"She is abused, stolen from me, and corrupted by spells and medicines bought of mountebanks."
"She is abused, stolen from me, and corrupted by spells and medicines bought of mountebanks."
"A day in April never came so sweet to show how costly summer was at hand," may be quoted as applicable to the rare dawn that succeeded that night of mystic import at Belvoir. The whole world seemed instinct with the smile of jocund spring. The dreary night had wept itself away, leaving its tears to jewel each new-born blade of grass. High up upon the spacious lawn crocuses fluttered their imperial raiment while snowdrops nodded and shook their bells as the bland wind swept by. The brook, swollen to a ruffled sea that inundated the low-land meadows, swirled through the willow-copse plumed to its crest with golden down in token of its glad revival. The trees stretched forth their yearning arms green with enamel of new buds; and over all the sun, rejoicing in release, shot his bright lances into nook and dell where lurked the mists of yesterday.
Yet, despite the allurements of the outer world, the inmates of Belvoir House remained invisible, and the stately white columns were left to mount guard over their sharply defined shadows along the sunny piazza.
Within the mansion much of the silence and gloom of the preceding night prevailed. Breakfast had been prepared as usual, but the appointed hour had passed unheeded, a significant fact in a household of such rigid regulation. By and by, however, a rustle upon the staircase announced the appearance of Mrs. Effingham.
Meeting a servant upon the way, the lady inquired where she should find Mr. Drummond; the man replied that he was closeted in the library with his young master, Hubert.
Thither she went directly, entering suddenly, and surprising the young gentlemen in the depths of earnest conversation.
"You have seen Romaine?" they inquired simultaneously.
"Yes, I have just left her."
"How is she?"
"Apparently safe."
Thereupon a strained silence ensued, during which Drummond led Mrs. Effingham to a divan and seated himself beside her, while Hubert watched the pair with an intentness that reflected the motive of his interrupted conversation with his future brother-in-law.
Colston Drummond was the first to break the silence.
"How do you find Romaine?" he asked.
The lines of anxious care deepened upon the lady's face as she replied.
"I have said that I consider her perfectly safe."
"Mentallyas well as physically?"
"How can I tell? As yet I have seen no signs of derangement in her."
"Ah!" exclaimed Drummond, eagerly, "then you refuse to credithisannouncement that she is mad!"
"If you mean Loyd, I believe that he has spoken in accordance with his convictions."
"Hemaybe mistaken," was the terse reply.
Serena Effingham glanced in a startled way from one to the other of the young men, and it was Hubert who came to her relief.
"Colley has been urging the necessity of calling in another physician," he explained. "But I tell him, mother, that we have reason to have implicit faith in Loyd's ability; besides, it would seem like insult to send for any one now that she is out of danger."
Drummond passed his hand over his curling hair with a gesture eloquent of impatient doubt.
"Of course, I will not interfere if you are satisfied," he said. "But I beg you to answer me one question, for I feel that I shall never sleep, nor rest in peace until it is answered."
"What is it, my dear boy?" inquired Mrs. Effingham.
"You will grant me that Romaine is my affianced wife?" he demanded.
"No one disputes that point."
"And she loves me with her whole heart and soul? No, you need not answer that question! Here upon my heart lies her last letter, written within the month. I want no better evidence that she is mine, as truly as woman was ever man's."
"Well? What more do you ask?"
"What more?" he cried excitedly. "I ask why she screamed at sight of me last night, crying piteously, 'Why will you torture me? Take him away and let me rest!' Can you explain such words uponherlips, and at sight ofme?"
"She was not herself, Colston. Her attitude towards you is proof that her mind is indeed deranged."
He shook his head dejectedly.
"You have just told me that as yet you have seen no signs of derangement in her," he said. "Tell me, if you can, why she should seem insane to me, yet sane to you?"
At this juncture Serena Effingham turned to Drummond and flung her arms about his neck.
"My darling boy," she murmured, gently; "for you are that, and ever will be to me. You are worn out with fatigue and excitement. The shock of finding Romaine so ill, after your long and hopeful journey, has completely unhinged you. But I sympathize with you. Remember, that my love for her is akin to yours, and remember, too, that God is good; and I believe that, if we pray unceasingly, He in His mercy will give her back to us, sane and whole again."
He stooped and kissed her up-turned forehead, as he replied,
"God bless you, dear mother. I would that my faith were such as yours!"
Then, releasing himself from the lady's embrace, he rose, adding,
"I am going to breakfast with my mother at Drummond Lodge. Meanwhile,watch Romaine! I shall return later in the day and shall depend upon an interview with her."
"Which I may almost promise shall be granted you."
The voice that uttered these unexpected words was low of pitch yet startlingly sonorous; indeed, so unprepared were the trio for the sudden intrusion, that they were quite thrown off their guard, and turned about in some disarray.
Doctor Loyd Morton proved to be the intruder. He stood upon thethreshold of the apartment, parting the drapery with one outstretched hand, while the extreme pallor of his countenance, the firmness of his glance, as well as his pronounced dignity of mien, failed not to impress his beholders.
Divining that the situation threatened to become strained, Mrs. Effingham remarked quickly,
"We have been waiting for you to breakfast with us, Loyd." Then turning to Drummond, she added, "We shall look for you at dinner, Colston. Always bear in mind that you are at home at Belvoir."
Drummond bowed in silence, and with one glance at Morton, who had advanced a step, still holding the drapery, he passed into the hall, accompanied by Hubert.
The moment the drapery fell into place again, Serena Effingham advanced impulsively and kissed Morton with the maternal fervor which had ever been her wont with him.
"What a debt we owe you, Loyd, dear," she murmured beneath her breath, while her eyes lingered upon the swaying folds that hid Drummond from her view.
"Address your thanks to God," he replied, steadily, holding her in his arms.
"You have saved her life!"
"Say rather that He has spared her."
"She would have died had you not come to us."
The firmness of his glance never wavered for an instant as he answered,
"That is true; but we must bear in mind that I am but an instrument in the hands of the Almighty."
