Transcriber's Note:
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

THE SCARLET HOUSE OF SIN.

Death to the Inquisitive!

A STORY OF SINFUL LOVE.

BY

LURANA W. SHELDON,

"Nay, do not ask—

In pity from the task forbear:

Smile on—nor venture to unmask

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there."

NEW YORK
W. D. ROWLAND, PUBLISHER
23 Chambers Street
1892

Copyright, 1892
BY
W. D. ROWLAND.

CONTENTS

MISS LURANA W. SHELDON.

DEATH TO THE INQUISITIVE.

A STORY OF SINFUL LOVE.

CHAPTER I. THE WHITECHAPEL MYSTERY.

Hark! It is a woman's cry

Echoing thro' the unhallowed place:—

Forward, to her rescue, fly—

See the suffering in her face.

A piercing shriek echoed throughout the entire length and breadth of the gloomy passage, hushed as it was in the brief hour of repose that usually intervened between the vice-rampant hour of midnight and the ever reluctant dawn.

It seemed as if the very light shrank from penetrating the loathsome windings of that wretched quarter of London, and as to pure air, it simply refused to enter such illy ventilated nooks and crevices, while the poisoned vapors that filled the narrow precincts were always trying to escape and failing through their own over-weight of reeking odors.

The scream of the dying woman was carried indistinctly to the ears of the sleeping inmates simply because the air was too heavy with vile tobacco and whiskey, stale beer fumes, and the exhalations of festering garbage heaps to transmit anything in other than a confused and indistinct manner.

Nevertheless there was something so extraordinarily frightful in the shriek that it did succeed in reaching the ears of nearly every habitue of the place, who, shrieking in their turn aroused the others, and one by one frowzeled heads and wrinkled faces issued from broken windows and rapidly, with shuffling footsteps, men and women crawled from innumerable dark passages and darker doorways, and with suspicious glances at each other, sneaked in and out through the slime and rubbish, in a half curious, half frightened search for a glimpse of that horrible tragedy.

I say sneaked about, and I use the word advisedly as the lawyers say, inasmuch as these degraded members of the human family,—these de-humanized fag ends of the genius Homo, did not walk, run, or perform any other specified motion in their perambulations.

On the contrary, they hugged the walls and the gutters; they were distrustful of the laws of gravitation and equilibrium, preferring to lean more or less heavily on walls and other supports, with bodies bent and faces averted, while the rapidity with which they appeared and disappeared was best appreciated by the Police who were supposed to guard this particular section of Whitechapel, but who religiously confined their guardianship to the outer walls, while the denizens of the multitudinous alleys or passages were free to perpetrate their murders, ply their nefarious trades and revel and rot in the stench of their own degradations.

One by one these creatures crawled from their hiding places.

Men were seen clutching the rags of their scanty clothing while their bleared eyes scanned every inch of the broken pavements.

Women, with odd garments thrown carelessly about their shoulders, joined in the search, and for a brief time no word was spoken.

Finally an old creature, dirtier if possible than the rest, bent in form, and with one long brown fang extending down over her shrunken chin, hobbled from a gloomy doorway and in a strident, nasal tone gave her opinion to these searchers of iniquity.

"Hit's Queen Liz thet's done fer, HI knowed 'er yell; You'll find 'er somewheres down by the Chinaman's shanty. HI spects 'e's knifed 'er."

"Good enough for 'er, the stuck hup 'uzzy," exclaimed one of the wretched beings that followed closely at the woman's heels.

"To think of 'er livin' 'ere for two years hand not speakin' to no one but that greasy yaller-skin. HI knowed 'e'd get sick of 'er 'fore long."

"S'pose you think hit's your turn next," snapped up another bedraggled female, whereupon a vicious battle ensued between the two while the men and women halted in their search to watch, what to them was the very essence of life,—a fight.

But the old crone who had first spoken crawled on until she reached the Chinaman's quarters, and there sure enough, a Mongolian, swarthy and greasy, his beady eyes blazing with excitement, was bending over and trying with poor success to withdraw a villainous looking weapon, half knife, half dagger, from the breast of an apparently dying woman.

The victim was a familiar figure in the Alley, and her clean, handsome face with its "hands-off" expression had long since won her the name of "Queen Liz."

While her failure to mingle with the other women or receive the beastly attentions of the men had made her an object of hatred to all concerned, still she had won their respect by her evident ability to defend herself at all times and in all circumstances, while the love she plainly bore her beautiful babe, a child of about two years, was a never ceasing source of wonderment and ridicule to these hardened mortals.

It was true that Queen Liz spent much time in the quarters of this particular Mongolian while there were many more eligible parties of her own nationality in the passage, but Queen Liz was evidently above her station, and as the Mongolian in question was possessed of more worldly goods than were his neighbors, it was reasonably supposed that she sought the comforts and luxuries of Chinese fans and Oolong in preference to the other shanties with their ever prevalent aroma of stale beer.

Nevertheless Queen Liz was not wholly overwhelmed by the wealth of Sam Hop Lee, because it was rumored that at certain intervals a gentleman from the outside world; a member of actual London society was seen going in and out of the narrow passage, Liz always accompanying him on these exits and entrances, for protection, it was generally supposed.

The sight of the stranger in their own lawful precincts brought always a mixture of sentiments to the thieves and sharpers who infested these gloomy byways.

Here was an excellent opportunity for operations in their own particular line of business, but here also was a woman armed with the usual weapons of the alley, ready and anxious to meet in mortal combat any and all that should dare lay hands upon herself or guest.

Thus Queen Liz was let pretty severely alone by all, and her life past and present was a mystery too obscure to be in any danger of being solved by the beer muddled brains of her neighbors.

But now Queen Liz was lying in the slime and mud of the alley with the deadly knife sticking firmly in her side, and as this uncanny assemblage of human scavengers drew nearer, Sam Lee gave one more vigorous pull at the weapon, and withdrawing it, turned its blade to the light of a flickering tallow dip, and instantly, in the eyes of each and every one present, he was acquitted of the horrible deed.

