Kitabı oku: «Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter», sayfa 21

CHAPTER XLI.
THE DAYS PASS BY

Several days passed and still Lucian Davlin had not found the much wished for opportunity to converse with Madeline. Neither had he been able to find Cora alone. Visit her room when he would, there was the burly waiting-maid. Finally Cora had warned him, with some asperity, that his "actions looked rather suspicious," and then he obeyed her gentle hint and remained aloof.

Two days after the bestowal of Strong, the maid, upon the not-too-grateful Cora, an angular, grenadier-looking female presented herself at the servants' entrance, announcing that she was "the new maid;" and she was installed as high priestess of Madeline's apartments without loss of time.

The servants below stairs made comments, as servants will. Even Miss Arthur, Percy, and Davlin agreed in calling the two maids, respectively, "Grenadier" and "Griffin."

But only Cora knew that the two were better learned in the art of spying than in matters of the toilet. She knew herself to be under continual surveillance. Above stairs or below, Madeline or Hagar, Strong or Joliffe were not far away. And yet she had not abandoned her plan of escaping.

One morning, Cora, looking from the window of her dressing room, saw two men moving about in the grounds below. Upon commenting upon their presence there, Strong had answered, readily;

"Yes, madame, Joliffe tells me that they are here to sink a well. Miss Payne has decided to have a fountain among those cedar trees, and they are to go to work immediately."

"But a well in winter! They can't dig."

"They don't dig; they bore. It's to be a fountain, madame."

But in spite of the "fountain" explanation, Cora knew that the house was guarded from without as well as from within.

"It's no use to warn Lucian, or anybody, now," she thought. "It would only get us all into worse trouble."

But still she did not abandon the thoughts of her own escape.

And now began a time of trial for poor Ellen Arthur. Madeline Payne, after studiously ignoring the two men for some days, began to unbend. She commenced by conversing with Percy, listening to his slow and stately sentences, smiling her approval, and completely captivating that susceptible gentleman. Then, by degrees, she drew Lucian into the conversation, and smiled upon and listened to him.

All this Cora observed, wondering what the girl was trying to do; while the spinster looked on in untold agony, fearful lest this fair sorceress should avenge herself for some of her childish grievances by robbing her of her lover.

Meanwhile Lucian Davlin interpreted all this in his own favor. "She is proud and still resentful," he thought. "And she is using Percy as a medium of approach to me."

At last Lucian, growing impatient, resorted to an old, old trick. He watched his opportunity, and one evening, as Madeline was following Cora from the drawing-room, the door of which he was holding open for their exit, he pushed into her hand a small scrap of paper.

She would have dropped it; her first impulse was to do so, but Cora turned as her hand was about to loosen its clasp upon the fragment. So she passed on, carrying it with her to her own room. There she opened it and read these pencilled words:

For God's sake do not torture me longer. You have condemned me without a hearing. Be as merciful as you are strong and lovely. At least let me see you alone, when I can plead for myself.

Half an hour later, Hagar tapped at his door. When he opened it, she put in his hand a bit of paper, on which were these faintly-pencilled lines:

If you desire my friendship, you must date our acquaintance from this week. You never knew me in the past.

"And she is right," muttered he; "the Madeline Payne of last summer, and the Madeline Payne of now, are to each other as the chrysalis to the butterfly, in beauty; as the kitten to the panther, in spirit; as the babe to the woman, in mind. That Madeline pleased me; this one, I love."

So he accepted the position, and did not give up striving to draw from her some special word, or look, or tone, that he need not feel belonged as much to Percy as to himself.

Meantime Percy was revolving various things in his learned head.

He had been, as a matter of course, deeply impressed with her beauty, and he had been much puzzled as well.

Having witnessed her arrival, he had fully expected rebellion from Cora, for Cora was not the woman to be barred out from a prospective fortune and make no sign. But there was no war, and no indications of battle. Cora and the heiress were wonderfully friendly. Mr. Percy could not understand it.

