The unconscious man who has been so heartlessly thrust forth in the
bleak, inclement night, lies still upon the wet and flinty pavement,
his ghastly face upturned to the uncertain flicker of the street lamps,
his eyes closed, his lips half parted as if he were, indeed, dead. No
one is passing, no one notes that the form of an apparently dead man
has been hustled out of the inhospitable gates of the stately Cleveland
Mansion. None care to be abroad this wet and windy night. The chilly
rain beats down into the still, white face, and at last revives him. He
drags himself wearily up to his feet, and clinging to the iron spokes
of the ornamental lawn fence, stares up at the dark, gloomy-looking
building which now, with closed and darkened windows, appears dreary as
a tomb. He shudders, and his eyes flash luridly in the darkness.
"May the curse of God light upon her," he murmurs, distractedly. "She
robbed me of everything, and laid my life bare and desolate. My heart
is a bare and empty ruin where the loathsome bats and shrieking night
birds of remorse flap their ebon wings in the haunted darkness. Edith,
Vera, my wronged, my murdered darlings--would God that you might have
lived to forgive me for the madness that ruined your lives, and broke
your tender hearts!"
No answer comes to his wild appeal from the wide and limitless spaces
of the black night. Those two whom he adjures so despairingly, lie
still "under the sod and the dew," deaf to his yearning calls, though
he cry out ever so loudly to them, from his sore and tortured heart.
And at last, tormented with doubts, and longing to know the truth,
for he cannot trust the oath of the false Marcia Cleveland, he flings
himself into a passing car that goes toward the cemetery, fired with
the wild resolve that he would never believe her wicked assertion until
he can prove its truth--not until looking into the coffin, and calling
on her loved name, he shall know that his wife is surely dead, because
she is dumb to the wild and yearning cry of his heart.
A wild resolve--worthy of a madman. But Lawrence Campbell is scarcely
sane to-night. Remorse and despair have driven him wild.
Gold--potent gold--what will it not buy? It opens the gates of the
cemetery to the wronged, half-maddened husband and father, it throws
off the heavy clods that lie between him and the face he yearns for.
Quick and fast fall the rapid strokes of the spade, the dull thud of
the fresh earth thrown out on the soft grass is continuous.
At last the sexton, pausing to take breath and wipe the beaded dews
from his hot brow, utters a smothered cry of dismay:
"What was I thinking of to blunder so? I have made a great mistake,
sir. This is the daughter's grave, not the mother's."
"No matter--go on with your work. Let me see the face of the child that
I never beheld in life," Lawrence Campbell answers, resolutely.
Seeing how useless would be remonstrance the sexton bends to his task
again. In a few minutes the earth is all out, but it requires the
united strength of both men to raise the casket and lay it upon the
upper ground.
"Now the lid--have it off quickly," groans the wretched man; "and the
lantern. Bring it near that I may look on my dead."
Eagerly he kneels on the ground and scans the beautiful white features
of the dead. A groan burst from his lips:
"It is _she_, my wife, my lost Edith, still young and beautiful as when
I wooed her to be my own! Ah, even time and death could not efface that
surpassing loveliness!"
But the sexton answers, compassionately:
"Ah, sir, it is not your wife, but your daughter. Your wife had grown
older and sadder. Her bonny locks were mixed with gray; I used to
see her here on many a Sabbath when she came to weep by her parents'
graves. This, sir, is your daughter, with her mother's face."
"My daughter, with her mother's face!" he cries, and stoops to press
a long-lingering kiss on the white brow beneath the careless rings of
sunny hair. He starts back with a loud cry: "My God!"
The sexton trembles with apprehension.
"My dear sir, let me beg you to be more prudent," he whispers. "What if
we should be discovered?"
But Lawrence Campbell's face is transfigured with a trembling hope and
joy.
"I believe that I am sane," he exclaims, "I do not believe that I am
dreaming. Yet when I kissed Vera's brow it felt warm and moist like the
flesh of the living. Tell me, am I right?"
The sexton wipes his grimy hand to press it on the fair, girlish brow.
He bends his ear to the delicate lips that still retain the warm,
natural coloring of life. A smothered cry breaks from him.
"You are right, Mr. Campbell. Her flesh is warm and moist, her
color is life-like and natural, and she breathes faintly. Oh,
wonderful--most wonderful! She seems to be in a deep trance-like sleep.
How terrible--how terrible to think of! Your daughter has been buried
alive."
"She lives!" the father echoes, in wild thankfulness.
"She lives and we must carry her to my cottage as soon as possible. She
must not awaken in this dreadful place. It would frighten her into real
death," answers the sexton.
They lift the slight form out of its grim receptacle and bear her to
the sexton's secluded cot where he lives alone, his wife having died a
few months previous. They lay her down on his clean bed in the warm,
cozy room; and still her strange, deep slumber is unbroken.
"I will watch beside her," says Mr. Campbell. "You must go back,
restore the empty coffin to the grave, and throw in the earth again."
