My Pretty Maid; or, Liane Lester

She paused with a stifled shriek, for the great front door of the grand mansion had indeed opened, as Liane secretly prayed it would, and a man came down the steps—Jesse Devereaux himself!

Leaving Lyde beside his father's bed, he was going out for a walk to try to shake off the benumbing influences of the letter that had shattered his air castles into hopeless ruins.

It seemed to him as if his thoughts had taken bodily shape, as he beheld Liane there in reach of his hand, her timid, eager glance lifted almost appealingly to his face.

He hesitated, he almost stopped to speak to her, so thrilled was he by the sight of her lovely face again, but his eyes fell on the gay red silk waist, and the words of her letter recurred to his mind:

"I'm coming down to Bostin to see the sites, and buy a red silk gown. I've always been crazy for one."

She was here, she had the red silk gown she craved, and idle curiosity had led her to pass his house, perhaps boasting to her companion, meanwhile, that she had flirted with the owner and refused his hand.

A deep crimson rose to his brow, and his heart almost stopped its beating with wounded love and pride. Just glancing at Liane with cold, indifferent eyes, he lifted his hat, bowed stiffly, and passed her by in scorn.

The girl, who had almost stopped to speak to him, gave a sigh that was almost a sob, and dropped her eyes, moving on by Mrs. Brinkley's side with a sinking heart.

"That was he, Jesse Devereaux himself," whispered the latter excitedly. "My, what a cold, haughty stare and bow; enough to freeze you. You see how 'tis, my dear? When city folks visit the country they're mighty gracious, but when country folks come to the city, they don't hardly recognize 'em."

Liane's pale smile at Mrs. Brinkley's observation was sadder than the wildest outburst of tears.

"I see that you are right," she answered, with gentle humility that touched her new friend's heart, and made her exclaim:

"Don't never give him another thought, honey. He ain't worth it. You're sweet enough and pretty enough to marry the proudest in the land, but nothing don't count now but money."

They hurried home to the poor lodgings, so different from the splendid locality they had just left, and found granny just returned from her search and in rather a good humor from the day's outing.

She did not scold Liane for going out, as the girl expected, but said calmly:

"I was too late. I found Cora dead and the funeral just starting, so I went with it, and saw her laid away in her last home. Then I thought I had just as well finish the day looking over the things she left, but I wasn't any better off by it, for the people where she boarded took it all for debt."

She was lying straight along, but, of course, Liane did not know it, and she tried to feel a little sorrow for the unknown mother laid in her lonely grave to-day, but the emotion was very faint. She could not grieve much for one she had never seen, and of whom granny had given such a frankly bad report.

Her first thought was that now she could go back to Stonecliff, away from the city that had held Jesse Devereaux, whose proud glance and chilling bow had stabbed her heart with such cruel pain.

But on making this request, the old woman scowled in disapproval.

"Back to Stonecliff? No, indeed!" she cried. "I hate the place, and I left it for good when we came away. You can get a place to work in Boston, and we will stay here."

"Yes, it will be easy to get in as a salesgirl at the store where I work. I'll recommend you," said the sick girl kindly.

Liane knew there was no appeal from granny's decision, and, after thanking Lizzie for the loan of her gown and hat, she returned to the shabby little room, longing to seek solitude in her grief.

But granny soon entered, carrying a bundle, and exclaiming:

"Mrs. Brinkley says you bought this dress to-day, and paid for it, too! Now, where'd the money come from, I'd like to know?"

Liane had to confess the truth about the beauty contest, and, as soon as the old woman took it in, she cried furiously:

"And you dared to spend that money for finery, you vain hussy?"

"It was my own, granny," Liane answered.

"Where is the rest of it? Give me every penny that is left, before I beat you black and blue!" raged the old termagant.

"Granny, you promised never to beat me again if I would stay and work for you in your old age," reminded Liane.

"I don't care what I promised! Give me the rest of the money before I kill you!" hissed the savage creature, clutching Liane's arm so tight that she sobbed with pain.

"Let go, or I'll call for help!"

"Dare to do it, and I'll choke you before any one comes!" winding her skinny claws about the fair white throat.

