CHAPTER VIII.

It was the girl whom Leonie had engaged to cook Godfrey Cuyler's meals during her sojourn at Leonard Chandler's who found them there.

She gave the alarm, and several women, and men, as well, hastily answered the summons.

Little was known of the Cuylers among the tenants of the house, as they were people who had few associates, but a doctor was brought, and the living separated from the dead.

He it was who examined some of their effects, and finding only the address of Lynde Pyne, sent a messenger to his office.

He was not in so early in the morning, and it was not until nearly ten o'clock that the note the physician had sent reached him.

He did not even remove his coat and hat, but turning to his office boy, gave a hasty order:

"If any one calls, say that I will return by noon, if not earlier."

"But, sir, Mr. Chandler has been here already. He seemed very much put out that you were not here, and said that he would call again at half-past ten."

For a moment Lynde stood gnawing the ends of his mustache in perplexity, then, with an impatient wave of the hand, he turned away.

"Say that I could not wait, but that I will call at his office at one," he exclaimed, leaving the room almost at once.

Once in the street, he called a cab, and giving the driver the address the physician had provided, he ordered him to drive quickly.

It was with feelings of decided relief that he sprung from the cab as it paused before the door of a poor but respectable lodging-house.

Five minutes later the door of Leonie's room opened to admit him. She had recovered from her swoon, but lay almost lifeless upon the chair in which her grandfather had died.

In as few words as possible the physician explained what had occurred, after Lynde had introduced himself, and at the latter's request he was left alone with Leonie.

She was not even cognizant of his presence when he drew a chair to her side and took her hand.

She drew back when she recognized him, as though another terrible misfortune had befallen her.

"You!" she whispered. "How came you here?"

"They told me you were in trouble and I came at once," he answered tenderly. "My poor little girl, is there nothing that I can do for you?"

"Nothing! nothing, but to leave me alone! That is all, that is all!"

She shivered horribly and arose, pacing up and down the floor, her great wild eyes restlessly roving from one object to another.

He watched her for a few moments, fascinated by the peculiar magnetism of her sufferings, then arose, and laying his arm about her shoulders, he took her hand. There was nothing impertinent in his act, only the sincere interest of one whose heart is deeply touched.

"Leonie," he said, gently, "let me do something to help you bear your terrible sorrow. It breaks my heart to see you like this while I sit helplessly by. You must not grieve so. They tell me he was old. Think, dear! He has borne his burden of life, and perhaps now is happy and at peace with God. You could not expect to keep him with you always. Are you not a little selfish, dear? Try to think of it as the will of God, and----"

"Oh, I can't!" she interrupted, her teeth chattering under her fearful suffering; "he was all on earth I had. In the whole world there is no human being left for me. I am as much alone as though my little craft rocked in mid-ocean with only the waves surrounding me. Oh, God! You cannot think what that means until you have been left so. I have nothing left me but suffering and----"

She had meant to say disgrace, but the word was drowned in a horrible groan. She fell into a chair, and holding to the back buried her face upon her arm. Lynde Pyne stood beside her. He laid his hand upon her bowed head, and smoothed the soft hair caressingly.

The expression of his face was one of keenest pain.

"Leonie," he said, pausing between each word as though to control an almost irresistible desire, "you must not speak with such despair. You are not--alone. If a steadfast friendship--the love of a--brother--will be a consolation to you, I offer you myself. Leonie, little girl, trust me."

"Trust you?" she echoed; "with my whole heart. Ah! what am I saying? Forget it! I--I am weak--too miserable to think. Mr. Pyne, if you have any pity for me, I beg that you will go away. I cannot--come to--you again to do the work----"

"Don't speak of that now. What do I care for the work or anything else, when you are in trouble like this? Leonie, don't look like that! Oh, child! if I might only bear it for you. You must not send me away, dear! There is so much to be done, and I must do it for you. Have you no woman friend?"

