Donald Kayne's usual calm demeanor had given place to the wildest agitation. His dark-gray eyes were black with excitement, his brow was corrugated with wrinkles, his chin quivered nervously, and his glance seemed to pierce Nita through and through, it was so keen and fierce. His outburst had been so sudden that at first no one moved or spoke, only gazed in speechless astonishment at the strange scene enacting before their eyes.
With a pale face, full of dread and dismay, Nita stared up into the man's half-stern, half-entreating countenance, but her beautiful lips were dumb.
"Speak," Donald Kayne cried out to her, hoarsely. "Speak!"
The dry, parched lips of the girl unclosed, and she gasped:
"Oh, forgive me, sir; I cannot, dare not, answer you!"
"Cannot—dare not! By Heaven, you shall! Tell me, how came you by that ring, girl?"
He gripped her delicate wrist with unconscious violence, and she shrank and moaned. Instantly the spell of wonder that had held Dorian Mountcastle relaxed, and the young man, springing up, caught Donald Kayne's arm in a grasp of steel.
"Release Miss Farnham's wrist this moment. Beg herpardon for this outrage, or you shall answer to me for this violence to my promised wife!"
The deep, angry words thrilled through every one like an electric shock. A startled murmur came from every lip, and Donald Kayne's grasp fell inertly from Nita's wrist. That instant Dorian bent and whispered hoarsely in her ear:
"Do not deny it. Let me claim you, if only for a little while, that I may protect you. You have not a friend in the room but myself."
She knew that it was true. In her forlorn state it was sweet to have this true heart for her shield. She bowed in silent acquiescence, and he turned proudly to his friend.
"You have forgotten yourself in your strange curiosity, Kayne. You must apologize to Miss Farnham for your offense," he said sternly.
A devil was aroused in the man before him. He stood erect, pale as death, his eyes wild with wrath and pain, and gazed defiantly at Dorian.
"What if I refuse?" he sneered.
"You shall answer to me for your folly," was the instant reply, and a little shriek from Azalea followed the words.
Donald Kayne stood silent a moment. He was a man of strong passions, but he was striving now to master himself.
"Listen to me, Dorian, my old friend," he said hoarsely. "You do not understand this affair, or you wouldnot interfere. This young lady ought to explain to me how she came by this ring. It is only humanity to do so. I crave your patience while I explain."
Under the stern control he was putting upon face and voice every one saw that there was absolute agony. No one spoke, and he went on:
"Fourteen years ago a beautiful, rich, and happy woman disappeared from her home in New York, leaving absolutely no trace behind her to guide her friends in their search. Upon her hand she wore that emerald serpent-ring, and it is the first clue to her fate I have stumbled over. She was dear to me, this woman, and there are times when I have almost gone mad over the mystery of her fate!
"Bear with me a little longer. This has come upon me like a blow. Listen, my friends, listen you, Miss Farnham: For fourteen years a cloud of mystery has hung over Pepita's fate, and the hissing voice of calumny has assailed her fair fame. Some believe that she fled with a lover—she, Pepita, who was a wedded wife. Others believe she met with foul play. But the veil of blackest mystery has never been lifted. We know not if she be alive or dead, although thousands upon thousands of dollars have been spent in following uncertain clues.
"At last I am startled at the sight of her ring upon another woman's hand. I am betrayed into harshness most excusable when you consider the cause. Only think, if Miss Farnham will but tell me how she came by the serpent-ring, she will put into my hands a new clue to work upon that will lead most surely to—Pepita andvengeance! If she has a woman's tender heart in her breast, how can she refuse to speak and tell me?"
He looked at Nita with imploring eyes. He saw agony upon her face, and thought it was relenting. He fell down upon his knees before the beautiful girl as though she had been a queen and he a slave. He held out his hands imploringly.
"See! I kneel to you," he said prayerfully. "I sue to you for that which seems so simple a favor that you should have granted it at the first word. Ah! Miss Farnham, what fair reason can you have for this obstinate silence?"
The unhappy girl shuddered as she recalled the oath of silence sworn upon the dead hand of Pepita, whose ring she wore—Pepita, whose awful fate was so much to this man kneeling at her feet, yet must remain forever a secret in her breast.
In her heart swelled up a wave of pity and regret for hapless Donald Kayne. She felt no anger that he reviled her; she could only sympathize with him in his great despair—despair that matched her own. Appalled by her silence, he cried:
"Still silent? Why, then, you have no woman's heart in your breast. Your beauty is cold and soulless like a marble statue. What can I say to you? Will gold move you? A million shall be poured at your feet! Would you shed my heart's blood? It shall flow. Only one word to take my heart off the rack—one word! Will you not speak it?"
It was breaking her heart to blast all his hopes, to refusehis prayer. She held out her clasped hands to him and the serpent-ring on her finger seemed to mock him with its uncanny glitter. She cried out, in a solemn voice like one praying:
"Oh, pity me, pardon me! My heart breaks for you, but—I can tell you nothing, nothing."
"You refuse!" he exclaimed, like one stunned.
"I refuse," she answered, her arms falling, her voice a low moan of the most utter despair.
Instantly a change came over Donald Kayne. He sprang to his feet, trembling with rage, his eyes blazing.
"You have the most cruel heart the world ever knew," he cried bitterly. "God pity my friend there who loves you. You will ruin his life, you heartless beauty. You will part us two, for you have made an enemy of me, and he will be my friend no more. But, mark you, Miss Farnham, you have baffled me now, but yet I feel I have a clue to Pepita. I will find out yet how you came by the serpent-ring. If there is anything you have to fear in the knowledge, beware, for your past life shall become an unsealed book to me, and——" but his ravings were interrupted by an angry voice in his ear:
"Not another word. Be she right or wrong I stand by her as my own. Your violence has destroyed our friendship. Go now, and for those words you have spoken, remember you will hear from me soon."
Donald Kayne bowed with a sneering smile that included all the occupants of the room, then walked proudly out of the open door to which Dorian's finger pointed.
Dorian turned quickly back to Nita, without observing that Azalea Courtney had slipped through the door in pursuit of Mr. Kayne. The little beauty's heart was seething with rage and pain over Dorian's announcement that Nita was his promised wife, and in Donald Kayne's anger she saw a chance of revenge by joining forces with him in persecuting the young girl. Following him down the steps to the shadowy grounds, she detained him.
"Oh, Mr. Kayne, wait, please! I—I want to speak to you," she purred.
