FACE TO FACE.
"Dead! No, no, it must not be," cried the peddler, in an excited tone.
The doctor felt the woman's pulse.
"There is life certainly," he said, after a moment. "It is possible that
she may be revived."
"A hundred dollars shall be your fee, doctor, if you revive her so she
can speak again," declared Shanks in a tone of the most intense
eagerness.
"I will try."
Placing a medicine case on the stand at the head of the bed, the doctor,
whose gray hairs seemed to indicate long experience at least in the
profession, proceeded to open and pour out a dark liquid in a spoon.
Then he forced open the jaws of the poor woman, and was gratified to see
her swallow it.
A second later she breathed spasmodically and soon showed signs of life.
Shanks sat watching every movement with the most intense interest.
The physician succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations. It was a
most powerful antidote to the poison he knew had been administered by the
treacherous husband.
In the course of twenty minutes the woman was able to speak again,
although only in an extremely low tone.
"Can you communicate with me, Mrs. Barkswell?"
"Yes," faintly.
"Your husband has attempted to murder you; do you realize it?"
"Yes."
"I am afraid you may never be any better, and unless you tell us what you
know, an innocent man may suffer for murder that I believe _he_
committed. Do you comprehend?"
"Yes, I believe so," answered Mrs. Barkswell in a stronger voice.
The doctor administered a second dose in brandy, of the antidote, and
then the sick woman seemed quite revived for the time.
"There is a plot to ruin one of the most exemplary young men in Grandon,"
proceeded Shanks in a low tone. "The man who has plotted his destruction
is the man who left you but a few minutes since after believing that you
were removed from his path forever. Surely you can have no love for that
evil man."
"No, no, that is all dead now."
"Then it is needless to tell you that he is an outlaw of the deepest dye.
I want you to tell me what you know of the murder at Ridgewood. He
confessed to you that he robbed the house, and it may be that you know if
it was his hand that used _this!_"
And then Shanks held up a gleaming dagger, the design of the hilt being a
serpent's head.
At sight of the weapon the woman shrank back among the pillows and seemed
terrified and about to go into another fit.
"Calm yourself," uttered the peddler, lowering the weapon. "You have seen
that dagger before."
"Yes! oh, yes!"
"Do you mind telling all about it? It may be the means of saving a human
life, it certainly will save a young girl from the trap set for her by
this man, who administered poison to rid himself of his wife."
"I will tell."
This was sufficient. The doctor administered another dose of cordial, and
then, in tremulous tones, the dying wife, even then in the shadow of
death, told a strange and startling story.
When she had finished, her face blanched and she sank suddenly away.
"Quick! the cordial!" cried Shanks, but it was too late. When the man
lifted her head to administer the medicine the woman hung a dead weight.
"She is dead," said the doctor.
* * * * *
Mrs. Bordine was once more back at her cottage home, thanks to the kindly
influence of Miss Rose Alstine.
Soon after the widow's return, Rose called at the cottage to condole with
her over the death of her demented daughter, and the still absent son.
"We all have our cross to bear, Mrs. Bordine. I believe, however, that
the worst is past. I believe that August will return and vindicate his
innocence in the courts."
"Ah, bless you for that, Miss Rose," uttered the old lady, with tears in
her old eyes. "You are an angel if there ever was one."
The two walked into the garden at the side of the house, where the air
was cool and balmy.
"I saw your son last night, Mrs. Bordine."
"What! Saw August?"
"Yes."
The widow was all interest at once.
Rose then related the interview she had with Andrew Barkswell, laboring
under the delusion that he was her lover.
"And he said he would surely come again and stand trial?"
"Yes."
"Dear boy, Heaven and I know that he is innocent, but it may be
impossible to prove it."
"Truth will prevail."
"I hope it will."
"And that poor girl, I know how you must feel at her death, with your son
absent. I've do doubt he will try and be at the funeral."
"Yes, I suppose so."
And yet Mrs. Bordine stared at Rose in a sort of dazed way that proved
that she did not fully understand.
"I would not weep over poor Iris, Mrs. Bordine."
"Iris?"
"Yes. I feel, and so does August, that the girl is better off--"
"What are you talking about? Who is Iris?"
It was Rose Alstine's turn to stare.
"I am aware that you have tried faithfully to keep the secret, Mrs.
Bordine, but August told me all about it last night. He thought it was
better that I should know."
The widow rubbed her eyes and still stared at the girl in complete
bewilderment.
"I'm sure I never heard of Iris, and I don't know what you mean."
"I speak of your poor daughter--"
"Daughter! My daughter?"
"Yes."
"Goodness alive! child, I never had but one daughter, and she died in
infancy. That was nigh about thirty years ago. Her name was Mary."
Rose regarded the mother with a puzzled expression.
"Then you have no crazed daughter--"
"Never. What put such an idea into your head, child?"
It was August, but Rose had no time to explain, for at that moment a
shadow fell athwart the grass, and both looked up to see a man standing
before them with a hat down low over his eyes.
Rose uttered a cry.
Mrs. Bordine stood staring, but when the man lifted his hat she uttered a
glad cry and rushed to his arms.
It was, or seemed to be, August Bordine.
Rose waited for her turn with a wildly beating heart.
"Stand aside mother, I would speak with Rose."
The mother stepped aside then.
There was something in the man's voice that sounded unnatural. She felt
chilled and rebelled. Could this be her boy, whom she loved so dearly,
casting her coldly aside for another. A mother's instincts are strong,
and she stared at the man with tear dimmed eyes as he took the hand of
Rose and led her aside.
"I could remain away no longer," he said, in low tones. "As I told you
last night, I need you to strengthen me for the ordeal that is to come.
Will you do it?"
But in spite of herself just then, Rose was unable to speak. She trembled
and felt cold chills passing over her body.
What did it mean?
The same influence was at work that had troubled the mother. She glanced
timidly into the man's face, and then trembled visibly. How strangely old
he looked, much different from the gay August of former times. Had his
troubles wrought him this change?
"You do not answer, Rose," he urged complainingly, "Must I then lose your
sympathy, and meet the ordeal alone?"
"No, no. I will be with you," she cried, quickly.
"As my wife?"
Again she was silent, trembling like a leaf.
"Speak."
"Yes," falteringly, "as your wife, August."
The words seemed to have been forced from her lips.
She regretted them as soon as uttered. Weak and faint, she leaned heavily
on his arm for support.
He led her tottering to Mrs. Bordine and said:
"Mother, we ask your blessing. Rose has consented, and we are to be
married at once."
"Rose consented to marry you?"
"Yes, mother."
"Don't call me mother," uttered the widow, pushing him from her suddenly,
"You are _not_ my son, you are an imposter!"
An imposter!
How the words cut into the heart of poor Rose. She recoiled, but he
grasped her hand and started to lead her away.
"Come, this is no place for us," he hissed hotly, forgetting his part in
his rage and alarm.
"Aye! he is an imposter as I am here to prove!"
A clear, ringing voice uttered the words, as a young man strode from a
tree near, tossed his hat to the green-sward, and confronted the startled
trio.