It was the hour of eleven by the village clock. Eleven sounded from the old clock on the mantel. The fire burned low in the grate of Rev. Dr. Warner's study. The air was growing chill in the room. Still, the old pastor, who had looked after the village flock for nearly half a century, heeded neither the time nor the chill, he was so intent upon the sermon he was writing for the morrow.
He had scarcely concluded the last line ere he heard a well-known tap upon the door.
He smiled as he arose from his chair, crossed the room and flung open the door.
He knew well whom he should find standing there, old Adam, the village sexton and grave digger, who always stopped when he saw a light in the study window.
"Come in, Adam," said the reverend gentleman; "come up to the fire and warm yourself; it's a wild night to be about. Has any one sent you here for me?"
"No, parson," replied Adam, hobbling in. "There's no call for you to be out on this terrible night, thank Heaven. It's quite by chance that I left my own fireside myself. I had an errand at the other end of the village. The weather caught me returning—a regular blizzard—and I have been floundering about in the drifting snow for hours. I thought I had lost my way until I saw the light in the window, and—"
But the rest of the sentence was never finished, for at that moment both men heard distinctly the sound of carriage wheels without, accompanied by the loud neighing of horses.
Before they could express their wonderment there was a loud peal at the front door bell.
The reverend gentleman answered the summons in person.
Before him stood three persons, two men and a woman, a slender figure wearing a long dark cloak, and whose face was covered by a thick veil.
Both men had their coat collars turned up and their hats pulled low over their faces to protect them from the stinging cold.
"You are the Rev. Dr. Warner?" queried one of the gentlemen. The minister bowed in the affirmative, hurriedly bidding his guests to enter.
"You will pardon our errand," exclaimed the stranger who had already spoken, "but we are here to enlist your services. Can you perform a wedding ceremony in the old chapel across the way? Our time is limited. We are in all haste to catch a train, and wish the marriage to take place with the least possible delay."
"Certainly, certainly, sir," returned the good man. "I am always pleased to join two souls in holy matrimony. Step in; the lady must be thoroughly chilled. This is a dreadful night."
"We prefer to make our way directly over to the chapel," remarked the man who had spoken up to this point. "The lady is warm, having but just left the carriage, a few steps beyond."
"As you will," responded the pastor. Turning to the old sexton, he said, quietly: "Will you step over to the church, Adam, brush the snow from the steps and light the lamps about the altar?"
Adam hastened to carry out his commands. He had scarcely completed his task when the bridal party entered, preceded by the pastor.
Adam watched them curiously as they filed down the aisle, both men still supporting the slender figure quite until the altar was reached.
The Rev. Dr. Warner, shivering with the severe cold of the place, picked up his book quickly.
"Which is the bridegroom?" he asked, looking from one muffled figure to the other. The man toward the left of the girl dropped back a pace or two, silently waving his hand toward his friend.
The old minister had never heard the names of the contracting parties before, and the idle thought for an instant found lodgment in his mind whether or no they could be fictitious. Then he blamed himself roundly for his momentary suspicion, and went on hurriedly with the ceremony.
The man answered in a low, guarded voice. There was a tone in it which somehow jarred on the good minister's sensitive nerves. The girl's voice was pitifully fluttering, almost hysterical.
But that was not an uncommon occurrence. Few brides are calm and self-possessed.
"You will please lift your veil for the final benediction," said the aged pastor, pausing, book in hand, and gazing at the slim, silent, dark-robed figure, who had made her responses faintly, gaspingly, almost inaudibly. Again it was the stranger to the left who complied with his request, but for one instant both the clergyman and the old sexton caught sight of a face white as death, yet beautiful as an angel's, framed in a mass of dead-gold hair; but the flickering of the lamps caused strange shadows to flit over it. There was a moment of utter silence, broken only by the howling of the wind outside.
Then slowly the minister's voice broke the terrible silence by uttering the words: "Then I pronounce you man and wife, and whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
As the last word echoed through the dim old church the cold steel of a revolver, which had been pressed steadily to the girl's throbbing heart by the hand of the bridegroom, concealed by her long cloak, was quickly withdrawn.
"My wedded wife!" murmured the man, and in his voice there was a tone of mocking triumph. The girl swooned in his arms, but, turning quickly with her, he hurried forward into the dense shadows of the church, carrying her to the coach in waiting without attracting attention.
He could scarcely restrain himself from shouting aloud, so exuberant were his spirits.
