VAN ALSTYNE’S REVENGE.
When Van Van Alstyne spoke those words--those cruel, awful words--he
was speaking falsely, and he knew it. For the letter which he had found
in his room--the letter which Cyril Fayne had written--had told the
whole truth. And Van Alstyne had set his teeth hard together over a
fearful imprecation, while he vowed an awful vengeance upon the woman
who had left him forever.
“I will not kill her,” he muttered, hoarsely. “Oh, no! she would be
out of her misery then. And I will not pursue them and punish them;
for they would publish their story far and near, and would win all
sympathy; and I would be looked upon as an old tyrant from whose
clutches Lenore had escaped to a brighter, happier life. If the world
knew the truth--knew the contents of this letter--she would have all
sympathy and her course would be universally approved. And they have
played directly into my hands by not coming out openly and declaring
the truth. But Cyril Fayne--curse him!--would spare her every pang,
every sorrow. He has taken her away to a foreign land, but they will
return some day; and when that time comes, they will return to find
themselves ostracized by all respectable people, condemned by public
opinion, shunned as moral lepers. That is my revenge! Who shall say
that it is not sweet?”
And then he had walked quietly down-stairs to the drawing-room, and
repeated to the assembled guests the story of Lenore Van Alstyne’s
downfall. He attempted no palliation, asked no leniency for the fallen
woman; but coarsely, brutally told the tale which was destined to
blight a woman’s whole life.
After that there was little desire for merry-making. Not that they
grieved so much over Lenore; she was not a general favorite. She was
too cold and quiet, too honest and sincere to be appreciated or widely
liked. Not being a hypocrite, she would not sully her white soul with
deceit, and pretend to a friendship which she did not feel. She
“Walked too straight for fortune’s end
And loved too true to keep a friend.”
And now she must suffer for her honesty and sincerity. In fashionable
society this is inevitable.
One by one the guests took their departure. A few of the older
gentlemen seemed inclined to tarry; perhaps for the purpose of offering
sympathy and consolation. But Van Alstyne coolly dismissed them all
with a stiff “Thanks for your sympathy, old friend; I do not require
it. I have seen the coming ruin for some time, and I have shielded her
and covered up her sins and short-comings because she was my wife. But
now that that which was hidden has become clear, I have no more to say.
I prefer to be alone. Good-night, gentlemen.”
Once left alone in his deserted house, Van Van Alstyne went quietly
upstairs, where he lighted a bronze hand-lamp. Then, lamp in hand, he
turned in the direction of the suite of rooms which had been occupied
by his wife, separate and distinct from his own. He paused upon a
white fur rug before the great carved Gothic door, and slowly turned
the silver knob. There were three rooms in the suite--sleeping-room,
dressing- and bath-room--all connected, and only separated from each
other by crimson velvet portières. The sleeping-room was all in
crimson, with dashes of old gold, with exquisite lace hangings, and
carved rosewood furniture. The dainty satin-covered bed was smooth
and untouched. The black lace robe which she had worn that night was
flung across the foot, and heaped upon the marble toilet-table were
the topaz ornaments, gleaming and glittering like weird, uncanny eyes.
Van Alstyne opened a drawer in the toilet-table. There were her jewel
cases; every jewel reposed upon the white satin bed; not one had been
removed. A second drawer was filled to the brim with rare and costly
laces--point, Mechlin, duchess, Valenciennes--of the most costly
pattern and dainty workmanship.
The great carved wardrobes were overflowing with rich and costly
garments. Silks, satins, velvets, furs. Her Russian sables had been the
envy of half the city that winter.
Van Alstyne paused to place the bronze lamp upon the toilet-table,
while he stood glaring about him with ferocious eyes. He looked like a
tiger--blood-thirsty, cruel--as he stood there, his small, snaky eyes
growing red and blood-shot, his hands clutching the empty air as though
his fingers were about her throat. Then, with a sudden bound and a
hoarse imprecation, he darted forward like one possessed with the very
frenzy of madness. He snatched up the costly lace robe--the dress which
she had last worn--and rent it into unsightly fragments, heaping them
upon the fire which burned smolderingly upon the marble hearth.
