CHAPTER II.

MISS RALEIGH’S COMPANION.

“Which shall I wear, mamma, the pale blue silk, with white lace and pearl ornaments, or the new amber satin with hand-painted panels and black lace overdress looped with diamonds? Ah, yes, that will be the handsomest and most striking! And I shall wear _all_ the Raleigh diamonds!”

“But, Rosamond, _all_ the Raleigh diamonds would be too many jewels for a single toilet. It would be bad taste, my dear; yet, after all”--Mrs. Raleigh bent her stately head with its silver-gray puffs in a meditative way--“it would be something unique! What a woman requires nowadays in fashionable society is to look as odd and unusual as possible. But, Rosamond, we live in a great city, and our fashionable society is controlled by--”

“The woman I hate!” burst forth Rosamond, vindictively, with an angry gesture. “She is my own cousin, but I hate her, hate her, _hate_ her! I tell you, mamma, the day upon which Cousin Lenore Vane made her grand marriage was a bad day for her as well as myself! When she became the wife of a senator I knew then that my reign was over--that I could never surpass her in position, in social triumph. And since that day I have hated her as I have never hated any living creature, and I shall hate her till I die! To see her surrounded by her satellites is perfectly nauseating to me, and the absurd flatteries lavished upon her--why, in her presence I am hardly noticed--nearly drive me mad!”

“I know--I understand”--soothingly; “but never mind, Rosamond! You are bound to make a grand marriage some day. She is the wife of Senator Van Alstyne, it is true; but in point of wealth you are--”

“The daughter of Grafton Raleigh, of the great firm of Raleigh & Raleigh!” interrupted Rosamond, haughtily. “No business house in the whole United States holds a higher or more enviable position! Do not forget that, mamma!”

Rosamond Raleigh began to pace up and down the luxurious room, her delicate blonde face flushed slightly, the big, china-blue eyes drawn close together with the ugly scowl which puckered her white forehead, her small, jeweled hands clinched angrily. She came to a halt at length, and her face wore a very unlovely expression in its jealous wrath.

“The wife of Senator Van Alstyne! And what of that!” she pouted, angrily. “He is a great, coarse, pompous creature, most repugnant to me, or to any civilized taste. If there was any use in wondering over such matters in this corrupt age, I would marvel exceedingly that he should ever have been made a member of the United States Senate! But these affairs are unfathomable. As for Lenore, she was always sly and underhand. I know that she has never cared for her big, red-faced senator, and only married him to gratify her vanity, and--mamma, say what you like, you can never change my opinion--there is a secret in Lenore Vane’s life. And I believe that, to cover up this secret--this bad, black, unpleasant secret--she married Senator Van Alstyne!”

“Rosamond!”

Mrs. Raleigh’s face was pale as death, and in her gray-blue eyes something like terror.

“You are talking wildly, daughter,” she returned, trying to steady her voice. “You could know nothing concerning Lenore’s past. She is seven years your senior. You were twenty-five last summer,” she added, musingly.

“Hush!” Rosamond turned quite pale. “The idea of your telling my age right out like that! Anyone in the next room might have heard every word! But, speaking of Lenore’s position, I am going to shine her down to-morrow night at her own reception! In point of beauty she can not hold a candle to me! With her pale, colorless face, and big, dark eyes, and all that assumption of hauteur! Bah! I am sick of all the silly flatteries lavished upon that woman! Ah-h!” hissing the word forth vindictively, “if only it were in my power to unmask her, to expose her secret--whatever it may be! And, mamma, listen, and believe me: I am convinced that the day is coming when I shall triumph--when I shall cast her down from her high pedestal into the very dust at my feet! Oh, what a day that will be!”

“Rosamond!”

“Then I will pay back the debt of hatred that I owe, with compound interest,” hissed the girl, paying no heed to her mother’s warning voice; “and so, mamma”--changing to a lighter tone--“I shall go to Madame Lenore Van Alstyne’s reception to-morrow night, wearing the Raleigh diamonds and that incomparable amber satin. You know me well enough to be sure that I am going to have my own way!”

Mrs. Raleigh sighed as she turned away, while Rosamond crossed the room to a door which communicated with a small octagonal apartment, and opened it hastily. Her face was still harsh and angry, and there was a glitter in the blue eyes which boded ill for some one.

“Noisette!” she called, shrilly.

A young girl, a pale-faced, dark-eyed girl, seated at a window in the tiny room, busily engaged in painting upon a piece of amber satin, laid down her brush, and turned swiftly.

“Do you want me, Miss Rosamond?” she asked.

“Do I want you? Humph! Of course I would be sure to call you if I did _not_ want you! That goes without saying! Have you finished the last panel of the amber satin?”

“Not quite.” The girl’s voice was slow and hesitating. “My heart hurts me so this morning that I could not work quite so fast as usual, and so--”

“Bring it here to me!”

