Lucile Triumphant Part 33

"It is from my father!" cried Jeanette, sinking down, all white and trembling, upon a worn old couch and clasping the precious box to her as though she could not let it go. "Father! father!" she cried, and, bending her head upon her arms, sobbed as though her heart would break.

Lucile turned and tiptoed from the room, thinking she had intruded long enough; but a soft call from Jeanette made her pause. She seated herself on the stairs and waited.

To Lucile's tingling consciousness that short wait seemed an eternity.

Her head ached with the flood of imagination that besieged it, her two hands grasped the banister to keep her rooted to the spot, while her feet tapped an impatient tattoo on the floor.

At last the longed-for summons came.

"Lucile," called a low, unsteady voice, "will you come to me?"

Would she come? Lucile flew up the winding stairs and came to a standstill before Jeanette a trifle uncertainly, not quite sure what was expected of her.

The uncertainty lasted only a moment, for, as Jeanette, shy, and dewy-eyed, held out her arms to her new-found friend, quite suddenly Lucile knew. Impulsively she threw her arms about the older girl and drew her close, whispering, softly, "Tell me all you feel you can, Jeanette; you can trust me."

"Oh, I believe that," said Jeanette, between sharp little intakes of breath. "Were I not sure of it, I could not so confide in you."

"Thank you," said Lucile, simply.

"You see," the girl continued, "when I was very young I went to live with M. Charloix, whose will this is," indicating the doc.u.ment.

"And M. Charloix had a son, named after him, Henri," Lucile supplemented.

The girl drew back in startled wonder, while the bright color flooded her face. "You know that--but how?" she cried.

"We sailed with M. Charloix from New York to Liverpool," Lucile explained, striving vainly to keep her voice calm and steady. "He was searching for you."

"Then you know--he has told you everything," whispered the girl, while the doc.u.ment in her trembling hand rattled and shook. "Was he--did he--oh, how did he look?" And she turned pleading eyes upon Lucile.

Lucile's own eyes filled suddenly and she had to choke back the tears before she could continue. "He looked very wan and sad. You see, uncertainty like that must be pretty hard to bear."

"Ah, it has not been easy for me," said the girl, softly. "It is a great thing to renounce all you hold most dear in this world--to fly for refuge to a spot like this--the long, weary nights--the waiting--the longing--oh, you cannot know!" and she burst into a pa.s.sion of weeping.

"You--you're going to make me cry," said Lucile, while a tear rolled down her face and splashed upon Jeanette's bowed head.

"Ah, I am so foolis.h.!.+ There is no reason for tears--not now," and over the girl's tear-stained face flashed such a look of radiant joy that Lucile could only gaze, dumbfounded, at the transformation.

"Wh-what?" she stammered.

"Ah, you wonder, you are amazed--but you will not be when I have told you all. Look, this is the will--the will for which I have heard Henri is hunting. But that is not everything--oh, it is nothing! See!" and she held up the little tin box for Lucile's inspection, feverishly, eagerly.

"In this is a letter from my father--my father, who died when I was so young and left me to the care of my guardian. He was good to me, but M.

Charloix----" She s.h.i.+vered slightly. "But the letter,"--she drew it forth reverently--"ah, that changes the world for Henri and me!

"You see, when my father was very young, scarcely more than a boy, he ran away and married a girl of great beauty and intelligence, but one considered by the people among whom he moved as far beneath him in station. The rest is so old a story--his family were so cruel to him when it came to their knowledge, disinheriting him; and my father, not being accustomed to earn his own living, could not make enough to protect his sweet young wife--my mother----" Her voice broke, and Lucile squeezed the small, brown hand encouragingly.

"Ah, imagine it!" she cried. "Most often she had not enough to eat. Then, when I was only an infant, heart-broken at the suffering she thought herself to have brought upon herself and little daughter, together with so great privation itself, she died. My father followed soon after--heart-broken. Before he died, he wrote me this--ah, see how old it is--for he could not bear that I should hear of him from other lips than his."

"But you, the child?" Lucile interrupted, eagerly. "What became of you?"

"Ah, he bequeathed me to the one friend whom he had not lost--and he was good; I cannot make you understand how good!"

"But he never told you about your parents?"

"It was my father's request that he should not--and--and----" Her voice trailed off into silence. Chin in hand, she gazed unseeingly at the opposite wall.

Lucile was silent for a moment, busy patching the pieces of the story together into one connected whole. Then, leaning forward suddenly, she cried, excitedly, "Then M. Charloix deliberately made up that wicked, cruel lie that separated you and his son?"

The girl nodded. "But nothing matters now, save that it was a lie," she cried, and Lucile, looking at her, marveled.

The raucous toot of a motor horn brought both the girls to their feet with a startled exclamation.

"Oh, it is your friends," said Jeanette, running to the window. "You must go down at once. Ah, I am sorry to part with you, _ma cherie_," holding the younger girl from her gently and looking earnestly into the flushed, eager, face. "You have come into my life like some good fairy, bringing happiness with you."

Emotion choked the words Lucile wanted to say, but her silence was more eloquent than words and Jeanette was satisfied.

A moment later they were descending the stairs, arm in arm, and very reluctant to part.

To Lucile's surprise, Jeanette paused as they reached the lower hall and motioned her to go on.

"But I want you to meet my father and mother and the girls," Lucile protested. "You've got to give them a chance to thank you."

But Jeanette only shook her head. "I can see no one now," she whispered, tremulously. "Ah, I could not bear it!"

Lucile nodded understandingly. Then, "Monsieur Charloix?" she questioned.

"Send him to me." This last was very low.

CHAPTER XXIII

LUCILE TRIUMPHS

Lucile sped down the steps and into the waiting arms of her a.s.sembled family.

She was hugged and kissed and handed from one to the other in a very ecstasy of reunion, until Mr. Payton spoke, a trifle huskily.

"Perhaps," said he, "perhaps it would be just as well to thank the young person who handed our runaway back to us," and he glanced inquiringly in the direction of the chateau.

"No, no," said Lucile, hurriedly. "You see, it----" She hesitated; then, throwing secrecy to the winds, she pushed Jessie and Evelyn ahead of her into the automobile, crying excitedly, "I can't keep it in another minute; there's no use trying--I can't--I can't----" and, turning from her astonished friends to her no less astonished father, she said, "Dad, if you'll only get started for home, I'll tell you all about it----"

"All about what?" Jessie started to interrupt.

"I'm going to tell you, Jessie, dear, but we must get started first," and she clapped her hands impatiently while Mr. Payton gave the necessary orders and the chauffeur started the motor.

"Oh, Phil, Phil, do stop staring so!" she cried, hysterically. "I know you are going to be awfully cut up when you learn that your much-abused and misunderstood sister was right, after all."

"Lucile," cried Evelyn, in exasperation. "If you don't stop talking in riddles and get down to plain United States that everybody can understand----"