CHAPTER LII.

Mrs. Brooke and Bertha did not go to New York the next day as they had

intended doing.

Both of them were overcome by the scene of last night. Bertha's

malevolence and angry bitterness made her almost ill. Mrs. Brooke was

chagrined and regretful. She had permitted Bertha to rule her affairs

with a high hand, believing in the wisdom of her ruling, and now she

found that she had over-reached herself.

If she had dreamed that Guy Kenmore would claim Irene for his own, she

would never have allowed her granddaughter to be driven from her doors.

She had too keen a sense of the advantage to be gained from such a

wealthy connection.

But it was too late now to recall the heartless deed by which she had

closed Guy Kenmore's doors against her. His stern face remained in her

memory, and his parting words rung like the clash of steel in her

hearing:

"I hope I may never see either of your faces again."

It was just. She acknowledged it to herself, but it galled her none the

less bitterly. She upbraided Bertha for her share in the transaction,

and Bertha replied insolently. They spent their time in bitter

recriminations, these two women who had so cleverly over-reached

themselves.

In a few days a letter came from Elaine. The gentle reproach of its

preface touched a painful chord in the mother's heart, for she had sadly

missed her eldest daughter, though she would not have dared to say so

before the overbearing Bertha.

"I have written to you many times since I left home, mamma," wrote

gentle Elaine, "but as you never answered any of my letters, I conclude

that they were unwelcome, and that I am forgotten and uncared for in my

old home. I am writing you once again, probably for the last time."

Then in a few closely written pages Elaine told them the whole story of

her new-found happiness.

"My plan for becoming an opera-singer is abandoned by the desire of my

husband," she wrote, simply. "He is very wealthy, and there is no longer

any need for me to work. I shall live in Baltimore. Irene's home will be

here, and I cannot consent to live apart from my child. Mr. Kenmore has

a superb residence here, and my husband has promised to secure a similar

one for me on the same street, so that I may see my little Irene every

day. Dear mamma, it seems to me that if you had loved your poor Elaine

as warmly as I love my little girl, you could never have treated me so

unkindly!"

It was the last drop of bitter in Bertha's cup of humiliation. Elaine,

whom she had trampled upon for years, despising her for her sorrow,

envying her for her beauty--Elaine to be loved, honored, crowned with

wealth and happiness! It stung Bertha to the depths of her little soul.

She would have sold her soul to the powers of evil for the power to drag

Elaine and her daughter down from their high estate.

But there was no convenient demon about to gratify Bertha's malevolent

desires, and her mother began to assert her own will, which she had long

permitted Bertha to dominate. She forced her to accompany her to

Baltimore to see Elaine, though she rebelled bitterly against this

eating of "humble pie."

They found the long despised daughter and sister the guest of Mrs.

Livingstone, one of the leaders of fashion in the monumental city. She

was a sister of Guy Kenmore, and it almost maddened Bertha to sit

quietly and listen to the enthusiastic praises she bestowed on her

brother's beautiful bride. "I have never seen anyone so artlessly lovely

and charming," she said. "She will be the rage in society. While they

are taking their little tour, the Kenmore diamonds and pearls are being

reset for her, and her bridal reception dress is ordered from Paris. It

will be a marvel of beauty."

"All might have been mine but for that fatal night's work," Bertha told

herself, full of maddening envy, and no words could have told her hatred

for innocent, willful Irene.

Elaine had become like a young girl again in the sunshine of her great,

new happiness. Her blue eyes beamed with love and hope, her cheeks were

tinted softly like the lining of the murmurous sea-shell, she had the

sweetest smile in the world. There was only one shadow on her joy:

"If only my father could have lived to see my honor vindicated and my

happiness restored," she would sigh, and when she remembered the cruel

blow that had struck him down to death, she would steal away to her room

to weep unavailing tears for his untimely fate. But she bore her pain

alone, and none of those who had been bound to old Ronald Brooke by the

tie of kinship ever knew the sorrowful secret hidden in Elaine's breast.

Bertha did not let her mother stay long, though Elaine was very kind and

gentle, and did not reproach them for their heartless denial of her

daughter. The cruel, unkind sister could not bear the sight of Elaine's

happiness, and so dragged her mother away, but not before the old lady

had secretly whispered in the ear of her elder daughter that "everything

had all been Bertha's fault."

Elaine did not doubt it, for she well knew her sister's malice and

ill-nature, but seeing how their unkindness had recoiled upon their own

heads, she tried to forgive and forget.

When beautiful, happy Irene came home, she pleaded her father's cause so

well that Elaine, whose own heart was pleading for him, too, relented,

and suffered her daughter to write for him. He came gladly, but the

reunion of the long-parted husband and wife is too sacred a subject for

us to dwell upon. It was the realization of the poet's dream:

"Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife,

Round my true heart thine arms entwine;

My other dearer life in life,

Look thro' my very soul with thine."

* * * * *

One bit of gossip, reader. Mrs. Brooke never sold her diamonds. Ten

thousand dollars settled on her very quietly by her wronged and despised

elder daughter, enables her and Bertha to keep their heads above water

and to hold their place in society. They flash in and out from one gay

resort to another, for Bertha is very restless and never contented long

in one place. Mrs. Brooke is very fond of talking about "my daughter,

Mrs. Stuart, and my granddaughter, Mrs. Kenmore," but it is noticeable

that she is not very intimate with either. Indeed, she and Bertha have

never yet crossed the threshold of the palace where Irene reigns a

queen.

Bertha is an old maid now, faded, sour, and given to saying sharp things

to everyone, so that no one enjoys her company, and no one dreams of

seeking her for a wife. Proud, envious, spiteful, she seems to hate all

the world, but no one with such concealed malice and galling bitterness

as Guy Kenmore's wife.

[THE END.]

[Illustration]

The Rose and the Lily

OR

LOVE WINS LOVE

BY

MRS. ALEX. MCVEIGH MILLER

AUTHOR OF

"BONNIE DORA," "COUNTESS VERA," ETC.

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS

238 WILLIAM STREET

Copyright, 1883,

By NORMAN L. MUNRO

Copyright, 1901,

By STREET & SMITH

THE ROSE AND THE LILY; OR, _LOVE WINS LOVE_.

By MRS. ALEX. MCVEIGH MILLER.

CHAPTER I.

A dusky, _piquante_ face, arch, sparkling, bright, as only brunette

faces _can_ be, dark, waving hair, and pansy-dark eyes with golden

lights in their soft depth, delicious lips, tinted with the velvety

crimson of the rose, a slight girlish figure, unformed as yet, but with

a willowy grace all its own--Reine Langton.

She comes singing along the graveled path between the trim borders of

bright verbenas, velvety pansies and fragrant pinks, swinging her large

straw hat by its scarlet ribbons. The golden light of the summer day

falls on the uncovered head, and on the fair, low forehead with its

silky rings of clustering hair, and its slender, straight, black brows.

She sings shrilly, but sweetly

"'Love not--love not, ye hapless sons of clay;

Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers;

Things that were made to fade and fall away

When they have blossomed but a few short hours;

Love not--love not.'"

The handsome, blonde face of a young man lifts itself from the reclining

depths of a hammock-chair, swung under a wide-spreading tree; as she

draws nearer, he breaks out with careless raillery:

"Pray forbear, Miss Langton! your shrill soprano has frightened me from

a charming dream. I do not believe your match could be found for

keeping one's nerves continually on edge."

"Men have no business with nerves," she retorts, coolly. "For shame, Mr.

Vane Charteris. Get out of that hammock and stir yourself. I can't abide

a lazy man."

He looks at her with sleepy, half-shut eyes that mirror the deep,

beautiful blue of the sky overhead.

"Fortunately you do not have to abide me," he says, bruskly. "After

to-morrow I shall forever be out of reach of your shrill voice and

scolding tongue!"

A strange look comes into her dark eyes a moment. Some of the golden

light dies out of them, they grow darker and vaguely sad, but she

laughs.

"A pity for you, too. My influence and example might rouse you otherwise

from your stupid inertia. Tennyson must have had a lazy man in his

mind's eye when he wrote the Lotos-Eaters."

He smiles, and quotes with careless good-nature:

"'In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined

On the hills, like gods together, careless of mankind.'"

"Is not that an idyllic life, Reine?"

"No," she says, promptly. "I have no patience with the _dolce far

niente_ of some people. It is a pity you are to marry Maud Langton!"

He colors, and asks:

"Why?"

"Because she is as lazy as you are. When you marry her and come into

Uncle Langton's money, you'll both be too lazy to breathe, just _that_!

You will die for lack of energy to live."

She has stopped beside the hammock-chair, and leaning against the tree

looks down into the handsome, debonair face with a gleam of audacious

levity in the dusky eyes. He starts up to a sitting posture, thoroughly

aggravated.

"Thank you," he remarks, with immense dignity. "I understand," with

cutting irony, "the reason of your spite. You wanted Mr. Langton's money

yourself."

"Not a bit of it," decidedly. "Thank goodness, I know how to earn my own

living. Not but that Uncle Langton has treated me unfairly, though. I am

as near kin to him as Maud. My father was his own brother. Why should

he make her his heiress, and marry her to the son of his old sweetheart,

cutting me off with a beggarly invitation to spend three weeks, and be

her bride's-maid?"

"Why don't you tell him that?" he queries, watching the rich color

deepen on the delicate cheek.

