At the mention of that name, Frank gave an involuntary shudder. He looked straight into the eyes of Gerald, but they returned his gaze without a change of expression, and the monstrous thought was smothered in its birth.
"Have you written 'Dear Mary?'" said Gerald, calmly.
"I have! go on."
"'Business of a sudden and imperative nature calls me away. I shall need your presence and advice; trust yourself unhesitatingly to the man who delivers this; he is my dearest friend.'"
"Whom is this supposed to come from?" inquired Frank.
"Oh," said Gerald, carelessly, "from her brother."
"Her brother! has she then a brother? God in heaven help him! Ah! Gerald, this is frightful; let me entreat of you to abandon your intent; think of the load of misery the indulgence of one evanescent, selfish gratification will entail on all this poor girl's friends;" and Frank knelt and took Gerald's hand in his. For an instant, all the good in the heart of the latter floated to the surface, but he thought of the degradation he had endured, and revenge sank it down again.
"Come, come," he cried, "no more sermons if you please; you have obliged me so much that I can scarcely tell you, and now remain here until I return. I shall not be long; there's a bottle of Inishowen, sugar, lemons, and hot water; make yourself quite at home. Depend upon it, you shall soon be amply repaid for all you have done for me." So saying, he went out, and Frank was left alone.
Half an hour, an hour, passed away, and Gerald did not return. In spite of himself, sad, fearfully sad thoughts brooded over Frank's spirits. In vain he resorted to the stimulant so lavishly provided for him; the more he drank, the more terrible were the imaginings which crowded into his very heart and brain; at last, unable longer to endure the suspense, and actuated by an impulse for which he could not account, he suddenly started up to return home—what was his surprise to find the door locked? He rushed to the window—it was strongly secured. A vague, indefinite sensation of terror crept through his frame—he was a prisoner, for what purpose—great heaven! if it should be that to which his imagination sometimes pointed, only to be abandoned again from its very intensity of horror. He screamed aloud—echo only answered him. Lost, bewildered, almost bereft of reason, now would he pace rapidly to and fro; now stand stone still. The live-long night he remained in that lonely chamber, a prey to every torture that could reach the soul of man—minutes swelled into days, a long year of common-place existence was compressed into those few hours. He prayed, cursed, raved alternately, nor could the fearful quantity he drank drown reason in forgetfulness. Slowly the dim grey of morning began to break—anon, the gleesome lark flew upward to greet the sun with his matin song, and yet no sign of Gerald. The door was at last unlocked—Frank rushed through, and with instinctive dread sought his home. Scarcely pausing to draw breath, in a state of utter exhaustion he reached the cottage, burst open the door, and flew into the room—it was empty!
"Mary, Mary!" he cried, in choking accents, but her soft voice did not reply; looking round, his eye suddenly rested on an open letter; it was his—most completely had the fiend triumphed. At his own suggestion, the being to whom his very soul was linked had given herself up to the power of the seducer. The following words were written in pencil on the outside:—