Читать книгу: «Jolly Sally Pendleton: or, the Wife Who Was Not a Wife», страница 4
CHAPTER XIII
HE WISHED HE COULD TELL SOME ONE HIS UNFORTUNATE LOVE STORY
During the weeks Doctor Gardiner had been visiting the old basket-maker and thinking so much of his daughter, he had by no means neglected his patient, Miss Rogers, in whom he took an especial, almost brotherly, interest, and who rapidly recovered under his constant care, until at length he laughingly pronounced her "quite as good as new."
One day, in mounting the handsome brown-stone steps to make more of a social than a business call, he was surprised to see the mansion closed.
He felt quite grieved that his friend should have packed up and departed so hastily – that she had not even remembered to say good-bye to him. He felt all the more sorry for her absence just at this time, for, after much deliberation, he had decided to make a confidante of Miss Rogers, and pour into her kindly, sympathetic ear the whole of his unfortunate love story from beginning to end, and ask her advice as to what course he should pursue. He had also resolved to show her the last letter he had received from Miss Pendleton, in which she hinted rather strongly that the marriage ought to take place as soon as she returned to the city.
And now Miss Rogers was gone, he felt a strange chill, a disappointment he could hardly control, as he turned away and walked slowly down the steps and re-entered his carriage.
The next mail, however, brought him a short note from Miss Rogers. He smiled as he read it, and laid it aside, little dreaming of what vital importance those few carelessly-written lines would be in the dark days ahead of him. It read as follows:
"My dear Doctor Gardiner – You will probably be surprised to learn that by the time this reaches you I shall be far away from New York, on a little secret mission which has been a pet notion of mine ever since I began to recover from my last illness. Do not be much surprised at any very eccentric scheme you may hear of me undertaking.
"Yours hastily and faithfully,"Miss Rogers."
The terse letter was characteristic of the writer. Doctor Gardiner replaced it in its envelope, put it away in his desk, with the wish that she had mentioned her destination, then dismissed it from his mind.
At the identical moment Doctor Gardiner was reading Miss Rogers' letter, quite a pitiful scene was being enacted in the home of the old basket-maker.
It was with a shudder that he awoke and found the sunshine which heralded another day stealing into his narrow little room.
Bernardine had been stirring about for some time, and at length the savory odor of the frugal breakfast she was preparing reached him, and at that moment she called him.
When he made his appearance she saw at a glance that he must have passed a sleepless night. He had no appetite, and pushed away the plate with his food untouched, despite Bernardine's earnest efforts to induce him to eat something.
He watched her deft fingers in silence as she cleared the table at length, washed and dried the dishes and put them away, and tidied the little room.
"Now, father," she said, at length, "the sun is shining now, and I will give you half an hour of my time to listen to the story you have to tell me. Don't look so distressed about it, dear; no matter what it is, I will utter no word of complaint, you shall hear no bitter words from my lips, only words of love, trust and comfort."
"Tell me that again, Bernardine," he cried; "say it over again. Those words are like the dew of Heaven to my feverish soul."
She uttered the words again, with her soft white arms twined lovingly around his neck, and she held them there until he came to the end of his wretched story.
"Bernardine," he began, softly, with a pitiful huskiness in his voice, "I rely on your promise. You have given me your word, and I know you will never break it. Don't look at me. Let me turn my face away from the sight of the horror in your eyes as you listen. There, that is right; let my poor whirling head rest on your strong young shoulder.
"It happened only a few weeks ago, Bernardine," he continued, brokenly, "this tragedy which has wrecked my life. One night – ah! how well I remember it – even while I lie dying, it will stand out dark and horrible from the rest of my life – I – I could not withstand the craving for drink which took possession of me, and after you slept, I stole softly from my couch and out of the house.
"The few dimes I had in my pocket soon went where so many dollars of my – yes, even your humble earnings have gone before – in the coffers of the rum-shop.
"The liquor I drank seemed to fire my brain as it had never been fired before. I remember that I went to that place around the corner – the place that you and Doctor Gardiner saw them throw me out of that night you thought they had crippled me for life.
