A DEMON'S DEED.
"My presence here has been discovered," he whispered hoarsely. "What
shall we do?"
He had seemingly forgotten his determination to face the world and fight
for his life as a man should.
Under the excitement of the occasion Rose thought only of saving her
lover from the hands of rude men, who looked upon him as a wild beast
justly their prey.
"Open the door, or I will break it down!" thundered a voice without.
"This way, quick!" cried Rose.
She led the way from another room that led from the parlor. Raising a
window at the side of the house she bade her lover pass through.
He obeyed, and dropped safely to the ground. He had been far-seeing
enough to readjust his wig, and a moment later an elderly gentleman
walked from the rear of the house and gained the street without
molestation.
Then Miss Alstine walked back to the door, turned the key and admitted
two men wearing the police uniform.
"Quick! Don't let the villain escape!"
"What does this mean?" demanded Rose, quickly.
"Where is the man you had in here?"
"What man?"
"Do you deny that a man was in this room?"
"There seems to be two at present," retorted Rose, with provoking
coolness.
"Will you answer my question, girl?"
"Please ask it, and I will see."
"Where is the man who was with you a short time since?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Cannot?"
"That's what I said."
"Will not, you mean."
"No, I cannot," asserted Rose.
"Be careful, girl, or it may become my duty to place you under arrest."
"I would not have you neglect your duty," retorted Rose.
"Do you still refuse to reveal the whereabouts of August Bordine?"
"I certainly refuse to tell what I do not know. He is not here--"
"But he has been here?"
"Yes."
"When did he go?"
"Not long since."
"Don't waste words with her," said the speaker's companion. "Let's search
the house."
"I fear it's too late now."
Nevertheless the two men went through the dwelling, even invading the
sanctity of Rose Alstine's bedchamber. Nothing was found, however. The
fugitive from justice had made good his escape.
And thus pretty Rose Alstine had assisted in a criminal act without
realizing it.
The police debated about arresting the girl, but in the end concluded not
to do so. They were a chagrined lot, however, who returned to the
station.
In the meantime Andrew Barkswell, safely disguised, hurried to the house
in the suburbs where he had left his wife alone, and, as he believed,
dying.
He was therefore surprised to find her still breathing, as he entered the
room where she lay on a low couch, with the room in shadow.
"How are you feeling, Iris?"
He paused an instant at her bedside and gazed down into the sunken face.
"I--I feel bad, very bad."
"Curse it, I wish you were dead!" He did not utter the words aloud,
however. Instead he drew a chair to the side of the bed and smoothed the
dark hair from her white brow, and pretended to feel the deepest sympathy
for her sufferings.
"You remained away a long time, Andrew," murmured the thin lips of the
sick wife.
"Did you miss me, dear?"
"Very much. Promise you will remain with me until the--the last, Andrew."
"I won't leave again until you are better," he said, with a peculiar
gleam of the eye.
"Then you will stay always."
"Why so?"
"I shall never be better, Andrew."
"Nonsense."
"You always say that, but I know that I am in my last sickness, and--and
I want to have a solemn talk with you, Andrew, the last I will have to
say to you on earth."
He fidgeted uneasily in his chair, but could not well refuse to listen.
"Nonsense."
But there was no heart in the word. He wished she would hasten her
demise. In fact had he thought she was yet alive he would not have so
soon returned to the house. It was her dead body he came to see, not a
breathing woman, whose claim on him was still paramount to all others.
"Andrew, where is Perry, my brother?"
Her mind seemed to be wandering somewhat.
"How should I know, dear?"
"True, he is such an unsteady body. I have worried about him of late. It
has been many days since I have seen him."
The man who sat there in the shadows was silent. So long as she did not
talk to him he was content. Her constant upbraiding in the past, although
richly merited, was certainly unpleasant to the last degree. He hoped she
might die without thinking of him or his misdeeds again.
He was not to escape thus easily, however.
"Poor Victoria! Will it ever be forgiven?"
He started at mention of that name.
