Читать книгу Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter - Lynch Lawrence L. - Страница 7

It is a fortunate provision of Providence that calamity comes upon us, in most cases, with a force so sudden and overwhelming that it is rather seen than felt. As we realize the full torture of an ugly wound, not when the blow is struck, but after the whole system has been made to languish under its effects, so a blow struck at the heart can not make itself fully felt while the mind is still unable to picture what the future will be like now that the grief has come. We only taste our bitterest grief when the mind has shaken itself aloof from the present woe, to travel forward and question what the future can hold for us, now that our life is bereft of this treasure.

Madeline's condition, after the departure of Olive Girard, was an exponent of this truth. Fast and hard worked her thoughts, but they only encountered the ills of the present, and never glanced beyond.

She had set her lover aloft as her ideal, the embodiment of truth, honor, and manhood. He had fallen. Truth, honor, manhood, had passed out of existence for her. And she had loved him so well! She loved him even yet.

The thought brought with it a pang of terror, and as if conjured up by it, the scenes of the day previous marshalled themselves again for review. Could it be possible? Was it only yesterday that she listened to his tender love words, beneath the old tree in Oakley woods? Only yesterday that her step-father was revealed in all his vileness, – his plots, his hopes, his fears. Her mother's sad life laid bare before her; Aunt Hagar's story; her defiance of the two men at Oakley; her flight; Clarence Vaughan; the strange, great city; Olive Girard; and now – now, just a dead blank, with no outlook, no hope.

And was this all since yesterday?

What was it, she wondered, that made people mad? Not things like these; she was calm, very calm. She was calm; too calm. If something would occur to break up this icy stillness of heart, to convulse the numbed powers of feeling, and shock them back into life before it was too late.

She waited patiently for the coming of her base lover, lying upon the soft divan, with her hands folded, and wondering if she would feel much different if she were dead.

When the summons came, at last, she went quietly down to greet the man who little dreamed that his reign in her heart was at an end, and that his hold upon her life was loosening fast.

When Madeline entered the presence of Lucian Davlin, she took the initiatory step in the part she was henceforth to play. And she took it unhesitatingly, as if dissimulation was to her no new thing. Truly, necessity, emergency, is the mother of much besides "invention." Entering, she gave him her hand with free grace, and smiled up at him as he bade her good-morning.

He remarked on her pale cheeks, but praised the brightness of her eyes, and accepted her explanation that the bustle and the strangeness was unusual to her, as a natural and sufficient reason for the pallor.

"You will soon grow accustomed to that," he said, as they descended to the carriage, "and be the rosiest, fairest little woman on the boulevard, for I mean to drive half the men jealous by taking you there often."

Madeline made no reply, and they entered the carriage.

Davlin was not surprised at her silence; he was prepared for a little coyness; in fact, for some resistance, and expected to have occasion for the specious eloquence always at his command. Of course, the result would be the same, – he had no doubt of that, and so in silence they reached their destination.

Up a broad flight of stairs, and then a door. Lucian rings, and an immaculate colored servant appears, who seems as well bred as an English baronet, and who expresses no surprise at the presence of a lady there.

Up another flight of softly carpeted stairs, across a wide hall, and lo! the abode of the sybarite, the apartments of the disciple of Chance.

"Welcome to your kingdom, fair queen," says Lucian, as they enter. "This is your abiding place, for a time, at least, and I am your slave for always," and he kneels playfully before her.

Madeline turns away, and, finding it easiest to do, in her then state of mind, begins a careless tour of the rooms, making a pretense of criticism, and finding in even this slow promenade some relief from absolute quiet and silence.

She guarded her face lest it should display too much of that locked, sullen calm underneath, and replied by an occasional word and nod to his running comments upon the different articles undergoing examination. Fingering carelessly the rare ornaments upon a fine set of brackets, her eye rested upon an elegant little gold mounted pistol. She turned away quickly, and they passed to other things.

Her replies became more ready, and she began questioning gravely about this or that, listening with childlike wonder to his answers, and winning him into a pleasant bantering humor.

Finally he threw himself upon a chair, and selecting a cigar proceeded to light it.

