CHAPTER XXII.
AT A FIEND'S MERCY
Doctor Jay listened with breathless attention, and so did Roma.
Pale as a breathing statue, her great eyes dilated with dismay and horror, her heart beating heavily and slow, Roma crouched in her chair and listened to the awful words that told her who and what she was, the base-born child of Cora Jenks, and granddaughter of old granny, whose very name was a synonym for contempt in Stonecliff.
She, Roma, who despised poor people, who treated them no better than the dust beneath her well-shod feet, belonged to the common herd, and was usurping the place of beautiful Liane, whom she had despised for her lowly estate and hated for her beauty, but who had become first her rival in love and now in fortune.
To the day of her death beautiful, wicked Roma never forgot that bleak November night, that blasted all her pride and flung her down into the dust of humiliation and despair, her towering pride crushed, all the worst passions of her evil nature aroused into pernicious activity.
Stiller than chiseled marble, the stricken girl crouched there, listening, fearing to lose even a single word, though each one quivered like a dagger in her heart.
Her greatest enemy could not have wished her a keener punishment than this knowledge of her position in the Clarke household—an adopted daughter, secretly despised and only tolerated for the mother's sake, holding her place only until the real heiress should be discovered.
No words could paint her rage, her humiliation, her terrors of the future, that held a sword that might at any moment fall.
Oh, how she hated the world, and every one in it, and most of all Liane Lester, her guiltless rival.
While she listened, she wished the girl dead a hundred times, and all at once a throbbing memory came to her of the fierce words Granny Jenks had spoken in her rage against Liane.
"I would beat her; yes, I would kill her, before she should steal your grand lover from you darling!"
Roma could understand now the old hag's devotion to herself. It was the tie of their kinship asserting itself. She shuddered with disgust as she recalled the old woman's fulsome admiration and adoration, and how she had been willing to sell her very soul for one kiss from those fresh, rosy lips.
How eagerly she had said:
"I will scold Liane, and whip her, too. I will do anything to please you, beautiful lady!"
No wonder!
Roma was bitterly sorry now that she had not let granny kill Liane when she had been so anxious to do it. She felt that she had made a great mistake, for her position at Cliffdene would never be assured until Liane was dead.
Edmund Clarke was certain now that Liane was his own child, and he swore to Doctor Jay that he would find her soon, if it took the last dollar of his fortune.
The old doctor replied:
"I do not blame you, my friend, for it does, indeed, appear plausible that this Liane Lester must be your own lost child, and I can conceive how galling it must be to your pride to call Nurse Jenks' grandchild your daughter, while, as for your noble wife, it is cruel to think of the imposition practiced on her motherly love all these years. But it is certain that she must have died but for the terrible deception we had to practice."
Edmund Clarke knew that it was true. He remembered how she had been drifting from him out on the waves of the shoreless sea, and how the piping cry of the little infant had called her back to life and hope.
"Yes, it was a terrible necessity," he groaned, adding:
"And only think, dear doctor, how sad it is that Roma, with a devilish cunning, that must be a keen instinct, has always hated sweet Liane, and has succeeded in poisoning my wife's mind against her, arousing a mean jealousy in my uncomprehended interest in the girl! Think of such a sweet mother being set against her own sweet daughter!"
"It is horrible," assented Doctor Jay, and he continued:
"But this excitement is telling on your nerves, dear friend, weakened by your recent severe illness. Let me persuade you to retire to bed, with a sedative now, and to-morrow we will further discuss your plan of employing a detective to trace Liane and the fiendish Nurse Jenks."
"I believe I will take your advice," Roma heard Edmund Clarke respond wearily, and Doctor Jay insisted on preparing a sedative, which he said should be mixed in a glass of water, half the dose to be taken on retiring, and the remainder in two hours, if the patient proved wakeful.
"I wish it was a dose of poison," Roma thought vindictively, as she hurried from the room and gained her own unperceived, where she found her maid waiting most impatiently to assist her in her bath.
"Never mind, Dolly, you can go to bed now. I went to mamma's room for a little chat, and we talked longer than I expected, so I will wait on myself this once," she said, with unwonted kindness in her eagerness to be alone; so Dolly curtsied and retired, though she said to herself:
"She is lying. She was not in her mother's room at all, for I went there to see, and Mrs. Clarke had retired. She must have been up to some mischief and don't want to be found out. She had a guilty look."
Meanwhile Roma flung herself into the easy-chair before the glowing fire, stretched out her slippered feet on the thick fur rug, and gave herself up to the bitterest reflections.
