CHAPTER XII.
“WHO IS JESS?”
When Raymond Challoner regained his feet he was just in time to see the girl disappearing behind a thicket of alder bushes. To say that he was in a beastly temper by this time but faintly describes the situation—he was furious.
For one moment he paused and pondered as he shook the dust from his eyes, which would pay him best; to search for the horse that had played him so shabby a trick, or make his way on to the village, which was not more than three-quarters of a mile distant at the farthest.
He concluded that the latter course would be best. He would lose more time in trying to dispose of the animal there than the amount received would profit him, if it delayed him on his journey beyond the possibility of being in New Orleans in time for the races.
He was a swift walker, and as he hurried along he beguiled the time by thinking over past events—a thing he rarely allowed himself to do, but somehow he could not get John Dinsmore—Queenie Trevalyn’s defender—out of his thoughts.
He had only seen the doctor once since that midnight affair when he had left his adversary lying dying, as he supposed, on the white sands; then, the doctor had come to him, reporting the fact that he had had the injured man conveyed, under an assumed name, to a nearby cottage; but that it was his opinion at the present moment, that the man against whom Ray Challoner had turned his weapon would not live to see another sunrise.
“So much the better,” he answered, looking full in the doctor’s face, adding: “If he dies, let him be buried under that assumed name, and the world at large will be none the wiser for his taking off.”
“You forget that he had two friends who would interest themselves to make inquiry and search for him,” the doctor had answered, but Challoner remembered the answer he had made him:
“Tell them that he arose from his bed in his delirium and dashed down upon the sands and threw himself into the breakers, and was never seen again.”
“You have a very fertile and imaginative brain, Challoner,” the doctor had remarked, dryly; “rather than let this affair come to light, if it should turn out disastrously, I shall act upon your suggestion.”
Ray Challoner had little time to ruminate further, for he was already in the streets of the little village of Greenville. The appearance of the handsome, aristocratic young gentleman walking in on foot quite astounded the landlord of the Greenville Hotel, the most pretentious place in the village.
“Could he have a good meal, and after that, engage somebody to take him by carriage on to New Orleans?” queried Challoner.
“The good meal he could have, certainly; but did the stranger know that it was thirty odd miles to the city, and if he was intending to go there, he’d better go by train—they had just finished the new road, and intended to make the initial trip that afternoon.”
Raymond Challoner was overjoyed at this piece of news—evidently the conductor of the train he had so lately left did not know of this.
“You will have two good hours to wait here, sir,” went on the landlord; “but we can make you comfortable, I reckon.”
While Challoner was doing justice to the fried chicken and bacon, the fine mealy potatoes, the gingerbread, honey and home-made bread which was set before him, his curiosity concerning the girl whom he had encountered in the lane a mile up the road got the better of him, and he asked who she was. He also related the story of his experience, which accounted for his appearance there on foot.
The landlord laughed uproariously, as he listened.
“That was Jess you fell in with,” he answered, “and bless you, sir, it was as much as your life was worth to abuse—correct, I mean—any animal, from a mouse to a horse, in her presence.”
“And who, pray, is Jess?” queried the handsome young stranger, with a cynical smile, as he followed his host from the dining-room out to the barroom, depositing himself in one of the very comfortable rush-bottomed chairs.
It was not every day that the loquacious landlord of the Greenville hostelry had a stranger to gossip with, and he proceeded to unbosom himself at once upon the subject which had always had so much interest for him, because it was shrouded in a mystery.
