THE MIDNIGHT RIDE.
Clarence Brooks sat on the stoop, into which his room opened, that
night, thinking over the last few weeks in his mind. How could he have
been so utterly deceived. Why had this girl, loving another, engaged
herself to him? Was it in human nature to feign that purest and holiest
of all passions so thoroughly? No, he could not believe that. Whatever
had been, Virginia Lander loved him then—to believe otherwise would be
horrible. That she had fallen into a serious, perhaps disgraceful
entanglement with some unprincipled man, it was impossible to doubt, but
she was young, inexperienced—no, no, he could not say that, remembering
all she had said to him—how earnest and true she had seemed. The girl
was artful, unprincipled, worthless. Yet he could not fling her entirely
from his heart. Some designing man, with the aid of that singular little
hunchback, had perverted her into the thing she was. What had they
really intended? If she did not love him, why—
He paused, angry with himself. The girl was not worth thinking about.
Yet if, by a miracle, she should prove innocent—that was, of course, an
impossibility. Cora Lander had no motive for deceiving him. She did not
know of his engagement or dream of the secret meetings which had so
ensnared him. That secrecy, which seemed so pleasant at first, veiling
his love with a sort of romance—why had he never suspected its true
meaning before? She would have married him; her earnestness on this
point was evident enough. But why?—Did she know him to be a wealthy man?
He had never told her so much till the very day of their engagement, and
she had no means of understanding the fact. If money was not her object,
where was the motive for all this deception? That letter, in the very
handwriting which had been worn against his heart, had method, decision
in every word. It was not the language of a young girl wildly in love.
How far had Ellen Nolan influenced the destiny of her benefactress? Was
it this strange girl who had led her into the meshes of a deception so
debasing? He remembered with what noiseless facility she had disappeared
whenever he wished to converse with Virginia. Had this been a practice
with her? Was she indeed the crafty little thing such conduct would
bespeak her?
To these questions of the brain, Clarence Brooks’ heart was constantly
answering, “no!” But for the letter in his pocket he would have cast off
all that burning load of suspicions and trusted to the simple denial of
a young creature, whose very presence was a contradiction of everything
evil. True, she had seemed willing to make an unnecessary secret of her
acquaintance with himself—had met him over and over again in the
solitude of that glen, with no companion but that little hunchbacked
imp, as he called Ellen in his mind, for he remembered with bitter
disgust how she had pleaded with him not to speak of his engagement that
night when she came alone to his hotel.
“I will search this to the bottom,” he promised himself, “and either
rescue her from these people or force the man, whoever he is, to come
out openly and claim her. She is lost to me, I know that,” he added,
with a swelling heart, “but having consecrated her with a love, pure as
man ever felt for woman, I will not abandon her to the fate which may
prove a terrible one.”
Brooks was thinking in this generous way when he heard the sound of a
horse coming along the road, evidently treading upon the turfy border.
His heart stood still; muffled as it was, he knew the fall of those
light hoofs, and listened breathlessly. Directly a white horse, with a
woman upon its back, rode slowly over the little plank bridge. The lady
turned her face toward the hotel, looking partly backward, and he saw
the face plainly as clear moonlight could reveal it. The long feather,
which he had seen Virginia wear so often, fell to the shoulder nearest
him, but that only established her identity in his mind.
Directly after she crossed the bridge, the lady evidently put her horse
to his speed, for the quick clatter of his hoofs sounded distinctly
along the road, beating down that noble heart with every step.
As the noise died away, Brooks arose and staggered back against the
window-frame sick at heart. Up to this moment he had not given up all
hope that, by some miracle, the woman he loved might be cleared from the
suspicion which wounded him so terribly. But now all was over. His own
eyes had witnessed what his heart ached to disbelieve. She was lost to
him forever, but he still hoped not to herself.
He went into his sitting-room and paced it up and down for half an hour,
growing stern and resolute every minute.
“I will wait for her here,” he said; “as she crosses that bridge I will
stand before her horse and demand the truth from her own lips; she shall
not plunge over this precipice without some one to hold her back.”
His voice shook under the blow he had received. As the poor artist picks
up the scattered fragments of a statue which he has just fashioned into
beauty only to see shattered at his feet, he resolved to rescue some
peace of mind out of the chaos of this ruin for the only woman he had
ever loved. With this generous resolve in his heart, he sat down
patiently and waited.
