Chapter XXXVI

SOME LESSONS LEARNED.

When Leonard Yorke seized the old woman in his strong grasp she flashed about, uttering a mad cry of rage and despair. One glance into the young man’s white, stern face and flashing eyes, and the wretch realized that she was at last unmasked, and her hideous purpose laid bare to the censorious gaze of the young man whose only parent she had been about to murder.

“You murderess!” panted Leonard, wildly, his grasp tightening upon the woman’s shoulder, “you miserable murderess! I know all at last! It is your work, all this! You are to blame that my mother lies here slowly dying! By the Heaven above me, I have a mind to choke the life from your body!”

The woman’s eyes fell guiltily from before his wrathful, burning gaze. With a groan of horror she sunk upon her knees at his feet.

“Oh, Mr. Leonard! Mr. Leonard!” she whined. “I’ve been here so long, and I’ve worked so faithfully——”

“Hush, you murderess!” he interrupted, sternly. “Nothing that you can say will save you from your just punishment. First, you shall confess your object. Why did you seek to take my mother’s life?”

Old Betty began to sob.

“Well, sir. I’ll confess the truth,” she moaned. “Mrs. Yorke knows where the papers are hid away in the east chamber; somewhere there, but no one can find them. I only wanted to frighten her into telling me; for those papers—well, sir—you would give a heap of money for them, to say nothing of what Miss Arleigh would give.”

Grimly and silently Leonard drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and without a word proceeded to tie the woman’s hands together. In the struggle which ensued her hair was disarranged, and to his astonishment he found that she wore a wig, and that the seemingly old woman was not old at all. He fell back in utter amazement.

“Who are you?” he demanded. But Betty made no reply. Having fastened her hands securely, he pushed her into a small closet, and closed and locked its door upon her. There was an open transom over the door, so she need not suffer for want of air. Then, trembling with apprehension, he hastened to his mother’s bedside. She gazed into his face with a troubled look.

“Thank Heaven, my son,” she whispered; “for that woman has been the terror of my life for the past few days. But I dared make no complaint, for I found that I was in her power. Leonard, sit down by my side; I have something to say—a confession to make. Yes, I must tell you all now; and I believe that when it is off my mind, I shall get well. It concerns poor Rosamond Arleigh. I was so jealous of her, for I loved Harold Arleigh dearly; he was the first and best love of my life. But he did not return my affection; his whole heart and soul belonged to Rosamond. In my jealous rage after their marriage, I formed a horrible plot, which a strange combination of circumstances helped me to carry out. The church in which Harold and Rosamond were privately married was burned to the ground, and the marriage record consumed. The old clergyman died of fright after the horrors of the conflagration; the two witnesses of the marriage were both lost at sea soon after. The strange complication of events went to form a tragedy. I stole their marriage certificate—may God forgive me!—and hid it away in the east chamber here, at York Towers. There was no way of proving the marriage, and the shock of the calamity broke Harold Arleigh’s heart. He was very weak and frail in constitution, and it killed him. Violet was half grown then, and the horrible fact that her legitimacy could not be proven to the world—killed her father. It might have killed her mother also, only we women will keep alive in emergencies where a man succumbs, simply for the sake of our children. Leonard, you know my guilty secret at last. In the east chamber, where old Betty, I am certain, has often vainly sought it, you will find full proof of Violet’s legitimacy. Look in the right-hand corner of the wall as you enter the room. Some five feet from the floor you will find a figure six. Press upon it; it will open and reveal a secret receptacle which contains the certificate of Harold Arleigh’s marriage to Rosamond, also some other papers as proof. Can you ever forgive me, Leonard? I know that you and Violet love each other, and she is worthy to be your wife.”

What could he do but forgive her? After that Mrs. Yorke grew rapidly better, and was ere long able to take her place once more with the family.

Will Venners improved rapidly under Jessie’s tender care, and when he was able to sit up, a clergyman called one evening, and in a few impressive words made Will and Jessie husband and wife.

In the meantime, a letter from Doctor Danton had broken the news of Violet’s safety, and stated that they would arrive at Yorke Towers in time for the wedding. Imagine the astonishment and delight with which Rosamond Arleigh was welcomed as one arisen from the dead, alive, and in her right mind. Mutual explanations followed, and in the midst of it all Leonard produced the missing marriage certificate. But out of pity for his penitent mother, he merely explained that he had found it in the east chamber. But even before he had sought the hidden document, he had begged Violet humbly to forgive his foolish jealousy, and be his wife as soon as possible. And Violet’s reply had been all that he could desire.

That very day Leonard chanced to find in a pocket of a cast-off coat Will Venners’ unfortunate poem, which had so wofully miscarried. Leonard brought it straight to that gentleman.

“Now, Will,” he began, trying hard to keep back the little green-eyed monster which threatened to arise within his heart, “be good enough to explain to me why you wrote such a poem to Violet, yet loving Jessie Glyndon all the time?”

Will laughed aloud. He began to see the truth at last.

“This poem was not intended for Miss Arleigh,” he said; “I wrote it for Jessie, and begged Miss Arleigh to deliver it to her the night of Miss Arleigh’s birthday ball. I had been a flirt—an unmitigated flirt—for so long that I shrunk from anything that might look like trifling with Jessie, as she was so proud and reserved, and yet I did want her to believe the sentiments of that poem, and I made a fool of myself, as usual,” he broke off merrily. “Leonard, old boy, I’ve learned a lesson, though, of course, I shall never need it now. It is this: Never court a woman by proxy. If you love her, tell her so; do not trust your confession to paper. Nine times out of ten it will cause trouble.”

“I have been a jealous brute!” cried Leonard, frankly; “my lesson shall last me as long as I live. Violet shall have no cause hereafter to dread my jealous wrath.”

And he kept his word.

Leonard and Violet were quietly married, and live at Yorke Towers with Mrs. Yorke, quite sweet and amiable now.

Jack Danton and Rosamond Arleigh are husband and wife, and live at The Oaks, where Dunbar and his good wife and golden-haired child are always welcome. Captain Venners and his wife reside in New Orleans, where Will has a good Government position, and talks no more of going to Texas to do the cow-boy act.

Hilda Rutledge married a rich old man, a merchant in the Crescent City, and, with her mother, leads fashionable society, and makes her elderly husband frantic with her numberless flirtations.

And Gilbert Warrington? He was sentenced to a long term in the state penitentiary, but at the last moment some one succeeded in smuggling poison into his cell, and in the morning when the officers entered to lead him forth for his journey to the penitentiary, he was dead and cold. The poison had been conveyed to him by Betty Harwood, whom Leonard, in the softness of his heart, had allowed to go free. She proved to be Gilbert Warrington’s wife, and for his sake she had sinned. She still lives in New Orleans, a wicked, soured old woman.

This is a true tale, made up of the incidents which really occurred. And if there is a lesson to be learned by its perusal, it is this: If a man loves a woman, he should tell her so plainly and frankly. Also, to beware of jealousy, that fiend which can turn heaven into hell, and which is “strong as death and as cruel as the grave!”

THE END.

The Greatest of All Weeklies By the Greatest of All Detective Writers