“My God, the girl will be instantly killed!” groaned Otho Maury, with
blanched lips, and staggering like a drunken man as he reeled backwards
to the door.
For even in the horror and remorse of the moment, knowing that he had
caused Floy’s death as certainly as though he had plunged a dagger
in her heart, a swift, prudential consideration restrained him from
following his first impulse to rush to the window and watch the doomed
girl’s terrible plunge to destruction.
“I must not be suspected of having caused her accident by my
persecutions,” he thought, in alarm for his reputation.
A blind impulse of flight seized upon him, and, trembling with horror,
his face ashen white, his evil black eyes staring blankly before him,
he made his exit from the room and the house without encountering any
one.
As he gained the street he heard a tumult of excited voices, but his
guilty conscience would not permit him to join the crowd that was
collecting on the pavement.
Wickedly as he had plotted against the poor girl’s happiness, he felt
that he could not bear the sight of her poor mutilated body with all
the sweet, saucy beauty crushed out of the poor dead face.
If it were Maybelle now, she would gloat over the sight in her joy that
her beautiful rival was dead.
But it was different with Otho, for deep in his heart burned a mad
passion for bewitching Floy.
Though he had plotted with his sister to destroy her, it was her soul
_he_ meant to wreck, not her beautiful body. _That_ he worshiped with
doting admiration, and had hoped to win.
It almost seemed as if the hands of angels had been outstretched to
foil his nefarious designs, and to draw Floy back, pure and unspotted,
to heaven.
With these thoughts raging in his excited mind, Otho fled in horror
from the scene, and to drown his haunting remorse, spent the night in a
drunken orgie with some boon companions, who took him to his hotel in
the “wee sma’ hours ayant the twal,” and consigned him to the porters
to put to bed.
At noon of the next day he awoke with the usual large head incident
to such dissipations, and swore at himself for a besotted fool, after
which he ordered brandy and soda and breakfast.
When he had been bathed, and shaved, and dressed, he still remained
pale, tremulous, and shaken, for the horror of last evening had rushed
freshly over his mind.
“She is dead, poor little Floy, so pretty and so gay, like a merry
little humming-bird ever on the wing--dead, and Maybelle will rejoice
at the news, but as for me, I must ever bear about with me a load of
remorse that will drive me to madness,” he groaned, as he rang the
bell for the morning papers, nerving himself to read an account of the
tragedy.
It was there, on the first page of the paper they brought him, in
glaring head-lines:
“A PLUNGE TO DEATH!
“A Beautiful Young Girl Falls from the Fourth-Story Window of Her
Home on Adams Street, and is Removed to Bellevue Hospital in a Dying
Condition.
“As newsdealer Herr Spiel was dozing last evening in a chair by his
news-stand on Adams Street, he was startled from his dreams by
hearing something fall with a dull thud on the awning above his head,
and springing to his feet, saw with consternation a beautiful young
girl roll off the awning down to the pavement.
“At first sight the girl seemed to have escaped without injury after
her fearful fall, for she rose to her feet very quickly, and stood
looking about her with a half-shy smile, as if hoping that no one had
noticed her accident.
“But in the next moment the pretty face grew pale, the smile faded,
and with a groan she sunk unconscious to the earth.
“She was Miss Frances Fane, a boarder in the house, and had in some
inexplicable manner fallen out of her window in the fourth story.
She was removed to Bellevue Hospital in an unconscious condition,
believed to be due to internal injuries, and will probably die.”
Otho Maury read the paragraphs with working feature, for he knew that
the victim was Floy, although a mistake had been made in her name,
giving it as Frances.
“So she will die, poor little girl, poor little Fly-away Floy,” he
muttered, heavily. “Indeed, it is a marvel that she escaped instant
death. Heigho! I must go home to-day, and carry the news to Maybelle.”
And Otho swept his hand across his eyes to shut out the vision of a
fair dead face that he had loved so well in its living beauty, so gay
and sunny.
Then he remembered that Mrs. Vere de Vere had told him yesterday that
Maybelle was coming to New York to-day. So he hurried to Fifth Avenue,
and found her just arrived.
He drew her aside to tell her what had happened to Floy, and even his
callous nature was shocked at her savage glee.
“What a cruel heart you have, Maybelle!” he cried in disgust.
She flashed him an angry look, and answered:
“I am no worse than you, Otho. Remember what a fate you plotted for the
girl! She is better off as it is, for death is better than dishonor.”
“A fine sentiment,” he gibed, wondering if she thought herself quite
honorable, as she had connived at the plot.
She read his thought, and tossed her head defiantly, thinking how glad
she was that Floy was out of her way, by whatever means.
Otho sighed, and said:
“If you are going back to Mount Vernon to-morrow, perhaps you will
break the news to Mrs. Banks? Poor soul!”
“No, I shall not go so soon. Besides, we need not hurry. Better wait
till all is over. If she found out before Floy died, she would want to
come down here and see her, and mamma could not really spare her now.
She is busy with the summer sewing,” Maybelle answered, heartlessly.
“I must be going,” he said, with a tortured sigh, remorse heavy at his
heart.
“No, stay, and go with us to the _matinée_ to see ‘Trilby.’ Mrs.
Vere de Vere has invited a little box party--the Van Dorns and the
Beresfords. Join us, and you may get in a word with Alva Beresford.”
“Hang Alva Beresford!” he replied, with the impatience of pain.
“Don’t be a fool, Otho. You know you said you would help me catch St.
George if I would perform a similar office for you with Alva.”
“Yes, I know; but when did she get back from Paris and her painting?”
“Oh, weeks and weeks ago, and they say she has fitted up a magnificent
studio at home and paints away all the time, as if she had to work for
a living.”
“Well, then, what’s the use of my making up to such a girl? She has
refused every fellow in society, I’m told. And she’s getting quite a
spinster--bachelor girl, I mean--isn’t that the latest fad?”
“Alva is twenty-seven, that’s a fact--nearly three years older than
her brother--but she is still the most magnificent beauty in New York,
and will have millions at her father’s death. She is devoted to her
daubing--‘wedded to her art,’ she calls it--but she’s only a woman
after all, and some day she will lose her heart, of course. And why not
to you, Otho, as well as another?” cried Maybelle, eagerly.