He turned impatiently, and frowned. He knew Azalea well, and despised her as thoroughly as did Dorian Mountcastle. Yet when she came across his path to tempt him like a serpent, he listened.
"Oh, Mr. Kayne, I know I can help you to find out about that ring if you will accept my services," she continued.
Donald Kayne looked keenly into the lifted face, whose luminous blue eyes glittered wickedly in the moonlight, and that look decided him. He drew her arm through his, and they walked on among the tall shrubberies, in earnest conversation.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Courtney, as soon as the others were gone, walked over to Dorian and Nita, and said stiffly:
"Permit me to offer you both my best wishes for your happiness, although the affair is very hasty, is it not? And do you think your guardian will approve, Miss Farnham?"
Instantly, Nita, who had been drooping wearily in her chair, lifted her head with a terrified cry.
"He must not know. Oh, Mrs. Courtney, you will not betray me!"
"Betray you, child? What strange words! Of course your guardian must know this."
"I shall write him at once, madam," began Dorian haughtily, but, to his surprise, Nita faltered, imploringly:
"No, no, Dorian; he need not know it for a little while. He will think, like Mrs. Courtney, that we were too hasty. He will not approve!"
"I am sure he will not," echoed the chaperon decidedly.
And the young man looked irresolutely from one speaker to the other. Nita knew, with a woman's keen instinct, that she could manage her lover, but she was not so sure of Mrs. Courtney. So it was to the lady she addressed herself first.
"Oh, Mrs. Courtney, be kind to me," she pleaded. "My guardian is a hard, stern, old man. He will be so angry, if he learns the truth, that he will separate me at once from Dorian. I pray you be kind to us. Let us be happy together just a little while first, and I will never cease to be grateful."
Mrs. Courtney revolved the matter in her mind a moment,but it was no sympathy with the lovers, only keen self-interest that decided her to grant Nita's earnest prayer. With apparent suavity, she said:
"I know I am doing wrong, but I am too tender-hearted to refuse the plea of such devoted hearts, so I will promise to keep the secret for a while; but in order that Mr. Farnham shall not hear of it, it will be best not to let the engagement be known yet to any one else beside the few who are in the secret. Let it be kept especially from the servants, who may be paid spies in their master's employ."
Mrs. Courtney had tried to make all the servants believe that Dorian was engaged to Azalea, and she felt she could not bear their silent amusement when the truth came out.
"Do you not agree with me?" she asked anxiously.
"Yes, and a thousand thanks for your goodness!" cried Nita gratefully.
But Dorian looked profoundly disappointed.
"I should have liked to communicate with Mr. Farnham and have my happiness assured at once," he said. "But I waive my preference for a time in deference to my liege-lady."
And he bowed to Nita with the grace of a prince.
"And, now," added Mrs. Courtney, with an amiability she was far from feeling, "you two may perhaps like to be alone a little while, so I will ask to be excused."
And laughing lightly, she glided away, eager to seek her daughter whom she expected to find in hysterics up-stairs.
Dorian knelt almost reverently before Nita, and lifted her cold little hand to his lips.
"God bless you, my own true love! May you never repent that you gave yourself to me!" he cried fervently.
For answer, Nita suddenly lifted her drooping form, and threw herself with passionate abandon into his eager arms, clasping his neck and hiding her face on his shoulder, sobbing and shuddering in an alarming, hysterical fashion.
Dorian embraced her tenderly, and at length kissed away her tears, leading her to a seat by the window, where the cool sea-breeze fanned her heated brow and cheeks. He did not dream that golden-haired Azalea was crouching stealthily in the thick shrubberies outside, and listening eagerly to their words.
"My darling, you must not be frightened at Donald Kayne's threats. He shall pay dearly for his insolence to you," he said, with flashing eyes.
"Oh, do not harm him, for I forgive him," cried Nita eagerly. "I am sorry for him, too; I would give worlds to tell him the secret he wishes to know, only I cannot—dare not," and she shuddered wildly.
"It seemed strange that you would not grant his wish," Dorian exclaimed uneasily; and she sighed.
"There are many strange things about me, Dorian, and I fear you will some day repent that you ever loved me."
"Never!" he replied, with a passionate kiss that made the listening Azalea tremble with jealous wrath.
"But," he continued tenderly, "I wish you would allowme to get your guardian's consent at once to our engagement. Only think, my darling, how pleasant it would be to be married very soon, and go abroad in this lovely summer weather on our wedding-tour."
"Married! Married!" cried Nita, quailing as from a blow. "Oh, we mustn't think of that yet, Dorian—we mustn't, indeed. My guardian would never permit it. I will tell you the truth. He has other views for me. I believe he would kill me before he would permit me to marry you."
"Then we will elope, and forestall his refusal."
"Oh, no, no, no, my dearest! We cannot do that. Oh, Dorian, do not be in such a frightful hurry to marry me. I will not listen to such a thing for a whole year! We must just love each other and be very, very patient for a year, and—then—we will talk about marriage," Nita cried tremblingly, and with pallid lips.
The listening Azalea smiled, incredulously at Nita's protests, and murmured:
"She is pretending to be coy, the coquette. But it is not true that she is in no hurry to marry him. She will doubtless elope with him in a week. But why does she put such stress on a year—a whole year?" and the words sunk deep in Azalea's memory to be recalled in fateful after days.
It was crowded with the elements of tragedy and despair, the love-story of Nita! And while struggling desperately for just a little happiness, she was forging the fetters of a cruel fate. Weak and loving, she said to herself:
"What can it matter if I love him just a little while? A few loving words and kisses, that will be all my sin, and it seems to me that even the angels might pity me for so small a wrong. I am cheating Miser Farnham of nothing, for I shall never be his wife in reality. When the day comes for him to claim me, I shall be lying dead. His offer only put off my death one year longer."
And kneeling by her bed that night, Nita innocently thanked God for Dorian's love, and prayed that she might have just a few months of happiness.
Before retiring, Dorian had written a letter to a friend in New York asking him to come down to Pirate Beach to see him. He hoped to be strong enough in a few days to go out, and with his heart on fire at the angry words Donald Kayne had rashly spoken to Nita, he was resolved on sending Kayne a challenge to a duel.
In the meantime, his perplexed thoughts ran constantly on Nita, the wonderful serpent-ring, Kayne's interest in it, and the young girl's mysterious refusal to explain how it came into her possession, and last, but not least, he was full of wonder at Nita's assertion that Miser Farnham would sooner kill her than permit her to marry him.
