Norine's Revenge, and, Sir Noel's Heir

"Don't let us speak of it," she said, hoarsely. "I – I can't bear it. O Heaven! what have I done?"

She covered her face with her hands, a dry, shuddering sob shaking her from head to foot.

"If I could only die," she thought, with a pang of horrible agony and fear; "If I dared only die!"

"Listen to me, Mrs. Laurence," Mr. Liston said, steadily, and as if he read her thoughts. "Don't despair; you have something to live for yet."

"Something to live for?" she repeated, in the same stifled tones. "What?"

"Revenge."

"What?"

"Revenge upon Laurence Thorndyke. It is your right and your duty. His evil deeds have been hidden from the light long enough. Let his day of retribution come – from your hand let his doom fall."

She looked up. In the deepening dusk the man's face was set stern as stone.

"From my hand? How?"

"By simply telling the truth. Come with me to New York; come with me before Hugh Darcy and Helen Holmes, and tell your story as it stands. My word for it, there will be neither wedding nor fortune in store for Laurence Thorndyke after that."

Her black eyes lit and flashed for a moment with some of his own vengeful fire. She drew her breath hard.

"You think this?" she said.

"I know this. Stern, rigorous justice to all men is Hugh Darcy's motto. And Miss Holmes is as proud, and pure, and womanly as she is rich and beautiful. She would cast him off, though they stood at the altar."

Her lips set themselves tighter in that tense line. She sat staring steadfastly into the fire, her breast rising and falling with the tumult within.

The little clock on the mantel ticked fast and loud; the ceaseless patter, patter of the autumnal rain tapped like ghostly fingers on the pane. Down on the shore below the long, sullen breakers boomed. The man's heart beat as he waited. He had looked forward to some such hour as this, for five long years, to plot and plan his enemy's ruin. And in this girl's hands it lay to-night.

At last.

"She loves him, does she not?" She asked the question huskily.

"Do you mean Miss Holmes? Only too well, I fear, Mrs. Laurence. As I have said, it comes easily to all of you to lose your hearts to Mr. Thorndyke."

She never heeded the savage sarcasm of his tone. A tumult of temptation was warring within her.

"And she is young and gentle, and pure and good?" she went on.

"All that and more. A beautiful and gracious lady as ever drew breath."

"And I am not his wife. And you tell me she loves and trusts him. Yes! it is easy to do that! If she casts him off she will break her own heart. She at least has never wronged me – why should her life be blighted as mine and Lucy West's have been? Mr. Liston, as much as I ever loved Laurence Thorndyke, I think I hate him to-night – " her black eyes flamed up in the dusk. "I want to be revenged upon him – I will be revenged upon him, but not that way."

"Madam, I don't know what you mean."

"I mean this, Mr. Liston – and it is of no use your growing angry – I will not stab Laurence Thorndyke through the innocent girl who loves him. I have fallen very low, but not quite low enough for that. Let her marry him – I shall not lift a finger – speak a word to prevent it. She at least has never wronged me."

"No, she has never wronged you, but do you think you can do her a greater wrong than by letting her become the wife of a heartless scoundrel and libertine? I thought better of you, Miss Bourdon. Laurence Thorndyke is to escape, then, after all?"

Her eyes flashed – literally flashed in the firelight.

"No! So surely as we both live he shall not escape. But not in that way shall he be punished."

"Then, how – "

"Not to-night, Mr. Liston; some other time we will talk of this. When did you say the – the wedding was to take place?"

"The first week of December. They will spend the winter South. She is a Southerner by birth, although at present residing with her guardian, Mr. Darcy, in New York. I am to understand, then, you will not prevent this marriage?"

"I will not prevent it. I have had my fool's paradise – so no doubt had Lucy West, why should not Helen Holmes?"

"Very well, then, Miss Bourdon." He spoke in his customary cold, monotonous voice. "My business this evening is almost concluded. At what hour to-morrow will it be most convenient for you to leave?"

"To leave?"

"To return to your friends in Maine. Such were Mr. Thorndyke's orders. As you have no money of your own, I presume you are aware you cannot remain here. Up to the present I am prepared to pay what is due the Misses Waddle – I am to escort you in safety to Portland. After that – 'the world is all before you where to choose.' Such are my master's orders."