Madeline continued to flit from picture to statuette, questioning with much apparent interest. At last, she paused again before the bracket which held the tiny toy that had for her a fascination.

"What a pretty little pistol," she said. "Is it loaded?"

"I don't know," replied he, lazily. "Bring it to me; I will see."

He was inwardly wondering at her cool acceptance of the situation; and felt inclined to congratulate himself. Seeing her look at the little weapon doubtfully, he laughed and strode to her side, taking it in his hand.

"It is not loaded," he said. "Did you ever fire a pistol?"

"No; show me how to hold it."

He placed it in her hand, and showed her how to manipulate the trigger, and to take aim.

"I should like to see it loaded," she said, at last.

"And so you shall."

He smiled, and crossing the room took from a little inlaid box a handful of cartridges. Madeline watched him attentively, as he explained to her the operation of loading. At length expressing herself satisfied, and declining his invitation to try and load it herself, she turned away.

Davlin extracted the cartridge from the pistol, and returned it to its place, saying: "You might wish to practice at aiming, and won't want it loaded."

"I shall not want such practice," she replied.

A rap at the door, and the servant announced that dinner was come.

"I ordered our dinner here, to-day," explained Lucian, "thinking it would be more cosy. You may serve it, Henry," to the servant.

Dinner was accordingly served, and Lucian found occasion to criticise, very severely, the manner of his serving man. More than once, his voice took on an intolerant tone.

Sitting opposite, Madeline saw the man, as he stood behind his master's chair, dart upon him a look of hatred. Her lips framed a smile quite new to them; and, after dessert was placed upon the table and the man dismissed, she said:

"You don't like your servant, I judge?"

"Oh, he's as good as any," replied Lucian, carelessly. "They are pretty much alike, and all need a setting back occasionally; – on general principles, you know."

"I suppose so," assented Madeline, indifferently, as if the subject had lost all interest for her.

Slowly the afternoon wore on, moments seeming hours to the despairing girl. At length Lucian, finding her little inclined to assist him in keeping up a conversation, said:

"I am selfish not to remember that you are very tired. I will leave you to solitude and repose for a little time, shall I?"

"If you wish," she replied, wearily. "I suppose I need the rest."

"Then I will look in upon some of my friends. I have almost lost the run of city doings during my absence. Meantime, ring for anything you may need, won't you?"

"I will ring;" and she looked, not at him, but at the bracket beyond.

"Then good-by, little sweetheart. It is now four; I will be with you at six."

He embraced her tenderly, and went out with that debonnair grace which she had so loved. She looked after him with a hungry, hopeless longing in her eyes.

"Oh, why does God make His foulest things the fairest?" she moaned. "Why did He put love in our hearts if it must turn our lives to ashes? Why must one be so young and yet so miserable? Oh, mother, mother, are all women wronged like us?"

Madeline arose and commenced pacing the floor restlessly, nervously. She had come here with no fixed purpose, nothing beyond the indefinite determination to defy and thwart the man who had entrapped her. She had never for a moment feared for her safety, or doubted her ability to accomplish her object.

A plan was now taking shape in her mind, and as she pondered, she extended her march, quite unthinkingly, on into the adjoining room, the door of which stood invitingly open. The first object to attract her attention was the light traveling coat which Lucian had worn on the previous day; worn when he was pleading his suit under the trees of Oakley; and in a burst of anger, as if it were a part of him she was thinking of so bitterly, she seized and hurled it from her. As it flew across the room, something fell from a pocket, almost at her feet.

She looked down at it; it was a telegram, the one, doubtless, that had called him back to the city the day before. A business matter, he had said. Into her mind flashed the words of Olive Girard, "a professional gambler." She would see what this "business" was. Stooping, she picked up the crumpled envelope, and quickly devoured its contents.

Must see you immediately. Come by first train; am waiting at your quarters.

Cora.

Madeline went back to the lighter, larger room, and seating herself, looked about her. Again the words of Olive rung in her ears.

"Cora!" she ejaculated. "He obeyed her summons, and brought me with him. And she was here only last night – and where has she gone? This must be the 'notorious,' the 'handsome.' Ah, Lucian Davlin, this is well; this nerves me for the worst! I shall not falter now. This is the first link in the chain that shall yet make your life a burden."