"I don't care to," with careless indifference. "I don't want his money."

"No--do you mean to say you do not care for all this?" He glances around

him at the spacious white villa, set in the midst of a green,

flower-gemmed lawn, shaded by stately trees. "Only think, my lady

disdain: A summer home in these grand old mountains, a winter palace in

Washington, a cottage by the sea, and a fabulous bank account; does it

all count for nothing in your eyes?"

"Yes," pertly, "if, like poor Maud, I had to take _you_ as an

incumbrance with it all!"

He flushes with wounded vanity and anger.

"The feeling is mutual," he retorts, under the spur of pride. "If I had

to take _you_ with Mr. Langton's money, it might go to found an idiot

asylum."

"Vane Charteris, I hate you!" she exclaims, with a flash of childish

passion.

"I take it as a compliment," he replies, with a profound bow.

"Quarreling as usual," says a clear, sweetly modulated voice, and both

turn with a start.

A tall, imperially stately woman has come sauntering down the path from

the house. You think of Tennyson's description:

"A daughter of the gods, divinely tall.

And most divinely fair."

Vane Charteris' face lights with languid pleasure. It is Maud Langton,

his betrothed. This very night she is to be his bride.

"Ah, Maud," he says, "I am glad you are come. Perhaps you will deliver

me from this little vixen!"

There is a grave, far-away look in the light blue eyes of the

bride-elect. She looks at Reine, not at her lover, as she answers

lightly:

"It is very undignified to call names, Vane, and how often have I told

you, Reine, that you must bridle that sharp tongue of yours?"

"_He_ began it," mutters Reine, with a childish petulance.

"You should have known better than to tease the child, Vane," says Miss

Langton. "If you are in fault, you must apologize, of course."

"I'll be shot if I do," he begins, stoutly, then stops at her look of

dignified amaze, and says, with a gleam of tender relenting: "Very well,

Maud. Of course I can refuse _you_ nothing on this day of _all_ days.

See here, Reine, I beg your pardon for what I said. Will you forgive

me?"

"No, I won't--so there!" she flashes, with some wrathful tears splashing

down her cheeks.

"Reine!" Miss Langton cries, horrified.

"Reine!" mimics the girl, provokingly.

"Ah, me!" with a pretty sigh of resignation, "I see it is no use trying

to train you," but Reine Langton is already out of hearing. They catch

the distant gleam of her white dress among the trees.

Vane Charteris rises from his indolent pose in the hammock-chair and

installs his blonde angel in his place. Tall, graceful, with the fair

beauty of a Greek god, he might hold any woman's heart, but as he stands

by her side, lightly swaying the chair, Miss Langton's large, blue eyes

wander from him to the line of the distant hills that stand around about

her beautiful home in a glorious green wooded circle.

"Ah, Maud, my beautiful, gentle darling," he says, "how hard it is to

believe that Reine Langton is your cousin. You are so utterly unlike.

You are so calm and sweet and gracious, she is so rude, so pettish, so

like a chestnut burr!"

"Poor Reine," she says, not disputing him, yet a little apologetically,

"she has had no training. Her mother died in Reine's infancy, and her

father brought her up after his own fashion, dying two years ago, and

leaving her to get her own living. You cannot expect an underpaid

teacher to have the manners of a lady."

"She is rather young to teach others, isn't she?" he says.

"Rather," she replies. "Sixteen or seventeen at the most, I should say.

But now, Vane, I really must go in; I have fifty things to attend to.

All my bride's-maids will be coming presently."

"My sweetest, how shy you are," he laughs; "you will barely look at me,

yet in a few hours more you will be my own. Mine to love and caress as

much as I please. Do you realize it, my dignified darling?"

A slight, a very slight shiver passes over the imperially-molded form.

She looks at him, then, half-fearfully, half-questioningly--

"Vane, tell me the truth," she says. "Is it me you love or is it my

uncle's money?"

A dark-red flush stains his handsome face.

"Maud, that question is unworthy of you. I have loved you from the first

hour I saw you. I have told you how irritated I was at first when my

mother's old friend wrote to me offering me a wife and a fortune. Poor

as I am I was determined not to marry you unless I loved you. But your

peerless beauty conquered me as soon as I saw you."

Something very like a sigh ripples over the delicate rose-leaf lips. She

does not smile nor blush as if she felt flattered.

"I will tell you something else, now, my Maud, if you'll promise not to

laugh," he goes on; "I was jealous at first of that handsome, black-eyed

Clyde that came so frequently to call on you. I was very glad when you

sent him away. You never cared for him, did you, dear?"

"Of course not, you foolish boy," she laughs, and with that she slips

away from him.

He watches the flutter of her pale blue robe out of sight, then,

dropping his eyes, sees a folded slip of paper lying on the ground at

his feet. In a careless, mechanical way he picks it up and reads the few

lines hastily scribbled in a man's strong hand.

"My darling," it says, "you have relented at the last and made me the

happiest of men. God forever bless you. Do not fail to be at the

appointed place. If you do not marry me I swear I'll shoot myself

through the heart, but if you keep your promise I promise to make you

the happiest woman on earth."

The note was signed with a blurred, undistinguishable initial. Vane

Charteris tucked it into his vest-pocket in happy unconsciousness of the

fatal truth.

"Reine Langton must have dropped this," he thinks to himself. "I'll

restore it to her the first opportunity. I wonder who her suicidal

correspondent may be?"

CHAPTER II.

Inside the elegant, ornate white villa all is confusion and excitement.

The house is crowded with guests, and the preparations for the wedding

are going blithely on.

In the dining-hall the long table glitters with plate of silver and

gold, and all the luxuries of home and foreign countries are temptingly

spread thereon. Flowers are lavishly arranged everywhere. Trained

domestics hurry to and fro, bent on perfecting every arrangement, for

the wedding of Mr. Langton's beautiful niece is a very grand occasion

indeed, and every honor must be paid to the heiress, and the husband of

her uncle's providing.

Mr. Langton himself was an old man, old and peculiar to the verge of

whimsicality, as was proved by the fact of his adopting one orphan niece

as the heiress to all his possessions, and leaving the other, a frail,

weak girl, to fight her battle with the cold world alone.

Latterly Mr. Langton had become displeased with his favorite, Maud,

because she had countenanced a suitor of whom he did not approve--a

rascally fortune-hunter, he irascibly declared. The upshot of the whole

matter was that he wrote to a clever young lawyer, the son of an old

sweetheart long dead, and bade him come and marry Maud, to which the

young man replied that he would marry her if she was pretty, and he fell

in love with her, but not otherwise.

We have heard the result announced in the words of Vane Charteris to his

betrothed. He was conquered at once by her peerless beauty. Mr. Langton

privately confided to the young lady that she must marry the husband he

had selected for her, or he would cut her off with a shilling. Maud

acquiesced meekly, prudently banished her obnoxious lover, and Mr.

Langton announced to his friends the near consummation of what he

happily termed a love-match.

That it was a love-match on one side, the words of Vane Charteris have

assured us. Whether it was the same on Maud's part remains to be seen.

* * * * *

"Can we assist you in any way?" asked the gay bevy of bride's-maids,

coming into Maud's room _en masse_ as the dressing hour drew near.

The beautiful bride-elect sat in the midst of the bridal finery, loosely

wrapped in a dainty dressing-gown, her beautiful golden hair unbound,

and flowing over her shoulders. She was very pale, and her blue eyes

glittered with excitement.

"Thanks, no," she answered, in her languid, well-trained voice. "My maid

can do everything, and you will need all your time to beautify

yourselves."

They laughed and protested, but lingered in the room, admiring the

elegant white satin dress, with its frosting of seed-pearls, the

beautiful Brussels veil, and the costly set of pearls, Mr. Langton's

bridal gift to his well-beloved niece. Maud did not talk to them much,

and Reine Langton's quick eyes saw that she was growing nervous and

impatient.

"Come, girls, let us go," she said. "It is time to dress, and Maud wants

a little time to herself. Remember that this is her last hour of 'maiden

meditation, fancy free.'"

The gay, pretty troop ran away, nothing loth, to don their bridal

finery. Reine went to her own airy chamber thoughtfully.

"How calmly and coolly my cousin takes it all," she thought, "while I--I

would give my two ears, I know, to be in her place. Oh, Vane, Vane! how

cruel you are to me, and how much you despise me. What a fool I am to

love you so!"

And full of indignant self-scorn, she threw herself into a chair, and

wept until her eyes were red, a calamity which necessitated a copious

mopping with cologne water.

"My looks are spoiled for the evening, that's clear," she says to

herself, ruefully. "I shall look a fright; no one will give me a second

glance. But who will care for poor Reine Langton, anyway?"

But when the pretty bride's-maid dress, Mr. Langton's gift, is on, and

the dark, curling tresses are looped back with pale rose-buds and some

long, trailing sprays of feathery white, she is well worth looking at.

The mellow _brune_ tint of her skin is brightened by the vivid, yet

changeful rose-flush on the round, dimpled cheeks; the dark eyes are

none the less dazzling for the new touch of dreaminess that has come

into their subtle depths beneath the drooping lashes, "like to rays of

darkness."

Dressing has taken but a little time. It is a process over which Reine

never lingers. She adjusts the last flower with one careless glance into

the mirror, and goes to the window. The dim, mysterious twilight has

fallen over everything. The silver sickle of a young moon hangs in the

amethystine sky, the summer air is heavy with perfume and dew. Reine

props her dimpled chin in the hollow of one small hand, and falls to

musing.