"There are four people who are terribly in my way, and whom I would like to see dead! They are Liane Lester, Granny Jenks, old Doctor Jay, and Edmund Clarke, the man I have heretofore regarded as my father," she muttered vindictively.
She knew that the two last named would know neither rest nor peace till they found Liane and reinstated her in her place at Cliffdene as daughter and heiress, ousting without remorse the usurper.
"Ah, if I only knew where to find her, granny would soon put her out of my way forever!" she thought, regretting bitterly now that she had not made the old hag keep her informed of her whereabouts.
The spirit of murder was rife in Roma's heart, and she longed to end the lives of all those who stood in her way.
"I wish that Edmund Clarke would die to-night! How easy it would be if some arsenic were dropped into his sedative—some of that solution I was taking a while ago to improve my complexion," she thought darkly, resolving to wait until all was quiet and herself attempt the hellish deed.
One death already lay on her conscience, and the form of the man she had remorselessly thrust over the bluff stalked grimly through her dreams. To her soul, already black with crime, what did the commission of other deeds of darkness matter?
The death of Edmund Clarke so quickly decreed, she began to plan that of the old doctor.
This was not so easy. He did not have a convenient glass of sedative ready by his bedside. But she had noticed at supper that he was fond of a glass of wine.
"I must poison a draught for him before he leaves Cliffdene," she thought, regretting that she could not accomplish it to-night.
But Edmund Clarke's speedy death would delay the search for Liane a while, even if it did not postpone it forever.
For the old physician was not likely to prosecute it after the death of his patron. He could have no interest in doing so, though she would make sure he did not by putting him out of the way if she could.
Her mind a chaos of evil thoughts, Roma rested in her chair, waiting till she thought every one must be asleep before she stole from the room to poison the draught for the man she had regarded until this hour as her own father, and to whose wealth she owed her luxurious life of eighteen years.
Neither pity nor gratitude warmed her cold heart. She had never loved him in her life, and she hated him now.
In her rage and despair she had forgotten Jesse Devereaux's letter to her father until, in a restless movement, she heard the rustle of paper in her corsage.
An evil gleam lightened in her eyes, and she drew the letter forth, muttering:
"Ah, this will beguile my weary waiting!"
In five minutes she was mistress of the contents.
It was the letter Devereaux had written to acquaint Edmund Clarke with Liane's address—the fateful letter that was to betray the girl into the hands of her bitterest foe.
Ah, the hellish gleam of wicked joy in the cruel red-brown eyes; the stormy heaving of Roma's breast as she realized her great good fortune; all her enemies in her power, at her mercy! The mercy the ravenous wolf shows to the helpless lamb!
She laughed low and long in her glee, and that laughter was an awful thing to hear.
"Oh, how can I wait till to-morrow?" she muttered. "Yet I cannot go to Boston to-night, nor to-morrow, if Edmund Clarke dies to-night. Shall I spare his life till I go to Boston, and have his daughter put out of the way?"
CHAPTER XXIII.
A MURDEROUS FURY
Hours slipped away while the beautiful fiend, so young in years, so old in the conception of crime, crouched in her seat, waiting, musing, pondering on the best schemes for ridding herself of those who stood in her way.
She was eager as a wild beast to strike quickly and finish the awful work she had set herself to do.
It seemed to her that she might never have another such opportunity for ending Edmund Clarke's life as was offered to her by the conditions of the present moment.
It was most important to get rid of him, she knew, and the sooner the better for the safety of her position as heiress of the Clarke millions. Let him die first, and she could attend to the others afterward.
At the dark, gloomy hour of midnight, while the icy winds wailed around the house like a banshee, Roma went groping through the pitch-black corridors toward the room where Mr. Clarke lay sleeping with his gentle, loving wife by his side.
Like a sleek, beautiful panther the girl crept into the unlocked door, knowing the room so well that she could find her way to the bedside in the darkness, and put out her stealthy, murderous hand, with the bottle of poison in it, seeking for the glass that held the sleeping potion Doctor Jay had prescribed.
Her heart beat with evil exultation, for it seemed to her that her errand could scarcely fail of success. Edmund Clarke was sound asleep, she knew by his deep breathing, and she decided that, after pouring the poison into the glass, she would make enough noise in escaping from the room to arouse him fully, so that he would be sure to swallow the second dose ere sleeping again.
It was a clever plan, cleverly conceived, and in another moment it would be executed, and no earthly power could save the victim from untimely death.
But in her haste Roma made one fatal mistake.
In groping for the glass, she held the vial with the arsenic clasped in her hand.
And she was very nervous, her white hands trembling as they fluttered over the little medicine stand by the head of the bed.
