"What if I never marry you?"

"But you will."

"Never while you hold that paper."

"Ah, I see it was for that you brought me here. I have been a fool!"

"Exactly."

The man was looking out on the lake as he spoke, and did not see the flash of those black eyes, or the rage that curved those lips till the teeth gleamed menacingly through.

"A miserable fool," he went on, "or you would have known that a man who had the chance of a girl like Ruth Jessup would never think of you."

"Ah, it is Ruth Jessup, then?"

"Yes, it is Ruth Jessup--the only girl I ever cared a straw for. The letter you gave me gets her with the rest. That is the grandest part of my bargain. She cannot help herself."

"But I can help her and punish you. The letter you want, but shall never have--William Jessup's last letter, written when his head was clear and his memory good, taking back the lines written in his fever--a letter charging _you_ with the murder I saw done with my own eyes--this letter, and all that I know, shall be in Sir Noel's hands before he goes to bed to-night."

Judith had drawn the pocket-book that held this letter from her bosom, unseen by her a.s.sailant, and made a movement as if to depart; but Storms leaped upon her like a wild beast, and when she struggled fiercely with him, hurled her against the window.

A loud crash, a storm of shattered gla.s.s and splintered wood, and, through the great ragged opening, Judith Hart reeled into the balcony, hurling the pocket-book over her murderer's shoulder. He did not see the act, of which the girl herself was almost unconscious. His arm was coiled around her, and though holding backward with all her might, she was forced to the edge of the rickety structure, that began to reel under them. Here the man held her a moment, looking down into her white face with his keen, cruel eyes.

"This is how I forgive--this is how I love you--this is the way you will keep me from a fortune!"

The girl was mute with terror. She could not even cry out, but clung to him in a dumb agony of entreaty.

"You meant to force me into marrying you, poor fool! Give me that letter!"

The wretched girl had flung the letter from her and she could not tell where. It might be in the water or among the rushes.

"I have not got it--I have not; but I loved you! Oh, I did love you!"

"Lying with your last breath. The accursed thing is in your bosom."

"No! no! no!"

She held on to him now, though he had lifted her from her feet, and covering his cruel face with desperate kisses, clung to him with a grasp that even his wiry strength could not tear away.

"You did love me. I know that. It was her money. You did love _me_--you _do_. It is only to frighten me. Let me down, let me down.

Do you know I am on the very edge? It is dangerous fun--cruel fun!"

"Fun!" sneered the fiend, wrenching her arms away and drawing back to give more deadly force to the action. "Fun, is it?"

He was pushing backward, his white face was close to hers, his hoa.r.s.e curse hissed in her ear. With a terrible effort to save herself, she wound her arms around his neck, dragging him down to the rickety railing, over which he was straining all his powers to hurl her.

"Oh, d.i.c.k! d.i.c.k! Don't kill me! Do--"

Another crash. The railing gave way. He strove madly to free his neck from her clinging arms, but they clasped him like iron. The struggle was terrible. Under it the whole balcony began to quiver and break.

Their two faces were close together, their eyes burning with hate and fear, met. One desperate effort the man put forth to free himself; but the grip on his neck grew closer, and choked him. With the might of despair he dragged her half-way up from the reeling timbers; but her weight baffled his strength, and brought him down with an awful thud.

Down, down, they plunged, through the rotten timbers, into the black depths of the lake.

After this the stillness was appalling. Over the place where those two had gone down, linked together in that death-clasp, bits of broken wood floated, drearily, like reptiles driven from their holes; and from their midst a human head appeared, lifted itself from the water, and went down again. Twice after this the head rose, each time nearer the sh.o.r.e. Then two gleaming hands seized upon the strong rushes, forsook them for a rooted vine, and Judith Hart lifted herself to the bank; where she fell helpless, with the ends of her long hair streaming into the water, and mingling with the gra.s.ses that swayed to and fro on their dark disturbance.

In this position the girl lay exhausted for some minutes, then she struggled to her feet, swept the dank hair back from her face, and, stooping forward, searched the waters with her clouded eyes.

She saw nothing. If any object, living or dead, was on that inky surface the darkness concealed it. Then her hands were flung out and her voice struggled into cries:

"Richard! Richard! Here! here! The water is shallow here. Oh, my G.o.d!

Light a little light that I may see where he is!"

There was no answer--only a faint lapse of water against the bank.

"Richard! Richard!"

Again and again that sharp, wild voice rang out on the night, only answered by more awful stillness and the silence of hopeless listening.

Thus, for one dark hour, that poor creature, shivering, pallid, and wet, paced up and down the sh.o.r.e, dragging her sodden garments through the dense herbage, and calling out whenever she paused in her moaning, "Richard! Richard! Richard!"

At length this cry sounded for the last time, long and low, like the plaint of a wounded night-bird; but there was no reply, and if anything, living or dead, arose to the surface of those inky waters after that, G.o.d alone saw it.

Judith Hart had wandered there, it might have been a minute, or an eternity, for anything she knew of time; but the black silence drove her away at last. She went into the denser portion of the wilderness, and came out by the farm-house in which the parents of Richard Storms lay sleeping peacefully, for their son had left them for the fair held in a neighboring town that morning, and they did not expect him home before another day.

Judith turned from her route, for she took no path, and went up to the door of this house, beating against it with her hands. After a while a bolt was drawn, and an old woman, wearing a shawl over her night dress, looked out, but half closed the door again when she saw a strange female, with a face like death, and long wet hair streaming down her back, staring at her. Twice this figure attempted to speak, but that which she tried to say choked her until the words broke out in spasms:

"You are his mother. He tried to save me. I was in the Black Lake, sinking; he plunged after me, but went down, down. I tried to drag him up. Three times, three times I went headforemost into the darkness.

All night long I have been calling for him, but he would not answer.

Do not think he was angry with me. No one must think that. It was to save me. Only to save me, he was trying."

The old woman held a candle in her hand. It began to shake as she said:

"Who are you speaking of? Who are you?"

"Of him--he loved me--I was to be his wife, and he was bringing me here, only we stopped at the lake and I fell in. After that, I could not find him; dive down as I would, he went deeper still. I called out till my breath failed; but he would not answer. My husband--you know."

The old woman shaded her light with one hand while she scrutinized that wild face.

"A face I have never seen," she thought; "some poor crazed thing."

"Come in from the cold. You are shivering," she said, in great kindliness, "your teeth knock together."

"No, I'm not cold, but he is. Go seek for him. He will not answer me; but you are his mother. He is not angry with you. I will get out of the way. He will not show himself while I am there; but when you call, it will be different. What are you standing there for? Call up your men; get lanterns. He is hiding away from me; but you are his mother."

Before old Mrs. Storms could answer these words, crowded each upon the other, the girl stepped from the door-stone and was gone.

"Poor thing, poor thing, her face is strange, and she talks of a husband as if I were his mother. I was frightened in spite of that, as if it were Richard she spoke of. So like my own dear lad, to risk his life for another. It was that which set me trembling, nothing else; for I knew well enough that he was safe at the fair."

"What is it?" questioned the farmer, when his wife came back to her bed-room.