Читать книгу: «Jolly Sally Pendleton: or, the Wife Who Was Not a Wife», страница 9

CHAPTER XXXI

The sun dipped low in the West; the great crowds hurrying hither and thither were beginning to thin out. New York's busy throngs were seeking their homes to enjoy the meal which they had worked for in factory and shop, for they were mostly working people who composed this seething mass of humanity.

Slowly time dragged on. Seven o'clock tolled from a far-off belfry. Bernardine was getting frightfully nervous.

What could have happened to her handsome young husband, who had left her with the promise that he would return within the hour?

The policeman pacing to and fro on that beat watched her curiously each time he passed.

Eight o'clock struck slowly and sharply. The wind had risen, and was now howling like a demon around the corners of the great buildings.

"What shall I do? Oh, Heaven, help me! what shall I do?" sobbed Bernardine, in nervous affright. "He – he must have forgotten me."

At that moment a hand fell heavily on her shoulder.

Looking up hastily through her tears, Bernardine saw a policeman standing before her and eyeing her sharply.

"What are you doing here, my good girl?" he asked. "Waiting for somebody? I would advise you to move on. We're going to have a storm, and pretty quick, too, and I judge that it will be a right heavy one."

"I – I am waiting for my husband," faltered Bernardine. "He drove me here in a cab. I was to do a little shopping while he went to find a boarding-house. He was to return in an hour – by six o'clock. I – I have been waiting here since that time, and – and he has not come."

"Hum! Where did you and your husband live last?" inquired the man of the brass buttons.

"We – we didn't live anywhere before. We – we were just married to-day," admitted the girl, her lovely face suffused with blushes.

"The old story," muttered the officer under his breath. "Some rascal has deluded this simple, unsophisticated girl into the belief that he has married her, then cast her adrift."

"I am going to tell you what I think, little girl," he said, speaking kindly in his bluff way. "But don't cry out, make a scene, or get hysterical. It's my opinion that the man you are waiting for don't intend to come back."

He saw the words strike her as lightning strikes and blasts a fair flower. A terrible shiver ran through the young girl, then she stood still, as though turned to stone, her face overspread with the pallor of death.

The policeman was used to all phases of human nature. He saw that this girl's grief was genuine, and felt sorry for her.

"Surely you have a home, friends, here somewhere?" he asked.

Bernardine shook her head, sobbing piteously.

"I lived in the tenement house on Canal Street that has just been burned down. My father perished in it, leaving me alone in the world – homeless, shelterless – and – and this man asked me to marry him, and – and I – did."

The policeman was convinced more than ever by her story that some roué had taken advantage of the girl's pitiful situation to lead her astray.

"That's bad. But surely you have friends somewhere?"

Again Bernardine shook her head, replying, forlornly:

"Not one on earth. Papa and I lived only for each other."

The policeman looked down thoughtfully for a moment. He said to himself that he ought to try to save her from the fate which he was certain lay before her.

"I suppose he left you without a cent, the scoundrel?" he queried, brusquely.

"Oh, don't speak of him harshly!" cried Bernardine, distressedly. "I am sure something has happened to prevent his coming. He left his pocket-book with me, and there is considerable money in it."

"Ah! the scoundrel had a little more heart than I gave him credit for," thought the policeman.

He did not take the trouble to ask the name of the man whom she believed had wedded her, being certain that he had given a fictitious one to her.

"There is a boarding-house just two blocks from here, that I would advise you to go to for the night, at least, young lady," he said, "and if he comes I will send him around there. I can not miss him if he comes, for I will be on this beat, pacing up and down, until seven o'clock to-morrow morning. See, the rain has commenced to come down pretty hard. Come!"

There was nothing else to do but accept the kind policeman's suggestion. As it was, by the time she reached the house to which he good-naturedly piloted her, the fierce storm was raging in earnest.

He spoke a few words, which Bernardine could not catch, to the white-haired, benevolent-looking lady who opened the door.

She turned to the girl with outstretched hands.

"Come right in, my dear," she said, gently; "come right in."

"I was waiting for my husband, but somehow I missed him," explained Bernardine. "The policeman will be sure to run across him and send him around here."

The lady looked pityingly at the beautiful young face – a look that made Bernardine a little nervous, though there was nothing but gentleness and kindness in it.

"We will talk about that in the morning," she said. "I will show you to a room. The house is quite full just now, and I shall have to put you in a room with another young girl. Pardon the question, but have you had your supper?"