And his words were uttered with as sincere a conviction as had ever possessed him. However deeply he may have been impressed by the questionable part he was enacting, he was satisfied that Romaine Effingham would have been laid beside her father and brother in the tomb but for his influence, at the moment of the crisis. Through his interposition, he told himself, her body had been saved; with the fate that had befallen her soul he was not concerned. In a series of gyrations, never-ending in their recurrence, the words seemed to dance through his brain, "A body is theirs, a soul is mine; a soul is mine, a body is theirs," and so on, and on, and on, with incessant swirl and swing until, dazed and confused, he was forced to seek the palliative of fresh air under pretence of making a hasty round of visits upon his patients.
Meanwhile, above stairs in her dainty chamber, Romaine had been clothed in a robe of delicate texture, snowy as the billowy rifts of swan's-down that strayed about the neck and down the front, and had been placed in the azure depths of silken cushions upon a lounge that stood where the flood of genial sunshine streamed in. Beside her a huge cluster of mingled Freesia and golden jonquils spent their rich fragrance upon the air, conjuring, as it were, a hint of the exuberant spring-tide within the house. A very festival of warmth and light seemed to hold the chamber beneath its inspiring spell, calling forth ethereal tones in the blues of the rugs and hangings, and investing the silver upon the toilet-table with a quite magical glitter.
A little maid, meek-eyed as any dove, went here and there with noiseless step, putting the finishing touches to the final arrangement of the room. Now and again she would cast a dutiful glance towards the couch whereon lay her fair young mistress, with eye-lids drooping until the dark lashes rested upon her pale cheeks, her slender fingers interlaced upon her breast.
There were sparrows chirping somewhere about the casements, while from the distance the hum of pastoral life came drowsily to the ear.
The little maid fluttered her plumed brush about a Dresden cavalier, ruthlessly smothering a kiss that he had been vainly endeavoring for years to blow from the tips of his effeminate fingers to a mincing shepherdess, beyond the clock upon the mantle. In due time she relieved the love-lorn knight and fell upon his inamorata, favoring her with the same unceremonious treatment. The clock chimed twelve to the accompaniment of a brief waltz, presumably executed upon the lute of the china goat-herd that surmounted the time-piece, and at the same moment Romaine Effingham stirred. In an instant the faithful watcher was beside the couch.
"Miss Romaine!" she breathed, "it is I, Joan. Can I do anything for Miss Romaine?"
One of the slender hands was raised and rested lightly upon the little maid's head.
"Yes," was the low reply. "You may find him and send him to me."
"Who, Miss Romaine? Mr. Hubert?"
"No."
"Mr. Drummond?"
"No, no," emphatically, but not impatiently.
"Ah! I know—Doctor Morton?"
"Oh, yes!" with a sigh. "Loyd; go and find him."
"Yes, Miss Romaine."
But instead of Loyd Morton it was Serena Effingham who had hastened promptly to her daughter's side.
"Here I am, dear," she said, stooping to caress the fair low brow. "I have been besieged by callers to inquire for you, but from this moment I will deny myself to everyone until you are quite strong and well again."
"But I sent for Loyd," persisted the girl, in the same calm tone.
"Loyd has gone to visit his patients, my darling; but you may depend upon it he will not be gone long."
"I hope not. O, how devoted he is! Why, it is to him that I owe my life, for he has brought me back to life; and yet—and yet how strange it seems that I cannot recollect where I have been in all this time!"
"Dearest child, do not distress yourself," urged the mother anxiously; "you will recall everything in time and all will be well."
"Ah, but it is not distress to me! It was like a dream of heaven when I heard his voice calling me to come out of the shadow into the radiance that his dear face shed about me! Oh, there can be no death where he is, and no sorrow while he is by!"
She smiled as one smiles in sleep, and let her eye-lids droop until the lashes cast their shadow.
Each of the strange words deepened the pallor upon Serena Effingham's face, a sign of anxious care, perhaps not wholly due to her consciousness of the fact that her daughter was actually under the spell of a gentle hallucination; as a matter of fact it pained her that that hallucination had taken a course somewhat at variance with Drummond's interests.
As she had determined, from that moment she devoted herself to Romaine. The greater part of the time the girl slept soundly; during the intervals of wakefulness she seemed happy and at perfect peace within herself. Occasionally she would break her complacent silence by inquiries for Morton; otherwise she appeared inclined to enter into no sort of converse.
Such nourishment as was offered her she accepted with relish, remarkingonce, with a fleeting smile, "I have seen enough of death for one lifetime; and I want to live, since I have so much to live for."
Plainly her volition materially assisted her convalescence, which was rapid—visible almost from hour to hour. And thus the uneventful afternoon waned to early evening. The goat-herd rehearsed his brief waltz over and over again, and the sun went westward, withdrawing his rays from the silken hangings and the silver upon the toilet-table.
Lacking in incident as the day had proved at Belvoir, to Loyd Morton it had been an epoch of emotions such as he had never dreamed of realizing.
Upon leaving Belvoir, he had gone directly to his house in town, into which he admitted himself with a latch-key. The object of his haste was to place himself before a portrait of his wife which hung in a room held sacred to her memory. Here, amid a thousand mementos of the happy past, it was his custom to sit during his leisure hours, brooding upon the wreck that had overtaken him.
To-day, however, he entered the mortuary apartment with buoyant step, wafting a smiling kiss up at the fair-haired Gretchen that gazed upon him from her frame above the mantel-piece. He flung wide the windows and blinds, even sweeping back the draperies, that the April sun might beam in and rob the place of shadow.
