A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.
Less than a week after the events last related, and a family group
surrounds the lunch table in the newly furnished morning room of
Oakley.
The fair and fascinating Mrs. Torrance had accomplished the purpose
for which she came to Bellair.
Truly had she said, "There is no fool like an old fool;" for John
Arthur had been an easy victim. He had lost no time with his wooing,
and so, a little less than two months from the day the fair widow came
to Bellair, saw her mistress of John Arthur's household.
A bridal tour was not to her taste, much to the delight of the
bridegroom. So they set about refitting some of the fine old rooms of
the mansion, Cora having declared that they were too gloomy to be
inhabitable.
As it was to her interest to keep up the deception of frank affection,
she had been, during the two months of their honey-moon, a model wife.
But the discovery that John Arthur could leave her nothing save his
blessing, had now been made, and Cora, who was already weary of her
gray-headed dupe, had been for a few days past less careful in her
dissembling.
For this reason John Arthur now sat with a moody brow, and watched her
smile upon her brother with a feeling of jealous wrath.
The bride had thrown off her badge of mourning, and was very glad to
bloom out once more in azure and white and rose--hues which her soul
loved.
Opposite sat Miss Arthur, her sallowness carefully enameled over, her
head adorned with an astonishing array of false braids and curls and
frizzes, jetty in hue to match her eyes, which, so Cora informed
Lucian in private, were "awfully beady."
The lady was perusing a paper, which she suddenly threw down, and said
languidly, while she stirred her chocolate carefully. "Should not this
be the day on which my new maid arrives?"
Miss Arthur, from perusing many novels of the Sir Walter Scott school,
had acquired a very stately manner of speech, and, so she flattered
herself, a very effective one.
"I don't know why Miss Arthur can want a maid; her toilets are always
perfection," remarked Mr. Davlin to the general assembly.
Whereupon, Miss Arthur blushed, giggled, and disclaimed; Mrs. Arthur
disappeared behind a newspaper; and Mr. Arthur emerged from the fog of
thought that had enveloped him, to say brusquely:
"Miss Arthur want a maid? what's all this? A French maid in a country
house--faugh!"
Miss Arthur gazed across at her brother, and said, loftily, and
somewhat unmeaningly:
"It is what I have chosen to do, John." Then to Mr. Davlin, sweetly:
"It is so hard to dispense with a maid when you have been accustomed
to one."
"I suppose so."
"And this one comes so well recommended, you know, by Mrs. Overman and
Mrs. Grosvenor. You have heard of these ladies in society, no doubt,
Mr. Davlin?"
"Oh, certainly," aloud, "not," aside.
"And the name of the maid?" pursued Lucian.
"Her name," referring to the letter, "Celine Leroque--French, I
presume."
"No doubt," dryly.
"Stop him, Miss Arthur," interrupted Cora, prettily; "he will
certainly ask if she is handsome, if you let him open his mouth
again."
Miss Arthur glanced at him suspiciously. "Not having seen her, I could
not inform him," she said, coldly.
"Don't believe my sister," said Davlin, quietly, as he passed his cup.
"Cora, a little more chocolate, please. Miss Arthur, I met Mrs.
Grosvenor at the seaside, two years ago. Her toilets were the marvel
of the day; she protested that all credit was due her maid, who was a
whole 'magazine of French art.' I thought this might be the same."
"I most earnestly hope that it is," pronounced Miss Arthur.
"And I most earnestly hope it isn't," grumbled her brother, who to-day
felt vicious for many reasons, and didn't much care what the occasion
was, so long as it gave him an excuse for growling.
At this happy stage of affairs, the door was opened and the housemaid
announced: "An old lady, who says I am to tell you that her name is
Hagar, wants to see you, sir," addressing Mr. Arthur.
The master of the house started, and an angry flush settled upon his
face. "Send her away. I won't see the old beldam. Send her away."
The girl bowed and was about to retire, when she was pushed from the
doorway with little ceremony, and Nurse Hagar entered. Before the
occupants of the room had recovered from their surprise, or found
voice to address her, she had crossed the room, and paused before John
Arthur. Placing a small bundle upon the table near him, she said:
"Don't think you can order me from your door, John Arthur, when I
choose to enter it. I shall never come to you without good reason, and
I presume you will think me a welcome messenger when you know my
errand."
