Jessie Lyndon had been strong enough to send her lover from her because
he was bound to another, but she was not brave enough to meet him daily
in the intimate association of her mother’s home as she knew must be
the case if she went to Mrs. Dalrymple’s before the wedding.
She must see him there daily with Cora, and she knew that her presence
would only make him more unhappy, and hinder the return of his heart to
the girl to whom it was plighted.
Besides, she knew that she was not brave enough, or strong enough, to
bear the pain of seeing him daily with his betrothed--perhaps to be
compelled by the narrow conventionalities of society to be a guest at
his wedding.
Fondly as she longed to meet her mother and convey to her the dying
messages of her father, she determined to postpone that meeting till
after Frank and Cora were married and gone.
Her mind ran over her few humble friends in New York, suggesting the
Widow Doyle as the most available one with whom to stay during the
short interval that must elapse between now and the marriage. In this
secluded suburban cottage she had no fear that Frank Laurier could
trace her even should he make an attempt.
So to Widow Doyle she went, and was fortunate to find the good woman
at home, receiving a hearty welcome, and most sincere sympathy, when
the sorrowful tale of her father’s loss was told.
“Poor dear, you will have to stay with me and be my daughter,” she
said, with a tenderness that brought tears to Jessie’s eyes.
“I will never forget your kindness--but I have a relative to whose care
I shall go shortly. In the meantime, I will accept your hospitality
most gratefully,” she cried, not caring to disclose her relationship to
Mrs. Dalrymple until she should have been accepted as a daughter by the
lady.
How could she tell but that the proud, rich lady might deny her claim,
might denounce her as an impostor!
What proof could she offer save her dead father’s word?
And would that suffice for the proud, rich woman of whom she had
dreamed such beautiful things, but who might not in any way come up to
her ideal mother.
The future looked very gloomy to Jessie as she sat resting in the
little easy-chair in Mrs. Doyle’s sitting room.
She realized that unless Mrs. Dalrymple accepted her as a daughter she
would be thrown on the world penniless, and obliged to make her own way.
She had remembered that her father, by a strange whim, carried the
whole of his fortune, consisting of magnificent uncut gems, in a belt
of leather around his waist.
But she knew that she had a talent that, if exercised, would provide
her a living. It was her voice, whose power and sweetness equaled
those of the most world famous prima donnas. The professors who had
cultivated that charming voice had told her she could secure a position
on the operatic stage any time she chose.
But Jessie cared nothing for fame. At the present moment, so young, so
fair, so tender, all that her heart craved was love.
And the pain of her disappointment took all the zest out of life.
She spent a quiet, lonely day with her humble hostess, whom she
entertained by a recital of the way she had spent her time since
leaving New York.
In the evening she grew listless and taciturn, her mind wandering from
this humble abode of the poor widow to the grand mansion on Fifth
Avenue, where her beautiful, stately mother reigned supreme, and where
Cora was now perhaps receiving Frank and renewing their vows of love.
“Perhaps when he sees her again his heart will turn back to her with
the old love. How could he help it when once he loved her so well? He
will soon forget poor Jessie, and that will be the best,” she thought,
but so inconsistent is love that hot tears welled to her eyes at the
fancy.
Then Widow Doyle ran in with the evening paper, which she had borrowed
from a neighbor.
Jessie took it and glanced indifferently at the columns, thinking that
the news of New York had but little interest for a sad heart like her
own.
But presently she found herself quite mistaken, for her eyes lighted on
a paragraph of vital importance to herself.
It ran briefly:
“Mrs. Verna Dalrymple, of No. 1512A Fifth Avenue, continues very ill
with no prospects of recovery. Indeed, her death is hourly expected.
The Four Hundred will thus lose one of its brightest ornaments, and
the poor of the city one of their most charitable benefactors. It is
a source of regret that so brilliant and beneficent a life should be
thus untimely cut down in the prime of beauty and intellect.”
A cruel pain like a sharp thorn pierced Jessie’s heart as she clutched
the newspaper in her rigid hands, staring at the fatal paragraph with
dilated eyes.
She could not stay away from her mother as she had planned. She must go
to her at once and receive her dying blessing.
