A Pasteboard Crown Part 30

As she was pa.s.sing Thrall he took his hand from his breast and caught at her fingers. She shuddered at the touch, so cold, so clammy, so--so wet!

"Beloved!" his eyes looked enormous in his pallid face.

"Beloved!--I--sinned--against--you--but--it--was--from--love!

Forgive--can--you?"

A sort of surprise came upon her face, and she said, simply, as if that answered completely his question: "I love you, dear heart!"

One flash of the old triumphant light came to his eyes; then, though Death's grim face looked at him, over her shoulder, the tormenting jealousy of the pa.s.sionate lover flared up in him, and he gasped, painfully: "For--all--time--beloved?"

She bent and kissed his eyes, kissed his gasping clay-cold lips, and answered: "I love you for time and for eternity!"

And Roberts, whispering: "Quick! Someone will come!" lifted her in his arms and carried her to the pa.s.sage and set her down. As the door was closing on her she thought she heard Stewart say: "The word--the ruby--"

and then she was hurrying up to her dressing-room, pa.s.sing through it and down to the stage entrance, where there was no doorman at that hour, and so out into the street.

At the corner she glanced down toward the theatre, and saw a hatless man tearing madly out of the front door. It was Barney. He said something as he ran. Two people stopped, turned, and stared at the building, and so formed the nucleus of the swiftly gathering, traffic-impeding crowd--that mushroom growth, so common to excitable Broadway.

Her knees trembled threateningly beneath her, faintness seemed stealing over her senses. She dimly saw a cab, working its way up the street. The man lifted his whip inquiringly; she raised her bare hand to summon him, and then, there in the open street, she gave a cry of horror, fortunately drowned by other sounds, for that was the hand Thrall had clutched, and his chill, blood-wet fingers had left three close lines of red, that, circling her fingers, led straight across the great opal. She gasped out her street and number, and, stumbling into the cab, she heard an excited pa.s.ser-by remark: "That's Sybil Lawton! I'll bet a dollar she was on her way to the theatre!" And as the cab pa.s.sed on he continued: "Well, she couldn't get through that crowd! I 'spose a policeman has told her what's happened down there. We had seats for to-night, too--I guess they'll redeem the tickets."

And ten minutes later the rumor was running like fire in dry gra.s.s: "That Sybil Lawton had been shopping and a policeman stopped her, and, without warning or preparation of any kind, had informed her of the shooting of her manager, and she collapsed, and was driven home in a cab."

Murder became suicide--suicide became accident, before the clang of the ambulance-gong sent the depressing s.h.i.+vers through nerves that would thrill with pleasurable excitement at the sound of the fire-gong. Then a group of men came out of the front door, and hats came quickly off when those nearest caught a glimpse of a marble-white face, with long, inky lashes clinging close to ghastly cheeks.

For, between those dreadful whistling breaths, Thrall had warned Jim, word by word, that it was "an accident," and explained that Jim, having supposed the old cartridges were withdrawn, snapped the revolver, standing at close range, adding: "Keep--steady--stick--to--story--Jim-- for--her--sake! Now--call--make--big--row! I'm--gone!"

And Jim, conscious of an awful blunder, obeying to the letter, as Thrall fainted, tore away the heavy portiere that had helped so much to deaden the sound of the shot, dashed open the door, and, like a madman, shouted: "A doctor! a doctor! for G.o.d's sake, Barney! I've shot Thrall!

I have! I have! Oh, run! run! I'll call a policeman myself!"

He was obeying orders--he was making "a big row," but suddenly he thought of Sybil. "Oh, my beautiful!" he cried; "I meant to serve you, and I've robbed you instead!" And, as the policeman advanced toward him, he fell forward in the fit that had threatened him all the day. Yes, Jim was obedient to the last--he made "a big row"!

The next day, almost at the same hour, the pale woman who had watched at Thrall's side almost unwinkingly left the room for a moment to confer with her maid. "English crepe," she whispered, "of course. The heaviest and best is always the cheapest in the long run."

It was only a moment's absence, but the long lashes on the stricken man's ghastly face lifted, the hand went to the wounded breast. With the instinct of the actor, who always considers effect, he thought gratefully that the hemorrhage had been internal, and that he had not been an offensive-looking object. He turned his eyes to the side where Lettice had sat and watched. She was not there. His eyes widened with pleasure. He rose suddenly--the effort was a mistaken one. He realized it in a moment. There was a red spot creeping out on his s.h.i.+rt, and--and a salty taste in his mouth. Yet he smiled, almost maliciously, as he thought: "I am escaping her, after all!"

Then he knew. He s.h.i.+vered. "Sybil!" he said; "beloved!"

The door opened--the clock was striking down-stairs--from a near room came the whir of a sewing-machine--Stewart Thrall was dead.

CHAPTER XXVIII

"THOU KNOWEST!"

