Kitabı oku: «Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter», sayfa 15

CHAPTER XXVII.
CLAIRE TURNS CIRCE

There was more to tell than to learn, when Clarence called, a day or two later, at the villa.

The expert who had been dogging the steps of Lucian Davlin, had made his report, it is true. But that report was a very unsatisfactory affair:

A man, whom Clarence readily identified with the Professor, was an almost constant visitor at the rooms of the Man of Luck, but they, that is, the Professor and Davlin, were never seen on the street together, nor, indeed, anywhere else. In short, Lucian Davlin had been closely shadowed, but with no success to speak of. He came and went just as such a man usually does. And no person that might be made to answer for a doctor, had been visited by him or had visited him unless, and this began to appear possible, the Professor himself was the man.

After a long and serious discussion of the pros and cons of the case, Olive and Clarence decided they would instruct the detective to transfer his attentions to the Professor, only keeping a general surveillance over Davlin. They began to fear that they were watching the wrong man.

Those were pleasant days to Doctor Vaughan; the days when he rode down to the pretty villa to consult with Olive and to look at Claire.

And those were pleasant days to Claire as well. Once, and that not long before, she had taken but little interest in Clarence Vaughan. She had thought of him very much as had Madeline that first night of their meeting, when she looked at him sitting near her in a railway carriage, and regarded him as just a "somewhat odd young man with a good face." Now, Madeline thought him not only the noblest but the handsomest of men. And Claire was beginning to agree with her.

But on one thing she was determined. Doctor Vaughan must learn to look upon her only as a friend, and he must learn to love Madeline. So Claire and Clarence vied with each other in chanting the praises of Madeline Payne, and learned to know each other better because of her.

One day when he called, Claire chanced to be alone. Somehow she found it hard to be quite at her ease when there was no Olive at hand, behind whom to screen her personality from the eyes that might overlook that sisterly barrier, but could not overleap it. If his eyes had said less, or if she could have compelled her lips to say more! But her usually active tongue seemed to lack for words and she found herself talking in a reckless and somewhat incoherent manner upon all sorts of topics, which she dragged forward in order to keep in check the words which the look in his eyes heralded so plainly.

When she was almost at her wit's end, and tempted to flee ingloriously in search of Olive, that lady entered and Claire felt as if saved from lunacy. But she could not quite shake off the consciousness that had awakened in her, and soon framed an excuse for leaving the room. Once having escaped, she did not return, nor did Olive see her again until she came down to dinner, and Doctor Vaughan had gone.

While lingering over that meal, Olive said, after they had talked of Madeline through three courses, "I think, by-the-by, that Doctor Vaughan expected to see you again before he went."

If I were writing of impossible heroines, I might say that Claire looked conscious; but real women who are not all chalk and water, do not display their feelings so readily to their mothers and sisters. So Claire Keith looked up with the countenance of an astonished kitten.

"To see me? What for?"

"How should I know, if you don't?" smiling slightly.

"And how should I know?" carelessly.

"Well, perhaps I was mistaken. But why have you kept your room all this afternoon?"

"I have been packing. Please pass the marmalade."

"Packing!" mechanically reaching out the required dainty.

"Yes, packing. You don't think I came to spend the winter, do you?"

"But this is so sudden."

"Now, just listen, you unreasonable being!" assuming an air of grave admonition. "Don't you know that I have overstayed my time by almost a month?"

"Yes, but – "

"Well, don't you know that if I tell you beforehand that I am going, you always contrive excuses and hatch plots, to keep me at least three weeks longer?"

"I plead guilty," laughed Olive.

"Well, you see I have staid out my days of grace already. And knowing your failing, and feeling sure that I could not humor it, I have just taken advantage of you, and packed my trunks."

"And you won't stay just one more little week?"

Claire laughed gleefully. "What did I say? It is your old cry. Now, dear, be reasonable. Mamma wants me, and the boys want me. You have plenty of occupation just now. It will take you one-third of the time to keep me informed of all that happens."

"Well," sighed Olive, "of course you must go sometime; but you don't mean to go to-morrow?"

"I do, though."