To-morrow she goes back to the old dull life of care and labor, to the

made-over dresses, the shabby boarding-house, the stupid, stubborn

pupils of her village school.

These three weeks she has "fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of

life." Servants have waited on her, she has had her time at her own

disposal, she has thoroughly enjoyed every hour of it in her eager,

active fashion. This brief visit has been like a green oasis in a desert

land. To-morrow she will step across its green borders, and journey on

through the sandy reaches of a dreary, uncongenial life again.

"The same old, tiresome life," she says, yet even as she speaks she

knows it will not be the same.

Something has come into her life these brief, bright summer days that

she knew not of in the old days--even love.

"After to-morrow I shall never see him again," she says to herself with

patient gravity, and there comes to her a shamed remembrance of his

words that morning: "After to-morrow I shall be forever out of reach of

your shrill voice and scolding tongue."

"Forever!" The word, never dwelt upon before, acquires a strange,

terrible meaning in her thoughts. She realizes, with a gasp of terror,

what Maud's lover really is to her. Though she has gibed him, teased

him, pitilessly derided him, she has given him her whole, foolish,

girlish heart. She flushes hotly with a passionate shame.

"I love him--when he will be Maud's husband in less than an hour!" she

cries to herself. "For shame, Reine Langton. Shake off this disgraceful

weakness, and be your own brave self again."

There is a tap at the door, unheeded and unheard in her preoccupation.

It opens, and the house-maid enters, flurried and excited.

Reine starts up in a panic and looks at the clock.

"Oh, dear, it is past the time," she cries. "How could I be so careless?

Are they all waiting for me, Mary?"

"No, Miss Langton--leastways I don't think they need you."

"Not need me? What do you mean? Isn't the bride dressed yet?"

"No, miss--yes, miss--that is, I don't quite know. _She's_ run away,"

the girl stammers, blankly.

"Who has run away?" Reine demands, sharply.

"The bride--Miss Maud," is the startling reply.

"Where has she gone? What for?" Reine demands, inelegantly, in the shock

of her great surprise.

"To marry her old lover, Mr. Clyde, that she loved, and she couldn't

love Mr. Charteris, miss," said the house-maid, succinctly.

There is a moment's silence. Reine drops back into a chair, dazed with

the suddenness of the news.

"You see she left a little note to her uncle, miss, to let him know

where she'd gone, and the old gentleman's that mad, miss, he up and

swore bad enough to lift the roof off!"

There is a quick, startling rap at the door. Mary runs to open it in a

hurry, and Reine glances up with dark, anxious eyes.

The next instant she starts to her feet with a smothered cry.

On the threshold stands Vane Charteris, pale as death itself, but

superbly handsome in the customary suit of solemn black that makes

gentlemen appear like mourners on all festive occasions.

CHAPTER III.

Fifteen minutes before, while Reine Langton dreamed at the window, there

had been great excitement in the villa. The house-maid's tale was a

true one. The bride-elect has eloped with another man.

They have the terrible story down in uncompromising "black and

white"--in her own hand-writing. She has gone away to marry Mr. Clyde.

"Because I loved him all the while, uncle," she writes, pleadingly, "and

at last I found it would break my heart to give him up. I could not love

Mr. Charteris, though I tried hard, because you wished it. And indeed,

Uncle Langton, you are deceived in Vane Charteris. It was your money he

wanted, not me; but poor Clyde loves me for myself alone. I know you

will forgive me when I come back to you, for you cannot long be angry

with your own loving Maud."

All this to the uncle she had disobeyed, but not one word to the lover

she had betrayed and deserted. He stands silent, biting his lips to keep

back the words that rush to them, a lurid flame of angry scorn burning

in his dark blue eyes.

"I could bear all else but that most cruel thrust," he says to his old

friend, hoarsely, when the dismayed bride's-maids have left them

together, amid the splendid paraphernalia of the bridal chamber. "When

she knew how I loved her, to cast that wretched money into my face!

Great God! the falsity of women! Henceforth I live only for revenge!"

The old man, so old and feeble that people said of him already that he

had "one foot in the grave and the other on the brink," whirled around,

and paused in his terrible revilings of Maud and her chosen lover, and

looked strangely at his favorite.

"So you want revenge, my boy," he said, chuckling wickedly. "You are

right to live for it. Very well, you shall have it ready made to your

hand."

"How?" Vane Charteris asked, eagerly.

"That false, deceitful jade shall never receive a penny from my hoarded

wealth!" declared Mr. Langton. "You shall have all."

But Vane Charteris shakes his head, decisively.

"No," he says, firmly, "I will not have my revenge that way. It would be

defrauding another. You have another niece."

"I have not forgotten her claims," Mr. Langton says, grimly. "I was

going on to speak of her when you interrupted me. What I was about to

say was this: Reine Langton shall be my heiress, and you shall be her

husband."

Vane Charteris starts and recoils.

"No, no!" he exclaims.

"What! you refuse my niece's hand when I offer it to you?" he storms.

"Yes; I cannot marry her, for I do not love her," Vane answers, firmly.

"You handsome idiot! Who said anything about love? I thought we were

discussing revenge," cries the old man, testily.

"So we were, but I cannot take my revenge like that! I would sooner die

than have an unloved wife tied around my neck like a mill-stone," Vane

Charteris answers, gravely.

"An unloved wife," the old man repeats; "and pray, couldn't you love my

niece, Reine? She's a bright little beauty to my thinking."

"Love that little hoiden, that incorrigible vixen!" the young man cries,

regarding his mother's old friend as if he thought he had taken leave of

his senses.

Mr. Langton frowns darkly.

"Take care," he says, "you are speaking of my heiress, remember. I see

how it is. Maud disliked Reine--jealous of her bright prettiness,

perhaps--she has set you against her."

"She has not," declares Vane. "Reine has done it, herself. You cannot

deny her brusk manners, and her sharp, ungoverned tongue, Mr. Langton."

"Pooh! mere girlish fun," retorts Mr. Langton. "I have never disliked

her sprightly ways, myself; I like the vim and spirit of Reine. She

makes me think of Lelia, a 'rosebud set with little willful thorns,'

much more charming than Maud's 'passionless, pale-cold calm.'"

"'The king is dead, long live the king,'" Vane Charteris quotes with

grim sarcasm.

"Yes, Maud is dethroned, and Reine shall reign in her stead," Mr.

Langton replies; "and if you are wise, Vane Charteris, you will reign

with her."

There is a moment's silence, and then Mr. Langton goes on:

"You talk of revenge. Marry Reine and you have it in full measure. Maud

believes that she can marry Clyde, and come back and wheedle me into

taking them both into my good graces. How glorious for Reine to take her

place in my favor and in your heart!"

"She could not do that," Vane answers. "I was proud of Maud's beauty,

and grace, and refinement. I loved her gentleness."

"The silky, purring deceitfulness of a treacherous cat," interpolates

Maud's outraged uncle.

Vane flushes deeply.

"Still I should never love Reine," he said. "She continually jars upon

me. She keeps my nerves upon edge. You are right to make her your

heiress, but forgive me for saying that I can never make her my bride."

"She shall not be one without the other," declares the old man

stubbornly.

"You mean--" Vane says, aghast.

"That if you refuse to marry Reine, she shall go back to her life of

toil to-morrow, and I'll leave my money to found an asylum for idiots

and fools," storms the old man, violently.

"You would never be so unjust, Mr. Langton," Vane exclaims,

incredulously. "Let me reason with you. Though I do not admire Reine, I

pity her. She has a hard life. Let me plead for the poor orphan girl.

Take her in the place of Maud, and give her your love and your wealth."

"No, I have announced my ultimatum. To-morrow she leaves here, and

to-morrow you leave here. She to her life of slavery, you as a mark for

the finger of scorn to point at, a jilted man! How false-hearted Maud

and her successful husband will laugh at the misery of the man they

fooled so shamelessly; how the minister, waiting down-stairs, and the

wedding guests will laugh in their sleeves at the deserted bridegoom.

Go, now, sir, and remember that your cursed obstinacy has beggared you,

and cheated Reine Langton of fortune."

He glares with bleared, furious eyes at the uncompromising young fellow.

Vane looks troubled, reckless all at once.

"I do not want to cause Reine such a misfortune," he says, sadly. "Give

me five minutes to decide in, Mr. Langton."

"Take them," the host says, shortly. Vane walks to the window and stares

silently out at the dewy, odorous, tranquil summer night. Many thoughts

crowd into his mind.

He has loved Maud Langton dearly, and he is cut to the heart by the

bitter humiliation she has put upon him. He is a jilted man. How shall

he face the sneering world again? that world that but a little while ago

fawned upon him because he was going to marry Mr. Langton's heiress.

Mr. Langton waits impatiently, watch in hand, for the stipulated five

minutes to pass. He is very anxious to have his way and spite Maud for

her falsehood and disobedience. Inwardly he curses Vane's Quixotic

foolishness in refusing a fortune, no matter how burdened.

"The time is up," he says, impatiently. "Yes or no. Marry Reine to-night

and I will make my will to-morrow, and leave everything to you and your

wife. For the present, until my death, which can't be far off," with

sardonic humor, "I'll settle twenty-five thousand a year upon you;

refuse, and you both go."