That was why, the next moment, there came the sharp clink of glass against glass as her hands came in contact with what she sought, overturning and breaking both, with such a sharp, keen, crystalline tinkle that both the sleepers were aroused suddenly and quickly, and Mr. Clarke flung out his arms, clutching Roma ere she could escape, and demanding bewilderedly:
"What is the matter? Who is this?"
"Edmund! Edmund!" cried his equally startled wife, hastily lighting a night lamp close to her arm, in time to see Roma writhing and struggling in her father's arms.
"Roma!" he panted.
"Roma!" echoed his wife.
It was a situation to strike terror to the girl's guilty heart.
But in her scheming she had not failed to take into account any possible contretemps.
Failing in her efforts to escape before her identity was detected, Roma laughed aloud, hysterically:
"Dear papa, do not squeeze me so hard, please; you take away my breath! Why, you must take me for a burglar!"
Edmund Clarke, releasing her and not yet fully awake, stammered drowsily:
"Yes—I—took—you—for—a—burglar. What do you want, Roma?"
"Yes, what is the matter, my dear?" added Mrs. Clarke wonderingly, while Roma, mistress of the situation still, pressed her hand to her cheek, groaning hysterically:
"Oh, papa, mamma, forgive me for arousing you, but I am suffering so much with a wretched toothache, and I came to ask you for some medicine to ease it!"
"Poor dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Clarke, with immediate maternal sympathy, as she rose quickly from her bed and motioned Roma into her dressing room, searching for remedies within a little medicine case while she plied her with questions.
"When did it begin to ache, dear? Why didn't you send Dolly for the medicine? It will make you worse, coming along the cold corridors!"
"For goodness' sake, don't tease! Give me the medicine quick as you can!" Roma answered crossly, dropping into a chair and hiding her face in her hands, her whole form shaking with fury at the failure of her scheme to kill Edmund Clarke.
A blind, terrible rage possessed her, and she would have liked to spring upon him and clutch his throat with murderous hands.
But she dare not give way to her murderous impulse; she must wait and try her luck again, for die he must, and that very soon.
She could only wreak her pent-up rage by cross answers to the gentle lady she called mother, and Mrs. Clarke, with a patient sigh of wounded feeling, turned to her, replying:
"I did not mean to tease you, Roma, but here is some medicine. Put five drops of it upon this bit of cotton and press it into the cavity of your tooth, and it will give you speedy relief. In the morning you must visit a dentist."
Roma lifted her pale face, and answered:
"Yes, I will visit a dentist, but not one at Stonecliff. I will go to Boston by the early train."
"I will go with you and do some shopping," said her mother, who had a very feminine love of finery.
"Very well," the girl answered, scowling behind her hand, for she preferred to go alone on her mission to Granny Jenks.
But she realized that it would not do to offend the only person who seemed to have any real fondness for her, so, making a wry face behind her hand, she went up to Mrs. Clarke, saying gently:
"I did not mean to be cross to you, dear mamma, but I am in such agony with this pain that I could not help my impatience. I want you to forgive me and try not to love me any less for my faults, please."
Mrs. Clarke could not help wondering what favor Roma was planning to ask for now, but she answered sweetly:
"I forgive you, dear, and, of course, I shall always love my daughter."
"But papa does not love me much. I often meet his glance fixed on me in cold disapproval, and at times he is very stern to me!" complained Roma.
"That must be your fancy, dear. He could not help loving you, his own daughter, dearly and fondly," soothed the lady, though she knew that she had herself noticed and complained of the same thing in her husband.
"You do not love Roma as I do," she had said to him, reproachfully, many times, getting always an evasive, unsatisfactory reply.
So she could not offer her much comfort on this score; she could only put her arm about the form of the arch traitress, murmuring kind, tender words, actually getting in return a loving caress that surprised her very much, it was so unusual.
But Roma for the first time in her life comprehended the necessity of fortifying her position by a staunch ally like her mother.
"I will go back to my room now. I must not keep you up any longer in the cold, dear, patient mamma," she cried gushingly, as she kissed her and left the room.
Mrs. Clarke was grateful for the caress, but she retired to bed with the firm conviction that it would take a very large check indeed to gratify Roma's desires in Boston to-morrow. Her affectionate spells were always very costly to her parents.
"Do you think I had better take the second dose of that sedative? I am very nervous from my sudden awakening, and wish we had locked the door on retiring," her husband said petulantly.
"It would be very unkind to lock the door on our own daughter. Roma was just now lamenting your sternness and lack of love and sympathy," returned the lady.
Edmund Clarke stifled an imprecation between his teeth, then demanded earnestly:
"Have I ever failed in love and sympathy to you, dear Elinor?"