"Rave. Do whatever you like. You cannot change matters now. I am your husband, ay, the husband of a girl worth a million of money. When we are out of hearing of the old parson I will give three rousing cheers to celebrate the occasion and give vent to my triumph—ay, three cheers and a tiger with a will and a vengeance."
The appearance of his friend, who had remained behind to adjust the little matters that needed attention, put a stop to his hilarity for the moment.
"Well, what's next on the programme? What do you suggest now, Halloran?" he exclaimed, as that individual sprang into the coach and took his seat with chattering teeth.
"I propose that you drive to the nearest inn or hostelry, or whatever they choose to call it hereabouts. I understand there is one some five miles from here, and, indeed, the horses won't last much longer than that."
"I'm governed by your advice," replied his companion, with a hilarious laugh. "Give the order to get to the hostelry as soon as the driver can make it. Anything will suit me. I'm not proud, even if I have made a cool million in an hour's time. Ha! ha! ha!"
"Are you mad?" whispered his companion, giving him a violent nudge.
"Bah! You needn't fear that she will hear what I'm saying. The puny little dear has swooned again. Didn't you notice that I had to fairly carry her from the altar?"
"These dainty little heiresses have to be handled with kid gloves," remarked Halloran. "Fainting when anything goes wrong seems to be their especial weakness."
"She will soon find out that I will not tolerate that kind of thing!" exclaimed Armstrong, as he insisted upon being called from that moment out.
"Be easy with her. Don't show your hand or your temper until you get hold of the money," warned Halloran. "Remember you are playing for a great stake, and the surest way of winning is by keeping the girl in love with you."
"She is mine now. I am her lord and master. I shall not bother making love to the milk-and-water, sentimental creature, as the other one probably did. She isn't my style, and I have little patience with her. There was a decided feeling of antagonism between us from the start, and then my forcing her to go through the ceremony at the point of a cold steel weapon will not have the effect of endearing me to her ladyship. She is sure to hate me, but that won't bother me a snap of my finger."
"Don't get independent too soon," remarked Halloran. "Pride always goeth before a fall, you know. You haven't the money in your hands yet. Don't lose sight of that important fact, my dear boy."
They talked on for half an hour or more; then suddenly the driver drew rein.
"This is the country tavern, and my horses cannot go any further; they are dead lame and played out," he announced.
It was certainly something entirely out of the experience of the old innkeeper at the country crossroads to be aroused from his slumbers at midnight by guests seeking the shelter of his hospitable roof, and that, too, on the most terrible night of the year.
The old man could scarcely believe his ears when he heard the sound of the old brass knocker on the front door resound loudly through the house.
He quite imagined that he must have dreamed it, until a second and third peal brought him to his senses and his feet at the same instant.
His bewilderment knew no bounds when he appeared at the door a few minutes later and found a coach standing there and the occupants seeking a lodging, also shelter for the horses.
"I haven't but one room to spare," exclaimed the old innkeeper, holding a flaring candle high above his head to better view his visitor.
"Have you a room in which a fire could be made?" asked one of the men. "We have a lady with us."
"I suppose we could let you have my daughter Betsy's, she being off to the city on a visit."
"My companion and his br—his wife could have that; you can dispose of me anywhere," returned the speaker. "I could doze in a chair in the barroom for that matter. The driver could be as easily disposed of."
"Then bring the lady right in," said the old innkeeper. A moment later, the lovely girl, still unconscious, was brought in and laid upon the settee in the best room.
"What is the matter with the young woman?" gasped the innkeeper, his eyes opening wide with amazement.
"Merely fainted from the intense cold," returned one of the men briefly, adding: "If you will see that a fire is lighted in the room that you spoke of I shall be very much obliged."
"I'll have my wife down in a jiffy. No doubt the poor creature's half frozen, but a hot whiskey toddy will thaw her out quicker than you could say Jack Robinson," and he trotted off briskly on his double mission of rousing his wife to look after the girl and his hired help to assist the driver in putting away the horses, while he himself attended to making a blazing fire in the little chamber over the best room.
In less time than it takes to tell it the good housewife was by the girl's side.
"What a beautiful young creature!" she exclaimed, as the veil was thrown back and she beheld the lovely face, white as chiseled marble, framed in its cloud of golden hair. "Is it your sister, sir?" she asked, with all a country woman's thoughtless curiosity.