“Who is Jess?” he repeated, blowing a great puff of smoke from the short corncob pipe he has just lighted; “well, that’s what every one around here would like to find out,” and then he proceeded to tell the stranger the story of the late owner of Blackheath Hall; of the appearance of the girl Jess there, brought in her infancy one stormy night, and by the master’s orders, by the woman who spoke no language save that of a foreign tongue, and she had been allowed to grow up like the weeds about the place—a wild thing, cared for by nobody—and last, but by no means least, of the wonderful will, which the New Orleans lawyer had come up to the village to read to the members of the household of Blackheath Hall, that the great fortune of its owner was to go to the nephew who survived him, on the condition that he marry Jess, and every one was waiting to see what view the heir presumptive, Mr. John Dinsmore, of New York, would take of the matter—whether he would wed the girl for the fortune that would be his with her, or refuse the Dinsmore millions on that account.
His host was so busy with his story that he did not notice the violent start his guest made as the name of John Dinsmore fell upon his amazed ears. He almost wondered if his sense of hearing was playing him false.
Could this be the same John Dinsmore that his bullet had left dying upon the sands of Newport? he wondered, in the greatest of excitement, which he did his best to hide.
“The whole thing came out in a New York paper—which just came in an hour ago. That tells as much about Mr. Dinsmore as they can find out—I mean the people who are looking for him to tell him about his fortune. Would you like to read it while I am attending to other duties which require my presence?” asked the landlord.
“Yes,” responded Challoner, and his voice sounded hoarse and unnatural—like nothing human.
He was thankful that he was alone when he read the story of the great fortune which would be John Dinsmore’s for the acceptance. He read that he was at the time of writing of the newspaper article a guest of the Ocean Hotel at Newport.
It was the same printed column which Queenie Trevalyn had read—and there followed another column, telling the success of the new book which had just made him world famous.
There was no reason left to doubt the identity of the man, for a fine picture of John Dinsmore—true to life, as he had known him—accompanied the notice, and column of praise.
Ray Challoner laid down the paper with trembling hands.
He stared straight before him, seeing nothing. His thoughts are chaos, his brain whirls, and out of this chaos comes a train of thought that fairly takes his breath away.
He leaps from his seat and begins to pace up and down the floor of the deserted barroom like a madman. The cold perspiration stands out in beads upon his forehead.
“It is a daring scheme, but why should I not accomplish it?” he argues, clinching his hands tightly together. “John Dinsmore is dead; why should not I, with the aid of the doctor at Newport, who would sell his very soul for gold, gain possession of the important papers which were upon his person—and—pass myself off for Dinsmore—gain possession of the fortune—turn it into cash—and then—leave this country forever? There would be but one thing to fear—and that is—coming across any of the fellow’s former friends—well I certainly am clever enough to keep out of their way. It is a bold stroke for a fortune, but none but the most daring would ever attempt it—I have nothing to lose and everything to gain; yes, by the eternal! I’ll risk it.”
He did not like the idea of the girl thrown into the breach, but if he could not gain possession of the fortune without wedding her—the horrible, elfish creature he had encountered—why, wed her he would—and desert her later.
When the landlord returned, he found his guest still pacing restlessly up and down the floor. As he approached, the young man turned to him, saying, hoarsely:
“Landlord, I have a little secret to confide to you; I had thought of not telling it until—well, until I return to Greenville some few days later—but, I fancy that you suspect the truth, and I might as well confess it to you: I am John Dinsmore, the heir of Blackheath Hall.”
“Well, well! can it be possible, sir!” cried the landlord, beaming all over with delight; “to tell you the truth, that thought did flash over me when you first came in, inasmuch as they were expecting the heir would come here as soon as he learned the terms of his uncle’s will. Welcome to Greenville, Mr. Dinsmore, and long and many a year may you dwell among us. If you hadn’t bound me so to secrecy, how I should have liked to have told my wife and daughter that you were here.”
“Not just yet,” warned the stranger; “wait until I return from New Orleans, which will be two days hence, and then you can spread it about to your heart’s content, my good sir.”
The old landlord was looking into the handsome, dissipated face with eager scrutiny.
“You do not resemble your uncle, George Dinsmore, whom I remember well,” he said, thoughtfully, “and you have changed much since the time when I saw you here before, a little lad.”