"Hallo, Gerald!" he cried. "I meet you by the most fortunate chance. I have been hunting for you everywhere."
"I could not wait for you at the hotel," said Gerald, "and had to go out and make inquiries for myself. What is the name of this street?"
"Never mind the name of the street," said Leonard, jumping at the safe conclusion. "The house is the important thing, and I have discovered it."
"Where my Emilia is?"
"Yes, where your Emilia is."
"I also have been told where she was taken to, and I was hurrying to her. Have you seen her, Len, have you seen her?"
"I have not, and have not attempted to do so. You see, Gerald, it is night, and I am a stranger to her and to the people who have taken care of her. It will be best, after all, for you to go first, especially as you are no longer the scarecrow you were, and will not alarm her by your haggard appearance."
"I am quite fresh now. Are we going to the house?"
"Yes, I am taking you there. Oh, Gerald, how I have hunted for your Emilia! If I had been in love with her myself, if she were my sweetheart instead of yours, I could not have worked harder to find her."
"I am sure you could not. You are a true friend. Forgive me for leaving the hotel; I could not bear the suspense."
"You acted naturally, Gerald--as I should have done in your place. I am something more than a friend, I am your loving brother, dear boy, ready to go through fire and water to serve you."
"God bless you, Len! Are we near the house?"
"There it is, Gerald, on the opposite side, just beyond the lamp-post."
"Come, then, come!"
They had scarcely started to cross the road when the street-door was opened, and the maiden sisters appeared on the threshold, peering up and down the street.
"Which is Emilia?" asked Leonard, grasping Gerald's arm, detaining him a moment.
"Neither. Let us go to them."
"It is hard to say to so devoted a lover," said Leonard, "but be a little prudent. Any appearance of violent haste might cause them to shut the door in our faces."
Thus advised Gerald curbed his impatience, and crossed the road in a more leisurely manner. The maiden sisters started back as the two gentlemen halted before them.
"I beg your pardon," said Leonard, raising his hat; Gerald was so agitated that he could scarcely speak; "but we have been directed here to see a young lady who was rescued from the fire last night, and who found a refuge in your hospitable house."
"We brought Miss Braham home with us," said the elder lady, "and are now in great distress about her. I presume you are friends of hers."
"We are her most devoted friends," said Leonard, "and have been searching for her the whole of the day. My name is Leonard Paget; this is my brother Gerald."
The sisters were standing hand in hand, and at the mention of these names their fingers fluttered, then tightened in their clasp. Gerald found his voice.
"Is she ill?" he exclaimed. "Do not hide anything from me, I beg!"
The sisters looked nervously at each other; the elder was first to speak.
"Are you aware that we have received a visit from a lady well known in the town?"
"No," said Gerald. "Who is the lady and what has her visit to do with Miss Braham?"
There was a ring of genuine honesty in his voice, and it made its impression. The elder lady touched his arm gently.
"Tell me," she said, "In what special manner are you interested in Miss Braham?"
"Madam," replied Gerald, "I hope very soon to have the happiness of calling her my wife."
The sisters gave each other a bright look, and the younger lady said, "It is cold standing here, and my sister is not strong. Will you not walk into the house?"
They accepted the invitation, Gerald gladly, Leonard with curiosity as to what the sisters meant when they said they were in great distress about Emilia.
"Excuse my impatience," said Gerald, "but I implore you to allow me to see Miss Braham at once."
Their pity for him would not admit of Emilia's departure being immediately communicated to him; it must be led up to gently. But Gerald's indignation would not be restrained; before the conclusion of Mrs. Seaton's visit was recounted he interrupted the maiden sisters with the truthful version of Emilia's misfortunes and of the unhappy circumstances which compelled him to take her to his house a few hours before the fire. He blamed himself bitterly for the indiscretion, but asked them what else he could have done; and they, completely won over by his indignation and by the manifest honesty of his professions, threw aside for once all reserve and hesitation, and boldly declared that he could not have acted otherwise.
"Sister," said the elder to the younger, "the sweet young lady deserves our deepest pity, and is worthy of our love. Mr. Paget"--turning to Gerald--"Miss Braham will find a home here, and if she will consent, shall be married from our house."
"You are angels of goodness," said the young man, "but do not keep her from me any longer. If you do not think right that I should see her alone, let me see her in your presence."
"Alas!" said the elder lady; "she must first be found."
"Found!" echoed Gerald, in bewilderment.
"Do not alarm yourself. The dear child cannot have gone far. We have not finished what we have to tell you. Listen patiently to the end."
When all was related Gerald stood stupefied for a few moments, holding in his hands the pathetic vindication of her innocence which Emilia had left behind her. Leonard was secretly exultant. Emilia was gone, and if he assisted in the search for her she should never be found. He was confident that she had flown from the neighborhood, and that her one desire would be to hide herself and her shame among strangers. It was not in his nature to believe in womanly purity, and it was not likely that he would make an exception in Emilia's favor. She was his enemy; she stood in his path; she barred his way to affluence; let her sink into the obscurity she was seeking.
These sentiments were not expressed in his eyes, which were full of sympathy.
"Come, Gerald," he said, passing his arm around the young man's neck, "be a man. As these good ladies say, it will not be difficult to find Emilia. Let us seek her; in an hour or two all your troubles will be over."
"Your brother is right," said the elderly lady, "no time should be lost, for the poor child must be suffering. We rejoice that you have so true a friend to assist you. Do not desert him, sir; he is not fit to be left alone."