"No, she is my wife," exclaimed the stranger, who stood over by the fireplace, his brows meeting in a decided frown.
"Laws a mercy! Isn't she young to be married?" exclaimed the woman. "Why, she don't look sixteen. Been married long?"
The stranger by the fireplace deliberately turned his back on the woman, vouchsafing her no reply.
By that time the innkeeper announced that the room above was ready, and that they might come up as soon as they liked.
Again the stranger by the fireplace lifted the slender figure, bore her up the narrow rickety stairway, saying good-night to his friend as he passed him by.
"Good-night to you, and pleasant dreams," replied Halloran; "the same to your wife."
The innkeeper followed the tall stranger with his burden to see that everything was made comfortable, put more logs in the fireplace, then turning, said:
"Is there anything else I can do for you, stranger?"
"Nothing," replied the man curtly, but as the old innkeeper reached the door he called sharply: "Yes, I think there is something else that would add to my comfort, and that is a good stiff glass of brandy, if you have such a thing about the place."
The old man hesitated.
"I'll pay well for it," said the other, eagerly.
"You see, we haven't a license, stranger, to sell drinks, and they're pretty strict with us hereabouts. I generally let a man have it when I know him pretty well, but I can't say how it would affect you."
"Have no fear on that score," returned the other. "Here's a five-dollar note for a pint bottle of brandy. Will that pay you?"
"Yes," returned the innkeeper. It was the golden key. The man laughed to see how quickly he trotted off on his errand, returning with the bottle in a trice.
"Anything else, sir?" he said.
"No," replied the other, "save," adding, "do not call us too early to-morrow. We're not of the kind that rise with the sun. Nine o'clock will answer. And see that that wife of yours gets up the best breakfast that can be obtained."
"You won't have to complain of that, sir," exclaimed the innkeeper, pompously. "You'll get a piece of steak with the blood followin' the knife; crisp potatoes, a plate of buckwheat cakes, with butter as is butter, and honey that's the real thing; a mug of coffee that would bear up an egg, with good old-fashioned cream, not skim milk, to say nothing of—"
"That will do," exclaimed the stranger, with an impatient wave of his white hand. "I never like to know beforehand what I'm going to get."
"But the lady, sir? Mebbe she'd like somethin' kind a delicate like—a bit o' bird or somethin' like that?"
"We'll see about that to-morrow all in good time," fairly closing the door in the garrulous innkeeper's face "Good-night," and he shut the door with a click and turned the key in the lock, and for the first time he was alone with the girl he had forced so dastardly into the cruellest of marriages. He had placed Faynie on the white couch. He crossed the room and stood looking down at her, with his hands behind his back, and a sardonic smile on his face.
"You and your millions of money belong to me," he cried, under his breath. "Ye gods! what a lucky dog I am after all!" and a low laugh that was not pleasant to hear broke from his lips.
At that instant a broken sigh stirred the girl's white lips.
"Ah, you are coming to, are you?" he muttered. "The old lady's toddy is beginning to revive you."
He could not help but notice how unusually beautiful the girl was.
"What a chance of fortune this is for me, but it does not follow, even though she was madly in love with my cousin, that she will hold me in the same favor. But I'll stand none of her airs. I'll show her right from the start that I'm the boss, and see how that will strike her fancy. There'll be a terrible time when she comes to—screams, shrieks of anger, that will call everybody to the door."
He turned on his heel and walked over to the mantel, where the innkeeper had deposited the bottle and the glass.
He poured out a heavy draught and drank it at a single swallow. This was followed by another and yet another.
"Ah, there's nothing like bracing oneself up for a scene like this," he muttered, with a sardonic laugh.
The liquor seemed to turn the blood in his veins to fire and set his heart in a glow. He laughed aloud. In that moment he felt as rich as a king, and as diabolical as Satan himself.
He was nerved for any emergency; he was the girl's lord and master, her wedded husband. She would be made to understand that fact with little ceremony.
He threw himself down in a chair, where he could watch her, and waited results, and each instant he sat there the fumes of the brandy rose higher and higher, until it reached his brain.
"There was a laughing devil in his sneerThat woke emotions of both hate and fear;And where his scowl of fierceness darkly fell,Hope, withering, fled and mercy sighed farewell."
"There was a laughing devil in his sneerThat woke emotions of both hate and fear;And where his scowl of fierceness darkly fell,Hope, withering, fled and mercy sighed farewell."