Vane Charteris turns upon him a white, desperate face.

"For myself I despise your threat," he says. "I am a man. I can carve my

own way to fortune, yet I should hate for Reine to blame me with her

loss of fortune. Mr. Langton, I will marry her if she will have me."

"Of course she will; no girl in her senses would refuse a handsome man

like you, let alone the fortune," Mr. Langton cries, with returning good

humor.

"On one condition," Vane continues, haughtily.

Mr. Langton lifts his eyebrows interrogatively.

"This: that I may go abroad to-morrow to be absent a year--you may offer

any evasive excuse to the bride--and that while I am gone you will train

Reine to be a graceful, dignified woman, whom I can respect and honor."

"Like Maud, for instance," Mr. Langton says.

"Maud's manners were perfect," Vane answers, flushing. "I could not wish

more grace and refinement for my own wife so that her heart is kept

truer."

"You are quite decided to go away?" Mr. Langton inquires, disappointed.

"Yes," decidedly. "I can marry Reine, but I cannot live with her just

yet."

"Very well, you shall have your way. Now go and ask her if she will have

you."

"Where shall I find her?"

"In her own room, I think. I have not seen her in all the bustle. I will

wait here. If she says yes, bring her to me."

And Vane turns away with a white, set face, to obey him.

CHAPTER IV.

Vane Charteris enters the room and motions the maid to withdraw, closes

the door, and stands face to face with Reine Langton. It strikes him

suddenly on what a ridiculous errand he has come. This morning he

offended her, and she refused to pardon him. Tonight he has come to ask

her to be his wife.

But Reine--passionate, impulsive Reine--has quite forgotten all that

now. After that one startled moment of indecision and surprise, she goes

forward to him, she puts her small hand on his coat sleeve, she looks up

into his white, haggard face with dark, pitying eyes.

"You are come to tell me," she says, forgetting in her eager excitement

how strange it would be for him to seek _her_ sympathy. "But I have

heard. Believe me, I am very sorry for your disappointment. It was mean

and cruel," indignantly, "in Maud. I would not have done it, _bad_ as

you think me."

How soft the dark, uplifted eyes; how gentle the pitying voice, how kind

the words! Can this be Reine--sharp-tongued, restless, gibing Reine? He

stares in great surprise.

"I should not care if I were you," she goes on. "I should be too proud

to grieve for one so false and unkind. She never loved you; I saw _that_

as soon as I came here, but I did not know she could be so mean. I will

never speak to her again."

"You take my part," he says, unconsciously pleased.

"Yes, because you have been treated unfairly," she says, warmly. "You

have been jilted at the very altar--you so handsome, so noble----" she

stops, biting her lips, vexed at herself for these outspoken words.

But Vane Charteris smiles.

"Thank you for those words," he says. "They give me courage to ask what

I came for--Reine, will you be my wife?"

The white hand falls from his arm, she steps backward a pace, and stares

at him mutely, with great, wondering, dark eyes.

He repeats the words:

"Reine, will _you_ be my wife? Will you go down-stairs and marry me, a

jilted man? Will you take the man your beautiful cousin deemed

worthless?"

A passionate sarcasm quivers in his tone. She looks at him, the deep,

rich color flushing into her cheeks.

"You do not mean it; you are jesting!" she cries, in a vaguely troubled

tone.

"I do," he answers. "The guests are here; the feast is provided; the

minister waits. Nothing is lacking but the bride, who has fled to the

arms of another. Will you throw yourself into the breach, Reine, and

make everybody happy?"

"If I thought I could," she begins, with a questioning glance, and a

delicious thrill at her heart. Something whispers to her that he would

wed her to spite Maud, yet her instinct prompts her to take him at his

word. In time her tender love must win a return from him.

"You must not stop to think," the strange wooer says, impatiently.

"Everyone is waiting, and your uncle is most impatient. I have his

permission to win you if I can."

"Uncle Langton wishes it?" she asks, wondering.

"Yes. What is your answer, Reine?"

"It is yes," she answers, simply, frankly, and happily.

"Thank you," he says; "come, then, Mr. Langton is waiting for us."

Then, softened by her gentle mood and the sparkling beauty he cannot

help but acknowledge, he says, with a dash of mischief:

"You are changed from this morning Reine. So you do not hate me after

all?"

A spark of the morning's _diablerie_ flashes into the bright eyes again.

"Yes, I do," she retorts, "and I am only taking you that I may torment

you to death."

He checks the impatient sigh, and leads her to Mr. Langton.

"Sensible girl," he chuckles, beaming upon her. "Knew better than to

refuse uncle's fortune, didn't you, Reine?"

She stares at him, her rosy cheeks grow pale.

"I don't understand," she falters.

"Didn't you tell her?" Mr. Langton demands of Vane.

"No, I forgot. After all, it wasn't necessary," he answers.

"Cunning dog," the old man laughs. "So she took you for yourself alone?

Well, I told you so. She has a true heart in spite of her wild ways."

But Reine stares from one to the other, vaguely troubled.

Mr. Langton bends and kisses the fair, low brow.

"Reine, you are my heiress now," he says. "I shall cut Maud off with a

shilling. You and Vane will have all my money when I am dead."

"Oh, if you please, Uncle Langton, I'd rather not," she cries,

breathlessly, then she looks at Vane. "Is he taking me for the money?"

she says, with a flash of disdain in her great, black eyes.

Vane flushes an angry crimson, but his old friend interferes.

"No, you little goose," he replies, severely, "He's taking you because

you're a deuced pretty girl, and worth a dozen disobedient Mauds. Now

will you put on that wedding-veil there, and go down-stairs with him and

show those gaping, gossiping simpletons that there's a bride after all,

and the wedding-feast will not be spoiled by the groom's sorrow?"

He rings the bell with the words. A trim maid appears with a quickness

that would argue that she had been listening outside the door.

"Put that wedding-veil on Miss Langton," commands her master. "She will

be the bride, and also my heiress."

"Miss Reine, let me congratulate you," the girl exclaims, with a

heartiness that shows how Reine has won her way since she came to

Langton Villa.

In five minutes the veil is on, with the trailing sprays of orange

flowers meant for Maud. The rich, white silk, with its lace flounces,

makes no inappropriate bridal dress. But Reine stands still, a lovely

bride, grown suddenly strangely pale and grave-looking.

"Now, Mary, hunt up the bride's-maids while I go down and notify the

minister," adjures Mr. Langton.

They go, and the bride and groom remain alone together. She stands shyly

in the center of the room, with drooping eyes, dark, slender, lovely,

but strangely unlike the fair and stately Juno Vane Charteris has

pictured these many days as his bride.

They speak no word to each other, and the laughing "men and maidens"

come in and surround them.

"It is just like a novel," one says; and another: "It serves Maud

right," and all agree that it is "just too romantic for anything," and

are glad there will be a wedding after all.

But the two principals say nothing in all the babble of idle tongues.

Arm in arm they go forward to the marriage altar, side by side they

breathe those solemn vows that bind together their antagonistic lives.

It is all like a dream to Reine: the wedding march, the wedding flowers,

the curious faces, the solemn words, the circle of gold upon her finger.

But as she turns to meet the congratulations of the guests, one precious

thought is blooming like a full and perfect rose in her passionate

heart:

"He is all my own now. I shall not be parted from him to-morrow."

After the hum of congratulations is over there ensues a momentary pause.

The bride is led to a seat, and Vane Charteris drifts away from her

side. The good wishes, the pretty sentiments of the guests fall

meaningless on his ears.

"What happiness can I promise myself as the husband of that little

vixen?" he says to himself, darkly.

So he stands apart in moody silence, and the curious glances of a

hundred eyes note the handsome, troubled white face, and turn again

pityingly on the girlish young bride.

"She will never be happy with him," they say, decidedly. "He has only

married her to spite Maud."

Suddenly, in that momentary lull and stillness, the door is flung

violently open, a tall, queenly figure, clad in a gray traveling-dress,

wavers a moment on the threshold, then rushes across the room to Mr.

Langton. She falls on her knees before him.

"Oh, for God's sake, tell me I am not too late," she cries. "Uncle

Langton, I have repented my folly before it was too late. Forgive me,

uncle. I have come back to marry Mr. Charteris."

CHAPTER V.

Dead silence falls. Every eye turns on that graceful, kneeling figure,

and fair, uplifted face, with the gold braids crowning the graceful head

so royally.

Mr. Langton stares stupidly a moment.

Maud puts her hand on his arm and shakes him.

"Uncle, don't you understand?" she says. "I have come back to marry

Vane. I repented as soon as I saw Mr. Clyde. I knew in a moment that I

did not care for him enough to sacrifice everything for him. I told him

so, and he was very angry, but I came away in spite of his terrible

threats. I--I like Mr. Charteris best."

Vane Charteris starts forward like one awakening from a nightmare.

"Hush; do not perjure your soul, Maud," he breaks out, sternly. "Say

what you mean. You do not care for Vane Charteris, but you love Mr.

Langton's money too well to give it up for love in a cottage with Mr.

Clyde."

She starts to her feet, half extending her arms.

"This from you, Vane!" she cries, dramatically. "Surely you have not

turned against me after all your professions of love. Do not be so hard,

Vane. You see I have come back to you. Forgive me, I pray you. I _do_

care for you, I want to be your wife!"