She crossed the room and touched the bell.

"Now for the first real step," said Madeline, grimly.

The door opened and the dark face of Henry appeared, bowing on the threshold.

"Come in, Henry, and close the door," said Madeline, pleasantly. "I want you to do me a favor, if you will."

Henry came in, and stood waiting her order.

"Will you carry a note for me, Henry, and bring me back an answer? I want you to take it, because I feel as if I could trust you. You look like one who would be faithful to those who were kind to you."

"Thank you, lady; indeed I would," said the man, in grateful tones.

Madeline was quick to see the advantage to be gained by possessing the regard and confidence of this man, who must, necessarily, know so much that it was desirable to learn of the life and habits of him, between whom and herself must be waged a war to the very death.

She reasoned rapidly, and as rapidly arrived at her conclusions. The first of those was, that Lucian Davlin, by his intolerance and unkindness, had fitted a tool to her hand, and she, therefore, as a preliminary step, must propitiate and win the confidence of this same tool left by his master within her reach.

"And will you carry my letter, Henry, and return with an answer as soon as you can? You will find the person at this hour without any trouble."

"Master ordered me to attend to your wants," replied the man, in a somewhat surly tone.

She understood this somber inflection, and said: "He 'ordered' you? Yes, I see; is your master always as hard to please as to-day, Henry? He certainly was a little unkind."

"He's always the same, madame," said the man, gloomily. Her words brought vividly before his mind's eye the many instances of his master's unkindness.

"I'm sorry he is not kind to you," said the girl, hypocritically. "And I don't want you to carry this letter because he ordered you. I want you to do it to oblige me, Henry, and it will make me always your friend."

Ah, Henry, one resentful gleam from your eyes, as you stood behind the chair of your tyrant, has given to this slight girl the clue by which to sway you to her will. She was smiling upon him, and the man replied, in gratitude:

"I'll do anything for you, madame."

"Thank you, Henry. I was sure I could trust you. Will you get me some writing material, please?"

Henry crossed to the handsome davenport, and found it locked. But when taking this precaution, Davlin overlooked the fact that Cora's last gift – a little affair intended for the convenience of travelers, being a combined dressing case and writing desk, the dividing compartment of which contained an excellent cabinet photograph of the lady herself, so enshrined as to be the first thing to greet the eyes of whosoever should open the little receptacle – was still accessible.

Failing to open the davenport, Henry turned to this; and pressing upon the spring lock, exposed to the view of Madeline, standing near, the pictured face of Cora. Spite of his grievances, the sense of his duty was strong upon him, and he put himself between the girl and the object of her interest. Not so quickly but that she saw, and understood the movement. Stepping to his side, she put out her hand, saying:

"What an exquisite picture – Madame Cora, is it not, Henry?"

She was looking him full in the eyes, and he answered, staring in astonishment the while: "Yes, miss."

"She is very handsome," mused the girl, as if to herself: "left just before my arrival, I think?" she added, at a venture.

Again her eyes searched his face, and again he gave a surprised assent.

"Do you like her, Henry?" questioned she, intent on her purpose.

"She is just like him," he said, jerking his head grimly, while his voice took again a resentful tone. "She thinks a man who is black has no feelings."

He placed pen, ink and paper on the table as he answered, and then looked to her inquiringly.

"You may wait here while I write, if you will," she said, and took up the pen.

She had brought away from the G – House, the two cards of her would-be friends, and she now consulted them before she asked.

"No. 52 – street; is that far, Henry?"

"It's a five minutes' walk," he answered. "I can go and come in twenty minutes, allowing time for an answer."

"Very good," she said, abruptly, and wrote rapidly:

Clarence Vaughan.

No. 52 – street.

Sir – Having no other friend at hand, I take you at your word. I need your aid, to rescue me from the power of a bad man. Will you meet me, with a carriage, at the south corner of this block, in one hour, and take me to Mrs. Girard, who has offered me a shelter? You know the danger I wish to escape. Aid me "in the name of your mother."

Madeline "Weir."

This is what she penned, and looking up she asked: "What is the number of this place, Henry?"

"91 Empire block," he replied; "C – street."

She added this, and then folding and enclosing, addressed it to Clarence Vaughan, M. D., etc.

"There, Henry, take it as quickly as you can; and some day I will try and reward you."

She smiled upon him as she gave him the letter. He took it, bowed low, and hurried away.

She listened until the sound of his footstep could be heard no longer. Then rising quickly, she opened the receptacle that held the portrait of the woman who, though unseen, was still an enemy. Long she gazed upon the pictured face, and when at last she closed the case, springing the lock with a sharp click, she muttered between set teeth:

"I shall know you when I see you, madame."

Crossing to the pistol bracket, she took the little weapon in her hand, and picking up one of the cartridges left by its careless owner, loaded it carefully. Having done this she placed the weapon in her pocket.

She paced to and fro, to and fro; nothing would have been harder for her than to remain quiet then. Her eyes wandered often to the tiny bronze clock on the marble above the grate.

Ten minutes; her letter was delivered, was being answered perhaps; – fifteen; how slowly the moments were going! – twenty; what if he should return, too soon? Instinctively she placed her hand upon the pocket holding the little pistol. Twenty-five minutes; what if her messenger should fail her? And that card had clearly stated "office hours three to five." Twenty-six; oh, how slow, how slow! – twenty-seven; had the clock stopped? no; – twenty-eight – nine – half an hour.

Where was Henry?

She felt a giddiness creeping over her; how close the air was. Her nerves were at their utmost tension; another strain upon the sharply strung chords would overcome her. She felt this vaguely. If she should be baffled now! She could take fresh heart, could nerve herself anew, if aid came to her, but if he should come she feared, in her now half frenzied condition, to be alone, she was so strangely nervous, so weak!

How plainly she saw it, the face of Clarence Vaughan. Oh, it was a good face! When she saw it again she could rest. She had not felt it before, but she did need rest sorely.

Thirty-five minutes, – oh, they had been hours to her; weary, weary time!

How many a sad watcher has reckoned the flying moments as creeping hours, while sitting lonely, with heavy eyes, trembling frame, and heart almost bursting with its weight of suspense – waiting.

Forty minutes – and a footstep in the passage! Her heart almost stopped beating. It was Henry.

"I had to wait, as he was busy with a patient," said he, apologetically, handing her the letter she desired.

Madeline tore open the missive with eager fingers, and read:

Miss Madeline W.:

Thank you for your faith in me. I will meet you at the place and time appointed. Do not fail me. Respectfully,

C. Vaughan.

She drew a long breath of relief.

"Thank you, Henry. Now I shall leave this place; promise me that you will not tell your master where I went or how. Will you promise?"

"I will, miss," said the man, earnestly. "Is this all I can do?"

"If you would be my true friend – if I might trust you, Henry – I would ask more of you. But I should ask you to work against your master. He has wronged me cruelly, and I need a friend who can serve me as you can quite easily. I should not command you as a servant, but ask you to aid me as a true friend, for I think your heart is whiter than his."

And Henry was won. Starting forward, he exclaimed:

"He treats me as if I were a dog; and you, as if I were white and a gentleman! Let me be your servant, and I will be very faithful; tell me what I can do."

"Thank you, Henry; I will trust you. To-morrow, at noon, call at Dr. Vaughan's office and he will tell you where you can find me. Then come to me. You can serve me best by remaining with your master, at present; and I will try, after I have left this place, to reward you as you deserve."

"I will obey you, mistress," said the delighted servant. "I shall be glad to serve where I can hear a kind word. And I shall be glad to help you settle accounts with him. I will be there to-morrow, no fear for me."

She turned, and put on her wrappings with a feeling of exultation. He would come soon, smiling and triumphant, and she would not be there! He should fret and wonder, question and search, but when they met again the power should be on her side.

She turned to the waiting servant, saying: "I am ready, Henry."

He opened the door as if for a princess. Before Madeline had lifted her foot from the carpet, her eyes became riveted upon the open doorway.

There, smiling and insouciant, stood Lucian Davlin!