"What will Doctor Vaughan say?"

"Whatever Doctor Vaughan pleases. I can't lose a day to say good-by to him, can I?"

"But why didn't you tell him good-by to-day?"

Claire looked up in some surprise. "Upon my word, I never thought of it."

And she told the truth. She had thought only of how she could avoid another meeting.

Olive looked puzzled. "And I supposed that you liked Doctor Vaughan," she said, after a moment's pause.

"Why, and so I do; I was very careless. Olive, dear, pray make my adieus to him, and all the necessary excuses. I do like the doctor, and don't want him to think me rude."

And Olive accepted the commission, and was deceived by it. For she, absorbed in her own fears and hopes, was not aware of the drama of love and cross purposes that was being enacted under her very eyes.

When Clarence called, on the next day but one, he found, to his surprise and sorrow, that the bright face of the girl he loved so well was to smile upon him no more, at least for a time. Making his call an unusually brief one, he rode back to the city in a very grave and thoughtful mood. Or, rather, the gravity and thoughtfulness usual in him was tinged with sadness.

On the same day, almost at the same hour, Claire Keith stood in her mother's drawing-room, answering the thousand and one questions that are invariably poured into the ears of a returned traveler.

By and by, drawing back the satin curtain, that shaded the windows of the drawing-room, Claire gazed out upon the familiar street which seemed smiling her a welcome in the Autumn sunshine. Finally she uttered an exclamation of surprise, and turned to Mrs. Keith.

"Merci! Mamma! what has happened to the people across the way? Why, I can't catch even one glimpse of red and yellow damask, not one flutter of gold fringe; have the parvenus been taking lessons in good taste? Positively, every blind is closed, and there isn't a liveried being to be seen."

Mrs. Keith laughed softly. "I don't know what has happened to the parvenus, my dear, but whether good or bad it has taken them away, liveries and all. The house has a new tenant, who is not so amusing, perhaps, but is certainly more mysterious. So, after all, the exchange may not have been a gain to the neighborhood."

Claire peeped out again. "A mysterious tenant, you say, mamma? That must be an improvement. What is the Mystery like?"

Mrs. Keith smiled indulgently on her daughter.

"There is not much to tell, my love. I don't know whether the lady who has taken the house is young or old, handsome or ugly, married or single. She lives the life of a recluse; has never been seen, at least by any of us, to walk out. But she drives sometimes in a close carriage, and always with a thick veil hiding her face. She is tall, dresses richly, but always in black, although the fabric is not that usually worn as mourning. She moves from the door to her carriage with a languid gait, as if she might be an invalid. No one goes there, and I understand she is not at home to callers, although, of course, I have not made the experiment myself. There, my dear, I think that is about all."

"She seems to be a woman of wealth?"

"Evidently; her horses are very fine animals, and her carriage a costly one. Her servants wear a neat, plain livery, and apparently her house is elegantly furnished."

"And mamma," said Robbie, who had been standing quietly at her side, "you forget the flowers."

"True, Robbie. Every day, Claire, the florist leaves a basket of white flowers at her door."

"I like that," asserted Claire. "She must have refinement."

"She certainly has that air."

"Well," said Claire, laughing lightly, "I shall make a study of the woman across the way."

With that the subject dropped for the time. But as the days went on, and she settled herself once more into the home routine, Claire found that not the least among the things she chose to consider interesting was the mysterious neighbor across the way.

And now, having put considerable distance between herself and Edward Percy, she wrote him a few cool lines of dismissal.

And here again the individuality of the girl was very manifest. Many a woman would have written a scathing letter, telling the man how thoroughly unmasked he stood in her sight, letting him know that she was acquainted with all his past and his present, and bidding him make the most of the infatuation of the last victim to his empty pockets, the ancient Miss Arthur.

What Claire did was like Claire; and perhaps, after all, she best comprehended the nature she dealt with. Certainly no tirade of accusing scorn could have so wounded the self-love of the selfish, conscienceless man as did her cool farewell missive.

