A MAD MISTAKE.
Rosamond Arleigh opened her eyes. It was as still as death within the
room which had been prepared to receive her body. The mirrors were
draped in white; there were bouquets of white flowers, white roses,
bridal wreath, and lilies, pure white, and long-throated, pink-tinted
lilies. A faint, sickening perfume pervaded the apartment, and over the
whole house a dead silence rested.
How long she had lain in that state she did not know. She had been
dimly conscious of Violet’s presence there, knew that the girl was
sobbing forth her name, calling upon her mother to come back to her,
to stand at her side in the hard battle with the cold, cruel world.
Come back to her! Where had she, Rosamond, been? For a whole hour she
had lain there without moving a muscle, her thoughts--strange, wild,
disconnected--wandering back over the past, trying to disentangle the
threads, and smooth out the fabric of her life; but all was confused,
dim, irregular. All at once the sound of a voice fell upon her ears,
speaking in low, eager tones; it was Doctor Danton.
“I wonder what Jack Danton is doing here?” Mrs. Arleigh said to
herself, with a hazy impression that the hour was very late. “I
believe he is speaking to Violet. Poor child, she ought to be in bed.
She must be greatly fatigued after--after her ball.”
The ball! There! She has come back to first principles now; and now
Rosamond Arleigh begins to untangle the web which is woven about
her brain. She remembers the scene in her own sitting-room between
herself and Gilbert Warrington. She recalls it all, every word, every
look, every gesture. It struck home to her understanding, her memory,
with the sharpness of a knife. The poor woman uttered a low cry, and
struggled to a sitting posture.
Doctor Danton had by this time induced Violet to go to bed, and he had
returned to the next room and the company of Dunbar, closing the door
of communication between the two apartments.
Rosamond sat up on the flower-strewn couch and stared wildly about her.
Was she dead? Was her body really bereft of life; and this, that was
thinking and troubling itself so, was it her freed spirit, anxious to
soar away, yet earth-bound still? It was a strange, a grewsome thought.
Trembling like a leaf, she rose to her feet. They had arranged the
supposed dead body in a simple robe of snowy lawn trimmed with
lace. There was nothing suggestive of a shroud in the garment, yet
Rosamond’s eyes, as they rested upon it, closed involuntarily, and a
shudder passed over her. A swift, wild thought flashed into her brain.
Remember, it was not yet quite clear, nor had she recovered entirely
from the effects of her recent attack and the strange experience which
had followed it. Let any woman, no matter how strong her nerves, open
her eyes and realize that the world believes her dead, that she is
robed for the grave, and over in a corner of the room her _coffin_
stands waiting to receive her body, and my word for it, she would be
guilty of quite as insane conduct as that of which Rosamond Arleigh is
guilty now.
And the circumstances which surround Rosamond were so strange and
unusual, she had become the victim of such remarkable events, so
wildly romantic, no wonder her weak nerves had failed her now and she
had given way. Her brain was giddy with the crowd of thoughts and
fancies which beset it; she was possessed of but one aim--a wild, mad
resolution to escape forever from Gilbert Warrington’s power--even
though to do this--to gain her freedom--she would only find it in the
grave.
She wrung her white hands frantically.
“He has blighted my whole life, and I hate him!” she moaned. “I will
escape from him now while I can. He will return here in the morning,
and--and I must be gone. He has hounded me down, blackened my life with
that awful story of disgrace and shame. I must get away from here, I
must escape _him_, or I shall die indeed. He thinks me dead now, and
indeed I would be if I had not had the strength and courage to empty
the contents of the chloral bottle upon the floor when he pressed it
to my lips. I will try to escape; I must. I will go to Yorke Towers;
it is there that I must seek for those papers, there, where Harold
Arleigh--oh, Harold, Harold, my darling!--lived at the time to which
Gilbert Warrington refers. For Yorke Towers was long in possession
of the Arleighs. I think that is the real cause of Helen Yorke’s
ill-concealed dislike for me. But outwardly she is my friend, and I am
certain she can not refuse to aid me if I lay the case before her and
beg her to do so. Even her jealousy of the Arleighs must disappear in
the presence of this great calamity. Yes, I will go to Yorke Towers
to-night, and Gilbert Warrington will never find me, never dream that I
am hidden away at Yorke Towers, or that I still live!”
Her brain, dazed and weak, was incapable of sound reasoning. She was
nearly bereft of reasoning powers, and on the very verge of insanity.
