"I did not give your real name, because of your step-father, you know," said Lucian, upon his return. "I registered you as Miss Weir, that name being the first to occur to me."
She looked a trifle disturbed, but said nothing. A few words more and a servant appeared.
"To conduct you to your room," said Lucian.
Together they moved towards the door; there he lifted his hat, with profound courtesy, and said in a very audible tone: "Good-night, Miss Weir; I will call to-morrow noon; pleasant dreams."
"To-morrow noon," she echoed.
As she watched his retreating figure, another passed her; a man who, meeting her eye, lifted his hat and passed out.
"He again!" whispered the girl to herself; "how very strange."
Alone in her room, the face of this man looked at her again, and sitting down, she said, wearily: "Who is he? what does he mean? His name – I'll look at the card."
Taking it from her pocket, she read aloud: Clarence Vaughan, M. D., No. 430 B – street.
"Clarence Vaughan, M. D.," she repeated. "What did he mean? I must tell Lucian to-morrow; to-night I am too weary to think. Search for me, John Arthur; find me if you can! To-morrow – what will it bring, I wonder?"
Weary one, rest, for never again will you sleep so innocently, so free from care as now. Sleep well, nor dream!
She slept. Of the three who had been brought into contact thus strangely, Madeline slept most soundly and dreamed the brighter dreams.
It was the last ray of her sunlight; when the day dawned, her night began.
CHAPTER V.
A SHREWD SCHEME
An elegant apartment, one of a suite in a magnificent block such as are the pride of our great cities.
Softest carpets, of most exquisite pattern; curtains of richest lace; lambrequins of costly texture; richly-embroidered and velvet-covered sleepy-hollows and lounging chairs; nothing stiff, nothing that did not betoken abandonment to ease and pleasure; downy cushions; rarest pictures; loveliest statuettes; finest bronzes; delicate vases; magnificent, full length mirrors, a bookcase, itself a rare work of art, containing the best works of the best authors, all in the richest of bindings – nothing here that the most refined and cultivated taste could disapprove, and yet everything bespoke the sybarite, the voluptuary. A place wherein to forget that the world held aught save beauty; a place for luxurious revelry, and repose filled with lotus dreams.
Such was the bachelor abode of Lucian Davlin, as the glowing gas lights revealed it on the dark night of the arrival of this gentleman in the city.
Moving restlessly about, as one who was perfectly familiar with all this glowing richness, only because movement was a necessity to her; trailing her rich dress to and fro in an impatient promenade, and twisting recklessly meantime a delicate bit of lace and embroidery with plump, white fingers – a woman waited and watched for the coming of Lucian Davlin.
A woman, fair of face, hazel-eyed, sunny-haired, with a form too plump to be quite classical, yet graceful and prepossessing in the extreme. A very fair face, and a very wise one; the face of a woman of the world, who knows it in all its phases; who is able, in her own peculiar manner, to guide her life bark successfully if not correctly, and who has little to acquire, in the way of experience, save the art of growing old gracefully and of dying with an acquitted conscience.
No unsophisticated girl was Cora Weston, but a woman of eight-and-twenty; an adventuress by nature and by calling, and with beauty enough, and brains enough, to make her chosen profession prosperous, if not proper.
She paused before a mirror, carefully adjusting her fleecy hair, for even in pressing emergencies such women never forget their personal appearance. This done, she pondered a moment and then pulled the bell. A most immaculate colored gentleman answered her summons and, bowing low, stood waiting her will.
"Henry, is it not time that your master were here? The train is certainly due; are you sure he will come? What did he telegraph you?"
"That he would arrive on the one o'clock express, madame; and he never fails."
"Very well. If he does not appear soon, Henry, you must go and inquire if the train has been delayed, and if so, telegraph. My business is imperative."
The well trained servant bowed again, and, at a signal from her, withdrew. Left alone, she continued her silent march, listening ever, until at length a quick footstep came down the passage. Flinging herself into the depths of a great easy chair, she assumed an air of listless indifference, and so greeted the new comer.
"Gracious heavens, Cora! what brings you here like this? I thought you had sailed, and was regretting it by this time."
He hurried to her side and she half rose to return his caress. Then sinking back, she surveyed him with a lazy half smile. "I wonder if you are glad to see me, Lucian, my angel; you are such a hypocrite."
He laughed lightly, and threw himself into a seat near her. "Candid Cora, you are not a hypocrite, – with me," and he looked admiringly yet impatiently at her. "Come," he said, at length, as she continued to tap her slender foot lazily, and to regard him silently through half closed lashes: "what does it all mean? Fairest of women, tell me."
"It means, Mon Brave, that I did not sail in the Golden Rose; I only sent my hat and veil."
"Wonderful woman! Well, thereby hangs a tale, and I listen."
"I came back to see – "
"Not old Verage?" he interrupted, maliciously.
"No, hush: he saw me safely on board the Golden Rose– very gallant of him, wasn't it?"
"Rather – yes, considering. And if I did not know Miss Cora Weston so very well, I should be surprised at all this mystery; as it is, I simply wait to be enlightened."
"And enlightened you shall be, monsieur."
She threw off her air of listlessness and arose, crossing over and standing before him, leaning upon a high-backed chair, and speaking rapidly.
Lucian, meantime, produced a cigar case, lit a weed, and assuming the attitude and manner she had just abandoned, bade her proceed.
"You see," she said, "I did not like the idea of quitting the country because of a little difference of opinion between myself and an old idiot like Verage."
"A difference of some thousands out of pocket for him; well, go on."
"Just so, comrade mine. Well, fortune favored me; she generally does. I learned, at almost the last moment, that a lady of my acquaintance had taken passage in the same vessel. I interviewed her, and found her in the condition of the good people in novels who have seen better days; her exchequer was at low ebb, and, like myself, she had reasons which induced her to emigrate. I did not inquire into these, having no reason to doubt the statement, but I accompanied her on board the Golden Rose, bade her a fond farewell, and bequeathed to her my street apparel and a trifling sum of old Verage's money. In exchange, I donned her bonnet and veil, and adopted her rather awkward gait, and so had the satisfaction of seeing, on my return to terra firma, old Verage gazing enraptured after my Paris bonnet and floating veil as it disappeared with my friend, outward bound."
"Well, what next? All the world, your world, supposes you now upon the briny deep. Old Verage will be rejoiced to find you here in the city; what then?"
"I think he will," said Cora, dryly, "when he does find me. I did not come here in the dark to advertise my arrival."
"Bravo, Cora," he patted her hands softly; "wise Cora. You are a credit to