CHAPTER XXII.

HER FLIGHT.

How still it was! Nothing to break the strange, uncanny silence of the scene and the hour only the wind moaning feebly in the tree-tops. The moon came forth from behind a mass of fleecy white clouds, and gazed down upon the group crouching in ambush--the three who had hunted this woman down to gloat over her ruin.

Cyril Fayne’s arms were about Lenore; her head rested upon his breast. One brief pause of blissful silence, then they flitted away through the shrubbery, in the pale radiance of the moonlight, straight to a side gate which led from the grounds.

Not a word was spoken; not a sound betrayed the excitement which quivered through the waiting group. Bessie Vernon flashed about at last and clutched Rosamond’s arm in a nervous grip.

“Look at Van Alstyne!” she whispered. “He looks like a galvanized corpse. Van Alstyne!” she called, softly, “are you dumb or dead? Don’t you see that they are going--gone? Why don’t you make your way around to the front and intercept them? No doubt there is a carriage in waiting to take them away, and I happen to know that Harvey Thornton’s yacht, ‘White Wings,’ is in the bay. I suppose he has an object in anchoring there. Van Alstyne! in the name of Heaven, why don’t you do something? They will be gone; and if nothing is done it will be too late to spoil their game and put an end to their flight.”

And it never once occurred to this volatile butterfly that this man had planned deeper, more terrible revenge than the mere circumvention of the plan of escape together could ever have visited upon the two.

Slowly Van Van Alstyne turned, and his eyes met the gaze of the woman who had plotted so well and successfully. Bessie shivered.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she cried. “Go! You have your revolver; I saw it in your hand a moment ago. Why not use it? Not to--to kill--of course not; that would be so dreadfully low and common--but it would frighten them and make a scene. Then she will be disgraced forever.”

He turned slowly and faced her once more. He lifted his right hand toward heaven--upon his face a look that was bad to see. He had gnawed his under lip until the blood was beginning to trickle down upon his stubbly beard.

“Curse her! Curse them both!” he hissed, bleakly. “My curse follow them wherever they go! I curse them living--I curse them dead! No, I shall not follow them, Bessie Vernon; I shall remain where I am and let them take their departure undisturbed. Their punishment will be greater than my disgrace. Let us return to the house. My plan of vengeance will soon be revealed to you. I think it will satisfy even you.”

The _dénouement_ was so unexpected, this turn in affairs something of which Bessie had not even dreamed, and for which she was totally unprepared, she could only stand and stare blankly into Van Alstyne’s pale, resolute face.

“I do not understand you,” she faltered. “How can you punish her if you allow her to go on and elope with the man of her choice? You might prevent the elopement, and then you could have held the threat of public exposure and disgrace over her head in future--for the rest of her natural life. My word for it, she would rather be dead than in your power in that way. She would have been your slave henceforth; for in case of any insubordination, a gentle reminder of her secret--in your power--would bring my lady to her senses. Van Van Alstyne, I don’t understand you. If Arnold were in your place now, how he would rant and rave! He would be like a madman!”

“But I am not Arnold Vernon, and if I were, I am afraid I should do as I am doing now!” he returned, still with that same ominous quiet in tone and manner. “You will understand me later,” he added, with a grim smile. “Believe me, Mrs. Vernon, I am quite competent to manage this affair for myself. I advise you and Miss Raleigh to return to the house now; I will follow directly. Ah, I see young Stuart coming; he will escort you.”

A tall, fair-haired young fellow, with great gray eyes and an air of nonchalance, made his way through the shrubbery and halted.

“Hope I don’t intrude; eh, Mrs. Vernon? Regular Paul Pry, am I not? Do let me take you back to the house,” adding in a low tone, as Bessie promptly laid her hand upon his arm: “We will go around by the longest way.”

Rosamond was taken in charge by a bewhiskered foreign officer, and they all moved away together, leaving the senator alone. His face was as white as the face of a dead man; his hands were clinched fiercely together; he was trembling in every limb.

“Deserted!” he said, aloud, the word cutting in upon the silence like a knife; “deserted, abandoned, defied, made a mock of; I, senator and millionaire, one of the richest men in the city, one whose word is law, and who controls millions! Deserted by a pale-faced, trembling woman because she does not, and never did, love me, but loves another man! Ah--h!”

He gnashed his teeth in impotent rage. His pride was hurt, his self-love wounded, his vanity immolated, and he stood like a skeleton stripped of its flesh, alone in a howling wilderness, with only the vultures of social scorn to prey upon him. Otherwise he was alone.

“Alone!” he muttered, harshly, after a time. “Well, I am no more alone now than when she was with me. For we have always been apart. How I hate her for the contumely, the shame, the humiliation that she has brought upon my name! But I shall have revenge. If she were here now, if she had returned to me a moment ago, or should even yet come back, I would drag her into the house which she has disgraced, into the presence of my guests, and tell the shameful story before them all. I would have no pity, no mercy, nothing but revenge. That letter!” he panted, as he strode hastily back to the house. “I will find the letter which that villain said had been placed in my room for my perusal--yes, I will read it, and then I shall know if the course which I have marked out for myself be a wise one.”

He shut his lips resolutely together, and hastened around to a side entrance to the brilliantly lighted mansion.

Once within the house, he hurried upstairs to his own room, and closed its door behind him.