She rose to her feet, suppressed passion in every line of her white face, in every tone of her voice.

"The coward!" she said, almost in a whisper. "The base, base, base coward! Sir, I will never go home! I will go down to the sea yonder, and make an end of it all, but home again – never!"

"Ah, I thought not!" he said quietly. "Then, Miss Bourdon, may I ask what you mean to do? You cannot stay here."

"No, I cannot stay here," she said bitterly. "I am utterly friendless and homeless to-night. I don't know what to do."

"Let me tell you. Come to New York."

"Sir!"

"Our hatred of Laurence Thorndyke is a bond between us. You shall never be friendless nor homeless while I live. I am old enough to be your father; you may trust me, and never repent it, that I swear. See here! this is what I mean to do for you. Sit down once more."

She obeyed, looking at him in wonder and doubt.

"Helen Holmes lives with Hugh Darcy. She is as dear as a daughter to him. He is one of those old, world-worn men who love to have youth and beauty about them. She reads for him his newspaper and books of poetry and romance; he is as fond of verse and fiction as a girl in her teens. She plays the piano and sings for him – he has a passion for music. Now, can you play and sing?"

"Yes."

"Then here is my plan. He is soon to lose Miss Holmes, and some one like her in her place he must have – that he told me himself. A young girl to read aloud his pet books, to play in the long winter evenings his pet music, to sing his favorite songs, to read and write his letters – to brighten the dull old house generally by her presence – to look pretty and fair and sweet always; that is what he wants. Salary is no object with him. You will have a happy home, light and pleasant work, plenty of money. Will you take it?"

"But – "

"You will suit him exactly. You are young enough, in all conscience – pretty enough, if you will pardon my saying so, to brighten even a duller house than that. You play, you sing, you can read aloud. What more do you want? You need a home. There is a home. And" – a long pause – "who can tell what may come of it?"

She was looking up, he was looking down. Their eyes met. In the darkness they could yet look at each other long and steadily for a moment. Then hers fell.

"How old is Mr. Darcy?" she asked in a subdued voice.

"He is seventy-eight, old, feeble, and easily worked upon. I say again – who knows what may come of it? To be disinherited is the only thing in heaven or earth Laurence Thorndyke is afraid of. And old men of eighty, with stubborn minds and strong resentments, do sometimes make such strange wills."

Again there was a pause. Then Norine Bourdon spoke firmly.

"I will go with you to New York."

He drew a long breath of relief.

"I thought you would. You will not repent it, Mrs. Laurence. By-the-by, would you mind leaving that name behind you?"

She looked at him inquiringly.

"You will accompany me to New York as my niece, Jane Liston. I have a niece of that name, a widow, out in Oregon. As my niece, Mrs. Jane Liston, from the country, looking for work in the city, I will introduce you to my landlady, a most respectable woman. As my niece, Jane Liston, I will present you to Mr. Darcy. We don't want Master Laurence to see our little game. If you went as Mrs. Laurence, or Miss Kent, even, he would. He will be sure to hear the name of Miss Holmes' successor.'

"But – you have forgotten – I may meet him. That" – her lips quivering – "I could not bear."

"No danger at all. You will not go there until they are off on their wedding tour. They do not return until May. In five months, judiciously made use of, great things may happen."

She rose up, with a long, weary-worn sigh.

"I am in your hands, Mr. Liston. Friendless, moneyless, helpless, I suppose I ought to thank you for this, but – I cannot. I know it is not for my sake you are doing it, but for the sake of your revenge. Say what you like of me when we go to New York; I am ready to follow where you lead. Just now I am tired – we will not talk any more. Let us say good-night."

She gave him her hand; it was like ice. He let it fall uneasily.

"And you will not fail me?" he asked.

"I shall not fail you," she answered. In what either said, it was not necessary. They understood – revenge upon Laurence Thorndyke.

"To-morrow at twelve I will call for you here to take the train for New York. You will be ready?"

"I will be ready." The door closed behind the small white figure, and he was alone.

Alone, and he had not told her the truth, that in his opinion the marriage was legal.

"Another time," he thought; "bigamy is an ugly crime. Let us wait until he marries Miss Holmes."

CHAPTER XV.

"A FASHIONABLE WEDDING."