The manner of Davlin toward him had not changed in the least, remaining as studiously polite as when he was so cordially invited to take up his abode under the hospitable roof of Oakley.

That of Cora was decidedly different. While before she addressed him with a sort of conciliating courtesy, and had seemed desirous of furthering his plans and hastening on his marriage with Miss Arthur, she now manifested an almost contemptuous indifference, not only to himself, but to his fiancé.

True to her nature, Cora was gathering up what gleams of satisfaction she could. When she had become assured that it was not Percy who held possession of her stolen papers, and that the girl in whose hands they were was more his enemy than hers, she rejoiced in his discomfiture to come. Seeing that it was no longer necessary to propitiate her enemy, she indulged in the luxury of acting out her hatred, when she could without betraying to Davlin this change, which might require an explanation.

That some sort of understanding existed between Miss Payne and Cora, Percy instantly surmised, and every day confirmed the belief. That Miss Payne held the power, he also believed. So believing, he began to wonder if it were not better to "be off with the old love," and seek to win the heiress, for the vanity of Mr. Percy inspired him to believe that it would not be a hopeless task. He had heard, however, of that person who, "between two stools," fell to the ground, and he was careful not to reveal to Miss Arthur the laxity of his affections.

And so the days moved on.

Percy dividing his attention between his fiancé and Miss Payne; studying the latter, and closely watching Davlin and Cora.

That last named lady smiling and lounging below stairs, sulking and smoking above, and always under surveillance.

Davlin, having assured Cora that he was acting from motives politic, paying open court to Madeline.

That young lady calmly acting her part, thoroughly understanding and heartily despising them all.

John Arthur alternately raging and sulking, obdurately refusing to accede to his step-daughter's terms, and vowing to escape and wreak vengeance upon every one of them.

"Dr. Le Guise," calm as a Summer morning, and taking more real ease and comfort than all the others combined.

Hagar watchful and anxious.

The two new maids making themselves popular in the kitchen, and "sleeping with their eyes open."

And still no clue by which Madeline and her efficient aides de camp could unravel the web of doubt that still clung about, and kept a prisoner, the long-suffering Philip Girard.

CHAPTER XLII.
A STRUGGLE FOR FREEDOM

After some days of outward calm, came a ripple upon the surface of events.

It had been a dull, cloudy day, with occasional gusts of wind and rain; wind that chilled to the very marrow, and rain that froze as it fell.

The three men, Davlin, Percy and the Professor, had been constrained to abandon their customary morning walk, with cigar accompaniment, up and down the terrace. And the well-borers had been obliged to stop their work.

Mrs. Arthur had kept her room and her bed all day long, afflicted by a raging toothache. Strong was kept at her side, almost constantly applying hot water, laudanum and various other local applications. As the day advanced, the sufferer seemed growing worse; and when Madeline came in to administer consolation, and see if the woman were really ill, Cora sent for Dr. Le Guise, vowing she would have the tooth out, and every other one in her head, if the pain did not stop. But when the Professor arrived, her courage failed her. She drew back at the sight of the formidable forceps, saying that she would "try and endure it a little longer; it seemed a bit easier just then."

All this Madeline noted. Retiring from the room she signaled to Strong to follow her out. "What do you think of her?" questioned Madeline of the latter, as the door closed between them and Cora.

Strong looked dubious. "I really don't know what to think, Miss Payne," she said. "If it is shamming, it is the best I ever saw."

"True," answered Madeline; "I am at a loss. You had better apply some test, Strong, and – keep all your medicines out of her reach. Don't let her get any laudanum, or anything; and presently report to me. She must not be left alone, however; when I send Joliffe in, do you come to me."

Madeline passed on to her own room, and Strong returned to her patient.