"You do not wish that this discovery shall ever be known, then?" the
sexton asks, gravely.
"No--at least not now," Mr. Campbell answers, after a pause of silent
thought.
A moment later he adds, wistfully:
"My wife's grave--you will open that too? Who knows but that she, too,
may be only sleeping?"
"It is scarce probable, sir, but I will do it to satisfy you," the
sexton answers, moving away.
The dawn of a new day is breaking when he returns, having just finished
his weary task. Lawrence Campbell starts up from his weary vigil by his
daughter's silent form.
"You promised to come for me, and I waited and waited!" he cries,
reproachfully. "You did not do as I bade you."
The old sexton's face is ashen gray as if with the memory of some
recent horror.
"Oh, sir, I swear to you, I kept my word," he cries, "but--but--oh, Mr.
Campbell, I spared you in mercy that dreadful sight! You would not have
known her, you could not have borne to see how death had effaced her
beauty. You must remember her as she was--not as she is."
Lawrence Campbell's despairing moan is echoed by a low and fainter one.
Vera's dark eyes open slowly, her lips part in faint, shivering sighs.
"Quick--the wine!" exclaims the sexton. "Pour a few drops between her
lips."
Lawrence Campbell obeys gladly, and Vera's lips part thirstily to
receive the potent medicine. She lifts her white hand to her brow as if
to clear away the shadows that cloud her brain.
"I have been asleep, and my dreams were strange and wild," she murmurs.
"I thought I had found my father. You, sir, look at me lovingly and
kindly. Can it be----"
"That I am your father--yes, my precious Vera," he answers, pressing a
father's holy kiss on the sweet, wistful lips.
Her dark, dreamy eyes look searchingly up into the handsome, noble face.
"Ah, I am so glad," she murmurs, "and you are good and true and noble.
I cannot understand why you went away from mamma, but I can tell
by your face that you are not the bad and wicked wretch that woman
pretended."
"Mrs. Cleveland?" he asks, a spasm of rage and hatred distorting his
pallid features.
"Perhaps it will be best not to excite the young lady by talking to her
just at first," the sexton interposes, anxiously and respectfully. "She
must be very weak, having taken no nourishment for so long. I will go
out and prepare a little warm broth for her."
"You must lie still and rest, darling," Lawrence Campbell whispers,
pouring a little more of the stimulant between her pale lips--paler now
from exhaustion than they were when she lay sleeping in the coffin,
and with a faint sigh of assent she closes her eyes and lies silent,
while the sexton goes out on his kindly meant errand.
The moments pass, Lawrence Campbell sits still with his head bowed
moodily on his hand, his thoughts strangely blended, joy for his
daughter's recovery, despairing grief for his wife's loss, and
unutterable hate for Marcia Cleveland all mixed inextricably together.
All that he has lost by that woman's perjury rushes bitterly over him.
In the stillness, broken only by the crackle of the fresh coals upon
the fire, and the monotonous ticking of the clock upon the mantel, he
broods over his wrongs until they assume gigantic proportions.
And Vera--so strangely rescued from the coffin and the grave--she is
very silent also, but none the less is her brain active and her mind
busy. One by one she is gathering up the links of memory.
Her strange marriage, her mother's death, her terrible defeat in the
triumph she had anticipated over the Clevelands--all come freshly over
her memory, with that crowning hour in which wounded to the heart and
filled with a deadly despair, she had crept away to die because she
could not endure the humiliation and shame of the knowledge she had
gained.
"I remember it all now; I could not decide upon the right vial, and by
chance I took the wrong one. It was the sleeping potion. How long have
I been asleep, and how came I here?"
Unclosing her languid eyes, she repeats the question aloud:
"Father, how came I here?"
He starts, nervously, at the unexpected question.
"My dear, you must not ask questions," he answers. "At least--not yet."
"But just this one, father. It keeps ringing itself in my head. I am
filled with wonder. I drank a vial of what I imagined contained death,
and lay down on my bed to die. But I only slept, and my dreams were
wild. Then I awoke in this strange room, and saw you looking at me so
kindly, and I knew you in my heart for my father. My wonder is so great
that I cannot rest. Suspense is worse than knowledge. Only tell me how
I came to be here?"
He looks at the beautiful, eloquent lips and pleading eyes, looking so
dark with the purple shadows around them, and the pale, pale face.
"I must not tell her the truth," he said to himself. "She looks too
slight and frail to bear the shock of hearing it. She need not ever
know that she had been buried alive, and rescued out of the blackness
of the grave. The horror of it would be enough to unhinge her reason."
"The last that I remember," she continues, "I was lying on my bed at
Mrs. Cleveland's, waiting for death to come. I awoke here in this
strange place. How did it happen?"
"I had you conveyed here in your sleep," he answers. "My dear, I see
that you have all of woman's proverbial curiosity. But there is no
mystery here. The simple truth is, that I went to Mrs. Cleveland's to
seek my wife and child. I found that your mother was dead, and you
were locked in a strange, narcotic sleep, almost as deep as death. I
had you conveyed here, and watched over you until you awakened from
your long slumber. That is all, my dear little daughter. Now, can you
rest satisfied?"
