"YOU SHALL KNOW THE SECRET."
In a shabby third-story room of a cheap apartment-house in New York, old
Miser Farnham was sitting alone. The hideous old man was, if possible,
even more forbidding than on that day in Central Park when the unhappy
Nita had shuddered at the first sight of him, then yielded to his
temptations, and became his reluctant bride.
The leering hideousness of his face a year ago was increased now by
several livid scars received in the railway accident that had almost
cost him his life, and his stooping frame was lean and gaunt, his shabby
clothing hanging loosely on him.
Thin, grizzled locks straggled over his brow under the worn old hat that
he wore habitually in-doors and out, and his keen, gray eyes gleamed
with a diabolical light of triumph as they scanned the pages of a letter
received several days previous from Mrs. Courtney.
"So she is coming home, my lovely bride," he chuckled to himself.
"Coming home, and it lacks barely two weeks to the day when I shall
claim her for my own. I wonder if she has come to her senses yet, and if
she has concluded that life as an old man's darling with unlimited cash
is better than the deep, dark river."
"More beautiful than ever, with a score of titled lovers," he read from
Mrs. Courtney's sycophantic letter. "Ha, ha! to think of carrying her
off from them all. To think of marrying Juan de Castro's daughter. It is
a wonder he does not rise from the grave! Ugh! what if he should"--and
he shrank and cowered in sudden fear, whining out--"I do not believe in
ghosts."
The miser had one weakness. He believed in the supernatural, and feared
it. Many a night he cowered beneath the counterpane, with his hand
before his eyes, afraid to look out into the dark lest he encounter some
menacing ghost from a wicked past.
The old man had reached the acme of his plans and hopes and ambitions.
His marriage to Nita had secured things that else were doubtful. Let her
but come now willingly or unwillingly to his arms, and the triumph of
his life would be achieved.
He chuckled in fiendish glee, remembering these things, and thinking of
the life he would lead with Nita, for he determined that then he would
throw off his miserly habits and live in splendor.
What though all New York had sneered at Farnham, the miser, it would
open its doors to the millionaire with the beautiful bride for whom
titled lovers had sighed in vain, and with whom one of the richest men
in New York had eloped in his yacht, creating the greatest sensation of
the hour.
Yes, society would rave over her wealth and her beauty; and, by and
by--if she used him well--perhaps it might be discovered that the
unknown waif had descended from rich and high-born parents. Yes, this
was just possible, if Nita should be kind to him. If she were not, if
she were not--and he ground his teeth--woe to the heiress, her fate be
on her own head.
Just then there came a swift and loud rat-tat upon his door. Visitors to
Miser Farnham were things unknown. He started up, trembling. Again there
sounded a loud, impatient knock. He advanced with faltering steps and
threw open the door.
Before him stood two men. He had seen them both before, and as they
stepped over the threshold of the room he confronted them with a snarl
of hate.
"I know you both, Captain Van Hise and Mr. Mountcastle. What is your
business with me?" he queried curtly.
Van Hise laughed sarcastically at this cool reception.
"Mr. Farnham, you certainly come to the point at once," he exclaimed
airily, "so we will not delay what we came for. You know this gentleman,
of course, as the husband of your lovely ward, Miss Farnham?"
He nodded at Dorian, and the old miser scowled.
"I have heard of the gentleman," he said angrily.
"Very well. Mr. Farnham, we have come here to ask if you have any
objection to him as your ward's husband."
Dorian, with his hat in his hand, stepped in front of the old man, and
gazed earnestly into his face.
What a contrast they presented, these two, Dorian in his fair beauty,
and the grotesquely ugly, snarling old miser.
Van Hise's courteous question shook the old man with jealous rage, and
he asked sullenly:
"What can my objections matter since he is already her husband? If the
bond is a legal one, I have no power to break it."
Then Dorian spoke.
"We know that," he said in a troubled voice, yet with a frank, manly,
half-appealing air. "Yet, strange to say, sir, my bride stands in such
mysterious fear of your displeasure that she refuses to live with
me--throws me off as if I had no claim on her loyalty."
"You have seen Nita? When?" queried Farnham, with a grin.
"In London, barely a week ago--our first interview since our
marriage-night--and I sailed the next day to see you."
