"AS ONE ADMIRES A STATUE."
Happily unconscious of her father's unfavorable opinion, Roma entered
and seated herself close to his chair, displaying an unwonted
tenderness for him that deceived no one but Devereaux, for whose
benefit it was designed. Both her parents knew that Roma was never
affectionate, except to gain some end of her own.
On this occasion she was unwontedly sweet and gentle, with a new
pensiveness in her manner more attractive to Devereaux than her usual
brilliancy. She made no bids for his attention; she seemed sadly
resigned to her fate, as her downcast eyes and stifled sighs attested.
It touched him, but he felt too sad at heart to console others, and he
soon tore himself away, returning that night to Boston, wondering if it
could be possible, that the same city had held Liane all this time that
he had supposed her safe at Stonecliff.
He knew that Malcolm Dean was in Philadelphia, and had been there for
some time, and he wondered if the artist's love for Liane had failed to
realize her confident hopes.
"Poor little thing! I pity her, with her sweet love dream blighted!" he
thought generously, as he awakened early the next morning, pursuing the
same sad train of thought.
A startling surprise awaited him after breakfast, where Lyde was
sitting going over the new magazines.
Her dark eyes brightened suddenly, as she exclaimed:
"Upon my word, Jesse, the beautiful face on the outside cover of this
magazine resembles perfectly the pretty girl from whom I buy my gloves!"
"Really!" he exclaimed, taking the magazine, and flushing and paling
alternately, as he saw before him the cover that Dean had designed,
with Liane's face for the central figure.
How beautiful it was? How beautiful! His heart leaped madly, then sank
again in his breast.
"Do you think it can be accidental, or is it really her portrait? She
is lovely, Jesse, with a natural, high-bred air, the darkest eyes, like
purple pansies rimmed in jet, and the most beautiful chestnut hair, all
touched with gleams of gold. I have woven quite a romance round her,
fancying her some rich girl reduced to poverty."
His heart was beating with muffled throbs, his eyes flashed with
eagerness, but he asked with seeming carelessness:
"What is her name?"
He was not in the least surprised when she answered:
"Miss Lester, and the other girls call her Liane. It is a pretty name,
and, oddly enough, I read it once in a novel. She must have been named
from it; don't you think, Jesse?"
"Perhaps so."
He could hardly speak, he was so excited, and Lyde rambled on:
"We have fallen in love with each other, pretty Liane and I. She always
hurries to meet me and show me her gloves. Her eyes smile at me so
tenderly, as if she were really fond of me, and I almost believe she
is, for when I allow her to try on my gloves for me, she has such a
caressing way, I almost long to kiss her. But then, perhaps, she has
the same manner with all, just to get trade," disappointedly.
Devereaux recalled the caressing touch of her lips on his hand that
night by the sea; her pretty, bashful gratitude, and groaned within
himself.
"Oh, my lost love, my false love!"
Aloud he said cynically:
"I thought you were too proud, Lyde, to notice a pretty salesgirl."
"Oh, Jesse, I like to be kind to them all, poor things! And they
appreciate a kind word and smile more than you might think. And many
of these girls are so very pretty, too, that really, if I were looking
for beauty, I believe I should seek it among the working girls in our
stores. This Liane Lester, too, is lovelier than all the rest, and her
voice so soft and sweet that, really, I am sure she must be a reduced
aristocrat."
He wondered if he dare tell her the truth about Liane, the story of his
love. Smilingly he said:
"You will have me falling in love with your pretty glove girl."
"Oh, not for the world!" she cried, in dismay. "My dear Jesse, never
think of loving and marrying out of your own set. One can admire beauty
in a poor girl as one admires beauty in a statue, but, lifted above her
station, my pretty Liane would not be half so admirable."
"Of course not," he replied cynically, and decided not to make her his
confidante.
All the same, he determined to see for himself again the lovely face
that had won Lyde's admiration. He knew where she bought her gloves,
and that afternoon he was close by when the little army of salesgirls
came pouring out into the street.
By and by came two arm in arm, Lizzie White and Liane, and his eyes
feasted again on the lovely face beneath the little blue hat, noting
with gladness its purity of expression.
