“To look for thee, sigh for thee, cry for thee
Under my breath;
To clasp but a shade where thy head hath been laid,
It is death.
“To long for thee, yearn for thee, sigh for thee,
Sorrow and strife;
But to have thee, hold thee, enfold thee,
It is life--it is life.”
“So he has bidden you turn me from his door in case I ever have the
temerity to present myself?” repeated Challoner, dryly, his thin lips
under his mustache curling into an unmistakable sneer, and a look not
pleasant to see creeping into his eyes.
“Those were his precise words, sir,” assented the man, quietly. “He
is in, but it would do little good to tell him that you were here; he
would go off into a towering rage, and you know what that means. He is
worse than ever, sir, when he gets into a tantrum. It would be as much
as my place was worth, Master Raymond, to tell him you were here and
wished to see him.”
“Let this be an inducement to you to do my bidding,” said Challoner,
slipping a bank note into the man’s hand. “Make what excuse for my
presence you deem best--that the door was left accidentally open and
you found me standing in the hall--anything.”
“I will act upon that suggestion, as it is a clever one, Master
Raymond,” and he turned and left him pacing angrily up and down the
corridor.
“Married!” muttered Raymond Challoner between his clinched teeth. “That
is indeed a blow to me. But even now I ought not to lose hope. Perhaps
there is some way of making him jealous and casting her off. I will
think up a plan to part them just as surely as my name is----”
His meditations came to an abrupt ending, for, raising his eyes, he
beheld the tall, angular form of his uncle standing there before
him. How long he had been standing there regarding him thus keenly,
Challoner did not know. He wondered vaguely if he had been muttering
any part of the thoughts aloud that had been whirling so madly through
his brain. He could only hope not.
“So, you have presented yourself here after my express orders that
you should never darken my door again, have you?” cried the old man,
harshly, his keen gaze penetrating his unwelcome visitor like the sharp
blade of a knife.
“Forgive me, uncle,” replied Ray Challoner, affecting an earnestness
which would have deceived any one else save the man standing before
him. “I know you said that, but it was in the heat of passion. I had
hoped that you would find pardon for me as time melted your heart, and
reflection showed you that I could not be so bad as they had painted me
with the hope of belittling me in your eyes.”
“Liar, forger, thief--and--murderer!” hissed the old man, taking a step
nearer him and glaring into his face. “Could anything on the catalogue
of vices add to the shame as such a record as has been yours, unless I
add to the true bill--libertine--which you are as well?”
A red flush crept over Challoner’s face, and the dangerous look
deepened in his eyes again--a fact not unnoted by the elder man.
“I washed my hands of you some time since, and so I informed you,”
went on the old man, harshly, adding: “Then why are you here? You have
gotten into some new scrape from which you wish me to extricate you,
I’ll be bound. But, by the Lord Harry, I shall not do it. I will see
you hanged first! You never come near me excepting when you want to
wheedle money out of me. I know you like a book, Raymond Challoner, and
you are a book whose pages I have closed forever and will never reopen.”
“If you will give me time to speak, and will listen to me, I will tell
you why I am here,” retorted Challoner. “I have been in no scrape, as
you term it, nor am I in need of money. I heard that you were ill and I
came to your side in all haste.”
The old man laughed aloud, declaring, harshly:
“In that case you came to see if you could influence me to make a new
will in your favor, or, if you could get me alone, and I was too weak
to resist you, to choke me into complying with your wish, eh?”
“You are hard upon me, uncle,” responded Challoner, huskily, wondering
if the old man had the powers of a sorcerer that he could read his
thoughts so correctly, for that very thought had passed through his
mind. “It seems of little use to tell you that I have mended my ways,
having seen the folly of them, and that I am now giving myself up to
work--hard work.”
“You--work!” roared the old man, contemptuously. “Don’t tell me that,
for I know that you are lying. You would never put in an hour’s honest
work as long as money could be filched in any way from some victim
or other. You are no good in the world; on the contrary, a continual
injury to some one--whoever is unlucky enough to fall in with you. I
will have none of you! Go from my presence! Leave my house more quickly
than you entered it. Your very plausible tale about being anxious over
the state of my health does not work with me, I tell you. Begone!
before I call the police to remove you, or, to speak more plainly, to
throw you into the street!”