Yes, a few short moments and consciousness would return to the girl—the stormy scene would begin.
Would the sharp eyes of love detect the difference between himself and Lester Armstrong, whom he was impersonating? He knew every tone of his cousin's voice so perfectly that he would have little difficulty in imitating that. The more closely he watched the girl, the more conscious he became of her wonderful beauty, and his heart gave a bound of triumph.
It was worth a struggle, after all, to have as beautiful a bride as she, even though she hated him.
"If I watch her much longer it will end by my being madly in love with her," he mused. "I never could withstand a pretty face."
The wild winds moaned like demons outside. The bare branches writhed and twisted in the storm, tapping weirdly against the window pane. The room grew warmer as the fire took hold of the logs in the grate, and with the heat the fumes of the brandy rose into his brain, and with it his color heightened, his cheeks and lips were flushed and his eyes scintillating. With unsteady hand he reached out for the flask again, uncorked it, and without taking the trouble to reach for the glass, placed the bottle to his lips and drained it to the dregs.
"She is awaking," he muttered, with a maudlin laugh, and springing from his seat with unsteady steps, he crossed the room and stood by the couch, looking down eagerly into the beautiful white face upon the pillow. As if impelled by that steady, serpentine, fiery glance, the girl moaned uneasily.
"Awaking at last!" he muttered, with a diabolical smile. At that moment Faynie's violet eyes opened wide and stared up into his face.
With returning consciousness, Faynie's violet eyes opened slowly—taking in, by the flickering light of the candle, the strange room in which she found herself; then, as they opened wider, in amazement too great for words, she beheld the figure of a man, half hidden among the shadows, standing but a few feet away from the couch, his eyes fastened upon her; she could even hear his nervous breathing.
With a gasp of terror Faynie sprang from the couch with a single bound; but the cry she would have uttered was strangled upon her lips by the heavy hand that fell suddenly over them, pressing so tightly against them as to almost take her breath away.
"Don't attempt to scream or make any fuss," cried a hissing voice in her ear—"submit to the inevitable—you are my wife—there is nothing out of the way in your being here with me. Come, now, take matters philosophically and we shall get along all right."
He attempted to draw the girl into his encircling arms, her wonderful beauty suddenly dawning upon him; but she shrank from his embrace, and from the approach of his brandy-reeking lips, as though he had been a scorpion.
With a suddenness that took him greatly aback, and for an instant at a disadvantage, she freed herself from his grasp, and stood facing him like a young tragedy queen in all her furious anger and outraged pride.
"Do not utter another word, Lester Armstrong!" she panted, "you only add insult to injury—why it seems to me some horrible trick of the senses—some nightmare—to imagine even that I could ever have cared for you—to have believed you noble, honorable and—a gentleman. Why, you almost seem to be a different person in his guise—you are so changed in tone and manner from him to whom I gave my heart. The affection that I thought I had for you died a violent death."
She did not notice that the man before her started violently at these words—but the look of fear in his eyes gave place the next instant to braggadocio.
He would have answered her, but she held up her little white hand with a gesture commanding silence, saying, slowly, with quivering lips:
"I repeat, the affection that I believed filled my heart for you died suddenly when I told you that I had changed my mind about eloping, and instead of studying my desires you insisted that the arrangement must be carried out."
"My—my—love for you prompted it, Faynie," he exclaimed, in a maudlin voice. He knew he had the name wrong, but could not think what it was to save his life. "Come, now, let's kiss and make up, and love each other in the same old way, as the song goes."
"What! love a man who thrusts me into a coach despite my entreaties, takes me to a church, and with a revolver pressed close to my heart—beneath my cloak—forces me to become his wife! No. No! I loathe, abhor you—open that door and let me go!"
With an unsteady spring he placed himself between her and the door, crying angrily as he ground out a fierce imprecation from between his white teeth. "Come, now, none of that, my beauty. You're my wife all right, no matter how much of a fuss you make over it. I want to be agreeable, but you persist in raising the devil in me, and though you may not know it, I've a deuce of a temper when I'm thoroughly roused to anger—at least that's what the folks who know me say.