"That is very, very strange," mused Dorian. "Why should he object to me for Nita's husband? He lives in New York, and he must certainly know that I am considered an unexceptionable parti. I certainly shall not give up Nita if I have to elope with her, and thus defy her crusty old guardian."
It was strange how this new love had struck its vigorous roots deep down into Dorian's nature. Some loves he had had before, but they had burned themselves out in brief flirtations, and he had grown to distrust the sex. Then all at once he had come to a new era in life.
In the very depths of his soul Dorian felt that thiswas a resistless passion sweeping him before it like a feather on the waves.
Several days passed away very quietly and uneventfully—the quiet that precedes the storm. To the surprise and relief of the lovers no effort was made by the Courtneys to hinder the course of their true love. Azalea raved in secret, and smiled in public. Through Donald Kayne she hoped to avenge her fancied wrongs on both.
One day while lingering in the grounds with Nita, Dorian told her simply the story of his acquaintance with Azalea.
"We were once engaged," he said frankly, "and at the time she was rich. Not that I cared for that, but I always had an ardent desire to be loved for myself alone, and a dread of being married for my money. So I laid a clever plan to test Azalea's affection for me. I made her believe that I lost all my fortune by the failure of a bank. In reality I had lost only a few thousands, but that served my purpose, and the scheming Azalea immediately broke off with me, declaring that she could not marry a poor man. When I was gone she discovered the truth, and tried to win me back, but I had found out that I did not really love her after all, and I was too happy over my escape to be coaxed into her toils again. Soon after they lost all their wealth, and dropped out of society, and I never saw them again until I came to Pirate Beach. Azalea is a regular little cat, purring and deceitful, and I know now that I never really loved her, or I should not have been so anxious to put her to the test, or so glad when she proved faithless."
Nita did not tell him that Azalea had told her that she had made up her quarrel with Dorian; she felt that the disappointed girl had already sunk low enough in the eyes of her old lover.
She felt herself, too, as guilty as Azalea, for was she not deceiving Dorian herself?—deceiving him because she loved him so dearly, and could not deny herself the happiness within her reach.
"Although I can never marry him I want him to love me," she thought.
A week had passed. Dorian, growing impatient at the strange silence of the friend in New York to whom he had written, resolved to go to the city and see him.
At parting with Nita he begged her again to let him speak to her guardian at once. And again she became frightened at the bare idea, and tearfully refused her consent. Grieved and disappointed, he went away.
Nita was sad and lonely when Dorian had gone. She took to walking and boating with the faithful Lizette as her attendant, and the rich, warm air soon blew a lovely rose-tint into her pale cheeks, and a new sparkle into her eyes.
"Miss Nita, you have been getting prettier and prettier every day since I first saw you. It's no wonder Mr. Mountcastle is so much in love with you," cried the faithful maid, who, although she had not been told of the engagement, comprehended very well how matters stood.
"Hush, Lizette! Do you not know that Miss Courtney says that he is engaged to her?" replied Nita demurely.
"It isn't true, miss, and nobody believes her, for it's perfectly plain that he adores the ground you walk on; and who could blame him?" answered Lizette loyally.
The third day brought Nita a long love-letter from Dorian. When she had read and reread it many times, she blushingly kissed it, and hid it in her bosom. The next morning she said to Lizette:
"I have a secret. Mr. Mountcastle is coming back to-morrow evening. He is coming in his own yacht from New York, and he wants you and me, Lizette, to meet him on the beach, and take a moonlight trip—no one else to know it. Do you think it would be very wrong, Lizette?"
"Not with me along to take care of you, miss," promptly answered Lizette, who at twenty-five felt herself quite a mature person.
"Then we will go," cried Nita joyfully, thinking how romantic it would be to have a little moonlight sail with Dorian on his yacht. And there was nothing wrong about it with her maid for a companion, she thought.
She and Lizette slipped out at sunset the next evening, and as there was some time to wait they strolled along the beach toward old Meg's picturesque cabin, and suddenly came upon the old hag loitering idly along.
She scowled angrily when she saw the mistress and maid, and Nita bade Lizette drop back out of hearing.
"I wish to have a little private talk with old Meg," she exclaimed, and the fortune-teller said gruffly:
"I want nothing to say to you."
"No matter—I have business with you. Is it reallytrue, Meg, what you told me that night when I made Lizette spare you?"
"Yes, it is true."
"I am sorry for it. I cannot see why Heaven ever chose to afflict me so cruelly. You cannot blame me for being sorry. Why, you are the most wicked old woman I ever saw. Are you not afraid that Mr. Mountcastle will have you punished for your attempt at robbery and murder that night?"
The hag broke into a torrent of curses and denials, but the listener said scornfully:
"He is certain it was you, although, at my request, he has not betrayed your attempt upon his life, but suffered people to think it was an unknown assailant."
"It would have been better if you had not saved him, Nita—far better," exclaimed the old woman, with sudden solemnity, and, falling into abject whining, she continued wheedingly:
"I did it out of kindness to him, Nita. He was on his way to Gray Gables, and I read in the stars that fate lowered over him there—a fate worse than death. I tried to spare him, but you saved him—saved him to repent it, maybe, till the last hour of your life! There is a strange doom hanging over you, Nita; I saw it in the stars last night, but I could not read it very clearly, and——"
"Miss Nita, it is time. Come," called Lizette shrilly, and, nodding to the old hag, Nita ran breathlessly away to watch for Dorian's yacht.
A boat brought Dorian ashore from the beautiful yacht that was already rechristenedNita, and he ran joyfullyto greet his betrothed, sorry that Lizette was looking, and he could not steal a kiss.
He pressed her hand very tightly, however, and there was such a tender kiss in his eyes as they looked deep into hers that she blushed and dimpled exquisitely.
It was twilight now, and Dorian assisted her and Lizette into the boat and rowed them over to the yacht that was anchored as near as possible to the shore.
Nita felt a strange, tremulous thrill sweep over her—was it ecstasy or a premonition of evil?
Two gentlemen were standing on the deck of the yacht, and when they were safely on board Dorian introduced them to Nita as New York friends—Captain Van Hise and Mr. Irwin. They gazed in deepest admiration at the young girl's brilliant beauty, and, after a few moments' pleasant chatting, Captain Van Hise looked significantly at Dorian and observed:
"If you will set me ashore here, Mountcastle, I shall be infinitely obliged to you."
"With pleasure," the young man replied, and suddenly drew Nita away from them all into the little cabin.
"I must leave you for a few minutes just to set my friend ashore. You will not mind waiting, will you, darling?" he asked, as he drew her to his breast and kissed her fondly.
"It is strange you did not bring him ashore when you came for me," she answered.
"You see he had not asked me then. The presence of women on board may have driven him to sudden desperationas it did me once upon a time," he replied mischievously.
"Oh, I do not wish to alarm your friend. Let me return," she murmured, clinging to him.
"No, no, my darling, forgive my foolish jest!" he cried, and strained her to him with a solemn, yearning passion.
Blushing warmly, she escaped from his lingering caresses, and then he led her back on deck.
"Mr. Irwin will amuse you while you are waiting for me," he said, and then shook hands with the gentleman ere he climbed down the yacht's side to the little boat.
Captain Van Hise was carrying a black leather case, and he was very cheerful—two facts that would have impressed an initiated person. The two young women suspected nothing.
Mr. Irwin did not look especially attractive to a young girl's eyes. He was more than middle-aged, and his attire had a clerical cut in keeping with his formal gray whiskers. His voice, when he essayed a remark, was nervous, and the slight attempt at conversation fell through soon, for a sudden shadow had fallen over Nita.
In a few minutes she became very restless, and strained her eyes through the deep purple haze of twilight toward the shore.
"It is time for Dorian to return, but I do not hear the oars yet," she ventured tremulously.
At that moment there came across the water the sound of pistol-shots from the shore!
Nita and Lizette both shrieked simultaneously, and sprung to their feet. Mr. Irwin also arose in alarm.
Nita caught his arm in a convulsive grasp.
"Oh, what is it? I am so frightened!" she shuddered, and just then the sound came again—two pistol-shots across the water.
Mr. Irwin was a nervous, timid man, and the two women clinging to him alarmed him almost as much as did the mysterious shots from the shore. He saw the captain of the yacht hovering near, and beckoned him frantically to his assistance. The jolly sailor approached and exclaimed:
"Ladies, ladies, you need not feel the least alarm. It's only somebody shooting seagulls."
This plausible excuse had an instant effect on the mistress and maid. They released the trembling Irwin, and Nita blushingly apologized for her extreme nervousness. In a few minutes more the captain observed:
"I hear the dip of the oars. Mr. Mountcastle is returning."
And so it proved. But, alas, for Nita, Dorian was not returning as he went. He lay prostrate in the bottom of the boat, an attentive surgeon bending over him, while Van Hise plied the oars with ease and skill.
The yacht captain, who had been straining his eyes across the rapidly darkening water, turned and whispered to Lizette:
"You had better take your mistress into the cabin now, for there has been a duel over there between Mr. Kayne and Mr. Mountcastle, and——"
But he never finished the sentence, for Nita's quick ears had overheard, and she fell upon the deck with a shriek of despair.
"Dorian is dead!"
But Dorian was not dead, although severely wounded. It was Donald Kayne who lay upon the shore stiff and stark, slain by his friend for a woman's sake.
The accursed serpent ring had already borne ghastly fruit, just as the chuckling old miser had foreseen when he forced Nita to wear it as the price of life and liberty.
"A most deplorable affair," Captain Van Hise said later, when telling the horrified Irwin about it. "You see, Kayne had said something reflecting on the lady Dorian is to marry, and so he challenged him. I was his second, and Kayne came down with his own second and the two surgeons on his own yacht, so both principals were ready for instant flight if the authorities got wind of the duel. Kayne's yacht is at the regular landing, half a mile from here, and my friend came to this point to take up the lady, and also to be handy to the dueling-ground over yonder. Well, it was a gallant affair. They fought at ten paces with navy revolvers. Both escaped the first fire, but at the second, Donald Kayne fell dead and Dorian severely wounded. And, sure enough, the authorities were down on us. We just barely got our man into the boat and pulled out before they galloped on horseback to the meeting-place, and hallooed after our party."
Mr. Irwin was startled, distressed, indignant.
"This is most outrageous!" he exclaimed. "I havebeen grossly deceived by your friend. He employed me to perform a marriage ceremony, not to attend him to a dueling-ground."
"The marriage all in good time, reverend sir. The duel was merely an episode by the way," returned Captain Van Hise airily.
"But I shall be mixed up in this notorious affair. It will do me incalculable injury. I demand to be set ashore at once," groaned the timorous preacher.
"Impossible, my dear sir, dearly as I would love to oblige you. The yacht is already under way escaping pursuit. Besides, you may be needed presently to soothe the last hours of a dying sinner, which is even more important than the tying of a matrimonial knot, I take it; so be tranquil, please. No harm shall come to you from this."
The clergyman saw that all remonstrances were useless; he must accept the situation.
"And you believe that Mr. Mountcastle will die?" he asked in a tone of awe.
"Can't say, but hope not. The doctor is dressing his wound now—shoulder—ball went clean through. Poor fellow's having hard luck lately! Stabbed and left for dead on the beach three weeks ago, and barely out of bed when he came to New York to challenge Kayne. Yes, dismal affair, very, but couldn't be helped, you know."
The half-crazed Nita had already been told part of the truth by Captain Van Hise.
"Donald Kayne was mortally wounded, we fear," was the way he put it about Dorian's opponent.
She lay weeping bitterly in the cabin attended by faithful Lizette. The surgeon would not let her see Dorian yet in spite of her prayers.
"The wound is not necessarily dangerous, but he is weak from loss of blood, and so agitated that he cannot bear any excitement," he said.
But when the wound was dressed, and he was resting easily, he was permitted a few minutes' conversation with Captain Van Hise. Then the jolly soldier said ruefully:
"I can't refuse you, Dorian, since the surgeon won't let you talk for yourself, but, by Jupiter, I'd rather face the enemy's guns any day than that girl with this story! What a cheek you must have had to plan such a thing!"
"She will forgive me even if she refuses to grant my prayer," answered Dorian, for he knew women better than the gallant captain, who had wooed the goddess of war more assiduously than the goddess of love.
So it came to pass that while the yachtNitaskimmed lightly over the moon-lighted waters, Captain Van Hise sat in the cabin with her namesake, floundering through a story that would, he fully believed, enrage her so that she would never, never marry Dorian, and, more than likely, would never even forgive him.
"He is so weak and nervous, Miss Farnham, the surgeon won't let him do his own talking, so, as I've been his confidant in the whole affair, he has sent me to tell you—to tell you——" The doughty warrior broke downand mopped his damp brow, murmuring under his breath:
"Blamed if I don't wish myself well out of this!"
