"Madame ——, seventh daughter of the seventh daughter, reveals to those who wish to consult her all the main incidents of their past, present, and future life; brings together the hearts of those who are suffering from the pangs of lovers' quarrels, though the whole wide earth should separate them; indicates the whereabouts of missing ones, though they should be hidden as deeply and securely from sight as the bowels of the earth. The madame can with ease secure for you the love of any person whom you may choose to win, put each and every person in the way of making fabulous fortunes in the shortest possible space of time, and all this for the small sum of fifty cents. Madame can be found, between thehours of nine and twelve in the forenoon, one and six in the afternoon, and from seven until eleven in the evening, by those who wish to consult her marvelous powers, on the fourth floor of the last tenement house on Hester Street. Visitors will please take note that Madame's consultation studio is in the rear of the building. A candle lights the way."
"Madame ——, seventh daughter of the seventh daughter, reveals to those who wish to consult her all the main incidents of their past, present, and future life; brings together the hearts of those who are suffering from the pangs of lovers' quarrels, though the whole wide earth should separate them; indicates the whereabouts of missing ones, though they should be hidden as deeply and securely from sight as the bowels of the earth. The madame can with ease secure for you the love of any person whom you may choose to win, put each and every person in the way of making fabulous fortunes in the shortest possible space of time, and all this for the small sum of fifty cents. Madame can be found, between thehours of nine and twelve in the forenoon, one and six in the afternoon, and from seven until eleven in the evening, by those who wish to consult her marvelous powers, on the fourth floor of the last tenement house on Hester Street. Visitors will please take note that Madame's consultation studio is in the rear of the building. A candle lights the way."
By dint of much perseverance Kendal found the place.
Taking the candle, he groped his way through the long, narrow, grimy passage, and found himself at length standing before Room 106, as the advertisement had indicated.
His loud, impatient knock was answered, after some little delay, by a tall figure hooded and cloaked, the face almost concealed by a long, thick veil that was thrown about the head, and which reached almost to the feet.
In a black-gloved hand this strange apparition held a lighted candle.
"I trust I have found the right place," said Kendal. "I am in search of Madame Morlacci, the fortune-teller."
At the sound of the deep, rich, mellow voice, the figure started back as though it had been struck a sudden blow, the black-shrouded hand that held the candle shook as if from palsy.
"Come in," replied a muffled voice, that sounded like nothing human, it was so weird.
Kendal stepped fearlessly into the room, the corners of which were in deepest gloom, which the flickering rays of the candle could not penetrate.
"Well," said Kendal, impatiently, "I should begrateful to commence the preliminaries of this fortune-telling business at your earliest convenience, if you please, madam; my time is somewhat limited."
Kendal drew forth his pocket-book, took out a bank-bill and handed it to the strange creature; but, to his intense surprise, she flung it back almost in his face.
"I can tell you all you wish to know without a fee," cried the hoarse, muffled voice, which somehow made every drop of blood in Kendal's veins run cold as he heard it.
"That would not be very profitable to you, I am sure, madame," he said, wonderingly.
"That makes no difference to you," was the almost rude answer. He felt quite disconcerted; he hardly knew what to say next. This certainly was an oddcontretemps, to say the least. "You are here to learn the whereabouts of—a woman?" she whispered, in a deep, uncanny voice. "Is it not so?"
"By Heaven! you are quite right," cried Kendal, in amazement, quite startled out of his usual politeness.
This woman had never laid eyes on him before, he told himself. Now, how, in the name of all that was wonderful, could she have known this? He had sneered at fortune-telling all his whole life through; now he began to wonder if there was not something in it, after all.
"This woman, who is young, and by some called beautiful, will be your evil genius!" she hissed. "You wronged her through your fickle-mindedness, and wrecked her young life."
"Great God!" he cried, "are you woman or devil, or a combination of both? But go on—go on!" hecried, excitedly. "I see you know all my past. There is no use in my attempting to hide anything from you. But tell me, where shall I find this young woman of whom you speak? I must track her down."
A laugh that was horrible to hear broke from the lips of the veiled woman opposite him.
"That you will never be able to do!" she cried, fiercely. "Though she may cross your path at will, you might as well hunt for a particular grain of sand along the sea-shore, a needle in a haystack, a special blade of grass in a whole field. You may recognize this fact, and abide by it. But, hark you! listen to what I have to say: The fates have decreed that your heart shall be wrung as you have wrung hers—pang for pang!"
"Who and what are you," he cried, "who talk to me in this way? You act more like a vengeful spirit than a woman unconcerned in my affairs. Who and what are you, anyhow?"
"I tell you only what I see," was the muttered response.
"See where?" demanded Kendal in agitation.
"That is not for you to know."
"But I shall—I will know!" he cried, furiously. "There is something underneath all this trumpery. I am not a man to be trifled with in this fashion, I can tell you, with your fortune-telling nonsense—humbuggery!"
"Then, pray, what brings you here? what is your object in coming?" asked the other, with a covert sneer.
"To hear what lies you could trump up," replied Kendal boldly.
"Our interview is ended," said the veiled figure, rising and pointing her long arm toward the door.
He knew that he must temporize with her if he would find out Dorothy's whereabouts, which he was beginning to believe she might find out for him.
"Will you pardon me?" he asked, humbling himself. "I—I must know more."
"You have heard all that I have to say, Harry Kendal!" she cried.
Who was this creature who knew him—aye, knew his name, his most secret affairs? He must—he would know.
With a quick bound he cleared the space which divided them, and in a trice he had grasped her wrists firmly and torn the veil from her face.
This was followed by a mighty cry.
The instant Harry Kendal sprang toward the veiled woman she sprang backward, as though anticipating the movement, and quick as a flash she overturned the candle, just as he tore the veil from her face.
A low, taunting laugh broke from her lips through the inky darkness of the room. In a trice she had torn herself free from his grasp, and like a flash she had sped from the room and down the narrow hall and stairway, like a storm-driven swallow, leaving her companion stumbling about the place, and giving vent to curses loud and deep as he fumbled about his vest pocket for matches.
The veiled woman never stopped until she reached the street, then paused for a moment and looked back as she reached the nearest gas lamp.
