Through days and days, and again through days and days, over and over
again, Reuel Briggs fought to restore his patient to a normal condition
of health. Physically, he succeeded; but mentally his treatment was
a failure. Memory remained a blank to the unhappy girl. Her life
virtually began with her awakening at the hospital. A look of wonder
and a faint smile were the only replies that questions as to the past
elicited from her. Old and tried specialists in brain diseases and
hypnotic states came from every part of the Union on bootless errands.
It was decided that nothing could be done; rest, freedom from every
care and time might eventually restore the poor, violated mind to its
original strength. Thus it was that Dianthe became the dear adopted
daughter of the medical profession. Strange to say, Molly Vance secured
her desire, and wearing the name of Felice Adams, Dianthe was domiciled
under the roof of palatial Vance hall, and the small annuity provided
by the generous contributions of the physicians of the country was
placed in the hands of Mr. Vance, Sr., to be expended for their protege.
The astonishing nature of the startling problems he had unearthed, the
agitation and indignation aroused in him by the heartless usage to
which his patient must have been exposed, haunted Briggs day and night.
He believed that he had been drawn into active service for Dianthe by a
series of strange coincidences, and the subtle forces of immortality;
what future acts this service might require he knew not, he cared not;
he registered a solemn promise to perform all tasks allotted him by
Infinity, to the fullest extent of his power.
The brilliant winter days merged themselves into spring. After one
look into Dianthe’s eyes, so deep, clear and true, Molly Vance had
surrendered unconditionally to the charm of the beautiful stranger,
drawn by an irresistible bond of sympathy. “Who would believe,” she
observed to Livingston, “that at this stage of the world’s progress
one’s identity could be so easily lost and one still be living. It is
like a page from an exciting novel.”
With the impulsiveness of youth, a wonderful friendship sprang up
between the two; they rode, walked and shopped together; in short,
became inseparable companions. The stranger received every attention
in the family that could be given an honored guest. Livingston and
Briggs watched her with some anxiety; would she be able to sustain the
position of intimate friendship to which Molly had elected her? But
both breathed more freely when they noted her perfect manners, the ease
and good-breeding displayed in all her intercourse with those socially
above the level to which they knew this girl was born. She accepted the
luxury of her new surroundings as one to the manner born.
“We need not have feared for her; by Jove, she’s a thorough-bred!”
exclaimed Aubrey one day to Reuel. The latter nodded as he looked up
from his book.
“And why not? Probably the best blood of the country flows in the poor
girl’s veins. Who can tell? Why should she not be a thorough-bred?”
“True,” replied Aubrey, as a slight frown passed over his face.
“I am haunted by a possibility, Aubrey,” continued Reuel. “What if
memory suddenly returns? Is it safe to risk the unpleasantness of a
public reawakening of her sleeping faculties? I have read of such
things.”
Aubrey shrugged his handsome shoulders. “We must risk something for the
sake of science; where no one is injured by deception there is no harm
done.”
“Now that question has presented itself to me repeatedly lately: Is
deception justifiable for any reason? Somehow it haunts me that trouble
may come from this. I wish we had told the exact truth about her
identity.”
“‘If ’twere done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done
quickly’” murmured Aubrey with a sarcastic smile on his face. “How you
balk at nothing, Reuel,” he drawled mockingly.
“Oh, call me a fool and done with it, Aubrey: I suppose I am; but one
didn’t make one’s self.”
Drives about the snow-clad suburbs of Cambridge with Briggs and Molly,
at first helped to brighten the invalid; then came quiet social
diversions at which Dianthe was the great attraction.
It was at an afternoon function that Reuel took courage to speak of his
love. A dozen men buzzed about “Miss Adams” in the great bay window
where Molly had placed Dianthe, her superb beauty set off by a simple
toilet. People came and went constantly. Musical girls, generally with
gold eyeglasses on æsthetic noses, played grim classical preparations,
which have as cheerful an effect on a gay crowd as the perfect,
irreproachable skeleton of a bygone beauty might have; or articulate,
with cultivation and no voices to speak of, arias which would sap the
life of a true child of song to render as the maestro intended.
The grand, majestic voice that had charmed the hearts from thousands of
bosoms, was pinioned in the girl’s throat like an imprisoned song-bird.