Sleuth-hounds were on the track of the murderer, and it was poor
satisfaction to know that his only chance of escape lay in the punishment
of an innocent man, who so strongly resembled him as to complicate
matters to a wonderful degree.
"Why do you mention that name?" he ventured hoarsely.
"Because, poor innocent, it was your fault, all yours. Did they find the
dagger, the cold steel that did the bloody, cruel deed?"
"Don't dwell on that," he said in an agitated way. "What was it you were
about to tell me for my good, dear?"
"Yes, it was to you I was to talk. You will listen, now that--that I am
dying, Andrew?"
"Yes, I will listen."
"Promise me that after I am dead you will reform and lead a better life,
that we may meet over there, when--when you cross the river of death."
"I promise."
He was anxious to have the interview over, for it was not pleasant to sit
and listen to her sorrowful words.
"You promise. Alas! how many times have I heard that word from your lips,
and as many times it was broken."
She sighed deeply and remained silent for some minutes.
Then he was startled by a low sob.
"Nonsense, Iris, don't cry. You're not so far gone as you imagine."
"I--I am so wicked," she murmured.
"You wicked! You're an angel, Iris, and I am ready to swear to it."
"But you do not know, you do not know," she wailed. "I have no right to
lecture you on your bad deeds, no right, no right."
She threw up her arms and clung sobbing to his neck.
"There, there, never mind," he said soothingly. "Take a sip of this and
you will feel better."
Disengaging her arms from his neck he drew a goblet, half full of water,
toward him, and emptied the contents of a small vial into it.
"Enough to kill a giant," he muttered low, as he placed the goblet to the
lips of his wife.
One swallow and then she uttered a great cry and sank back quivering.
He sprang to his feet replacing with trembling hand the goblet on the
stand at the head of the bed.
"That will fix her," he muttered.
"Andrew, Andrew, what have you done?" she questioned, gaspingly.
"How do you feel?"
His eyes fairly glared at her.
"Worse--_that was poison!_"
He uttered a guttural laugh. Then in a fit of madness bent low and
hissed:
"You are right, old woman, it was poison! It isn't the first dose you
have taken, either. I meant to have you out of my way before now."
What demon possessed him to tell her this?
His manner had changed suddenly, indeed.
There was the look of a demon on his countenance. He seemed to gloat over
the sufferings of his dying wife.
"Andrew, oh, Andrew!"
It was a rebuking cry, but it failed to touch the calloused heart of the
being before her.
"You have tormented me continually, Iris," he said, with cool
deliberation, "and now my hour of triumph has come."
He laughed hoarsely.
He seemed to enjoy the ghostly horror exhibited on the face of his
devoted wife.
"Let me tell you what I have done," he proceeded, with the malice born of
a devil's nature. "I get rid of you to make room for another."
"Spare me, Andrew," moaned the pallid lips of the dying woman, already
foam-flecked from the effects of the inward workings of the poison last
administered.
"I will not. You tormented me until life become a burden, harping on my
shortcomings. You are too good for this world, Iris--just proper for an
angel, and so 'tis best for you to go. I have found one who will fill
your place to perfection, and make me a happy man, since she brings
wealth to back her claims. I speak of Rose Alstine. She has promised to
wed me as soon as you are dead--we have it all arranged!"
Heartless, wicked, woeful words.
As he came to a pause the sick woman uttered a great, gasping cry, and
went into convulsions, foam and blood flecking her lips.
It was the dying agony, he believed.
She seemed beyond help; a few minutes would see her silent in death. It
was well. Turning his back upon the scene he strode from the room, and
from the house.
Scarcely had he departed when two persons ran up the steps, tried the
door and found it yield to their touch.
"It may be too late, doctor, but I hope not."
When the two men entered the room we recognize one of them as Hiram
Shanks, the peddler, although he is now neatly clad, and not so repulsive
to look upon as formerly.
"Too late!" exclaimed Shanks' companion, as he bent over Mrs. Barkswell.
"The woman is dead!"