The dark eyes seek his, still wistfully, and with dawning tenderness.
"Father, you do not know how I love the sound of your voice," she
murmurs. "It does not excite nor weary me. It is full of soothing,
calming power. It falls on my thirsty, yearning heart like the dew upon
flowers. I wish that you would talk to me. Nothing you can say would
weary me so much as my own tumultuous thoughts."
He sighs, and smooths back the soft waves of gold that stray over the
blue-veined temples.
"What shall I talk of, little one?" he inquires.
"Tell me where you have been all these long years, father, and why you
never came for mamma and I when you were so unhappy?" she sighs.
Tears that do not shame his manhood crowd into his dark, sad eyes.
"Vera, you will hate me when I tell you that it was a mad, unreasoning
jealousy, aroused and fostered by Marcia Cleveland, that led me to
desert my innocent wife, and you, my little child, before you were
born," he answers, heavily.
Vera's dark eyes flash with ominous light. She lies silent a moment,
brooding over her mother's terrible wrongs.
"I have been a lonely wanderer from land to land ever since," he goes
on, slowly. "God only knows what I suffered, Vera, for I could never
tear the image of my wife from my breast, although I believed her false
and vile. But I was too proud to go back to her. I never knew how she
was breaking her heart in silent sorrow for me, her life made doubly
wretched by the abuses of the false sister who hated her because I
loved her. At last I was recalled from my wanderings. I had fallen heir
to a title I had never dreamed of inheriting, and which only filled me
with bitterness. I reflected that, but for Edith's falsity, she might
have been my countess; as fair a lady as ever reigned in my ancestral
halls."
"Poor mamma, leading her slavish life in Mrs. Cleveland's house," the
girl murmurs, in vain regret.
"Poor martyr to the sins of others," the man echoes, heavily.
"Yet you came back at last," Vera murmurs. "Had you repented of your
hasty desertion?"
"I had learned the truth, Vera, through the dying confession of Mrs.
Cleveland's weak tool. I had learned how terribly I had been deceived,
and that I had deserted my angel wife for naught. Vera, did she curse
my memory when she lay dying of a broken heart?"
"She never named you either in praise or blame, father. I had some
vague impression that you were dead. I knew no better until I overheard
Mrs. Cleveland telling some one that you had deserted my mother before
I was born, and that you were a low, drunken, brutal wretch, who had
abused and maltreated her from the first."
"Oh, my God, my God! that such demons should walk the earth!" the man
groans through his clenched teeth.
He rises and walks up and down the floor, struggling with his strong,
overmastering agitation.
"Vera, we three--you and I, and our lost loved one--have been wronged
as, it seems to me, never mortals were before. My heart is on fire with
rage and hate for the devil who has so blasted our lives. It seems to
me that I can never rest until I strike back. Vera, shall we not avenge
ourselves?"
His dark, passionate eyes fill with the fire that rages in his soul.
Vera looks up at him, half-fearfully.
"How, father?" she queries, slowly.
The heavy gloom deepens in his night-black eyes.
"How--I cannot tell!" he says, hoarsely. "But I will bide my time. I
will wait and watch. Edith's wrongs shall not go unavenged."
The beautiful young face on the pillow softens and saddens.
"Mother was very gentle and forgiving," she murmurs. "_She_ would have
said, leave it to Heaven."
"She was an angel--I am but human," he answers. "Vera, we must work
together for vengeance. The time will come when we will make Marcia
Cleveland bite the dust--when she shall curse the stars that shone over
her ill-fated birth."
So the wronged man raves, and Vera's passionate heart is kindled into
flames by his burning eloquence. She is with him heart and soul, loyal
to the core of her woman's heart.
Strange, that when she tells him the story of her short, sad life she
should hold one secret back. The words die on her white lips when she
tries to tell him. A passionate shame fills her heart. Oh, the bitter
pain, the deep humiliation of the thought that she is Leslie Noble's
wife. Leslie Noble whom she scorns and despises. Have they told her
father the truth? she wonders.
No, for presently he says, tenderly:
"Do not think that all my thoughts are given up to vengeance, Vera.
I shall care for you very tenderly, darling. And if you should ever
marry, I pray God that your wedded happiness may not be blighted by
such a terrible wrong as mine."
Her heart gives a great throb of relief. He does not know. He never
shall know by her telling, she resolves.
The day comes soon when they kneel hand in hand by Edith's grave to bid
her good-bye before departing for England's shore.
"Edith, my darling," he whispers to the dead heart below, "the human
vampire has escaped me this time. She has fled from my vengeance, and
left no trace behind her. But let her beware, for I but bide my time.
The bloodhounds of hate are howling behind her, and sooner or later she
will be brought to bay. Farewell, my murdered darling. Remember that I
only live to avenge your wrongs, and to protect your child!"