WRECK OF THE LIMITED.
As the man recklessly threw that last poisoned lance at Allison,
he turned and abruptly left the room, without waiting to note what
effect his words would have upon her.
She was almost paralyzed for a moment, in view of the fiendish plan
which she now saw he was contemplating.
Then she nervously sank into her chair again, too weak to
stand--too wretched to care much whether she lived or died.
“Oh, I believe it is all a plot of his own making!” she sighed. “I
feel as if I had become entangled in some net, from which there is
no hope of escape, and I am sure I do not know to whom I can look
for help in this terrible emergency. Gerald has gone--how strange!
I cannot understand why he should not have confided the fact to me.”
A bitter sob interrupted her at this point, for she was deeply
wounded by her lover’s apparent neglect of her.
She was indeed in a trying position. She did not know what to
do or to whom to turn. Her cousin, Mrs. Manning, was, as she
supposed, still abroad; she could not tell her troubles to mere
acquaintances, and she felt utterly alone.
“Can it be possible that I am no longer I--Allison Brewster? Am
I indeed only a poor little waif who was deserted almost at my
birth?” she sighed wearily, as she drew the box again toward her,
and examined, once more, the little garments it contained and the
golden key with the tiny diamond set in the heart of the pansy.
“What does it unlock I wonder?” she murmured thoughtfully; “or is
it only an ornament? If so, it is a queer device, for it certainly
is a perfect key.”
Then she reread the note supposed to have been penned by the hand
of her real mother, and after that the letter written by Mrs.
Brewster.
“Poor, dear mama! How she must have suffered to have had such a
secret upon her mind! But both she and papa loved me as if I had
been their very own,” she mused, as she touched the closely written
pages to her lips.
After that she sat a long time, thinking, and trying to decide what
she should do to wrest her heritage from the greedy clutch of John
Hubbard and his accomplices, as she regarded them.
“I have no money, except what I have saved from my allowance,
and that, I fear, would not be a tempting retaining fee for any
reliable lawyer. Then I wonder if papa would want all that past
experience of his life raked over, to become subjects of discussion
for a scandal-loving public? If that woman’s story is true, it
proves that mama was never a lawful wife, even though papa may have
believed he was free when he married her. Ah! he was so fond of
her; it would certainly have deeply wounded him to have the truth
known, and I would not wish to do anything to bring reproach upon
the memory of either of them.”
It was a trying position for the tender-hearted, conscientious
girl, and she was sorely perplexed. On the one hand, if she made
no effort to recover the fortune which her father had willed to
her, she would be reduced to abject poverty; on the other hand, it
seemed as if she would only be turning to sting the hearts that had
nourished her by entailing opprobrium upon their names.
Finally she returned the clothing and letters to the box, carefully
locking it, and putting the key in her purse. Then she went wearily
up-stairs to her room.
The next morning Allison purposely delayed going down to breakfast
until after John Hubbard had left the house for his usual trip to
New York.
Thus she was alone at the table, and, while she went through the
form of breaking her fast, she took up the morning paper, which her
guardian had left lying beside her plate and began to glance over
its columns.
Suddenly she started and uttered a joyful cry as her eye caught the
following paragraph:
“We learn from a Boston correspondent that the talented
artist, Mr. Charles Manning, has recently returned from his
long sojourn in Rome, where he has been pursuing his chosen
profession under most favorable auspices, and established himself
with his charming family in Boston, where he has some important
commissions--one of which is the decoration of the ceiling of the
elegant banquet hall of the ---- House, a magnificent hotel which
has recently been erected in that city. It is probable that,
later, he will return to and locate in New York, where he will
be warmly welcomed back to the circle from which both he and his
cultivated wife have so long been missed. They are now stopping
at the Vendome.”
“Oh, could! anything have happened more opportunely?” Allison
breathed, with a sob of thankfulness, as she laid down the paper to
wipe the blinding tears from her eyes. “Cousin Charlie will be just
the one to help me out of this dreadful trouble, and Annie will
gladly take me under the friendly shelter of her wing until I can
free myself from this hateful bondage to John Hubbard.”
