HE WISHED HE COULD TELL SOME ONE HIS UNFORTUNATE LOVE STORY.
During the weeks Doctor Gardiner had been visiting the old basket-maker
and thinking so much of his daughter, he had by no means neglected his
patient, Miss Rogers, in whom he took an especial, almost brotherly,
interest, and who rapidly recovered under his constant care, until at
length he laughingly pronounced her "quite as good as new."
One day, in mounting the handsome brown-stone steps to make more of a
social than a business call, he was surprised to see the mansion closed.
He felt quite grieved that his friend should have packed up and departed
so hastily--that she had not even remembered to say good-bye to him. He
felt all the more sorry for her absence just at this time, for, after
much deliberation, he had decided to make a confidante of Miss Rogers,
and pour into her kindly, sympathetic ear the whole of his unfortunate
love story from beginning to end, and ask her advice as to what course
he should pursue. He had also resolved to show her the last letter he
had received from Miss Pendleton, in which she hinted rather strongly
that the marriage ought to take place as soon as she returned to the
city.
And now Miss Rogers was gone, he felt a strange chill, a disappointment
he could hardly control, as he turned away and walked slowly down the
steps and re-entered his carriage.
The next mail, however, brought him a short note from Miss Rogers. He
smiled as he read it, and laid it aside, little dreaming of what vital
importance those few carelessly-written lines would be in the dark days
ahead of him. It read as follows:
"MY DEAR DOCTOR GARDINER--You will probably be
surprised to learn that by the time this reaches you I
shall be far away from New York, on a little secret
mission which has been a pet notion of mine ever since
I began to recover from my last illness. Do not be much
surprised at any very eccentric scheme you may hear of
me undertaking.
"Yours hastily and faithfully,
"MISS ROGERS."
The terse letter was characteristic of the writer. Doctor Gardiner
replaced it in its envelope, put it away in his desk, with the wish that
she had mentioned her destination, then dismissed it from his mind.
At the identical moment Doctor Gardiner was reading Miss Rogers' letter,
quite a pitiful scene was being enacted in the home of the old
basket-maker.
It was with a shudder that he awoke and found the sunshine which
heralded another day stealing into his narrow little room.
Bernardine had been stirring about for some time, and at length the
savory odor of the frugal breakfast she was preparing reached him, and
at that moment she called him.
When he made his appearance she saw at a glance that he must have passed
a sleepless night. He had no appetite, and pushed away the plate with
his food untouched, despite Bernardine's earnest efforts to induce him
to eat something.
He watched her deft fingers in silence as she cleared the table at
length, washed and dried the dishes and put them away, and tidied the
little room.
"Now, father," she said, at length, "the sun is shining now, and I will
give you half an hour of my time to listen to the story you have to tell
me. Don't look so distressed about it, dear; no matter what it is, I
will utter no word of complaint, you shall hear no bitter words from my
lips, only words of love, trust and comfort."
"Tell me that again, Bernardine," he cried; "say it over again. Those
words are like the dew of Heaven to my feverish soul."
She uttered the words again, with her soft white arms twined lovingly
around his neck, and she held them there until he came to the end of his
wretched story.
"Bernardine," he began, softly, with a pitiful huskiness in his voice,
"I rely on your promise. You have given me your word, and I know you
will never break it. Don't look at me. Let me turn my face away from the
sight of the horror in your eyes as you listen. There, that is right;
let my poor whirling head rest on your strong young shoulder.
"It happened only a few weeks ago, Bernardine," he continued, brokenly,
"this tragedy which has wrecked my life. One night--ah! how well I
remember it--even while I lie dying, it will stand out dark and horrible
from the rest of my life--I--I could not withstand the craving for drink
which took possession of me, and after you slept, I stole softly from my
couch and out of the house.
"The few dimes I had in my pocket soon went where so many dollars of
my--yes, even your humble earnings have gone before--in the coffers of
the rum-shop.
"The liquor I drank seemed to fire my brain as it had never been fired
before. I remember that I went to that place around the corner--the
place that you and Doctor Gardiner saw them throw me out of that night
you thought they had crippled me for life.
"The man who keeps the place saw me coming in, and made a dash at me.
Then a terrible fight took place between us, and a crowd gathered,
foremost among whom I dimly saw the face of Jasper Wilde outlined amidst
the jeering throng.