"To tell me——" echoed Nita, with heart-piercing anxiety. And thus encouraged, he returned to the charge:
"You'll understand it all better, my dear young lady, when I tell you that Dorian has always been a spoiled boy—had everything he wanted all his life—cousin of mine, known him from boyhood—so, of course, he was frantic when you vowed you wouldn't marry him for a whole year—eternity, you know, to a man in love. Don't blame me, please! but as soon as the details of the duel was arranged, Dorian planned to elope with you."
"Oh, Heaven!" cried Nita, in wildest alarm, and her face became ashen.
"Don't excite yourself—please don't, Miss Farnham," cried the soldier anxiously. "Or at least let me get through first, then rave if you will."
Lizette moved nearer to her young lady's side in mute distress, and he went on eagerly:
"Didn't you think it strange, Dorian's inviting you to go yachting with him by moonlight? Bless you! he brought along a preacher—Irwin, you know—to marry you to-night; that is, of course, if you were willing—no gentleman would want to marry a lady without her consent. You see, he didn't expect to get wounded in the duel, and—oh, a mere episode that—and so, if you'll excuse my bluntness—here we are at sea, afraid to goback because the authorities are after us about the duel, and it might be best to stay away till the excitement blows over. And Dorian is wounded, and maybe you would think it real romantic to nurse him. Now would you be willing—so Dorian sent me to ask you—to marry him now!"
He drew breath and looked at her apprehensively. Lizette had uttered a smothered little shriek, but Nita sat speechless and terrified, as if she had seen a ghost. All in a moment the enormity of her folly and her sin rushed over her.
Oh, why had she let him love her? Why had she, in her weakness, drifted into this sea of difficulty. She gasped for breath; she felt like one drowning; and the doughty captain murmured cajolingly:
"Although Dorian has acted very impetuously, and you have a perfect right to be angry, still I know the poor boy would be dreadfully broken up if you refused his prayer. And Irwin, too—poor fellow!—he did not know how dreadfully uncertain the affair was, and would be so very much disappointed."
"This is cruel, cruel!" Nita murmured. "I told Dorian my—my—guardian——"
"Yes, I know, Miss Farnham; but the impulsive boy thought it would be great fun to outwit your crusty old guardian. You weren't fond of him, anyway, were you?"—anxiously.
She began to murmur something about duty and obedience, but he broke in, almost curtly:
"You owe him neither now, my dear young lady. Oh,how can I tell you? Only, I don't suppose you ever cared much for the—ahem!—disreputable old party—miser, and all that—but the truth is, there was an accident on the elevated road to-day, and Charles Farnham was badly injured and taken to the hospital. Just before we left New York we got news of his death."
"You have killed my mistress!" cried the maid angrily.
Nita had fallen unconscious at his feet.
"It is only a faint," he replied.
And between them she was soon restored to consciousness, although still dazed and white and trembling from the shock she had received.
Miser Farnham dead! She could scarcely realize it, and she tried hard to keep from feeling glad and happy over the startling news. It seemed cruel and wicked to rejoice over any one's death.
Captain Van Hise returned to the charge as soon as he thought she could bear it.
"Of course, if Dorian could have foreseen this he would not have planned to carry you off," he said. "But as things have fallen out, don't you think you had better forgive him and marry him to-night?"
"You are perfectly certain that Mr. Farnham is dead?" she asked him, with such shuddering anxiety that he knew how all depended on his answer, and hastened to reply:
"Perfectly certain. We had it from the best authority."
This was a white lie, but he considered it admissible in his friend's behalf. He had only heard the current rumor, but he did not suppose that the old man's death had any special bearing on Nita's marriage to Dorian,except that it seemed to him a very desirable thing that the objectionable guardian had been removed so opportunely from this mundane sphere.
"Not a very desirable connection for a lady in the position that Mrs. Dorian Mountcastle will occupy, for everybody in New York had heard of Miser Farnham, and his record was not a straight one," he mused, and thought he saw relenting in Nita's eyes.
"Oh, come with me to Dorian," he urged. "The surgeon has agreed to a brief interview, only you must be very calm and not excite him."
Lizette who, for a maid, was a very superior sort of person, beamed cordial approval.
"Miss Nita, I think the easiest way is to consent!" she cried. "If you refuse it may make him worse, and since you intend to marry him some time, anyway, what's the odds?"
"Yes, what's the odds?" echoed Van Hise cheerfully, and led her to Dorian.
She wondered in a dazed way if she ought to tell her lover the truth—tell him she had been married to the repulsive old miser, but her whole soul rose in rebellion against the humiliating confession.
She remembered how he had scorned Azalea because she would have married him for his money. No—no, he would despise her if he knew—he who had never known poverty and hunger and bitter need—that she had sold herself to the horrible old miser for a chest of gold.
When she saw Dorian lying in the berth so wan and pale, wounded in a chivalrous defense of her, she forgoteverything else but that she loved him wildly—madly! Loved him with a love that was her doom.
Quite overcome, she sank upon her knees by Dorian's berth.
"Oh, my love, my love," she whispered, with her lips against his brow.
And then Dorian knew that the victory was won. If she had wavered for one moment his pale, handsome, suffering face had turned the scale in his favor.
And her dark eyes answered without words.
"You are an angel," he murmured. "Oh, Nita, I will pay you for this with a life's devotion. But I should have died of my wound, I think, very soon if you had said you would not marry me!"
"My dear Miss Farnham, permit me," said Captain Van Hise at this juncture.
He raised her gently, and placed her in a seat by Dorian.
"You were not to have much excitement, you know, Dorian, so let us have the agony over as soon as possible," he remarked genially.
And though Nita's heart leaped in sweet alarm, he gave her no respite, but went and brought the preacher, the surgeon, the captain, and Lizette.
Propped up by the surgeon's arm, Dorian held Nita's cold little hand in his, and a few solemn words made her his bride.
"'To have and to hold from this day forward,'" went on Irwin's solemn voice.
And directly the ring was slipped over Nita's thirdfinger, and she was bending her stately head for her husband's kiss. Then they all congratulated the pair very quietly and retired, the surgeon lingering to give Dorian a sedative, after which he said gravely:
"Now, Mrs. Mountcastle, you may sit by your husband until he falls asleep, but no talking, remember, for he must have a long night's rest."
They were alone together. He looked up at her in grateful, adoring love.
"We are on our wedding-trip, darling," he murmured.
"Yes, Dorian. Now sleep," she whispered, as she placed her hand caressingly on his white brow. He closed his eyes, and the beautiful bride sat and watched him, her heart thrilling with passionate love and joy.