The voice was low and ominous; Rosamond Raleigh was trembling with rage. Slowly Noisette obeyed the command, and entered the outer apartment, in one small, shapely hand the amber satin panel, exquisitely painted with bunches of scarlet poppies, and long, clinging tendrils of pale-green leaves. It was the work of a true artist, and Rosamond Raleigh knew it--knew that her hand-painted fans and costly bits of silk and satin were the envy of half her set. And she realized perfectly that she was getting all this exquisite work done for such a mere nothing--the poor girl was a dependent upon the Raleighs--that it was a positive sin.

One glance at the girl’s pale face and heavy, red-rimmed eyes, but not a tinge of pity stirred Miss Raleigh’s cold heart. The heart of a fashionable woman, immersed in dress and society, is colder and harder than stone.

“Not done yet,” in a cutting voice, “and the reception at Senator Van Alstyne’s to come off to-morrow night, and I must have that dress to wear. I will have it; do you hear me? That painting must be done, though it kills you to do it.”

“Miss Rosamond, I will try.”

The girl’s voice was very faint, and trembled perceptibly.

“But my heart hurts me awfully,” she continued, “and sometimes I am obliged to stop and rest; and it is so difficult to breathe. Everything seems to get dark before me, and I feel afraid. And besides,” hesitatingly, “the odor of the paints is disagreeable.”

“Well, have you finished your complaints?” sneered Miss Raleigh, pitilessly. “Because if you have I would be pleased to see you go to work. I think I have done enough for you in taking you out of the orphan asylum and giving you a good home. But you are getting so lazy that you do not earn your salt. Go back to the sewing-room at once, and have that panel finished before three o’clock, or”--she drew her breath with a little hiss, her blue eyes glaring angrily into the girl’s white, pain-distorted face--“it will be bad for you, my lady,” she added, sharply.

Noisette bent her head slightly, and, taking the panel, returned to the room that she had left, closing its door behind her. Her face was white and rigid, and one hand clutched at her heart as though in pain.

“Heaven help me!” murmured the poor girl, under her breath. “I am dying, and she knows it. Ah, better for me if she had left me in the asylum. At least they have some mercy there.”

She sunk into the low seat at the window and took the brush in her cold, clammy hand.

“God pity the orphan!” she murmured, feebly.

The brush began to move slowly, uncertainly over the glinting, amber satin; at length it fell upon the dainty fabric, leaving a big red stain. It looked like heart’s blood.

The girl started up as though some one had struck her a blow; her head fell forward. A sensation stole over her like floating dreamily through space. The pale lips parted, and one word escaped them:

“Mother!”

That was all.

* * * * *

“Rosamond! Come here, quick! Oh, God, have mercy upon us!”

Rosamond Raleigh heard her mother’s voice in tones of wildest excitement and alarm an hour or two later, and arising from the satin couch, where she had been reading a French novel, she hastened to the octagonal room whence the sound proceeded.

Her mother was standing beside the marble table, upon which the painting materials were scattered, and Noisette’s head had fallen forward and rested against the marble top of the table. But the first object that caught Rosamond’s eye as she entered the room was the spot of fresh paint upon the amber satin panel.

She caught her breath with a gasp of rage.

“You have ruined my dress!” she shrieked, rushing to the side of the poor girl, and seizing her rudely by the shoulder; “you have literally ruined it! But you shall pay for it! I swear it! I will make you suffer for this! Mamma!”--falling back with a terrified cry--“what is the matter?”

Noisette’s head had fallen limply to one side, as the rude fingers closed down upon the thin shoulders in that cruel grip; her eyes were half open, set, staring and glassy; her lips were parted, showing the white teeth with a ghastly expression. Noisette was dead! Heart disease had stricken her down while at her work.

The orphan girl’s troubles were ended. She had died at her post, engaged in a thankless task.

For just a moment the hard heart of Rosamond Raleigh quailed; she sunk into a seat and covered her face with her hands.

“Mamma!” glancing up at last, “is she really dead? Is there no hope--no mistake? Why, this is awful! And it will get into the newspapers. I wouldn’t have Jack Lyndon get hold of the affair, not for a fortune! I’m more than half afraid of his sharp tongue and sharper pen. Can we do nothing?” arising, and, with evident repugnance, approaching the still figure in the chair.

Mrs. Raleigh shook her head. She had seen Death in too many forms not to know his dread presence beyond a doubt.

“She has been dead an hour, I should think,” Mrs. Raleigh observed; “but for form’s sake I will send for a physician. And then--oh, dear!--there will be a coroner’s inquest, and--”

“Never! Not in this house! Mamma, just think of the publicity! We must manage to avoid it in some way.”

And they did. In their high position, and with plenty of money at their command--alas! what will not money do?--all was speedily arranged. The body of the girl was arrayed for its last resting-place, and borne into an unused room, where it was placed in a plain coffin, to be buried quietly away in the nearest cemetery early in the morning.

