In sight of St. Paul's

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CHAPTER. PAGB

I.— A Dangerous Beauty 7

Chapter I. A Dangerous Beauty

Raymond street, a broad highway of no particular length, leading from the Thames Embankment, is, as a rule, a remarkably quiet thoroughfare, with its large, handsome, old-fashioned mansions and its general air of dignified prosperity.

But, on a certain balmy night in June, not so many years ago, it presented a scene of unwonted life and gayety. Elegantly appointed equipages, filled with gentlemen in correct evening dress, and ladies gowned in the latest decoctions of London and Paris milliners, rolled over its pavements to deposit their inmates before the doors of the finest house in the street, a house which, with its awnings and steps carpeted with scarlet cloth, showed that it was the scene of some social entertainment of no small importance.

The rich Mr. Chichester, who had recently taken

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possession of the abode in question, was giving a grand ball to celebrate the coming of age of his second and favorite son.

The Chichester family consisted of Mr. Chichester the elder himself, two sons, — Tom, now about twentyeight, and Harry, in whose honor the entertainment was being given — and a daughter, Gracie, about eighteen. With them lived also a daughter of Mr. Chichester’s deceased sister, a young girl named Aileen Millar.

The Chichesters had not always been wealthy— far from it. In fact, until only a few years before our story opens, they had been very, very poor.

They had resided in the North of England, living a hard, toiling, country existence, Mr. Chichester working away his life to keep his debts down to the lowest possible point out of a few acres of the poorest land, under the title of “gentleman farmer.”

Mr. Chichester, impoverished though he was, came of an excellent family, and was inordinately proud of it.

But gentleman farmer ! What good did that title ever do him ? The turnips and beets swelled no larger through pride in their gentlemanly growers. The rye grew no higher, the corn was no stronger and heavier with the weight of obligations to the blue blood of their cultivators.

Not a bit of it ! The contrary was quite the case.

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Bill Hodge, who drove his own plow, was an emperor compared to Tom Chichester. For the farmer who was not a gentleman flourished, while the gentleman who was not a farmer went to the wall.

But jnst when things looked their worst, there came an astonishing change.

Twenty years before, Mr. Chichester’s eldest brother, after borrowing from him every penny he possessed, went to Australia with a cargo of smuggled lucifer matches and British brandy. At Ballarat, phosphorous and fire-water were at a premium. Their owner sold well, and bought better, converted claims into companies, led a respectable life, and finally, on his death-bed, among other sins, remembered his starving relations and his brother’s loan. Signing his will finished him. He died the best hated man in Melbourne, but one of the richest.

The change to the Chichesters in England was enormous, and brought its results. Harry, his father’s pride and joy, was sent to college, the farm was sold to Hodge, who knew how to make it pay, and the rest of the family moved to London, where we now find them celebrating Harry’s birthday.

Mr. Chichester had been lavish in his expenditure. Carte blanche had been given to the best caterers in London, the house was superbly decorated with flowers in and out of season, and bands of music, hidden behind palms, discoursed their sweetest strains.

To crown all, the broad flat roof had been converted into a very bower of beauty, with myriads of colored lights, Chinese pagodas, rich rugs, and lounging chairs of every description.

The view from here was superb, overlooking the magnificent city of London, with the dome of St. Paul’s, that masterpiece of Sir Christopher Wren, looming up grandly over all.

Here, about ten o’clock in the evening, we shall find the hero of all this gorgeous display.

Harry Chichester was a fine-looking young fellow, with a muscular figure, which showed that he had not neglected athletic sports at Oxford, from which he had just been graduated. There was a certain weakness, however, about the mouth and chin which, to a student of Lavater, would have marred his good looks.

He was not alone upon the roof. With him was a woman of really marvelous beauty. She was tall, lithe, and dark, with hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing, great, velvety, midnight eyes, that at times could flash and glitter curiously, and a clear olive complexion. When she walked, it was with an insinuating glide that reminded one irresistibly of some soft-footed denizen of a virgin forest.

Her dress was an extraordinary combination of black and yellow, and upon her beautiful neck and in

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tlie raven masses of her liair sparkled magnificent gems.

