My Pretty Maid; or, Liane Lester

This did not please Dolly at all, so she said spitefully:

"I dare say she doesn't care whether you look at her or not! She has no eager eyes for any one but that handsome Mr. Dean, and he has been standing beside her ever since he gave her the prize, and walked back to her seat with her, just as if they were lovers."

"You are trying to make me jealous, Miss Dolly!" he laughed, unwilling for her to perceive the pain she gave him.

And he added, as some of the crowd around Liane moved aside:

"Please excuse me while I speak to Miss Lester."

Dolly made an angry little pout at him as he moved away. She had forgiven Liane for winning the prize of beauty, but if she carried off Devereaux's heart, too, why, that would be quite different. Liane knew how Dolly had set her heart on him. It would be mean if she came between them, she thought.

She managed to get near them when they met, and marked Liane's blush and smile of pleasure.

"And she always pretended not to care for flirting! But I suppose she will turn over a new leaf from to-night," she muttered jealously, as she edged nearer, trying to overhear everything that passed between the pair.

She had one triumph, at least, when she heard Devereaux prefer a low request to walk home with Liane that evening.

"I am very sorry, but—I have already promised Mr. Dean," the girl murmured back, in regretful tones.

CHAPTER XIII.

EDMUND CLARKE'S SUSPICION

Roma Clarke gave her parents a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour riding home that evening.

She threw pride to the winds, and raved in grief and anger at her defeat in the contest for the beauty prize, charging it most bitterly at the door of Jesse Devereaux.

Mr. Clarke learned for the first time now of the broken engagement, and, on finding that it was Roma's fault, he could not help censuring her severely for the folly by which she had lost her lover.

He thought bitterly in his heart: "Ah, how different my own sweet daughter must have been from this ill-tempered, coarse-grained girl who betrays her low origin in spite of the good bringing up and fine education she has received! My poor wife! How disappointed she must feel at heart, in spite of her brave show of affection and sympathy! And, as for Jesse Devereaux, he is a splendid young fellow, and has had a lucky escape from Roma's toils. I cannot feel that she will make any man a lovable wife, though I shall be glad enough to have her married off my hands!"

When Roma had gone, sobbing, to her room, he talked very earnestly to her mother, somewhat blaming her for encouraging the girl's willful temper.

"She is spoiled and selfish," he declared. "I for one am willing to own that the prize was well given to Miss Lester. She is very lovely—far lovelier than Roma!"

"How can you say so of our dear girl?" Mrs. Clarke cried reproachfully.

"Because, my dear wife, my eyes are not blinded, like yours, by love and partiality, and thus I can do justice to others," he answered firmly.

"You have never loved our daughter as you should. Therefore, I have felt it my duty to love and cherish her the more!" she sobbed.

He took her tenderly in his arms, and kissed the beautiful, quivering lips, exclaiming:

"Oh, my love, if our daughter were more like you, I could love her a hundredfold better! But, alas, she is so different, both in beauty and disposition, from my angel wife!"

"I have fancied she must be like your own relations, Edmund."

"Perhaps so," he replied evasively, continuing:

"This girl who took the prize this evening won my admiration, darling, because she has a wonderful likeness to you in your young days, Elinor; when we were first married."

"Oh, Edmund, I was never so exquisitely beautiful!" she cried, blushing like a girl.

"Oh, yes, indeed; quite as beautiful as Liane Lester—and very lovely still," he answered, gazing into her eyes with the admiration of a lover, giving her all the tenderness he withheld from Roma, his unloved daughter.

She nestled close to his breast, delighted at his praises, and presently she said:

"It is rather a coincidence, your fancying that Miss Lester looks like me, while I imagine that her grandmother—a dreadful old creature, by the way—resembles Mrs. Jenks, the old woman who nursed me when Roma was born."

Some startled questioning from her husband brought out the whole story of her visit to granny.

"Of course I was mistaken in taking her for Mrs. Jenks, but the old crone needn't have been so vexed over it," she said.

Edmund Clarke was startled, agitated, by what she had told him, but he did not permit her to perceive it.

He thought:

"What if I have stumbled on the solution of a terrible mystery? The likeness of Liane Lester to my wife is most startling, and, coupled with other circumstances surrounding her, might almost point to her being my lost daughter!"

