THE DEATH OF ESTHER.
"What shrieking spirit in that bloody room
Its mortal frame hath violently quitted?
Across the moonbeam, with a sudden gleam,
A ghostly shadow flitted."--HOOD.
For a moment he stood still, stunned and bewildered. Understand? Yes, he
understood her too well.
He approached the bed, and softly drew back the heavy, dark curtains.
Lying there, in a troubled sleep, lay a young girl, whose face was
whiter than the pillow which supported her. Her long hair streamed in
wild disorder over her shoulders, and added to the wanness of her pale
face.
She moaned and turned restlessly on her pillow, and opened a pair of
large, wild eyes, and fixed them on the unprepossessing face bending
over her. With lips and eyes opened with terror, she lay gazing, until
he said, in as gentle a voice as he could assume;
"Do not be afraid of me--I am the doctor. Can I do anything for you,
child?"
"Yes, yes," she replied, faintly; "give me a drink."
He turned hastily toward the table, feeling so giddy he could scarcely
stand. A tiny vial, containing a clear, colorless liquid, attracted his
eye. He took it up and examined it, and setting his teeth hard together,
poured its contents into a glass. Then filling it with water he
approached the bed, and raising her head, pressed it to her lips. His
hand trembled so he spilt it on the quilt. The young girl lifted her
wild, troubled eyes, and fixed them on his face with a gaze so long and
steady that his own fell beneath it.
"Drink!" he said, hoarsely, still pressing it to her lips.
Without a word she obeyed, draining it to the last drop. Then laying her
back on the pillow, he drew the curtain and left the room.
Mrs. Oranmore was sitting, as she had sat all the evening, stern and
upright in her chair. She lifted her keen eyes as he entered, and
encountered a face so pallid and ghastly that she almost started. Doctor
Wiseman tottered rather than walked to a seat.
"Well?" she said, inquiringly.
"Well," he replied, hoarsely, "I have obeyed you."
"That _is_ well. But pray, Doctor Wiseman, take a glass of wine; you are
positively trembling like a whipped schoolboy. Go to the sideboard; nay,
do not hesitate; _it_ is not poisoned."
Her withering sneer did more toward reviving him than any wine could
have done. His excitement was gradually cooling down beneath those calm,
steady eyes, bent so contemptuously upon him.
He drank a glass of wine, and resumed his seat before the fire, watching
sullenly the dying embers.
"Well, you have performed your task?"
"I have, madam, and earned my reward."
"Not quite, doctor; the infant is yet to be disposed of."
"Must it die, too?"
"Yes, but not here. You must remove it, in any way you please, but death
is the safest, the surest."
"And why not here?"
"Because I do not wish it," she answered, haughtily; "that is enough for
you, sirrah! You must take the child away to-night."
"What shall I do with it?"
"Dolt! blockhead! have you no brains?" she said, passionately. "Are you
aware ten minutes' walk will bring you to the sea-side? Do you know the
waves refuse nothing, and tell no tales? Never hesitate, man! You have
gone too far to draw back. Think of the reward; one thousand dollars for
ten minutes' work! Tush, doctor! I protest, you're trembling like a
nervous girl."
"Is it not enough to make one tremble?" retorted the doctor, roused to
something like passion by her deriding tone; "two murders in one
night--is that _nothing_?"
"Pshaw! no--a sickly girl and a puling child more or less in the world
is no great loss. Hark!" she added, rising suddenly, as a wild, piercing
shriek of more than mortal agony broke from the room where Esther lay.
"Did you hear that?"
Hear it! The man's face was horribly ghastly and livid, as shriek after
shriek, wild, piercing, and shrill with anguish, burst upon his ear.
Great drops of perspiration stood on his brow--his teeth chattered as
though by an ague fit, and he trembled so perceptibly that he was forced
to grasp the chair for support.
Not so the woman. She stood calm, listening with perfect composure to
the agonizing cries, that were growing fainter and fainter each moment.
"It is well none of the servants are in this end of the house," she
said, quietly; "or those loud screams would be overheard, and might
give rise to disagreeable remarks."
Receiving no answer from her companion, she turned to him, and seeing
the look of horror on his ghastly face, her lip curled with involuntary
scorn. It was strange she could stand there so unmoved, knowing herself
to be a murderess, with the dying cries of her victim still ringing in
her ears.
They ceased at last--died away in a low, despairing moan, and then all
grew still. The deep, solemn silence was more appalling than her shrieks
had been, for they well knew they were stilled forever in death.