"You can never be my wife. By the folly of an hour you have barred

yourself out of my life forever," he answers her with a strange, icy

sternness.

She stares at him mutely a moment, then turns to Mr. Langton.

"You see," she says, triumphantly, "it is Mr. Charteris who refuses

me--I do not refuse him. I am willing to keep to my contract--he

declines my hand. Surely you will forgive me now, dear uncle, and take

me back. I have not forfeited your love nor your fortune."

And Mr. Langton, finding voice at last, answers her, angrily:

"You have forfeited both by your cursed madness. Henceforth you have no

part in my heart nor my home. Yonder sits my heiress, and Vane

Charteris' _wife_!"

With a gasp like one dying, Maud follows the direction of his pointed

finger.

She sees a slight, girlish figure that has suddenly come forward to the

side of Vane Charteris as if mutely claiming him for hers. Her own

costly wedding veil drapes the dainty, lissome figure.

"Reine Langton," she cries, furiously, "have you dared to rob me of my

fortune and husband?"

Reine lifts her flashing, dark eyes.

"Remember, Maud, you flung them both away," she answers, indignantly.

"Fool that I was," Maud wails, despairingly. "I have lost all, all, by

my brief madness! Oh! Uncle Langton, surely you will forgive me, and

take me back now when I am so bitterly repentant. Let her have Mr.

Charteris--I can do without him--but do not send me away!"

He looks coldly at the pleading blue eyes, and the eager, upraised

hands. If possible he is more bitterly angry with her now than he was

when he received her note an hour ago.

"It is useless to plead with me," he says, coldly. "You should have

thought of all this before. It is too late now. I have flung you out of

my heart forever. Reine will be my heiress--you can go."

"I have nowhere to go," she says, looking at him with wide, frightened

eyes and parted lips.

"It matters not to me," he answers, cruelly. "Go back to the fine, gay

lover that lured you from your duty and your plighted word. See if he

will take you, now that you have lost all chances of the Langton

fortune."

Reine comes bravely forward to the side of the discarded girl.

"Oh! uncle, let her stay," she says, imploringly; "I do not want your

fortune, I have _Vane_. That is enough for me. Let Maud come home and

have the money--or at least _share_ it."

"No," he thunders, stormily; "I have said my say--I will abide by it.

She is nothing to me henceforth. Let her go."

Maud looks around at the bride.

"It is all your fault," she says, bitterly. "If you had not married Vane

before I came, my uncle would have forgiven me. Vane does not love you,

he has only taken you for my uncle's money. Beware that you do not rue

this night in dust and ashes."

"If I had only known that you would come back, Maud, like this," Reine

begins, wringing her hands in a passionate kind of self-pity.

Maud crosses to the door before them all, with that proud, imperial step

that had become Mr. Langton's heiress so well, but is mockingly out of

place now. The bride follows her.

"Maud," she whispers, anxiously, "send me your address to-morrow, and I

will come to you. Indeed, indeed I am anxious to befriend you."

Maud puts her aside without a word, and steps over the threshold. She

walks with her light, proud step down the hall, and disappears in the

outer darkness, looking regretfully back, as Eve might have looked when

she was driven from paradise.

"My friends," Mr. Langton says, rising, "do not let this unpleasant

episode damp the wedding festivities. You came to do honor to my

heiress, and Vane Charteris' bride. _She_ is here, and the banquet

waits."

"The queen is dead, long live the queen!" that is what he means. They

understand that Maud is dethroned, and Reine reigns in her stead. They

obey his implied wish. No one speaks the name of Maud either in praise

or blame. The festivities go on. The luxurious banquet duly discussed,

the joyous music invites the young and gay to "trip the light fantastic

toe." This is a country wedding where all is freedom and simple

enjoyment. The guests "don't go home until morning."

In the pale dawn-light some of the young men, who left with gay words

and light hearts, came hurrying back with blanched faces and startled

eyes. In the woods near-by, they have found the blood-stained body of a

dead man--Maud's lover, Mr. Clyde.

CHAPTER VI.

Wearied with the long festivities of the night, Reine goes to her room,

in the pale light of the new day, and lays aside the bridal veil and

dress, donning a cool white wrapper instead. She bathes her face in some

fresh water, brushes out her silky, dark tresses, and loosely tying them

back with a scarlet ribbon, slips quietly down the stairs again.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Langton and Vane Charteris coming into the

deserted parlor, find her standing with one of the maids before the long

table, on which the numerous and costly bridal presents have been

displayed. Friends have vied with each other in the elegance and beauty

of their gifts to Mr. Langton's heiress. Silver and gold, and precious

stones flash back the expiring light of the flickering lamps. The

house-maid has brought in a large box, and she and Reine are deftly

restoring the wrappers to the various articles, and packing them

carefully into its capacious recesses.

Mr. Langton stares.

"Child, what upon earth are you doing?" he exclaims.

Reine looks around, brightly.

"Only packing these things away for Maud," she explains.

"For Maud?" Mr. Langton gasps.

"Yes, sir. I shall forward them to her as soon as I find out where she

is staying," she replies, pausing to admire a richly-chased bracelet,

set with rubies, before she closes the satin-lined case.

"The deuce you will," Mr. Langton growls. "Upon my word I never saw such

cool impertinence in my life. Who authorized you to do such a thing?"

"I took the liberty myself," Reine responds, flashing a laughing glance

upon his indignant face.

"Very well. Let me inform you, Mrs. Charteris, that these things belong

to you, not to Maud. They were given to my heiress, and Vane's bride,

therefore they are your own."

The beautiful color flows into her face, but she shakes her small head

resolutely.

"You must pardon me, uncle," she says, "but, indeed, I think your ideas

of _meum et tuum_ are rather confused. All these pretty things belong to

my cousin by every right in the world, and I am determined she shall

have them."

"I say she shall not," he cries, violently.

"And I say she _shall_," Reine reiterates, laughing, but in earnest, the

golden lights fairly dancing in her eyes.

"Why, you audacious little spitfire," the old man begins to splutter,

but Vane Charteris interrupts him gravely.

"I think Reine's idea is the true one," he says. "The gifts really

belong to Maud, and she ought to have them."

The bride flashes him a dazzling look of gratitude from her brilliant

eyes.

"There, now, Uncle Langton," she cries, with pretty triumph. "You see my

husband sides with me."

"Sides with Maud, you mean," Mr. Langton mutters, between his teeth.

"He will always be on the side of justice, I hope," Reine says, with a

smile at her husband, that he does not see, consequently does not

return.

But Mr. Langton frowns at the pert little lady.

"See here, Reine," he says. "I won't be set at naught by a child like

you, if you were fifty times my niece. Have your way this time, but

don't begin your rule too soon. Remember, I haven't made my will yet."

"_That_ does not frighten me one bit," she laughs; then she rises on

tiptoe to put her rosy lips to his ear. "You cannot take my husband from

me," she whispers, archly. "I do not care for the rest."

He looks at her half-pityingly, and turns away without a word.

But something born of that pitying thought makes him say to Vane

Charteris, as they pass from the room:

"There is no reason you should regret Maud. Reine is quite as charming

and beautiful, though in a different way from her cousin."

And Vane answers, readily enough:

"She is beautiful, certainly no one can deny that. She has the

brilliant beauty of the rose. But one must beware the thorns. She is a

perfect contrast to Maud, who always reminded me of a tall, white,

stately lily."

"The rose is the sweeter, to my thinking," Mr. Langton replies.

"Besides, the rose is the true emblem of love."

They pass through the hall, and out into the soft light of the early

day. The cool, dewy breath of the morning, freighted with the scent of

countless flowers, blows in their faces, the matin songs of myriad birds

make music in their ears. Roses, honeysuckles, jessamines and lilies,

open their perfumed chalices to greet the rising sun that begins to

color the eastern sky with tints of purple and rose and gold.

And up the graveled path came a trio of young men who had left the house

but a little while ago, laughing and jesting in the light-heartedness of

youth. They come silently now, with blanched and solemn faces, and

heavily-beating hearts.

"Something dreadful has happened," they tell Mr. Langton. "We have found

a dead man in the woods. It is Mr. Clyde. He is cold and stiff--has

certainly been dead several hours. And, worst of all, he has most

probably been murdered. There is a bullet-hole through his heart."

Found murdered! With what an icy chill the words strike upon the senses

in that beautiful, peaceful summer dawn.

Having finished the packing of the box, Reine comes out, attracted by

the hum of voices.

The rich color pales in her cheeks at the dreadful news.

"Oh, how terrible," she cries. "It was Maud's lover, and she loved him,

poor girl!"

She sees Vane Charteris wince, and feels as if she could bite her tongue

off for the thoughtless words. Her heart sinks heavily.

"He has given me his hand, but not his heart," she says to herself. "I

must be very patient. Perhaps I may win his love yet. I must do so, for

I cannot live without it."

As she thinks all this, he comes to her side. The heart of the unloved

bride beats quick and fast as the blue eyes fall upon her.

But he has only come to say, coldly and carelessly:

"Reine, you had better go in. This is too terrible a thing for a young

girl's ears."

CHAPTER VII.

Yesterday, Reine would have defied Vane, and taken her own way,

recklessly. To-day, filled with the yearning wish to win her husband's

heart, she obeys with gentle dignity, and retires into the house.