Another night had passed, another day had come. At twelve sharp Mr. Liston and a hackney carriage had come for "Mrs. Laurence." Her trunks had been packed by her own-hands. Mr. Liston had settled the claim of the Misses Waddle, and white and still she had come out, shaken hands with the kindly spinsters, entered the hack, fallen back in a corner, her hand shading her eyes, and so was driven away from the Chelsea cottage forever.

"And dead and in her shroud," said the younger Miss Waddle, melo-dramatically, "she will never look more like death than she does to-day."

She had scarcely slept the night through. That pleasant cottage chamber overlooking the sea was haunted for her, full of memories that nearly maddened her to-night. With all her heart she had loved – with all her soul she had trusted. She stood here in the darkness, forsaken, deceived. She hardly knew whether it were passionate love still, or passionate hatred that filled her now. The boundary line between strong love and strong hate is but narrow at the best. A tumult that was agony filled heart and brain. He had never cared for her; never, never! Out of pure revenge upon Richard Gilbert he had mocked her with the farce of love – mocked her from first to last, and wearied of her before one poor week had ended.

"Lightly won, lightly lost," man's motto always, never more true than in her case. Without one pang he had cast her off contemptuously, glad to be rid of her, and had sent his uncle's servant to take her back to the home she had disgraced, the hearts she had broken. She clenched her hands – in the darkness she was walking up and down her room, and hoarse, broken murmurs of a woman scorned and outraged came from her lips. She could picture him even at this hour seated by the side of the girl he was so soon to marry, his arm encircling her, his eyes looking love into hers, his lips murmuring the old false vows, sealing them with the old false caresses. Face downward she flung herself upon the bed at last, wild with the remorse, the despair of her own thoughts.

"Oh," she cried; "I cannot bear it! I cannot, I cannot."

The darkness wrapped her, the deep silence of the night was around her. Up stairs the Misses Waddle slept their vestal beauty sleep, commonplace and content. A month ago she had pitied their dull, loveless, plodding lives. Ah, Heaven! to be free from this torturing pain at her heart, and able to sleep like them now. But even to her sleep came at last, the spent sleep of utter exhaustion.

The morning sun was shining brightly when she awoke. She got up feeling chilled and stiff, worn and grown old. Mechanically she bathed and breakfasted – Miss Waddle the younger gazing askance at her white cheeks and lustreless eyes. Mechanically she returned to her room, and began packing her trunks. And then, this done, she sat with folded hands by the window, looking out upon the sparkling sea, until noon and Mr. Liston should come. Her mind was a blank; the very intensity of the blow benumbed pain. Last night she had lain yonder, and writhed in her torture; to-day she felt almost apathetic – indifferent to past, present, and future. And so, pale and cold, and still, Mr. Liston had found her, so she had shaken hands, and said good-by to the Misses Waddle, and so she had been driven away from her "honeymoon paradise" to begin her life anew.

They reached New York. If Mr. Liston had indeed been the fondest of uncles, he could not have been more affectionately solicitous for the welfare and comfort of his charge. She was indifferent to it all – unconscious of it indeed, looking upon all things with dull, half-sightless eyes.

"Take good care of her, Mrs. Wilkins," he said to his landlady; "she is ailing, as you can see, and don't let her be disturbed or annoyed in my absence. She has had trouble lately, and is not like herself."

It was a shabby-genteel boarding-house, in a shabby-genteel street, close upon East Broadway. At first "Mrs. Liston" had her meals served in her room, and spent her time, for all Mrs. Wilkins could see, in sitting at the window, with idly-lying hands, gazing out into the dull street. Mr. Liston was absent the chief part of the day, and Mrs. Liston steadfastly kept her room; but in the evenings, always closely veiled, Mrs. Wilkins observed he could prevail upon her to go out with him for a walk. He was kind to her, the girl vaguely felt – she would obey him, at least; and, since she could not die and make an end of it all, why, she might as well take a little exercise for her health's sake. He was very good to her, but she felt no gratitude – it was not for her sake, but for the sake of the grudge he owed their mutual foe. Their mutual foe! Did she hate Laurence Thorndyke she wondered. There were times when her very soul grew sick with longing for the sight of his face, the tone of his voice, the touch of his hand, and the sound of his name from Mr. Liston's lips had power to thrill her to the inmost heart still.

Gradually, as the weeks passed, matters changed.

