Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter

CHAPTER X.

BONNIE, BEWITCHING CLAIRE

Four months. We find Madeline standing in the late Autumn sunset, "clothed and in her right mind," strong with the strength of youth, and beautiful with even more than her olden beauty.

Fair is the prospect as seen from the grounds of Mrs. Girard's suburban villa, and so, perhaps, Claire Keith is thinking.

She is looking down the level road, and at the trees on either hand, decked in all their October magnificence of scarlet and brown and gold, half concealing coquettish villas and more stately residences.

The eyes of Madeline were turned away from the vista of villas and trees, and were gazing toward the business thoroughfare leading into the bustle of the town; gazing after the receding figure of Doctor Clarence Vaughan as he cantered away from the villa; gazing until a turn of the road hid him from her view. Then – and what did she mean by it? – she turned her face toward Claire with a questioning look in her eyes – the question came almost to her lips. But the words were repressed.

Bonnie Clair was thinking of anything but Clarence Vaughan just then. Presently she turned a bright glance upon her companion, who was gathering clusters of the fallen maple leaves, with face half averted.

"A kiss for your thoughts, beautiful blonde Madeline. I certainly think it is ten minutes since Doctor Vaughan departed and silence fell upon us."

She bent down, and taking her companion's head between two dimpled hands, pulled it back, until she could look into the solemn brown eyes.

"Come, now," coaxingly, "what were you thinking?"

Madeline extricated herself from Claire's playful grasp, and replied with a half laugh: "It must be mutual confession then, you small highwayman; how do you like my terms?"

"Only so so," flushing and laughing. "I was meditating the propriety of telling you something some day, and was thinking of that something just now, but – "

"But," mimicked Madeline, with half-hearted playfulness; "what will you give me to relieve your embarrassment, and guess?"

"You can't," emphatically.

"Can't I? We will see. My dear, I fear you have left a little corner of your heart behind you in far-away Baltimore. You didn't come to pay your annual visit to your sister, quite heart free."

Anyone wishing to gain an insight into the character of Claire Keith might have taken a long step in that direction could he have witnessed her reception of this unexpected shot. She opened her dark eyes in comic amazement, and dropping into a garden chair, exclaimed, with a look of frank inquiry:

"Now, how ever could you guess that?"

"Because," said Madeline, in a constrained voice, and with all the laughter fading from her eyes; "Because, I know the symptoms."

"I see," dropping her voice suddenly. "Oh, Madeline, how I wish you could forget that."

"Why should I forget my love dream," scornfully, "any more than you yours?"

"Oh, Madeline; but you said you had ceased to care for him; that you should never mourn his loss."

"Mourn his loss!" turning upon Claire, fiercely. "Do you think it is for him I mourn my dead; my lost happiness, my shattered dreams, my life made a bitter, burdensome thing. Mourn him? I have for Lucian Davlin but one feeling – hate!"

Madeline, as she uttered these last words, had turned upon Claire a face whose fierce intensity of expression was startling. For a moment the two gazed into each other's eyes – the one with curling lip and somber, menacing glance, the other with a startled face as if she read something new and to be feared, in the eye of her friend.

Claire had been an inmate of her sister's house for four weeks. When first she arrived, she had heard Madeline's story, at Madeline's request, from the lips of her sister Olive, and now the girls were fast friends. Generous Claire had found much to wonder at, to pity and to love, in the story and the character of the unfortunate girl. Possessing a frank, sunshiny nature, and never having known an actual grief, she could lavish sweet sympathy to one afflicted. But she could not conceive what it would be like to live on when faith had perished and hope was a mockery. She had never known, therefore never missed, a father's love and care. Indeed, he who filled the place of father and guardian, her mother's second husband, was all that a real parent could be. Claire seldom remembered that Mr. James Keith was not her father, and very few, except the family of Keith, knew that "Miss Claire Keith, daughter of the rich James Keith, of Baltimore," was in truth only a step-daughter.

Mrs. Keith, whose first husband was Richard Keith, cashier in his wealthy cousin's banking house, had buried that husband when Olive was five years old, and baby Claire scarce able to lisp his name. In a little less than two years she had married James Keith, the banker-cousin, and shortly after the marriage, James Keith had transferred his business interests to Baltimore, and there remained.

So Claire's baby brothers had never been told that she was not their "very own" sister, for of Olive they knew little, her marriage having separated them at first, and subsequently her obdurate acceptance of the consequences of that marriage.

When the law pronounced her husband a criminal, Mr. Keith had commanded Olive to abandon both husband and home, and return to his protection. This, true-hearted Olive refused to do. Her step-father, enraged at her obstinacy in clinging to a man who had been forsaken by all the world beside, bade her choose between them. Either she must let the law finish its work of breaking Philip Girard's heart by setting her free, or she must accept the consequences of remaining the wife of a criminal.