It was between twelve and one o’clock when faint sounds of a coming
horse aroused him from the stupor of grief into which he had fallen. He
listened, stood up and looked out upon the road. Surely there was more
than one horse coming, and at a sharp pace too. His chair stood in a
shadowy end of the porch, and he sat down again so far out of sight that
no one but a keen observer could have discovered his presence there.
That double sound of hoofs came along the road so swiftly that two
horses appeared above the bridge with a suddenness that startled him. It
was the white horse with that lady rider, and a dark bay, ridden by a
man. The two came neck and neck on to the bridge, and drew up there in
the full sheen of the moonlight. The man and the woman seemed to be
conversing together in low voices. As they talked, their horses veered a
little and backed toward the farther side of the bridge, turning those
two human faces directly toward the hotel. Brooks started to his feet
and leaned forward, struck with sudden panic of suspicion, but as yet
uncertain. The man took off his hat, reined his horse close up to the
lady’s, threw an arm around her waist and kissed her, more than once,
with what seemed the passionate earnestness of a farewell.
This was neither resented nor shrunk from by the lady. To the reverse,
when her companion put on his hat and turned his horse, she wheeled
after him, leaned from her saddle and offered her lips to him again.
Then the two parted, one galloping up the road at full speed, the other
moving more cautiously toward the Lander mansion. Clarence Brooks fell
back to his chair, uttering a single sentence: “That man!”
The next morning Virginia and Ellen started for the city by an early
train. At the same hour Clarence Brooks was riding toward the Longstone
tavern where he had eaten that pleasant dinner, it seemed to him ages
ago. The landlord met him at the door, beaming with hospitality.
“Was it the gentleman who came day before yesterday, the same that put
up, for a week or two, in that second-rate affair just above the lower
depot, some time since—no wonder he wanted a change for the better—was
that the man?”
“Yes,” Brooks replied, staggering under the new proof which lay in the
landlord’s speech. “Yes, it is that man I wish to find.”
“Oh, sir, he went away this morning, I took him to the upper depot in my
own buggy.”
“Has he ever been here before? No, not even for a ride. The folks down
yonder say he kept mighty quiet, going a trout-fishing up the brook that
runs through the Lander grounds, but never ketchen none. From something
that happened here last night, I reckon one could make a guess about
that.”
Brooks turned away, heart-sick, but came back directly, and asked if the
landlord knew where his guest of the night before could be found in the
city.
No, the landlord could not exactly tell; but, from something he
overheard the young man saying to a boy that came with him that rainy
day, he thought it was —— street, somewhere near Madison Avenue.
A flush of red came into Brooks’ face. He remembered the locality of a
house in that direction perfectly, a singular house, with a back drapery
of vines, and a fountain raining water drops down among flowers in
front. He thanked the landlord, ordered a glass of wine as an excuse for
leaving a dollar behind him, and rode away.
An hour after, he called on Cora Lander, who came down to meet him with
an anxious face.
“She has gone, and taken the hunchback with her,” she said, in great
seeming agitation. “The jewels, too, I can find them nowhere; they
belonged to my poor mother; but for that I would not care.”
“Belonged to your mother, and gone with her! Why this is—”
“Hush, hush—not that—I did not mean it. She claims that my father gave
them to her—perhaps he did. Aunt Eliza thinks so. I only wish that they
shall not go out of the family. There is a double string of pearls, with
pear-shaped pendants, which has been in the family a long time. If she
will only give me a chance to buy them back, it is all I ask. This
wretched man may have their value and welcome.”
“Miss Lander, do you, know where your cousin will stay while she is in
town?”
“I am not certain; she may go to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, but I rather
fancy she will prefer a house that my father used to occupy winters,
when we were at school. I have not had the heart to visit it since we
came home, but she has been there often, I think.”
“Does any other person live there, Miss Lander?”
“Yes, a servant; some one has always been left in charge. It is a pretty
place, and my father loved it so, I gave my agent orders to keep it in
good condition. Some day I hope to find courage to visit it, but not
yet.”
No violets after a rain ever looked more touchingly beautiful than Cora
Lander’s eyes as she said this.
“What do you fear so much, Miss Lander? Is it that your cousin will
marry this brother of Ellen Nolan?”
“Yes, I fear that; she has not been kind to me, but I could not hear to
see her thrown away upon an adventurer like him; for he must be an
adventurer.”
“She shall never marry him. Leave that to me!”
“How kind you are—how—forgive me, I hardly know what I am saying; this
has made me so nervous; not to tell any one that she was going—I have
not deserved this. Indeed, indeed I have not.”