She sat absorbed in thought for some time; then, with an air of
decision, continued:
“Yes, I believe I will go at once to Boston, without saying a word
to any one, and put myself under their protection. Ah, I feel like
a new creature, now that I know that friends and help are near!”
Her appetite seemed to return to her, in view of this solution of
her difficulties, and, after eating a hearty meal, she was almost
gay as she arose from the table and ran up-stairs to prepare for
her journey.
She thought it would hardly be kind to leave the house without some
explanation to Mrs. Hubbard, who had invariably been very good to
her; therefore, she would tell her that she was going to New York,
and might not be back that day. This would give her time to get
well on her way to Boston without the fear of being detained by the
authority of her guardian.
She knew, of course, that considerable excitement would ensue upon
the discovery of her disappearance, but this did not trouble her,
for, once she was safe under Mr. Manning’s protection, she intended
to utterly repudiate Mr. Hubbard’s guardianship and appeal to the
court to appoint her cousin’s husband in his place.
She packed her valuables and some necessary clothing in a
portmanteau, thinking that she could easily have her trunks
expressed to her later.
She was careful, however, to take along with her the box which
contained the proofs that she was not Adam Brewster’s child; for,
although it had brought her only sorrow, it might become important
to her in the future.
But a sudden thought came to her as she was about to pack it with
her other things; and, reopening it, she took out the little golden
key which had so excited her curiosity when she had previously
examined it.
“I will always wear it, after this. I will play that it is my
mascot, and perhaps it will bring me good luck,” she said to
herself, with a queer little smile.
She had a pretty gold chain among her jewelry, and, attaching
the key to this, she clasped it around her neck and concealed it
beneath her dress.
Then, rapidly completing her packing, she rang for a servant to
order the carriage around to take her to the station, after which
she dressed herself in a plain dark-gray traveling-suit, and then
went to tell Mrs. Hubbard that she was going to run down to New
York for a day or so.
This announcement did not trouble or surprise the old lady, for
Allison often made the trip alone to do shopping for herself, or
keep an appointment with her dressmaker. But she did look a trifle
startled when tears sprang into the eyes of the beautiful girl, as
she kissed her good-by, giving her a spasmodic little embrace, and
then hurriedly left the room.
“I--I wonder what is the matter?” she mused, as she wiped one of
Allison’s tears from her cheek. “I’m afraid the dear child isn’t
quite happy with only John and me in the house. I’ll tell him that
we must ask some young folks here to make it more lively for her.”
But the kind-hearted old lady never saw the fair girl again, for
two months later she “slept with her fathers.” It was a mercy, too,
that she did not live to have her heart broken by learning later,
as she must have learned, that her only son was an unmitigated
scoundrel.
Meantime, Allison was speeding on her way to New York, where she
arrived just in season to purchase her ticket, recheck her baggage,
and board a fast express bound for Boston.
The day was very warm, and the girl was almost worn out with the
grief and mental excitement of the last twenty-four hours, and it
was with a deep sigh of relief that she settled herself in her
section and knew that she would have a long rest. At New Haven she
alighted and procured a light lunch, then returned to her seat,
where, after the conductor had made his rounds, she lay back and
soon fell into a heavy sleep. She did not waken once until the
train stopped at Worcester, and then only long enough to show her
ticket again, a profound slumber that was almost lethargy once more
overpowering her senses.
It was a blessed sleep for her--a merciful unconsciousness; for
thus she escaped the realization, even for a moment, of the fearful
fate toward which she was fast hastening. The train rushed on at
lightning speed--it was the limited express--forests, rivers, and
towns, like swift-flitting visions of dreamland appearing, then
vanishing in rapid succession, until a misplaced switch sent it
swerving off upon another track, when it went dashing and crashing
into a heavy, slow-going freight with a terrible shock, demolishing
the engine, throwing two cars from the track, and sending the one
in which Allison was a passenger rolling down an embankment, and
making a complete wreck of it. It was full of people, many of them
bound for summer-resorts along the New England coast or among the
mountains.
