MISS RALEIGH’S COMPANION.
“Which shall I wear, mamma, the pale blue silk, with white lace and
pearl ornaments, or the new amber satin with hand-painted panels and
black lace overdress looped with diamonds? Ah, yes, that will be the
handsomest and most striking! And I shall wear _all_ the Raleigh
diamonds!”
“But, Rosamond, _all_ the Raleigh diamonds would be too many jewels
for a single toilet. It would be bad taste, my dear; yet, after
all”--Mrs. Raleigh bent her stately head with its silver-gray puffs in
a meditative way--“it would be something unique! What a woman requires
nowadays in fashionable society is to look as odd and unusual as
possible. But, Rosamond, we live in a great city, and our fashionable
society is controlled by--”
“The woman I hate!” burst forth Rosamond, vindictively, with an angry
gesture. “She is my own cousin, but I hate her, hate her, _hate_ her! I
tell you, mamma, the day upon which Cousin Lenore Vane made her grand
marriage was a bad day for her as well as myself! When she became the
wife of a senator I knew then that my reign was over--that I could
never surpass her in position, in social triumph. And since that day
I have hated her as I have never hated any living creature, and I
shall hate her till I die! To see her surrounded by her satellites is
perfectly nauseating to me, and the absurd flatteries lavished upon
her--why, in her presence I am hardly noticed--nearly drive me mad!”
“I know--I understand”--soothingly; “but never mind, Rosamond! You are
bound to make a grand marriage some day. She is the wife of Senator Van
Alstyne, it is true; but in point of wealth you are--”
“The daughter of Grafton Raleigh, of the great firm of Raleigh &
Raleigh!” interrupted Rosamond, haughtily. “No business house in the
whole United States holds a higher or more enviable position! Do not
forget that, mamma!”
Rosamond Raleigh began to pace up and down the luxurious room, her
delicate blonde face flushed slightly, the big, china-blue eyes drawn
close together with the ugly scowl which puckered her white forehead,
her small, jeweled hands clinched angrily. She came to a halt at
length, and her face wore a very unlovely expression in its jealous
wrath.
“The wife of Senator Van Alstyne! And what of that!” she pouted,
angrily. “He is a great, coarse, pompous creature, most repugnant to
me, or to any civilized taste. If there was any use in wondering over
such matters in this corrupt age, I would marvel exceedingly that he
should ever have been made a member of the United States Senate! But
these affairs are unfathomable. As for Lenore, she was always sly and
underhand. I know that she has never cared for her big, red-faced
senator, and only married him to gratify her vanity, and--mamma, say
what you like, you can never change my opinion--there is a secret in
Lenore Vane’s life. And I believe that, to cover up this secret--this
bad, black, unpleasant secret--she married Senator Van Alstyne!”
“Rosamond!”
Mrs. Raleigh’s face was pale as death, and in her gray-blue eyes
something like terror.
“You are talking wildly, daughter,” she returned, trying to steady
her voice. “You could know nothing concerning Lenore’s past. She is
seven years your senior. You were twenty-five last summer,” she added,
musingly.
“Hush!” Rosamond turned quite pale. “The idea of your telling my age
right out like that! Anyone in the next room might have heard every
word! But, speaking of Lenore’s position, I am going to shine her down
to-morrow night at her own reception! In point of beauty she can not
hold a candle to me! With her pale, colorless face, and big, dark eyes,
and all that assumption of hauteur! Bah! I am sick of all the silly
flatteries lavished upon that woman! Ah-h!” hissing the word forth
vindictively, “if only it were in my power to unmask her, to expose
her secret--whatever it may be! And, mamma, listen, and believe me: I
am convinced that the day is coming when I shall triumph--when I shall
cast her down from her high pedestal into the very dust at my feet! Oh,
what a day that will be!”
“Rosamond!”
“Then I will pay back the debt of hatred that I owe, with compound
interest,” hissed the girl, paying no heed to her mother’s warning
voice; “and so, mamma”--changing to a lighter tone--“I shall go to
Madame Lenore Van Alstyne’s reception to-morrow night, wearing the
Raleigh diamonds and that incomparable amber satin. You know me well
enough to be sure that I am going to have my own way!”
Mrs. Raleigh sighed as she turned away, while Rosamond crossed the room
to a door which communicated with a small octagonal apartment, and
opened it hastily. Her face was still harsh and angry, and there was a
glitter in the blue eyes which boded ill for some one.
“Noisette!” she called, shrilly.
A young girl, a pale-faced, dark-eyed girl, seated at a window in the
tiny room, busily engaged in painting upon a piece of amber satin, laid
down her brush, and turned swiftly.
“Do you want me, Miss Rosamond?” she asked.
“Do I want you? Humph! Of course I would be sure to call you if I did
_not_ want you! That goes without saying! Have you finished the last
panel of the amber satin?”
“Not quite.” The girl’s voice was slow and hesitating. “My heart hurts
me so this morning that I could not work quite so fast as usual, and
so--”
“Bring it here to me!”
