Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter

"Yes," continued Clarence, laying his hand gently upon hers; "Madeline, – will you let me call you Madeline? – will you let me be your brother? I have no sister, almost no kin; I won't be an exacting brother," smilingly. "I won't overstep the limits you set me, but we must have done with this nonsense about benefactors, and gratitude, and all that."

No answer, eyes down dropped, face still half-averted, and looking as if hardening into marble.

"What is my fate?" still holding her hand. "Can you accept so unworthy a brother?"

"Yes," in such a cold, far-away tone.

He lifted the hand to his lips. "Thank you, Madeline," he said, as if she had done him high honor.

Madeline felt her courage failing her. How could she listen to him, talk to him, with anything like sisterly freedom, and not prove false to her resolve to further his cause with Claire? And yet how could she refuse him the trust he asked of her?

It was very pleasant to know that he was thus interested in her; she felt herself slipping quickly into a day-dream in which nothing was distinct save that there existed a bond between them, that he had claimed the right to exercise authority over her, and that she was very, very glad even to be his slave. Listening to his voice, a smile crept to her lips, and —

"The eyes smiled too,But 'twas as if remembering they had wept,And knowing they would some day weep again."

"I don't intend to give up my claims upon Madeline; I elected her my sister, when I brought her home with me. And I had been flattering myself that I was to have a companion, but I am afraid she will run away from me. She ought to take Claire's place in my home, ought she not? Claire is with me so little," said Olive.

Madeline smiled sadly. "I could never do that," she said; "I could no more fill Claire's place than I could substitute myself for the rays of the sun."

"Claire would laugh at you for that speech," said Olive.

"But it is true; is it not?" appealing to Doctor Vaughan.

He colored slightly under her gaze. "We don't want two Claires," he said; "but you can be yourself, and that will make us happy."

The girl let her eyes fall, and rest upon her clasped hands.

"I would like to make you happy," she said, softly.

"Really?"

"Really," lifting her eyes to his face.

"Then, promise us that you will let us help to right your wrongs, and that you will come back, like a good sister, and stay with Mrs. Girard."

Her face hardened. "I can not," she said, briefly.

"You will not," seriously.

No answer.

"Madeline, what is it you wish to do?"

"What I wish to do, I can not. I can tell you what I intend to do," sitting very erect.

"Then what do you intend?"

"I intend," turning her eyes away from them both, and fixing them moodily upon the fire, "to follow up the path in which I have set my feet. I intend to oust a base adventuress from the home that was my mother's; to wrest the fortune that is mine from the grasp of a bad old man, and make him suffer for the wrong he did my mother. I intend to laugh at Lucian Davlin, when he is safe behind prison bars; to hunt down and frustrate an impostor, and by so doing, clear the name of Philip Girard before all the world." Her voice was low, but very firm, dogged almost, in its tone.

He turned a perplexed face toward Olive.

"What does it all mean?" he asked.

"What she says," replied Mrs. Girard, flushing with suppressed excitement. "She has found a clue that may lead to Philip's release."

He moved nearer to the girl, and taking her hand, drew her toward him, until she faced him. "Madeline, is this true?"

"Yes."

"And you will hold me to a promise not to lift a hand to help clear the name of my friend?" reproachfully.

"Yes," unflinchingly.

"Are you doing right, my sister?"

She attempted to draw away her hand.

"Child, what can you do?"

She turned her eyes toward Olive. "She will tell you what I have done. I can do much more."

Olive came suddenly to her side. "Oh, Madeline!" she said, "let him take all this into his hands. It is not fit work for you. It will harden you, make you bitter, and – "

Madeline wrested her hand away and sprang up, standing before them flushed and goaded into bitterness.

"Yes," she cried, wildly, "I know; you need not say it. It will harden me; it has already. It will make me bitter and bad, unfit for your society, unworthy of your friendship. I shall be a liar, a spy, a hypocrite – but I shall succeed. You see, you were wrong in offering me your friendship, Doctor Vaughan. I shall not be worthy to be called your sister, but," brokenly, "you need not have feared. I never intended to presume upon your friendship; I never intended to trouble you after – after my work is done. Ah! how dared I think to become one of you – I, whom you rescued from a gambler's den; I who go about disguised, and play the servant to people whom you would not touch. You are right; after this I will go my way alone."