"Sit right down here now, and let's talk the matter over—if you want to go home to the old gent, why I'm sure I have no objection, providing he agrees to take your hubby along with you. There'll be a scene of course—we may expect that—but when you tell him how you love me, and couldn't live without me and all that—and mind, you put it on heavy—it will end by his saying: 'Youth is youth, and love goes where it is sent. I forgive you, my children; come right back to the paternal roof—consider it yours in fact.' And when the occasion is ripe, you could suggest that the old gent start your hubby in business. Your wish would be law; he might demur a trifle at first, but if you stuck well to your point he'd soon cave in and ask what figure I'd take to—"
"Stop!—stop right where you are, you mercenary wretch!" cried Faynie in a ringing voice. "I see it all now—as clear as day. You—you—have married me because you have believed me my father's heiress, and—"
"You couldn't help but be, my dear," he hiccoughed. "An only child—no one else on earth to come in for his gold—couldn't help but be his heiress, you know—couldn't disinherit you if he wanted to. You've got the old chap foul enough there, ha, ha, ha!"
"You seem to have suddenly lost sight of the fact that there is some one beside myself—my stepmother and her daughter Claire."
He fell back a step and looked at her with dilated eyes—despite the brandy he had imbibed he still understood thoroughly every word she was saying.
"A stepmother—and—another daughter!" he cried, in astonishment—almost incoherently.
"You seem to forget that you always used to say to me—that you hoped they were well," said Faynie with deepening scorn in her clear, young voice.
"Oh—ah—yes," he muttered, "but you see I was not thinking of them—-only of you," and deep in his heart he was cursing the hapless cousin—whom he believed dead by this time—for not mentioning that the girl had a stepmother and sister.
"Had you taken the time to listen to something else that I had to tell you, you might have reconsidered the advisability of eloping with me in such haste," went on the girl in her clear, ringing tones, "for it has become apparent to me—with even as little knowledge of the world as I possess—that you are a fortune hunter—that most despicable of all creatures—but in this instance your dastardly scheme has entangled your own feet. Your well-aimed arrow has missed the mark. You have wedded this night a penniless girl. An hour before you met me at the arched gate my father disinherited me, and when he has once made up his mind upon any course of action—nothing human, nothing on earth or in heaven would have power enough to induce him to change it."
The effect of her words were magical upon him. With a bound he was at her side grasping her slender wrists with so tight a hold that they nearly snapped asunder.
Intense as the pain was, Faynie would not cry aloud. He should not see that he had power to hurt her, even though she dropped dead at his feet at last from the excruciating torture of it.
"What is it you say—the old rascal has—disinherited you?" he cried, scarcely crediting the evidence of his own ears.
"That is just what I said—my father has disinherited me," she replied slowly and distinctly, adding: "His money was his own—to do with as he pleased—he gave me the choice of—of—marrying to suit him or being cut off entirely. I—I—refused to accept the man he had selected for me. That ended the matter. 'Then from this hour know that you shall not inherit one penny of my wealth,' he cried. 'I will cut you off with but the small amount required by law. There is nothing more to be said. You are a Fairfax. You have taken your choice, and as a Fairfax you must abide by your decision!' You will remember I told you I had something to tell you the moment you came up to me at the arched gate, but you would not listen. Now the consequence is upon your own head."
"I have married a beggar, when I thought I was marrying an—heiress!" he cried in a rage so horrible that Faynie, brave as she was, recoiled from him in terror and, dismay.
"You have married a penniless young girl," she corrected, half inaudibly.
He raised his clinched hand with a terrible volley of oaths, before which she quailed, despite her bravery.
"When the old man cast you off you thought you would tie yourself on to me," he cried. "You women are cunning—oh, yes, you are, don't tell me you're not; and you are the shrewdest one I've come across yet. You lie when you say you meant to tell me what had happened beforehand, and you know it. But you'll find out at your cost what it means to bind me to a millstone for a wife. But you shan't be a millstone. You'll do your share toward the support. Yes, by George, you shall. I'll put you on the stage—and you—"
"Never!" cried the girl with a bitter sob. "I'd die first."
"Don't set up your authority against mine," he cried, and as he uttered the words—half crazed by the brandy he had drunk so copiously—his clinched fist came down with a heavy blow upon the girl's beautiful, upturned face, and she fell like one dead at his feet.
For one moment he looked down half stupefied at his work—the girl lay in a little dark heap at his feet just as he had struck her down—the crimson blood pouring from a wound on her temple which his ring had caused.
"I—I've killed her," he muttered, setting his teeth together hard—"she—she provoked me to it—curse her! My God! the girl is actually dying." Then, through his half-dazed brain came the thought that his crime would soon be discovered, and his only safety lay in instant flight.