"The man who keeps the place saw me coming in, and made a dash at me. Then a terrible fight took place between us, and a crowd gathered, foremost among whom I dimly saw the face of Jasper Wilde outlined amidst the jeering throng.
"To hasten the telling of an unpleasant tale, I will say he ejected me, the while hurling the most insulting epithets at me. Then he spoke of you, Bernardine, and – and turning upon him with the ferocity of an enraged lion, I swore that I would kill him on sight.
"'Beware! take care,' laughed Jasper Wilde, turning to my enemy; 'the old basket-maker always keeps his word. You are in danger, my boy.'
"At this the crowd jeered. I hurried away. I never remembered how far I walked to still the throbbing of my heart and cool the fever in my veins.
"At length I turned my steps toward home. How far I had traversed in the darkness I did not take note of; but as I was hurrying along, I heard a loud cry for help. I ran around the corner from which it seemed to proceed, and then I fell headlong across the body of a man lying prone upon the pavement.
"I drew a box of matches from my pocket, and hastily struck one. Yes, it was a man dying with a wound in his breast, made from a clasp-knife, which still stuck in it.
"In horror I snatched the knife away; and as I did so, the blood from the wound spurted up into my face and covered my clothes. In that instant I made the awful discovery that the knife was my own. I must have lost it from my pocket during my encounter with my enemy, who kept the wine-room.
"By the flickering light of the half-burned match, which I held down to the man's face, I saw – oh, God! how shall I tell it? – I saw that the man who had been murdered with my knife was the man whom I had sworn before the crowd I would kill on sight.
"As I made this startling discovery, a man laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and Jasper Wilde's voice, with a demoniac ring, cried in my horrified ears:
"'I see you have kept your word, David Moore! You have murdered your enemy!'
"All in vain I protested my innocence. He only laughed at me, jeered at my agony with diabolical glee.
"'You will be hanged,' he said. 'Of course, you realize that, David Moore.'
"'I would not care for my life – what became of me – if it were not for Bernardine!' I moaned, wildly.
"'Yes, it is a pity for Bernardine,' he made answer. 'I am sorry for you on her account. How sad it will be to see you torn away from her, and she all alone in the world! Moore,' he hissed, close to my ear, 'for her sake, and upon one condition, I will save you from the gallows. No one but me has seen you bending over the murdered man with that knife in your hand. If I keep silent, no one can prove the crime was done by you. Do you comprehend – do you realize of what vital interest that which I am saying is to you?'
"'Yes,' I answered in a choked, awful voice. 'But the condition! What have I, a poor, penniless basket-maker, even at this moment owing you money – what have I which you, the son of a rich father, would stoop to accept?' I cried in the utmost despair. He stooped nearer, and whispered in my ear:
"'You have a treasure which I long to possess. Give me Bernardine. I – I will marry the girl, and will forever hold my peace. It will save you from prison. Think and act quickly, man. You can make the girl accept me if she should desire to refuse.'
"I heard the whistle of an advancing policeman coming leisurely along his beat. Another moment and he would turn the corner where I stood almost paralyzed.
"'Speak, man!' cried Jasper Wilde. 'Am I to save you, or call the officer to arrest you? Am I to get Bernardine, or not?'
"Oh, child! forgive me – pity me! Life to an old man even like me is sweet. I could almost feel the rope of the gallows tightening about my poor old throat, and I – oh, God, pity me – I promised him, Bernardine.
"'Save me, and Bernardine shall marry you!' I cried; 'only save me! Don't call the police, for the love of Heaven!'
"'Then fly!' he cried, shrilly. 'Take the knife with you; go as quickly as you can to my rooms, back of my place, and there I will give you something to wear until you can get home!'
"I made my way to his place, as he directed. He was there before me. He took the blood-stained clothes and knife from me, remarking, grimly:
"'I shall keep these, the evidences of your guilt, until you succeed in making Bernardine my wife. If she refuses, I shall need them.'