Raymond Challoner drew back and looked at the man before him. They were
all alone, this man who was goading him on to madness, and himself. All
alone!
“Go! or I will most assuredly carry out my threat!” cried the old
man, raising his voice shrilly. “You are wanted up at Saratoga for a
felonious assault upon a man, which ended in his death. I knew when I
read of the peculiar mark which the murdered man’s temple bore, of a
triangle with a large stone in the center, probably a diamond, whose
hand it was that dealt the murderous blow, but because my blood flowed
in your veins I made no sign--I held my peace.”
“You could not prove the accusation you are daring to make,” cried
Challoner, trembling like a tiger ready to spring.
“There are many, I fancy, who would be only too ready to do that,”
retorted the old man, laconically.
Raymond Challoner’s bad blood was up. He never thought of the
consequence, and quick as a flash he thrust out his right hand, dealing
a powerful blow at the man before him. But, quick as he was, the other
was quicker. He stepped aside just in time to escape the terrific blow
aimed at him. But in so doing he forgot that he had been standing so
near the flight of stone steps that led to the basement below, and ere
he discovered the fact, one fatal step backward sent him crashing down
the entire flight!
The accident had been witnessed by two of the servants, who were
just about to ascend the stairway. They had not seen the old man’s
antagonist strike the blow at him, for he was beyond their line of
vision, but they had seen him step backward.
When he was hurriedly raised, they found that he was unconscious, and
suffering from a severe scalp wound.
Raymond Challoner was equal to the occasion. In an instant he had
leaped down the stone stairway and was bending over the stricken man,
expressing the wildest grief for the accident.
“Carry him to the sofa in the rear parlor, and let a doctor be sent
for at once,” he commanded, and the servants, recognizing him as the
injured man’s nephew, hastened to do his bidding.
“The young wife is out driving,” said Dan. “I do not know where to send
for her, sir, but I expect that she may be in any moment.”
“Never mind her,” was the brief response. “She could do no good if she
were here, but on the contrary would be in the way. All we can do is to
make him as comfortable as possible until medical assistance arrives.”
This was done, and the old man was placed on the sofa, with the
curtains drawn back as far as possible to let in the light of the
November afternoon which was fast waning.
Although it was near dusk, it was still light enough for the doctor to
attend his patient without lighting the lights when he arrived, which
was a very few moments after he had been summoned.
Ray Challoner stood by the improvised couch with apparently much
solicitude.
The old man’s head had scarcely been bandaged ere there was the sound
of silken skirts in the corridor without.
“It is my lady,” exclaimed old Dan, hurrying forward to acquaint her
with what had transpired.
Instinctively Raymond Challoner’s eyes sought the door for the first
glimpse of the woman who had cheated him out of a fortune by wedding
the old miser, as his uncle was called--for his gold.
He was standing in the shadow of the portières when she entered.
One glance, and he could hardly repress the cry of amazement that
hovered on his lips. His eyes encountered the tall, willowy figure of
Queenie Trevalyn.
Challoner hastily turned up his coat collar and pulled his felt hat
down low over his eyes, that her eyes, in sweeping around the room,
might not recognize him.
“Mrs. Brown, I believe,” said the doctor, stepping forward and bowing
profoundly to the lovely young woman who came hastily into the parlor,
her costly silken robe trailing after her on the velvet carpet.
“Yes,” she answered, adding in a hurried voice that somehow had a note
of eager expectancy in it: “The servants tell me that my--my husband
has met with an accident. I trust it is not of a serious nature.”
“Yes--and no, madam,” replied the doctor, bluntly. “For a younger man
the accident would be nothing. Your husband’s age is against him. It is
all in the attention he receives whether he recovers or succumbs to it.”
Was it only the doctor’s fancy, or did he behold a gleam of
satisfaction in the eyes of the old man’s bride, as he uttered the last
four words?