WHAT DOLLY TOLD.
Seven weeks slipped uneventfully away.
The bright, cool days of October gave place to dreary, drizzly, bleak
November.
Liane had become absorbed into Boston's great army of busy working
girls. Lizzie White had secured her a position at a glove counter in
the same store with herself, and granny had rented two cheap rooms in
Mrs. Brinkley's house, and gone to housekeeping.
Her resentment against Liane continued unabated, and she never gave
the girl a kind word, but she refrained from acts of violence, lest
her meek slave should rebel and leave her alone, in her old age and
poverty, to fight the battle of a useless existence.
Meanwhile Judge Devereaux had died and been buried with the pomp and
ceremony befitting his wealth and position, and his son and daughter
had inherited his millions.
Roma Clarke did not fail to send a letter of the sweetest sympathy
to her former lover--a letter that in writing and expression was so
far different from Liane's letter that he could not fail to note the
difference.
"Poor Liane! What a pity her mind is not as cultured as her lovely
face!" he thought, with a bitter pang.
Since the day of their meeting on the avenue, he had not seen Liane,
and he supposed she had seen the sights of the city, bought some garish
finery, and returned to the wretched hovel she called her home.
He despised her for her shallow coquetry, but he could not help pitying
her poverty, and the wretched life with the old hag, from whose brutal
violence he had once rescued her at the cost of a broken arm.
"How gladly I would have taken her from her wretched lot to a life of
love and luxury, but she preferred Dean. I wonder if he has justified
her hopes?" he thought bitterly.
He grew more and more curious on the subject after his father's burial,
in the quiet that comes to a house of mourning, and he suddenly
resolved to return to Stonecliff and find out for himself.
The little seaside town looked very gloomy in the downpour of a cold
November rain, and the boom of the sea, lashed to fury in a storm, was
disquieting to his nerves, but he sallied forth to the post office, and
stood on the steps, watching to see Liane passing by on her way from
work, as on the first day he had seen her lovely face.
How freshly it all came back to him, that day but two months ago, when
he had followed her to restore her truant veil, and first looked into
the luring blue eyes that had thrilled his heart with passion.
What a mighty passion for the shallow coquette had been born in his
heart at that meeting--passion followed by pain! Ah, how he wished now
that he had never met her, that he had let the blue veil blow away
on the heedless wind! The little acts of kindness had brought him a
harvest of pain.
Even now, despite all, he was waiting and watching with painful
yearning for another sight of her face.
But the moments waned, and she came not.
He saw the other work people of the town going home through the falling
dusk. Four of Miss Bray's girls dropped in at the post office, flashing
surprised glances at his handsome, familiar face, wondering at his
return; then they went out again, and he thought that presently Liane
and Dolly would be passing also.
But he was disappointed, and presently he realized that it was useless
waiting longer.
"Dean must have married her and taken her off already, but it must have
been a very quiet affair. I have seen nothing of his marriage in the
papers," he thought with strange disquiet, as he came down the steps.
A handsome carriage, with prancing gray horses, in a silver-mounted
harness, with liveried footman, suddenly drew up at the curbstone, and
a brilliant face flushed on him from the window.
"Oh, Jesse, what a surprise! How do you do? Won't you look in our box
and bring me out my mail?" cried Roma Clarke gushingly.
There was nothing for it but obedience. Jesse came out to her with two
letters and a paper, and as she took them, she threw open the carriage
door, urging sweetly:
"Come home with me, do, and see papa and mamma. They will be so glad to
see you. Poor papa has been ill of a fever, and is just convalescing."
He was in a reckless mood. He accepted the invitation and went home
with her, but she did not find him a very congenial companion. He
ignored her coquettish attempts to return to their old footing.
"You hate me yet," she pouted.
"Not at all. I am glad to be your friend, if you will permit me," he
replied courteously.
"Friend!" Roma cried, in an indescribable tone.
He ignored the reproach, and said calmly:
"Tell me all that has happened since I went back to Boston. Who are
married and who are dead?"
"No one that you know," replied Roma, and she never guessed what a
thrill of joy the words sent to his heart.
He was glad. He could not help it, that Malcolm Dean had not married
Liane yet. He was yearning for news of her, yet he knew better than to
ask Roma for it. He knew it would only make her angry and jealous.
While he was alone in the drawing room, Roma having gone to apprise her
parents of his arrival, he was startled to see Dolly Dorr sidle in,
dressed in a dark-gray gown, with a maid's white cap and apron.
He arose in surprise.
"Miss Dorr! Is it possible?"
Dolly colored and hung her head, muttering:
"You're surprised to see me here as Miss Clarke's maid."
"Yes," he replied frankly; then a sudden thought came to him, and he
added: "And your pretty friend, Miss Lester? Is she at Cliffdene also?"
