and said, nonchalantly, "That depends; further
particulars, please."
It was wonderful how these two understood each other. She knew that he
had for her a plan fully matured, and wasting no time in needless
questionings, waited to hear the gist of the whole matter, assured
from past experience that he would suggest nothing that would be an
undertaking unworthy of her talent, and he knew that she would weigh
his suggestions while they were being made, and be ready with her
decision at the close.
Long had they plotted and prospered together, these two Bohemians of
most malevolent type; and successfully and oft played into each
other's hands. Never yet had the good fortune of the one been devoid
of profit to the other; knowing this, each felt safe in accepting,
unquestioned, the suggestions of the other; and because of this, she
felt assured now that, in this present scheme, there was something to
be gained for him as well as herself.
When the looker-on wonders idly at the strength of ties such as those
which bound together these two, and the length of their duration, he
has never considered their nature--the similarity of tastes,
similarity of pursuits, and the crowning fact of the mutual benefit
derived from such association.
Find a man who lives by successful manipulations of the hand-book of
chance, and who bows to the deity of three aces; who finds victims in
fortified places, and whose most hazardous scheme is surest of
success; who walks abroad the admired of his contemporaries, who envy
him his position as fortune's favorite in proportion as they ply their
own similar trade near the foot of the ladder of chance; who shows to
men the dress and manner of a gentleman, and to the angels the heart
of a fiend--and you will find that man aided and abetted, upheld and
applauded, by a woman, his fitting companion by nature or education.
She is unscrupulous as he, daring as he, finding him victims that his
arm could not reach; plying the finer branch of a dangerous but
profitable trade; sharing his prosperity, rescuing from adversity;
valued because necessary, and knowing her value therefore fearing no
rival.
Cora was beautiful in Davlin's eyes, and secure in his affections,
because she was valuable, even necessary, to him. He cared for her
because in so doing he was caring for himself, and placing any "card"
in her hands was only the surest means of enlarging his own pack.
While she, for whether a woman is good or bad she is ever the slave of
her own heart, recognizing the fact of the mutual benefit resulting
from their comradeship, and improving, in her character of a woman of
the world, every opportunity to profit by him, yet she saw in him the
one man who possessed her love. Though the life she had led had worn
out all the romantic tendencies of her nature, and had turned the
"languishing of her eye" into sharp glances in the direction of the
main chance, still she lavished upon him the best of her heart, and
held his interest ever the equal of her own. After the manner of such,
they were loyal to each other.
"Then," pursued Lucian, "listen, and a tale I will unfold."
In his own way, he proceeded to describe the intended victim; his
home, his wealth, his state of solitude, together with the facts he
had gathered up here and there relative to his leading characteristics
and weaknesses, whereby he might be successfully manipulated by
skilled hands. The boldness of his plan made even Cora start, and
instead of her usually ready decision and answer, she favored him with
a wondering, thoughtful stare.
"You see," concluded Lucian, "he can't live forever at the worst, and
the estate is a handsome one. You could easily make yourself queen
absolute of the situation, and go and come at your own sweet will. I
think as a good brother I should be a magnificent success, and an
ornament to your country mansion in the lazy Summer."
"And if I don't approve of the speculation after a trial, I can commit
suicide or vanish," Cora said, meditatingly.
"Just so," laughed he; "and take the spoons."
"You are sure there are no incumbrances; perfectly sure of that?" she
questioned.
"Perfectly sure. There was a step-daughter, but she ran away with some
foreigner;" here he smiled, and veiled his eyes, lest she should read
aright their expression. "He would not give her a penny, or a crust of
bread, were she to return. He hated her from her earliest day; but she
is not likely to reappear in any case."
"If she should, you might marry her, you know," she suggested,
maliciously.
"So I might," he said, shutting his eyes again; "and we would all
settle down into respectable members of society--charming picture.
But, jesting aside, how do you like the prospect?"
She tossed away her cigarette and, rising, paced the room in silence
for a few moments.
Lucian whistled, softly, a few bars from a favorite opera; then
lighted a fresh cigar, and puffed away, leaning lazily back and
watching her face furtively out of half closed eyes.
"I think," she said, resuming her seat, "that I will take a nearer
view of this 'prospect' of yours."
He nodded his head and waited for her to proceed.
"I think the _role_ of widow might interest me for a little time, so
I'll take myself and my 'delicate constitution' down to your promising
haven of rest. I'll 'view the landscape o'er,' and the prospect of an
opportunity for a little sharp practice will make my banishment more
endurable; of course, my resignation will increase as the situation
becomes more interesting."
"Which it is sure to do," he said, rising quickly and crossing to the
window. "The thing is as good as done; you always accomplish what you
undertake; and you'll find the game worth the powder. The fact is,
Cora," he continued, seriously, "you and I have engineered so many
delicate little affairs successfully, here in the city, that, as a
combination, we are pretty well known just now; too well, in fact, for
our own ease and comfort. Your supposed trip to Europe was a lucky
thing, and will throw all officiously-interested ones off your track
completely. I shall limit my operations here for a time; shall make
this merely headquarters, in fact, and 'prospect,' like yourself, in
fresh fields. And now, it being nearly morning, and quite necessary
that you should be on your victorious march, let us consider final
ways and means."
In a concise, business-like way, they arranged and discussed, the
result of the whole being briefly this:
Cora would drive at early dawn to a suburban station, and from thence
go by rail to a village midway between the city and her final
destination; and there await her luggage, and the arrival of Lucian.
He would join her shortly, and proceed with her to Bellair, in his
character of brother; see her comfortably settled, and leave her to
her new undertaking.
And thus it was that in the gray of morning a veiled lady,
sweet-voiced and elegant in manner, stepped from a close carriage at a
little wayside station, and sped away at the heels of the iron horse.
And thus it was that Lucian Davlin, reappearing in Bellair and
listening in well simulated surprise to the story of the sudden
disappearance of John Arthur's step-daughter, effectually put to
flight any idea--forming in the brains of the few who knew, or
conjectured, that these two had met--that he had aught to do with her
mysterious flitting. In truth, none save old Hagar knew of the
frequency of their clandestine meetings, and she never breathed to
others the thoughts and suspicions that haunted her brain.
And thus it was, too, that Cora Weston, in her new _role_ of
languishing widow, secluded carefully from the vulgar gaze, heard
never a word of Madeline's flight. And when, later, the fact was
revealed to her, none save old Hagar could have named the precise date
of the event. So even wise Cora never connected the fate of the
unfortunate girl with the doings of Lucian Davlin.