CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Take him to my private wine-cellar!" commanded Wilde, excitedly. "He's a fellow we've been trying to catch around here for some time. He's a thief, I tell you!"

The men obeyed their employer's command, little dreaming it was an innocent man they were consigning to a living tomb.

It was an hour afterward ere consciousness returned to Jay Gardiner. For a moment he was dazed, bewildered; then the recollection of the encounter, and the terrible blow he had received over the temple, recurred to him.

Where was he? The darkness and silence of death reigned. The air was musty. He lay upon a stone flagging through which the slime oozed.

Like a flash he remembered the words of Jasper Wilde.

"Take him to my private wine-cellar until I have time to attend to him."

Yes, that was where he must be—in Wilde's wine-cellar.

While he was cogitating over this scene, an iron door at the further end of the apartment opened, and a man, carrying a lantern, hastily entered the place, and stood on the threshold for a moment.

Doctor Gardiner saw at once that it was Jasper Wilde.

"Come to, have you?" cried Wilde, swinging the light in his face. "Well, how do you like your quarters, my handsome, aristocratic doctor, eh?"

"How dare you hold me a prisoner here?" demanded Jay Gardiner, striking the floor with his manacled hands. "Release me at once, I say!"

A sneering laugh broke from Wilde's thin lips.

"Dare!" he repeated, laying particular stress upon the word. "We Wildes dare anything when there is a pretty girl like beautiful Bernardine concerned in it."

"You scoundrel!" cried Jay Gardiner, "if I were but free from these shackles, I would teach you the lesson of your life!"

"A pinioned man is a fool to make threats," sneered Wilde. "But come, now. Out with it, curse you! Where is Bernardine?—where have you hidden her?"

"I refuse to answer your question," replied Jay Gardiner, coolly. "I know where she is, but that knowledge shall never be imparted to you without her consent."

"I will wring it from your lips, curse you!" cried Wilde, furiously. "I will torture you here, starve you here, until you go mad and are glad to speak."

"Even though you kill me, you shall not learn from my lips the whereabouts of Bernardine Moore!" exclaimed Jay Gardiner, hoarsely.

As the hours dragged their slow lengths by, exhausted nature asserted itself, and despite the hunger and burning thirst he endured, and the pain in his head, sleep—

came to him.

Suddenly the door opened, and Jasper Wilde, still carrying a lantern, looked in.

"It is morning again," he said. "How have you passed the night, my handsome doctor? I see the rodents have not eaten you. I shouldn't have been the least surprised if they had. I assure you, I wonder they could have abstained from such a feast."

"You fiend incarnate!" cried Jay Gardiner, hoarsely. "Remove these shackles, and meet me as man to man. Only a dastardly coward bullies a man who can not help himself."

"Still defiant, my charming doctor!" laughed Wilde. "I marvel at that. I supposed by this time you would be quite willing to give me the information I desired."

Jay Gardiner could not trust himself to speak, his indignation was so great.

"Au revoir again," sneered Wilde. "The day will pass and the night will follow, in the natural course of events. To-morrow, at this hour, I shall look in on you again, my handsome doctor. Look out for the rodents. Bless me! they are dashing over the floor. I must fly!"

Again the door closed, and with a groan Jay Gardiner could not repress, he sunk to the floor, smiting it with his manacled hands, and wondering how soon this awful torture would end.

CHAPTER XXIX.

The manacles cut into his flesh, for his wrists had swollen as he lay there, and the burning thirst was becoming maddening.

"Great God in Heaven! how long—ah, how long, will this torture last?" he cried.

In the midst of his anguish, he heard footsteps; but not those for which he longed so ardently. A moment later, and Jasper Wilde stood before him.

"Now let me tell you what my revenge upon the beautiful Bernardine will be for preferring you to myself. I shall marry her—she dare not refuse when I have her here—that I warrant you. As I said before, I shall marry the dainty Bernardine, the cold, beautiful, haughty Bernardine, and then I shall force her to go behind the bar, and the beauty of her face will draw custom from far and near.

"Nothing could be so revolting to her as this. It will crush her, it will kill her, and I, whose love for her has turned into hate—yes, deepest, deadly hate—will stand by and watch her, and laugh at her. Ha! ha! ha!"

With a fury born of madness, Doctor Gardiner wrenched himself free from the chains that bound him, and with one flying leap was upon his enemy and had hurled him to the floor, his hand clutching Wilde's throat.

"It shall be death to one or other of us!" he panted, hoarsely.

But he had not reckoned that in his weak condition he was no match for Jasper Wilde, who for the moment was taken aback by the suddenness of the attack.

That the encounter would have ended in certain death to Jay Gardiner, in his exhausted state, was quite apparent to Jasper Wilde; but in that moment fate intervened to save him. Hardly had the two men come together in that desperate death-struggle, ere the startling cry of "Fire!" rang through the building.

Jasper Wilde realized what that meant. There was but one exit from the cellar, and if he did not get out of it in a moment's time, he would be caught like a rat in a trap. Gathering himself together, he wrenched himself free from the doctor's grasp, and hurling him to the floor with a fearful blow planted directly between the eyes, sprung over the threshold.

Wilde paused a single instant to shout back:

"I leave you to your fate, my handsome doctor! Ha! ha! ha!"

But fate did not intend Jay Gardiner to die just then, even though he sunk back upon the flags with an awful groan and fully realized the horror of the situation.