He trembled like a leaf with sudden excitement.

"I must see this old woman—and to-night! I cannot bear the suspense until to-morrow!" he thought, and said to his wife artfully:

"Perhaps I am selfish, keeping you from poor Roma in her distress."

"I will go to her at once, poor child," she said, lifting her fair head from his breast.

"And I will take a walk while I smoke," he replied, leaving her with a tender kiss.

He lighted a cigar, and started eagerly for the cottage of granny, hoping to find her alone ere Liane returned from the hall.

His whole soul was shaken with eager emotion from what his wife had told him about the old woman's identity.

In the cool, clean September moonlight he strode along the beach, eager-hearted as a boy, in the trembling hope of finding his lost child again.

What joy it would be to find her in the person of lovely Liane, who had already touched his heart with a subtle tenderness by the wonderful likeness that brought back so vividly his wife's lost youth in the days when they had first loved with that holy love that crowned their lives with lasting joy. Not one cloud had marred their happiness save the loss of their infant daughter.

He had restored what happiness he could to Elinor by the substitution of a spurious child, but for himself there must ever be an aching void in his heart till the lost was found again.

He stepped along briskly in the moonlight, and to his surprise and joy he found the old woman leaning over the front gate in a dejected attitude, as if loneliness had driven her outdoors to seek companionship with nature.

"Ah, Mrs. Jenks, good evening!" he exclaimed abruptly, pausing in front of her and lifting his hat.

Granny started wildly, and snapped:

"I don't know you!"

"You have a poor memory," laughed Mr. Clarke. "Now, I knew you at once as Mrs. Jenks, who nursed my wife when our daughter Roma was born. My name is Edmund Clarke. We used to live in Brookline. I sold my property there and moved away when Roma was an infant."

"I never heard of Brookline before, nor you, either!" snapped granny.

"Your memory is bad, as I said before, but you won't deny that your name is Jenks?" Mr. Clarke returned.

As the whole town knew her by that name, she felt that denial was useless, but she preserved a stubborn silence, and he continued:

"I came to ask you, granny, how you came by such a beautiful granddaughter."

"Humph! The same way as other people come by grandchildren, I s'pose. My daughter ran away to be an actress, and came back in a year without a wedding ring, and left her baby on my hands, while she disappeared again forever," returned granny, with an air of such apparent truthfulness that he was staggered.

He was silent a moment, then returned to the charge.

"How old is Liane?"

"Only seventeen her next birthday."

"I should have taken her for quite eighteen."

"Then you would have made a mistake."

"Is her mother dead?"

"I don't know. I never heard of her after she ran away and left her baby on my hands."

"Eighteen years ago?"

"No; not quite seventeen, I told you, sir."

"And you do not really remember Mrs. Clarke, whom you nursed at Brookline eighteen years ago? Come, it ought to be fresh in your memory. Do you not recall the distressing facts in the case? The infant was stolen from my wife's breast, and she was dying of the shock when a spurious daughter was imposed on her, and she recovered. You, Mrs. Jenks, were sent to the foundling asylum for the child, and laid it on Mrs. Clarke's breast, restoring her to hope again. You cannot have forgotten!"

Granny Jenks looked at him angrily in the moonlight.

"You must be crazy! I don't know you, and I don't care anything about your family history! Go away!" she exclaimed fiercely.

Mr. Clarke was baffled, but not convinced. He stood his ground, saying firmly:

"You may bluster all you please, Granny Jenks, but you cannot shake my conviction that you are the wretch that stole my daughter, and placed a foundling in her place to deceive and make wretched my poor wife. This girl, Liane Lester, is the image of my wife, and I am almost persuaded she is my own daughter. If I have guessed the truth it will be wiser for you to confess the fraud at once, for denial now will be useless. I believe I am on the right track at last, and I will never stop till I uncover the truth. And—the more trouble you give me, the greater will be your punishment."

His dark eyes flashed menacingly, and the hardened old woman actually shivered with fear for an instant. Then she shook off the feeling, and turned from him angrily, reëntering her house, and snarling from the doorway:

"I know nothing about your child, you crazy fool! Go away!"

