CHAPTER XXVIII.

GEOFFREY GREY ATONES.

What a journey that was across the Atlantic! With Cyril Fayne standing guard over the white-faced, scared-looking man who crouched in a retired corner of the deck all day, and at night was locked in a state-room to which Fayne himself held the key, guarded like a prisoner on his way to prison, never for a moment left alone, constantly under surveillance, Geoffrey Grey will never forget that journey until the day he dies. But at last the end came, as everything comes to an end some time or other, and

“Good times and bad times, sad times and glad times, and all times alike Will pass over.”

And at last the vessel steamed into port, and, half dead with terror and cowardly shrinking, Geoffrey Grey was taken on shore, and, still closely guarded, conveyed to the nearest hotel.

It was an awful task to which Cyril Fayne had pledged himself; but he persevered in grim determination, his face set and stern, and an ominous light in his resolute dark eyes.

He knew that the crisis of his life--his own life and Lenore’s--was close at hand. The hour was drawing nigh when men should acknowledge their mutual sufferings, their mutual wrongs, or every man’s hand should be against him, and his hand against every man in war henceforth. He shut his teeth closely together with a repressed cry, heartsick and weary.

“But she must be defended,” he panted, eagerly, “she must be upheld by a strong arm; and mine is surely strong enough for her to lean upon. The world shall learn the truth and acknowledge its error, and shall beg her pardon--my sweet, white lily flower, my pearl of purity!”

And his face froze over into stern determination. It would have been bad for Senator Van Alstyne had he chanced to meet Cyril Fayne at that moment.

* * * * *

The Raleigh mansion was brilliantly illuminated, and a grand reception was in progress, for fashion is vigorous and tyrannical, and Mrs. Raleigh knew that she must throw open her doors to her dear five hundred friends, and make known Richard’s marriage to Lillian Leigh, or the fashionable world would conclude at once that the marriage was obnoxious to her. So, though secretly much against her own desires, she had issued cards for a grand reception in honor of her son’s marriage.

But she found more difficulty with Lillian than she had apprehended. At first the girl refused outright to appear at all, but the entreaties of Mrs. Raleigh were not without effect. Lillian felt that, after all, it would be a small concession for her to appear in the drawing-room for a short time; and since it would keep peace in the family, she consented at last. But she refused firmly to lay aside her mourning. In vain did Mrs. Raleigh lay before her the enormity of a bride appearing in black; her words were wasted. The utmost to which her persuasion could induce Lillian to agree was a compromise between black and white. So a beautiful costume had been ordered of fancy black-and-white crêpe lisse, with heavy jet ornaments. The girl looked like a queen in mourning-garments as she stood at Mrs. Raleigh’s side, under the blazing chandelier in the great drawing-room, receiving the guests as they arrived.

Every one seemed conscious of a strange restraint--a feeling pervaded the apartment as though they were expecting some one or something to come. It came like an electric shock as the voice of the footman announced, in loud tones:

“Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Fayne--Mr. Geoffrey Grey!”

Van Alstyne, seated at Bessie Vernon’s side, dropped the bouquet of orchids which he was just presenting to that lady, and started to his feet, his red face fairly purple with wrath--and was it fear that lurked in his snaky little eyes?

A strange silence fell upon the room as Cyril entered with Lenore leaning upon his arm--Lenore all in bridal white--a robe of shimmering satin strewn with seed-pearls. Her face was very pale; but her head was held aloft in haughty grace, and her dark eyes blazed with scorn. Following closely in their wake was Geoffrey Grey.

The guests seemed to shrink closer together--the female portion, at least--as though they thought it contamination to even breathe the same atmosphere with this woman whom they had hunted down.

Cyril Fayne bowed lowly before the astonished assemblage; then he spoke, and the words that he uttered froze the audience into silence.

“I present to you,” he began, in a clear, ringing voice, “my wife, Mrs. Lenore Fayne, and I wish to tell you our strange story--a story which I believed had been made public long ago, or I would have left Europe before this to set right in the eyes of the world the woman so bitterly wronged.

“My friends, this lady became my wife nearly eighteen years ago. See, here is the marriage certificate. We were married in Arles, France, as you will see by glancing at this document. We were separated by fraud and treachery--separated, and I believed her dead, and she believed me false. Afterward she read my name in the list of deaths on board a burning steamer, and she too believed me gone to my last account.