Her voice became inarticulate, the last word was a sob, and she turned swiftly to leave the room.

Olive sprang forward with a remorseful cry, but Clarence Vaughan motioned her back, and with a quick stride was at the door, one hand upon it, the other firmly clasping the wrist of the now sobbing girl. Closing the door, which she had partially opened, he led her back, very gently, but firmly, and placing her in a chair, stood beside her until the sobs ceased. Then he drew a chair close to her own, and said, softly:

"My little sister, we never meant this. These are your own morbid fancies. Because you are playing the part of amateur detective, you are not necessarily cut off from all your friends. We would not give you up so easily, and there is too much that is good and noble in you to render your position so very dangerous to your womanhood. You have grieved Mrs. Girard deeply by imputing any such meaning to her words. Can't you understand, child, that it is because we care for you, because we want to shield you from the hardships you must of necessity undergo, that we wish you to let us work with and for you?"

Madeline shivered and gave a long, sobbing sigh. He took both listless hands in his own.

"Now, sister mine, won't you make me a promise, just one?"

Her hands trembled under his. How could she resist him when his strong, firm clasp was upon her; when he was looking into her eyes pleadingly, even tenderly; when his breath was on her cheek, and his voice murmured in her ear? She sat before him, contrite, conquered, strangely happy; conscious of nothing save a wish that she might die then and there, with her hands in his. She was afraid to speak and break the spell. He had said that he cared for her, was not that enough?

"Tell me, Madeline."

"Yes," she breathed, rather than uttered.

"Thank you. Now, sister, we are going to trust to your sagacity in this matter. But you must promise me, as your brother, who is bound to look after your welfare, that you will take no decisive steps without first informing us, and that as soon as the work becomes too heavy for your hands, you will call upon me to help you. My sister will surely do nothing that her brother cannot sanction?"

She dropped her eyes and said, simply: "I will do what you wish me to."

"You will give me your confidence, then?"

"Yes."

"Am I to hear a complete history of all that has happened thus far from Mrs. Girard?"

"Yes."

"And, after hearing it, may I communicate with you?"

She glanced up in surprise.

"Or," continued he; "better still, may I come down to Bellair and talk things over with you, should I deem it advisable?"

"If you wish;" looking glad.

"Mind, I don't want to intrude; I will not come if you don't desire it; but I shall wish to come. And you may manage our interviews as you see fit. I will do nothing to compromise you in the eyes of the people you are among. May I come?"

"Yes;" very softly, and trembling under his hand.

"Then we will say no more about all this to-night. You have already abused your strength, and if you don't get rest and sleep we shall have you ill again, and then what would become of our little detective?"

Olive came forward with outstretched hands and pleading eyes. "I can't wait any longer to be forgiven for my thoughtless words," she said. "Madeline, you will forgive me?"

"Of course Madeline will," replied Clarence. "Now you had better forgive Madeline for putting such a perverse construction upon your words, and then we will send her away to get the rest she must have."

"I was abominable, Olive," said the girl, so ruefully that Clarence laughed outright. "Of course, I know you are too kind to say a cruel thing. I – I believe I was trying to quarrel with you all; do forgive me."

"Of course you were trying to quarrel with us; and I haven't a bit of faith in your penitence now, young lady," said Clarence, rising and smiling. "I can't believe in you until I am assured that you will go to bed straightway, and swallow every bit of the wine I shall send up to you."

"With something nice in it," suggested Olive.

"With something very nice in it, of course. Now, will you obey so tyrannical a brother, and swallow his first brotherly prescription without making a face?"

All his kindness and care for her comfort brought a thrill of gladness to the girl's heart, and some of the old debonnaire, half-defiant light back to her eyes, as she replied, while rising from her chair, in obedience to a gesture of playful authority from Clarence, "Will I accept a scolding and go to bed, that means."

Then making a wry face and evidently referring to the wine: "Is it very bitter?"

"Not very; but you must swallow every drop."

"And I will order the wine," said Olive, touching the bell. "You know, Dr. Vaughan, that Madeline leaves us in the morning?"

"No?" in surprise. "Must you go so soon?"