"Oh, Bernardine, from that hour to this I have lived a perfect hell on earth. I am as innocent of that crime as a babe; but everything is against me. Jasper Wilde has proof enough to send your poor, wretched old father to the gallows, if you refuse to marry him. Oh, Bernardine! I dare not lift my head and look up into your dear young face. Speak to me, child, and let me know the worst. This gnawing at my soul is intolerable – I can not bear it and live!"
But the lips of the hapless girl whose arms were twined about his neck were mute and cold as marble.
"Won't you speak to me, Bernardine?" he wailed out, sharply. "Your silence is more than I can bear. For God's sake, speak!"
CHAPTER XIV
"HAVE I BROKEN YOUR HEART, MY DARLING?"
Bernardine Moore slowly untwined her white arms from about her father's neck, and turned her white, anguished face toward him, and the awful despair that lay in the dark eyes that met his was more piteous than any words could have been.
"Have I broken your heart, Bernardine?" he cried out. "Oh, my child, my beautiful Bernardine, have I ruined your life by that fatal promise?"
She tried to speak, but no words fell from her white lips; it seemed to her that she would never speak again; that the power of speech had suddenly left her.
"My poor old life is not worth such a sacrifice, Bernardine!" he cried out, sharply; "and you shall not make it. I will put a drop of something I know of in a cup of coffee, and then it will be all over with me. He can not pursue me through the dark gates of death."
"No, no," said the girl, great, heavy tears – a blessed relief – falling from her eyes like rain. "Your life is more precious to me than all the world beside. I would take your place on the gallows and die for you, father. Oh, believe me! – believe me!"
"And you feel in your heart the truth of what I say – that I am innocent, Bernardine?" he cried. "Say you believe me."
"I would stake my life on your innocence, father," she replied, through her tears. "I believe in you as I do in Heaven. You shall not die! I will save you, father. I – I – will – marry Jasper Wilde, if that will save you!"
She spoke the words clearly, bravely. Her father did not realize that they nearly cost her her life – that they dug a grave long and deep, in which her hopes and rosy day-dreams were to be buried.
"You have saved me, Bernardine!" he cried, joyously. "Oh, how you must love me – poor, old, and helpless as I am!"
She answered him with kisses and tears; she could not trust herself to speak.
She rose abruptly from her knees, and quitted the room with unsteady steps.
"Thank Heaven it is over!" muttered David Moore, with a sigh. "Bernardine has consented, and I am saved!"
The day that followed was surely the darkest sweet Bernardine Moore had ever known. But it came to an end at last, and with the evening came Jay Gardiner.
He knew as soon as he greeted Bernardine and her father that something out of the usual order had transpired, the old basket-maker greeted him so stiffly, Bernardine so constrainedly.
Bernardine's manner was quite as sweet and kind, but she did not hold out to him the little hand which it was heaven on earth to him to clasp even for one brief instant.
Looking at her closely, he saw that her beautiful dark eyes were heavy and swollen with weeping.
"Poor child! She is continually grieving over the drinking habit of her father," he thought; and the bitterest anger rose up in his heart against the old basket-maker for bringing a tear to those beautiful dark eyes.
Again the longing came to him to beat down all barriers that parted her from him, take Bernardine in his arms, and crying out how madly he loved her, bear his beautiful love away as his idolized bride to his own palatial home. But the thought of that other one, to whom he was in honor and in duty bound, kept him silent.
He realized that for his own peace of mind and hers he must never see Bernardine again; that this must be the last time.
"I am sorry your father has fallen asleep, yet I do not wish to waken him, for I have come to say farewell to him and to you, Miss Moore," he said, huskily.
He saw the lovely face grow as white as a snow-drop; he saw all the glad light leave the great dark eyes; he saw the beautiful lips pale and the little hands tremble, and the sight was almost more than he could endure, for he read by these signs that which he had guessed before – that the sweet, fond, tender heart of Bernardine had gone out to him as his had gone out to her.
"Are you sorry, my poor girl?" he asked, brokenly.
