From the moment that Nadine Holt heard the story of the perfidy of her
lover she was a changed being.
She went wearily enough to the lodging-house she called home, and paced
the floor up and down the live-long night.
"He was pleased enough with me before Dorothy Glenn's pink-and-white
baby face came between us," she moaned, clinching her hands tightly
together and bursting ever and anon into a flood of tears.
She looked around at the little, stuffy room, and thought of all her
girlish day-dreams--of the sweet hopes she had had of soon leaving those
dingy four walls, and of having a little bower of a cottage to call
"home," with a handsome young husband all her own to love her.
She had pictured every scene to herself--just how each cozy room should
be furnished, and what vines and flowers should grow in the garden, and
the pretty dresses she would wear, and how she would stand at the window
and watch for handsome Harry to come home each night, and what a dear,
cozy life they would lead, loving each other so dearly.
And now what of those vanished day-dreams? Ah! God in heaven pity her!
they lay in ruins around her, and heart-wrecked, heart-broken, she was
facing the cold, bleak world again.
It had been by the greatest effort that she had looked in Dorothy's face
during the day that followed without betraying her bitter hatred of her;
but as the hours crept on, and she saw Dorothy's glance wander uneasily
now and then toward the clock, her intense rage grew almost
uncontrollable.
"She is longing for the hours to pass, so that she may join _him_,"
thought Nadine, and her black eyes fairly scintillated at the thought.
Suddenly Dorothy raised her curly head from her work.
"Girls!" she exclaimed, shrilly and eagerly, "have you all forgotten
that Monday is Labor Day? What are you going to do with yourselves?"
A score or more of voices answered at random that they thought it had
been decided long since that they were all going up the Hudson on an
excursion.
"I can't go on the excursion with you, girls," returned Dorothy, "for
I've got another engagement."
"Bring your company with you," chorused a dozen or more of the girls.
Dorothy glanced up hastily and met Nadine's burning eyes fixed intently
upon her.
She started, turned deathly pale, and then turned defiantly away,
wondering if Nadine could by any means suspect that the engagement she
had was to accompany handsome Harry Langdon to the matinee.
She wondered vaguely if Jessie, to whom she had confided this, had
betrayed her.
The look in Nadine Holt's eyes as they met her own startled her.
The bell which released the girls from the work-room that night had
scarcely rung ere Dorothy had on her sacque and sailor hat and was
fairly flying down the steps and out into the street.
"I hope to goodness that I shall escape Jack to-night!" she muttered.
"He can not get out as soon as I do, and I will be almost home while he
is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs;" and a little, light,
airy laugh bubbled from her red lips.
Jack, as she called him, was one of the gilders in the book-bindery--a
tall, handsome, manly young fellow of four-and-twenty, whose only
failing was that he loved little Dorothy Glenn to distraction.
"Yes, I shall escape Jack, sure, to-night!" laughed Dorothy again.
But the laugh died from her lips, for at that instant there was the
sound of hurried footsteps behind her--footsteps she knew but too
well--and the next instant Jack Garner stood beside her.
"Dorothy!" he panted, "Why didn't you wait for me, little girl?"
Dorothy started guiltily.
"Why, gracious! is it you, Jack?" she cried. "I certainly thought you
had gone home long ago, and so I hurried away."
His handsome face brightened; the dark shadow was quickly dispelled from
his earnest, brown eyes.
"Do you know, Dorothy," he said, "I was half afraid that you had run
away from me intentionally; and yet I could hardly bring myself to
believe it, the thought gave me such a sharp pang of pain at the heart."
The girl laughed a little nervously.
"I wanted to talk to you about Labor Day," he said earnestly; "but I
fear what I have to say will grieve you, dear." ("Oh, gracious goodness,
that's just what I expected!" was the thought that flashed through her
guilty little brain.) "Dorothy," he said, huskily, "I'm afraid that I
will not be able to get off Labor Day, although it is a legal holiday
and I had set my heart upon taking you somewhere. We have found that
there is some work which must be got out, or it will mean a heavy loss
to our employers. I was the only one whom they felt they could call upon
to help them in their dilemma, and I could not refuse them, even though
a vision of your pretty, disappointed face rose up before my mind's eye.
I knew you would be expecting me to take you somewhere on Labor Day. Oh!
Dorothy, how can I make amends for it?"
To his great surprise, she laughed gayly.
"Don't trouble yourself about me, Jack," she exclaimed. "I won't mind it
one bit;" and her pink-and-white face fairly dimpled over with smiles.
He opened his brown eyes wide and looked at her in surprise, remembering
quite well that for many a week past Dorothy had been looking forward to
this holiday and calculating how she should spend it.
"But you will be so disappointed, little one," he reiterated, earnestly,
and not a little puzzled by the way she took it.
Again she laughed--a little, light, airy laugh that somehow grated on
his nerves.