Stifling back a choking sob, she rose to her feet, exclaiming eagerly:
“Mrs. Doyle, I have just read in this paper of the serious illness of a
very dear friend of mine on Fifth Avenue. If I could get a cab I would
go to her at once.”
“There is a cab stand on the next block. I’ll get you one at once.”
“Thank you--God bless you!” Jessie sobbed, and while the good woman was
gone she slipped on her hat and jacket and stood impatiently waiting,
her heart sinking with fear lest her mother should be dead ere she
reached her side.
The cab arrived speedily, and Mrs. Doyle asked hospitably:
“Shall you return, my dear, to-night?”
“It is not likely, but you shall certainly hear from me to-morrow.
Good night, dear, kind friend,” and with a word of direction to the
chauffeur she was gone.
While Mrs. Doyle was wondering over Jessie’s sudden departure, there
came a hasty knock on the door, and when she opened it there stood
that black sheep of a stepson of hers that she had not seen for two
years--the redoubtable Carey Doyle.
Slouching carelessly in, and falling into a seat, he said amiably:
“How-do, old lady?”
“Well, Carey, this is certainly a day of surprises, and you’re the
second one that has turned up to-day that I hadn’t seen for two years!”
ejaculated the old lady, in the pleased surprise of one that leads a
quiet, lonely life when confronted with old friends.
“But where have you been all this time? Never coming near your poor old
stepma for two years?” she added reproachfully.
“Has it been so long? By Jove, I didn’t think it! But I’ve been hard
down to business, and though I thought of coming often, still I
couldn’t spare the time. But you’ve been getting on all right, have
you?”
“Yes, I’ve scratched along and kept body and soul together,” she
replied, prudently making the worst of her situation, lest he had come
to borrow money, a shrewd suspicion, for his face fell as he exclaimed:
“Then you haven’t a hundred dollars or so you could lend a fellow to
help him off to the Klondyke?”
“Mercy, no! Where would a poor body like me get a hundred dollars,
or even a hundred cents ahead, making a living by her needle?” she
exclaimed, prudently ignoring a little hoard, Leon Lyndon’s gift to
her, that she had laid by for the future “rainy day” that must come to
all the poor in sickness or trouble.
Doyle looked disappointed and muttered to himself that he was sorry he
had taken the trouble of coming since he couldn’t wheedle any funds out
of the old woman.
His disappointed gaze roved over the floor and he saw almost at his
feet an exquisitely embroidered handkerchief. Picking it up, he read
aloud the name in the corner:
“Lisa Chanler!”
“Why, that must be Miss Lyndon’s handkerchief. She went off in such a
hurry she forgot it--a young girl that was staying with me, you know,”
explanatorily.
Carey Doyle looked up with quick interest, for the name touched a chord
in memory, and brought back a face that had charmed him with its beauty
and enraged him with its pride.
He remembered that Jessie Lyndon was dead--that he had heard a strange
story of how she had been found dead in the snow and acknowledged as
the stolen daughter of a grand, rich woman on Fifth Avenue; then he
had put her out of his thoughts and married the pawnbroker’s daughter,
Yetta Stein, leading a cat-and-dog existence, quarreling, till a week
ago, when he had left her, swearing that New York was not large enough
to hold them both, and that he would start to Alaska next day. He meant
what he said, and was raising all the cash he could for the long,
perilous journey.
But the name of Lyndon still held a charm for him that roused his
curiosity, making him question his stepmother about her guest until she
told all she knew about Jessie, from almost two years ago till now.
“And only think of being burned up in the middle of the ocean! All
one’s clothes, I mean--and escaping without a rag to one’s back, or a
dollar in one’s purse!” she added vaguely, continuing:
“That fine handkerchief you see was given her by a Miss Chanler, one of
the passengers--and her other clothes, too, for, as I said, she hadn’t
a rag to her back, poor girl!”
Carey Doyle was secretly astonished and mystified--Jessie Lyndon dead,
and Jessie Lyndon living, what could it mean? He resolved to come back
to-morrow and see the girl for himself.
* * * * *
When the old family physician came next morning to see his patient, he
was surprised to see her so well.
“Why, how bright you look! You are certainly better,” he cried gladly.