Small wonder that her actions were henceforth those of a maniac. Had
she only known it, there were true hearts and helping hands in the very
next room, eager and anxious to strike a blow for her sake. But she did
not know, and so, like many another short-sighted mortal, looked far
away for that which was within her reach. And so the mad mistake was
made which neither time nor endeavor could rectify. Slowly and feebly
she staggered across the room. In her white robe she looked like a
spirit. Her eyes fell upon a long, dark cloak which Doctor Danton had
placed upon a chair, and which he had intended to wrap about her when
he would carry her out to the waiting carriage. She remembered in a
hazy sort of way that she had heard Doctor Danton say something about
his carriage in waiting at the rear entrance of The Oaks, and the swift
determination formed itself within her brain to reach the carriage and
order the driver to drive her over to Yorke Towers. Once there----
Her bewildered brain could go no further in the reasoning process; but
something, she knew not what, urged her on to reach Yorke Towers that
night.
Something! Was it fate?
Slowly and hesitatingly, trembling like an aspen, Rosamond threw the
cloak about her shoulders and drew the hood over her head; then, with
wavering, uncertain steps, her feet clad only in thin silk stockings
and dainty slippers, she made her way over to the window, which stood
open and led out upon the lawn. She stepped forth into the cool, calm
night. The soft air fanned her cheeks and made her brain grow clearer.
She glanced swiftly, with eyes full of terror, up at the house--her own
home, from which she was flying as from a pestilence, turning her back
upon her best, her only friends, in the mad delirium of her clouded
intellect.
Drawing the cloak closely about her, she darted away like a bird in the
direction of the rear entrance to the grounds of The Oaks.
Just outside the windows of the room where she had been lying, to all
appearance dead, there was a tiny arbor covered with honeysuckle all
in bloom. Within the arbor the dark figure of a man had been sitting
for the last hour or two, buried in meditation and cigar-smoke. Now, as
the slight form wrapped in the long, dark cloak stepped softly from the
window, and the gleaming lamp-light from within the room streamed full
across her face, he started to his feet with a stifled exclamation. He
tossed his half-smoked cigar into the shrubbery near, and turning upon
his heel, followed the flying figure with long, hurried strides.
She never dreamed that she was pursued. If she had, she would have
fallen dead at his feet, for life was burning with but a feeble flame
within her heart. Poor Rosamond could not endure much more. But,
blissfully unconscious, she made her way straight on with surprising
celerity for one who had lain for hours in a comatose condition--on,
on, until at last the rear entrance was safely gained. She opened the
little gate with swift, eager hands; and the moment consumed in this
action gave her pursuer time to reach her side, only he kept hidden
from view, and she never for a moment suspected that she was not alone.
Over and over she kept whispering to herself, as her clouded brain
revolved the situation:
“I must get away--anywhere, anywhere! I must not stay here, for Gilbert
Warrington will find me, and he will claim me. And, oh, God, I would
far rather be dead than his wife! Yorke Towers is my safe refuge.
Surely, Helen Yorke will help me to hide from Gilbert Warrington, and
to find the lost papers which will give me back my own again. There is
a room at Yorke Towers called the haunted room. If only she will let me
stay there and hide, I shall be safe--safe--safe! But here I would be
persecuted until I would have to take my own life to escape from him. I
_must_ reach Yorke Towers to-night. I must--I must!”
She had unfastened the little gate at last, and flitted through like a
bird. Her pursuer darts after her, and closing the gate, locks it, and
flings the key far out into the little strip of woodland which belts
the road.
It was still as death out here, only the occasional cry of a belated
night-bird and the monotonous cheep, cheep, cheep of a cricket hidden
in the tall grass near by to break the silence.
On, like a wild creature--for she is afraid of the night and the lonely
darkness--Rosamond Arleigh flies; the man who is in pursuit of her
keeps close in her wake--on, on!
Half hidden by a clump of great live-oaks, Doctor Danton’s carriage
stands patiently waiting, its driver, Tom, a faithful negro, nodding
upon the box.
All at once Tom became conscious of a slight, dark-robed figure, and a
woman’s voice broke the silence, calling swiftly, softly:
“Drive me to Yorke Towers at once. Quick, quick! Lose no time!”
Then the dark-robed figure stepped swiftly, noiselessly--“jes’ like
a ghos’!” so poor Tom was wont to declare--into the carriage, and the
door was shut.
Tom gathered up his reins obediently, and turned his horses’ heads
about. But at that moment a stinging blow descended upon his head;
heaven and earth seemed to come together with a shock. Some one, or
_something_--for Tom afterward described the apparition as a tall black
man, with fiery eyes and a tail; in fact, a veritable Satan--seized
him in an iron grip, and he felt himself descending rapidly earthward.
Another concussion, as something struck him upon the head and chest,
then darkness--the very blackness of darkness--gathered over him, and
Tom knew no more.
Prone upon the ground, under the clump of oaks, he lay until he was
rescued later on by Doctor Danton and Dunbar.
In the meantime, the tall dark figure that had pursued Rosamond Arleigh
from the grounds of The Oaks and into the carriage had mounted on
the box in Tom’s place, and was driving Doctor Danton’s horses like
mad--but _not_ in the direction of Yorke Towers.
[Illustration]