Madeline stood like one in a nightmare, motionless and speechless. Again, and more powerfully, came over her senses that insidious, creeping faintness; that sickening of body and soul together.

It was not the situation alone, hazardous as it certainly was, which filled her with this shuddering terror; it was the feeling that vitality had almost exhausted itself. She suddenly realized the meaning of the awful lethargy that seemed benumbing her faculties. The "last straw" was now weighing her down, and, standing mute and motionless she was putting forth all her will power to comprehend the situation, grasp and master it.

Like a dark stone image Henry stood, his hand upon the open door, his eyes fastened upon the man blocking the way.

Davlin, whose first thought had been that the open door was to welcome his approach, realized in an instant as he gazed upon Madeline, that he was about to be defied. There was no mistaking the expression of the face, so white and set. He elevated his eyebrows in an elaborate display of astonishment.

"Just in time, I should say," removing his hat with mock courtesy, and stepping across the threshold. "Not going out without an escort, my dear? Surely not. Really, I owe a debt of gratitude to my friends down town, for boring me so insufferably, else I should have missed you, I fear."

No answer; no change in the face or attitude of the girl before him.

"Close that door, sir, and take yourself off," he said, turning to Henry.

Remembering her words, "You can serve me best here," Henry bowed with unusual humility, and went out.

"I don't think she is afraid of him," he muttered, as he went down the hall; "anyhow, I won't be far away, in case she needs me."

Lucian Davlin folded his arms with insolent grace, and leaning lazily against the closed door, gazed, with his wicked half smile, upon the pale girl before him.

Thus for a few moments they faced each other, without a word. At length, she broke the silence. Advancing a step, she looked him full in the face and said, in a calm, even tone:

"Open that door, sir, and let me pass."

"Phew – w – w!" he half whistled, half ejaculated, opening wide his insolent eyes. "How she commands us; like a little empress, by Jove! Might the humblest of your adorers be permitted to ask where you were going, most regal lady?"

"Not back to the home I left for the sake of a gambler and roue," she said, bitterly.

"Oh," thought he, "she has just got her ideas awakened on this subject: believed me the soul of honor, and all that. Only a small matter this, after all."

"Don't call hard names, little woman," he said aloud. "I'm not such a very bad man, after all. By the way, I shouldn't have thought it exactly in your line, to order up my servant for examination in my absence."

"I am not indebted to your servant for my knowledge concerning you, sir. I wish to leave this place; stand aside and let me pass."

The red flush had returned to her cheeks, the dangerous sparkle to her eyes; her courage and spirits rose in response to his sneering pleasantries. Her nerves were tempered like steel. He little dreamed of the courage, strength and power she could pit against him.

He dropped one hand carelessly, and inserted it jauntily in his pocket.

"Zounds; but you look like a little tigress," he exclaimed, admiringly. "Really, rage becomes you vastly, but it's wearisome, after all, my dear. So drop high tragedy, like a sensible girl, and tell me what is the meaning of this new freak."

"I will tell you this, sir: I shall leave this place now, and I wish never to see your face again. Where I go is no concern of yours. Why I go, I leave to your own imagination."

"Bravo; what a little actress you would make! But now for a display of my histrionic talents. Leave this place, against my will, you can not; and I wish to see your face often, for many days to come. Where you go I must go, too; and why you go, is because of a prudish scruple that has no place in the world you and I will live in."

"The world you live in is not large enough for me too, Lucian Davlin. And you and I part, now and forever."

"Not so fast, little one," he answered, in his softest, most persuasive tone. "See, I am the same lover you pledged yourself to only yesterday. I adore you the same as then; I desire to make you happy just the same. You have put a deep gulf between yourself and your home; you can not go back; you would go out from here to meet a worse fate, to fall into worse hands. Come, dear, put off that frown."

He made a gesture as if to draw her to him. She sprang away, and placing herself at a distance, looked at him over a broad, low-backed chair, saying:

"Not a step nearer me, sir, and not another word of your sophistry. I will not remain here. Do you understand me? I will not!"

Lucian dragged a chair near the door, and throwing himself lazily into it, surveyed the enraged girl with a look of mingled astonishment, amusement, and annoyance.

