ROSAMOND SPEAKS HER MIND.
Full of blank, wordless horror, Rosamond stood staring into the
startled face of her companion, too terrified to move from the spot and
shut out the awful scene.
And still the girlish figure at the window of the round room bent over
its never-ending task; still the shadowy fingers wielded the brush,
and the scarlet poppies and graceful vine tendrils grew beneath that
ghostly touch upon the amber satin--grew and blossomed into artistic
beauty, but never done--never to be done.
Shivering all over, like one with an ague, Rosamond Raleigh clutched
the arm of her waiting-maid.
“Lillian!”--her teeth chattering like castanets as she attempted to
speak--“it is Noisette, the girl who--who--died in this room two
weeks ago! It is she; there is no mistake about it; no freak of the
imagination, no fancy. It is Noisette Duval, the little French girl
whom I took from the orphan asylum and treated like a sister. We gave
her a home--a good home, only receiving in return her services as my
maid, and stipulating that she should spend her spare time in painting
little things--fans, sashes, dress panels, and such trifles. I was
always kind to her, as kind as any one could be!”
Miss Raleigh came to a halt. It seemed to her as those words--those
false, wicked words--passed her lips that a hand was laid upon her
shoulder--a firm, detaining hand--which gripped the soft white flesh
with a merciless clutch. Trembling violently, she burst into a flood of
hysterical tears, sinking down upon the velvet-covered floor, with her
white face buried in her cold, shaking hands.
“Oh, Lillian, I am haunted! I am haunted!” she sobbed, brokenly, at
last. “I know it, I feel it! Whenever I enter this room I see her--see
her sitting there at the window painting, painting away, with that
dejected look upon her face so thin and wan and so unearthly white. Oh,
Lillian! what shall I do?”
A strange courage, born of desperation, seemed to take possession of
Lillian Leigh’s heart. She glanced fearfully in at the open door of the
round room, then with a swift movement she crossed its threshold and
entered the room.
Straight up to the window, looking neither to the right nor to
the left, went Lillian. Her heart beat wildly, throbbing like a
sledge-hammer in her frightened ears; but she went calmly over to where
the apparition still was visible, and stooping, peered into the still,
calm, unearthly face. Instantly there was a low sob, a faint moaning
sound which fell upon the silence with a strange, despairing echo, and
then the vision faded away--the apparition was gone! And nothing was
left to tell the two terrified witnesses that there had been a ghostly
visitant within the room--nothing, save the memory of that which they
could not forget, which they would never forget as long as they both
should live.
With a shudder Lillian went back to the other room, to the graceful
figure in shimmering silk crouching upon the carpet, wringing white
jeweled hands in wildest terror, while shudders like convulsions passed
over her frame.
“Come, Miss Raleigh,” urged Lillian, venturing to lay her hand upon the
bowed head, “let me help you to undress and put on a wrapper, and then
I will brush out your hair, and try to help you to forget this thing.
Oh, Miss Rosamond, there is nothing there! You can see for yourself.
It is all dark now in the round room. There is nothing to fear--it is
gone. Come, sit in this easy-chair, and try to be calm and brave.”
Trembling like an aspen, Rosamond lifted her head.
“I am afraid!” she whimpered, feebly, sobbing like a child who awakes
in his sleep frightened and alarmed, full of shadowy fears of he knows
not what.
She sat gazing about her for a brief space, then she staggered to her
feet.
“Is it really gone?” she faltered. “Then I will--Oh, heavens! what
is that?” with a shrill shriek which resounded throughout the silent
house, as a sharp rap was heard upon the door of the room.
That was the last drop in the bucket; Rosamond’s self-control--such as
it was--gave way, and shriek after shriek rent the silence, while poor
Lillian stood like a statue, too terrified to move, not knowing what
to do; afraid to open the door lest Rosamond’s shrieks should redouble
in violence, yet to stand there and do nothing--good heavens! it was
maddening!
“Rosamond,” called a voice through the key-hole, “for mercy’s sake,
what is the matter? Open the door at once, I say! Are you being
murdered in there?”
The shrieks were cut short in a twinkling. Rosamond started up, pale
and breathless.
“It is mamma,” she panted, in a tone of relief, as she threw herself
into an easy-chair, with clasped hands and a face so full of terror
that it was a sight to behold.
Lillian flew to the door and unlocked it. Upon the threshold, in awful
dignity and a flannel dressing-gown, stood Mrs. Raleigh.
“What--what is the matter?” she gasped, feebly. “I heard such a
disturbance in here that I began to think the house was on fire, or
some other awful calamity had occurred, so I left my bed, threw on
a wrapper, and came here at once. Rosamond,” turning to her weeping
daughter with a face full of alarm, “what has happened?”
And then, amid sobs and tears, and wild terror unsuppressed, Rosamond
sobbed forth the story of the ghostly apparition. Her mother listened
with undisguised contempt.
“A ghost? Bah! Rosamond Raleigh, I gave you credit for a little common
sense! If ever I hear anything of this nonsense again, I shall tell
your father. He will send you off somewhere into the country”--Rosamond
shivered with disgust--“or to some place of retirement, and place you
under a physician’s care, and we will see if your nerves will give way
at every little strain. Rosamond Raleigh, you are a fool!”
She was a real Job’s comforter, Lillian thought; but perhaps it was the
proper course to take. At all events, she knew the nature with which
she had to deal. Rosamond dried her tears and leaned her head against
the soft cushions of the chair, listening, with half-closed eyes, to
her mother’s lecture.
