So it happened that on the day when the _Scythia_ came into port--the
same day that Cora Ellyson went to Madame Barto’s at Carey Doyle’s
command--Mrs. Dalrymple lay so ill that Cora felt it wrong to leave the
house even for a moment.
Yet she dared not disobey the commands of her merciless tyrant.
On returning home she received a note from Frank Laurier announcing
that he had arrived in New York that morning and would call on her that
evening. The poor fellow having been parted from Jessie by her own
decree of separation, had no resource now but to return to Cora, and
most bitter indeed was the penalty.
He would never forget that night when his beautiful love had so gently
forbidden him to hope to win her and bade him return to Cora.
Prayers and entreaties were of no avail; she put them gently aside,
saying:
“Even if I loved you, how could I be happy with you when you had broken
another’s heart for my sake?”
True as truth herself, she could not contemplate such treachery calmly,
even though Cora had treated her so cruelly that many would have held
it a fair revenge.
He took her little hand in spite of her protest, and held it, and it
fluttered like a little, white bird in his clasp.
He looked full into her eyes, and, oh, how soft and dark they were, as
if full of unshed tears.
“Answer me one question,” he said: “If I had been free to woo you, if
there had been no Cora who held my promise, could you have given me
your love?”
In the beautiful moonlight he saw her bosom heave with emotion, and she
faltered sadly:
“You must pardon me for not answering that question.”
Then she tore her hand away, and fled from him in the wildest haste. He
saw her no more till next morning in the rush of leaving.
He went up to her, saying:
“We shall be landing presently. Shall I take you to your friends,
Jessie?”
She looked up at him very pale and constrained.
“My--my--friends are very plain, humble people--not at all in your set,
Mr. Laurier.”
“No matter how humble, I would like to see you safely to them,” he said.
“It will not be necessary, I thank you. Mrs. de Vries has lent me the
money for a cab, and I shall know where to go, as I have only been away
from New York two years,” she replied quietly.
“You will at least allow me to see you safely on shore, and to find you
a cab?”
“I shall be very grateful,” with a gentle smile.
After that, in the rush and confusion, he could say no more, but he
stayed by her side and waited through all the excitement of the merry
adieus, noting how popular she had become in the few days on the
_Scythia_, so that every one wished to touch her hand and wish her a
happy future. At last he was leading her down the gangplank, saying
to her with a mournful attempt at cheerfulness that the fire on the
_Atlanta_ had saved them the bother of having their luggage examined
and paying customhouse duties.
A cab was found much sooner than he desired, and he stood by it,
holding her hand very tight, longing to never let it go.
“Are we never to meet again?” he asked mournfully, and she answered,
very low:
“We must, I fear, for our social circles may one day be the same--but
not yet--not until--after you--are--married!”
She almost gasped as she uttered the last words, and tottered into the
taxi, sinking heavily into the seat.
“Where to, lady?” asked the chauffeur, and she whispered a reply that
Frank did not hear.
The door banged, the machine started, and he stood gazing after the
taxi with his heart in his eyes as lonely in that gay, bustling throng
as though stranded on a desert shore.
The world is naught when one is gone
Who was the world. Then the heart breaks
That this is last that once was won.
He hurried to his bachelor lodgings. He had written to his servants to
make ready for his coming. From there he wrote, by and by, the note to
Cora announcing his return, and his intention of calling on her that
evening. He hurried to Mrs. Dalrymple’s mansion that evening, but while
he waited for Cora’s entrance, a sad-faced servant informed him that
she would be with him as soon as she could leave her aunt, who was so
ill that she was not expected to survive the night.
A rush of surprise and grief over this startling news drove his own
troubles, temporarily, from the young man’s mind.
Five minutes later Cora hurried into the room, superbly attired,
dabbing her eyes with a damp handkerchief, inwardly thankful that this
show of grief would account for the vanished luster of her once bright
orbs.
“Frank, dearest!” she cried, throwing herself upon his breast.
They sat down a little apart from each other by his own maneuver, while
he said anxiously:
“This distressing news of Mrs. Dalrymple has driven everything else out
of my head. Is it really so bad, Cora?”
“It is the strangest case I ever heard of, Frank. Aunt Verna has been
steadily declining for long months of a malady so obscure that no
doctor can diagnose it, and she declares herself that it is a breaking
heart.”
“Oh, how sad, how pitiful!” he cried, and his thoughts returned to the
day when he had seen her bending, a sad, black-draped figure, over her
daughter’s bier. So this was the cruel end.
His betrothed continued sorrowfully:
“It will break my heart to lose my dear Aunt Verna, even though I shall
be the heiress of all her millions!”
She thought it was a good idea to remind him slyly of this fact, but he
looked at her coldly.
“You should not be counting on such things, Cora. It sounds mercenary,”
he said, rebukingly, while all the while his eyes were taking in the
change that had come over her once brilliant beauty--faded like a rose
that has languished in the withering heat of an August day.
She looked at him reproachfully:
“Oh, Frank, I did not mean it that way, I love Aunt Verna dearly, and I
am praying that she will not die.”
“Is there the slightest hope?”
“The doctors say if she had some shock to arouse her and draw her
thoughts from herself, it might do good, but she cares about nothing.
She has not shown any animation to-day, except a faint spark of
interest when I told her you were coming.”
“I should so love to see her again. Shall I have that sad pleasure?” he
asked, eager to escape from the tête-à-tête interview with Cora, now
that he could not tax her at once with her treachery.
“She asked that you should come to her a while,” Cora answered, and
then added sobbingly:
“But have you nothing more to say to me, dear Frank, after your long
absence? How cold and careless you seem.”
“Billing and cooing will wait. Let us go to your aunt now, Cora,” he
answered, rising impatiently.