Mellen set old Benson about some other duties and went into the library. While he stood at one of the windows, looking gloomily out on the autumn landscape, he heard the voices of 'Dolf and his spinster inamorata in the area below.
"What's marster gwine to have done to de tree?" Clo asked.
"He's afeared it's deceasin'," replied Dolf, pompously, "and he wishes to perwent."
"Don't come none o' yer furrin lingo over me," said Clorinda, angrily. "Can't yer say what he's gwine to do, widout any of dem dern outlandish Spanish 'spressions."
"'Twarn't Spanish, lubly one," said 'Dolf, greatly delighted at the effect his grandiloquent language had produced. "Sometimes I do 'dulge in far away tongues jist from habit; its' trabeling so much, you know."
"Don't know nothin' about it, and don't want to," interrupted Clorinda. "Ef yer can't answer a civil question as it outer be, yer needn't stay round dis part of de house."
"Don't be ravagerous," returned Dolf. "Any question ob yours it is my delight to answer, only propose it."
"I does, plainly enough. What's marster gwine to have done to dat ar ole tree?"
"Hab de airth dug up," said Dolf, deeming it wiser to use a more simple phraseology; "he's 'feared it's dying."
Mellen was about to order them away from that part of the house—the veriest trifle irritated him now—when Clorinda's next words made him pause.
"I wish he'd hev it dug up by the roots," she said; "I do 'lieve dat ar tree is haunted."
"Haunted!" screamed Dolf, who possessed a large share of the superstition of his race. "Now what does yer mean, Miss Clorindy?"
"Jes' what I ses," replied she sharply; "I ain't one ob de kind dat tittervates up my words till dey haint got no sense left."
"But I never heerd of a haunted tree," said Dolf, gaining new courage as he remembered that it was broad daylight. "Haunted houses I've heerd on in plenty; but a tree——"
"Oh, mebby yer don't know eberything yet!" said Clo, viciously.
Clo had been rather short with her lover of late, having interrupted several private flirtations of Victoria, with the faithless one.
"Do tell me what yer mean, Clorindy," pleaded Dolf, his eyes fairly started out of his head with curiosity.
"Oh, mebby you'd better go to Vic," she retorted, "she's a heap cuter dan what I be. I ain't coffee-colored, I'se only a nigger."
"Now, Miss Clorindy!" cried Dolf, understanding that this was an occasion when flattery and soft words were absolutely necessary. "You know I'se ales in for de genuine article."
"Don't know nothin' ob de sort," said Clo. "I kint flirty and flighty about like some folks; but, anyhow, I ain't fool enough to put all my wages on my back. I guess marster cud tell what I've got in de bank."
That allusion to her golden charms drove the youthful graces of Victoria quite out of Dolf's head. He grew more tender and submissive at once.
"Yer's de pearl ob de creation!" he cried enthusiastically.
Mellen stamped his foot passionately, furious with their nonsense, upbraiding himself that he could listen to the conversation of his own servants, yet unable to move away without hearing the revelation which Clorinda evidently had to make.
After a little more persuasive eloquence which began to restore Clorinda's good-humor, Dolf said:
"But do tell me what yer means 'bout de tree?"
"No," said Clorinda, mysteriously; "it's one ob dem tings as is best not talked 'bout. I don't run and tell all I sees and hears."
"Jis' confide in my buzzom," said Dolf, tenderly.
"Men is so duberous, 'specially dem as brags 'bout der mean white blood, which comes out coppery any how," said Clorinda.
"Yer knows I'se de most faithful and constance ob my sect," cried Dolf. "Yer may speak freely to me."
"I 'spose yer'd say de same to Vic."
"Neber, Miss Clorindy! What, dat silly, giggling girl—don't tink it!"
His persuasions met with their reward at last; he pleaded again:
"Jis' tell me what yer means 'bout de tree bein' haunted?"
She yielded to his flattery and her feminine desire to tell all that she had seen or imagined about the old cedar.
"Mebby 'twas two months 'fore you came back," she said, in the tone of a person trying to be exact in her recollection of events.
"What was?" cried Dolf, impatiently, "de hauntin'?"
"Ef I'm gwine to tell you my story I'll do it in my own way," said Clorinda, majestically.
"In course, in course," returned Dolf. "I begs pardon for de 'ruption. Jis' go on, sweetest Miss Clo'."
"I tells yer dar's been somethin' agoing on in dis house," pursued Clorinda. "Dat ar bracelet losing was all of a piece wid what went afore. Missus was awful mad at me for saying so, but I don't care. She's queer—stuck up like. There's Miss Elsie, sweet allers as a young kitten!"
"Yes, yes," Dolf said, ready to agree with anything in order to get at the heart of Clorinda's mystery.
"Afore ever dat ring was lost I seed a man in de house in de dead ob de night—a man and a woman!"
"Good gracious!" cried Dolf.
"I'd had de toothache, and ben down to de kitchen fire a smokin' pennyryal, and awful sick it made me. I was gwine up de back stairs, when I heard steps in de hall. I looked in and I seed a man and woman plain. I had de candle in my hand. I screeched right out, and shut my eyes, and let de candle fall. When I opened 'em again missus had come out of her room, wid a shawl over her and a lamp in her hand.
"'What yer doin' dar?' says she.
"I up and telled her 'bout de man and woman, and she larfed in my face.
"'Whar be dey?' says she. 'Dar's nobody here but us.'
"'Twarn't no use to say nothin', she flew off into one o' her tantrums, and scolded me like all possessed. I don't like her, anyhow, and dat's all 'bout it!"
"But is dat all?" questioned Dolf, in a disappointed tone.
"No, it ain't all; jis' wait and don't go off de handle afore you knows which end you've got hold on."
"But de tree, Clorindy," said Dolf; "tell me 'bout de tree."
"I'se comin' to dat," replied Clo, growing eager again. "I'd ben down to see Dinah Jameson, at de cross roads; it was real late; we'd had a prayer meetin' and I kinder forgot myself in de refreshin' season——"
"Yes," said Dolf, fearing she would go off in a long digression and lose sight of the all-important topic, "dey is refreshin'; as preserves is to de taste so is meetin's to de spirit—soothin', yer know."
"Jis' so," said Clorinda.
"Wal, yer was comin' home," suggested Dolf.
"Yes; two or tree on 'em came with me to de gate and dar dey left me. I heeled it up de avenue jis' as hard as I could, but when I got near de house I thort, suppose missus should see me, she's a pokin up at all hours, she'd scold me like smoke. I jis' cut out ob de road to take de path trough de thicket, and came in sight ob de ole cypress tree."
Clorinda broke off abruptly to recover her breath and to allow her narrative to have its full effect upon her listener.
"Go on; oh, do go on!" cried Dolf.
Could the pair have seen the face leaning over the balcony, straining to catch every word, they might almost have thought that one of the ghosts they so dreaded had started up before them.
"I came in sight ob de cypress tree," recommenced Clo, working up her story to a climax with great art.