That groan saved him. A fireman heard it, and in less time than it takes to tell it, a brawny, heroic fellow sprung through the iron door-way, which Wilde in his mad haste had not taken time to close.

A moment more, and the fireman had carried his burden up through the flames, and out into the pure air.

The fresh air revived the young doctor, as nothing else could have done.

"Give me your name and address," he said, faintly, to the fireman. "You shall hear from me again;" and the man good-naturedly complied, and then turned back the next instant to his duty.

In the excitement, he forgot to ask whose life it was he had saved.

The fire proved to be a fearful holocaust. Canal Street had never known a conflagration that equaled it.

Doctor Gardiner made superhuman efforts to enter the tenement-house, to save the life of the old basket-maker—Bernardine's hapless father—who stood paralyzed, incapable of action, at an upper window. But no human being could breast that sea of flame; and with a cry of horror, the young doctor saw the tenement collapse, and David Moore was buried in the ruins.

He had forfeited his life for the brandy he had taken just a little while before, which utterly unfitted him to make an effort to get out of the building.

Jay Gardiner, sick at heart, turned away with a groan. He must go to Bernardine at once; but, Heaven help her! how could he break the news of her great loss to her?

As he was deliberating on what course to pursue, a hand was suddenly laid on his shoulder, and a voice said, lustily:

"By all that is wonderful, I can scarcely believe my eyes, Jay Gardiner, that this is you! I expected you were at this moment hundred of miles away from New York. But, heavens! how ill you look! Your clothes are covered with dust. What can be the matter with you, Jay?"

Turning suddenly at the sound of the familiar voice, Doctor Gardiner found himself face to face with the young physician who took charge of his office while he was away.

"Come with me; you shall not tell me now, nor talk. Come to the office, and let me fix up something for you, or you will have a spell of sickness."

And without waiting to heed Jay Gardiner's expostulations—that he must go somewhere else first—he called a passing cab, and hustled him into it.

Owing to his splendid physique, he felt quite as good as new the next morning, save for the pain in his head, where he had fallen upon the stone flagging of the wine cellar.

Without any more loss of time than was absolutely necessary, he set out for the old nurse's house, at which he had left Bernardine two days before. He had half expected to find her ill, and he was not a little surprised when she came to the door in answer to his summons.

"Mrs. Gray is out," she said, "and I saw you coming, Doctor Gardiner, and oh, I could not get here quick enough to see you and thank you for what you have done for me—risked your own life to save a worthless one like mine."

"Hush, hush, Bernardine! You must not say that!" he cried, seizing her little hands.

He drew her into the plain little sitting-room, seated her, then turned from her abruptly and commenced pacing up and down the room, his features working convulsively.

It was by the greatest effort he had restrained himself from clasping her in his arms. Only Heaven knew how great was the effort.

"Why did you attempt to drown yourself, Bernardine?" he asked, at length. "Tell me the truth."

"Yes, I will tell you," sobbed Bernardine, piteously. "I did it because I did not wish to become Jasper Wilde's bride."

"But why were you driven to such a step?" he persisted. "Surely you could have said 'No,' and that would have been sufficient."

For a moment she hesitated, then she flung herself, sobbing piteously, on her knees at his feet.

"If I tell you all, will you pledge yourself to keep my secret, and my father's secret, come what may?" she cried, wringing her hands.

"Yes," he replied, solemnly. "I shall never divulge what you tell me. You can speak freely, Bernardine."

And Bernardine did speak freely. She told him all without reserve—of the sword Jasper Wilde held over her head because of her poor father, whom he could send to the gallows, although he was an innocent man, if she refused to marry him.

Jay Gardiner listened to every word with intense interest.

"While I have been here I have been thinking—thinking," she sobbed. "Oh, it was cruel of me to try to avoid my duty to poor father. I must go back and—and marry Jasper Wilde, to save poor papa, who must now be half-crazed by my disappearance."

Doctor Gardiner clasped her little hands still closer. The time had come when he must break the awful news to her that her father was no longer in Jasper Wilde's power; that he had passed beyond all fear of him, all fear of punishment at the hand of man.

"Are you strong enough to bear a great shock, Bernardine?" he whispered, involuntarily gathering the slender figure to him.

The girl grew pale as death.

"Is it something about father? Has anything happened to him?" she faltered, catching her breath.

He nodded his head; then slowly, very gently, he told her of the fire, and that he had seen her father perish—that he was now forever beyond Jasper Wilde's power.

Poor Bernardine listened like one turned to stone: then, without a word or a cry, fell at his feet in a faint.

At that opportune moment the old nurse returned.

Doctor Gardiner soon restored her to consciousness; but it made his heart bleed to witness her intense grief. She begged him to take her to the ruins, and with great reluctance he consented.

Ordering a cab at the nearest stand, he placed her in it, and took a seat by her side, feeling a vague uneasiness, a consciousness that this ride should never have been taken.

She was trembling like a leaf. What could he do but place his strong arm about her? In that moment, in the happiness of being near her, he forgot that he was in honor bound to another, and that other Sally Pendleton, whom he was so soon to lead to the altar to make his wife.

The girl he loved with all the strength of his heart was so near to him—ah, Heaven! so dangerously near—the breath from her lips was wafted to him with each passing breeze, and seemed to steal his very senses from him.

