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LEONIE, THE TYPEWRITER. | .
: : fe .
7z
istence, one day having bread, the next day
none, haunted continually by the fear of
starvation. Well, at last Satan succeeded i
accomplishing her utter destruction. So
small a matter as the water-works in the
house where she lived, almost upon the chari-
ty of the people, gotoutof order. The owner
of the house came hiniself to see what repairs
were necessary. Hesaw Lena. I have told
you that she was beautiful. Leonie, he fell
in love with her. Then thetemptation 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 pro-
posed marriage. Leonie, she was starving,
She was s0 bitterly alone, so helpless, there
was none hear 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 ina 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,
onie, she married him, never telling him
the history of her life, or that she had a liv-
ing 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 sev-
eral months she lived the same way that she
had. done before, barely keeping soul and
body together; then you were born! 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,
sherushed out into the street and snatched a
urse from aman. It contained only twenty
ittle pitiful Jollars, not one of which she had
used; but she was arrested, tried, as her hus-
band bad 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 ex-
tenuating circumstances printed, she was
, poor and friendless. There was no mention
made of her marriage to Roger Pyne, but
only the cold story of hercrime. Oh, Leonie,
my child—~ But what is the use in attempt-
ing 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
{41 in the Tombs prison. It took all the
yul out of my body, but I knew that I’ must
for yoursake. I could not go back again
: old home, where everything reminded
' her, and so | settled here in this great
sity, where no man knows his neighbors’.
_tusness or cares toknow. As 1 watched you
‘7vuw, the same love that I had given to
hernia I felt for you. Then the desire that
crew to mania came that you might never
ws of the shadow upon your birth. Oh,
- (prayed that you might be spared that;
n0w—Leonie—”
vwre was another gasp for breath, a wild
ning at the collar, and for the first time
«oiie saw, She sprung to her feet and seiz-
iis hand wildly. : /
Dad,” she gasped—‘dad! in Heaven's
te what ia the matter?”
hy
.
aficlosing
«You
.}when you are all I have!
‘* 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 evervthing 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 ?” oo
‘* 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
Let me go ‘forpa
doctor, quick.” - !
‘*No;I should die alone while you were
gone. I knew-—the end--was near before—
ou came—and I prayed—God—to send—you
efore—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 seeret
bearing me down. Let me go, too.”
She leaped to her feet wildly, unmistaka-
ble 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
cnife,
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 insen-
sible. 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 life-
less, the body of Godfrey Cuyler lay, when
they found him there an hour later,-:with
Leonie still upon the floor at his feet. .
CHAPTER VIIL.
It was the girl whom Leonie had engaged
er
to cook Godfrey Cuyler’s meals during
sojourn at Leonard Chandler's who found
them there, , .
She gave the alarm, and several women,
"| and men, as well, hastily answered the sum-
mons. :
Little was known of the Cuylers among
the tenants of the house, as they were people
who had few associates, but 2 doctor was
brought, and the living ‘separated from the
ead, soy :
He it was who examined some of their
effects, and finding only the address of Lynde
ne, 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 al-
ready. 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, leay-
ing the room almost at once,
Once in the street, he called a cab, and giv-
ing the driver the address tire physician had
provided, he ordered him to drive quickly.
It was with feelings of decided relief that
he sprung from the cab asit 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 recov-
ered from hte sscucn, but Iny almost lifeless
npon the chair in which her grandfather had
ve the physician
) after bynde had
introduced himself, and at the latter's
he was left alone with Leonie.. ~. ‘
She was not even cognizant of his pr
whet he drew. a chair to her side an}
her hand. .
i
remy
i
as though another terrible misfortune had
fallen* her, . .
‘© You!” she whispered. .
here?” ‘ .
:
‘How carie .5%F
|
came at once,” he answered tenderly. , ‘(3
poor little girl, is there nothing that I can dc
for you?” : : wtook
“Nothing! nothing, but to leave me-alone!:-
That is all, that. is all!” Ls meg,
She shivered horribly and arose, pacing up
and down the floor, her great wild eyrs rest-
lessly roving from one object to another. j *
ings, then arose, and laying his arm -aboné
nothing impertinent in-his act, only the’ sin-
cere interest of one whose heart is{deeply
touched, | *
** Leonie,” he said, gently, ‘let ‘me do
something to heJp you bear your terrible sor- ©
row. It breaks my heart to see you Like jhis
while I sit helplessly by. You mnst ny
grieve so. They tell me he was old. | Thiniv
dear! He has borne his burden of. life, and
erhaps now is happy and at peace with God.
Cou could not expect to keep him with you
always. Are vou not a little selfish, dear? »,
Try i think of it as the will of God, and-——”'
was all on earth I had.
there is no human being left for me. I am
as much alone as though my little craft rock- -
ed in mid-ocean with.only the waves sur-
rounding me.. Oh, God! You cannot think
what that means until you have been left so.
T have nothing left me but suffering and Y
She had meant to say diggrace, 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 ber.
bowed head, and smoothed the soft hait.
caressingly.
The expression of his
est pain, . ‘ !
‘*Leonie,” he said, pausing between each
word as though to control an almést irre-
sistible desire, ‘‘ you must not speak with
such despair, You are not—alone, If 2
steadfast friendship—the love of a—brother—
will be a consolation to you, I offer you my-
self, 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, Ibeg that
you will go away. I cannot—come ‘to—you
again to do the work——” ee
‘Don’t speak of that now. What do I care.
for the work or anything else, when ‘sou ard
in trouble like this? Leonie, don’t Icok Nkr
that! Oh, child! if I might only bear it fo.
ou. You must not send me awa‘, dear!
There is so much tc be done, and I nist du
it for you. Have you no woman friend?” *
_ “No, Dad and TI have lived all alane, car-
ing only foreach other. Oh, dad! why did
ou Jeave me with this frightful burden to
ear alone? Why could you not take ‘me with
you? I feel as if I were going mad.”, + |
‘Hush, dear! There are others ta whoin
you are necessary. Leonie, I must. tell yc’,
great sin though I am committing in doing te.
My darling, I love you with all the soul in ty
body, with all the strength of my being,
you not see it? Do you not know it ? | Leoni
face was one of keen-
like that ?”
more a breath than an articulation:— ‘yt
love me?”’. * : .
Iam the greatest scoundrel living, to' teil
so. But how canI see you in such! d:.
and not speak, when my heart is full te ;
flowing? Darling, look at me.” i
She had buried her face in her had-*
was rocking herself toand fro in her
her, At his command she dropped hes an 4
exposing to him an expression of agony
2 pa &
She drew back when she recognized Lum, +
Fay
ae
Fy
“You love me?” she whispered, thy words’,
donment to a grief that was well nighs kil. ee « :
“They told me you were in trouble’ and us
He watched her for a few moments, fasei-" ~
nated by the peculiar magnetism of her spffer- +
her shoulders, he took her hand, Therewas >
can’t!” she interrupted, her teeth. .‘
chattering under her fearful suffering; *‘ he |:
In the whole world ©
what have I said to cause you to look 2! uit) -
. : Ye
‘* Dearest, can you doubt it? I know that ;°
we bh ee ER