HAUNTED.
For just a moment Richard Raleigh quailed like a craven form before the
angry blast in those fearless dark eyes.
“My dear young lady, you must be mad!” he cried, mockingly. “Ah, yes;
it is one that I picked up down-town in the office of the ‘Thunderer.’
Jack Lyndon, one of the staff, had it. Seems that he was present when
your father’s body was found; the photograph fell from his pocket, and
Lyndon picked it up. I saw it, fell in love with it, begged Jack to
relinquish it, which he did; and so I have it. Are you satisfied, Miss
Leigh?”
She was trembling like a reed in the wind, her brown eyes flashing like
fire at the insulting narrative.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” she pouted at last. “Mr. Lyndon is a
gentleman--a true, noble-hearted, honorable gentleman! He was my best
friend when papa died--was murdered,” she added, bleakly. “Mr. Raleigh,
I don’t care what you say; you shall not slander Mr. Jack Lyndon in my
presence. He is the noblest man whom I have ever met.”
“I thank you.”
The girl turned swiftly about; she had not heard the street door open.
A tall form stood at her side; a pair of grave, kindly eyes gazed into
the girl’s excited face, as, hat in hand, Jack Lyndon bowed low before
Miss Raleigh’s companion, waiting-maid, and general factotum.
“God bless you for your championship,” he added, softly. An angry light
overspread Richard Raleigh’s face, but he bowed with tolerable civility
as his eyes met Jack Lyndon’s.
“Ah, good-evening, Lyndon,” he sneered. “May I inquire the nature of
the business which has conferred upon the house of Raleigh the honor of
your presence?”
Jack’s handsome face flushed.
“A note of invitation from Miss Rosamond Raleigh brings me here,” he
said, coldly. “It is a matter of small importance to me whether I
call or not, Mr. Raleigh, but a lady’s written request is not to be
neglected.”
Lillian had slipped the photograph of her own face into her pocket,
and glided away to finish the errand which had brought her thither.
A little later, passing through the great hall once more, on her way
upstairs, she caught a glimpse of a pretty little tableau: Rosamond
Raleigh, in the music-room, seated at the grand piano, attired in
an artistic robe of white surah, with pink roses at her throat and
one half-open bud nestling in her dyed, blonde hair. She was most
artistically got up, and as the small, jeweled hands swept the white
keys, the big blue eyes were lifted, with a sweet, childish expression,
to the grave, handsome face of Jack Lyndon, as he stood beside the
instrument. What was Rosamond’s object in inviting him there? he
asked himself again and again. He was only a poor journalist; rapidly
rising in his profession, it is true, but not worthy to compare, in
point of wealth and position, with the daughter of Grafton Raleigh the
millionaire. And it never once occurred to Jack that the proud, haughty
society woman might have found a heart beating under her silken bodice,
even as Undine found her soul.
Lillian, passing through the hall, saw the couple at the piano, for the
door was open, and a strange pang shot through her heart as she passed
hastily upstairs to attend to her duties. There were guests invited to
the Raleigh mansion that night, and Jack had found himself included in
the invitations, while, much to his surprise, the tiny scented note
contained a P.S., carefully underscored:
“Please come very early. Say at eight.”
And, wondering greatly, he had obeyed her.
He found Miss Raleigh awaiting him.
“Senator and Mrs. Van Alstyne will look in at our reception to-night,”
she announced. “You know that Mrs. Van Alstyne is my cousin? I thought
that you might like to describe her costume when you write up our
reception for to-morrow’s paper,” with a little laugh.
Jack bowed and smiled his thanks, and then the door-bell rang, and the
first arrival was announced.
Who that saw Lenore Van Alstyne that night will ever forget her? She
wore a trailing robe of shimmering pink satin, with a V-shaped corsage
draped with costly white lace and a great cluster of snow-white
marguerites. Not a jewel did she wear, not even a flower in the massive
coils of silky dark hair. She was adorned by her own stately beauty and
gracious sweetness--jewels which no money can purchase.
It was a grand affair, though only a small party, for Rosamond disliked
a crowd. The evening wore away--that evening during which Miss Raleigh
devoted herself to the entertainment of Jack Lyndon as sedulously as,
in her character of hostess, she dare venture.
Late in the evening Rosamond went upstairs to the pretty octagonal
room which adjoined her own chamber to get a small painting which Jack
Lyndon had expressed a desire to see and with which she would not trust
a servant. She was smiling softly to herself as she ran lightly up the
stairs and laid her hand upon the silver door-knob of the little room
where poor Noisette had passed so many lonely hours, and--yes, where
she had died.
A strange chill crept over Rosamond Raleigh’s heart at the
recollection, and the smile faded from her lips.
