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Lillian’s Vow
BY MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS
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2 Beautiful Ione’s Lover Laura Jean Libbey
3 The Midnight Marriage Mrs. Sumner Hayden
4 All For Love of a Fair Face Laura Jean Libbey
5 A Wasted Love Charles Garvice
6 Daisy Brooks Laura Jean Libbey
7 Leslie’s Loyalty Charles Garvice
8 Little Rosebud’s Lovers Laura Jean Libbey
9 Elaine Charles Garvice
10 A Struggle for a Heart Laura Jean Libbey
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15 Her Ransom Charles Garvice
16 Madolin Rivers Laura Jean Libbey
17 A Coronet of Shame Charles Garvice
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19 Woman Against Woman Mrs. M. A. Holmes
20 The Song of Miriam Marie Corelli
21 Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold Charles Garvice
22 His Perfect Trust Charlotte M. Braeme
23 Addie’s Husband By the Author of “Jessie”
24 The Heiress of Hilldrop Charlotte M. Braeme
25 For Another’s Sin Charlotte M. Braeme
26 Set in Diamonds Charlotte M. Braeme
27 The World Between Them Charlotte M. Braeme
28 A Passion Flower Charlotte M. Braeme
29 A True Magdalen Charlotte M. Braeme
30 A Woman’s Error Charlotte M. Braeme
31 Leonie, the Sweet Street Singer By the Author of
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32 At War with Herself Charlotte M. Braeme
33 The Belle of Lynn Charlotte M. Braeme
34 The Shadow of a Sin Charlotte M. Braeme
35 Claribel’s Love Story Charlotte M. Braeme
36 A Woman’s War Charlotte M. Braeme
37 Lady Audley’s Secret Miss M. E. Braddon
38 Hilary’s Folly Charlotte M. Braeme
39 From Gloom to Sunlight Charlotte M. Braeme
40 A Haunted Life Charlotte M. Braeme
41 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, Not Proven Charlotte M. Braeme
42 A Dark Marriage Morn Charlotte M. Braeme
43 The Duke’s Secret Charlotte M. Braeme
44 His Wife’s Judgment Charlotte M. Braeme
45 A Thorn in Her Heart Charlotte M. Braeme
46 A Nameless Sin Charlotte M. Braeme
47 A Mad Love Charlotte M. Braeme
48 Irene’s Vow Charlotte M. Braeme
49 Signa’s Sweetheart Charlotte M. Braeme
50 Not Like Other Girls Rosa N. Carey
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LILLIAN’S VOW;
OR,
THE MYSTERY OF RALEIGH HOUSE
BY
MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS.
COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY GEORGE MUNRO.
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LILLIAN’S VOW.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. POOR LILLIAN!
CHAPTER II. MISS RALEIGH’S COMPANION.
CHAPTER III. HAUNTED.
CHAPTER IV. APRES!
CHAPTER V. JACK STRIKES A BLOW.
CHAPTER VI. IN THE ROUND ROOM.
CHAPTER VII. ROSAMOND SPEAKS HER MIND.
CHAPTER VIII. HER LORD AND MASTER.
CHAPTER IX. DECEIVED.
CHAPTER X. ACCEPTED.
CHAPTER XI. IN THE CONSERVATORY.
CHAPTER XII. FROM THE OTHER WORLD.
CHAPTER XIII. A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.
CHAPTER XIV. MISJUDGED.
CHAPTER XV. THE DIE IS CAST.
CHAPTER XVI. A TRYING ORDEAL.
CHAPTER XVII. A SNAKE IN THE GRASS.
CHAPTER XVIII. “BEWARE!”
CHAPTER XIX. BESSIE SEES THE GAME.
CHAPTER XX. GREEK MEETS GREEK.
CHAPTER XXI. IN AMBUSH.
CHAPTER XXII. HER FLIGHT.
CHAPTER XXIII. VAN ALSTYNE’S REVENGE.
CHAPTER XXIV. GONE TO HER DOOM.
CHAPTER XXV. FORGED FETTERS.
CHAPTER XXVI. FACE TO FACE.
CHAPTER XXVII. UNMASKED.