Many were severely injured, several killed outright, five or six
taken from the wreck for dead; and Allison was among these--the
ghastly wound on top of her lovely golden head telling but too
plainly how she had come to such a fate.
She was drawn out from under the débris of the shattered car by an
elderly gentleman, who had occupied the section opposite the one
she had taken, and who had been irresistibly attracted by the fair,
delicate girl who seemed to be traveling alone, and was so overcome
by excessive weariness.
For hours he had watched her, strangely fascinated by her beauty
and the exquisite picture she made, with her refined face outlined
against, and her golden hair contrasting so effectively with, the
dark-blue cushion of her seat. His first thought was of her when,
after the first terrible shock of the accident, he recovered from
his own half-stunned condition to find that, except for some severe
bruises and one or two cuts, he was unharmed--a fact which seemed
almost a miracle, in view of the demolished condition of that
portion of the car.
He drew her from under the seat--which had fallen over and
partially protected her--as carefully and tenderly as he was
able, and he felt sure, as he observed the peaceful expression on
the colorless face, that that cruel blow on her head had come so
suddenly that she had not even been aroused from her slumber.
“She was too young and beautiful to die like this,” the man
muttered, with something very like a sob, as he gently deposited
his burden upon a plot of grass, straightened the graceful figure,
and clasped the slender hands upon the pulseless breast, covering
the lovely face with a spotless handkerchief of his own.
Then he remembered that he had seen a hand-bag on the seat with
her, and he went back to the car to search for it. He finally
found it under the forward end of the wreck, which had been driven
backward several rods by the fatal shock that had demolished it
before it left the track.
The receptacle was crushed, and the articles it had contained were
scattered about.
He gathered up what he could find--a purse, a little package of
dainty handkerchiefs wrapped in tissue-paper, a golden vinaigrette,
and a comb of tortoise-shell.
He then went back and sat down beside his charge, and opened the
purse, in the hope of finding some name or address by which he
could identify her.
He found a roll of bills amounting to quite a generous sum,
some pieces of silver, a key, a gold glove-buttoner, and a
baggage-check, but there was no card, not even a scrap of paper, to
give him the slightest clue to the unfortunate girl’s identity.
“The check may throw some light upon the subject, however,” he told
himself; and, with this thought in his mind, he made his way into
the baggage-car, where, he soon found Allison’s portmanteau, but
which, alas! had no name upon it.
When the débris was removed from the track, the uninjured cars were
transferred to their proper pathway, where they were attached to
another ingoing train, while the injured were made as comfortable
as circumstances would permit, the dead being placed in a
baggage-car.
All save Allison, the old gentleman who had constituted himself the
guardian of her lifeless form refusing to allow any one else to
touch her.
He carried her in his arms to a stateroom of one of the
parlor-cars, where he laid her upon a berth and then sat down
beside her to keep guard over her until they should arrive in the
city, when he knew he would be obliged to yield the body up to the
proper authorities, to be retained for identification.
* * * * *
As we already know, Allison had informed no one of her intention of
going to Boston to put herself under the protection of the Mannings.
She had simply told Mrs. Hubbard that she was going to New York,
and might not return that day.
As she had sometimes remained overnight with one of her up-town
friends, John Hubbard did not experience any uneasiness when she
failed to make her appearance that evening.
He knew that she was bitterly angry with him, and it was not
surprising that she should wish to get away from his presence
for a time. Possibly she had even gone to consult some lawyer
with reference to her affairs, but he only smiled viciously at
this thought, for he believed that his plans had been so cleverly
devised that there was not the ghost of a chance of their being
overthrown.
But when the second day passed and his ward was still absent, he
began to be considerably exercised over her mysterious flitting,
for a mystery always angered him.
He did not see a Boston paper that day, and the New York papers
only briefly described the accident that had occurred to the
limited express, without giving any names of the victims.
But on the third morning after the strange disappearance of Allison
he was terribly shocked, after reading a full account of the
accident, to find the name of “Miss Brewster” among the list of
those who had been killed.