Oh, if he could but indulge in one moment of happiness—could clasp her in his arms but a single moment, and kiss those trembling lips just once, he would be willing to pay for it by a whole life-time of sorrow, he told himself.

Ah! why must he refuse himself so resolutely this one draught of pleasure that fate had cast in his way?

He hesitated, and we all know what happens to the man who hesitates—he is lost.

At this moment Bernardine turned to him, sobbing piteously:

"Oh, what shall I do, Doctor Gardiner? Father's death leaves me all alone in the world—all alone, with no one to love me!"

In an instant he forgot prudence, restraint; he only knew that his heart, ay, his very soul, flowed out to her in a torrent so intense no human will could have restrained it.

Almost before he was aware of it, his arms were about her, straining her to his madly beating heart, his passionate kisses falling thrillingly upon her beautiful hair and the sweet, tender lips, while he cried, hoarsely:

"You shall never say that again, beautiful Bernardine! I love you—yes, I love you with all my heart and soul! Oh, darling! answer me—do you care for me?"

The girl recoiled from him with a low, wailing sob. The words of the fashionably attired young girl who had called upon her so mysteriously on that never-to-be-forgotten day, and taunted her with—"He is deceiving you, girl! Doctor Gardiner may talk to you of love, but he will never—never speak to you of marriage. Mark my words!"—were ringing like a death-knell in her ears.

"Oh, Bernardine!" he cried, throwing prudence to the winds, forgetting in that moment everything save his mad love for her—"oh, my darling! you are not alone in the world! I love you! Marry me, Bernardine, and save me from the future spreading out darkly before me—marry me within the hour—now! Don't refuse me. We are near a church now. The rector lives next door. We will alight here, and in five minutes you will be all my own to comfort, to care for, to protect and idolize, to worship as I would an angel from Heaven!"

He scarcely waited for her to consent. He stopped the coach, and fairly lifted her from the vehicle in his strong arms.

"Oh, Doctor Gardiner, is it for the best?" she cried, clinging to him with death-cold hands. "Are you sure you want me?"

The answer that he gave her, as he bent his fair, handsome head, must have satisfied her. Loving him as she did, how could she say him nay?

They entered the parsonage, and when they emerged from it, ten minutes later, Bernardine was Jay Gardiner's wedded wife.

And that was the beginning of the tragedy.

"I shall not take you to the scene of the fire just now, my darling," he decided. "The sight would be too much for you. In a day or two, when you have become more reconciled to your great loss, I will take you there."

"You know best, Doctor Gardiner," she sobbed, as they re-entered the vehicle. "I will do whatever you think is best."

"Where to, sir?" asked the driver, touching his cap.

"We will go to Central Park," he answered; then turning to Bernardine, he added: "When we reach there, we will alight and dismiss this man. We will sit down on one of the benches, talk matters over, and decide what is best to be done—where you would like to go for your wedding-trip; but, my love, my sweetheart, my life, you must not call me 'Doctor Gardiner.' To you, from this time on, I am Jay, your own fond husband!"

CHAPTER XXX.

Jay Gardiner had taken fate in his own hands. He had married the girl he loved, casting aside every barrier that lay between them, even to facing the wrath, and, perhaps, the world's censure in deserting the girl to whom he was betrothed, but whom he did not love.

He was deeply absorbed in thinking about this as the cab stopped at the park entrance.

"Come, my darling!" exclaimed Jay, kissing fondly the beautiful face upturned to him, "we will alight and talk over our plans for the future."

She clung to him, as he with tender care, lifted her from the vehicle.

He was her husband, this grand, kingly, fair-haired man, at whom the women passing looked so admiringly. She could hardly realize it, hardly dare believe it, but for the fact that he was calling her his darling bride with every other breath.

He found her a seat beneath a wide-spreading tree, where the greensward was like velvet beneath their feet, and the air was redolent with the scent of flowers that rioted in the sunshine hard by.

"Now, first of all, my precious Bernardine, we must turn our thoughts in a practical direction long enough to select which hotel we are to go to; and another quite as important matter, your wardrobe, you know."

Bernardine looked up at him gravely.

"This dress will do for the present," she declared. "The good, kind old nurse dried and pressed it out so nicely for me that it looks almost as good as new. And as for going to a hotel, I am sure it is too expensive. We could go to a boarding-house where the charges would be moderate."

Jay Gardiner threw back his handsome head, and laughed so loud and so heartily that Bernardine looked at him anxiously.

"Now that I come to think the matter over, I don't think I ever told you much concerning my financial affairs," he said, smiling.

"No; but papa guessed about them," replied Bernardine.

"Tell me what he guessed?" queried Jay. "He thought I was poor?"

"Yes," replied Bernardine, frankly. "He said that all doctors had a very hard time of it when they started in to build up a practice, and that you must be having a very trying experience to make both ends meet."

"Was that why he did not want me for a son-in-law?"

"Yes, I think so," admitted Bernardine, blushing.

"Tell me this, my darling," he said, eagerly catching at the pretty little hands lying folded in her lap; "why is it that you have waived all that, that you have married me, not knowing whether I had enough to pay for a day's lodging?"

The most beautiful light that ever was seen flashed into the tender dark eyes, a smile curved the red lips that set all the pretty dimples dancing in the round, flushed cheeks.

"I married you because——" and then she hesitated shyly.

