Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee.”
It was on the last night of the season at gay Newport; on the morrow, at the noon hour, there was to be a great exodus of the summer guests, and by nightfall the famous Ocean House would be closed.
The brilliant season of 1901 would be but a memory to the merry throng—dancing, laughing, flirting to their hearts’ content to-night in the magnificent ballroom; and every one seemed intent upon making the most of the occasion.
As usual, “the beautiful Miss Trevalyn,” as every one called her, was the belle of the ball, as she had been the belle of the season, much to the chagrin of a whole set of beauties who had come this summer to take Newport by storm and capture the richest matrimonial prize. Even Miss Queenie Trevalyn’s cruelest enemy could not help but admit that she was simply perfect to-night as she floated down the plant-embowered ballroom, a fairy vision in pink tulle, fluttering ribbons and garlands of blush-roses looping back her long jetty curls. Here, there and everywhere flashed that slender pink figure with the lovely face, rosy and radiant with smiles and flushed with excitement, her red lips parted, and those wondrous midnight-black eyes of hers gleaming like stars.
“Who is the gentleman with whom Miss Trevalyn is waltzing?” asked an anxious mother—a guest from one of the cottages—whose four unmarried daughters were at that moment playing the disagreeable part of wall flowers.
Her companion, an old-time guest of the hotel, who kept strict tabs upon the other guests, and prided herself upon knowing pretty thoroughly everybody else’s business, leaned forward from her seat on the piazza and raised her lorgnette to her eyes, critically surveying the young lady’s partner.
He was a tall, handsome, distinguished man of at least thirty, bronzed and bearded, with a noble bearing that could not fail to attract attention anywhere. He was a man whom men take to on sight, and women adore.
His eyes were deep blue and his hair was a dark, chestnut brown—a shade darker perhaps than the trim beard and mustache were.
“That is just what everybody here has been trying to find out,” was the reply, “but no one seems to know; he came here quite a month ago, and the first evening of his arrival proved himself a hero. It happened in this way: The elevator boy, upon reaching the fourth floor, had stepped out of the car for a moment to lift a heavy satchel for a lady who had come up with him, to a room a couple of doors distant, and in that moment two persons had entered the elevator—Miss Queenie Trevalyn and the distinguished-looking new arrival. No one could tell just how the terrible affair occurred, whether one or the other brushed against the lever accidentally or not, but the next instant, with the rapidity of lightning, and without an instant’s warning, the car began to shoot downward.
“Wild cries of horror broke from the lips of the guests at each landing as it shot past. They realized what had happened; they could see that there was some one in the car, and they realized that it meant instant death to the occupants when the car reached the flagging below.