"No," replied Bernardine, frankly, "and I am hungry and fatigued."

"I will send you up a bowl of bread and milk, and a cup of nice hot tea," said the lady.

"How good you are to me, a perfect stranger!" murmured Bernardine. "I will be glad to pay you for the tea and – "

The lady held up her white hand with a slow gesture.

"We do not take pay for any services we render here, my dear," she said. "This is a young girls' temporary shelter, kept up by a few of the very wealthy women in this great city."

Bernardine was very much surprised to hear this; but before she could reply, the lady threw open a door to the right, and Bernardine was ushered into a plain but scrupulously neat apartment in which sat a young girl of apparently her own age.

"Sleep here in peace, comfort and security," said the lady. "I will have a talk with you on the morrow," and she closed the door softly, leaving Bernardine alone with the young girl at the window, who had faced about and was regarding her eagerly.

"I am awfully glad you are come," she broke in quickly; "it was terribly slow occupying this room all alone, as I told the matron awhile ago. It seems she took pity on me and sent you here. But why don't you sit down, girl? You look at me as though you were not particularly struck with my face, and took a dislike to me at first sight, as most people do."

She was correct in her surmise. Bernardine had taken a dislike to her, she scarcely knew why.

Bernardine forgot her own trials and anxiety in listening to the sorrowful story of this hapless creature.

"Why don't you try to find work in some other factory or some shop?" asked Bernardine, earnestly.

"My clothes are so shabby, my appearance is against me. No one wants to employ a girl whose dress is all tatters."

A sudden thought came to Bernardine, and she acted on the impulse.

"Here," she said, pulling out her pocket-book – "here is ten dollars. Get a dress, and try to find work. The money is not a loan; it is a gift."

The girl had hardly heard the words, ere a cry of amazement fell from her lips. She was eyeing the well-filled pocket-book with a burning gaze.

CHAPTER XXXII

The girl took the money which Bernardine handed to her, her eyes following every movement of the white hand that placed the wallet back in her pocket.

"You must be rich to have so much money about you," she said, slowly, with a laugh that grated harshly on Bernardine's sensitive ears.

"It is not mine," said Bernardine, simply; "it is my husband's, and represents all the years of toil he has worked, and all the rigid economy he has practiced."

The girl looked at her keenly. Could it be that she was simple enough to believe that the man who had deserted her so cruelly had married her? Well, let her believe what she chose, it was no business of hers.

The bowl of bread and milk and the cup of tea were sent up to Bernardine, and she disposed of them with a heartiness that amused her companion.

"I am afraid you will not sleep well after eating so late," she said, with a great deal of anxiety in her voice.

"I shall rest all the better for taking the hot milk. I fall asleep generally as soon as my head touches the pillow, and I do not wake until the next morning. Why, if the house tumbled down around me, I believe that I would not know it. I will remove my jacket, to keep it from wrinkling."

This information seemed to please her companion. She breathed a sigh of relief, and an ominous glitter crept into her small black eyes.

"But I do not want to go to sleep to-night," added Bernardine in the next breath. "I shall sit by the window, with my face pressed against the pane, watching for my – my husband."

Her companion, who had introduced herself as Margery Brown, cried out hastily:

"Don't do that. You will look like a washed-out, wilted flower by to-morrow, if you do, and your – your husband won't like that. Men only care for women when they are fresh and fair. Go to bed, and I will sit up and watch for you, and wake you when he comes; though it's my opinion he won't come until to-morrow, for fear of disturbing you."

But Bernardine was firm in her resolve.

"He may come any minute," she persisted, drawing her chair close to the window, and peering wistfully out into the storm.

But a tired feeling, caused by the great excitement She had undergone that day, at length began to tell upon her, and her eyes drooped wearily in spite of her every effort to keep them open, and at last, little by little, they closed, and the long, dark, curling lashes, heavy with unshed tears, lay still upon the delicately rounded cheeks.

Margery Brown bent forward, watching her eagerly.

"Asleep at last," she muttered, rising from her seat and crossing the room with a stealthy, cat-like movement, until she reached Bernardine's side.

Bending over her, she laid her hand lightly on her shoulder.

Bernardine stirred uneasily, muttering something in her, sleep about "loving him so fondly," the last of the sentence ending in a troubled sigh.

"They used to tell me that I had the strange gift of being able to mesmerize people," she muttered. "We will see if I can do it now. I'll try it."