"Go on, Bernardine," he persisted; "you married me because——"

"Because I—I loved you," she whispered, her lovely face fairly covered with blushes.

"Now, the first thing to do, sweetheart, is to call a cab, that you may go to the nearest large dry-goods store and make such purchases as you may need for immediate use. I can occupy the time better than standing about looking at you. I will leave you at the store, and have the cabby drive me around to the old nurse and explain what has occurred, and tell her that you won't come back. Then I can attend to another little matter or two, and return for you in an hour's time. And last, but not least, take this pocket-book—I always carry two about me—and use freely its contents. The purse, and what is in it, are yours, sweet!"

"Oh, I couldn't think of taking so much money!" declared Bernardine, amazed at the bulky appearance of the pocket-book at the first glance.

Jay Gardiner laughed good-naturedly.

"You shall have everything your heart desires, my precious one," he declared. "Don't worry about the price of anything you want; buy it, and I shall be only too pleased, believe me."

There was no time to say anything further, for the store was reached, and Jay had barely time to snatch a kiss from the beautiful lips ere he handed her out.

"I will return in just an hour from now, Bernardine, with this cab," he said. "If you are not then at the door, looking for me, I shall wait here patiently until you do come out."

"How good you are to me!" murmured the girl, her dark eyes brimming over with tears. "If papa could only know!"

"There, there now, my darling, it hurts me to see those eyes shed tears! The past is past. Your father would be glad to know you have a protector to love and care for you. Try to forget, as much as you can, the sad calamity, for my sake."

And with another pressure of the hands, he turned away and sprung into the cab, watching the slender form from the window until it disappeared in the door-way and was lost to sight.

"Love thrust honor and duty aside," he murmured. "I married sweet Bernardine on the impulse of the moment, and I shall never regret it. I will have a time with Sally Pendleton and her relatives; but the interview will be a short one. She has other admirers, and she will soon console herself. It was my money, instead of myself, that she wanted, anyhow, so there is no damage done to her heart, thank goodness. I will——"

The rest of the sentence was never finished. There was a frightful crash, mingled with the terrific ringing of car-bells, a violent plunge forward, and Jay Gardiner knew no more.

With a thoughtful face, Bernardine walked quickly into the great dry-goods store.

She tried to do her husband's bidding—-put all thoughts of it from her for the time being—until she could weep over it calmly, instead of giving way to the violent, pent-up anguish throbbing in her heart at that moment.

She had not been accustomed to spending much money during her young life. The very few dresses she had had done duty for several years, by being newly made over, sponged, and pressed, and freshened by a ribbon here, or a bit of lace there. So it did not take long to make the few purchases she deemed necessary, and even then she felt alarmed in finding that they footed up to nearly seven dollars, which appeared a great sum to her.

Six o'clock now struck, and the clerks hustled away the goods en the counters, and covered those on the shelves with surprising agility, much to the annoyance of many belated customers who had come in too late "to just look around and get samples."

To the surprise of the clerks, as they reached the sidewalk from a side entrance of the building, they saw the beautiful young girl still standing in front of the store with the parcel in her hand and a look of bewilderment on her face.

"It is a little after six," murmured Bernardine, glancing up at a clock in an adjacent store. "He has not yet returned, but he will be here soon. I do not wonder that the driver of the cab he is in can make but little headway, the crowds on the street and crossings are so great."

One cab after another whirled by, their occupants in many instances looking back to catch another glimpse of that perfect face with its wistful expression which had turned toward them so eagerly and then turned away so disappointedly.

"A shop girl waiting for some fellow who is to come in a cab and take her out to supper," remarked two dudes who were sauntering up Broadway.

Bernardine heard the remark, and flushed indignantly.

How she wished she dared tell them that she was waiting for her husband! Yes, she was waiting—waiting, but he came not.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The sun dipped low in the West; the great crowds hurrying hither and thither were beginning to thin out. New York's busy throngs were seeking their homes to enjoy the meal which they had worked for in factory and shop, for they were mostly working people who composed this seething mass of humanity.

Slowly time dragged on. Seven o'clock tolled from a far-off belfry. Bernardine was getting frightfully nervous.

What could have happened to her handsome young husband, who had left her with the promise that he would return within the hour?

The policeman pacing to and fro on that beat watched her curiously each time he passed.

Eight o'clock struck slowly and sharply. The wind had risen, and was now howling like a demon around the corners of the great buildings.

"What shall I do? Oh, Heaven, help me! what shall I do?" sobbed Bernardine, in nervous affright. "He—he must have forgotten me."

At that moment a hand fell heavily on her shoulder.

Looking up hastily through her tears, Bernardine saw a policeman standing before her and eyeing her sharply.

"What are you doing here, my good girl?" he asked. "Waiting for somebody? I would advise you to move on. We're going to have a storm, and pretty quick, too, and I judge that it will be a right heavy one."

"I—I am waiting for my husband," faltered Bernardine. "He drove me here in a cab. I was to do a little shopping while he went to find a boarding-house. He was to return in an hour—-by six o'clock. I—I have been waiting here since that time, and—and he has not come."

"Hum! Where did you and your husband live last?" inquired the man of the brass buttons.

"We—we didn't live anywhere before. We—we were just married to-day," admitted the girl, her lovely face suffused with blushes.