"Yes," demurely, "unless I am forbidden."

"We are too wise to forbid you to do anything you have set your heart on. Then I must tell you good-by here and now, for a little time."

"Or a long one," gravely.

"Not for a long one. 'If the mountain won't come,' you know; – well, if I don't get very satisfactory reports from you, look out for me."

"You can't get at me," wickedly.

"Can't I? Wait and see. I'll come as your grandfather, or your maiden aunt."

"Please don't," laughing, "one spinster is enough."

"Well, I won't, then; I think I'll come as your father confessor."

At this Olive joined in the laugh.

"Good-night, Dr. Vaughan."

"Good-night, Miss Payne," with exaggerated emphasis and dignity, but holding fast to her hand.

She looked at the hand doubtfully, then up into his face. "Good-night – brother," with pretty shyness.

"That is better," releasing the little hand. "Good-night, sister mine. Mind you drink every drop of the wine."

"I will!" quite seriously. "Good-night, Olive."

Olive stooped and kissed her cheek. "Good-night, dear," she said, "and happy dreams."

Dr. Vaughan opened the door for her, and smiled after her as she looked back from the foot of the stairs. Then closing the door he came back, and stood on the hearth-rug, looking thoughtful.

"It is a difficult nature to deal with, and in her present mood, a dangerous one. She is painfully sensitive, and possesses an exceedingly nervous temperament. Then, that episode with Davlin was very humiliating to her, and it is constantly in her mind. Evidently she has lately been under much excitement, and she is hardly herself to-night. I think, however, if I were you, I would make no further effort to dissuade her from her purpose. It will do no good, and harm might come of it."

"Indeed, I will not," said Olive. "How thankful I am that you were here; your calmness and tact has saved us something not pleasant. I don't think I could have managed her myself."

"Probably not; and now I will prepare a soothing and sleeping draught, and then, as it is late, will detain you no longer. Perhaps you had better see that the draught is administered."

Olive gladly accepted the charge, and shortly after Doctor Vaughan took his departure, wise and yet blind; blind as to the true cause of Madeline's outbreak and subsequent submissiveness.

Madeline obeyed to the letter the instructions of Doctor Vaughan. As a result, she fell asleep almost immediately, before calm thought had come to dispel her mood of dreamy happiness.

In the morning she awoke quieted, refreshed, and quite mistress of herself. She did not once refer to the events of the previous evening. Only, before taking leave of Claire, she whispered in her ear:

"Dear Claire, you can make a noble man happy. Let his love atone to you for this present bitterness. God bless you both."

It was an odd speech, truly. But as Madeline turned her back upon the pretty villa, and was driven swiftly to the railroad depot, she wondered why Claire had responded to it only with a passionate kiss and with tears in her beautiful eyes.

And Claire, having seen her driven from the door, fled precipitately to her room. Locking herself in, she fell upon her knees beside a low chair. Burying her face in her hands she wept bitterly, – not for herself, but for the girl who was so heroically resigning to another the man she loved; who was going forth, alone, to encounter hardship, perhaps danger, to fight single-handed, not only her own battles, but those of her friends as well.

"And I dared to judge her," said the girl, indignantly. "I presumed to criticise the delicacy of this grand, brave nature! Why, I ought to be proud to claim her friendship, and I am!"

From that hour, let Madeline's course seem ever so doubtful, let Olive fear and doubt as she would, Claire Keith stoutly defended every act, and averred that Madeline could do nothing wrong. And from that hour, Claire began to plot upon her own responsibility.

In due course Doctor Vaughan called, and was closeted with Olive a very long time – rather, with Olive and Claire, for this young lady had surprised her sister, by expressing a desire to hear what Doctor Vaughan would say of Madeline's adventures. To tell the truth, Claire had fancied that Clarence would criticise more or less, and it was in the capacity of champion for the absent that she appeared at the interview.

After the matter had been fully discussed, Doctor Vaughan addressed himself to Claire: "Miss Keith, you have been a good listener. Won't you give us your opinion as to the achievements of our little friend?"

Claire came forward, with a charming mixture of frankness and embarrassment: "First, let me make the amende honorable, Doctor Vaughan. I presented myself at this interview with the full intention, and for the express purpose, of waging war upon you both, if necessary, and I had no doubt that it would be."

