Weeks had glided along. It was now late autumn; the gorgeous leaves lay strewn along the ground, and the wind sighed up from the ocean chill and bleak, scattering thoughts of decay with each gust. With that gathering desolation, the coldness and the shadows had crept deeper and deeper into Grantley Mellen's life.
He had accompanied Elizabeth to the city, one of these chilly autumn days, and put her in a carriage at the ferry, that she might attend to the purchases and calls which was her ostensible errand to town, while he went about the business on hand, with an arrangement that they were to meet in time for the afternoon boat.
Elsie had chosen to pass the day at home; indeed, the light-hearted girl and Elizabeth were never together now when it could possibly be avoided. Elsie seemed determined to keep aloof from the mystery of the unhappy woman's life, lest its gloominess should cast some shadow over the brightness of her own path.
While Elizabeth was absent on her mysterious visit, Mellen occupied himself with a matter which would have added another trouble to the anxiety of that bitter day, had she dreamed of it. From the first he had determined that the disappearance of that gauntlet bracelet should be in some way explained, if it lay in human power to discover the mystery. What his precise motive was he could hardly have told. The trinket might have been picked up by some vagabond who had wandered into the grounds; if so there was little hope of ever gaining any tidings concerning it, but Mellen could not satisfy himself that such was the case; he believed the jewel would yet be found.
There was some mystery in Elizabeth's life—of that irksome suspicion he could not divest himself. Twenty times each day he went over in his mind every event that had occurred since his return, from the moment when he came upon her wandering so wildly about on that stormy night.
Twenty times each day he convinced himself that there was nothing in the whole catalogue to awaken the slightest doubt in any mind not given up to self-torture and jealousy like his; yet, argue as he would, bring conviction as closely home to his soul as he might, doubts rose up again and haunted him like ghosts that had no power to speak, but pointed always towards trouble and blackness which lay in the past.
If the bracelet had been given to a needy person for any reason, it would undoubtedly find its way to the hands of some pawnbroker—that was his thought. He reproached himself for indulging it—he called himself unworthy the love of any woman while he could harbor such suspicions, but they would not pass out of his mind—the treachery which had wrecked his youth had sown the seeds of suspicion too deeply in his soul to be easily eradicated.
Then he compounded with his conscience, and decided that he was right in taking every step possible to solve these doubts, if only to prove the innocence of his wife. He kept repeating to himself that this was the reason which urged him on.
"I want to be convinced," he thought again and again, "of my own injustice—it is right that I should endure this self-abasement as a punishment for doubting a woman who is beyond suspicion."
Solacing his self-reproaches a little by such arguments and reflections, he had gone to work in earnest to make such discoveries as would drive these harassing doubts away forever.
Among other efforts, he had confided to a leading pawnbroker the details of the affair, and it was in him that his hopes principally lay. If the bracelet was not brought to this man's establishment he had means of discovering if it was carried elsewhere.
That day Mr. Hollywell had news for him; a bracelet similar to the one he had described, was in the possession of an old Chatham street Jew, and they went together in search of this man.
The old Israelite was dreadfully afraid of getting himself into difficulty, but Mr. Hollywell satisfied his fears in regard to that, and assured him that the gentleman would reward him liberally for any disclosures that he might make regarding this particular bracelet.
Then it came out that the bracelet had been disposed of for a considerable sum—it was a sale rather than a deposit. The man who brought it there had more than once come to the shop on similar errands; and always pledged valuable ornaments or sold them recklessly for whatever would satisfy the needs of the moment.
Mr. Mellen grew more interested when he described the man's appearance; the keen eyes of the money-lender and the sharp sight of the old Jew, accustomed to reading countenances, saw a singular expression of uncertainty rested upon his face, which took a slow, deadly paleness as the identity of this man seemed to strike him.
He walked several times up and down the little den where the aged Israelite kept watch, like a bloated spider ready to pounce upon any unwary fly that might venture into his mesh, and at last returned to the place where the two men were standing.
"Have you any of that man's writing?" he asked. "Just a scrap—I don't ask to see his name—only a few words in his writing."
The old Jew looked doubtful.
"Sometimes he has write me, my good sare, but not often, he ish very careful—very careful."
"And have you nothing by you?"
The old Jew turned to a great desk that filled up one end of the dark room, unlocked a variety of doors and drawers, turned over piles of dirty notes, and at last selected a scrap of paper from among them.
"This is his writin'," he said, in a guttural whisper. "I'm taking great trouble, great trouble," he whined; "de good gentleman ought to remember that."
"You shall be well rewarded," said Mr. Mellen impatiently, snatching the paper from his hand.
He glanced at the writing—the paleness of his face grew death-like—he stood like a statue, with his eyes rivetted upon the page, while the two men regarded him in silence.
The writing was peculiar. It had an individuality so marked and so increased by practice, that any person who had seen a page of the delicate characters, could have sworn to the writing among whole volumes.
Mr. Mellen looked up—the astonishment in his companions' faces brought him to himself.
"That is what I wanted," he said.
"I hopes it ish all right," urged the Jew. "The good gentleman is satisfied!"
"Perfectly, perfectly! Now I want the bracelet! How much did you receive on it?"
The old Jew's face changed at once.
"And I won't get my reward?" he faltered. "You will sheat a poor man's out of his earnings."
"Who talks of cheating you," said Mr. Hollywell.
"I am ready to pay you," pursued Mr. Mellen; "I would rather give double the price of the bracelet than not get it."
Mr. Hollywell made a sign of caution; such words would increase the old rascal's cupidity to a height money could hardly satisfy, but they were interrupted by a groan from the Jew.
"And it ish gone!" cried he; "and so leetle paid—so leetle paid. The good gentleman would have given more."
"Gone!" repeated Mr. Mellen.
"Why didn't you say so?" asked Mr. Hollywell angrily. "It was only yesterday you told me it was safe in your possession."