"Desert Gerald!" cried Leonard. "Desert my dear brother in the hour of his distress! No, indeed. He will find me true to the last."
The ladies pressed his hands, and gazed at him approvingly and admiringly. His face beamed with earnestness and enthusiasm. He had in him a touch of the actor's art; he was playing a part in a fine comedy of manners and intrigue, and he thoroughly enjoyed it, and commended himself for his masterly performance.
The maiden sisters saw the brothers to the street door, and impressed upon them that Emilia should be brought to their house at the earliest opportunity, and that her room would be ready for her.
Then commenced Gerald's search for Emilia, a search not only without a clue to guide him, but with a cunning man at his elbow, suggesting that they should go here and there, where he was certain there was chance of finding her. There were times, however, when Gerald himself said he would go to such and such a house and make inquiries, and Leonard never opposed him. It was his one wish to keep Gerald in the town, and he breathed no hint of his conviction that Emilia had flown from it. Everything was against Gerald; it was late when the search commenced, and at an hour past midnight he and Leonard stood in the quiet streets, gazing at each other, Gerald helplessly, Leonard inquiringly.
"Where now, Gerald?"
"God knows! I think I am losing my mind."
"May I make a suggestion, dear boy?"
"Yes, Len."
"You will not think it treason; you will not blame me for importing a little common-sense into our sad position?"
"How can I blame you, Len--you, the truest friend that a man ever had? Do not think me ungrateful. I have only one desire in life--to find Emilia. I can think of nothing but her."
"Then I may make my suggestion?"
"Yes."
"Understand, Gerald, that I make it entirely in Emilia's interests."
"I do, Len."
"Our best plan will be to go to the hotel and jump into bed----"
"Len!"
"There, I knew you would storm at me; but just be reasonable."
"I can't be reasonable. I must find Emilia."
"All right, dear boy. I'll stand by you till I drop. Which way shall we turn?"
Gerald, in response to this heartless question, led the way aimlessly down one street, up another, and on and on, Leonard trudging by his side, and neither of them speaking a word. At last Gerald stopped, and gazed pitifully around; his eyes fell upon Leonard, who, conscious that the gaze was coming, and timing it, closed his with an air of pathetic weariness.
"You are tired, Len."
Leonard instantly opened his eyes, and said briskly, "Tired, dear boy! Not a bit of it. What should make me tired? Come along, old fellow. Let's be moving."
"No, Len, I don't see much use in it."
"It is not I who say that, Gerald."
"No, it is myself. What o'clock is that striking?"
Leonard put up his finger, and they listened to the chiming of the bells.
"Two o'clock, Gerald."
"What is Emilia doing now?" murmured Gerald, more to himself than to his companion.
"She is asleep, I should say."
"No, Len. I know her better than you do. She is awake, thinking of me, as I am thinking of her. You are some years older than I, dear brother; have you ever been in love?"
"Yes, Gerald," replied Leonard, quietly.
"And you are still unmarried," said Gerald, pityingly. "How did it end?"
"Do not ask me, Gerald."
"Forgive me; it is a painful remembrance. She is dead?"
Leonard did not reply, and Gerald repeated,
"She is dead? I am sorry, very sorry."
"You need not be. She lives."
"How did it happen? You were true to her, I am sure."
"For heaven's sake, Gerald, do not force me to answer you. Let us talk of something else."
"I open my heart to you," said Gerald, with sad insistence, "and you close yours to me."
"You cut me to the quick. Yes, I was true to her, but she was not true to me. There is the tragedy or the comedy--which you like, Gerald--related in less than a dozen words. It is a story which all men live to tell--all men, I mean, with the exception of yourself."
"I am a selfish brute, to compel you to expose your wounds. Poor Len! If she had been like my Emilia you would not have had to tell the tale. We can do nothing more to-night."
"Nothing that I can see."
"I am so full of my own grief that I forget to sympathize with yours, but I am truly sorry for you. At this moment Emilia is thinking of me; there is a spiritual whisper in the air which assures me of this. Would it be really best to go back to the hotel?"
"It would be wisest, both for your sake and for Emilia's. Early in the morning we can commence again. Gerald, to stop out any longer would be folly. You would not dare to knock at the door of any house at this hour and inquire for Emilia; it would be the ruin of her. You have her honor to guard, as well as your own happiness to look after."
"I am blind, and utterly, utterly selfish. Heaven has sent you to guide and counsel me. Yes, we will go."
They returned to the hotel, and Gerald gave directions that he should be called early in the morning. He and Leonard wished each other good-night, and retired to their separate rooms. As Leonard undressed he chuckled at the successful progress he had made. Everything had worked in his favor, and would so work to the end. He had no doubt of that, with his hand on the wheel. So he closed his eyes, and went to sleep contented and happy.
Gerald stood by the window and thought of Emilia. To-morrow they would be together; to-morrow all would be well. He threw the window open and looked out. Could his sight have reached the distance he would have seen a pitiful figure staggering on through country roads, stopping ever and anon to recover her breath, then starting feverishly on again, with panting bosom and streaming eyes, mournfully grateful for the darkness that encompassed her, and dreading the coming day. Slander's foul work was being accomplished. Dark as it was, Emilia saw the malignant eyes; silent as it was, she heard the hard voices. On and on she stumbled, praying for rest. Gerald was false; she did not care to live.