As the flickering rays of the street lamp fell athwart her face, the features of Nadine Holt were clearly revealed, her black eyes blazing, and her jet black hair streaming wildly about her face.
"How strange!" she panted, "that this idea of fortune telling should have come to me as a means of gaining my living! I was driven to do something. And that he should have been the very first patron to come to me—he, of all others! He is tracking me down because I maimed the girl whom he is so soon to wed—yes, tracking me down to throw me into prison—and yet he was once my lover! It is always the way. When a man's heart grows cold to one love, and another's face has charmed him, it seems to me as though men have a cruel, feverish desire to thrust the first love from them at whatever cost. But I will be revenged upon him! I will live to make his very life a torture; but I shall do it through Dorothy Glenn. I will go to Dorothy Glenn at once, and we shall see what will happen then."
Meanwhile, after much fumbling and imprecations loud and deep, Kendal succeeded in striking a match and finding the overturned bit of wax taper, which he hastily lighted, peering cautiously into the inky darkness which surrounded him.
He was tired and exhausted, and he told himself that he would turn in at the nearest hotel, take a good night's rest, and mature his plans on the morrow for finding Dorothy.
Meanwhile, let us go back, dear reader, to the hourin which our heroine, little Dorothy, decided to leave Gray Gables.
For some moments after Harry Kendal had left her in anger in the corridor she stood quite still—stood there long after the sound of his footsteps had died away, trying to realize the full purport of his words—that their engagement was at an end, and that they had parted forever.
The whole world seemed to stand still about her. Then, like one suddenly dazed, she turned and crept into her own room. Katy was there awaiting her.
She suffered the girl to place her in a chair, to take the faded blossoms from her hand and from her corsage, to unfasten the strings of pearls, and to remove her ball dress.
By degrees she had informed Katy of her regaining her sight, and the poor girl's joy knew no bounds.
She wondered greatly how Dorothy could feel so downcast in such an hour, and she never once heeded Dorothy's sad words—that she was going to leave Gray Gables before the dawn, as there was no one there who loved her.
It was so late when Katy sought her own couch that she soon dropped into a deep sleep. This Dorothy had watched for with the greatest impatience. She soon rose, robed herself in a dark dress and Katy's long cloak, and was soon ready for the great undertaking which she had mapped out for herself.
Hastily writing a note, she placed it where Katy's eyes would be sure to fall upon it early the next morning; then she stole quietly from the room. The great clock in the corridor below struck three as she passed it with bated breath and trembling in every limb.
She opened the door softly and stole out into the chill, raw night.
There was no one in this wide world to miss her, no one to care what became of her! She was in every one's way. Only one thought suggested itself to her—to end it all. Perhaps Harry Kendal would feel very sorry when the news came to him on the morrow that she was dead—she whom he had spurned so cruelly only the night before. And perhaps he would throw himself beside her cold, dead body and wish that he had been less cruel to her, and cry out:
"Oh, if God would but roll back His universe and give me yesterday!"
She had no fixed destination, but walked on and on, until she suddenly found herself down by the Yonkers Boat Club House, that stretched its dark shadow afar out into the river. It was connected with the shore by a long, narrow plank walk.
Mechanically Dorothy crept down the narrow, winding stairway that led to it. Midway on the plank walk she paused, clung desperately to the rail and looked fearfully down into the dark, flowing river that rushed on so madly but a few feet below her.
Only a few flickering stars would see and know all, she told herself. There would be but a plunge, a deathly shiver as her warm body came in contact with the icy waves, a moment of choking, a terrible sensation, then all would be over—her troubles would be at an end!
What cared she for the wealth of a hundred Gray Gables and princely estates when love's boon was denied her?
Even in that hour and in that weird place shethought of the words another heart-broken girl had uttered long years before:
"You have learned to love another,You have broken every vow;We have parted from each other,And my heart is lonely now."Oh! was it well to severThis fond heart from thine forever?Can I forget thee? Never!Farewell, lost love, forever!"We have met, and we have parted,But I uttered scarce a word;But, God! how my poor heart startedWhen thy well-known voice I heard!"Oh! woman's love will grieve her,And woman's pride will leave her;Life has fled when love deceives her,Farewell—farewell forever!"
"You have learned to love another,You have broken every vow;We have parted from each other,And my heart is lonely now.
"Oh! was it well to severThis fond heart from thine forever?Can I forget thee? Never!Farewell, lost love, forever!
"We have met, and we have parted,But I uttered scarce a word;But, God! how my poor heart startedWhen thy well-known voice I heard!
"Oh! woman's love will grieve her,And woman's pride will leave her;Life has fled when love deceives her,Farewell—farewell forever!"
"I am so young to die!" sobbed Dorothy. "I haven't done very much good in the world, but surely I have done no wrong."
Then it occurred to her suddenly—a little trifle which she had quite forgotten:
She had taken Nadine Holt's lover from her, and the girl was broken-hearted over his loss; and now Heaven had, in turn, taken him from her. This was God's vengeance upon her.
Could even Nadine Holt see her now she would feel sorry and find pity for her.
Suddenly, to her intense amazement, Dorothy saw a man hurrying along the high cliff just above where she stood. He was advancing toward her with hasty strides that broke almost into a run.
Dorothy noticed that he carried a large black bundle in his arms, and that he was heading directly toward the boat house.
She saw him lean forward, raise the bundle quickly and dash it into the river, turn rapidly, and break into a quick run in the opposite direction.
The bundle did not quite reach the water's edge, she saw; he had missed his aim.
Dorothy stopped short and peered over the rails at it, wondering what it could contain.
As she did so she observed that there was motion within the small, dark bundle. It contained some living thing, she felt quite sure.
Dare she go and examine it? she asked herself. Perhaps it was some poor animal doomed to death that was bound up in that unsightly bundle.
Her heart stirred with pity at the thought, and at that moment a cry, faint and muffled, broke the stillness of the night.
It emanated from the dark bundle. Quick as a flash Dorothy retraced her steps until she reached the bank, and down this she clambered with alacrity.
But when she was almost within reach of the bundle it rolled down into the water with a splash, and the mad waves covered it.