When Joliffe went to her relief, Strong presented herself before Madeline, saying: "I can't think she is shamming, Miss Payne. I suggested a mustard blister, and she never made a murmur. I put it on awful strong, and she declared that it was nothing to the pain. When I took it off her cheek was red as flannel, and she wanted it put on again. She says it relieves her, and thinks if the pain don't come back she will sleep. I made sure of the bottles all the same," added Strong. "I have used a lot of chloroform on her, but of course some would evaporate." And she held up to view a half-filled chloroform vial.

She was right; full half an ounce had "evaporated," during the brief minute when she had stood in the hall to confer with Madeline.

Altogether, Strong had a hard day.

Cora kept her continually on her feet. The blinds must be opened, and shut again, every fifteen minutes. The room was too hot, and the fire must be smothered. Then it was too cold, and the fire must be stimulated to a blaze. And no one could wait upon her but Strong.

As night came on, the paroxysms of pain returned in full force, and Strong was implored once more to apply the soothing mustard.

When Madeline looked in at ten o'clock, Cora was groaning in misery, and Strong was applying a blister. When she again looked in, an hour later, the invalid, with blistered face and fevered eyes, feebly declared herself a "trifle easier," and Strong was bathing her head with eau de Cologne.

Madeline soon retired to her room, and her couch. But for half an hour longer, Cora kept the now yawning Strong at her side. Then she said:

"Go now and get some rest, Strong. Leave the mustard on my face, and then I think I can sleep. I am getting drowsy now."

Strong replaced the mustard, and raked up the fire. Then she looked carefully to the fastenings of the doors, and returned to the bedside. Already her mistress was in a heavy slumber.

Putting in her pocket the keys of both doors, Strong retired to the dressing-room and, loosening her garments, threw herself down wearily upon a couch, and was soon sleeping the sleep of the just, and breathing heavily.

For some moments after the loud breathing told that her maid was asleep, Cora lay quietly, but with eyes wide open. Then she stirred, making a slight noise, but the heavy breathing continued as before.

Cora now raised herself up on her elbow and again listened. Still the heavy breathing. Again she moved audibly, at the same time calling softly: "Strong!"

But Strong slumbered on.

Quickly snatching the bandages from her much enduring face, Cora sprang lightly from the bed. Taking something from under her pillows, she stole noiselessly into the dressing-room and up to the couch of the sleeping Strong. In another instant there was a pungent odor in the room, and something white and moist lay over the musical proboscis of the slumbering giantess.

In five minutes more, Cora Arthur stood arrayed in a dark traveling suit, with a pair of walking boots in one hand, and the key of her chamber door in the other. Swiftly and silently as a professional house-breaker, she opened the door and passed out, closing it quietly behind her.

Like a shadow she glided down the now unlighted stairway, and through the dark and silent hall, in the direction of the dining-room. Turning to the left, she paused before a side door, the very door through which Madeline had escaped on a certain eventful June night, and noiselessly undid the fastenings. In another moment she was outside, and the door had closed behind her.

She drew a long breath of relief, and sat down to put on her shoes. Her escape was well timed; the train for the city, the midnight express, was due in twenty minutes. Strong would hardly waken before that time, and then – she would be flying across the country at the heels of the iron horse.

Rising to her feet, she took one step in the darkness – only one. Then a light suddenly flashed before her eyes, a heavy hand grasped her arm, and a gruff voice said: "This is a bad night for ladies to be abroad. You had better go back, ma'am!"

Cora made a desperate effort to free herself, but the hand held her as in a vise, and the bull's eye of the dark lantern flashed in her face as the speaker continued:

"Yes, you are the identical one I am looking for. Got a red face – toothache didn't make you a trifle lightheaded, did it? Come, turn about, quick!"

And Cora knew that Madeline Payne had not been as blind as she had seemed. It was useless to struggle, useless to protest. The strong hand pushed her toward the entrance. The man gripped the lantern in his teeth, while he opened the door, and pushing her through, followed after. Closing the door again, and never once releasing his hold upon her, he forced her unwilling feet to retrace their steps, saying, as they ascended the stairs:

"Show the way to your own room, if you don't want me to rouse the house."

