My Pretty Maid; or, Liane Lester

He could scarcely credit what they had told him this afternoon when examining the portraits: that Liane Lester was only a poor sewing girl, with a cruel grandmother, who beat her upon the slightest pretext, and never permitted her to have a lover.

"She looks like a young princess. It is a wonder that some brave young man has not eloped with her before now," he declared.

"Every one is afraid of Granny Jenks," they replied; but Jesse Devereaux only remained gravely silent. He had decided to win sweet Liane for his own, in spite of a hundred vixenish grannies.

He had sent her the fragrant roses to wear, determining to disclose his identity that night, and to win her sweet promise to be his bride.

Now his plans were all spoiled by the artist's sudden infatuation, and he could have cursed Roma for the spiteful manœuvring that had kept him an unwilling captive, while Liane was drifting beyond his reach.

All his pleasure was over for to-night, yet he did not give up hope for the future. His dark eyes had not failed to detect the joy in her glance, and the blush on her cheek at their meeting, and his ears had caught the little regretful ring in her voice, as she whispered that she had already promised Mr. Dean.

Presently the people all began to go away, and with keen pain he saw Liane leaving with her new admirer, her little hand resting like a snowflake on his black coat sleeve.

"But it shall be my turn to-morrow," he vowed to himself, turning away with a jealous pang, and pretending not to see Dolly Dorr, who had lingered purposely in his way, hoping he would see her home.

Disappointed in her little scheme, she rather crossly accepted the offer of a dapper dry-goods clerk, and went off on his arm, laughing with forced gayety as she passed Devereaux, to let him see that she did not care.

Devereaux did not even hear the laughter of the piqued little flirt. He could think of nothing but his keen disappointment over Liane. He returned to his hotel in the sulks.

After all his pleasant anticipations, his disappointment was keen and bitter.

"How can I wait until to-morrow?" he muttered, throwing himself down disconsolately into a chair.

Suddenly a messenger entered with a telegram, and, tearing it hastily open, he read:

Come at once. Father has had a stroke of apoplexy.

    Lyde.

Lyde was his only sister, married a year before, and a leader in society. He could fancy how helpless she would be at this juncture—the pretty, petted girl.

Filial grief and affection drove even the thought of Liane temporarily from his mind.

Calling in a man to pack his effects, he left on the earliest train for his home in Boston.

But as the train rushed on through the night and darkness, Liane blended with his troubled thoughts, and he resolved that he would write to her at the earliest opportunity. He would not leave the field clear for his enamored rival.

He realized, too, that the clever and handsome artist would be a dangerous rival; still, he felt sure that Liane had some preference for himself. On this he based his hopes for Malcolm Dean's failure.

"She will not forget that night upon the beach, and the opportune service I did her. Her grateful little heart will not turn from me," he thought hopefully.

Malcolm Dean was the only one he could think of as likely to come between him and Liane. He had not an apprehension as to Roma Clarke's baleful jealousy. And yet he should have remembered the hate that had flashed from her eyes and hissed in her voice when she taxed him with voting for Liane.

Again, she had nearly fainted when he was excusing himself to speak to her successful rival.

And even now, while the fast-flying train bore him swiftly from Stonecliff, Roma paced her chamber floor like one distraught, wringing her hands and alternately bewailing her fate and vowing vengeance.

Before Roma's angry eyes seemed to move constantly the vision of her rival in her exquisite beauty. Liane, in her girlish white gown, with the fragrant pink roses at her slender waist—Liane, the humble sewing girl she had despised, but who had now become her hated rival.

Jesse Devereaux admired her; thought her the loveliest girl in the world. Perhaps, even, he was in love with her. That was why he had taken so gladly the dismissal she had so rashly given.

A fever of unavailing regret burned in Roma's veins, the fires of jealous hate gleamed in her flashing eyes.

"I would gladly see her dead at my feet," she cried furiously.

Before she sought her pillow, she had resolved on a plan to forestall Devereaux's courtship.

She would go to-morrow morning to see the wicked old grandmother of Liane; she would have a good excuse, because the old woman had desired the visit, and she would tell her that Devereaux was engaged to herself, and warn her not to permit her granddaughter to accept attentions that could mean nothing but evil. She would even bribe the old woman, if necessary. She was ready to make any sacrifice to punish Jesse for what she called to herself his perfidy, ignoring the fact that she had set him free to woo whom he would.

Granny was tidying up her floor next morning, when a footstep on the threshold made her start and look around at a vision of elegance and beauty framed in sunshine that made the coppery waves of her hair shine lurid red as the girl bowed courteously, saying:

"I am Miss Clarke. Mamma said you wished to see me."

Granny dropped her broom and sank into a chair, staring with dazed eyes at the radiant beauty in her silken gown.

As no invitation to enter was forthcoming, Roma stepped in and seated herself, with a supercilious glance at the shabby surroundings. She thought to herself disdainfully:

"To think of being rivaled in both beauty and love by a low-born girl raised in a hovel!"

Yet she saw that everything was scrupulously clean and neat, as though Liane made the best of what she had.

The old woman, without speaking a word, stared at Roma with eager eyes, as if feasting on her beauty, a tribute to her vanity that pleased Roma well, so she smiled graciously and waited with unwonted patience until granny heaved a long sigh, and exclaimed:

"It is a pleasure to behold you at last, Miss Roma, as a beauty and an heiress! Ah, you must be very happy!"

The young girl sighed mournfully:

"Wealth and beauty cannot give happiness when one's lover is fickle, flirting with poor girls at the expense of their reputations."

"What do you mean?" gasped the old woman, and somehow Roma felt that she was making a favorable impression, and did not hesitate to add:

"I am speaking of your granddaughter, Liane Lester. The girl is rather pretty, and I suppose that her vanity makes her ambitious to marry rich. She flirts with every young man she sees, and lately she has been making eyes at my betrothed husband, Jesse Devereaux, a handsome young millionaire. He loves me as he does his life, but he is a born flirt, and he is amusing himself with Liane in spite of my objections. So I thought I would come and ask you to scold the girl for her boldness."

"Scold her! That I will, and whip her, too, if you say so! I will do anything to please you, beautiful lady," whimpered granny, moving closer to Roma, and furtively stroking her rich dress with a skinny, clawlike hand, while she looked at the girl with eager eyes.

Roma frowned a little at this demonstration of tenderness, but she was glad the old woman took it so calmly about Liane, and answered coolly:

"So that you keep them apart, I do not care how much you whip her, for her boldness deserves a check, and I suppose that you cannot restrain her, except by beating."

She was surprised and almost shocked as granny whispered hoarsely:

"I would beat her—yes; I would kill her before she should steal your grand lover, darling!"

CHAPTER XV.

"A DYING MOTHER."

Even Roma's cruel heart was somewhat shocked at granny's malevolence toward her beautiful young granddaughter, but she did not rebuke the old hag; she only resolved to make capital of it. So she said: