Jessie Staples--for it was she--looked at Jack Garner with troubled
eyes. She knew how much he cared for Dorothy, and she realized that it
would never do to tell him that his fickle sweetheart had gone riding
with another man. He was hot-tempered, and in jealousy there is little
reason. Like the wise girl that she was, Jessie made excuses for her
friend.
"No, Dorothy is not here, Jack," she said, presently; "but I feel sure
she would have been had she known you were coming. She has gone to spend
the evening with one of the girls, who sent her lover specially to bring
Dorothy over, with the request that he was not to come back without her;
and no doubt Dorothy will pass Sunday with her."
"Which one of the girls is it?" he inquired.
"I don't really know that," said Jessie, a little faintly.
Jack Garner drew a great, long breath of relief, and the old happy
smile lighted up his face in an instant.
What a foolish fellow he had been to mistrust Dorothy! he told himself.
But, after all, he was glad he had come and seen Jessie and thus had the
horrible doubt removed from his mind.
"Well, it does not matter so much, Jess, that I did not see her. I did
not want anything in particular. I am glad she will have a pleasant time
this evening and to-morrow. And about your holiday. I suppose you will
be going on the excursion with the rest of the girls on Monday?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Jessie lightly but constrainedly.
He drew nearer and looked wistfully into her face.
"I can not go, unfortunately," he said, "but I hope, Jess, that you will
see that Dorothy has as good a time as the rest of the girls." He
stopped a moment, and looked down confusedly, as if at a loss to know
how to proceed with the rest of his sentence, but concluded at length to
break right into it boldly. "If I were there I would treat all you girls
to as much ice-cream as you could eat," he went on with a laugh. "But,
seeing that I am _not_ to be one of the party, I want you to do the
honors for me, Jess, and here's the money to pay for it, with my
compliments to the crowd."
And as he spoke he drew a crisp bill from his vest pocket and thrust it
into Jessie's hand.
"Oh, Jack," cried the girl, "you are too good and too kind!" and she
felt rather guilty as she took it, for she knew that he was giving it
solely that they would make it pleasant for pretty little Dorothy, and
she knew that Dorothy was not to be there.
Only that day she had confessed to her that she had made an engagement
to go to the matinee with the handsome car conductor.
But there would be a tragedy if Jack got an inkling of this, she well
knew. She had deceived him, poor fellow; but was it not for the best,
under the circumstances?
Jack went to his home with a light heart, and much relieved in feelings.
It was well for him that he did not know just how Dorothy was passing
those very moments.
When Harry Langdon had met Dorothy on the street that afternoon he had
quite hoped to slip by her unnoticed. Not that he was displeased to see
her; but the girl was dressed so cheaply, and, to make matters worse,
she carried her little dinner-basket on her arm, and he knew that if any
of his friends were to see him they would smile in derision, for they
could not help knowing by the dinner-basket that his companion was a
working-girl.
His pride was the one fault of his life. He felt that he was quite
handsome enough to woo and win an heiress, if one chanced in his way. In
fact, that was what he was looking for.
It would never do to be seen walking along the streets with this pretty
little working-girl, and it was for this very reason that Langdon had
called a cab to take her home.
"The ride is too short," he said, as they reached the cottage where
Dorothy lived, and where Jessie Staples was awaiting her on the porch.
"Let us go around a few blocks; I want to talk to you about the
arrangements for the outing."
Nothing loath, Dorothy consented, and away they whirled down the street;
and it was very fortunate too, for in less than three minutes later Jack
had appeared at the cottage.
"I have been wondering if you really cared to go to the matinee on Labor
Day," said Langdon, in his low, sweet, smooth voice, which had never yet
failed to capture the hearts of susceptible young girls. "I was
wondering if you would not prefer a sail up the river. I understand that
there is to be quite an excursion to West Point."
The truth is Langdon had just discovered that several of his
acquaintances were to be at the matinee on that day, and he regretted
that he had invited Dorothy to go, realizing how terribly ashamed he
would be of the shabby clothes of the girl whose only recommendation was
her pretty young face, and he had determined that he should not take
Dorothy to that matinee, at any cost.
"Why, I would just as soon go to the excursion as to the matinee,"
declared Dorothy; "but there's one objection--all the rest of the girls
in the book-bindery are going up on the boat to West Point, and among
them Nadine Holt."
Langdon smothered back a fierce imprecation behind his silky curled
mustache.
"Then we will abandon the West Point trip." he said, laughingly. "But we
can go to Staten Island, besides, I think it will be quite as enjoyable,
for, now that I think of it, there will be an immense crowd there. The
picnic grounds are to be thrown open to the public, and they are to have
a grand garden _fete_, with dancing and so forth."
"Oh, I should enjoy that more than I could tell you!" cried Dorothy,
clapping her hands, her blue eyes expanding wide with expectancy. "I
adore dancing, and I was never at a garden-party in all my life, and I
have read so much about them."
"We can remain all the afternoon and evening, have refreshments, and
then come home on the steamer. It will be a beautiful moonlight night,
and when the band plays on the deck you will enjoy it hugely, Dorothy."