Edward Percy was in a very complaisant mood when Claire's letter reached him. True, he had received no reply to his two last effusions; but knowing that Claire must be soon returning to her home, if she had not already gone, he assured himself that it was owing to this that he had received no letter as yet. He never doubted her attachment to himself. That was not in his nature.

Opening a rather heavy packet, as he sat in his cosy sitting-room, out dropped two letters; two letters full of poetry and fine sentiment, that his own flexible hand had penned and addressed to Miss Claire Keith. His letters, and returned with the seals unbroken. He could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. His handsome, treacherous, light-blue eyes darkened and widened with astonishment and anger.

He never moved in a hurry, never spoke in a hurry, never thought in a hurry. And slowly it dawned upon his mind to investigate further and find some clue that would make this unheard-of thing appear less incomprehensible. Accordingly he took up the envelope that had contained his rejected letters, and drew from them a brief note:

Baltimore, Saturday, 6th.

It will scarcely surprise Mr. Percy to learn that Miss Keith desires now to end an acquaintance that has been, doubtless, amusing "intellectually" and "socially" to both.

Of course, a gentleman so worldly-wise as himself can never have been misled by the semblance of attachment, that has seemed necessary in order to make such an acquaintance as ours at all interesting. A flirtation based upon a "sympathy of intellect," must of necessity end sooner or later, and has, no doubt, been as harmless to him as to Claire Keith.

Yes, without doubt Claire knew how to hurt this man most. He was not permitted to know that she felt the keen humiliation, which a proud nature must suffer when it discovers that it has trusted an unworthy object. Instead, he was to feel himself the injured one; the one humiliated. He, the deceiver, must own himself deceived. When he believed himself loved, he was laughed at. His own words were flung in his teeth in an insolent mockery. "A sympathy of intellect;" yes, he had used these words so often. He had obeyed the beckoning of a Circe, and now she held out to him his swine's reward of husks.

Edward Percy had been dissatisfied with others, with circumstances, and surroundings, many a time and oft; but to-day, for the very first time, he felt dissatisfied with himself.

And Claire had revenged her wrongs twofold.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE CURTAIN RISES ON THE MIMIC STAGE

Always, in life, little events pave the way for great catastrophes. The mine burns slowly until the explosive point is reached, and then —

Fate was taking a leisurely gait, seemingly, and moving affairs at Oakley with a deliberation that was almost hesitating. Nevertheless, things were moving, and in the wake of little events, great ones could already be discerned by the plotters and counter-plotters, who waited and watched.

Céline Leroque was in better spirits than usual, in these days. Indeed, considering how exceedingly probable it seemed that she would be turned adrift at any hour by her present mistress, Céline was very cheerful.

And Miss Arthur had cause to complain. Beyond a doubt her French maid was becoming careless, very careless. Sometimes Miss Arthur was inclined to think that her scant locks of well-dyed hair were pulled quite unnecessarily, while her head was under Céline's hands. But this she endured like a Spartan, only exclaiming when the torture became unbearable. And when she finally ventured a protest, disastrous was the outcome.

With many an apology, Céline fingered the curls and braids, inquiring with every touch of the hand or adjustment of a hair-pin: "Does that hurt, mademoiselle?"

Being assured, when the hair-dressing was done, that she had accomplished the task without inflicting so much as a single twinge of pain, she held open the door for her mistress, cooing her satisfaction and beaming with delight.

But alas for the poor spinster! Before she had been half an hour in the society of her beloved fiancé, her unfortunate habit of tossing and wriggling her head brought Céline's gingerly architecture to grief. A sudden twist tumbled down full half of the glossy "crown of glory" from Miss Arthur's head to Mr. Percy's feet, and – we draw a veil over the confusion of the unhappy spinster.

The lady having retired to her dressing-room to relieve her feelings and repair damages, a scene was enacted in which the lady did the histrionics and the maid apologized and giggled alternately, until the one had exhausted her anthem of wrath and the other her accompaniment of penitence and giggles.

Then a truce was patched up, which lasted for several days.

Céline had advanced to the verge of disrespect, when speaking of Mr. Percy, on more than one occasion. Several times she had said that he "had a familiar look," and she fancied she had seen him somewhere. But she had always checked herself on the very border-land of impertinence, and never had been able to tell if she really had before seen the gentleman or no.

