Читать книгу: «Jolly Sally Pendleton: or, the Wife Who Was Not a Wife», страница 7

CHAPTER XXIV

Much to the delight of Doctor Covert, the little beauty did call again, at the very hour he had set. But his pleasure had one drawback to it, she was heavily veiled. But, for all that, he knew how lovely was the face that veil concealed, how bright the eyes, how charming the dimples, how white the pearly teeth, how sweet the ripe red cheeks, so like Cupid's bow.

He could not conceal his great joy at beholding her again. She noticed his emotion at once. He would not have been so well pleased if he could have seen how her red lip curled in scorn as she said to herself:

"Fools fall in love with a pretty face on sight; but it is another thing to get a desirable man to fall in love. They are hard to win. I have heard of this Doctor Covert before. True, he did go to college with Jay Gardiner, and is his chum; but one is rich and the other poor."

"I hope you have been successful," murmured Sally, giving him her little white hand to hold for an instant – an instant during which he was intensely happy.

"Yes, my dear miss," he answered, quickly. "I am overjoyed to think I can be of service to you – in a way, at least. I did not communicate with Doctor Gardiner, for it occurred to me just after you left that I had heard him mention the name; but I am sure there is a mistake somewhere. This girl – Bernardine – whom I refer to, and whom Doctor Gardiner knows, can not possibly be a friend of yours, miss, for she is only the daughter of an humble basket-maker, and lives on the top floor of a tenement house in one of the poorest parts of the city."

Sally Pendleton's amazement was so great she could hardly repress the cry of amazement that arose to her lips.

She had never for an instant doubted that this beautiful Bernardine, who had won the proud, unbending heart of haughty Jay Gardiner, was some great heiress, royal in her pomp and pride, and worth millions of money. No wonder Doctor Covert's words almost took her breath away.

"Are you quite sure?" she responded, after a moment's pause. "Surely, as you remarked, then there must be some mistake."

"I am positive Doctor Gardiner knows but this one Bernardine. In fact, I heard him say that he never remembered hearing that beautiful name until he heard it for the first time in the humble home of the old basket-maker. And he went on to tell me how lovely the girl was, despite her surroundings."

The veiled lady arose hastily, her hands clinched.

"I thank you for your information," she said, huskily, as she moved rapidly toward the door.

"She is going without my even knowing who she is," thought Doctor Covert, and he sprung from his chair, saying, eagerly:

"I beg a thousand pardons if the remark I am about to make seems presumptuous; but believe that it comes from a heart not prompted by idle curiosity – far, far from that."

"What is it that you wish to know?" asked Sally, curtly.

"Who you are," he replied, with blunt eagerness. "I may as well tell you the truth. I am deeply interested in you, even though you are a stranger, and the bare possibility that we may never meet again fills me with the keenest sorrow I have ever experienced."

Sally Pendleton was equal to the occasion.

"I must throw him off the track at once by giving him a false name and address," she thought.

She hesitated only a moment.

"My name is Rose Thorne," she replied, uttering the falsehood without the slightest quiver in her voice. "I attend a private school for young ladies in Gramercy Park. We are soon to have a public reception, to which we are entitled to invite our friends, and I should be pleased to send you a card if you think you would care to attend."

"I should be delighted," declared Doctor Covert, eagerly. "If you honor me with an invitation, I shall be sure to be present. I would not miss seeing you again."

Was it only his fancy, or did he hear a smothered laugh from beneath the thick dark veil which hid the girl's face from his view?

The next moment Sally was gone, and the young doctor gazed after her, as he did on the former occasion with a sigh, and already began looking forward to the time when he should see her again. Meanwhile, Sally lost no time in finding the street and house indicated.

A look of intense amazement overspread her face as she stood in front of the tall, forbidding tenement and looked up at the narrow, grimy windows. It seemed almost incredible that handsome, fastidious Jay Gardiner would even come to such a place, let alone fall in love with an inmate of it.

"The girl must be a coarse, ill-bred working-girl," she told herself, "no matter how pretty her face may be."

