Читать книгу: «Jolly Sally Pendleton: or, the Wife Who Was Not a Wife», страница 5

CHAPTER XVII

The next few days that passed were like a dream to Miss Rogers. Every one was so kind and considerate it seemed that she was living in another world.

Mrs. Pendleton had cautioned the girls against mentioning the fact of Sally's coming marriage, explaining that she might change her mind about leaving her fortune to the family if she knew there was a prospect of wealth for them from any other source.

"But it would not be fair to let her make sister Sally her heiress," said Louisa, bitterly. "She ought not to get both fortunes. She will come into a magnificent fortune through marrying Jay Gardiner. Why should you want her to have Miss Rogers' money, too? You ought to influence that eccentric old lady to leave her fortune to me."

"Hush, my dear. Miss Rogers might hear you," warned her mother.

But the warning had come too late. In coming down the corridor to join the family in the general sitting-room, as they had always insisted on her doing, she had overheard Miss Louisa's last remark.

She stopped short, the happy light dying from her eyes, and the color leaving her cheeks.

"Great Heaven! have I been deceived, after all? Was the kindness of the Pendleton girls and their parents only assumed? Was there a monetary reason back of it all?" she mused.

A great pain shot through her heart; a wave of intense bitterness filled her soul.

"I will test these girls," muttered Miss Rogers, setting her lips together; "and that, too, before another hour passes over my head."

After a few moments more of deliberation, she arose, and with firm step passed slowly down the broad hall to the sitting-room.

Mrs. Pendleton and her eldest daughter Louisa had left the apartment. Sally alone was there, lounging on a divan, her hair in curl-papers, reading the latest French novel.

On her entering, down went the book, and Sally sprung up, her face wreathed in smiles.

"I was just wondering if you were lonely or taking a nap," she murmured, sweetly. "Do come right in, Miss Rogers, and let me draw the nicest easy-chair in the room up to the cool window for you and make you comfortable."

"How considerate you are, my dear child," replied Miss Rogers, fairly hating herself for believing this sweet young girl could dissemble. "I am glad to find you alone, Sally," she continued, dropping into the chair with a weary sigh. "I have been wanting to have a confidential little chat with you, my dear, ever since I have been here. Have you the time to spare?"

Sally Pendleton's blue eyes glittered. Of course Miss Rogers wanted to talk to her about leaving her money to her.

Sally brought a hassock, and placing it at her feet, sat down upon it, and rested her elbows on Miss Rogers' chair.

"Now," she said, with a tinkling little laugh that most every one liked to hear – the laugh that had given her the sobriquet, jolly Sally Pendleton, among her companions – an appellation which had ever since clung to her – "now I am ready to listen to whatever you have to tell me."

After a long pause, which seemed terribly irksome to Sally, Miss Rogers slowly said:

"I think I may as well break right into the subject that is on my mind, and troubling me greatly, without beating around the bush."

"That will certainly be the best way," murmured Sally.

"Well, then, my dear," said Miss Rogers, with harsh abruptness, "I am afraid I am living in this house under false colors."

Sally's blue eyes opened wide. She did not know what to say.

"The truth is, child, I am not the rich woman people credit me with being. I did not tell you that I had lost my entire fortune, and that I was reduced to penury and want – ay, I would have been reduced to starvation if you had not so kindly taken me in and done for me."

"What! You have lost your great fortune? You are penniless?" fairly shrieked Sally, springing to her feet and looking with amazement into the wrinkled face above her.

Miss Rogers nodded assent, inwardly asking Heaven to pardon her for this, her first deliberate falsehood.

"And you came here to us, got the best room in our house, and all of mamma's best clothes, and you a beggar!"

Miss Rogers fairly trembled under the storm of wrath she had evoked.

"I – I did not mention it when I first came, because I had somehow hoped you would care for me for myself, even though my money was gone, dear child."

A sneering, scornful laugh broke from Sally's lips, a glare hateful to behold flashed from her eyes.

"You have deceived us shamefully!" she cried. "How angry papa and mamma and Louisa will be to learn that we have been entertaining a pauper!"

"Perhaps you have been entertaining an angel unawares," murmured Miss Rogers.

"God forgive you, girl, for showing so little heart!" exclaimed Miss Rogers, rising slowly to her feet.

"I shall take no saucy remarks from you!" cried Sally, harshly. "Come, make haste! Take off those fine clothes, and be gone as fast as you can!"

"But I have nothing to put on," said Miss Rogers.

