A SILKEN BELT.
Mr. Percy and Miss Arthur were openly engaged now, and were anxiously
waiting for the recovery of the sick at Oakley, in order to celebrate
their marriage.
The spinster was in a frame of mind to grant almost any favor to her
lover to-night. And when at last she, herself, led up to the subject
she wished to broach, he foresaw an easy victory.
"Oh, Edward," she sighed, with a very dramatic shudder, "you cannot
think how I dread to-morrow's ordeal, the visit to my brother! Suppose
poor John were to rave at me,--me, his own sister!"
He took the hand that was quite as large as his own, and caressed it
reassuringly. "I don't think there is the slightest danger, Ellen,
dear, but I am convinced I must attend you to-morrow. I shall feel
better to be with you."
"Oh, Edward!" sighed the maiden, enraptured at this declaration of
tenderness, "you are so careful of me."
He smiled and still caressed her hand, saying: "Listen, darling,"
drawing her nearer to him, "I don't like to have you here; it is not a
fit place for you. And I find that remarks are being made. This I
cannot endure. Besides, I do not think it right for you or me to leave
your brother so entirely at the mercy of--Mrs. Arthur. Promise me that
you will consult a physician to-morrow, and as soon as the danger of
contagion is past, you will go back."
"But I can't bear to leave _you_, Edward."
"And you shall not. I will come to Oakley too."
"You? Oh, how nice! Have they asked you to come?"
"I saw Mrs. Arthur's brother to-day, and we settled that."
"Oh, _did_ you? Then you are good friends again?"
He turned upon her a look of inquiry. "Again?"
"Yes; Cora told me not to speak of Mr. Davlin to you, as you were not
good friends, and it might make you less free to come to the house."
Mr. Percy's eyebrows went up perceptibly. "Mrs. Arthur is very
thoughtful; but she was mistaken; our little misunderstanding has not
made us serious enemies."
"Oh, how nice!" rapturously.
"_Very_ nice," dryly. "Now you will be a good girl and go back soon?"
"I don't think Cora will be over anxious to have me come back," she
said, looking like a meditative cat-bird. "I know she kept that Celine
in the house to spite me."
"I can readily understand how she might be jealous of you, dear.
Perhaps she fears your influence over your brother. At any rate, your
duty lies there. When it is time to do so, don't consult her or
anyone; take possession of your former apartments, and stand by your
brother in his hour of need."
Miss Arthur promised to comply with her lover's request, and he
managed at last to escape from her, and seek the repose which he
preferred to such society.
All this time John Arthur was a prisoner in the west wing. He was
attended by the doctor sometimes, by Celine occasionally, and by Henry
almost constantly since the arrival of that sable individual.
Lucian Davlin, having no taste for the work, kept aloof as much as
possible. Himself and Dr. Le Guise, as he called his confederate, had
labored hard and, with the assistance of old Hagar, had put the rooms
in proper condition for the occupancy of a lunatic. And a lunatic John
Arthur certainly was. Once before his removal, and once since, he had
been seized with a paroxysm of undeniable insanity.
John Arthur had been, and still was, the dupe of his supposed
brother-in-law and Dr. Le Guise. We have all heard of natures that can
be frightened into sickness, almost into dying; of an imaginary
disease. John Arthur's was one of these. And, with a little aid from
Dr. Le Guise, he had been really quite ill.
Henry had been constituted his keeper, a position which he filled with
reluctance, and there was a fair prospect that sooner or later he
would break into open mutiny. Although he could not guess at the
nature of the game his master was playing, yet he felt assured that it
was something desperate, if not dangerous.
He had promised "his young lady," as he called Madeline, to remain in
Mr. Davlin's service until she bade him withdraw, and but for this
would hardly have submitted to remain John Arthur's keeper on any
terms. Henry had a certain pride of his own, and that pride was in
revolt against this new servitude.
He had not met Cora here, and had no idea that she was an inmate of
the house.
Dr. Le Guise had relieved Henry on the morning of the day that Miss
Arthur ventured, for the first time since her flight, within the walls
of Oakley manor, escorted by Mr. Percy. He had detected some signs of
fever, although Mr. Arthur declared himself feeling better, and
administered a powder to check it.
Soon the patient began to show signs of increasing restlessness, and
by the time Henry appeared to announce that Miss Arthur desired an
interview with Dr. Le Guise, he began to wrangle with his physician
and gave expression to various vagaries.