Cora turned away and wiped her eyes on a handkerchief taken hastily from
her pocket, but they filled again instantly.
“Have you any idea to whom they would go with those jewels?”
“It is impossible to say; perhaps Lawyer Stone would help them. He knows
Virginia, and was my father’s lawyer. In fact he is one of the executors
of his will.”
“What is Mr. Stone’s address?”
Cora gave the address, but added, with great feeling:
“Don’t say a word, I beseech you, that will lead him to think there is
anything wrong. If we save my poor cousin, it must be entirely without
stain or blemish. So far, the secret of her imprudence rests with us. It
shall never go farther if I can help it.”
“Have no fear, Miss Lander; you can trust this whole affair safely with
me. It is a sad, hard task, but I will perform it.”
Brooks was very pale that morning, and there was a strange tone in his
voice; but his eyes bespoke a steady, firm resolution. He was going
away, when Cora followed him.
“When may I see you again?” she questioned. “I shall feel so anxious, so
lonely.”
“When your cousin is safe, not before.”
She lifted her eyes to his; he turned away, their soft expression so
resembled Virginia’s that it made him recoil.
“Farewell, then, till you bring me good news.”
“Farewell,” he answered, and added as he went along, “There will never
be good news for me in this world again. God is my judge, I only do this
to save her.”
A down train came shrieking along as he descended the terrace steps, and
a boy met him at the depot with a small valise. He took the valise,
sprang into the car, and was whirled off on his painful errand.
The first person Brooks went to after reaching the city was Lawyer
Stone. He inquired of that gentleman if Miss Lander had been there that
morning.
Lawyer Stone admitted that Miss Virginia Lander had just left the
office, with a very singular little friend, whom she had saved from
drowning, he believed.
Mr. Brooks then observed, with great quietness:
“Yes, I know, she came on special business, to raise money on some
jewels, I believe.”
“You seem to be entirely in the young lady’s confidence,” said the
lawyer, smiling.
“So far that I know she is in want of money, and am willing to advance
all she may require—that is, in behalf of Miss Cora Lander, who does not
wish her cousin to want for money, or anything else. As her agent, I am
ready to arrange this matter with you.”
“If Miss Lander is so generous,” answered Stone, drily, “I wonder she
did not prevent the necessity of this application on her cousin’s part.”
“She was not informed of any necessity, and only heard of it by
accident. Even now I must stipulate that her name shall not be mentioned
in the transaction.”
“I shall respect the lady’s secret,” said the lawyer, coldly. “When will
it be her pleasure to pay over the money?”
“On the day after to-morrow. Will that be time enough?”
“I am not sure, the young lady seems in great haste. But I doubt very
much if she could get it so soon from any other source, so we must be
satisfied. I am no judge of this kind of security. You may not find
these gimcracks of sufficient value for the money.”
“If it is convenient, let me see them.”
Mr. Stone took an inlaid box from his desk and turned several jewel
cases from it to the table.
“Here is something she thinks very valuable,” he said, opening a morocco
case and revealing a double string of pearls coiled around a red satin
cushion.
“They are of sufficient value, no matter about the rest,” said Brooks,
looking sadly at the pearls, but without touching them. “How much money
does she want?”
“Three thousand dollars.”
“It shall be ready at the time I mentioned. As for these things, keep
them in your own possession. Miss Lander wants neither security nor
repayment from her cousin. But say nothing of this at present. We can
trust you to return them to her at the proper time. When Miss Virginia
comes, simply tell her that the money will be ready at the time
mentioned. Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” answered the lawyer, sweeping the jewels back into their
box. “A good-looking fellow, and came just in the right time, for I
haven’t the least idea that anybody else would have advanced half the
amount on these things. What on earth does the girl want with so much
money, I wonder? I would have refused to help her, but I knew well
enough that some one would direct her to a pawnbroker’s, where Mrs.
Lander’s pearls would have cut a pretty figure. Who is this fellow? I
suspect the three thousand dollars will come out of his pocket. That
girl does not pay it, I’ll be sworn.”
Muttering these words, the shrewd lawyer locked the jewels up in his
safe and was soon lost in a pile of papers which lay, with a piece of
red tape loosely twisted about them, on his table, for he had been
disturbed while untying the parcels, first by Miss Virginia Lander and
then by Clarence Brooks, in a fashion which took him so completely out
of his usual routine that he found some difficulty in getting into
groove again.