With a cry Dorothy sprang forward just in time,and caught it as the undertow was bearing it out into the deep water.
Again there was a quick cry and struggle within the bundle. In a twinkling Dorothy had torn off the wrappings.
"Oh, God in Heaven!" she cried, "it is a little child!"
The cry died away in Dorothy's throat as her terrified eyes fell upon the bundle which she held in her arms.
Yes, it was a little child.
"Oh, the cruelty of it!" she sobbed aloud. Some one had doomed it to death on this bitter night, and she thanked Heaven for bringing her to that spot to save its life.
Wrapping it quickly in the ends of her long thick cloak, Dorothy hurried to the nearest shelter with it.
This happily proved to be a small cottage on the outskirts of the town. A solitary ray of light shone from one of the windows, and without hesitation Dorothy hastened up the little narrow path to the porch and rang the bell.
She quite believed that she would know the inmates of the cottage, for she well knew every one in the village.
It was a strange woman that opened the door at length and peered out at her, and a shrill voice cried:
"Why, as I live, Maria, it's a woman standing outhere with a child in her arms! Why, what in the world can you want?" she cried, addressing Dorothy.
"I thought I should see some one here whom I knew," faltered Dorothy.
"No; we are strangers here," replied the woman. "We have just moved into this cottage to-day. We are from down country, my man and me, and my girl Maria. We don't know any one hereabouts, so I can't direct you. But, dear me! it's an uncanny time of night for a woman to be out. You ought to be careful of your little baby, if you have no thought for yourself, ma'am."
Dorothy tried to speak, but words seemed to fail her.
"But won't you come in and rest for a bit?" asked the woman, pityingly. "I can't let you go away without at least warming yourself by the fire. I am sitting up with my sick daughter."
Dorothy gladly accepted the kindly offer and entered.
Dorothy was about to tell the woman the story of how she had rescued the little one, when it occurred to her that this would necessitate her explaining how she herself had come to be in that locality at that hour, and this she shrank from doing.
The woman was a stranger in the neighborhood, she argued to herself, and would never know her again. Why not hold her peace? But, then, what would she do with the little one that Fate had thrown so strangely upon her mercy?
She quite believed that it did not belong to any one in the neighborhood, nor had she heard of a little one like this. She saw that the clothing upon it wasof the daintiest texture, and the embroidery upon it was of the finest.
"Oh, what a beautiful little baby!" cried the woman, her heart at once warming toward the little stranger. "How much it looks like you!" she added, turning to Dorothy.
"What!" cried the girl, in amazement.
"I said your baby looked like you," repeated the woman.
She wondered why the young girl flushed to the roots of her golden hair.
"We must go now," said Dorothy at length; "and I thank you, madame, for your hospitality."
The woman, with clouded eyes, looked after the slender figure as it disappeared.
"A lovely but very mysterious young woman!" she ejaculated. "I hope everything is all right. She is so very young. It is a great pity for the little child."
Meanwhile, Dorothy struggled on through the dim light of the fast dying night, and soon found herself at the railway station without any seeming volition of her own.
In her pocket was her purse, which the good old doctor in one of his generous moods had filled to overflowing. She had had no occasion to use it until now.
The poor little one had commenced to cry now, and when Dorothy hushed its cries it cuddled up to her with a grateful sob and nestled its head on her arm.
Why shouldn't she keep the baby that fate had sent directly into her arms? she asked herself?
Yes, she would keep it. For was there not a bond of sympathy between this poor little one, whom those who should have loved and cared for had consignedto a watery grave, and herself, who had sought the same watery grave to end her own wretched existence?
"You and I will live for each other, baby," she sobbed, holding the wee mite closer. "I will keep you for my very own, and I will pray for the time to come when you will be big enough for me to tell you all my sorrows. You will put your little arms around my neck and your soft, warm cheek against mine, and try to comfort me."
Dorothy had made her resolve, little dreaming that it would end in a tragedy.
She boarded the train, and was soon steaming away toward New York city—the great, cruel city of New York, rampant with wickedness and crime.
More than one passenger noticed the lovely young girl with the tiny infant in her arms, and marveled as to whether or not it could possibly belong to her; for surely the girl could not be a day over sixteen, or seventeen, at most.
All unconscious of this close scrutiny, Dorothy watched the little one with wondering eyes all the way until she reached the metropolis.
Her first idea was to seek a boarding place, and then she could look about her.
To her dismay, among the half score to which she walked until she could almost drop down from exhaustion, no one cared to take her and the child in; and it seemed to her, too, that they were rude in refusing her, and more than one actually shut the door in her face.
She was tired—so tired—carrying the heavy child in her arms. She had given the name Miss Brown toeach instance, and at last one landlady came out bluntly and said to her:
"It would sound a deal more proper to call yourself Mrs. Brown, if you please, ma'am," at the same time pointing to the child in her arms.
Then it dawned upon Dorothy's mind why every one had refused them shelter, even for money.
"Why shouldn't I call myself Mrs. instead of Miss Brown? One name is as good as another," she said to herself. It was all the same to her; anything, so that she would not be separated from this poor little baby, whom she had learned to love in those short hours with all the strength of her yearning heart.
At the next boarding house, recklessly enough, Dorothy gave the name of Mrs. Brown, and she found no trouble in securing accommodations there.
"Poor child! she seems so young to be left a widow!" exclaimed the landlady, in relating to her other boarders that night that she had let room sixteen to such a pretty young woman, with the loveliest little angel of a baby that ever was born.
No one ever yet took a false position without finding himself ere long hedged in with difficulties.
And so poor Dorothy found it.
She was continually plied with questions by the rest of the boarders as to how long since her husband had died, and how long since she had taken off mourning, or if she had put on mourning at all for him, and if baby reminded her of its poor, dear, dead papa.
Dorothy's alarm at this can more readily be imagined than described. She almost felt like bursting into a flood of tears and running from the room.
It had gone so far now that she was ashamed to tellthe truth; and then there was the terrible fear that if people knew it was not her very own they would take it from her; and she had learned to love it with all the fondness of her desperate, lonely heart.
