from his seat, and without replying to her question began to pace rapidly up and down the room.
Her grave, troubled eyes followed him slowly up and down, while a terrible pain tore her heart.
He seemed to have forgotten her presence, as with clenched hands and wildly staring eyes he paced up and down, muttering bitter phrases to himself.
Irene caught the echo of some passionate words quoted in a voice of raging scorn:
"Falser than all fancy fathoms,
Falser than all songs have sung,
Puppet to a father's threat,
And servile to a shrewish tongue."
Suddenly he stopped in his wild march, and came back to her side.
"No, child, keep your secret," he said, hoarsely. "Keep your secret, and I will keep mine. God help you if yours be as hard to bear as mine."
She must have pitied the dreary despair of his face and voice if her heart had not been hardened against him by her terrible suspicions. A hard, scornful laugh broke over her lips.
"Remorse is always hard to bear," she said, bitterly, to herself.
He looked at her in wonder.
"We will keep our own sad secrets," he repeated, mournfully. "But you are friendless. I will be your friend. You are homeless. My home shall be yours. You are nameless. You shall be Lilia's sister, and share her name. It is a noble one, and has never been stained by disgrace."
She looked at him gravely, fixedly.
Did he speak the truth? Did not her mother's shame and hers lie at his door?
"Do you accept my proposition?" he inquired, anxiously.
For a moment she was tempted to give him an angry passionate denial, to say bitterly:
"No, I will not have these things on sufferance that should be mine by right. I will not have your favor or your pity, you demon, who blasted my mother's life and mine! I could rather curse you!"
But on a sudden she remembered that her suspicions were merely suspicions. She had no proof that this noble-looking man, who seemed crushed by the weight of some inward sorrow, was her father. Perhaps she wronged him in her thoughts.
"I must give him the benefit of the doubt, since he saved my life," she thought, and put out a cold, little hand to him.
"I must perforce accept your kindness," she said, mournfully, "since I have not a friend to turn to in all the wide, wide world."
He crushed the slender fingers in his firm clasp.
"I will be your friend, always—remember that," he said.
Irene would have thanked him feebly, but the saloon door hastily unclosed, admitting Lilia and her faded, peevish-looking mother.
"You here, Clarence!" exclaimed the latter, in a tone of marked displeasure.
He gave her a quick, cold look. Her eyes fell before it. Cowed by her husband's superior will, she vented her spite on Irene.
"Lilia has been telling me that you threw yourself into the water," she said, flashing her eyes full of greenish rage on the pale young girl. "Oh, you wicked, wicked girl!"
"Madam!" exclaimed Irene, in a proud and haughty tone.
Mr. Stuart advanced, and drew his wife's arm through his own.
"Come with me, Mrs. Stuart, I want you," he said, leading her deliberately from the room.
Lilia stood looking at Irene's indignant face, with a strange expression. The child was like a cat, one moment all silky fur and purring fondness, the next ready to attack with teeth and claws.
She saw the resentment at her mother's coarse attack burning in Irene's dark blue eyes, and exclaimed, with peevish childishness:
"Mamma says you must have done something very bad, indeed, or you wouldn't have thrown yourself into the water! She says you are a bad, wicked girl, and that I musn't entertain you in my pretty saloon, so I guess you had better go back to Mrs. Leslie, and let me have my lounge!"
Irene gazed at the child, almost petrified by her startling change from sweetness and affection to spite and rancour. She saw the mother's spirit flashing from the eyes of the child, and rising with a proud step, left the room without a word.
"Is he really my father," she asked herself, "and is that coarse woman the one who was thought better to bear his name than my angel-hearted mother? And that sickly, petted child—does she shed greater lustre on the proud name of Stuart than I would have done?"
She hastened to Mrs. Leslie's tiny apartment, and finding herself alone, threw herself down upon the white bed and burst into a torrent of bitter tears.
Mrs. Leslie entering more than an hour later found her there, still sobbing and weeping in a very abandonment of despair. She stooped down impulsively and kissed the pure, white brow.
"Do not mind Mrs. Stuart, my dear," she said consolingly. "She is a spiteful, jealous cat, and hates you for your fair, young face."
Irene looked up, startled. How had Mrs. Leslie learned so much?
"Oh, I have heard about her naughtiness to you just now," smiled the lady. "Do not grieve, Irene. I will be your friend. I am a wealthy widow, and have no one to please but myself. I have fallen in love with you, you mysterious little waif! You shall be my protege if you will."
Seeing that Irene could not speak for tears, she slipped a little note into her hand.
"Dry your eyes and read that," she said. "It is my recommendation to your favor."
Irene obeyed her in surprise. It was a pencil scrawl, hastily done.
"My poor, unfortunate child," it ran, "owing to the hardness of my wife I am unable to take you into the bosom of my family, as I wished to do; but I am none the less interested in your welfare. You will be Mrs. Leslie's protege. She is one of my oldest friends, and will be like a sister to you, while you may always command me as your best friend. It will be necessary, perhaps, that you should assume some name in order to avoid censure and suspicion. The world is very hard and cold, as you may have learned ere now, and it is best to put every defense possible between you and its sneers. Let Mrs. Leslie assist you in the selection of a suitable name."
The hurried note closed abruptly with the name of Clarence Stuart. Irene raised her eyes wonderingly to the lady's face.
"Why does he take such an interest in me?" she asked.
"He saved your life, my dear, and you seem in some sort to belong to him. Besides, he is naturally one of the noblest and best of men. His heart is full of pity for the weak and helpless," said the lady, enthusiastically.
There was a moment's silence; then Mrs. Leslie said, kindly:
"What do you say, my dear—will you be my little sister, and let me care for you?"
"Yes, until I can act for myself," Irene answered, softly, and pressing her girlish lips gratefully upon the lady's small white hand.
CHAPTER XIX
Mrs. Leslie smoothed the girl's rippling golden curls tenderly.
"And the name?" she said. "Shall you not take Mr. Stuart's advice about that? It will be far—far better."
Irene was silent, warm blushes drifting over her fair, young face.
"Think," said the gentle lady, "there must surely be some name to which you have a legal right. Is there not, my dear?"
Deeper and warmer grew the blush on the fair, girlish face.
She had suddenly remembered Guy Kenmore, and the ceremony which Mr. Clavering had declared to be binding upon them.
"My name is Mrs. Kenmore," she said to herself, with a strange feeling trembling at her heart as she recalled the handsome man to whom she was bound.
Then a flash of pride usurped the thrill of almost unconscious tenderness.
"He did not