My Pretty Maid; or, Liane Lester

Devereaux struggled a moment with natural pride and selfishness, then answered:

"She preferred you."

"Me? How should you know?"

"By her own confession to me."

Malcolm Dean was frankly staggered by his friend's statement. His blue eyes gleamed with joy and his bosom heaved with pride.

"You have made me very happy, but how very, very strange that she should have made such a confession to you," he cried, in wonder.

Again Devereaux had a short, sharp struggle with his better self and his natural jealousy of the more fortunate lover of Liane, then his pity for the girl triumphed over every selfish instinct, and he said:

"She was very frank with me—the frankness of innocence that saw no harm in the confidence. On the same principle I see no harm in confiding in you, Dean;" and he impulsively drew from his breast Liane's letter.

Had he dreamed of the fatal consequences, he would have withheld his eager hand.

There is love and love—love that has shallow roots and love that cannot be dragged up from its firm foundations.

"Read!" said Devereaux, generously placing in his rival's hand Liane's letter.

For himself he could have forgiven all her faults of innocence and ignorance could she but have returned his love.

It did not occur to his mind that the artist could be in any way different; that the ill spelling and the puerile mind evinced by the letter would inspire him with keen disgust.

It only seemed to him that all these faults could be remedied by Liane by the influence of a true love. The glamour of a strong passion was upon him, blinding him to the truth that instantly became patent to Dean's mind.

The artist, reading the shallow effusion, flung it down in keen disgust.

"Heavens, what a disappointment! Such beauty and apparent sweetness united to shallowness and vanity!" he exclaimed.

"It calls forth your pity?" Devereaux said.

"It excites my scorn!" the artist replied hotly.

"Remember her misfortunes—her bringing up by that wretched old relative in want and ignorance. Surely the influence of love will work every desirable change in the fair girl who loves you so fondly," argued Devereaux.

Malcolm Dean was pacing the floor excitedly.

"You could not change the shallow nature indicated by that letter, if you loved her to distraction," he exclaimed. "Mark how she confesses to deliberate coquetry to win you from your betrothed; how cold-bloodedly she gloats over her triumph. Why, my love is dead in an instant, Devereaux, slain by this glimpse at Liane Lester's real nature. Thank fortune, I did not find her at Stonecliff yesterday. I shall never seek her now, for my eyes are opened by that heartless letter. Why are you staring at me so reproachfully, Devereaux? You have even more cause to despise than I have."

"And yet I cannot do it; Heaven help me, I love her still!" groaned the other, bowing his pale face upon his hands.

"But, Devereaux; this is madness! She is not worth your love. Fling the poison from your heart as I do. Forget the light coquette. Return to your first love."

"Never!" he cried; but in all his pain he could not help an unconscious joy that Liane could yet be won.

He had not meant to turn Dean's heart against her, but the mischief was done now. Poor little girl! Would she hate him if she knew?

The old pitying tenderness surged over him again, and he longed to take her in his arms and shield her from all the assaults of the cruel world. Vain and shallow she might be; coquette she might be, yet she had stormed the citadel of his heart and held it still against all intruders.

"I am going now," the artist cried; turning on him restlessly. "This is good-by for months, Devereaux. I think I shall join some friends of mine who are going to winter in Italy, to study art, you know. Wish you would come with us."

"I should like to, but my father is lately dead, you know, and Lieutenant Carrington, my sister's husband, is ordered to sea with his ship. I cannot leave Lyde alone, poor girl."

"Then good-by, and thank you for showing me that letter. What if I had married her in ignorance?" with a shudder. "For Heaven's sake, Devereaux, be careful of getting into her toils again. Better go back to Miss Clarke, and make up your quarrel. Adieu," and with a hearty handclasp, he was gone, leaving his friend almost paralyzed with the remorseful thought:

"Would she ever forgive me if she guessed the harm I have done?"

CHAPTER XXI.

A HARVEST OF WOE

Devereaux's thoughts clung persistently to Liane. He could not shut away from his mind her haunting image.

Pity blended with tenderness, as putting himself and his own disappointment aside, he gave himself up to thoughts of bettering her poverty-stricken life, so toilsome and lonely.

He took up his pen and wrote feelingly to Edmund Clarke, telling him how and where he had found Liane again, and of his full belief in her purity and innocence, despite the cruel slanders circulating in Stonecliff, the work, no doubt, he said, of some jealous, unscrupulous enemy.

He assured Mr. Clarke that he was ready to assist in any way he might suggest in bettering the fair young girl's hard lot in life.

The letter was immediately posted, and went on its fateful way to fall into jealous Roma's hands and work a harvest of woe.

Affairs at Cliffdene were already in a critical stage, and it wanted but this letter to fan the smoldering flames into devastating fury.

Mr. Clarke, impatient of his lingering convalescence, had taken a decisive step toward recovering his lost daughter.

He had written a letter summoning old Doctor Jay, of Brookline, on a visit, and he had explained it to his wife by pretending he wished to avail himself of the old man's medical skill.

Doctor Jay was the physician who had attended Mrs. Clarke when her daughter was born, and he received a warm welcome at Cliffdene, a guest whom all delighted to honor; all, at least, but Roma, who immediately conceived an unaccountable aversion to the old man, perhaps because his little hazel-gray eyes peered at her so curiously through his glasses beneath his bushy gray eyebrows.

There was something strange in his intent scrutiny, so coldly curious, instead of kindly, as she had a right to expect, and she said pettishly to her mother:

"I detest Doctor Jay. I hope he is not going to stay long."

"Oh, no, I suppose not, but I am very fond of Doctor Jay. He was very kind and sympathetic to me at a time of great suffering and trouble," Mrs. Clarke replied so warmly that she aroused Roma's curiosity.

"Tell me all about it," she exclaimed.

Mrs. Clarke had never been able to recall that time without suffering, but she impulsively told Roma the whole story, never dreamed of until now, of the loss of her infant and its mysterious restoration at the last moment, when her life was sinking away hopelessly into eternity.

Roma listened with startled attention, and she began to ask questions that her mother found impossible to answer.

"Who had stolen away the babe, and by what agency had it been restored?" demanded Roma.

Mrs. Clarke could not satisfy her curiosity. The subject was so painful her husband would never discuss it with her, she declared, adding that Roma must not think of it any more, either.

But, being in a reminiscent mood, she presently told Roma how she had been deceived in old Granny Jenks' identity, and how indignantly the old woman had denied the imputation of having been her nurse.