Norine's Revenge, and, Sir Noel's Heir

"When you marry Miss Holmes? It's a bargain, Mr. Laurence – I'll try and earn my reward. What is it you want me to do?"

"I'm going to New York to-morrow," Thorndyke says, hurriedly. "I must invent some excuse for the governor, and what I say you are to swear to. And when peace is proclaimed you must come back and tell her. I can't do it myself – by George, I can't."

"Is that all?" asked Mr. Liston.

"You'll look after her – poor little soul! and, if she wishes it, take her to her friends. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry – for her sake and for my own. But it's rather late for all that. Liston, is Richard Gilbert in town?"

"He is in town. He has been to see your uncle. He has been speaking of this girl. My word Mr. Laurence, you'll have to do some hard swearing to prove an alibi this time."

"Curse the luck! Tell me what Darcy said to you Liston, word for word."

"Mr. Darcy, said this: 'Liston, go and find young Thorndyke (he never calls you young Thorndyke except when he's very far gone in anger, indeed), and fetch him to me. And hark'ee, fellow! no lying from you or him. If what I hear of him be true, I'll never look upon his false, cowardly face again, living or dead.' He was in one of his white rages, when the less said the better. That was a week ago, I had known all about you for two weeks before. I bowed, kept my own counsel, and – here I am."

"You're a trump, Liston! And he gave you this letter?"

"He gave me that letter. You'll find it considerably shorter than sweet. The other came from Miss Holmes, a few days ago – he sent that too."

"She doesn't know – "

"Not likely. She will though, if the old man finds out, and then you're cake's dough with a vengeance. How do you suppose the little one (she's very pretty, Mr. Laurence – you always had good taste), how do you suppose she will take it?"

Mr. Thorndyke's reply was a groan.

"For Heaven's sake don't ask me, Liston! It's a horrible business. I must have been mad."

"Of course – madly in love."

"Nothing of the sort – not in love at all. It was pure spite – I give you my word – not a spark of real love in the matter, except what was on her side. Gilbert was going to marry her, you know."

"I know."

"And I hate him as I hate the – "

"Prince of evil! I know that, too."

"You know everything that's my opinion. What a detective was lost in you, old boy. Perhaps you know why I hate him?"

"He has blocked one or two little games of yours. And he 'peached' in that affair of Lucy West."

"Liston! what an infernal scoundrel you must think me! When you recall Lucy West, I wonder you don't hate me tenfold more than I hate Gilbert."

"I do think you an infernal scoundrel," replies Mr. Liston, coolly. "As for hating – well I'm one of the forgiving sort, you know. Besides, there's nothing made by turning informer, and there is something to be made, you say, by keeping mum. Now suppose you go back to the house, and her, she's pining for you, no doubt, and tell her you're off to-morrow. I'll call for you with a light wagon about noon. Until then good-day to you."

Thorndyke seized his hand and shook it.

"I don't know how to thank you, Liston! You're the prince of good fellows. And I haven't deserved it – I know that."

He strode away. If he could only have seen the look "the prince of good fellows" cast after him!

"'You don't know how to thank me,'" he thought, with sneering scorn. "You fool! You blind, conceited, besotted fool! 'When I recall Lucy West you wonder I don't hate you!' Was there ever a time, my perfumed coxcomb, when I did not hate you? And you'll reward me, will you? Yes, I swear you shall, but not in that way. Poor little girl! how young she is, how pretty, and how innocent. She has had her fool's paradise for three weeks – it ends to-day."

CHAPTER XI.

GONE

Laurence Thorndyke strode rapidly back over the sands to where Norine stood. She had not gone into the house, she was leaning against a green mound, her hands hanging listlessly before her, the white, startled change on her face still. Laurence was going away – in an aimless sort of manner she kept repeating these words over and over, Laurence was going away!

"I've made a devil of a mess of it," thought Mr. Thorndyke, gnawing his mustache with gloomy ferocity. "What an unmitigated ass I have been in this business! Liston's right – a mock marriage is no joke. I can make my escape from her now, but the truth's got to be told, and that soon. And what is to hinder her taking her revenge and blowing me sky-high, as I deserve? One whisper of this affair, and Darcy disinherits me, Helen jilts me, and then – good Heaven above! what a fool I have been."

Yes, Mr. Thorndyke had been a fool, and was repenting in sackcloth and ashes. To gratify a passing fancy for a pretty face may be a very pleasing thing – to take revenge upon a man who has interfered with one's little plans, may also be a pleasing thing, but to cut off one's own nose to spite one's own face, is something one is apt to regret afterwards. It was Mr. Thorndyke's case. He had taken Richard Gilbert's bride from him at the very altar, as one may say, and he had gloated over his vengeance, but what was to hinder Norine Bourdon from rising, strong in her wrongs and betrayal, and ruining him for life? She was the gentlest, the most yielding of human beings now, and she loved him; but is it not those whom we have once loved best, we learn afterwards to hate most bitterly? He had cruelly, shamefully wronged and deceived her – what right had he to look for mercy in return? As he had sown, so must he reap.

She scarcely turned at his approach. How pale she was, and the large dark eyes she lifted were full of a child's startled terror.

"Norine," he abruptly began, "there is no help for it – I must go to New York to-morrow."

Her lips trembled a little.

"To-morrow," she repeated, under her breath – "so soon!"

"Rather short notice, I admit, but then you see it – it isn't for a lifetime. All husbands and wives part once in a while and survive it. Come, Norine," with irritated impatience, "don't wear that woe-begone face! I'm not to blame, I can't help it. You don't suppose I want to leave you. But here's Liston – my uncle's man. You heard him yourself. You saw the letter commanding my return."

"The letter," she repeated, looking at him; "there were two!"

"Ah – yes – two, so there were. But the other was merely a note from a friend. I leave at noon to-morrow, so see that my valise is packed, and everything all right, that's a good child. And do try to get rid of that white, reproachful face, unless you want it to haunt me like the face of a ghost."

He spoke with irritated petulance – at war with her, with himself, and his smouldering ill-temper breaking forth. It was the first time he had ever spoken sharply to her. A faint flush rose to her cheeks. She clasped both hands around his arm and looked up in his moody, discontented face with piteous imploring eyes.

"Don't be vexed, Laurence; I don't mean to reproach you, indeed, and I know you cannot help it. Only, dear, I love you so much, and – and it is our first parting, and I have been so happy here – so happy here – "

For a minute her voice broke, and she laid her face against his shoulder.

Mr. Thorndyke smothered a suppressed groan.

"O Jupiter! here it is! Tears, and scenes and hysterics. I knew how it would be, they all will do it, every chance. Norine!" – aloud and still impatient – "for pity's sake, don't cry – it's something I can't stand. Here! I'll throw my uncle, his fortune and favor, and all the hopes and ambitions of my life to the winds, and stay here, and bill and coo, all the rest of my life. If I can't go in peace I won't go at all."

She lifted her head as if he had struck her. Something in his tone, in his words, in his face, dried her tears effectually, at once and forever.

"I beg your pardon, Laurence," she said, suddenly, in an altered voice. "I won't cry any more. Shall I go and pack your valise now or leave it until to-morrow morning?"

He glanced at her uneasily. The dark, soft eyes looked far away seaward, the delicate lips had ceased to tremble, the small handsome face had grown resolutely still. What manner of woman he wondered, was this girl going to make?

"Norine! You are not offended?"

"Offended – with you, Laurence? No, that is not possible."

"You love me so much, Norine?"

"I have given you proof whether I love you or no. I am your wife."

"Yes, of course, of course!" hastily; "but Norine – see here – suppose in the future I did some great wrong – deserted you for instance – no, no! don't look at me like that – this is only a suppositious case, you know!"

The large dark eyes were fixed full upon him. He laughed in rather a flurried way, and his own shifted and fell.

"Go on," she said.

"Suppose I deserted you, and it was in your power to take revenge, you would hate me and take it – would you not?"

Into the dark, tender eyes there leaped a light – into the youthful, gentle face there came a glow – around the soft-cut, childlike mouth there settled an expression entirely new to Laurence Thorndyke. One little hand clenched unconsciously – she caught her breath for a second, hard.

"Yes," she said, "I would!"

The answer staggered him – literally and truly staggered him. He had not expected it – he had looked for some outbreak of love, some tender, passionate protest.

"Norine!" he cried, "you would! Do you know what you are saying? You would hate me, and ruin me for life if you could?"

She looked at him full.

"If you deserted me, would you not hate me? Would I not be ruined for life? And does not the Book of books say: 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life.' Yes, Laurence – if I did not go mad and die, I would hate you more then I love you now, and be revenged if I could!"

