AT DEAD OF NIGHT.
I gaze on her frozen face,
Her mystical, sightless eyes.
And now--even now--her grace
The power of death defies.
W. J. BENNERS, JR.
Kathleen lay still and white under the starless sky, like one dead, and
there was no one to come to her rescue, for the telegraph operator,
busy at his instrument, dreamed not of her proximity, and at this hour
of the night there were no loiterers about in the village. Swiftly and
silently had the fiend escaped, and it was most probable that day would
dawn ere any one would discover the beautiful girl lying out there in
the rear of the depot upon the damp, muddy ground, dead and cold.
But to return to Boston, which our heroine had so unceremoniously
quitted.
Her last thought as the train steamed away with her was of Ralph
Chainey, the handsome actor, who had looked so tenderly into her eyes,
and who had whispered as he held her hand at parting: "I hope we shall
meet again."
Her tears had started at the memory.
"It is all over," she sighed. "He will be gone away from Boston before
I go back, and I shall never see him again."
But at that very moment events were shaping themselves in Ralph
Chainey's life so as to bring him to her side again.
In his room at the Thorndike Hotel he was reading a telegram that said:
"Come at once. Fedora is ill--perhaps dying."
His handsome face grew grave and troubled. Throwing down the telegram,
he sought his manager.
"Every engagement for this week must be canceled. I must go South on
the first train."
"But, my dear Mr. Chainey, the loss will amount to thousands of
dollars," expostulated the reluctant manager.
"No matter; let the loss be mine. A--some one--is--ill--dying. I must
go."
"I am very sorry. We were having a splendid success here," sighed the
manager; but his regrets did not deter the young man from going.
Two hours after Kathleen had left Boston, he drove up to the same
station where she had taken the train for the South, and entered
another one going in the same direction.
Meanwhile, Susette sauntered back to Beacon Street with the message
Kathleen had dictated--she would be at home later on.
Mrs. Carew was indignant. She had been planning to take Kathleen away
by the noon train. Her trunk, already strapped and corded, stood in the
hall.
Susette received a severe scolding for leaving her young mistress, but
she did not seem much affected by it.
"She is my mistress, and I should not dare to disobey her orders," she
replied, and walked out of the room.
"What shall you do now?" asked Alpine, curiously.
"I must wait and take her on a later train."
Ringing a bell, she sent her own maid to Commonwealth Avenue, to bring
home her tardy step-daughter.
Ellen returned with the news that Kathleen had left Mrs. Fox's several
hours ago.
"And with Susette, too," said the elderly maid, sourly; for she
cherished a secret grudge against Kathleen's maid, who was younger than
herself, better looking, and had insnared the affections of James, the
butler.
Susette was recalled. On being questioned, she readily admitted that
Kathleen had started home with her, but sent her on ahead, promising to
follow.
While the angry step-mother stormed and raved over Kathleen's
willfulness, awaiting her return in impotent anger, the young girl was
flying fast from her tyranny, and nearer to the fate that loomed darkly
in the near future.
* * * * *
The flying train sped on through the night with Ralph Chainey. He had
thrown himself down dressed upon his berth, for the porter had told him
that he would have to change cars at midnight.
He was restless and troubled. No sleep visited his eyes. In spite of
himself, his thought turned back to Boston--to Kathleen Carew. She
haunted him with her musical voice and luring eyes. At last a deep
groan forced itself through his lips.
"I would to Heaven we had never met!" he exclaimed, in a tone of deep
despair.
Pushing back the light curtain, he looked out into the night. It had
grown cold and bleak. A light patter of mingled rain and snow was
beating against the window.
"How dreary!" the young man murmured, with a shudder; and added, in a
sort of awe: "Dying! can that be true?"
The porter, who was very attentive--the result of a liberal tip--came
and put his head between the curtains.
"We change cars at the next station, Mr. Chainey, and that's but a few
miles away. You'd better be getting ready."
Ralph came into the little reception-room, and the man assisted him
into his overcoat. A few minutes more, and the train was slowing up at
the lonely station.
"You're the only person getting off, sir. Good-night, sir; a pleasant
journey!"
The porter handed out Ralph's valise, and he stepped down into the
darkness, while the train went its way.
"But where the dickens is the other one?" soliloquized the young man,
standing still a moment, the light snow pelting his face, while he
peered into the darkness for the locomotive's head-light. "It must be
behind that little depot. Here goes for a tour of investigation!" and
with his valise in hand, he strode forward in the darkness, hardly
knowing where he went, and wondering at the scarcity of railway
officials and light.
"The train can't be here. It is probably late," he thought, and then
his foot tripped, and he fell headlong over a body lying in his path.
A shudder of nameless horror shook the young man as he scrambled to an
erect position, muttering:
"Good heavens! a woman, I know, from the silken garments. Now, what is
she doing out here on the ground in this Cimmerian darkness, with the
snow coming down in a fury?" He raised his voice and shouted loudly:
"Halloo, halloo!"
The closed door of the depot, with its one blinking lighted window,
opened, and then the form of a man appeared in the opening.
"Who is it, and what's the matter?" he exclaimed, shortly.
"Bring a lantern out here. I've found a woman dead in the snow!" was
the startling answer.
Ralph had knelt down and felt the face and hands of the motionless
woman. They were cold as ice, and he realized that she was dead.
"Horrible!" he murmured, and while he waited for the man to come with
the lantern little thrills of awe ran through him. The flesh he had
touched was firm and young, the hair was soft and curly, the garments
silken. Who was she, and why was she out here under the night sky, cold
and dead?
The depot agent came hurrying out through the driving snow, and flashed
the light of his lantern full into their faces, for Ralph was still
kneeling down by the motionless form.
"Who are you, and what is the row?" he inquired, curiously, but Ralph
did not reply.
He was gazing in terror at the silent face with its closed eyes that
lay so pale and still before him, wet with the falling snow, the
bronze curls tangled on the forehead, drops of blood congealed on the
exquisitely-formed ears; and, oh, horror! the white throat and chin had
dark crimson finger-marks upon them. The small velvet hat had fallen
off, the dress pocket was turned inside out, one hand had the glove
torn off, and was wounded where a ring had been wrenched from it.
"Oh, Heaven!" groaned Ralph Chainey, in a low voice of shuddering
horror, and the man exclaimed:
"Why, this looks like robbery and murder! See, her pocket has been
turned inside out, a ring has been torn from her finger--a diamond,
very likely--and her ears are bleeding where her ear-rings have been
torn out! Look at the red marks on her throat! Good Lord; she has
certainly been choked and robbed by some devil in human shape! Mister,
who are you, and where did you come from, and how did you find her?"
Ralph Chainey, whose face had grown as white as the dead one before
him, did not reply save by a second groan of unutterable horror. He was
wringing his hands in dismay, and the expression of his eyes was one
of bitterest anguish. Not until the man shook him by the shoulder, and
plied him over and over with questions, did he reply, telling him in
disjointed sentences the simple truth of how he came there, and adding:
"If I am not mistaken, she is Miss Carew, a young Boston lady, whom I
met there only last night. How she came here, what is the mystery of
this, I can not understand."