"Never, my darling husband," she answered, fondly clasping his hand.
"And never will my love fail you, dearest; but I cannot say as much for Roma, whose nature is so unlike yours that I confess she repels instead of attracts me," he exclaimed, reaching out for the medicine and exclaiming impatiently on finding the glass broken and the draught lost.
Ah, how nearly it had been a fatal draught, had not Heaven interposed to save his life!
As he set it back on the table, he added:
"Why, here is a broken vial on the table beside the glass. I wonder how it came there!"
"I do not know; but it really does not matter, dear. There, now, shut your eyes, and try to sleep," advised his wife, knowing the importance of sound, healthful sleep to the convalescent.
But to her dismay he arose and turned the key in the lock, saying as he lay down again:
"I'll try to sleep now; but I'll make sure first of not being disturbed again."
CHAPTER XXIV.
A STRAND OF RUDDY HAIR
At early daylight the next morning a servant tapped at Edmund Clarke's door with a message from Doctor Jay.
He found himself quite ill this morning, and must go home at once. Would Mr. Clarke grant him a few parting words?
Mr. Clarke was up and dressed. He had just said good-by to his wife and Roma, who had taken an early train to Boston.
He went at once to Doctor Jay's room, finding him seated by the window, looking ill and aged from a bad night.
"Good morning, my dear old friend. You look ill, and I fear you have not rested well."
"No; my night was troubled by ghastly dreams. I could scarcely wait till morning to bid you good-by."
"I am very sorry for this, for I had counted on a pleasant day with you. My wife and Roma are gone to Boston for the day, leaving their regrets for you, and kindly wishes to find you here on their return."
The doctor started with surprise, exclaiming:
"It must have been an unexpected trip."
Edmund Clarke then explained about Roma's midnight sufferings from toothache, necessitating a visit to her dentist.
"My wife would not have left me, but she felt sure I should not be lonely, having you for company," he added regretfully.
"My dear friend, I should like to remain with you, and, rather than disappoint you, I will wait until the late afternoon train; but—all my friendship for you could not tempt me to spend another night at Cliffdene!"
"You amaze me, doctor! This is very strange! Why do you look so pale and strange? Why did you spend so uncomfortable a night, when I tried to surround you with every comfort?"
"You did, my dear friend, and every luxury besides—even a key to my door, which I forgot to use," returned Doctor Jay, so significantly that Edmund Clarke reddened, exclaiming:
"It is not possible you have been robbed! I believe that all my servants are honest!"
He thought that the old physician must be losing his senses when he answered, with terrible gravity:
"Nevertheless, I was nearly robbed of my life last night!"
"Great heavens!"
Doctor Jay's brow was beaded with damp as he loosened his cravat and collar, and pointed to his bared neck.
Edmund Clarke leaned forward, and saw on the old man's throat some dark purple discolorations, like finger prints.
"Have you in your household any persons subject to vicious aberrations of mind?" demanded Doctor Jay.
"No one!" answered his startled host, and he was astounded when his guest replied:
"Nevertheless, a fiend in human form entered this room last night under cover of the darkness and attempted to murder me by vicious strangling!"
"Heavens! Is this so?"
"You have the evidence!" exclaimed the physician, pointing to his bared throat with the print of the strangler's fingers.
"This is most mysterious!" ejaculated Edmund Clarke, in wonder and distress, while the physician continued:
"Last night I retired and slept soundly until after midnight, when I was aroused by the horrible sensation of steely fingers gripping my throat with deadly force. Vainly gasping for my failing breath, I struggled with the intruder, who held on with a maniacal strength, panting with fury as I clutched in my arms a form that I immediately knew to be that of a woman, soft, warm, palpitating, though her strength was certainly equal to that of a man. We grappled in a terrible struggle, and I clutched my fingers in her long hair, causing her such pain that, with a stifled moan, she released my throat, struck me in the face, and fled before I could regain my senses, that deserted me at the critical moment."
"This is most mysterious, most shocking! No wonder you are anxious to leave Cliffdene, where you so nearly met your death. But this must be sifted to the bottom at once, and the lunatic identified, for it could be no other than a lunatic. I will have the whole household summoned. We will question every servant closely!" cried Clarke eagerly, turning to ring the bell.
But Doctor Jay stopped him, saying:
"Wait till I question you on the subject. Have you in your employ a woman with red hair?"
"What a question! But, no. My women servants are all gray-haired or black-haired, with one exception. That is Roma's maid, a pretty little blonde, with the palest flaxen curls."
He looked inquiringly at the doctor, who replied:
"After my struggle was over and I was able to light a lamp, I found entangled in my fingers some threads of hair—beautiful long strands of ruddy hair, copperish red in the full light."