"I was thinking," he continued, "that perhaps you would like to go
somewhere with my cousin Barbara--go up the river, or to a matinee, or
some place like that. I would pay all the bills, of course, and--"
"Go with your cousin Barbara?" she cut in. "No, I guess not. It's just
like you not to want me to have a good time. If _you_ can't be there,
Jack Garner, pray excuse me from going with _her_!"
He looked down at her with grieved eyes.
"Barbara is not as young and gay as you are, I know, dear," he said,
huskily; "but, oh! if you only knew what a good, gentle soul she is, and
how kind her heart is! She would go out of her way--do anything she
could to give you a few hours' pleasure, because--because she knows how
dear you are to me."
Dorothy shrugged her shoulders and curled her pretty red lips
scornfully. Barbara Hallenbeck, his quiet, sedate cousin, was
four-and-twenty. No wonder that gay little Dorothy did not consider her
quite companionable for a day's outing.
"She would be very glad to take you to the matinee, Dorothy," he
persisted. "_Do_ consent to go with her, and then I will feel quite
happy, for I shall feel sure that you are having a pleasant day, even if
I am not with you. Otherwise, I should be so troubled, thinking of you
sitting all alone in the house."
She looked up innocently into his face.
"I need not stay in the house if I do not like," she retorted. "There's
a number of girls from the bindery going on an excursion up the river,
and they have invited me."
Poor, innocent Jack! it did not occur to him then that, although she had
remarked she was invited, she had not said she was going. He jumped at
conclusions readily enough.
"I am so glad, Dorothy!" he exclaimed, joyfully. "I know if you are with
a crowd of the girls the day will pass pleasantly for you. But you will
not forget in the midst of all your happiness to give a thought to me,
will you?" he whispered, with a world of tenderness in his voice.
"Of course not," she said, promptly.
"Especially when your eye rests upon our betrothal-ring," he added,
wistfully.
Dorothy blushed alarmingly red, then paled as quickly, at the mention of
the ring.
The truth may as well be told here and now: Dorothy, like many another
silly, thoughtless young girl, had drifted into an engagement with Jack
just to get the ring which he wore on his finger, which she had admired
with all her heart and longed to possess.
But with Dorothy, possession had dimmed her appreciation for the little
turquois and pearl affair which adorned her finger, and at which
handsome Harry Langdon had glanced so contemptuously only the evening
before, and then down at the elegant monogrammed diamond ring which
glistened on his own white, shapely hand.
Only that very day Dorothy had wished with all her heart that she could
get up some excuse to break what Jack considered an engagement, and give
him back his little cheap pearl and turquois ring; but the occasion did
not seem to be quite ripe, and Jack, poor fellow! had been kinder to her
than ever that day.
At the corner she hesitated. It would never do to walk much farther with
Jack and stand a chance of meeting handsome Harry Langdon, she told
herself.
"I have a little shopping to do, and I shall have to leave you here,"
she said, hastily; and she made her parting very brief with Jack.
He noticed it, and a sudden fear stirred his heart. He looked after the
slender figure flitting away through the slanting sunshine, with his
soul in his eyes.
"She is so dear to me," he murmured. "I--I often think I would go mad if
I were to lose her."
He walked slowly down the street, but, contrary to his usual custom, he
did not turn his footsteps homeward, but proceeded aimlessly along the
crowded thoroughfare.
How far he went Jack Garner never knew. Suddenly in turning a corner the
first object his eyes fell upon was Dorothy, and by her side a tall,
handsome dark-eyed young man whose arm was linked with hers, and they
were walking along, deeply engaged in conversation, oblivious to the
whole world.
He stood quite still; the heart in his bosom seemed to almost tear
itself asunder with one mighty throb. Was it Dorothy, or did his eyes
deceive him? He quickened his pace until he stood beside them. The
impulse was strong within him to seize the girl's hand and tear her from
her companion. The blood surged like fire through his veins.
But before he could put his mad thought into execution the crowd on the
thronged thoroughfare swept between them.
In that instant Dorothy's companion called a cab and placed the girl in
it. The door closed with a bang, and the next instant the vehicle was
whirling down the avenue, and turning around the first corner was
instantly lost to sight.
Quick as the lightning's flash Jack leaped upon a passing car. He felt
intuitively that the stranger was taking Dorothy to her home. This car
would pass the door. He would confront them there, even though they had
gone by another street.
By a strange fatality he had in his breast pocket a small revolver which
a friend had asked him to call for that day at a store where it was
being repaired, and bring to him, as Jack would be passing that way. It
was an unlucky moment for Jack, Heaven knows, when he consented to call
for the fatal revolver for his friend.
As his hand touched it in his breast pocket a terrible thought flashed
across his excited brain.
Ten minutes later he reached the cottage where Dorothy boarded. One of
the bindery girls was sitting on the porch as he came up.
"Why, hello, Jack!" she cried. "What are you doing here?"
"Where's Dorothy?" he interrupted, quickly. "Is she in the house yet? I
want the truth. You must tell me!"
The girl looked in Jack's face, and dared not tell him all.