Kitabı oku: «The Bride of the Tomb, and Queenie's Terrible Secret», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XXXI

Mrs. Vance read in the daily papers an account on the inquest that had been held over the dead bodies of her two victims.

She was surprised and troubled at first because her scheme for burning the house down and destroying the bodies had failed, but as she saw that no clew to the perpetrator of the poisoning had been discovered, her courage rose in proportion.

"I am free now," she thought, with a guilty thrill of triumph. "The two old harpies who preyed upon me are dead, and their secret with them. No one will ever discover my agency in their death. Suspicion would never dream of fastening upon me. Who would believe that these white hands could be stained with crime?"

She held them up, admiring their delicate whiteness and the costly rings that glittered upon them, then went to the mirror and looked at her handsome reflection.

"I am beautiful," she said to herself with a proud smile. "There is no reason why I should not win Lancelot Darling. A woman can marry whom she will when she is gifted with beauty and grace like mine. And I will yet be Lancelot Darling's wife. I solemnly swear that I will!"

In the exuberance of her triumph and her pride in herself, she ordered the carriage and went out to spend the money she had rescued from Peter and Haidee in some new feminine adornment wherewith to deck her beauty for the eyes of the obdurate young millionaire.

Time flew past and brought the cold and freezing days of November. The latter part of it was exceedingly cold, and snow covered the ground with a thick, white crust.

Lancelot Darling came into the drawing-room one day where Ada and the beautiful widow sat by the glowing fire, Mrs. Vance busy as usual with some trifle of fancy work, and Ada yawning over the latest novel. They welcomed him without surprise or formality, for he had fallen into a habit of dropping in familiarly and with the freedom of a brother. Mrs. Vance, after the first few weeks of affected shyness and prudence, had resumed her old frank relations with Lance, though but feebly seconded by that young man, who had not recovered from the shock of her unwomanly avowal of love for himself.

"Well, Ada, how does the novel please you?" he inquired, looking at the book that she had laid aside.

"Either the author is very dull, or I am out of spirits," she returned, smiling, "for I have failed to become interested in the woes of the heroine, this morning. Have you read it, Lance?"

"Oh, yes, a week ago," he answered, carelessly. "I found it readable and interesting. I dare say you are in fault to-day, not the author. You are out of tune."

"Perhaps so," said Ada, "but what am I to do about it? Can you suggest a remedy?"

"The sleighing is very fine just now," he returned. "It thrills one very pleasurably. Have you tried it?"

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Vance and myself have been out twice with papa this week."

"By daylight?" he queried.

"Yes, by daylight," she answered.

"The latest sensation, however, is sleigh-riding by moonlight," rejoined Lance. "There is a full moon, you know, and the nights are superb. Parties go out to Dabney's hotel—it is far out on the suburbs—and have hot coffee and oysters by way of refreshment, you know—then they return to the city, getting home near midnight usually. Altogether it is very exhilarating."

"You speak from experience, I presume?" said Ada.

"Yes. I tried it myself last night, being induced thereto by the glowing representations of two young friends of mine. I found the drive quite as bracing and delightful as they described it. I should be tempted to try it again to-night if I could persuade you, Ada, and Mrs. Vance to accompany me."

"Why, that would be delightful," said Ada, clapping her hands, with the pleasure of a child over a new toy. "I think that is just what I am needing—a new sensation."

"You consent, then?" said he, smiling at her pretty enthusiasm.

"Oh, yes, if Mrs. Vance will go, too. Will you do so?" inquired she, turning to the lady, who had as yet taken no part in the conversation.

"Do you wish to go very much?" inquired she, looking up from her work with a very pleasant smile.

"I think I should enjoy it very much."

"I don't know that I care for it very much," said the widow, with a light sigh; "but I will go to please you, Ada."

"It is settled then," said Lance. "We will go, and I think I can promise you both a very enjoyable evening."

It could not fail to be otherwise, Mrs. Vance thought to herself, with a thrill of pleasure at the knowledge that she would be seated beside him for hours, hearing his musical voice and looking into his handsome face.

"If it were not for that hateful Ada going, too," she said to herself, "what a chance I could have to make an impression on his heart!"

But regret it as she would she could not prevent Ada from going, for she saw plainly enough that the excursion was planned for the young girl's pleasure, not her own. She was merely secondary in the affair. A thrill of jealous pain cut through her heart like a knife, and the furtive glance of hatred she cast upon Ada boded no good to the lovely and high-spirited young girl.