Liane felt as if her last hour had come, and she was so unhappy she did not greatly care, but she struggled with the old harpy, and succeeded in throwing her off, while she said rebelliously:

"I will never give you the money while I live, and if you kill me to get it, it will do you no good. You will be hanged for my murder."

Perhaps granny saw the force of this reasoning, for she desisted from her brutality, whining:

"I'm so poor, so miserably poor, that you ought to give me every penny you get."

"And dress in rags!" cried the girl indignantly. "No, granny, I will never do it again, and if you illtreat me any more, I will run away from you, and then you will starve."

She knew she would never have the heart to carry out her threat, but she had found out that she could intimidate the old woman by the threat of leaving, so she put on a bold air, and continued:

"Here is five dollars for a present, and it is all you will get of that money. I gave away twenty-five dollars in keepsakes to my girl friends before I left Stonecliff, and I have spent thirty dollars for some decent clothes to wear. Now, I have given you five dollars, and I have but forty left, and I shall keep that for myself, in case I have to run away from you and hide myself from your brutality."

Granny snatched eagerly at the money, muttering maledictions on the girl for her extravagance, but Liane, sitting with downcast eyes, pretended not to take any notice of her, until the old woman, glaring at her in wonder at the beauty that could win such a prize, demanded harshly:

"Was Miss Clarke's picture in that contest?"

When Liane answered in the affirmative, she was startled at the woman's anger.

"You dared to take that prize over beautiful Roma's head—you?" she cried furiously.

"I did not take it. The judges gave it to me. The contest was open to any pretty girl, rich or poor," Liane answered gently.

Granny looked as if she could spring upon the girl and rend her limb from limb, so bitter was her rage. She moved about the room, clinching her hands in fury, whispering maledictions to herself, but again Liane forgot to notice her, she was so absorbed in her own troubles.

She had dreamed a fleeting dream of love and bliss, and the awakening was cruel!

"I have been vain, foolish, to dream he loved me because he sent me a few roses and offered to walk home with me that night. He was only amusing himself," she thought, shrinking in pain from the cruel truth.

CHAPTER XIX.

WHAT DOLLY TOLD

Seven weeks slipped uneventfully away.

The bright, cool days of October gave place to dreary, drizzly, bleak November.

Liane had become absorbed into Boston's great army of busy working girls. Lizzie White had secured her a position at a glove counter in the same store with herself, and granny had rented two cheap rooms in Mrs. Brinkley's house, and gone to housekeeping.

Her resentment against Liane continued unabated, and she never gave the girl a kind word, but she refrained from acts of violence, lest her meek slave should rebel and leave her alone, in her old age and poverty, to fight the battle of a useless existence.

Meanwhile Judge Devereaux had died and been buried with the pomp and ceremony befitting his wealth and position, and his son and daughter had inherited his millions.

Roma Clarke did not fail to send a letter of the sweetest sympathy to her former lover—a letter that in writing and expression was so far different from Liane's letter that he could not fail to note the difference.

"Poor Liane! What a pity her mind is not as cultured as her lovely face!" he thought, with a bitter pang.

Since the day of their meeting on the avenue, he had not seen Liane, and he supposed she had seen the sights of the city, bought some garish finery, and returned to the wretched hovel she called her home.

He despised her for her shallow coquetry, but he could not help pitying her poverty, and the wretched life with the old hag, from whose brutal violence he had once rescued her at the cost of a broken arm.

"How gladly I would have taken her from her wretched lot to a life of love and luxury, but she preferred Dean. I wonder if he has justified her hopes?" he thought bitterly.

He grew more and more curious on the subject after his father's burial, in the quiet that comes to a house of mourning, and he suddenly resolved to return to Stonecliff and find out for himself.

The little seaside town looked very gloomy in the downpour of a cold November rain, and the boom of the sea, lashed to fury in a storm, was disquieting to his nerves, but he sallied forth to the post office, and stood on the steps, watching to see Liane passing by on her way from work, as on the first day he had seen her lovely face.

How freshly it all came back to him, that day but two months ago, when he had followed her to restore her truant veil, and first looked into the luring blue eyes that had thrilled his heart with passion.