"No. Dad and I have lived all alone, caring only for each other. Oh, dad! why did you leave me with this frightful burden to bear alone? Why could you not take me with you? I feel as if I were going mad."

"Hush, dear! There are others to whom you are necessary. Leonie, I must tell you, great sin though I am committing in doing so. My darling, I love you with all the soul in my body, with all the strength of my being. Can you not see it? Do you not know it? Leonie, what have I said to cause you to look at me like that?"

"You love me?" she whispered, the words more a breath than an articulation--"you love me?"

"Dearest, can you doubt it? I know that I am the greatest scoundrel living, to tell you so. But how can I see you in such distress and not speak, when my heart is full to overflowing? Darling, look at me."

She had buried her face in her hands, and was rocking herself to and fro in her abandonment to a grief that was well nigh killing her. At his command she dropped her hands exposing to him an expression of agony that he had never seen equaled. With a suppressed cry he took her in his arms and covered her lips with passionate kisses.

"My love, my love, you madden me!" he whispered. "What terrible shadow is it that is darkening your life? You love me! I see it in the expression of your sweet, sad eyes, and yet the knowledge of my love brings you but pain. Leonie, what is it?"

"I cannot tell you," she cried hoarsely. "I entreat you to leave me! I will tell you that there is a shadow upon my life, the knowledge of which reached me within the last few hours, that has forever wrecked my happiness. There is no relief that can ever come to me but death! If I love you, it but makes the curse the greater, and the assurance of reciprocation is anguish!"

"You love me, then? Tell me but that!"

"Love you!"

She crushed his hand beneath hers and arose, staggering as though beneath the weight of a physical burden. He sprung to his feet and took her by the shoulders, his beautiful face quivering with emotion.

"You are tempting me to the first dishonorable act of my life," he cried, almost fiercely. "I love you as no man ever loved a woman before. My whole soul seems swallowed up in my passion! I am the betrothed husband of another woman, but you have but to speak the word to make me false to my promise! I will give up everything for you, even to life itself were that necessary. I care not what shadow darkens your existence. Say but the word, promise that you will be my wife, and I will throw aside every consideration for your sake! Leonie, speak to me!"

His passion seemed to quiet her. Not since her entrance to the library, where she had discovered something of that fearful secret, had she been so calm. She did not attempt to withdraw herself from him, but gazed into his face with a devotion he never forgot.

"I thank you for your words," she said brokenly. "Perhaps they have saved me from suicide or a madhouse. I think I have suffered this day as no woman ever did before, yet I would go through it all again before I would have you false to your vow. There are reasons why, even if no pledge existed, you could never make me your wife. I tell you this because it may be a comfort to you in the after years. It is good-bye now forever, for from this hour to see each other would be dishonor."

"And you can speak of it so calmly?"

"I can, because my heart is broken."

"And you think that I will give you up, knowing that you love me? Never! I will go to Miss Chandler and tell her the truth. I will say to her----"

"Wait!"

The interruption came from Leonie.

She had wrenched herself from his arms, and was standing gazing into his face in an almost stupid way, her eyes expressive of paralyzing horror. She was bending slightly forward, her lips parted, her countenance drawn to distortion.

"You are betrothed to Evelyn Chandler?" she asked, in a strained undertone.

"Yes."

"My God!"

She lifted her hand to her brow as though to clear her brain.

What was she to do? The situation was hideous to her, and yet she felt herself utterly incapable of revealing the story of her own life and her sister's. But could she in justice allow an innocent man to marry a thief, the daughter of a convict, when she could save him?

To speak would ruin her sister, throw her upon the world as a beggar to fall to the lowest depths of infamy, as Leonie knew she would. To remain silent would very likely result in the ruin of the man she loved.

As she stood revolving the terrible alternative in her mind the door opened, and a blue-coated officer entered the room.

"Are you Leonie Cuyler?" he asked, standing before the shrinking girl.

"I am," she faltered.

"Then you are my prisoner!"

He laid his hand roughly upon her shoulder and turned her toward the door.