The ball! There! She has come back to first principles now; and now Rosamond Arleigh begins to untangle the web which is woven about her brain. She remembers the scene in her own sitting-room between herself and Gilbert Warrington. She recalls it all, every word, every look, every gesture. It struck home to her understanding, her memory, with the sharpness of a knife. The poor woman uttered a low cry, and struggled to a sitting posture.
Doctor Danton had by this time induced Violet to go to bed, and he had returned to the next room and the company of Dunbar, closing the door of communication between the two apartments.
Rosamond sat up on the flower-strewn couch and stared wildly about her. Was she dead? Was her body really bereft of life; and this, that was thinking and troubling itself so, was it her freed spirit, anxious to soar away, yet earth-bound still? It was a strange, a grewsome thought.
Trembling like a leaf, she rose to her feet. They had arranged the supposed dead body in a simple robe of snowy lawn trimmed with lace. There was nothing suggestive of a shroud in the garment, yet Rosamond’s eyes, as they rested upon it, closed involuntarily, and a shudder passed over her. A swift, wild thought flashed into her brain. Remember, it was not yet quite clear, nor had she recovered entirely from the effects of her recent attack and the strange experience which had followed it. Let any woman, no matter how strong her nerves, open her eyes and realize that the world believes her dead, that she is robed for the grave, and over in a corner of the room her coffin stands waiting to receive her body, and my word for it, she would be guilty of quite as insane conduct as that of which Rosamond Arleigh is guilty now.
And the circumstances which surround Rosamond were so strange and unusual, she had become the victim of such remarkable events, so wildly romantic, no wonder her weak nerves had failed her now and she had given way. Her brain was giddy with the crowd of thoughts and fancies which beset it; she was possessed of but one aim—a wild, mad resolution to escape forever from Gilbert Warrington’s power—even though to do this—to gain her freedom—she would only find it in the grave.
She wrung her white hands frantically.
“He has blighted my whole life, and I hate him!” she moaned. “I will escape from him now while I can. He will return here in the morning, and—and I must be gone. He has hounded me down, blackened my life with that awful story of disgrace and shame. I must get away from here, I must escape him, or I shall die indeed. He thinks me dead now, and indeed I would be if I had not had the strength and courage to empty the contents of the chloral bottle upon the floor when he pressed it to my lips. I will try to escape; I must. I will go to Yorke Towers; it is there that I must seek for those papers, there, where Harold Arleigh—oh, Harold, Harold, my darling!—lived at the time to which Gilbert Warrington refers. For Yorke Towers was long in possession of the Arleighs. I think that is the real cause of Helen Yorke’s ill-concealed dislike for me. But outwardly she is my friend, and I am certain she can not refuse to aid me if I lay the case before her and beg her to do so. Even her jealousy of the Arleighs must disappear in the presence of this great calamity. Yes, I will go to Yorke Towers to-night, and Gilbert Warrington will never find me, never dream that I am hidden away at Yorke Towers, or that I still live!”
Her brain, dazed and weak, was incapable of sound reasoning. She was nearly bereft of reasoning powers, and on the very verge of insanity. Small wonder that her actions were henceforth those of a maniac. Had she only known it, there were true hearts and helping hands in the very next room, eager and anxious to strike a blow for her sake. But she did not know, and so, like many another short-sighted mortal, looked far away for that which was within her reach. And so the mad mistake was made which neither time nor endeavor could rectify. Slowly and feebly she staggered across the room. In her white robe she looked like a spirit. Her eyes fell upon a long, dark cloak which Doctor Danton had placed upon a chair, and which he had intended to wrap about her when he would carry her out to the waiting carriage. She remembered in a hazy sort of way that she had heard Doctor Danton say something about his carriage in waiting at the rear entrance of The Oaks, and the swift determination formed itself within her brain to reach the carriage and order the driver to drive her over to Yorke Towers. Once there——
Her bewildered brain could go no further in the reasoning process; but something, she knew not what, urged her on to reach Yorke Towers that night.
Something! Was it fate?