Standing before Bernardine, she made several passes with her hands before the closed eyelids. They trembled slightly, but did not open. Again and again those hands waved to and fro before Bernardine with the slowness and regularity of a pendulum.

"Ah, ha!" she muttered at length under her breath, "she sleeps sound enough now."

She laid her hand heavily on Bernardine's breast. The gentle breathing did not abate, and with a slow movement the hand slid down to the pocket of her dress, fumbled about the folds for a moment, then reappeared, tightly clutching the well-filled wallet.

"You can sleep on as comfortably as you like now, my innocent little fool!" she muttered. "Good-night, and good-bye to you."

Hastily donning Bernardine's jacket and hat, the girl stole noiselessly from the room, closing the door softly after her.

So exhausted was Bernardine, she did not awaken until the sunshine, drifting into her face in a flood of golden light, forced the long black lashes to open.

For an instant she was bewildered as she sat up in her chair, looking about the small white room; but in a moment she remembered all that had transpired.

She saw that she was the sole occupant of the apartment, and concluded her room-mate must have gone to breakfast; but simultaneously with this discovery, she saw that her jacket and hat were missing.

She was mystified at first, loath to believe that her companion could have appropriated them, and left the torn and ragged articles she saw hanging in their place.

As she arose from her chair, she discovered that her pocket was hanging inside out, and that the pocket-book was gone!

For an instant she was fairly paralyzed. Then the white lips broke into a scream that brought the matron, who was just passing the door, quickly to her side.

In a hysterical voice, quite as soon as she could command herself to articulate the words, she told the good woman what had happened.

The matron listened attentively.

"I never dreamed that you had money about you my poor child," she said, "or I would have suggested your leaving it with me. I worried afterward about putting you in this room with Margaret Brown; but we were full, and there was no help for it. That is her great fault. She is not honest. We knew that, but when she appealed to me for a night's lodging, I could not turn her away. The front door is never locked, and those who come here can leave when they like. We found it standing open this morning, and we felt something was wrong."

But Bernardine did not hear the last of the sentence. With a cry she fell to the floor at the matron's feet in a death-like swoon.

Kind hands raised her, placed her on the couch, and administered to her; but when at length the dark eyes opened, there was no glance of recognition in them, and the matron knew, even before she called the doctor, that she had a case of brain fever before her.

This indeed proved to be a fact, and it was many a long week ere a knowledge of events transpiring around her came to Bernardine.

During the interim, dear reader, we will follow the fortunes of Jay Gardiner, the young husband for whom Bernardine had watched and waited in vain.

When he was picked up unconscious after the collision, he was recognized by some of the passengers and conveyed to his own office.

It seemed that he had sustained a serious scalp-wound and the doctors who had been called in consultation looked anxiously into each other's faces.

"A delicate operation will be necessary," said the most experienced physician, "and whether it will result in life or death, I can not say."

They recommended that his relatives, if he had any, be sent for. It was soon ascertained that his mother and sister were in Europe, traveling about the Continent. The next person equally, if indeed not more interested, was the young lady he was betrothed to marry – Miss Pendleton. Accordingly, she was sent for with all possible haste.

A servant bearing a message for Sally entered the room.

The girl's hands trembled. She tore the envelope open quickly, and as her eyes traveled over the contents of the note, she gave a loud scream.

"Jay Gardiner has met with an accident, and I am sent for. Ah! that is why I have not heard from him for a week, mamma!" she exclaimed, excitedly.

"I will go with you, my dear," declared her mother. "It wouldn't be proper for you to go alone. Make your toilet at once."

To the messenger's annoyance, the young lady he was sent for kept him waiting nearly an hour, and he was startled, a little later, to see the vision of blonde loveliness that came hurrying down the broad stone steps in the wake of her mother.

"Beautiful, but she has no heart," was his mental opinion. "Very few girls would have waited an hour, knowing their lover lay at the point of death. But it's none of my business, though I do wish noble young Doctor Gardiner had made a better selection for a wife."

The cab whirled rapidly on, and soon reached Doctor Gardiner's office.

Sally looked a little frightened, and turned pale under her rouge when she saw the group of grave-faced physicians evidently awaiting her arrival.

"Our patient has recovered consciousness," said one of them, taking her by the hand and leading her forward. "He is begging pitifully to see some one – of course, it must be yourself – some one who is waiting for him."

"Of course," repeated Sally. "There is no one he would be so interested in seeing as myself."