A number of fleshy, ill-clad women, holding still more poorly clad, fretful children, sat on the door-step, hung out of the open windows and over the balusters, gossiping and slandering their neighbors quite as energetically as the petted wives of the Four Hundred on the fashionable avenues do.

Sally took all this in with a disgusted glance; but lifting her dainty, lace-trimmed linen skirts, she advanced boldly.

"I am in search of a basket-maker who lives somewhere in this vicinity," said Sally. "Could you tell me if he lives here?"

"He lives right here," spoke up one of the women. "David Moore is out, so is the elderly woman who is staying with him; but Miss Bernardine is in, I am certain, working busily over her baskets. If you want to see about baskets, she's the one to go to – top floor, right."

Sally made her way up the narrow, dingy stairs until she reached the top floor. The door to the right stood open, and as Sally advanced she saw a young girl turn quickly from a long pine table covered with branches of willow, and look quickly up.

Sally Pendleton stood still, fairly rooted to the spot with astonishment not unmingled with rage, for the girl upon whom she gazed was the most gloriously beautiful creature she had ever beheld. She did not wonder now that Jay Gardiner had given his heart to her.

In that one moment a wave of such furious hate possessed the soul of Sally Pendleton that it was with the greatest difficulty she could restrain herself from springing upon the unconscious young girl and wrecking forever the fatal beauty which had captivated the heart of the man who was her lover and was so soon to wed.

Sally had thrown back her veil, and was gazing at her rival with her angry soul in her eyes.

Seeing the handsomely dressed young lady, Bernardine came quickly forward with the sweet smile and graceful step habitual to her.

"You wish to see some one – my father, perhaps?" murmured Bernardine, gently.

"You are the person I wish to see," returned Sally, harshly – "you, and no one else."

Bernardine looked at her wonderingly. The cold, hard voice struck her ear unpleasantly, and the strange look in the stranger's hard, steel-blue eyes made her feel strangely uncomfortable.

Was it a premonition of coming evil?

CHAPTER XXV

She was not to remain long in suspense.

"In the first place," began Sally, slowly, "I wish to know what your relations are, Bernardine Moore, with Doctor Jay Gardiner. I must and will know the truth."

She saw that the question struck the girl as lightning strikes a fair white rose and withers and blights it with its awful fiery breath.

Bernardine was fairly stricken dumb. She opened her lips to speak, but no sound issued from them. She could not have uttered one syllable if her life had depended on it.

"Let me tell you how the case stands. I will utter the shameful truth for you if you dare not admit it. He is your lover in secret, though he would deny you in public!"

Hapless Bernardine had borne all she could; and without a word, a cry, or even a moan she threw up her little hands, and fell in a lifeless heap at her cruel enemy's feet.

For a moment Sally Pendleton gazed at her victim, and thoughts worthy of the brain of a fiend incarnate swept through her.

"If she were only dead!" she muttered, excitedly. "Dare I – "

The sentence was never finished. There was a step on the creaking stairs outside, and with a guilty cry of alarm, Miss Pendleton rushed from the room and out into the darkened hall-way.

She brushed past a woman on the narrow stairs, but the darkness was so dense neither recognized the other; and Sally Pendleton had gained the street and turned the nearest corner, ere Miss Rogers – for it was she – reached the top landing.

As she pushed open the door, the first object that met her startled eyes was Bernardine lying like one dead on the floor.

Despite the fact that she was an invalid, Miss Rogers' nerves were exceedingly cool. She did not shriek out, or call excitedly to the other inmates of the house, but went about reviving the girl by wetting her handkerchief with water as cold as it would run from the faucet, and laving her marble-cold face with it, and afterward rubbing her hands briskly.

She was rewarded at length by seeing the great dark eyes slowly open, and the crimson tide of life drift back to the pale, cold cheeks and quivering lips.

A look of wonder filled Bernardine's eyes as she beheld Miss Rogers bending over her.

"Was it a dream, some awful dream?" she said, excitedly, catching at her friend's hands and clinging piteously to them.

"What caused your sudden illness, Bernardine?" questioned Miss Rogers, earnestly. "You were apparently well when I left you an hour since."