Quivering with rage, Cora pointed to the door, and was immediately ushered, with more force than politeness, back into her own dressing-room and the presence of her still insensible maid.

"Now, then," said her tormentor, "where is Miss Payne's room? No nonsense, mind; I'm not a flat."

Cora, thoroughly convinced of the truth of this statement, sullenly directed him to Madeline's door.

"Stand where you are," was the next command of the man; "it might jar your tooth to move."

And Cora stood where he had left her, while he aroused Miss Payne and communicated to her the news of the night's exploit.

In a very few moments Joliffe appeared, and without so much as casting a glance at Cora, set herself to arouse the stupefied Strong – a feat which was soon accomplished, for the woman had nearly exhausted the effects of her sleeping potion. A moment later, and Madeline appeared upon the threshold. After surveying the scene in silence for an instant, she entered the room, closed the door, and said with a laugh that set Cora's blood boiling: "So you were tired of our society, and fancied that you could outwit me? Undeceive yourself, madame; it is not in your power to escape from my hands, and whatever fate I choose to adjudge you."

Then turning to the man, she said: "You have done well, Morris; this kind of work you will find more profitable than well-boring. You may go now."

The man bowed respectfully, and silently quitted the room.

Then Madeline addressed Joliffe: "You will stay here the remainder of the night. Let Strong sleep; she is not to blame for permitting her charge to escape, and she will be more wary in future."

Then turning again to Cora, who had flung herself in a chair and sat gazing from one to the other in sullen silence, she said, with a smile on her lips: "You should not work against your own interests, Mrs. Arthur. Had you succeeded in escaping on the midnight express, who, think you, would have been summoned to meet you on your arrival in the city?"

"Doubtless an officer," replied the woman, doggedly. "I might have known you for a sleuth hound who would guard every avenue."

"Thanks; you do me honor. I should not have summoned an officer, however; there is some one else waiting anxiously to welcome you there."

"Indeed," sarcastically; "who?"

"Old Verage."

Cora started up in her chair. "For God's sake, what are you?"

"A witch," said the girl, demurely. "I am as old as the world, and can fly through the air on a broomstick, so don't think to escape me again, step-mamma. I trust you will enjoy your brief repose, for it will soon be morning, and if I don't see your fair face at the breakfast table, I shall not be content."

Cora put two fingers to her blistered cheek, saying: "You can't ask me to come down with this face."

"True, I can't. Good-night, step-mamma; it would have been better if you had let the doctor pull that tooth."

And Miss Payne swept away, leaving the would-be fugitive to her own reflections.

CHAPTER XLIII.
THE DOCTOR'S WOOING

Mrs. Ralston had become to Olive Girard as one of the family. There was a strange affinity between the two women, who had known so much of sorrow, so many dark, dark days. As yet, however, there was not entire confidence. Mrs. Ralston knew nothing of the movements then on foot to liberate the husband of her hostess; and Olive knew no more of Mrs. Ralston's past than had been communicated by Claire, which was in reality but very little.

Dr. Vaughan had become an ardent admirer of the grave, sweet, pale lady, who had, in her turn, conceived a very earnest admiration for him.

Always a close student of the human countenance, Mrs. Ralston had not been long in reading in the face of the young man his regard for Claire Keith. Having discovered this, she studied him still more attentively, coming, at last, to the conclusion that he was worthy of her beloved Claire.

But Claire appeared ever under a strange restraint in the presence of Dr. Vaughan. She seemed always to endeavor to keep either her sister or her friend at her side, as if she found herself more at ease while in their proximity. Evidently she was keeping close guard over herself. And just as evidently she was glad to be in the presence of Clarence Vaughan when supported by her sister and friend, and safe from a tête-á-tête.

