CHAPTER X.
A HEARTSICK FUGITIVE.
Pansy Laurens meant to keep her word when she wrote to her mother that she would never come back. She felt that this would be best.
If she remained at home the shadow of her deep disgrace would be reflected on her family. If she went away people would forget it in time.
“I should like for them to think that I am dead. Then mamma would not feel any further anxiety over my fate. Her mind would be easy. She would feel that I was at rest,” she thought, and it was this that led her to take away with her a small bundle of clothing marked with her name, and throw it into the river. “It will be found by some one, and then they will say that I drowned myself. It will be a great relief to Willie,” she said to herself, with sorrowful satisfaction, and with a bravery born of despair, she escaped from her room by means of a rope plaited of torn sheets.
Her hands were torn and bleeding when she reached the bottom, but, without a murmur, she took up the bundle she had thrown down, and made her way to Libby Hill, that beautiful eminence overlooking the historic James River. She sat down there a while to rest in the soft gleam of the summer moonlight, and to think of the times when she had met Norman Wylde there and wandered with him through the beautiful park, while her young heart thrilled with love, and hope.
“Alas, alas! he was but amusing himself with the humble working girl; he but plucked the flower of my love to trample it under his feet,” she murmured, in bitterest despair; and presently she went through the park and past the line of stately houses that guarded it on the left side, and dragged herself down the steep declivity to the river.
How beautiful, how silvery white it gleamed in the clear moonlight as it pursued its winding course toward Chesapeake Bay. The factory girl, whose soul was deeply imbued with a love of the beautiful, gazed with a sort of solemn rapture on the magnificent scene outspread before her, and as she flung her little bundle into the glittering waves, lifted her sad eyes to heaven, murmuring, in a tone of awe:
“I am tempted to spring into those bright waves and end all my sorrow.”
Then she saw a dark form moving toward her at some little distance, and fled away, fearing lest she should be arrested by a policeman, for it was nearing midnight, and she knew that it would seem strange to see a woman alone in the streets, deserted as they were by almost every one.
She went along slyly and quietly, like a fugitive fleeing from justice, over the long distance—two miles and more—that intervened between her and the railway station, at which she meant to take a train for the West.
How strange it seemed to be stealing along Main Street like a shadow, frightened at the glare of the street lamps, lest they should reveal her hurrying form to some alert policeman. She was glad when she reached Seventeenth Street Market, and darted inside of it, gliding nervously along between the brick stalls as far as they went, and coming out at last almost at the end of her journey, for soon Broad Street was gained, and then, a little later, the depot.
There was a midnight train making up for the West. She hurried to the ticket office and bought a ticket for Cincinnati.
“I shall be sure to find work in a great big city like that,” she thought, as she took her place in a car and sank wearily into a seat, bursting into tears as the whistle blew and the train rushed out of the station, at the thought that she was leaving behind her forever mother, home, and native city—dear old Richmond, on its green, smiling hills—the place where she was born, and where she had spent her eighteen years of life.
She had never known how well she loved Richmond until she felt herself leaving it forever behind her, with all the associations so dear to her heart. Tears blinded her beautiful eyes, and a sort of passionate hatred for the lover who had wrought her so much woe swelled her young heart.
“Oh, did he think of all this when he betrayed me?” she wondered bitterly, and a yearning for revenge came to her, a bitter longing to pay him back in his own coin for all that she was suffering now.
“Heaven will send me the chance, and I will wring his heart as he has tortured mine,” she vowed to herself, with eyes that flashed through her tears, and just then the conductor came along to take up the tickets.
The car was not crowded, and he had time to observe how Pansy’s face was all wet with tears, and how nervously her little hand shook when she presented her ticket.
“Are you ill, miss?” he asked politely. “Can I do anything for you?”
“No, I am not ill; there is nothing I wish, thank you,” she answered; but, as she saw how surprised he looked, she added: “I was only crying because I am leaving my native city forever, to go among strangers. I am an orphan, and must seek work in the West.”
“I should think you could certainly find work in Richmond,” he said; but she shook her head and put her hand to her white throat in such a pathetic way that he knew she was choked with tears.
He turned away with a heart full of pity, thinking of his own pretty daughter at home, and hoping that she might never come to this. The next day he heard that a beautiful young working girl of Richmond had drowned herself in the James River, and his thoughts involuntarily flew to the one who had left Richmond last night, although he did not think of connecting the two together, save as sisters in sorrow.
“There was a tragedy of woe in the beautiful face of that orphan girl,” he thought often, for the memory of her grief did not fade from his mind for some time.
Pansy was touched by his manly sympathy, but she pretended not to notice it. She did not want him to find out who she was, or anything about her, lest it should interfere with the success of her plan for making everybody believe she was dead.
But, oh, that long, weary night in which she was whirled away so rapidly from all that she had ever known—it would stay in her memory forever, with all its pain and sadness.
When they reached Staunton, quite a large crowd came in, and there was another conductor, who had so many tickets to take up that he did not pay much attention to the sad young traveler who seemed so lonely and friendless, and who at last fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion, and did not awaken for many hours afterward—not, in fact, until a terrible railroad collision near Louisville, Kentucky, derailed the train and sent many of the passengers into their last long sleep.
Pansy was rudely awakened by the shock and jar, and found herself fastened down beneath some timbers which had, fortunately, formed a sort of arch over her form, holding her down, yet still protecting her, so that she was quite unhurt, although so frightened that she fainted dead away at hearing the shrieks of the wounded and dying all around her.
Busy, helpful hands were soon at work, and within an hour she was released from her uncomfortable position. They carried her out into a grassy field, where the survivors of the accident were sitting around in the burning sunshine. Pansy was struck by one lady, who looked as if she were far gone in consumption, and who was sobbing bitterly over the death of her maid.
“I was quite alone but for her, and we were traveling to California for my health,” she said. “Oh, I know not what to do! I am too weak and ill to travel alone.”
Pansy went up to the poor invalid, and said timidly:
“Lady, I am an orphan, and I was going to Cincinnati to seek for work. Perhaps you would be willing to take me in the place of your maid that was killed. I would try very hard to please you.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, my child! I am only too glad to get some one to go on with me,” cried the invalid, eagerly accepting the offer.