"Yes," she answered, not attempting to stay her bitter tears, "I shall miss you. Life will never be the same to me again."
He stopped before her, and caught her passionately to him.
"Dear Heaven, help me to say good-bye to you!" he cried; "for you must realize the truth, Bernardine. I love you – oh, I love you with all the strength of my heart and soul! Yet we must part!"
CHAPTER XV
"I LOVE YOU! I CAN NOT KEEP THE SECRET ANY LONGER!"
For a moment Bernardine rested in his arms while Jay Gardiner cried over and over again, reckless as to how it would end:
"Yes, I love you, Bernardine, with all my heart, with all my soul!"
But it was for a moment only; then the girl struggled out of the strong arms that infolded her, with the expression of a startled fawn in her dark, humid eyes.
"Oh, Doctor Gardiner, don't; please don't!" she gasped, shrinking from him with quivering lips, and holding up her white hands as though to ward him off. "You must not speak to me; indeed, you must not!"
"Why should I not tell you the secret that is eating my heart away!" he cried, hoarsely.
Before he could add another word, she answered, quickly:
"Let me tell you why it is not right to listen to you, Doctor Gardiner. I – I am the promised wife of Jasper Wilde!"
If she had struck him a blow with her little white hand he could not have been more astounded.
His arms fell to his sides, and his face grew ashen pale.
"You are to marry Jasper Wilde?" he cried, hoarsely. "I can not believe the evidence of my own senses, Bernardine!"
She did not answer, but stood before him with her beautiful head drooped on her breast.
"You do not love him, Bernardine!" cried Jay Gardiner, bitterly. "Tell me – answer me this – why are you to marry him?"
Her lips moved, but no sound came from them.
"If I should sue to you upon my bended knees to be mine, Bernardine, would you not turn from him for me?"
He knew by the piteous sob that welled from the very depths of her heart how deeply this question must have struck her.
"Bernardine," he cried, hoarsely, "if ever I read love in a girl's heart when her eyes have met mine, I have read it in yours! You love me, Bernardine. You can not, you dare not deny it. I repeat, if I were to sue you on my bended knees, could you, would you refuse to be my wife?"
"I – must – marry – Jasper Wilde," she whispered, wretchedly.
Without another word, stung by pride and pain, Jay Gardiner turned from the girl he had learned to love so madly, and hurried down the dark, winding stairs, and out into the street.
For one moment poor Bernardine gazed at the open door-way through which his retreating form had passed; then she flung herself down on her knees, and wept as women weep but once in a life-time.
Wounded love, outraged pride, the sense of keen and bitter humiliation, and yet of dread necessity, was strong upon her. And there was no help for her, no comfort in those tears.
"Was ever a girl so wronged?" she moaned.
She wept until there seemed to be no tears left in those dark, mournful eyes. As she lay there, like a pale, broken lily, with her head and heart aching, she wondered, in her gentle way, why this sorrow should have fallen upon her.
While she lay there, weeping her very heart out, Jay Gardiner was walking down the street, his brain in a whirl, his emotions wrenching his very soul.
Miss Pendleton had written him that she would expect him to call that evening. He had been about to write her that it would be an impossibility; but now he changed his mind. Going there would be of some benefit to him, after all, for it would bring him surcease of sorrow for one brief hour, forgetfulness of Bernardine during that time.
It touched him a little to see how delightedly the girl welcomed him. She, too, was a money-seeker like the rest of her sex; but he could also see that she was in love with him.
"I have been home for three days, and you have not even remembered that fact," she said, brightly, yet with a very reproachful look.
"If you will pardon the offense, I will promise not to be so remiss in the future."
"I shall hold you to your word," she declared. "But dear me, how pale and haggard you look! That will never do for a soon-to-be bridegroom!"
His brow darkened. The very allusion to his coming marriage was most hateful to him. Sally could see that, though she pretended not to notice it.
Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton came in to welcome him, being so profuse in their greeting that they annoyed him.
Louisa was more sensible. Her welcome was quiet, not to say constrained.