And then, too, it seemed to know her and feel sorry for her.
It knew her, and would coo to her, and cry for her to take it.
She had named it, long since, little Pearl, because she had fished it from the water. But, to tell the truth, she found it a terrible responsibility on her hands.
She did not know what to do with the child.
She could not go out and leave it in the house, and she couldn't take it with her.
She had been searching for a situation the last few days, and, to her unspeakable horror, she found that no one wanted a young woman encumbered with a child.
Had she been older, she would have known better than to have assumed such a responsibility; but Dorothy was young, and had some of life's bitterest lessons yet to learn.
Dorothy had turned her face resolutely against the fortune which Doctor Bryan had left.
She quite believed, if she was not there to receive it, it would go to Kendal, her faithless lover.
She wanted him to have it. She did not care for any of it.
She had been only a working girl when Doctor Bryan sought her out and took her to his home; she could be only a working girl again.
In the hour of Dorothy's desolation her heart went back to Jack Garner, who had loved her so in other days. Poor Jack! whom she had thrown over so cruelly for a handsomer, wealthier fellow, only to be deserted by him in turn for the first pretty face that had crossed his path.
And that very day came the turning point of her life.
She had answered an advertisement a few days before by letter to an intelligence office, and in the course of a week she received the following reply:
"My Dear Madam—Replying to your note, would say your communication was hardly explicit enough for us to determine whether you would suit our patron or not."The party we refer to is Mrs. Garner, a widow. Her family consists of one son, a niece who lives with them, and a young lady."They wish a companion for Mrs. Garner. She requires a somewhat elderly woman. Even the child would not be so objectionable, if the right person were secured."
"My Dear Madam—Replying to your note, would say your communication was hardly explicit enough for us to determine whether you would suit our patron or not.
"The party we refer to is Mrs. Garner, a widow. Her family consists of one son, a niece who lives with them, and a young lady.
"They wish a companion for Mrs. Garner. She requires a somewhat elderly woman. Even the child would not be so objectionable, if the right person were secured."
The letter dropped from Dorothy's hand, and she uttered a low cry; but presently picking it up, and reading it eagerly through again, she found a postscript added to it which read as follows:
"Call, if you please, at the Garner homestead to-morrow, at 10:30a. m., if convenient."
"Call, if you please, at the Garner homestead to-morrow, at 10:30a. m., if convenient."
Dorothy's heart beat quickly. Could it be possible that this Garner family and the one she had knownwere one and the same? Oh, no! it could not be, for they were poor, very poor, and these people lived in a fashionable quarter.
Jack might plod along all his life and never have a dollar ahead. Poor Jack! And her eyes grew moist as she thought of him. Ah, how well he had loved her!
Dorothy knew quite well that according to the requirements of the advertiser she would not suit on account of her youth. An older person than herself was wanted; yet the thought of the possibility of taking little Pearl with her caused her to ponder over the matter very carefully. Surely there wassomeway to meet the difficulty.
"I am afraid I will not get the situation I was telling you of last night," said Dorothy to her landlady; and she told her why.
"Youth and beauty, although the greatest blessings Heaven can give us, often bring with them a certain train of disadvantages. I once knew a young and most lovely girl who, on this very account, could not get work. She resorted to a desperate measure, but it insured success. Perhaps it might inyourcase. She put on, over her golden curls, a dark wig with plenty of gray in it, seamed a wrinkle or two under her long lashes with a camel's hair pencil, and put on a pair of glasses. She secured a position as housekeeper in an eccentric old bachelor's family, which consisted of only himself and his aged parents. Well, the old folks soon passed away, the old bachelor soon following them, and every dollar he had on earth he left to his housekeeper, to 'keep her from the poor house to which she would soon have to go in her old age,' as hephrased it. It was a large fortune, and she is enjoying it to-day with a young husband and dear little children gathered about her, and she often speaks of it when I see her, and tells me all her good luck came from putting on that wig, donning the spectacles, and lining her face to make it look old. She never would have gained that position otherwise, for she was very fair and childish in appearance."
"I think I will do the same thing!" cried Dorothy, enthusiastically. "It can do no harm, anyway. It is a terrible deceit to practice, but if I secure the position, and the people learn to like me, in a very short time I will reveal the truth to them, and I think they will find pardon for me and keep me in their employ."
"I am sure they will," assented her companion, "and all I can say is, I hope you may have as great good luck as the girl I told you about."
Dorothy smiled faintly.
"I—I would never care to be—be rich," she faltered. "There are some people whom Heaven intended to always work for a living—I am one of them."
"If you think of buying a wig, I have one to sell you," said the landlady. "I used to be in the theatrical business, and had all those things. I will show you how to make up for a middle-aged woman, so that even your own folks wouldn't know you in broad daylight."
Dorothy was a little dubious upon hearing all this. She wondered if it was not to sell the outfit that the landlady had suggested all this. However, she passively placed herself in her hands, and the work of transformation began.
"Now, look!" exclaimed the landlady, at length. "What do you think of yourself now?" and she placed a hand glass before her.
Dorothy uttered a low cry. Could that face be her own at which she gazed in the mirror's depths? Was she the old woman represented there? And from the bottom of her heart she thanked God that it was only make-believe; that beneath it all her face was still young and fair, without the ravaging touch of Time's withering hand.
But it touched her heart keenly to see her little Pearl, whom she was learning to fairly idolize, shrink from her.
"I must, indeed, look greatly changed," she said, with a sob.
Hastily dressing the little one, and taking her with her, Dorothy wended her way to her destination.
She had always looked upon a little child much the same as a little girl admires a big wax doll.Nowshe was beginning to realize that a real live baby must be washed and dressed and fed and attended to; that it wouldn't go to sleep or keep awake when people wished; in short, she was beginning to understand that it could be a darling little nuisance at times, even to those who adored the dimpled bit of precious humanity the most.
Fairly panting with carrying so heavy a burden in her slender arms, Dorothy reached at length the avenue and number—a magnificent brown stone mansion in the center of the block.
With beating heart she ascended the steps and touched the bell.
A very polite servant answered her summons and ushered her into a spacious drawing-room.