The knife was of a make unknown in the alley and only to be found in the possession of a man to whom money is no object and who could well afford to follow his own fancies in the design of his favorite paper cutter, for such the weapon evidently was.

Long, narrow and sharply pointed, the blade was of finest silver, handsomely engraved, and the ebony handle shone resplendent with gems, so placed as to form on the polished surface the initials M. S. in dazzling characters.

CHAPTER II. A SUICIDAL ATTEMPT.

Have pity, Reader,'twas the fire

Of human passion in her brain,—

First, youth's impulsive, mad desire,

Then love, and love's devouring pain.

Some two years previous to the incidents of our opening chapter, in a quiet house situated on G—St., in the vicinity of Belmont Square, an aged couple sat quietly talking, while the shadows fell longer and darker about the room, and the increased tread of passing feet spoke plainly of the end of another day of that weary labor that fell to the lot of the large number of tradespeople who lived in this row of modest houses.

The aged couple mentioned were occupying the two narrow windows that faced the crowded thoroughfare, and the two faces were pressed anxiously against the glass, while the old eyes peered eagerly up and down, over and across in a careful search for the one of whom they had been quietly speaking.

There was silence for a little while and then the old man leaned back in his chair and, while wiping the moisture from his glasses with a generous square of cambric, said querulously:

"It is mighty strange, Marthy, where Lizzie is. She ought to be home before this."

"I know it, father," responded his wife meekly. "She's been acting very strange of late, staying away from home and coming in at all hours as dragged out as if she had been walking the streets for miles."

"Maybe that's what she does," snapped the old man, and then, as if ashamed of his hasty words, he added in a softer tone: "Though why she should do that I can't see. She's got a good home here with us and has had ever since our poor Mary died and left us our grandchild in the place of our child to care for and protect."

"And we've done both, father," said the old lady, gently. "Lizzie has no need to seek pleasure outside her own home, what, with the rooms to look after, her books, her piano and her needle work, she ought to be pretty well contented."

"That's so, Marthy, but she evidently is not. Now ever since that young man rented our two back rooms and began to spend his evenings here—"

"You don't think she is in love with him, do you father?" interrupted his wife quickly.

"Can't say, Marthy, you women can judge better of that. I only know she acts uncommonly unhappy lately. Let's see, the young fellow has been gone a week now, hasn't he?"

"Yes, that is so, and Lizzie has seemed all broke down ever since. I was asking her yesterday to see Mr. Jeller, but she turned as white as anything.

"'No, no, Grandma,' she said, 'I'll not see any doctors. There's nothing the matter with me, nothing!'

"But there was a hard look came into her eyes, and the idea went through my mind that perhaps that gentlemanly looking fellow was just playing with her after all, and she had only found it out after her heart was gone from her."

Here the old lady stopped to wipe the tears from her faded eyes, while the blood of his youth flushed her husband's face and, with cane uplifted, he muttered fiercely:

"If I thought that, I'd cane him, old as I am! Lizzie's a good girl and has been as well raised and as well educated as the best of them, and if her father and grandfather before him were tradespeople, they were honest and respectable, and I don't know what better dowry a woman can need than her own virtues and accomplishments and a record behind her of generations of honorable people."

Here the old man again sank back in his chair, overcome by the violence of his emotions, while his wife, re-adjusting her glasses, moved aside the curtain and again peered out into the fast darkening street.

There was silence for a few moments and then her husband resumed his position at the other window, while the ticking of the clock echoed, painfully distinct, through the silent room, and the sound of passing feet grew fainter and fainter, and darkness, mingling with the impenetrable vapors of a London fog, settled heavily down upon the earth.

Certainly no girl could have a more happy home or two more tender, loving companions than had Elizabeth Merril.

But discontent is bred in the bone and needs no outward influence or surroundings to foster its soul destroying germs.

Elizabeth had grown into womanhood, beautiful in form and feature, loyal in heart and spotless in her maidenly purity, but the seeds of discontent, inherited or otherwise, sprang up in her heart and took from every pleasure that fullness of joy which is so necessary to perfect happiness.

It was her suggestion to rent the superfluous rooms thereby adding to the family exchequer and at the same time increasing her household duties.

The logic was excellent, but the impulse of a dissatisfied mind prompted the suggestion and evil impulses, however logical, are rarely productive of good results.

This particular instance was a most conclusive proof of the veracity of such reasoning.

For a few brief weeks Elizabeth's heart was filled with content and peace. With her additional labor came renewed ambition and the results seemed highly satisfactory to all concerned.

Then, as time passed on and the young man who occupied the rooms found many and varied excuses for seeking her presence, the roses on Elizabeth's cheeks deepened into carnation, her eyes flashed with a new born glory, and from morn till night the tender song of the nightingale burst joyously from her lips.

The young man had occupied the rooms for nearly a year and his devotion to their grandchild had been constantly growing more marked.

But for the past few months the song had ceased on Elizabeth's lips and the rosy cheeks were growing steadily paler.

In vain the aged couple watched and questioned, but Elizabeth's feminine tact and spirit outwitted them.

She fulfilled her duties patiently, as of yore, but would seize upon every possible pretext for remaining away from home, and now, during the week that her lover failed to appear at his cosy apartments, they had hardly seen her for more than a few moments each day.

Thus it was no wonder that to-night they watched and waited at their narrow windows while the hours stole by and still the wandering girl returned not to her pleasant home.

Back and forth over the great London Bridge she was walking; her head bent low; her blue eyes fixed and glaring; her pale lips compressed in bitter agony, while over and over again she paused and looked eagerly down into the sluggish water.

The bridge was jammed as usual with hurrying pedestrians and jostling carts, and few turned to look at the solitary figure.

Now and then a watchful "Bobby" stopped and stared into her face and more than one of these experienced officers read the signs of coming trouble in her pallid features.

But it was not their duty to ask her business or order her away. She was doing no harm and surely it would be but a meddlesome act on their part to try and avert the danger which they so plainly foresaw.

Still she walked on and on until the crowd was lessened and fewer officers remained on duty.

