A NARROW ESCAPE.
When Roland sat down to dinner that evening with Mr. Dunlop, who generally preferred to dine with the two young men, Waldberg did not make his appearance as usual. After dinner, Roland went up to his room, ostensibly to write. But he did not write much; he was too much concerned about his friend. Mr. Dunlop, who kept himself well informed as to financial matters, had told him of the rumored collapse in certain stocks, the rapid rise of which had been exciting great general interest. Roland knew that Waldberg had been watching them with a feverish; though sanguine eagerness, which it pained him to see. And now he feared for a crushing disappointment.
Two or three hours had passed, and still no Waldberg appeared. Roland was just thinking that he must go out to look for him, little as he knew where to look, when he heard the door below open and close much more softly than usual, and what he recognized as Waldberg's familiar step—though it was strangely soft and slow—mounting the stair, and passing into his own room. Then all was silence for a time. Roland listened,—more anxious than ever, since Waldberg did not, as usual, come in to tell him his news. After a time, he heard him moving about in his room, opening drawers, as if searching for something. Unable any longer to resist the strong impulse of anxiety, he rose, walked softly to Waldberg's room, and entered without knocking. His misgivings were only too well justified. The young German was standing in front of the mirror, with something in his up-lifted hand. Roland made a dash at his hand, not a moment too soon. The next instant, he was conscious of a strange sensation in his own shoulder, which made him stagger back, caught by the bewildered Waldberg.
"Roland! Mein Roland! Why did you that? Now I am done for!"
Roland sat down, feeling somewhat faint, as he tried to pull off his coat, exclaiming, as he did so, "Waldberg! how could you think of such a senseless, cowardly thing?"
"Ah, you know nothing! I am in despair! But first I must see about this. Did the thing go through?"
An examination showed that the bullet had but grazed his shoulder, leaving a somewhat severe flesh-wound which Roland declared a mere trifle. Waldberg, who had had some experience in German students' duels, had set to work to bandage it, when a step in the passage without made Roland rouse himself and go out to see who it was. It turned out to be Mr. Dunlop, who had been awakened by the report, and had come, in some alarm, to discover what was the matter. Roland told him that an accident had happened, which had given him a mere scratch; and he went back to bed, growling a little and only half-satisfied. When he had gone down, Roland was glad to sink down in an easy-chair, while Waldberg completed a temporary dressing, that would serve till morning, as Roland insisted that there must be no fuss made about it that night. When it was done, he insisted on knowing what had tempted Waldberg to such a mad and reckless step, adding:
"I'm only too glad the lead went across my shoulder instead of into your brain!"
"Oh, well, you see, mein Roland, I was desperate! It was mad, I know, but indeed I knew not what to do! However, you shall know all, if you must."
He told the story in German, partly for the sake of privacy, partly because when agitated he generally relapsed into his mother tongue. It was a sad and too common tale. He had been desperately anxious to make all he could, in the venture to which he had been encouraged by the opinion of such an "expert" as Mr.
Farrell and one of his clerks—that it was a "sure thing." He had embarked in it all his own little resources, only regretting that these were not greater, as he had the expectation of at least a ten-fold return.
"Pity you couldn't put in another five hundred!" his adviser had said; "couldn't you borrow it?"
"No," Waldberg had said. He couldn't ask Graeme, and Mr. Dunlop would never lend his money for speculation. "Get him to sign a note—you needn't say what for," said his tempter; "you'll be able to pay twice over before a month's past."
Just when he was most anxious for this additional stake, chance threw a temptation in his way. He found, in a book of Mr. Dunlop's an envelope on which he had written his own name, "Alexander C. Dunlop," with "Minton" below, evidently intended to be enclosed in a letter to some stranger, for the purpose of containing a reply. The sight of this put into his mind the idea of writing, above the signature, a joint note with his own signature above Mr. Dunlop's, the word, "Minton" coming in for the date. He cherished the thought, till it proved irresistible. It would only, he thought, be borrowing Mr. Dunlop's endorsement for a loan he would soon be able to repay. Without letting himself realize the wrong of it, the thing was done. And he had been counting on making an additional five thousand out of the five hundred he was now borrowing.
But now, contrary to the most confident expectations, the tide had suddenly turned—quotations had come down with a rush, and Waldberg, with many others, had lost his whole venture. And how was he, thus left penniless for the present, to face Mr. Dunlop when the note should fall due? He had drunk enough to "prime himself," and had come home to seek a rash release from his troubles.
Roland was terribly shocked. He could not understand how Waldberg could have done such a thing as this. But he saw that he was utterly wretched, and he would not add a straw, by reproach, to the burden he bore. "I shall be disgraced for ever," he said, "and it's all up now, about Kitty!"
"You shall not be disgraced, Hermann!" he said. "I know you will never do such a thing again. I think I can manage it so that no one will know, not even Mr. Dunlop; and he wouldn't be hard on you if he did; he's really fond of you!"
"But how, then?" asked Waldberg, bewildered in his turn.
"I can let you have a hundred dollars now, or when the note falls due. And I shall ask Mr. Dunlop to lend me the other four hundred for a time on my own note and yours. He'll do it if I ask him. And you can make it up by degrees."
"Oh, Roland, you're the best friend any fellow ever had! Indeed, you may be sure I'll never try such a thing again! My heart's been like lead, ever since I did it. But you're hurt now—and I know it's all up with Kitty!" he groaned.
