Zula Part 19

"Well, then, don't forget what you owe old Meg. You know what you promised. I've got the will right here, and when you get the money you can have it."

"Hark! Some one will hear you! You promised my father something long ago, and you never have done it yet."

"Well, now, see here, Rene, if you will find a way for me to put my hands on two hundred to-morrow night--no, that would not do. I must have it to-morrow, and to-night is the last chance. If you will arrange for me to find it I will fix the business up for you right away."

"I'll do my best. You will find the amount in my husband's drawer in the right hand corner of a little private secretary in his sleeping-room. He always keeps his spare change there. Come at two to-night, and I will see that everything is ready for you; but Crisp, I wanted to ask you if you have the girl now."

"No; she ran away one night in a thunderstorm, and we hain't found her yet."

"That is fine! Suppose something should happen that some one should find her!"

"Oh, how the deuce is anyone going to find it out? There ain't the least thing to go by. Why, she may be dead before this time."

"Yes, she may be, but it is not very likely that she is."

Paul grew almost faint. He knew that the woman's voice was that of Scott's wife. He was sure of it. And the man had called her Rene. But why was she there at that late hour conversing in such a place with such a man? Oh, how Paul's heart ached for good, generous, n.o.ble, much wronged Scott Wilmer! He hoped Scott would never know of his wife's treachery. He had learned now from her own lips that she had not married Scott for love, but for wealth and a position in society. How could Irene help seeing what a prize she had won in such a man!

"Now, don't you forget what you are about," said Crisp, for he it was who had been holding the conversation with Scott's wife.

"No," she answered, folding her dark wrap close about her. "I am nearly frozen, and I must get home."

She left the place, and ere long was followed by Crisp, who, when he reached the walk, went in an opposite direction. Paul waited until the two had gone far enough that they could not hear his footsteps. He followed Irene, however, keeping well in the rear. He wished to be certain that he had not been deceived, so he kept up his watch until he saw her enter the great hall door.

After remaining long enough outside so not to arouse her suspicions he entered the house, going directly to his room.

He would bear any pain rather than see Scott's suffering, should the truth be revealed, so whatever he planned must be done without help and without his employer's knowledge. He knew the exact hour when the villain would make his appearance and he waited patiently for the time to come. The door of his room, which opened into Scott's, he left lightly ajar, that he might watch every movement, for he knew that Crisp would enter from the hall. Irene had gone to her own room. The inmates of the house were all asleep except Paul and Irene, both waiting and watching with feverish anxiety. With cautious step Irene glided down the softly carpeted stairs, and turned the lock in the great heavy door; then returned to her room to wait for the villain who was to take her husband's money, and perhaps his life. A stealthy footstep soon fell upon the hall floor, and a man stealing along with catlike motions pushed the door carefully open and entered Scott's room. He stopped for a moment under the dim gaslight which fell upon his hideous features, and, looking about the room, gave one long stride and reached the money drawer. Paul's heart throbbed wildly. He knew there was no time to be lost. Should he take the villain's life?

He knew he deserved it, but could he do the deed? Yes, rather than that Scott should suffer, he could. There was a slight movement of the bedclothes, and, with the look of a demon resting on his face, Crisp drew a long knife from his pocket and raised his hand to strike. Quick as the lightning's flash Paul raised his pistol, and with steady aim fired. The ball struck the villain's arm and he fled like a wounded deer, screaming with pain. Paul stooped and picked up the knife and a paper which the wounded man had dropped, and placed them in his pocket. Scott raised his head just as Crisp was leaving the door. Mrs.

Wilmer entered the room, pale and trembling, and, sinking into a chair, asked:

"Oh, Scott, are you killed?"

"No one is harmed but a burglar," Paul answered, calmly, "and he is only wounded. I just caught sight of him in the act of drawing a knife over Mr. Wilmer's head. I expect he was looking for money, as his first attempt was in that direction, but when he saw Mr. Wilmer move he thought best to quiet him, so I judge by his actions. I did not intend to kill him, but I guess he has learned a lesson which he will not soon forget."

The next day the sole topic of conversation throughout the house was the heroic action of Paul, who had saved its inmates from a terrible sorrow, and not one could find words to express their deep grat.i.tude unless it might have been Irene. She tried hard to join the rest in praising Paul, but he knew that in her heart she was laying up curses against him, though he did not know just how deeply she had planned to ruin him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "O, Scott! Are you killed?"]

CHAPTER XIV.

BRIGHT HOPES.

It was June's seventeenth birthday. She stood on the broad veranda gazing up at the sky. The day was not as bright as June wished it to be, for the sun would peep out now and then to stay but a moment, then hide behind a cloud, which seemed to waft a breeze softly down on June's bright, happy face.

"I hope it will be a pleasant evening," she said, half aloud, "for it is so much nicer to have a party when the weather is fine, and I shall almost be out of patience if it rains."

Scott and Paul were just coming up the shady walk.

"Will you not take the time to visit me a little while this morning?"

she asked. "You know I shall never be seventeen years old again, and I would like to speak to you of the party I shall give to-night."

"Here is your first guest, then," said Paul, as he accepted the seat June offered him. "I present him to you with my sincere wish that every birthday may be as bright as this your seventeenth."

"Thank you, Paul! Many thanks for so lovely a present," June said, as she lifted the bright cage containing a parrot, which Paul offered her.

"What is your name, sir?" she asked.

"Bob!" croaked the bird. "Pretty Bob."

"I shall cherish him in remembrance of you, Paul," said June, "and how nice he will be to amuse poor Papa. He is obliged to keep his room so much of late."

"Is he no better to-day?" Scott asked, with an anxious look.

"Yes, much better, and is out riding with mama."

"Sit down here, little one," Scott said, drawing a chair near his own.

"I have brought you a little present to start the day with. I wish you to look at it."

June seated herself by Scott and took from his hand a beautifully bound book of poems.

"It is by some new author--at least new to me; but it is a beautiful poem. I took the liberty to read it before presenting it to you."

"'A Gift from the Sea,'" said June, looking at the t.i.tle. "I wonder----"

"What?"

"I was thinking that perhaps it might be Rene who wrote this."

"I hardly think so," said Scott, "although she does considerable writing, I do not think she ever wrote that."

"Why?"

"One reason is that I do not think she would ever have the patience.

This work is prepared with a great deal of care. I thought perhaps you might be interested, as well as to gain some valuable information from it, for there are some rare gems of thought contained in its pages."

"I know I shall enjoy it," said June.

"You will find, by careful perusal, that it is like a fine edifice, each stone of which is laid by a master workman. The inborn talent is the cornerstone, and each rock is carefully hewn and placed in its proper niche, making the foundation solid as well as beautiful."

"Do you think, then," Paul asked, "that the poet who wrote that worked hard to construct it?"

"Poets are born, not made; but careful study and patience serve to smooth the rough edges, as the edges are natural to the unhewn marble.

The finest quality wears not its gla.s.sy surface until the sculptor's hand has chiselled and polished it to his will, and while the edifice may be beautiful to look upon for a time, without the solid foundation it may be broken by the first touch of the critic's hand. The poet who wrote that little book never did so without work, although he may have felt the inspiration of poetic zeal while he worked."

"It is strange," said June, "that we have such different qualifications.

I can see great beauty in some poems, but I never could put the beauty there."