Floyd Landon’s nerves were so shaken by his experiences at Suicide
Place, that no entreaties could induce him to go on with the search for
Floy.
His usual clear head and steady nerves had apparently deserted him. The
truth was, that he was on the verge of a severe illness that seized on
him that night and prostrated him for several weeks.
When he was gone, the impatient lover confided all to his family, and
announced his immediate departure for Mount Vernon.
“I shall take a posse of men and explore the old house by daylight. Not
a nook or cranny shall escape me, and if my darling is hidden there,
she will be found. Indeed, I can not understand why Mr. Landon did not
do this,” he concluded, with feverish impatience.
“I can not let you go alone. I will accompany you!” exclaimed Alva,
eagerly; and the offer was eagerly accepted.
They started for Mount Vernon within the hour, and on arriving went at
once to a hotel.
What was Beresford’s astonishment to meet there a person whom, in the
agitation of his troubles, he had almost forgotten--his interesting
_compagnon du voyage_--Lord Alexander Miller!
The nobleman’s fair, handsome face had acquired a deeper cast of
pensiveness than before. His splendid blue eyes were grave and sad, but
they kindled with admiration when they rested on the brilliant beauty
of Alva as St. George presented him to his sister.
When he saw St. George’s start of surprise, he smiled and said:
“I see you had almost forgotten me, Mr. Beresford.”
“Not so; but I was not expecting to meet you here--although I remember
now you told me when we parted that you were coming to Mount Vernon.”
“Yes; I have been here ever since, and am just now leaving. In fact, my
cab is waiting for me at the door.”
“Shall we not meet you in New York on our return?”
“Perhaps so. I have not forgotten your invitation, but I have felt too
depressed to leave here before. The truth is, I came here expecting
to see some dear--friends. But I have had a great shock. I found them
dead.”
There was a note of pain in his voice, and Alva’s heart throbbed with a
strange sympathy, he seemed so grave, so sad.
He resumed, after a moment, wearily:
“I feel so unsettled, I scarcely know what to do. My first impulse was
to return to England, but I have been lingering on here till now, so
I suppose I shall do America before I go home. My present plan is to
go to Newport at the pressing invitation of some Americans I met last
spring in London.”
“We, too, go to Newport as soon as my business here is concluded; so we
may meet again soon,” exclaimed St. George, with real pleasure.
“I am glad of that--so it is _au revoir_, and not good-bye,” smiled the
Englishman, lifting his hat in farewell ere he turned and descended the
steps to the waiting carriage.
Alva’s eyes followed him with frank pleasure--not only that he was
the handsomest man she had ever seen, but because something about him
recalled to her the loved and lost one of her girlhood’s dreams.
“How like, how strangely like!” she thought, with silent pain.
And somehow her thoughts followed him on his way with a kindly interest
just for the sake of the frank blue eyes that had looked at her gently
like the eyes of her dead lover--dead, but not forgotten.
And as Alva’s thoughts followed him with a strange interest, so did the
handsome Englishman’s fancy return to her during his brief journey to
New York, dwelling with pleasure on her beauty.
“What a magnificent creature! The most beautiful American I ever saw!
There was soul in those large dark eyes--soul and feeling as of one who
has suffered! But what sorrow could come to the beautiful heiress, Miss
Beresford?” he wondered, with deep sympathy, resolving that he would be
very certain to accept her brother’s invitation, for the sake of seeing
her again.
She was still in his thoughts, and his blue eyes had a dreamy look as
he left the train and sought a carriage to convey him to a hotel.
It was late afternoon, and the great city was a Babel of noise and
confusion.
Shaking off the spell thrown over him by Alva’s charms, he leaned from
the window of the carriage, watching the unfamiliar scene with curious
eyes.
The next moment he became the witness of an accident that thrilled him
with alarm.
A beautiful young girl, who had attempted to cross the street, had been
knocked down by a reckless bicyclist, who, with shameless indifference
to what he had done, hurried on his way ere he could be arrested.
The girl, who was carrying a small traveling-bag, as though on her way
to the station, lay helpless where she had fallen, the blood trickling
down her face from a cut on her white temple.
In a moment the Englishman had stopped the carriage. He sprung out and
caught up the unconscious girl from her perilous position in the middle
of the street in the surge of hurrying vehicles, and carried her to the
sidewalk.
A knot of people gathered around, gazing in pity and admiration at the
lovely face in its frame of rippling golden hair.
A compassionate woman took some water and bathed the blood from the
wounded temple, exclaiming, angrily:
“It is a shame that that rude fellow was not arrested for running down
this sweet girl! She might have been killed!”
She bound a soft white handkerchief about the wound, and continued:
“Does anybody know her? She ought to be taken home or to the hospital.
Oh! so you are coming to, miss?”
The girl had indeed opened two large blue, wondering eyes upon the
anxious group that surrounded her.
“Are you hurt much?” inquired the kind though loquacious woman, helping
Floy--for it was our little heroine--in her efforts to rise.
Floy was now on her feet, but ghastly pale and trembling.
She answered, faintly:
“No, no; only my head. But I feel very weak. I--I must sit down a
minute.”
“Drink this,” said some one, proffering a glass of water.
She looked up into the face of a fair, handsome man, and felt a thrill
of subtle pleasure at his gaze.
When she had drained the glass, he added, kindly:
“My carriage is here; permit me to take you to your destination.”
Floy knew that it was not safe to trust strangers usually; but the
voice and face of this one were so noble they inspired instant
confidence, so she answered, gratefully:
“I will thank you very much,” and, with a grateful smile at the woman,
she followed him to the carriage, saying: “I was on my way to the
station, to go away; but I feel so shaken that I had better postpone my
trip till to-morrow;” and she named the address of Ruth Bascom, with
whom she had been staying while she rallied her courage to return to
Mount Vernon.
It was a long distance, and a sudden mutual attraction between them
made the pair very confidential.
“I am so thankful your injuries are so slight. You might have been
killed,” he began; and the girl answered, sadly enough:
“It would not have mattered much; life is so sad.”
“Sad? For one so young, and--pardon me--so lovely?” exclaimed her new
friend, in surprise.
Floy answered, out of the bitterness of her sad heart:
“I am only a poor orphan, sir, with no relatives and but few friends.
To such a one life offers little happiness.”
“That is true,” assented the nobleman, with keen sympathy; and a great
wave of tenderness swept over him for the lovely, hapless child of
misfortune.
He looked at her simple dress, and guessed that she was poor as well as
orphaned.
He, too, was almost alone in life; but he was rich, so he had many
friends. We can always count our friends when we are rich.
She seemed little more than a child to this man of forty years, and he
felt as if he would like to draw the golden head against his shoulder
and tell her she should be his child, his dear adopted little daughter,
if she would, and that poverty and sorrow, those grim twins, should
never come near her any more.
But he feared to startle her by an abrupt avowal of his benevolent
desire, lest he should arouse distrust in her girlish mind, she looked
so timid and innocent as she sat there by his side, so he decided not
to speak to her abruptly of his wish.