"Madame will be with you presently, as she is expecting you," he said, indicating a seat.
Little Pearl commenced to cry, and Dorothy was at her wit's end to know what to do with her.
She was all flushed with nervousness by the time she heard footsteps in the corridor approaching the room.
An instant later the silkenportièreswere swept aside by a white, jeweled hand, and a white-haired lady entered.
Dorothy rose to her feet, and caught her breath with a low cry that died in her throat.
The room seemed to whirl around her. She stood face to face with Jack's mother!
Dorothy had never seen her but once or twice before in those old days.
She remembered every lineament of her face perfectly, however. How could she help it, when Mrs. Garner bore such a striking resemblance to her fair-haired, handsome son? But she could not understand it; it almost seemed as if she was in a dream to find Mrs. Garner here surrounded by such elegance as this.
But before she could collect her scattered senses the lady advanced toward her, saying, in her sweet, kind voice:
"You are very punctual, Mrs. Brown. This is in itself a great recommendation. You are tired holding the baby in your arms. I will ring for one of the servants to relieve you for a little while, if you wish."
Dorothy never remembered in what words she thanked her, and she was even too confused to keepthe thread of the conversation, but was conscious that she was replying at random. Yet the kind old lady did not seem to notice her confusion.
"I want some one for a companion," said the lady, slowly. "I have recently lost my niece, Miss Barbara Hallenbeck, and her death preys heavily upon my mind."
Dorothy was shocked at the news, but she could utter no comment.
"I am soon to lose my son," went on Mrs. Garner, slowly.
Dorothy sprang to her feet with a gasping cry:
"Jack dying!"
Poor, dear, faithful Jack Garner, who had loved her so well! It seemed to Dorothy that every pulse in her body quivered, and her heart was almost bursting at the news.
In that one hour the girl's heart was revealed to her.
She was face to face with the truth at last: she loved Jack Garner—yes, she loved Jack!
In that moment of time the past seemed to glide before her mental vision like a vast panorama.
She turned with a gesture of woe pitiful to behold to his dear old mother.
"You are about to lose your only son?" she gasped. "May Heaven pity you!" She was almost about to add: "If I could save his life by giving my own, oh, how gladly I would do it!"
Mrs. Garner saw the look on her face, and rightly interpreted it.
"Do not misunderstand me," she added, hastily. "Ido not mean that I am to lose him by death. My son is soon to be married."
For a moment the room seemed to whirl around Dorothy. The words seemed to strike into her very brain as they fell from Mrs. Garner's lips. "My son is soon to be married!" and the four walls seemed to repeat and re-echo them.
"I shall lose a son, but I shall gain a dear daughter," added the old lady, softly.
For an instant, as Dorothy sat trembling there, the impulse was strong upon her to fly from the house. The very air seemed to stifle her.
While she hesitated, fate settled the matter for her. The front door was opened by some one who had a latch-key, and a voice that thrilled every fiber of her being addressed some question to a servant passing through the corridor.
"Here is my son coming at last!" exclaimed the old lady, in pleased eagerness.
"Jack—Jack, my dear!" she called; "I am in the drawing-room. Step in a moment, my son;" and before Dorothy could collect her scattered senses theportièreswere parted by a strong, white hand, and Jack Garner stood on the threshold.
Ah! how changed he was in those few short months! The boyish expression had vanished. He looked older, more care-worn. The fair, handsome face was graver; the blue eyes were surely more thoughtful.Even his fair chestnut hair seemed to have taken on a deeper, more golden hue.
He crossed the room, bent over his mother, and kissed her.
"This is my son—Mrs. Brown, Mr. Garner," said the old lady, her voice lingering over the words with pardonable pride.
It was a terrible moment for Dorothy.
Would Jack know her? Would not those keen, grave, searching eyes penetrate her disguise?
He gave but a casual glance to the small, slim figure clad in black, and bowed courteously, then turned away.
The greatest ordeal of her life was past.
She had met Jack—Jack who had loved her so—face to face, and he had not recognized her.
She rallied from her confused thoughts by a great effort, for Mrs. Garner was speaking to her.
"I was saying, that as we seem mutually pleased with each other, we may as well consider the arrangement as settled between us."
Dorothy bowed. She could not utter a word in protest to save her life, although she had quite made up her mind not to remain under that roof.
"Your duties will be light, and I feel sure you will find ours a pleasant home. I will ring for one of the servants to show you to your room;" and suiting the action to the word, she touched the bell, and an instant later a neat little maid appeared, who courtesied and asked Dorothy to follow her.
"Madame will find her little child has already been taken to her apartments," said the girl, opening the door at the further end of the upper corridor.
Yes, little Pearl was there, cooing with delight at her new surroundings, and over the cup of hot milk and crackers on the little stand close beside her.
The girl rose hastily as Dorothy entered, set down the child, and quitted the apartment.
Upon finding herself alone with Pearl, Dorothy snatched the child up in her arms, sank down in the depths of a great easy-chair, and sobbed as though her heart would break.
"Oh, little Pearl! how I wish that we had never come here!" she moaned. "It makes me feel so sad."
The baby's blue eyes looked up into her own in wonder, but her soft cooing and the clasp of her little soft, warm fingers could not comfort Dorothy.
After luncheon she was called into Mrs. Garner's room.
"I am not feeling well," she said, motioning Dorothy to a seat. "I should like you to read to me until I fall asleep. Take any of the books from the book-case in the library. I have no choice."
The silent little figure in black bowed, and glided out of the room.
It was dusk in the library as she entered it, and while she pondered as to whether she should call some one to light the gas, to enable her to read the titles on the volumes, she heard Jack's voice.
But instead of passing, he entered, and proceeded to light the gas. With a beating heart Dorothy drew still further back, and at that moment another person entered the room.
"I knew I should find you here, Jack," said a voice that sounded terribly familiar to the figure in the window hidden by the silken draperies. "I have cometo ask a little favor of you. I hope you will not find it in your heart to refuse me."
Before the last comer in the room had ceased speaking, Dorothy knew who it was—Jessie Staples!