Night came, and Lance appeared with his elegant little sleigh. The ladies, comfortably arrayed in sealskin cloaks and hats, were helped into the sleigh, the warm buffalo robes were tucked around them, and taking the reins in hand, Lance started out at a dashing pace over the smooth and shining crust of snow.

The moon shone gloriously, making the ground look as if paved with sparkling gems, the silver bells rang out a merry chime, and the hearts of all three seemed to fill with pleasure at the joyous sound, and the breath of winter seemed like a caress as it sighed past their warm and glowing cheeks.

Numbers of merry pleasure-seekers were out enjoying the fine sleighing and the beautiful night. Gay words and happy laughter rang out from youthful voices, and many a heart beat high with hope and love.

Mrs. Vance and Ada enjoyed their moonlight ride very much, and found their appetite sharpened for the delicious supper which was ready for them when they arrived at their destination.

They met several of their friends at Dabney's hotel on the same pleasant mission as themselves, and enjoyed an hour of social converse before starting on their homeward way. They were the last to leave.

"It has been very pleasant," said Ada, impulsively, as Lance tucked the buffalo robes around them preparatory to starting.

"I am glad you have enjoyed it," answered the young man, touching up his spirited horses and starting off in gallant style.

They had gone about half a mile when, in turning a corner, the mettlesome young horses became suddenly frightened at something, and reared upward, nearly upsetting the sleigh and its occupants. With a grasp of steel, Lance tried to bring them down upon their feet, but succeeded only to see them start away at a maddened and furious pace, entirely beyond his control, while shriek after shriek of terror burst from the two ladies as they clung to Lance.

Impeded by the clinging arms of the two, and distressed beyond measure by their frightened screams, it was impossible for Lance to do anything to help them. Though he held on to the reins so tightly that his hands were wounded and bleeding, his utmost strength was insufficient to arrest the speed of the horses. They ran faster and faster, as though incited to greater speed by the screams of the women. At length, with a frantic effort, they cleared themselves of the sleigh and bounded away, leaving the dainty vehicle overturned and broken, and its occupants reposing in a snow-drift.

Lance was the first to lift himself up and look about. He felt as if every bone in his body were broken, so swift had been the impetus that hurled him out; but repressing his own pain he hastened to his two companions.

"Ada, Mrs. Vance, are either of you hurt?" he inquired, anxiously.

Mrs. Vance was already on her feet, shaking the loose snow from her hair and dress.

"I believe I am quite uninjured beyond the shock of the fall," said she. "Are you, Lance?"

"Oh! I am all right," said he; "but, Ada, my dear girl, are you hurt?"

Ada answered his query with a moan of pain, but made no effort to rise. He bent over her and lifted the slight form in his strong arms.

"Can you stand?" he inquired, anxiously.

"Oh, no—no!" she moaned. "My ankle seems to be twisted or sprained, and my head struck something hard like a rock in falling. It aches dreadfully."

She burst into tears, sobbing aloud in her pain. Lance looked about him in despair.

There he was in the road, several miles from the city, with two helpless females to take care of, and his broken sleigh lying useless, the horses quite out of sight. Worse than all, Ada lying helpless in his arms, unable to stand or walk, and moaning like a child in her acute suffering.

"This is terrible," he said. "What can we do, Mrs. Vance?"

"Nothing," said she, coldly, maddened by the sight of Ada's head resting against his shoulder, "except to remain here and freeze to death waiting for some other vehicle to happen along and take us home."

"Something may happen along at any minute," he answered, encouragingly. "There are numbers of people out to-night as well as ourselves."

"It is quite probable that we are the last on the road," said she doubtfully. "Indeed, I believe that we are. If Ada were unhurt I should suggest that we walk home, or back to the hotel at least. Ada, my dear, rouse yourself and do not weep so childishly. Do you not see what a plight you are putting us in? I am quite sure you can walk a little if you will only try to make an effort."

Thus adjured, Ada lifted herself and tried to put her foot on the ground and stand up.

"It is useless," said she, falling back with a sharp cry. "My ankle is too badly hurt. I cannot stand upon it."

Ere she ceased to speak, the welcome tinkle of sleigh-bells in the distance saluted their ears.

"Thank Heaven!" ejaculated Lance, "we have but a moment to wait. Relief is at hand."

"How fortunate!" chimed in Mrs. Vance, recovering her good humor at the prospect of help in their extremity.

Directly a splendid little sleigh drove up to them, stopped, and the single occupant, a handsome young man, jumped out.

