Pansy Laurens meant to keep her word when she wrote to her mother that
she would never come back. She felt that this would be best.
If she remained at home the shadow of her deep disgrace would be
reflected on her family. If she went away people would forget it in
time.
“I should like for them to think that I am dead. Then mamma would not
feel any further anxiety over my fate. Her mind would be easy. She
would feel that I was at rest,” she thought, and it was this that led
her to take away with her a small bundle of clothing marked with her
name, and throw it into the river. “It will be found by some one, and
then they will say that I drowned myself. It will be a great relief to
Willie,” she said to herself, with sorrowful satisfaction, and with a
bravery born of despair, she escaped from her room by means of a rope
plaited of torn sheets.
Her hands were torn and bleeding when she reached the bottom, but,
without a murmur, she took up the bundle she had thrown down, and made
her way to Libby Hill, that beautiful eminence overlooking the historic
James River. She sat down there a while to rest in the soft gleam of
the summer moonlight, and to think of the times when she had met Norman
Wylde there and wandered with him through the beautiful park, while her
young heart thrilled with love, and hope.
“Alas, alas! he was but amusing himself with the humble working girl;
he but plucked the flower of my love to trample it under his feet,” she
murmured, in bitterest despair; and presently she went through the park
and past the line of stately houses that guarded it on the left side,
and dragged herself down the steep declivity to the river.
How beautiful, how silvery white it gleamed in the clear moonlight as
it pursued its winding course toward Chesapeake Bay. The factory girl,
whose soul was deeply imbued with a love of the beautiful, gazed with a
sort of solemn rapture on the magnificent scene outspread before her,
and as she flung her little bundle into the glittering waves, lifted
her sad eyes to heaven, murmuring, in a tone of awe:
“I am tempted to spring into those bright waves and end all my sorrow.”
Then she saw a dark form moving toward her at some little distance, and
fled away, fearing lest she should be arrested by a policeman, for it
was nearing midnight, and she knew that it would seem strange to see a
woman alone in the streets, deserted as they were by almost every one.
She went along slyly and quietly, like a fugitive fleeing from justice,
over the long distance--two miles and more--that intervened between her
and the railway station, at which she meant to take a train for the
West.
How strange it seemed to be stealing along Main Street like a shadow,
frightened at the glare of the street lamps, lest they should reveal
her hurrying form to some alert policeman. She was glad when she
reached Seventeenth Street Market, and darted inside of it, gliding
nervously along between the brick stalls as far as they went, and
coming out at last almost at the end of her journey, for soon Broad
Street was gained, and then, a little later, the depot.
There was a midnight train making up for the West. She hurried to the
ticket office and bought a ticket for Cincinnati.
“I shall be sure to find work in a great big city like that,” she
thought, as she took her place in a car and sank wearily into a seat,
bursting into tears as the whistle blew and the train rushed out of
the station, at the thought that she was leaving behind her forever
mother, home, and native city--dear old Richmond, on its green, smiling
hills--the place where she was born, and where she had spent her
eighteen years of life.
She had never known how well she loved Richmond until she felt herself
leaving it forever behind her, with all the associations so dear to
her heart. Tears blinded her beautiful eyes, and a sort of passionate
hatred for the lover who had wrought her so much woe swelled her young
heart.
“Oh, did he think of all this when he betrayed me?” she wondered
bitterly, and a yearning for revenge came to her, a bitter longing to
pay him back in his own coin for all that she was suffering now.
“Heaven will send me the chance, and I will wring his heart as he has
tortured mine,” she vowed to herself, with eyes that flashed through
her tears, and just then the conductor came along to take up the
tickets.
The car was not crowded, and he had time to observe how Pansy’s face
was all wet with tears, and how nervously her little hand shook when
she presented her ticket.
“Are you ill, miss?” he asked politely. “Can I do anything for you?”
“No, I am not ill; there is nothing I wish, thank you,” she answered;
but, as she saw how surprised he looked, she added: “I was only crying
because I am leaving my native city forever, to go among strangers. I
am an orphan, and must seek work in the West.”
“I should think you could certainly find work in Richmond,” he said;
but she shook her head and put her hand to her white throat in such a
pathetic way that he knew she was choked with tears.
He turned away with a heart full of pity, thinking of his own pretty
daughter at home, and hoping that she might never come to this. The
next day he heard that a beautiful young working girl of Richmond had
drowned herself in the James River, and his thoughts involuntarily flew
to the one who had left Richmond last night, although he did not think
of connecting the two together, save as sisters in sorrow.
“There was a tragedy of woe in the beautiful face of that orphan girl,”
he thought often, for the memory of her grief did not fade from his
mind for some time.
Pansy was touched by his manly sympathy, but she pretended not to
notice it. She did not want him to find out who she was, or anything
about her, lest it should interfere with the success of her plan for
making everybody believe she was dead.
But, oh, that long, weary night in which she was whirled away so
rapidly from all that she had ever known--it would stay in her memory
forever, with all its pain and sadness.
When they reached Staunton, quite a large crowd came in, and there was
another conductor, who had so many tickets to take up that he did not
pay much attention to the sad young traveler who seemed so lonely and
friendless, and who at last fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion, and
did not awaken for many hours afterward--not, in fact, until a terrible
railroad collision near Louisville, Kentucky, derailed the train and
sent many of the passengers into their last long sleep.
Pansy was rudely awakened by the shock and jar, and found herself
fastened down beneath some timbers which had, fortunately, formed a
sort of arch over her form, holding her down, yet still protecting her,
so that she was quite unhurt, although so frightened that she fainted
dead away at hearing the shrieks of the wounded and dying all around
her.
Busy, helpful hands were soon at work, and within an hour she was
released from her uncomfortable position. They carried her out into a
grassy field, where the survivors of the accident were sitting around
in the burning sunshine. Pansy was struck by one lady, who looked as if
she were far gone in consumption, and who was sobbing bitterly over the
death of her maid.
“I was quite alone but for her, and we were traveling to California for
my health,” she said. “Oh, I know not what to do! I am too weak and ill
to travel alone.”
Pansy went up to the poor invalid, and said timidly:
“Lady, I am an orphan, and I was going to Cincinnati to seek for work.
Perhaps you would be willing to take me in the place of your maid that
was killed. I would try very hard to please you.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, my child! I am only too glad to get some one
to go on with me,” cried the invalid, eagerly accepting the offer.