The arrangements all concluded, Mrs. Raleigh locked the door of the room where the dead girl lay sleeping so peacefully, and turned to go back to the drawing-room. But at that very moment the door-bell rang, there was a brief pause in the spacious entrance-hall, then the sweeping of silken skirts coming to the wing of the house where the dead girl lay. Mrs. Raleigh started nervously. A moment later she was face to face with Lenore Van Alstyne. Tall and slender, with great, melancholy dark eyes, and a face of marble pallor, she was very beautiful, and--you could read it at a glance--a woman who would die for pride’s sake. Mrs. Raleigh could not control her surprise at sight of her niece.

“I heard that Noisette was dead,” began Lenore at once; “so I drove around to see if I can do anything. Let me see her, Aunt Helen.”

“Oh, my dear, it is not a pleasant sight. I--”

Lenore’s haughty lip curled.

“Death is seldom a pleasant sight, Aunt Helen!” she returned, coldly. “I have always liked the girl; she was very unassuming, and certainly industrious. Let me go in, Aunt Helen. See, I have brought her some flowers--her favorite lilies.”

So, though much against her will, Mrs. Raleigh unlocked the door, and they entered the chamber of death, followed shortly by Rosamond.

Lenore laid her lilies upon the open coffin, and then, moved by a sudden impulse, sunk down upon her knees beside the dead girl. Silence fell over all, and the moments passed, and still she knelt there. Mrs. Raleigh turned to her daughter.

“Rosamond, this is no place for you,” she began in a stage whisper; but she stopped short in unfeigned surprise at sight of the look upon Rosamond’s face.

“Mamma,” drawing her mother aside and speaking in an almost inaudible tone, lest their visitor should hear, “look! Did you ever see a more perfect resemblance than those two faces? In life we never observed it, but death brings the truth startlingly forward. Noisette is the very image of Lenore!”

“Nonsense! What absurdity, child! It is only one of those accidental resemblances which one stumbles across very often. Ah! there; she is going at last, thank Heaven! I shall never feel comfortable until that body is out of the house,” she added, plaintively.

The body was out of the house early the next morning, buried away with scant ceremony, and soon forgotten.

* * * * *

Mrs. Raleigh sat in her dainty boudoir a few days later. The reception at Senator Van Alstyne’s was a thing of the past, but Rosamond had been conspicuous by her absence.

“If I can not wear the amber satin I will not go at all,” the willful beauty had declared with an emphatic stamp of a small foot in a dainty bronze slipper; “but I shall make capital out of this horrid affair. Our set shall believe that I remained at home out of respect for my protégée’s memory, and not because I was disappointed in my dress. And I must find another girl in Noisette’s place--I believe I will advertise for a companion.”

And so she did--and fate decreed that this advertisement should attract poor Lillian Leigh’s notice, and she resolved to apply for the position. So Mrs. Raleigh, upon this particular morning of which I write, was interviewing Lillian, who had ventured to call at the Raleigh mansion in response to the advertisement. A slender, black-robed figure, she looked like a mere child as she told her pitiful story.

“I want employment, madame,” she said, lifting her great, sad brown eyes to the cold, high-bred face before her. “The old work--type-writing--has failed me; and besides, I prefer to leave my present home. I can not endure to remain among the old familiar scenes. I wish to lead a retired life, and yet I have my own living to make.”

A cold, critical glance swept the black-robed figure from head to foot, then Mrs. Raleigh’s slow, languid voice observed:

“You may make a trial of us, if you like. Of course we can not pay much to a novice, but after a time you will receive a good salary.”

So the arrangements were speedily completed, and for a pitifully small sum Lillian Leigh agreed to act as “companion” to Miss Rosamond Raleigh, little dreaming of what lay before her, and that fate was leading her blindly on. Coming down the broad staircase, the first evening of her life at the Raleigh mansion, Lillian came suddenly face to face with a tall, dark, brigandish-looking man who had just entered the house. One glance, and he fell back, clutching wildly at a carved Gothic chair which stood near, his dark face grown pale as death.

“Who are you?” he gasped. “Surely you are Gilbert Leigh’s daughter?”

She bowed coldly.

“I am Gilbert Leigh’s daughter!” she returned, in a dignified manner.

He glanced furtively about him. There was no one in the hall--no one within hearing, apparently. He caught her hand with a hasty gesture.

“I must know you better, Miss Leigh,” he said, swiftly, his evil eye studying every feature of the pale, indignant face. “I am Richard Raleigh, only son and heir of the Raleighs,” he added, with a smile.

As he spoke he drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and a card fluttered with it to the floor. Lillian stooped and picked it up. It was a small photograph, and--could it be possible?--it was a photograph of her own face! Trembling like a leaf, she flashed indignantly upon him.

“How dare you!” she was beginning, wildly; but, checking her agitation, she went on, swiftly: “Mr. Raleigh, where did you obtain this photograph? I must know! It is one that my father carried in his pocket. There can be no mistake. See, here are his initials, ‘G. L.,’ on the back of the card. Mr. Richard Raleigh, I demand an answer. Where did you get this picture?”