"To see me! Why? If she repudiates the marriage, what can I do?"
insolently.
"You can remove the mysterious barrier you have placed between my
darling's heart and mine. She loves me, but she fears you with a
strange, unreasoning terror. She has told me that only for the report of
your death she would not have married me at all. My God, sir! what is
the secret of your malign power over the hapless girl?" demanded the
unhappy young husband stormily.
Farnham glared back at him with a savage fury, as though he would be
glad to rend him limb from limb. He put his clenched hands behind him,
as though to restrain the wild beast in him.
"So you acknowledge my power over your bride? You would like to know the
secret of it?" he hissed in a voice of exultant malice.
"Yes," groaned Dorian in a hollow voice.
And for a few moments there was silence. The miser took a few slow,
meditative turns up and down the room. Suddenly, he turned back to
Dorian, and said:
"You wish to know the secret of my power over Nita? Very well. I cannot
gratify you to-night, but I will appoint a day not far distant for the
important disclosure."
"But, my dear sir, my friend is positively ill with suspense, and the
sooner you gratify his desire the sooner can the barrier to his
happiness be removed," interposed Captain Van Hise suavely.
Farnham turned on him with a grim smile.
"You think the barrier can be removed, eh? We shall see," he said,
laughing sardonically; then added: "Gladly would I gratify Mr.
Mountcastle's wish to-night. In fact, I should be delighted to do so,
but I am not at liberty to reveal the secret. I am bound by a solemn
contract not to speak of it for one year. That year, gentlemen, expires
on the tenth day of June--barely a week hence."
"We must wait, then," Dorian said, with a suppressed sigh, turning to
go.
"One moment!" exclaimed the miser, lifting a detaining hand as he
continued:
"When you came in I was reading a letter from Mrs. Courtney, in which
she writes me that she will bring Nita home at once--in fact, will meet
me at Pirate Beach the tenth of June, for the transaction of some very
important business between my ward and myself. Gentlemen, I invite you
also to meet me on the evening of the tenth of June, at my seaside home,
Gray Gables, at Pirate Beach. You shall hear then, from Nita's own lips,
the story of the barrier between your hearts, and then you can judge
better if it be removable. Will you come?"
"We will come," they both answered in a breath, and bowed themselves
out, full of wonder and consternation, for the old miser's manner had
impressed them both with grim forebodings.
* * * * *
The tide was coming in with its low, murmurous monotone, washing the
silvery sands at Pirate Beach, and the moon was rising full-orbed and
majestic, lighting the twilight scene into weird beauty.
It was the tenth of June, the fatal anniversary of Nita's marriage to
the old miser--the anniversary of her meeting with Dorian, the one love
of her life.
Up at Gray Gables lights flashed from all the windows, and rumor said
that the travelers had come home. Far up the beach old Meg Dineheart was
pacing back and forth, watching for her son's bark, that had been absent
several months.
"Will Jack ever come home again, I wonder? It seems a year since he
went," she muttered, with a touch of forlornness, for the one affection
of her lonely life was big, burly Jack, her handsome, wicked son. She
had been expecting him now for several days, and was growing uneasy and
impatient at his strange delay. Suddenly, a rude hand gripped her
shoulder, and whirled her around face to face with Farnham.
"Good evening, old lady! 'Pon my soul, you look quite romantic
star-gazing here alone," he exclaimed gibingly.
"So you're back, you devil!" she hissed. "What fiend's errand are you on
now, I wonder?"
"To ask you to congratulate me on my success in achieving the great
ambition of my life, Meg."
"I don't know what you mean, Farnham."
"No, but I am here to tell you that the propitious fates have brought to
me an hour of glorious triumph, and rewarded all my schemings with
success. Come inside the house, and let me tell you the sequel of the
story you heard one year ago to-night."
She turned toward the cabin, the old miser following closely, and
neither noticed that Jack Dineheart's trim fishing-boat had come into
sight, and was riding into anchor close to shore. When the door had
closed upon the wicked pair of plotters, the sailor rowed over to land
in a tiny little boat, and sprang lightly up the beach toward his
mother's cabin.
"Poor old soul, I wonder if she's yet alive," he pondered.
And, stepping lightly to the smoke-grimed old window of the cabin, he
peered through with bated breath for a sight of old Meg. He recoiled
with a stifled cry just as Nita had done a year ago that night, for the
self-same sight met his startled eyes.
