Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter

by Lawrence L. Lynch

  CHAPTER X.

  BONNIE, BEWITCHING CLAIRE.

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

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

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

  The eyes of Madeline were turned away from the vista of villas andtrees, and were gazing toward the business thoroughfare leading intothe bustle of the town; gazing after the receding figure of DoctorClarence Vaughan as he cantered away from the villa; gazing until aturn of the road hid him from her view. Then--and what did she mean byit?--she turned her face toward Claire with a questioning look in hereyes--the question came almost to her lips. But the words wererepressed.

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

  "A kiss for your thoughts, beautiful blonde Madeline. I certainlythink it is ten minutes since Doctor Vaughan departed and silence fellupon us."

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

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

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

  "Only so so," flushing and laughing. "I was meditating the proprietyof telling you something some day, and was thinking of that somethingjust now, but--"

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

  "You can't," emphatically.

  "When next we meet, I shall have other weapons!"--page113.]

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

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

  "Now, how ever could you guess that?"

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

  "I see," dropping her voice suddenly. "Oh, Madeline, how I wish youcould forget _that_."

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

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

  "_Mourn his loss!_" turning upon Claire, fiercely. "Do you think it isfor him I mourn my _dead_; my lost happiness, my shattered dreams, mylife made a bitter, burdensome thing. Mourn him? I have for LucianDavlin but one feeling--hate!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  They seated themselves upon a rustic bench and Claire replied:

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

  Madeline nodded, and Claire bounded away, to return quickly bearing inher hand a finely wrought cabinet photograph, encased in velvet andgilt, _a la souvenaire_. Placing it in her companion's hand, she satdown with a little triumphant sigh, and gazed over Madeline's shoulderwith a proud, glad look in her eyes.

  "Blonde?" suggested Madeline.

  "Yes," eagerly; "such lovely ha
ir and whiskers,--perfect gold color;and fair as a woman."

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

  Blonde he was, certainly; hair thrown carelessly back from a browbroad and white; eyes, light, but with an expression that puzzled thegazer.

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

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

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

  "What?" eagerly.

  "Cruel, crafty, treacherous."

  "Oh, Madeline!"

  "There, there; I didn't say that he,"--tapping the picture--"possessedthese qualities. His eyes are unusual ones; did you ever see hismouth?"

  "What a question--through all those whiskers? no; but he has beautifulteeth."

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

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

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

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

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

  She came back on this evening, as the two girls were mingling theirvoices in gay bravura duets--by mutual consent they avoided all songsof a pathetic order, for reasons which neither would have cared toacknowledge.

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

  "Madeline, I forgot to tell you that Olive knows nothing of EdwardPercy, and--I don't want to tell her just yet. You will not mentionit?"

  "No."

  "Then good-night, and pleasant dreams."

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

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