CHAPTER XXXII.
WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
“I do not understand you in the least, my dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Trevalyn, as Queenie still continued to wring her hands, weeping bitterly the while. “Your eyes will be in the back of your head if you keep on wailing and weeping in this way,” she added in annoyance, “and a pretty sight you will present then. Always remember to keep your face looking beautiful, no matter what else goes amiss.”
Thus admonished, Queenie dried her eyes, but she could not keep back the heavy sighs that arose to her lips at the very thought of Raymond Challoner and his hint that she must marry him.
“I had forgotten to tell you an interesting piece of news mother,” said Queenie, “and that is that I hear Raymond Challoner is the discarded nephew of—of my—my late husband.”
This was indeed news to Mrs. Trevalyn, and she said so, adding in the next breath:
“He broke his betrothal to you, Queenie, because your father had lost his fortune. I should not be a particle surprised if he were to attempt to renew his suit when he finds that you have money, my dear, but you can afford to whistle him down the wind. Why, my dear child, what is the matter? You look so woefully pale, quite as though you were going to swoon. Your nerves are overwrought, and no wonder. I must go now, for I never can bear to be about when there are such grewsome things going on as making arrangements for a funeral. I had almost forgotten to tell you a little piece of news which I was going to run over anyway to-day to tell you about.”
Queenie never raised her face from her hands, and her mother went on:
“The young girl whom old Lawyer Abbot wrote us about, asking that we receive her to visit you for a few weeks, arrived late yesterday afternoon. Her surprise was great to learn that you had married and left us, and were living in another part of the city.
“‘Then I shall have to go straight back to Blackheath Hall!’” she said, disappointedly.
“‘By no means, my dear!’ I answered. ‘Remain in the home our dear Queenie’s absence makes so desolate as long as you like. I am sure we will be only too glad to have you here. I shall take you to see Queenie as soon as you are thoroughly rested from your long trip!’ Of course she stayed.
“You will be surprised when you see her, Queenie,” Mrs. Trevalyn went on. “She is the most beautiful creature my eyes ever rested on, and quite the strangest girl imaginable. It was well old Brown did not see her, beauty worshiper that the old fellow was, or he would have made her the wealthy widow instead of you, I fear.”
“Is she so much fairer than I?” exclaimed Queenie, in intense pique, bridling up in an instant.
Her mother laughed softly, saying: “I fancied that remark would arouse you from the lethargy into which you are falling; that was my purpose in saying it. Pretty? Yes, the girl is more than pretty, but you are beautiful, my peerless Queenie; you must not forget that.”
The very next day occurred the reading of the will, and then—the thunderbolt from an apparently cloudless sky burst.
It was found that the so-called reputed millionaire was a bankrupt. There was scarcely enough money left after his just debts were paid to insure him a decent burial.
“I cannot, I will not believe that I have been cheated thus!” cried Queenie, springing to her feet and tearing the trappings of heavy crape from her and trampling them under foot.
Even the lawyer, who was reading the last word of the will, paused in wonderment at this heartless exhibition of rage, and in the very presence, too, of the dead. He almost feared that the enraged beauty, who had wedded the old man for his wealth, would hurl the casket to the floor.
It was Raymond Challoner who led her from the room.
“My disappointment is as great as yours,” he said, grimly, “but I seem able to control myself better. We are both paupers, it seems,” he went on, in the same whisper, “and we should sympathize with each other.”
“Of course,” he added, “marriage is for a second time not to be thought of in connection with you or me, but even though I will not be obliged to shield you with my name, you can yet be of use to me, and I to you, in keeping the secret of the true cause of my uncle’s death.”
Queenie was crushed, humiliated to the very earth. She made no comment. As though in a glass darkly, she was trying to outline her future. As a wealthy young widow, her place in society would have been one to be envied.
With her father a bankrupt, and the man she had married a bankrupt as well, she saw nothing before her save seeking employment for her daily bread.
Could she ever hope to win John Dinsmore then? She would belong to one world and he to another, and those words lay as far apart as heaven and earth.
Her companion, who was still clasping her arm tightly as he led her along, broke into her reverie by saying:
“Let us step into the music-room for a few words more, Queenie. I have something of importance to say to you still. Consent to aid me and I will make it worth your while; you shall have a fortune at least half as great as the one which you have just lost, if I can win what I am aiming for. Will you spare me a few moments of your time, and give me your undivided attention?”
She laughed a low, harsh laugh. “My time is not so valuable now as—well, if you have any plan to offer by which I may have the hope of retrieving my fallen fortunes, why should I not listen to your plans—and eagerly?”
“Now you are speaking very sensibly,” he rejoined, leading her into the music-room and closing the door carefully after them, to insure their not being overheard by any of the servants.
Queenie was so thoroughly in his power that he knew he need have no hesitancy in telling her his plans from beginning to end, without fear of her daring to expose him; on the contrary, he would force her to aid him in his determination to win the Dinsmore millions.
He began at the beginning, telling her of much that she did not know, of that duel on the sands at Newport, on her account, in which he had, as he believed, mortally wounded his adversary, John Dinsmore.
He saw her start, and turn deadly pale, but he went on, hurriedly:
“He lingered for some weeks, but in the end succumbed to his injuries.”
“Murderer!” gasped Queenie. “Oh, God! he is dead, then! dead!”
Raymond Challoner looked at her coolly, as he replied:
“We do not call affairs of honor by such a hard name as that which just now passed your lips, my dear madam. We took our chances, one against the other; that was fair play. He was as liable to shoot me as I was to shoot him. It was not like willfully planning in secret and carrying out a deliberate murder.”
Queenie fell back in her seat, powerless to reply. She knew but too well the meaning he would convey by those words.
She made no further attempt to interrupt him, and he related the tale, which sounded to her ears like some weird romance, of how he was en route to the races at New Orleans, and the accident which necessitated his remaining over at the crossroads for the next train, which would not come along for some hours; of the interesting story the old landlord had told him of the death of some man in England who was worth many millions, and the extraordinary will he had left behind him, namely, that half of his estate should go to his nephew, John Dinsmore, and the other half to a young girl who had been brought up as a foundling upon the estate, provided these two should marry.
“The young girl,” he went on, “resided upon an estate known as Blackheath Hall, in the vicinity where I was at that time. The man was your one-time lover, Dinsmore, whom you considerately threw over for me.”
Again Queenie’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. He could see that she was vitally interested in his narrative—indeed, she scarcely moved or breathed even, during the recital; her eyes were riveted upon his face, as though spellbound.
“You will wonder how all this is of interest to you, Queenie. I am fast nearing that point. I must tell you all, that you may better understand the exact situation.
“Well, to cut the story as short as possible, knowing that Dinsmore had passed in his checks, I conceived the daring scheme of passing myself off for him, marrying the girl, and inheriting the Dinsmore fortune, which I would lose no time in putting into cash. I knew that I would have little trouble in proving the identity, as I could get hold of the private papers he left behind him through the doctor who attended him, who was a sworn friend of mine. Dinsmore had once visited that part of the country when he was a child, but I counted on the people not remembering his childish features.
“Well, the daring scheme worked like a charm even beyond my wildest hopes. I succeeded in establishing my identity as John Dinsmore, and in becoming betrothed to the co-heiress. That girl is now in New York, visiting at your old home. Her name is Jess. I rely upon you to aid me in marrying her, for to tell you the truth, she detests me, and wants to back out. Accomplish this, and you shall be a rich woman for life, Queenie.”