My Pretty Maid; or, Liane Lester

"I did not mean Miss Clarke. I meant myself. Liane knows he has paid me some attention, and that I have set my cap at him! I thought she was my true friend, but I caught her making eyes at him last night!" Dolly exclaimed ruefully.

The gay girls all laughed at Dolly's jealousy, but Liane could not say a word for embarrassment, knowing in her heart how baseless were Dolly's hopes.

The angry little maiden continued:

"He told me last night that he was free from Miss Clarke; and I believe I could win him if no one tried to spoil the sport. I would never have introduced him to Liane if I had thought she would try to cut me out."

"Oh, Dolly, you know I have not tried. Could I help his coming to speak to me last night?" cried Liane.

"No, but you needn't have encouraged him by flirting when he spoke to you, blushing and rolling up your eyes."

A derisive groan went around among the merry band at Dolly's charge, and Mary Lang spoke up spiritedly:

"Dolly Dorr, you are simply making yourself ridiculous, putting in a claim to Mr. Devereaux because he happened to speak to you once or twice! Any one with half an eye can see he's in love with Liane, and I'll state for your benefit that he told her last night he sent her that bouquet of roses, and he wanted to walk home with her, only Mr. Dean was ahead of him!"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" ran the chorus of voices, Liane drooping her head in blushing confusion, and Dolly pouting with disappointment, while she cried spitefully:

"He's nothing but a wretched flirt! He flirted with Miss Clarke, and then with me, and next with Liane! I'm glad he got ashamed of himself, and sneaked off; and I hope he will never come back!"

Her little fit of temper spoiled the rest of the day for the girls, and Liane Lester was glad to get away at six o'clock, where, after a while, she could be alone with her own thoughts.

But granny was sniveling, with her apron to her eyes, when she entered the poverty-stricken room.

"What is it, granny? Are you ill?" she asked.

"No, I have bad news!"

"Bad news?"

"Yes; I've heard from my daughter, your mother, at last. She's dying down to Boston, and wants you and me to come," with an artful sob.

"But, of course, we cannot go!" Liane said, with strange reluctance.

"But, of course, we can. I've got a little money; enough for the trip. I've just been waiting for you to come and help me to pack our clothes."

"That will not take long. Our wardrobes are not extensive. But, I—I don't want to go!" declared Liane.

"You unnatural child, not to want to see your poor dying mother!" snapped the old woman.

"She has been an unnatural mother!" answered the girl warmly.

"No matter about that! She is my child, and I want to see her before she dies, and you've got to go, willy-nilly! So go along with you and get the tea ready; then we will get packed to go on the first train!" declared granny, with grim resolution.

CHAPTER XVI.

A LOVE LETTER

Liane's little sewing chair was vacant the next day, and there was grief and surprise among the five girls present when Miss Bray explained the reason.

Liane had sent her a little note the night before, she said, telling her that her grandmother was taking her to Boston to see a dying relative, and she did not know when she should be back, but hoped Miss Bray would have work for her on her return. She left her dear love for all the girls, and hoped she should see them soon again.

Every one expressed sorrow but Dolly Dorr, who from spite and envy had suddenly changed from a friend to an enemy of Liane.

Dolly tossed her pretty, flaxen head scornfully and insinuated ugly things about Liane following Jesse Devereaux to Boston. A dying relative was a good excuse, but it could not fool Dolly Dorr, she said significantly.

The other girls took the part of the absent one, and even Miss Bray gently reproved Dolly for her slanderous words. The upshot of the matter was that she grew red and angry, and developed the rage of a little termagant. Taking offense at Miss Bray's rebuke, she angrily resigned her position, tossed her jaunty cap on her fluffy, yellow head, and flew home.

The ambition to captivate Jesse Devereaux had quite turned the silly little noddle, and she was passionately angry at Liane for what she denominated "her unfair rivalry."

But on reaching home and finding that her father had just been thrown out of work, Dolly was a little flustrated at her own precipitancy in leaving her place, especially as Mrs. Dorr, a weak, hard-worked woman, bewailed their misfortunes in copious tears.

"Don't cry like that, mamma, I know of a better place than Miss Bray's, where I can find work. Miss Clarke wants a maid," cried Dolly eagerly.

