He had his hands full certainly, with his two patients, for Charley
Bonair insisted that he should examine the young lady first to see
if there were the least hope of her recovery from the swoon or
unconsciousness that seemed to them all so terribly like death itself.
When Madam Fortescue returned from the cottage two hours later,
the grand ball was ending--the “dear five hundred friends” tearing
themselves away.
With commendable self-possession she received their adieus, and waited
till her weary nieces had got into their dressing gowns before she
called them together and imparted her important news.
Lucile and Marie were sadly frightened, and tears flowed fast from
their beautiful eyes.
“Poor, dear brother, we must go to him at once,” they cried, but Madam
Fortescue forbade it.
“No, the physician wished him to rest quietly to-night in the care of
Sam Cline, but you both will be allowed to see him to-morrow. The wound
is not necessarily dangerous, but it is better for him to remain a day
or two at the cottage before he comes home.”
“And the pretty little actress--Miss Vane. Do you say that she
revived?” cried Marie.
“She has shown signs of life, that is all. The poor young girl’s body
is a mass of bruises. He did not find any broken bones, however, and
says she owes her escape from that to the thick red blanket of the
murderous old squaw that fell down on her, and formed with its folds a
cushion against the fury of Zilla’s blows.”
The two young girls shuddered with horror over the story. They recalled
the bright beauty of the sparkling young actress with keen admiration,
and realized the difference now with heartfelt sorrow.
“She must have a good nurse and every possible attention to restore her
life. We will charge ourselves with all the expenses, poor girl,” they
exclaimed.
And then they fell to wondering about the criminal. Who was she--how
had she happened to be at Bonair?
The young girls declared solemnly that they had not employed any
fortune teller, had not known of her presence in the house. It was a
decided mystery.
“Perhaps the housekeeper may know something about it,” suggested the
aunt.
Mrs. Hopson was summoned and cleared up the little mystery.
She told how Miss Montague had called her out while the banquet was
in progress, saying that an old Indian fortune teller had called and
offered her services to aid in the evening’s entertainment.
Miss Montague was so pleased with the idea that she had engaged the old
woman at her own expense to remain two hours and amuse the theatrical
company after the banquet. She had asked Mrs. Hopson to prepare the
little alcove for the seeress, and to apprise the members of the
company of the treat in store for them. Mrs. Hopson had consented to
the plan, and Rosalind had left her, after cautioning the housekeeper
to say nothing to her mistresses of the little plot, saying she wished
to defray all the cost herself.
Mrs. Hopson went on and told of the fright the young actress had
received on hearing the story of her future from the old seeress, and
of how she had taken her to her own apartments to spend the night, but
returned to find her missing.
“It irked me to find her gone, but I never thought of danger to the
sweet, pretty young girl,” she declared, adding:
“Now it seems to me that there was some deep-laid plot to injure the
young actress. That old Indian woman was very likely a disguised enemy
that sought her life. Failing to frighten the girl to death with her
terrible prophecies, she got her out of the house some way and pushed
her into the pit to meet her death from the angry black bear. When
she saw that rescue was likely, she made one last desperate attempt
at murder by shooting down among the bears. Oh, the vile wretch, she
should be torn limb from limb! No punishment is too great for such a
fiend!”
“Yet, I doubt if she will ever be apprehended. She has had ample time
to escape and cover up all traces of her identity,” sighed Madam
Fortescue, wishing from her heart that the wretch might be brought to
justice.
“Oh, how grieved, how dismayed Rosalind will be to hear all this,”
cried Lucile, with tears. “Only think, when she was generously planning
such a pleasure for those people out of her own purse, she was vilely
imposed on by a murderous wretch who nearly destroyed two lives. Why,
if dear Charley should die, dear Rosalind would feel like a murderess,
although she did not even know that he was in the city.”
“But where was Rosalind all the evening? It seems to me now that I
do not remember seeing her at all in the ballroom,” exclaimed Madam
Fortescue.
“Why, poor Rosie had a little chapter of accidents that spoiled her
whole evening,” answered Marie. “In the first place, she became
suddenly ill, soon after the dancing began, and had to retire to her
room to lie down a while. It was one of those terrible headaches, you
know, that will only get better in a dark, quiet place, so she said
we must leave her alone, as she should lock her door and must not be
disturbed. Well, something after midnight she returned to the ballroom,
and was better, but looking so pale and ill yet that I was surprised
to see her dancing again. But pretty soon she came to me all angry and
nervous, and I could not blame her at all. Some one had torn a great
rent in her white lace gown, and she had to retire, and she said she
would not appear again, because she was too tired to change her gown.
Poor thing, I hope she will sleep off her sickness by to-morrow, so
that she can go with us to see Charley.”
“It will give her a terrible turn to hear of all the mischief that old
fortune teller did, but it cannot be helped now,” remarked Mrs. Hopson.
Then they all separated for the night, or rather morning, since it
lacked but a few short hours to daylight.
As Miss Montague was the latest of all arising, and took her coffee in
her own room, it was very late afternoon before the two sisters came in
and told her their startling news.
She was quite as much dismayed as they expected, and when she heard
that it was her betrothed, Charley Bonair himself, who had been wounded
in the pit, Rosalind fainted away in dead earnest. When she revived she
was almost hysterical.
“Do not tell me he is dead, my love, my Charley, or my heart will
break!” she moaned in anguish.
When they told her he would get well, that they had been down to the
cottage already to see him, and that he was resting easily, she smiled
again.
“Oh, I am so glad, so happy, that he is spared to us! But, dear girls,
will you not bring him home now, at once? I wish to see him so much!
Did he ask for me? Did he send me any message?”
The sisters were so sorry for her that they hated to tell her the
truth, that Charley had not even called her name.
But after confessing it they hastened to make excuses for their
brother, saying he was so ill and feverish it was no wonder he had
temporarily forgotten everything but his own sufferings.
Rosalind accepted their explanation with outward complacence, but the
hot fires of jealousy seethed madly in her heart.
To herself she said bitterly:
“He did not ask for me, because he does not care, he thinks only of
her, the little witch who stole his fickle heart from me! How strange,
how very strange, that he should have been on the spot to save her
life! He must have known she would be here, and followed to bask in the
light of her eyes. Oh, how I hate her! Why does she not die, why should
she live to balk me of my happiness, for the whole world is too narrow
for my rival and me!”
In her angry thoughts she almost forgot the presence of the sisters,
and they were startled by the lowering frown upon her face, realizing
that she was bitterly disappointed at getting no message from Charley.
They hastened to tell her that the physician would not permit him to
leave his bed yet, but that they would accompany her at any time to see
her lover, assuring her that he would be charmed with the visit.
Rosalind believed quite otherwise, but she kept back the bitter words
between her lips, resolving to go, indeed, to visit him, and to hurry
up their marriage if she could, before the pretty actress got well.
Of the poor girl hovering between life and death, and all unconscious
of her surroundings, she said not a word in pity, and when she was
asked about the Indian seeress who had wrought such woe, she declared
that she had never seen her before that night, and knew nothing of her
whereabouts.
“Oh, I hope none of you will blame me for what she did!” Rosalind cried
artlessly. “I am not to blame, for I only thought to give pleasure. The
woman came to me as I leaned out of a window, and proffered her wish,
and I immediately granted it. How was I to know that at heart she was a
fiend?”