CHAPTER XXVIII. GEOFFREY GREY ATONES.
CHAPTER XXIX. DISCOVERED.
CHAPTER XXX. THE END.
CHAPTER I.
POOR LILLIAN!
“Help! Help!”
A hoarse groan, a stifled cry, then silence settled down. A clear,
crisp wintery night, with the great city lying asleep beneath an
opal-tinted sky, the rush and roar of the day’s turmoil temporarily
suspended. It was late, and few people were abroad, especially upon
this retired street, where a flickering, flaring electric light threw a
yellow glare over the scene.
A man--old and white-haired, frail and feeble--was struggling in the
grasp of strong hands, while a dark face, over which a broad-brimmed
felt hat was slouched, so that his eyes and the upper part of his face
were hidden from sight, bent over him, glaring down into the white,
frightened countenance of his victim.
That this was no common case of garroting or highway robbery was
apparent at a glance.
“Where is it?” hissed the assailant. “Give it to me at once, Gilbert
Leigh, or, as sure as I live, I will kill you! Give me the book--the
memorandum-book in your possession, with all its contents undisturbed!
You _must_ do it! You shall, Gilbert Leigh! You hold my liberty, my
very life, in your hands. You must be mad to think that I would let you
go until I have gained possession of the book! Give it to me, I say,
or--”
The strong fingers of his right hand tightened their hold upon the
old man’s throat, while the other hand went into the inner pocket of
the thick, warm overcoat that the old man wore. Something was quickly
transferred from the pocket to that of the assailant--something
which proved to be a long, leathern book fastened with a band of
stout elastic. The dusky eyes under the slouched hat sparkled with
gratification, and low under his breath he panted swiftly:
“I have it! The book is mine! And so will perish every clew to my
guilt! I would die before the truth should be known! Why, this old
man held proofs which would have ruined me and ousted me from my high
position! I would--”
“Stop!”
The word, gasped feebly, fell from the pale lips of the half-dead old
man.
“Listen to me,” he went on, brokenly, as the hold of the other
gradually relaxed from about his throat. “I have a word to say.
In--in--my investigations among the books and papers of your
office--investigations which I was commanded to make by my superiors--I
have discovered that you are not only a forger and embezzler--a living
disgrace to the time-honored name that you bear--but that you are--”
He bent his gray head and whispered a few words in the ears of the
other man. With a savage howl, like a wild beast suddenly let loose
upon its prey, he flashed about and grasped the old man once more by
the throat. There was murder now in the dark eyes gleaming under the
broad-brimmed felt hat.
“_Die!_” he panted, hoarsely, “you miserable old spy! Say your prayers
now, for I am going to kill you!”
“By Jove! we’ll see about that!” cried a clear, ringing voice, as firm
footsteps drew rapidly near, and a tall figure came to an abrupt halt.
Crash! went a blow--a back-handed, powerful blow--which landed directly
in the chest of the would-be assassin. There was a dull thud as a dark
form dropped to the pavement, then the electric light went out in that
sudden and exasperating way which electric lights are prone to do upon
the smallest provocation, and when it flared up once more, the limp,
lifeless form upon the pavement and the tall figure of the new-comer
bending over it were the only objects in sight. The new-comer, the
man who had struck the blow, was tall and handsome, with pale, olive
complexion, soft, dark eyes and waves of dark hair. A face good to
look at anywhere. He stooped and peered into the old man’s upturned
countenance, a delicate patrician face, with clear-cut features, and a
broad forehead with a fringe of soft white hair.
“I’m afraid he’s dead, poor fellow!” said the young man, ruefully.
“Well, of course it will be another item for the ‘Daily Thunderer,’ and
I wouldn’t be a hard-working journalist, with my fortune all to make,
if I did not welcome an item.”
He was speaking lightly, as one accustomed to such scenes, but there
was an under-current of feeling in his voice which revealed the kindly
heart beating in his breast.
He drew from his pocket a policeman’s whistle and blew a shrill blast.
Silence for a moment, during which time the young man proceeded to tear
open the old man’s shirt-collar, and lift the white head to give him a
little air.