And quite alone, she entered the inner apartment where Jay Gardiner lay hovering between life and death.

CHAPTER XXXIII

The room into which Sally Pendleton was ushered was so dimly lighted that she was obliged to take the second glance about ere she could distinguish where the couch was on which Jay Gardiner lay. The next moment she was bending over him, crying and lamenting so loudly that the doctors waiting outside were obliged to go to her and tell her that this outburst might prove fatal to their patient in that critical hour.

Jay Gardiner was looking up at her with dazed eyes. He recognized her, uttered her name.

"Was it to-night that I left your house, after settling when the marriage was to take place?" he asked.

Miss Pendleton humored the idea by answering "Yes," instead of telling him that the visit he referred to had taken place several weeks before.

"To-day was to have been our wedding-day," she sobbed, "and now you are ill – very ill. But, Jay," she whispered, bending down and uttering the words rapidly in his ear, "it could take place just the same, here and now, if you are willing. I sent a note to a minister to come here, and he may arrive at any moment. When he comes, shall I speak to him about it?"

He did not answer; he was trying to remember something, trying, oh, so hard, to remember something that lay like a weight on his mind.

Heaven help him! the past was entirely blotted out of his memory!

He recollected leaving Miss Pendleton's house after setting the date for his marriage with her, but beyond that evening the world was a blank to him.

He never remembered that there were such people as David Moore, the basket-maker, and a beautiful girl, his daughter Bernardine, to whom he had lost his heart, and whom he had wedded, and that she was now waiting for him. His mind was to be a blank upon all that for many a day to come.

"What do you say, Jay?" repeated Miss Pendleton; "will not the ceremony take place to-day, as we had intended?"

"They tell me I am very ill, Sally," he whispered. "I – I may be dying. Do you wish the ceremony to take place in the face of that fact?"

"Yes," she persisted. "I want you to keep your solemn vow that you would make me your wife; and – and delays are dangerous."

"Then it shall be as you wish," he murmured, faintly, in an almost inaudible voice, the effort to speak being so great as to cause him to almost lose consciousness.

Sally stepped quickly from Jay's beside out into the adjoining room.

"Mr. Gardiner wishes our marriage to take place here and now," she announced. "A minister will be here directly. When he arrives, please show him to Doctor Gardiner's bedside."

Mamma Pendleton smiled and nodded her approval in a magnificent way as she caught her daughter's eye for a second. The doctors looked at one another in alarm.

"I do not see how it can take place just now, Miss Pendleton," said one, quietly. "We have a very dangerous and difficult operation to perform upon your betrothed, and each moment it is delayed reduces his chance of recovery. We must put him under chloroform without an instant's delay."

"And I say that it shall not be done until after the marriage ceremony has been performed," declared Sally, furiously; adding, spitefully: "You want to cheat me out of becoming Jay Gardiner's wife. But I defy you! you can not do it! He shall marry me, in spite of you all!"

At that moment there was a commotion outside. The minister had arrived.

Sally herself rushed forward to meet him ere the doctors could have an opportunity to exchange a word with him, and conducted him at once to the sick man's bedside, explaining that her lover had met with an accident, and that he wished to be married to her without a moment's delay.

"I shall be only too pleased to serve you both," replied the good man.

"You must make haste, sir," urged Miss Pendleton sharply. "See, he is beginning to sink."

The minister did make haste. Never before were those solemn words so rapidly uttered.

How strange it was that fate should have let that ceremony go on to the end which would spread ruin and desolation before it!

The last words were uttered. The minister of God slowly but solemnly pronounced Sally Pendleton Jay Gardiner's lawfully wedded wife.

The doctors did not congratulate the bride, but sprung to the assistance of the young physician, who had fallen back upon his pillow gasping for breath.

One held a sponge saturated with a strong liquid to his nostrils, while another escorted the minister, the bride, and her mother from the apartment.

"Remain in this room as quietly as possible," urged the doctor, in a whisper, "and I will let you know at the earliest possible moment whether it will be life or death with your husband, Mrs. Gardiner."

At last the door quickly opened, and two of the doctors stood on the threshold.

"Well, doctor," she cried, looking from one to the other, "what tidings do you bring me? Am I a wife or a widow?"

"Five minutes' time will decide that question, madame," said one, impressively. "We have performed the operation. It rests with a Higher Power whether it will be life or death."

And the doctor who had spoken took out his watch, and stood motionless as a statue while it ticked off the fatal minutes.