Then there was a silence. He had grown pale as herself, and stood quite motionless looking at the sea. He knew what he had to expect at last.

Norine was still clinging to his arm. He disengaged it abruptly, and without a word or look, walked away from her. A moment she stood – then two little hands clasped the arm once more, a pleading voice spoke, and the sweet, tender face of Norine looked imploringly up at him.

"Laurence – dearest Laurence! I have angered you again. But you asked me a question and I had to answer it. Forgive me."

He turned away from her resolutely.

"There is no forgiveness needed, Norine. I admire your truthful and plain-spoken spirit. Only you see I thought Norine Bourdon a loving, gentle, forgiving little soul, who cared for me so much that she was ready to forgive me seventy-times-seven, and I find, according to her own showing, she is a strong-minded woman, ready to wreak vengeance for the first wrong done her – ready for love or hatred at a moment's notice. It is well you told me – it is always best to understand one another. No, we won't have any tender scenes, if you please, Mrs. Laurence – I have found out exactly what they are worth." He pulled out his watch. "I have business over in Boston, and as it is growing late I will be off at once. If I am very late – as is likely – I must beg you will not sit up for me. Good-afternoon."

He lifted his hat ceremoniously, as to an indifferent acquaintance, and walked deliberately away.

She stood stock still where he had left her, and watched the tall, active figure out of sight. Then she sat down, feeling suddenly weak and faint, and lay back against the green mound. For a moment sea, and sky, and sands swam before her in a hot mist, and then the faintness passed away, leaving her tearless and trembling.

What did he mean?

He had talked of deserting her? Did he mean it? A hand of ice seemed to clutch her heart at the thought. No no, no! he had only been trying her – proving what her love was worth. And she had answered him like that she would hate him and be revenged. He had called her a "strong-minded woman," – a term of bitter reproach – and no wonder. No wonder he was angry, hurt, outraged. Why had she said such a horrible thing? She hardly knew herself – the words seemed to have come to her instinctively. Were they true? She did know that either – just now she knew nothing but that Laurence had left her in anger for the first time, that he would probably not return until to-morrow morning, the fateful to-morrow that was to take him from her for – how long?

She broke down then, and laying her face against the soft, cool grass, gave way to a storm of impassioned weeping, that shook her like a reed. "The strong-minded woman" was gone, and only a child that had done wrong and is sorry – a weak girl weeping for her lost lover, remained.

The afternoon waned, the twilight fell, the wind arose chilly from the sea. And pallid as a spirit, shivering in the damp air, silent and spiritless, the younger Miss Waddle found her when she came to call her in to supper.

She drank her tea thirstily, but she could eat nothing. Immediately after the lonely meal, she hastened to her room, and throwing a shawl around her, sat down in the easy chair by the window to watch and wait. He had told her not to sit up for him – it would annoy him probably to be disobeyed, but she could not go to bed, for in the darkness and the quiet, lying down, she knew how she would toss wakefully about until she had thought herself into a fever.

Night fell. Outside the sea spread black, away until it melted into the blacker sky. The wind sighed fitfully, the stars shone frostily bright. Inside, the little piano in the parlor, played upon by the elder Miss Waddle, after her day's teaching, made merry music. In the intervals, when it was silent, the younger Miss Waddle read chapters aloud from her latest novel. Ten, eleven struck, then the parlor lights went out, doors were locked, and the Misses Waddle went up stairs to their maiden slumbers.

The pale little watcher by the window sat on, hoping against hope. He might come, and be it late or early she must be awake and waiting, to throw herself into his manly arms and implore his lordly pardon. She could never sleep more until she had sobbed out her penitence and been forgiven. But the long, dark, dragging, lonely hours wore on. One, two, three, four, and the little, white, sad face lay against the cold glass, the dark, mournful eyes strained themselves through the murky gloom to catch the first glimpse of their idol. Five! the cold gray dawn of another day crept over sea and woodland, and worn out with watching, chilled to the bone, the child's head fell back, the heavy eyelids swayed and drooped, and she lay still.