“I am better, indeed, and it is all owing to such a pleasant visit I
had last evening from an old friend. It was Frank, and you know how
fond I am of him. Cora brought him in to see me, and he entertained
me so pleasantly that I quite forgot I was almost dying. Indeed, I am
almost resolved now to get well,” smiling brightly at him.
“Capital! Capital! You only need the will to get well, and you will
soon be in your best health again. I have always told you that, you
know, and I am glad Frank has roused you to take an interest in life
again!” he cried, with hearty joy.
“And he is coming again to-day. I am expecting him any moment!” Mrs.
Dalrymple added, two spots of feverish color brightening her cheeks in
the unrest of her mind. “There, I hear his voice now! No, doctor, do
not go. He will have strange news for me, perhaps, and I may need you
in my excitement. Besides, if it is good news I wish you to hear it.”
Frank Laurier entered with Cora, and after salutations all around, he
looked anxiously at the patient, whispering:
“Can you bear the shock of good news?”
“Oh, Frank, yes, yes--speak quickly--my suspense has been terrible!”
she cried hoarsely.
And to the amazement of the doctor and Cora, he replied: “I obeyed your
command, and--the casket was empty!”
A shriek of joy broke on their ears, then Mrs. Dalrymple lay like a
corpse before them, so ashen pale, so deadly still.
The old doctor with a cry of dismay knelt by her side, and felt for her
heart.
“Do not tell me that my good news has killed her!” Frank cried with
horror in his dark-blue eyes, while Cora awaited the dénouement in wild
suspense.
A secret hope came to her that this might be death, that her aunt might
not live to prosecute the search for her hated rival, Jessie Lyndon.
But presently the old doctor’s efforts at her recovery were rewarded
with success. Her eyes opened, the color came back to her lips, she
faltered:
“Ah, you thought that I was dead!--but how could I die with such happy
news!”
“But I do not understand!” the physician replied blankly, while Cora
remained silent from consuming rage.
“Tell them all, Frank,” commanded Mrs. Dalrymple, with a happy smile,
and he obeyed in a few words.
“We had reason to suspect that the young girl, Jessie Lyndon, whom
Mrs. Dalrymple buried as her daughter almost two years ago, had been
resurrected and was alive in New York, and--we find that our suspicions
are true.”
“This is startling!” cried the doctor, but Cora listened silently with
a ghastly face and burning eyes.
Frank Laurier continued:
“We know that it is true because I went, by Mrs. Dalrymple’s request,
to her vault in Greenwood this morning, and opened the casket that we
saw closed on the dead face of her daughter. It was empty.”
“Is it possible?”
“And,” continued Frank, “as if to prove correct the suspicions of our
friend that her divorced husband had taken away the corpse, I found on
the floor a glove that was marked inside with the name Leon Dalrymple.”
“Ah, it is true, it is true!” cried the invalid faintly, triumphantly.
“My daughter lives! I shall not die now that I have that happy
knowledge. And you will find her for me, Frank? Every moment is an
hour till my Darling is restored to me!” cried the anxious mother.
“I will do all that is possible,” he answered, but in her anxiety she
made him promise to insert personals in all the newspapers begging
Jessie Lyndon to come at once to her sick mother, V. D.
Frank’s first effort was to find the chauffeur who had taken Jessie
away from the steamer, but he was unsuccessful.
Days came and went with no tidings, and then more personals appeared
offering rewards for news of Jessie Lyndon.
In the meantime, she had never returned to the Widow Doyle’s humble cot
nor sent any message.
But Carey Doyle, watching proceedings with a hawk eye, chanced upon the
personals and ejaculated:
“Come, now, this is very strange. The old lady said she had gone to see
Mrs. Dalrymple, yet apparently she never got there. Is there foul play
anywhere? Maybe I have stumbled on a private Klondyke of my own! I’ll
claim that reward for news of her anyway, but I won’t face Laurier,
I’ll go to Mrs. Dalrymple herself.”
And so eager was the lady for news that he gained admittance to her
boudoir, where she sat in an easy-chair getting stronger every day, and
claiming the reward, obtained it, and blurted out his news.
Mrs. Dalrymple was terribly startled. She called out in wild excitement:
“Send Miss Ellyson to me instantly!”