“Godfrey, Godfrey,” two voices called above the storm, one loud, piercing and peremptory as if it had the right, the other tender, beseeching and low, as of a spirit going out into the darkness and saying a farewell to one it had loved so fondly.
Two voices called, “Godfrey, Godfrey,” above the storm; but Godfrey heard only one, and freeing himself from something which held him fast, and which in his mad excitement he did not know was a pair of clinging hands, he struck out for the place where, just above the water, he caught one glimpse of a white, scared face, and tresses of long bright hair disappearing from his sight. With a courage and energy born of love and despair he reached the spot, and plunging his hand beneath the wave, reached for the long bright hair, felt it, clutched it firmly, and drew again into view the pallid face on which the hue of death had settled, and winding his arm about the slender waist, swam for the shore, which was fortunately so near that his feet soon touched the bottom, and he struggled up the bank with his unconscious burden. Laying it gently down, and pressing one kiss upon the white lips, he turned to retrace his steps, for a thought of Alice and his sisters had come over him, but when he saw them at some little distance down the river, struggling on their feet, he went back to Gertie, who lay in the same death-like swoon, with her hands folded upon her breast, and a smile wreathing her lips, as if her last thought had been one of peace and happiness. Very gently Godfrey lifted her up, and wringing the water from her hair, held her head upon his breast while he showered kiss after kiss upon her forehead and lips, murmuring as he did so: “Gertie, my darling, you cannot, you must not be dead. Oh, Gertie, open your eyes on me once, and hear me tell how much I love you.”
But the eyes did not unclose, nor the lips he kissed so passionately kiss him back again, and without knowing to whom he spoke, or stopping to think who was standing by him, he said, so sadly:
“Gertie is dead.”
There was a rain of tears upon his face as he spoke, and a look of anguish in his eyes, but he met with no answering sympathy from the motionless figure near him. It was Alice, who stood there drenched to the skin, the fluting and the starch all out of her dress, the crimp all out of her hair, and the fire of a hundred volcanoes in the eyes which gazed so pitilessly upon the unconscious Gertie, while a smile of bitter scorn curled her lips and intense anger sounded in her voice as she said:
“Godfrey Schuyler, from this moment our paths diverge. I can have no faith in one who deliberately thrusts aside his promised wife to save the life of another. You did this, Godfrey Schuyler, when you knew I was drowning, and I hate you for it, and give you back your freedom with your ring.”
Alice’s temper had increased with every word she uttered, and snatching off the superb diamond selected by herself at Tiffany’s, she threw it toward Godfrey, who, stunned and bewildered, did not at first realize what she was saying, or what she meant by it. A faint recollection he had of being clutched by somebody in the water and freeing himself from the grasp, but he did not know it was Alice, who, when she realized that he was putting her from him, felt that all hope was gone, until Julia’s voice called out: “Cling to the boat, Alice; cling to the boat, as I am doing.”
The next she knew she was clinging to the boat to which she and Julia held until aid came from two boatmen who had been near them on the river when the accident occurred, and who took them safely to the shore, which Robert had reached before them with Emma at his side! Julia had been deserted, too, and though Robert had not put her from him, he had made no effort to save her, but had grasped her sister’s arm and said, in her hearing: “Don’t be afraid, Emma, darling, the shore is very near; keep your head above the water and I will not let you drown.”
But for the name Emma, Julia might have fancied he made a mistake, but that settled it beyond a doubt; and a pain like the cut of a knife ran through her heart as she held to the side of the boat, and saw her sister borne away by one whom she had appropriated to herself so long. Once safe upon the land she went to the spot where Robert stood wringing the water from her sister’s dress, and then, overcome with nervousness, and terror, and bitter disappointment, she uttered a low cry and fell half fainting upon the sand. Ordinarily, Alice would have stopped to help her, but her interest was centred in that other group, farther up the river, and making her way thither, she reached it in time to hear Godfrey’s words: “Open your eyes once more and hear me tell how much I love you!”
And he who said this was her promised husband, and she to whom he said it an obscure girl, whom, a few weeks since, Alice would have thought it impossible for one in Godfrey’s position really to love. Even now she could not believe him in earnest, but there was bitter anger and resentment in her heart, prompting her in the heat of her passion to give him back his freedom with the ring, which, striking against his shoulder, bounded off and fell on Gertie’s death-white face.