Upon the elegant dressing-table, with full-length mirror and with all its costly toilet accessories, the gleam of a white envelope attracted his attention. He snatched it up and tore it open with all the haste and passion of a madman.

Several sheets of paper met his view, all covered with writing. He recognized the chirography which he had seen upon the envelope addressed to Lenore, and an imprecation passed his lips. Then, still clutching the letter in one trembling hand, he sunk into the nearest seat and began to read.

Down-stairs, Rosamond Raleigh and Mrs. Vernon had taken upon themselves the task of entertaining the guests--assuming control of the festivities.

Mrs. Van Alstyne had been taken suddenly ill, and had gone to her room. She would be down directly. Senator Van Alstyne had been summoned away for a short time upon imperative business.

Lame excuses, but all that could be invented upon short notice.

The evening wore away, and the guests seemed to have accepted the strange absence of both host and hostess with unprecedented good nature.

Bessie Vernon was in her element, for Charlie Stuart never left her side. And Arnold Vernon, watching the pair from the corner where he sat conversing with some ladies, frowned severely and looked as black as a thunder-cloud; but all of no avail. He could no more prevent his wife’s mad flirtations than he could turn the waves of the ocean from their course. He could only sit and glower moodily upon the scene, and, as Bessie definitely declared, hate himself to death.

She flitted past him leaning upon Charlie’s arm, her piquant face uplifted to his, while saucy retort and witty repartee flashed from one to the other. And gradually the elements of a tragedy were evolved from the giddy foolishness--the overweening vanity of this pleasure-loving wife.

In the meantime Cyril Fayne was hastening on with Lenore toward where, in a secluded corner, a closed carriage stood in waiting. A little later they were safe inside, and the carriage drove away like mad in the direction of the harbor, a half mile distant. Pale as marble and trembling like a leaf, Lenore crouched upon the seat at his side, one hand pressed over her heart throbbing madly, the other grasping his arm with a despairing clutch, as though she feared that he might be taken from her.

“Cyril,” she cried, fearfully, “what if he discovers our flight and follows us? Oh, he is fearful in his anger and brute violence. It makes my heart quail to even think of him and the day that he struck me--”

She stopped short, the words dying upon her lips, as Cyril Fayne caught her in his arms, muttering a mad imprecation.

“Struck you? Oh, Lenore, Lenore, you never told me that. Struck you? How dared he, the villain, the base, vile wretch! Ah, Senator Van Alstyne, ours will be a terrible reckoning when the day comes in which we shall stand face to face. Hear me, Lenore: If the day ever comes when I shall stand in that man’s presence, I shall shoot him down as I would shoot a mad dog!”

“Cyril!”

“I shall kill him!” he repeated, grimly. “The same world can not hold Van Van Alstyne and me. For your sake I submit now and will do no violence, but Heaven help him if we chance to meet. It drives me mad to think of it. To dare raise his cowardly hand against a woman, and that woman--you--my own wife!”

He kissed the sweet red lips again and again as the carriage rolled onward. It came to a halt at last and Cyril hastily alighted. Lenore peered cautiously forth into the night. The moon had gone down and all was in darkness--a heavy gloom which hung over the earth like a pall. But a short distance away she caught the gleam of waves rising and falling with a low musical murmur, while off upon the water, a faint light twinkled like a star. The light is Harvey Thornton’s yacht, “White Wings.” Cyril lifted Lenore to the ground. She clung to him with a frightened gesture.

“Oh, Cyril, has any one followed us? Has he--found out--do you think?”

Cyril shook his head.

“I see no one--nothing,” he made answer. “And now, my darling, we must make haste to the boat, and in a short time we will be safe upon the ‘White Wings.’”

One long, eager, searching glance up and down the beach, and down the long, winding country road by which they had come, then Lenore slipped her hand through his arm, and he led her away to where a tiny skiff rocked idly to and fro at the end of its long chain. A little delay and they were safe within the boat, flying over the water like a bird, in the direction of the anchored yacht.

“Love,” he bent his head and looked into her eyes, “it is you and I will move upon life’s tempestuous sea. Do you regret the past? Are you glad that I came back to you?”

“Cyril!”

One swift glance into his handsome dark face, but it told plainer far than words her heart’s content. He bent with fresh energy to the oars, and so at last the yacht was reached and they were safe on board. Half an hour later the yacht was pushing on, making rapid headway far out at sea.

* * * * *

Van Van Alstyne read the letter that Cyril Fayne had written--read it in ominous silence--his lips sternly compressed, his face ghastly white, his eyes blood-shot and fierce with rage. It was finished at last. He crushed the letter up into a ball, and tossed it into a drawer in his escritoire, locking it securely. For a few moments he stood as still as death, an awful look upon his white, drawn face. Then he wheeled about sullenly and entered his dressing-room. Having bathed his face and restored his disordered attire, he was quite himself once more. Forcing a smile to his bloodless lips, he went down to the drawing-room from which he had so long absented himself. He advanced into the center of the room and the sight of him somehow checked the merry badinage of the gay crowd, and laughter died a speedy death. Pale and stern he faced them. Ah! he was going to taste the sweets of revenge now.

“My friends,” he began in a clear, distinct voice, “I must apologize for my unwarrantable neglect of my guests to-night. I have a revelation to make. Mrs. Lenore Van Alstyne has left her home forever. She has gone away in the night and darkness. She has disgraced herself and me, and heaped humiliation upon the name of Van Alstyne. She has fled with her lover, Cyril Fayne.”