"He is mine—all mine—my darling husband!" she thought, with a thrill of thanksgiving that she had been turned aside that day in the park from the fell purpose of self-destruction. "It is always darkest just before dawn, and thus it was with me," she whispered in blissful unconsciousness of the lowering future.
By and by Lizette came to lead her away, and much as she would have preferred to remain by Dorian, she felt that the surgeon would be better pleased if she left him.
The sky was cloudy and the sea rough. Mr. Irwin and Captain Van Hise had succumbed to sea-sickness and were invisible. The captain of the yacht was busy, and the surgeon, after a few pleasant words, went down to watch over his patient.
"Miss Nita, dear, don't let's stay on deck. Seems likeit's getting colder, and the wind is so high and the waves so rough they break over the deck. You'll get splashed all over if you don't come into the cabin."
"Not yet, Lizette, for I love old ocean in all his moods, and this is sublime. How the wind roars, and how fast the dark, ragged clouds drift over the moon, showing silver edges now and then, again all inky black. Isn't it grand?"
"It just frightens me so that I can't see anything pretty about it. Oh, dear, Miss Nita, ain't you afraid of the mountain waves rolling so fast? Seems like one of them will go right over the yacht presently, and bury us in the bottom of the sea."
Lizette shivered with fear, but Nita answered smilingly:
"No, I am not afraid, but, still I think we are going to have a little bit of a storm. Ah! did you see that lightning flash? Hark the thunder!"
Then the rain began to patter upon the deck, and both ran into the cabin, breathless with the wind and cool air, the maid lamenting:
"Oh, why did we come, why did we come? The yacht will be wrecked. We shall all be drowned!"
Nita tried to encourage the frightened creature, but all in vain, for the torrents of falling rain and the boom of the waves produced so much noise that they could not distinguish each other's voices.
"Oh, what shall we do? what shall we do?" shrieked the frightened maid, half-crazed with alarm. "I'll go tothe captain this minute and beg him to take us back home."
Half-crazed by fear, she ran shrieking out upon the deck, and, at a sudden lurch of the yacht, fell prostrate. Nita followed, and stooped to help her to rise. What followed was told afterward with a white face of horror by the yacht captain who, just coming to seek them, became an eye-witness of a terrible tragedy, and himself narrowly escaped becoming a victim.
The night was inky-black, only for the fitful lightning flashes; the wind violent; the rain pouring in torrents, and he began to feel alarmed himself for the safety of the yacht and its passengers.
As Irwin and Van Hise were both suffering the agonies of sea-sickness, he thought of the two solitary women who might be frightened, and started to speak a word of comfort to them.
Staggering over the rocking deck toward the light that flickered from the cabin door, he beheld Lizette rush out shrieking with fear.
The yacht dipped down into the trough of a sea, and the maid lost her footing and fell prostrate. The next instant a blinding electric flash showed him Nita clinging to and trying to lift Lizette; then the bow of the yacht dipped lower still and the curving billow rose up high in air; then it broke over the deck in a fury and flung the man prostrate upon his face. He clutched at something—he never knew what—and the mighty mass of water swept over him.
The yacht bounded upward again, and—but for theman clinging and gasping for dear life—the deck was swept bare.
On the wings of the sobbing gale came to him shrieks of despair from the two doomed women swept off into the sea.
A few minutes longer the storm raged wildly, then as if the elements had wreaked their fury, the sea grew calmer, the winds lulled, the rain ceased, the black clouds parted above, and silvery moon-rays fringed the rents with heavenly glory.
But to the little knot of men huddled upon the deck of theNitawatching the sea with agonized eyes came no sight of the lost ones—the fair bride and the faithful maid—who had been engulfed in the mighty mass of foaming waters.
They looked at each other with ashen faces, these sorrowful men; they spoke in despairing voices; they were wounded to the heart by this awful tragedy.
And the burden of their cry was that it would kill Dorian to learn the tragic fate of his bride.
"He must not know," said Doctor Ray, the surgeon. "Through all the tumult of the storm he has slept peacefully under the influence of a sedative, and it is likely he will rest quietly until morning. When he asks for his bride he must be told that she is ill of sea-sickness, with her maid in close attendance. This excuse must serve until he is convalescent. Let no man forget, for whoever should tell him the truth would be guilty of murder."
No one doubted it, and they acquiesced in his decision. So the long night passed, and the summer morningdawned with the balmy air and cloudless skies, but Dorian, when he waked, was feverish and out of his head.
They did not have to make any excuses to him about the lost one. In his delirium he seemed to forget her existence.
In the week that followed upon her compact with Donald Kayne, Azalea Courtney had not been able to gain a single clue to the mystery of Nita's possession of the serpent ring. She had duly communicated to him the conversation she had overheard that night between the lovers, but neither one could make anything out of Nita's words, except the natural agitation of a young girl who knows certainly that her guardian will disapprove of her heart's choice.
The week that followed, before Dorian went up to New York, was one of secret, silent, but exquisite torture to the baffled Azalea. Her plans and schemes for bringing about a misunderstanding between the lovers, and winning Dorian for herself, had failed utterly.
Dorian was so nearly well that he would not permit himself to be treated as an invalid. He took his meals with them in the dining-room; he spent his evenings in the drawing-room, and, although he listened to Azalea's songs and politely turned the pages of her music, she knew that she bored him inexpressibly, and that he was always glad to escape to his betrothed at the window, where she always sat, after turning her beautiful, grave face from them all, to gaze at the sea, and listen to itssolemn tone, that was so much sweeter to her ears than Azalea's voice.
When Dorian turned from the piano, and went back to his love at the window, Azalea's heart would swell with jealous wrath until her voice would falter almost into silence, and the greatest aim of her life grew to be revenge upon Nita, who had won the prize she had worked for in vain.
Those golden summer days, while Dorian and Nita loitered in the old garden, laughing and pelting each other with roses like two gleeful children, or read poetry to each other in the honeysuckle bowers, Azalea could hardly bear her life, but she smiled on, like the Spartan boy, sure that, somehow or other, with Donald Kayne's assistance, she would find a way to torture the proud and happy lovers.
At last the end of the week and the love-making came, for Dorian went up to New York on that mission that was to prove so disastrous to all concerned.
And Nita, left alone with the two hostile women who barely masked their antagonism to her under a thin veneer of courtesy, relapsed into a profound melancholy. With Dorian by her side she could almost forget the dark shadow that clouded all her future with the blackness of despair.