"I have read somewhere that love wins love," she says to herself. "If

that be true, surely my patience, my gentleness, my devoted love will

sometime win a return from him."

* * * * *

They hold an inquest over Mr. Clyde's body that day. No facts are

elicited that throw any light on the manner of his death.

He was a stranger in the neighborhood, boarding at a quiet farm-house

for his health, he said. He had few friends and fewer enemies. The

people who lodged him deposed that they had not seen him since their

early seven o'clock supper, the evening previous. He had been in very

gay and brilliant spirits then; had dressed himself elegantly and gone

out before dark. No one had seen him until he was found dead in the

woods this morning, shot through the heart. The physicians examine the

corpse, and decide that he has been dead since nine o'clock last night,

and suddenly a baleful whisper runs from lip to lip.

There are a hundred people, guests of the grand wedding at Langton villa

last night, who remember Maud Langton's abrupt entrance a little after

nine o'clock, and her frank confession that she had gone away to marry

Mr. Clyde, but had repented, and left him in spite of his threats.

These facts are communicated to the coroner. He looks exceedingly grave.

"It will be quite necessary to examine Miss Langton on the subject," he

declares.

Someone is found who remembers to have heard that Miss Langton is at

the hotel in the village, near by.

An officer is dispatched to bring her in to the inquest.

So they wait in the odorous sweetness of the green wood, the officers of

justice, the silent corpse, the curious crowd; the wild birds sing on as

gayly as if no dead man lay there on the sweet, green grass, with his

handsome white face upturned to Heaven as if pleading for vengeance on

his slayer.

He has not been murdered for purposes of robbery. His gold watch, his

diamond ring, his purse, containing a hundred dollars in bills, are all

secure upon his person. It is not known that he had an enemy in the

world. A strange mystery centers around his death.

A few notice that old Mr. Langton goes away quietly before the officer's

return with Maud. And Vane Charteris stays. Standing apart beneath the

shade of a towering maple, he waits, with a strange, incensed look in

his dark blue eyes, and on his handsome face that is almost as white as

that of the dead. Many eyes regard him curiously; but the cold, white,

inscrutable face tells nothing to their wondering gaze.

At last, after what seems a long and wearisome interval of waiting, the

rumble of the carriage wheels is heard. They pause in the road near by,

they catch the impatient neigh of horses, and the officer appears

leading a lady through the trees and grass toward them.

She comes toward them, trembling so that, but for the support of the

officer's arm, she must certainly fall to the ground. At the coroner's

request she lifts her veil and looks at him with frightened, blue eyes,

and a wild, white face--whiter than the lilies to which Vane Charteris

likened her that morning.

She is duly sworn, and they re-cover the dead, white face, with its

staring eyes they cannot close, and mute, cold lips.

"Do you recognize this man?" they ask her, and after one shuddering,

quickly-withdrawn glance, she averts her face, and answers with white,

pain-drawn lips:

"It is Mr. Clyde."

She is asked next:

"When and where did you see him last?"

A quiver passes over the pale, beautiful face.

"Last night, at or near nine o'clock, near this spot," she falters, yet

standing suddenly erect, with stately, lily-like grace, and a

proudly-poised head.

"Was he living or dead?"

"Living, of course," haughtily.

"Mr. Clyde was your lover?" the coroner interrogated.

"I have not said so," she says, flashing him a haughty look.

"The fact is well known," he answers. "You went away to marry him last

night?"

The deep color flows into her cheeks, then recedes again, leaving her

pale as marble.

"I cannot deny it," she murmurs, in a crushed voice.

"Then you changed your mind, as it is a lady's privilege to do, and left

him. He was very angry, and used threats toward you," the coroner

pursues, politely.

"Yes," Miss Langton answers, in the same low, sad voice.

"Of what nature were those threats?" they ask her.

"He threatened to destroy himself if I did not become his wife, but, oh,

I did not believe it, really--I thought he was only trying to frighten

me into compliance with his wish," she cries, while a look of regret and

sorrow transforms this fair, beautiful face. A hum of surprise goes

through the eager throng of listeners.

"Do you believe that he really killed himself?"

"Yes; how else should he have met his death?" she inquired, fixing a

look of grave wonder upon him.

A slight whisper goes through the crowd again--some shrug their

shoulders.

The coroner pursues without answering her question:

"Was Mr. Clyde in the habit of making such suicidal threats?"

"He had done so on several occasions."

"In the presence of witnesses?" the question is asked with strange

gravity.

Maud looks at him with a grave wonder on her fair, proud face.

"No, of course not," she answers, a little annoyance in her clear tone.

"Then you cannot prove that the deceased made those threats against his

own life?" the coroner asked in a troubled tone. It is very plain to him

that she cannot see the cloud of distress and suspicion gathering

around her.

"Cannot prove it!" she says, indignantly. "You have _my_ word under

oath."

"Other evidence would make it all the stronger," he replies, evasively.

The officer who has brought her goes forward and whispers something in

the coroner's ear. He starts and looks at the girl fixedly a moment from

head to foot, then proceeds with the examination.

"When you left your uncle's house last night, did you return to your

trysting-place with your discarded lover?"

She stares at him with strangely dilated eyes, and parted lips.

"Why should I?" she says. "I had dismissed him, and parted from him. I

supposed he had gone away."

"Please answer, yes or no, to the question," he urges.

"What question?" a little shortly.

"The one I asked you just now. Did you return to your discarded lover at

this place when you left Langton Villa the second time? Yes, or no."

"No, then," with a slight touch of defiance.

A minute of dead silence. The coroner resumes, almost irrelevantly, it

would seem:

"Is the dress you wear now the same one you had on last night, Miss

Langton?"

"Yes, the same. I have not slept all night, she replies, wearily.

"Please observe that on the front breadth of your dress there are some

dark, reddish-looking splashes and stains that resemble blood. Can you

account for them?"

A cry of mingled horror and fear comes from her lips. All eyes turn on

the stylish, dark-gray silk that clings so gracefully to the tall,

finely molded figure. True enough, there are some dark red stains on the

middle breadth between the lower frills and the upper drapery.

"Can you account for them?" the coroner repeats.

But after one swift glance at the tell-tale marks, Maud crimsons, and

the tears start into her eyes.

"You must pardon me; I spoke falsely to you just now," she says, with

desperate calmness. "I can tell you how those stains came there. They

are Vernon Clyde's blood."

Again an ominous whisper runs through the circle of listeners. Maud

glances around her fearfully. She meets strange, averted glances from

faces that have been wont to smile upon her before. A strange light

comes into her eyes.

"Oh, what do they mean?" she cries. "They do not think, do they, that I

killed Mr. Clyde? I tell you he killed himself. He told me he would do

so if I refused to marry him."

"Tell us how those blood-stains came upon your dress," the coroner

answers, briefly and gravely.

She clasps her hands and shivers through all her imperially perfect

form.

"I _did_ come back here last night," she says, in a fearful whisper. "My

uncle had discarded me. Mr. Charteris had married another, and I had no

one to turn to but the lover I had discarded a little while before. So I

hurried back, thinking I would be Clyde's wife after all, but when I

came, he," with a gasp, "he lay dead before me. I had thought it but a

mere idle threat to frighten me, but he had kept his word faithfully. He

had shot himself through the heart. I knelt down beside him, and laid my

hand on his breast, but it was cold and still. Oh, you must not think I

killed him! I loved him, and I would have gone away with him, but I was

afraid of losing my uncle's money," she ends, with a choking sob.

"Why did you not raise an alarm when you found him dead?"

"I was afraid they would charge me with his murder, so I hurried away,

not knowing of those tell-tale stains on my dress where I had been down

on my knees beside him. I did not kill him, no, no, but my fatal

weakness drove him to take his own life."

There is a moment's perfect silence, then the voice of the coroner is

heard, with a troubled cadence in its sternness:

"I regret my painful duty, Miss Langton, more than I can say. The high

position you have always held in this county would forbid the thought of

your criminality, but the evidence against you is of such a nature that

we shall be compelled to commit you to prison until further

developments."

Her cry of terror and indignation echoes to the blue sky above her

golden head. The sweet song-birds fly affrighted from its shrill, eerie

sound.

"You believe me guilty," she exclaimed. "Yet I have told you again and

again that Vernon Clyde died by his own hand."

"If you could prove it to us," he says, "if you could even prove by a

competent witness his threat of self murder, you should go free this

hour."

She looks at him dumbly and strangely. Suddenly a light of dazzling joy

breaks over her face. She slips her gloved hand into the folds of her

dress, withdrawing it with a gasp of disappointment.

"Let me tell you," she says, hurriedly and eagerly. "Yesterday Mr. Clyde

sent me a note relative to my promise to meet him last night. In it he

says, distinctly and clearly: 'If you do not marry me, I swear I will

shoot myself through the heart.' I remember that the note is in the

pocket of the blue dress I wore yesterday. Tell me, for Heaven's sake,

would that be proof sufficient?"

"If the writing could be proved as Mr. Clyde's, it would entirely clear

you from suspicion."

"Then let them take me to Langton Villa," she cries, anxiously. "I can

lay my hand upon the note in one moment."

All eyes are turned upon her glad, triumphant face. No one remembers

Vane Charteris where he stands in the shade of the tall maples. Yet a

strange look has come upon the fair, handsome face. The lips curl

nervously beneath the golden-brown mustache, the blue eyes gleam with a

strange, mocking triumph.

