Chapter XIII: Tokens From the River

“A voice, a smile,
A young, sweet spirit gone.”--HEMANS.

It rains the day after the ball--a pouring summer torrent that deluges the green earth from dawn to sunset, and the weary pleasure-seekers sleep late, lulled by the steady down pour of rain. It is ten o’clock when they dawdle into the dining room.

“Has Madame Orne breakfasted yet?” Viva inquires of the waiter, who answers that breakfast was sent up, but madam was not in her room.

“Go immediately, and ask if she will have it now.”

Mr. Essex tells Vivian solicitously that she does not look well, and inquires if her head aches.

“My heart aches,” she might have answered, but she nodded carelessly, and said:

“Yes, I have a tiresome headache.”

“It was the champagne last night,” laughs Charlton.

“Nonsense!” cries Diana. “I drank three glasses last night, but my head is perfectly clear.”

“It was the dancing, more likely,” interpolates Eve. “I never saw you so gay before, Viva. You danced every time and so turned the heads of all your partners that their united love-looks followed you all evening like satellites revolving around some brilliant star.”

“Then my pallor is excusable now, for I share the fate of all stars, and fade in the morning light.”

At that moment the waiter enters, reporting that Madame Orne is not in her room, nor anywhere in the house.

“Stupid, go and send Jane here,” Viva cries impatiently, adding, “She cannot have gone out anywhere in such a pouring rain.”

Jane comes, looking sheepish and frightened, but corroborates the boy’s report. The governess has not been seen to-day; and after some alarmed cross-questioning on the part of Vivian and the girls, she admits that she has not seen her since last night. She, Jane, had been dismissed by the lady, had left the room, and did not return until next morning, when she found the curtains up, the windows open, and the bed unslept in.

Thoroughly alarmed now, Vivian calls up the remaining servants, but elicits no new facts. Only one thing is proved most conclusively--the fact that Madame Orne has not been in the house since last night.

The domestic retinue retires kitchenward, and Vivian’s tearful dark eyes turn appealingly to her brother.

“Oh, Charlton, what must we do, what must we think?” she cries.

He comes to her tenderly, and takes the trembling little hands into his warm, strong grasp. A vague, indefinable dread is written all over his bright, debonair young face, as he answers slowly and sadly:

“I fear that she has destroyed herself, Viva. We must have the river dragged at once.”

“No, no! it cannot be!” and she clings to him sobbing hysterically.

“But it is not possible that the poor lady has drowned herself. Why should she?” inquires Eve very pertinently.

“Yes, why should she?” echoes Diana.

“Perhaps she went away on the express,” Charlton says reflectively.

“Impossible,” sobs Vivian. “The station is a mile away, and she was too weak to walk there.”

“It is very strange, but I thought her mind was a little queer when I saw her last evening,” adds Eve.

“Then, as I said before, it will be well to drag the river,” Charlton reiterates, and Eve asks again:

“But why do you think of the river?”

“Yes, why? Tell me, Charlton,” murmurs tearful Vivian, and he answers:

“I suppose I am the last one of you all who saw Madame Orne last night. It was while I was waiting for the carriage to return for me. She was sitting by the fountain, with her hair all loose over her shoulders, and seemed greatly agitated and depressed when I came suddenly upon her as I was strolling down the river path. I advised her to return to the house, as she seemed to be laboring under high mental excitement. She refused to do so, and seemed adverse to talking. She asked me, however, at what time the express from Richmond was due. I told her, and she seemed to become still more agitated. Then the carriage returned, and I left her there.”

“And you really think she might have committed suicide?” shudders Diana.

“I fear so. When I left her in that strange mood, she seemed quite capable of something desperate.”

A shudder thrills the listeners. They are so full of youth and hope, and bounding life that the suggestion of such a death seems chilling in the extreme.

Then Essex speaks for the first time, recovering from what has seemed like a trance of horror.

“I will go to the station and make inquires, while you prosecute the search along the river, Charlton.”

“Thank you, Essex. We will both begin the search and perhaps we may find some clew. Keep up your spirits, girls. It may be that we are making mountains of some small mole-hills.”

Mr. Essex goes to the station, and Charlton down through the grounds, reckless of the steady downpour of the rain.

How changed the scene from a few hours ago. The wind and rain have beaten down the shrubberies, and beside the garden seat at the fountain lies the lily Charlton had given her at parting. It is beaten by the heavy rain, but he picks it up and holds it in his hand as he follows the sodden path toward the river with moody gaze bent earthward. Twice on the way he finds tokens that lead him on--once a hair-pin shaken from her loose tresses, then a shred of white silk fringe torn from her shawl, on the thorny stem of a rose.

Further on, by the very brink of the muddy, swollen river, he stops, while a pang wrings his strong man’s heart, for here are further tokens of her presence.

Half-in and half-out of the water is the white shawl that had draped her shoulders last night, now all draggled and torn by a thorn-bush, that had entangled its silken meshes. The grass is crushed and broken here, as though rudely trampled down by a man’s feet. Turning away, pale and heart-sick, with the wet shawl on his arm, he sees her little silver comb shining in the long grass. He picks it up with a shuddering glance at the noisy, rushing river, and returns to the house with the tokens, that send Vivian into a long fainting fit.

Essex returns with the information that no person had left Fair View station last night, and so they scour the woods and drag the river, keeping up the search for almost a week. Judge Leigh and his son spare no pains nor money in the search, but time brings no tidings of the lost one, and if indeed the dark river hides her dead form from their yearning eyes it keeps the secret well.