It was but the work of a moment to hurry from the room, making his way through the inky darkness as best he could to the barroom, where he knew he should find Halloran and the cabby dozing in the big armchairs.
The full realization of his crime had quite sobered him by this time.
The innkeeper had left a dim light in the barroom. By the aid of this he made his way quickly to his friend's side. A few rapid words whispered excitedly in Halloran's ear told him the condition of affairs.
"You are right," exclaimed Halloran, springing to his feet. "We must get out of here without a moment's delay. The cabman must go with us, taking his horses, even though we have to pay him the price of them."
"I—I—will leave everything to you, Halloran," muttered his companion, huskily, "your brain is clearer and a thousand times shrewder than mine."
"Nor must the girl be left here," went on Halloran. "She must not be found dead in this house."
"Why, what in Heaven's name could we do with her?" returned the other, sharply. "I tell you she is dying, any one could see that."
"Put her effectually out of the way, and past all human possibility of any one finding out how she came by her death. I have a desperate plan. I cannot explain it to you now. All I say is, be guided by my directions to-night—leave everything to me," said Halloran, with a grim gaze.
"I put myself in your hands, Halloran," was the husky reply.
The cabby was hurriedly awakened. At first he demurred angrily against the idea of starting off again; but when a roll of bank notes was pressed into his hands as the price of his complying with their demand—a sum that would more than cover the price of the horses if he lost them—he no longer found grounds for complaint, but agreed with alacrity to do their bidding.
Besides, Halloran knew a little secret of the cabby's past—just how he came by the money to buy that outfit—and as it was done in a particularly shady way, the man dared not make an enemy of him.
In less time than it takes to tell it the coach stood at the door again.
It was Halloran—nervy, cool-headed Halloran, whom the other had always dubbed half man, half fiend—who stole up to the room above, found the girl lying in the exact spot his companion had described, and, catching up her cloak, wrapped it about her, bore her noiselessly down the stairs and out to the coach in waiting.
"Is it all over with her yet?" whispered the other in a strained, husky voice, showing intense fear.
"Almost," returned Halloran, briefly, jumping in and closing the door after him.
For some moments they rode along in utter silence. Then, as Halloran made no attempt to break it, his companion leaned over, asking breathlessly: "Where are we going—and—and—what do you propose to do with her?"
"I am just trying to solve that problem in my mind, and it is a knotty one. I must have more time to think it over," replied Halloran, tersely.
Before his companion could reply, the coach came to a sudden standstill, and both of the men within heard their driver's voice in earnest colloquy with some one standing by the roadside.
"It is the girl's father, or friends, who have just discovered her absence and have been scouring the country about to find her," gasped the fraudulent Lester Armstrong, and the hand that grasped his companion's arm shook like an aspen leaf.
"Don't be a coward!" hissed Halloran. "If worst comes to worst, whoever it is can share the girl's fate," and with these words he opened the door of the coach, asking sharply, angrily:
"What is the matter, driver?"
"Nothing, save a poor old fellow who wants me to give him a lift on the box beside me. He has lost his way. He's an old grave digger, who says he lives hereabouts, somewhere. He's half frozen with the cold tramping about. I told him 'Yes, climb up;' it's a little extra work for the horses, but I suppose as long as I don't mind it you'll not object."
"Ha! Satan always helps his own out of difficulties," whispered Halloran to his companion; and, without waiting for a reply, he was out of the coach like a flash, and his hand was on the old grave digger's arm ere he could make the ascent to the box beside the driver.
"Wait a moment, my good friend," said Halloran, "we have a little work which you of all persons are best fitted to perform for us ere we proceed."
Old Adam, the grave digger, looked at the tall gentleman before him in some little perplexity, answering, slowly:
"I hope you will not take it amiss, sir, if I answer that I do not fully comprehend your words."
"Perhaps not; but permit me to make them clear to you, in as plain English as I can command. I want you to dig a grave here and now."
"A grave—here!" echoed Adam, quite believing his old ears were not serving him truly—that he had certainly not heard aright.
"That is what I said," returned Halloran, grimly.
"But, sir!" began old Adam, "this is no graveyard."
"Curse you, who said it was?" cut in the other, sharply.
"It is not to be thought of, sir," murmured the grave digger, trembling in every limb, his brain too bewildered to try to reason out the meaning of this strange request, and quite believing the stranger must be an escaped lunatic.
