FATE WEAVES A STRANGE WEB.
If Sally Pendleton had taken the trouble to look out after the trembling
old woman she had thrust so unceremoniously into the raging storm, she
would not have gone up to her own room with such a self-satisfied smile
on her face.
Just as that little scene was taking place, a brougham, drawn by a pair
of spirited horses, was being driven rapidly down the street, and was
almost abreast of the house as this extraordinary little drama was being
enacted.
Its occupant had ordered the driver to halt at the Pendleton mansion,
and looking out of the window, he had seen with amazement the whole
occurrence--had seen Sally Pendleton, who had always posed before him as
a sweet-tempered angel--actually thrust a feeble-looking, poorly-dressed
woman out of the house and into the street to face a storm so wild and
pitiless that most people would have hesitated before even turning a
homeless, wandering cur out into it.
Doctor Gardiner's carriage drew up quickly before the curbstone, and as
he sprung from the vehicle, his astonishment can better be imagined than
described at finding himself face to face with his friend, Miss Rogers,
and that it was she who had been ejected so summarily. The poor soul
almost fainted for joy when she beheld the young physician.
"My dear Miss Rogers!" he cried in amazement, "what in the name of
Heaven does the scene I have just witnessed mean?"
"Take me into your carriage, and drive down the street; that is, if you
are not in a hurry to make a professional call."
Jay Gardiner lifted the drenched, trembling woman in his strong arms,
placed her in the vehicle, took his seat beside her, and the brougham
rolled down the avenue.
Clinging to his strong young arm, Miss Rogers told, between her smiles
and tears, all that had taken place--of the test which she had put the
Pendletons to before leaving her money to the girl Sally, who had been
named after her; of its disastrous ending when she told Sally she was
poor instead of rich; of the abuse the girl had heaped upon her, which
ended by throwing her into the street.
She told all, keeping back nothing, little dreaming that Jay Gardiner
knew the Pendletons, and, least of all, that Sally was his betrothed.
He listened with darkening brow, his stern lips set, his handsome,
jovial, laughing face strangely white.
What could he say to her? He dared not give vent to his bitter thoughts,
and denounce the girl he was in honor bound to give his name and shield
from all the world's remarks.
"You have learned your lesson, Miss Rogers," he said, slowly. "Now be
content to return to your own luxurious home and its comforts, a sadder
and wiser woman."
"I have not tested _all_ yet," she returned. "There is yet another
family, whose address I have recently discovered after the most patient
search. I had a cousin by marriage who ran off with a sea-captain. She
died, leaving one child, a little daughter. The father no longer follows
the sea, but lives at home with the girl, following the trade of
basket-making, at which he is quite an expert, I am told, if he would
only let drink alone."
Jay Gardiner started violently. The color came and went in his face, his
strong hands trembled. He was thankful she did not notice his emotion.
"The man's name is David Moore," she went on, reflectively, "and the
girl's is Bernardine. A strange name for a girl, don't you think so?"
"A beautiful name," he replied, with much feeling; "and I should think
the girl who bears it might have all the sweet, womanly graces you long
to find in a human being."
Miss Rogers gave him the street and number, which he knew but too well,
and asked him to drive her within a few doors of the place, where she
would alight.
When she was so near her destination that she did not have time to ask
questions, he said, abruptly:
"I know this family--the old basket-maker and his daughter. I attended
him in a recent illness. They seem very worthy, to me, of all
confidence. There is a world of difference between this young girl
Bernardine and the one you describe as Miss Sally Pendleton. Please
don't mention that you know me, Miss Rogers, if you would do me a
favor," he added, as she alighted.
The landing was so dark she could hardly discern where the door was on
which to knock.
She heard the sound of voices a moment later. This sound guided her, and
she was soon tapping at a door which was slightly ajar. She heard some
one say from within:
"Some one is rapping at the door, Bernardine. Send whoever it is away.
The sight of a neighbor's face, or her senseless gossip, would drive me
crazy, Bernardine."
"I shall not invite any one in if it annoys you, father," answered a
sweet, musical voice.
Miss Rogers leaned against the door-frame, wondering what the girl was
like who had so kindly a voice.
There was the soft _frou-frou_ of a woman's skirts, the door was opened,
and a tall, slender young girl stood on the threshold, looking
inquiringly into the stranger's face.
"I am looking for the home of David Moore and of his daughter
Bernardine," said Miss Rogers.
"This is David Moore's home, and I am his daughter Bernardine," said the
young girl, courteously, even though the stranger before her was illy
clad.
"Won't you invite me in for a few moments?" asked Miss Rogers,
wistfully. "I heard what some one, your father probably, said about not
wanting to see any one just now. But I can not well come again, and it
is raining torrents outside."
"Yes, you may enter, and remain until the storm abates," said
Bernardine, cheerfully. "My father would not let any one leave his door
in such a storm as this. Pray come in, madame."
"It is kind of you to say 'madame' to a creature like me," sighed the
stranger, following the girl into the poorly furnished but scrupulously
neat apartment.
Bernardine smiled.
"When I was very young, one of the first lessons my dear mother taught
me was to be polite to every one," she returned, quietly.
"You look like your mother, my dear," said Miss Rogers, huskily. "I--I
was afraid you would not."
"Did you know my mother?" exclaimed Bernardine, clasping her hands
together, and looking eagerly at the stranger in the coarse, ill-fitting
gown.
"Yes, my dear; I knew her years ago, when we were both young girls. She
looked then as you do now. I was distantly related to her, in fact. I--I
was wealthy in those days, but I have since lost all my money, and am
now reduced to penury--ay, to want," murmured the shabbily dressed
woman.
Bernardine sprung forward excitedly.
"Surely you can not be the great Miss Rogers of California, of whom I
have heard her speak thousands of times?"
"Yes, I am Miss Rogers, my dear; great once, in the eyes of the world,
when I had money, but despised now, that I am reduced and in want."
In a moment Bernardine's arms were around her, and tears were falling
from the girl's beautiful dark eyes.
"Oh, do not say that, dear Miss Rogers!" she cried. "_I_ love you
because my mother loved you in the days that are past. Money does not
always bring love, and the loss of it can not lessen the love of those
who owe us allegiance, and who have a true affection for us. Welcome, a
thousand times welcome to our home, dear aunt, if you will let me call
you that; and--and I shall use my influence to have father invite you to
share our humble home forever, if you only will."
"No, no, Bernardine," replied Miss Rogers. "You have mouths enough to
earn bread for."
"One more would not signify," declared Bernardine; "and your presence
beneath this roof would amply compensate me. I would take a world of
pleasure in working a little harder than I do now to keep you here."
"Before you give me too much hope on that point you had better talk it
over with your father. He may think differently from what you do. He may
not want to keep a tramp's boarding-house," she added, quietly.
"Father will be sure to think as I do," reiterated Bernardine. "He has a
rough exterior, but the kindest of hearts beats in his rugged bosom."
"You are right there, Bernardine," said David Moore, pushing open an
inner door and coming forward. "I could not help overhearing all that
passed between you two. I am sorry you have lost all your money, Miss
Rogers; but that will not make any difference in the heartiness of the
welcome we give you; and if Bernardine wants you to stay here with us,
stay you shall. So take off your bonnet, and make yourself at home."