CHAPTER XIV.

ROMA FINDS AN ALLY

Dolly Dorr was right. Handsome Malcolm Dean had never quitted Liane's side since the moment he had clasped her hand in congratulating her on her triumph as queen of beauty.

He remained by her side, enraptured with her beauty and her bashful grace, and he lost no time in preferring a request to walk home with her that night, thinking to himself how sweet it would be to walk with her beneath the brilliant moonlight, the little hand resting on his arm, while the low, musical voice answered his remarks with the timidity that showed how unconscious she was of her own enchanting beauty.

He could scarcely credit what they had told him this afternoon when examining the portraits: that Liane Lester was only a poor sewing girl, with a cruel grandmother, who beat her upon the slightest pretext, and never permitted her to have a lover.

"She looks like a young princess. It is a wonder that some brave young man has not eloped with her before now," he declared.

"Every one is afraid of Granny Jenks," they replied; but Jesse Devereaux only remained gravely silent. He had decided to win sweet Liane for his own, in spite of a hundred vixenish grannies.

He had sent her the fragrant roses to wear, determining to disclose his identity that night, and to win her sweet promise to be his bride.

Now his plans were all spoiled by the artist's sudden infatuation, and he could have cursed Roma for the spiteful manœuvring that had kept him an unwilling captive, while Liane was drifting beyond his reach.

All his pleasure was over for to-night, yet he did not give up hope for the future. His dark eyes had not failed to detect the joy in her glance, and the blush on her cheek at their meeting, and his ears had caught the little regretful ring in her voice, as she whispered that she had already promised Mr. Dean.

Presently the people all began to go away, and with keen pain he saw Liane leaving with her new admirer, her little hand resting like a snowflake on his black coat sleeve.

"But it shall be my turn to-morrow," he vowed to himself, turning away with a jealous pang, and pretending not to see Dolly Dorr, who had lingered purposely in his way, hoping he would see her home.

Disappointed in her little scheme, she rather crossly accepted the offer of a dapper dry-goods clerk, and went off on his arm, laughing with forced gayety as she passed Devereaux, to let him see that she did not care.

Devereaux did not even hear the laughter of the piqued little flirt. He could think of nothing but his keen disappointment over Liane. He returned to his hotel in the sulks.

After all his pleasant anticipations, his disappointment was keen and bitter.

"How can I wait until to-morrow?" he muttered, throwing himself down disconsolately into a chair.

Suddenly a messenger entered with a telegram, and, tearing it hastily open, he read:

Come at once. Father has had a stroke of apoplexy.

Lyde.

Lyde was his only sister, married a year before, and a leader in society. He could fancy how helpless she would be at this juncture—the pretty, petted girl.

Filial grief and affection drove even the thought of Liane temporarily from his mind.

Calling in a man to pack his effects, he left on the earliest train for his home in Boston.

But as the train rushed on through the night and darkness, Liane blended with his troubled thoughts, and he resolved that he would write to her at the earliest opportunity. He would not leave the field clear for his enamored rival.

He realized, too, that the clever and handsome artist would be a dangerous rival; still, he felt sure that Liane had some preference for himself. On this he based his hopes for Malcolm Dean's failure.

"She will not forget that night upon the beach, and the opportune service I did her. Her grateful little heart will not turn from me," he thought hopefully.

Malcolm Dean was the only one he could think of as likely to come between him and Liane. He had not an apprehension as to Roma Clarke's baleful jealousy. And yet he should have remembered the hate that had flashed from her eyes and hissed in her voice when she taxed him with voting for Liane.

Again, she had nearly fainted when he was excusing himself to speak to her successful rival.

And even now, while the fast-flying train bore him swiftly from Stonecliff, Roma paced her chamber floor like one distraught, wringing her hands and alternately bewailing her fate and vowing vengeance.

Before Roma's angry eyes seemed to move constantly the vision of her rival in her exquisite beauty. Liane, in her girlish white gown, with the fragrant pink roses at her slender waist—Liane, the humble sewing girl she had despised, but who had now become her hated rival.

Jesse Devereaux admired her; thought her the loveliest girl in the world. Perhaps, even, he was in love with her. That was why he had taken so gladly the dismissal she had so rashly given.