Mrs. Dorr's pride rebelled at first from her pretty daughter going into service like that, but the notion had quite taken hold of Dolly, and in the end the worried mother yielded to her persuasions, especially as the wages were liberal, and would help them so much in their present strait.

Dolly hurried off to Cliffdene, and asked for Miss Clarke, offering her services for the vacant place, as Liane Lester had gone away.

Roma's red-brown eyes flashed with joyful fire as she cried:

"Where has she gone?"

"Her grandmother took her to Boston to see a dying relative, miss."

"Ah!" exclaimed Roma, and her heart leaped with joy as she realized that granny had kept her promise to take Liane far away.

"Now I may have some chance of winning Jesse back again," she thought.

But Dolly's next words threw a damper on her springing hopes.

"Liane can't fool me with a tale of a dying relative! I believe she had an understanding with Jesse Devereaux to follow him down to Boston," she exclaimed spitefully.

Roma started violently, her rich color paling to ashen gray.

"Jesse Devereaux gone!" she cried, in uncontrollable agitation that betrayed her jealous heart to Dolly's keen eyes.

The girl thought shrewdly:

"She loves him even if he did tell me he was not engaged. Whew! won't she hate Liane when she knows all!"

And, taking advantage of Roma's mood, she added:

"Liane has been flirting for some time with Mr. Devereaux, and the night she got the beauty prize he sent her roses to wear, and voted for her, and offered to walk home with her that night, only he was disappointed, because Mr. Malcolm Dean had asked her first."

Roma, inwardly furious with jealous rage, tossed her proud head carelessly, and answered:

"Mr. Devereaux cares nothing for the girl! He is engaged to me, but we had a little tiff, and he was just flirting with her to pique me because I would not make up with him just yet!"

Although she regarded Dolly as greatly her inferior, she was placing herself on a level with her by these confidences, encouraging Dolly to reply:

"Of course, I know he wouldn't marry Liane, but she was foolish enough to think so, and I feel certain she's down to Boston with him now."

Roma knew better, but she only smiled significantly, giving Dolly the impression that she agreed with her entirely, and then she said:

"I will agree to give you a week's trial, and mamma's maid can instruct you as to your duties. When can you come?"

"To-morrow, if you wish."

"Very well. I shall expect you," returned Roma, abruptly ending the interview.

When Dolly was going back the next day, she stopped in at the post office for her mail, and the smiling little clerk in the window, as he handed it out, exclaimed:

"Don't Miss Liane Lester work with you at Miss Bray's, Miss Dolly? There's a letter for her this morning, the first letter, I believe, that ever came for her, and now that I come to think about it, she never calls here for mail, anyhow!"

Dolly's cheeks flushed guiltily, and her heart gave a strangling thump of surprise, but she said, quite coolly:

"Yes, Liane works at Miss Bray's with me, and I'm going down there now, so I'll take her letter, if you please, and save her the trouble of calling for it."

The unsuspecting clerk readily handed it out, and Dolly clutched it with a trembling hand, hurrying out so as to read the superscription and gratify her curiosity.

"What a beautiful handwriting! A man's, too, and postmarked Boston. Now, it must be Devereaux or Dean writing to her!" she muttered, longing to open it, yet not quite daring to commit the crime.

She placed it at last in her pocket, thinking curiously:

"As I don't know where Liane is, of course I cannot forward this letter to her, and—I would give anything in the world to know what is in it, and who wrote it! Perhaps Miss Clarke would know the writing."

That evening, when she was brushing out the long tresses of Roma's hair, she ventured on the subject:

"To-day the postmaster gave me a letter from Boston to Liane Lester, but I don't know where to send it, and I am wondering who wrote it!"

She felt Roma give a quick start as she cried:

"Let me see it!"

Dolly giggled, and brought it out of her pocket.

"Oh! It is Mr. Devereaux's writing," cried Roma excitedly.

"So I thought, miss. Now I wonder what he wrote to her about? I must be mistaken thinking he knew she had gone to Boston," cried Dolly.

Roma turned the letter over and over in her hand, her eyes blazing, her cheeks crimson, her heart throbbing with jealous rage.

How dared he write to Liane? How dared he forget her, Roma, so insolently, and so soon? She would have liked to see them both stretched dead at her feet!

They looked guiltily at each other, the mistress and maid, one thought in either mind. Dare they open the letter?