A great lump rose in her throat, and her heart beat. She knew that she should have slipped from her place of concealment and quitted the room, but she seemed to have been held spell-bound by a power she could not control. She leaned heavily against the wall and listened with painful intensity to the conversation that was taking place between her old lover and Jessie, although she knew that it was wrong for her to do so.
"A favor you would ask of me?" repeated Jack, quickly. "Why, consider it granted beforehand," he returned, "if it is within my power."
"You are more than kind," murmured Jessie, adding: "The fact is, I have too painful a headache to attend the opera with you to-night, but I want you to go and enjoy yourself, and take some young girl in my place. I—I do not want to mar your happiness for this evening."
"I am quite sorry to seem unkind," he returned, "but really, Jessie, I beg that you will not ask me to take any one else to the opera, if you can not go. Although I promised beforehand, I trust you will not hold me to anything like that. I do not feel inclined to entertain any of your friends this evening, especially when you are not present. But, really, Jessie, I think it might do you good to go—the lights, and the music, and the gay throng, might divert your thoughts from yourself, and act as a wonderful panacea in banishing your headache."
"No—no!" returned Jessie; "believe me, I shall feel much better at home. But you must go. I could not forgive myself if I were to be the cause of your losing one hour of happiness, and I know, Jack, that you enjoy affairs of that kind so much. Go, if only to please me."
"If you are sure that itwillplease you, Jessie, I can not withstand your entreaties," he returned, thoughtfully. "Still, I have the hope that you may change your mind at the eleventh hour, and be ready to go with me," he added, laughingly. "I have a few letters to write, and will see you after I finish them. Remember it is not every night that one can hear Patti;" and with a few more pleasant words he quitted the room.
For some moments after he had left, Jessie Staples stood leaning against the mantel, gazing thoughtfully into the fire; then she was startled by a step close beside her.
She turned her head suddenly and saw a dark figure just leaving the room.
"Stay!" she called out; and the figure hesitated on the threshold. "Come here!" and the dark-robed figure advanced slowly and stood before her. "You are Mrs. Brown, the new companion?" she said, interrogatively.
"Yes," murmured a stifled voice.
"May I ask how long you have been standing in the room?" Miss Staples inquired, rather curiously. "I did not see you come in."
"I beg your pardon," came the faint answer. "I entered a few moments before you did, and when the gentleman entered and you commenced speaking,I—I hardly knew how to make my presence known, the conversation was so personal. I tried to make my escape from the room as soon as it was possible. I—I hope you are not angry with me."
"No," said Miss Staples, slowly. "I am sure the facts are as you stated them. You may resume your duties. That is all I wish to say," said Miss Staples.
Still the slight figure hesitated.
Poor Dorothy, how she longed to fling herself in Jessie's arms and cry out:
"Oh, Jessie, Jessie! don't you know me? I am Dorothy—your poor little friend Dorothy whom you used to love so dearly in the old days."
Still she dared not; no, she dared not betray her identity. And with one lingering glance she turned and slowly left the library, holding, tightly clutched in her hand, one of the volumes from the great book-case.
She had caught up the first one which she laid her hand on.
"You have been gone some time, Mrs. Brown," said Mrs. Garner, fretfully, as she entered theboudoir. "Let me see your selection. What book have you brought me? Why, as I live, it is the dictionary!" she exclaimed, in a most astonished voice. "Did you think I had need of that?"
The old lady flushed painfully. It was well known that it was one of her weak points to guard carefully from the world that she had no education whatever.
She would rather have died than to have let people know that she had at one time been a poor working-woman; and now this stranger, who had been only a hours beneath her roof, had discovered it.
She did not know what remark to make to Mrs. Brown, she was so aghast when the dictionary was handed her.
"You have made a very wise selection, Mrs. Brown," she said. "I quite agree with you that there is no book more instructive than the dictionary. You may read me twenty pages, or such a matter. I deem it very instructive, indeed—to you."
With a gasp, Dorothy took the book. Oh, how tedious it was, pronouncing word after word, and giving their definitions!
Every now and then Mrs. Garner would nod her head, remarking that such and such a word it would be well for her to take extra pains to remember, as they were in such general use in every-day conversation.
At length she ceased to make remarks altogether, and when Dorothy glanced up at her through the blue glasses which she wore, she found that the old lady was fast asleep, and with a very tired look on her face.
Dorothy laid down the book with a sigh, crossed her thin little white hands in her lap, and gave herself up to conflicting thoughts.
Only a little while before Jack had loved her so devotedly, and now he was about to marry Jessie, her friend of other days, whom he scarcely noticed when she was only Dorothy's friend.
While she was meditating over the matter, one of the maids put her head in at the door.
"If you please, Mrs. Brown, would you mind coming to Miss Staples a few moments?" she asked. "Her maid has leave of absence this week, and she misses her services."
"I will go with pleasure," said Dorothy, rising and following her at once.
As she entered the pretty blue-and-goldboudoir, she saw that Jessie had changed her mind about going to the opera that evening, for she was already dressed in opera attire.
"You wished to see me?" said Dorothy, in a husky voice.
"If you please, Mrs. Brown," said Jessie. "I should like you to accompany Mr. Garner and myself to the opera to-night, as my maid—that is, if Jack's mother has no objection, of course."
She did not catch the murmured words her companion uttered.
"There are a few little finishing touches to my toilet which I would like to have you help me with. In that velvet case on the center-table you will find a necklace of sapphires and diamonds. You may fetch it to me."
With trembling hands Dorothy clasped the necklace around Miss Staples' firm white throat.
"They are very beautiful—don't you think so?" she asked, looking at Dorothy with the old-time burst of enthusiasm which she remembered so well.
"Yes," returned Dorothy, in a low voice.
"They are Mr. Garner's gift to me. To-day is my birthday," she went on, "and this is Mr. Garner's gift—beautiful, is it not?"
"Yes," said Dorothy, in the same low, wistful voice.
"He is so considerate of my wishes; I had merely expressed the words that I admired sapphires and diamonds, and see! he has presented me with this lovely set!"
"The gentleman must have a very generous heart," said Dorothy, faintly.
Jessie Staples started and looked at her searchingly.
"Do you know that your voice reminds me of the voice of a young girl whom I once knew and loved dearly?" she said, huskily.