He took an envelope from his breast, and drew from it a ruddy strand of long hair, holding it up to the light of the window, where it shone with a rich copper tint.
"My God!" groaned Edmund Clarke.
"You recognize the hair?" cried Doctor Jay.
"It is Roma's hair!" was the anguished answer.
"I thought so!"
"You thought so! Is the girl, then, a lunatic, or a fiend? And what motive could she have to take your life—an old man, who has never harmed her in his blameless life?" cried the host, in consternation.
Edmund Clarke had never been confronted with such a terrible problem of crime in his life. His face paled to an ashen hue, and his eyes almost glared as he stared helplessly at his friend.
"I have a theory!" cried Doctor Jay.
"What is it?"
"The girl must have overheard our conversation last night."
"Impossible!"
"Why?"
Mr. Clarke revolved the matter silently in his mind for a moment, then answered:
"Well, of course, not impossible, but quite improbable."
"Is there not a curtained alcove or anteroom next the library?"
"Yes; but why should the girl have suspected us—why concealed herself there to listen?"
"Heaven only knows, but it is possible that some accident brought her there—perhaps an errand of some kind—maybe to get medicine from me for her aching tooth. She caught a few words that aroused her curiosity, kept silence, and listened, overhearing the truth about herself."
"It must indeed have happened that way!"
"And the shock drove her mad," continued Doctor Jay. "Her resentment flamed against me for knowing so much of her low origin. In her first senseless fury she sought my life."
"It is a terrible situation!" cried his friend, and both were silent for a moment, gazing at the lock of hair as if it had been a writhing serpent; then Clarke continued:
"It is a wonder the fiend incarnate did not seek my life also, thus removing from her path the two who were plotting to oust her from her position and reinstate the real heiress!"
But even as he spoke he remembered last night's accident when he had been aroused by the clink of breaking glass and found Roma in hysterics by his bedside.
He told Doctor Jay the whole story, adding:
"I could not imagine how the bottle came there. It was certainly not on the stand when I retired to bed, and when I read the label this morning, it ran: 'Poison—arsenic.'"
"I should like to see the bottle."
"Come with me," returned Mr. Clarke, leading the way to his room.
Fortunately the chambermaid had not disturbed anything yet, so the fragments of the bottle and glass were found upon the table.
"It is a fearfully strong solution of arsenic, and I fancy she intended to pour it into your sedative, so that in case you drank it you would be silenced forever," affirmed the doctor.
They could only stare aghast at each other, feeling that Providence had surely preserved their lives last night.
"She was nervous in the dark, jostling the bottle against the glass, breaking both, and thus defeating her murderous game! The toothache was probably a clever feint to explain her presence in your room," continued the old doctor, who had a wonderful insight into men and motives, and seemed to read Roma like an open book.
A sudden terror seized on Mr. Clarke.
"She has taken my darling wife away with her! What if she means to murder her, too? I must follow them on the next train and separate them forever!" he cried frantically.
"I believe you are right, my friend."
After further thought and consultation, they decided that, although Roma and Mrs. Clarke must be immediately separated, it would not be prudent to reveal the truth to her yet, for the shock would be sufficient to dethrone her reason. Therefore it would not be prudent to arrest Roma yet for her attempted crimes.
"We have just time enough for a hasty breakfast before catching the next train. Come!" cried Edmund Clarke, leading the way from the room.
In the corridor they encountered Dolly Dorr mincing along, with her yellow head on one side like a pert canary; and her master, stopping her, exclaimed:
"Your mistress had a bad time with the toothache, I fear, last night, Dolly!"
Dolly, dropping a curtsy, answered slyly:
"Indeed she did, sir, and the medicine she got when she went after Doctor Jay didn't help her one bit, for she walked the floor groaning and sobbing all night."
They glared at her in amazement, while she continued, with pretended sympathy:
"She would not let me sit up with her, poor thing, but I was stealing back to her room to see if I could help her any when I met her flying out of Doctor Jay's room, and she said she had gone for a remedy for the toothache, and he burned her gums with iodine and almost set her crazy with the pain. Then she scolded me for being up so late, and sent me back to my room to stay."
She gave Doctor Jay a quizzical glance from her saucy blue eyes, but his face was entirely noncommittal as he replied:
"I am very sorry I burned her so badly with the iodine, but I thought it would give the quickest relief."
"Well, she has gone to a dentist in Boston now, and he may soon help the pain," said Edmund Clarke, passing on, while Dolly Dorr muttered suspiciously:
"There were mysterious carryings on in this house last night, for sure!"