Mrs. Ralston was really troubled by this apparent misunderstanding, or whatever it might be, that rendered Claire less cordial towards Dr. Vaughan than she would have been to one who was only a friend, and far less worthy of friendship. She mentally resolved, when a fitting opportunity should occur, to endeavor to win the confidence of the girl, for she saw that two natures, formed to love each other, were drifting apart, with no prospect of a better understanding. And that opportunity came sooner than she had expected.

One day, a day destined to be always remembered by the chief actors in our strange drama, Mrs. Ralston seated herself at a davenport in Mrs. Girard's pretty library to write a letter to Mr. Lord. The promptness and energy of that good man had completely baffled the acute detective, and the danger which Mrs. Ralston had so much feared, the danger of being discovered by her worthless husband, was now past.

She had entered the library through the drawing-room and, both rooms being untenanted, had left the door of communication between them half open.

Sitting thus, she heard the door of the drawing-room open, and the rustle of feminine garments betokened the entrance of one of her friends. Presently soft ripples of music fell upon her ear, and she knew that it was Claire who was now at the piano, playing dreamily, softly, as if half fearful of awakening some beloved sleeper.

After a few moments, the ripple changed to a plaintive minor accompaniment, that had in it an undertone as of far-off winds and waves. Then the full, clear voice of the girl rang out in that most beautiful of songs, which alone should make famous the genius of Jean Ingelow and Virginie Gabriel:

 
"When sparrows build and the leaves break forth,
My old sorrow wakes and cries."
 

The singer sang on, all unconscious that two listeners were noting the passion and pain in her voice:

 
"How could I tell I could love thee to-day,
When that day I held not dear?
How could I know I should love thee, away,
When I did not love thee near?"
 

As the last note died away in sorrowful vibrations, Mrs. Ralston, in the library, was conscious of tears trickling down her cheek.

At the same moment there was a discordant crash among the piano keys, and Claire's voice was saying, almost angrily: "Dr. Vaughan! how came you here? How dared you – "

There was a suspicious tremor in her voice, and she stopped speaking, as if too proud to show how very much she had been thrown off her guard.

"Forgive me, Miss Keith," the deep voice of Clarence Vaughan responded. "Believe me, I did not intend my presence as an impertinence. Your servant admitted me, and I thought it not wrong to enter unannounced, although I hardly hoped to find you alone. Surely you do not blame me for my silence while you sang?"

Claire made no reply. She was strongly tempted to fly and let Clarence Vaughan think what he would. But before she could stir, he had moved a step nearer and was looking straight down in her eyes.

"Claire," he said, in tones of reverential tenderness, "I have waited for the time to come when I might say to you what you must let me say now. You have seemed to avoid me of late; I can not guess why. And to-day, as I listened to your song, a new thought, a new fear, has entered my mind. Claire, tell me, have you read the love that has been in my heart since I first saw your face, and have you sought to shun me because you love another?"

While he was uttering this speech, Claire Keith had regained her self-command, and her answer now came low and clear: "Dr. Vaughan, you have not guessed aright. I have not avoided you because I love another."

"Claire, nature did not make you an actress. There was love in your voice when you sang that song!"

"Thank you," coolly; "I have been taught to sing with expression."

"Claire, Claire Keith, I beg you answer me truly; do you really dislike me? You say you do not love another; could you learn to love me?"

No answer.

"Tell me, Claire, do you not know how deeply I love you?"

Silence.

"Claire, Claire, speak to me. End this suspense. Will you not try to love me?"

She moved away from him, and avoiding his eyes, answered in an odd, hard voice: "No, Dr. Vaughan, I will not try to love you."

His next words were uttered almost tremulously. "Ah! I understand. I have displeased you; tell me how."

"You have never displeased me. You are goodness itself. Let me pass, Doctor Vaughan; I must not listen to you."

"Must not? Then you do avoid me?"