Still Bernardine clung to her with that awful look of agony in her beautiful eyes, but uttering no word.

"Has she gone?" she murmured, at length.

"Has who gone?" questioned Miss Rogers, wondering what she meant.

"The beautiful, pitiless stranger," sobbed Bernardine, catching her breath.

Miss Rogers believed that the girl's mind was wandering, and refrained from further questioning her.

"The poor child is grieving so over this coming marriage of hers to Jasper Wilde that I almost fear her mind is giving way," she thought, in intense alarm, glancing at Bernardine.

As she did so, Bernardine began to sob again, breaking into such a passionate fit of weeping, and suffering such apparently intense grief, that Miss Rogers was at a loss what to do or say.

She would not tell why she was weeping so bitterly; no amount of questioning could elicit from her what had happened.

Not for worlds would Bernardine have told to any human being her sad story – of the stranger's visit and the startling disclosures she had made to her.

It was not until Bernardine found herself locked securely in the seclusion of her own room that she dared look the matter fully in the face, and then the grief to which she abandoned herself was more poignant than before.

In her great grief, a terrible thought came to her. Why not end it all? Surely God would forgive her for laying down life's cross when it was too heavy to be borne.

Yes, that is what she would do. She would end it all.

Her father did not care for her; it caused him no grief to barter her, as the price of his secret, to Jasper Wilde, whom she loathed.

It lacked but one day to that marriage she so detested.

Yes, she would end it all before the morrow's sun rose.

CHAPTER XXVI

Miss Rogers noticed that Bernardine was strangely silent and preoccupied during the remainder of that day; but she attached no particular importance to it.

She knew that the girl was wearing her heart out in brooding over the coming marriage. Jasper Wilde refused to be bought off, and Bernardine herself declared that it must take place. She, alas! knew why!

Miss Rogers had done her best to persuade David Moore to take Bernardine away – to Europe – ay, to the furthest end of the world, where Jasper Wilde could not find them, declaring that she would raise the money to defray their traveling expenses.

David Moore shook his head.

"There is no part of the world to which we could go that he would not find us," he muttered, burying his face in his shaking hands. "But we will speak no more about it. It unmans me to think what would happen were – " and he stopped short.

He had often heard Miss Rogers make allusion to money she could lay her hand on at any moment; but the old basket-maker never believed her. He fancied that the poor woman had a sort of mania that she was possessed of means which she could lay her hand on at any moment, and all she said on the subject he considered as but visionary, and paid no attention to it whatever.

Poor Miss Rogers was in despair. What could she do to save Bernardine? She worried so over the matter that by evening she had so severe a headache that she was obliged to retire to her room and lie down.

David Moore had drunk himself into insensibility early in the evening, and Bernardine, sick at heart, alone, wretched, and desolate, was left by herself to look the dread future in the face.

The girl had reached a point where longer endurance was impossible. The man whom she loved had been only deceiving her with his protestations of affection; he had laughed with his companions at the kisses he had bestowed on her sweet lips; and she abhorred the man who was to claim her on the morrow as the price of her father's liberty.

No wonder the world looked dark to the poor girl, and there seemed nothing in the future worth living for.

As the hours dragged by, Bernardine had made up her mind what to do.

The little clock on the mantel chimed the midnight hour as she arose from her low seat by the window, and putting on her hat, she glided from the wretched rooms that had been home to her all her dreary life.

Owing to the lateness of the hour, she encountered few people on the streets. There was no one to notice who she was or whither she went, save the old night-watchman who patroled the block.

"Poor child!" he muttered, thoughtfully, looking after the retreating figure; "she's going out to hunt for that drunken old scapegrace of a father, I'll warrant. It's dangerous for a fine young girl with a face like hers to be on the streets alone at this hour of the night. I've told the old basket-maker so scores of times, but somehow he does not seem to realize her great danger."

Bernardine drew down her dark veil, and waited until the people should go away. She was dressed in dark clothes, and sat so silently she attracted no particular attention; not even when she leaned over and looked longingly into the eddying waves.