Take her all in all, Cynthia Dell was a most alluring woman, and she knew it. She realized her own value, as more than one poor wretch ruined by her extravagance could have testified had he been so inclined.

Harry Chichester had been introduced to Mrs. Dell some six months before by one of his university friends, and, although he had a suspicion that her past life might not have been all it should be, from the very moment he first saw her, he fell madly in love with her. She was not a woman one could love with anything less than madness. The superb animal beauty of the woman made him forget all else, and he became her devoted slave, ready to believe any thing she chose to tell him of her past and present.

Taking all things into consideration, there was. nothing strange in this, but what was unaccountable was the fact that she fell more or less in love with him. Although she had constantly played with and at the dangerous passion, till now her pulses had never beat one atom the quicker for any man. Many had believed that they possessed her heart, but none had ever done so. And now at thirty, she realized with a sensation, partly amazement, partly self-contempt, partly pleasure, that she was dangerously near

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caring very much for this handsome boy who was nearly ten years her junior.

It was at Harry’s solicitation, and greatly to his brother Tom’s unspoken disgust, that Mrs. Dell had been invited to this ball to-night.

At last the young host’s duties in receiving his guests were over, and he found himself alone with the one who had become all in all to him.

He leaned over her 'as she half-reclined in nonchalant grace in a low lounging-chair, and drank in her beauty with his whole soul in his eyes.

Mrs. Dell looked up at him with a smile.

“At last, my dear Hairy,” she murmured, in soft, purring tones. “At last I can have you to myself for a few moments. Now explain, why scarcely one word all the evening ?’ ’

“It has not been my fault, Cynthia,” replied Harry, piteously. “You know that. ”

She did know it, but she was not going to acknowledge it.

She shrugged her gleaming shoulders, and a pout appeared upon her scarlet lips. Then she slowly twisted her lissome body toward him, and looked at him from under her half-closed lids with an expression of reproach, which she had found effective upon more occasions than one. Was she serious? Perhaps. She could scarcely have told herself. She had been

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an actress so long- that she had almost lost the power to distinguish between the true and the false.

But her voice was very plaintive, with an undertone of rebuke, as she said :

“You found plenty of opportunity to talk to that girl, Aileen Millar. ” She moved impatiently, and drew her breath with a hissing sound. “I hate her!”

Harry flushed.

“You are unjust !” he declared, passionately and truthfully. “Aileen is only my cousin.”

Mrs. Dell laughed, showing her superb teeth, but it was not a pleasant laugh to hear.

“Only your cousin !” she repeated, with a sneer she took no pains to conceal, wondering all the while if this sensation she felt could be really jealousy, an emotion of which she had frequently heard, but never before experienced. “Cousins, my dear boy, are always dangerous. ’ ’

Harry saw that for some reason the beautiful woman, who had become the very sun of his existence, was out of temper, but he was not wise enough, as an older and more experienced man would have been, to draw a flattering deduction from this little ebullition.

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, in genuine trouble :

“Haven’t I proved my love?”

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Mrs. Dell gave him one long look, full of concentrated meaning, and then she answered, slowly :

“Yes, once you did. I confess to it. But that love may have left you.”

Harry started, almost as if he had been accused of a crime, and his companion, noticing the movement, smiled to herself, satisfied.

“Why should you think so?” tremulously cried the boy, for he was little more than a boy after all, but a boy very much in love, with that overwhelming, unreasoning, absorbing passion which does not come to us after we reach the years of discretion. “Have I not risked everything that I should have valued most ? My name, my honor, even my liberty, for your sake ? Oh!” with a gesture half appealing, half despairing, “I’ve become a tool in Gridston’s hands, and said yes to things that before I met you I should have dreaded even to think of. And now you accuse me of not loving you! You are wrong, Cynthia! It’s a shame! It’s ”

Something very like a twinge of conscience passed through the woman’s breast as she listened to these words, and yet, even with much greater reason, remorse hitherto had been a stranger to her. What will love not do? Surely the little naked boy, with his bow and arrows, has greater power than all the other divinities of Olympus put together.