"Yes, yes," said Dolf again. "In sight ob de tree——"
"I seed somethin' all in white a couchin' down dar, a throwin' up its arms and moaning like. I jis' give one yell and danced away. When I got to de house, what do you tink? dar was missus. Whar she come from I don't know, and she give me goose again for screaming; but la! she was white as a dead woman all de while."
"What could it all a ben?"
"I don't know more'n you. The next morning she sent for me, and she telled me she'd hev to send me away ef I didn't quit dat habit of bein' up so late and skeerin' de gals wid stories 'bout ghosts; so I jis' held my tongue."
"And had you ebber seed anytink more?"
"Laws, I wouldn't go near dat tree after dark for all de money on Long Island! I tells you dar's sometin' queer somewhar."
"So dar is," assented Dolf, in a perplexed manner, "dar is, sure."
"Don't yer say nothin', 'cause I'd get my walkin' papers ef yer did. But ef you're so mighty wise, jis' tell me what yer makes ob all dis mysteriousness?"
"Clorindy," said Dolf, in a solemn voice, "ghostesses is a subject 'taint proper to talk on, and the queernesses ob our marsters and misseses is not tropics for us."
"A body must wonder, I s'pose, black or white," said Clo, angrily.
"But dat's all you've seen?"
"Dat's all, and it's 'nuff and more too."
Grantley Mellen stepped back into the library and closed the window. He had need to be alone. Every day, every hour, the mystery which had intruded into his home deepened and took more appalling shapes.
The pair of sable retainers went on with their conversation, totally unconscious of a listener, and when the interest connected with that subject had culminated, diverged to themes more intimately connected with their own affairs.
One of the chief desires of Dolf's soul was to find out exactly how much money Clorinda had in the bank, but he had never been able, with all his arts, to bring her to that degree of confidence necessary to make him a partner in that dearest secret of her life.
The other servants and her friends in the neighborhood gave very contradictory accounts concerning the amount, and Victoria openly avowed her belief that—
"De whole ting was just gammon—didn't b'lieve she had no money no whar—she know'd she was so old dat it was her only chance of ketchin' a beau, so she tried it on; dat was 'bout all it 'mounted to."
But Dolf was too wise to be influenced by Victoria's sneers, and had lately convinced himself that the sum was larger than he at first supposed. In that case Dolf felt the extreme folly of allowing a fancy for Victoria to stand in the way of his interest. Already he had incurred Clorinda's serious displeasure; it had required a vast amount of eloquence to reconcile matters after his indiscretion with the strange young woman at old Mother Hopkin's, besides, his flirtations with Victoria were a constant bone of contention between them.
Dolf felt certain that if he only came directly to the point and made Clorinda a bona fide offer of his hand with his heart in it, she would forgive him; but it required a good deal of resolution to make up his mind to that step.
Clorinda was not prepossessing in her appearance,—that her most partial friends would have been forced to admit; probably in her youth she might have had her attractions, but now that years, avarice, and a not very patient temper had worn their furrows in her face, it really required all the glitter of her reported wealth to make her endurable in Dolf's mercenary eyes.
Then her color and her frizzed locks, at which Victoria sneered so openly—that was a tender point with Dolf; he had the general contempt for the jetty hue which one is certain to find among those of the bronze complexion.
Dolf stood there looking at Clorinda and revolving all those things in his mind, while she washed her vegetables and made herself busy as possible at the kitchen dressers.
"Dis life is full of mysteriousness, Miss Clorindy," he said in a meditative tone.
Clorinda snipped off the tops from the carrots she was preparing for her soup, and assented.
"Dar ain't much wuth livin' for," she said gloomily.
Dolf was frightened at once; when Clo got into one of her desponding humors she became very religious without delay; and he trembled with fear that she would condemn him to Methodist hymns and a prayer-meeting that very night.
"Don't say dat, Miss Clorindy, now don't!" he exclaimed pathetically. "You's de light ob too many eyes for sich renumerations—you lights der hearts as de sun does de sky at noonday."
Clorinda relented; with all her firmness and numerous other grim virtues, she was a thorough woman at heart, and never could withstand flattery adroitly administered.
"Go 'long wid yer poety nonsense," said she, giving a coquettish toss to her head that made her gorgeous bandanna flutter as if suddenly electrified. "Go 'way wid sich, I say."
"Don't call it nonsense, sweet Miss Clorindy," urged Dolf; "when a gemman disposes de tenderest feelins' ob his bussom at yer feet, don't jist at 'em."
To be called by such endearing epithets in two consecutive sentences, softened Clorinda greatly; this time something uncommon must be coming—Dolf certainly was in earnest.
"I don't see nothin' at my feet," said she, with a little giggle.
"Yes, yer does, Miss Clorindy," pleaded Dolf; "yes, yer does—now don't deny it."
"La!" said Clorinda, in a delightful flurry, "you men is so confusin'."
"I don't mean ter be confusin', Miss Clorindy," said Dolf; "it's far from my wishes—leastways wid you."
There was a tender emphasis on the concluding pronoun which quite upset Clorinda. She allowed the carrots to fall back in the pan of water, and seated herself on a stool near by—if anything serious was coming she would receive it with dignity befitting the occasion.
Artful Dolf, profound in his knowledge of the sex, read her thoughts without the slightest difficulty, and chuckled inwardly at the idea that any female heart could resist his fascinations. Still he was in a condition of great perplexity; he had no intention of committing himself until he had learned the exact price Clorinda could pay for the sacrifice he was prepared to make of his youth and good looks. On the other hand, he was sorely puzzled how to obtain the desired information without laying his heart at her feet. All his craft in that direction had signally failed; in that respect Clorinda was astute enough to be fully his match.
But he must say something; Dolf could not afford to lose time in misunderstandings, particularly as he had lately discovered that the sable parson whose meetings she attended, was becoming seriously devoted in his attentions.
"Ah! Miss Clorindy," he said, "de sect is all resemblous in one particular."
"What do yer mean?" inquired Clo, and her voice softened in response to the tenderness in his.
"In yer cruelty," said Dolf, "yer cruelty, Miss Clorindy."
"Laws, nobody ebber sed I was cruel," returned the matter-of-fact Clo. "I wrings de necks ob de chickens and skin de eels alive, 'cause it's a cook's lookout, but I hasn't got a speck ob cruelty in me."
Dolf shook his head, then dropped it on one side with an air which he had found very effective in former flirtations.
"In course yer'll deny it—it's de way ob de sect, but de fact is dar."
"I don't know what yer mean," said Clorinda, beginning to resume a little of her usual rigidity; "if yer ain't a talkin' Spanish now, it's jist as bad."
"I alludes to de coquettations in which yer all indulge."
"I don't," said Clo; "I leaves all sich foolishnesses to silly things like dat Vic—I hasn't no patience wid 'em."
"Oh! Miss Clorindy, Miss Clorindy!"