"Time, that blunts the edge of things,Dries our tears and spoils our bliss,"

was quietly at work for Norine. She came down to the public table, and the pale, spirituelle beauty of the invisible and mysterious Mrs. Liston caused a profound sensation among the boarders. Next, she took to spending the long afternoons in the dingy boarding-house parlor, playing upon the jingling, toneless boarding-house piano such melodies of mournful sweetness that Mrs. Wilkins and her handmaidens of the kitchen paused in their work, to listen, and wonder, and admire.

"That young woman has seen trouble," Mrs. Wilkins said, shaking her head. She had her own opinion – a pretty correct one – of what nature that trouble was; but her beauty and her youth were there to plead for her. She was a lady to her finger-tips, that was evident; and – most potent reason of all with Mrs. Wilkins – Mr. Liston had been her boarder and friend for the past ten years.

So December came.

How the time had gone Norine could hardly have told – it did go somehow, that was all. Trouble, remorse, despair, do not kill; she was still alive and tolerably well, could eat and sleep, play the old tunes, even sometimes sing the old songs. She looked at herself in a sort of dreary wonder in the glass. The face she saw a little paler than of old, was fair and youthful still – the bright hair glossy and abundant as ever. She had read of people whose hair turned gray with trouble; hers had passed and left no sign, only on the lips that had forgotten to smile, the eyes that never lit into gladness or hope, and the heart that lay like lead in her bosom.

The crisp, frosty December days seemed to fly, bringing with them his wedding-day. Every hour now the old agony of that night in the Chelsea cottage came back to stab her through. The seventh of December was the day – could she bear it? – and it was in her power even yet, Mr. Liston told her, to prevent it. Twice during the last fortnight she had seen him, the first time, when, closely veiled, her dress had brushed him on Broadway. He was advancing with another gentleman, both were smoking, both were laughing gayly at some good story Thorndyke seemed to be telling. Handsome, elegant, well-dressed, nonchalant, he passed her, actually turning to glance after the graceful figure and veiled face.

"That figure should belong to a pretty girl," she had heard him say. "Deuce take the veils, what do they wear 'em for. There – there's something oddly familiar about her, too."

She had turned sick and faint, she leaned against a store window for a moment, the busy street going round and round. So they had met and parted again.

The second time it was almost worse. Mr. Liston had taken her to the opera – in her passionate love of music she could forget, for a few brief hours, her pain, when, coming out, in the crush, they had come almost face to face. His bride elect was on his arm, by instinct she knew it, a tall, stylish girl, in sweeping draperies, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a skin like pearl. He was bending his tall head over her, devotedly; both looked brilliantly handsome and happy.

"For Heaven's sake, come this way!" Liston had cried, and drawn her with him hurriedly in another direction. She had been literally unable to move, standing, white and wild, gazing upon him. Presently came the fateful wedding day. All the night preceding she lay awake, the old tempest of feeling going on within her.

Should she denounce him, or should she not, on his wedding-day? Should she take his bride from him at the very altar, and proclaim him to the world as the liar and betrayer he was, or should she wait? She could not decide. When morning came her mind was in as utter a tumult as ever.

"Have you decided?" Mr. Liston asked her. "Shall Laurence Thorndyke leave his uncle's house to-day, with his bride by his side, or as an outcast and a pauper, scorned by all? It is for you to say."

"I don't know," she answered, hoarsely. "Take me to the church – I will decide there."

He had taken her, led her in, placed her in one of the pews, and left her. His manifold duties kept him with Mr. Darcy; he would be unable to join Norine again that day.

The church filled; an hour before the ceremony it was crowded. Then they came; the bridegroom a trifle pale and nervous, as bridegrooms are wont to be, but, as usual, handsome of face and elegant of attire. Then on her guardian's arm, the bride, a dazzling vision of white satin, Honiton lace, pearl, orange blossoms, gold hair, and tender drooping face. A breathless hush fills the church – in that hush the officiating clergyman came forth – in that hush the bridal party take their places, a flock of white bridesmaids, a group of black gentlemen. And then a voice out of that great stillness speaks.

"If any here know of just cause or impediment why these two should not be joined in the bonds of matrimony, let him speak now, or forever hold his peace."