Mrs. Van Camp put ease and comfort from her, placed Poll in his cage, and left a bunch of white grapes dangling from its top, hoping that the fruit might attract his attention sufficiently to stop his hoa.r.s.e: "'Omeo! 'Omeo! dead! dead!" that now was more distressing to listen to than his most distinct profanity. She had dressed herself for the street, and in her character of G.o.d-mother hastened to Sybil's side.

Then, finding her prostrated, and, for the time being, utterly incapable of action of any kind, like the loyal friend she was, she went on up to Riverdale at once to the a.s.sistance of John Lawton and Leslie Galt; who, dazed and confused, seemed as helpless as two male babes, until the bright, clever, capable old lady took charge and gave orders and made suggestions.

Neither she nor Leslie liked the strange blank look in poor old John Lawton's eyes. The blow had stunned him seemingly. Yet he was observant enough about anything affecting his Let.i.tia, and Sybil Van Camp had felt tears springing to her eyes when, having to enter Mrs. Lawton's sleeping-room, she saw John catch up the little bottle of rouge vinaigre from the toilet-table and hide it in his pocket. "Poor, loyal old gentleman!" she thought; "as if all her world did not know that Let.i.tia Lawton rouged!"

The absence of his wors.h.i.+pped children made the burden of his grief almost unbearable. He knew that Dorothy was to be deceived, if possible, for a few days, so that she might have undiminished strength and courage for the great trial she was approaching so rapidly; but Sybil--"where was Sybil?" That was all he said, muttering the words very low.

He could give no a.s.sistance to anyone, could not tell where anything could be found; only he could not be kept away from that white, still thing, that he looked at with such blank, piteously faded eyes, as though he were trying to trace in it some resemblance to the light, frivolous but vivid Let.i.tia, who for twenty-four years had talked him to sleep o' nights, and whose silence now was so sudden and so cruel.

Once Leslie, coming softly in to try again to lead the old man away, overheard him murmuring: "She does not come--they are both independent of me now. I--I--think I'll just go with you Let.i.tia, my dear!" and, frightened, he turned and sought Mrs. Van Camp.

And that wise woman answered: "You see, you were in error trying to hide this disaster to Mr. Thrall from him. He thinks Sybil neglects him. The shock will not break him entirely, as you imagine, but it will arouse him to a desire to help his child."

"Right!" exclaimed Leslie. "That's the dear old chap all over! We must make him believe her welfare depends wholly upon his protection and care--or, indeed, Mrs. Van Camp, I fear he will--well, let us say, let go!"

And so the kindly conspirators planned that, as the death of Mr. Thrall could scarcely be kept from Dorothy's knowledge, and if she learned of it she would think her mother was with Sybil for a few days, the shattered old man Lawton should be made to believe Sybil's welfare depended entirely upon him; and Sybil,--poor child!--crushed as she was, would see at a glance that her father's life depended upon her loving companions.h.i.+p. And then they led the old gentleman from the darkened room out to the porch, and, each holding one of his hands, they told him of the accidental shooting of Mr. Thrall, of the crus.h.i.+ng effect of the double blow upon Sybil. But before their story was done he was drawing his hands away and crying: "My little girl! my little girl! I must go to you at once!" and it required the repeated a.s.surance of Mrs. Van Camp that his child would come to him by an early train next morning to keep him from hurrying to the city.

When Mrs. Van Camp had left the red brick house with the flower-filled windows Sybil had raised herself from her pillows and had struck the small gong-bell on the stand by her bed sharply--twice--three times. And Stivers called up to her: "In a moment, Miss Sybil!" but did not appear; and again the gong sounded, and at last the woman came with a cup of black coffee in her hand. "It's no use frowning, Miss--no use waving your hand! That doctor gave you an opiate last night, and now you just--no! I won't listen to what you want until you swallow down this coffee--to steady your nerves. No! Miss--no! He's not gone yet--there's no 'extra' out at all. That's some pedler you hear. Take it down now, all of it. There! You'll be the better for that. Now, what was it you wanted?"

And Sybil fastened her woful eyes on the woman's face, and begged: "Mrs.

Stivers, will you bring a jeweler here to my room, as quickly as possible?"

"A--a--what?" stammered Stivers, "a jeweler--no, I can't leave you to go away over----"

"But," the girl interrupted, "anyone will do--any working jeweler. Right in the next avenue there is a little shop--you won't be gone more than fifteen minutes. You must, indeed you _must_!"

"O-o-oh!" thought Stivers; "she wants to get rid of that opal, now all the damage is done." Aloud she warned: "If you're going to try to do any business, you don't want a little tu-penny-ha'penny creature like that to deal with. Well! well! I'm going--but suppose the bell rings? Yes, I'll hurry!"

White and worn-looking, Sybil fell back upon the pillow, her tumbled dark hair clouding over her brows, her hot eyes staring before her, and every nerve tense, waiting for the "E-e-extray! e-e-extray!" at whose sound her world of love would crumble to nothingness.

