CHAPTER XI.

The golden hue of a dying sun lit up the West, and shone with radiant glory into the bare chamber where Leonie Cuyler sat, her head bowed upon the arm of the chair in which her grandfather had died.

She did not hear the knock that sounded upon the door, nor did she hear it open, nor see the man who entered.

He looked at her for a moment in silence, noting her extreme gracefulness even in a position like that; he saw where the sun kissed the bowed head as if in benediction; he understood the terrible grief that hovered over her, and something like tears gleamed in his eyes as he went forward and drew a chair close to her.

"Leonie," he said, taking her hand gently, "arouse yourself, dear. Do you think you are doing right to give way to your grief in this manner? I know that it is hard to bear; but it must come to us all sooner or later, and he is at rest! Does that thought bring you no consolation?"

She lifted her head, a terrible shiver shaking her.

"It is the only consolation that I have!" she answered drearily. "When I remember how full his life was of sorrow that no time could ever have lightened, I am glad that he is at peace with God. But the burden is hard to bear, when I am so bitterly alone, oh, God! so horribly alone!"

"Do I count for nothing, then?"

"You are good to me, Mr. Pyne, so good that you are breaking my heart afresh every hour; but in justice to you I cannot accept the friendship that is so sweet to me. In mercy to myself I must refuse it! I have been in the world so long that it is no secret to me what construction is put upon the friendship of a man like you for a creature in my sphere and----"

"Leonie, I forbid you to speak like that. You know no more of what you are saying than a three-months-old child. There is no man that will have a right to question my motives when I say that I have asked you to become my wife. I did not come here to-night to speak to you upon this subject, nor shall I. You must listen to me--you must see the truth of what I say, for there is no time to be lost. Have you forgotten that to-morrow is the day set down for the hearing of your case?"

Her hand closed over the arm of the chair, her teeth were set firmly, her face became a shade more ghastly, but her voice was quiet as she answered:

"I had forgotten!"

"Then it is quite time that you remember, Leonie. I have, without your request, or even consent, constituted myself your attorney, and it is to talk with you upon this subject alone that I have come here to-night. I want you to feel the strength of my love sufficiently to know that you may trust me in all things. Do you think that you can do that?"

"I know that I can trust you!"

"Then tell me who committed that robbery!"

"I cannot!"

"I expected that answer, and yet you said that you could trust me.

"Leonie, I entreat you, for your own sake, to tell me the truth about this. If there is anything that ought to be concealed, I will help you to the last day of my life to conceal it; but, for the love of Heaven, don't place yourself in this hideous position without advice from some one. Let me be the judge. Tell me the truth, and I swear to you upon my honor that, if there is reason for the concealment I will help you to it!"

He paused for a moment, wiping away the moisture from his brow that earnestness had brought there.

Leonie straightened herself, and leaning forward, laid her hand upon his.

"I know that what you are saying to me is intended for my good alone," she cried, in a choked voice, "and from the bottom of my heart I thank you, but--I do not seem capable of thought to-night. I do not seem to understand. You are so good to me that I feel that I can ask anything of you, and therefore I beg that you will come to-morrow. Leave me this night, my first without--dad--to myself, and to-morrow----"

She could not complete the sentence, but turned away, hiding her quivering face upon her arm.

Pyne stood beside her, placing his arm about her.

"I have been cruel, but it was the only way to save you," he whispered. "Tell me that you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," she answered, lifting her dull eyes piteously. "If there should ever come a time when you feel that you have something to forgive me for, remember that what I shall do will always be for your good, will you not? Remember that however unworthy I may be, that I loved you with all my heart, and---- Oh, go! I beseech you, go! I am not myself! To-morrow----"

She did not finish the sentence, but raised herself to her full height, looked him in the face with a long, searching, hungry passion, lifted his hand to her hot, dry lips, and pressing a burning kiss upon it, passed hurriedly from the room.

He looked after her for a moment irresolutely, half tempted to follow.

"What does it mean?" he asked of himself. "Her manner was most singular. Poor little girl. She is almost mad from this grief and harassing. I wish I could have comforted her instead of adding to it. Well, I will see her to-morrow, and I will save her in spite of herself."

He glanced longingly at the door through which she had vanished.

Then restraining his inclination, he picked up his hat and left the room.

Leonie heard the closing of the door, and entered immediately.

How dreary and desolate it seemed!

Deliberately she had cut herself from him, leaving herself absolutely alone, with not one human being that she could call her friend.

A great pity for herself surged into her heart, pity for the loneliness of her situation, for the isolation that had been thrust upon her through no fault of her own.

She sat down for a moment, burying her face in her hands; then she lifted it, ghastly with fierce determination.

"This is no time for inactivity or irresolution!" she cried passionately. "I must follow the life that Heaven has seen fit to fasten upon me without consent of mine. I am a nameless creature, but I can still have the courage to save my sister. Lynde Pyne has pledged himself to pay fifteen hundred dollars to the court to-morrow in default of my presence. Virtually I am simply forcing a loan upon him, for it shall be repaid to the last farthing. My weakness has fallen from me like a mantle. When that is repaid, I can allow my grief indulgence, but until then----"

She drew pen, ink and paper to her, and began hastily to write the following:

"MY DEAR MR. PYNE,--Realizing all the truth of what you said to me last night, I have decided to take matters into my own hands. When you receive this, I shall be many miles from here. I understand the fact of your being compelled to pay the fifteen hundred dollars for which you stand pledged for me, but I promise that it shall be repaid to the last penny with interest from date. Thanking you for the kindly interest that you have taken in me, and trusting that you will forgive me for this step that is the only one left me, I am

"Very truly yours,

"LEONIE CUYLER."

Not once, but many times she read the note, taking it in her hands to destroy it; then resolutely she placed it in an envelope, sealed, addressed and stamped it.

"It sounds ungrateful, harsh, unfeeling, but it is better so, much better," she muttered, her lips drawn together coldly. "What difference can my love make to him? It could only bring disgrace and contamination. It could only fill him with loathing if he knew. He will learn to despise me when he reads what I have written, and it is better that he should."

She hesitated no longer, but pinning on her hat, she went to the bureau, and taking from it an old pocketbook, counted the few dollars that remained in it; then she picked up her letter, and with it clasped firmly in her hand, went into the street.

An hour later she returned. She went to the glass and removed her hat.

The beautiful hair that had been one of her crowning glories was gone, and a little boyish head that she could scarcely recognize as her own was reflected there.

There was no satisfaction, only bitterness in the face that looked back at her, and she turned without a murmur.

She had begun her battle with life indeed!

She took up a bundle that she had thrown upon the floor upon her entrance, and took from it a full suit of boy's clothes.

Throwing off her own, she clothed herself in the others, and again looked calmly into the mirror when the task was completed.

The alteration was complete, absolute.

With the same mechanical movements she opened the drawer to the old secretary, and took from it the picture that Godfrey Cuyler had told her was the face of Lena Mauprat, but she thrust it into the pocket of her coat without a glance at it.

There were one or two souvenirs of "Dad" that she put into her pocket, then turned to take a last view of the room in which she had been comparatively happy.

A sob arose in her throat as she pictured the face of her grandfather--that dear old face that she was never again to see until she met him in the presence of God!

With an unvoiced prayer in her heart, she kneeled and kissed the chair in which he had died, then slowly she arose and approached the door.

One last glance, a bursting sob, and Leonie Cuyler passed from the room forever!