Once given over to the evil spirit which had entered his body, he
behaved like a demon. He tore down the beautiful dresses from the
wardrobe, and tearing them into tatters, piled them high upon the
hearth. The flames crawled over them and thrust their fiery tongues
through the silk and satin and velvet sheen, consuming, ruining,
blackening, destroying. Then he opened the jewel caskets and tossed
their contents upon the velvet carpet, setting his boot-heel upon them
in vindictive fury, grinding them into fragments. It was an awful sight.
He came to a pause only when he had wrought utter ruin and desolation.
The frightened servants, aroused from the slumber which they had
only just sought, made their way at length to their lady’s chamber.
It was then that the maniac grew quiet, and turning abruptly upon
them, ordered the fire to be extinguished and the servants to retire.
Tremblingly they obeyed him; and when they had gone away again Van Van
Alstyne locked the outer door of the suite of rooms which had been
Lenore’s, and slipping the key into his pocket, went slowly down the
great carved staircase, through the outer door into the gloom without.
It was the dark hour which always comes before day, a dense darkness
which could almost be felt. But through the gloom Van Alstyne made
his way as straight as a die down to the fountain in the midst of the
marble basin, upon whose surface water-lilies were thickly matted
together. It was a deep and treacherous pool, which had been turned
into an ornament for the Van Alstyne grounds. Although not large, it
was almost fathomless; and the marble sides served as ornaments, and at
the same time marked a spot which would otherwise be dangerous.
Once here, Van Alstyne halted, and drawing the key from his pocket
dropped it into the glistening pool. A few ripples, and it found bottom
somewhere; and then with a muttered curse he turned away.
Plunging into the shrubbery near, he made his way back to the
house--the lonely, deserted house--and up to his own chamber, where,
hastily disrobing, he threw himself upon his bed, and after a time fell
into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
The following evening the city newspapers were teeming with sensational
paragraphs--just such paragraphs as would drive a proud, sensitive
woman to commit suicide. And thus they told the story of Lenore Van
Alstyne’s downfall:
“ELOPEMENT IN HIGH LIFE!”
“It is with pain that we chronicle the disgrace and desolation which
have fallen upon the palatial mansion of one of our most influential
citizens. And while our hearts bleed with sympathy for him, we can only
condemn the base woman who has been the cause of all this sorrow.
“Last night, at the elegant mansion of a certain millionaire, a grand
entertainment was given. The hostess, a beautiful brunette, received
her guests in apparently her usual spirits; but a little past ten
o’clock she disappeared from the drawing-room, and her guests saw her
no more.
“She went to meet her lover, a foreigner, who has been quite marked
in his attentions to her of late. It seems that an elopement had been
planned which was successfully carried out. She has fled with her
lover, this false woman who has brought sorrow to her fond husband’s
heart and ruin to the home which was once hers.
“A shadow black as the regions of torment will rest upon her memory,
and henceforth the name of Lenore Van Alstyne will be a synonym for
everything base and vile. Lost, ruined, irretrievably and forever, it
is to be hoped that she will never return to this place. It is believed
that the guilty pair have gone to Europe.
“Our distinguished townsman has our earnest sympathy in his
affliction. But such a woman will not be deeply mourned by the
community, or long missed.”
* * * * *
Seated in the Hotel de Ville, Paris, glancing over an American
newspaper, Lenore read these lines--the awful, condemning words which
made her heart stand still with wordless horror and blank despair--and
she understood. The man whom she had left had purposely ignored the
letter, and kept silent in regard to its contents--that letter which
would have made plain the whole bitter truth.
“This is his revenge,” she murmured, brokenly, “and the end is not yet!”