Olive chose the latter, and thenceforth remained in her own lonely home, never even once visiting the place of her childhood.

"He called my husband a criminal," she said, "and I will never cross his threshold until he has had cause to withdraw those words."

Claire, however, announced her intention of visiting her sister whenever she chose, and she succeeded, in part, in carrying out her will, for every year she passed two months or more with Olive.

What a picture the two girls now made, standing face to face.

Madeline, with her lithe grace of form, her pure pale complexion lit up by those fathomless brown eyes, and rendering more noticeable and beautiful the tiny rosy mouth, with its satellite dimples; with such wee white, blue-veined hands, and such a clear ringing, yet marvelously sweet voice. Madeline was very beautiful, and Claire, as she looked at her, wondered how any man could bear to lose such loveliness, or have the heart to betray it; as if ever pure woman could fathom the depth of a bad man's wickedness.

Bonnie, bewitching Claire! Never was contrast more perfect. A scarf, like scarlet flame, flung about her shoulders, set off the richness of her clear brunette skin, through which the crimson blood flamed in cheek and lip. Eyes, now black, now gray, changing, flashing, witching eyes: gray in quiet moments, darkening with mirth or sadness, anger or pain; hair black and silky, rippling to the rounded, supple waist in glossy waves. Not so tall as Madeline, and rounded and dimpled as a Hebe.

Bringing her will into service, Madeline banished the gloom from her face and said, with an attempt at gayety:

"I must be a terrible wet blanket when my ghost rises, Claire. But come, you have excited my curiosity; let us sit down while you tell me more of this mighty man who has pitched his tent in the wilderness of your heart, to the exclusion of others who might aspire."

They seated themselves upon a rustic bench and Claire replied:

"Don't anticipate too much, inquisitor; I have no acknowledged lover, but – " blushing charmingly, "I have every reason to think that I am loved fondly and sincerely. He is very handsome, Madeline, and – but wait, I will show you his picture."

Madeline nodded, and Claire bounded away, to return quickly bearing in her hand a finely wrought cabinet photograph, encased in velvet and gilt, a la souvenaire. Placing it in her companion's hand, she sat down with a little triumphant sigh, and gazed over Madeline's shoulder with a proud, glad look in her eyes.

"Blonde?" suggested Madeline.

"Yes," eagerly; "such lovely hair and whiskers, – perfect gold color; and fair as a woman."

"So I should judge," and she continued to gaze.

Blonde he was, certainly; hair thrown carelessly back from a brow broad and white; eyes, light, but with an expression that puzzled the gazer.

"Eyes, – what color?" she said, without taking her own off the picture.

"Blue; pale blue, but capable of such varying expression."

"Just so," dryly; "they look mild and saintly here, but I think those eyes are capable of another expression. I could fancy the brain behind such eyes to be – "

"What?" eagerly.

"Cruel, crafty, treacherous."

"Oh, Madeline!"

"There, there; I didn't say that he," – tapping the picture – "possessed these qualities. His eyes are unusual ones; did you ever see his mouth?"

"What a question – through all those whiskers? no; but he has beautiful teeth."

"So have tigers. There, dear, take the picture; I am no fit judge, perhaps. Remember, I once knew a man with the face of an angel, and the heart of a fiend. Your friend is certainly handsome; let us hope he is equally good."

"He is; I know it," asserted Claire.

Then she told her companion how she had met him at the house of a friend; how he was very learned and scientific; very grave and dignified; and very devoted to herself. And how, beyond these few facts, she knew little if anything of her blonde hero, Edward Percy.

Madeline received this information in a grave silence, whose chill affected Claire as well, and after a few moments, as if by mutual consent, they arose and entered the house.

Olive Girard had been absent a week; gone on a journey, sacred to her as any Meccan pilgrimage, a visit to the place of her husband's imprisonment. Every year she made this journey, returning home in some measure comforted; for she had seen her beloved.

She came back on this evening, as the two girls were mingling their voices in gay bravura duets – by mutual consent they avoided all songs of a pathetic order, for reasons which neither would have cared to acknowledge.

The evening having passed away, Claire found herself in her chamber gazing at her lover's pictured face and thinking how good, how noble, it was, and what a little goose she had been to allow anything Madeline had said to apply to him. A sudden thought occurred to her, and going to Madeline's door, she tapped gently. The door opened, and Claire, raising a warning finger, said:

"Madeline, I forgot to tell you that Olive knows nothing of Edward Percy, and – I don't want to tell her just yet. You will not mention it?"

"No."

"Then good-night, and pleasant dreams."

"Thank you," in a grave voice; "good-night."