Just as the fog, rising from the river below and the smoke falling from the chimneys above, met and mingled in a pall of gloom and obscurity, she turned again, paused, looked once more into the darkness below, then vaulting suddenly to the massive rail, sprang lightly forward through the mists and down into the awful waters.

CHAPTER III. RESCUED BY THIEVES.

And these are men,—these creatures bold,

Who live to plunder and to kill;

Formed in the Great Creator's mold

But subject to the Devil's will.

If all committers of this deed of questionable cowardice would choose so opportune a moment for their rashness as did Elizabeth, they would probably live to see the error of their ways and to realize that the things we know are better than the things we know not of, but it is rarely that one so determined as she to terminate a wretched existence is thwarted in that desire by the presence of rescuers, but such was the case in this instance.

Two men of the type commonly known in London as wharf "rats" or dock and river thieves, were slowly sculling along under cover of the intense fog on the lookout for plunder of any and every sort.

Naturally, when Elizabeth's body struck the water not ten feet from their craft, they stopped sculling and quickly investigated the nature of the prey that had so literally fallen into their hands.

Elizabeth was pulled into the boat apparently lifeless, and in less time than it takes to chronicle the event, was shorn of her pretty rings, purse and outer garments.

A folded paper pinned securely to the lining of her waist was also promptly removed by the thief and thrust carelessly into the outer pocket of his coat as he doubtless thought it of little consequence, and only confiscated it through a natural impulse of greed and robbery.

Then the younger of the two proceeded to fasten a heavy lead around her waist, and lifting her carefully in his arms was about to lower the body once more into the silent river whose waters had already swallowed up and forever concealed innumerable secrets of like nature, when a flash from his partner's lantern falling upon Elizabeth's upturned face revealed to him her exceeding loveliness and awoke within him an instinct, whether brutal or humane, we shall shortly determine.

"Oh, Oiy soiy, Bill, this 'ere lass is too bloomin' 'ansome tew feed de fishes wid," he said, "and she ben't derd, nurther," he added, as he noticed Elizabeth's breath returning in short, faint gasps. "Ben't hoften we picks hup such fine goods as dese," he continued, while a fiendish expression passed over his swarthy face. "Blowed if Oiy doesn't think Oiy'll confiscate dis fer m' hown use," and he drew Elizabeth's still senseless form across his knee.

"Put'er down, Jemmy! Cawn't you wait till you gets to de dock or does yer want ter stay hout 'n dis 'ere fog hall night?" said the older man gruffly, adding authoritatively: "Cover de gal hup in de bottom, she'll keep! Oiy'm wet tew de' ide. Come, scull along hor we wont get 'ome till midnight."

Whether it was the fragments of original humanity that made him refuse to witness the desecration of helplessness, or whether he possessed sufficient of the brute instinct to enjoy with keener relish the struggles of a frenzied woman in the hands of an unprincipled and determined villain, we can not tell;—

At any rate Elizabeth was allowed to lie quietly under an old sail in the bottom of the boat, returning slowly, but with such perfect control to acute consciousness that she allowed no sound of either fear or suffering to escape her lips.

She overheard enough of their conversation, during the row down the river to show her who her rescuers were and what her ultimate fate would be unless she could escape from their clutches. She realized that even her unfortunate condition would give her no mercy in their hands and might rather be a source of more intense gratification to their fiendish and inhuman desires. Reason told her to remain perfectly passive, as it was evident they only awaited her return to consciousness for the furtherance of their diabolical plans.

Even when the boat bumped heavily against the wharf, turned back and veered about in a most extraordinary manner and the damp fog of the river was exchanged for the foul stench of sewer gas and garbage floats, and she realized, with a feeling of horror, that they were gliding, not by, but under the dock, still she made no sound.

At last they stopped by a rotten ladder; the boat was tied and the younger man sprang hastily up the slippery steps and thrust open, with his shoulder, a heavy trap door.

Then the older of the two raised Elizabeth from the boat and passed her up through the narrow opening to the man above. He then followed and after a hasty consultation between the two she was left, as the young "rat" expressed it, "soif fer de present," on a pile of rags in the corner of the cellar.

Then, apparently regardless whether she lived or died, they ascended another rickety ladder and the sullen gleam of their lantern was soon lost to sight in the darkness above.

Elizabeth waited until the sound of their footsteps had passed away, then rising hastily, she began groping about in the darkness for the ladder which she had so dimly discerned by the light of the smoking lantern.

Now every thing was dark, and the knowledge of that yawning trap-door and perhaps more just like it under her very feet, made her almost insane with fear. All desire for a watery death had vanished from her mind. Her lungs were so filled with nauseous gases that it was with a feeling of almost frantic joy she touched the rungs of the worm-eaten ladder and prepared to climb to the landing above.

The upper Hall was narrow, dirty and perfectly dark. Elizabeth groped her way carefully along, holding firmly to the wall, but could see no outlet or glimmer of light either before her or above, but knowing that to turn back would be but rushing to a fate far worse than death, she pressed eagerly forward, peering into the impenetrable darkness, while occasionally a great, slimy rat scampered across her foot, or a loathsome bat, with a sudden rush, passed so near her face that she turned sick with horror and held to the heavy walls with all her strength.

CHAPTER IV. THE SHAME-BORN CHILD.

Calm Death,—Thou comest not to such as these,—

Their griefs affright thee,—their sad faces fail to please.

Probably the length of time that elapsed (which seemed like an eternity to Elizabeth,) was, in reality, not more than half an hour before a ray of light greeted her eyes, coming through a ragged chink in the crumbling masonry of the heavy walls.

Creeping cautiously forward she put her eye to the crevice and looked eagerly into the inner room.

The scene she witnessed was well calculated to chill the blood of an able bodied man, but to a delicate woman, still trembling from the effects of her awful plunge into the river;—hampered by dripping garments and nearly frantic with the fear of momentary violence, the sight was more than doubly horrible.

The room was nothing more than a large vault or closet built into the solid walls, probably for no definite purpose, but so well adapted to its present use that one would think its designer must have foreseen its ultimate fate.