Two or three ships bound for foreign ports were anchored scarcely fifty rods away. She could hear the songs and the laughter of the sailors. She waited until these sounds had subsided.

The girl sitting close in the shadow of one of the huge posts was not observed by the few stragglers strolling past.

One o'clock sounded from some far-off tower-clock; then the half hour struck.

Bernardine rose slowly to her feet, and looked back at the lights of the great city that she was leaving.

There would be no one to miss her; no one to weep over her untimely fate; no one to grieve that she had taken the fatal step to eternity.

Her father would be glad that there was no one to follow his step by night and by day, and plead with the wine-sellers to give him no more drink. He would rejoice that he could follow his own will, and drink as much as he pleased.

There was no dear old mother whose heart would break; no gentle sister or brother who would never forget her; no husband to mourn for her; no little child to hold out its hands to the blue sky, and cry to her to come back. No one would miss her on the face of God's earth.

Alas! for poor Bernardine, how little she knew that at that very hour the man whose love she craved most was wearing his very heart out for love of her.

Bernardine took but one hurried glance backward; then, with a sobbing cry, sprung over the pier, and into the dark, seething waters.

CHAPTER XXVII

When Jay Gardiner left the city, he had expected to be gone a week, possibly a fortnight; but, owing to an unexpected turn in the business he was transacting, he was enabled to settle it in a day or so, and return to the city.

It was by the merest chance that he took passage by boat instead of going by rail; or, more truly speaking, there was a fate in it. The boat was due at the wharf by midnight; but, owing to an unaccountable delay, caused by the breaking of some machinery in the engine-room, it was after one o'clock when the steamer touched the wharf.

Doctor Gardiner was not in such a hurry as the rest of the passengers were, and he walked leisurely across the gang-plank, pausing, as he reached the pier, to look back at the lights on the water.

He felt just in the mood to pause there and enjoy what comfort he could find in a good cigar. He was just about to light a cigar, when his gaze was suddenly attracted toward a slender object – the figure of a woman sitting on the very edge of the pier.

She was in the shadow cast by a large post; but he knew from the position in which she sat, that she must be looking intently into the water.

He did not like the steady gaze with which she seemed to be looking downward, and the young doctor determined to watch her. He drew back into the shadow of one of the huge stanchions, and refrained from lighting his cigar.

If she would but change her dangerous position, he would call out to her; and he wondered where was the watchman who was supposed to guard those piers and prevent accidents of this kind.

While he was pondering over this matter, the figure rose suddenly to its feet, and he readily surmised from its slender, graceful build, which was but dimly outlined against the dark pier, that she must be a young girl.

What was she doing there at that unseemly hour? Watching for some sailor lover whose ship was bearing him to her from over the great dark sea, or was she watching for a brother or father?

He had little time to speculate on this theme, however, for the next instant a piteous cry broke from the girl's lips – a cry in a voice strangely familiar; a cry that sent the blood bounding through his heart like an electric shock – and before he could take a step forward to prevent it, the slender figure had sprung over the pier.

By the time Jay Gardiner reached the edge of the dock, the dark waters had closed over her head, a few eddying ripples only marking the spot where she had gone down.

In an instant Doctor Gardiner tore off his coat and sprung into the water to the rescue. When he rose to the surface, looking eagerly about for the young girl whom he was risking his life to save, he saw a white face appear on the surface. He struck out toward it, but ere he reached the spot, it sunk. Again he dived, and yet again, a great fear oppressing him that his efforts would be in vain, when he saw the white face go down for the third and last time.

With a mighty effort Doctor Gardiner dove again. This time his hands struck something. He grasped it firmly. It was a tightly-clinched little hand.

Up through the water he bore the slender form, and struck out for the pier with his burden.

Doctor Gardiner was an expert swimmer, but it was with the utmost difficulty that he succeeded in reaching the pier, owing to the swell caused by the many steamboats passing. But it was accomplished at last, and almost on the verge of exhaustion himself, he succeeded in effecting a landing and laying his burden upon the pier.

"She is half drowned as it is," he muttered, bending closer to look at the pallid face under the flickering light of the gas-lamp.