The girl's eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed.
Soon afterward the cab stopped before Dorothy's cottage again, and, with
a shy, sweet smile, she bade her admirer "good-night," and flitted up
the steps and into the hall, and directly into the arms of Jessie
Staples, who was awaiting her there.
"Oh, Dorothy!" she began, reproachfully, "how _could_ you do it?"
"Do what?" cried Dorothy, with a very innocent air.
"Come riding home from work with that stranger!" cried Jessie,
reproachfully.
The gayest laugh that ever was heard broke from Dorothy's ripe red lips,
and her blue eyes fairly danced.
"I did not think that _you_, of all other girls, would be jealous,
Jessie Staples!" she declared.
"I am not jealous," responded the girl, quietly--"only I pity you for
your want of sense in being fascinated by a handsome stranger, when you
have such a lover as honest, warm-hearted Jack Garner, who fairly
worships the ground you walk on. Every one knows that--and--and pities
him."
Dorothy's red lips curled scornfully, and she turned away on her heel.
"He is only a gilder in the bindery," she declared, "while the one I
came home with is a grand high-toned, wealthy young fellow, and so
aristocratic. He thought nothing of bringing me home in a cab, while
Jack Garner would have fainted at the idea. He is so frightened if he
spends a dollar of his hard-earned wages. It's no fun going around with
a _poor_ fellow. I hate them! So there!"
With that Jessie took the bill from her pocket, and told all that poor
Jack had said about treating to the ice-cream.
Dorothy looked astounded, but turned the matter off by saying:
"It is a good thing to have him stand treat once in his life-time, I
declare!"
But, nevertheless, she felt ashamed deep down in her own heart for the
way she had spoken of poor Jack. Still she would not listen to Jessie's
admonition, declaring, too, that she meant to go on an excursion on
Labor Day with Harry Langdon, even though it made an enemy of Jack for
life. She was tired of Jack, anyhow.
"You will rue it if you go with that stranger. Trouble will come of it
as sure as you live." Those were Jessie's last words to Dorothy as they
parted an hour later, and they rang in Dorothy's brain for many and many
a long day afterward; and these two girls, who had been such steadfast
friends parted from each other in coldness and in anger for the first
time in their lives.
The sun rose bright and golden on the eventful morning, and Dorothy was
in high glee as she looked out from her curtained window, and the
visions of a joyous day flitted before her.
At two o'clock Langdon put in a prompt appearance, and Dorothy was quite
ready, and he could not help but own to himself that she looked as fair
and pretty and quite as stylish as any young girl you would meet in a
day's travel in her neat navy-blue merino dress, with its white duck
vest and broad, white cuffs and sailor collar, and the white sailor hat,
with the white silk band about it to match. And nothing could have been
more dainty than her neat kid boots and gloves.
Langdon raised his hat to this fair young vision of loveliness with all
the gallantry he was capable of, and away they went in high spirits and
high glee, and with never a thought in Dorothy's heart of poor Jack
toiling at that moment in the book-bindery.
It was a delightful sail down the bay, and when they arrived at their
destination they found the island thronged with a merry group of
pleasure seekers.
The hours flew by on golden wings. Dusk gathered. Night soon drew her
sable curtains, and pinned them with a star.
They dined sumptuously at the Hotel Castleton, and then went back to the
picnic grounds, which were ablaze with light and color, resounding to
the merry strains of music, the babble of gay voices and joyous
laughter, and the sound of feet keeping step in the dance.
Never had Dorothy enjoyed herself so well. Harry Langdon was the prince
of escorts. He knew how to make himself agreeable and entertaining. He
whispered tender words into his companion's ears, held her little hand,
and conveyed to her in a thousand different ways that this was the
happiest day of his life, because she was by his side.
At length the hour drew near for the picknickers to leave the grounds,
for the boat had already steamed into the dock. In twenty minutes' time
she was to start back to the city.
"Have you had a pleasant time, Dorothy?" asked her companion, smiling
down into her pleased, flushed face.
"I have had the most pleasant hours of my life!" declared Dorothy. "It
has been like heaven here; I am sorry to go. And oh! how dark and drear
to-morrow will be in the bindery, after such a pleasant outing here."
"You need not return to the bindery to-morrow unless you wish,"
whispered Langdon, still holding the girl's little hand in his.
Dorothy's heart beat high. Was handsome Harry Langdon about to propose
to her? she wondered.
But no! the words she was waiting for did not fall from his lips,
although he had plenty of opportunity as they walked down the gayly
festooned path that led to the wharf.
"Perhaps he means to wait until he gets on the boat," she thought, with
a fluttering heart.
Poor little Dorothy! there was no one to warn her against him. How was
she to realize that the thought of marriage had never entered his head,
and that he was of the kind who smile on and flatter women and then ride
away, little caring how many broken hearts are left behind?
Dorothy's pretty, innocent face had captivated his fancy, but he would
never have dreamed of making her his wife.