"Yes, yes, I knows, and so I had."
"Where is it, then?"
"The man came for it—he has brought his ticket, paid his money and took the bracelet; I was out—my boy let him have it! Oh, my reward—my reward!"
"Shut your foolish old mouth!" exclaimed Mr. Hollywell.
The old Jew sank into a chair, still groaning and lamenting, while the money-lender turned to Mr. Mellen.
"What will you do now, sir?" he asked.
"Nothing."
He looked despondent now, though the fierce anger that had blazed in his face at the first sight of the writing lighted it up still.
"I am perfectly satisfied," he continued. "I am much obliged to you for your trouble."
"I am very sorry," Mr. Hollywell began, but Mellen checked him.
"It is just as well—don't be troubled."
He took out his pocket-book, laid down a bank note whose value made the old Jew's eyes sparkle with avidity, and hurried out of the dark little shop.
All the next day the house at Piney Cove was in confusion with guests coming and going. This husband and wife were not once left alone.
Mrs. Harrington had come up to spend the day, and go out with them in the evening, and Tom Fuller was at his post as usual, though he appeared with a very blank face indeed.
"You look more like Don Quixote than ever," was Elsie's salutation, as he entered the room, where she sat with Elizabeth and their guests.
"How do you do, Mr. Fuller?" cried the widow. "I wonder you have any patience at all with that little witch; she teases you constantly; I am sure you must be amiability itself."
"She won't have the chance for some time to come, more's the pity," returned Tom, disconsolately.
"And why not, pray?" demanded Elsie.
"Because I've got to go to Pittsburg, and flounder about in coal mines, and the Lord knows what."
"Have you business there?" asked Elizabeth.
"Yes, to be sure! Bless me, I was better off when I had no property. I could do as I pleased then, and didn't have to go about breaking my neck in pits, and bothering over all sorts of business that I understand no more than the man in the moon—taking care of my interests as they call it."
"Poor, unfortunate victim!" mocked Elsie.
"The penalty of riches," sighed Mrs. Harrington. "But think of the good they bring to yourself and all about you, Mr. Fuller."
"Yes, I know," returned he; "I'm an ungrateful wretch; it's in my nature; I need to have my head punched twenty times a day, there's no doubt of that."
They all laughed at his energy; even Elizabeth tried to come out of her anxious thoughts, and confine her wandering fancies to the conversation.
"When are you going, Tom?" she asked.
"Oh, to-morrow."
"He speaks as if it were the Day of Judgment," said Elsie.
"And I may be gone a whole week or more," pursued he.
"A small eternity," cried Elsie. "Dear me, dear me, how we all pity you."
"I don't believe you care a straw," said Tom, dismally; "you won't miss me."
"He wants to be flattered," cried Elsie.
"I am sure you will be missed, dear Mr. Fuller," said the widow; "you wrong your friends by a suspicion so cruel."
"I hope so, I'm sure," returned Tom, glancing at Elsie; but she was in one of her mischievous moods, and would not give him a gleam of consolation.
"Don't spoil him, Mary Harrington," said she; "the creature's vanity is becoming inordinate; isn't it, Bessie?"
"You can ill-treat him sufficiently without my assistance," said Mrs. Mellen, smiling; "I shall not help you, certainly."
"That is right, Bess," cried Tom; "stand by a fellow a little; she hasn't a spark of pity."
"Take care, sir!" said Elsie, lifting her embroidery scissors. "Don't try to win my natural allies over to your side by underhand persuasions."
"I am sure you don't need allies or assistance of any sort to be more than a match for a dozen men," said Tom.
"Another of my womanly prerogatives," replied Elsie.
"Well," said Tom, "there seems to be no end to them."
Everybody laughed at his tone, and Tom sat down near Elsie, tumbling her work, and making signs to her to go out of the room, that he might secure a few moments alone with her, but the little witch pretended not to understand his signals in the least, and went on demurely with her work.
"You ruin my work!" cried she, snatching her embroidery from his touch. "What on earth are you making such faces for?"
Tom laughed in a distressed way, red with confusion.
"Dazzled by your presence, Elsie," cried the widow, seeing that Tom had not presence of mind enough for the compliment.
Elizabeth began to get restless again; it was perfectly impossible for her to keep quiet any length of time that day, and she made some excuse for leaving them.
"Let me go with you," said Mrs. Harrington; "I know you are going to order luncheon, and I should so like to get a peep at your kitchen; it is a perfect Flemish picture."
"Particularly the crowd of dusky faces," said Elsie. "Mary Harrington, you're a humbug."
"I am sure she is quite right," said Tom, anxious to insure her departure; "I was in the kitchen one day and it looked as picturesque as Niagara."
Elsie perfectly understood the motive which led him to speak, and hastened to rejoin:
"If you think it so stupendous you had better accompany them, and get another peep."
"No," said Tom; "I might disturb the colored persons; I'll stay where I am."
"Bless me," cried Elsie; "what consideration! You will be bursting into unpremeditated poetry about the dark future, before we know it."
"Oh, Elsie," said Mrs. Harrington, "what a provoking creature you are."
She followed Elizabeth out of the room, and Tom was alone at last with his idol.
"Are you sorry I am going?" he asked.
"Do I look so?" she asked.
"No, you don't."
"Well, looks can't tell fibs," said she, provokingly.
"Oh, Elsie, be good to me now; just think; I shall be gone a whole week!"
"It's a calamity I dare not contemplate," replied she. "Now, whatever you do, don't break your neck in those horrid coal mines, or come back smelling of brimstone like a theatrical fiend."
"I believe you would jest during an earthquake."
"If it would stop the thing shaking I might," she answered. "There, there, don't be cross, Tom."
Elsie threw down her work, and with one of her quick changes of manner brought her lover back to serenity.