"Dat's my name, fast 'nuff; yer needn't go shouting it out dat ways."
"When I'se seed wid my own eyes," said Dolf.
"What has yer seen? Jis' 'ticlarise—I hate beatin' round de bush."
Clo really believed that Dolf was getting jealous; the bare idea filled her with a delicious thrill—triumphs of that sort were sufficiently rare in her experience to be exceedingly precious.
"But I don't know what yer mean," she went on, "no more'n de man in de moon."
"Dar it is!" said Dolf. "Why, I b'lieves dat ar's de only reason de sect looks at de moon, cause dar's a man in it."
"Oh, he's too far off," returned Clo, with a prolonged chuckle at her own wit; "too high up for much use."
"Bery good," said Dolf, "bery good indeed! Yer's in fine spirits to-day, Miss Clorindy."
Here Dolf sighed dolefully.
He certainly was in earnest this time—Clo felt assured of that. She forgot the half-washed vegetables, the unseasoned soup, and tried to pose herself with becoming dignity.
"I don't see why," she said, in sweet confusion. "But any how yer didn't prove nothin' 'bout my bein' coquettious."
"Dar it is!" cried Dolf. "It all goes togeder."
"Oh, laws," cried Clo, "as ef dat ar would set you a sighin'; I knows a heap better'n dat, Mister Dolf."
"Yer don't do me justice, Clorindy," said Dolf, seriously, putting on an injured look; "yer neber has done me justice."
"Why, what have I done now?" demanded Clo, beginning to play with her apron string.
"Clo! I say, ole Clo!"
Victoria, who was getting impatient with her confined position behind the laundry door, where she had done jealous duty as a listener, now dashed in upon the lovers, and broke up the conversation just as it reached a most interesting point.
"I say, ole Clo, them perserves are a bilen over; you can smell 'em here."
The day was wearing slowly on; a day more terrible in its moral darkness and suspense than perhaps had ever before descended upon that old house.
Mr. Mellen was engaged with a succession of visitors on business, with whom he remained shut up in the library; Elsie took refuge at first in her own chamber, but either nervousness or a desire to talk drove her again to Elizabeth's room. Their dressing-rooms were separated by Elizabeth's chamber, so Elsie flung the door open and ran into her sister's room, exclaiming:
"You must let me stay; I can't be alone."
Elizabeth only replied by a gesture; she was walking slowly up and down the floor as she had been during all the morning; it was entirely out of her power to accept one instant of physical rest. She left the door open and extended her promenade through the second chamber into Elsie's, and then back, pacing to and fro till she looked absolutely exhausted, but never once pausing for repose.
They were undisturbed, except when one of the servants knocked at the door for orders, and at each request for admittance Elsie would give a nervous little cry.
"Tell them not to come any more," said she, lifting both hands in nervous appeal.
"They must have their orders," Elizabeth replied; "come what may, everything must go on as usual to the last moment."
Elsie shivered down among her cushions and was silent. She had pulled the sofa close to the hearth, gathered a pile of French novels about her, and sat there trying her best to be comfortable in her feeble way.
"If you would only sit down," she exclaimed, at length.
"I cannot," replied Elizabeth; and resumed her dreary walk.
Then there came more interruptions; Victoria wished to know if they would have luncheon.
"Marster's got in de library wid dem men—'spect missus don't want to go down."
"What is she talking about?" questioned Elsie from her sofa.
"Luncheon," said Elizabeth; "will you have it up here?"
"As if one could eat—"
A warning gesture from Elizabeth checked her.
"You may bring the luncheon up here," Elizabeth said to the girl.
Victoria went out and closed the door.
"I believe they would come if we were dying, to know if we would take time to eat," cried Elsie.
"Everything must go on as usual," was Elizabeth's answer.
"How can you stand there and talk so calmly to them!" cried Elsie. "It's enough to drive one frantic."
"It is too late now to be anything but quiet—entirely too late."
Elsie began some shuddering complaints, but Elizabeth did not wait to hear them; she had resumed her promenade, walking with the same restless, eager haste, her eyes seeming to look afar off and unable to fix themselves upon any object in the rooms.
"There is another knock," cried Elsie. "Oh, they'll drive me frantic!"
"Come in," Elizabeth said, sharply.
It was Victoria with the luncheon tray, and it seemed as if she never would have done arranging it to her satisfaction.
"I brung yer some apricot jelly, Miss Elsie," she said; "I knowed you had one of yer headaches."
But Elsie only moaned and turned upon her cushions.
"Dar's only cold chicken and dat patter," said Vic; "I took de ducks in fur marster."
"There is quite enough," said Elizabeth; "you needn't wait."
"Yes, miss," returned Vic. "I hain't had no time yet to sweep de room Miss Harrington had—Clo, she's ugly as Cain, ter day."
"It makes no difference," said Elizabeth, while Elsie threw down her book in feverish impatience.
"Yes, miss, but tain't pleasant," returned Vic, with her most elegant curtsey. "I likes to do my work reg'lar and in time, missus knows dat; but when Clo gets into one o' her tantrums she sets ebryting topsy-turvey, 'specially when dat yaller nig', Dolf, come down feering wid de work."
"Then keep out of the kitchen," cried Elsie; "don't quarrel."
"Laws, Miss Elsie," said Victoria, with all the injured resignation of suffering innocence; "I neber quarr'ls wid nobody, but I defy an angel to git along wid Clo! She's jest de most aggravatin' piece dat eber wore shoe leather! She's so mad 'cause she's gettin' ole dat she hates a young girl wuss nor pison, she does."
Vic was now fairly started on the subject of her wrongs, and hurried on before Elsie could stop her, with all the energy of a belated steam engine. Elizabeth had walked into the other room, and Victoria took that opportunity to pour out her sorrows with the utmost freedom to Elsie.
"Miss Elsie, sometimes I tinks I can't stand it. I wouldn't nohow, if twarn't fur my affection fur you—you and miss," Victoria hastened to add diplomatically, fearful that her mistress might be within hearing and that the omission would be turned to her disadvantage. "Clo, she gits agravatiner ebery day, and sence Dolf come back she's wurs'n a bear wid a sore head."
"Oh, you make mine ache," cried Elsie.
"Laws, miss, I wouldn't for the worl'."
"Then go along, and let me sleep, if I can."
"Sartin, miss; but let me do somethin' for yer head," said Victoria, out of the goodness of her heart.
"No, no; I only want to be let alone."
"If yer'd only let me bathe it wid cologny," persisted Vic.
"I don't want it bathed," fretted Elsie.
"Laws, miss, it does a heap o' good! Pennyryal tea's good—"
"Oh, do go away!" groaned Elsie.
"In course I will, miss; but I'd like to do something fur ye—yer looks right sick."
"Then just go away, and don't come up again for the next two hours."
"Yes, miss, I'll jest—"
"Go out!" shrieked Elsie.