So, when two hours later Mr. Laurence Thorndyke, smelling stronger than ever of cigars and brandy, as the younger Miss Waddle's disgusted nose testified, came into the silent chamber, he found her. The pretty head, with all its dark, rippling ringlets, lay against the back of the chair, the small face looked deathly in its spent sleep. She had watched and waited for him here all night. And remembering how, over the card table and the wine bottle, his night had been passed, utterly forgetful of her, the first pang of real unselfish remorse this young gentleman had ever felt, came to him then.

"Poor little heart!" he thought; "poor little, pretty Norine. I wish to Heaven I had never heard of Gilbert's projected marriage – I wish I had never gone back to Kent Farm."

Five hours later, and white and tearless, Norine is clinging to him in the speechless pain of parting. Is there some presentiment, that she herself cannot understand, even now in her heart, that it is forever?

"Don't —don't look so white and wild, Norry," he is saying hurriedly. "I wish, I wish I need not leave you. Little one – little Norry, whatever happens, you – you'll try and forgive me, won't you? Don't hate me if you can help it."

She does not understand him – she just clings to him, as though death were easier than to let him go.

"Time's up, Mr. Laurence!" calls out the sharp voice of little Mr. Liston, sitting in the light wagon at the door; "if you linger five minutes more we'll lose our train."

"Good-by, Norine – good-by!"

He is glad to be called, glad to break away from the gentle arms that would hold him there forever. He kisses her hurriedly, frees himself from her clasp, and leaves her standing stricken and speechless in the middle of the floor.

"Thank Heaven that's over!" he says, almost savagely, "drive like the devil, Liston! I won't breath freely until I am out of sight of the house."

Mr. Liston obeys.

She stands where he has left her, rigid, tearless, white, listening to the rapid roll of the wheels over the gravel, over the road, growing faint and fainter, and dying out far off. Then she sinks down, and she and her lover have parted forever.

CHAPTER XII.

THE TRUTH

A bleak autumnal afternoon, a gray, fast-drifting sky overhead, a raw wind sweeping up from the shore, the sea itself all blurred and blotted out in the chilly, creeping fog. At the parlor-window of Sea View Cottage, Norine stands looking wistfully, wearily out. Three weeks have passed since her husband left her – it is seven weeks altogether since the memorable night of her elopement. These last three, lonely weeks have wrought their sad, inevitable change. The small face has grown smaller the large dark eyes seem unnaturally large for the wan face. A sad, patient light fills them. The slight form has grown fragile, the hands that hang loosely clasped before her are almost transparent. As she stands here watching, waiting, she slips, unconsciously, her wedding ring up and down her finger. So thin that finger has grown that every now and then the ring drops loosely off altogether. Within, it is pleasant enough. A fire burns brightly in the grate, Miss Waddle's canaries bask in the heat, singing blithely, and the younger Miss Waddle sits at her desk immersed as usual, fathoms deep in ink, and romance. The inspiration of genius is evidently strong upon the younger Miss Waddle this afternoon, for her pen rushes madly along the paper, her hair is uncombed and twisted in a tight knot at the back of her head. Profound stillness reigns, the ticking of the clock the purring of puss on the rug, the chirping of the canaries, the light fall of the cinders, the sighing of the fitful wind, and the monotonous scrape, scrape, scrape, of the literary lady's pen – that is all.

At last —

"There!" cries the younger Miss Waddle, drawing a deep, intense breath of relief, "I've done with you for one day! Let the printer's devil come when he likes, I'm ready for him."

She nods at the blotted and scratched pile of MSS., wipes her pen in her hair, falls back in her chair, and looks at the clock.

"Half-past five, as I'm a sinner, and the kitchen fire not lit yet. 'Lizabeth will be home to her tea at six, as hungry as a bear. A minute ago I was writing up the sayings and doings of dukes and duchesses, now I must go and kindle the kitchen stove. Such is life – with authoresses, but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous. Mrs. Laurence, my dear child, it's of no use your straining the eyes out of your head. Whether there's a letter for you or not, my sister won't be here with it for the next half hour."

Norine clasped her hands.

"Oh!" she said, "surely, there will be a letter for me to-day."

"I hope so, I'm sure. It's uncommonly odd Mr. Laurence doesn't write, but then, as a rule, I believe men hate letter writing. Maybe he's on his way here and doesn't think it worth while – it will come out all right, depend upon it. So cheer up, Mrs. Laurence, my dear, and don't wear that woful face. You've grown as thin as a shadow during the last two weeks. You must take care or your handsome husband will be disenchanted when he sees that pallid countenance. Tell you what, Mrs. Laurence, you ought to have something to do."