Claire returned to her room and penned a long letter to Edward Percy, full of sweet confidence, gayety and trustfulness. She reperused his last letter, said her prayers, or rather read them, for Claire was a staunch little church-woman, and then slept and dreamed bright dreams.

CHAPTER XI.

A GLEAM OF LIGHT

A few moments after Claire's door had closed for the last time, Madeline came cautiously from her room, her slippered feet making no sound on the softly carpeted floor. Passing Claire's door, she paused before another, opened it gently, and stood in Olive Girard's bed-chamber.

Evidently she was expected, for a light was burning softly and Olive sat near it with a book in her hand, in an attitude of waiting.

Madeline seated herself at the little table as if quite accustomed to such interviews, and said in a low tone:

"I am so glad you came to-night; are you too tired for a long talk?"

"No; tell me all that has happened since I have been absent."

"Olive, I must go away; back to Bellair," said Madeline, abruptly.

"Madeline, you are mad! To Bellair? Why, he is there often now."

"He will not find me out, never fear. I must go to Bellair within the week."

Olive leaned forward and scanned the girl's face closely and long. At last, she said: "Madeline, what is it you meditate? tell me."

"Going back to Bellair; keeping an eye upon the proceedings of Mr. Arthur; finding out what game that man and woman are playing there; and baffling and punishing them all."

She had been kept informed, through Henry, into whose hands had fallen a letter in Cora's handwriting, bearing the Bellair postmark, and addressed to Lucian Davlin, who, so Henry said, "went down, on and off," and always appeared satisfied with the result of his journey.

Olive argued long against this resolution, but found it impossible to dissuade Madeline.

"It is useless," the girl said, firmly. "I should have died but for the expectation of a time when I could be avenged, and this time I must bring about. All through my convalescence I have pondered how I could best avenge my mother's wrongs, and my own. Now Providence has thrown together the two men who are my enemies; why, I do not yet know, but perhaps it is that I may make the one a weapon against the other. And now I want to ask you some questions."

"Ask, then."

"I shall touch upon a painful subject, and I will tell you why. After you went away, the story of your sorrow remained with me. So I thought the ground all over, and formed some conclusions. Do you wish to hear them?"

Olive nodded, wearily.

"You have told me," said Madeline, assuming a calm, business-like tone, "that Lucian Davlin testified against your husband at his trial. Now the wounded man, Percy, stated that he recognized the man who struck him?"

"Yes."

"Well, what was Davlin's testimony?"

"That he saw my husband stealing in the direction of the place where the wounded man was found, but a few moments before he was struck, wearing the same hat and hunting-jacket that the injured man testified was worn by his would-be assassin."

"Oh!" Madeline knitted her brows in thought a moment; then – "Was the coat and hat Mr. Girard's?"

"Yes; he had thrown them off in the afternoon, while the heat was intense, and had fallen asleep. When he awoke, he heard them calling him to supper. It was late in the evening when he remembered his coat and hat, and went back to look for them. He went just at the time when the man must have been struck, and his absence told against him in the evidence."

"Did he find his garments?"

"No; they were found by others, not where he had left them, but nearer the scene of the crime."

"Ah! And who was the first to discover the injured man?"

"Why, I believe it was Mr. Davlin." Olive looked more and more surprised at each question. "Why do you ask these things, Madeline?"

The girl made a gesture of impatience. "Wait," she said, "I will explain in good time." Again she considered. "Was there any ill-feeling between your husband and Davlin?"

"There was no open misunderstanding, but I know there was mutual dislike. Philip saw that Davlin was making systematic efforts to win money from the party, and had therefore persuaded one or two of his friends to give gaming little countenance. No doubt he kept money out of the man's pocket."

"And what was the standing of that man and the victim, this Percy?"

"They were much together, and Philip tells me he had sometimes fancied that Davlin held some power over Percy. Davlin had won largely from him, and the man seemed much annoyed, but paid over the money without demur."

"And now, how did your husband stand toward the injured man?"

"That is the worst part of the story. They had had high words only that very day. Philip had been acquainted with Percy at school, and he knew so much that was not in his favor, that he was unable to conceal his real opinion of the man at all times. One day high words arose, and Philip uttered a threat, which was misconstrued, after the attack upon Percy. They said he threatened his life. But Percy knew that only his honor was meant. Davlin knew this, too; must have known it, for he was aware that the two had met before they came together with the party."

"I can not see why Lucian Davlin should be your husband's enemy."

"I can understand that he hated Philip for the same reason that a thief hates the light, and Philip had balked his plans."

"True; and yet – "

"And yet?" inquiringly.

"Bad as the man is, I can see but one motive that could induce even him to swear away the liberty, almost the life, of a man who never wronged him."

"Still, he did it," said Olive, with a weary sigh.

"True; and he did it for a motive."

