ESCAPED.
Doctor Danton’s carriage dashed away like mad, and the man on the box
smiled grimly to himself as he guided the spirited horses onward down
the long, white country road which led to an adjacent town.
“A bold stroke, and a sure one,” Gilbert Warrington muttered. “If ever
the devil helped his own, he has extended the right hand of fellowship
to me to-night. She is safe in my care now, and I imagine that I can
find a way to make her hold her tongue. Otherwise, she will tell her
pathetic, her strangely romantic story to the nearest magistrate,
and my game will be up. As long as I can keep her out of the way,
keep her safely concealed from the eyes of the world, I shall have
everything in my own hands. She will keep silent--she will have to--and
I shall control the fortune. With only that girl to manage, there
will be little trouble, I think. If I could have had my own way with
Rosamond”--he went on thoughtfully, after a brief pause, during which
he turned the horses’ heads into a new road, and applied the whip-lash
lightly to their backs as he did so--“I would have made her my wife,
and then all would have gone finely. But she hates me so--the little
spitfire--that she could not endure my presence. Not that I mind her
hatred so much, either; but it would have been _sauce piquante_ to me;
but I could not gain her consent. Neither persuasion, threats, nor
intimidation had any effect upon her; she was firm, and not afraid of
me. Because she was in her own house, surrounded by friends (old Danton
would give his eyes for her); it will be quite different now, with her
in my absolute power. Ah! my dear, you will live to regret the hour
when you scorned Gil Warrington.”
On went the carriage as though pursued by demons--on, on! Rosamond
Arleigh, nestling among the cushions inside, began to think that it was
time that Yorke Towers was reached. Opening the carriage door softly,
she called aloud:
“Driver!”
The carriage did not halt; its speed was unchecked. Once more she
called loudly in accents of terror, a strange horror beginning to tug
at her heart-strings.
“Driver! Stop! Stop a moment!”
There was danger that the sound of her voice in its wild appeal might
reach the ears of a chance passer, although at this hour, in this
lonely country place, there was little danger. But still she might
contrive to make herself heard by somebody. The very thought drove the
life-blood from about Gilbert Warrington’s craven heart.
In a pretty clump of woodland he halted the carriage. Making up his
mind that now was the time to reveal himself to his prisoner, he got
down from the box and approached the carriage door. Rosamond had
unfastened it and sat clutching the handle desperately, with a suddenly
aroused instinct of terror. She had felt so safe with Tom, the old
negro coachman, whom she knew would drive her over to Yorke Towers, or
any other place that she might request; though, of course, Tom never
dreamed that the lady in the carriage was the supposed dead woman, the
preparations for whose funeral were going on at The Oaks. Had such a
suspicion intruded upon his mind, he would not have held the reins a
moment in the service of a ghost, or a “h’ant,” as the negroes call it.
But Tom had only observed that it was a woman, and she had requested
him to drive her to Yorke Towers. It must be Miss Glyndon, or some
friend of the Arleighs. Of course, he did not hesitate, therefore, to
obey her orders. But there followed the attack upon him, and being
totally unprepared for such a calamity, Tom was, of course, perfectly
useless. And all this time Rosamond, crouching within the carriage,
eager and anxious to reach Yorke Towers, and stand face to face with
Helen Yorke, to demand an explanation of a certain mystery, never
dreamed that Tom was not upon the box of the carriage. Had she known
the truth before, it would have driven her mad. Her poor brain was even
now trembling in the balance between reason and insanity. It would not
take much of a blow to quite deprive her of reason.
As Gilbert Warrington opened the carriage door, Rosamond started up,
pale and eager.
“Tom, this is not the road to Yorke Towers!” she exclaimed, wildly.
“What do you mean? I will report you to Doctor Danton. Drive me to
Yorke Towers at once. This is the road to Belleville. How dare you
disobey my orders in this way? I---- Oh, my God! my God!”
For a gleam of the dying moonlight falling athwart the man’s face
revealed the truth--and Gilbert Warrington.
He smiled, and his white teeth had a wolfish gleam as they glittered in
the pallid moon rays.
“Well, my dear, you see how useless it is to hope to escape me,” he
cried. “Even _death_ itself has no power to separate us.”
But still she sat staring into his hated face with eyes full of horror
and detestation.
“Heaven help me!” she moaned under her breath.
He laughed a hard, sneering laugh.
“Heaven will not help you,” he cried; “there is no help for you. Back,
Rosamond Arleigh!” for she had sprung lightly forward, as though to
leap from the carriage. “Back, I say, or I will have your life!”
With a swift movement he pushed her back into the vehicle, closed its
door, and sprung upon the box. A moment later they were flying onward
through the dusky shadows--the dark hour which comes just before day.
It was a dark hour to poor Rosamond Arleigh. She crouched down once
more among the cushions and gave herself up to bitter reflections.
Surely Heaven had turned a deaf ear upon her, and would not hear or
heed her prayers. She was lost--lost! An awful horror seized her. What
would become of her? Where would he take her? What would be her fate?
She closed her eyes as a deadly faintness stole over her and weakened
her heart and paralyzed her brain. Lost, lost! No hope for her now.
Heaven had forsaken her; she was in Gilbert Warrington’s power. A dull
apathy began to steal over her and deprive her of reason. But the
thought of her innocent child left to the machinations of this villain
aroused her, and in a moment her mind was made up.
“I will make one bold stroke for freedom, though I perish in the
attempt,” she said, resolutely.
The carriage was going at a furious pace. Close by was a deep, dark
stream brawling onward amid fallen trees and _débris_, between high,
steep banks. Rosamond remembered it, and knew that they were obliged
to slacken pace to cross the narrow bridge which spanned the stream
further on. They reached the bridge. She opened the carriage door
softly, and made a swift, mad leap out and downward. As she touched
the steep bank of the stream, the soft, sandy earth crumbled and gave
way. Down she went--down to the swift, swirling flood below, followed
by a shower of dislodged earth and stones! Down, down! And the carriage
crossed the bridge and dashed on.