"If you would only let me do one thing before I go," he said, getting courage enough from her kindness to propose an idea that had been in his mind ever since he arrived.
"What is it,Monsieur Exigeant?"
"Just let me tell Grant of our—our—"
"Our what, stammerer?"
"Of the happiness you have promised me," said Tom, changing the original word from fear of vexing her.
"You were going to say engagement; don't deny it."
"And aren't we engaged?" he pleaded.
"Not a bit of it, Mr. Tom Fuller; I am just as free as air; please to remember that."
"Oh, Elsie!"
"And Elsie oh!" cried she. "But it's true! You said all sorts of foolish things about love, and I let you talk, but what right have you to say we are engaged?"
Tom instantly became so nervous that he could not sit still.
"Oh, Elsie, Elsie, how can you?" he pleaded.
"Now, aren't you deliciously miserable," said Elsie; "that is the way I like to see you; it's your duty, sir."
"I wouldn't think you so cruel at such a time."
"Oh, wouldn't you? And pray what right have you to think at all; no man has a right; that's another female privilege."
"You are worse than the Women's Rights people," said he.
"Now you are calling me names," cried Elsie, indignantly. "I won't stay with you another moment."
She half rose, but Tom caught her dress.
"Oh, don't go, don't!"
"Go on your knees then, and beg my pardon," said Elsie.
"No," said Tom, "I'll do no such thing."
"Ah, do now, just to please, you know."
Down went Tom in dumb obedience. After enjoying his distress and penitence for a few moments, Elsie suddenly threw both her arms about his neck, and whispered:
"I am very sorry you are going. I do love you dearly, Tom!"
He strained her to his heart with a burst of grateful delight.
"And may I tell Grant?" he pleaded.
"Not yet," she said; "wait till you come back; not a word till then."
"But as soon as I come?"
"Yes; if you are good. But not a look till I say the word."
She tried to escape from him, but he would not let her go until he had extorted one other pledge.
"You must write to me," he said.
"Now, Tom, I hate to write letters! I never write even to Grant, when I can possibly help it."
"But just a few words—"
"If you will behave yourself properly, perhaps yes."
"Every day?"
"Oh, worse and worse! Tom, get up. I hear Mary Harrington's voice; she's the most inveterate gossip."
"Promise then!"
"Yes—yes—anything; oh, get away!"
She struggled from him, and Tom had just time to resume his seat and look as decorously grave as perfect happiness could permit, when the door opened, and Mrs. Harrington entered, with her usual flutter.
"Elsie, Elsie!" the widow cried out, "Mr. Rhodes and the fascinating Jemima are driving up the avenue; the old maid is rushing on destruction again without the slightest warning."
"It's delightful!" said Elsie. "I shall tell her how rich Tom Fuller is, and that he wants a wife."
"Don't set the old dragon at me," said Tom.
"Yes, I will! Mary, you must flirt desperately with the dear old man; between her desire to watch you and be agreeable to Tom, the spinster will be driven to the verge of distraction."
"I'll go and find Elizabeth," said the widow, "and appear after the old maid gets nicely settled."
Mrs. Harrington darted away, and just made her escape as Dolf opened the hall-door to admit the guests.
The father and daughter were ushered into the room where Elsie and Tom sat, looking demure and harmless as two kittens.
"Here we are again, you see," said the stout man; "no one can resist your fascinations, Miss Elsie."
"Pa would stop," said Miss Jemima, "though I told him it was a shame to come so often."
The truth was, the spinster's appetite had warned her that it was quite luncheon time, and recollecting the bounteous repasts always spread at Piney Cove, she had graciously assented to her parent's proposal that they should call.
"I am delighted to see you," said Elsie, shaking hands as if they were her dearest friends; "my brother and sister will be down in a moment; you must stay to luncheon, of course."
"No, oh, no," said Miss Jemima, glancing at Tom through her scant eyelashes. "We couldn't think of it!"
"But you must, you shall!" said Elsie. "Let me present Mr. Fuller."
The spinster curtseyed and looked grimly propitious. Tom was nearly out of his wits; while Mr. Rhodes talked to him he saw Elsie whisper to Miss Jemima, and felt perfectly certain that she had given the threatened information about his being a rich bachelor in search of a wife.
"And when did you see your charming friend, Mrs. Harrington, last?" asked Mr. Rhodes.
"The oddest thing!" said Elsie. "Why, she is here now; hadn't you a suspicion of it, Mr. Rhodes?"
Miss Jemima's face changed so suddenly, that Tom made a great effort to keep from laughing outright.
"Oh, Mr. Rhodes," continued Elsie; "I am afraid the attractions of this house are only borrowed ones."
The good man was thrown into a state of blushing and pleasant confusion, but the spinster brought him through it without mercy.
"If there's company we won't stay, pa," said she.
But Elsie would not permit her to go; she whispered again about Tom, and between her desire to stop long enough to fascinate him and her fear of exposing her father to the wiles of the artful widow, Jemima was in terrible perplexity.
In the midst of it Elizabeth entered, and welcomed her neighbors; Mellen followed; and after a few moments the widow swooped down on the unfortunate Mr. Rhodes in spite of the dragon, as a well-practised hawk pounces on a plump chicken.
"Ah, Mr. Rhodes, this is such a surprise," she cried, fluttering up to him with a simper on her face, which of late years had done the duty of a blush.
"I dare say a great surprise," snapped in Jemima, siding up to her father.
This was exquisite sport for Elsie and Mrs. Harrington; Tom would have enjoyed it more if the spinster had not beset him as much as her divided attention would permit, and Elizabeth and Mellen bore the infliction as people must endure all things that come to an issue in their own house, smiling and polite, however much they may wish for a release.
While they were at luncheon, Elizabeth's dog ran into the room with a paper in its mouth. It was the most intelligent little creature in the world, educated to fetch and carry in a surprising manner.