"Something to do?" Norine said faintly.

"Something to do, my dear – sewing, drawing, playing, reading, writing – anything but moping about this way – waiting, waiting, waiting, and getting the horrors. It doesn't fetch him any the sooner, nor a letter from him either, and it is just killing you by inches. What a pity now," said the younger Miss Waddle, gathering up her manuscript in a heap, "that you couldn't write a story. You couldn't, I suppose?"

"I am afraid not," Norine replied, smiling. "I am not at all clever in any way. I only wish I could write stories and earn money as you do."

"Yes, it's very nice and handy," said the younger Miss Waddle, "when you're not 'respectfully declined.' I have been 'respectfully declined' oftener than I like to think of. But I am going to make a hit this time, if I die for it."

"Yes," said Norine, gazing in respectful awe at the smeary looking pile of writing; "what do you call it?"

"This," said the authoress, slapping her hand on the heap, "is my first novel, to run in serial form in the Flag of the Free. Its name is the 'Demon Dentist; or the Mystery of the Double Tooth!' What do you think of that?"

"The Demon —what?" asked Mrs. Laurence, rather aghast.

"'The Demon Dentist.' The title is rather a striking one, I think, and Sir Walter Scott says a good name is half the battle. And, I flatter myself, the plot is as original as the title. Lord Racer, only son of the Earl of Greenturf, the hero of the story, steals the Lemon stone, the magnificent family diamond, and hides it – where do you think? Why he goes to the Demon Dentist, gets his wisdom tooth excavated, buries it in the cavernous depths of the molar, has it cemented up again, and there it is! Search is made, but no one thinks of looking in Lord Racer's lower jaw, of course. Wilkie Collins has written a novel about a man who steals a diamond in his sleep, but I rather think my idea is a step ahead of Mr. Wilkie Collins. Finally the Demon Dentist murders Lord – oh gracious me! here's 'Lizabeth, and tea not ready."

Miss Waddle the younger jumped up in consternation, scuttled the "Demon Dentist," headforemost, into her desk, and made a rush for the kitchen, as Miss Waddle the elder opened the parlor door.

Norine took a step forward, her face flushing, her eyes kindling with eager hope, her breath coming quick. She did not speak a word, and one glance into Miss Waddle's pitying face answered that breathless look.

"No letter yet, Mrs. Laurence," she said very gently. "I waited for the mail."

She did not speak a word. She sat down suddenly, sick – sick to the very heart with the bitter sense of the disappointment. The flush faded from her face, the light from her eyes; she drew a long, dry, sobbing breath, folded her arms on the table and laid her face upon them.

"Poor little soul!" thought the elder Miss Waddle looking at her in silent compassion. "What brutes men are."

Miss Waddle's experience of the nobler sex was limited, but her sentiment in the main was a correct one. It was peculiarly correct in the present instance, for since that morning three weeks ago, when Laurence Thorndyke had left Sea View Cottage, not a word, not a message, not a letter had come from him. How the lonely, longing girl left in the dull little house, watched and waited, and prayed, and grew sick to the soul, as now, with disappointment, only those who have watched and waited in vain, for the one they love best on earth, can know.

Was he sick – was he dead – was he faithless. Why, why, why did he not write?

They were the two questions that never left the girl's mind. She lost the power to sleep or eat, a restless fever held her. She spent her days, the long, vapid, sickening days, gazing down the road he must come, the nights in wakeful, frightened thought. The one event of the twenty-four dreary hours, was the coming home of the elder Miss Waddle from Chelsea; the one hope that upheld her, the hope that each day she would bring her a letter. All this long, bleak day she had lived on that one feverish hope, and now she was here, and there was none – none!

The moments wore on. She lay there prostrate, crushed, never moving or lifting her head. Miss Waddle the elder bent over her with tears of compassion and indignation in her kindly, spinster eyes.

"Dear child," she said, "don't take on like this. Who knows what to-morrow may bring? And if it brings nothing, there isn't a man on earth worth breaking your poor heart for, as you're doing. They're a set of selfish, heartless wretches, every one – every blessed one!" said the elder Miss Waddle, vindictively; "so come along and have a cup of tea, and don't pine yourself to death for him. I daresay, if the truth were known, he's not pining much for you."