Several battered and smoking lanterns hung on nails, which had been wedged firmly between loose bricks in the decaying walls, their outlines appearing to her excited imagination not unlike the red eye balls and smoke begrimed faces of the score of beings upon whom their dismal glimmer fell.

This score of individuals, representing a class of monsters, born in the slime of cellars; nourished on the odors of decomposition and trained to accomplishments of vice and evil, were busy at the ghoulish work of robbing two human bodies, whose swollen and livid members plainly proclaimed them trophies from the river's unfailing supply.

Ragged females with bloated faces and keen eyes were squabbling like cats over the articles which had been removed from the dead woman's body, while the males cursed and struck at each other in a frantic struggle for the watch and jewels which the other water-soaked victim had worn.

The scene was horrible, pile upon pile of rubbish was heaped about the room, and one and all seemed interested in claiming and getting possession of as much plunder as they could, by fair means or foul.

Elizabeth plainly identified her rescuers who were among the most quarrelsome of the lot, but, even in her bewilderment, she noticed that there was no mention made of their evenings work or of her body, which, of course, they supposed was safe in the recesses of that loathsome cellar.

At this instant a vague thought flitted through her mind as to what booty her body had afforded them. She felt for her rings, but they were gone. She thrust her hand into the bosom of her dress for her watch, and her lips grew white as ashes, while a new horror, passing through her brain, overcame for the moment all fear of personal violence. The paper which had been safe in her bosom when she sprang from the bridge was not there. She had determined that the secret which it held should die with her, but now that her plan for death had failed, the recovery of that treasured paper must be the whole aim and purpose of her life.

Again the miserable creature who had rescued her from death became the unknowing instrument of her good fortune.

The young thief, whom she recognized as "Bill," became violently angry over the unequal distribution of the jewels and, throwing off his coat, struck wildly at his partner, while the others proceeded with their individual bickerings, apparently unconscious of the pugilistic encounter.

The coat in falling obscured, in a measure, Elizabeth's view of the inner room.

She had lost all thought of fear in her wild determination to secure the missing paper.

Pushing her hand cautiously into the hole in the masonry she dislodged a portion of brick with little trouble, then forcing her white arm carefully through the opening she touched the coat and pulled it gently aside.

Her idea was simply to gain another unobstructed view of the room, but accidently her fingers touched the edge of a folded paper protruding from the pocket, and quick as flash Elizabeth closed her fingers upon it and drew it toward her through the hole. She could not see it, but the familiarity of touch and feeling convinced her that it was her bosom companion for the past ten months, and even in the excitement and danger of the situation she stood motionless for a moment while she pressed it fervently to her lips.

Then, taking advantage of a particularly noisy scuffle, Elizabeth slipped softly by the door. The terrors of nightmare were upon her. She imagined she heard them pursuing her but could not run for fear of falling in the darkness; pitching down some hidden trap or making some accidental sound that would tell them of her presence.

At last, after almost innumerable windings, a glimmer of electric light came down upon her through a cellar grating which opened directly upon the street. A little further on and another flight of worm eaten steps were before her. Up these she climbed, and raised, with all her strength a heavy grating, then, feeling once more the pure air upon her brow and the sense of freedom in her soul, she reeled and fell heavily forward, like an inanimate body, upon the damp, gray curb stone. How long she lay there she could not tell, but the bell of a distant cathedral, tolling the hour of midnight, aroused her, and she crawled along until her strength in a measure returned, then, rising, she walked as quickly as possible away from this terrible neighborhood. On and on she went, her strength failing her at every step, until once more exhausted she sank down before the gateway of a large building, which, fortunately for her, proved to be a Hospital.

Here she was found by a resident physician on his return from the Opera in the early morning hours.

Some time during the following day an employee of the Hospital discovered a soiled and water-stained Marriage Certificate, which the wind had evidently blown behind the massive gates. The Certificate was placed in the physician's private desk for safe keeping, but no connection between it and the suffering woman was ever suspected.

Elizabeth was placed immediately in the ward, and every care given her, but for four weeks she hovered between life and death, raving of murder, robbery, suicide and all such frightful happenings, until the anxious physician feared for her reason as well as for her life. It was not until her child was born, a month after her entrance, that she gained, either mentally or physically, but after another four weeks of excellent nursing she was discharged from the Hospital as needing no further treatment.

She had given the authorities a false name in an almost involuntary effort toward self-protection and the concealment of her degradation, receiving at their hands that disinterested and strictly impartial attention bestowed upon all their patients. She was to them but one of thousands who drift on the shoals of sin and are left to perish, or are floated off by the tide of life to a longer struggle and a fiercer death on the ragged rocks of crime, therefore it was only natural that her case elicited no special comment from the busy officials. Thus, sick at heart, homeless, friendless, with no money, and with her shame-born child resting heavily upon her arm, Elizabeth went forth once more into the streets of London.

CHAPTER V. MAURICE SINCLAIR.

The storm that tears the human heart

With deepest furrows, leaves its trace

Like shadows from a passing cloud

Upon the mirror of the face.

Passing through Portland Place, at about the hour of eleven, on that damp, foggy night, it would have been impossible not to notice the most attractive of the many beautiful houses, for there emanated from its windows such a blaze of light that even the dense vapor that obscured all objects in its near vicinity was penetrated by the brilliancy for some distance.

The carriages that stopped before its portals loomed up through the mist like phantoms, while the guests that entered the spacious door only lost their ghastliness as they emerged into the full glare of the inner hall during the brief moment of transit.

It was very evident that a ball of more than ordinary magnificence was in progress, and one glance at the face of the hostess, Mrs. Archibald Sinclair, would have shown any intelligent observer that, to Mrs. Sinclair, at least, the necessity for making this particular entertainment a glorious success was so urgent that it destroyed, in a measure, her own enjoyment. Yet, with the innate tact of a woman born to receive, to entertain, and to genuinely please her guests, all trace of anxiety was carefully concealed, all nervousness overcome, and only affability and satisfaction were allowed reflection upon her expressive countenance.

However, in spite of her complacent demeanor, there were few mothers present at that reception but could readily appreciate her feelings and who did not, in their inmost hearts, admire her diplomatic tact during so trying an ordeal.