This pretty creature, which seemed almost human in her intelligence, ran towards her mistress, but another, a new pet of Elsie's, a frolicsome, wicked animal that had quite worried poor Fanny's life out ever since her intrusion in the house, followed it.
Piccolomini sprang at the paper in Fan's mouth, and a contention ensued between them which attracted general attention.
"Fanny's got a paper," cried Elsie, pointing towards her pets.
"It may be a letter," said Mellen; "Dolf often sends them in by her; call off Pick, Elsie; she'll tear it."
But Pick would not be called off, and Fanny refused to relinquish her hold; between them the paper was rapidly destroyed, Fanny howling dismally all the time, and making sagacious efforts to fulfil her errand in her usual trusty manner.
Mellen went towards them; as he did so Fanny sprang towards Elizabeth; she stooped, caught sight of the paper, and grew pale. Fairly pushing Mellen aside, she snatched the paper from the animal's mouth.
"It's only an old bill, I must have dropped it," she said, thrusting it hurriedly in her pocket.
Mellen saw how pale his wife had become; he noticed her alarm; he remembered, too, seeing Fanny running about the shrubbery just before he came in.
It was another phase of the mystery, he was certain of that; the little creature was carrying a note to his wife. He seated himself at the table again, and appeared to forget the circumstance, but Elizabeth hardly looked like herself during the entire meal.
It was late before the visitors departed; after that Tom Fuller was compelled to take his leave,—a heartrending performance as far as he was concerned; so the day drew to a close, leaving both the husband and wife more preoccupied and anxious than the dreary morning had found them.
There was a dinner engagement the next day. When Elizabeth came down to the library in full dress, her husband sat moodily over the fire. He looked up as she entered, and gazed upon her with mournful admiration, for her beauty that day was something wonderful; unabated excitement had fired her eyes with a strange lustre, and lent a rich scarlet to cheeks, from which protracted suspense had of late drained all the color. Her dress, of rose colored silk, was misty with delicate lace that shaded her neck and arms like gossamer on white lilies. Star-like jewels flashed in the rich blackness of her hair and shone through the soft lace. The calm loveliness of former days was nothing to the splendor of her beauty now a feverish restlessness was upon her,—a glow of pain conquered by courage.
Mellen arose from his seat as his wife came in with the graceful rush of a cloud across the sky. He watched her approach gloomily. It seemed to him that her first impulse was to flee when she saw him sitting there, but if so the desire was quickly controlled, and she came up to the hearth, standing so near him that the folds of her dress brushed his arm.
"You are ready too," she said. "But it is impossible to say how long we shall have to wait for Elsie and Mrs. Harrington!"
He made no answer; she began clasping and unclasping her bracelets, but was watching him all the while from under her downcast lashes.
"Are you ill, Grantley?" she asked at length.
"Oh! no; quite well."
"You are so silent, and you sat there in such a dreary way, I feared something was the matter."
He made an effort to rouse himself and shake off the oppression—the heavy, heavy weight which had lain on his soul all day.
"I am only stupid," he replied, with an attempt at playfulness. "I have been forced to talk so incessantly to those people, that I have no ideas left."
"I am sure conversation with people in general doesn't consume one's ideas," she said, with a lightness which appeared forced like his own.
"How long does Mrs. Harrington stay?" he asked.
"Only till to-morrow. You don't like her, I fancy?"
"There is too much of her in every way," he said, peevishly; "she dresses too much, talks too much—she tires one."
"That is very cruel and ungrateful; the lady confided to me only a little while ago that she had a profound admiration for you, and was dying to get up a flirtation, if I did not mind."
"Don't repeat such nonsense," he said, almost rudely, "you know how I hate it. I think either the married man or woman who flirts, deserves to be as severely punished as if he or she had committed an actual crime."
"I am afraid you would condemn the greater part of our acquaintance," she said. "After all, with most women it arises only from thoughtlessness."
"Thoughtlessness!" he repeated satirically. "I can only say that the woman who endangers her husband's peace from want of thought, is more culpable than a person who does wrong knowingly, urged on by recklessness or passion."
"I have never thought about it," said Elizabeth vaguely; "it may be so."
She was playing with her bracelets again; the action reminded him of the lost trinket. He did not speak, but a restrained burst of passion broke over his face, which might have changed a plan she was revolving in her mind, had she seen or understood it.
It was too late!
That moment Elsie came dancing into the room, her thin evening dress floating around her like a summer cloud, her fair hair wreathed with flowers, and everything about her so pure and ethereal, that it seemed almost as if she must breathe some more joyous air than the pain-freighted atmosphere which weighed so heavily on others. She was holding her hands behind her, and ran towards them in her childish way, exclaiming:
"I have found something! Who'll give a reward? Won't you both be glad—guess what it is!"
Mellen's face had brightened a little at her entrance, but as she spoke a sudden thought shook his soul like a tempest.
"What is it?" Elizabeth asked.
"Oh, guess, guess!"
"But I never can guess," she replied, seeming to enter into the spirit of the thing.
"You try, Grant. Come, do credit to your Yankee descent!"
He rose suddenly and stood looking full in his wife's face, fixing her glance with a quick thrill of terror, which the least thing unusual in his manner caused her now.
Elsie began to dance up and down before the hearth, exclaiming:
"Oh! you provoking things—you stupid owls! Now do guess—oh! Grant, just try. Tell me what I have found."
Mellen's eyes had not moved from his wife's face.
"Have you found Elizabeth's bracelet?" he asked in a tone which made the unhappy woman shiver from head to foot, and startled Elsie out of her playfulness.
"Why, how did you think of that?" demanded Elsie; "did she tell you? Have you——"
She stopped short, the words frozen on her lips by the look which Grantley Mellen still fixed upon his wife. Without changing that steady gaze, he extended his hand towards Elsie.