"I'se only fixin' yer cushins," said Vic. "Dear me, Miss Elsie, yer allers says I'm right smart handy when yer has dem headaches."
"Oh, I can't bear anybody to-day."
"Dear me, ain't it a pity! Now, miss, I knows what 'ud be good for yer—"
"Elizabeth," groaned Elsie, "do come and send this dreadful creature away!"
This time Victoria deemed it prudent to make a hasty retreat, for she stood in a good deal of awe of her mistress. She went out, reiterating her desire to be useful, and really very full of sympathy, for she was a kindhearted creature enough, except where her enemy, Clorinda, was in the question.
"They'll kill me, I know they will!" moaned Elsie.
Elizabeth did not pay the slightest attention to her complaints, and she relapsed into silence. Finally, her eye was caught by the luncheon temptingly laid out. There lay a mould of delicious apricot jelly in a dish of cut crystal, shining like a great oval-shaped wedge of amber; the cold chicken was arranged in the daintiest of slices, and there was custard-cake, Elsie's special favorite.
She made an effort to fancy herself disgusted at the bare sight of food, and turned away her head, but it was only to encounter the fragrant odor from the little silver teapot, which Victoria had set upon the hearth.
"Could you eat anything, Elizabeth?" she said, dejectedly.
"No, no; I am not hungry."
"But you never touched a morsel of breakfast, and you ate nothing all yesterday."
"I can't eat now—indeed I can't," was Elizabeth's reply.
"Oh, nor I!" moaned Elsie. "I feel as if a single mouthful would choke me."
She glanced again at the tray, and began to moan and weep.
"Oh, dear me! This day never will be over! Oh, I wish I were dead, I do truly! Do say something, Bessie; don't act so."
But Elizabeth only continued her incessant march up and down the floor, and Elsie was forced to quiet herself.
She rose from the sofa at last, stood by the window a few moments, but some magnetism drew her near the luncheon-tray again. She took up a spoon and tasted the apricot jelly.
"I want things to look as if we had eaten something," she said, giving Elizabeth a wistful glance from under her wet eyelashes.
"You had better try and eat," said her sister.
"One ought, I suppose," observed Elsie. "I think I will drink a cup of tea—won't you have some?"
Elizabeth shook her head, and with renewed sighs Elsie poured herself out a cup of tea and sat down at the table.
"Oh, this wretched day! I'd rather be dead and buried! Oh, oh!"
In an absurd, stealthy way, she thrust her spoon into the apricot jelly again, and stifled her moans for a second with the translucent compound.
"I wish I could eat; but I can't!"
She put a fragment of chicken on her plate, made a strong effort and actually succeeded in eating it, while Elizabeth was walking through the other rooms.
"I've tried," she said, when her sister appeared in the doorway again, "but I can't, it chokes me."
She drank her tea greedily.
"I am so thirsty; I believe I've got a fever."
But Elizabeth was gone again, and Elsie stood staring at the paté—a magnificent affair, she knew it was—one of Maillard's best, full of truffles and all sorts of delicious things. She felt something in her throat, which might have been hunger or it might have been weakness; she chose to think it the latter.
"I feel so weak," she said, when Elizabeth returned on her round; "such a sinking here," and she put her hand in the region where her heart might be supposed to beat.
"You had better lie down," her sister said, absently.
That was not the advice Elsie wanted or expected, and she cried out, spasmodically:
"How can I keep still! Oh, I wish I had some drops, or something to take!"
She moaned so loudly that it disturbed Elizabeth, who became impatient.
"Drink your tea," she said, "and eat something; you cannot go without food."
"Well, I'll try," said Elsie, resignedly. "I wish you'd sit down and have a cup; perhaps I could eat then."
"Not now," replied Elizabeth.
The very sight of food was loathsome to her. She had hardly touched a morsel for two days.
After a good deal more hesitation, Elsie attacked the paté, and the jelly, and the pickles, and the custard-cake, and some crisp little wafers, and, finally, made an excellent meal; all the while declaring that she could not eat, that every mouthful choked her, that she believed she was dying. To all these complaints Elizabeth paid no more attention than she did to the meal that sensitive young creature was making.
Elsie went back to her sofa, feeling somewhat comforted, and prepared to take a brighter view of things. It appeared possible now for her to live an hour or two longer—a little while before she had declared that her death might be expected any moment.
"Do come and sit down, Bessie," she said, as Elizabeth entered, for about the hundredth time. "I'll give you the sofa; you must be tired out."
"No; I am not tired."
"But I am sure you have been for three hours march—march—march! Do sit down."
Elizabeth only turned away in silence, but Elsie felt so much relieved after her creature comforts, that she could not forbear attempting to inspire her sister with a little of the hope which had begun to spring up in her own narrow heart.
"Oh, Bessie," she cried, "I feel as if this would get over somehow, I do indeed."
"But how? may I ask how?"
"Oh, I can't tell; but there'll be some way, there always is; nothing ever does happen, you know."
Elizabeth did not reply. She was thinking of the books she had read, in which women's ruin and disgrace were depicted with such thrilling force, of the accounts in almost every daily journal of families broken up, their holiest secrets made a public jest; of terrible discoveries shaking a whole community with the commotion, and dragging all concerned before the eyes of the whole world in scorn and humiliation. Yet Elsie could say:
"Nothing ever does happen!"
She was thinking that perhaps in a few hours her beautiful home might be agitated by a discovery, mysterious and full of shame as any of the occurrences in the novels she was recalling; only a few hours and she might be driven forth to a fate terrible as that of the unhappy women whose names she had shuddered even to hear mentioned.
Not for one instant did she delude herself. She knew that the crisis was at hand, the fearful crisis which she had seen approaching for weeks. This time there would be no loophole of escape—this last respite was all that would be granted her; and even now that she had gained that much, there seemed every hour less probability of her being able to turn it to advantage.
Then the task before her, the thing she had to do, a work at which the stoutest man's heart might have quailed, alone in the dead of night, with the fear of discovery constantly upon her, and the horror of an awful task frenzying her mind!
She clenched her hands frantically as the scene presented itself, in all its danger, to her excited fancy. She saw the night still and dark, herself stealing like a criminal from the house; she saw the old cypress rising up weird and solemn, she heard the low shiver of its branches as they swayed to and fro; she saw the earth laid bare, saw——
The picture became too terrible, she could endure no longer, and with a shuddering moan sank upon her knees in the centre of the room:
"God help me! God help me!"
Elsie sprang off the couch and ran towards her with a succession of strangled shrieks.
"What is the matter? What ails you? You frighten me so. Are you sick—did you see something? Is he going that way?"
But the woman neither saw nor heard; her eyes were fixed upon vacancy, an appalling look lay on her haggard face, which might well have startled stronger nerves than those of the girl by her side.
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" shrieked Elsie, in genuine terror which there was no mistaking.
"I must do it," muttered the woman; "I must do it!"
"Oh, Bessie, dear Bessie! Get up! Don't look so! Oh, for heaven's sake! Bessie, Bessie!"