Not a few carefully modulated voices signified to each other their opinion and approval of her manner, for the gossips were out in full force that evening. They knew by long anticipation that food for their insatiable appetites would be furnished on this occasion in the person, manner and language of Maurice Sinclair, their hostess' enigmatical son, who had so lately returned from the Great Desert of Gobi or some other equally undesirable quarter of the earth's surface.

True, rumor had it that this eccentric young man had been seen in and about the City at intervals during the past year, but as any allusion made to the widow, his mother, on this subject, met with unapproachable silence, the matter was prudently dropped, and the information derived from newspapers and casual observers accepted or rejected according to the minds of the hearers, in the absence of better authority.

Many of the matrons present this evening recalled, only too accurately, the days when Maurice Sinclair's boyish pranks refused for him admission to one school after another. His wrong doings were always of a nature too delicate for public mention and, after a more than usually disgraceful affair while he was only fifteen years of age, he suddenly vanished, and, but a month later, Archibald Sinclair, his disappointed father, was laid to rest in the family plot, leaving behind a sorrowing wife and a nearly heart-broken mother.

At last, after five years had elapsed, Mrs. Sinclair, tired of the great house, and the wealth and splendor which she could never enjoy in solitude, adopted a distant relative, a beautiful girl of sixteen, and upon her she lavished the love of her true womanly heart and the wealth that flowed so abundantly into her coffers from many sources.

Stella Ives, or Stella Sinclair as she was afterwards called, was one of those peculiarly beautiful women, combining that which is most rarely seen, beauty of face and form, with great depth of character and unusual mental precocity. Now, at the age of twenty-one, Stella stood peerless among her companions. Her wavy yellow hair fell low over a broad white forehead. Her hazel eyes shone with the clear light of a brilliant intellect. Her mouth was large, but shapely and sweet, and, in laughing, disclosed a set of faultless teeth that were at once the envy and admiration of all. Stella was a little above medium height, plump and graceful, and withal a girl whom all could admire, but whose natural reserve held aloof from her shrine the many lovers who would gladly pay their homage to so fair a divinity.

Ten years had passed since Maurice disappeared and now, like one risen from the dead, he had returned and, in a brief but affectionate note, stated his intention to assist in entertaining her guests on this particular evening. He explained his non-appearance since reaching London as due to sensitiveness about meeting the mother whom he had so deeply grieved, but having heard of his adopted sister's "coming out" reception, he could control himself no longer and would throw himself humbly and unreservedly upon her mercy.

Only an hour before the time for her guests to arrive Mrs. Sinclair called Stella to her luxurious dressing-room and, passing her arm around the young girl's form, said fondly: "Stella dear, look your best to-night. You know we expect a large contingent of lords and baronets, and nothing fills my old heart with more exquisite pleasure than to witness the admiration which they bestow upon my beautiful daughter."

Stella laughed softly, but no blush of foolish vanity rose in her face at her foster-mother's tender words. She only pressed the matronly arm affectionately and replied, "All right, mamma, I will do my best. But you are sure it is because of the 'lords and baronets' that you wish me to look my best? Confess now," she continued archly, "is it not because you wish the first glimpse of his adopted sister to be a satisfactory one to Maurice that you take this violent interest?"

A little disconcerted by the young girl's reading of her secret, Mrs. Sinclair could only laugh and push her gently from the room.

After Stella had gone, Mrs. Sinclair sank down on the sofa by the heavily draped window to hold brief communion with herself as was her wont when questions or thoughts of more than usual importance arose in her mind. There was only a few moments in which to thus commune, but Mrs. Sinclair possessed that distinctly feminine ability to evolve various extraordinary theories on a given subject and yet deduct therefrom a logical conclusion in about half the time it would take a less intuitive brain to lose itself completely in an inextricable tangle of reasons and vagaries. "The past is past," was her conclusion.

"My son will to-night be under my roof; I must begin at the beginning; there shall be no reproaches. I shall offer him love, money, home, influence and a fair chance of winning a beautiful wife. If he refuses these, there is nothing more."

So saying, she rose, and with a hopeful look in her eyes, passed, in her own stately and gracious manner, down the wide staircase and on into the spacious parlors of her beautiful home, now doubly attractive to her by the anticipated happiness of her son's return.

For, although there was little doubt but that the erratic Maurice had been in London for many months, yet he had not seen fit to gladden his mother's heart with the sight of his almost forgotten face until just in time to give Stella's birthday reception a double significance.

CHAPTER VI. A PAINFUL REMINISCENCE.

How few look back upon a past

Of spotless purity,—and who

Would dare absolve with prayer and fast

The deeds they've done—the deeds they do;

Whatever may be the prejudice existing against the customary shams, deceptions and hypocrisies of society, certainly the sugar coating which good breeding and etiquette throw over the many bitter and disagreeable ingredients that go to make up our daily lives, is very palatable and pleasing. Suspicions may be aroused; curiosity be on the qui vive, anxiety and interest waging violent warfare in the human heart, yet the restrictions and obligations of courtesy demand self-control and affable manners, while gentle words make smooth many sharp and jagged corners in life's mental conflict, that uncovered would oftentimes cause friction and discomfort.

In vain the gossips looked and listened for some fragment of food for their customary menu, but neither Mrs. Sinclair or Stella showed by look or word that this particular reception was fraught with more than the usual interest, and as to the long lost son, his sojourn among the heathen nations of the earth, seemed to both foster and expand his naturally courteous disposition. His meeting with his mother had been cordial in the extreme. There was no time for lavish demonstration of affection, as he only arrived a brief ten minutes before the earliest guest. His presentation to his adopted sister, however, was marked by a change of demeanor that was plainly observed by all, yet, no person present, so far overcame the feeling of wonder that his manner generated, as to even boast of an approximate guess regarding its cause. The look that came into his wide, gray eyes when they first fell upon the beautiful girl, was one of amazement, and the gossips instantly concluded that beautiful women had been rare in his experience. Then a lurid light gleamed in his eyeballs; the lines of his face became drawn and tense, and hatred, and envy, were instantly ascribed to him. But as he touched her hand in greeting, a look so plainly indicative of carnal passion gleamed in every feature of his now diabolical face, that cold shivers and sensations of horror, swept through the sympathetic natures present, and doubtless, the maids and matrons, would have risen en-masse and called for their carriages, had not the sudden withdrawal of Stella's hand, brought back, as if by magic, the winning smile to the young man's countenance and transformed him again, in an instant, into the hero of the evening.