Sally instantly touched the bell, and when the maid came in response to her summons, she said, quickly:

"Bring me that bundle of clothes mamma laid out for you to give to the charity collector to-day."

Wonderingly the maid brought the bundle, and she wondered still more when Miss Sally ordered her to go down to the servants' hall, and not to come up until she was called for.

"Now, then," she cried, harshly, after the door had closed upon the maid, "get into these duds at once!"

Miss Rogers obeyed; and when at length the change was made, Sally pointed to the door and cried, shrilly:

"Now go!"

"But the storm!" persisted Miss Rogers, piteously. "Oh, Sally, at least let me stay until the storm has spent its fury!"

"Not an instant!" cried Sally Pendleton, fairly dragging her from the room and down the corridor to the main door, which she flung open, thrust her victim through it, and out into the storm.

CHAPTER XVIII

FATE WEAVES A STRANGE WEB

If Sally Pendleton had taken the trouble to look out after the trembling old woman she had thrust so unceremoniously into the raging storm, she would not have gone up to her own room with such a self-satisfied smile on her face.

Just as that little scene was taking place, a brougham, drawn by a pair of spirited horses, was being driven rapidly down the street, and was almost abreast of the house as this extraordinary little drama was being enacted.

Its occupant had ordered the driver to halt at the Pendleton mansion, and looking out of the window, he had seen with amazement the whole occurrence – had seen Sally Pendleton, who had always posed before him as a sweet-tempered angel – actually thrust a feeble-looking, poorly-dressed woman out of the house and into the street to face a storm so wild and pitiless that most people would have hesitated before even turning a homeless, wandering cur out into it.

Doctor Gardiner's carriage drew up quickly before the curbstone, and as he sprung from the vehicle, his astonishment can better be imagined than described at finding himself face to face with his friend, Miss Rogers, and that it was she who had been ejected so summarily. The poor soul almost fainted for joy when she beheld the young physician.

"My dear Miss Rogers!" he cried in amazement, "what in the name of Heaven does the scene I have just witnessed mean?"

"Take me into your carriage, and drive down the street; that is, if you are not in a hurry to make a professional call."

Jay Gardiner lifted the drenched, trembling woman in his strong arms, placed her in the vehicle, took his seat beside her, and the brougham rolled down the avenue.

Clinging to his strong young arm, Miss Rogers told, between her smiles and tears, all that had taken place – of the test which she had put the Pendletons to before leaving her money to the girl Sally, who had been named after her; of its disastrous ending when she told Sally she was poor instead of rich; of the abuse the girl had heaped upon her, which ended by throwing her into the street.

She told all, keeping back nothing, little dreaming that Jay Gardiner knew the Pendletons, and, least of all, that Sally was his betrothed.

He listened with darkening brow, his stern lips set, his handsome, jovial, laughing face strangely white.

What could he say to her? He dared not give vent to his bitter thoughts, and denounce the girl he was in honor bound to give his name and shield from all the world's remarks.

"You have learned your lesson, Miss Rogers," he said, slowly. "Now be content to return to your own luxurious home and its comforts, a sadder and wiser woman."

"I have not tested all yet," she returned. "There is yet another family, whose address I have recently discovered after the most patient search. I had a cousin by marriage who ran off with a sea-captain. She died, leaving one child, a little daughter. The father no longer follows the sea, but lives at home with the girl, following the trade of basket-making, at which he is quite an expert, I am told, if he would only let drink alone."

Jay Gardiner started violently. The color came and went in his face, his strong hands trembled. He was thankful she did not notice his emotion.

"The man's name is David Moore," she went on, reflectively, "and the girl's is Bernardine. A strange name for a girl, don't you think so?"

"A beautiful name," he replied, with much feeling; "and I should think the girl who bears it might have all the sweet, womanly graces you long to find in a human being."

Miss Rogers gave him the street and number, which he knew but too well, and asked him to drive her within a few doors of the place, where she would alight.

When she was so near her destination that she did not have time to ask questions, he said, abruptly:

"I know this family – the old basket-maker and his daughter. I attended him in a recent illness. They seem very worthy, to me, of all confidence. There is a world of difference between this young girl Bernardine and the one you describe as Miss Sally Pendleton. Please don't mention that you know me, Miss Rogers, if you would do me a favor," he added, as she alighted.

The landing was so dark she could hardly discern where the door was on which to knock.