Their mutual love, so strong, so pure, had the talismanic power to ward off evil and disquieting thoughts, but with Dorian away, Nita was haunted by vexing fears that would not down. Soon came the letter inviting Nita and her maid for the moonlight trip upon the yacht.
When Azalea saw her rival's flushed and happy face she grew almost frantic with secret rage. A longing seized upon her to know what Dorian had written in the letter that had brought back the fading roses to Nita's cheeks, and that light of gladness to her dark eyes.
When Nita and her maid went down to the shore at sunset Azalea stole up to the girl's room, determined to search for Dorian's letter. Nita had placed the precious missive in a silver jewel-case on her dressing-table, and, after a short search, Azalea found it, and flew to her mother with flaming cheeks.
"Read this," she panted breathlessly. "Oh, mama, all is lost! They are going to elope, I am sure!"
When Mrs. Courtney had read the letter she agreed with her daughter. Dorian and Nita had certainly planned an elopement.
"Oh, mama, you must not permit it! You can certainly assume that much authority! Come, come, let us go down to the beach and force her to return with us," cried the excited Azalea, and, carried away by her impetuosity, Mrs. Courtney obeyed.
But they were just a little late for the execution of their designs. Azalea was doomed to disappointment. Nita was already on board the yacht with her maid, and while yet at some little distance from the scene they became the startled witnesses of the duel fought upon the beach by the two enemies in the purple light of the gloaming with the sound of the solemn sea in their heedless ears.
With shrieks of fear Azalea flew toward the scene, buttoo late to interrupt the duelists. Captain Van Hise was already pushing off from shore the little boat with Dorian and the surgeon, and the officers of the law were surrounding the other group upon the shore, where Donald Kayne lay stretched out upon the silvery sands.
Upon the confused group Azalea broke with hysterical shrieks and cries, and soon all that she knew was told; Mrs. Courtney, coming up as soon as she could follow her lighter-footed daughter, confirmed the story of the elopement. To-morrow that and the duel would startle the world at large.
The officers of the law agreed that Donald Kayne should be taken back to New York on his own yacht, and then the group dispersed, Mrs. Courtney leading the hysterical Azalea back to Gray Gables, where she spent a wakeful night with her daughter, who actually threatened to commit suicide because Dorian had carried off Nita to make her his bride. But by morning Azalea was able to discuss the situation, and she agreed that it looked very discouraging for her mother.
"Mr. Farnham will be furiously angry with me for letting it happen, and I have no doubt that as soon as he reads it in the papers he will come down here to turn me out of the house," Mrs. Courtney complained bitterly, for this luxurious home was a palace compared to the humble lodgings in the city where she would be forced to return when she lost her well-paid position as chaperon to Miser Farnham's heiress.
"But, mama, you must, of course, insist upon receiving the whole year's salary," cried Azalea.
"Of course," replied her mother, and took up the morning paper, adjusted her glasses, and began to read.
"Is there anything about the duel?" eagerly inquired Azalea, from the couch, where she was enacting the part of a semi-invalid.
"No, nothing yet. Too soon, you know, Azalea; but, of course, all the evening papers will have it. Oh, good gracious, what is this! Accident yesterday afternoon on the elevated railroad, and several people killed and wounded. Azalea, listen to this:
"'Charles Farnham, very well known as a peculiar character of New York, called the miser, was seriously wounded, and at first reported killed, but revived a little, and was taken to Bellevue Hospital, where he now lies in a semi-unconscious condition.'"
"Lizette, Lizette! Oh, where am I?"
A weak, languid voice asked the question, while a dark, graceful head raised itself wearily from the pillow, and dark, solemn eyes, shining out of a waxen-white face, stared wonderingly over at a trim figure knitting lace at an open window. The figure gave a start, dropped the needles and some stitches together, gave a bound across the room and knelt down by the couch.
"Oh, you little darling—you little darling, you are better, you know me," cooed Lizette, lovingly patting the pale, delicate cheek.
"Lizette, of course I know you," her mistress answered with wondering impatience. "But where am I?"
"In your own room, of course, Miss Nita," answered the maid, with a certain air of evasiveness.
"In my own room? Why, it all looks very strange to me! Oh, Lizette, was it all a dream? The yacht—Dorian?" cried the girl eagerly, a warm, pink flush creeping over the pallor of her waxen cheek.
"Dearie, you have been ill and your dreams were wild," soothed Lizette. "But you must not talk now. Wait till you take some food."
She went out of the little bedroom, and presently stoodface to face with a tall, dark, anxious-looking man, who exclaimed:
"She has recovered consciousness—I see it in your face!"
"She knows me, sir, but I have omitted nothing yet. And you, sir, must be cautious. One sight of your face would frighten her, I think, almost to death."
"I shall not intrude upon her yet, Lizette, but as soon as she can bear it, she must know the truth," he answered grimly.
Meanwhile, Nita lay with wide-open, wondering eyes. For days everything had been a blank, but now memory was returning with startling rapidity.
Lizette entered with a tray of delicate food.
"After you have eaten something you may talk a little," she said, and Nita ate with the relish of returning health.
"Lizette, do let me talk, for I am so much better," she coaxed. "You say I have been dreaming, but," blushing deeply, "was I not on the yacht? Was I not—married—to—Dorian?"
Lizette smiled a gracious assent, and then Nita said quickly:
"Why, then, did you call it all a dream?"
"Tell me your dreams, dearie," replied the maid taking the little hand and holding it gently in both her own.
"It was terrible, Lizette, if it was a dream. I thought there was a storm at night. You were frightened, and ran out of the cabin. You fell down, and I followed to catch you. But a great wave like a mountain rushedover the deck and swept us both into the sea. Lizette, how you tremble. It is terrible even to hear of such a dream, is it not?
"Oh, Lizette, how vivid it was for a dream! There we were struggling for life in the dark, tempestuous waves. When you fell you had caught at the rungs of a steamer-chair, and while you clutched it, I clung to your waist. Although I am a good swimmer, I could not help myself in so rough a sea, and it seemed as if death must soon be our portion—death, and it was so cruel to die like that when I had just been wedded to my lover. But we clung to hope, and the great waves tossed us hither and thither like feathers away from the yacht and toward our death, for we knew that no one had witnessed our accident, and even had that happened we could not have been saved in such a terrific storm."
"Oh, Miss Nita, you will make yourself worse talking so much!" cried Lizette nervously.