As his eyes rested upon the girl's face, a mighty cry broke from his lips, and he staggered back as though a terrible blow had been dealt him.

"Great God! it is Bernardine!" he gasped.

The discovery fairly stunned him – took his breath away. Then he remembered that the girl was dying; that every instant of time was precious if he would save her.

He worked over her as though his life were at stake, and his efforts were rewarded at last when the dark eyes opened languidly.

"Bernardine," he cried, kneeling beside her on the pier, his voice husky with emotion, "why did you do this terrible deed? Speak, my love, my darling!"

And almost before he was aware of it, he had clasped her to his heart, and was raining passionate kisses on the cheek, neck, and pale cold lips of the girl he loved better than life.

She did not seem to realize what had transpired; she did not recognize him.

"Do not take me home!" she sobbed, incoherently, over and over again. "Anywhere but there. He – he – will kill me!"

These words alarmed Doctor Gardiner greatly. What could they mean? He knew full well that this must have been the last thought that crossed her brain ere she took the fatal leap, or it would not have been the first one to flash across her mind with returning consciousness.

He saw, too, that she was getting into a delirium, and that she must be removed with all possible haste.

He did not know of Miss Rogers being in her home, and he reasoned with himself that there was no one to take care of her there, save the old basket-maker, and she could not have a worse companion in her present condition; therefore he must take her elsewhere.

Then it occurred to him that a very excellent nurse – a widow whom he had often recommended to his patients – must live very near that vicinity, and he determined to take her there, and then go after her father and bring him to her.

There was an old hack jostling by. Jay Gardiner hailed it, and placing Bernardine within, took a place by her side. In a few moments they were at their destination.

The old nurse was always expecting a summons to go to some patient; but she was quite dumbfounded to see who her caller was at that strange hour, and to see that he held an unconscious young girl in his arms.

Jay Gardiner explained the situation to the old nurse.

"I will not come again for a fortnight, nurse," he said, unsteadily, on leaving. "That will be best under the circumstances. She may be ill, but not in danger. I will send her father to her in the meantime."

"What an honorable man Jay Gardiner is!" thought the nurse, admiringly. "Not every man could have the strength of mind to keep away from the girl he loved, even if he was bound to another."

Doctor Gardiner dared not take even another glance at Bernardine, his heart was throbbing so madly, but turned and hurried from the house, and re-entering the cab, drove rapidly away.

He had planned to go directly to David Moore; but on second thought he concluded to wait until morning.

It would be a salutary lesson to the old basket-maker to miss Bernardine, and realize how much he depended upon the young girl for his happiness.

This was a fatal resolve for him to reach, as will be plainly seen.

As soon as he had finished his breakfast, he hurried to the Canal Street tenement house.

There was no commotion outside; evidently the neighbors had not heard of Bernardine's disappearance, and he doubted whether or not her father knew of it yet.

Jay Gardiner had barely stepped from the pavement into the dark and narrow hall-way ere he found himself face to face with Jasper Wilde.

The doctor would have passed him by with a haughty nod, but with one leap Wilde was at his side, his strong hands closing around his throat, while he cried out, in a voice fairly convulsed with passion:

"Aha! You have walked right into my net, and at the right moment. Where is Bernardine? She fled from me last night, and went directly to your arms, of course. Tell me where she is, that I may go to her and wreak my vengeance upon her! Answer me quickly, or I will kill you!"

Jay Gardiner was surprised for an instant; but it was only for an instant. In the next, he had recovered himself.

"You cur, to take a man at a disadvantage like that!" he cried; adding, as he swung out his muscular right arm: "But as you have brought this upon yourself, I will give you enough of it!"

Two or three ringing blows showed Jasper Wilde, that, bully though he was, he had met his match in this white-handed aristocrat.

He drew back, uttering a peculiar sharp whistle, and two men, who were evidently in his employ, advanced quickly to Wilde's aid.

"Bind and gag this fellow!" he commanded, "and throw him down into the wine-cellar to await my coming! He's a thief. He has just stolen my pocket-book. Quick, my lads; don't listen to what he says!"