But she had put the spinster on the defensive, and had also excited her curiosity.

During this time Mrs. John Arthur was slowly dropping into her rôle of invalid. First, she gave up her habitual walks about the grounds and on the terrace. Then, her drives became too fatiguing. Next, she found herself too languid to appear at breakfast, and that meal was served in her room. She was not ill, she protested; only a trifle indisposed. Let no one be at all concerned for her; she should be as well as usual in a few days. And Céline, who was very sympathetic, and was the first to suggest that a physician be consulted, was laughingly assured that if madame were sick, she, Céline, should be her head nurse.

Mrs. Arthur had been absent from the family breakfast table for two days, when Miss Arthur met with a fresh grievance at the hands of Céline.

Céline had been unusually garrulous, and had been regaling her mistress with descriptions of the great people, and the magnificent toilets she had seen, while with some of her former miladis. Suddenly she dropped the subject of a grand ball which had transpired in Baltimore, where her mistress was the guest of the honorable somebody, to exclaim:

"It has just come to me, mademoiselle, where I must have seen Monsieur Percy. It was in Baltimore, and they said – " Here she became much confused, and pretended to be fully occupied with the folds of her mistress's dress.

Miss Arthur looked down upon her sharply, and asked, "What did they say?"

Céline stammered: "Oh, it was only gossip, mademoiselle; nothing worth repeating, I assure you."

The curiosity and jealousy of the spinster were fully aroused. "Don't attempt any subterfuges, Céline," she said, in her loftiest tone. "I desire to know what was said of my – Mr. Percy."

The girl arose to her feet, and with much apparent reluctance, replied:

"They said, mademoiselle – of course, it was only gossip – that he was very much of a fortune-hunter, and that he was engaged to some woman much older than himself, who was immensely rich."

Miss Arthur sat down and looked hard at her maid. "How do you know that Mr. Percy is that man?"

"Oh! I don't know, my lady – mademoiselle. I only said that I thought I have seen him in Baltimore; the Mr. Percy they used to talk of there, must have been another."

Miss Arthur looked like an ancient Sphinx. "Do you think that Mr. Percy is that man?" she asked.

"Merci! my lady, how can I tell that? It might have been he; and the old woman there might have disappointed him, you know," artlessly.

Miss Arthur was literally speechless with rage. Without replying, she rose and swept into the adjoining room, closing the door behind her with a bang.

Céline smiled comfortably, and went to minister unto Cora, to whom she confided her belief that Miss Arthur was dissatisfied with her, and meant to discharge her. "And only think, madame," she said plaintively, "it is all because, in an unguarded moment, I compared her to an old woman. It is so hard to remember, always, that you must not tell an old woman she is not young."

And Cora laughed immoderately, for she much enjoyed her sister-in-law's discomfiture.

But Miss Arthur did not dismiss the matter from her mind, when she banged the door upon Céline. Angry as she had been with that damsel, it was not anger alone that moved her. Jealousy was at work, and suspicion.

That evening, sitting beside her lover, she said to him, carelessly: "By the way, Edward, were you ever in Baltimore?"

The gentleman stroked his blonde whiskers, and smiled languidly as he answered: "In Baltimore? Oh, yes; I think there are few cities I have not visited." And then something in the face of Miss Arthur made him inquire, with a slight acceleration of speech: "But why do you ask?"

Miss Arthur considered for a moment, and replied: "My maid, Céline, thinks that she has seen you there."

She was watching him keenly, and fancied that he looked just a trifle annoyed, even when he smiled lazily at her, saying: "Indeed! And when is your maid supposed to have seen me there?"

"I don't know when," – Miss Arthur was beginning to feel injured; "I suppose you are well known in society there?"

He smiled and still caressed his chin. "So so," he said, indifferently.

"Edward!" – the spinster could not suppress the question that was heavy on her mind – "were you ever engaged to a lady in Baltimore?"

He turned his blue eyes upon her in mild surprise. "Never," he said, nonchalantly.