Dolly twittered:

"I shouldn't think you would allow him to write to her! He belongs to you!"

She felt like making common cause with Roma against Liane, in her bitter envy forgetting how often she had inveighed against Roma's pride and cruelty. She continued artfully:

"The letter can never do her any good, because we don't know where to send it. And—and would it be any harm for us to take a peep at it?"

"I think I have a right," Roma answered, her bosom heaving stormily, then she clutched Dolly's arm:

"Girl, girl, if we do this thing—you and I—will you swear never to betray me?" she breathed hoarsely.

"I swear!" Dolly muttered fiercely, in her anger at Liane, and then Roma's impatience burst all bounds. She quickly broke the seal of the letter, her angry eyes running over the scented sheets, while Dolly coolly read it over her shoulder.

And if ever two cruel hearts were punished for their curiosity, they were Roma's, the mistress, and Dolly's, the maid.

It was an impassioned love letter that Devereaux had written to Liane, and it ended with the offer of his hand, as she already possessed his heart.

The young lover had chosen the sweetest words and phrases to declare his passion, and he explained everything that she might have misunderstood.

He had fallen in love with her at first sight, but he was bound by a promise to one he no longer even admired. In honor he could not speak to Liane, but his betrothed had herself broken the fetters that bound him, and he was free now to woo his darling. He had intended to tell her so that night of the beauty contest, but Malcolm Dean had rivaled him. Then had come the summons to his sick father, tearing him away from Stonecliff. He must remain some time in Boston with his sinking father, and his impatience prompted this letter. Would Liane correspond with him? Would she be his beloved wife, the treasure of his heart and home? He should wait with burning impatience for her reply.

Roma threw the letter on the floor and stamped on it with her angry foot.

Not in such tender, passionate phrases had he wooed her when she promised him her hand, but in light, airy words, born of the flirtation through which she had successfully steered him to a proposal so quickly regretted, so gladly taken back. Oh, how she loved and hated him in a breath!

As for the girl, thank Heaven, granny had promised to keep her out of the way. Ay, even to kill her, if she commanded it. It was strange how the old woman had fallen so slavishly under her sway, but she was thankful for it, though she shuddered still with disgust at remembrance of granny's fond caress.

She said to herself that it were better for Liane Lester that she never had been born than to cross her path again, and to take from her the love of the man she had worked so hard to win, and then so rashly lost.

CHAPTER XVII.

A CRUEL FORGERY

At the elegant family mansion on Boston's most aristocratic avenue, Jesse Devereaux, watching by the bedside of his sick father, waited with burning impatience for the answer to the letter in which he had poured out the overwhelming tenderness of his soul.

No shadow of doubt clouded his love, he felt so sure of Liane's love in return. Had it not trembled in her voice, gleamed in her eyes, and blushed on her cheeks?

Oh, they would be so happy together, he and his young bride, Liane! He would make up to her for all the poverty and sorrow of her past life. Life should be flower-strewn and love-sweet for her now.

Of course he expected some opposition from Lyde, his proud, fashionable sister, when she learned that he was off with his engagement to the heiress, Miss Clarke, and meant to wed a poor girl, who worked for her living. But he meant to stand firm, and when she saw how sweet and beautiful Liane was, she would be ready to excuse him and accept his darling for a sister.

In these rosy daydreams the hours flew, and on the second day after posting his letter he received a reply.

It gave him something of an unpleasant shock when he held the square blue envelope in his hand and read the ill-written address:

MISTER JESS DEVEROW,

No. – Comonwelt Avnoo,

Bostin,

Mass.

His cheek flushed, and he sighed.

"Poor girl, of course she has had no opportunities of education, but she can have private teachers, and soon remedy all that."

And he opened the letter with the eagerness of a lover, despite the slight damper on his spirits, caused by his love's bad chirography, united to even worse orthography.

His eager eyes traveled quickly over the small sheet with the awkward sentences of one little used to epistolary work.

Stonecliff, the 17 Sept.

Deer Mister Devrow: Deer me, what a s'hpise your letter wuz! I thought you wuz jest flirtin' with me! I had heerd what a flirt you wuz, so I jest tryed my hand on you! They told me you wuz ingage to the beautiful Miss Clarke, and I thought what fun to cut her out!

