Fashion and Famine. Ann S. Stephens
is not dead, nor hurt!" he murmured, and though his face expressed profound compassion, a gleam of wild joy broke through it all. "His scorn has wounded her, not his hand."
Still the poor lady remained insensible. There was a faint quivering of the eyelids, but no other appearance of life. Jacob looked around for some means of restoration, but none were there. He flung up the window, and dashing open a shutter, held out his palm. It was soon full of water-drops, and with these he bathed her forehead and her pale mouth, while a gust of rain swept through the open sash. This aroused her; a shudder crept through her limbs, and her eyes opened. Jacob was bending over her tenderly, as a mother watches her child.
She saw who it was, and rising feebly to her elbow, put him back with one hand, while her eyes wandered eagerly around the room.
"Where—where is he?" she questioned; "oh, Jacob, call him back."
"No!" answered the servant, firmly, notwithstanding that his voice shook—"no, I will not call him back! To-morrow you would not thank me for doing it!"
She turned her head upon the pillow, and closing her eyes, murmured—
"Leave me then—leave me!"
Jacob closed the window, and folding the quilt softly over her, went out. He had half descended the coil of steps, when a voice from below arrested his attention.
"Here yet!" he muttered, springing down into the darkness, and like a wild beast guided by the instinct of his passion, he seized Leicester by the arm.
"Softly, softly, friend," exclaimed that gentleman, with a low calm intonation, though one hand was upon his revolver all the time. "Oblige me by relaxing your hand just the least in the world; my arm is tender as a lady's, and your fingers seem made of iron."
"We grasp rattlesnakes hard when we do touch them," muttered Jacob, fiercely, "and close to the throat, it strangles back the poison."
"Never touch a rattlesnake at all, friend, it is a desperate business, I assure you; they are beautiful reptiles, but rather dangerous to play with. Oh, I am glad that your fingers relax, it would have been unpleasant to shoot a fellow creature here in the dark, and with a gentle lady close by."
"Would it?" muttered Jacob, between his teeth.
The answer was a light laugh, that sounded strangely in that silent dwelling.
"Your hand once more, friend; after all, this darkness makes me quite dependent on your guidance," said the voice again.
There was a fierce struggle in Jacob's bosom; but at last his hand was stretched forth and clasped with the soft, white fingers, whose bare touch filled his soul with loathing.
"This way—I will lead you safely!"
"Why, how you tremble, friend—not with fear, I hope."
"No, with hate!" were the words that sprang to the honest lips of Jacob Strong; but he conquered the impulse to utter them, and only answered—"I'm not afraid!"
"Faith, but it requires courage to grope one's way through all this darkness—every step puts our necks in danger."
Jacob made no observation; he had reached the lower hall, and moved rapidly across the tessellated floor toward the front entrance. The moment they gained the open air, Jacob wrenched his hand from the other's grasp, and hurrying down the steps, opened the carriage door. The rain prevented any further questioning on the part of Leicester, and he took his seat in silence.
Jacob climbed up to the driver's seat, and took possession of the reins. The man submitted quietly, glad to gather himself closer in his overcoat. A single crack of the whip, and off went the dripping horses, plunging furiously onward through the darkness, winding round whole blocks of buildings, doubling corners, and crossing one street half a dozen times, till it would have puzzled a man in broad daylight to guess where he was going, or whence he came. At length the carriage dashed into Broadway, and downward to the Astor House.
The coachman kept his seat, and Jacob once more let down the carriage steps. The drive had given him time for deliberation. He was no longer a slave to the rage that an hour before seemed to overpower his strength—rage that had changed his voice, and even his usual habits of language.
"Come in—come in!" said Leicester, as he ran up the steps. "I wish to ask a question or two."
Jacob made no answer, but followed in a heavy indifferent manner. All his faculties were now under control, and he was prepared to act any part that might present itself.
Leicester paused in the lobby, and turning round, cast a glance over Jacob's person. It was the first time he had obtained a full view of those harsh features. Leicester was perplexed. Was this the man who had guided him through the dark passages of the mansion-house, or was it only the coachman? The profound darkness had prevented him seeing that another person occupied the driver's seat when he left the carriage; and Jacob's air was so like a brother of the whip, that it puzzled even his acute penetration. The voice—Leicester had a faultless ear, and was certain that in the speech he should detect the man. He spoke, therefore, in a quiet, common way, and took out his purse.
"How much am I to pay you, my fine fellow?"
"What you please. The lady paid, but then it's a wet night, and——"
"Yes, yes, will that do?" cried Leicester, drawing forth a piece of silver. The voice satisfied him that it was the coachman only. The former tone had been quick, peremptory, and inspired with passion; now it was calm, drawling, and marked with something of a Down-East twang. Nothing could have been more unlike than that voice then, and an hour before.
Jacob took the money, and moving toward the light, examined it closely.
"Thank you, sir; I suppose it's a genuine half dollar," he said, turning away with the business-like air he had so well assumed.
Leicester laughed—"Of course it is—but stop a moment, and tell me—if it is within the limits of your geographical knowledge—where I have been travelling to night?"
"Sir!" answered Jacob, turning back with a perplexed look.
"Where have I been? What number and street was it to which you drove me?"
"The street. Wal, I reckon it was nigh upon Twenty Eighth street, sir."
"And the number?"
"It isn't numbered just there, sir, I believe."
"But you know the house?"
"Yes, sir, that is, I suppose I know it. The man told me when to stop, so I didn't look particularly myself."
"The man, what was he, a servant or a gentleman?"
"Now raly, sir, in a country where all are free and equal, it is dreadful difficult to tell which is which sometimes. He acted like a hired man to the lady, and like a gentleman to me, that is in the way of renunciation!"
"Renunciation—remuneration, you mean!"
"Wal, yes, maby I do!" answered Jacob, shaking the rain from his hat, "one word is jest as good as t'other, I calculate, so long as both on 'em are about the same length."
"So you could find the house again?" persisted Leicester, intent upon gaining some information regarding his late adventure.
"Wal, I guess so."
"Very well—come here to-morrow, and I will employ you again."
"Thank you, sir!"
"Stop a moment, leave me your card—the number of your hack, and——"
A look of profound horror came over Jacob's face. "Cards, sir, I never touched the things in my hull life."
Leicester laughed.
"I mean the tickets you give to travellers, that they may know where to get a carriage."
Jacob began to search his pockets with great fervor, but in vain,