"What is the trouble here?" he inquired, in a genial, friendly voice. "Why, upon my word," with a start of surprise, "it's you, Lance, is it not?"

"Yes, it is I, Phil, and I was never so glad to see you before in my life," answered Lance, in a tone of relief. "Mrs. Vance, Miss Lawrence, this is my best friend, Philip St. John."

"You have met with an accident?" said Mr. St. John, after briefly acknowledging this off-hand presentation to the ladies.

"Yes, my horses ran off and overturned the sleigh, pitching us into the road. Mrs. Vance and myself luckily escaped unhurt, but Miss Lawrence has sustained an injury that incapacitates her for walking."

"Perhaps I can help you," said the new-comer, cordially. "My sleigh is very small, but it will be roomy enough to accommodate one of these ladies, I am sure. Now, if Miss Lawrence will trust herself to my care, I will take her home immediately. And, Lance, if you and Mrs. Vance can stand a walk of a mile back to Dabney's hotel, you will find that they keep a good trap there and you can get it to return in."

"What do you say to my friend's plan, Ada?" asked Lance, looking down at her as she leaned upon his arm. "Will you allow Mr. St. John to take you home? I assure you he will take the kindest care of you."

"I accept his offer with thanks," said Ada, gratefully, "but it seems selfish to leave Mrs. Vance and you to trudge back to the hotel on foot."

"My dear child, pray do not distress yourself on that score," said Mrs. Vance, in her kindest tone. "I feel so thankful for this timely assistance in your behalf that I shall not mind the long walk at all."

"It is the best thing they can do, Miss Lawrence," said Mr. St. John, respectfully. "They would freeze if they remained here waiting till I sent a conveyance out from the city, but if they walk back to the hotel they can get Dabney's sleigh and follow us directly."

Ada was accordingly lifted into the very small sleigh of Mr. St. John; the robes from Lance's useless sleigh were brought and tucked around her, and in a minute she was off like the wind for home, feeling in spite of her pain a very shy consciousness of her proximity to the handsome young stranger.

Lancelot and his fair companion in distress set off rather soberly on their return to Dabney's hotel.

CHAPTER XXXII

It was rather an embarrassing position to be placed in both for Lancelot and the handsome widow. After some little desultory conversation they both relapsed into silence and walked soberly on their way.

Mrs. Vance at length broke the silence in a low and very faltering voice.

"Lance," she murmured, "I must avail myself of this, the only opportunity I have had, to crave your pardon and forgetfulness for a confession which I too sadly remember with blushes of shame for my madness and folly. Forgive me for recurring to that moment of frenzy and shame. I only do so to entreat your pardon and crave your forgetfulness."

He felt the small hand trembling within his arm where it rested, like a fluttering bird; looking down in the brilliant moonlight he saw tears shining like drops of dew on her down-drooped lashes.

He did not answer, and she continued, in a voice full of sadness and shame:

"Words cannot paint my grief and shame for that deeply deplored confession. Not shame that I love you, Lance, but shame that in an hour of impulsive and passionate abandonment, I showed you the secret of my heart and gained in return your bitterest scorn."

"No, no, you mistake me, dear madam," said he, struggling for words to reassure her. "It was not scorn—it was grief that moved me to speak as I did. I felt your words dimly as an outrage on the modesty of womanhood—oh, forgive me, I do not know how to express myself," cried he, feeling himself floundering into deeper depths with every effort he made to extricate himself.

"You express yourself only too clearly," she cried with inexpressible bitterness; "I see that my fault will never be forgiven or forgotten."

"Oh! indeed it will," cried Lance eagerly, trying to condone his offensive words. "What I meant to say was this; I felt very badly over your words at first, but since I have seen how much you regret your rashness I have ceased to consider it anything but a momentary indiscretion which I trust soon to wholly forget, when you will again be reinstated in my whole confidence and respect."

"Oh! thank you, thank you," she cried, chafing at the coldness of his words, but trying to content herself since she could extract no kinder speech from him. "Believe me, Lance, I will try to merit your confidence, and no indiscretion of mine shall wound you again."

"And we will drop that subject forever, will we not?" said he, leading her up the hotel steps and into the warm, lighted parlor.

"Forever!" she answered with a quivering sigh.

He drew forward a chair before the glowing coal fire and led her to it.

"You must feel tired and cold after your long walk," he said; "I will have something warm sent in while I inquire about the sleigh."

He went away and directly a neat serving-maid entered, bearing a tray of warm refreshments.

