DEAD IN HER BED.
As the door closed upon Percy after that tragic interview, Dolores stood
and listened to his departing footsteps, until the last echo died away.
Then she flung herself down among the objects which were all associated
with their happy hours of love and companionship, while dry despairing
sobs shook her frail form.
"Oh, Christ, pity me! my life is all in ruins, all in ruins!" she
moaned, "Father--Mother--_God_, why did you curse me with the existence
I never desired?"
After a time, she rose up and tried to set her apartment in order. Every
where she turned her eyes, they were greeted with some reminder of her
life with Percy. Here was a souvenir of the happy bohemian days, in
Paris. There a momento of that fatal ice-boat journey. Fatal, because
she believed it was during that dangerous experience that Mrs. Butler
contracted the illness which resulted in her death; and because on that
day, Percy really passed from the position of friend to lover. Then, as
she opened a book, trying to divert her tortured mind from these
memories, out dropped a pressed fern, gathered in the Andean valley. She
covered her face with her hands; she seemed to see again the fading
glory of that wonderful sunset, the towering steeples of granite, and
again she could hear the saucy Ta-ha-ha of the arajojo bird.
It was more than she could bear. She rose hurriedly, and walked across
the room, weeping silently.
Suddenly her eyes fell upon the old faded photograph, which Percy had
dropped beside the chair he occupied. She picked it up and gazed upon it
with passionate fury, distorting her beautiful face.
"Curse you, curse you!" she almost shrieked, and tearing the card in a
thousand fragments, she trampled them under her feet, and fell in a
dead swoon upon the floor beside them.
It was dark when she returned to consciousness. She groped her way
toward her couch, and, throwing herself upon it, fell into a troubled
sleep, which lasted until the entrance of Lorette the following day.
She awoke to renewed suffering, and spent wretched hours in forming a
thousand futile plans of revenge. Scarcely having tasted food since
Percy's departure, she felt her strength leaving her. And with her
strength, went her anger, resentment and pride. During the long
sleepless night, of the second day, the desire to see Percy again
overmastered every other feeling. The intensity of her love seemed to
increase, as her physical vigor lessened. The knowledge that, no matter
how she destroyed his happiness, or ruined his hopes in life, she must
still love him, and live without him, bore down upon her heart like a
burning weight, and put to flight all desire for revenge. The one thing,
the only thing which made the future worth living, was a reconciliation
with Percy.
She rose and sat by her window in the chill, gray dawn.
"He must come back to me, he must," she whispered, "_at any cost_! I
have given up the whole world for his love, for his companionship. Even
if his love has been given to another, he must still give me his
companionship. I will see him--I will send for him to-day, and tell him
so."
A strange idea had presented itself to her feverish, suffering heart. An
idea born of her wild love and her crushed and ruined pride. In the
silent watches of the night, the thought had come to her, that even if
Percy made Helena his wife, he might still give her (his comrade, _his_
long-time confidant and friend)--his occasional affectionate
companionship. If she submitted quietly and passively to his marriage,
he might not wholly cast her off. She believed that society was full of
men, respectable citizens in the eyes of the world--who retained their
intimate lady friends after marriage. And she knew that the United
States Government permitted a large and increasing colony to exist,
where men retained any number of wives.
Surely, if any woman on earth had the right to be so retained, it was
she. And Percy would see it so--and he would not cast her off. She could
scarcely wait for the day to advance, to send for him and lay the plan
before him.
She had not the faintest comprehension of the mighty magnitude or the
exalted nature of the love which had sprung to life in Percy's heart for
Helena. She believed it to be the passing fancy of the hour--a sudden
passion of the senses. She remembered the subtle magnetism which Helena
possessed in days of old--a peculiar power of drawing people to her--of
attracting them and winning their confidence with no seeming effort of
her own. She remembered how popular she was in Madame Scranton's
Academy--and in those days she had believed it to be the mesmerism of
her eyes, that won the hearts of her companions. Percy was, no doubt,
affected by this mysterious influence which fascinated every one who
lingered long in Helena's presence. But it would pass away--and his
love for her, his ideal mate and comrade, would burn again with greater
lustre, if she waited patiently.
She wrote a note, full of humility, begging his forgiveness for her
conduct during their last interview, and asking him to grant her a few
moments' conversation during the day. She sent for a messenger to carry
the note, and then she dismissed Lorette for the day and began to
prepare herself for the expected guest.
Lorette took her departure reluctantly. "Madame is not herself; Madame
is ill, and needs looking after!" she muttered, as she went out, and
many times during the day and in succeeding days and weeks, her light
volatile French spirits were shadowed by the recollection of her
mistress's face, as she last saw it.
Dolores was one of the few women who can be beautiful even when
suffering mental and physical pain. As a rule, happiness and health are
necessary cosmetics to beauty; but hers was a face that even much
weeping, and sleepless nights of torturing pain could not disfigure.
She robed herself all in white, as Percy best loved to see her. She wore
his favorite jewels, and a bright knot of ribbon he had once admired, at
her throat. Suddenly, in the midst of her preparation, she paused. The
full consciousness of her humiliating position dawned upon her with
startling force.