"Yes," almost inaudibly.

"Why?" stepping before her and cutting off her retreat.

"I won't tell you. Yes, I will, too. Oh, how blind you are! How can you love me when – when there is some one better, better a thousand times, and braver, too. Some one whose life needs your love, because it has been so loveless always. I won't love you. I won't listen to you. If you want me to be your friend, make the life that is giving its best to others, as happy as it deserves to be. And – don't ever talk – like this – to me again."

Before he could open his lips, or put out a hand to detain her, she had rushed from the room.

Clarence Vaughan gazed after the flying form in speechless grief and amazement. Then flinging himself into a chair, he bowed his head upon his hands in sorrowful meditation. Sitting thus he did not perceive the approach of some one, who laid a hand lightly upon his bowed head, murmuring: "Blind! blind! blind!"

Starting up, he saw the face of Mrs. Ralston bending toward him and wearing an expression of mingled compassion and amusement.

"Forgive me," she said, her countenance resuming its usual gravity. "I was in the library, and heard all. I listened willfully, too, for I have been observing you and Claire, and I want to help you."

Clarence dropped disconsolately back in his chair. "If you have heard all," he said, "you know that it is useless to try to help me."

Mrs. Ralston laughed outright. "If you were not blind you would not need my help," she said. "As it is, you do."

"Mrs. Ralston, what do you mean?"

"I mean that your battle is half won. If you will explain to me one half her words, I will explain to you the other half."

"You are laughing at me," he said, wearily. "What can you explain?"

"That ridiculous girl commanded you to bestow your love upon some more worthy object; some one who was living for others; or some such words. Whom did she mean, may I ask?"

He started up as if inspired by a new thought. "I see!" he exclaimed; "She must have meant – a very dear friend of hers."

He could not say the name that was in his thought. It would sound like egotism.

"That is sufficient," said the lady. "Now, I am going to betray Claire, as she has betrayed this other one. You foolish fellow, can't you see that the child loves you and is striving to do a Quixotic thing by giving you up to her friend? Think over her words and manner, and don't take her at her bidding. If this other, to whom Claire commands you to turn, is a true woman, she would not thank you for the offer of a preoccupied heart."

"She is a true woman," said Clarence, emphatically. "And as dear to me as a sister could be, but – "

"Then let her be a sister still," said Mrs. Ralston, quietly. "And don't lose any time in persuading Claire that she is wronging herself as well as you; and that you would be wronging still more this friend whom you both love, were you to offer her so pitiful a thing as a hand without a heart. She is a true woman, you say. If so, she would never forgive that. Believe me, Dr. Vaughan, there are even worse depths of sorrow than to have loved worthily – and lost."

Mrs. Ralston turned and went softly from the room.

For a few moments, Clarence Vaughan stood wrapped in thought. Then his face became illuminated as he said, half aloud: "What a fool I have been, that I should have so misunderstood that dear girl! Oh, I can be patient now, and bide my time."

And now his reverie was broken in upon by Olive, who entered hurriedly, saying: "Doctor Vaughan, are you here alone? I thought Claire was with you."

He made no answer to this remark, but said, as he took her proffered hand: "I ran down to tell you that I have taken the detectives off. Jarvis is still in our pay, in case of emergency. He has sent his report to Davlin, and a scant one it was. Of course, Davlin is glad to have him withdraw; that is, if he knows, as he must, that the papers are not in Percy's hands."

"Then all depends upon Madeline now?"

"All depends upon Madeline."

"Poor Philip," sighed Olive, "what would he say if he knew that his fate rests in the hands of a mere girl?"

"If he knew of that 'mere girl' what we know, he would say that his fate could not rest in better hands. No man ever had a more efficient champion, nor one half so brave and beautiful."

They had not dared to tell Philip of the hope that was daily growing stronger in their hearts; if they failed, he should be thrust back into no gulf of black darkness because they had cheated him with a false hope.