"To hasten the telling of an unpleasant tale, I will say he ejected me,
the while hurling the most insulting epithets at me. Then he spoke of
_you_, Bernardine, and--and turning upon him with the ferocity of an
enraged lion, I swore that I would kill him on sight.
"'Beware! take care,' laughed Jasper Wilde, turning to my enemy; 'the
old basket-maker always keeps his word. You are in danger, my boy.'
"At this the crowd jeered. I hurried away. I never remembered how far I
walked to still the throbbing of my heart and cool the fever in my
veins.
"At length I turned my steps toward home. How far I had traversed in the
darkness I did not take note of; but as I was hurrying along, I heard a
loud cry for help. I ran around the corner from which it seemed to
proceed, and then I fell headlong across the body of a man lying prone
upon the pavement.
"I drew a box of matches from my pocket, and hastily struck one. Yes, it
was a man dying with a wound in his breast, made from a clasp-knife,
which still stuck in it.
"In horror I snatched the knife away; and as I did so, the blood from
the wound spurted up into my face and covered my clothes. In that
instant I made the awful discovery that the knife was my own. I must
have lost it from my pocket during my encounter with my enemy, who kept
the wine-room.
"By the flickering light of the half-burned match, which I held down to
the man's face, I saw--oh, God! how shall I tell it?--I saw that the man
who had been murdered with my knife was the man whom I had sworn before
the crowd I would kill on sight.
"As I made this startling discovery, a man laid a heavy hand on my
shoulder, and Jasper Wilde's voice, with a demoniac ring, cried in my
horrified ears:
"'I see you have kept your word, David Moore! You have murdered your
enemy!'
"All in vain I protested my innocence. He only laughed at me, jeered at
my agony with diabolical glee.
"'You will be hanged,' he said. 'Of course, you realize that, David
Moore.'
"'I would not care for my life--what became of me--if it were not for
Bernardine!' I moaned, wildly.
"'Yes, it _is_ a pity for Bernardine,' he made answer. 'I am sorry for
you on her account. How sad it will be to see you torn away from her,
and she all alone in the world! Moore,' he hissed, close to my ear, 'for
her sake, and upon one condition, I will save you from the gallows. No
one but me has seen you bending over the murdered man with that knife in
your hand. If I keep silent, no one can _prove_ the crime was done by
you. Do you comprehend--do you realize of what vital interest that which
I am saying is to you?'
"'Yes,' I answered in a choked, awful voice. 'But the condition! What
have I, a poor, penniless basket-maker, even at this moment owing you
money--what have I which you, the son of a rich father, would stoop to
accept?' I cried in the utmost despair. He stooped nearer, and whispered
in my ear:
"'You have a treasure which I long to possess. Give me Bernardine. I--I
will marry the girl, and will forever hold my peace. It will save you
from prison. Think and act quickly, man. You can _make_ the girl accept
me if she should desire to refuse.'
"I heard the whistle of an advancing policeman coming leisurely along
his beat. Another moment and he would turn the corner where I stood
almost paralyzed.
"'Speak, man!' cried Jasper Wilde. 'Am I to save you, or call the
officer to arrest you? Am I to get Bernardine, or not?'
"Oh, child! forgive me--pity me! Life to an old man even like me is
sweet. I could almost feel the rope of the gallows tightening about my
poor old throat, and I--oh, God, pity me--I promised him, Bernardine.
"'Save me, and Bernardine shall marry you!' I cried; 'only save me!
Don't call the police, for the love of Heaven!'
"'Then fly!' he cried, shrilly. 'Take the knife with you; go as quickly
as you can to my rooms, back of my place, and there I will give you
something to wear until you can get home!'
"I made my way to his place, as he directed. He was there before me. He
took the blood-stained clothes and knife from me, remarking, grimly:
"'I shall keep these, the evidences of your guilt, until you succeed in
making Bernardine my wife. If she refuses, I shall need them.'
"Oh, Bernardine, from that hour to this I have lived a perfect hell on
earth. I am as innocent of that crime as a babe; but everything is
against me. Jasper Wilde has proof enough to send your poor, wretched
old father to the gallows, if you refuse to marry him. Oh, Bernardine! I
dare not lift my head and look up into your dear young face. Speak to
me, child, and let me know the worst. This gnawing at my soul is
intolerable--I can not bear it and live!"
But the lips of the hapless girl whose arms were twined about his neck
were mute and cold as marble.
"Won't you speak to me, Bernardine?" he wailed out, sharply. "Your
silence is more than I can bear. For God's sake, speak!"