"Oh, Mrs. Leslie, isn't she just lovely? And she cannot be much older
than I am!"
Irene had slept profoundly for a day and night, being physically and
mentally exhausted by her terrible ordeal in the water. When she awoke
after twenty-four hours of restful slumber those words of admiration
rung in her ears, uttered by a soft, girlish voice, interrupted by an
ominous hacking cough.
Irene opened her eyes and glanced languidly around her. Beside her bed
she saw Mrs. Leslie, the little lady who had been so kind to her the day
before. Next to the lady, in a low, cushioned rocker, sat a girl of
thirteen or fourteen, richly and tastefully dressed, but with a thin
face as white as alabaster, save for two burning spots of hectic on her
hollow cheeks, and with large, brilliant black eyes burning with the
feverish fire of consumption.
"So you are awake at last!" cried the girlish voice, joyously, "I
thought you were going off into a regular Rip Van Winkle sleep, and I
have been just dying of curiosity over you."
Irene felt the sudden crimson dying her cheeks at the vivacious
exclamation of the delicate-looking girl.
"Lilia, my love, you startle her," said Mrs. Leslie, gently; then she
bent over Irene, saying kindly: "You feel better, I hope, after your
long rest. This is Miss Stuart, the daughter of the gentleman who saved
your life. She has been very anxious over you."
Irene looked gratefully at the dark-eyed girl who rose impulsively and
kissed her.
"You are so pretty, I love you already," she cried, and Mrs. Leslie
laughed.
"Pretty is as pretty does," she said, gaily, and Irene crimsoned
painfully, as if the words had been a poisoned shaft aimed at her
breast.
"Are you going to be well enough to sit up to-day?" pursued Lilia
Stuart, anxiously. "Because if you are, I want you to come into my
little saloon with me. I will give you my softest lounge to lie on.
Aren't you very hungry? Will you take your breakfast now?"
"Yes, to all of your questions," Irene answered, looking in wonder at
this girl who was but two years younger than herself, yet who seemed so
very light and childish. Alas, poor Irene, that fatal night had forced
her into a premature womanhood.
When she had taken a light, appetizing breakfast, and been robed in a
white morning-dress, Mrs. Leslie advised her to spend the day in Lilia
Stuart's saloon.
"She is a spoiled child," she said, "but we humor her all we can, for
hers is a sad fate. She is dying of consumption."
"Dying---- so young!" cried Irene with a shudder, remembering how
horrible the thought of death had appeared to her while she was
struggling in the cold, black waves.
"Yes, poor child, she is surely dying," sighed Mrs. Leslie. "Her father
bought this beautiful yacht to take her to Italy by the advice of her
physicians. They fancied a sea voyage might benefit her. But I do not
believe she will survive the trip. Some days she is very ill. Poor
little Lilia. It is very hard. She is Mr. Stuart's only child."
They went to Lilia's luxurious saloon which was fitted up with every
comfort, and was exquisitely dainty and charming, though small. Mrs.
Stuart was there with her daughter. She gave the stranger a little
supercilious nod, and invited Mrs. Leslie to go on deck with her.
Lilia, who had just recovered from a violent spell of coughing, led her
visitor to a softly cushioned satin lounge.
"You may rest here," she said. "I am well enough to-day to sit up in my
easy-chair, but some days I lie down all day. You may call _me_ Lilia.
What shall I call you?"
"You may call me Irene," was the answer, while a burning flush mounted
to the speaker's forehead.
"Irene---- what a soft, sweet name! I like that," said Lilia, and just
then the door unclosed and her father came in softly. "Ah, here is papa!
you see I have a visitor, papa," she cried.
Mr. Stuart was a handsome, stately-looking man, middle-aged, with
abundant threads of silver streaking his dark hair. His mouth, in
repose, looked both sad and stern.
Irene arose and held out her hands.
"I owe you my life," she said, gratefully.
A transient, melancholy smile lit the grave, dark face.
"You need not thank me," he said, almost bruskly. "Wait until years have
come and gone, and you have fairly tested life. It will be a question
then whether you will award me blame or praise for the turn I did you
yesterday."
The large, dark, melancholy eyes held Irene's with a strange
fascination.