The door swung slowly open, and she crossed the threshold. She started
back with a low, frightened cry. Some one had extinguished the gas;
but the moonlight streaming in at the window, whose shade was not
yet drawn, revealed the interior of the pretty room, and rested in
a pearly pathway of light upon the figure seated at the window--the
childish little figure, with a pathetic droop to the small head, bent,
as usual, over the painting materials. An awful horror crept over the
fashionable beauty as she stood there.
How still everything was! The room was too far removed from the
drawing-rooms below for any sound of mirth and revelry to reach it.
Sometimes a quivering, wailing burst of music, sobbing itself into
silence, floated up the staircase, and made a ghostly echo in the room,
where--She glanced once more toward that pathetic little figure bending
over the painting, and Rosamond realized, with a shiver of horror, that
it was no living creature upon which she gazed. An inarticulate cry
passed her lips, as she ventured a little nearer. Was it Noisette’s
spirit which sat there in the moonlight, working out the hard task?
Rosamond saw that the shadowy fingers which grasped the brush were
painting away at the amber satin panel. Painting--painting! but never
to finish. The strokes of the brush up and down left no trace; the
panel was just as Noisette had left it when death had called her,
when the brush had fallen from her nerveless grasp, leaving the big
red stain that looked like heart’s blood. Trembling, gasping for
breath, Miss Raleigh turned and fled from the haunted room. She was
no weak-minded, hysterical girl, to go in nervous spasms over a sight
which she well knew she could never convince the world that she had
witnessed. She fled precipitately, however, nor paused to take breath
until she found herself down in the brilliantly lighted drawing-room
once more, and explaining, in a breathless, laughing, altogether
charming fashion, that the picture must be mislaid, for certainly
it was not to be found. And no one but her mother observed the set
expression that had dawned upon her face, and the look of nameless
terror in her eyes.
“Miss Rosamond!”
She glanced up with a start, to see a tall, liveried footman standing
at her side.
“I don’t like to trouble you,” he went on, hesitatingly, “but it’s an
old woman who will not be denied. She is down in the housekeeper’s
room, and if you wouldn’t mind seeing her a moment, Miss Rosamond--”
With a haughty gesture, Rosamond waved him aside. A little later
she was standing in the housekeeper’s cozy sitting-room, before a
snowy-haired, wrinkled old woman with mild black eyes. She was bent
nearly double over the heavy oaken staff which she clutched with two
skinny hands; but at sound of the opening door, and the swish! swish!
of silken drapery, she lifted her head, and her bold, black eyes met
the glance of interrogation in Miss Raleigh’s cold blue orbs.
“What do you want?” she demanded, sharply.
The old crone bowed humbly.
“I am told that you have guests here to-night, Miss Raleigh,” she
began, in a low tone. “I am a dabbler in the occult and mysterious--I
am a clairvoyant. I can read the future, unmask the present, and,” with
an upward glance of her great black eyes, “expose the secrets of the
past. Don’t look so incredulous, lady--I can do it!”
“What do you want?” demanded Rosamond, haughtily.
“Permission to exhibit my strange powers before your guests,” returned
the woman, promptly. “I am very old, and it is my only means of earning
a livelihood. Let me go into your drawing-room, and I promise to
surprise and astound you. Stay a moment, lady. Is there any one present
whom you dislike--whom you hate?”
Rosamond’s eyes glittered.
“There is. Ah, if you could unmask her, if you could show me her past
and expose her secret, so carefully guarded, I would make you rich for
life!”
The old woman bent her head, and her lips moved as though speaking, yet
she uttered no word.
“Come!” said Rosamond, moved by a sudden impulse. “I will give you
permission to exhibit your powers. But if there is any villainy hidden
under it all, if you have a sinister object in coming here to-night, I
will have you punished to the full extent of the law.”
The old woman’s eyes twinkled.
“Trust me, lady. You will never regret it,” she returned. Low under her
breath she was muttering to herself in a broken, disjointed way, as she
followed Miss Raleigh to the drawing-room:
“At last! At last! The hour for which I have longed is here! Oh, to see
her once again--to--”
They had reached the drawing-room door. A few words of explanation, and
all the company gathered in eager excitement about the old woman, who
had sunk into a low seat and sat as still as a statue. At last:
“Murdered!” she cried, in a shrill voice, which penetrated to every
corner. “Murdered! Poor Gilbert Leigh! My friends, the guilty wretch
who took that old man’s life is present within this very room.”
There was a stifled shriek, followed by a heavy fall; the gas-lights
had gone out suddenly, leaving the great room in darkness, and an awful
silence settled over the scene.