Mr. Liston turns his quiet face and watchful eyes to one particular pew, to one slender figure and veiled face. The five seconds that follow are as five centuries to the bridegroom. His face is quite white, his gloved fingers are like ice. He glances up at Liston, and then – the ceremony begins. What a horrible time it takes, Laurence Thorndyke thinks; what a horrible ordeal a fashionable public marriage is. Does a dingy hotel parlor rise before him, the rain beating on the windows, and a pale, wistful face look up at him, while a mockery of this solemn rite is being gabbled through by a tipsy actor? Is it the fair, happy, downcast face of his bride he sees or that other face as he saw it last, all white and drawn in the anguish of a last farewell?

"What God hath joined together let no man put asunder!"

It is over. He draws a long, hard breath of relief. Come what may, Helen is his wife.

They rise; they file slowly and gracefully out of the church; the bride hanging on the bridegroom's arm. Closely, very closely, they pass one particular pew wherein a solitary figure stands. She has risen with the rest; she has flung back her veil, and people who glance at her stop involuntarily and look again. The face is like stone, the dark eyes all wild and wide, the lips apart; she stands as if slowly petrifying. But the bridal party do not see her; they pass on, and out.

"Who is she?" strangers whisper. "Has she known Laurence Thorndyke?"

Then they too, go, and all is over.

The wedding party enter their carriages and are whirled away. Mr Liston sees his employer safely off, then returns hurriedly to the church. He is angry with Norine, but it is his duty to look after her, and something in her face to-day has made him afraid. There is nothing to fear, however; she is very quiet now; she sunk down upon her knees, her head has fallen forward upon the rail. He speaks to her; she does not answer. He touches her on the shoulder; she does not look up. He lifts her head – yes, it is as he feared. The edifice is almost deserted now; he takes her in his arms and carries her out into the air. For the second time in her life she has fainted entirely away.

CHAPTER XVI.

"HIS NAME IS LAURENCE THORNDYKE."

A gray March afternoon is blustering itself out in the streets of New York – a slate-colored sky, fast drifting with black, rainy clouds; the wind sobs and shivers in great dusty soughs, and pedestrians bow involuntarily before it, and speed along with winking and watery eyes.

In a quiet, old-fashioned street – for there are quiet, old-fashioned streets even in New York – there stands a big, square, dingy, red brick house, set in a square of grass-grown front garden, a square of brick paving in the rear. Two slim poplars – "old maids of the forest," lift their tall, prim green heads on either side of the heavy hall door. The house looks comfortable, but gloomy, and that is precisely what it is, this dun-colored spring day, comfortable, but gloomy. There are heavy curtains of dark, rich damask draping the windows. Through the clear panes of one of the upper windows you catch the flicker and fall of a red coal fire, and the sombre beauty of a girl's face.

She stands in the large, handsome room, alone, a long, low room, with a carpet of rich, dull crimson velvet, curtains of dull crimson satin damask, papered walls, dull crimson, too. There are oil paintings in gilded frames, ponderous mahogany chairs, tables and footstools; but there is nothing bright in the apartment save the cheerful red fire. It is all dark and oppressive – not even excepting the girl. The pale face that looks gloomily out at the fast drifting sky, at the fast-fading light, is smileless and sober as all the rest. And yet it is a youthful face, a beautiful face, a face that six months ago bloomed with a childish brightness and bloom, the face of Norine Bourdon.

It is close upon four months since she entered this house, as companion, secretary, amanuensis, to Mr. Hugh Darcy. Now she stands here debating within herself whether she shall go to him to-night and tell him she must leave. She shrinks from the task. She has grown strangely old and wise in these four months; she knows something of the world – something of what it must be like to be adrift in New York, friendless and penniless, with only eighteen years and a fair face for one's dangerous dower. Friendless she will be; for in leaving she will deeply irritate Mr. Darcy, deeply anger Mr. Liston, and in all the world, it seems to Norine, there are only those two she can call friends.

And yet – friends! Can she call even them by that name? Mr. Liston is her friend and protector so long as he thinks she will aid him in his vengeance upon his enemy. Mr. Darcy – well, how long will Mr. Darcy be her friend when he discovers how she has imposed upon him? That under a false name and history she has sought the shelter of his roof – she, the cast-off of his nephew? He likes her well – that she knows; he trusts her, respects her – how much liking or respect will remain when he knows her as she is?