"Ah! you think that youth is all sunshine and roses," she answered,
almost against her will. "I have already learned the reverse of that,
and yet I find life sweet."
"How came you to be in the water?" he asked, anxiously, sitting down and
drawing Lilia to a seat upon his knee.
The deep color rushed over Irene's pale, lovely face. A deep shame
overpowered her, and yet against her will something within her forced
her to confess her sin.
"You will be shocked," she said; "but I must tell you the truth. I threw
myself in."
"No," he exclaimed, in surprise.
"Yes," she answered, sadly.
"Oh, Irene, why did you do that?" exclaimed little Lilia.
"Why did you do it?" echoed the man.
"I had lost the only friend I had on earth, and I did not wish to live,"
she answered.
"Then I was right. You will not thank me for saving your life,"
exclaimed Mr. Stuart.
"Yes, for I repented my rashness as soon as my body struck the cold
waves," she answered, shivering. "I am thankful my life was spared to
me. Life is hard, but death is harder."
He looked at the beautiful, agitated girl with deep interest. He began
to see that there had been some romance in her life. Her face had a
tragedy written on it.
"You will wish to return to your home and your friends?" he said.
An exceedingly bitter expression crossed the lovely young face, and for
a moment she was silent. To herself she said: "I have neither home, nor
friends, nor name. Those whom I left will be glad to think that I am
dead."
Her heart was hardened against them all. She believed that her mother
had left her to perish without one effort at rescue.
"She was glad to be rid of her illegitimate child," she said to herself,
with inexpressible bitterness.
Mr. Stuart, thinking she had not heard him, repeated his question.
"You will be glad to return to your home and friends?"
She raised her large, beautiful eyes to his face. They were dark with
unutterable despair.
"I have neither home nor friends--nor name!" she said.
He started, and looked at her keenly.
"You must have borne some name in the world," he said, almost sternly.
"I did; but I had no right to it, and I have renounced it forever. I am
called Irene. That is the only name I can rightfully claim," she
answered, bitterly, and drooping her shamed eyes from his earnest gaze.
For a moment both were silent.
Mr. Stuart's dark, sad eyes were fixed on her with a look that was
almost pain. This fair, mysterious waif from the sea, stirred his soul
to its deepest depths. His presence held the same mysterious fascination
for her.
Lilia, the most innocent child in the world, and who had been listening
with deepest interest, broke the silence, wide-eyed.
"You have only one name," she said. "How strange! I thought everyone had
two names. I have. Mine is Lilia Stuart. Mamma's is the same. Papa's
name is Clarence Stuart."
She paused, for a stifled cry broke from Irene's lips. The dainty
saloon, the faces of the father and child seemed to fade before her. She
was back in the parlor of Bay View, that fatal night when they had
brought old Ronald Brooke home dead. Again she saw, through the blinding
mist of her tears, Guy Kenmore extricating the fragment of paper from
the dead hand. Again she looked over his arm and read:
"That the truth may be revealed, and my death-bed repentance
accepted of Heaven, I pray humbly.
"CLARENCE STUART, Senior."
"My God! what does it mean?" she asked herself; and Guy Kenmore's
ambiguous answer recurred to her mind:
"A great deal--or nothing!"
"Irene, are you ill?" asked Lilia, anxiously. "You almost screamed out,
and your face is as white as chalk!"
"I am very nervous. You must not let me frighten you, Lilia," the girl
answered, sadly.
Lilia came coaxingly to her side.
"I am going to tell you something," she said, with her pretty air of a
spoiled child. "While you were asleep I was very naughty. I peeped at
the beautiful lady in your locket!"
"Lilia!" her father exclaimed.
"All the ladies looked, papa," Lilia answered, self-excusingly. "And I
am going to have one more peep! Irene will not care, I know!"
She flashed the lid open suddenly before his dazzled eyes. He could not
choose but see that fair face, with its haunting eyes, and tremulous
smile, and golden hair, Elaine's perfect image, even to the shadow of a
tragedy that even a stranger could read on her beauty.
He gazed and gazed, and the breath fluttered sharply over his parted
lips. Then, all in a moment, with a smothered cry of despair, he put out
his hands and shut out the sight of the lovely face, even as his head
fell back against the chair, his breath failed, and he lay all white and
corpse-like before the two frightened girls.