"Give me the bracelet!" he said, in the cold, hard tone which, with him, was the sure forerunner of a tempest of passion.
Elsie hesitated; she had grown nearly as pale as Elizabeth herself, but she looked like a frightened child. Elizabeth did not speak or move, but though her face was absolutely death-like, her eyes met her husband's with unflinching firmness.
"Give me the bracelet!" repeated Mellen.
"Here it is!" exclaimed Elsie, nervously, putting the bracelet in his hand. "What is the matter with you, Grant? I am sure there is nothing to make a fuss about. I found the bracelet among a lot of rubbish in one of Bessie's drawers—I suppose she forgot it was there."
Grantley Mellen turned furiously towards her.
"Are you learning to cheat and lie also?" he said.
Elsie burst into a passionate flood of tears.
"You are just as cruel and bad as you can be!" she moaned. "You ought to be ashamed to talk so to me! I haven't done anything; I thought you would be so pleased at my having found the bracelet, and here you behave in this way. You needn't blame me, Grant—I don't know what it all means! I am sure your dear mamma never thought you would speak to me like that! I wish I was dead and buried by her—then you'd be sorry——"
"I am not angry with you, child," interrupted Mellen, softened at once by this childish appeal. "Go away and find Mrs. Harrington, Elsie. The falsehood and the treachery are not yours—thank God! at least my own blood has not turned traitor to me!"
Elizabeth sank slowly in a chair; Elsie stole one frightened look towards her, then the woman in her confusion and dizziness saw her float out of the room, and she was alone with her husband. He held the bracelet up before her eyes, his hand shaking so that the jewels flashed balefully in the light.
"Your plan was carried out too late; you should have had it found before!" he said, and his last effort at self-control was swept away.
She must speak—must try to stem the tide, and keep back a little longer the exposure and ruin which for days back some mysterious warning had told her was surely approaching.
"I don't know what you mean," she faltered.
"I mean that the bracelet was found where you put it!" interrupted Mellen.
"Why should I have hidden it? What reason—"
"Stop!" he broke in. "Not another word—not a single falsehood more! You brought this bracelet back with you from the city—don't speak—I went to the pawnbroker's—it had just been taken away."
In the whirl of that unhappy woman's senses the words seemed to come from afar off; the lights were dancing before her eyes; the flashing gems blinded her with their rays, but she still controlled herself. She must make one last effort—she must discover how much of the truth he knew—there might be some loophole for escape—some effort by which she could avert a little longer the coming earthquake.
"Why don't you speak?" he cried. "Say anything—another lie if you will—anything rather than this black truth! That man; you know him! Speak, I say!"
"What man?" she faltered.
"That traitor—that wretch! He had the bracelet; he got it from you! Explain, I say—woman, I will have an explanation."
"I never gave the bracelet away," she said, desperately. "I have no explanation to make. I will not open my lips while you stand over me in that threatening way."
"Will you defy me to the last?" he exclaimed.
"You can only kill me," she moaned; "do it and let me have peace!"
He flung the bracelet down upon the table.
"I have loved you, and I know that you are false!"
"What do you suspect?" she demanded. "What do you know?"
The momentary weakness of passion passed; the husband stood up again cold and stern.
"I know," he said, "that this bracelet was in the hands of a bad, wicked man; only yesterday he took it from the pawnbroker's, and now I find it in your possession."
There was a hope; only in another deception; but she must save herself; while there was a thread to grasp at, she could not allow herself to be swept down the gathering storm.
"And is there no possibility that I may be innocent in all this?" she exclaimed. "If I receive an anonymous letter, telling me I can find my bracelet by paying a certain reward, is it not natural that I should go? Knowing your strange disposition, is it not equally natural that I should keep the whole thing a secret, and strive to make every one believe that the bracelet had been mislaid."
"Is this true?" he cried. "Can you prove to me that you speak the truth?"
She was not looking at him; the apathy of despair which came over her seemed like sullen obstinacy.
"I can prove nothing," she said; "if it were possible I would not make the effort. Do what you like; believe what you please; I will defend myself no more."
Mellen turned away, and walked up and down the room in silence. There was a fearful struggle in his mind; the love he still felt for his wife was contending against horrible doubts, and almost threatening his reason.
He could not decide what to think or how to act! For the moment at least he was glad to grasp at any pretext which might prove a settlement to the question, whatever his thoughts and belief might be on after reflection.
He looked again at Elizabeth; her stony calmness irritated him almost to a frenzy. He was too much excited to perceive that her very quiet was the apathy of despair; it seemed to him that she was only testing her power over him to its full extent. If her story was true, she would die rather than humble her pride by protestations or proof; if it was false! There was deceit somewhere, he felt that; but even in his madness he could not believe that Elizabeth had been guilty of anything that affected his honor; that was a black thought which had not reached him yet.
"Are you determined to drive me mad?" he exclaimed.
She lifted both hands with a strange gesture of misery and humiliation, which he could not have understood.
"What have I done?" she cried. "What have I said?"
"Nothing! There you sit like a stone, and will not speak."
"It is useless to say anything," she returned; "quite useless."
"And you expect me to leave this matter here; to endure this mystery patiently?"
"I expect nothing—nothing!"
The same dreary, desperate wail pervaded her voice, but it was not strange that he mistook her coldness for obstinacy or indifference; the very intensity of agony she was enduring made her appear heartless.
"You won't explain—you won't—"
She drooped her head wearily.
"I have no explanation to make; there is the bracelet."
He caught up the bracelet, snatched her arm so rudely, and fastened the bracelet on it with such reckless haste, that she uttered a cry of pain.
"You hurt me," she exclaimed; "this is cruel, unmanly."
"Wear it," he cried; "wear it, and when you look at it remember that you have dug a gulf between my heart and yours! Wear it, and remember how you have perjured yourself; how your whole conduct since my return has been a lie, and if you have any shame or power of repentance left, the gems will burn into your very soul when you look at them."