Dolly tossed her head scornfully.
"No, indeed, she is not here!"
"Where, then?" he asked eagerly, with a painful curiosity.
"Don't you know?" cried Dolly pertly, with her flaxen head on one side,
like a bird, and he answered quickly:
"Of course not!"
Dolly smoothed down her white apron with her little hands, and,
glancing at him sidewise with her bright blue eyes, returned
indignantly:
"Then, if you don't know, I can tell you. I used to like Liane, but I
despise her now. That beauty prize made a fool of the girl, and turned
her so silly no one liked her any more. She spent all that money for
gaudy clothes and cheap jewelry, trying to entrap that artist, Mr.
Dean. She was crazy about him, and didn't mind everybody knowing it,
either. So at last she went chasing off to some city after him, and I
don't know what became of her then, and I don't care, for every one
says she must have gone straight to the bad."
She studied his paling cheek with keen eyes for a moment, then added:
"But I almost forgot. Mr. Clarke sent me to show you up to his room."
Devereaux rose silently, and followed the pert maid upstairs.
It never occurred to Devereaux to doubt Dolly's story in the least. He
believed her a simple, truthful, shallow little maiden devoid of guile.
The little actress had played her part well, and Roma, listening behind
a curtain, was delighted with the skill of her pupil, so hastily
schooled a moment before in her artful story.
With a heavy heart Devereaux followed the scheming maid upstairs to Mr.
Clarke's apartment, where he met a joyful welcome.
"Ah, my boy, I have been ill for many weeks. It seems an age since
we parted that night at the Beauty Show," he exclaimed, as he wrung
Devereaux's hand, adding sadly: "The strangest thing of all is the
disappearance of the successful contestant for the prize. She went
away a day or two afterward, and no one has the least knowledge of her
whereabouts."
This was confirmation of Dolly's artful story, and Devereaux felt a
strange choking in his throat that kept him silent, while Mr. Clarke
continued eagerly:
"To tell the truth, I was deeply interested in the beautiful Miss
Lester, and felt a hearty sympathy for her troubles. She led a sad
existence with that wicked old grandmother, and I was on the point of
asking her to come and stay at Cliffdene as my typewriter, just to
give her a better home, you know, poor girl, when she disappeared so
strangely, going away, some people insinuate, to lead a gayer life,"
sighing.
Devereaux knew quite well, from the letter he had received from her,
that Liane could scarcely have filled the position of Mr. Clarke's
typewriter, but he was too generous to say so. He swallowed the lump in
his throat as best he could, and answered:
"I hope the insinuations are not true, but I cannot tell. I saw Miss
Lester once in Boston. It was a few days after the contest, and she was
walking past my home with a respectable-looking, middle-aged woman. I
have never seen her since."
"So it was to Boston she went? I wish I could find the poor girl! I
would try to interest my wife in her fate," exclaimed Mr. Clarke, but
that lady, entering at the moment, overheard the words, and frowned
angrily.
"I will have nothing to do with the girl, and the interest you take in
her is very displeasing to me," she said curtly.
Roma had worked busily, fostering jealousy in her mind until she almost
hated the name of Liane Lester.
She shook hands with Devereaux, welcomed him cordially, and returned to
the subject.
"Speaking of that girl," she said, "I feel that sympathy is wasted on
such as Liane Lester. At one time Roma and I were both so moved with
pity for her poverty that we offered her the position of Roma's maid,
with a good salary and a comfortable home, but the old woman and the
girl both refused, as if they had actually been insulted, though Dolly
Dorr, who worked with Liane, was glad enough to apply for the position
Liane refused, and fills it very acceptably to Roma. After that we took
no further interest in the girl, and rumor says that her head was quite
turned by vanity after getting the beauty prize, so that she and the
old granny moved away from Stonecliff."
Mrs. Clarke had pitied and admired Liane until her rivalry with Roma,
and the latter's specious tales had turned the scales against her, and
made her jealous of her husband's interest in the lovely girl, so she
said again, with flashing eyes and heightened color:
"I do not approve of Mr. Clarke's strong interest in the girl, and
would certainly never consent to receive her beneath the roof of
Cliffdene."
She did not understand the strange glance of blended reproach and pity
her husband bent upon her as he thought:
"My poor, deceived love, I cannot be angry with her, for she does not
understand the painful interest I take in this Liane Lester, foreboding
that she may possibly be our own child, doomed to poverty and woe,
while her place in our homes and hearts is usurped by an upstart and
an ingrate, without one lovable trait, but whom my poor wife feels
compelled to blindly worship, believing her her own child! Ah, how
unfortunate this illness that has prevented my tracing Nurse Jenks'
history!"