What a mighty passion for the shallow coquette had been born in his heart at that meeting—passion followed by pain! Ah, how he wished now that he had never met her, that he had let the blue veil blow away on the heedless wind! The little acts of kindness had brought him a harvest of pain.

Even now, despite all, he was waiting and watching with painful yearning for another sight of her face.

But the moments waned, and she came not.

He saw the other work people of the town going home through the falling dusk. Four of Miss Bray's girls dropped in at the post office, flashing surprised glances at his handsome, familiar face, wondering at his return; then they went out again, and he thought that presently Liane and Dolly would be passing also.

But he was disappointed, and presently he realized that it was useless waiting longer.

"Dean must have married her and taken her off already, but it must have been a very quiet affair. I have seen nothing of his marriage in the papers," he thought with strange disquiet, as he came down the steps.

A handsome carriage, with prancing gray horses, in a silver-mounted harness, with liveried footman, suddenly drew up at the curbstone, and a brilliant face flushed on him from the window.

"Oh, Jesse, what a surprise! How do you do? Won't you look in our box and bring me out my mail?" cried Roma Clarke gushingly.

There was nothing for it but obedience. Jesse came out to her with two letters and a paper, and as she took them, she threw open the carriage door, urging sweetly:

"Come home with me, do, and see papa and mamma. They will be so glad to see you. Poor papa has been ill of a fever, and is just convalescing."

He was in a reckless mood. He accepted the invitation and went home with her, but she did not find him a very congenial companion. He ignored her coquettish attempts to return to their old footing.

"You hate me yet," she pouted.

"Not at all. I am glad to be your friend, if you will permit me," he replied courteously.

"Friend!" Roma cried, in an indescribable tone.

He ignored the reproach, and said calmly:

"Tell me all that has happened since I went back to Boston. Who are married and who are dead?"

"No one that you know," replied Roma, and she never guessed what a thrill of joy the words sent to his heart.

He was glad. He could not help it, that Malcolm Dean had not married Liane yet. He was yearning for news of her, yet he knew better than to ask Roma for it. He knew it would only make her angry and jealous.

While he was alone in the drawing room, Roma having gone to apprise her parents of his arrival, he was startled to see Dolly Dorr sidle in, dressed in a dark-gray gown, with a maid's white cap and apron.

He arose in surprise.

"Miss Dorr! Is it possible?"

Dolly colored and hung her head, muttering:

"You're surprised to see me here as Miss Clarke's maid."

"Yes," he replied frankly; then a sudden thought came to him, and he added: "And your pretty friend, Miss Lester? Is she at Cliffdene also?"

Dolly tossed her head scornfully.

"No, indeed, she is not here!"

"Where, then?" he asked eagerly, with a painful curiosity.

"Don't you know?" cried Dolly pertly, with her flaxen head on one side, like a bird, and he answered quickly:

"Of course not!"

Dolly smoothed down her white apron with her little hands, and, glancing at him sidewise with her bright blue eyes, returned indignantly:

"Then, if you don't know, I can tell you. I used to like Liane, but I despise her now. That beauty prize made a fool of the girl, and turned her so silly no one liked her any more. She spent all that money for gaudy clothes and cheap jewelry, trying to entrap that artist, Mr. Dean. She was crazy about him, and didn't mind everybody knowing it, either. So at last she went chasing off to some city after him, and I don't know what became of her then, and I don't care, for every one says she must have gone straight to the bad."

She studied his paling cheek with keen eyes for a moment, then added:

"But I almost forgot. Mr. Clarke sent me to show you up to his room."

Devereaux rose silently, and followed the pert maid upstairs.

It never occurred to Devereaux to doubt Dolly's story in the least. He believed her a simple, truthful, shallow little maiden devoid of guile.

The little actress had played her part well, and Roma, listening behind a curtain, was delighted with the skill of her pupil, so hastily schooled a moment before in her artful story.

With a heavy heart Devereaux followed the scheming maid upstairs to Mr. Clarke's apartment, where he met a joyful welcome.

"Ah, my boy, I have been ill for many weeks. It seems an age since we parted that night at the Beauty Show," he exclaimed, as he wrung Devereaux's hand, adding sadly: "The strangest thing of all is the disappearance of the successful contestant for the prize. She went away a day or two afterward, and no one has the least knowledge of her whereabouts."