"Confound you," said the man, angrily, yet with an uneasy look in his
eyes; "if you must chatter to me, come into the library." He arose and
made a step toward the door.
"There is no need," said Hagar, with dignity; "my errand may interest
others here besides yourself. I bring a message from the dead."
John Arthur turned ashen pale and trembled violently. All eyes were
turned upon the speaker, however, and his agitation was unnoticed save
by Hagar.
"Last night," she continued, "a carriage stopped at my door and a
woman came in, bringing that bundle in her hands."
She paused and seemed struggling with her feelings.
"She said," continued Hagar, "that she was requested to come by a
dying girl, else she would have written the message given to her. She
belonged to a charitable society, and visited the hospital every week.
She brought flowers and fruit to one of the patients--a girl who died
asking her to write down what is on this card," holding out a bit of
white cardboard, "and not to tell the officers of the hospital her
true name. She had entered under the name of Martha Gray, and wished
to be buried as such. The lady promised; the girl gave her these
articles, and the lady kept her word, and brought the message. There
is the bundle," in a choking voice, "and here is the card. That is
all. Good-by, John Arthur; be happy, if you can. And may God's curse
fall upon all who drove her to her doom!"
She gathered her shawl about her shoulders and, casting a meaning
glance at Lucian Davlin, passed from the room and the house.
John Arthur sat with eyes riveted upon the card before him. After a
time he turned, and placing it in Davlin's hand, signed to him to read
it, and hurriedly left the room.
The hand that had first stricken the young life, placed the evidence
that the end had come in the hand that had completed what the first
began!
Something of this Lucian Davlin felt, hardened as he was, for he knew,
without waiting for the proof, that the true name of the girl who died
in the hospital was familiar to them all.
"Read!" ejaculated Cora, impatiently, "or give it to me."
Lucian's eyes had scanned the card, and tossing it across to her, he
pushed back his chair and walked to the window. Cora read for the
benefit of her bewildered sister-in-law:
Madeline Payne, at St. Mary's Hospital, under name of Martha
Gray, died--brain fever--no friends but nurse.
[Illustration: "May God's curse fall upon all who drove her to her
doom."--page 134.]
On the opposite side of the card was pencilled the full address of old
Hagar, and this was all. Scant information, but it was enough.
Cora pounced upon the bundle and opened it. It contained a little
purse; a few trinkets, which any of the servants could identify as
belonging to Madeline; the cloak she had worn the evening of her
flight; and a pocket-handkerchief with her name embroidered in the
corner.
Satisfaction beamed in the face Cora turned toward Lucian, and away
from Miss Arthur. She was mindful of the proprieties, however, and
turning her eyes back upon the lady opposite, she pressed a dainty
handkerchief to her countenance, and murmured plaintively:
"How very, very shocking, and sad! Poor Mr. Arthur is quite overcome,
and no wonder--that poor, sweet, young girl."
Across Lucian's averted face flitted a smile of sarcasm. How little
she knew of the truth, this fair hypocrite, and how unlikely she was
ever to know now. If Madeline were dead, of what avail was any effort
to break from the olden thraldom--for this is what had been in the
mind of the scheming man.
Cora brushed her handkerchief across her eyes and arose languidly. "I
must go to Mr. Arthur, poor man," she murmured, shaking out her
flounces. "He is terribly shocked, I fear."
Studiously avoiding the necessity of glancing in the direction of Mr.
Davlin, she glided from the room.
And so the news fell in Madeline's home, and its inmates were affected
no more than this:
With Cora a renewal of tenderness toward "Dear John," and an increased
stateliness toward Miss Arthur and the servants. More deference on
Miss Arthur's part towards her brother, and less on his part toward
her, as the possibility of being obliged to ask a small loan faded
away into the past of empty purses and closed up coffers.
Lucian took upon himself the responsibility of visiting the city and
calling at St. Mary's, there to be reassured of the fact that one
Martha Grey had died within its walls and been buried.