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Cynthia raised one white, jeweled hand deprecatingly.

‘ ‘ Hush ! hush !” she interrupted, gently. ‘ ‘ My boy, be prudent ! But, ’ ’ with a flash from her splendid dark eyes, which made poor Harry’s heart beat high with happiness, “you are forgiven.”

Harry caught her hand, and pressed it passionately to his lips.

“But be careful,” continued Mrs. Dell, after a moment’s pause, and with an ominous tightening of her crimson lips. “Do not provoke me too far, or my love may turn to hate!” How well she knew herself! In that respect, she was certainly an apt disciple of old Socrates, though scarcely perhaps in the sense the philosopher meant when he enunciated his famous advice. “And if it does — beware!”

“I don’t fear you, Cynthia,” replied Harry, with the abject confidence every youthful lover feels. “You could never be anything but good and beautiful in my eyes. ’ ’

For a moment, Mrs. Dell was silent. Her head was lowered just a little, and the rich color in her cheeks grew a trifle fainter. She was thinking to herself if this new, strange feeling which was stirring her bosom with a strength she could not overcome had only come to her earlier in life, before she had become so hardened and skeptical, what a different woman she might have been !

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But with an effort, she flung all this aside, and, uprearing her head, looked once more into the ardent face of the young man who was bending over her.

“Do not be too sure!” she proclaimed, with a certain bravado. “You know what they call me? Eh?”

“Yes,” replied Harry, with a gesture of disbelief. ‘The Panther!’ But you do not ”

Cynthia Dell started to her feet, her black and golden draperies swaying about her. For once an impulse to tell the plain, unvarnished, even ugly, truth took possession of her, an impulse which was irresistible in its intensity.

“You are wrong!” she cried, fiercely, her dark eyes gleaming and glowing like coals of fire. “You are wrong ! I do deserve it ! For, like the creature they name me after, I can be loving and grateful to those who treat me well ! But once deceived, once tricked, or cheated of my own, my velvet paw becomes a clutch of steel ! I caress no longer ! I strike !”

And she raised her hand, the fingers open like a claw, her figure poised like some gorgeous black and yellow striped, wild animal, ready to pounce upon its prey.

Harry started back in horror, and then, his whole mad love rushing back upon him, he caught her hands in his and drew her toward him.

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Then the whole attitude of the woman who was known by the sobriquet of the Panther changed. Her face softened wonderfully, and her great dark eyes rested with infinite yearning, infinite tenderness upon the face of the young man which was so close to hers. Her graceful body swayed toward him as if longing for his embrace.

But, just at that moment, a step sounded on the stairs leading to the roof.

Cynthia’s quick ear caught it, and she wrenched herself free from her lover, becoming instantly once again the cool, self-possessed woman of the world.

With a suppressed exclamation, which, if it had been uttered aloud, we fear would scarcely have passed muster in good society, young Chichester turned toward the stairs, and saw, emerging from the opening below, his brother Tom.

With the exception of a certain vague family resemblance, the two brothers were very unlike in appearance, as they were equally unlike in training and character.

Tom Chichester was a singularly striking-looking man, not handsome in the strict sense of the word, but possessed of a refined and intellectual appearance above the average, tall and well made, the mouth and eyes denoting tremendous pride and power of will, this in itself forming the greatest contrast to his brother. Curious eyes were his, dark -brown in color,

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eyes wliicli could flame with anger or soften suddenly when their owner was affected by some tender emotion.

They were very hard now, however, as they gazed upon the occupants of the roof.

And yet it was with no lack of outward courtesy, that Tom Chichester now came forward, and addressed the beautiful woman who was nonchalantly fanning herself with the bunch of ostrich plumes she wore attached to her girdle by a slender gold chain.

“Our waltz, Mrs. Dell, I think. And as for you, my boy,” turning to Harry, and speaking in an intentionally light and careless tone, “the girls down stairs are going crazy. Broken vows for waltzes and unfulfilled mazurkas all over the shop. So off you go, and do your duty, like a soldier and a man — a dancing man. ”

“Thank you,” returned Harry, sullenly, “but I’m sitting out this dance.”