“Her only relatives--the Raleighs--were traveling through France. They found her and took her home to America with them, and with them she resided for years. But she never told her story. They did not know the truth; and when Senator Van Alstyne asked her hand in marriage they looked upon it as a grand match for her; and so, urged and influenced--pressed upon all sides--Lenore consented and became the wife of Senator Van Alstyne. Of the life which she led with him I will not speak. In the meantime I came to America, and, roving about aimlessly, I saw my wife one day by accident, and learned that she was married to another man.

“In the disguise of an old woman, a fortune-teller, I managed to get into her presence, and, by the aid of a little juggling, which I had learned in the East, threw the party into consternation, in the midst of which I managed to slip a note into her hands.

“I afterward wrote her a full explanation of what had happened, and in her reply I learned what I had suspected, that she loved me still, and hated the man Van Alstyne. And she was my wife! To me not all the years of separation could prevent my claim. I determined to claim her, after which a legal process would settle all questions, and a repetition of the marriage ceremony would make all binding. In the eyes of God she was my wife.

“And now comes the point wherein I blame myself severely. Lenore was weak and nervous. She feared Van Alstyne with a terror beyond expression, and she shrunk from an open explanation. Weakly I yielded, and we went away together, leaving a letter for Van Alstyne, explaining all.

“He found and read that letter, learned the whole truth, then he went down to his drawing-room, into the presence of his guests, and told them a deliberate falsehood--that Lenore had fled with her lover, that she was base and vile.

“I acknowledge the weakness of my own course; but it was a mistake made through the kindest intentions toward my suffering wife. She did not know all that had taken place until we had been living in Italy for some time, our marriage having been celebrated for the second time upon my friend Thornton’s yacht. All formalities were rigorously observed. She is my lawful wife.

“The very day that we learned the truth and how Van Alstyne had sought, by the ruin of her fair fame, to obtain revenge, that very day Providence threw into my way the man who had wrought the sorrow of our lives--Geoffrey Grey. I have forced him to return with us to America to bear witness to the truth of my words, and the secret of Lenore Fayne’s life. Geoffrey Grey, speak, and tell the truth, the whole truth, I command you.”

Geoffrey Grey lifted his handsome head and gazed about him with a crest-fallen expression.

“I acknowledge my own wrong-doing,” he said, slowly. “Years ago, when I was only twenty-one, I loved Lenore Vane; but she never cared for me. I was accustomed to flattery and homage, and the thought that she did not love me, and would never care for me, made me desperate. I asked her to be my wife, but she refused, and refused me with scorn, ending at last by acknowledging her love for Cyril Fayne. I had never liked him; he was always so grand and dignified; he never joined me in my mad escapades; and he loved Lenore so dearly and with such jealous tenderness that he would scarcely permit me to speak her name. At last they were married, and not long afterward Cyril Fayne was called away to England upon business, and Lenore was left alone. In an evil hour an awful plot entered my brain, and I determined to separate husband and wife, if possible, forever. I planned a tale of Cyril’s treachery and falseness. I made Lenore believe, with such apparently overwhelming proof that no woman dare doubt it that Cyril Fayne had gone to England with another woman, and that she was a deserted wife. About that time a steamer was burned at sea. I caused a list of the dead to be shown Lenore--a list which contained the names of Cyril Fayne and a woman registered upon the steamer’s books as his wife. It is useless to add that I had caused the false report to be printed that she might see and believe in his treachery. A few months later her child was born--a puny little girl. A short time after its birth I sought Lenore again and asked her to be my wife. She refused me with bitter scorn, averring that, true or false, she loved Cyril Fayne, and would never love another. In my anger I determined to be avenged, and I--I stole her child and took it to America. Once there, I placed it in an orphan asylum--the asylum of St. Vincent in this city. The child was afterward removed from the asylum by the Raleighs under the name of Noisette--Noisette Duval.”

There was a wild cry, and Rosamond Raleigh started to her feet, pale and trembling. There in the door-way stood a slight, childish figure--a pale, sad face, with great, dark, unearthly eyes--in one hand a bit of amber satin, while the shadowy fingers plied the brush as usual with swift, deft strokes--never ending--never ending.

Another wild shriek went up from Rosamond Raleigh’s pale lips, then she tottered a few steps and fell to the floor. When they lifted her and bore her from the room, the overwrought brain had given way, and she was raving like a mad woman.