Mrs. Vance drank some coffee, but had no appetite for the viands, warm and delicious as they appeared, so the maid, with a courtesy took the tray and retired.

She waited some time before Lance returned. He came in looking pale and troubled.

"It is too bad," he said in a tone of vexation, "but Dabney's sleigh which I counted on confidently as being available was hired out in the earlier part of the evening to a couple of young fellows off on a lark into the country. They will not return until to-morrow evening."

"Then what are we to do?" she asked.

The young fellow smothered some sort of a vexed ejaculation between his mustached lips.

"We are to be patient," he answered, grimly. "Dabney knows a man a mile away from here who keeps a sleigh. He has sent off on the mere chance of its being at home to secure it for us."

He went out and left her sitting before the fire gazing into the glowing coals thoughtfully.

After he had gone she took out her watch and looked at it.

"Twelve o'clock," she repeated to herself, putting the watch quietly back.

Lance returned after an hour of patient waiting, accompanied by Mr. Dabney himself.

"We have been very unfortunate, indeed, in being unable to secure you a conveyance of any sort to-night, madam," he said, courteously. "It is now after one o'clock and all efforts have failed. Would it please you to retire and wait until morning? We will then provide comfortable means for your return."

She looked at Lance timidly.

"It is the only thing to be done," he answered, moodily. "I would walk to the city myself if it were the slightest use; but I am an indifferent walker, and could not possibly get back here till long after daylight; so the only course I see open is to wait for a sleigh which is promised me in the morning."

"If that is the case," she answered, sadly, "I should be glad to retire. I am very tired, and feel the shock of my accident painfully."

The gentlemen retired, and a maid came in and showed Mrs. Vance to a sleeping apartment. She locked the door, and threw herself wearily across the bed. She was laboring under some strong excitement. No sleep refreshed her burning eyelids that night. At daylight the little maid knocked at the door with a tempting breakfast arranged on a tray.

"The sleigh has arrived, and is waiting until you have your breakfast," said she, politely.

Mrs. Vance bathed her face and hands, re-arranged her disordered hair, and after doing full justice to the tray of viands, descended to Lance, who impatiently waited her coming.

He helped her into the sleigh, took up the reins and set off homeward.

"I hope you slept well?" he remarked, to break the awkward silence.

She turned her dark eyes up to meet his questioning glance. He saw with surprise they were hollow, languid and sleepless, while a glance of ineffable anguish shone upon him.

"Could I sleep well, do you think?" she inquired, in a voice full of passionate reproach. "Could I sleep at all, knowing the dreadful fate which awaits me?"

"I fail to understand you," said he, in a voice of perplexity.

"You cannot be so blind, Lance. You are only playing with me," she murmured, sadly.

"Pray explain yourself," he answered. "I give you my word of honor that your speech and manner simply mystify me. What dreadful fate awaits you, Mrs. Vance?"

She turned upon him a moment with flashing eyes, then looked down again as she answered in low, intense tones:

"Do you not understand, Lance, what my pride shrinks from telling you in plain terms?—the bitter truth that my stay with you last night at the Dabney Hotel has irretrievably compromised my fair fame in the eyes of the carping and censorious world?"

She paused, and Lancelot Darling sat still and motionless like one stricken with paralysis.

"Oh! that is impossible," he said at last. "No one knows of our accident."

"All New York will know it to-morrow," she said, bitterly. "Ill news flies apace. To-morrow the finger of scorn will be lifted against me on every hand. Perhaps even Mr. Lawrence will turn me out of doors."

The reproach and passion had died out of her voice. It was full of pathetic pity for her own sorrow.

"Surely it cannot be as bad as you fear," said Lance, startled and troubled.

"Alas! it is too sadly true!" she said, mournfully.

"What can I do to remedy your trouble?" he inquired, his native chivalry rising to the surface in defense of the woman he had unwittingly injured.

"What can a man do in such cases?" she asked, in a low and meaning tone.

"Marry, I suppose?" he said, after a long hesitation.

"Yes," she answered, quietly.

Silence fell for the space of a few moments. Lance drove on mechanically, drawing his breath hard like a hunted animal.

He roused himself at last and spoke in a cold, constrained, unnatural tone.

"Then I will marry you, Mrs. Vance," he said. "I cannot promise to love you, nay, I can hardly give you the respect I would think the natural due of some other woman. But since I have injured your honor I will give you the shelter of my name."

"Thanks, a thousand thanks," she murmured.