The dowagers reasoned that their lorgnettes were dimmed and their visions contorted thereby, while the maidens, serene in their innocence, forgot in a brief time the glimpse they had, or fancied they had, into man's inmost nature, and vied with each other in their efforts to win the approval of so distinguished and withal so mysterious a parti. Possibly a vague thought of this young scion's probable inheritance brought favorable influence to bear upon the stricter morals of the scheming mammas, as social position and wealth have heretofore and probably always will weigh successfully in the balance against questionable character and immorality.

Nevertheless, so strong was the momentary resemblance between this fascinating young man and the numerous likenesses of the mythical Beelzebub, that the Lady Van Tyne assured her family physician, in a strictly confidential interview the next morning, that, "for an instant it seemed as if the very curls of auburn hair stood up on his temples like horns, and she was sure that almost countless numbers of hooked and venomous claws protruded from his dainty patent leather boots, while as to his face,"—here she shuddered with a convulsive, reminiscent spasm, "it was the face of Satan himself!"

The good Doctor listened and sympathized; prescribed a pleasing tonic and rendered a modest bill, but he was afterward heard to say to his assistant, quite unprofessionally, of course. "It's wonderful what champagne will do. If the ladies would only stick to Bass, now!"

The Lady Van Tyne and her family physician were on the very best of terms, however.

It had been remarked by many that Dr. Seward was the only human being whom the wilful lady feared or felt disposed in any particular to obey.

But both the physician and his proud patron still bore in undying remembrance a little episode of early days, and for reasons of mutual interest, their friendship remained firm and unimpeachable.

Thirty years before, Lady Van Tyne was a plump, pretty brunette of eighteen, or rather, such was the charming Isabel Montfort, for the wealthy Sir Casper Van Tyne had not as yet secured her for his bride, and Dr. Seward was but a beginner in the fascinating science which later brought him fame and fortune.

Now, whenever he saw the Lady Van Tyne, his thoughts involuntarily wandered back to the summer day when, with consternation in her face, Lady Montfort had called upon him with the vivacious Isabel to secure his immediate and most careful services.

The good lady readily accepted his verdict and in all innocence prepared her daughter for the immediate journey to America, which the imperative physician prescribed.

Little did the good woman realize that all her elaborate preparations were smiled at, more or less sadly, by her daughter and the clever physician.

For, instead of the extended trip across the ocean, Miss Isabel betook herself quietly to the private residence of the physician, and there for three months she remained under the careful surveillance of doctor and nurse.

The ruse was more than successful, inasmuch as Miss Isabel was restored to her mother, and Sir Casper's eager arms, in rapidly improving health, while the young physician's somewhat astounding fee was quietly paid by a gentleman of excellent social standing who was, moreover, the husband of one of the most charming and estimable ladies of Dr. Seward's acquaintance.

The secret had been well guarded. Now and then a dull pang of self-reproach was experienced by the physician when he remembered how indifferent he had been to the fate of the child after he had secured a home and guardianship for it. He watched it more or less interestedly for about ten years, as he also watched that other boy so singularly alike in feature but so widely different in parentage and social prospects.

The boys, at ten and eleven respectively, were as near alike as brothers, but from that time on there were changes in the adopted parents mode of life, and the child of unsanctified love vanished from his gaze forever.

Into the lives of all physicians there come many and varied episodes of private nature, but probably of all the secret games indulged in by unscrupulous human beings, that one is best remembered wherein they hold so prominent a hand.

It was little wonder, in the light of such reflections, that Dr. Seward evinced not only a slight irritability regarding his patient's hallucination, but also a most extraordinary desire to see this young man whose personal appearance was so suggestive of the Infernal Regions.

CHAPTER VII. THE BREATH OF PASSION.

The torch-light of Passion, how fierce is its power—

It wakens, it burns, it consumes in an hour;

Accursed is the mortal who feels its hot breath,

For the end is destruction—destruction and death.

Unfortunately for the fate of her future, Stella did not see the extraordinary expression on the young man's face that caused such mental consternation among her guests.

The thrill which vibrated through her entire being at the touch of his firm hand rendered her incapable for the moment of meeting his eyes.

So strong was the current of magnetism that passed between them that the mingled sensations of fear and bewilderment forced her to withdraw her hand with so much vehemence that she was obliged, from an innate sense of courtesy, to make a trifling remark to cover the seeming rudeness of her action.

So swift was the transformation in his face, that, when her eyes were finally raised to his, only the sweetest of smiles wreathed his proud, passionate lips, and the glance he bent upon her, was one of mingled reverence and admiration.

In vain the dowagers angled and the maidens blushed and simpered.

Maurice Sinclair moved about among the guests, always charming and attentive, but his expressive eyes followed Stella in her every motion and seemed to devour her beauty with an intensity so deep as to render him unconscious even to his own enchantment.

Only one of the gentlemen present had noticed particularly the greeting between Maurice and Stella, or if they had, man-like, they had attached no significance to the expression whatsoever, and would undoubtedly have reasoned, had their opinions been asked on the subject, that a man's face often expresses sentiments foreign to his nature, and that a fellow could hardly be called to account for the idiosyncrasies and caprices of unruly features.

But Sir Frederic Atherton had, for reasons of his own, been a keen observer of Maurice's face, and a look of loathing crossed his own noble countenance as he muttered, almost audibly, a word that sounded singularly like "cur." But as he noted the magical effect on Stella, he drew a long sigh which was as promptly checked with a firm closing of the lips, and stepping quickly forward actually stood between the two, then offering his arm to Stella with a laughing remark, he led her away, from a glance, which in his honorable soul, seemed like desecration.