"And that motive – "

"Was the strongest instinct of the human race."

"What?" eagerly.

"Self-preservation."

Olive started up with a half cry. "Madeline, in heaven's name, what do you mean!"

"That Lucian Davlin threw suspicion upon the innocent to screen the guilty," said the girl, in a low, firm tone.

"And the guilty one, then?"

"Himself. Do you think him too good for it?" sneeringly.

"No, no! oh, no! But this I had never thought of – yet it may be true."

She fell into deep thought; after a time she started up. "I must consult a detective immediately," she said.

"You must do no such thing," cried Madeline, springing to her feet; "why did not the detectives find this out before? Because they have not my reasons for hunting that man down. I found this clue, if it be one. I claim it; it is my right, and I will have it. If he is to be undone, it shall be by my hands. I swear it!"

They faced each other in silence.

Slowly Olive recalled to her countenance and voice its usual sweet calm, and then seated herself and talked long and earnestly with Madeline.

The little bronze clock on the mantel was on the stroke of two when the conference ended, and Madeline retired to her own room, but not to sleep. She sat and thought until the dawn shone in at her window.

One link was missing from the chain; no motive had been discovered for an attack on Percy by Davlin.

"But I will find it," she muttered. Then, as a new thought occurred to her, she caught her breath. "Claire's lover is named Percy; can it be the same? Why did not this occur to me sooner? Why did I not ask for his first name, and a description of him? If this man and Edward Percy should be one and the same! Pshaw! the name is not an uncommon one, and it may be only a coincidence. But your face is a bad one, Edward Percy, and I shall know it when I see it again."

The sun was not high in the heavens ere Madeline was astir, for her nature was such that strong excitement rendered rest impossible. Moving impatiently about the grounds, she saw a familiar form approaching through the shrubbery, and hastened to meet it.

The black visage of Henry beamed with satisfaction as he made a hurried obeisance and placed in her hand a letter, saying:

"Master was preparing for a two days' journey when this letter came. He threw it into his desk, and bade me lock it, and bring him the key. His back was turned, and I took the letter before I locked the desk. It was a long one, and from her; I thought you might want to see it."

"Right, Henry," said the girl, quietly, as she opened the letter. "You will wait for it?"

"Yes, miss; it must not be missing when he comes."

"Certainly not."

She returned to the letter, and this is what she read:

Lucian, Mon Brave:

I am in a fine predicament – have made a startling discovery. Mr. A – has been sick, and the mischief is to pay; and his sickness has brought some ugly facts to light.

The old man is not the sole proprietor of the Oakley wealth. That girl who ran away so mysteriously, and has never been heard of, will inherit at his death. He can bequeath his widow nothing. Oh, to know where that girl is! If she is alive, my work is useless, my time is wasted. I think the old chap must have driven her to desperation, for he raved in his delirium of her and her words at parting. They must have been "searchers."

Well, to add to the general interest, Miss Arthur, aged fifty or so, is here. She is a juvenile old maid, who has a fortune in her own right, and so must be cultivated. She dresses like a sixteen-year-old, and talks like a fool, principally about a certain admirer, a "blonde demi-god" – her words – named Percy.

Something must be done: things must be talked over. Come down and make love to Miss Arthur. Her money is not entailed.

Bring me some Periques and a box of Alexis gloves – you know the number. Yours in disgust,

Madeline dropped the letter, and stood amazed. What did it mean? "Cora Mme. Arthur!"

Henry stooped for the letter, and the act recalled her to herself. She thanked him for the service he had done her; told him of her intended departure; gave him some last instructions, and dismissed him with a kind good-by.

"It is time to act," she muttered. "Good heavens! the audacity of that man and woman! She is married to my step-father, if that letter does not lie; has married him for money, and is baffled there. She hoped to become his widow, aha! The plot thickens, indeed! Goodness! what a household! That bad old man, the still viler woman, dangerous Lucian Davlin, and that funny, youthful, cross, 'conceited spinster,' Ellen Arthur, who has a lover, and his name is – heaven save us – Percy! That name will mix itself up with my fate web, and why? Percy beloved of Claire; Percy who brought Philip Girard to his doom; Percy the lover of a rich old maid, are ye one and the same? Percy! Percy! Percy! I must cultivate the Percys at any cost."

She turned and entered the house, her head bent, thinking, thinking, thinking.

CHAPTER XII.

A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD

Less than a week after the events last related, and a family group surrounds the lunch table in the newly furnished morning room of Oakley.

The fair and fascinating Mrs. Torrance had accomplished the purpose for which she came to Bellair.

Truly had she said, "There is no fool like an old fool;" for John Arthur had been an easy victim. He had lost no time with his wooing, and so, a little less than two months from the day the fair widow came to Bellair, saw her mistress of John Arthur's household.