Oh, how those words thrilled every fiber of Dorothy's being!
"She was a very fair young girl," continued Jessie, thoughtfully, "but she went astray."
The bracelet that Dorothy was holding fell to the floor with a crash.
"Oh, I—I must have broken it!" she sobbed.
"Never mind," said Miss Staples; "you could not help it. Accidents are liable to happen at any time. It is not past mending, I am sure. Do not allow it to trouble you."
She quite believed that Mrs. Brown was a trifle awkward—probably a little nervous, and she did her best to reassure her.
"You must not feel badly about it," she repeated kindly. "I, too, am nervous sometimes. Why, only to-night I dropped my cup of chocolate, breaking the cup into bits, my hands were so nervous. I had such a headache all day, that I did not feel able to go down to the table. Even now I am by no means free from the terrible pain in my head. We shall leave the operaearly," she went on, adding: "No doubt you are pleased to hear that."
"It does not matter much to me, madame," came the faint reply.
"The carriage will be here in half an hour. I trust you will be ready, Mrs. Brown. Please have my wraps in readiness then. One of the maids will tell you where to find them. You will not have much time to get your own wraps."
At the hour named, Dorothy stood ready, and a few minutes later Mr. Garner appeared in the corridor.
Taking Jessie's arm, he led her down to the carriage, seated her, helped in the little dark figure, and then proceeded carefully to tuck Jessie in with all the robes.
They were only ordinary attentions bestowed upon her companion, but they rankled deeply, like the thrust of a sharp sword, in the heart of the girl who sat there witnessing it all.
They talked upon indifferent subjects, but it seemed to Dorothy that every word held a double meaning.
Oh, how solicitous he was for her comfort! how he gathered the wraps about her, anxiously inquiring if she felt the cold air! how low and tender his words seemed to the girl sitting opposite them, and both seemed entirely oblivious to her presence.
The curtain was up when they reached their box, but all through the opera the little dark figure who shrank back behind the silken hangings saw nothing, heard nothing; she was watching so intently the old lover who was so near, and yet, alas! so far from her.
In the old days she had loved Jessie Staples, butnow, as she saw her old friend and Jack Garner all in all to each other, she grew in a single hour to almost hate her for usurping her place in his heart.
True, there was not the same devotion that he had been wont to pay her; but then, Jack was older now and graver. How he had come by this sudden wealth puzzled her. Then, by degrees it all came back to her—how he used to say that some day there was a bare possibility of his being wealthy—-that he had some expectations from a distant relative. Surely those expectations must have been realized, or he could not be in the position which he was now enjoying. How strange that the Garners had lifted Jessie Staples out of the old life, and that she now was Jack's betrothed bride. And she wondered vaguely if he had forgotten the Dorothy he had loved so well.
Suddenly he turned toward her, and at that moment Jessie rose hastily to her feet.
"We will get home as quickly as possible," he said, hurriedly. "Miss Staples is indisposed."
Jessie leaned heavily on his arm, and they went quickly out of the building and into the carriage.
All the way home his arm supported her, and her head leaned helplessly on his shoulder.
Dorothy followed with her wraps up to Miss Staple'sboudoir.
"Thank you—that will do," she said, wearily, dismissing her at her door, and Dorothy turned away.
One of the maids had rocked little Pearl to sleep, and the babe lay slumbering quietly in her crib.
Dorothy did not go toward it, as was her wont upon entering her room at night—indeed, she had forgottenabout the child until she heard her cough, a little later on.
She was just about to cross the room to the little one, when one of the maids came hurriedly to her door.
"Would you mind sitting up with Miss Staples?" she cried, breathlessly; "she is anything but well. It looks to me as though she has a fever, but she will not hear to having a doctor called, or even of letting Mrs. Garner know how ill she is. She declares that, with a good night's rest, she will be all right in the morning."
Dorothy went hastily to Jessie Staples' room, while the girl remained to take charge of the child for the night.
She found Jessie as the maid had declared—quite ill and feverish-looking, but still wearing the soft chiffon dress she had worn at the opera, with the sapphire necklace gleaming on her white throat, and bracelets shining on her polished arms.
Dorothy went quickly up to her.
"You must let me remove these things, and get you into bed at once," she said coaxingly but firmly. "Your face is scarlet, and your hands tremble. You must take some hot lemonade, and go quietly to sleep."
Jessie was quite passive under her commands, but the pain in her head did not seem to abate.
For long hours, Dorothy worked patiently with her to allay the fever, but it seemed to increase with every moment.
She wanted to arouse the household, and send for a doctor, but Jessie pleaded most pitifully.
"You are very, very ill," cried Dorothy, in agony. "I must send for some one, or you will die!"
"Hush! I want to die!" cried Jessie, in a low whisper; "that is just it; I do not want to live."
Dorothy tried to soothe her, thinking it was but the idle vagaries of a wandering mind.
"Hush!" cried Jessie, sinking back on her pillow, and clutching frantically the hand that held hers. "You must not call any one. I want to die! I am so tired of living. I want to tell you my story, Mrs. Brown—it seems to me that I shall go wild if I do not tell some one; and you seem so sympathetic and kind. May I trust you?" she whispered, with a great tremor in her voice.
"Yes," said Dorothy, slowly; "anything that you may say to me I will hold sacred."
"You are very good," returned the other. "You would think," she began, quickly, "that with wealth, and being thefiancéeof a noble young man like Mr. Garner, and so soon to marry him, that I was the happiest girl in the world."
"Yes," returned the other, choking back a sob.
"I was not always surrounded by wealth and affluence, as you see me now," commenced Jessie Staples, burying her head in her pillow. "Only a few short months ago I was poorer than you are now, and worked for my daily bread. Among the companionswho stood side by side with me was one, a lovely girl whom I loved with all my heart.
"She was gay and thoughtless, the life of the work-room, with her bright, girlish, mischievous pranks. Though they called her 'Madcap Dorothy,' yet every one loved her for her bright, winning ways.
"There was one employed in the same place whom I had loved ever since I could remember—loved in secret, making no sign, for it was hopeless—as he loved pretty Madcap Dorothy, and loved her with all the strength of his great, noble, manly heart.