"They lied. She is pure and innocent still, in spite of pardonable
vanity and girlish coquetry," he thought, with a subtle thrill of joy.
Then he saw Granny Jenks dart forward with a skinny, outstretched claw,
whining:
"I came for your wages, Liane. I was afraid you might fool away the
money before you got home."
"The old harpy!" he muttered, with irrepressible indignation, as he saw
her clutch the money Liane had earned by her week's toil.
Then he drew back quickly, lest she should see him, a sudden resolve
forming in his mind.
He would follow them, and find out where her home was, and if she
deserved the cruel things they said of her at Stonecliff. He felt sure
that she had been slandered, poor, pretty Liane, leading her simple,
blameless life of toil and poverty.
He thought with pleasure of Mr. Clarke's interest in Liane, and
promised himself to write to that gentleman all he could find out about
her, little dreaming of the cruel consequences that would follow on the
writing of the letter.
"Poor little girl, it is a shame that evil hearts should malign and
traduce her, living her humble life of toil, poverty, and innocence!"
Jesse Devereaux said to himself pityingly, on returning from following
Liane to her humble abode.
He satisfied himself that her surroundings, though poor, were strictly
respectable, and that she earned a meager living for herself and granny
by patient, daily toil, and he had turned back to his own life of ease
and luxury with a sore heart.
Keen sympathy and pity drove resentment from his mind, effacing all but
divine tenderness.
He longed for an intensity that was almost pain to brighten her daily
life, so weary, toilsome, and devoid of pleasure.
"Had she but loved me, beautiful, hapless Liane, how different her lot
in life would have been!" he thought, picturing her as the queen of
his splendid home, her graceful form clothed in rich attire, her white
throat and her tiny little hands glittering with costly gems, while
she leaned on his breast, happy as a queen, his loving bride.
He wondered what had become of Malcolm Dean, and why his ardent
admiration of Liane had waned so soon.
Almost simultaneously with the thought the doorbell rang, and Malcolm
Dean's card was presented to him.
"Show the gentleman in."
They stood facing each other, the handsome blond artist and the
dark-haired millionaire, and the latter recalled with a silent pang
that Liane preferred men with fair hair and blue eyes.
They shook hands cordially; then, as Dean sank into a chair, he noted
that he had grown pale and thin.
"You have been ill?"
"Yes, for weeks, of a low fever that kept me in bed in Philadelphia,
while my heart was far away. Can you guess where, Devereaux?"
"Perhaps at Stonecliff?"
"Then you have guessed at my passion for the beautiful prize winner."
"It was patent to all observers that night," Devereaux answered, in
a strangled voice, with a fierce thumping of the heart. Oh, God, how
cruel it was to discuss her with his fortunate rival, who had only to
ask and have.
Dean noticed nothing unusual. He continued earnestly:
"I don't mind owning to the truth, Devereaux. Yes, I lost my heart
irretrievably that night to lovely Liane Lester, and I made up my mind
to overlook the difference in our position and woo her for my own. But
I had to go to Philadelphia the next day, and I was detained there some
time getting my design ready for the magazine, and this was followed by
a spell of illness. At length, all impatience, I returned to Stonecliff
two days ago to seek the fair girl who had charmed me so. Fancy my
dismay when I found her gone, and no clue to her whereabouts!"
Again Devereaux's heart thumped furiously.
"You loved her very much?" he asked hoarsely.
"I adored her. She was to me the incarnation of simple beauty and
purity."
"And had you any token of her preference in return?"
"None. She was too shy and bashful to give me the sign the coquette
might have deemed befitting. She hid her heart beneath the drooping
fringe of her dark, curling lashes. Yet I dared to hope, and there was
one thing in my favor: I did not have a rival."
"You are mistaken!"
"How?"
"I was your rival!"
"You, Devereaux!"
They almost glared at each other, and Devereaux said hoarsely:
"I was in love with Miss Lester before you ever saw her face!"
"After all, that is not strange. Who could see her and not love her?
But was your suit successful?"
"No."
"Rejected?"