"All is over!" said Mrs. Oranmore, drawing a deep breath.
"Yes," was the answer, in a voice so hoarse and unnatural, that it
seemed to issue from the jaws of death.
Again she looked at him, and again the mocking smile curled her lip.
"Doctor," she said, quietly, "you are a greater coward than I ever took
you to be. I am going in now to see her--you had better follow me, if
you are not _afraid_."
How sardonic was the smile which accompanied these words. Stunned,
terrified as he was, it stung him, and he started after her from the
room.
They entered the chamber of the invalid. Mrs. Oranmore walked to the
bed, drew back the curtains, and disclosed a frightful spectacle.
Half sitting, half lying, in a strange, distorted attitude she had
thrown herself into in her dying agony, her lips swollen and purple, her
eyes protruding, her hair torn fiercely out by the roots, as she had
clutched it in her fierce anguish, was Esther.
The straining eyeballs were ghastly to look upon--the once beautiful
face was now swollen and hideous, as she lay stark dead in that lonely
room.
Moment after moment passed away, while the murderers stood silently
gazing on their victim. The deep silence of midnight was around--nothing
was heard save the occasional drifting of the snow against the windows.
A stern, grave smile hovered on the lips of Mrs. Oranmore, as she gazed
on the convulsed face of the dead girl. Drawing the quilt at last over
her, she turned away, saying, mockingly:
"Where now, Esther Oranmore, is the beauty of which you were so proud?
This stark form and ghastly face is now all that remains of the beauty
and heiress of Squire Erliston. Such shall be the fate, sooner or later,
of all who dare to thwart me."
Her eyes flamed upon the shrinking man beside her, with an expression
that made him quake. A grim smile of self-satisfied power broke over her
dark face as she observed it, and her voice had a steely tone of
command, as she said:
"Now for the child. It must be immediately disposed of."
"And _she_?" said the doctor, pointing to the bed.
"I shall attend to that."
"If you like, madam, I will save you the trouble."
"No, sir," she replied, sharply; "though in life my enemy, her remains
shall never be given up to the dissecting-knife. I have not forgotten
she is a gentleman's daughter, and as such she shall be interred. Now
you may go. Wrap the child in this, and--_return without her_!"
"You shall be obeyed, madam," said Doctor Wiseman, catching the
infection of her reckless spirit. He stooped and raised the infant, who
was still in a deep sleep.
Muffling it carefully in the shawl, he followed the lady from the room,
and cautiously quitted the house.
The storm had now passed away; the piercing wind had died out, and the
midnight moon sailed in unclouded majesty through the deep blue sky,
studded with myriads of burning stars.
The cool night air restored him completely to himself.
Holding the still sleeping infant closer in his arms, he hurried on,
until he stood on the sloping bank commanding a view of the bay.
The tide was rising. The waves came splashing in on the beach--the white
foam gleaming coldly brilliant in the moonlight. The waters beyond
looked cold, and sluggish, and dark--moaning in a strange, dreary way as
they swept over the rocks. How _could_ he commit the slumbering infant
to those merciless waves? Depraved and guilty as he was, he hesitated.
It lay so confidingly in his arms, slumbering so sweetly, that his heart
smote him. Yet it must be done.
He descended carefully to the beach, and laying his living bundle on the
snowy sands, stood like Hagar, a distance off, to see it die.
In less than ten minutes, he knew, the waves would have washed it far
away.
As he stood, with set teeth and folded arms, the merry jingle of
approaching sleigh-bells broke upon his startled ear. They were
evidently approaching the place where he stood. Moved by a sudden
impulse of terror, he turned and fled from the spot.
Guilt is ever cowardly. He sped on, scarcely knowing whither he went,
until in his blind haste he ran against a watchman.
The unexpected shock sent both rolling over in the snow, which
considerably cooled the fever in Doctor Wiseman's blood. The indignant
"guardian of night," with an exclamation which wouldn't look well in
print, laid hold of the doctor's collar. But there was vigor in Doctor
Wiseman's dwarfed body, and strength in his long, lean arms; and with a
violent effort he wrenched himself free from the policeman's tenacious
grasp, and fled.
"Charley" started in pursuit, and seeing he would soon be overtaken, the
doctor suddenly darted into the high, dark portico of an
imposing-looking house, and soon had the satisfaction of beholding the
angry watchman tear past like a comet, in full pursuit.