Elizabeth fell back in her chair cold and white. He rushed out of the room. She was not conscious of any thought; her brain was too dizzy; but sat there clasping her forehead between her hands, and seeming to feel the whole world reel into darkness before her gaze.
"Has he gone; where is he?"
It was Elsie's voice; she had stolen into the room to learn how the matter had ended.
"Can't you speak, Bessie; what did he say?"
Elizabeth dropped the hands from her face, and rose from her seat.
"No matter what he said; the end is coming. I told you it would; the end is coming!"
"Don't look so!" cried Elsie, "you frighten me."
"Frighten!" she repeated with intense bitterness. "You haven't soul enough in your bosom to be frightened."
"Oh, you cruel, wicked creature!" sobbed Elsie. "Oh, oh! I'll kill myself if you talk so to me; I'll go to Grant; I'll—"
"Hush!" interrupted Elizabeth. "There—I will say no more! I don't blame you—remember that! Whatever comes, I won't blame you for this new danger."
"Oh, you good, unselfish darling!" cried Elsie, drying her tears at once.
She made a step forward as if to throw her arms about her sister, but Elizabeth retreated.
"Don't touch me," she said, faintly; "don't touch me!"
"Should I poison you?" cried Elsie, angrily. "One would think I was some dreadful reptile."
"No, no; don't be angry! I need all my strength! Let me alone, Elsie; don't speak to me."
"The carriage is at the door," said Elsie, "and Mrs. Harrington is waiting; for mercy's sake don't let her think anything is wrong. I am going to find Grant; wait here."
She ran out of the room, and Elizabeth stood thinking over her words.
Very soon perhaps the whole world would know that she was a lost, ruined woman, without a home, a friend, or even a name.
Could she bear up; could she find strength to go on to the end and not die till then?
The hardness and desperation died out of her face; she fell to her knees, and a prayer for help rose to her lips; low and faint, but intense with agony.
She heard steps in the hall; they were coming for her. She sprang to her feet, moved towards the door and opened it; her husband, Elsie and their guest were there. She answered Mrs. Harrington's careless words; passed on with them through the hall, and took her misery out into the world as we all do so often, hidden carefully in the depths of a tortured soul.
At dinner that day Elizabeth met two or three superior people from the city, men and women of note, whose presence at the board was like meteor flashes—kindling everything with brilliancy; but among the most cheerful and most witty this wretched woman shone forth preëminent. Every word she spoke carried electric fire with it. Her cheeks were scarlet; her eyes radiant. The lips that had been so pale in her husband's presence a few hours before, glowed like ripe cherries with the sunshine upon them. In her desperation she was inspired, and kindled every mind around her with enthusiasm.
Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Harrington returned to the city, perhaps glad to escape from the unnatural mental atmosphere of the house, certainly much to the relief of all the inmates of the dwelling.
Grantley Mellen drove his guest down to the railway train. The moment they departed Elizabeth and Elsie, as if by a common impulse, started in a different direction, apparently anxious not to be left alone with each other.
Elsie was passing through the hall when her brother drove up to the door. She stopped him after he got out of the carriage for a few moments' trifling conversation, then allowed him to pass on towards the library.
As the girl fluttered back towards the veranda, she saw old Jarvis Benson approaching the house, and hurried out.
"Oh, Jarvis, I wanted to see you."
Jarvis took the pipe out of his mouth, regarded her complacently, and answered:
"Then thar's a pair on you, Miss Mellen."
"I want to have a pair of very light oars made to the little boat, so that I can learn to row it," pursued Elsie.
"That's easy done," said Jarvis. "I guess I've got a pair that'll answer. Only don't dround yourself."
"I'll take care of that," she replied, laughing. "But who else wants you, Jarvis?"
"Your brother told me to come up, and—oh, there he is."
Mr. Mellen had heard voices, and came through the hall out on the veranda.
"Good morning, Jarvis!" he said, in his quiet way.
"Good morning, sir! You don't look very well, I think," observed the keen-sighted old man.
Elsie glanced at her brother; he was very pale, and his heavy eyes told of a long, sleepless night.
Mr. Mellen frowned slightly; it displeased him to have his personal appearance commented upon, and wounded his pride to know that he had not sufficient strength to keep back every outward sign of the anxiety and trouble he was enduring.
"Be you well, now?" continued the pertinacious old man, who had a habit of asking questions and expressing his opinions with the utmost freedom to people of every degree.
"Perfectly well," replied Mr. Mellen. "You have come up about that tree, have you?"
"Wal, yes," said Jarvis. "I hadn't much to do this morning, so I thought I'd just come round and find out what's the matter. You hain't found no gardener yet?"
"No; I have sent to town for one. You have sufficient knowledge to keep the greenhouse in order until one is found."
"Just as you say, sir; I'll do my best."
The gardener at Piney Cove had seen fit to leave the place a few days before without the slightest warning, with the true, reckless independence of the Hibernian race. When a dilemma of this kind arose, the people of the neighborhood were in the habit of sending for old Benson, who seemed, in some mysterious way, to have acquired a smattering of knowledge about everything that could make him generally useful.
Elsie did not feel particularly interested in the subject of conversation, and was moving off in search of other amusement, when she heard old Jarvis say:
"It's the big cypress yonder, in the thicket, ain't it?"
She stopped short in the hall, and stood leaning against the door with her back towards them.
"Yes," Mr. Mellen answered. "I am afraid it is dying. I want you to dig about the roots and see if you can find out where the trouble lies."
"Loosening the earth a bit'll maybe do a world of good," said Jarvis; "I've seen it 'liven a tree right up."
"We will try, at all events," observed Mr. Mellen. "First you may take those plants under the library window into the greenhouse; it is too late for them to be left out."