The voice was low and ominous; Rosamond Raleigh was trembling
with rage. Slowly Noisette obeyed the command, and entered the
outer apartment, in one small, shapely hand the amber satin panel,
exquisitely painted with bunches of scarlet poppies, and long, clinging
tendrils of pale-green leaves. It was the work of a true artist, and
Rosamond Raleigh knew it--knew that her hand-painted fans and costly
bits of silk and satin were the envy of half her set. And she realized
perfectly that she was getting all this exquisite work done for such a
mere nothing--the poor girl was a dependent upon the Raleighs--that it
was a positive sin.
One glance at the girl’s pale face and heavy, red-rimmed eyes, but
not a tinge of pity stirred Miss Raleigh’s cold heart. The heart of a
fashionable woman, immersed in dress and society, is colder and harder
than stone.
“Not done yet,” in a cutting voice, “and the reception at Senator Van
Alstyne’s to come off to-morrow night, and I must have that dress to
wear. I will have it; do you hear me? That painting must be done,
though it kills you to do it.”
“Miss Rosamond, I will try.”
The girl’s voice was very faint, and trembled perceptibly.
“But my heart hurts me awfully,” she continued, “and sometimes I am
obliged to stop and rest; and it is so difficult to breathe. Everything
seems to get dark before me, and I feel afraid. And besides,”
hesitatingly, “the odor of the paints is disagreeable.”
“Well, have you finished your complaints?” sneered Miss Raleigh,
pitilessly. “Because if you have I would be pleased to see you go to
work. I think I have done enough for you in taking you out of the
orphan asylum and giving you a good home. But you are getting so lazy
that you do not earn your salt. Go back to the sewing-room at once, and
have that panel finished before three o’clock, or”--she drew her breath
with a little hiss, her blue eyes glaring angrily into the girl’s
white, pain-distorted face--“it will be bad for you, my lady,” she
added, sharply.
Noisette bent her head slightly, and, taking the panel, returned to the
room that she had left, closing its door behind her. Her face was white
and rigid, and one hand clutched at her heart as though in pain.
“Heaven help me!” murmured the poor girl, under her breath. “I am
dying, and she knows it. Ah, better for me if she had left me in the
asylum. At least they have some mercy there.”
She sunk into the low seat at the window and took the brush in her
cold, clammy hand.
“God pity the orphan!” she murmured, feebly.
The brush began to move slowly, uncertainly over the glinting, amber
satin; at length it fell upon the dainty fabric, leaving a big red
stain. It looked like heart’s blood.
The girl started up as though some one had struck her a blow; her head
fell forward. A sensation stole over her like floating dreamily through
space. The pale lips parted, and one word escaped them:
“Mother!”
That was all.
* * * * *
“Rosamond! Come here, quick! Oh, God, have mercy upon us!”
Rosamond Raleigh heard her mother’s voice in tones of wildest
excitement and alarm an hour or two later, and arising from the satin
couch, where she had been reading a French novel, she hastened to the
octagonal room whence the sound proceeded.
Her mother was standing beside the marble table, upon which the
painting materials were scattered, and Noisette’s head had fallen
forward and rested against the marble top of the table. But the first
object that caught Rosamond’s eye as she entered the room was the spot
of fresh paint upon the amber satin panel.
She caught her breath with a gasp of rage.
“You have ruined my dress!” she shrieked, rushing to the side of the
poor girl, and seizing her rudely by the shoulder; “you have literally
ruined it! But you shall pay for it! I swear it! I will make you suffer
for this! Mamma!”--falling back with a terrified cry--“what is the
matter?”
Noisette’s head had fallen limply to one side, as the rude fingers
closed down upon the thin shoulders in that cruel grip; her eyes were
half open, set, staring and glassy; her lips were parted, showing
the white teeth with a ghastly expression. Noisette was dead! Heart
disease had stricken her down while at her work.
The orphan girl’s troubles were ended. She had died at her post,
engaged in a thankless task.
For just a moment the hard heart of Rosamond Raleigh quailed; she sunk
into a seat and covered her face with her hands.
“Mamma!” glancing up at last, “is she really dead? Is there no hope--no
mistake? Why, this is awful! And it will get into the newspapers. I
wouldn’t have Jack Lyndon get hold of the affair, not for a fortune!
I’m more than half afraid of his sharp tongue and sharper pen. Can we
do nothing?” arising, and, with evident repugnance, approaching the
still figure in the chair.
Mrs. Raleigh shook her head. She had seen Death in too many forms not
to know his dread presence beyond a doubt.
“She has been dead an hour, I should think,” Mrs. Raleigh observed;
“but for form’s sake I will send for a physician. And then--oh,
dear!--there will be a coroner’s inquest, and--”
“Never! Not in this house! Mamma, just think of the publicity! We must
manage to avoid it in some way.”
And they did. In their high position, and with plenty of money at their
command--alas! what will not money do?--all was speedily arranged. The
body of the girl was arrayed for its last resting-place, and borne into
an unused room, where it was placed in a plain coffin, to be buried
quietly away in the nearest cemetery early in the morning.
