A DARK COMPACT.
he twilight had deepened almost into darkness. Mr. Liston unconsciously, in the excitement of the tragedy of his life, told now for the first time, had risen, and was walking up and down the room. His quiet voice, never rising above its usual monotonous level, was yet full of suppressed feeling and passion. Now, as he ceased, he looked toward the still figure sitting so motionless before the smouldering fire. She had not stirred once, the fixed whiteness of her face had not altered. The large, luminous eyes looked into the dying redness in the grate, the lips were set in one tense tight line. Until last night she had been but a child, the veriest child in the tragic drama of life, the sin and shame, the utter misery of the world to her a sealed book. All at once the black, bitter page had opened, she was one of the lost herself, love, truth, honor—there were none on earth. A loathing of herself, of him, of life, filled her—an unspeakable bitterness weighed her down body and soul.
"You do not speak, Miss Bourdon," Mr. Liston said, uneasily. "You—you have not fallen asleep?"
"Asleep!" she laughed a little, strangely sounding laugh. "Not likely, Mr. Liston; I have been listening to your story—not a pleasant story to listen to or to tell. I am sorry for you, I am sorry for her. Our stories are strangely alike—we have both thrown over good and loyal men to become a villain's victim. We have no one to thank but ourselves. More or less, we both richly deserve our fate."
There was a hard, reckless bitterness in the words, in the tone. She had not shed a tear since the blow had fallen.
Mr. Liston paused in his walk and strove to read her face.
"Both?" he said. "No, Miss Bourdon. She, perhaps, but you do not. You believed yourself his wife, in all honor and truth; to you no stain of guilt attaches. But all the blacker is his dastardly betrayal of you. Without even the excuse of loving you, he forced you from home, only to gratify his brutal malice against Richard Gilbert. He told me so himself; out of his own mouth he stands condemned."
She shivered suddenly, she shrank as though he had struck her. From first to last she had been fooled; that was, perhaps, the cruelest, sharpest blow of all, to know that Laurence Thorndyke had never for one poor instant loved her, that hatred, not love, had been at the bottom of it all.
"Don't let us speak of it," she said, hoarsely. "I—I can't bear it. O Heaven! what have I done?"
She covered her face with her hands, a dry, shuddering sob shaking her from head to foot.
"If I could only die," she thought, with a pang of horrible agony and fear; "If I dared only die!"
"Listen to me, Mrs. Laurence," Mr. Liston said, steadily, and as if he read her thoughts. "Don't despair; you have something to live for yet."
"Something to live for?" she repeated, in the same stifled tones. "What?"
"Revenge."
"What?"
"Revenge upon Laurence Thorndyke. It is your right and your duty. His evil deeds have been hidden from the light long enough. Let his day of retribution come—from your hand let his doom fall."
She looked up. In the deepening dusk the man's face was set stern as stone.
"From my hand? How?"
"By simply telling the truth. Come with me to New York; come with me before Hugh Darcy and Helen Holmes, and tell your story as it stands. My word for it, there will be neither wedding nor fortune in store for Laurence Thorndyke after that."
Her black eyes lit and flashed for a moment with some of his own vengeful fire. She drew her breath hard.
"You think this?" she said.
"I know this. Stern, rigorous justice to all men is Hugh Darcy's motto. And Miss Holmes is as proud, and pure, and womanly as she is rich and beautiful. She would cast him off, though they stood at the altar."
Her lips set themselves tighter in that tense line. She sat staring steadfastly into the fire, her breast rising and falling with the tumult within.
The little clock on the mantel ticked fast and loud; the ceaseless patter, patter of the autumnal rain tapped like ghostly fingers on the pane. Down on the shore below the long, sullen breakers boomed. The man's heart beat as he waited. He had looked forward to some such hour as this, for five long years, to plot and plan his enemy's ruin. And in this girl's hands it lay to-night.
At last.
"She loves him, does she not?" She asked the question huskily.
"Do you mean Miss Holmes? Only too well, I fear, Mrs. Laurence. As I have said, it comes easily to all of you to lose your hearts to Mr. Thorndyke."
She never heeded the savage sarcasm of his tone. A tumult of temptation was warring within her.
"And she is young and gentle, and pure and good?" she went on.
"All that and more. A beautiful and gracious lady as ever drew breath."
"And I am not his wife. And you tell me she loves and trusts him. Yes! it is easy to do that! If she casts him off she will break her own heart. She at least has never wronged me—why should her life be blighted as mine and Lucy West's have been? Mr. Liston, as much as I ever loved Laurence Thorndyke, I think I hate him to-night—" her black eyes flamed up in the dusk. "I want to be revenged upon him—I will be revenged upon him, but not that way."
"Madam, I don't know what you mean."
"I mean this, Mr. Liston—and it is of no use your growing angry—I will not stab Laurence Thorndyke through the innocent girl who loves him. I have fallen very low, but not quite low enough for that. Let her marry him—I shall not lift a finger—speak a word to prevent it. She at least has never wronged me."
"No, she has never wronged you, but do you think you can do her a greater wrong than by letting her become the wife of a heartless scoundrel and libertine? I thought better of you, Miss Bourdon. Laurence Thorndyke is to escape, then, after all?"
