Heart to heart

“It is terrible. I never thought he looked like a man to commit such a deed.”

And Violet Harding laid down the paper with a long sigh.

“What is so terrible, Violet? What are you talking about?”

“I have just been reading about the great Cross trial. They have found him guilty of murdering poor Mr. Chesterbrook.”

“Indeed! I’ve been reading about that, too. But didn’t you just say something about the man? Is it possible you knew him?”

Violet Harding’s face flushed. “Yes, I knew them both,” she said simply. “You know, I used to work in Lakeview, before I came to Factorytown.”

“Oh, yes. And you knew them both?”

“Yes, although I was more intimate with Mr. Chesterbrook than with Mr. Cross.”

“It was a terrible deed.”

“It was. But I must be off to work; it is nearly nine o’clock already. I won’t be home to lunch to-day, Mrs. Canberry.”

“Very well, my dear. I know how busy they are at the woolen mill—and, no doubt, the operatives are thankful for it, too, after such hard times.”

In a very thoughtful mood, Violet Harding walked to the office in which she was employed. What a fortunate escape she had had from the clutches of that detective, and all through the fact that she had gone that morning on an errand of mercy, and could, consequently, prove an alibi! It made her shiver, even yet, to think of it. She was very glad that Lakeview and all of its terrors had been left behind.

She was sorry for Henry Cross, for she had always esteemed him as a thorough gentleman. She had met him several times at the office of the Land Improvement Company, and he had been kind and had done her several small favors, and a girl in her circumstances was not likely to forget these so easily.

Her walk took her almost to the end of the town in which, but two weeks previously, she had obtained a situation. She entered the place briskly, and soon she was so absorbed in her work that she had little thought for anything else.

It had been intensely cold, but toward noon it began to moderate, and there were evidences of a change. By three o’clock it was snowing, and when the long, shrill blast of the whistle announced that the day’s work was over, both in the office and in the factory, the flakes covered the streets and the walks to the depth of several inches.

“I’ll just get home as soon as I can,” thought Violet. “And Mrs. Canberry and I will spend a nice, quiet evening together. I am very glad I found such a good place to board.” And she lost no time in putting on her hat and veil and sallying forth among the hundreds of mill hands pouring out of the main entrance.

She had walked a little over a block, and had become separated from the others in the crowd, when some one tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, wondering who it was.

“You!” she gasped.

“Exactly,” was the reply of the man who had stopped her. “You did not expect to see me here, did you?”

His face was thin and haggard—more alarming than ever before. He wore a faded ulster, and his soft hat was pulled far down over his bleary eyes. Evidently fortune had not dealt kindly with him since their last meeting—there on the bluff, beyond Lakeview. She shrank back, wondering how he could have traced her after she had taken such care to elude him.

“I found you by accident,” he continued, as if guessing her thought. “I got into this place yesterday, and I saw you at the typewriter when I passed the mill office. I didn’t expect to tumble into such good luck.”

“You have no right to follow me about,” she returned indignantly. “You have caused me enough suffering. When I left Lakeview I hoped never to see you again.”

“I suppose so. But, then, you see, I’m like a bad coin—bound to turn up every time.” He had been drinking, and laughed rather loudly. “Come down this side street, and let us have a little talk.”

She did not desire to go—she wanted to leave him, then and there; but this was impossible; and, as several persons were staring at them curiously, she followed him to a spot where the unpaved street was, in this storm, practically deserted.

“It was a mean trick to run away from me,” he said reproachfully.

“I have a right to go where I please.”

“Don’t you care at all for me?”

“No. Haven’t I told you so a hundred times?”

“But you cared for me once, Violet. You said you did when we both boarded in that place in New York.”

“I was foolish then; I had just been thrown on my own resources, and then even your companionship was acceptable. And you were different, too. You said you had given up drinking.”

“I did, for a time, and I wouldn’t have taken to it again if you hadn’t cast me off. Come back to me, Violet; marry me, and I’ll reform, I swear it,” he earnestly pleaded.

“No. You are nothing to me. I wish I had never seen you. I want to be rid of you forever. Oh, why do you follow me about like this?” she cried, angrily stamping her foot.

“Because I love you,” he answered.

“You lie. There is no love, no honor in your false heart. You are a gambler and a drunkard, and worse, for all I know. I have never known anything but lies from you. But you shall not wreck my life. I tell you I will have nothing to do with you. I hate and despise you.”

