CHAPTER VII.

Godfrey Cuyler paused.

His face was growing more gray momentarily, his breathing seemed forced and unnatural, there was a curious, quick throb about his heart that was ominous, but Leonie did not observe it in her bewildered state. She might have noticed that he was pale, but she attached no significance to it.

When he could control himself sufficiently, he began his story.

"I don't know how to tell you what Lena was to me in her childhood," he said, brokenly. "Her mother died when she was a little child, and I had only her. Ah, Leonie, I worshiped her! We were wealthy then, and there was never a desire of hers that I left ungratified. I devoted my life to her--watching her grow as a miser does his fortune. She was my idol, and God punished me, as He promised to do all those who worshiped outside of Himself. She was only eighteen--young, lovely; oh! I can never describe her to you as she was when she met Ben Mauprat. She could have married a prince, but she fell in love with that scoundrel, and while I pleaded with her upon bended knee to give him up, she eloped with him as soon as my back was turned, and the tragedy of her life began. He was a gambler, a libertine--there was nothing under heaven that was low and vile that he was not. To save him from the penitentiary I spent money--thousand after thousand, until I had reduced myself almost to beggary--and the end came! When he could get no more money from me he robbed a bank, was detected, and sentenced to the penitentiary for ten years."

There was a long pause for rest, then, with only an increased pallor in the face, Godfrey Cuyler continued:

"At that time I was living in New Orleans, but that city, being too small for Ben Mauprat, he brought his wife to New York. Evelyn was then about three years of age, and as like her in appearance as could be. When Ben was sent to the penitentiary my poor girl wrote to me, but the letter never reached me. That was the cause of all the after suffering. She thought that I had deserted her, and that made her reckless. Oh, Lena, Lena! You should have known me better, my darling!"

For the first time emotion overcame him, and bowing his head upon his hand, the old man sobbed aloud.

A choking sensation followed. He gasped once or twice for breath, then in a much more feeble and broken voice, he continued:

"She was penniless, helpless, and had that child to support. Well, Leonie, the result of it was that Mrs. Chandler, in her charity rounds, saw the child, fell in love with it, and convinced by Lena of the perfect respectability of the child's parentage, she adopted it. She knew nothing of the baby's father, but believed him to be dead. How can I tell you the rest?"

The white lips trembled. He endeavored to moisten them, but his tongue seemed as dry and parched as the lips. Still by a mighty effort he went on:

"Lena went to live with a family of decent surroundings, though poor. She had a little room in the house, and took in sewing enough to support herself; but it was a terrible existence, one day having bread, the next day none, haunted continually by the fear of starvation. Well, at last Satan succeeded in accomplishing her utter destruction. So small a matter as the water-works in the house where she lived, almost upon the charity of the people, got out of order. The owner of the house came himself to see what repairs were necessary. He saw Lena. I have told you that she was beautiful. Leonie, he fell in love with her. Then the temptation of her life began. They told her how rich and proud he was, that there was scarcely a family in the city who could compare with his in point of birth and wealth, but that pride was his fault. Darling, that man was Roger Pyne!"

"What!"

That name had power to arouse Leonie from a lethargy as none other had.

She sprung to her feet, but as she caught sight of Godfrey Cuyler's face, she sunk back again with a low sob of anguish.

"He was the uncle of the man who was your employer," he continued, the effort to speak growing more painful with each moment. "He fell in love with her. Believing that poverty was the only disgrace that attached to her, Roger Pyne called upon her and proposed marriage. Leonie, she was starving. She was so bitterly alone, so helpless, there was none near to guide her in the right path, every hope had been taken out of her life---- Oh, what shall I say to make you see her fault in a merciful light? God knows how hard it is to resist a temptation like that! She knew that if he knew the story of her life he would never marry her, and to her the protection he offered meant heaven. Leonie, Leonie, she married him, never telling him the history of her life, or that she had a living husband in the penitentiary!"

"My God!"

The exclamation fell like ice from the cold lips, but the expression of Leonie's face did not alter.

"A week later he discovered all," the old man went on dully. "In his terrible anger he cast her off without a penny; he went to Europe and left her here to starve. For several months she lived the same way that she had done before, barely keeping soul and body together; then you were born! I can never tell you what it was after that. Mrs. Chandler was also in Europe. Lena wrote to me many times, but the letters never reached me, and at last starvation came! She saw you dying before her very eyes, dying for want of food, and she unable to help you.

"Made desperate by her terrible extremity, she rushed out into the street and snatched a purse from a man. It contained only twenty little pitiful dollars, not one of which she had used; but she was arrested, tried, as her husband had been, and--God! how can I say it?--was convicted. I read the story in the papers. How I ever lived to reach her is more than I can tell. There were no extenuating circumstances printed, she was poor and friendless. There was no mention made of her marriage to Roger Pyne, but only the cold story of her crime. Oh, Leonie, my child---- But what is the use in attempting to tell you what I suffered? No words could ever describe it. I reached her in time to see her die, to hear her story, to have you confided to my care, and that was all. She died in the Tombs prison. It took all the soul out of my body, but I knew that I must live for your sake. I could not go back again to my old home, where everything reminded me of her, and so I settled here in this great city, where no man knows his neighbors' business or cares to know. As I watched you grow, the same love that I had given to Lena I felt for you. Then the desire that grew to mania came that you might never know of the shadow upon your birth. Oh, how I prayed that you might be spared that; and now--Leonie----"

There was another gasp for breath, a wild clutching at the collar, and for the first time Leonie saw. She sprung to her feet and seized his hand wildly.

"Dad," she gasped--"dad! in Heaven's name what is the matter?"

"Nothing," he answered, his throat closing over the word with a peculiar choking. "You must--not be--frightened. I--am--often--so."

"Not like that. Oh, God, dad! it looks like--death!"

His face was not more ghastly than her own. She had forgotten the terrible secret of her birth, forgotten her mother's suffering, forgotten everything save the danger that was menacing him.

"Hush!" he whispered, the sound a feeble effort. "My little one, my little one--you do--not--blame dad?"

"Blame you? Oh, my darling, my darling! what does life contain for me but you? Dad, dad! look at me. Tell me that you will not leave me. Dad, speak to me."

"The--will of--God----"

"Surely God will not take you from me when you are all I have! Let me go for a doctor, quick."

"No; I should die alone while you were gone. I knew--the end--was near before--you came--and I prayed--God--to send--you before--it was--too late. He heard--my prayer--I am--grate--ful. Darling--it has come. It is---- Good-bye forever now!"

"Oh dad, dad, dad! take me with you. I cannot remain here so bitterly alone with this hideous disgrace, this frightful secret bearing me down. Let me go, too."

She leaped to her feet wildly, unmistakable insanity glittering in her eyes, and seized a knife that lay upon the table.

Godfrey Cuyler lifted his half glazed eyes and looked at her. Although death was upon him he realized her intention. Struggling to his feet he caught the back of his chair with one hand, and with the other he grasped the knife.

God lent him strength for the moment; he wrenched the knife from her and flung it from him. It fell through the open window.

She pitched headlong upon the floor insensible. He fought back death to lean above her, but a spasm of the heart seized him. He flung himself around and fell back into his chair. The muscles relaxed after a moment, the eyes rolled upward, and limp, utterly lifeless, the body of Godfrey Cuyler lay, when they found him there an hour later, with Leonie still upon the floor at his feet.