Devereaux flushed, then answered frankly:
"Yes."
Malcolm Dean could not conceal his joyful surprise.
"I cannot comprehend her rejection of your suit. I should have thought
you irresistible."
Devereaux struggled a moment with natural pride and selfishness, then
answered:
"She preferred you."
"Me? How should you know?"
"By her own confession to me."
Malcolm Dean was frankly staggered by his friend's statement. His blue
eyes gleamed with joy and his bosom heaved with pride.
"You have made me very happy, but how very, very strange that she
should have made such a confession to you," he cried, in wonder.
Again Devereaux had a short, sharp struggle with his better self and
his natural jealousy of the more fortunate lover of Liane, then his
pity for the girl triumphed over every selfish instinct, and he said:
"She was very frank with me--the frankness of innocence that saw
no harm in the confidence. On the same principle I see no harm in
confiding in you, Dean;" and he impulsively drew from his breast
Liane's letter.
Had he dreamed of the fatal consequences, he would have withheld his
eager hand.
There is love and love--love that has shallow roots and love that
cannot be dragged up from its firm foundations.
"Read!" said Devereaux, generously placing in his rival's hand Liane's
letter.
For himself he could have forgiven all her faults of innocence and
ignorance could she but have returned his love.
It did not occur to his mind that the artist could be in any way
different; that the ill spelling and the puerile mind evinced by the
letter would inspire him with keen disgust.
It only seemed to him that all these faults could be remedied by Liane
by the influence of a true love. The glamour of a strong passion was
upon him, blinding him to the truth that instantly became patent to
Dean's mind.
The artist, reading the shallow effusion, flung it down in keen disgust.
"Heavens, what a disappointment! Such beauty and apparent sweetness
united to shallowness and vanity!" he exclaimed.
"It calls forth your pity?" Devereaux said.
"It excites my scorn!" the artist replied hotly.
"Remember her misfortunes--her bringing up by that wretched old
relative in want and ignorance. Surely the influence of love will work
every desirable change in the fair girl who loves you so fondly,"
argued Devereaux.
Malcolm Dean was pacing the floor excitedly.
"You could not change the shallow nature indicated by that letter, if
you loved her to distraction," he exclaimed. "Mark how she confesses to
deliberate coquetry to win you from your betrothed; how cold-bloodedly
she gloats over her triumph. Why, my love is dead in an instant,
Devereaux, slain by this glimpse at Liane Lester's real nature. Thank
fortune, I did not find her at Stonecliff yesterday. I shall never seek
her now, for my eyes are opened by that heartless letter. Why are you
staring at me so reproachfully, Devereaux? You have even more cause to
despise than I have."
"And yet I cannot do it; Heaven help me, I love her still!" groaned the
other, bowing his pale face upon his hands.
"But, Devereaux; this is madness! She is not worth your love. Fling the
poison from your heart as I do. Forget the light coquette. Return to
your first love."
"Never!" he cried; but in all his pain he could not help an unconscious
joy that Liane could yet be won.
He had not meant to turn Dean's heart against her, but the mischief was
done now. Poor little girl! Would she hate him if she knew?
The old pitying tenderness surged over him again, and he longed to
take her in his arms and shield her from all the assaults of the cruel
world. Vain and shallow she might be; coquette she might be, yet she
had stormed the citadel of his heart and held it still against all
intruders.
"I am going now," the artist cried; turning on him restlessly. "This
is good-by for months, Devereaux. I think I shall join some friends of
mine who are going to winter in Italy, to study art, you know. Wish you
would come with us."
"I should like to, but my father is lately dead, you know, and
Lieutenant Carrington, my sister's husband, is ordered to sea with his
ship. I cannot leave Lyde alone, poor girl."
"Then good-by, and thank you for showing me that letter. What if I
had married her in ignorance?" with a shudder. "For Heaven's sake,
Devereaux, be careful of getting into her toils again. Better go back
to Miss Clarke, and make up your quarrel. Adieu," and with a hearty
handclasp, he was gone, leaving his friend almost paralyzed with the
remorseful thought:
"Would she ever forgive me if she guessed the harm I have done?"