Then he placed himself before the portrait, and thus addressed it, giving vent to his pent-up exaltation,
"I no longer beseech you to speak to me with those beloved lips," he cried, "nor to smile upon me with those eyes that heaven has tinted with its own blue! And yet I must adore your image, which, after all, is lost to me. But what care I, since your immortal soul actuates other lips to breathe your love for me, and kindles other eyes with that same deathless love when silence falls between us? O, Paula, my idol! tell me why I should be so infinitely blessed, when other men languish in their bereavement? Thou knowestnowthat I am as other men are—as full of frailty and sin as any; then, why am I favored with the lot of angels? O my God, it cannot be that I have died andthisis heaven!—this being with you and yet not seeing you, this exquisite aggravation which is mingled agony and bliss! By some strange decree, you are with me again, yet I cannot see, I cannot touch, you. Am I perhaps in purgatory? Or, worse, what if I should wake to find myself in a Fool's Paradise! Heaven forbid; for that would drive me mad, and then my unbalanced spirit would wander gibbering through all eternity, and know you not! Oh, no, no, no! It is the magic of our great love that has united us in this communion, which ameliorates the misery of our transient separation, and I thank God for it! Another day, and mayhap I shall be with you indeed—in the spirit, in heaven! But, oh, my love, my life, my all in all, my divinity, never desert me! In mercy and in love remain with me until the hour of my release; then lead me back with thee!"
Thus more or less coherently he rambled on before the gazing portrait, in wild salutation and petition, until the sudden opening of the door hurled him from the heights of exaltation to earth.
Upon the threshold stood his man, amazed and at the same time abashed.
"You will excuse me, sir," he began brokenly; "but I had no idea you were in the house. I heard voices up here, and I thought thieves had got in, or—or that the place was haunted!"
"I suppose I have the right to come and go and speak in my own house as I choose?" retorted Morton testily, conscious of his inexplicable demeanor,and impotently furious accordingly. "Close the blinds and windows, and shut the room up. Have there been any calls?"
"No end of them, sir—and letters."
Glad to make his escape from a predicament that bordered too closely upon the ridiculous to be comfortable, Morton hastily descended to his office. In the ante-chamber, in which he had received Hubert Effingham on the preceding evening, he found ample affirmation of his man's statement that he had been sought during his absence. The slate was covered with names and requests, while upon a table lay a salver heaped with letters. These he mechanically examined until, at the very bottom of the heap, he came upon a missive which promptly arrested his attention. It was addressed in pencil and unsealed. A moment later and he had possessed himself of the startling information contained within.
He rang the bell in haste and excitedly anticipated the advent of his man by throwing open the door into the hall.
"When was this note left?" he demanded.
"Last evening, sir."
"At what hour?"
"Just before you left the house, sir, with Mr. Effingham."
"BeforeI left the house!" exclaimed Morton; "in heaven's name, why did you not bring it to me? It is a case of life and death! It should have been attended to without the loss of a moment. As I could not attend to it myself, I should have sent Chalmers in my place."
The poor man looked panic-stricken.
"You will excuse me, sir," he faltered, "but I knocked twice on the study-door while the messenger waited, but I got no response. I thought you couldn't come, so sent the messenger away."
"But why did you not give me the note before I went away with Mr. Effingham?"
"Well, the truth is, sir," stammered the man, "I had no idea you were going to leave during office-hours, so I just slipped down to finish a cup o' tea, and when I came up you were off and away."
"Fool! Do you know that your negligence may have cost Miss Casson her life?"
"Casson!" gasped the man, turning pale to the lips and staggering against the wall for support, "the Lord save us, sir; she's dead!"
"Dead!" echoed Morton, in horror.
"Dead, sir! They sent round word early this morning to say that she died at midnight sharp."
Morton staggered into his study, slamming the door in the man's face. He threw himself into the deep reclining-chair which Margaret Revaleon had occupied, and pressed his head between his hands in a desperate endeavor to collect his wits.
Hark! was it a repeating voice, or some mad phantasy, the coinage of his excited brain, that reproduced those thrilling words:
"You will be called to attend a dying woman,—youarecalled, already is the messenger here. A woman's soul is trembling upon the threshold of eternity. If you are alone with her when that soul takes wing, my spirit will instantly take its place—and your skill will do the rest. Accomplish the resurrection of that body and secure our further communion."
Twowomen were approaching the threshold of death andtwomessengers were waiting to summon him while those portentous words were being uttered! Towhichof the two should he have gone?Whichone was intended, destined for the promised reincarnation?
"A sense sublimeOf something far more deeply interfused,Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean, and the living air,And the blue sky, and in the mind of menA motion and a spirit, that impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things."
"A sense sublimeOf something far more deeply interfused,Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean, and the living air,And the blue sky, and in the mind of menA motion and a spirit, that impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things."
Morton roused from his passing stupor to find himself in a highly hysterical condition. He was inclined to laugh; in fact he did laugh in a mirthless way, with sobbing accent that closely resembled the act of weeping. He strove to assure himself that he had been the dupe of his own over-taxed nerves; that his present condition was wholly due to the excessive tension of his mental powers and want of sleep. He even went so far as to smilingly pledge his presumptive happiness in a copious dose of valerian. Thus armed with a species of Dutch courage, he threw himself upon a lounge and sought composure. If his wife's spirit, he reasoned, were omnipresent in all conditions and under all circumstances that pertained to him, as had been represented, and if that spirit were anxious to be reincarnate, as he had been given to understand that it was, why in the name of all that was rational, should it desert him, simply because he hastened to attend one dying woman instead of another? What possible difference could it make which corporeal attire it assumed? was it not reasonable to assume that a spirit, presumably clairvoyant, would pursue its affinity as the magnet seeks the pole, and appropriate any earthly guise, since the power was granted it? Was not Romaine Effingham's body as well fitted for its reinstatement in the flesh as another's?
True, the late Miss Casson had possessed a certain fascination for him, which had been commented upon before he went abroad to meet his fate, and naturally enough his wife had divined theci-devantbut now defunct spell when she took her place in his circle, and, woman-like, had rallied him upon it.
"If I had come to you bare-footed," she often remarked jocosely, "I should not be constantly haunted by the consciousness that the fair Isabel is impatiently awaiting my shoes."
To which quip he invariably replied with a laugh, "Such a suspicion would never occur to you, my dear, if the shoes did not pinch."