"The old story," muttered the officer under his breath. "Some rascal has deluded this simple, unsophisticated girl into the belief that he has married her, then cast her adrift."

"I am going to tell you what I think, little girl," he said, speaking kindly in his bluff way. "But don't cry out, make a scene, or get hysterical. It's my opinion that the man you are waiting for don't intend to come back."

He saw the words strike her as lightning strikes and blasts a fair flower. A terrible shiver ran through the young girl, then she stood still, as though turned to stone, her face overspread with the pallor of death.

The policeman was used to all phases of human nature. He saw that this girl's grief was genuine, and felt sorry for her.

"Surely you have a home, friends, here somewhere?" he asked.

Bernardine shook her head, sobbing piteously.

"I lived in the tenement house on Canal Street that has just been burned down. My father perished in it, leaving me alone in the world—homeless, shelterless—and—and this man asked me to marry him, and—and I—did."

The policeman was convinced more than ever by her story that some roué had taken advantage of the girl's pitiful situation to lead her astray.

"That's bad. But surely you have friends somewhere?"

Again Bernardine shook her head, replying, forlornly:

"Not one on earth. Papa and I lived only for each other."

The policeman looked down thoughtfully for a moment. He said to himself that he ought to try to save her from the fate which he was certain lay before her.

"I suppose he left you without a cent, the scoundrel?" he queried, brusquely.

"Oh, don't speak of him harshly!" cried Bernardine, distressedly. "I am sure something has happened to prevent his coming. He left his pocket-book with me, and there is considerable money in it."

"Ah! the scoundrel had a little more heart than I gave him credit for," thought the policeman.

He did not take the trouble to ask the name of the man whom she believed had wedded her, being certain that he had given a fictitious one to her.

"There is a boarding-house just two blocks from here, that I would advise you to go to for the night, at least, young lady," he said, "and if he comes I will send him around there. I can not miss him if he comes, for I will be on this beat, pacing up and down, until seven o'clock to-morrow morning. See, the rain has commenced to come down pretty hard. Come!"

There was nothing else to do but accept the kind policeman's suggestion. As it was, by the time she reached the house to which he good-naturedly piloted her, the fierce storm was raging in earnest.

He spoke a few words, which Bernardine could not catch, to the white-haired, benevolent-looking lady who opened the door.

She turned to the girl with outstretched hands.

"Come right in, my dear," she said, gently; "come right in."

"I was waiting for my husband, but somehow I missed him," explained Bernardine. "The policeman will be sure to run across him and send him around here."

The lady looked pityingly at the beautiful young face—a look that made Bernardine a little nervous, though there was nothing but gentleness and kindness in it.

"We will talk about that in the morning," she said. "I will show you to a room. The house is quite full just now, and I shall have to put you in a room with another young girl. Pardon the question, but have you had your supper?"

"No," replied Bernardine, frankly, "and I am hungry and fatigued."

"I will send you up a bowl of bread and milk, and a cup of nice hot tea," said the lady.

"How good you are to me, a perfect stranger!" murmured Bernardine. "I will be glad to pay you for the tea and——"

The lady held up her white hand with a slow gesture.

"We do not take pay for any services we render here, my dear," she said. "This is a young girls' temporary shelter, kept up by a few of the very wealthy women in this great city."

Bernardine was very much surprised to hear this; but before she could reply, the lady threw open a door to the right, and Bernardine was ushered into a plain but scrupulously neat apartment in which sat a young girl of apparently her own age.

"Sleep here in peace, comfort and security," said the lady. "I will have a talk with you on the morrow," and she closed the door softly, leaving Bernardine alone with the young girl at the window, who had faced about and was regarding her eagerly.

"I am awfully glad you are come," she broke in quickly; "it was terribly slow occupying this room all alone, as I told the matron awhile ago. It seems she took pity on me and sent you here. But why don't you sit down, girl? You look at me as though you were not particularly struck with my face, and took a dislike to me at first sight, as most people do."

She was correct in her surmise. Bernardine had taken a dislike to her, she scarcely knew why.

Bernardine forgot her own trials and anxiety in listening to the sorrowful story of this hapless creature.

"Why don't you try to find work in some other factory or some shop?" asked Bernardine, earnestly.

"My clothes are so shabby, my appearance is against me. No one wants to employ a girl whose dress is all tatters."

A sudden thought came to Bernardine, and she acted on the impulse.

"Here," she said, pulling out her pocket-book—"here is ten dollars. Get a dress, and try to find work. The money is not a loan; it is a gift."

The girl had hardly heard the words, ere a cry of amazement fell from her lips. She was eyeing the well-filled pocket-book with a burning gaze.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"You must be rich to have so much money about you," she said, slowly, with a laugh that grated harshly on Bernardine's sensitive ears.

"It is not mine," said Bernardine, simply; "it is my husband's, and represents all the years of toil he has worked, and all the rigid economy he has practiced."

The girl looked at her keenly. Could it be that she was simple enough to believe that the man who had deserted her so cruelly had married her? Well, let her believe what she chose, it was no business of hers.

The bowl of bread and milk and the cup of tea were sent up to Bernardine, and she disposed of them with a heartiness that amused her companion.

"I am afraid you will not sleep well after eating so late," she said, with a great deal of anxiety in her voice.

"I shall rest all the better for taking the hot milk. I fall asleep generally as soon as my head touches the pillow, and I do not wake until the next morning. Why, if the house tumbled down around me, I believe that I would not know it. I will remove my jacket, to keep it from wrinkling."