This was confirmation of Dolly's artful story, and Devereaux felt a strange choking in his throat that kept him silent, while Mr. Clarke continued eagerly:

"To tell the truth, I was deeply interested in the beautiful Miss Lester, and felt a hearty sympathy for her troubles. She led a sad existence with that wicked old grandmother, and I was on the point of asking her to come and stay at Cliffdene as my typewriter, just to give her a better home, you know, poor girl, when she disappeared so strangely, going away, some people insinuate, to lead a gayer life," sighing.

Devereaux knew quite well, from the letter he had received from her, that Liane could scarcely have filled the position of Mr. Clarke's typewriter, but he was too generous to say so. He swallowed the lump in his throat as best he could, and answered:

"I hope the insinuations are not true, but I cannot tell. I saw Miss Lester once in Boston. It was a few days after the contest, and she was walking past my home with a respectable-looking, middle-aged woman. I have never seen her since."

"So it was to Boston she went? I wish I could find the poor girl! I would try to interest my wife in her fate," exclaimed Mr. Clarke, but that lady, entering at the moment, overheard the words, and frowned angrily.

"I will have nothing to do with the girl, and the interest you take in her is very displeasing to me," she said curtly.

Roma had worked busily, fostering jealousy in her mind until she almost hated the name of Liane Lester.

She shook hands with Devereaux, welcomed him cordially, and returned to the subject.

"Speaking of that girl," she said, "I feel that sympathy is wasted on such as Liane Lester. At one time Roma and I were both so moved with pity for her poverty that we offered her the position of Roma's maid, with a good salary and a comfortable home, but the old woman and the girl both refused, as if they had actually been insulted, though Dolly Dorr, who worked with Liane, was glad enough to apply for the position Liane refused, and fills it very acceptably to Roma. After that we took no further interest in the girl, and rumor says that her head was quite turned by vanity after getting the beauty prize, so that she and the old granny moved away from Stonecliff."

Mrs. Clarke had pitied and admired Liane until her rivalry with Roma, and the latter's specious tales had turned the scales against her, and made her jealous of her husband's interest in the lovely girl, so she said again, with flashing eyes and heightened color:

"I do not approve of Mr. Clarke's strong interest in the girl, and would certainly never consent to receive her beneath the roof of Cliffdene."

She did not understand the strange glance of blended reproach and pity her husband bent upon her as he thought:

"My poor, deceived love, I cannot be angry with her, for she does not understand the painful interest I take in this Liane Lester, foreboding that she may possibly be our own child, doomed to poverty and woe, while her place in our homes and hearts is usurped by an upstart and an ingrate, without one lovable trait, but whom my poor wife feels compelled to blindly worship, believing her her own child! Ah, how unfortunate this illness that has prevented my tracing Nurse Jenks' history!"

CHAPTER XX.

"AS ONE ADMIRES A STATUE."

Happily unconscious of her father's unfavorable opinion, Roma entered and seated herself close to his chair, displaying an unwonted tenderness for him that deceived no one but Devereaux, for whose benefit it was designed. Both her parents knew that Roma was never affectionate, except to gain some end of her own.

On this occasion she was unwontedly sweet and gentle, with a new pensiveness in her manner more attractive to Devereaux than her usual brilliancy. She made no bids for his attention; she seemed sadly resigned to her fate, as her downcast eyes and stifled sighs attested. It touched him, but he felt too sad at heart to console others, and he soon tore himself away, returning that night to Boston, wondering if it could be possible, that the same city had held Liane all this time that he had supposed her safe at Stonecliff.

He knew that Malcolm Dean was in Philadelphia, and had been there for some time, and he wondered if the artist's love for Liane had failed to realize her confident hopes.

"Poor little thing! I pity her, with her sweet love dream blighted!" he thought generously, as he awakened early the next morning, pursuing the same sad train of thought.

A startling surprise awaited him after breakfast, where Lyde was sitting going over the new magazines.

Her dark eyes brightened suddenly, as she exclaimed:

"Upon my word, Jesse, the beautiful face on the outside cover of this magazine resembles perfectly the pretty girl from whom I buy my gloves!"