Sir Frederic was nearly forty years of age; a man marvelously blessed by nature, in that he possessed not only a magnificent bearing; a face grand in its determination and strength; but a mental calibre as well, unequaled by another of his associates. To these he had added integrity and justice; winning the confidence of all by his honorable dealings both in social and business relations.

Women worshiped and followed him; Yea, they even flung themselves at his very feet, but thus far in life Sir Frederic had remained "heart whole and fancy free," while the memory of a good mother and a faithful sister saved him from being, like the majority of men whom women flatter, a chronic disbeliever in the chastity of their sex. Always courteous and gentle, it was no wonder that women and children loved and trusted him. Strong and honorable, it was only natural for men to give him confidence and respect, and he whom his fellow-men regard is sure to be of all men the most trustworthy.

The love of woman may be but the consequence of perfect features, manly proportions or a musical voice, but the regard of man for man comes only as the result of sterling worth.

For some time Sir Frederic had been questioning himself regarding the quality of his affection for Mrs. Sinclair's beautiful adopted daughter, but not until he saw her, a delicate flower, exposed if only for a second to the baneful light of an evil eye, did he realize how deeply and dearly he loved Stella. The truth stabbed him like a knife, but after the first sharp pain, and as he felt her hand upon his arm, a joy surged through his being that the forty well spent years of his life had hitherto failed to bring him.

After a moment's conversation with Mrs. Sinclair, Stella was again led away by one of Her Majesty's officers for a sprightly polka, and Sir Frederic glad to commune for a moment with his somewhat excited heart, moved a heavy chair farther into the shadow and sat down, while his eyes also watched the graceful movements of Stella, but with very different emotions from those which were rushing through Maurice Sinclair's brain at the same time.

Stella had danced with one after another of her guests and was seated for a moment's rest on a wide turkish divan in a shaded corner of the room.

It was only a moment, but Maurice's restless glance sought her out, and smiling his excuses into the baby face of Lady Isabel Van Tyne's youngest daughter, he, much to her disappointment, strolled across the room and stood before Stella with the subdued light of a chandelier brightening his wavy hair into glittering rings about his well shaped head.

"May I call you Stella?" he whispered abruptly, as he bent slightly toward her and rested one shapely white hand on a pot of rare exotics that helped to shade the sofa on which she rested.

Mrs. Sinclair was passing at that moment and the ring on Maurice's finger caught her eye. With a tender smile she laid her hand upon his and whispered softly, "How well I remember that ring, Maurice."

It was puzzling to Stella that he should appear so confused at this simple remark of his mother and withdraw his hand so rudely from her gentle clasp, but Mrs. Sinclair had passed quietly on, and remembering that his question remained unanswered she controlled her thoughts and responded frankly, "Certainly, Maurice, I should feel awkward enough to call you Mr. Sinclair after hearing and speaking the name of Maurice so frequently for so many years. I think, really, I almost consider you my own brother," she continued shyly, although a passing blush and an almost imperceptible hesitancy in her speech gave the pretty avowal an appearance of untruthfulness.

To the many eager observers of this momentary by-play, the avowal, judged by the eye alone, seemed almost a confession of a dearer sentiment than the sisterly affection to which she had so frankly laid claim.

Notwithstanding her words of Platonic friendship Maurice smiled as if well pleased, not only with the words but their silent contradiction. He sank gracefully upon the divan by her side and in so doing his hand accidently touched hers and in an instant there came again that expression of consuming passion that had darkened his face at their first meeting. Again the mesmeric spell of his presence was upon her. A sensation, this time wholly indescribable, passed over her frame and as before she was powerless to raise her eyes until the cloud was lifted and once more the calm of a summer sky was mirrored on his exquisite face.

Just at that instant a slight crash was heard near by and both started involuntarily from their momentary forgetfulness to ascertain the cause.

CHAPTER VIII. A MIDNIGHT CRIME.

How oft men use the gifts of God

To aid their plans and cloak their sins;

At nightfall, silence reigns above

And deviltry on earth begins.

The noise was merely the shivering to atoms of a small venetian vase which stood on a diminutive ebony table not far from the divan on which Stella was seated.

Mrs. Sinclair had accidently struck the table, and the gossips declared afterward, in the privacy of their own Boudoirs, that she was watching her son at the very time when his accidental touching of Stella's hand had wrought so fearful a change upon his features, and, quite naturally, they argued that an intuitive fear for her adopted daughter's future made her hand unsteady. At any rate, she had turned suddenly pale and grasped the slender table for support with the result already mentioned.

Maurice sprang promptly forward, and motioning to a servant to remove the fragments of glass, offered his arm gracefully to his mother and passed up the room to where the Countess Martinet was sitting with her angular daughter.

Stella took this opportunity to join the Misses Huntington on a neighboring sofa and again the strains of music floated through the spacious parlors and partners were soon whirling gaily about in the witcheries of a glorious waltz.

Never had Stella looked so superbly beautiful as to-night, with the graceful folds of her exquisite white satin draperies clinging about her charming figure. The gold of her hair scintillated in myriad iridescent rays about her broad forehead and snowy neck, while the gleaming diamond star that shown upon her bosom vied with the sparkling lustre of her eye, and in the opinions of the gentlemen, at least, paled woefully in the comparison.

Before this enjoyable ball was over it was no wonder that hearts, adoration and homes were silently or in hurried, eager whispers, laid humbly upon the altar of love, and many an ardent lover went home that night to dream of heavenly raptures or exactly the reverse.

To Stella, however, the sentiment of all absorbing passion was, as yet unknown. Life was at its best and brightest with her, and the brief, inexplicable sensation of fear which she had felt at Maurice's touch, was the only cloud, small and visionary as it was, that in any way darkened the skies of her perfect happiness.

The fog was still resting heavily upon the earth when the last carriage rolled away and Maurice walked with his mother up the broad stairs to spend his first night in ten years beneath the parental roof.

Some way Stella lingered longer than usual that night over her adieux to Sir Frederic Atherton, but the fault, if fault it was, could not be laid at her door.

