The Death Shot: A Story Retold. Reid Mayne

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СКАЧАТЬ – its firstlings, as its fulness – a heart from which there can be no second gleanings, and she knows it – he has made light of the offering. A sacrifice grand, as complete; glowing with all the interests of her life. The life, too, of one rarely endowed; a woman of proud spirit, queenly and commanding, beyond air beautiful.

      She does not think thus of herself, as, leaning over the guard-rail, with eyes mechanically bent upon the wheel, she watches it whipping the water into spray. Her thoughts are not of lofty pride, but low humiliation. Spurned by him at whose feet she has flung herself, so fondly, so rashly – ay, recklessly – surrendering even that which woman deems most dear, and holds back to the ultimate moment of rendition – the word which speaks it!

      To Charles Clancy she has spoken it. True, only in writing; but still in terms unmistakeable, and with nothing reserved. And how has he treated them? No response – not even denial! Only contemptuous silence, worse than outspoken scorn!

      No wonder her breast is filled with chagrin, and her brow burning with shame!

      Both may be ended in an instant. A step over the low rail – a plunge into the red rolling river – a momentary struggle amidst its seething waters – not to preserve life, but destroy it – this, and all will be over! Sadness, jealousy, the pangs of disappointed love – these baleful passions, and all others alike, can be soothed, and set at rest, by one little effort – a leap into oblivion!

      Her nerves are fast becoming strung to the taking it. The past seems all dark, the future yet darker. For her, life has lost its fascinations, while death is divested of its terrors.

      Suicide in one so young, so fair, so incomparably lovely; one capable of charming others, no longer to be charmed herself! A thing fearful to reflect upon.

      And yet is she contemplating it!

      She stands close to the rail, wavering, irresolute. It is no lingering love of life which causes her to hesitate. Nor yet fear of death, even in the horrid form, she cannot fail to see before her, spring she but over that slight railing.

      The moon has arisen, and now courses across the blue canopy of sky, in full effulgence, her beams falling bright upon the bosom of the river. At intervals the boat, keeping the deeper channel, is forced close to either bank. Then, as the surging eddies set the floating but stationary logs in motion, the huge saurian asleep on them can be heard giving a grunt of anger for the rude arousing, and pitching over into the current with dull sullen plash.

      She sees, and hears all this. It should shake her nerves, and cause shivering throughout her frame.

      It does neither. The despair of life has deadened the dread of death – even of being devoured by an alligator!

      Fortunately, at this moment, a gentle hand is laid on her shoulder, and a soft voice sounds in her ear. They are the hand and voice of her sister.

      Jessie, coming out of her state-room, has glided silently up. She sees Helen prepossessed, sad, and can somewhat divine the cause. But she little suspects, how near things have been to a fatal climax, and dreams not of the diversion her coming has caused.

      “Sister!” she says, in soothing tone, her arms extended caressingly, “why do you stay out here? The night is chilly; and they say the atmosphere of this Red River country is full of miasma, with fevers and ague to shake the comb out of one’s hair! Come with me inside! There’s pleasant people in the saloon, and we’re going to have a round game at cards —vingt-un, or something of the sort. Come!”

      Helen turns round trembling at the touch, as if she felt herself a criminal, and it was the sheriff’s hand laid upon her shoulder!

      Jessie notices the strange, strong emotion. She could not fail to do so. Attributing it to its remotest cause, long since confided to her, she says: —

      “Be a woman, Helen! Be true to yourself, as I know you will; and don’t think of him any more. There’s a new world, a new life, opening to both of us. Forget the sorrows of the old, as I shall. Pluck Charles Clancy from your heart, and fling every memory, every thought of him, to the winds! I say again, be a woman – be yourself! Bury the past, and think only of the future —of our father!”

      The last words act like a galvanic shock, at the same time soothing as balm. For in the heart of Helen Armstrong they touch a tender chord – that of filial affection.

      And it vibrates true to the touch. Flinging her arms around Jessie’s neck, she cries: —

      “Sister; you have saved me!”

      Chapter Twenty One.

      Seized by spectral arms

      “Sister, you have saved me!”

      On giving utterance to the ill-understood speech, Helen Armstrong imprints a kiss upon her sister’s cheek, at the same time bedewing it with her tears. For she is now weeping – convulsively sobbing.

      Returning the kiss, Jessie looks not a little perplexed. She can neither comprehend the meaning of the words, nor the strange tone of their utterance. Equally is she at a loss to account for the trembling throughout her sister’s frame, continued while their bosoms stay in contact.

      Helen gives her no time to ask questions.

      “Go in!” she says, spinning the other round, and pushing her towards the door of the state-room. Then, attuning her voice to cheerfulness, she adds: —

      “In, and set the game of vingt-un going. I’ll join you by the time you’ve got the cards shuffled.”

      Jessie, glad to see her sister in spirits unusually gleeful, makes no protest, but glides towards the cabin door.

      Soon as her back is turned, Helen once more faces round to the river, again taking stand by the guard-rail. The wheel still goes round, its paddles beating the water into bubbles, and casting the crimson-white spray afar over the surface of the stream.

      But now, she has no thought of flinging herself into the seething swirl, though she means to do so with something else.

      “Before the game of vingt-un begins,” she says in soliloquy, “I’ve got a pack of cards to be dealt out here – among them a knave.”

      While speaking, she draws forth a bundle of letters – evidently old ones – tied in a bit of blue ribbon. One after another, she drags them free of the fastening – just as if dealing out cards. Each, as it comes clear, is rent right across the middle, and tossed disdainfully into the stream.

      At the bottom of the packet, after the letters have been all disposed of, is something seeming different. A piece of cardboard – a portrait – in short, a carte de visite. It is the likeness of Charles Clancy, given her on one of those days when he flung himself affectionately at her feet.

      She does not tear it in twain, as she has the letters; though at first this is nearest her intent. Some thought restraining her, she holds it up in the moon’s light, her eyes for a time resting on, and closely scanning it. Painful memories, winters of them, pass through her soul, shown upon her countenance, while she makes scrutiny of the features so indelibly graven upon her heart. She is looking her last upon them – not with a wish to remember, but the hope to forget – of being able to erase that image of him long-loved, wildly worshipped, from the tablets of her memory, at once and for ever.

      Who can tell what passed through her mind at that impending moment? Who could describe her heart’s desolation? Certainly, no writer СКАЧАТЬ