Had she or had she not heard Stewart gasp "The word--the _ruby_--?" If she had, then the word must have had an immense significance for him, and suddenly her dumb, inert despair was broken by an intense longing to know what the word was that even rapidly approaching death had not driven from his recollection. For Sybil did not try to deceive herself.

Anyone hearing that awful breathing must have realized that it meant a pierced lung, and she had been hopeless from the first. She felt that the explanation given by Thrall and Roberts was not true--that the shooting had not been accidental; but she supposed it had been the motiveless act of a drink-maddened man. For Jim Roberts had never breathed a hint--drunk or sober--of the miserable fate of his young sister, still less of his piteous pa.s.sion of love for herself. So, in the absence of reasonable motive, she charged the dreadful deed to drunkenness.

Stivers had eagerly seized upon the cue given by rumor, and declared that Sybil had been shopping, and was going toward the theatre, when, etc., etc.; and she had carefully drilled her mistress in this story, before the arrival of Mrs. Van Camp.

And now the unhappy girl lay there straining her ears for that cry of "Extra!" that she so dreaded, and tormenting herself with thoughts of what she might have said and done yesterday, had she not been so stupefied with terror. At last she heard Stivers opening the door, and presently she was showing in a sandy-haired, hooked-nosed young man, with thick red lips and an appraising eye, that seemed at a glance to put a price upon each article in the room. She took the glittering diamond heart from her neck, and, placing it in the man's hand, asked him to remove the back. She would not listen to his proposal to take it to his shop--it must be done there, even at the risk of scratching the gold. Scratch or dent it, if he must, but open it he should! At last the back came off, and the man remarked: "I think there's something engraved here." But Sybil's hand-clasp covered the inscription. "Wait in the other room," she commanded.

She bolted the door, flew to the window, and, catching the light upon the metal, read the word she had worn upon her breast three years--the word Stewart said made the sole value of the gem--read and fell upon her knees, and buried her face in the pillow and sobbed and cried: "I understand you better now, dear heart!" and kissed again and again the four little letters that formed that one significant word, "Wife."

An hour later the expected cry arose in the street. Hoa.r.s.e bawling went up one side and down the other, and Sybil knew the man who had been her idol, dearer, more precious than the whole great world, he whose love had been as the very breath of life to her, was gone away forever! And, lying with the locket pressed against her lips, she breathed: "Wife, you said, dear heart? Then your widow now, and as loyal in the shadow of your death as I was in the sunlight of your life!"

In the pa.s.senger list there had appeared the names of Mr. J. Lawton Ba.s.sett and daughter, and the pair thus registered had gone on board over night because of the very early hour of sailing, they said, but it was really an effort to avoid public notice; and all the bell-ringing, pulling, hauling, rus.h.i.+ng, and trampling were over and comparative quiet reigned before John Lawton and Sybil, his daughter, ascended to the deck to look about them and with sad eyes to take farewell of the great city they loved, with its rapidly softening outlines, blending, blurring into a grayish ma.s.s touched with a few strong darks, many sharp, white lights, and here and there a gleam from the golden cross of some sky-piercing spire. As they leaned against the rail, the girl with cloudy hair, sombre eyes, and black-robed figure clinging to the arm of the pale old gentleman, also in mourning, they made a pathetic picture.

Silently they watched--each was trying to hide grief for the other's sake. It was well for Sybil that this helpless old father needed her devoted care, for an awful temptation had come to her in her despair.

"Oh," she cried, now in her heart, "if I only had Dorothy's faith in G.o.d! Dorothy's hope for the beautiful hereafter! But," she mused bitterly, "Dorothy has not sinned, while I--and yet, if G.o.d is what she believes Him, He could pity even me!" Then she s.h.i.+vered, for, looking out over the water, she thought of the exultant old anthem, and quoting "The sea is His, and He made it!" she felt suddenly that she was too small, too insignificant, for her cry of repentance to be noticed.

The wind was sharpening. Her thoughts came back to her father. They had been out there a very long time--too long, and--and what was that man--the purser--doing? Handing an envelope to a big man already in cap and ulster, and calling--could she be right--calling: "Miss Lawton? Is a Miss Sybil Lawton here?" The pilot had been dropped half an hour or more ago. Why--why, what was this? An envelope thrust into her unwilling hand, and the purser was away, calling for a Mr. Pemberton Something, and waving one last missive aloft for its claimant.

"Dorothy!" gasped the old man, and closed his eyes a moment.

Sybil's nervous fingers tore the envelope, and opened the bit of yellow paper. She read breathlessly, looked about her, pa.s.sed her hand over her eyes, read again. And then she flung her arms about her father's trembling, frail old body, buried her face in his breast, and laughed--laughed with tears running down her cheeks--laughed and blessed G.o.d for his goodness! Then, looking up at her father's quivering mouth, she put her fingers on it, saying: "Don't, dada, it's good news--about Dorothy!"

A smile came to his lips, an eager light to his eyes. "Why! why!" he said. "I expected the news would be awaiting us at Liverpool; but really, I----"