There was no sign of life. The chest did not move, the white hands lay
limp and lifeless at his side.
Tramp, tramp, down the street, swift and straight, came the echo of
heavy footfalls. A moment more the gleam of a silver badge, a blue
uniform, and a gruff voice demanding sternly:
“Come, now! What’s all this? Why”--in a tone of satisfaction--“if it
ain’t Mr. Lyndon!”
The young man grasped the hand extended.
“Jack Lyndon, of the ‘Daily Thunderer,’ at your service. Your name is
McElroy, I believe? Yes; well, I found this old man just now in the
grasp of a garroter, highway robber, whatever you may choose to call
him. I struck the fellow a blow, he came down with a thud; but he got
off somehow, and the old man is, I believe--McElroy, can he be dead?”
McElroy laid his hand upon the heart of the prostrate man, and a swift
look of horror dawned upon his face, as the electric light flared up
brightly, revealing the features plainly.
“Good heavens! it’s Mr. Leigh! Dear, dear! that’s awful now! And poor
Miss Lillian, it will just kill her! I think, Mr. Lyndon--I really
think and fear that the old man is gone! If it’s so, I tell you what,
I wouldn’t like to face Lillian Leigh with his body. Mr. Lyndon, you
never knew such a case in your life of father and daughter so wrapped
up in each other that they could hardly bear to be out of each other’s
sight. You see, there ain’t none of the Leigh family left but Miss
Lillian and her father. She does type-writing at home, and old Mr.
Leigh himself was an expert accountant, and some folks say a kind of
spy in the big commercial house of Raleigh & Raleigh--to look after
the interests of the firm in a quiet way, you know; it’s the biggest
commercial concern in the whole state--to watch over slippery young
clerks and wild fellows, to keep an eye upon all the employees, in
fact. A number of them--I speak the plain truth--are sons of the best
families here. They need watching, Mr. Lyndon”--shaking his head slowly
and dubiously--“sure’s you are born, they need watching.”
All this time he had been chafing the thin, white hands, and trying to
force a little brandy between the old man’s clinched teeth. He laid the
white head back against Lyndon’s knee at last with a low sigh.
“’Tain’t no use! It really seems like ’tain’t no use, Mr. Jack.
I--I--see--”
He arose to his feet and pointed to a row of buildings, all alike,
with an air of quiet respectability. Their rows of shuttered windows,
each house with its high, arched porch and white stone steps--the neat
brass door-plates at every door--told, without words, that this was a
neighborhood of boarding-houses and “apartments to let.” The policeman
lifted his club and pointed to a side window in the second story of one
of the houses, where a faint light gleamed like a star. Even while they
gazed, the blind was opened softly, and some one peered out into the
night below. McElroy groaned.
“Them’s their rooms up there, Mr. Lyndon!” he said, softly. “Who is
going to bring the old man into the house? And who--” he flashed about
with a tragic gesture--“Good God! Who’s going to tell Miss Lillian?”
The window-blind upstairs was closed softly, and the watching figure
disappeared. A strange pang shot through Jack Lyndon’s big, honest
heart. Years afterward, he was wont to look back upon that moment, and
say that it was a presentiment of what was to come.
“Poor girl! My heart aches for her!” he muttered. “It will be a
terrible blow to bear.” And then, before he scarcely realized it, Jack
Lyndon found himself standing upon the white stone steps of No. 3 ----,
McElroy at his side, ringing the door-bell in a peremptory summons.
One! boomed from the tower of a church not far away. One! repeated a
silvery-toned time-piece somewhere within the silent house at whose
door they were standing. Silence--utter silence--broken at length by
the opening of an upper window, and a masculine voice demanded sternly
who was there, and what they wanted at that time of night.
A few words made clear the sad situation. The window was closed, and
a little later the house-door was opened, and the gas-light burning
dimly in the hall turned up to a cheery blaze. They bore him into the
wide hall and laid him, limp and lifeless, upon a sofa there. Somebody
telephoned for the nearest physician, and a group of half-dressed men
and women gathered round the sofa, gazing, with horror-distended eyes,
upon the sad spectacle. Then the physician bustled in; five minutes’
examination, and the verdict came. Gilbert Leigh was dead. He had died
from the effects of strangulation.