And upon this occasion he conjectured, with a drowsy smile, that Isabel Casson's body would have failed to offer his wife's spirit the inducements to reincarnation that Romaine's might, under the circumstances, the beautiful Miss Effingham having been ever far removed from any such lovers' banter. And so, thanks to the drug and his own reasoning power, he lapsed involuntarily into sleep, the result of excessive fatigue. When at last he awoke, he sprang to his feet, startled at his own temerity. His hysteria had vanished, leaving him depressed and apathetic. With a thrill he noticed that the sun, obscured by the windy clouds of the early spring evening, had crept round to the back of the house and was glimmering fitfully in at his study windows. The day had waned, and heaven only knew how many precious hours he had lost.
He paused a moment, his blood halting in his veins as he strove to surmise what might have transpired at Belvoir during his absence. Fortunately for him, he had not overheard Drummond's half-implied doubts of the morning, but in guilty consciousness of his attitude towards Romaine's affianced lover, he instinctively felt the young gentleman to be, in all righteousness, his deadly antagonist.
Ten minutes later he had ordered his carriage and was being borne swiftly over the road that led to Belvoir, the invigorating breath of the April evening blowing in upon him and soothing his perturbation, despite himself. Consequently, as he passed through the gateway of Belvoir, that gave back that description of echo peculiar to aristocratic portals and cemeteries, he drew a long breath, feeling himself to be himself again. Even the apparition of a well-known, stalwart figure crossing the lawn from the direction of Drummond Lodge, failed to materially disturb his equilibrium, since he had already alighted before the figure had reached the garden stair leading up to the terrace.
He let himself in at the unbarred door, as he had been wont to do in the old time when he had been more an inmate of, than visitor at, the house, and, finding no one to delay or question him in the shadowy hall, he mounted the stairs, and laid his hand upon the door of his patient's chamber.
He entered noiselessly, even pausing and holding his breath in amazement at the vision that met his gaze.
Left alone for the moment, Romaine had arisen from her couch and had gone to one of the windows that afforded an enchanting prospect of the eastern hills, cloaked in the emerald film of bourgeoning spring, vivified by the effulgence of the setting sun. She stood with the silken drapery thrust back in her upraised hand, thus admitting the evening glow that lent a touch etherial to her lovely face and flowing attire.
It seemed like the irony of Fate that Morton should have discovered her thus, instead of Drummond; but, even with his normal faculty of observation, Morton paused, spell-bound. He neither spoke, nor made the slightest movement that might disturb her intent revery. He simply put the passionate yearning of his heart into one brief and mute appeal.
"Oh, my darling, my Paula, my wife! Come to me of your own accord. Come to me and let me feel the clasp of your dear arms about my neck!"
Whether she experienced the strong mesmeric power of that dumb appeal, or whether her woman's instinct only warned her of his silent presence, is a question for the determination of graduates in the science of psychology. Certain it is that she turned with a visible thrill, and came to him, the loose drapery of her sleeves falling back and exposing the exquisite symmetry of her outstretched arms. She laid those arms about his neck, glancing up into his face with a smile, and kissed him upon the lips.
"How I have longed for you!" she murmured; "and what an eternity since you left me!"
"Paula—Paula, my own sweet love!" he ventured breathlessly.
He stared hungrily into her upturned face, half-fearfully, half-confidently noting the effect of his words; but the calm smile remained unchanged, fixed upon her features as might have been the smile of peaceful death, save that it wore the tint of life. He caught her in his arms, passionately folding her to his breast, kissing her hair, her brow, and lips.
In the next moment his quick ear detected the sound of foot-falls upon the neighboring staircase.
"He is coming!" he whispered in involuntary alarm. "I promised him that he should see you; but, oh, my love, remember that it is I, not he, who claim you now—claim your every thought, your love wholly and entirely!"
"I shall not forget that which is a part of my own being," she answered gently. "With you by my side, I should not fear to face Satan himself!"
He bore her in his arms to the lounge and tenderly placed her upon it.
"I am your physician, as well as lover," he murmured; "and it is in my power to prevent your being tortured by a lengthy interview."
She smiled up at him reassuringly.
"Have no fear for me," she said. "But—but do not leave me."
And, upon the instant, Colston Drummond entered the chamber.
Morton stood at the head of the couch, his body half-turned away, his face studiously averted; yet, in spite of his attitude, he was conscious that Romaine's lover had thrown himself upon his knees beside her couch, and had possessed himself of one of her hands, which he pressed passionately to his lips.
"Romaine, Romaine," he faltered in evident suspense, "why do you turn away your head? Why do you hide your face from me? Do you not know me? It is I, Colston; I have come home to claim you for my wife, as we agreed. Have you forgotten? In mercy, try to think, try to recall the happy past! Oh, look at me, Romaine!"
A brief silence succeeded the eager appeal, only to be broken by a sharp gasp from Drummond.
"Great God!" he exclaimed in an accent of horror, "can it be that she does not know me? Dr. Morton, what does this mean?"
He had regained his feet and stepped so close to Morton that his breath fanned his cheek. Morton turned swiftly, and their glances met. Some vague instinct seemed to warn each of them that in a way they were rivals, and for an instant they appeared to be measuring each other's strength, as for some mortal combat—Drummond suffused, as to his handsome face, with suppressed excitement, Morton sternly calm and pallid.
"Pray do not forget, Mr. Drummond," the latter said steadily, "that Miss Effingham is an invalid. As her physician, I insist upon her being undisturbed."
The words, far from recalling Drummond to his senses, seemed to increase his agitation.
"And do not forget, sir," he retorted, "that my attitude towards Miss Effingham entitles me to some satisfaction, some explanation."
Morton simply bowed his head, covertly watching the young gentleman as he crossed the chamber. With his hand upon the door, Drummond paused and turned, whether for the desperate comfort of one more glance, or ultimate word of defiance is doubtful, since at that moment Romaine half rose upon her couch and clasped one of Morton's hands in both her own. The significant act so maddened its beholder that the last vestige of his self-control vanished. Returning swiftly upon his steps, he snatched a letter from his breast and held it quivering before the eyes of the shrinking girl.