Dianthe’s voice was completely gone along with her memory. But music
affected her strangely, and Reuel watched her anxiously.
Her face was a study in its delicate, quickly changing tints, its
sparkle of smiles running from the sweet, pure tremor of the lovely
mouth to the swift laughter of eyes and voice.
Mindful of her infirmity, Reuel led her to the conservatory to escape
the music. She lifted her eyes to his with a curious and angelic light
in them. She was conscious that he loved her with his whole most loving
heart. She winced under the knowledge, for while she believed in him,
depended upon him and gathered strength from his love, what she gave in
return was but a slight, cold affection compared with his adoration.
He brought her refreshments in the conservatory, and then told his
love and asked his fate. She did not answer at once, but looked at his
plain face, at the stalwart elegance of his figure, and again gazed
into the dark, true, clever eyes, and with the sigh of a tired child
crept into his arms, and into his heart for all time and eternity. Thus
Aubrey Livingston found them when the company had departed. So it was
decided to have the wedding in June. What need for these two children
of misfortune to wait?
Briggs, with his new interest in life, felt that it was good just to be
alive. The winter passed rapidly, and as he threaded the streets coming
and going to his hospital duties, his heart sang. No work was now too
arduous; he delighted in the duty most exacting in its nature. As the
spring came in it brought with it thoughts of the future. He was
almost penniless, and he saw no way of obtaining the money he needed.
He had not been improvident, but his lonely life had lived a reckless
disregard of the future, and the value of money. He often lived a day
on bread and water, at the same time sitting without a fire in the
coldest weather because his pockets were empty and he was too proud to
ask a loan, or solicit credit from storekeepers. He now found himself
in great difficulty. His literary work and the extra cases which his
recent triumph had brought him, barely sufficed for his own present
needs. Alone in his bachelor existence he would call this luxury, but
it was not enough to furnish a suitable establishment for Dianthe. As
the weeks rolled by and nothing presented itself, he grew anxious, and
finally resolved to consult Livingston.
All things had become new to him, and in the light of his great
happiness the very face of old Cambridge was changed. Fate had always
been against him, and had played him the shabbiest of tricks, but
now he felt that she might do her worst, he held a talisman against
misfortune while his love remained to him. Thinking thus he walked
along briskly, and the sharp wind brought a faint color into his sallow
face. He tried to think and plan, but his ideas were whirled away
before they had taken form, and he felt a giant’s power to overcome
with each inspiring breath of the crisp, cool March air. Aubrey should
plan for him, but he would accomplish.
Livingston had apartments on Dana Hill, the most aristocratic portion
of Cambridge. There he would remain till the autumn, when he would
marry Molly Vance, and remove to Virginia and renew the ancient
splendor of his ancestral home. He was just dressing for an evening
at the theatre when Briggs entered his rooms. He greeted him with his
usual genial warmth.
“What!” he said gaily, “the great scientist here, at this hour?”
Then noticing his visitor’s anxious countenance he added:
“What’s the matter?”
“I am in difficulties and come to you for help,” replied Reuel.
“How so? What is it? I am always anxious to serve you, Briggs.”
“I certainly think so or I would not be here now,” said Reuel. “But you
are just going out, an engagement perhaps with Miss Molly. My business
will take some time--”
Aubrey interrupted him, shaking his head negatively. “I was only going
out to wile away the time at the theatre. Sit down and free your mind,
old man.”
Thus admonished, Reuel flung himself among the cushions of the divan,
and began to state his reasons for desiring assistance; when he
finished, Livingston asked:
“Has nothing presented itself?”
“O yes; two or three really desirable offers which I wrote to accept,
but to my surprise, in each case I received polite regrets that
circumstances had arisen to prevent the acceptance of my valuable
services. That is what puzzles me. What the dickens did it mean?”
Aubrey said nothing but continued a drum solo on the arm of his chair.
Finally he asked abruptly: “Briggs, do you think anyone knows or
suspects your origin?”
Not a muscle of Reuel’s face moved as he replied, calmly: “I have been
wondering if such can be the case.”
“This infernal prejudice is something horrible. It closes the door of
hope and opportunity in many a good man’s face. I am a Southerner, but
I am ashamed of my section,” he added warmly.