"Really, this is rather hard on a fellow's patience, my lady. Not a step nearer the door, my dear; and no more defiance, if you please. You perceive I temper my tragedy with a little politeness," he added, parenthetically. "I will not permit you to leave me; do you hear me? I will not!"

His tone of aggressive mockery was maddening to the desperate girl. It lent her a fresh, last impulse of wild, defiant energy. There was not the shadow of a fear in her mind or heart now. The rush of outraged feeling took full possession of her, and, for a second, deprived her of all power of speech or action. In another instant she stood before him, her eyes blazing with wrath, and in her hand, steadfast and surely aimed, a tiny pistol – his pistol, that he had taught her to load and aim not two short hours before!

He was not a coward, this man; and rage at being thus baffled and placed at a disadvantage by his own weapon, drove all the mockery from his face.

He gave a sudden bound.

There was a flash, a sharp report, and Lucian Davlin reeled for a moment, his right arm hanging helpless and bleeding. Only for a moment, for as the girl sprang past him, he wheeled about, seized her with his strong left arm, and holding her close to him in a vice-like clutch, hissed, while the ghastly paleness caused by the flowing blood overspread his face:

"Little demon! I will kill you before I will lose you now! You – shall – not – esca – "

A deathly faintness overcame him, and he fell heavily; still clasping the girl, now senseless like himself.

Hearing the pistol shot, and almost simultaneously a heavy fall, Henry hurried through the long passage and threw open the door. One glance sufficed, and then he rushed down the stairs in frantic haste.

Meantime, Clarence Vaughan, punctual to the time appointed, had driven rapidly to the spot designated by Madeline. He was about to alight from the carriage, when he drew back suddenly, and sat in the shadow as a man passed up the street.

It was Lucian Davlin, and he entered the building bearing the number Madeline had given in her note.

Instantly Vaughan comprehended the situation. She had sent for aid in this man's absence, and his return might frustrate her plans. Pondering upon the best course to pursue, he descended from the carriage, and paced the length of the block. Turning in his promenade, his ear was greeted by a pistol shot. Could it come from that building? It sounded from there certainly. It was now five minutes past the time appointed; could it be there was foul play? He paused at the foot of the stairs, irresolute.

Suddenly there was a rush of feet, and Henry came flying down, the whites of his eyes looking as if they would never resume their natural proportions. Clarence intercepted the man as he essayed to pass, evidently without having seen him.

"Oh, sir! – Oh, doctor, come right up stairs, quick, sir," he exclaimed.

"Was that shot from here, my man?" inquired Doctor Vaughan, as he followed up the stairs.

"Yes, sir," hurrying on.

"Any people in the building besides your master and the lady?"

"No, sir; not at this time. This way, sir."

He threw open the door and stepped back. Entering the room, this is what Clarence Vaughan saw:

Lying upon the floor in a pool of blood, the splendid form of Lucian Davlin, one arm dripping the red life fluid, the other clasping close the form of a beautiful girl. His eyes were closed and his face pallid as the dead. The eyes of the girl were staring wide and set, her face expressing unutterable fear and horror, every muscle rigid as if in a struggle still. One hand was clenched, and thrown out as if to ward off that death-like grasp, while the other clutched a pistol, still warm and smelling of powder.

It was the work of a moment to stop the flow of blood, and restore the wounded man to consciousness. But first he had removed the insensible girl from Davlin's grasp, laid her upon a bed in the inner room and, removing the fatal weapon from her hand, instructed Henry how to apply the remedies a skilful surgeon has always about him, especially in the city.

At the first sure symptoms of slowly returning life, Doctor Vaughan summoned Henry to look after his master, whom he left, with rather unprofessional alacrity, to attend to the fair patient in whose welfare he felt so much interest. As he bent over the still unconscious girl, his face was shadowed with troubled thought. She was in no common faint, and feeling fully assured what the result would be, he almost feared to see the first fluttering return of life.

At last a shudder agitated her form, and looking up with just a gleam of recognition, she passed into another swoon, thence to another. Through long weary hours she only opened her eyes to close them, blinded with the vision of unutterable woe; and so the long night wore away.