"If it had been Louisa instead of Sally," he mused, bitterly, "the fate that I have brought upon myself would be more bearable."
He was so miserable as he listened to Sally's ceaseless chatter that he felt that if he had a revolver, he would shoot himself then and there, and thus end it all.
CHAPTER XVI
"WHERE THERE IS NO JEALOUSY THERE IS LITTLE LOVE!"
It was a relief to Jay Gardiner when he found himself out of the house and on the street. The short two hours he had passed in Sally's society were more trying on his nerves than the hardest day's work could have been.
He groaned aloud at the thought of the long years he was destined to live though, with this girl as his companion.
He had come at seven, and made his adieu at nine. Sally then went upstairs to her mother's room with a very discontented face, and entered the boudoir in anything but the best of humors.
Mrs. Pendleton looked up from the book she was reading, with an expression of astonishment and wonder.
"Surely Doctor Gardiner has not gone so soon!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, he has," replied Sally, laconically.
"I suppose some important duty called him away so early?"
"He did not say so," returned her daughter, crossly.
"Is he coming soon again?" questioned Mrs. Pendleton, anxiously.
"I don't know," replied Sally; adding, slowly: "When I tried to find out when he would call again, he seemed annoyed, and replied, curtly: 'That will be hard for me to determine, Miss Pendleton. You must remember that those in my profession have few leisure hours.' He would not set a time. I had to let the matter rest at that."
"He is not very much in love, then, I fear, my dear Sally," said her mother, reflectively. "Still, bad beginnings often make good endings. But I had almost forgotten to tell you the startling news, my dear," added Mrs. Pendleton, hastily. "Your aunt, Sally Rogers, is here. Louisa is entertaining her up in her boudoir. You must not be surprised, or show too much amusement when you see her. She is a sight. We would be eternally disgraced if the neighbors were to see her. She is fairly covered with rags – yes, rags! There are holes in her shoes; there never was such a bonnet worn since the time of the ark; and as for gloves, she disdains such an article of feminine attire altogether. I do not think one will have to wait long to come into possession of her fortune. But run up to your sister's room and greet old Miss Sally as affectionately as possible."
Sally was rather glad of this intelligence, for it prevented her from having a very bad case of the blues in thinking over her lover's coldness, and how irksome this betrothal was to him.
She found her sister doing her utmost to entertain the most grotesque little old woman she had ever beheld. Her mother's description had certainly not been overdrawn.
Sally felt like bursting into uproarious laughter the moment her eyes fell upon Miss Rogers, and it was only by a most superhuman effort she controlled herself from letting her rising mirth get the better of her.
"Dear me, is this, can this be jolly little Sally Pendleton, as you used to sign the merry letters you wrote to me?" asked Miss Rogers, stopping short in some remark she was making to Louisa, and gazing hard at the slender, girlish figure that had just appeared on the threshold.
"Yes, it is I, Sally Pendleton," responded the girl, coming quickly forward. "I just heard you were here, aunt, and I want to tell you how delighted, enraptured, overjoyed I am to see you," she added, throwing her arms around the bundle of rags which inclosed the thin little old maid, with a bear-like hug and any amount of extravagant kisses, not daring to look at Louisa the while.
"This is indeed a hearty welcome, my dear!" exclaimed Miss Rogers. "Stand off, child," she added, holding Sally at arm's-length, "until I get a good look at you."
And she gazed long and steadily.
Sally could not tell whether Miss Rogers was pleased or disappointed with her, as her face never expressed her emotions.
"I will call you and your sister my nieces; but you are not so nearly related to me as that – the line of relationship is a long way off. There are many others as near to me as your family."
"But none who love you anywhere near as well," put in Sally, quickly.
"I hope you mean what you say," replied Miss Rogers, quietly; adding, after a moment's pause, during which she wiped a suspicious moisture from her eyes: "I am a very lonely woman, and life offers few charms for me, because I am quite alone in the world, with no one to care for me. I have often thought that I would give the whole world, if it were mine to give, for just one human being to whom I was dear. I am desolate; my heart hungers for sympathy and kindness, and – and a little affection. I have neither father nor mother, sister nor brother, husband nor children. I hope neither of you girls will ever experience the hopelessness, the heartache conveyed in those words. It is hard, bitterly cruel, to be left alone in the world. But I suppose Heaven intended it to be so, and – and knows best."