The arrangements all concluded, Mrs. Raleigh locked the door of the
room where the dead girl lay sleeping so peacefully, and turned to
go back to the drawing-room. But at that very moment the door-bell
rang, there was a brief pause in the spacious entrance-hall, then
the sweeping of silken skirts coming to the wing of the house where
the dead girl lay. Mrs. Raleigh started nervously. A moment later
she was face to face with Lenore Van Alstyne. Tall and slender, with
great, melancholy dark eyes, and a face of marble pallor, she was very
beautiful, and--you could read it at a glance--a woman who would die
for pride’s sake. Mrs. Raleigh could not control her surprise at sight
of her niece.
“I heard that Noisette was dead,” began Lenore at once; “so I drove
around to see if I can do anything. Let me see her, Aunt Helen.”
“Oh, my dear, it is not a pleasant sight. I--”
Lenore’s haughty lip curled.
“Death is seldom a pleasant sight, Aunt Helen!” she returned, coldly.
“I have always liked the girl; she was very unassuming, and certainly
industrious. Let me go in, Aunt Helen. See, I have brought her some
flowers--her favorite lilies.”
So, though much against her will, Mrs. Raleigh unlocked the door, and
they entered the chamber of death, followed shortly by Rosamond.
Lenore laid her lilies upon the open coffin, and then, moved by a
sudden impulse, sunk down upon her knees beside the dead girl. Silence
fell over all, and the moments passed, and still she knelt there. Mrs.
Raleigh turned to her daughter.
“Rosamond, this is no place for you,” she began in a stage whisper;
but she stopped short in unfeigned surprise at sight of the look upon
Rosamond’s face.
“Mamma,” drawing her mother aside and speaking in an almost inaudible
tone, lest their visitor should hear, “look! Did you ever see a more
perfect resemblance than those two faces? In life we never observed it,
but death brings the truth startlingly forward. Noisette is the very
image of Lenore!”
“Nonsense! What absurdity, child! It is only one of those accidental
resemblances which one stumbles across very often. Ah! there; she is
going at last, thank Heaven! I shall never feel comfortable until that
body is out of the house,” she added, plaintively.
The body was out of the house early the next morning, buried away with
scant ceremony, and soon forgotten.
* * * * *
Mrs. Raleigh sat in her dainty boudoir a few days later. The reception
at Senator Van Alstyne’s was a thing of the past, but Rosamond had been
conspicuous by her absence.
“If I can not wear the amber satin I will not go at all,” the willful
beauty had declared with an emphatic stamp of a small foot in a dainty
bronze slipper; “but I shall make capital out of this horrid affair.
Our set shall believe that I remained at home out of respect for my
protégée’s memory, and not because I was disappointed in my dress.
And I must find another girl in Noisette’s place--I believe I will
advertise for a companion.”
And so she did--and fate decreed that this advertisement should
attract poor Lillian Leigh’s notice, and she resolved to apply for
the position. So Mrs. Raleigh, upon this particular morning of
which I write, was interviewing Lillian, who had ventured to call
at the Raleigh mansion in response to the advertisement. A slender,
black-robed figure, she looked like a mere child as she told her
pitiful story.
“I want employment, madame,” she said, lifting her great, sad
brown eyes to the cold, high-bred face before her. “The old
work--type-writing--has failed me; and besides, I prefer to leave my
present home. I can not endure to remain among the old familiar scenes.
I wish to lead a retired life, and yet I have my own living to make.”
A cold, critical glance swept the black-robed figure from head to foot,
then Mrs. Raleigh’s slow, languid voice observed:
“You may make a trial of us, if you like. Of course we can not pay
much to a novice, but after a time you will receive a good salary.”
So the arrangements were speedily completed, and for a pitifully
small sum Lillian Leigh agreed to act as “companion” to Miss Rosamond
Raleigh, little dreaming of what lay before her, and that fate was
leading her blindly on. Coming down the broad staircase, the first
evening of her life at the Raleigh mansion, Lillian came suddenly face
to face with a tall, dark, brigandish-looking man who had just entered
the house. One glance, and he fell back, clutching wildly at a carved
Gothic chair which stood near, his dark face grown pale as death.
“Who are you?” he gasped. “Surely you are Gilbert Leigh’s daughter?”
She bowed coldly.
“I am Gilbert Leigh’s daughter!” she returned, in a dignified manner.
He glanced furtively about him. There was no one in the hall--no one
within hearing, apparently. He caught her hand with a hasty gesture.
“I must know you better, Miss Leigh,” he said, swiftly, his evil eye
studying every feature of the pale, indignant face. “I am Richard
Raleigh, only son and heir of the Raleighs,” he added, with a smile.
As he spoke he drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and a card
fluttered with it to the floor. Lillian stooped and picked it up. It
was a small photograph, and--could it be possible?--it was a photograph
of her own face! Trembling like a leaf, she flashed indignantly upon
him.
“How dare you!” she was beginning, wildly; but, checking her
agitation, she went on, swiftly: “Mr. Raleigh, where did you obtain
this photograph? I must know! It is one that my father carried in his
pocket. There can be no mistake. See, here are his initials, ‘G. L.,’
on the back of the card. Mr. Richard Raleigh, I demand an answer. Where
did you get this picture?”