This information seemed to please her companion. She breathed a sigh of relief, and an ominous glitter crept into her small black eyes.

"But I do not want to go to sleep to-night," added Bernardine in the next breath. "I shall sit by the window, with my face pressed against the pane, watching for my—my husband."

Her companion, who had introduced herself as Margery Brown, cried out hastily:

"Don't do that. You will look like a washed-out, wilted flower by to-morrow, if you do, and your—your husband won't like that. Men only care for women when they are fresh and fair. Go to bed, and I will sit up and watch for you, and wake you when he comes; though it's my opinion he won't come until to-morrow, for fear of disturbing you."

But Bernardine was firm in her resolve.

"He may come any minute," she persisted, drawing her chair close to the window, and peering wistfully out into the storm.

But a tired feeling, caused by the great excitement She had undergone that day, at length began to tell upon her, and her eyes drooped wearily in spite of her every effort to keep them open, and at last, little by little, they closed, and the long, dark, curling lashes, heavy with unshed tears, lay still upon the delicately rounded cheeks.

Margery Brown bent forward, watching her eagerly.

"Asleep at last," she muttered, rising from her seat and crossing the room with a stealthy, cat-like movement, until she reached Bernardine's side.

Bending over her, she laid her hand lightly on her shoulder.

Bernardine stirred uneasily, muttering something in her, sleep about "loving him so fondly," the last of the sentence ending in a troubled sigh.

"They used to tell me that I had the strange gift of being able to mesmerize people," she muttered. "We will see if I can do it now. I'll try it."

Standing before Bernardine, she made several passes with her hands before the closed eyelids. They trembled slightly, but did not open. Again and again those hands waved to and fro before Bernardine with the slowness and regularity of a pendulum.

"Ah, ha!" she muttered at length under her breath, "she sleeps sound enough now."

She laid her hand heavily on Bernardine's breast. The gentle breathing did not abate, and with a slow movement the hand slid down to the pocket of her dress, fumbled about the folds for a moment, then reappeared, tightly clutching the well-filled wallet.

"You can sleep on as comfortably as you like now, my innocent little fool!" she muttered. "Good-night, and good-bye to you."

Hastily donning Bernardine's jacket and hat, the girl stole noiselessly from the room, closing the door softly after her.

So exhausted was Bernardine, she did not awaken until the sunshine, drifting into her face in a flood of golden light, forced the long black lashes to open.

For an instant she was bewildered as she sat up in her chair, looking about the small white room; but in a moment she remembered all that had transpired.

She saw that she was the sole occupant of the apartment, and concluded her room-mate must have gone to breakfast; but simultaneously with this discovery, she saw that her jacket and hat were missing.

She was mystified at first, loath to believe that her companion could have appropriated them, and left the torn and ragged articles she saw hanging in their place.

As she arose from her chair, she discovered that her pocket was hanging inside out, and that the pocket-book was gone!

For an instant she was fairly paralyzed. Then the white lips broke into a scream that brought the matron, who was just passing the door, quickly to her side.

In a hysterical voice, quite as soon as she could command herself to articulate the words, she told the good woman what had happened.

The matron listened attentively.

"I never dreamed that you had money about you my poor child," she said, "or I would have suggested your leaving it with me. I worried afterward about putting you in this room with Margaret Brown; but we were full, and there was no help for it. That is her great fault. She is not honest. We knew that, but when she appealed to me for a night's lodging, I could not turn her away. The front door is never locked, and those who come here can leave when they like. We found it standing open this morning, and we felt something was wrong."

But Bernardine did not hear the last of the sentence. With a cry she fell to the floor at the matron's feet in a death-like swoon.

Kind hands raised her, placed her on the couch, and administered to her; but when at length the dark eyes opened, there was no glance of recognition in them, and the matron knew, even before she called the doctor, that she had a case of brain fever before her.

This indeed proved to be a fact, and it was many a long week ere a knowledge of events transpiring around her came to Bernardine.

During the interim, dear reader, we will follow the fortunes of Jay Gardiner, the young husband for whom Bernardine had watched and waited in vain.

When he was picked up unconscious after the collision, he was recognized by some of the passengers and conveyed to his own office.

It seemed that he had sustained a serious scalp-wound and the doctors who had been called in consultation looked anxiously into each other's faces.

"A delicate operation will be necessary," said the most experienced physician, "and whether it will result in life or death, I can not say."

They recommended that his relatives, if he had any, be sent for. It was soon ascertained that his mother and sister were in Europe, traveling about the Continent. The next person equally, if indeed not more interested, was the young lady he was betrothed to marry—Miss Pendleton. Accordingly, she was sent for with all possible haste.

A servant bearing a message for Sally entered the room.

The girl's hands trembled. She tore the envelope open quickly, and as her eyes traveled over the contents of the note, she gave a loud scream.

"Jay Gardiner has met with an accident, and I am sent for. Ah! that is why I have not heard from him for a week, mamma!" she exclaimed, excitedly.

"I will go with you, my dear," declared her mother. "It wouldn't be proper for you to go alone. Make your toilet at once."

To the messenger's annoyance, the young lady he was sent for kept him waiting nearly an hour, and he was startled, a little later, to see the vision of blonde loveliness that came hurrying down the broad stone steps in the wake of her mother.

"Beautiful, but she has no heart," was his mental opinion. "Very few girls would have waited an hour, knowing their lover lay at the point of death. But it's none of my business, though I do wish noble young Doctor Gardiner had made a better selection for a wife."

The cab whirled rapidly on, and soon reached Doctor Gardiner's office.

Sally looked a little frightened, and turned pale under her rouge when she saw the group of grave-faced physicians evidently awaiting her arrival.

"Our patient has recovered consciousness," said one of them, taking her by the hand and leading her forward. "He is begging pitifully to see some one—of course, it must be yourself—some one who is waiting for him."

"Of course," repeated Sally. "There is no one he would be so interested in seeing as myself."

And quite alone, she entered the inner apartment where Jay Gardiner lay hovering between life and death.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"To-day was to have been our wedding-day," she sobbed, "and now you are ill—very ill. But, Jay," she whispered, bending down and uttering the words rapidly in his ear, "it could take place just the same, here and now, if you are willing. I sent a note to a minister to come here, and he may arrive at any moment. When he comes, shall I speak to him about it?"

He did not answer; he was trying to remember something, trying, oh, so hard, to remember something that lay like a weight on his mind.

Heaven help him! the past was entirely blotted out of his memory!

He recollected leaving Miss Pendleton's house after setting the date for his marriage with her, but beyond that evening the world was a blank to him.

He never remembered that there were such people as David Moore, the basket-maker, and a beautiful girl, his daughter Bernardine, to whom he had lost his heart, and whom he had wedded, and that she was now waiting for him. His mind was to be a blank upon all that for many a day to come.

"What do you say, Jay?" repeated Miss Pendleton; "will not the ceremony take place to-day, as we had intended?"

"They tell me I am very ill, Sally," he whispered. "I—I may be dying. Do you wish the ceremony to take place in the face of that fact?"

"Yes," she persisted. "I want you to keep your solemn vow that you would make me your wife; and—and delays are dangerous."

"Then it shall be as you wish," he murmured, faintly, in an almost inaudible voice, the effort to speak being so great as to cause him to almost lose consciousness.

Sally stepped quickly from Jay's beside out into the adjoining room.

"Mr. Gardiner wishes our marriage to take place here and now," she announced. "A minister will be here directly. When he arrives, please show him to Doctor Gardiner's bedside."

Mamma Pendleton smiled and nodded her approval in a magnificent way as she caught her daughter's eye for a second. The doctors looked at one another in alarm.

"I do not see how it can take place just now, Miss Pendleton," said one, quietly. "We have a very dangerous and difficult operation to perform upon your betrothed, and each moment it is delayed reduces his chance of recovery. We must put him under chloroform without an instant's delay."

"And I say that it shall not be done until after the marriage ceremony has been performed," declared Sally, furiously; adding, spitefully: "You want to cheat me out of becoming Jay Gardiner's wife. But I defy you! you can not do it! He shall marry me, in spite of you all!"

At that moment there was a commotion outside. The minister had arrived.

Sally herself rushed forward to meet him ere the doctors could have an opportunity to exchange a word with him, and conducted him at once to the sick man's bedside, explaining that her lover had met with an accident, and that he wished to be married to her without a moment's delay.

"I shall be only too pleased to serve you both," replied the good man.

"You must make haste, sir," urged Miss Pendleton sharply. "See, he is beginning to sink."

The minister did make haste. Never before were those solemn words so rapidly uttered.

How strange it was that fate should have let that ceremony go on to the end which would spread ruin and desolation before it!

The last words were uttered. The minister of God slowly but solemnly pronounced Sally Pendleton Jay Gardiner's lawfully wedded wife.

The doctors did not congratulate the bride, but sprung to the assistance of the young physician, who had fallen back upon his pillow gasping for breath.

One held a sponge saturated with a strong liquid to his nostrils, while another escorted the minister, the bride, and her mother from the apartment.

"Remain in this room as quietly as possible," urged the doctor, in a whisper, "and I will let you know at the earliest possible moment whether it will be life or death with your husband, Mrs. Gardiner."

At last the door quickly opened, and two of the doctors stood on the threshold.

"Well, doctor," she cried, looking from one to the other, "what tidings do you bring me? Am I a wife or a widow?"

"Five minutes' time will decide that question, madame," said one, impressively. "We have performed the operation. It rests with a Higher Power whether it will be life or death."

And the doctor who had spoken took out his watch, and stood motionless as a statue while it ticked off the fatal minutes.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Two long months, and Doctor Gardiner is slowly convalescing. His young wife flits about the room, a veritable dream in her dainty lace-trimmed house-gowns, baby pink ribbons tying back her yellow curls. But he looks away from her toward the window with a weary sigh.

He has married her, and he tells himself over and over again, that he must make the best of it. But "making the best of it" is indeed a bitter pill, for she is not his style of woman.

During the time he has been convalescing, he has been studying her, and as one trait after another unfolds itself, he wonders how it will all end.

He sees she has a passionate craving for the admiration of men. She makes careful toilets in which to receive his friends when they call to inquire after his health; and last, but not least, she has taken to the wheel, and actually appears before him in bloomers.

What would his haughty old mother and his austere sister say when they learned this?

There had been quite an argument between the young husband and Sally on the day he received his mother's letter informing him of her return from abroad, and her intense amazement at his hasty marriage.

