A Study In Shadows

by William John Locke

CHAPTER XV.—THE SIGNING OF A DEATH WARRANT.

The balcony outside Katherine's room baked in the morning sun. A tiny patch of sunshine stood on the threshold of the open window like a hesitating guest. A cool breeze entered the room, fluttering the gay ribbons of a tambourine hanging against the wall.

Hockmaster had gone. She did not know whether it was the relief of his absence or the rush of air caused by the opening of the door that sent a fierce momentary thrill through her frame. Her eyes were burning, her throat parched, her body quivering in a passion of anger. She stood for a few seconds, with parted lips, breathing great draughts of the cool air, and mechanically unloosened the neck of her dress; it was strangling her. Then she turned, looking from right to left, like a caged creature panting for escape. Her glance fell upon the chair where Hockmaster had just sat. The edge of the rug at the feet was curled, the cushion flattened, the tidy disarranged—all hatefully suggestive of his continued presence. With a passionate movement, she rushed and restored the things to order, shaking the cushion with childish fierceness, till not a wrinkle was left. While the action lasted, it relieved her.

She crossed the room, sat for a moment. But every pulse in her throbbed. Motionlessness was impossible. She sprang to her feet and paced the room, moving her arms in passionate gestures.

Forgive him! Never—never in this world or the next. To have betrayed her—to Raine of all men. The thought in its fiery agony was almost unthinkable. The drawling, plaintive tone in which he had made his confession maddened her. The echo of his words pierced her brain.

The sudden meeting the night before had shaken her. After the ordeal of the dinner her nerves had given way, and she had lain awake all night with throbbing temples. She had risen, faint and ill, to read his note beseeching an interview. She had strung herself to go through with it. As the hours passed she had grown more self-possessed; while waiting, had put some extra tidying touches to her room, rearranged some flowers she had bought the day before. She had even smiled to herself. After all, what claim had this man upon her?

He had come, trim, point-device in his attire, looking scarcely a day older than when she had forsaken all for him. He had pleaded, owned himself a scoundrel, strengthening his cause by his very weakness.

“I was going to marry you, Kitty. Before God I was! On my return from Mexico. I thought I was going to make millions—become one of the little gods of the earth. No man living would have let go the chance. I guess I was to have made you more powerful than the ordinary run of queens. Who could have told those mines were a fraud? Van Hoetmann himself was deceived. I came back at once. You were gone. I tried to trace you. I lost you. And all these years I have been kind of haunted by it. Before I left Chicago, a man was bragging he had never brought a cloud upon a woman's life. I said to him: 'Sir, go down on your bended knees and thank Almighty God for it.'”

She had listened, at first rather sceptically. But gradually his earnestness had convinced her of his sincerity. She had loved him, as she had understood love in those far-off days, when her young shadowed nature had expanded like a plant to the light. A little tenderness remained, called from forgotten depths to the surface. She had spoken very gently to him, forgiven him, the sweeter woman prompting her.