As they neared the boat, so great was the crowd clambering on board that
Dorothy would have been separated from her companion had she not clung
to his arm.
"You need never go back to the book-bindery, Dorothy," he managed to
whisper again.
At that moment they stepped aboard the steamer and started toward the
upper deck.
It had been a happy day for Dorothy, but a most miserable one for poor
Jack. Contrary to his expectations, he finished the task allotted to him
much sooner than he had anticipated, and by two o'clock he was ready to
quit the book-bindery for the day.
Hurrying home, he quickly changed his clothing, smiling the while as he
thought of putting the wish into execution that had been in his heart
all day, of joining the crowd up at West Point; and how delighted
Dorothy would be to see him--what a surprise it would be to her!
His mother and his cousin watched him out of sight from their humble
cottage door, and then turned back to their duties with a sigh. They had
hoped that he would spend the day with them.
With a joyful heart Jack boarded the boat for West Point, but when he
reached there and found that Dorothy was not among the group, his
disappointment knew no bounds.
"My tender-hearted little darling!" he thought. "She would not join them
for a day's pleasure because she thought I could not go, and she is
having a lonely time of it at home."
Back to the city Jack posted in all haste, and although the hour was
late when he reached there--the clocks in the belfries sounding the hour
of nine--still he could not refrain from stopping a moment at the
cottage, just to let Dorothy know how cruelly fate had tricked him.
To his great consternation, he learned there, from the lady who kept the
boarding-house, that Dorothy--his Dorothy--had left the house at two
o'clock that afternoon with handsome Mr. Langdon, and that they had
started for Staten Island for a day's outing.
He stood quite still, stupefied with amazement too great for words, and
a white, awful horror broke over his face and shone in his eyes.
"Tell me about him again!" he cried, hoarsely. "What was he like--this
man who took Dorothy away?" And as he listened to the description his
face grew stormy with terrible wrath, for it tallied exactly with that
of the man who had put Dorothy in the cab and rode away with her.
Like a lightning's flash Jack tore down to the Staten Island wharf, and
was just in time to catch the out-going boat. He would surprise them, he
told himself, and tear little Dorothy, his promised bride, from his
rival's arms, or die in the attempt.
All the way down the bay Jack paced the deck in a tumult of fury that
increased with every breath he drew.
The half hour that it took to reach his destination seemed as endless as
the pangs of purgatory to lost souls. He never knew how the journey was
made, or how he reached the island--flaming with lights on this gala
night, and gorgeous with flags and gilded banners.
There were few passengers going down to Staten Island. The steamer had
come to take the revellers back to the city, and the gang-plank was no
sooner lowered than the crowd rushed aboard with happy laughter and gay
repartee. Among the first to gain a foothold on the stairway that led to
the upper deck were Harry Langdon and Dorothy; and here, face to face,
they met--Jack!
"Unhand that young girl!" he cried, sternly, facing Langdon. "You have
no right to be here with her."
Langdon started back, and glanced in haughty amazement at the
broad-shouldered, fair-haired young man confronting him.
But without waiting for him to answer, Jack turned to Dorothy, holding
out his hands to her, saying huskily:
"Leave him, little one, and come with me."
But Dorothy threw back her head with rising anger.
"How _dare_ you, Jack Garner!" she cried, stamping her tiny foot, her
blue eyes flashing. "I shall never speak to you again for
this--_never_!"
"Step out of our way," cried Dorothy's companion, "and allow this young
lady and myself to pass!"
"You shall never pass me with her!" cried Jack, furiously, his hand
stealing involuntarily to his breast pocket.
"Step aside; we wish to go on deck!" returned Langdon, haughtily, "and
we intend to do so!"
"You will never go on deck with her, unless it be over my dead body!"
cried Garner, his face white as death, his voice trembling with
excitement, and his brown eyes flashing like living coals of fire.
"_You_ can not prevent me," retorted Langdon, in a sneering,
contemptuous voice. Then, turning to Dorothy, he added: "I am glad that
I am here to stand between you and this intrusive fellow. Come; I will
thrust him aside, and we will go on deck, my dear."
The familiarity with which he addressed his companion stung Jack to
madness.
"You can pass on deck alone, but not one step shall you proceed with
that young girl! Try it at your peril!" shouted Jack, hoarsely.
Langdon did not heed the terrible warning, but attempted to push past
with his companion; and in that instant the passengers crowding up from
below heard the wild, piercing, terrified cry of the young girl ring out
on the night air, and mingled with it the report of a revolver--three
shots in quick succession--and the voice of a man crying out in mortal
agony: "My God! I am shot!" and the next instant a beautiful,
fair-haired girl plunged from the deck down, down into the dark, mad
waves, and the seething waters closed quickly over her golden head and
white, lovely, childish face.
In an instant there was the most intense excitement and confusion on
board the steamer. Young girls fainted, women cried aloud, and strong
men stood fairly paralyzed with horror. Great God! the steamer was
backing slowly over the spot where the girl had gone down, and where she
would reappear. Nothing could save her now.