Briggs said nothing, but a dark, dull red spread slowly to the very
roots of his hair. Presently Aubrey broke the painful silence.
“Briggs, I think I can help you.”
“How?”
“There’s an expedition just about starting from England for Africa; its
final destination is, I believe, the site of ancient Ethiopian cities;
its object to unearth buried cities and treasure which the shifting
sands of Sahara have buried for centuries. This expedition lacks just
such a medical man as you; the salary is large, but you must sign for
two years; that is my reason for not mentioning it before. It bids fair
to be a wonderful venture and there will be plenty of glory for those
who return, beside the good it will do to the Negro race if it proves
the success in discovery that scholars predict. I don’t advise you to
even consider this opportunity, but you asked for my help and this is
all I can offer at present.”
“But Dianthe!” exclaimed Reuel faintly.
“Yes,” smiled Aubrey. “Don’t I know how I would feel if it were Molly
and I was in your place? You are like all other men, Reuel. Passion
does not calculate, and therein lies its strength. As long as common
sense lasts we are not in love. Now the answer to the question of ways
and means is with you; it is in your hands. You will choose love and
poverty I suppose; I should. There are people fools enough to tell a
man in love to keep cool. Bah! It is an impossible thing.”
“Does true love destroy our reasoning faculties?” Reuel asked himself
as he sat there in silence after his friend ceased speaking. He felt
then that he could not accept this offer. Finally he got upon his feet,
still preserving his silence, and made ready to leave his friend.
When he reached the door, he turned and said: “I will see you in the
morning.”
For a long time after Briggs had gone, Aubrey sat smoking and gazing
into the glowing coals that filled the open grate.
All that night Reuel remained seated in his chair or pacing the
cheerless room, conning ways and means to extricate himself from his
dilemma without having recourse to the last extremity proposed by
Aubrey. It was a brilliant opening; there was no doubt of that; a
year--six months ago--he would have hailed it with delight, but if he
accepted it, it would raise a barrier between his love and him which
could not be overcome--the ocean and thousands of miles.
“Oh, no!” he cried, “a thousand times no! Rather give up my ambitions.”
Then growing more rational he gazed mournfully around the poor room
and asked himself if he could remain and see his wife amid such
surroundings? That would be impossible. The question then, resolved
itself into two parts: If he remained at home, they could not marry,
therefore separation; if he went abroad, marriage and separation.
He caught at the last thought eagerly. If then they were doomed to
separate, of two evils why not choose the least? The African position
would at least bind them irrevocably together. Instantly hope resumed
its sway in Reuel’s breast so fertile is the human mind in expedients
to calm the ruffled spirit; he began to estimate the advantages he
would gain by accepting the position: He could marry Dianthe, settle
a large portion of his salary upon her thus rendering her independent
of charity, leave her in the care of the Vance family, and return in
two years a wealthy man no longer fearing poverty. He had never before
builded golden castles, but now he speculated upon the possibility
of unearthing gems and gold from the mines of ancient Meroe and the
pyramids of Ethiopia. In the midst of his fancies he fell asleep. In
the morning he felt a wonderful relief as he contemplated his decision.
Peace had returned to his mind. He determined to see Aubrey at once and
learn all the particulars concerning the expedition. Providentially,
Aubrey was just sitting down to breakfast and over a cup of steaming
coffee Reuel told his decision, ending with these words: “Now, my dear
Aubrey, it may be the last request I may ever ask of you, for who can
tell what strange adventures may await me in that dark and unknown
country to which Fate has doomed me?”
Livingston tried to remonstrate with him.
“I know what I am saying. The climate is murderous, to begin with, and
there are many other dangers. It is better to be prepared. I have no
friend but you.”
“Between us, Reuel, oaths are useless; you may count upon my loyalty to
all your interests,” said Aubrey with impressiveness.
“I shall ask you to watch over Dianthe. I intrust her to you as I would
intrust her to my brother, had I one. This is all I ask of you when I
am in that far country.”
With open brow, clear eyes and grave face, Aubrey Livingston replied in
solemn tones:
“Reuel, you may sail without a fear. Molly and I will have her with us
always like a dear sister.”
Hand clasped in hand they stood a moment as if imploring heaven’s
blessing on the solemn compact. Then they turned the conversation on
the business of securing the position at once.