for a moment it seemed to bernardine as though she must surely fall dead from fright as her startled gaze encountered her greatest enemy, jasper wilde.
had he followed her? had he come all the way on the same train with her?
she realized that she was alone with him on this isolated railway platform, miles perhaps from any habitation, any human being, far beyond the reach of help.
the thick, heavy twilight had given place to a night of intense darkness. the flickering light of the solitary gas-lamp over the station door did not pierce the gloom more than three feet away. bernardine did not know this, and she sunk back in deadly fear behind one of the large, old-fashioned, square posts. the long dark cloak and bonnet she wore would never betray her presence there.
bernardine soon became aware that he had not seen her, for he stopped short scarcely a rod from her, drew out his watch, and looked at the time; then, with a fierce imprecation on his lips, he cried aloud:
"missed the train by just one minute! curse the luck! but then it's worth my trip here, and the trouble i've been put to, to know that the mrs. jay gardiner in question is some new york society belle instead of bernardine. ah, if it were bernardine, i would have followed him to the end of the earth and murdered him; taken her from him by force, if no other way presented itself. i love the girl to madness, and yet i hate her with all the strength of my nature!"
as he uttered the words, he wheeled about, hurried down the platform, and stepped into the darkness, the sound of his quick tread plainly dying away in the distance.
it seemed to bernardine that her escape from the clutches of jasper wilde was little short of miraculous. trembling in every limb, she stepped out from behind the large pillar which shielded her.
he had not come by the same train; he did not know she was here. but what caused him to come to this place to look for jay gardiner and his bride? perhaps it was because he had learned in some way that a family named gardiner resided here, and he had come out of his way only to discover that they were not one and the same.
while bernardine was ruminating over this, she saw the short, thick-set figure of a man approaching.
should she advance or retreat? she felt sure he had seen her. he stopped quite short and looked at her.
"surely you can't be miss moore?" he inquired, incredulously.
"yes," replied bernardine in a voice in which he detected tears.
the man muttered something under his breath which she did not quite catch.
"if you please, miss, where is your luggage?"
"i—i have only this hand-bag," she faltered.
"come this way, miss," he said; and bernardine followed him, not without some misgiving, to the end of the platform from which jasper wilde had so recently disappeared.
here she saw a coach in waiting, though she had not heard the sound of the horses' hoofs when they arrived there.
then came a long ride over a level stretch of country. it was a great relief to bernardine to see the moon come forth at last from a great bank of black clouds; it was a relief to see the surrounding country, the meadows, and the farm-houses lying here and there on either side of the steep road up which they went.
"would the lady like her or be displeased with her?" she asked herself.
she determined to throw herself heart and soul into her work and try to forget the past—what might have been had her lover proved true, instead of being so cruelly false. her red lips quivered piteously at the thought.
her musings were brought to an end by the lumbering coach turning in at a large gate-way flanked by huge stone pillars, and proceeding leisurely up a wide road that led through a densely wooded park.
very soon bernardine beheld the house—a granite structure with no end of gables and dormer-windows—half hidden by climbing vines, which gave to the granite pile a very picturesque appearance just now, for the vines were literally covered with sweet-scented honeysuckles in full bloom.
mrs. king, the housekeeper, received bernardine.
"i hope you will like it here," she said, earnestly; "but it is a dull place for one who is young, and longs, as girls do, for gayety and life. you are too tired to see mrs. gardiner to-night after your long journey. i will show you to your room after you have had some tea."
the housekeeper was right in her surmise. it did look like an inexpressibly dreary place when bernardine looked about at the great arched hall.
grand old paintings, a century old, judging by their antiquated look, hung upon the walls. a huge clock stood in one corner, and on either side of it there were huge elk heads, with spreading antlers tipped with solid gold.
to add to the strangeness of the place, a bright log fire burned in a huge open fire-place, which furnished both light and heat to the main corridor.
"this fire is never allowed to burn out, either in summer or winter," the housekeeper explained, "because the great hall is so cold and gloomy without it."
while bernardine was drinking her tea, a message came to her that mrs. gardiner would see her in her boudoir.
the housekeeper led the way through a long corridor, and when she reached the further end of it, she turned toward the right, and drawing aside the heavy crimson velvet portières, bernardine was ushered into a magnificent apartment.
the windows were of stained glass, ornamented with rare pictures, revealed by the light shining through them from an inner room; the chandeliers, with their crimson globes, gave a deep red glow to the handsome furnishings and costly bric-a-brac. there was something about the room that reminded bernardine of the pictures her imagination had drawn of oriental boudoirs.
her musings were interrupted by the sound of a haughty voice saying:
"are you miss bernardine moore?"
by this time bernardine's eyes had become accustomed to the dim, uncertain light. turning her head in the direction whence the sound proceeded, she saw a very grand lady, dressed in stiff, shining brocade satin, with rare lace and sparkling diamonds on her breast and fair hands, sitting in a crimson velvet arm-chair—a grand old lady, cold, haughty, and unbending.
"yes, madame," replied bernardine, in a sweet, low voice, "i am miss moore."
"you are a very much younger person than i supposed you to be from your letter, miss moore. scarcely more than a child, i should say," she added, as she motioned bernardine to a seat with a wave of the hand. "i will speak plainly," she went on, slowly. "i am disappointed. i imagined you to be a young lady of uncertain age—say, thirty or thirty-five. when a woman reaches that age, and has found no one to marry her, there is a chance of her becoming reconciled to her fate. i want a companion with whom i can feel secure. i do not want any trouble with love or lovers, above all. i would not like to get used to a companion, and have her leave me for some man. in fine, you see, i want one who will put all thought of love or marriage from her."
bernardine held out her clasped hands.
"you need have no fear on that score, dear madame," she replied in a trembling tone. "i shall never love—i shall never marry. i—i never want to behold the face of a man. please believe me and trust me."
"since you are here, i may as well take you on trial," replied the grand old lady, resignedly. "now you may go to your room, miss moore. you will come to me here at nine to-morrow morning," she said, dismissing bernardine with a haughty nod.
the housekeeper had said she would find the room that had been prepared for her at the extreme end of the same corridor, and in groping her way to it in the dim, rose-colored light which pervaded the outer hall, she unconsciously turned in the wrong direction, and went to the right instead of the left.
the door stood ajar, and thinking the housekeeper had left it in this way for her, bernardine pushed it open.
to her great astonishment, she found herself in a beautifully furnished sleeping apartment, upholstered in white and gold of the costliest description, and flooded by a radiance of brilliant light from a grand chandelier overhead.
but it was not the magnificent hangings, or the long mirrors, in their heavy gilt frames, that caught and held the girl's startled gaze.
it was a full-length portrait hanging over the marble mantle, and it startled her so that she uttered a low cry, and clasped her little hands together as children do when uttering a prayer.
her reverie lasted only for a moment. then she drifted back to the present. she was in this strange house as a companion, and the first thing she came across was the portrait, as natural as life itself, of—jay gardiner!
a mad desire came over her to kneel before the picture and—die!