She heard the sound of voices a moment later. This sound guided her, and she was soon tapping at a door which was slightly ajar. She heard some one say from within:

"Some one is rapping at the door, Bernardine. Send whoever it is away. The sight of a neighbor's face, or her senseless gossip, would drive me crazy, Bernardine."

"I shall not invite any one in if it annoys you, father," answered a sweet, musical voice.

Miss Rogers leaned against the door-frame, wondering what the girl was like who had so kindly a voice.

There was the soft frou-frou of a woman's skirts, the door was opened, and a tall, slender young girl stood on the threshold, looking inquiringly into the stranger's face.

"I am looking for the home of David Moore and of his daughter Bernardine," said Miss Rogers.

"This is David Moore's home, and I am his daughter Bernardine," said the young girl, courteously, even though the stranger before her was illy clad.

"Won't you invite me in for a few moments?" asked Miss Rogers, wistfully. "I heard what some one, your father probably, said about not wanting to see any one just now. But I can not well come again, and it is raining torrents outside."

"Yes, you may enter, and remain until the storm abates," said Bernardine, cheerfully. "My father would not let any one leave his door in such a storm as this. Pray come in, madame."

"It is kind of you to say 'madame' to a creature like me," sighed the stranger, following the girl into the poorly furnished but scrupulously neat apartment.

Bernardine smiled.

"When I was very young, one of the first lessons my dear mother taught me was to be polite to every one," she returned, quietly.

"You look like your mother, my dear," said Miss Rogers, huskily. "I – I was afraid you would not."

"Did you know my mother?" exclaimed Bernardine, clasping her hands together, and looking eagerly at the stranger in the coarse, ill-fitting gown.

"Yes, my dear; I knew her years ago, when we were both young girls. She looked then as you do now. I was distantly related to her, in fact. I – I was wealthy in those days, but I have since lost all my money, and am now reduced to penury – ay, to want," murmured the shabbily dressed woman.

Bernardine sprung forward excitedly.

"Surely you can not be the great Miss Rogers of California, of whom I have heard her speak thousands of times?"

"Yes, I am Miss Rogers, my dear; great once, in the eyes of the world, when I had money, but despised now, that I am reduced and in want."

In a moment Bernardine's arms were around her, and tears were falling from the girl's beautiful dark eyes.

"Oh, do not say that, dear Miss Rogers!" she cried. "I love you because my mother loved you in the days that are past. Money does not always bring love, and the loss of it can not lessen the love of those who owe us allegiance, and who have a true affection for us. Welcome, a thousand times welcome to our home, dear aunt, if you will let me call you that; and – and I shall use my influence to have father invite you to share our humble home forever, if you only will."

"No, no, Bernardine," replied Miss Rogers. "You have mouths enough to earn bread for."

"One more would not signify," declared Bernardine; "and your presence beneath this roof would amply compensate me. I would take a world of pleasure in working a little harder than I do now to keep you here."

"Before you give me too much hope on that point you had better talk it over with your father. He may think differently from what you do. He may not want to keep a tramp's boarding-house," she added, quietly.

"Father will be sure to think as I do," reiterated Bernardine. "He has a rough exterior, but the kindest of hearts beats in his rugged bosom."

"You are right there, Bernardine," said David Moore, pushing open an inner door and coming forward. "I could not help overhearing all that passed between you two. I am sorry you have lost all your money, Miss Rogers; but that will not make any difference in the heartiness of the welcome we give you; and if Bernardine wants you to stay here with us, stay you shall. So take off your bonnet, and make yourself at home."

CHAPTER XIX

"TRUE LOVE NEVER DOES RUN SMOOTH."

Miss Rogers was quite overcome by the hearty welcome she received from David Moore, the old basket-maker, and Bernardine, his lovely daughter. It went straight to her lonely heart, because she knew it was genuine friendship untainted by mercenary motives.

She shared Bernardine's humble yet dainty apartment, and fell quite naturally into being a member of the household.

There was one thing which puzzled her greatly, and that was, the sighs that would rend sweet Bernardine's breast while she was sleeping.

"The girl has some secret sorrow which she is hiding from the world," she thought, anxiously. "I must find out what it is."

She had been an inmate of Bernardine's home for a week before she learned that the girl was soon to be wedded. Bernardine's father told her, hinting triumphantly that that event would mean the dawn of a more prosperous future for the family, as her intended husband was very rich – had money to burn.

"Don't say much about him to Bernardine," he added, quickly; "for she's not in love with him by any means."