“But, my dear boy, you are the host. You must not neglect your guests. ’ ’

“I prefer staying here!” was the rather petulant answer.

Harry Chichester was fond of his brother, and admired him immensely, but he did not like anything that savored of dictation, especially upon an occasion like this.

Tom was perfectly aware that he would prefer Staying there, but at the same time he did not pro-

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pose to let him. But he gave no sign of this determination as he answered, with a careless glance at Mrs. Dell, who was regarding the two with a halfamused, half-provoked smile :

“Of course you do. So should I.”

At this Cynthia stopped the slow movement of her fan, and remarked, with lazy sarcasm :

“Thank you.”

The Panther, with her remarkable keenness of perception, was quite, aware, and had been for some time, that her young lover’s brother was no friend of hers, and she felt now a vague foreboding not unmixed with apprehension, that a struggle was impending between her and Tom Chichester.

“Don’t mention it,” replied Tom, quietly. Then, turning to his brother, . he said, smiling, and with nothing of dictation in his manner: “Honestly, old chap, you must go, and be a martyr. Besides, you like it — we all like it. Putting an arm about a pretty woman’s waist is one of the most delightful sensations in the world, unless — unless she has a pin in her sash.” He laughed at the idea, a laugh which was not echoed, however, by either Harry or Mrs. Dell. Then, he added, seriously: “And, moreover, Aileen told me to find you. You promised to take her in to supper, you know. ’ ’

An angry look swept across Cynthia’s face, only immediately to vanish. Aileen again !

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Harry looked hesitatingly from one to the other, and then said, helplessly :

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing else to be done.”

“That’s right ! Do your duty!” declared Tom, cheerily and approvingly; and then he turned away and walked slowly over to the edge of the roof.

As soon as his back was toward them, his brother turned like a flash to Mrs. Dell.

“I shall see you home, of course?” he murmured, beseechingly.

“Not to-night,” returned Cynthia, coldly.

She was annoyed at him for obeying so promptly hi^brother’s behest, and jealous into the bargain.

“Cynthia!”

“Be careful!” warned Mrs. Dell, in a low voice, glancing toward Tom. “Go and do your duty, Mr. Harry. But/’ and there was a certain icy menace in her tone, “remember, you take me into supper, not Aileen.”

Now Harry knew that it had been arranged that he should escort his cousin, and for a moment he hesitated.

“I insist!” added Cynthia, firmly, but in the same suppressed voice.

At once all Harry’s hesitancy vanished.

He caught her hand and pressed it fervently to his lips.

“As you will ! Only love me ! Only love me !”

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Cynthia made no reply, but the look she bent upon him spoke more than words could have done, and, with a lightened heart, Harry hurried away to do his duty.

After he had gone, Mrs. Dell glanced toward the motionless figure that stood at the edge of the parapet with its back toward her.

Her lips closed tightly and her eyes contracted until the lids nearly came together, giving a peculiar snake-like appearance to her face. How she hated that man ! She knew he was her enemy and would defeat her plans if he could. Then too, how much did he know? Well, if the preliminary struggle had to take place, as was inevitable, it might as well take place now. The suspense should end at once.

With an effort, she forced herself to regain her normal composure.

“Mr. Chichester!” she called, sweetly.

Tom turned at once and came toward her.

“I really beg your pardon,” he said, politely, if a little coldly. “Shall we go to the dancing-room?” and he offered his arm.

“No, thank you,” replied Cynthia, quite as courteously. “I prefer to talk.”

So did Tom. That was exactly what he wanted. But he scarcely understood why it was her wish. He raised his eyes to her face, and a look flashed between the two, very much such a look as would pass be-

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tween two duelists just before the swords were crossed.

It was only for an instant, and before Tom really realized the significance of the glance, Mrs. bell’s whole manner had changed.

As has been intimated before, she was a superb actress, and she had decided at once the part she would play, at least in the beginning of the impending encounter.

1 1 Mr. Chichester, why do you dislike me so much ?” she asked, with a suddenness which was absolutely startling.