"Romaine Effingham," he cried, "look at this letter! Look at it and let the sight of it restore you to your wits, if you have lost them! Do you recognize it? Do you remember how you wrote these lines to me within a month, these lines instinct with your great love, with your intense longingfor me to return to you? I am willing to stake my life that more impassioned words were never sent to absent lover. There stands your signature! Do you deny it?"
She covered her face with her hands and moaned.
"You remember, then?" he added triumphantly. "Your mind isnotderanged, butbewitched!"
She only moaned, trembling like a broken twig vibrating in the wind.
Then Morton spoke with the same stony calm of voice and feature:
"You have had your say, sir," he said. "I have permitted you to speak out of pity, but I am answerable to Mrs. Effingham for the welfare of her daughter, which is being jeopardized by such a tirade as this which you have seen fit to indulge in. I therefore request you—as her physician, I request you to respect Miss Effingham's condition, and leave the room."
Drummond raised his head and dealt Loyd Morton a glance which smote him to the heart.
"I go," he answered. "I leave her in peace; but as God is judge of us both, I fail to understand why you, who have enjoyed one all-absorbing love, and ought to be faithful to it, can have the heart to force yourself between my only love and me!"
And, with these significant words, he left the chamber.
Loyd Morton shivered as the door closed heavily upon his departing form, and he crept to the window, raised the drapery, and stood staring blindly out upon the darkening landscape.
For the first time since the beginning of his weird experience, the voice of conscience asserted itself, weakening his resolution to the extent of making a partial coward of him.
"God help me!" he mentally ejaculated; "would to heaven that I had foreseen this disastrous complication before I entered into a covenant with death! Far be it from me to interfere with the love and hope of any man. But what can I do now, if, as I believe, it is Paula's soul that has returned to comfort me in my loneliness? How can I give her up to any other man to love and cherish? Were I to betray her thus, outrage her confidence in me, and doom her to a spiritual hell on earth, how could I face her when at last we meet in the life to come? Heaven have mercy upon me and save me! rescue me from this awful doubt that the soul I love isnotwith me, is not incarnate here; that I am the victim of some Satanic wile that grants me the power to exert an infernal magnetism to the estrangement of fond and loyal hearts! O my God, rather let me die here and now, before I have consummated irreparable wrong!"
The desperate thought ended in a sharp gasp that voiced the surprise and almost superstitious awe which seized upon him as he felt a slender arm coil itself softly about his neck with soothing contact of cool flesh against his feverish cheek.
The gloom had deepened to darkness within the chamber, but in the deep embrasure of the window there lurked a faint after-glow of day, that ultimate flickering of our northern twilight that seems fraught alike with hinted promise and with lingering farewell. There is a witchery about the "sober livery" of that brief hour that lends itself to the imaginative soul and lays a magic spell upon the triteness of existence.
He knew that she had come to him, but for a moment he trembled in uncertainty.
"You are in doubt about me, Loyd?" she faltered, with a perspicacity that was the more startling by reason of her hesitation. "You think it best to relinquish all claim to me?"
"What think you yourself?" he asked in an agony of suspense.
"I am in doubt when you are."
"But when I am firm?"
"Then I feel that death itself cannot part us."
He wound his arms about her, and in return felt her hold upon him tighten with clinging trust; and thus for one supreme moment they stood.
"When you love, I love," she murmured; "when you waver, I waver. I am the slave of a magnetism of which you are the master."
"Hush, hush!" he gasped, assailed even with her arms about him, by the grewsome conviction which but a minute before had impelled him to call upon heaven to end his ill-starred career; "no, no! this is not magnetism! Banish the thought, dear love, and henceforth believe that it is by a special dispensation of Providence that we are once more united, never again to part!"
She nestled closer to him and laid her sweet head upon his breast in eloquent reliance.
"I believe, since you believe," she murmured.
A moment later there sounded a cautious knocking upon the door.
Morton loosened his embrace and crossed the chamber to answer the summons.
"Mr. Drummond begs Doctor Morton to join him immediately in the library upon a matter of importance," announced the servant.
Morton bowed his head in silence.
"Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!"
"Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!"
The portentous interview in the library was held within closed doors, and at its conclusion the two gentlemen left the house by one of the casement windows of the room that gave upon the terrace. Through the gathered dusk they passed side by side, their blurred shadows tracking them in the faint radiance of the young moon. Side by side they crossed the lawn, bearing down towards the belt of woodland beyond which lay Drummond Lodge—two apparitions, voiceless and black. At last the blackness of the woods embraced them and they vanished.
Not until the dense umbrage of the budding trees was reached was a word exchanged between the ill-assorted pair. It was there, upon the fragrant hem of the grove, that Morton paused, removed his hat and mopped his brow, though the evening was damp and chill.
"I see no occasion for me to go farther," he remarked, a note of nervous irritation in his tone.
"I did not intend to bring you so far," replied Drummond; "but I wished to think of your proposition; to think before I gave an answer to your—your unnatural demand."
His companion listened to the words, his pallid face agleam in the wan twilight.
"Well," he muttered, "you have arrived at some conclusion?"
"I admit that I am curious to know the limit of your powers," was the reply, bitter with irony.
"I boast no special powers. I will simply try to do that which I have proposed."
Drummond broke off a spray of dogwood blossom and tossed it away unheeded.
"You understand," he said sternly, "understand thoroughly, that I insist upon complete satisfaction in the matter."
"I understand."
"That I must have the proof and testimony which I have named."
"I understand."
"You speak confidently."
"I speak as I feel—as I have reason to speak."
"As youthinkyou have reason to speak," echoed Drummond, an ominous gloom shadowing his fierce eyes. "Well, sir, do your best—accomplish what you can—then come to me at any hour of the night. You may suit your own convenience. Between this hour and daybreak you will find a light burning which will guide you straight to me. You will find me alone and waiting—but, mark you! if you come to me with any trickery, any fabrication, any counterfeit proof, I shall detect you in your infamy, and shall be merciless; so beware! Likewise should you attempt to evade me in the humiliation of failure, I warn you that I shall be equally relentless."