But I didn't think I could do it. I didn' know as I was so pretty till I tuk the beauty prize that nite. Deer me, how glad I wuz of that money! I'm a grate heiress now, like Miss Clarke, ain't I?

I'm much obleedge fur your offer to marry, but I can't see my way clear to accept, being as I don't love you well enuff. I never did admire these dark men with sassy, black eyes and dark hair. I've heern tell they are as jealous as a turk. I make bold to say, I think Mr. Deen is the style I most admire—deep blue eyes and brown curls. He seems to have took a fancy to me, too, and if he should ast me the question you did, I know I could say yes. Forgive if this pains, but it's best to be frank, so you won't go on loving me in vane.

I'm grateful to you for your vote that helped to git me that hundred dollars! I'm goin' down to Bostin to see the sites, and buy me a red silk gown, I always wuz crazy for one!

Truly yours,Liane Lester.

Devereaux sat like one dazed, going over and over the letter of rejection. He could hardly realize that Liane's little hand had penned those words.

No more cruel blow at a strong man's love and pride had ever been dealt than that letter, showing the writer to be possessed of so shallow a nature as to be incapable of appreciating the treasure of a true heart's love, so ungratefully thrown away.

Jesse Devereaux thrust it away from him at last, and sat staring blankly before him with heavy eyes, like one contemplating the ruins of his dearest hope.

It seemed to him as if he had just laid some dearly loved one in the grave. Hours and days of sorrow seemed to pass over him as he sat there brooding darkly over his fate.

Was it indeed but an hour ago he had felt so hopeful and glad, telling himself he had just found the sweetest joy of life in the dawn of love?

What foolish thoughts, what a misplaced love, what rash confidence in an innocent face and demure, pansy-blue eyes!

She had just been flirting with him because she heard he was a great flirt, and was engaged to Miss Clarke, and she wanted to see if she could "cut her out." It was all heartless vanity that he had taken for shy, bashful love. The ignorant little working girl had proved herself an adept in the art of flirtation.

It was a crushing blow, and his heart was very sore. He had loved her so, ever since the night they had first met, loved her with the passion of his life! Even now the memory of her sweetness would not down. He would be haunted forever by her voice, her glance, her smile, so alluring in their beauty, so false in true womanly worth and grace, will-o'-the-wisp lights, shining but to betray.

And Malcolm Dean was his rival in the heart of the lovely, coquettish working girl! She admired his "deep-blue eyes and brown curls" as much as she disliked "sassy black eyes and dark hair." She would marry him if he asked her, she said. Jesse wondered cynically if Dean had been merely flirting, too, or would his love prompt him to elevate pretty Liane to the proud position of his bride.

Meanwhile, Liane, innocent as an angel, of course, of the letter that Roma had sent in her name, had duly arrived in the city.

Her grandmother had taken her to cheap lodgings that night, and, after they had been shown to a room, the old woman said abruptly:

"Now I'll go and inquire about my daughter."

Liane went to the window and looked out in awe at the lights of the great city, wondering how far away from this spot Jesse Devereaux could be to-night. Her young heart throbbed with joy at the thought of his nearness, for she had no realization of the extent of Boston.

While she was musing and wondering granny returned, saying crossly:

"It seems I made a mistake in the address. She ain't here at all, but I'm tired, and not a step shall I stir from this to-night, so we'll go to bed, Liane, and I'll hunt her in the morning."

"But if she should die before morning, granny?"

"Let her die, then; I can't help it! Go to bed!" snarled the old woman, creeping into bed; so Liane, seeing the uselessness of remonstrance, followed her example.

The next morning, after breakfast, granny announced that she would leave Liane in care of the landlady, while she went out in search of the dying daughter.

"Let me go with you," pleaded the girl, with a vague hope of meeting Devereaux somewhere on the street, all her thought clinging to him with tender persistence.

"No, I won't have you along with me, but I'll come back for you as soon as I find her," snapped granny, so sharply that Liane gave in and watched her depart with keen regret.

"I should have liked to go with her to see some of the sights of the great city," she sighed, so forlornly that the landlady said cheerily:

"Well, come in here and sit a while with my sick sister, and I'll hurry up my morning's work and go out with you myself this afternoon."

Lizzie White was a pretty shop girl, just recovering from a spell of fever, and she took an instant interest in the pretty new boarder.

