GEOFFREY GREY ATONES.
What a journey that was across the Atlantic! With Cyril Fayne standing
guard over the white-faced, scared-looking man who crouched in a
retired corner of the deck all day, and at night was locked in a
state-room to which Fayne himself held the key, guarded like a prisoner
on his way to prison, never for a moment left alone, constantly under
surveillance, Geoffrey Grey will never forget that journey until the
day he dies. But at last the end came, as everything comes to an end
some time or other, and
“Good times and bad times, sad times and glad times, and all times
alike
Will pass over.”
And at last the vessel steamed into port, and, half dead with terror
and cowardly shrinking, Geoffrey Grey was taken on shore, and, still
closely guarded, conveyed to the nearest hotel.
It was an awful task to which Cyril Fayne had pledged himself; but
he persevered in grim determination, his face set and stern, and an
ominous light in his resolute dark eyes.
He knew that the crisis of his life--his own life and Lenore’s--was
close at hand. The hour was drawing nigh when men should acknowledge
their mutual sufferings, their mutual wrongs, or every man’s hand
should be against him, and his hand against every man in war
henceforth. He shut his teeth closely together with a repressed cry,
heartsick and weary.
“But she must be defended,” he panted, eagerly, “she must be upheld by
a strong arm; and mine is surely strong enough for her to lean upon.
The world shall learn the truth and acknowledge its error, and shall
beg her pardon--my sweet, white lily flower, my pearl of purity!”
And his face froze over into stern determination. It would have been
bad for Senator Van Alstyne had he chanced to meet Cyril Fayne at that
moment.
* * * * *
The Raleigh mansion was brilliantly illuminated, and a grand reception
was in progress, for fashion is vigorous and tyrannical, and Mrs.
Raleigh knew that she must throw open her doors to her dear five
hundred friends, and make known Richard’s marriage to Lillian Leigh,
or the fashionable world would conclude at once that the marriage was
obnoxious to her. So, though secretly much against her own desires, she
had issued cards for a grand reception in honor of her son’s marriage.
But she found more difficulty with Lillian than she had apprehended. At
first the girl refused outright to appear at all, but the entreaties
of Mrs. Raleigh were not without effect. Lillian felt that, after all,
it would be a small concession for her to appear in the drawing-room
for a short time; and since it would keep peace in the family, she
consented at last. But she refused firmly to lay aside her mourning. In
vain did Mrs. Raleigh lay before her the enormity of a bride appearing
in black; her words were wasted. The utmost to which her persuasion
could induce Lillian to agree was a compromise between black and white.
So a beautiful costume had been ordered of fancy black-and-white
crêpe lisse, with heavy jet ornaments. The girl looked like a queen
in mourning-garments as she stood at Mrs. Raleigh’s side, under the
blazing chandelier in the great drawing-room, receiving the guests as
they arrived.
Every one seemed conscious of a strange restraint--a feeling pervaded
the apartment as though they were expecting some one or something
to come. It came like an electric shock as the voice of the footman
announced, in loud tones:
“Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Fayne--Mr. Geoffrey Grey!”
Van Alstyne, seated at Bessie Vernon’s side, dropped the bouquet of
orchids which he was just presenting to that lady, and started to his
feet, his red face fairly purple with wrath--and was it fear that
lurked in his snaky little eyes?
A strange silence fell upon the room as Cyril entered with Lenore
leaning upon his arm--Lenore all in bridal white--a robe of shimmering
satin strewn with seed-pearls. Her face was very pale; but her head
was held aloft in haughty grace, and her dark eyes blazed with scorn.
Following closely in their wake was Geoffrey Grey.
The guests seemed to shrink closer together--the female portion, at
least--as though they thought it contamination to even breathe the same
atmosphere with this woman whom they had hunted down.
Cyril Fayne bowed lowly before the astonished assemblage; then he
spoke, and the words that he uttered froze the audience into silence.
“I present to you,” he began, in a clear, ringing voice, “my wife, Mrs.
Lenore Fayne, and I wish to tell you our strange story--a story which
I believed had been made public long ago, or I would have left Europe
before this to set right in the eyes of the world the woman so bitterly
wronged.
“My friends, this lady became my wife nearly eighteen years ago. See,
here is the marriage certificate. We were married in Arles, France, as
you will see by glancing at this document. We were separated by fraud
and treachery--separated, and I believed her dead, and she believed
me false. Afterward she read my name in the list of deaths on board a
burning steamer, and she too believed me gone to my last account.
“Her only relatives--the Raleighs--were traveling through France.