She looked somewhat relieved, but still anxious, and the man, after eyeing her for a moment, placing one hand firmly upon her own, said, in a tone that was half caress, half command,

"Ellen, you have been listening to gossip about me. Now, let me hear the whole story, for I see it has troubled you, and I will not have that."

She, glad to unburden her mind, told him what Céline had said. Perhaps Céline had counted upon this, and was making, of the unconscious Mr. Percy, a tool that should serve her in just the way that he did. At all events, while he listened to the spinster, he assured himself that if the French maid were not, for some reason, an enemy, she was certainly a meddler, and that she must quit Miss Arthur's service.

He said nothing to this end that evening. But he fully satisfied Miss Arthur that he was not the person referred to by the girl. And to guard against further inquiries or accidents, he told her of several men of the name of Percy, who were much in society, and might be, any one of them, the man in question.

And his fiancé was calmed and happy once more.

She was as clay in the potter's hands, and Mr. Percy found it an easy matter to convince her, a few days later, that her invaluable maid was not the proper person to have about her. Accordingly, one fine morning, Céline was informed, in the spinster's loftiest manner, that her services were no longer desired, and a month's wages were tendered her, with the assurance that Miss Arthur "had not been blind to her sly ways, and trickery, and that she had only retained her until she could suit herself better."

Céline took her congé in demure silence, and sought Mrs. Arthur forthwith. Cora was really glad that she could at last command the girl, for many reasons, and they quickly came to an understanding.

Great was the surprise and inward wrath of the spinster when, within ten minutes from the time Céline had left her presence, a maid without a mistress, she appeared again before her, and laying upon the dressing case the month's wages she had received in lieu of a warning, said:

"Mademoiselle will receive back the month's wages, as I have not been in the least a loser by her dismissal. I enter the service of madame immediately."

And then Céline had smiled blandly, bowed, and taken her departure, leaving the spinster to wonder how on earth she should manage her hair-dressing, and to wish that Edward had not insisted upon setting the girl adrift until a substitute had been found.

The fact that the girl was retained in the house annoyed Mr. Percy not a little. But it did not surprise him that Cora should wish to keep her. He had long before made the discovery that the sisters-in-law were not more fond of each other than was essential to the comfort of both.

Céline had been but two days in the service of her new mistress when that lady found herself too ill to be dressed for breakfast, even in her own room, and she kept her bed all day.

John Arthur, in some alarm, had declared his intention of calling a physician. But Cora objected so strongly that he had refrained. Before evening came, however, Céline sought him, as he was sitting in what he chose to call his "study," and said:

"Pardon my intrusion, monsieur, but I am distressed about madame. This afternoon she is not so well, and surely she should have some medicine."

The old man wrinkled his brows in perplexity, as he replied: "Yes, yes, girl; but she won't let me call a doctor."

Céline sighed, and moving a step nearer, murmured: "Monsieur, I will venture to repeat what madame but now said to me, if I may."

He signed her to proceed.

"Madame said that a stranger would only make her worse; that she would distrust anyone she did not know; but that if her dear old physician, who had attended her always in sickness, could see her, she would be glad. Alas! he was in New York, and she did not like to ask that he might be sent for. It would seem to you childish."

Of course this speech had been made at Cora's instigation, but it had the desired effect. John Arthur bounded up, and bade Céline precede him to his wife's chamber; and the result of his visit was what the invalid had intended it to be. She was so pretty, and so pathetic, and so very ill! Céline declared that she was growing more fevered every moment, and as for her pulse, it was like a trip-hammer.

John Arthur had an unutterable fear of illness, and after trying in vain to persuade Cora to see one of the village doctors, whom, he declared, were very good ones, he announced his intention to telegraph to the city for the doctor who had been her adviser in earlier days.

And to this Cora reluctantly consented. "It seems foolish," she said, plaintively, "and yet I don't think I ought to refuse to send for Doctor Le Guise. I feel as if I were really about to be very ill, hard as I have tried to fight off the weakness that is coming over me."

"And madame is so flushed, and wanders so in her sleep," – this, of course, from Céline.