"You shall never know loneliness again, dear aunt," murmured Louisa. "To make every moment of your life happy will be our only aim."
"Thank you, my dear," replied Miss Rogers, tremulously.
"You shall live with us always, if you will, aunt," said Sally, "and be one of the family. You may have my boudoir all to yourself, and I will take the small spare room next to it."
"You are very good to me," said Miss Rogers, huskily.
Mrs. Pendleton had been busy getting the handsome guest-chamber ready for their wealthy kinswoman. She entered just in time to overhear Sally's last remark.
"Miss Rogers shall have a larger, handsomer boudoir than yours, Sally," remarked her mother. "The entire suite of rooms on this floor is at her disposal, if she will only allow us to persuade her to remain with us. My dear daughters, you must add your entreaties on this point to your father's and mine."
"How can I ever repay you for your deep interest in a lone body like me?" murmured Miss Rogers.
The eyes of the girls and those of their mother met; but they did not dare express in words the thought that had leaped simultaneously into their minds at her words.
"You have had no one to look after your wardrobe, dear Aunt Rogers," said Mrs. Pendleton; "so do, I beseech you, accept some of my gowns until you desire to lay them aside for fresher ones."
"I am bewildered by so much kindness," faltered Miss Rogers. And she was more bewildered still at the array of silks and satins and costly laces with which the three ladies deluged her.
The very finest rooms in the house were given her. Miss Sally made her a strong punch with her own hands, "just the way she said she liked it," and Louisa bathed her face in fragrant cologne, and tried on a lace night-cap with a great deal of fuss.
Some one came in to turn down the night-lamp a little later on – a quiet, slender figure in a dark-brown gown. It was not Mrs. Pendleton, nor was it either of her daughters.
"Who are you?" asked Miss Rogers, perceiving at a glance that she was evidently no servant of the household. A sweet, pale, wan face was turned toward her.
"I an Patience Pendleton," replied a still sweeter voice.
"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Rogers, "I never heard that there were three daughters in this family." She could see, even in that dim light, the pink flush steal quickly over the wan, white face.
"I am a daughter by my father's first marriage," she answered, quietly. "My step-mother and her daughters seldom mention me to any one."
There was no suspicion of malice in her tone, only sadness; and without another word, save a gentle good-night, she glided from the room.
It was Sally, bright, jolly Sally, who awakened Miss Rogers the next morning. Louisa insisted upon helping her to dress, while Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton tapped at the door, and eagerly inquired if she had rested well.
She was given the seat of honor at the breakfast-table, and a huge bouquet of hot-house roses lay at her plate.
Sally had inquired the night before as to her favorite viands, and they were soon placed before her deliciously prepared.
Louisa brought a dainty hassock for her feet, and Mrs. Pendleton a silken scarf, to protect her from the slightest draught from the open windows.
"You treat me as though I were a queen," said Miss Rogers, smiling through her tears.
She could scarcely eat her breakfast, Sally and Louisa hung about her chair so attentively, ready to anticipate her slightest wish. But looking around, she missed the sweet, wistful face that she had seen in her room the night before.
"Are all the family assembled here?" she inquired, wondering if it had not been a dream she had had of a sweet white face and a pair of sad gray eyes.
"All except Patience," replied Mrs. Pendleton, with a frown. "She's rather queer, and prefers not to join us at table or in the drawing-room. She spends all her time up in the attic bedroom reading the Bible and writing Christmas stories for children for the religious papers. We don't see her for weeks at a time, and actually forget she lives in this house. She's quite a religious crank, and you won't see much of her."
Miss Rogers saw the girls laugh and titter at their mother's remarks; and from that moment they lowered in her estimation, while sweet Patience was exalted.
