Miss Rogers noticed that Bernardine was strangely silent and preoccupied
during the remainder of that day; but she attached no particular
importance to it.
She knew that the girl was wearing her heart out in brooding over the
coming marriage. Jasper Wilde refused to be bought off, and Bernardine
herself declared that it must take place. _She, alas! knew why!_
Miss Rogers had done her best to persuade David Moore to take Bernardine
away--to Europe--ay, to the furthest end of the world, where Jasper
Wilde could not find them, declaring that she would raise the money to
defray their traveling expenses.
David Moore shook his head.
"There is no part of the world to which we could go that he would not
find us," he muttered, burying his face in his shaking hands. "But we
will speak no more about it. It unmans me to think what would happen
were----" and he stopped short.
He had often heard Miss Rogers make allusion to money she could lay her
hand on at any moment; but the old basket-maker never believed her. He
fancied that the poor woman had a sort of mania that she was possessed
of means which she could lay her hand on at any moment, and all she said
on the subject he considered as but visionary, and paid no attention to
it whatever.
Poor Miss Rogers was in despair. What could she do to save Bernardine?
She worried so over the matter that by evening she had so severe a
headache that she was obliged to retire to her room and lie down.
David Moore had drunk himself into insensibility early in the evening,
and Bernardine, sick at heart, alone, wretched, and desolate, was left
by herself to look the dread future in the face.
The girl had reached a point where longer endurance was impossible. The
man whom she loved had been only deceiving her with his protestations of
affection; he had laughed with his companions at the kisses he had
bestowed on her sweet lips; and she abhorred the man who was to claim
her on the morrow as the price of her father's liberty.
No wonder the world looked dark to the poor girl, and there seemed
nothing in the future worth living for.
As the hours dragged by, Bernardine had made up her mind what to do.
The little clock on the mantel chimed the midnight hour as she arose
from her low seat by the window, and putting on her hat, she glided from
the wretched rooms that had been home to her all her dreary life.
Owing to the lateness of the hour, she encountered few people on the
streets. There was no one to notice who she was or whither she went,
save the old night-watchman who patroled the block.
"Poor child!" he muttered, thoughtfully, looking after the retreating
figure; "she's going out to hunt for that drunken old scapegrace of a
father, I'll warrant. It's dangerous for a fine young girl with a face
like hers to be on the streets alone at this hour of the night. I've
told the old basket-maker so scores of times, but somehow he does not
seem to realize her great danger."
Bernardine drew down her dark veil, and waited until the people should
go away. She was dressed in dark clothes, and sat so silently she
attracted no particular attention; not even when she leaned over and
looked longingly into the eddying waves.
Two or three ships bound for foreign ports were anchored scarcely fifty
rods away. She could hear the songs and the laughter of the sailors. She
waited until these sounds had subsided.
The girl sitting close in the shadow of one of the huge posts was not
observed by the few stragglers strolling past.
One o'clock sounded from some far-off tower-clock; then the half hour
struck.
Bernardine rose slowly to her feet, and looked back at the lights of the
great city that she was leaving.
There would be no one to miss her; no one to weep over her untimely
fate; no one to grieve that she had taken the fatal step to eternity.
Her father would be glad that there was no one to follow his step by
night and by day, and plead with the wine-sellers to give him no more
drink. He would rejoice that he could follow his own will, and drink as
much as he pleased.
There was no dear old mother whose heart would break; no gentle sister
or brother who would never forget her; no husband to mourn for her; no
little child to hold out its hands to the blue sky, and cry to her to
come back. No one would miss her on the face of God's earth.
Alas! for poor Bernardine, how little she knew that at that very hour
the man whose love she craved most was wearing his very heart out for
love of her.
Bernardine took but one hurried glance backward; then, with a sobbing
cry, sprung over the pier, and into the dark, seething waters.