“Who will tell Lillian?”
Somebody asked the question in an awe-stricken voice. Nobody essayed
to reply. It was answered in an unexpected way. The opening of a door
above stairs; a hush of solemn silence; then the rustle of a woman’s
draperies; flying footsteps down the broad stairs descending into the
hall below, and, before any one could realize the situation, a slight
figure, in a flowing robe of white cashmere, with a cloud of golden
hair streaming over her shoulders, dashed into their midst, and fell
upon her knees by the sofa, while a pair of soft, white arms went
around the old man’s neck.
“Papa!” One shrill cry which cut to the heart of every person present.
“Papa! Oh, papa, papa! open your eyes and look at me just once! Speak
to me, papa--just one word! Oh, papa, papa, papa!”
Jack Lyndon ventured to her side at last, and laid his hand--a strong,
white hand--lightly upon the bowed golden head.
“Miss Leigh”--in a voice that quivered with sympathy--“try to be brave!”
She lifted a small, childish face--a beautiful face, with perfectly
chiseled features, and eyes so large and deep and dark that they looked
like black velvet.
“Do you--know--what is wrong, sir?” she faltered, feebly. “Papa went
out this evening--down to the office. He had papers to attend to. Papa
never leaves me alone when he can help it; but he found that he had
forgotten his memorandum-book. It contained business relating to the
private affairs of his employers which was priceless. Papa often said
that if he lost the book he could never enter his employers’ presence
again or expect to be treated with confidence. I know that he would
defend the book, if need be, with his life. Sir”--she arose to her feet
with quiet dignity--“if that book is gone from his body it has been
stolen, and he has been attacked while defending it.”
Then with a swift burst of passionate grief she flashed about, and fell
upon her knees once more, winding her arms about her father’s neck; and
then, drawing the cold face down to her own, she laid her white cheek
against his.
“How cold you are, papa!” in a low, tense voice inexpressibly pathetic.
“You were never so cold before. What is the matter, dear? You are weak
and ill and faint, and--”
Her eyes fell for the first time upon the great purple marks about his
throat--the cruel marks of the assassin’s strong fingers. She started
up with a bitter cry.
“What--what does this mean?” she panted, pointing to the tell-tale
marks. “He is dead--dead!”
The truth had come to her at last. He had been murdered. The book had
been taken from him, and he had died in its defense.
“Oh, papa! papa! speak, and tell your little Lily this awful secret!
My papa, who has gone from me forever--tell me, tell me! You will come
back to me, papa! If disembodied spirits can return to earth, I know
that you will come to me! Speak, papa! Oh, my papa! All I had to love
in the great, cold, cruel world, speak, and tell me--who did this awful
deed?”
And then a strange occurrence took place. Even the physician could not
repress an exclamation of surprise. The dead man’s lips parted slowly,
and a few drops of blood oozed from them and trickled down upon the
snowy beard. To those present it seemed for a moment--so wrought up
were they by the awful tragedy--that Gilbert Leigh had indeed attempted
to speak; that in answer to the pitiful beseeching of his child, the
dumb lips had attempted to frame a reply and utter the name of his
murderer.
The girl’s pale face froze into an icy calm. She lifted her right hand
with a swift gesture, upon her face a look which made the spectators
hold their breath in speechless awe.
“Hear me!” she said, in the same tense voice, “and bear witness to
what I say! I take no oath, I bind myself by no pledge, I make no wild
assertions or prophecies, but, I say this: my father’s murderer shall
yet be found! It may be years before it comes to pass; but sooner or
later, the man who took Gilbert Leigh’s life in this base, dastardly
manner, shall be found and punished! And when the hour comes in which
I shall stand face to face with him, when his guilt is exposed and his
crime revealed, may God have mercy upon him, for I shall have none!”
She sunk upon her knees once more at her dead father’s side, like a
pallid, sad-eyed ghost; and when morning stole in at the shuttered
windows, she was crouching there still. Not a tear had she shed; not
another word had passed her lips; but there was that in her pale young
face which made all who saw her afraid.