He walked to the side of the house to point out the flowers he wished to have removed. Elsie darted through the hall and up the stairs in breathless haste.
She paused at the door of her sister's room and tried the knob, but the bolt was drawn.
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" she called out in a frightened whisper, utterly incapable of speaking aloud. "Open the door—for heaven's sake, open the door!"
There was terror in her voice which communicated itself to the woman sitting so apathetically in her chamber. She rose and opened the door, whispering, in a voice full of alarm:
"What is it? What is it?"
Elsie pushed her back into the room, shut and locked the door, and staggered to a couch.
"The cypress tree!" she gasped. "They are going there."
"Who?" cried Elizabeth. "What do you mean?"
"I can't speak—oh, I am choking!" gasped Elsie.
Elizabeth seized her arm, and fairly shook her with frenzied impatience.
"Speak!" she exclaimed. "Speak, I say!"
"Grant has sent old Jarvis to dig about the roots," returned Elsie, in a shrill whisper.
Elizabeth Mellen sank slowly upon her knees, her limbs giving way suddenly, as if she had been struck with paralysis. She caught at Elsie's dress, the girl raised herself, and there they remained for several moments, staring in each others' faces, with a white, sickening terror, which could find no relief in words.
After a time Elizabeth shook herself free from Elsie's grasp and rose; the power to think and act was coming back to her.
"You heard them say this?" she asked.
"Yes, yes!" cried Elsie. "Grant sent for old Jarvis to come up and dig round the tree; he thinks it is dying."
Elizabeth threw up her arms in silence, more expressive of agony than a shriek.
"It has come at last!" broke from her white lips. "It has come at last!"
Elsie cowered down upon the sofa and buried her head in the cushions, shaking with hysterical tremors from head to foot, and uttering repressed sobs.
"Exposure—ruin—disgrace!" moaned Elizabeth, as if repeating words that some secret voice whispered in her ear. "It has come at last! It has come at last!"
"I shall die!" shrieked Elsie. "I shall go mad!"
She beat the couch wildly with her clenched hands and gave way to a violent nervous spasm, but this time Elizabeth made no effort to soothe her; she stood there, cold and white, repeating at intervals, in that dismal whisper:
"It has come at last! It has come at last!"
"Do something," sobbed Elsie. "Don't stand there as if you were turning to stone. Think of some way to stop them."
"What can I do?" returned Elizabeth. "I tell you it has come! I knew it, I have been expecting it!"
Elsie gave another shriek, sprang off the sofa, threw herself at her sister's feet, clutching her dress with both hands, and cried out:
"Do something—anything! I shall go crazy—my brain is burning! I won't live—I tell you I won't live if you don't stop this."
Elizabeth shook off her grasp, not angrily, not impatiently even, but with a sudden change of expression, as if Elsie's despair had brought back some half-forgotten resolution, and given her wild strength once more.
"You will not suffer," she said, drearily. "You are safe."
"But you—what will become of you?" groaned the girl.
"Let go my dress—get up, Elsie! See, I am calm. I tell you, no harm will come to you—get up."
Elsie staggered to her feet, and sat down on the sofa with a burst of tears.
"I'd rather kill myself than see you tormented so!" she cried. "I have the poison yet—I've always kept it. If they don't stop, Elizabeth, they shall find us dead and cold——"
"Stop!" said Elizabeth. "I won't hear such wicked words! The danger is mine, the ruin and disgrace are mine—all mine; but I do not talk of killing myself."
"You are so brave," moaned Elsie, "and I am such a poor, weak thing. Oh, oh! This will kill me either way, I know it will!"
"I know what will happen to me," said Elizabeth, in a voice of unnatural calmness. "Do you know what this day will bring? Before two hours are gone I shall be driven out of this house, a lost, ruined woman."
"No, no! Grant will forgive you—he loves you so!"
"Does a man ever forgive a wrong like that?"
"But you will say you don't know—I will."
"Are you a baby? Don't you know there will be an exposure—we shall all be questioned—forced to give evidence."
"We will say anything—anything!" cried Elsie.
"We cannot satisfy Grantley Mellen. I tell you, Elsie, this is the last interview we shall ever hold under this roof."
Elsie threw herself down in renewed anguish, shrieking and sobbing so violently that nothing could be done or thought of till she had been restored to composure by the strong remedies Elizabeth administered.
"Promise not to tell that I ever knew of it," she pleaded. "Swear! I'll kill myself if you don't!"
"I have promised," returned Elizabeth, in a hollow voice. "I will bear whatever comes—ruin, death—and bear it alone, you shall not be dragged in."
These words, so solemnly spoken, appeared to give the girl new life and energy.
"Go downstairs," she said; "stop them. You can stop them yet."
"How—what can I say?"
"Tell Grant that the gardener said the tree must be left till spring—bribe old Jarvis to say so—oh, anything, anything; only try, Elizabeth. Save yourself if possible."
The woman walked to the window and looked out.
"They are going," she said.
"Go down!" shrieked Elsie. "Go down, I say!"
Elizabeth took a few steps towards the door—caught sight of her face in the mirror, and stopped appalled at the haggard image reflected there.
"Look at me," she said; "my face tells the whole story."
"There is some rouge in that drawer," said Elsie. "Mrs. Harrington left it. I'll put it on your cheeks."
Elsie could think, now that Elizabeth showed herself ready to bear her danger alone. She got out the rouge, rubbed it on her sister's cheeks, and smoothed her hair.
"Now you look like yourself—nobody would notice. Go quick—stop them—stop them!"
Elizabeth dared not pause an instant for reflection; she opened the door, walked downstairs, through the library, and joined her husband on the lawn.
He turned at her approach. She felt a mad sort of courage nerve her—she could speak now.
"What, planning against the great cypress?" she asked, and even in that moment of supreme agony and fear she was conscious of vague wonder at the composure of her voice.
