DANGER.
The races were over, and the rays of the setting sun streamed through
the western window of the little dining-room where Walter Sedger's party
was seated. The glass and plate glistened in the fading sunlight, and
cast many deep shadows on the white table cover, while the faces of the
people sitting there were flushed with the first glow of the approaching
twilight. The servants moved quietly from place to place, and the merry
conversation of Sedger's friends mingled with the soft strains of a
Viennese waltz coming through the open hallway door. The thousands who
had crowded the course that day had rumbled back over the dusty roads to
the city. The huge Grand Stand was silent and deserted, and only the few
parties dining at the club remained of the great crowd that had cheered
Belle of Newport in her Derby victory. The refreshing cool of the
evening seemed to inspire the tired people with new spirits, and the
addition to their number of Jack Elliot and his coaching party supplied
the zest of variety, while the tales of a clever _raconteur_ produced
peals of merry laughter and called forth the utmost efforts of the staid
French waiters to preserve their habitual immobility of countenance.
When the dinner was over and the party had removed to the veranda for
coffee and cigars, each person there had forgotten, for the moment, all
the cares of life, and was lost in the delightful joy of living.
Exception must, however, be made of Marion, for, although the society of
others usually enabled her to cast aside the depressing influences which
often afflicted her, on this occasion she was unusually silent, and had
been quite unresponsive to the loquacious efforts exerted by the grain
broker on her right to arouse her interest. She now sat a little removed
from the rest and gazed moodily out over the deserted race-course,
thinking over the events of the past few months, and wondering, in a
dazed sort of way, what the outcome would be. The men had gathered
together and were discussing sport, while the women talked animatedly
about a certain Mrs. Johnson whose actions had lately been disapproved
of in certain quarters, so Marion was permitted to follow the current of
her fancies undisturbed.
It was just dark enough for the freshly lighted cigars to glow in the
fading light. With the setting of the sun had come the silence evening
casts over a busy city, and except the occasional croaking of a frog in
the Club House lake, or the distant whistle of a locomotive, there was
no sound to break the evening quiet. Away over by the long row of
red-roofed stables a pair of work-horses were slowly dragging a harrow
over the deserted race-course, and they and the laborer trudging behind
them were the only evidences of life which Marion could see. The last
sun-gleam left the sky, but a fading tinge of light still rested upon
the clouds. Marion watched it for a moment,--then it was gone. It seemed
to her like a life which fades slowly into oblivion. She often thought
of the unseen, and tried, occasionally, to form some life theory which
seemed rational. To-night, in the stillness which came after the bustle
of the day, she felt singularly alone. She looked up into the
impenetrable darkness and to her fancy the world seemed a frightful pit
of blackness with a mass of living creatures at the bottom,--writhing in
misery and gasping for a breath of happiness. And God? An awful monster
at the pit's mouth, baiting the distorted souls with pestilence or
dangling hopes before their burning eyes, only to mock their struggles
and let them sink down! down! down! Death comes to one sufferer, and
then, with a gloating laugh, the monster drops another life into the pit
to let it writhe in its awful misery. Marion shuddered at her fancy, and
glanced up as if expecting to see the monster's eyes gleaming at the
pit's mouth. The thought was horrible, and she covered her eyes with her
hands to shut out her distorted imaginations, asking herself if there
was no power strong enough to drive away the spirit of gloom which beset
her, and make her pulses beat with joy. Deep in her heart she felt there
was such a power, but it troubled her to think of it.
"Mrs. Sanderson." She looked up, startled, and saw Duncan by her side.
"I thought you might like to walk on the other side of the veranda. It
is delightfully cool there."
For a moment she hesitated. "What can be the harm?" she thought. "None,"
was the answer she gave her question, and then she followed Duncan to
the northern side of the veranda where an arm of the building hid them
from the others. The moon was rising and her soft light was shed upon
the soughing trees, and the stretch of white roadway before them. It was
one of those perfect nights of early summer when the vexatious spirits
of the day seem lulled to sleep by the mild airs of heaven, and as
Marion sat there looking out over the moonlit park, she wondered at the
gruesome fancies which had filled her mind but a moment before.
"It is a joy to live on such a night as this," she said, after the
moment of silence which followed their coming.
Duncan leaned toward her, and spoke in the deep, soft tones Marion
remembered so well. "I feel," he said, "that heaven has sent us this
peaceful night to show us that happiness can be a reality."
"It is fortunate that perfect happiness seldom comes," she replied; "the
monotony of it would be unendurable."
"Do you think it would be monotonous always to love?" he asked.
"Not if it were possible," she answered after a moment of thought.
"I know it is possible," he said firmly.
"How?" she asked, looking up into his face.
His hand touched hers. "Because, when I look into your eyes, I feel a
love which no power on earth could change." She let her hand remain in
his, but she turned her face away. "How can I know this love is
sincere?" she asked.
"By driving the cruel spirit out of your heart. You may send me away
again as you did last winter, but I will come back, for, Marion, I love
you, and I must have your love." Instinctively she started to her feet.
Duncan was quickly by her side. His arm was about her, and she felt his
lips against her cheek.
"I love you, my Marion," he whispered passionately; "you shall not leave
me." For a moment she rested her head against his breast and felt the
embrace of his strong arms.
"If it were not a sin, Duncan," she said, looking up into his eyes, "I
might love you."