Mrs. Raleigh went over to the door of the round room and threw it open.
One glance and she turned away with a disdainful sniff. Darkness there,
and nothing more.
“It was all a delusion--a foolish fancy!” she exclaimed, harshly.
“It was not, indeed, Mrs. Raleigh. I beg your pardon for contradicting
you, but I saw it myself.”
Lillian could not refrain from this outburst of explanation. Mrs.
Raleigh turned coldly upon her and transfixed her with a Gorgon stare.
“Did I address _you_, girl?” she demanded, severely. “We never permit
servants to speak their minds in that way. You will have to learn your
place if you remain in Miss Raleigh’s employ.”
“I do not know that I shall remain in Miss Raleigh’s employ,” returned
Lillian, quietly. “I was engaged as companion, but find myself reduced
to the position of waiting-maid. The position is not an agreeable one,
and I was not educated and trained for a servant, Mrs. Raleigh.”
“Mamma,” sobbed Rosamond, beginning to turn on the water-works once
more, “that girl will go away and will tell everybody that this house
is haunted; and she will make Mr. Lyndon think me a horrible creature,
and--”
“Mr. Lyndon, indeed!” interposed Mrs. Raleigh, with a look of disgust
too deep for words to express. “And pray, who is Mr. Lyndon, that he
should be of such importance, and his opinion so highly prized by
Grafton Raleigh’s only daughter? Rosamond, I think you forget yourself!
Jack Lyndon is only a poor newspaper _attaché_--a mere nobody, with
neither money nor position--only a handsome face and a sharp tongue to
call his own. He is the last man in the world to whom your father would
be willing to give his daughter. You must be mad to think seriously
of Jack Lyndon. Put it out of your mind at once and forever. He is a
villain to try to win your heart.”
Rosamond started to her feet, pale and wrathful, overcome by anger
which for a time was too deep for expression. Twice she opened her lips
to speak before the words which she was striving to utter were suddenly
hissed forth, sharp and shrill:
“Hush! Don’t say another word, mamma, for I will not listen. A villain!
Jack Lyndon is the best and noblest man in the round world. And poor,
without position though he may be, he is the only man for whom I have
ever really cared, and--mamma, you may as well know it now as later--I
intend to marry him.”
A low cry fell from Lillian’s lips. She could not forget his words
to her so short a time before; his tender tone and the look upon his
handsome face when he begged her to let him stand between her and the
storms of life. And yet he must have said something which made Rosamond
Raleigh believe that he cared for her, or she would never have spoken
in that way. Mrs. Raleigh flashed about at the sound of that low cry,
and her hard, cold eyes swept Lillian from head to foot.
“So you are in love with him too, are you?” she sneered.
Rosamond turned her steely eyes upon the shrinking girl.
“You must be mad,” she hissed, “if you imagine for a moment that Mr.
Lyndon has ever thought seriously of you. He is kind to everybody,
and treats all women alike. With the woman he loves, of course, it is
different,” she went on, icily. “If he has ever spoken kindly to you,
or noticed you in any way, it is because of the chivalry and deference
of his nature, but anything further is absurd.”
And then memory reminded her with a cruel little stab of Jack Lyndon’s
words to her that very evening. He had begged for a private interview
with Lillian Leigh on the following morning, and the look in his eyes
when he made the request of Rosamond revealed the secret of his heart.
He loved a woman dearly, but it was not Rosamond Raleigh! And as Miss
Raleigh remembered, her thin lips shut themselves closely together, and
the small, cold hands clinched each other fiercely, while low under her
breath she muttered, with angry emphasis:
“He shall not see her! He must not! I will manage it some way, and I
shall get rid of her as soon as possible.”
So she turned to Lillian with a peremptory gesture.
“Go to bed!” she commanded, sternly. “Last night when I wished you
to remain with me you made a great fuss; to-night you seem inclined
to remain up till morning. Go to your own room. I shall not need you
to-night, and I wish to talk with mamma.”
Thus summarily dismissed, Lillian said good-night briefly and took her
departure, sore-hearted and sad in mind and body. What did it all mean?
She had begun to trust Jack Lyndon implicitly, and to find out his
treachery was a fearful blow. She closed the door of her room behind
her and stirred the fire into a cheery blaze. Her eyes fell upon a card
lying upon the table; she picked it up and read these words penciled
upon it:
“If Lillian Leigh would gain a clew to the murderer of her father,
let her be in the grounds by the east gate to-morrow night at nine
precisely.”
Trembling like a leaf, Lillian read these words.
“A clew!” she panted, at last. “Can it be possible? What would I not
do to gain possession of it? Oh, to find out the name of the dastardly
wretch who took my father’s life I would be willing to lie down and
die.”
* * * * *
Meanwhile, in Rosamond’s room, Mrs. Raleigh was talking away in a low,
eager tone.
“You are right, Rosamond,” she said, excitedly, “Lenore Van Alstyne
has a secret--a bad secret, I am certain. And _he_ does not know
it--does not dream it--that pompous man who has bought her with his
gold! She hates him, but he does not know why. Here, I found this in
the dressing-room after the guests left last night. I saw it drop from
Lenore’s pocket. Read it, Rosamond, and tell me what you think.”
She thrust a scrap of paper into Rosamond’s hand. Her face flushed with
unholy triumph.