Consigning his charge to Henry, with the remark that he "must watch
him close, and not let him get hold of anything," Dr. Le Guise hurried
down to the drawing-room.
The doctor listened to Miss Arthur attentively, while she made known
her desire to return to the manor if the danger of contagion was at an
end. Then he replied, hurriedly:
"Quite right; quite admirable. But if you will take my advice, I
should say, don't come just yet. There will be no danger to you, in
going to your unfortunate brother for just a few moments--a very
few--and then going straight out of the house into a purer atmosphere.
But to remain here now, to breathe this air just yet--my dear lady, I
could not encourage that; the danger would be too great."
And then he led the way straight in to John Arthur's presence,
explaining as they went that the cause of his removal from his own
rooms was to escape the fever impregnations still clinging there.
John Arthur was sitting in the middle of his bed, beating his pillows
wildly, and imploring Henry, between shrieks of laughter, to come and
kiss him, evidently mistaking him for some blooming damsel. As the
damsel declined to come, the lunatic became furious, and hurled the
pillows, and afterwards his night-cap, at him, with blazing eyes and
cat-like agility. This done, he began to rock himself to and fro, and
shout out the words of some old song to an improvised tune that was
all on one note.
Dr. Le Guise turned to Mr. Percy, whispering: "You see; that's the way
he goes on, only worse at times."
Mr. Percy turned away. The fair spinster who had been clinging to him
in a paroxysm of terror, attempted to faint, but remembering her
complexion thought better of it and contented herself with being half
led, half carried out, in a "walking swoon." And both she and Mr.
Percy felt there was no longer room to doubt the insanity of her
brother.
Having seen them depart, Dr. Le Guise sought out Mr. Davlin. Finding
him in Cora's room, he entered and informed the pair of the desire
Miss Arthur had manifested to come back to her brother's roof, and of
his mode of putting off the evil day of her return.
"Humph!" ejaculated Davlin, "what does it mean? I saw Percy in the
village this morning, and he told me quite plainly that he desired an
invitation to quarter himself upon us."
"And what did you say?" gasped Cora.
"Told him to come, of course, as soon as it was safe to do so."
"Well!" said Cora, dryly, "I don't think it will be very safe for
either of them to come just at present."
"Oh, well," said the doctor, cheerfully, "we have got seven long days
to settle about that. And if they insist upon coming, and _then catch
the fever_, they mustn't blame me."
And Dr. Le Guise looked as if he had perpetrated a good joke.
John Arthur's insanity was as short-lived as it was violent. He lay
for the rest of the day quiet and half stupefied. When night came on,
he sank into a heavy slumber.
At twelve o'clock that night, all was quiet in and about the manor.
Cora Arthur was sleeping soundly, dreamlessly, as such women do sleep.
In the room adjoining hers, Celine Leroque sat, broad awake and
listening intently. At last, satisfied that her mistress was sleeping,
Celine arose and stole softly into the room where she lay.
Softly, softly, she approached the couch, passing through a river of
moonlight that poured in at the broad windows. Then she drew from a
pocket, something wrapped in a handkerchief.
Noiselessly, swiftly, she moved, and then the handkerchief, shaken
free from the something within, was laid upon the face of the sleeper,
while the odor of chloroform filled the room.
Nimbly her fingers moved, pulling away the coverings, and then the
clothing, from the unconscious body. It is done in a moment. With a
smothered exclamation of triumph, she draws away a _silken belt_, and
removing the handkerchief, glides noiselessly from the room.
She steals on to her own room in the west wing. Here she locks the
door and, striking a light, hurriedly rips the silken band with a tiny
penknife, and draws from thence two papers.
One glance suffices. Replacing the papers, she binds the belt about
her own body, and then envelopes herself in a huge water-proof, with
swift, nervous fingers.
And now, for the second time, this girl is fleeing away from Oakley.
Out into the night that is illuminated now by a faint, faint moon;
through the bare, leafless, chilly woods, and down the path that
crosses the railway track not far from the little station. Once more
she follows the iron rails; once more she lingers in the shadows,
until the train thunders up; the night train for New York. Then she
springs on board.
For the second time, Madeline Payne is fleeing away from Oakley and
all that it contains; fleeing cityward to begin, with the morrow, a
new task, and a new chapter in her existence.
But no lover is beside her now; for that love is dead in her heart.
And no Clarence breathes in her ear a warning, for now it is not
needed. Since that first June flitting, she has learned the world and
its wisdom, good and evil.
And the cloud that Hagar saw on that June night, hangs dark above the
house of Oakley.