For an instant Tom was completely taken aback.

“I — really ” he stammered. “You are mis-

taken.”

“No, I am not,” replied Cynthia, with the utmost decision, and yet cleverly allowing a soupcon of regret to creep into her tone. “But,” with a sigh, “as you will not be candid with me, I will with you. You dislike me because you are afraid of me.”

Blunt as the words were, and in a certain sense true, as Tom well knew, there was nothing aggressive in either the tone or the manner of the woman who spoke them. On the contrary, her whole attitude was one of sorrow and appeal.

She moved closer to him, her gold-colored robes gleaming under the black shower of her laces. Her scarlet, pomegranate-like lips, the rich flush on her

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cheeks, and the lustre of her great dusky eyes, all made a perfect picture of its kind, and Tom could not but acknowledge its beauty, even while it left him cold and unmoved.

“I’m afraid of no one,” he answered, very politely, but with equal frigidity.

“Not for yourself, perhaps,” assented Cynthia. “But,” after a very short pause, “you are afraid of me for your brother’s sake.”

At this exceedingly plain speaking, Tom’s surprise increased. It was not what he had expected from her.

“For Harry’s sake!” he murmured.

“Yes, the pride of the house, the hope of the Chicliesters. He is so fascinating, so good, so innocent.”

These last words were spoken with a vailed sarcasm, which, however, was thoroughly apparent to Tom. He was glad now that she had spoken so plainly in regard to Harry. It gave him exactly the opening he wanted. He had been aware for some time of his brother’s infatuation for the beautiful Panther, and he had determined to break off the connection. He believed now that he held at last the means to compel Mrs. Dell to yield to his wishes.

“Mrs. Dell,” he said, seriously, “I quite understand the drift of your words.”

“Really,” with an enigmatical smile.

She was fanning herself languidly, and with appar-

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ent unconcern, but nevertheless she was watching Tom narrowly out of the corner of her eye.

“My brother has been what is termed a little wild. But, considering his youth, and our sudden accession to fortune, is that to be wondered at? Now, we are celebrating to-night Harry’s birthday and start in life. A start,” speaking very firmly, “a start, Mrs. Dell, I am determined shall be a fair one, and not ruined or disgraced by a mistake.”

Cynthia’s hand tightened a little upon the handle of her fan, but she answered, coldly :

“I fail to understand your meaning, Mr. Chichester. ’ ’

“A remark you made just now explains it exactly. I am afraid of you for my brother’s sake.”

“Sir!”

“One moment !” interrupted Tom, decidedly, but still courteously. “Harry is young, high-spirited, and, I regret to say, easily led. And he has fallen under the influence of a beautiful woman. ’ ’

Cynthia smiled.

“Indeed!”

“That influence is likely to prove dangerous to him.”

Their eyes met, and for an instant they looked intently at one another, each trying to read the other’s thoughts. Then Cynthia asked, smiling again ; “Does he love this beautiful woman?”

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“I am afraid so,” replied Tom, with a sigh.

There was silence for a moment, and then Cynthia said, speaking very slowly :

“And suppose the beautiful woman returns his love?”

Tom had not the slightest faith that such was the case, but in this he did her wrong. Still he answered, diplomatically :

“Then the danger is a double one.”

He came closer to her, and there was now a note of pleading in his voice.

“I am sure you understand me. Harry is desperately in love with you. Do you know what this means?”

“Happiness, I hope, to one of us,” returned Cynthia, evasively. “ Perhaps to both. ’

“No! Happiness to neither!” exclaimed Tom, realizing that the struggle between them was to be even harder than he had thought, but determined to fight it out to the bitter end. “With Harry it is an infatuation that cannot last. With you it is a passion that will pass as quickly as others have done, and die as soon !”

Cynthia grew suddenly pale, for she had no need of rouge on her rich skin, and the blood was apt to come and go, as varied emotions swept over her. At the insinuation in Tom’s words, all her affected languor vanished, and her eyes flashed fire, as she turned

savagely upon him :

“You dare!” she hissed, between her clinched teeth.