"Sister Annie can show you all over the city," she said. "But," hesitatingly, "haven't you any other clothes to wear?" her glance falling deprecatingly on Liane's simple dark-blue print gown and summer straw hat. "It's time for fall things, you know," she added.

Liane blushed at the poverty of her attire, but answered gently:

"These are the best clothes I have, but I have a little money of my own, and if I knew where to go, I would buy a blue serge suit."

"Sister Annie can take you to a place this afternoon—the very store where I work when I am well," replied Lizzie encouragingly.

Afternoon came, but no granny yet, and Mrs. Brinkley offered to take Liane out, saying it was such a pity to stay indoors all day when the sun shone so bright and warm.

Liane accepted eagerly, and then her new friend, Lizzie, shyly proffered her a new fall suit of her own to wear.

"Do wear it to please me, and because people will make remarks on your print gown," she said eagerly, and the girl, fearful that Mrs. Brinkley might be ashamed of her shabby attire, accepted gratefully.

Her appearance was indeed quite different when clothed in Lizzie's brown cloth skirt, scarlet silk waist, and jaunty brown jacket, with a brown walking skirt to match.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LIANE'S FLEETING LOVE DREAM

Liane was enchanted with the beautiful city, and Mrs. Brinkley, who felt a proud proprietorship in it, was delighted with her praises.

They went from one grand building to another, but the good woman soon noticed that Liane seemed best pleased walking along the crowded streets, and that instead of observing all that she pointed out, the girl's eyes wandered wistfully from one face to another, as if in search of some one.

"Are you looking for your grandmother?" she asked.

"Oh, no, ma'am," and Liane blushed like a rose.

"Then it must be your beau, you look so bashful. Have you got a beau in Boston?"

Liane shook her pretty head, but she looked so conscious that the woman plied her with curious questions, until the young girl owned that she knew one person in Boston, a young man, who had spent several weeks at Stonecliff. Then the curious matron did not rest until she had learned his name.

"Jesse Devereaux! Was he handsome as a picture, with big, rolling, black eyes? Yes? Why, my pretty dear, you must not set your heart on him. He is one of the young millionaires up on Commonwealth Avenue, the swellest young man in Boston. He would never stoop to a poor working girl."

She saw the beautiful color fade from the girl's rosy cheek, and her bosom heaved with emotion as she faltered:

"He was very kind to me at Stonecliff!"

Mrs. Brinkley knew the world so well that she took instant alarm, exclaiming warningly:

"Don't you set any store by his kindness, child. No good comes of rich young men showing attentions to pretty working girls. If you have followed him here through a fancy for his handsome face, then you had better go home to-night."

Eagerly, blushingly, Liane disclaimed such a purpose, saying granny had brought her to see a relative.

"I—I only thought I might see his face in some of the crowded streets," she faltered.

"It is better for you never to see his face again, for it's plain to be seen he has stolen your heart," chided the widow. "Come, I'll show you his grand home, and then you may understand better how much he is above you, and how useless it is to hope to catch him."

Liane's cheeks burned at the chidings of the good woman, and tears leaped to her eyes, but she did not refuse the proffer of seeing Devereaux's home. She thought eagerly:

"I might see him at the window, or perhaps coming down the steps into the street. Then, if he should come and speak to me joyfully, as he did that night at the beauty contest, I believe even this good, anxious woman could see that he loves me."

She walked along happily by Mrs. Brinkley's side, carrying the jaunty brown jacket on her arm, as Lizzie had advised, for the sun's rays were warm, and she was weary from her sightseeing. The scarlet silk waist looked very gay, but if she had dreamed of the dreadful letter that had told Devereaux she was coming to Boston to buy a red silk gown, she would have torn it off and trampled it beneath her feet.

Her beautiful eyes sparkled with pleasure at sight of the splendid homes of Boston's wealthy class, and she could not help exclaiming:

"I am not envious, but I would like to be rich and live in one of these palaces."

"That you can never do, child, so don't think about it any more, as I tell Lizzie, when she gets to sighing for riches," rejoined the prudent matron. "Look, now, at that grand house we're coming to; Mr. Devereaux lives there with his old father and his young married sister, the proudest beauty in Boston. You see, I read all about them in the society columns, and—oh!"