Elsie threw herself upon the floor beside her sister, crying and shrieking, clinging to her, and hiding her face in her dress. Her agitation and wild terror recalled Elizabeth to her senses. She disengaged herself from Elsie's arms and staggered to her feet.
"It's over now," she said, feebly, with the weariness of a person exhausted by some violent exertion; "I am better—better now."
"Oh, you frightened me so."
"I will not frighten you again. Don't cry; I am strong now."
"What was the matter? Did you see anything?"
"No, no. I was only thinking; it all came up so real before me—so horrible."
"But it may be made safe yet," urged Elsie. "If you can escape this time—only this once."
She did not connect herself with the trouble which might befall her sister. Even in that moment of anguish, her craft and her selfishness made her remember to keep present in Elizabeth's mind the promise she had made.
"Only this once," she repeated.
"It is too late," returned Elizabeth. "I knew the day would come—it is here!"
"But he can't discover anything, Bessie, when everybody is abed."
"Have you thought what I must do?" she broke in. "The horror of appealing to that man is almost worse to bear than exposure and ruin."
Elsie wrung her hands.
"Don't give way now. You have borne up so long; don't give way when a little courage may save everything."
"I shall not give way; I shall go through with it. But, Elsie, it will all be useless; the end has come, deception cannot prosper forever."
"No, it hasn't! I'm sure it hasn't! Think how many secrets are kept for ever. It needs so little now to make all secure; only don't give way, Bessie—don't give way."
"Be quiet, child; I shall not fail!"
Elizabeth walked away and left the girl crouching upon the floor, went to the glass and looked at herself. The rouge Elsie had rubbed on her cheeks burned there yet, making the deathly pallor of her face still more ghastly; her eyes gleamed out of the black shadows that circled them so full of agony and fear that she turned away with a shudder. Her hair had fallen loose, and streamed wildly about her shoulders. She bound it up again, arranged her dress and recommenced her restless walk.
"Get up, Elsie," she said; "some one may come in."
Elsie took refuge on her sofa, and sobbed herself into a sound slumber, while Elizabeth, in her haggard anxiety, moved up and down, wounded by cruel reflections which wrung her soul and left it dumb, with a passive submission, born rather of desperation than endurance.
Elizabeth at last paused, and in her bitter anguish stood for minutes regarding Elsie as she lay asleep upon the sofa. She approached and bent over her. The girl had brushed her long fair curls back from her face, and they fell over the cushions in rich luxuriance, a feverish color was on her cheeks, lighting up her loveliness, and her whole appearance was so pretty, so singularly childlike, as she lay there, that it seemed impossible, even then, that she could have anything in common with the trouble that oppressed Elizabeth.
Elizabeth stood for a long time regarding her, and many changes passed over her face as she did so, but they all settled into a look of determination, and she turned away. Whatever was to be borne she would endure alone; she would keep her promise to the very letter. If ruin and disgrace came they should fall on her alone. Why attempt to involve that fair young creature in it?
She went to a cabinet in the corner of the room, opened a little drawer and took out a package of letters. They were those her husband had written to her during his long absence.
She drew an easy-chair near to the sofa and sat down, with her face turned towards Elsie, opened one or two of the epistles and read passages from them. One of the pages ran thus:
"Whatever may happen, no matter how long my absence may be protracted, I know that you will take care of Elsie. If the worst should happen—if death should surprise me in this far-off land, I know that you will fulfil for me the promise I made my dying mother, and be a parent to that desolate girl.
"Forgive me if I pain you by writing so sadly. I do not believe that any misfortune will happen to me; something tells me that I shall reach home in safety, and find love and happiness once more awaiting me there.
"But the charge I have in Elsie's future is always present to my mind. I never can forget the words that my dying mother spoke; they are with me night and day, and have been since the hour when they died on her pallid lips.
"It rejoices my heart to think how different from most girls our little Elsie is. If any harm were to reach her I think I should go mad; disgrace to one whose blood was kindred to that in my veins would kill me. You may think this pride a weakness, but it is too deeply rooted in my nature ever to be eradicated. When I look about the world and see girls disgracing themselves by improper marriages, elopements, often social crimes, which must blight their lives and those of all connected with them, I think what I should do under such circumstances.
"Elizabeth, I could not endure it. You are my wife; I love you more deeply than you know of; but I tell you that I could better bear sorrow which came to me through my wife, than the weakness or dishonor of one who claimed my name by right of birth. It is an inherited pride, which has, I know, come down from father to son, and will go with me through life.
"But Elsie is safe—in your hands quite safe. I rest upon that thought. I remember her loveliness, her innocence, her sweet childish ways, and I am at peace again, knowing that you will care for her."
This was the letter Grantley Mellen had written during his long exile, and his wife sat reading it in the presence of that sleeping girl.
After a time Elizabeth folded up the letters, kissed them passionately, and laid them away.
"Perhaps it is the last time," she murmured. "The last time! I must not think of it. Oh, my God, how will this day pass?"
She began walking up and down the rooms again, treading softly that she might not disturb Elsie's slumber. This time her movements had some purpose. She went into her dressing-room, took her riding dress from a wardrobe and hastened to put it on. She grew cold, and her poor hands shivered as she drew on her gauntlet gloves, and tied the veil over her hat. In passing through the next room, the unhappy woman lingered a moment to look on that sleeping girl, and her soul filled itself with the cruel desolation of this thought.
"He will not feel it so very much when it is only me on whom disgrace falls," she thought, with mournful satisfaction. "For her at least I shall have done my best. I have struggled so hard to keep the fair creature he loves from harm. When I am swept from his path, like a black cloud that had no silver lining for him, he will be happy with her. I ought to be comforted by this. Yet, oh, my God! my God! this thought alone makes the worst of my misery. They will be so happy, and without me!"
In passing down stairs Elizabeth met Dolf, moving dejectedly up from the basement story where Vic had so maliciously disturbed his love making. He stood aside to make room for his mistress, who addressed him in her usual calm fashion.
"Go to the stables," she said, "and order my groom to bring Gipsy round; he need not trouble himself to attend me. I shall ride alone."
Dolf hurried down the hall, and his mistress went into her little sitting-room, opened her desk and wrote some words on a slip of paper which she folded and thrust under the gauntlet of her glove. Then she stood by the window watching till her horse was brought round.
He came at last, a light graceful animal, so full of life, that he fairly danced upon the gravel, and flung the sunshine from his arched neck with the grace of a wild gazelle. He whinnied a little, and put out his head for a tribute of sugar, which Bessie always gave him before she mounted the saddle. But she had nothing of the kind for him now; scarcely touching the groom's hand with her foot, she sprang upon his back and rode slowly away, turning him upon the turf which was like velvet, and gave back no sound. Thus, with an appearance of indolent leisure, she passed out of sight.
There was nothing remarkable in this. Elizabeth had been in the habit of riding around the estate, without escort, during the two years in which her husband had been absent, so the groom went back to his work and thought no more of the matter.