Morton replied in a tense tone which betrayed the struggle for composure that he was undergoing.
"I do not fear you," he said, "your approbation or displeasure is alike a matter of indifference to me. In any case, though I admit butoneto be possible, I shall come to you before daybreak."
Drummond drew up his stalwart figure to its full height and folded his arms.
"Under the circumstances, then," he observed with a sneer, "I should be unreasonable were I to encroach upon another instant of your precious time."
Perhaps his mockery was unheeded. Be that as it may, Morton had turned abruptly while he was speaking, and had begun rapidly to retrace his steps to the mansion beyond the lawn.
Upon the fringe of the wood, Colston Drummond stood watching the receding figure until, its lineaments mingling with the pervading gloom, it was lost to sight.
"Charlatan! fool!" he muttered. "I have given you the rope; go hang yourself!"
He turned upon his heel and pressed into the path that led across the copse, through which twinkled the lights of Drummond Lodge.
Suddenly he paused with clenched hands, and only the budding leaves and fronds were auditors of the groan that came, wrung from his inmost soul.
"My God!ifshe should fail me!"
Meanwhile dinner had been announced at Belvoir. Plenty of candles had been lighted to dispel the gloom. The butler stood at his post before the side-board, but as yet the four chairs placed about the table lacked occupants. The man glanced at the clock upon the mantel-piece and heaved a decorous sigh, doubtless in memory of the well-ordered days of his late master. At last, and just as the hands of the clock marked the half-hour after seven, Hubert Effingham appeared and requested the "faithful Adam" to serve the repast.
"Doctor Morton will dine with us," he said, and turned to meet his mother and Morton as they entered.
Mother and son had indulged in no little surmise as to the sudden disappearance of their two guests, and had delayed dinner until the last moment on their account. Morton's return, unattended, did not serve to elucidate matters, since he did not appear to be in a communicative frame of mind.
The pair had met him upon the terrace, where they had been strolling to and fro in the pale moonlight, talking in lowered tones and awaiting some development in the mystery. They had descried his dark figure as he crossed the lawn, coming from the direction of "Drummond Copse," as the belt of woodland separating the estates was familiarly called, and, with no slight sense of curiosity, awaited his arrival at the head of the steps. Their meeting might have seemed strained, but for Hubert Effingham's remark, which relieved the situation.
"If the dinner is spoiled, my dear Loyd," he said cheerily, "pray do not blame the cook; when guests stray away at the dinner-hour, who is responsible for the consequences? And, by the way, where is Colston? Have we to wait until his constitutional is over?"
"Mr. Drummond will not dine with us this evening," replied Morton, with an indifference, the assumption of which was painfully apparent. "And pardon me; I was in hopes that you would begin, and permit me to catch up with you, as—as I have so frequently done."
"The idea of obliging Loyd to apologize for his actions," interposed Mrs. Effingham, laughing, "when his privileges here are the privileges of his own house! Be off with you, you Hector, and tell Anton he may serve dinner."
Thereupon she linked her arm within that of the young doctor, and glanced up into his face with an affection beyond question.
"Why should I mention your privileges in my home, my dearest boy and almost son?" she asked. "Do I need to remind you of my darling Malcolm's love for you, or of the paternal fondness of that dear one who so soon followed my boy to the grave?"
She noted the nervous tremor of Morton's pallid lips, and hastened to remove the painful impression she had produced.
"Of course not!" she added; "more than ever, now, I account you a son. You have saved Romaine, and it is the debt of a mother's gratitude that I have to repay—if such requital be within human power. Oh, Loyd dear, you are again alone in the world! Come to me and fill the vacant place!"
"Of son?" he demanded in a tone, the hoarseness of which concealed its almost fierce eagerness.
"Of nothing less than son, you know it."
His dark eyes lighted with an inward fire that he was powerless to mask.
"God bless you!—mother," he answered, chokingly; "perhaps the hour is not far distant when I may ask requital for the life I have given you back, and put you to the test."
They had entered the lighted hall and she glanced with a slightly wondering start into his face, though the replied in the same fulness of soul,
"Bring me to the test."
Their entrance into the dining-room and the presence of Hubert put an end to the conversation, and dinner began, a single course of which gave ample proof that the atmosphere had cleared. Romaine was out of danger, indeed convalescent, and the awful suspense of the last twenty-four hourswas at an end. Mother and son presided in the very best of spirits, and Morton must have been morose indeed had he been able to withstand the contagion of their buoyant mood. Under the influence of their constantly reiterated gratitude for the feat which they ascribed to his skill, of the genial atmosphere, combined with the excellent fare and wines, he warmed while some hint of hope and peace crept back into his tortured heart. Only once did the clutch of inexorable destiny seem laid upon him, causing his blood to halt in its channels, as Hubert exuberantly exclaimed,
"I see but one way, Loyd, and only one, in which you can be repaid for saving Romaine!"
"Relieve my mind by informing me, Hubert," remarked Mrs. Effingham with a smile; "I confess that I have cudgelled my brains in vain."
"By giving him what he has saved—by giving him Romaine!"
"And how about Colston?" laughed the lady in high good humor.
"I did not take him into the account," responded the young man; "at all events he should not object, under the circumstances."
"Which proves that you have never been in love, my boy."
They glanced at Morton, and were slightly chilled at the sternness of his face and the intensity with which he answered,
"Were it her will, I would gladly be Romaine's servant in love as I have been her servant in life and death."
It was as if a frigid wind had crossed the genial atmosphere, chilling their hearts as the mere passage of a current closes the sensitive blossoms of the deep sea. But the constraint was transient; they were used to Morton's moods, and ever were accustomed to make light of them; and in the kindness of their hearts they readily imagined a score of excuses for this particular one. The actual relief to the situation, however, presented itself in the sudden and unexpected apparition of Romaine herself upon the threshold of the dining-room. She stood between the parted draperies, the soft folds of her robe falling about her in the radiance of the candles.