A fever of unavailing regret burned in Roma's veins, the fires of jealous hate gleamed in her flashing eyes.

"I would gladly see her dead at my feet," she cried furiously.

Before she sought her pillow, she had resolved on a plan to forestall Devereaux's courtship.

She would go to-morrow morning to see the wicked old grandmother of Liane; she would have a good excuse, because the old woman had desired the visit, and she would tell her that Devereaux was engaged to herself, and warn her not to permit her granddaughter to accept attentions that could mean nothing but evil. She would even bribe the old woman, if necessary. She was ready to make any sacrifice to punish Jesse for what she called to herself his perfidy, ignoring the fact that she had set him free to woo whom he would.

Granny was tidying up her floor next morning, when a footstep on the threshold made her start and look around at a vision of elegance and beauty framed in sunshine that made the coppery waves of her hair shine lurid red as the girl bowed courteously, saying:

"I am Miss Clarke. Mamma said you wished to see me."

Granny dropped her broom and sank into a chair, staring with dazed eyes at the radiant beauty in her silken gown.

As no invitation to enter was forthcoming, Roma stepped in and seated herself, with a supercilious glance at the shabby surroundings. She thought to herself disdainfully:

"To think of being rivaled in both beauty and love by a low-born girl raised in a hovel!"

Yet she saw that everything was scrupulously clean and neat, as though Liane made the best of what she had.

The old woman, without speaking a word, stared at Roma with eager eyes, as if feasting on her beauty, a tribute to her vanity that pleased Roma well, so she smiled graciously and waited with unwonted patience until granny heaved a long sigh, and exclaimed:

"It is a pleasure to behold you at last, Miss Roma, as a beauty and an heiress! Ah, you must be very happy!"

The young girl sighed mournfully:

"Wealth and beauty cannot give happiness when one's lover is fickle, flirting with poor girls at the expense of their reputations."

"What do you mean?" gasped the old woman, and somehow Roma felt that she was making a favorable impression, and did not hesitate to add:

"I am speaking of your granddaughter, Liane Lester. The girl is rather pretty, and I suppose that her vanity makes her ambitious to marry rich. She flirts with every young man she sees, and lately she has been making eyes at my betrothed husband, Jesse Devereaux, a handsome young millionaire. He loves me as he does his life, but he is a born flirt, and he is amusing himself with Liane in spite of my objections. So I thought I would come and ask you to scold the girl for her boldness."

"Scold her! That I will, and whip her, too, if you say so! I will do anything to please you, beautiful lady," whimpered granny, moving closer to Roma, and furtively stroking her rich dress with a skinny, clawlike hand, while she looked at the girl with eager eyes.

Roma frowned a little at this demonstration of tenderness, but she was glad the old woman took it so calmly about Liane, and answered coolly:

"So that you keep them apart, I do not care how much you whip her, for her boldness deserves a check, and I suppose that you cannot restrain her, except by beating."

She was surprised and almost shocked as granny whispered hoarsely:

"I would beat her—yes; I would kill her before she should steal your grand lover, darling!"

CHAPTER XV.

"A DYING MOTHER."

Even Roma's cruel heart was somewhat shocked at granny's malevolence toward her beautiful young granddaughter, but she did not rebuke the old hag; she only resolved to make capital of it. So she said:

"I don't want you to kill her, but I wish you could take her away from here, where Jesse Devereaux can never find her again. She is in my way, and I want her removed!"

"It would be worth money to you to get her out of your way," leered granny cunningly:

Roma hesitated a moment, then answered frankly:

"Yes, but I could not promise to pay you much. Papa makes me a very small allowance."

The old woman crept nearer to the beautiful, cruel creature, and gazed up into her face with an expression of humble adoration, while she murmured wheedlingly:

"I would take her away from here—far away—where she could never trouble you again, pretty lady, for a reward that even you could afford to bestow."

"What is that?" cried Roma eagerly, and she was startled when granny answered nervously:

"A kiss!"

"A kiss!" the girl echoed wonderingly.