Elizabeth rode forward, without any appearance of excitement, until a grove of trees concealed her from the house; then she put her horse upon the road, and ran him at the top of his speed to the edge of the village.
Once among houses she rode on leisurely again, and stopped at the post office to enquire for letters,—getting down from her horse, an unusual thing with her. There was a telegraph station connected with the post office, and while the man was searching his mail, she took the slip of paper from her glove, and laid it with some money before the operator.
The telegram was directed to that hotel near the Battery, which has already been described.
The day was passing—that long, terrible day—in which the moments seemed to lengthen themselves into hours, while with every one the gloom about the old house deepened and pressed more heavily down.
Grantley Mellen was in his library still, it had been a busy day with him; it appeared as if every creature within reach who could invent a plea of business had chosen that time to trouble him with it.
He was alone at last, and that was well; he was literally incapable of enduring any farther self-restraint.
He rang the bell and gave strict orders to Dolf:
"Let no one else in to-day; I have letters to write; I will not see another human being."
Dolf bowed himself out, and took his way to the lower regions, to communicate to Clo and Victoria the commands his master had given. Those three servants kept themselves aloof from the few others employed for tasks which they considered too menial for the dignity of their position, and these gaping youths and girls were strictly forbidden to enter the apartment in which Clo had installed herself.
They were perfectly well aware, those three sable dignitaries, that something was wrong in the house; servants always do know when anything out of the common routine happens, and no pretence can blind their watchful eyes.
"Marster says he won't see nobody more," said Dolf, as he entered the room where Clo was rolling out her pie-crust, and Victoria busily occupied in watching her.
"I wonder what's come over 'em all," said Vic. "Der's missus was a walkin' up an' down like a crazy woman—"
"She didn't eat no breakfast," interrupted Dolf, "an' she never teched a thing yesterday; now she's just done gone out a riden' all alone."
"An' Miss Elsie stretched out on de sofa, lookin' as if she'd cried her pretty eyes out," went on Victoria. "Says she's got a headache—go 'long; tell dat to blind folks! It's my 'pinion der's more heart-ache under dem looks dan anythin' else."
"Dat's jis' what I tink," assented Dolf.
Clorinda, from her station at the pastryboard, gave a sniff of doubtful meaning, tossed her head till her frizzed locks shook, brought her rolling-pin down on the board with great energy, and remained silent for the express purpose of being questioned.
"What does yer tink 'bout it, Miss Clorindy?" asked Dolf.
Vic looked a little spiteful at hearing this appeal to Clo, but she was so anxious for anybody's opinion, that for once she forgot to quarrel.
"I tinks what I tink," said Clo, with another toss of her head and an extra flourish of the rolling-pin.
"Oh!" said Dolf, quite discomfited.
"Jis' so," said Clorinda.
"Any pusson could have guessed dat ar," put in Victoria, in an irritated way; "yer needn't make sich a mysteriousness."
"I shall make a mysteriousness or shall luff it alone, jis' as I tink best," retorted Clo, "so yer needn't go a meddlin' wid my dumplin', Miss Vic, 'cause yer'll git yer fingers burnt if yer does."
"Don't wanter meddle wid nothin' that recerns you," cried Vic, jumping at the prospect of a quarrel, since there was nothing to be gained by amicable words.
"Jis' give me any of yer sarse," said Clo, "and I'll mark yer face smash wid dis ere dough, now I tells ye?"
"Don't lay a finger on me, cause I won't stand it," shrieked Vic; "yer a cross ole, ole—dat's what's de matter."
"Go 'long 'bout yer business," shouted Clo, shaking her rolling-pin in a threatening rage. "Dis ere's de housekeeper's room, an' yer hain't no business here."
"Much business as you has, I guess; yer ain't housekeeper as I knows on; yer only potwasher anyhow."
"Missus telled me to use dis room for makin' pies and cakes in till she got anoder housekeeper, an' I'se gwine ter."
"I don't keer if she did, dat don't make yer housekeeper any more'n stolen feathers makes a jackdaw an eagle."
"Now, ladies, ladies!" pleaded Dolf, fearful of the extent to which the tempest might reach if not checked in time. "Don't let us conflusticate dese little seasons of union by savagerousnesses; don't, I beg."
"Den her leave me alone," sniffled Vic.
"Larn dat gal ter keep a civil tongue in her yaller head if yer want peace an' composion," said Clo.
"Dat ar's religion wid a vengeance," cried Vic; "a callin' names is pretty piety, ain't it! I'll jis' see what Elder Brown says ter dat ar de bery next time I sees him."
"Oh, yes!" said Clo, contemptuous; "yer allers glad ob a 'casion ter gabble! How's a pusson gwine ter hab religion when dey's persecuted by sich a born debil; wurs 'en dem in de scripture as was worrying de swine."
"Laws!" said Vic, with a vicious sneer, "was yer roun wid dat drove 'bout dat time."
"I'll drove yer," cried Clo.
But Dolf interposed again, and luckily Clo's nostrils detected the odor of burning pie-crust, and she rushed into the kitchen to see if the girl had allowed her pastry to burn.
Dolf took that opportunity to soothe the angry Victoria, and succeeded admirably.
"Now, Miss Clorindy," said Dolf, when she had relieved her feelings by abusing Sally for her carelessness about the pies, and was once more tranquilly occupied with her work; "now, Miss Clorindy, jis' glorify us wid yer 'pinion 'bout de 'fairs ob dis dwellin' which we has all noticed is more mysteriouser dan is pleasant."
"I ain't gwine ter talk, jis' ter be snapped up like a beetle by a Shanghai," said Clo; "shan't do it, nohow."
Dolf winked at Victoria, and the artful maiden condescended to mollify her fellow servant.
"Now don't be cross, Clo," said she, "it's bad enough ter hab conflictions above stairs widout us a mussin'."
"Dem's my sentiments," cried Dolf, "and I knows fair Miss Clorinda 'grees wid dem—she coincidates, if yer'll 'scuse the leetle bit ob dictionery."
Victoria made a grimace behind Clo's back, but said, graciously:
"I'se gwine ter gib yer dat ar blue handkercher Miss Elsie gub me, Clo," she said, "so now let's make up and be comfoble."
"I don't want ter fight," replied Clo, "'taint my way—only I knows my persition and I 'spects ter be treated 'cording."
The handkerchief was something Clo had coveted for a long time, and the gift quite restored her good-humor.
"Dat's as it orter be," said 'Dolf. "Peace and harmony once more prewails, and we's here like—like—de Happy Family as used ter be at Barnum's Museum," he added, finding a comparison at length, and quite unconscious of its singular appropriateness.
"I'se gwine to mend dis tablecloth," said Vic, "and I'll set here to do it—when I go upstairs I'll git yer the hankercher, Clo."
"Oh! laws," said Clo, "yer want it yerself—don't be a givin' away yer truck."