Romaine's welcome back to her accustomed place at table was full of that exuberant congratulation natural to the situation. There was a general uprising to receive and lead her to the vacant chair, which had been set in place for Colston Drummond. Although Mrs. Effingham and Hubert simultaneously saluted the girl's wan cheeks, Romaine had eyes only for Morton as he bent before her to kiss the hand she involuntarily outstretched to him. Those eyes, so dark and limpid, seemed fairly to embrace the young doctor with their eloquent scrutiny. A conscious flush suffused his face, while an eager, hungry light flashed into his eyes, hitherto so dull and apathetic.
Romaine sank into the vacant chair and glanced about her with a happy sigh.
"How good it seems to be well again!" she exclaimed. "I feel as though I had been away from you all an age. Pray, how long is it since I sat here?"
"Just twenty-four hours, sister mine," replied Hubert.
"One day, only one brief day," she remarked, as it were, introspectively, "and yet in that short space of time I have lived through an eternity—such an eternity!"
Her voice fell almost to a whisper, and her eyes became fixed upon space with an indescribably dreamy inspection in their depths.
Although the dinner was practically at an end, Hubert seated himself beside her, watching her with an affectionate interest not unmixed with sadness. Mrs. Effingham and Morton, however, remained standing sideby side at the head of the table, and it was of the latter that the lady inquired in a swift undertone,
"Is it not a risk for her to have left her room so soon?"
"I think not," replied Morton, without removing his eyes from Romaine, upon whom they had rested intently since her appearance; "but I do not approve of her remaining here. See for yourself! The associations of the spot seem to be exerting some spell upon her already. Romaine," he said suddenly, perhaps in answer to the mother's anxious glance, "if I am to be your physician until you are out of all danger, you must obey me. You were imprudent to leave your room without my permission."
She raised her eyes quickly, smiling in happy submission, as she inquired,
"Must I go back again? Command! I am your dutiful patient."
"We will go into the conservatory, if you wish," Morton answered. "It is warmer there and less exposed to draughts; you shall inspect your favorite flowers, and then, I think, we shall have you retire for the night and rest."
She rose with the ready acquiescence of a docile child, and going to him, placed her arm within his.
"Come!" she said. "Of all things, I would like to show you my plants; I think you have not seen them for a long, long time." And with an animated smile, that somehow seemed pathetic, she led Morton away through the glass doors that opened from the dining-room into the spacious conservatory lying fragrant and dim in the rays of the crescent moon.
Hubert had risen as Romaine left the room, and stood with his hand resting upon the back of his chair, lost in troubled thought that mirrored itself upon his expressive face; at last, with sudden resolution, he conquered his painful indecision, and coming to Mrs. Effingham's side, touched her arm.
"Mother," he remarked, "Loyd is correct."
"Loyd is always correct," replied the lady in a startled way, that belied the confidence that her words implied.
"Yes, but he is correct upon one point which you and I, in our great love for Romaine, have been trying to evade during the whole of this endless day."
"What do you mean, Hubert?"
"I mean that Romaine's mindisaffected."
"Merciful heaven!" cried the mother, the ready tears glittering in her anxious eyes, "how you utter my thoughts! My dear boy, what shall we do if such be the case?"
"I believe it to be but a temporary aberration, and Loyd thinks so, too," replied the young man, soothingly.
"But how can we tell? O Hubert, what suspense for us!"
"Yes; but we must bear it bravely, mother, hoping and praying for the best. All that we can do is to mind Loyd's commands, in regard to Romaine, to the letter. It must be our duty to see that nothing troubles or thwarts her."
"Of course!"
"Ah, that may mean more than you think."
"How so?"
"It may mean that we shall be forced to forbid Colston the house, or at least the privilege of seeing Romaine until she recovers."
"Colston!" exclaimed Mrs. Effingham, in pained amazement; "forbid Colston Drummond to enter our house!"
"Yes. An unfortunate scene has been enacted this afternoon in Romaine'sroom between Colston and Loyd—of course in Romaine's presence. Then, later, there has been something mysterious going on between the two men, of what import I do not know."
"What can it be?"
"I say I do not know; but perhaps Loyd will confide in me. In the mean time I have perfect confidence that he is conscientiously doing his best for Romaine's welfare. You can see for yourself, that her consideration even for us, her mother and brother, is second to her sudden attachment for Loyd."
The significance of the words failed not duly to impress Mrs. Effingham. Her slight color faded, leaving her face ashy to the very lips.
"Can you mean," she said, with evident effort, "that some mysterious mental distemper has interested her in Loyd to the prejudice of Colston?"
"That is my suspicion."
"You think that her love has turned to Loyd?"
"Can you doubt it?"
"What would be the consequences of her return to reason?"
"Mother dear," replied Hubert Effingham, manfully, "we had better not torment ourselves with considerations for the future; we have our hands full with the present."
Meanwhile Romaine and Morton had wandered out of ear-shot of this significant conversation, into the depths of the conservatory. They had paused beneath a luxuriantlapageria, and the girl had raised caressing hands, drawing downward a cluster of its frosty bells to her lips.
The startling likeness in tint between the wan face and the ghostly blossoms, as they gleamed side by side in the moonlight, so painfully suggested the sculptured pallor of death, that Morton caught her hands in his and drew her quickly into his embrace, as he would snatch her from the brink of the grave. She resigned herself to his clasp, almost rough in its passion, without a tremor, while she glanced with a wondering smile up into his face.
"I associate those cold, scentless flowers with a certain funeral," he said with a shudder that caused her to nestle involuntarily closer to him; "I saw them near you once, and God knows I would never see them so placed again!"
"Yes, I have worn them in my hair," she said, "and they were thought beautiful with my white lace gown."
"They were laid upon your breast when I saw them last," he muttered, "and they were cut from this very vine."
"Indeed? I do not recollect."