“Anything to save my brother,” replied Tom, calmly and incisively. “And in his interests, I must ask you not to see him again after to-night. ’ ’

The Panther’s temper was roused, and in her anger she tore the feathers recklessly from her fan. She was not accustomed to be dictated to.

“Stop! stop!” she cried, warningly.

But Tom had gone too far to retreat now, even if he had had any desire to do so.

“If you promise me this,” he said, “yes, I will stop. If not, I must continue. ’ ’

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Cynthia, a premonition of approaching evil thrilling her for an instant, but, almost immediately, she threw back her haughty head, and continued, defiantly: “Why should I? No! I’ll not promise!”

“I am sorry,” returned Tom, simply, “for I wished to spare you. ’ ’

For all response, Cynthia turned her back upon him with a disdainful shrug.

But Tom advanced a step or two and spoke over her shoulder, in the same quiet, but resolute tone he had used since the beginning of the interview.

“Some months ago, you first met my brother, and little by little your influence over him has grown and strengthened. But, unfortunately for you, a reputation such as yours cannot be hidden, even under the cloak of respectability.”

At this, as if moved by a steel spring, Cynthia turned and faced him. Her eyes were dilated with anger and a certain fear she could not shake off.

“Take care!” she threatened, in a gasping tone.

But Tom continued, apparently entirely unmoved :

“Nor an assumed name. Kindly keep as quiet as you can,” as the Panther made a furious gesture. “I am sure you don’t want a scene. I repeat,” low, but very distinctly, “an assumed name, Mrs. Fretly Burnsides. ”

Cynthia turned livid. She uttered a smothered cry of rage and despair, and for an instant Tom thought that she was about to spring upon him. Then she staggered back, almost falling. Tom sprang to her side, but recovering herself, she glared at him and waved him back.

Then she sank limply down into a chair which chanced to be close at hand, her rich robes trailing about her.

Tom could not but pity her, but there was too much at stake for him to yield to any such sentiment.

After waiting a moment or two, he spoke again.

“The fact that led to this discovery is, that among the many men introduced here by your friend, Cap-

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tain Gridston, there happened to be one or two gentlemen. This may have been accidental” (Tom could not refrain from this bit of sarcasm, for he thoroughly disliked and distrusted the man named Gridston) “but, nevertheless, it was so. And these gentlemen recognized you and warned me. In justice to you, I kept silence until inquiries had been made, and I received only to-night the confirmation of the worst I have been told.”

The Panther raised her head. The blow had been a sudden one, but she was not a woman to succumb easily. The color was now stealing back into her cheeks, and in her eyes there was a dangerous glitter.

“And what have you been told, Mr. Chichester?” she asked, with intense bitterness.

“That your name is not Mrs. Dell, but Burnsides ; that you are not a widow, but the wife of a man who is suffering for a crime committed in order to feed your extravagances. ’ ’

Every word of this was true, and there was even more that might have been said. No one knew this better than the Panther herself. But, nevertheless, she started to her feet, exclaiming, boldly, and with well-assumed indignation :

“Your charge is an infamous one!”

“I regret that it is true,” said Tom, quietly.

Cynthia gave him one swift look, and then laughed

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hoarsely, making no further effort to defend herself, or deny his charges.

“Spare your pity!” she said, contemptuously. “Keep it for others who may need it! Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Chichester, really you amuse me. You are a modern curiosity, a man who loves his brother. ’ ’

“And respects his sister,” meaningly.

Cynthia understood, and her rage increased. Then, suddenly, a thought came to her, and she threw back her head, laughing aloud, with sinister and savage laughter.

She had a weapon with which to strike this man, who had dared to humiliate and threaten her, this man whom she hated, and strike she would, mercilessly, full at his heart.

“Your sister !” she cried. “Yes! And how about your cousin ? How about Miss Aileen Millar ? The girl who is dancing with your brother’s arm around her waist? The girl your father wishes to marry his favorite son, your dearly cherished brother? Has she no share in your anxiety to get rid of me?”

“Be silent!” commanded Tom, drawing his breath hard.