A Bitter Heritage: A Modern Story of Love and Adventure

by John Bloundelle-Burton

"She is coming," he thought, holding his breath. "Coming. On her way to my room. To do what? What?"

But now the silence was again intense. Upon the boards of the veranda he could hear no footfall--Nothing. Not even the creak of one of the planks. Nothing! What had she done? What was she doing? Almost he thought that he could guess. Could divine how she--this woman of mystery, this midnight visitor who had crouched near his bed some twenty-four hours ago, who had stolen forth from his room into the storm as a thwarted murderess might have stolen--having now reached the veranda, was pausing to make sure that all was safe; to make sure that there was nothing to thwart her; to disturb her in the doing of that--whatever it might be--which she meditated.

Then there did fall a sound upon his ears, yet one which he only heard because it was close to him; because also all was so still. The sound of an indrawn breath, gentle as the sigh given in its sleep by a little child, yet issuing from a breast that had long been a stranger to the innocence of childhood. An indrawn breath, that was in truth--that must be--the effect of a supreme nervousness, of fear.

"Who is she?" he wondered to himself, while still--his own breath held--he watched and listened. "What is she to him? She is twice his age. Surely this is not the love of the hot, passionate Southern woman! What can she be to him that thus she jeopardizes her life? In my place many men would shoot her dead who caught her as--as--I--shall catch her--ere long."

For he knew now (as he could not doubt!) that no step was to be omitted which should remove him from Desolada, from existence.

"Sebastian and she both know that he fills my place. Well--to-night we come to an understanding. To-night I tell them that I know it too."

While he thus meditated, from far down at the front of the house there once more arose the trolling of a song in Sebastian's deep bass tones. A noisy song; a drinking, carousing song; one that should have had for its accompaniment the banging of drums and the braying of trombones.

"Bah!" muttered Julian to himself, "you are too late, vagabond! Shout and bellow as much as you choose--hoping thereby to drown all other sounds, such as those of stealthy feet and rattling window blinds, or to throw dust in my eyes. Shout as much as you like. She is here on her evil errand--a moment later she will be in my hands."

In truth it seemed to be so. Past where his eyes were, there went now, as that boisterous song uprose, a black substance which obscured the great gleaming stars from them--the lower part of a woman's gown. Amid the turmoil that proceeded from below, she was creeping on towards her goal.

Julian could scarcely restrain himself now--now that she had passed onward: almost was he constrained to thrust aside the blinds of this great window and spring out upon the woman. But he knew it was not yet the time, though it was at hand. She must be outside the window of his own room by now. The time was near.