"I had always hoped to persuade you to let me pick out a wife for you, Jay, my darling son," she wrote. "I can only hope you have chosen wisely when you took the reins into your own hands. Come and make us a visit, and bring your wife with you. We are very anxious to meet her."

Sally frowned as he read the letter aloud.

Never in the world were two united who were so unsuited to each other. Why did the fates that are supposed to have the love affairs of mortals in charge, allow the wrong man to marry the wrong woman?

There was one thing over which Sally was exceedingly jubilant, and that was his loss of memory. That he had known such a person as Bernardine Moore, the old basket-maker's beautiful daughter, was entirely obliterated from his mind.

Some one had mentioned the great tenement-house fire in Jay Gardiner's presence, and the fact that quite a quaint character, a tipsy basket-maker, had lost his life therein, but the young doctor looked up without the slightest gleam of memory drifting through his brain. Not even when the person who was telling him the story went on to say that the great fire accomplished one good result, however, and that was the wiping out of the wine-house of Jasper Wilde & Son.

"Wilde—Jasper Wilde! It seems to me that I have heard that name before in connection with some unpleasant transaction," said Doctor Gardiner, slowly.

"Oh, no doubt. You've probably read the name in the papers connected with some street brawl. Jasper Wilde, the son, is a well-dressed tough."

"Before going to see your mother, why not spend a few weeks at Newport with Sally," suggested Mrs. Pendleton to the doctor. "You know she has not been away on her wedding-trip yet."

He laughed a dry, mirthless laugh.

"She can go if she likes," he replied. "I can endure it."

Mrs. Pendleton bit her lip to keep back the angry retort, but wisely made no reply.

"It will never do to have the least disagreement with my wealthy, haughty son-in-law, if I can help it," she said to herself. "Especially as my husband is in such sore straits, and may have to come to him for a loan any day."

The following week Jay Gardiner and his bride reached Newport. The season was at its height. Yachts crowded the harbor; the hotels were filled to overflowing; every one who intended going to Newport was there now, and all seemed carried away on the eddying current of pleasure.

Young Mrs. Gardiner—née the pretty Sally Pendleton—plunged into the vortex of pleasure, and if her greed for admiration was not satisfied with the attention she received, it never would be.

Young Mrs. Gardiner knew no restraint. Her society was everywhere sought after. She was courted in every direction, and she took it all as her just due, by virtue of her marriage with the handsome millionaire, whom all the married belles were envying her, sighing to one another:

"Oh! how handsome he is—how elegant! and what a lordly manner he has! But, best of all, he lets his wife do just as she pleases."

But the older and wiser ones shook their heads sagaciously, declaring they scented danger afar off.

Little did they dream that the terrible calamity was nearer than they had anticipated.

CHAPTER XXXV.

In their own apartments, out of sight of the world's sharp eyes, Jay Gardiner and his wife used each other with the scantest possible courtesy. He never descended to the vulgarity of having words with her, though she did her utmost to provoke him to quarrel, saying to herself that anything was better than that dead calm, that haughty way he had of completely ignoring her in his elegant apartments.

During what every one believed to be the most blissful of honey-moons, Sally learned to hate her proud husband with a deadly hatred.

On the evening Mr. Victor Lamont made his appearance at the Ocean House, there was to be a grand ball given in honor of the guests, and, as every one had hoped, Mr. Lamont strolled in during the course of the evening, accompanied by mine host, who was over head and ears with delight in having such an honored guest stopping at his hotel.

Scores of girlish eyes brightened as they entered the arched door-way, and scores of hearts beat expectantly under pretty lace bodices. But their disappointment was great when this handsome Apollo glanced them all over critically, but did not ask any of them out to dance, and all the best waltzes were being then played.

Victor Lamont seemed quite indifferent to their shy glances.

During this time he was keeping up quite an animated conversation with his host, who was telling him, with pride, that this pretty girl was Miss This, and that pretty girl Miss So-and-So. But Victor Lamont would sooner have known who their fathers were.

At length, as his eyes traveled about the great ball-room with business-like carefulness, his gaze fell upon a slender figure in rose pink and fairly covered with diamonds. They blazed like ropes of fire about the white throat and on the slender arms; they twinkled like immense stars from the shell-like ears and coyly draped bosom, and rose in a great tiara over the highly piled blonde hair.

She was standing under a great palm-tree, its green branches forming just the background that was needed to perfect the dainty picture in pink.

She was surrounded as usual by a group of admirers. Victor Lamont's indifference vanished. He was interested at last.

"Who is the young lady under the palm directly opposite?" he asked, quickly.

"The belle of Newport," was the reply. "Shall I present you?"

"I should be delighted," was the quick response. Instantly rebellion rose in the heart of every girl in the room, and resentment showed in scores of flushed cheeks and angry eyes as the hero of the evening was led over to pretty Sally Gardiner.

No wonder they watched him with dismay. From the moment graceful Mr. Lamont was presented to her, he made no attempt to disguise how completely he was smitten by her.

"That is a delightful waltz," he said, bending over the little hand as the dance music struck up.

Sally bowed, and placed a dainty little hand lightly on his shoulder, his arm encircled the slender waist, and away they went whirling through the bewildering stretch of ball-room, a cloud of pink and flashing diamonds, the curly blonde head and the blonde, mustached face dangerously near each other.