"And, Hermann, whatever happens, never again try that cowardly plan of shirking the consequences of your own actions. It was only making bad ten times worse. Think of the stain it would have left on your name; and how your friends would have felt!"
Happily no one else slept near, and no one but Mr. Dunlop had been alarmed by the noise. Roland quietly retired to his own apartment, where Waldberg would not leave him, until he had seen him settled for the night as comfortably as possible; and then went to try to sleep off his own excitement: while Roland, now suffering a good deal, lay awake—satisfied, however, with having, in a double sense, saved the life of his friend. He got up and dressed next morning, though unable to move his arm, and, in reply to all inquiries, would vouchsafe no further explanation than that he had given to Mr. Dunlop. And, somehow, the story got about that he had discovered a burglar who was intending to rob the rich old Scotchman, had wrested his pistol from his grasp and frightened him away. Mr. Dunlop, whose shrewdness suspected more than he knew, said nothing, and asked no questions, even when the loan was asked for without explanation. He had learned to trust Roland, absolutely, and he at once granted his request. But he insisted that Roland should have medical treatment for his shoulder, which was now giving him a good deal of trouble, and himself sent for Dr. Blanchard.
"I don't much care whether ye pay me or not, lad," he said, as he handed Roland his cheque for the sum asked for. "I don't expect to need this world's goods very long. I've always thought I should go off suddenly, like the snuff of a candle; or what's happened to Farrell may happen to me, too."
For, on the evening of the "crash," Mr. Farrell had had a paralytic, stroke, evidently the result of his anxiety and disappointment. It did not, however, seem likely to be fatal; but he was completely helpless, and no hope was given of his ever being less so. His losses had been, very heavy, and, as his business would now have to be wound up, he would be left with only a small proportion of the fortune he had been supposed to possess.
Nora, before she left town, paid a visit of condolence to Kitty, whom, to her surprise, she found by no means overwhelmed by the sudden reverse of fortune. Except for her natural sorrow for her father's helpless condition, indeed, Nora would have thought her rather brighter than when she had last seen her. And, by and by, she learned the secret.
"It's all over between Harold Pomeroy and me, Nora. I think he was very glad to get out of it, when I told him he could have his freedom and his rings back. Hermann can't give me a diamond ring," she said, holding up her finger, "but this is a signet ring his mother gave him, and I'm to keep it till he can give me a plain gold one."
"Why, Kitty!" exclaimed Nora. "Is that how it is?"
"Yes," said Kitty, "when Hermann heard of papa's misfortune he came to sympathize. And, of course, we've known we've loved each other this long time, only I didn't know how I could break with Harold; it would vex father so, though I knew he didn't care very much. But since poor papa's been ill, he doesn't seem to mind about anything.—And so it's all settled. Hermann and I are to be married just as soon as he's able to take a little cottage by the river, and papa and mamma are to live with us. And I'm to sweep and dust, and make my own dresses, and be as happy as the day is long. I'm sick of doing nothing!"
Nora could not help laughing outright at the idea of the petted Kitty, whose forefinger had hardly ever been pricked by a needle, making her own dresses, and finding it delightful. However, she kissed her, and said she hoped she would be as happy as she expected;—forgetting altogether the slighted affections of Mr. Harold Pomeroy.
"And mind," said Kitty, "you're to come to the wedding, whenever it is! I want you for my bridesmaid, and Roland Graeme is to be groomsman."
"Very well!" said Nora, laughing, and so they parted. Roland Graeme, chafing under the temporary imprisonment enforced by his wound and its effects, which had been both painful and tedious, regretted very much, when he heard of Miss Blanchard's approaching departure, that he should not be able to see her before she went. Something of this regret he had expressed to Dr. Blanchard, who still visited him occasionally. He was sitting by his open window, one warm May morning, thinking longingly of woods just bursting into leaf, and all the country sights and sounds to which he had been accustomed, long ago, when a note was brought to him. He knew that the handwriting was Miss Blanchard's and opened it eagerly. It did not take long to read the few cordial lines:
"Dear Mr. Graeme,
"I am so sorry I cannot see you before I go, to say Good-bye, and wish you God-speed. I was very sorry, too, to hear of your accident, but I trust you will soon be quite restored. I hope you will come by and by, to visit us at Rockland, which is always lovely in June. The change of air will do you so much good, my brother says, and my father bids me say that he will be delighted to make your acquaintance, and I shall be happy to show you all our sights, including Mr. Foster's model mills.
"Meantime, with kindest regards, believe me
"Your sincere friend,
"Nora Blanchard."
Roland read this note several times over, before he folded it up and put it carefully away. And the somewhat languid and wistful expression that his face had worn before, was brightened, now, with the pleasure caused by the kindly words and the still more pleasant vista it called up before him. The enforced rôle of an invalid had been to him a new and unwelcome experience, and the temporary prostration left by the injury, at a time when his naturally vigorous physique had been a good deal run down by overwork, was particularly trying to his energetic spirit. But the mental picture that the note had conjured up, of June and woods and flowers, added to the grateful sense of Miss Blanchard's kind consideration, appealed to the underlying, inextinguishable poetry of his nature, and sent his thoughts off on a refreshing day-dream, far away from the smoky factories, the feverish competitions, the exasperating wrongs, and all the tangles and worries of life in Minton.