Doctor Vaughan looked much astonished.

"But," pursued Claire, "I have misjudged you. I did not think you would so heartily approve of Madeline's course, and I was bristling with bayonets to defend her."

"I must own to being of Claire's opinion," interposed Olive, looking somewhat amused.

Clarence smiled and then looked thoughtful.

"I can easily understand," he said, seriously, "how you ladies might have looked upon the course Miss Payne has taken, as an objectionable, even an improper, one. The position in which she has placed herself is, certainly, an unusual, a startling one for a woman of refinement and delicacy. But we must consider that the occasion is also an unusual one, and ordinary measures will not apply successfully to extraordinary cases. As to the impropriety, no one need fear to trust his or her honor in the keeping of a woman as brave and noble as Madeline Payne is proving herself."

"Then you do not censure Madeline for refusing to trust the matter in the hands of a detective?" questioned Olive.

"The matter is in the hands of a detective, Mrs. Girard; in the hands of the shrewdest and ablest little detective that could, by any possibility, have been found. Why, Madeline has accomplished, in a short time, what the best detectives on our regular force might have labored at for a year, and then failed of achieving!"

Claire threw a look of triumph at her sister. "Oh, how glad I am to hear you say all this, and how glad Madeline would be." Then she checked herself suddenly.

"I can suggest but one improvement upon the present state of things," said Clarence, after a moment's reflection. "That is, if we can persuade Madeline to permit it, and I think we can, we should set two men at work, neither one to be aware of the employment of the other. One to trace out as much of the past of this man Percy, as may be. The other to perform the same office for Davlin. Of course, they would not be advised of the actual reason for these researches, and so their investigations would in no way interfere with Madeline's pursuit of the game at Oakley. I don't think we could improve upon the present arrangement there."

"And how do you propose to bring this about?" questioned Olive.

"By going down to Bellair, as soon as I can get the necessary permission from our little generalissimo, and talking the matter over with her. I think she will see the propriety of the move, don't you?" appealing to Claire.

"I think she will follow your advice," gravely.

"I hope she will," said Olive.

"I know she will do exactly right," asserted Claire, so positively that they both smiled.

"I think I may venture to agree with you, Miss Keith," said Dr. Vaughan.

"You had better, both of you, where Madeline is concerned," looking ferocious.

"I begin to think that valor is infectious," laughed Olive, and Clarence joined in the laugh.

Altogether the result of their council was pleasing to each of the three. Olive was hopeful; Clarence was full of enthusiasm, and more deeply in love than ever with generous Claire; and she was pleased with his frank admiration of Madeline's courage, and full of hope for Madeline's future.

"He admires her now. He will love her by and by," she assured herself.

CHAPTER XXI.

HAGAR AND CORA

Meanwhile, Lucian Davlin had hastened to Bellair in response to Cora's summons, full of conjectures as to what had "turned up."

When the noon train from the city puffed up to the little platform, Lucian Davlin was among the arrivals, and at the end of the depot platform stood the dainty phæton of Mrs. John Arthur. That lady herself reined in her prancing ponies, and the whole formed an object of admiration for the few depot loungers.

As Lucian Davlin crossed the platform and took his seat beside the lady, an old woman hobbled across the track. Casting a furtive glance in the direction the ponies were taking, she hobbled away toward the wood.

Miss Arthur's maid had surmised aright. It was no part of Cora's plan to permit the inmates of Oakley a view of Mr. Davlin on this occasion. So the ponies were driven briskly away from the town, and when that was left behind, permitted to walk through the almost leafless woods, while Cora revealed to Lucian the extent of the fresh calamity that had befallen them in the advent of Mr. Percy.

"Well, what have you to say to all this?" demanded the lady, pettishly, after she had disburdened herself of the story, with its most minute particulars. "This is a pretty state of affairs, is it not? I am worn out. I wish Oakley and the whole tribe were at the bottom of the sea!"

"Stuff!" with much coolness; then taking a flask containing some amber liquid from a breast pocket he held it between his eyes and the light for critical examination.

"Stuff? where? In that flask?"