"But," continued Nita smilingly, "now I come to the best part of my dream. Very suddenly—and, oh! the gladness of that moment—the wild storm lulled, the thunder, lightning, and rain ceased, the black clouds parted overhead and silvery moonrays glimmered through. I seemed to hear your voice cry out in joy; then my nerves relaxed, my senses reeled, I seemed to fall from a dizzy height into the darkness of death. Oh, Lizette, how real and vivid it seems to me—those moments or hours of deadly peril in the dark sea, yet you say it was only a dream."
Lizette smoothed the wavy tresses back from the girl's brow with a trembling hand and answered gently:
"My dear young mistress, you seem so much better that I will not deceive you. It was no dream—it was terrible reality."
"How, Lizette? No dream? Then we were rescued by the people on the yacht after all. Thank Heaven! But Dorian, my Dorian, why does he not come to me?"
"Yes, we were rescued, Miss Nita, the moment you became unconscious. Just as the moon's ray pierced the gloom some yachtsmen near by saw us struggling in the water. They quickly rescued us, but the doctor on the yacht worked over you an hour before you showed any signs of life. Since then you have been ill and knew no one till now."
"How long, Lizette?"
"Oh, several days, miss," evasively.
"And I did not even recognize Dorian! How very, very strange. Why, Lizette, was he so ill they could not let him come to me? And is he better now?"
"Oh, of course he is better now."
"Lizette, how strange your voice sounds. Is it possible—— But no, no! do not tell me my—husband—died of his wound, or I shall go mad with grief!"
"He did not die, Miss Nita."
"Then why does he not come to me?"
And Nita made a movement as if to rise, but fell back upon the pillow exhausted.
"Oh, my dear young lady, please calm yourself, pleasetry to bear what I have to tell you. Mr. Mountcastle is all right—yes, indeed, I hope and believe he is all right, but it is impossible for him to come to you just now because——"
She paused timorously.
"Because——" the young bride echoed with piercing anxiety, and then the maid blurted out with a bitter, stifled sob:
"Because it wasn't your husband's yacht that rescued us, but another man's. Oh, my dear, don't take it so to heart, please don't. Let us be thankful we are alive, and that some day you will be reunited to your dear husband again."
There was a blank silence of such terrible despair that it could find no outlet. Then Nita asked in a low, sad voice:
"Then, Lizette, where are we now?"
"Oh, Miss Nita, can you bear it? The yacht that saved us brought us to a lonely island way up here in Fortune's Bay, hundreds of miles from New York."
Again there was a blank silence of sorrow and disappointment. Nita's heart ached with the pain of this strange separation from her husband.
They looked at each other, she and the faithful maid, and Lizette tried to smile, but it was a wretched failure. Her poor lips trembled with the effort to restrain a bursting sob, and Nita felt instinctively that she was keeping something back.
"Lizette, have you written to my husband?" Nita asked faintly.
"Yes, my dear lady."
"Then he will soon come for us, will he not?"
"I hope so."
"Lizette, how evasively you speak. You are hiding something dreadful from me, is it not so?"
"A mere trifle, my dearie, and you must be brave and bear it calmly when I tell you, for, of course, all will soon come right."
"Go on, for Heaven's sweet sake, Lizette. I think I can bear anything better than this awful suspense."
"Miss Nita, you know the gentleman that fought the duel with your husband, and they said was mortally wounded? It was on his yacht we came to Fortune's Bay. His men saved us."
"And he is dead, poor fellow!" Nita murmured, in a tone of profound pity and awe.
"No, but I wish he was," Lizette returned, with surprising vehemence. "Oh, my dearie, they thought at first he was killed, but, bless you, his wound was no more than a scratch hardly, only he fainted away so dead at first from the shock they thought he was gone. The worst is, that he lived at all, the wicked wretch!"
"Oh, Lizette, how can you be so unkind? I pity Donald Kayne."
"Pity Donald Kayne, Miss Nita—the worst enemy you have on earth unless it be that little cat, Azalea Courtney!"
"Yes, he called himself my enemy, Lizette, and yet I pity him."
"You're wasting your kind feelings, Miss Nita. Now where do you suppose you are this blessed moment?"
"On an island in Fortune's Bay, you said, Lizette."
"Yes, on the loneliest island in the bay, and shut up in a lonely old stone house far away from any but fishermen's huts, for nobody lives here only the roughest, poorest sort of people, and mighty few even of that sort!"
"But what does it matter, Lizette, since my husband will come soon and take us away?"
"Not while he thinks we are both drowned and dead."
"But you have written to tell him we are rescued."
"Yes, I have written, but I have not been able to bribe any one to post my letter yet. Oh, my poor little darling, don't you understand? We are prisoners!"
"Prisoners!" gasped the girl, horrified.
"Yes, Miss Nita, or perhaps I ought to say Mrs. Mountcastle. Would you like it better?"
"Yes, for it seems to bring me nearer to my darling husband," cried Nita, blushing warmly. Then her lip quivered. "Oh, why does Donald Kayne hold us prisoners?" she cried.
"That is very easy to answer, Mrs. Mountcastle. It is all about that emerald ring you are wearing. He says he will never let us go free from this house until you confess how you come to be wearing that serpent ring."
Nita groaned, and looked down with loathing eyes at the baleful jewel that hung loosely on her wasted hand.
"Lizette, how thin I have grown! I must have been ill some time."
"It is two weeks since your wedding-night, and we landed here nine or ten days ago."
"And Donald Kayne?"
"He is here with two people—an old fisherman and his wife—our jailers. We are closely watched and guarded, for the old people believe you are crazy. He has told them so. But, dearie, don't lose heart. Now that you are getting well we will watch our chances to escape."
"And you know, Lizette, my husband will be searching for us. He will be sure to come here. Love will show him the way."
"You forget that he thinks you were drowned that night, when the great waves washed us off the deck of his yacht."
"Yes, I forgot," sobbed Nita, with raining tears. "Oh, my darling, I shall never see you again!"
And for a few moments she wept in uncontrollable despair. Lizette, although almost heart-broken herself, tried to soothe her, and she began to catch at little straws of hope.
"Cannot we bribe those old people to let us escape? Oh, Lizette, I would give them my whole chest of gold for liberty!" she cried.
"Alas! I have already tried them, and failed. Kayne has them completely under his control. You will never get free unless you tell him that secret he wants toknow. Oh, my dear young lady, do tell him—do tell him! for he wants to know so badly, and surely it cannot matter to you."
"Oh, Lizette, Lizette, you do not know—you cannot dream——"
Suddenly there came to her a wild temptation. Miser Farnham was dead. Captain Van Hise had told her so. What if she broke the oath of silence whose keeping was about to wreck her life? She need not fear his vengeance.