CHAPTER VIII.

Mr. Langton is nowhere to be seen when Maud re-enters the home, so late

her own. Reine comes to meet her, pale, troubled, sympathetic. They have

not been very fond of each other in the past--Maud has been too proud to

encourage the friendship of her poor cousin--but now the heart of the

younger girl goes out to the other in a gush of sympathy and sorrow.

"Maud, I am _so_ sorry," she says, putting her hand gently on the girl's

arm; "but never fear, dear. All will come right. Of course you would not

have harmed a single hair of Mr. Clyde's head. Everybody must know

_that_."

"Come with me to my room, Reine," Maud answers.

Inside that quiet room she had quitted only yesterday eve in such high

hope Maud's proud self-possession breaks down. Throwing herself on a

luxurious sofa, she gives way to hysterical weeping.

"I am _so_ sorry, Maud," Reine can only repeat, in gentlest sympathy.

Maud gives her an angry glance through her tears.

"Sorry," she says. "Sorry! Why should you be? Your fortune is built on

the wreck of mine."

"Oh, Maud, do not say so," the girl cries, deeply pained. "Indeed,

indeed, I do not want the money. I will ask Uncle Langton to give it all

to you. I have Vane, I care for nothing else."

"You love him?" Maud says, with lifted brows, slightly incredulous.

"Yes," with a deep, beautiful blush.

"You cannot suppose that he cares for you," Maud says, with subdued

contempt.

"Not yet--not as he cared for you, of course, Maud. But I hope to win

him after awhile. You know," hopefully, "he must have thought he could

learn to care for me, else he would not have married me."

"What a little simpleton you are," Maud says, disdainfully. "Ring the

bell for my maid, please."

The maid comes, her eyes red with weeping. She has been mourning over

the troubles of her late mistress, and now, with dejected brow, stands

waiting.

"Nellie, you remember the note you brought me from Mr. Clyde yesterday?"

"Yes, miss, an' if I'd known what trouble it would bring, I'd never have

carried the first note back and forth," says Nellie, with vain

lamentation.

"It's too late for regrets now," Maud answers her impatiently. "I want

that note, Nellie. It is in the pocket of the blue dress I wore

yesterday. Get it for me."

Barely a minute--and a cry of dismay from Nellie's lips.

"Oh, Miss Maud, 'tisn't there."

Maud's face grows suddenly white and scared.

"Look again," she says, with a gasp.

"'Tisn't there," the maid reiterates, after a second flurried search.

"Then it's somewhere else," confidently. "I know it is in this room.

Look until you find it, Nellie."

Then she turns to Reine.

"Can you guess why I came back last night?"

"You told us the reason when you came, didn't you?" Reine says, blankly.

"Not exactly. I will tell you now while Nellie is searching for the

note. Of course you knew when I went away I didn't expect to lose my

uncle's fortune?"

"I thought you did. Hadn't he said----" begins simple Reine.

"That I should marry Charteris, or lose the money--yes, I know, but I

give you my word I never believed it. I honestly thought I could marry

Mr. Clyde and return here. I thought it would be an easy matter to

wheedle my doting uncle into taking us both back. I never dreamed that

you would throw yourself into the breach and help them to their revenge

against me."

"I never thought of such a thing myself, until--until Vane _asked_ me!"

Reine murmurs, blushingly.

"Do you know why he asked you?" sneers the beautiful girl before her.

"To spite you for having jilted him so publicly, Maud, and, perhaps,

because he liked me a little after all," she says, a little wistfully.

"I gave you credit for just a little more sense, Reine," Maud answers,

bitterly. "Vane Charteris disliked you exceedingly. He thought you a

vixen, neither more nor less. He made you his wife because Mr. Langton

literally forced him to it."

"It is not true. Why do you say such things? You are cruel, Maud," the

bride cries out, starting indignantly to her feet.

"It is the truth. Nellie, have you found the note yet?"

"No, miss, nor I don't think I can. Was it so very important?" returns

the girl.

"Important! My very life hangs on its production," Maud says, wildly.

"You have looked carelessly. I could swear that it is in this room. It

_must_ be found."

"I'll look again. Perhaps I've overlooked it, being in a hurry," the

maid returns, patiently, and Maud turns again to her cousin.

"Nellie has always been very faithful to me," she says. "She was in my

confidence. She knew the trysting-place in the woods where I was to meet

Mr. Clyde. As soon as she learned that it was likely you would marry

Vane Charteris and cheat me out of Uncle Langton's fortune, she hastened

after me, and urged me to return and prevent such a catastrophe. I

decided at once to return. I had no notion of doing the

love-in-a-cottage business with my poor, but handsome lover."

"You were heartless, Maud," Reine says, with a flash of her superb, dark

eyes.

"So Mr. Clyde said," carelessly. "Anyway, I told him I should come back.

He was very angry. He drove Nell back, and swore I should stay and go

with him to the preacher that was even then waiting to marry us. I would

not yield an inch, and as soon as I could I got away."

"Why do you tell me all this, Maud?" Reine says, with something like

royal scorn. "You make me think very little of you."

"You will perhaps think very little of yourself presently," beautiful

Maud answers, maliciously. "Come here, Nellie, and tell Mrs. Charteris

all the hard things her husband said about her when Mr. Langton almost

went down on his knees to him to marry her."

"How can she know?" Reine says, puzzled.

"I was hid in a closet, listening, if you'll please to excuse me,

ma'am," the maid says, timorously, to the new mistress of Langton Villa.

Then she looks at Maud. "Oh, I'd rather not," she exclaims. "It would

only hurt Mrs. Charteris' feelings."

"Do as I bid you," Maud answers, with her imperious tone of command.

"When Mr. Langton asked Vane Charteris to marry Reine, what words did he

use in reply?"

Nellie looks at the bride with scared eyes.

"Mrs. Charteris, you mustn't get mad at me. I wouldn't tell it, no, not

to save my life, only that Miss Maud will be angry if I don't," she

says, deprecatingly.

No words come from Reine's pale lips. She stares with great, troubled

dark eyes alternately at the beautiful, cruel mistress and the shrinking

little maid.

"Tell her," Maud repeats, imperiously.

"Well, then, he said," the maid begins, nervously, "he said, Mrs.

Charteris, a flat no that he wouldn't marry you, that he couldn't love a

vixen and a hoiden like you, an' he'd sooner die than have you hanged

like a mill-stone around his neck."

"Why, then, did he consent to marry me?" the bride gasps, after a shiver

and moan of unspeakable humiliation.

"For your own sake, ma'am, 'cause Mr. Langton said he'd make you his

heiress if the gentleman would marry you, and if he wouldn't, why he

would leave his money to some asylum for fools. An' so Mr. Vane he said

he would marry you, 'cause he wouldn't want you to lose the fortune on

his account."

"On one condition," Maud says, in her clear, high-pitched voice, gazing

with pitiless eyes at the beautiful, scarlet face before her.

But Reine lifts her small hand with a sudden imperious gesture of

command.

"I will not hear another word," she says, in a tone of mingled sorrow

and pride. "You must obey me now, Nellie; I am your mistress, not Maud.

And I command you never to open your lips on this subject again."

Nellie shrinks abashed. Her whilom mistress laughs low and mockingly.

"You have heard enough, eh? Well, I don't blame you. Well, Nellie, the

note?"

"Oh, miss, I haven't found it yet, and indeed--indeed, I've looked in

every spot in this room where it could possibly be. Sure, you've tucked

it away somewhere and forgot, Miss Maud. Try to remember where you had

it last," the girl says, soothingly.

Startled and half afraid, Maud springs to her feet putting her white

hand to her brow.

"Let me think," she says, confusedly; "ah, now I remember; yesterday,

when I went down the path to Mr. Charteris and Reine under the tree I

had the note in my hand. I slipped it into my pocket."

"It must have fallen on the ground," Nellie says, quickly. "Shall I go

and see?"

"Yes," Maud answers, anxiously.

Reine, grown suddenly, strangely pale, looks at the beautiful, harassed

face of her cousin.

"That note, Maud," she says, in a voice of repressed excitement. "Is it

so very important?"

"Important?" Maud says, peevishly. "Did I not tell you my very life

hangs on it? They believe that I killed Mr. Clyde. I must go to prison

unless I can find that note, which would establish my innocence."

"Then it must be found," Reine says with sudden nervousness. "I will go

and help Nellie find it."

"No--no, Reine; where is my uncle?"

"Shut up in the library, I think, Maud."

"Is he so very--very angry with me," she asks, lifting her large blue

eyes to Reine's troubled face.

"I--I'm afraid so," Reine stammers, with marked hesitation.

"Would he see me, do you think?" Maud inquires.

"I do not know," Reine answers, with an unconscious sigh.

"Go and ask him, Reine. Oh, I must make friends with him! What shall I

do without a friend in this perilous time?"

"I will be your friend," Reine ventures, wistfully.

Maud measures the slight figure with scornful eyes.

"_You!_ what good could you do me?" she asks, disdainfully.

"I do not know. I am small, but I am willing," Reine answers to that

look. "Remember, Maud, a little mouse once saved a lion."

"Go and ask my uncle if he will let me come in and speak to him," Maud

answers, ignoring her offer with proud indifference.

The slight, girlish figure turns away without a word. In the hall she

meets Nellie returning.