She grew more and more excited, her voice was incisive, scornful, but to the dissolute wretch who stood before her words were mere sound. He rather enjoyed these bursts of anger. They inflamed him, and made him more eager to force this beautiful girl to yield. Love her he could not; it was not in his nature; but he gloated over her beauty as a miser does over his gold, and he was determined to possess it. She must marry him. He would force her to it.

He had followed her and pleaded for years, and now he was growing desperate. No one else should have her. He had found her again, and this time she should not get away. He had but to put forth his hand and grasp her. She must promise to be his wife, or he would close his fingers about her throat and strangle her.

These thoughts floated before his whisky-sodden mind as he stood looking into her face. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Once he put forth his hand, but she stepped back and evaded the touch.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, with a sinister grin.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she replied firmly.

“I wish you would believe me, Violet; I can make a man of myself yet.”

“Go on and do it, then, but don’t come near me.”

“But, Violet, I have a chance of becoming rich soon; I told you so before. We could go away—out West—and I would turn over a new leaf—I swear it—and I’ll love you better than——”

An angry gleam came into her eyes. She could endure him no longer. Her dainty hand came up, and in a twinkling she struck him a sharp blow across the mouth.

“Now, don’t you dare to follow me,” she cried. “Don’t you dare—or I will hand you over to the police.”

She sprang away and started up the street as fast as her feet could carry her.

She crossed the main street of the town, still full of working-people, and ran into another side street, which would take her by a short cut to her boarding house. In the snowstorm no one noticed her or the man who was following her. The wind blew the thick flakes directly into her face, but this she did not mind. Her one thought was to escape her tormentor without creating a scene.

The young woman’s path led across a mountain stream which divided the town into two parts, and furnished power for many a busy loom. At the end of the street she was traveling there was a narrow foot bridge across this stream, connecting the two mills of a corporation. Onto this bridge she dashed, with the man close at her heels.

“Stop!” he called out. “Stop! I’ll not hurt you!” and the next instant his hand was on her arm.

She struggled to free herself, for she saw that in his eyes which greatly alarmed her. His love was turning to hate, as a passion that is foiled often will. She tried to shake off his grasp, and shrieked loudly for help.

He quickly stifled any further outcries, as he clutched her by the throat, and with his other arm about her waist, he threw her roughly against the bridge railing; his eyes were flashing with a savage glare, and his drawn mouth showed his teeth like some ravenous, snarling beast.

“Try to escape again, would you, my pretty bird?” he yelled. “Oh, no; never, never again. I love you, and I will have you. Give me your promise. Come and live with me—be my wife. Do you hear? My wife! Ha, ha!”

He laughed wildly, and in his drunken frenzy shook her violently.

“I’ll have your promise now, once for all. Say yes, and I’ll release you. Say yes, or I’ll hurl you to your death in the river below.”

“Never, you brute!” she groaned.

Though struggling and fighting wildly for her life, yet she was no match for his strength. Her answer maddened him beyond control. With a savage curse he raised her to the railing; he held her almost suspended over the river; trying to loosen her hold upon him lest she drag him with her, his whole weight was thrown forward; there was a tearing, grating sound, as of posts and hand rails dragging from their supports. Another instant, and they would be precipitated into the seething waters below.

The girl’s shrill cry for help had been heard, however, and a man, running like a deer, now made his appearance upon the bridge. Taking in the situation at a glance, he leaped forward and dealt the murderous wretch a terrific blow in the face, and the next instant Violet was dragged back from the bridge.

With a cry of furious rage, the man sprang upon his assailant. They grappled, and, between muttered oaths and fierce blows, they struggled and swayed to and fro, unheedful of the danger of their position. With a sudden lurch, the two men came with a crash against the bridge railing, which, already severely strained, gave way, and, headforemost, they went down, down to their death.

During the fight Violet had looked on, trembling, half-crazed with fear and thankfulness at her rescue, watching the combatants. As she saw them disappear over the bridge she gave a wild shriek of horror, and, looking down, she saw them as they struck upon some black, jagged rocks, which, at this point of the river, seemed numerous, and caused the swift current of the stream to foam and roar.

They had separated now, and as she watched one of the bodies float on and on, until lost in the darkness, gone forever from her sight, she noticed a boat with a single occupant that had just put off from the opposite shore.