"No love like ours can be a sin. It is heaven sent."
"If it only were," she sighed; then he drew her closer to him.
"It is, dearest," he said. "If you will listen to me, you will believe
it, too."
"I must not listen to you, Duncan."
"Must I go away?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then I was foolish to fancy I could read love in your eyes."
"Don't torture me."
"I, torture? It is you who send me from you."
"I know it, but think of the danger we are in. Leave me to-night,
Duncan. To-morrow Florence will be with Mr. Wainwright's aunt, and
Roswell goes to St. Louis. Dine with me at eight, perhaps I can tell you
then, but not to-night. I must have time to think."
"I will go now," he said, "but I will come to you to-morrow." He kissed
her.
"God help me," she sighed.
Duncan quietly released her and they walked silently back toward the
place where they had left the others. At the corner of the building they
met Sedger. It was too dark for him to notice that Marion was agitated,
and any possible suspicions were averted by Duncan's saying quietly,
"Here we are. We had just started to join you. Is the drag ready?"
"Yes. I have been collecting the party. You are the last to be found.
It's a capital night for a drive and I intend to take you back through
Jackson Park."
"Splendid," said Marion. "I adore driving in the moonlight."
The party had left the veranda, and Marion and her companions walked to
where they were waiting. They were obliged to descend the stairs to the
hallway below, and by the time they reached the rendezvous she felt
perfectly calm and collected. They were compelled to wait a moment for a
missing wrap. Marion stood next to Duncan, and a wild sense of pleasure
was in her heart. The fear had gone, and her love made her defiant. She
felt that she might give him his answer then.
The missing wrap was found, and the party moved toward the door. As they
passed out they could see the dark outlines of the drag looming up in
the moonlight. The great coach lamps cast a flickering light upon the
roadway and the horses champed impatiently at the bits. Sedger mounted
to the box and this time Mrs. Smith had the seat beside him. A couple of
Sedger's friends had been picked up at the club, so Marion said she
would take the back seat. Duncan joined her there, and she was
astonished to find her husband next her also.
The drag rolled away from the Club House, and swayed and rocked as
Sedger let the horses gallop through the gates and along the little
stretch of road leading to the park. The evening breeze blew softly
against the faces of the party, and the coach rumbled along past the
park lake, with the moonlight glistening on its surface, and the slender
trees standing out grim and shadowy like huge phantoms guarding its
banks. Then the team settled down to a steady pace, and through the dim
light the leaders could just be seen huddling together, with their ears
pricked up for every sound. Horses seem to travel best at night, and the
steady creaking of the harness, harmonizing with the rattle of the bars
and the lively clatter of hoofs on the hard ground, came like sweet
music through the night air. A leader shied at a shadow; the coach
swayed for a moment, and the party crowded closer together. Some one
started a college song; the refrain was caught up by the rest, and the
chorus swelled forth a familiar glee. Along the tree-lined avenues or
through winding roadways the great coach rolled. Now the leaders plunged
into the dark shadows of the woods, or trotted merrily past some open
meadow, while from the long coach-horn the notes of "Who'll buy a
broom," sounded sharp and clear on the night air:
"For though the sound of the horn is dead,
And the guards are turned to clay,
There are those who remember the 'yard of tin,'
And the mail of the olden day."
Then, for a while, they sped along the shores of the great lake, and
mingling with the rumbling of wheels came the splash of the waves upon
the sandy shore.
The songs grew less frequent, the laughter ceased, and the party
gradually lapsed into silence. A reckless daring, such as she had never
known before, possessed Marion. In her imagination she seemed to be
rolling on toward some dazzling goal, and she laughed at the thought of
danger. The moon passed under a cloud and she felt the strong grasp of
Duncan's hand about her own. She looked toward her husband and there was
a cold, stony feeling in her heart. She was glad to feel that she had
the courage to break from the trammels of convention which had so long
bound her, and she felt a delightful sense of freedom which told her
that at last the depths of her nature had been fathomed, and that the
love lying there had burst forth in all its strength.
The coach left the park and rolled into the sleeping city. Down the long
avenue it went, past rows of darkened houses. The cool breezes of the
lake seemed warmed by the heated pavements, and the freedom of the
country was lost in the narrow lines of streetway. Marion sat watching
the two converging rows of flickering street lamps stretching away as
far as she could see, and down the street before her she saw the lamps
of Jack Elliot's coach gleaming in the darkness. She remained lost in
thought, and did not speak again until the brake rattled and the drag
suddenly stopped.
Late that night Duncan sat in his room at the City Club. He was partly
undressed and his clothes lay scattered about in heedless confusion. In
his hand he held a glass of whiskey and soda, and between the occasional
sips he passed over in his mind the events of the day. He thought also
of the experiences of his life, and the women he had known came into his
mind; women who had trusted and loved him while they formed the idle
amusement of his hours; women who had felt his power for a while, only
to see him turn away for some later fancy. He smiled as he thought of
the words of love he had spoken to confiding hearts, but the smile
brought a tinge of remorse for the harm he had done. He thought of
Marion in a different light then, and a feeling of pity came into his
heart which prompted him to curb his selfish nature and act in a
generous way; but the echo of a cruel laugh came to him, and in fancy
he saw two mocking black eyes gleaming before him. "A man's a fool," he
said aloud, "not to take what fortune sends him."