"I was her best friend, even though she was in secret my rival. I did not care for myself. I only wanted to see the two whom I loved so well happy. One of them was Jack Garner, and the other Dorothy; and I will tell you of her."
"She was young, and gay, and pretty, as I have said, and she knew it. She knew that she had all of Jack's heart, but she longed for more heroes to conquer.
"One fatal day—oh, how well I remember it!—she fell in love with a handsome, black-eyed stranger—a car conductor on Broadway. That was the beginning of the end for Jack, who loved her so. One fatal day she ran away with the stranger and was never heard of again.
"Rumor has it that later on he tired of her, and was soon to lead to the altar a proud and lovely young girl—a school-girl—who had never known what it was to earn her bread, as did poor, pretty Madcap Dorothy.
"Dorothy's desertion nearly cost Jack Garner his life. I went and nursed him and took care of him; and when he recovered, his mother was stricken low, and I in turn nursed her.
"In the darkest hour of that terrible illness, when we were all gathered about her bedside, waiting for the angel of death to stoop and bear her away to that bright land that knows no grief nor partings, suddenly she beckoned Jack near her.
"'Oh, mother, is there anything that you wish?' he cried. 'Anything that I can do for you? Tell me if there is.'
"'Yes,' she whispered, 'there is one thing you could do, my son, that would make death easier to me. I—I could die happy if you would do as I ask.'
"'I promise you beforehand, mother,' he cried, 'if there is anything which I can do, it shall be done.'
"Feebly her hand crept toward mine and drew it toward Jack's, clasping them both together.
"'She has saved your life, my boy,' she whispered, 'and she has been as faithful as an angel to me—unto the last of mine. If you care for your mother's wishes, ask her to marry you, here and now. I love her as dearly as my life, Jack. My one wish in this world is to see you wedded to each other. You must say "Yes" or "No."'
"He buried his head in his hands, and I could see his stalwart form shake like a reed in a blast.
"He hesitated, but only for an instant. Slowly he raised his head, and I could see that his face was as white as death, in the dim-shaded light of the lamp. Then slowly he stretched out his hand toward me.
"'You know of my past, Jessie,' he said, huskily, 'and you know that my life-hopes were blasted. Will you take me under these conditions—if not for my sake, for—for my mother's?'
"I could not tell you the emotions that swept through my heart in that one moment of time.
"I do not know in what words I answered him; but, even without scarcely realizing what I did, my hand crept into his strong, cold one, and I nodded my head. I could not have spoken to have saved my life—my heart was too full for utterance.
"Mrs. Garner did not die that night, and she has always said ever since that she believed that promise brought her back from the gates of death to be a living witness to our happiness.
"Three months passed, with, oh! such unspeakable joy for me. My lover was all that a lover could be; still, there were times when I thought Jack's heart was not in his words, but was far away with the girl who had so cruelly jilted him.
"At length the wedding invitations were printed and sent out, and only a week later the terribledénouementcame that has shattered all my hopes.
"I was about to enter Mrs. Garner'sboudoirone night, when I heard the sound of voices.
"Playfully I drew back, for I had recognized Jack's voice. I had a little gift for him, and I was hesitating a moment as to whether I should take it in and lay it on his lap, or wait until the next morning and give it to him in the library. Jack was pacing up and down, and I saw through the door, which was slightly ajar, that his face was very pale and stormy—and this was something unusual with calm, placid, courteous Jack.
"'For Heaven's sake, don't nag me any more, mother,' he cried, 'or you will drive me mad! Constant dripping will in time wear out even a stone. I have ruined my life to satisfy one of your whims;surely that ought to suffice. If I can't have peace in the house, I will take my hat and walk out of it. I can not endure this eternal nagging, that I must treat Jessie better—more as becomes a betrothed lover. You know very well that I do not love her. My marriage with her will be all your doing. My heart is with Dorothy; and when a man loves as I loved her, even if that love is destroyed, no one can ever fill the same niche in his affections. It is an impossibility. So, have done with this subject, mother, at once and forever.
"'I shall marry Jessie, because I am pledged to do so. I will make her life as happy as I can. She need never know that my heart is not hers, although she will bear my name.'
"I—I—never knew how I groped my way into an adjoining room," continued Jessie, "and there I sank down unconscious.
"How long I remained there I never knew. When I came to, Mrs. Garner, greatly frightened, was kneeling beside me and laving my face with eau-de-Cologne.
"And I knew by the fearful look in her eyes that she suspected that I had found out about Jack not caring for me.
"'Tell me what is the matter, my little Jessie!' she said, clasping me in her arms and pillowing my head on her breast.
"In broken gasps I told her, adding that I was going away—back to the poverty from which they had taken me, and Jack should never see my face again. Oh! how she prayed and pleaded with me on her bended knees, crying out:
"'If you love me, Jessie, do not break from Jack. I am sure he did not mean all he said. He was only incensed a little at me. He would not have you know it for the whole wide world. Oh, believe me, Jessie! Do not try to break my heart by your rash action. The marriage invitations have gone forth. What could we say to the people? Think of the scandal, Jessie, and save us from it. Let my words be a prayer to you. I am older than you are, Jessie. Let me tell you how this will be:
"'There might be in his heart only deep respect for you, but when he marries you, he will learn to love you. Every man loves his wife.'
"Against my own will and my better judgment, I allowed her to persuade me.
"I made no mention to Jack of what I had learned, but every day it has eaten into my heart like a worm in the heart of a rose.
"I loved him so well, I was only too willing to hold to him. I did not have the strength to follow the dictates of my own will; and now, God help me! the day is drawing nearer and nearer. What shall I do?
"My brain is going mad with the torturous thought that I shall stand at the altar by the side of a man who does not love me—whose heart is given to another.
"Every time that he stoops to kiss my lips I am sure he wishes they were hers.
"His thoughts are with her. I am a mere shadow to his life; she was the substance.
"People about me look upon me with envy, but you can realize that I am more to be pitied than the poorest beggar on the street. Tell me," she cried,eagerly, "do you think any one on this earth ever had a sorrow equal to mine?"