An Oregon Girl Part 13

He realized that the moment was fraught with the gravest danger to his plans and person, and he acted quickly, but with the utmost coolness.

Her hand held straight down by her side was closed tightly, expressive of immediate and determined action.

He gripped her wrist. It hurt her. The action concealed from others by the folds of her dress, succeeded in diverting her attention, and he followed it up by whispering, so that she alone heard him, "Remember--the material you gave me; Corway has met his deserts and you are avenged!"

And then the voice of Constance cleft the air, in a wild, terrifying scream. "John, John! Save Dorothy! She's adrift on the water."

Her piercing cry freighted with a mother's anguish, at once filled all who heard it with consternation, in the midst of which Mrs. Harris exclaimed, "Dear me, how dreadful it all is!"

All turned in the direction of the cry and almost immediately Constance, in an agony of despair, and deathly white, frantically rushed among them.

She looked appealingly from one to the other, her heart in her throat and pathos in her voice. "I heard her cry, 'Mama! Papa! Help! Save me!' Oh, will no one rescue my darling?"

"I'm off," said Sam, in his short, sententious way, and rushed toward the river.

The sudden strain on her nerves was greater than Constance could bear.

Naturally of a weak const.i.tution, the ordeal was overpowering; the mother's affection, forming a magnetic part of her heart, leapt out to her child and left her numb and cold almost unto death, and then her limbs trembled, and with Sam's words ringing in her ears, down she sank, a senseless being.

Virginia's consternation was complete. She rushed down the steps, knelt beside her prostrate form, thrust her arm lovingly under her head and sobbed: "Constance! Dear Constance! Don't give way so.

Dorothy will be found."

CHAPTER III.

When Constance revived, she found herself in a quiet room remote from noise or intrusion, whither she had been tenderly carried. Virginia was with her, and with the aid of a professional nurse, who lived near by and was called in by Mrs. Harris, had been successful in restoring her to consciousness.

The reception was still swinging along at its full height, and while a few of the guests had heard in an indifferent way of some trouble on the lawn, the reports were so varied and coupled with the fact that no names were obtainable to give the reports zest, the incident was soon forgotten, and by the great ma.s.s of the guests was not even heard of.

It was a sore spot in her breast that throbbed and beat heavily upon the door of its prison as later she was being driven home in her carriage. Not a word from John to soothe the aching void. She did not even inquire about him, contenting herself with the simple a.s.surance that he was doing his best to find Dorothy.

For two days the strain was upon her, breaking down by its heart violence her const.i.tution, already frail to the declining point.

Scarcely more than a year had pa.s.sed since Constance had been stricken down with typhoid fever of a malignant type.

She had never regained her usual health and strength, and though the family physician had p.r.o.nounced her recovery complete, there were those of her friends who, with bated breath, questioned his conclusion and predicted an after effect which in time would develop some strange and serious ailment.

Telephone inquiries regarding the lost child began to come in the second day, but none of any comfort to the distracted mother.

Not one intimation of her husband's quarrel with Corway had reached her. Mrs. Harris had been careful, upon Constance's recovery at the reception, not to breathe a word, or to allow, where she could control it, the faintest whisper likely to arouse her suspicion.

And as for Hazel, she had not clearly understood Mr. Thorpe's drift when he a.s.saulted Corway. Nevertheless, she somehow had a vague idea that Constance was the cause; but being a discreet young woman, she had refrained from mentioning anything about it to her, thus leaving Constance completely ignorant of the true cause of John Thorpe's absence from home.

Perhaps if she had not been so absorbed in the recovery of Dorothy, her attention would have been arrested on perusing one of the daily papers by an ambiguous paragraph referring to a choice morsel of scandal on the "tapis" in a prominent family, and which was likely to terminate in a tragedy. It was a society paragraph separate from the report of the probable drowning of the child, Dorothy Thorpe. Several personal acquaintances had become aware, through the crafty Rutley, of a serious difference having arisen between John Thorpe and his beautiful wife, and some of these personal acquaintances, with significant looks, at once connected it with the mysterious disappearance of the child.

The fact that none of the fashionable set had visited her since the reception did not suggest a thought of being shunned. And so she waited for news of her child--waited with heart leaden with the chill of hope deferred--waited in momentary expectation of the home-coming of John.

She watched for him through the window, foreshadowing by his appearance on the walk gladness or sorrow.

"It is now the second day," she muttered, "since that eventful night, and yet no relief from this awful suspense. No word to cheer, or lead me to hope that Dorothy lives."

"It is no use grieving so much, Constance," broke in Hazel, who had just entered the room. "Dorothy may be safe with her father, somewhere. Try, dear, to think so, anyway. It is much the best."

"I cannot put away that winsome face from my mind, Hazel. Something tells me that I shall see her no more," and tears came into her eyes, despite her efforts to restrain them.

"There, yees be at it again, sure mam, yees do be makin' us all feel miserable."

It was Smith who spoke, in a soft, appealing voice, full of sympathy and tenderness, the common heritage of his race. He had entered the room by the parlor door, and stood with his hat in his hand--a short, thick-set man, with a full, smooth-shaven, ruddy face, strong in its lines of "true to a trust." His thin hair was tinged with gray. He wore a black frock coat that had seen considerable wear; in fact, that style of a coat was worn by him for the double purpose of partly concealing the "humiliating" curves of his short bent legs, and also the dignity he fancied it lent to his stature. He had been the family coachman for some years, and was familiarly called "Smith."

As Constance turned to him, he continued with a look suggestive of tearful sympathy.

"Will yees try to forget the trouble, and be the token av it, may it plaise ye mam, just wipe away that tear, do, dear."

"You have always been a good soul, Smith," and Constance tried to smile through her tears.

"Of course, but we are anxious to know the result of your search,"

remarked Hazel.

He was silent for a moment, and nervously commenced to fidget with his hat.

"Sure, ave yees'l wait till I think ave all the places I whint to, and all the people I sphoke to"--and he dolefully muttered under his breath--"Sure I dunno what I'll rayport at all, at all--"

"You are very thoughtful and persistent, Smith," responded Constance.

"Yis, indade, mam, I try to be that very same. Sure, wasn't I up at Rose-a-mant and walked the bache there and watched the boats, but niver a sight did I git ave Mr. Thorpe."

"I know John is leaving no stone unturned to find Dorothy," a.s.sured Constance, "but you, poor man, you must be tired with your long walk."

"The walk was long, but me heart was warrum for yees, and I didn't moind it at all, at all. Sure, the child may not be in the water at all. Will yees try to think so, dear?" And again the beseeching look came over his expressive face.

"Do you think so, Smith?" interrogated Hazel.

"Well, I 'ave me own ideas, Miss, and to be plain, and not hurtin'

yees failin's, I think she was kidnapped."

"You do?" questioned Hazel, surprised, for such a possibility had never crossed her mind.

"I do," he replied.

"Sure, I have no rason to think so, Miss, at all, at all; but says I to myself, says I, 'I'll just flim-flam around the 'dago' quarters in South Portland, on me own account, keeping a sharp lookout betimes.'"

"What did you find there?" again asked the girl.

"Nothin' I wanted, Miss, unless it war a sa.s.sy fellow wid a big black moustache, and a skin full ave greenbile."

"But you were not looking for him," replied Hazel.