John Arthur arose from the side of the couch with considerable alacrity, saying: "I will telegraph at once. What is the address?"

Cora lay back among her pillows, with closed eyes, and made no sign that she heard. He spoke again, and the eyes unclosed slowly, and she said, with slow languor:

"Send to my brother; he will find him." Then closing her eyes, she murmured, "I want to sleep now."

Céline turned toward him an awe-struck countenance and motioned him to be silent. He tip-toed from the room, thoroughly frightened and nervous, and sent a message to Lucian Davlin forthwith.

When he was safely away, Cora awoke from her nap, and desired Céline to let in more light. This done, she propped herself up among her pillows, and taking from underneath one of them a novel, bade her maid tell everybody that she was not to be disturbed, while she read and looked more comfortable than ill.

Towards evening, John Arthur looked in, or rather tried to look in, upon his wife. But Céline assured him that her mistress was sleeping fitfully and seemed much disturbed and agitated at the slightest sound, so his alarm grew and increased.

When the evening train came he hoped almost against reason that it would bring the now eagerly looked for Dr. Le Guise.

But no one came. Later, however, a telegram from Lucian arrived, which read as follows:

Doctor can't get off to-night. Will be down by morning train.

D – .

In the morning, Cora was much worse. She did not recognize her husband, and called Miss Arthur, Lady Mallory, which made a great impression upon that spinster.

Céline, who seemed to know just what to do, turned them both out, which did not displease either greatly, as the brother and sister were equally afraid of contagion, and were nervous in a sick-room.

At length the doctor arrived, and with him Lucian Davlin, the latter looking very grave and anxious, the former looking very grave and wise.

Céline was summoned to prepare the patient for the coming of the physician. When this had been done, and the wise man arose to go to his patient, John Arthur and Lucian would have followed him. But he waved them back, saying: "Not now, gentlemen, if you please; let me examine my patient first. That is always safest and wisest."

So the three, Lucian, Arthur, and his sister, sat in solemn silence awaiting the verdict of the doctor from Europe. At last he came, and the gravity of his face was something to marvel at. Advancing toward Mr. Arthur, the doctor seemed to be looking him through and through as he asked:

"Will you tell me how lately you have been in your wife's room."

John Arthur answered him with pallid lips. "We were there this morning, my sister and I."

The doctor turned toward Miss Arthur, looking, if possible, more serious than ever.

"I am sorry, very sorry," he said. "And I hope you have incurred no risks. But it is my duty to tell you that Mrs. Arthur is attacked with a fever of a most malignant and contagious type, and you have certainly been exposed."

Mr. Arthur turned the color of chalk and dropped into the nearest chair. Miss Arthur, who could not change her color, shrieked and fell upon the sofa. Lucian groaned after the most approved fashion. And the man of medicine continued,

"Above all things, don't agitate yourselves; be calm. I would advise you to retire to your own rooms, and remain there for the present. I will immediately prepare some powders, which you will take hourly. We will begin in time, and hope that you may both escape the contagion."

Then he turned to Mr. Davlin. "My dear boy, you had better go back to the city; at least go away from the house. This is no place for you."

But Lucian shook his head, and said that he would not leave while his sister was in danger.

The following morning Dr. Le Guise presented himself at the door of Miss Arthur's dressing-room. After making many inquiries, such as doctors are wont to terrify patients with, he pronounced upon the case: She had thus far escaped contagion. But her system was not over strong; in fact, was extremely delicate. If there was any place near at hand, suited to a lady like herself, his advice was to go there without delay. She was not rugged enough to risk remaining where she was.

Before sunset, Miss Arthur was quartered at the Bellair inn. She had dispatched Mr. Percy a note the day before, bidding him delay his visit. Now she was under the same roof with him, greatly to her delight, and his disgust.

John Arthur had not fared so well at the hands of the learned physician. He had swallowed his powders faithfully and hopefully, but the morning found him languid and dismal, with aching brain and nauseated stomach.

The doctor shook his head, and bade him prepare for a slight attack of the fever. It promised to be very slight, but he must keep his room, for a few days at least, and attend to his medicine and his diet.

And so the drama had commenced in earnest.