Granny was actually trembling with excitement, and she added pleadingly:

"You are so pretty, Miss Roma, that I have fallen in love with you, and for my love's sake I would like to kiss you once. If you grant my wish, I will be your slave for only one kind look and kiss!"

She was softened and agitated in a strange fashion, but she could not help seeing that Roma recoiled in surprise and disgust.

"Really, this is very strange! I—I am not fond of kissing old women. I scarcely ever kiss even my own mother. I would much rather pay you a little money!" she exclaimed.

Granny's face saddened with disappointment, and she muttered:

"So proud; so very proud! She could not bear a downfall!"

Roma flushed with annoyance, and added:

"You seem so very poor that even a small sum of money ought to be acceptable to you!"

"I am miserably poor, but I love you—I would rather have the kiss."

If Roma had known the old woman's miserly character she would have been even more surprised at her fancy. As it was, she hardly knew what to say. She gazed in disgust at the ugly, yellow-skinned and wrinkled old hag, and wondered if she could bring herself to touch that face with her own fresh, rosy lips.

"I—I would rather give you a hundred dollars than to kiss you!" she blurted out, in passionate disgust.

Instantly she saw she had made a grave mistake. Granny drew back angrily from the haughty girl, muttering:

"Hoity-toity, what pride! But pride always goes before a fall!"

"What do you mean?" flashed Roma.

A moment's silence, and granny answered cringingly:

"I only meant that you would be humiliated if that pretty Liane stole Devereaux's heart from you and married him. The other night I beat Liane for walking with him on the beach by moonlight!"

"Heavens! It is worse even than I thought!" cried Roma, springing to her feet, pale with passion.

She advanced toward granny, adding:

"Will you take her away by to-morrow, and never let him see her face again if I grant your wish?"

"I swear it, honey!"

"There, then!" and Roma held up her fresh, rosy lips, shuddering with disgust as the old crone gave her an affectionate kiss that smacked very strongly of an old pipe.

"Be sure that you keep your promise!" she cried, hastening from the house.

Granny watched her until she was out of sight, clasping her skinny arms across her breast, after the fashion of one fondling a beloved child.

"How proud, how beautiful!" she kept saying over to herself in delight. Then she went in and closed the door, while she sat down to make her plans for gratifying Roma's wish.

Not a breath of last night's happenings had reached her, for she seldom held communication with any one, being feared and hated by the whole community, as much as Liane was loved and pitied. She knew nothing of the popular beauty contest, and that Liane had won the prize of a hundred dollars. If she had known, she would have managed to get possession of the money ere now. Liane, having spent the night with Mary Lang, had gone to her work from there, and was having an ovation from her girl friends, who put self aside and rejoiced with her over her triumph.

The proud and happy girl answered gratefully:

"But for your persuasions I should never have ventured to send in my picture for the contest. I want to testify my gratitude by giving each of you five dollars to buy a pretty keepsake."

They protested they would not take a penny of her little fortune, but the generous girl would not be denied.

"I have seventy-five dollars left! I am rich yet!" she cried gayly, for Liane was the happiest girl in the world to-day.

But it was neither her signal triumph nor the money that made her happy, it was because she had seen Jesse Devereaux again, and his radiant, dark eyes had told her the story of his love as plain as words.

Though she was grateful to the handsome artist for his attentions, she was disappointed because he had kept Jesse from walking home with her last night.

But she looked eagerly for some demonstration from him to-day. Perhaps he would send her some more flowers, for he had whispered gladly as they parted:

"Thank you for wearing the roses I sent you!"

Liane's heart leaped with joy at hearing the flowers had come from Jesse, and she placed them carefully away that night, determined to keep them always, for his dear sake.

How her heart sank when Dolly Dorr, who had been rather quiet and sulky that morning, suddenly remarked:

"Mr. Devereaux went off, bag and baggage, they say, to Boston last night, so I suppose that is the last we shall see of him!"

Liane could not keep from exclaiming regretfully:

"Oh, dear!"

"You seem to be sorry!" Dolly cried significantly.

All eyes turned on Liane, and she blushed rosy red as she bent lower over the work she was sewing.

Dolly added curtly:

"I did not think you would be so ready to take away another girl's chance, Liane."

"But he has broken with Miss Clarke. They quarreled last night," said Lottie Day.