"Really!" he exclaimed, taking the magazine, and flushing and paling alternately, as he saw before him the cover that Dean had designed, with Liane's face for the central figure.

How beautiful it was? How beautiful! His heart leaped madly, then sank again in his breast.

"Do you think it can be accidental, or is it really her portrait? She is lovely, Jesse, with a natural, high-bred air, the darkest eyes, like purple pansies rimmed in jet, and the most beautiful chestnut hair, all touched with gleams of gold. I have woven quite a romance round her, fancying her some rich girl reduced to poverty."

His heart was beating with muffled throbs, his eyes flashed with eagerness, but he asked with seeming carelessness:

"What is her name?"

He was not in the least surprised when she answered:

"Miss Lester, and the other girls call her Liane. It is a pretty name, and, oddly enough, I read it once in a novel. She must have been named from it; don't you think, Jesse?"

"Perhaps so."

He could hardly speak, he was so excited, and Lyde rambled on:

"We have fallen in love with each other, pretty Liane and I. She always hurries to meet me and show me her gloves. Her eyes smile at me so tenderly, as if she were really fond of me, and I almost believe she is, for when I allow her to try on my gloves for me, she has such a caressing way, I almost long to kiss her. But then, perhaps, she has the same manner with all, just to get trade," disappointedly.

Devereaux recalled the caressing touch of her lips on his hand that night by the sea; her pretty, bashful gratitude, and groaned within himself.

"Oh, my lost love, my false love!"

Aloud he said cynically:

"I thought you were too proud, Lyde, to notice a pretty salesgirl."

"Oh, Jesse, I like to be kind to them all, poor things! And they appreciate a kind word and smile more than you might think. And many of these girls are so very pretty, too, that really, if I were looking for beauty, I believe I should seek it among the working girls in our stores. This Liane Lester, too, is lovelier than all the rest, and her voice so soft and sweet that, really, I am sure she must be a reduced aristocrat."

He wondered if he dare tell her the truth about Liane, the story of his love. Smilingly he said:

"You will have me falling in love with your pretty glove girl."

"Oh, not for the world!" she cried, in dismay. "My dear Jesse, never think of loving and marrying out of your own set. One can admire beauty in a poor girl as one admires beauty in a statue, but, lifted above her station, my pretty Liane would not be half so admirable."

"Of course not," he replied cynically, and decided not to make her his confidante.

All the same, he determined to see for himself again the lovely face that had won Lyde's admiration. He knew where she bought her gloves, and that afternoon he was close by when the little army of salesgirls came pouring out into the street.

By and by came two arm in arm, Lizzie White and Liane, and his eyes feasted again on the lovely face beneath the little blue hat, noting with gladness its purity of expression.

"They lied. She is pure and innocent still, in spite of pardonable vanity and girlish coquetry," he thought, with a subtle thrill of joy.

Then he saw Granny Jenks dart forward with a skinny, outstretched claw, whining:

"I came for your wages, Liane. I was afraid you might fool away the money before you got home."

"The old harpy!" he muttered, with irrepressible indignation, as he saw her clutch the money Liane had earned by her week's toil.

Then he drew back quickly, lest she should see him, a sudden resolve forming in his mind.

He would follow them, and find out where her home was, and if she deserved the cruel things they said of her at Stonecliff. He felt sure that she had been slandered, poor, pretty Liane, leading her simple, blameless life of toil and poverty.

He thought with pleasure of Mr. Clarke's interest in Liane, and promised himself to write to that gentleman all he could find out about her, little dreaming of the cruel consequences that would follow on the writing of the letter.

"Poor little girl, it is a shame that evil hearts should malign and traduce her, living her humble life of toil, poverty, and innocence!" Jesse Devereaux said to himself pityingly, on returning from following Liane to her humble abode.

He satisfied himself that her surroundings, though poor, were strictly respectable, and that she earned a meager living for herself and granny by patient, daily toil, and he had turned back to his own life of ease and luxury with a sore heart.

Keen sympathy and pity drove resentment from his mind, effacing all but divine tenderness.

He longed for an intensity that was almost pain to brighten her daily life, so weary, toilsome, and devoid of pleasure.