"My God! how low I have fallen!" she sobbed, and yet she did not draw
back from the resolution she had formed, to throw herself upon the pity
of the man she loved.
She had been Queen of the feast; and now she was about to beg for crumbs
from the table presided over by another.
The hours lagged by on leaden wings. Why did not the messenger return?
It was late in the afternoon when he made his appearance. He was out of
breath from running up the flight of stairs, and he handed her back--her
own note.
"Could you not find the gentleman? I told you to leave the note if he
was not in!" she said sharply, so keen was her disappointment.
"Yes'm, I know you did," the boy answered, "but there was people there,
and a doctor. And the doctor he came to the door, and he said as the
gentleman mustn't be disturbed--he was sick, and goin' to die before
mornin', perhaps. And I felt scared like, and come off without leaving
the letter."
The boy turned away, and Dolores closed the door upon him, quickly, as
if to shut out his evil message with him.
Sick, dying! and who were the people with him? who had the right to be
with him and minister to his needs, save herself? It was her place--hers
only. She must go to him--she must save him by the strength of her love.
She did not wait to make any change in her attire. She seized the
nearest garment at hand--a soft white shawl, and a hat with nodding
white plumes, and hurried forth.
When she reached the building in which Percy's apartments were situated,
she met the physician just emerging from the street door. She forced a
calm exterior as she addressed him.
"I came to ask after your patient," she said. "Is it true that he is not
expected to live?"
He looked at her sharply. Her white attire, her beauty and her pallor
made her a remarkable picture as she stood there in the gathering dusk.
"Are you a relative of his?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No, only a friend; one to whom he has been very
kind," she answered. "But I want you to tell me the truth. Will he die?"
"I fear he will," the old physician answered, gravely. "There is small
chance that he can live through the night. If he lives, it will be a
miracle." Then he passed on.
She glided through the entrance he had left open, and hurried up the
flight of stairs that led to his rooms. The door stood ajar upon the
landing. She pushed it open and entered; no one was visible in the outer
room which served as a parlor. At one side, in a sort of study, sat a
gentleman and lady engaged in low conversation; but they did not hear
her light footsteps as she walked across the yielding carpet, and stood
between the velvet portieres which curtained his sleeping-room.
Through the colored globe the gas-light shone with subdued lustre,
filling the apartment with the mellow halo of an autumn sunset.
Propped up on pillows lay Percy, while above him leaned the shapely
figure of a woman clothed all in black; her dusky hair and brunette face
showing in marked contrast to the blond locks and marble pallor of the
patient.
Her hand was making light soothing passes across his brow; her eyes were
full of unutterable love and sorrow. Gently she drooped over his pillow
and pressed a light kiss upon his closed lids, as she murmured--"My
love--my husband."
Dolores drew a deep, gasping breath, like one who has been struck
suddenly by an unseen foe.
Helena heard the sound, and turned a startled glance in the direction
from which it came.
Standing between the velvet curtains, she saw the motionless figure of
Dolores, majestic in her beauty, her white garments and her golden hair
clearly defined against the crimson background of the draperies.
Just for one breathless, pained second the two women who had been
schoolmates and dear friends, looked into each other's eyes again. Then,
as Helena made a movement toward her, Dolores turned her glance upon
Percy--a strange, radiant, triumphant smile illuminating her face--and
vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.
As she made her way through the city streets, many turned to look upon
the white-robed figure, and the strangely-beautiful smiling face under
the nodding plumes of her hat. But no man dared speak to her. There was
something in her face that awed them, and protected her from insult.
She was still smiling when she entered her own apartment again.
Carefully laying aside her wraps, she proceeded to set the room in
perfect order. Then she brought out a little ebony box, in which she
kept many curious souvenirs of her life abroad. In one corner lay a
small chamois-skin bag. She opened it, and into a corner of a snowy
cambric handkerchief, she shook a portion of its contents--a brilliant,
crystallized substance--and then replaced the bag and locked the ebony
box away in her cabinet again.
Laying the handkerchief on the pillow of her couch, she disrobed,
brushed out her beautiful hair, and leaving the gas jet turned low, she
crept into her snowy bed. Bringing the handkerchief close to her face,
she looked smilingly down on the tiny crystals of the powder, as she
murmured, "If only Madame Volkenburg was not mistaken--if only it is
swift and sure, as she said! Oh Love, Love! even in death we shall not
be parted. She will mourn over your cold clay; but your spirit will be
with me, with _me_! You would have lived for her, but I die for you. Ah,
God! how much sweeter death is, than life. Oh, my Love, my Love, you
shall not take the journey alone! Whatever the great mystery is, we will
solve it--together. May Christ receive our spirits."
She emptied the powder into her sweetly-parted lips, folded the
handkerchief under her cheek, and lay quite still, as if she slept.
* * * * *
When Lorette came in the morning, she found her lying in the same
position, the handkerchief under her cheek, and a sweet, glad smile upon
her dead face.
The papers, on the following day, reported the sudden death, by heart
disease, of beautiful Madame Percy, a young French lady.