CHAPTER XXII.
A DESPERATE DEED.
Cora Ellyson sat speechless by the side of Ernest Noel for several minutes as the sleigh rushed on through the whirling snowflakes.
Her face was as white as the snowflakes, her very lips pale, and her eyes flashed with a dangerous anger that startled her desperate lover. In their dark gleam he read, indeed, a murderous hate too deep for words—a hate that could kill, so great was its fury. Choking with grief and rage, she remained speechless, though her writhing lips struggled for words. A despair too deep for utterance possessed her soul.
What, wedded to this villain! Tricked into a ceremony that bound her to him and cut her off from Frank, her beloved, forever! It was too horrible! She could not believe it!
“Is it really true? You have not lied to me?” gaspingly.
“It is true as Heaven, Cora. Say what you will, you are my wife, and as such I claim you! Come, give me a kiss, and let us make up our quarrel!”
Throwing his arm around her waist he drew her forcibly to his side, pressing hot kisses on the shrinking face, while her shrieks rang wildly on the air—wildly, but unheeded, for they were in the country now on a lonely, unfrequented road, and the darkness of the wintry afternoon, together with the whirling snowflakes, made everything dim and indistinct.
A very frenzy of rage possessed the wretched girl. She had said rightly that she could murder any one who came between her and Laurier.
As she struggled wildly with Noel, she flung one hand up to her hair, whose dark, silken braids were pierced through with a strong but slender silver dagger with a jeweled hilt. Withdrawing it dexterously, she made a lunge at his breast.
With a stifled oath he warded off the first blow, catching the point of the dagger in his own hand so that it pierced through, the blood spouting out in a fountain of crimson, but, withdrawing it quickly, she aimed again for his heart.
“My God!” shrilled in agony from his lips as his arm fell, and the reins dropped from his hands while he sank an inert mass at the bottom of the sleigh. The next moment the black horse, frightened by her shrieks, had the bit between his teeth and was running away, while Cora, crouched in the seat wild-eyed, pale-faced, an image of horror, resigned herself to inevitable death.
On over the frozen snow, through the whirling storm, he ran for over a mile, then—stumbling over some obstruction in the road, he came to a sudden stop, and the little sleigh overturned, throwing its occupants out into the drifted snow.
One breathless moment and Cora scrambled to her feet unhurt, but not so the companion of her wild drive.
Silent and pallid, a senseless heap with the blood staining his white shirt bosom and his wounded hand, Ernest Noel lay like one dead in the snow.
“I have killed him!” the girl muttered wildly, but so terrible was her resentment that she felt no remorse for her deed, only a fierce joy that he was out of her way.
“He deserved it all!” she muttered, casting her glance hurriedly around to see if there was any witness to her crime.
But she was all alone with nature—nature in her stormiest mood, the wind shrieking in a rising gale, blowing the snow across the fields, bending and twisting the bare boughs of the trees, while the drifts were piled high against the rough stones of an old lime quarry close to the side of the road.
In that lonely scene the desperate girl stood wild-eyed, breathless, still burning with rage that precluded all remorse.
“If I could only hide him, if only the snowdrifts would cover him from my sight forever!” she exclaimed, and then her glance fell on the old quarry and lighted with intelligence.
“I can throw him down there!” she muttered, and with a strength born of terror, dragged the inert body by the arms, and pushed it down into the pit.
It fell with a hollow thud that made the panting girl, listening above, shudder violently, and fly back to the sleigh.
The black horse, seemingly subdued by its wild race and with the sweat streaming from every pore, despite the biting wind, stood patiently waiting her pleasure as she nervously returned and caught up the reins preparing for the inclement drive home.
A voice struck on her ears, sending terror to her heart lest the dead had arisen from his grave in the deserted pit.
“I’ll drive you home, Miss Ellyson!”
Who was this, calling her boldly by name? With a start of terror, she lifted her eyes, and saw a man striding to her through the snow.
She had seen the bold eyes, the coarse, good-looking face before. It was Carey Doyle.
“How came you here?” she faltered fearfully, and he answered coolly:
“I was cutting across fields visiting some country friends of mine when I saw you upset, and hastened to your assistance. Who was the man you pushed over into the pit, Miss Ellyson? Surely not Frank Laurier?”
Her heart sank with wild alarm as she answered faintly:
“You—you—are mistaken. I—I—came—here alone, I swear. I was only—only—looking down into the pit thinking how terrible if the sleigh had overset down there!”
“Miss Ellyson, I saw you dragging the man over there by his arms—don’t deny it,” Doyle returned masterfully.
She was detected, she realized it, and began to sob hysterically:
“Oh, for sweet pity’s sake do not betray me! He—he—was killed when the sleigh upset—and I—I—did not know what to do! I thought I would leave him there. How could I drive home with a dead man!” shudderingly.
“What was his name?”
“I will not tell you!” wildly.
“Miss Ellyson, there is blood on your hands and your dress. Is it possible you have done murder?” Carey Doyle demanded, with sudden sternness.
“No, no, it was an accident! He—he—would have mistreated me, and I—I—defended myself with the hairpin! It wounded him, and then the fall killed him! I—I—oh, sir, I cannot bear the sensation of discovery. I will make you rich if you will keep this terrible secret!” pleaded Cora, kneeling down abjectly in the snow before the exultant wretch glorying in the discovery he had made.
Rather than put herself in the power of this bad man Cora had better have put the dead man back into the sleigh and driven back to the city with a full confession of her sin. Surely no jury would have convicted her of murder when they heard how she had been goaded by cruel wrong into a terrible deed. They would all agree that she had been driven temporarily insane by her fear and suffering.
But her poor brain was too distraught to think clearly. A horrible fear possessed her lest the deed become known, and she should fall into the hands of the law.
She knelt down in the cold snow with the biting wind cutting her white face and blowing her dark, loosened hair about her, her small hands clasped, pleading, praying:
“Oh, sir, do not betray me! I could not bear detection! What will you take to keep my wretched secret?”
His eyes gleamed with cupidity as he answered:
“You are rich, so I don’t think you would mind a thousand dollars, would you?”
“You shall have it!”
“Then my lips are sealed. Get in and let me drive you home, Miss Ellyson. Then I must manage to have the horse and sleigh returned to the stables without exciting suspicion, so you will have to confide in me, don’t you see, so that I can help you better,” shrewdly.
Oh, how it galled her pride to take him into her confidence, but there was no other way, so she said evasively:
“He was Ernest Noel, who fell in love with me and tried to supplant Mr. Laurier in my heart. On this drive he took the liberty of kissing me, and in defending myself I gave him a fatal blow.”
He helped her in and took her home, afterward returning the sleigh to the stables in a way that diverted all suspicion.