"No, in your words. This," shaking the amber liquid, "is simon pure; best French. Have some? I felt as if I needed a 'bracer' this morning."

"Up all night, I presume," eyeing him askant.

"Pretty much;" indifferently. "Won't take any? Then, here's confusion to Percy," and he took a long draught. "Now, then," pocketing the brandy and turning toward her, briskly, "I'm ready for business. How the deuce did we let this fellow pounce down upon us like this? I thought he was safe in Cuba?"

"He will never be safe anywhere, until he gets to – "

"Heaven," suggested he.

"I suppose it was stupid," she went on, gloomily. "But when Ellen Arthur raved of her dear friend Mr. Percy, how was I to imagine that among all the Percys on earth, this especial and particular one should be the Percy. I wrote you that she had a lover of that name; did it occur to you that it might be he?" maliciously.

"Well, candidly, it did not."

"We were a pair of stupid fools, and we are finely caught for our pains."

"First statement correct," composedly; "don't agree with the last, however."

"Why not?"

"Does he know I am on deck?"

"No."

"Didn't inquire after me, or say anything about the documents?"

"No special inquiries."

"Well, then, where is the great danger?"

"Where?" much astonished.

"Yes, where? If you told me all the truth concerning yourself ten years ago, we can make him play into our hands."

"How?"

"Don't go too fast. When you told me that he believed you to have left home because of an unkind step-mother, was that true?"

"It was true. I did leave home and come to the city when I was but sixteen, because my father was a drunkard, and my step-mother abusive, and we were poor and I was proud."

"Don't doubt that fact;" with an outward gesture of the supple hand. "But you told him that you had two big step-brothers!"

Cora laughed. "A big brother is an excellent weapon to hold over the heads of some men," she suggested.

"True," with an amused look. "Why didn't you brandish one over me?"

"Over you?" laughing again. "You and Percy were two different men."

"Much obliged," lifting his hat with mock gravity. "Well, we are 'two different men,' still; just let your pretty little head rest, and leave Percy to me."

"I wish to Heaven you had made an end – "

"'Ah-h-h. I have sighed to rest me,'" warbled Davlin. "Cora, my love, never put your foot on too dangerous ground."

"Well, I do wish so, all the same," said she, with feminine pertinacity.

"Now, tell me what your plan is. We want to understand each other, and have no more bungling."

"All you will have to do will be to keep quiet and follow my cue. When I come down, we must manage it that I meet Percy in Miss Arthur's absence. The rest is easy; this Mr. Percy will not find his path free from obstacles, I think."

"What game will you play?"

"Precisely what I am playing now. I am your brother. That will explain some things that puzzled him some time ago," dryly. "I am your sole protector, saving the old chap, don't you see."

The woman pondered a moment. "I think it will answer," she said, at last. "At any rate, it is the best we can do now."

A little more conversation, and Cora was quite satisfied with that and other arrangements. Then the ponies were headed toward the village, and driven at a brisk pace, thus enabling Mr. Davlin to catch the afternoon train back to the city. No one at Oakley was any the wiser for his visit. It was no uncommon thing for Cora to drive out unattended, and she returned to the manor in a very good humor, considering the situation.

Cora's drive had given her an appetite, and she had partaken of no luncheon. She therefore ordered a very bounteous one to be served in the red parlor. Mr. Arthur was enjoying his usual afternoon siesta; Miss Arthur was invisible, for which Cora felt duly thankful; and so she settled herself down to solitude, cold chicken and other edibles, and her own thoughts.

Ever and anon she gazed listlessly from the window, letting her eyes rove from the terrace to the hedgerow walk, the woods beyond, and back again to the terrace. Suddenly she bent forward, and looked earnestly at some object, moving toward the stile from the grove beyond. A moment later, it appeared in the gap of the hedge.

Cora leaned back in her chair, still observant, muttering:

"I thought so! It is that ugly old woman. Now, what in the world does she want here, for – yes, she is entering the grounds, coming up the terrace."

True enough, old Hagar was coming slowly along the terrace, taking a leisurely survey of the window facing that walk, as she did so. Casting her eyes upward, they met the gaze of Mrs. Arthur. Then, much to the surprise of that lady, she paused and executed a brief pantomime, as grotesque as it was mysterious.