"I'd ruther yer had it," observed Vic, "blue's allers becoming to yer, ain't it, Mr. Dolf?"
She made another grimace, unseen by Clorinda, which nearly sent Dolf into fits, but he restrained his merriment, and answered with the gravity of a judge:
"Miss Clorindy overcomes whatever she puts on, but since yer wishes my honest 'pinion, I must say I tink blue's about de proper touch fur her."
Clo grew radiant with delight, but she worked away resolutely, only observing:
"Victy, dar's a leetle cranberry tart I jis' tuk out ob de oben—it's on de kitchen table—I 'spect we might as well eat it, cause 'taint big enough to go on de table."
"I'll fotch it," cried Dolf; "to sarve de fair is my priv'lege."
He darted into the kitchen, bore off the tart from before Sally's envious eyes, and closed the door so that she could not be regaled even with a scent of the delicacy.
"I've jis' done gone now," said Clo, "so I'll rest a leetle afore I 'gins dinner. I'll jis' taste de tart to see ef it's good—it kinder eases my mind like."
"In course it does," said Dolf, and he cut the tart into four pieces, having an idea that the last slice would revert to him in the end.
They ate the pie and talked amicably over it, while in the end Dolf received the extra piece by earnestly pressing it on his companions, who in turn insisted upon his eating it himself.
"Mebby Sally'd like a taste," he said, virtuously.
"Sally, 'deed no!" cried Clo. "It's nuff fur her ter see such tings widout eatin' 'em—a lazy, good-fur-notin' piece."
"Den ter 'blige yer I'll dispose of it," said Dolf, and he did so in just three mouthfuls.
"If yer wants my 'pinion 'bout what's gwine on," said Clo, suddenly, as she rose to pile up the dishes she had been using preparatory to making poor Sally wash them in the kitchen; "it's jis' dis yer! Dis trouble's all missus!"
"Missus!" repeated Vic.
"Now what does yer mean?" cried Dolf.
Clo nodded her head several times with gravity and precision.
"Yes, missis," she repeated, with the firmness of a person who meant what she said, and was fully prepared to defend her opinion.
"What's come over her?" asked Vic.
"Dat's jis' it," returned Clo; "now you've hit it prezact—yer might talk a week, Victy, and not come inter de pint agin."
Victoria looked at Dolf, and he looked at her, but, however convincing her own words might have seemed to Clorinda, there was nothing to throw any light upon their minds.
"Yer's repeatin' wid yer usual knowledge," said Dolf, softly, "but can't yer sperficate a leetle more clear."
"Mr. Dolf," said Clorinda, rolling up her eyes 'till only the whites were visible, "when I lives in a house de secrets ob dat house is locked in my bussom—"
"But ter feller domestics," put in artful Dolf.
"Jis' 'mong us," said Vic.
"I know, I feels dat, and so I speak," replied Clo. "I ain't gwine ter say Miss Mellen is a favoright ob mine, 'cause she ain't—but she's my missus. Her ways isn't my ways, dat's all I says, and I hain't recustomed to bein' brung up so sharp roun' de corners as is her way ter do."
"Tain't ter be 'spected," said Dolf.
"Mebby 'tis and mebby 'tisn't," returned Clorinda; "I only says I ain't recustomed to it, dat's all."
"But what do yer tinks happened ter her ter put 'em all in sich a to-do?" questioned Victoria.
"I ain't prepared ter say ezzactly," replied Clo, "but I tink she's gwine crossways wid marster and dat lubly angel, Miss Elsie. Dar's a syrup fur ye! She nebber gubs a pusson orders widout eben lookin' at 'em—she ain't so high and mighty dat de ground ain't good 'nuff for her ter walk on! Not but what missus a mighty fine woman—she steps off like a queen, and I tell yer when she's dressed der ain't many kin hold a candle ter her, and as fur takin' de shine off, wal, I'd jis' like ter see anybody do dat."
"It's all true," said Dolf, "as true as preachin'!"
"Mr. Dolf," said Clo, gravely, "don't take dem seriousnesses so lightsome on yer lips."
"I won't," said Dolf, humbly, "I begs ter 'polegise—yer see in gazing 'bout de world a gemman 'quires some parts ob speech as seems keerless, but dey don't come from de heart."
"I'se glad dey don't," observed Clorinda, "bery glad, Mr. Dolf."
"But what do yer tink missus has done?" demanded Victoria.
Such a straightforward question was rather a puzzler to Clorinda, so she answered with a stately air:
"Der's questions I couldn't answer eben ter my most intemancies—don't press it, Victy."
Victoria's big eyes began to roll wildly in their sockets; she was astonished to find that Clo had for some time seen that things were going wrong, when the fact had escaped her own observation, and, for the first time in the course of their acquaintance, she felt a sort of respect for her usual foe but temporary ally.
"Does yer tink dey's quarr'ling?" she asked.
"When I hears thunder," said Clo, sententiously, "I allers takes it there's a storm brewin'."
Vic looked more puzzled than ever, and Dolf was not much better off, though he tried to appear full to the brim with wisdom and sagacity.
"Yer 'members the night missus lost her bracelet, Mr. Dolf?" asked Clo.
"I does bery well."
"When missus bemeaned herself to shout out at me as if I'd been a sarpint," cried Clo, viciously. "Wal, if ever I see thunder I seed it in marster's face dat ar night!"
"Oh!" exclaimed Victoria, bundling up her work, "if you and Mr. Dolf has got secrets to talk ober, I'd better go 'way."
"Who's a destryin' the harmony now?" shouted Clo. "It's raal sinful, Victory, to give way to temper like you does."
"Oh, dat's all fine 'nuff. But I don't wish to stand in nobody's way. I'd better take my work upstairs."
"Set still, set still, Miss Victory," urged Dolf. "Der's no secret. We shall have de uttermost pleasure in making you 'quainted wid de pint in question."
Clorinda did not look altogether pleased with his eagerness to explain; she rather liked Victoria to suppose there was a secret between Dolf and herself; it seemed like paying off old scores, and though in a friendly mood, Clorinda was a woman still.
"'Splain or not, jis' as yer please," said Vic, tossing her head, viciously, "it's quite 'material to me."
But Dolf gave a voluble account of what his master and mistress had said and done the night the bracelet was lost, and ornamented the conversation beautifully, calling on Clorinda to set him right if he erred, and the points where Clo most loudly expressed her approval as being the exact words spoken, were those Dolf embroidered most highly.
"Why, dar goes marster now," exclaimed Victoria, suddenly. "He's gwine out to walk."
They all rushed to the window to look, as if there had been something wonderful in the sight, and just then Sally rushed in with a cry:
"The soup's bilin' over, Clo; come—quick!"
That afternoon confinement in the house became so irksome to Grantley Mellen that he could support it no longer, so he put on his hat and hurried out into the grounds.
