CHAPTER XX.
"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?"
CHAPTER XXI.
A HARVEST OF WOE
Devereaux's thoughts clung persistently to Liane. He could not shut away from his mind her haunting image.
Pity blended with tenderness, as putting himself and his own disappointment aside, he gave himself up to thoughts of bettering her poverty-stricken life, so toilsome and lonely.
He took up his pen and wrote feelingly to Edmund Clarke, telling him how and where he had found Liane again, and of his full belief in her purity and innocence, despite the cruel slanders circulating in Stonecliff, the work, no doubt, he said, of some jealous, unscrupulous enemy.
He assured Mr. Clarke that he was ready to assist in any way he might suggest in bettering the fair young girl's hard lot in life.
The letter was immediately posted, and went on its fateful way to fall into jealous Roma's hands and work a harvest of woe.
Affairs at Cliffdene were already in a critical stage, and it wanted but this letter to fan the smoldering flames into devastating fury.
Mr. Clarke, impatient of his lingering convalescence, had taken a decisive step toward recovering his lost daughter.
He had written a letter summoning old Doctor Jay, of Brookline, on a visit, and he had explained it to his wife by pretending he wished to avail himself of the old man's medical skill.
Doctor Jay was the physician who had attended Mrs. Clarke when her daughter was born, and he received a warm welcome at Cliffdene, a guest whom all delighted to honor; all, at least, but Roma, who immediately conceived an unaccountable aversion to the old man, perhaps because his little hazel-gray eyes peered at her so curiously through his glasses beneath his bushy gray eyebrows.
There was something strange in his intent scrutiny, so coldly curious, instead of kindly, as she had a right to expect, and she said pettishly to her mother:
"I detest Doctor Jay. I hope he is not going to stay long."
"Oh, no, I suppose not, but I am very fond of Doctor Jay. He was very kind and sympathetic to me at a time of great suffering and trouble," Mrs. Clarke replied so warmly that she aroused Roma's curiosity.
"Tell me all about it," she exclaimed.
Mrs. Clarke had never been able to recall that time without suffering, but she impulsively told Roma the whole story, never dreamed of until now, of the loss of her infant and its mysterious restoration at the last moment, when her life was sinking away hopelessly into eternity.
Roma listened with startled attention, and she began to ask questions that her mother found impossible to answer.
"Who had stolen away the babe, and by what agency had it been restored?" demanded Roma.
Mrs. Clarke could not satisfy her curiosity. The subject was so painful her husband would never discuss it with her, she declared, adding that Roma must not think of it any more, either.
But, being in a reminiscent mood, she presently told Roma how she had been deceived in old Granny Jenks' identity, and how indignantly the old woman had denied the imputation of having been her nurse.
"I was so sure of her identity that her anger was quite embarrassing," she said.
Roma's thoughts returned to granny's affection for herself, and she felt sure the old woman had lied to her mother, though from what object she could not conceive. Her abject affection for herself seemed fully explained by the fact of her having been her nurse child.
But she was, somehow, ill at ease after hearing her mother's story, and longed eagerly to know more than she had already heard.
"I wonder if I dare question papa or the old doctor?" she thought when her mother had left her alone, resting easily in her furred dressing gown and slippers before a bright coal fire, while in the room beyond Dolly Dorr was getting her bath ready.
Roma was devoured by curiosity. She sat racking her brain for a pretext to intrude on her father and the old doctor, who were still in the library together, chatting over old times when the Clarkes had lived in Brookline.
A lucky thought came to her, and she murmured:
"I will pretend to have a headache, and ask Doctor Jay for something to ease it. Then I will stay a while chatting with them and making myself very agreeable until I can bring the subject around, and get the interesting fact of my abduction out of them."
Stealing noiselessly from the room, she glided downstairs like a shadow, pausing abruptly at the hall table, for there lay the evening's mail, just brought in by a servant from the village post office.
Roma turned over the letters and papers, finding none for any one but her father, but the superscription on one made her start with a stifled cry.
She recognized the elegant chirography of Jesse Devereaux on the back of one letter.
"Now, why is he writing to papa?" she wondered, eagerly turning the letter over and over in her burning hand, wild with curiosity that tempted her at last to slip the letter into her bosom.
Then, taking the rest of the mail in her hand, Roma went to the library, thinking that the delivery of the mail would furnish another plausible pretext for her intrusion.
There was a little anteroom just adjoining the library, and this she entered first to wait a moment till the fierce beating of her heart over Devereaux's letter should quiet down.
Her slippered feet made no sound on the thick velvet carpet, and, as she rested for a moment in a large armchair, she could hear the murmur of animated voices through the heavy portières that hung between her and the library.
Believing that the whole family had retired, and that they were safe from interruption, Doctor Jay and his host had returned to the tragedy of eighteen years before—the loss of the infant that had nearly cost the mother's life.
Roma caught her breath with a stifled gasp of self-congratulation, hoping now to hear the whole interesting story without moving from her chair.
In her hope she was not disappointed.
"I have never ceased to regret the substitution of that spurious infant in place of my own lovely child," sighed Mr. Clarke.
Roma gave a start of consternation, and almost betrayed herself by screaming out aloud, but she bit her lips in time, while her wildly throbbing heart seemed to sink like a stone in her breast.
Doctor Jay said questioningly:
"You have never been able to love your adopted daughter as your own?"
"Never, never!" groaned Edmund Clarke despairingly.
"And her mother?"
"She knows nothing, suspects nothing; for the one object of my life has been to keep her in ignorance of the truth that Roma is not her own child. She has an almost slavish devotion to the girl, but I think in her inmost heart she realizes Roma's lack of lovable qualities, though she is too loyal to her child to admit the truth even to me."
"It is strange, most strange, that no clue has ever been found that would lead to the discovery of your lost little one," mused the old doctor, and after a moment's silence the other answered:
"One thing I would like to know, and that is the family from which Roma sprang. It must have been low, judging frankly from the girl herself."
The listener clinched her hands till the blood oozed from the tender palms on hearing these words, and she would have liked to clutch the speaker's throat instead.
But she sat still, like one paralyzed, a deadly hatred tugging at her heartstrings, listening as one listens to the sentence of death, while Doctor Jay cleared his throat, and answered:
"I am sorry, most sorry, that your surmises are correct, but naturally one would not expect to find good blood in a foundling asylum, though when I sent Nurse Jenks for the child, I told her to get an infant of honest parentage, if she could."
"Then you know Roma's antecedents?" Mr. Clarke questioned anxiously.
"My dear friend, I wish that you would not press the subject."
"Answer me; I must know! The bitterest truth could not exceed my suspicions!" almost raved Mr. Clarke in his eagerness, and again the clinched hands of the listener tightened as if they were about his throat.
Hate, swift, terrible, murderous, had sprung to life, full grown in the angry girl's heart.
She heard the old doctor cough and sigh again, and a futile wish rose in her that he had dropped down dead before he ever came to Cliffdene.
Doctor Jay, all unconscious of her proximity and her charitable wishes, proceeded hesitatingly:
"Since you insist, I must own the truth. Nurse Jenks deceived me."
"How?" hoarsely.
"She never went near the foundling asylum. She had at her own home an infant, the child of a worthless daughter, who had run away previously to go on the stage. Leaving this child on her mother's hands, the actress again ran away, and the old grandmother palmed it off on you as a foundling."
"My God! I see it all," groaned Edmund Clarke. "The old fiend exchanged infants, putting her grandchild in the place of my daughter, and raising her in poverty and wretchedness. I have seen my child with her, my beautiful daughter. Listen to my story," he cried, pouring out to the astonished old physician the whole moving story of Liane Lester.