AN ACCIDENT. A BEAUTIFUL FAMILIAR FACE.
"You never can make a crab walk straight."
--Aristoparus.
Two years have rolled past since men in business circles had been called
upon to lament the departure of Edward Litchfield and his ill gotten
gains.
"What makes Nellie so restless? Is the harness on them all right?" Cyril
Fanchon surveys his span of beautiful black horses rather anxiously.
"She's all right, sir, just a trick that of hers."
Fanchon gets in and slams too the door. Certainly he never remembers the
horses to act so before; the carriage rocks wildly from side to side.
Heavens! they are beyond the man's control, they are running away. Loud
cries of "stop them, stop them," rings in his ears, there is a sudden
plunge, a crash, and all is still. Fortunately there was a doctor on the
spot, he orders the unconscious man to be taken into the convent just
opposite. The sisters were good at nursing, it could have happened
nowhere more desirable. The dead leaves lay thick and yellow on the
ground around the convent of St. Marguerite, the cruel winds have lately
robbed the trees of all their pretty green foliage, leaving them grim
and leafless, tossing their gaunt limbs sadly with the autumn's blast.
The air is chilly; there is a decided sense of frost in the atmosphere.
Sister Jean hurries in at a small side door; she is very tired, for she
has been sitting up all night with a sick woman.
"Sister, there has been an accident; a man is hurt, he is here in room
five; will you watch by him after you have rested?" says the Mother
Superior, meeting her in the hall.
"Is he very bad?"
"Yes; but of course we cannot say just yet. We will do all we can; if it
is useless the fault will not be laid at our door," answers mother St.
Marguerite, selecting a certain key from a string hanging at her side.
Sister Jean hurries to her room, removes her long black cloak, and sits
down for a moment to collect her tired senses. No, she will not rest
now, there may be something she can do for the sufferer down stairs. She
goes down, opens the door softly, and enters. The room is so dark, that
for a minute or two nothing is discernable. Then mother St. Marguerite
steps out from the shadows, and says in a whisper:
"Just sit by and watch for any movement." Then she and the doctor pass
out, and Sister Jean approaches the bed where her patient lies.
"God help me," she cries, falling on her knees beside the bed. "Dare I
stay here? Can my strength sustain me, to remain? Oh! will it? Has
Heaven indeed at last avenged me?"
The eyes of the sick man are upon her, she holds her breath, then the
room seems to swim around, as the weak voice says distinctly:
"Jantie, is this my Jantie?" The eyes close, and Cyril Fanchon is again
unconscious. When five minutes later mother St. Marguerite enters, she
finds the sister in a dead faint near the door.
Two months later, on a cold December afternoon, when the snow is piled
up in high drifts around the convent of St. Marguerite, a man, muffled
in furs, is walking up and down impatiently in the parlour or visitors'
room at the convent. From the next room comes the music of a violin, it
is evident one of the pupils is taking lessons. The door opens, he turns
abruptly.
"Sir Barry Traleigh."
"Jantie!" sister Jean's hands are clasped warmly in the man's. "The same
pretty Jantie of old, only a litter paler. Why did you run away, little
one, and leave us all?" Sir Barry asks playfully.
"Oh, Sir, I could not stay there after--"
Sir Barry gets up and walks hastily to the window, and, coming back,
says gently:
"You will pardon me for asking you something painful?" Jantie raises her
pale face.
"Oh, Sir, nothing hurts my feelings now; sometimes I forget I have any
left." Sir Barry laughs.
"A girl like you talking such nonsense; why child, your life has
scarcely begun." He feels so sorry, so unutterably sorry for her.
"Tell me Jantie, have you any idea where your--where Cyril Fanchon is?"
The fire in the grate crackles and snaps cheerily, Jantie looks at the
glowing coals, then she asks:
"Why do you come here to ask me that, Sir Barry?"
"My dear, you may be sure it is not from idle curiosity. A very dear
friend of mine has been almost ruined by his partner; his name was
Fanchon, but he is here in this house, so ill he can neither confess his
guilt, if he be guilty, nor defend himself, if he is innocent. Tell me
honestly, Jantie, do you know the man here sick?"
The falling snow outside comes in spiteful little flakes, and slaps
against the heavily curtained window. Jantie shivers; surely she can
trust the man beside her, who has always proved her friend.
"Sir Barry, he is my husband, the man for whom I left home and
everything," bitterly. "But, Sir Barry, he wronged me; for when I found
him he was already married. Yes, he had a wife and two children." The
voice is low. Sir Barry looks incredulous.
"Impossible, the villain."
"Ah, but I saw them, I knew it was true, so I came here; I have long ago
forgiven him, Sir Barry, and I want you to do the same."
The door opens, and mother St. Marguerite enters. Sir Barry starts to
his feet. Good Heavens! who was this?
"Sister Jean, it is your hour to watch by your charge." The door closes,
but Sir Barry's eyes seem fascinated. What makes him feel so strangely?
Where had he seen that face before, where? Why, has it stirred the very
depths of his heart?
"That was the Mother Superior, Sir Barry, the best and noblest woman in
the world. She gave up home and friends to found this convent, and there
is no need to say she has succeeded in doing Heaven's work among all who
are in need or trouble. Every one blesses the name of mother St.
Marguerite. But will you excuse me now, Sir Barry, I am sorry it is
impossible to remain longer away from my patient."
Sister Jean has nursed the man most faithfully, who had so basely
deceived her. She has spared neither time nor rest; she will do for him
all she can.
Sir Barry takes his leave; he is haunted by that face; he is scarcely
himself; it is imperative that he should act, or he will lose his
senses. His ears are caught by a voice that sounds familiar. Just ahead
are a lady and gentleman. The man, Sir Barry immediately decides he does
not know.
"Just wait here for a moment and I will inquire," Sir Barry hears him
say to his companion, as he darts into a store.
Surely Sir Barry knows that perfect figure with its pretty suit of
velvet and fur.
The lady turns her head and sees him.
"Why, Sir Barry, is it really you?"
"Miss Grey, I was sure I knew you, the back of your head had such a well
known look."
Yes, it is stately, pleasant Blondine Grey, every whit as charming as
when Sir Barry saw her last in Italy.
"And Miss Litchfield, how or where is she?"
Blondine's pretty face clouds.
"Poor Dolores, they have had such a trying time; of course you have
heard about the trouble, Sir Barry."
Sir Barry looked grave, and said he thought he had heard something about
it.
"I am going to see Dolores, as soon as Uncle Dick settles up some
affairs; there is a very nice place, quite near where they live, that I
want Uncle Dick to buy, and erect a summer residence, or winter either,
if we should like the place very much."
Sir Barry sees Miss Grey's escort looking daggers at him, so raises his
hat, and bids Blondine good-bye. He is gone; and Blondine had so many
questions to ask him, oh dear; she wishes she could call him back again,
but the corner hid Sir Barry's retreating form from Blondine's wistful
eyes.
Then the remembrance of the face in the convent comes back to Sir Barry
Traleigh, and he remembers where he has seen that wonderful face before,
knows why it has raised such a flood of remembrance in his heart, and
almost set his brain on fire. His mind is fully made up, that he will
lose no more time in beating around the bush, he will do according to
the dictates of his heart. "Faint heart never won fair lady," and Sir
Barry determines he will be no coward. He set himself a task, and now
when he is about to succeed, is his pluck going to desert him? he thinks
not.