His carriage was the last and if he held her hand a moment longer than usual, she reasoned that, it was only because he had known her from childhood and now, at her debut into the world of womanly duties and pleasures, it was only natural that he should feel a desire to congratulate and perhaps advise her for her future welfare.

It was with this idea in mind that she let her hand rest quietly in his and raised her eyes so confidently to his face.

What she saw there was neither the courteous smile of congratulation or the benign bearing of one about to offer sage admonition. Instead, she saw a look of such ineffable tenderness bent upon her, that to her inmost soul there came an instantaneous sense of security, protection and sacred confidence, and tears suffused her lovely eyes in a blinding flood of gratitude which she was powerless to control.

Another instant and his lips had touched her golden hair, and the sound of the departing carriage told her he was gone.

With a curious feeling of loneliness and amazement thereat, she followed, almost in a dream, to Mrs. Sinclair's door.

Stella said good night as soon as possible, thinking that in all probability mother and son would wish to converse on many topics of interest, but as she passed from the room she turned and smiling sweetly, said, "I am sorry to usurp your old quarters in the west wing, Maurice, but we thought I had better not change as the south room might be more grateful to your warm country tastes."

With this slightly saucy allusion to his mysterious past, Stella kissed her finger tips to Mrs. Sinclair and closed the door softly behind her.

After Stella had gone Maurice seemed suddenly fatigued. The light vanished from his eyes and his tones grew languid, while a certain nervousness of manner betrayed to Mrs. Sinclair's acute perceptions the fact that, for some reason, her son felt ill at ease in his mother's presence.

Kissing him fondly she made haste to say, "Now darling, you had better go right to your room. We shall have plenty of time to talk in the future, for I am an old woman now and I trust my son will never feel like leaving me again."

"How old is Stella, mother?" was his somewhat irrelevant remark when she had finished speaking.

"She is twenty-one to day, my son, and I think you will agree that a sweeter, truer woman could hardly be imagined," responded his mother warmly.

"She is very beautiful," Maurice began, but checking himself, he said abruptly, "I have spent the last three years of my life wandering about in the heart of the Great Desert of Shamo, and some times I fancy the sulphurous fumes and heat of its burning lakes have impregnated my blood and tainted my whole system with a substance, which, although capable of overcoming other impurities, is but a poor choice between the natural and the acquired evil."

Here, seeing his mother's look of complete mystification, he paused and added playfully, "Ah, mother, I have frightened and perplexed you all ready: I must retire and to-morrow you shall say whether I am brute or human, for in truth, some times I can hardly tell." With these words he laughed a low, musical and extraordinarily joyous laugh that had attracted her once before that evening, then touching his mother's cheek lightly with his lips, went hurriedly from the room, through the hall and up the wide staircase.

On reaching the hall above he paused for a moment as if in doubt and then turned abruptly toward the west wing and, notwithstanding Stella's parting words, passed swiftly on until he reached the door of his "old quarters," then he drew a small, odd looking vial from his pocket and with it still in his hand, turned the handle and without word or warning, quietly entered the room.

CHAPTER IX. MAURICE SINCLAIR ESCAPES WITH HIS VICTIM.

In the darkness of the night,

When the sun has lost command,

Wrong walks side by side with right—

Sin and truth go hand in hand.

Mrs. Sinclair rose late the next morning. A sleepless night had been followed by hours of heavy slumber which extended far into the forenoon. She awoke as she had retired, burdened with a trouble for which she could find no tangible form.

Here was her only son, resembling his father in face and manner,—a young man exemplary to all appearances, the knowledge of whose safe return, after long years of sorrowful separation, had overflowed her heart with gratitude and mother love, but whose actual presence thrilled her, not with unspeakable affection, but with an indefinable sensation of perplexity and apprehension. She blamed herself for the restraint which so evidently existed between Maurice and herself, and in this self accusing mood she rose and prepared earnestly to explore the seemingly inaccessible paths to her son's estranged affections.

Breakfast, was the first suggestion of her sensible mind. She smiled, even in her perplexity, at this prompting of the flesh, but obeying the practical impulse, she rang for the butler and assured herself that everything in this particular department was in its customary, excellent condition.

She was indeed perplexed and the limit of her logical nature was reached when she undertook the Herculean task of lifting the cloud which hung so heavily over her son's individuality. She saw no inherited trait, neither could she account for the developing of those peculiarities which so early in life branded her only son with the marks of evil associations and morbid desires. True, his faults at fifteen years were but the outcome of boyish adventures and experiments, but a nature like his, impulsive and so prone to investigation, had caused her, even in his childhood days, to look forward to serious, inevitable results unless added years brought more than the average amount of judgment to balance the opposing inclinations.

Living, as he evidently had, in ignorant and brutal Mongolian habitations, the seeds of vice, she reasoned, could easily have been fostered, yet why she should so persistently associate vice with every thought of this almost faultless young man, was a mystery she could not solve with all her reasoning.

She feared him intuitively, and with this thought of fear there came, strangely enough, a thought of Stella, and obeying an impulse which she could not resist, she went to the young girl's room to awake her for the breakfast hour. She knocked repeatedly at Stella's door, but there was no response. She called her name excitedly, then trembling with torturing apprehension, pushed open the door and entered the apartment.

Stella was not there. The bed was undisturbed, so also was each and every article about the room. Almost unconsciously she bent and picked up a small vial from the floor, and thrusting it into her pocket, rushed wildly into the hall and straight on to the rooms designed for her son's occupancy, and turning the latch without ceremony, stepped breathlessly in, only to find that also vacant and everything in perfect order. Running frantically about the house, for a few moments the bewildered woman forgot all self control and in agonizing tones enlisted every member of her household in a search for the missing ones.

All in vain: Stella and Maurice had disappeared in the blackness of the night, and the impenetrable fog had swallowed up their footsteps and obliterated every trace by which the direction of their flight could be determined.

CHAPTER X. THE SCARLET HOUSE OF SIN.

The sinner stands with tearless eye

And looks on virtue's lovely grace:—

Too late, her soul's repentant cry

The brand of sin is on her face