Old Meg and Miser Farnham were seated by a table in earnest
conversation.
"Humph! hatching some new mischief, I suppose," muttered Jack, bending
his ear to a convenient knot-hole in order to catch their words.
The sea boomed on the shore, the moonlight silvered the waves, the wind
sighed eerily round the old cabin, and the words that Jack Dineheart
heard that hour paved the way for a fateful tragedy.
"You say that Nita has come home to Gray Gables, yet how can that be?"
cried Meg. "It was only yesterday that I was up there, and Mrs. Hill,
the old housekeeper, was wringing her hands and crying because she had
seen in a New York paper several days old that Nita had killed herself
in a London hotel by taking poison."
"It was true--and false," answered Farnham angrily. "I had a letter from
Mrs. Courtney telling me all about it. She drank laudanum, and it threw
her into a deep sleep. At first they thought she was dead, but a
physician succeeded in rousing and restoring her to life, although she
has been in a strange, dazed state ever since, and it is thought that
she may never recover from the effects of the drug she used. But Mrs.
Courtney telegraphed me this morning that they had arrived in New York
from Europe, and would proceed immediately to Gray Gables."
Old Meg listened with keen interest to every word, then exclaimed:
"If Nita had committed suicide in the old, wretched days when she was my
hard-worked slave I should not have wondered at it, but it puzzles me
that she should attempt it now when she is rich and happy as old
Farnham's ward."
With a gulp of rage he answered:
"I will tell you why she wished to die. She was married to a man she
hated so much that she would die rather than live with him."
"Hated that handsome swell that she eloped with? I don't believe it. The
girl loved the very ground he walked on!" cried Meg.
"Yes, she loved Dorian Mountcastle, but he was not her husband,"
answered the old man. "Listen, Meg, to one of the strangest stories you
ever heard."
And, slowly, and with infinite gusto, as though he enjoyed the telling,
he related to her the story of that day in Central Park when he had
wooed and won beautiful Nita for his reluctant bride. She listened like
one turned to stone; not a syllable escaped her, and he ended with
ghoulish glee.
"As her husband all of Juan de Castro's wealth is legally mine. I can
take open possession of it now, and if questions should be asked I can
point to my bride, his daughter, as the lawful heiress."
She started from her trance of silence muttering hoarsely:
"You--you promised to marry me when you took possession of the spoil."
"Be patient, Meg. She will not live long, you ought to know that well.
You have known some people who hated me, and then died mysteriously, did
they not? Well, this girl, this dark-eyed beauty, she loathes me, and
some day--not far distant, perhaps--I shall take deadly revenge for her
scorn. But, first, to force her to my arms, to humble her haughty
spirit, and break her proud heart. Then your turn will come, Meg. Be
patient and wait."
"You are deceiving me, Farnham. You love the daughter as you loved the
mother. You will never kill Juanita de Castro when she looks at you with
her mother's eyes. You will grovel at her feet for a word of kindness,
and Jack and I--Jack, your son, for whose sake I crave the treasure--we
will be thrust aside, forgotten! No, no, you traitor, we will not," she
rose up and shook her clawlike hands in his face, "no, we will not be
trodden upon! We will have revenge, Jack and I will betray you."
He grasped and shook her violently till the breath was almost out of her
body, then flung her roughly back into her seat.
"You cat who did my bidding--you and your villainous son--how dare you
threaten me? One word from me and you both would swing from a scaffold!"
he hissed furiously. "Hold your cursed tongue, or beware of my
vengeance!" and with an oath he left the house and took his way toward
Gray Gables.
Meg crouched like one dazed in a chair where her assailant had flung
her, but Jack Dineheart did not go in to see if she were dead or alive.
He followed the miser almost to the gate of Gray Gables with a stealthy,
sullen stride, then, suddenly, flung himself on him with resistless
fury, and bore him down to the ground.
"Oh, you wretch, you devil, to have married _her_, the girl you promised
in her bonny childhood should be mine, my wife! Oh, you fiend, to take
her from me! But I will save poor Nita and avenge myself. Here at the
gates of fancied bliss, you die."
A keen blade flashed in the air, then sunk in the man's breast.