Coolly and deliberately Halloran drew a revolver from his pocket, and placed it at Adam's throbbing temple, saying, grimly, and harshly:
"You will do as I command or your life will pay the forfeit. I give you one moment of time to decide."
It was a moment so fraught with tragic horror that in all the after years of his life Adam always looked back to it with a shudder of deadly fear.
He was no longer young—the sands of life were running slower than in the long ago—still, life was sweet to him, ah, very sweet. He had a good wife and little bairns at home, and an aged mother, to whom he was very dear, and he was their only support.
Who was this dark-browed stranger? Why did he wish a grave dug by the roadside on this terrible night? Whom did he wish to bury there, and was the body within the coach?
All these thoughts were surging rapidly through his brain, when suddenly Halloran said:
"Your moment for contemplation is up. Will you dig the grave here and now as I command you, or will you prefer that the next passer-by should find you on this spot with a bullet hole through your head?"
Even through the semi-darkness old Adam could see the stranger's eyes gleaming pitilessly upon him as he uttered the words, and he realized that if he refused he might expect no mercy at this man's hands.
"Your answer!" said Halloran, pressing the messenger of death still closer to the throbbing brow of the now thoroughly terrified old grave digger.
"Y—es," stammered old Adam.
"That is well," declared Halloran, removing the weapon. "Begin right here by the roadside. This is as good a spot as any. You need not make it the regulation depth—three feet or such a matter will answer. Begin without delay. I will also add that not only will you save your own neck, but you shall earn a comfortable fee if you work quickly. Mind, every minute counts."
The old grave digger slowly took his spade from his shoulder, and by the light from the carriage lamp began his work on the spot pointed out, while Halloran stood by watching him with keen interest.
Old Adam was used to work in the terrible heat of summer and in the bitter cold of the winter. He set to work with a will, and the frozen ground yielded quickly to the strokes of his trusty spade, and surely the faint moon, glimmering from between the drifting clouds sweeping across the dark face of the black heavens overhead, never looked upon a wilder, more weird scene.
Twice old Adam paused, the perspiration pouring down his face like rain.
He was about to cry out: "I cannot go on with this uncanny work," but each time the cold steel of the revolver was pressed to his throbbing brow, and the harsh voice of the muffled stranger said: "Go on; your work is almost accomplished."
The old grave digger worked on faster and faster by the fitful light of the carriage lamp, with the wild night winds howling about him, and the perspiration streaming down his face, as the stranger stood over him covering his heart with the deadly revolver.
"That will do, my man," he said, as old Adam paused for breath a moment. "That is deep enough, I guess. It will not take long to place its future tenant therein; then you must replace the earth and pack the snow so carefully about it that it would not attract the attention of the casual passer-by. Do you comprehend?"
"Yes," answered the old grave digger, and it seemed to him that his own voice sounded like nothing human.
The stranger turned and walked leisurely to the coach in waiting.
Old Adam would have fled from the spot in mortal terror, but that his limbs were trembling and refused to carry him.
He leaned heavily on his spade, asking himself in growing fright—what terrible mystery was this that fate had drawn him into, and awaiting with quaking heart what would follow.
He had not long to wait. The stranger who had stepped to the carriage evidently proposed to lose no time.
In less time than it takes to recount it, he had lifted from the vehicle a slender figure, closely wrapped in a long dark garment, and as he did so a second person stepped from the coach—a man, closely muffled like his companion—and wearing his soft hat pulled low over his eyes.
One glance at the flickering light of the carriage lamp fell upon them, bearing the slender figure between them, and old Adam's heart fairly stood still with horror.
He recognized them at once as the parties who had stood before the altar in the old stone church scarcely an hour before.
Great God! could it be? Ah, yes, it must be the body of the beautiful, hapless young bride they were bringing to this wild and lonely grave.
How did she happen to die? She who had been so full of bounding life but one short hour before—only the all-seeing eye of the God above could tell—ay, could solve this horrible mystery.
Another moment, and in utter silence, the slender figure was lowered into the frozen ground by the two strangers.
This accomplished, the same man turned to old Adam again, saying, abruptly:
"Now finish your work as speedily as possible, I repeat the caution—mind—not a trace must be visible when you have accomplished your task, to mark the spot."
No word from the old grave digger answered him. He could not have uttered a single syllable if his very life had depended upon it.