They found her and took her home to America with them, and with
them she resided for years. But she never told her story. They did
not know the truth; and when Senator Van Alstyne asked her hand in
marriage they looked upon it as a grand match for her; and so, urged
and influenced--pressed upon all sides--Lenore consented and became
the wife of Senator Van Alstyne. Of the life which she led with him I
will not speak. In the meantime I came to America, and, roving about
aimlessly, I saw my wife one day by accident, and learned that she was
married to another man.
“In the disguise of an old woman, a fortune-teller, I managed to get
into her presence, and, by the aid of a little juggling, which I had
learned in the East, threw the party into consternation, in the midst
of which I managed to slip a note into her hands.
“I afterward wrote her a full explanation of what had happened, and in
her reply I learned what I had suspected, that she loved me still, and
hated the man Van Alstyne. And she was my wife! To me not all the years
of separation could prevent my claim. I determined to claim her, after
which a legal process would settle all questions, and a repetition of
the marriage ceremony would make all binding. In the eyes of God she
was my wife.
“And now comes the point wherein I blame myself severely. Lenore
was weak and nervous. She feared Van Alstyne with a terror beyond
expression, and she shrunk from an open explanation. Weakly I yielded,
and we went away together, leaving a letter for Van Alstyne, explaining
all.
“He found and read that letter, learned the whole truth, then he went
down to his drawing-room, into the presence of his guests, and told
them a deliberate falsehood--that Lenore had fled with her lover, that
she was base and vile.
“I acknowledge the weakness of my own course; but it was a mistake made
through the kindest intentions toward my suffering wife. She did not
know all that had taken place until we had been living in Italy for
some time, our marriage having been celebrated for the second time upon
my friend Thornton’s yacht. All formalities were rigorously observed.
She is my lawful wife.
“The very day that we learned the truth and how Van Alstyne had
sought, by the ruin of her fair fame, to obtain revenge, that very day
Providence threw into my way the man who had wrought the sorrow of our
lives--Geoffrey Grey. I have forced him to return with us to America to
bear witness to the truth of my words, and the secret of Lenore Fayne’s
life. Geoffrey Grey, speak, and tell the truth, the whole truth, I
command you.”
Geoffrey Grey lifted his handsome head and gazed about him with a
crest-fallen expression.
“I acknowledge my own wrong-doing,” he said, slowly. “Years ago, when
I was only twenty-one, I loved Lenore Vane; but she never cared for
me. I was accustomed to flattery and homage, and the thought that she
did not love me, and would never care for me, made me desperate. I
asked her to be my wife, but she refused, and refused me with scorn,
ending at last by acknowledging her love for Cyril Fayne. I had never
liked him; he was always so grand and dignified; he never joined me in
my mad escapades; and he loved Lenore so dearly and with such jealous
tenderness that he would scarcely permit me to speak her name. At
last they were married, and not long afterward Cyril Fayne was called
away to England upon business, and Lenore was left alone. In an evil
hour an awful plot entered my brain, and I determined to separate
husband and wife, if possible, forever. I planned a tale of Cyril’s
treachery and falseness. I made Lenore believe, with such apparently
overwhelming proof that no woman dare doubt it that Cyril Fayne had
gone to England with another woman, and that she was a deserted wife.
About that time a steamer was burned at sea. I caused a list of the
dead to be shown Lenore--a list which contained the names of Cyril
Fayne and a woman registered upon the steamer’s books as his wife. It
is useless to add that I had caused the false report to be printed
that she might see and believe in his treachery. A few months later
her child was born--a puny little girl. A short time after its birth I
sought Lenore again and asked her to be my wife. She refused me with
bitter scorn, averring that, true or false, she loved Cyril Fayne, and
would never love another. In my anger I determined to be avenged, and
I--I stole her child and took it to America. Once there, I placed it
in an orphan asylum--the asylum of St. Vincent in this city. The child
was afterward removed from the asylum by the Raleighs under the name of
Noisette--Noisette Duval.”
There was a wild cry, and Rosamond Raleigh started to her feet,
pale and trembling. There in the door-way stood a slight, childish
figure--a pale, sad face, with great, dark, unearthly eyes--in one hand
a bit of amber satin, while the shadowy fingers plied the brush as
usual with swift, deft strokes--never ending--never ending.
Another wild shriek went up from Rosamond Raleigh’s pale lips, then she
tottered a few steps and fell to the floor. When they lifted her and
bore her from the room, the overwrought brain had given way, and she
was raving like a mad woman.