"Then why is she going to marry him?" asked Miss Rogers, amazedly.

"He has money," replied David Moore, nodding his head wisely; "and that's what sharp girls are looking for nowadays."

"I thought love was the ruling power which moved young girls' hearts," responded Miss Rogers, slowly. "At least, it used to be when I was a young girl like Bernardine."

He laughed uneasily, but made no reply, as Bernardine entered the room at that instant with an open letter in her hand.

"Jasper Wilde has returned to the city, father," she said, tremulously, "and – and he is coming here this evening to see us."

As the girl uttered the words, Miss Rogers was quite sure she could detect the sound of tears in her quivering voice.

"I am very glad," replied David Moore, endeavoring to speak lightly. "I shall be mighty pleased to see my prospective son-in-law."

Bernardine drew back quickly, her lovely face pitifully pale, then turned abruptly and hurried from the room.

Miss Rogers followed her. The girl went to her own apartment, threw herself on her knees, and burying her face in the counterpane, wept such bitter, passionate tears that Miss Rogers was alarmed for her.

"You poor child!" exclaimed Miss Rogers. "Sit down here beside me, and tell me the whole story – let me understand it."

"I can not tell you any more. I met one whom I could love, and – we – parted. I sent him away because my father had declared that I should marry this other one."

"Because of his wealth?" said Miss Rogers, in a strangely hard voice.

"No, no! Do not do my father that injustice. It was not because of his wealth. I – I should have had to marry him had he been the poorest man in the city."

"It is cruel, it is outrageous, to ask a young girl to marry a man whom she detests. It is barbarous. In my opinion, that is carrying parental authority too far. This marriage must not take place, Bernardine. It would be wicked – a sin against God."

Although Miss Rogers did her best to probe into the mystery – for Bernardine's sake – the girl was strangely obdurate. So she said no more to her on the subject just then; but when she approached David Moore on this topic, his incoherent replies puzzled her still more.

"I am much obliged to you for taking such an interest in Bernardine's affairs; but let me warn you of one thing, Miss Rogers, while you are under my roof, don't attempt to meddle with what does not concern you in any way. By heeding my remark, we shall keep good friends. This marriage must take place. The young fellow is good enough, and she'll get to like him after awhile. See if she doesn't."

The harsh, abrupt manner in which he uttered these words told Miss Rogers that little hope could be entertained from that source.

Bernardine had almost cried herself ill by the time Jasper Wilde's knock was heard on the door.

Mr. Moore answered the summons.

"Is there any use in my coming in?" asked Wilde, grimly, coming to a halt on the threshold. "Does your daughter consent to marry me? I could not make head or tail out of your letter."

"Bernardine's answer is – yes," murmured the old man, almost incoherently. "She consents for my sake; though Heaven knows I'm not worth the sacrifice."

"Sacrifice!" repeated Jasper Wilde in a high, harsh voice. "Come, now, that's too good. It's me that's making the sacrifice, by cheating the hangman and justice of their just due, Moore; and don't you forget it."

Sooner than he expected, Bernardine made her appearance.

Jasper Wilde sprung up to welcome her, both hands outstretched, his eyes fairly gloating over the vision of pure girlish loveliness which she presented.

She drew back, waving him from her with such apparent loathing that he was furious.

"I do not pretend to welcome you, Jasper Wilde," she said, "for that would be acting a lie from which my soul revolts. I will say at once what you have come here to-night to hear from my lips. I will marry you – to – save – my – poor – father," she stammered. "I used to think the days of buying and selling human beings were over; but it seems not. The white slave you buy will make no murmur in the after years; only I shall pray that my life will not be a long one."

Jasper Wilde frowned darkly.

"You are determined to play the high and mighty tragedy queen with me, Bernardine," he cried. "Take care that your ways do not turn my love for you into hate! Beware, I tell you! A smile would bring me to your feet, a scornful curl of those red lips would raise a demon in me that you would regret if you aroused it."

"Your hate or your love is a matter of equal indifference to me," returned the young girl, proudly.

This remark made him furious with wrath.

"You love that white-handed fellow whom I met the last time I was here. That's what makes you so indifferent to me!" he cried, hoarsely. "Speak! Is it not so?"

"Yes," replied Bernardine, cresting her beautiful head, proudly. "Yes, I love him, and I do not fear to tell you so!"

"Then, by Heaven! I will kill him on sight!" cried Jasper Wilde. "I will not brook a rival for your affections! The man you love is doomed!"