While the other had been speaking, a gust of wind had for a single instant tossed aside the heavy cloth that covered the face, and old Adam saw beyond all doubt that it was indeed the lovely young creature who had within that hour been made a bride, and with that terrible discovery came another—there was, as sure as fate, a flush upon the beautiful face of her whom they were consigning to the tomb.
"Hold!" he cried out with all his strength, drawing back from his work, shaking with terror. "The—the—girl is not dead; there is color—"
A fierce oath from the lips of both men simultaneously cut his words short.
"The girl is dead," exclaimed the man who had so far done the talking. "That is blood you see on her face. She had a hemorrhage. Go on with your work, you fool—or, here! give me the spade. I will make a short shift of it."
But as the stranger uttered these words, stepping quickly forward to put the thought into execution, a sudden thought, like an inspiration, occurred to the ancient grave digger.
"No—no—I will finish my work," he muttered. "I—I—can do it best, as I—I—understand it—and—and—you, would not."
"Make all haste, then; it is growing bitter cold. We shall all freeze to death."
"Could you not get into the coach, sir, to keep warm?" suggested old Adam; "you can be of no aid to me, you know. When I have finished—you—you can step out and see if it is done to your satisfaction."
For a moment the stranger hesitated, then said, sharply:
"I think I will take your advice, my man; my feet are about as numb as they could well be, I assure you; and as you say, my standing here will not help you. I can watch from the carriage window, and when the work is done step out and look at it."
With that he hurried quickly to the vehicle, and with a thankfulness in his heart that words are weak to describe, and with a mental "God be praised," the old grave digger bent to his task with renewed energy.
Both men watched narrowly and anxiously, as spadeful after spadeful of dirt quickly disappeared from the white ground. Then the white heaping snow was leveled over the dark narrow space, and the grave digger announced that his work was completed.
"I do not know as it is worth while to examine it; the old fellow knows his business," remarked Halloran to his companion, who was by this time fairly well under the weather from large draughts of brandy he had drunk from a bottle he had seized from the bar. "Step up on the box beside the driver"—thrusting a bank note into the old grave digger's nervous, trembling hand—"we will take you along the road as far as we go."
For an instant old Adam hesitated, but it was only for an instant, for he said to himself he must not arouse the suspicion of this stranger by refusing to ride, especially as he had begged for that permission so short a time before. He could frame no reasonable excuse for asking to remain behind.
Marking the spot as best he could in the intense darkness, he climbed up to the driver's box as he had been bidden, and took his seat.
With a sharp cut of the whip upon their flanks, the horses were started, and swaying to and fro with their every motion as they dashed along over the uneven road, the coach sped onward.
No word fell from the driver's lips, and old Adam was too much excited to vouchsafe a remark.
He knew that the men, as well as the rig, did not belong thereabouts, for he well knew every team in the village, and those of the adjoining farmers.
How far they traversed thus he could not judge, but to his intense relief he saw at last that they were passing a familiar landmark, an old bridge that spanned a dry creek which was scarcely a dozen rods from his own door.
"I will leave you here," said Adam. "I thank you for giving me a lift."
Again the coach came to a halt, and the man within put out his head, inquiring sharply:
"What is the matter now?"
"This man wants to get off here."
"Very well," replied Halloran, drawing back into the warmth of the coach and giving the matter no further thought, and resuming the castles in the air which he had been building when the vehicle came to a stop. "I shall see that you carry out to the fullest detail the little plot I am laying this night for you," he muttered, looking steadily at his companion, who had dozed off into a heavy stupefied sleep upon the opposite seat, "and when you come into possession of the money which your marriage to the little heiress to-night will bring you, I shall come in for the lion's share of it. You dare not refuse my demands, no matter how exorbitant they may be, under penalty of exposure. That will be the sword in my hands that will always hang over your head.
"It would have been more difficult to accomplish my scheme if the girl had lived. It is best as it is. Dead people tell no tales. Of course they will search for the girl when they discover that she has eloped, but will believe she is cleverly eluding them or traveling about the country. I have always had golden dreams of a fortune that would be in my grasp some day, and now, lo! my dream is about to be realized."
While he was thus soliloquizing, old Adam, the grave digger, was standing silently in the road where they had set him down, then suddenly he turned abruptly—not toward his home—but as quickly as his aged limbs could carry him back over the ground the coach had just traversed, praying to Heaven to guide him to the spot where he had dug the lonely grave of the beautiful, hapless young bride of an hour.