Dr. Vaughan had given brief, stern orders, in accordance with which Lucian Davlin had entrusted his wound to another surgeon for dressing, and then, still in obedience to orders, had swallowed a soothing potion and betaken himself to other apartments.

Henry had summoned a trusty nurse well known to Clarence Vaughan, to assist him at the bedside of Madeline.

In the gray of morning, pallid and interesting, with his arm in a sling, Lucian reappeared in the sick room. Evidently he had not employed all of the intervening time in slumber, for his course of action seemed to have been fully matured.

"She won't be able to leave here for many days, I should fancy?" he half inquired in a low tone, sinking languidly into a sleepy-hollow, commanding a view of the face of the patient, and the back of the physician.

"Not alive," was the brief but significant answer.

"Not alive! Great heavens, doctor, don't tell me that my miserable accident will cost the little girl her life!"

"Ah! your accident: how was that?" bending over Madeline.

"Why, you see," explained Davlin, "She picked up the pistol, and not being acquainted with the use of fire-arms, desired to investigate under my instructions. Having loaded it, explaining the process by illustration, she, being timid, begged me to put it up. Laughing at her fear, I was about to obey, when moving around carelessly, my hand came in contact with that chair, setting the thing off. The sight of my bleeding arm frightened her so that I saw she was about to faint. As I caught her I myself lost consciousness, and we fell together. But how will she come out, doctor? tell me that; poor little girl!"

"She will come out from this trance soon, to die almost immediately, or to pass through a fever stage that may result fatally later. Her bodily condition is one of unusual prostration from fatigue; and evidently, she has been sustaining some undue excitement for a considerable time."

"Been traveling, and pretty well tired with the journey. That, I suppose, taken with this pistol affair – but tell me, doctor, what she will need, so that I may attend to it immediately."

"If she is living at noon," said Dr. Vaughan, reflectively, "it will be out of the question to remove her from here, without risking her life for weeks to come. If she comes out of this, and you will leave her in my hands, I will, with the aid of this good woman," nodding toward the nurse, "undertake to pull her through. It will be necessary that she have perfect quiet, and sees no face that might in any manner excite her, during her illness and convalescence."

Davlin mused for a few moments before making answer. He did not care to excite remark by calling in unnecessary attendants. Dr. Vaughan he knew by reputation as a skilful physician. As well trust him as another, he thought, and it was no part of his plan to let this girl die if skill could save her.

In answer to his natural inquiry as to how the doctor was so speedily on the spot when needed, Henry had truthfully replied that he knew the medical man by sight, and that, fortunately, he was passing when he ran down to the street for assistance. Davlin was further convinced that he, Henry, knew nothing save that the young lady rang for him to show her out, and he, according to orders, had obeyed.

"Well, sir," Davlin said, at last, "I shall leave the lady and the premises entirely in your hands, as soon as the crisis has passed. Then, as my presence might not prove beneficial, while I carry this arm in a sling, at least, I will run down into the country for a few days. My man, here, is entirely at your disposal. Don't spare any pains to pull her through safely, doctor. I will look in again at noon."

He rose and went softly out of the room, the doctor having answered him only by a nod of assent.

"Zounds, how weak I feel," he ejaculated. "I hope the girl won't die. Anyhow, I have no notion of figuring at a death-bed scene. So I'll just keep myself out of the way until the thing is decided. Then, I'll run down and let Cora coddle me up a bit. I can explain my wounded arm as the result of a little affair at the card-table."

Noon came, and slowly, slowly, stern Death relaxed his grasp upon the miserable girl, for Death, like man, finds no satisfaction in claiming willing victims. Slowly the life fluttered back to her heart; and because Death had yielded her up, and to retain it would be to lose her life, reason forsook her.

Under the watchful care of the skilled nurse, and the ministrations of the young physician, she now lay tossing in the delirium of fever.

Nothing worse to fear, for days at least, reported the doctor. So the afternoon train bore Lucian Davlin away from the city and his victim, to seek repose and diversion in the society of his comrade, Cora.

"She will come out of this now, I think," he muttered. "Then – Oh! I'll tame your proud spirit yet, my lady! I would not give you up now for half a million."

And he meant it.