The sound of Irene's pliant young body as it struck the cold waters of
the bay, fell on the wretched mother's heart like a death-blow. The
horrors of this fatal night culminated in this.
One long, terrible shriek as of some wounded, dying creature, startled
the midnight hour with its despairing echoes, then she sprang wildly
forward with the desperate intent to share her daughter's watery grave.
The weakness of her overwrought body saved her from the crime of
self-destruction. Her head reeled, her limbs failed her. As she pushed
the gate open with faltering hands she staggered dizzily and fell like a
log on the hard ground. Merciful unconsciousness had stolen upon her.
That prolonged, despairing shriek reached Guy Kenmore's ears in the
library, where he was gravely conferring with the men who had found Mr.
Brooke dead upon the shore.
His first thought was of Irene. A dreadful foreboding filled his mind.
He rushed from the room and followed the sound, the two men behind, all
terrified alike by the anguish that rang in that mysterious shriek.
Outside the garden gate they found Elaine, lying like one dead on the
hard earth. With tender compassion they lifted the beautiful, rigid form
and bore it into the house.
That long, deep, deathly swoon was the beginning of a severe illness for
Elaine Brooke. It culminated in an attack of brain fever.
On recovering from her long spell of unconsciousness, Elaine revealed
the cause of her illness. Two hours, perhaps, had passed since Irene's
maddened plunge into the water. It was too late to save her then. The
cold waves kept their treasure, refusing to yield it up to the efforts
of those who, headed by Mr. Kenmore, made an ineffectual trial to find
even the cold, dead body of the desperate girl. Dawn broke with all the
roseate beauty of summer, and the golden light glimmered far over land
and sea, but neither the wide waste of waters nor the sandy reaches of
shore gave back sign or token of her who had found life too hard to
bear, and so had sought Nepenthe from its ills and pains.
Guy Kenmore remained to Mr. Brooke's funeral, then returned to Baltimore
a softened, saddened man--a man with a purpose. Two things had confirmed
him in his purpose to trace the writer of the fragment found in the dead
man's hand.
On the night of Mr. Brooke's death no sign of violence had been
discovered on his person. On the day following a purplish mark was
discoverable on the old man's temple--a strange, discolored mark.
Careless lookers believed it to be the effects of decomposition.
Guy Kenmore, studying it with suspicious eyes, believed that it was
caused by a blow--a blow that had caused Ronald Brooke's death.
Another thing was, that when Elaine Brooke went into a delirious fever,
that terrible dawn that broke on the tragic night, he had stood by her
side a few moments, gazing at her in pain and sorrow. While he stood
there she had startled him by calling wildly on one name. It was
"Clarence, Clarence, Clarence!"
He sought Bertha.
"Will you tell me," he asked, gravely, and without preamble, "the name
of the villain who deceived your sister?"
Bertha colored and trembled in shame and agitation.
"I cannot," she answered. "I am under a sacred promise not to reveal
it."
"Was it Clarence Stuart?" he asked, coolly, and Bertha gave a terrible
start.
"She has revealed it in her delirium," she exclaimed.
"Yes," he answered, calmly, knowing that he had surprised the truth from
her reluctant lips.
Walking slowly along the shore, listening to the murmur of the waves, in
which his bride of an hour had sought oblivion from the ills of life,
Guy Kenmore thought it all out to his own satisfaction. That fragmentary
line of a letter had told the whole sad story.
Elaine Brooke had been truly a wife. Her husband's father had deceived
her by a trumped up story, and divided her from her young husband.
Dying, he had repented his sin, and written a letter of confession to
her father.
And here he fitted the second link of the story.
Some person unknown had found it to be against his or her interests that
the truth should be revealed. That person had followed the bearer of
Clarence Stuart's letter, and had torn it from old Ronald Brooke's
grasp, with a blow that meant death to the gentle, kindly old man.
Guy Kenmore honestly believed in the truth and accuracy of these
deductions.
"If I can only find out where these Stuarts live, I will discover the
guilty party," he said to himself. "I will not ask Mrs. Brooke nor
Bertha. They would only believe me impertinent. I must depend on the
gentle Elaine for information."
He concluded to return to his home in Baltimore, and await the issue of
Elaine's illness.