"No, and I would not have you recollect that time, since we are united again."
"United again!" she echoed dreamily. "O Loyd, teach me to understand how we have ever been separated!"
"Rather let me teach you how fondly I love you," he whispered; "let me convince you that every heart-throb of ours distances the past—the dead past and its shadows. Let your very soul be witness to my avowal when I tell you that I love you! Paula, I love you!"
"Paula!"
She spoke the name after him in no surprise, with no intonation of perplexity. It left her lips lingeringly, as though its sound was pleasing to her ear.
"Yes, Paula," he answered eagerly; "you are Paula, Paula to me, but Romaine to the rest of the world."
"How strange," she faltered with that dreamy smile, as if fascinated.
"But you comprehend," he insisted—"you appreciate the distinction?"
"Oh, yes."
"Answer to every name in Christendom, if you will, save Paula; you are Paula alone forme!"
His impassioned emphasis seemed to charm her. Her rapt gaze enveloped his head as she lay in his arms, and there was a smile of ineffable serenity upon her lips.
"How you love that name!" she murmured.
"Youtaught me to love it."
"I must have, since you say so."
"You are Paula."
"Yes, I am Paula," she replied as one echoes a dictation; then, with a half-regretful sigh, "What would I not give to be able to recall the past!"
"You will recall everything in due time," he said soothingly; "I will help you."
"After all," she said after a pause, "what is the past, compared with the present? It seems like an earth-life which I have left behind; the present is heaven."
"Paula, my own true darling!" he parted in ecstasy, "you recognize me; you love me!"
"I love you, Loyd."
He bent his head to kiss the calmly smiling lips, when she raised her hand to stroke, with fond caress, his hair.
A flash like miniature lightning dazed his sight as her hand passed upward; it was simply the gleam of a diamond upon her finger; but through its white sheen peered the face of Colston Drummond, distorted with a grimace of mocking warning, and he reeled from his seventh heaven to earth, felled by that tiny shaft.
He loosened his hold upon her, and caught her hand, riveting his burning eyes upon the gem, that returned the glare with flashes of ruby fire.
"You must not wear this ring!" he exclaimed; "I cannot bear to see it upon your dear hand."
Her startled glance left his face and rested upon the exquisite jewel.
"You do not like the ring?" she inquired in a puzzled way.
"It is not a question of my like or dislike," he replied with increasing eagerness, almost with impatience. "Idid not place it upon your finger; it does not belong to you, Paula."
"Oh, then take it away!" she cried, hastily twisting off the circlet; "I hate it now, although I thought it so beautiful."
Perhaps it was the utter absence of regret in her tone that brought that triumphant glitter to his eyes, as he accepted the ring and slipped it upon the little finger of his left hand.
"It shall return whence it came," he said unsteadily. "It shall trouble you no more; but in its stead you shall wear this ring, these pearls. Paula, do you not recognize them?"
As he spoke, he produced a plain gold hoop, set with three perfect pearls, and held it before her eyes.
"Pearls!" she murmured sadly; "pearls are ill-fated; they mean tears."
He cast his arm about her waist and drew her to him, still holding the ring within range of her vision.
"All portents, all auguries, all superstitions fail in our case!" he criedexultantly. "We are exempt from all baleful influences now! These pearls mayoncehave signified tears, but now there are no more tears whence they came; they are petrified, and symbolize our happy reunion. In this supreme moment of our love, try to recollect—Paula, do you not recognize these pearls?"
A spasm of actual pain crossed the beautiful face, the result of intense mental exertion.
"O Loyd, I cannot recollect!" she faltered piteously; "and yet—. Did you not promise to help me to recall the past?"
"Yes, my darling!" he exclaimed, his passion exceeding all bounds; "and I will fulfil that promise when we have wearied of the blessed present! A new promise I will make you here and now, and that is never again to torture you with unavailing considerations; only tell me once again that you love me with all your renewed strength, with all your purified soul!"
She raised her arms and wound them about his neck.
"Loyd, I love you," she answered steadily; "I love you—love you as the angels in heaven love!"
"Of whom you are one!"
He kissed her upon the lips—a long, rapturous kiss, thrilling with the welcome of his yearning heart; with such rapture only could he have kissed the one who had been his bride, returned to him from the imminence of some awful danger or from the shadow of the grave.
As such, and in all good faith, he kissed the woman lying in his arms, in all reason believing her his loved and lost one sent back to him from the vague realms of eternity.
Suddenly he raised his head and looked into her face with something akin to fright, actuated doubtless by the shadow of a last doubt upon his certitude; as a fleeting remnant of cloud-rack after a night of storm will sometimes fleck the serenity of a perfect dawn.
Would there be a blush upon her cheek after that impassioned salute? And, if there were, would not it portend an agitation born of maiden modesty? His suspicious heart assured him that no such tell-tale hue dyes the brow in holy wedlock. And he could have cried aloud in his exceeding joy to find the sweet face as untinged as the ghostly flower-bells that hung above it.
He placed the ring of pearls upon her finger whence the flashing diamond had been removed, and kissed it into place; and she, with fond humility, received the kiss from the jewelled pledge, and returned it to his lips.
Then they passed, with their arms entwined about each other, through the dimly lighted rooms and up the stairs to the chamber, where he surrendered her into the care of her waiting-maid.
"You will not leave the house to-night?" she murmured, as their hands unclasped at the threshold.
"Not to-night," he answered softly, "nor ever, till you go with me!"
For the instant he forgot his obligation to Colston Drummond that night; but, when her chamber-door had closed and the diamond upon his hand flashed a defiant ray at the lamp upon the newel-post, he bethought himself of his inevitable engagement. However, he did not blench.
"I am master of the ring!" he murmured in triumph. "One more effort, and I go to Drummond Lodge within the hour, prepared to remove the last impediment from my path!"
At that moment he descried the figure of Mrs. Effingham crossing thehall below in the direction of the library. With rapid steps he descended the stairs and followed her. He was in search of her, since from her hand must come the final weapon destined to silence his rival.