The man was one of the night watchmen at the mill. He had been a witness to the fight, and, while doubting whether he should interfere or not, he had seen them pitch headlong into the river. Leaping into the boat, he determined to save them, if possible. He had not noticed the first dark object as it sped past his boat, within arm’s reach, until it was too late, and as he turned to look for the other, he saw that its progress had been fortunately stayed by catching against a rock.

A vigorous stroke or two sent him bounding in the direction. Then pulling in the oars, he waited till the man, who had been caught again by the current and was rushing toward him, should come within reach. He made a desperate clutch at the man’s garments, and soon had him dragged into the boat.

Violet Harding had watched this scene with clasped hands and terror-stricken face. As she saw the boatman nearing the shore, she seemed to come to a realizing sense of her position. Her first impulse was to fly. She might escape, and no trace be found to connect her with this awful tragedy. But what if this man who had been saved was the one whom she hated so? If he were to recover, what miserable fate might yet be hers at his hands?

Scarcely waiting to analyze the consequences of her acts, however, she made her way hastily down to the shore, where the watchman was now dragging the boat as far up as he could. She shuddered as she approached and saw a dark form lying motionless in the bottom of the boat.

“Oh, sir,” she asked faintly, “is he—dead?”

“There’s life in him yet, I think. Ye’d better run for a doctor if ye wants to save him, while I carry him into the mill here.”

“I know of no doctor,” she panted. “I am almost a stranger here. Take him to the mill, and I will care for him while you go for a physician. Get the first doctor you can find, and I will pay the bill and reward you.”

The man was already on the way. The mill was close at hand. A light was burning dimly in the office. With a kick of his boot the workman burst open a side door, entered, and placed the dripping form on a bench.

“I’ll get Doctor Harrison; he lives close by,” and away the man went, running as fast as his burly form would permit.

Violet Harding heaved a sigh as the man disappeared. Now she was alone with the dying. Who was he? She turned toward him. The sufferer upon the bench stirred and gave vent to a long, low moan. His eyes opened slowly.

Timidly, and with a throbbing heart, she approached him, and gazed into the face, now so ghastly white, and upon which the flickering light of a lamp that was burning low in the office cast a fitful gleam. As their eyes met, her very heart seemed to stand still; then throwing up her hand, with one wild, despairing shriek she fell upon her knees beside the dying man. He made an effort to rise, but was either too weak or too stunned as yet. Then he whispered hoarsely:

“Violet!”

She raised her head. Again their eyes met.

“Richard—you——” she gasped.

Then quickly recovering herself, she gently raised his head and pillowed it upon her arm, and with a tender touch she brushed back the wet hair from his pallid brow and gazed earnestly into his face.

“You, sis—and that man—fiend—who was he?”

She told him in a few words his connection with her life.

“Thank Heaven—I—saved you.”

“And you, Dick? How came you here? I thought you were far away.”

“Yes, sis. I promised never to cast my shadow across your path again,” he murmured feebly. “I’m no good, never have been, but I saved your life, didn’t I? It’s the only good deed I ever did. I’m dying, sis. Will you kiss me, and say you forgive me?”

“Hush, you are not so bad, Dick. Yes, I forgive you,” and she bent over him and imprinted a kiss upon his lips.

A faint smile flitted over his face, and the hard and cruel vice-drawn lines softened under the tender kiss of forgiveness.

“Yes, I am bad; worse sins have been added to my lot than that which parted us years ago. I must live till I have made a confession. Send a message to—to——”

His voice was very faint; he whispered a name. As Violet heard it she started.

“I had been laying around Lakeview for some time,” he began again. “When I learned you were there, I got away as quickly as I could; I didn’t dare to meet you.”

At this point the man returned with a doctor and the sufferer was quickly aided. The medical man shook his head as he saw the extent of the injuries.

“I know I’m a goner, doc, but keep me alive a few hours, if you can; it’s life and death to others,” he whispered.

After doing all that was possible for the moment, the physician left, saying he would have a stretcher and men sent to remove him. An hour after he had departed, the injured man was removed to Violet’s boarding house. She never left his bedside for an instant, save to scribble a few words and ask the landlady to have the telegram sent at once.

Then she sat beside him the long night through, clasping his hand in hers, and watching the labored heaving of that troubled breast, whence a soul was so soon to take its flight to “that bourn from which no traveler returns.”