"It seems to be dying," replied Mellen; "I am going to have the earth dug away from about the roots."
"I am afraid you will only kill it," returned Elizabeth; "it is so late in the season."
"I did not know that you were a gardener," he said, coldly.
He looked at her standing there with that unnatural brightness on her cheeks, that wild glitter in her eyes, and it seemed to him that she had only come out in her beauty and unconcern, to mock him after the long night of wild trouble which he had spent.
"I know that is what Jones said," she went on. "He thought in the spring something could be done, but not now."
He was turning away—that action deprived her of all self-control—she caught his arm, crying:
"Don't touch that tree—don't go near it."
He stopped and looked at her in blank amazement; she saw the danger in which her impetuosity had placed her—dropped his arm and tried to appear composed again.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "The tree is not a human being that I am going to assassinate."
She forced herself to laugh; even then the woman's self-mastery was something astounding.
"I was a little theatrical," she said; "but I can't bear to have the old tree touched."
"Why, marm, it'll die if it ain't," put in Jarvis, who considered that he had been silent quite long enough.
"You don't know anything about the matter!" cried Elizabeth, sharply.
The old man drew himself up, and looked so indignant that she felt sure he would oppose her now with might and main.
"I mean," she added, "you don't know how I feel about it, I want the poor thing left alone."
The old man relinquished his erect attitude and looked somewhat mollified.
"If it's yer whim, marm, that's another thing, but I thought I'd lived too long in this neighborhood for anybody to accuse me of not knowing a thing when I pretended to, especially about trees."
"Oh, no, no," interrupted she; "I always knew that you were a universal genius, a better gardener than half the professed ones."
"Wal, I don't know about that," said Jarvis, his face beaming all over with satisfaction, for the old man was peculiarly susceptible to flattery.
"Then you won't touch the tree?" cried Elizabeth, turning again towards her husband.
Mr. Mellen had been watching her while she talked; he was growing more and more angry now, thinking that she only wished to interfere unwarrantably with his plans.
"You will leave the tree till spring?" she continued.
"I shall have the earth loosened," he answered, "I don't choose to sacrifice the tree to a mere caprice."
"It is not a caprice," she exclaimed, forgetting herself once more. "I ask you not to touch it—I beg you not to touch it!"
"Might I ask the reason of your extraordinary conduct?" he began; then remembering old Benson's presence, checked himself quickly.
"I think it the best thing for the tree," he added.
"But Jones did not think so, and he ought to know."
"I fancy he said that to avoid the work."
"No, no! In the spring you can do it—not now—not now."
"By spring it will be too late; the earth must be dug away now."
She clasped her hands under her shawl, resolved to make one effort more—a respite must be found—for a day, at least.
She looked out toward the tree—the lower part of it was hidden, where they stood, by a thicket of shrubs and bushes, but the stately top towered up dark and solemn, waving in the morning breeze and seeming to whisper an omen of dread to her half maddened senses.
"Not to-day," she exclaimed; "at least do not touch it to-day."
His suspicious mind, so wildly on the alert since the strange events of the past week, was now fully aroused by the singular earnestness and trouble of her manner.
There was another secret! It was no desire to contradict him which actuated her—there was something at the bottom which he could not understand—a new phase of the mystery with which he had felt himself surrounded from the first moment of his arrival, and which had gathered and darkened so rapidly during the past week.
"Leave the tree at least to-day," pleaded Elizabeth.
"I can't send for Jarvis and put him off without a reason," he said; "he has plenty of work on his hands."
"It can't make no difference, Miss Mellen," the old man joined in; "'tain't no use to put it off—anyhow I couldn't come again till the last of the week."
"Let it go till then," she said, eagerly; and new life stole over her face at the bare hope of obtaining that delay.
"This is sheer folly," said her husband. "Go in—go in. You will catch cold—the grass is damp. Come, Jarvis, get your spade."
"It won't hurt the tree a spec, Miss Mellen," said he; "don't feel oneasy about it—I'll be as tender of it as if it was a baby."
He moved away as he spoke, and left the husband and wife together. Elizabeth was pale even through her artificial bloom—no matter what he thought, she must obtain some delay.
"Grantley," she cried, "don't touch the tree—I ask it as a favor—you will not refuse—let it stand as it is."
He gave one look at her face and turned his head away to hide the expression of anger and doubt which crept over his own.
"Can you give any reason?"
"No, no! It is one of my fancies—only gratify it—let the tree alone for a day or two at least."
Fierce passion shook Mellen like a sudden tempest. His first impulse was to drag her into the house and force from her lips the secret and the mystery which surrounded her, but he controlled the impulse and answered:
"As you please. I will leave it for the present."
With this curt concession Mellen walked away, and Elizabeth went back into the house. She paused to rest a few moments in the library; her limbs were shaking so violently that they refused to support her. She was roused by the sound of her husband's voice in conversation with old Benson—he might come in and find her there.
She started up like a wounded animal that concentrates its dying strength in one wild effort for escape—hurried from the room and up the stairs into her own chamber.
Elsie was still lying on the sofa; she sprang up as Elizabeth entered.
"Will he leave it?" she cried. "Will he leave it?"
"Yes, he has promised."
Elizabeth sank in a chair, so broken down by agony that it might have softened the heart of her deadliest enemy could he have seen her then.
"Saved again!" cried Elsie. "Don't despair, Bessie—it will all end right."
"Saved!" repeated Elizabeth. "Have you thought what must be done before I can breathe again?"
Elsie gave a cry and hid her face.
"Be still!" said Elizabeth. "I will do it—be still!"
"Don't let me know—don't tell me—I should die of fright!"
"Think of me, then," she returned. "In the night—alone with that——what can I do?"
Elsie interrupted her with another cry and her old appealing wail.
"You are killing me! You are killing me!"
"Be still," repeated Elizabeth, in the same awful voice. "Be still!"