Her eyes flashed—literally flashed in the firelight.
"No! So surely as we both live he shall not escape. But not in that way shall he be punished."
"Then, how——"
"Not to-night, Mr. Liston; some other time we will talk of this. When did you say the—the wedding was to take place?"
"The first week of December. They will spend the winter South. She is a Southerner by birth, although at present residing with her guardian, Mr. Darcy, in New York. I am to understand, then, you will not prevent this marriage?"
"I will not prevent it. I have had my fool's paradise—so no doubt had Lucy West, why should not Helen Holmes?"
"Very well, then, Miss Bourdon." He spoke in his customary cold, monotonous voice. "My business this evening is almost concluded. At what hour to-morrow will it be most convenient for you to leave?"
"To leave?"
"To return to your friends in Maine. Such were Mr. Thorndyke's orders. As you have no money of your own, I presume you are aware you cannot remain here. Up to the present I am prepared to pay what is due the Misses Waddle—I am to escort you in safety to Portland. After that—'the world is all before you where to choose.' Such are my master's orders."
She rose to her feet, suppressed passion in every line of her white face, in every tone of her voice.
"The coward!" she said, almost in a whisper. "The base, base, base coward! Sir, I will never go home! I will go down to the sea yonder, and make an end of it all, but home again—never!"
"Ah, I thought not!" he said quietly. "Then, Miss Bourdon, may I ask what you mean to do? You cannot stay here."
"No, I cannot stay here," she said bitterly. "I am utterly friendless and homeless to-night. I don't know what to do."
"Let me tell you. Come to New York."
"Sir!"
"Our hatred of Laurence Thorndyke is a bond between us. You shall never be friendless nor homeless while I live. I am old enough to be your father; you may trust me, and never repent it, that I swear. See here! this is what I mean to do for you. Sit down once more."
She obeyed, looking at him in wonder and doubt.
"Helen Holmes lives with Hugh Darcy. She is as dear as a daughter to him. He is one of those old, world-worn men who love to have youth and beauty about them. She reads for him his newspaper and books of poetry and romance; he is as fond of verse and fiction as a girl in her teens. She plays the piano and sings for him—he has a passion for music. Now, can you play and sing?"
"Yes."
"Then here is my plan. He is soon to lose Miss Holmes, and some one like her in her place he must have—that he told me himself. A young girl to read aloud his pet books, to play in the long winter evenings his pet music, to sing his favorite songs, to read and write his letters—to brighten the dull old house generally by her presence—to look pretty and fair and sweet always; that is what he wants. Salary is no object with him. You will have a happy home, light and pleasant work, plenty of money. Will you take it?"
"But—"
"You will suit him exactly. You are young enough, in all conscience—pretty enough, if you will pardon my saying so, to brighten even a duller house than that. You play, you sing, you can read aloud. What more do you want? You need a home. There is a home. And"—a long pause—"who can tell what may come of it?"
She was looking up, he was looking down. Their eyes met. In the darkness they could yet look at each other long and steadily for a moment. Then hers fell.
"How old is Mr. Darcy?" she asked in a subdued voice.
"He is seventy-eight, old, feeble, and easily worked upon. I say again—who knows what may come of it? To be disinherited is the only thing in heaven or earth Laurence Thorndyke is afraid of. And old men of eighty, with stubborn minds and strong resentments, do sometimes make such strange wills."
Again there was a pause. Then Norine Bourdon spoke firmly.
"I will go with you to New York."
He drew a long breath of relief.
"I thought you would. You will not repent it, Mrs. Laurence. By-the-by, would you mind leaving that name behind you?"
She looked at him inquiringly.
"You will accompany me to New York as my niece, Jane Liston. I have a niece of that name, a widow, out in Oregon. As my niece, Mrs. Jane Liston, from the country, looking for work in the city, I will introduce you to my landlady, a most respectable woman. As my niece, Jane Liston, I will present you to Mr. Darcy. We don't want Master Laurence to see our little game. If you went as Mrs. Laurence, or Miss Kent, even, he would. He will be sure to hear the name of Miss Holmes' successor.'
"But—you have forgotten—I may meet him. That"—her lips quivering—"I could not bear."
"No danger at all. You will not go there until they are off on their wedding tour. They do not return until May. In five months, judiciously made use of, great things may happen."
She rose up, with a long, weary-worn sigh.
"I am in your hands, Mr. Liston. Friendless, moneyless, helpless, I suppose I ought to thank you for this, but—I cannot. I know it is not for my sake you are doing it, but for the sake of your revenge. Say what you like of me when we go to New York; I am ready to follow where you lead. Just now I am tired—we will not talk any more. Let us say good-night."
She gave him her hand; it was like ice. He let it fall uneasily.
"And you will not fail me?" he asked.
"I shall not fail you," she answered. In what either said, it was not necessary. They understood—revenge upon Laurence Thorndyke.
"To-morrow at twelve I will call for you here to take the train for New York. You will be ready?"
"I will be ready." The door closed behind the small white figure, and he was alone.
Alone, and he had not told her the truth, that in his opinion the marriage was legal.
"Another time," he thought; "bigamy is an ugly crime. Let us wait until he marries Miss Holmes."