"You have not found the note?" she says.

"No, ma'am, and whatever will my poor Miss Maud do? Oh, Mrs. Charteris,

will they hang her for Mr. Clyde's murder? Oh, I daren't go in and tell

her I cannot find it," whimpers poor Nellie.

"Nellie," abruptly, "tell me where to find Mr. Charteris."

"Oh, ma'am, at the inquest, most probably," returns Nellie, surprised;

then, with an imploring look, "oh, Mrs. Charteris, please'm don't tell

him what I told you. I know Mr. Langton would discharge me for

listening. I shouldn't have told you, never, but for Miss Maud."

Reine looks at her sadly. A far-away look in her "dark--dark eyes."

"You needn't be afraid, Nell. I shall never tell him," she says, slowly,

and passes on.

She opens the library door softly, and goes in. Mr. Langton is sitting

dejectedly in his arm-chair.

"Uncle, dear," she says, in a strange, low voice, "tell me where to find

Mr. Charteris."

He starts, guiltily, it seems to her. His fingers close over a slip of

paper in his hand.

"You want Vane--oh, ah, yes, of course," he says, confusedly. "What can

you want of Vane?"

She smiles sadly to herself. Her own husband, yet "what can she want of

him."

"A matter of business, sir," she replies, with cold brevity.

"Business!" He glances up and sees how white and strange her face is.

"Is it important? It will wait, won't it?"

"No; it's a matter of life and death," she says, with trembling lips.

"Life and death? You are jesting, child, surely. I am very sorry, dear,

but Vane has just sent me a line. He has gone--I mean he has been called

away suddenly. He may be compelled to remain some time. You will have to

be satisfied with my poor society. Vane sent you his love, and regrets

that he could not bid you farewell."

A slight, cold smile touches the scarlet lips that curl in faint scorn.

"Do not fib to me, Uncle Langton. You know very well he sent me no such

message. Let me see that note."

She draws it deliberately out of his fingers, and reads the curt

message:

"Mr. Langton, I am about going away as we agreed upon. I will write you

from abroad. Invent some excuse to satisfy the curiosity of Reine."

"So that is the love he sent me," she says, looking at him with

reproachful, dark eyes. "How charmingly affectionate he is! Aren't you

afraid that you'll never get to Heaven, Uncle Langton, after that

tremendous fib?"

"Don't tease, child, I have vexation enough. I did not think it of

Charteris, really. I wish now I hadn't----" he stops and gnaws his gray

mustache, fiercely.

"I wish so, too," she says, with subdued bitterness. "It was a sad

mistake all round. It cannot be helped now. But, uncle, I _must_ see

him. Tell me where to find him."

"You may find him in New York to-morrow. He left on the ten o'clock

train to-day."

"This is dreadful--poor Maud," she says, incoherently. "Oh, uncle, Maud

is up-stairs. She prays you to see her. Uncle, you _must_. She has no

one to turn to but you. The shadow of a terrible crime is hanging over

her head. She must go to prison unless something happens to help her."

"She has made her bed, so let her lie," he says, petulantly.

"Oh, uncle, you must forgive her and befriend her; say that you will."

"I won't," he says, with bitter brevity.

"Let her come to you for five minutes; she can plead her own cause

better than I can."

"I decline to see her. Tell her so. Tell her I will never have anything

more to do with her," he replies, sternly, leading her to the door, and

shutting her out into the hall.

She goes back to her cousin, stumbling over Nellie, who is crouched

outside the door, dreading to enter with the story of her non-success.

"He will see me?" Maud says, hopefully, as she enters.

"I am very sorry, dear, but he utterly declines," Reine says,

sorrowfully.

"Of course! I doubt if you ever asked him," Maud cries, irritably. "But,

Reine, what is the matter? You look white and scared? What has

happened?"

"Vane--Mr. Charteris has gone away," Reine falters, miserably.

"Gone away--of course. That was the condition on which he married you.

He said he could marry you, but he could not live with you."

"Maud, why do you tell me these horrible things?" falters the wretched

young bride.

"To make you as wretched as I am," Maud breaks out, with vindictive

passion in her voice and face. "But it is all true, every word. He said

he would stay away a year, and Mr. Langton must train you to be such a

woman as he could respect and honor; a woman," triumphantly, "like me."

"God forbid!" Reine says, with a stifled gasp, turning her white face

away that Maud may not see the hopeless pain that shadows the

brightness.

The door opens and Nellie creeps forlornly in.

"Oh, Miss Maud," she says, tearfully, "I can't find it, I can't find it!

I've searched high and low but it's nowhere to be found!"

CHAPTER IX.

How strange are the turns of fortune. Yesterday the beautiful queen of

the county, the heiress of a millionaire, the betrothed of a handsome,

adoring lover; to-day the inmate of a prison, the shadow of a crime

hanging over her head, looked upon with horror and suspicion by those

who, twenty-four hours ago, were ready to fall down and worship her. So

Maud Langton muses drearily.

Out of all the throng of defaulting friends only one remains to her--the

girl she hates with cordial good-will, the rival who has spoiled all her

hopes, who has married her lover, and who reigns at Langton Villa in her

stead. What bitterness to acknowledge that slight, dark-eyed girl she

has always despised, as the only human being who clings to her, and is

kind to her in this, her dark hour.

But it is true. It is Reine who takes her by the hand when others fail

her; it is Reine who stands up bravely by her side and declares her

belief in the existence of the mislaid note; it is Reine who almost

pledges herself to find it if only they will give her time--hours, or

days, or weeks, as the case may be.

And when she has thus declared her purpose, she goes back to Langton

Villa to "beard the lion in his den."

"Uncle Langton, I am going to New York after Mr. Charteris," she says to

him, coolly.

"Eh? what--after Vane?" he growls, in his curt fashion. "What's up?"

"I have important business with him. I _must_ see him, if only for five

minutes."

The old millionaire looks keenly at the dusky, beautiful face. Some of

the brightness has gone out of it since yesterday. The large, dark eyes

have a strange, intent, far-off look, the lips droop like a grieved

child's, the white rose instead of the red, blooms on her cheek.

"Child, you look tired and pale. All this excitement has been too much

for you. What is this business with Vane, eh? To scold him for running

away?"

"Nothing of the sort," with impatient wrath; "a mere matter of business,

as I said to you just now."

He does not believe her, and in his proud old heart there is a secret

indignation at Vane for his cavalier flitting. Reine shall not run after

him.

"You mustn't go," he says, bluntly. "I won't have you run after him.

He'll come to of himself, only give him time and let him have his fling

undisturbed. You will only disgust him, going after him. You shall hold

your own, and be as stiff as he is."

She stares at him, her white hands locked before her, her sweet lips

apart.

"But, uncle----" she begins.

"I know," he interrupts, "but believe me, child, I know men better than

you do. You must not seem to care. Remember that you are a bride,

unwooed, as yet, married for spite, not for love. In fact, Vane has gone

away for a time just to accustom himself to the idea of his strange

marriage, and to give you time to--to train yourself for your new

position."

"To make myself over into a woman like Maud," she breathes, low and

bitterly.

He starts, evidently disconcerted.

"Eh? what? Who told you that, Reine?"

"A little bird in the air whispered it," she retorts, with grim

pleasantry.

"No such thing. I wish I knew who had been telling tales to you. I'd

wring their necks!" testily. "But you understand, don't you," anxiously,

"how premature it would be to follow him? Give him a little time. He'll

come to his senses fast enough, and thank fortune for his pretty little

wife!"

"Uncle Langton," indignantly, "do give me leave to speak. Do you think

I'm a love-sick fool to go running after a man that despises me?"

"I thought you had more sense," he says, beaming upon her; "you give it

up, then?"

"No, I am determined to go. Try to understand, sir, that it is on no

personal business I wish to see him. It is for--for another. He will

understand."

"Write to him, then, Reine."

"It would not do. He is very obstinate, I fancy. I may have to urge him

very persistently."

Mr. Langton peers at her curiously beneath his shaggy brows.

"What is this mysterious mission on which you are going, Reine?

Explain."

The dark lashes fall, veiling her troubled eyes from his keen scrutiny.

"I cannot tell you; it may turn out a mere chimera; say that I am going

on a 'wild-goose chase,' and you will hit the truth."

"Of course you know there is not another train until to-morrow," he

observes. "Vane will have had twenty-four hours the start of you."

"I know that. Still I must follow him," she says, persistently.

"Then I must tell you. I didn't mean you should know just yet; it is not

likely you will find him in New York when you go. He's off for the other

side of the 'herring-pond.'"

"Gone abroad!" She starts, and her tortured face whitens. Into her eyes

comes a look of despair.

"You know he was booked for Europe--he and Maud were, I mean. Their

passage was taken on the steamer which leaves New York to-morrow. Vane

has obstinately chosen to go alone. Never mind, lovey. The young

simpleton will be suing your pardon some day."

"Never mind me, uncle, I am not thinking of myself," she says, through

white, quivering lips. "Oh, tell me what to do! I must see him for five

minutes only--I must, I must, I _must_! if I have to follow him to

Europe!"

"Is the case so desperate as that?" he asks; "I will help you, then.

Shall I telegraph him to stay in New York until----"

"Not until I come," nervously. "_That_ might make him very angry."

"Until _I_ come, then. For I shall go with you, of course. What could

you do all alone by yourself in big New York?"