There was one instant of breathless silence as Mrs. Leslie's kind
introductory words thus fell on the ears of the husband and wife, who
until that moment had believed the other dead. Then, with a great effort
of will Irene raised her pale face and dark blue eyes to meet Guy
Kenmore's gaze.
He was staring at her with parted lips, with dilated eyes, and a
death-white face as if he had seen a ghost, and suddenly, without words
or bow, or slightest greeting, he turned away and walked to another
window, leaning from it as if stifled for want of air.
Mrs. Leslie gazed after him, stupefied. She had never beheld such
unparalleled rudeness.
"Irene might have been a ghost," she said to herself. "What does it
mean?"
In the next instant Mr. Kenmore walked quickly back to them. He bowed
his head humbly before Irene.
"Miss Berlin, I crave your pardon," he said. "Pray do not think me rude.
Your face startled me as if I had seen a ghost. You are the image of
one--who is dead."
He looked at her strangely as if expecting her to refute his words, but
she only bowed her graceful head and drooped her deep blue eyes before
his earnest gaze. Her heart was throbbing wildly with the wonder if he
would claim her before all these curious, gazing eyes. It would not have
surprised her if he had said:
"You are Irene Brooke, whom I married and whom I thought dead. I know
not how you came back from your watery grave, but I cannot be deceived
in your identity."
She stood speechless before him, expecting every moment to hear him
utter those words. She wondered what she would say to him in reply.
Should she own the truth--she, who had promised to give herself to
Julius Revington to purchase honor and happiness for her wronged mother?
She could not answer her own question; a mist swam before her eyes, her
heart beat in her ears, it seemed to her that her strength failed her,
and in another moment she must fall upon the floor at his feet.
Through it all she heard his voice breaking clearly, musically upon her
tumultuous thoughts.
"I am most happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Berlin," he said, in
the courteous, kindly voice of a stranger, and extended his hand to her.
He had been startled out of himself, but only for a moment. Now he was
the cool, polished man of the world again. He spoke to her and looked at
her as a stranger.
Her heart gave a sudden throb of relief, then sank like ice in her
breast. She gave him her hand, her small head crested with sudden pride,
though a subtle thrill ran through her veins as his warm fingers clasped
hers in a momentary pressure.
There is a subtle language in a hand-clasp. Guy Kenmore's pressure of
Irene's hand said, as plain as words:
"I love you!"
Every drop of blood in Irene's heart acknowledged the confession, but
her colder reason disdainfully rejected it.
"He will not acknowledge me. He is sorry to find that I am living," she
said to herself, with a sudden, hot thrill of shame and anger. "Well, I
shall not force myself upon him. I can be as cold and indifferent as he
is."
Her strong will and her latent pride came to her aid. She knew that he
regarded her as a spoiled child. A longing came over her to show him
that she was a woman--a fascinating woman, too.
When Julius Revington came to her side again he was astonished at the
bright, charming wiles she put forth for his benefit.
He knew that her moods were changeful as an April day. He had found a
certain charm in the fact, although more clouds than sunshine had been
meted out to him. But suddenly he found everything inexplicably changed.
From a lovely, willful, capricious child, Irene was transformed into a
beautiful, dignified, brilliant woman. She talked with charming ease and
grace. Her laugh rang out like a chime of silver bells. No one had ever
seen her so gay and sparkling before, nor one-half so beautiful.
Her eyes sparkled beneath their drooping lashes with interest and
animation. Her cheeks were flushed like the heart of a rose, the
delicious dimples played hide and seek around her lovely lips. Her
words, her looks, her gestures, were all full of grace and beauty.
Julius Revington was enthralled by the newly developed charms of his
betrothed. He believed that she had softened to him at last, and that
her graciousness indicated a dawning love for himself.
He was thrilled with joy at the thought, and gave free rein to the
emotions of his heart. His eager adoration showed in his every glance.
Meanwhile Guy Kenmore, seated across the room by the side of Mrs.
Leslie, could not keep his eyes and his thoughts from the lovely girl
who had so startled him out of his self-possession. Not a movement or
word escaped his notice, although he was outwardly courteous and
attentive to the lady he had called to see.
But the pretty, graceful widow was gifted with keen perceptions. She did
not fail to note her caller's wandering glance. She was not envious of
her beautiful _protege_, but she could not repress a slight feeling of
pique as she saw with what an effort he maintained his apparent interest
in herself.
At length she tapped him lightly on his shoulder and brought his
wandering glances back to meet her own.
"Forewarned is forearmed," she whispered, gaily. "Do not lose your heart
to my beautiful _protege_, Mr. Kenmore. She is already betrothed."
He started, and a dark-red flush mounted to his temples.
"Your _protege_!" he exclaimed, catching eagerly at the word.
"Yes," she replied. "She belongs to me, and her story is a most romantic
one. Some time I will tell it you, and you shall tell me about that dead
friend of yours whom Irene resembles."
"Is her name Irene?" he inquired, and she did not fail to notice the
uncontrollable start he gave.
"Yes, it is Irene--Irene Berlin. Do you not think it a pretty name?" she
asked.
"Yes," he answered, "I like it very much, and it gives me a new interest
in the owner. The name of my lost friend was Irene."
"And if I am not mistaken my _protege_ is the friend whom you believed
lost. I have stumbled on a romance and a mystery," thought the lady,
shrewdly, to herself; but aloud she only said, with apparent
unsuspiciousness: "That is quite a coincidence."
Then she said no more, for to her utter surprise she saw Julius
Revington leading Irene to the piano.
Irene had always declined to play and sing before to-night, so her
friend was quite excusable for the almost open-mouthed surprise with
which she regarded her movements.
The white figure settled itself on the piano stool, the white hands
fluttered over the keys, a melancholy chord was softly struck, then----
Mrs. Leslie held her breath.
Irene was singing in a voice no one had suspected her of
possessing--pure, clear, rarely tender and sweet--those sad, pathetic
verses, "Remember and Forget."
A sudden silence fell on every one in the room. No one was less
surprised than Mrs. Leslie. No one had dreamed how obstinately Irene had
concealed her gift of a sweet, bird-like voice until now. As the clear,
well-trained tones rose and fell, every one was dumb with astonishment
and delight.
"When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree.
Be the green grass above me
With flowers and dewdrops wet:
And, if thou wilt, remember,
And, if thou wilt, forget.
"I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain,
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain.
And, dreaming through the twilight,
That doth not rise and set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget."
Mrs. Leslie felt a light touch on her shoulder. She looked up into the
pale, agitated face of Mr. Stuart. He bent down and whispered:
"I can doubt no longer. She is too fatally like Elaine. She is, she must
be, my own child. She has my lost wife's face and voice, and it is the
same song she sang the night when her fatal beauty and sweetness wiled
my heart from me. What must I do?"
She saw that he was deeply agitated, and fearing some impulsive action,
whispered back, warningly:
"Do nothing--yet. Stranger coincidences have happened. Wait until you
learn more."
With a sigh he acquiesced in her advice, and returned to his seat. But
his agitation had not been unobserved by Mrs. Stuart. Her soul was on
fire with anger and hatred toward the beautiful singer. She would have
given anything she possessed to have heard what her husband had confided
to Mrs. Leslie.
Guy Kenmore sat silent, lost in a maze of troubled thought. He had not
meant to listen to Mr. Stuart's words, but in his proximity to Mrs.
Leslie, the sharp, agonized whisper had penetrated to his hearing. An
uncontrollable eagerness came over him to hear Mrs. Leslie's promised
story of her beautiful _protege_.