Upon one point his mind was fully made up. The clue to the mystery appeared to be in his hands; he would follow it out to the end now—he would know the worst. If this woman had wronged him he resolved to sweep her out of his life, even as he had done that false one in years gone by.
That thought drove him nearly mad, it recalled that writing. Should it prove the same! If this man had a second time thrust himself into his life to blacken it with his treachery and hate! Terrible words died, half uttered, on Mellen's lips, his face was fairly livid with passion, a loathing and a hatred which only blood could wipe out.
Below the house the lawn and gardens led away into a grove, and towards its gloom Mellen mechanically directed his steps under the cold, gray sky. A chill wind was blowing up from the water, but he did not observe it; in the fever which consumed him the air seemed absolutely stifling, and he hurried on, increasing its excess by rapid movements.
He was in the grove, walking up and down, with no settled purpose, striving only to escape those maddening thoughts which still clung to him.
The wind was shaking the few remaining leaves from the trees and blowing them about in rustling dreariness, the frosts had already touched the grass and ferns, and though the place on a bright day would still have been lovely, it looked bare and melancholy enough under that frowning sky.
"It is like my life," muttered Mellen; "like my life, with an added blackness coming up beyond."
Then his mood changed; again that fierce passion swept over his face, leaving it dangerous and terrible.
"If that woman has deceived me," he cried aloud, "this time I will have no mercy! She shall taste her degradation to the very dregs; there is no depth of shame through which I will not drag her, though I ruin my own soul in doing it! But it can't be! it can't be! It were death to believe it! Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!"
Every tender feeling of his nature went out in that last agonizing cry. For the first time he realised all that this woman had been to him, how completely she had woven herself with his life, and what a terrible blank it would become if he were forced to tear her from it.
He made an effort to check those black thoughts, to invent excuses; he was almost inclined to rush into the house, beg for the truth and promise pardon in advance. Then he called himself a weak fool for the idea that any excuse was possible.
"I will wait—I have the clue—it will all be made clear soon. I will wait."
He clenched his hands with a groan that was half anguish, half rage, and hurried more swiftly into the depths of the woods.
He came out upon a little eminence, from whence he could look down on the paths and avenues leading towards the house, though the dwelling itself was hidden by the thick growth of trees.
Along the high road he saw his wife riding at full speed toward the woods, through which she passed with weary slowness, walking her horse homeward, and looking anxiously down upon his reeking sides, and smoothing his neck with her hand, as if troubled by those signs of hard riding.
Where had the woman been? What deception was she practising now?
Mellen could see his wife's face plainly—for she passed near him quite unconsciously. It was pale and wild with the fear of a hunted animal.
"Traitoress!" he muttered between his teeth, "she thinks to evade me."
He watched the slow progress of Gipsy as she walked toward the house, taking the lawn, evidently because her rider feared to give warning of her expedition by the sound of hoofs on the beaten track. He saw Elizabeth dismount unaided, and go wearily into the house.
Where had she been?
Over and over Mellen asked himself this question, as he sat minute after minute, pondering over the most bitter thoughts that ever haunted a man's brain.
It might have been an hour after, when he saw a man coming up from the direction of the village, walking forward with great rapid strides. Instantly his suspicions fell upon this new object. He was always keen-sighted enough, but just then the thought in his mind made his vision still quicker and more clear.
Without pausing for an instant's reflection he darted down the hill—as he approached the figure it disappeared. On into the woods Mellen followed the intruder, and before he could look around grasped his arm with a clutch so firm that there was no shaking it off.
"Rascal!" he cried, "what are you doing here? Answer me, or I'll shake you to pieces!"
The man struggled violently, but Mellen was like a giant in his passion, and swung him to and fro as if he had been a child.
"Let me alone!" cried the man. "I ain't a doing no harm!"
"What are you prowling about my house for, then? Do you know that I am master here? I shall take you indoors, and keep you till I can send for a constable. Take care, no resistance; what is your business here?"
"I wasn't prowling round," pleaded the man, gasping for breath in Mellen's hard grasp; "I thought these woods was public property."
"Then you shall be taught. You had some errand here—speak out, or by the Lord I'll kill you!"
"Don't—don't! You're choking me!" groaned the wretch.
"Then speak! What are you doing here—whom do you want to see?"
"Just let me go and I'll tell you," pleaded his prisoner. "I can't speak while you're throttling me."
Mellen loosened his grasp on the man's throat, but still held him fast. His hold had been a fearful one—the man was actually breathless.
"Will you speak now?" he demanded, with terrible menace in his voice.
The man began to breathe more freely; but, though shaking with fear, he answered sullenly:
"I hain't got nothin' to tell; I was going to the house yonder, and took a short cut through here."
"What business have you at the house? Tell me the truth, for I will know."
The man could both see and feel that he was in horrible earnest; he might easily have supposed himself in the power of an insane man—and for the moment Mellen was little better.
"How do I know that you have a right to ask?" questioned the man.
"I am the master of that house. Now will you speak?"
"Yes," faltered the man, "I'll tell you. It's a telegram that I was carrying to the lady; nothing wrong in that I hope."
"No harm, certainly; give the telegram to me. I will deliver it."
The man gave up the telegram. The envelope which contained it was sealed, but Mellen tore it open without a moment's hesitation. Even as he unfolded the paper, his hand faltered—in the very height of his rage he could not think of the woe its contents might bring, without a sharp pang.
He read it slowly, standing there motionless, unable, at first, to take in the full extent of his crushing anguish. "Have no fear. I will be at the old spot, prompt to help you. All shall be prepared."
This was the telegram. There was no signature—it needed none. Mellen knew only too well who the writer was, knew it as thoroughly as he did the woman for whom it was intended.
For a full half hour Grantley Mellen was a madman. The fever and the insanity passed at length; he lay upon the ground, staring up at the cold sky, the telegram still clutched in one hand, the other dug deeply into the earth, in a wild conflict of passion that shook him to the soul. He raised himself and looked about; it seemed as if he had been suffering in a fearful dream—he glanced down at the paper—that brought conviction back.
He sat there for a long time revolving vague plans in his mind, and deciding upon the course he would pursue.
"Meet craft with craft," he muttered; "their own evil weapons."
He rose from the ground, arranged his dress, and walked towards the house.
"Not a sign, not a word which can betray," he said aloud. "I will meet her with a duplicity equal to her own,—wait—a little longer—only a little longer."
He walked towards the house, and again Victoria called out to her companions:
"Here comes marster as fast as fast can be."
But Clorinda's thoughts were now centred upon her dinner, and she had no time even for gossip.
"Get away from dat window and go 'bout your work," cried the dark spinster, austerely; "what hev yer got to do wid de marster's outgoin's or incomin's? Beat dese eggs into a foam rite off, for I'se in a hurry. Mr. Dolf puts one back so."
Victoria cast one more glance through the window, for the wild agony on her master's face rather alarmed her. But Clorinda called out in a voice so shrill that it was not to be disregarded, and she was constrained to undertake the task assigned her without more delay.