Reuel was greatly touched during the next three months by the devotion
of his friend Livingston, whose unselfishness in his behalf he had
before had cause to notice. Nor was this all; he seemed capable of any
personal sacrifice that the welfare of Briggs demanded.
Before many days had passed he had placed the young man in direct
communication with the English officials in charge of the African
expedition. The salary was most generous; in fact, all the arrangements
were highly satisfactory. Whatever difficulties really existed melted,
as it were, before Aubrey’s influence, and Reuel would have approached
the time of departure over a bed of roses but for the pain of parting
with Dianthe.
At length the bustle of graduation was over. The last article of the
traveler’s outfit was bought. The morning of the day of departure was
to see the ceremony performed that would unite the young people for
life. It was a great comfort to Reuel that Charlie Vance had decided to
join the party as a tourist for the sake of the advantages of such a
trip.
The night before their departure Aubrey Livingston entertained the
young men at dinner in his rooms along with a number of college
professors and other learned savants. The most complimentary things
were said of Reuel in the after-dinner toasts, the best of wishes were
uttered together with congratulations on the marriage of the morrow for
they all admired the young enthusiast. His superiority was so evident
that none disputed it; they envied him, but were not jealous. The
object of their felicitations smiled seldom.
“Come, for heaven sake shake off your sadness; be the happy groom upon
whom Fortune, fickle jade, has at last consented to smile,” cried
Adonis. So, amid laughter and jest, the night passed and the morrow
came.
After his guests had departed, Aubrey Livingston went to the telegraph
office and sent a message:
“To Jim Titus,
“Laurel Hill, Virginia:--
“Be on hand at the New York dock, Trans-Atlantic Steamship Co., on the
first. I will be there to make things right for you. Ten thousand if
you succeed the first six months.
“A. L.”
* * * * *
It was noon the next day and the newly wedded stood with clasped hands
uttering their good-byes.
“You must not be unhappy, dear. The time will run by before you know
it, and I shall be with you again. Meanwhile there is plenty to occupy
you. You have Molly and Aubrey to take you about. But pray remember my
advice,--don’t attempt too much; you’re not strong by any means.”
“No, I am not strong!” she interrupted with a wild burst of tears.
“Reuel, if you knew how weak I am you would not leave me.”
Her husband drew the fair head to his bosom, pressing back the thick
locks with a lingering lover’s touch.
“I wish to God I could take you with me,” he said tenderly after a
silence. “Dear girl, you know this grief of yours would break my heart,
only that it shows how well you love me. I am proud of every tear.”
She looked at him with an expression he could not read; it was full of
unutterable emotion--love, anguish, compassion.
“Oh,” she said passionately, “nothing remains long with us but sorrow
and regret. Every good thing may be gone tomorrow--lost! Do you know,
I sometimes dream or have waking visions of a past time in my life?
But when I try to grasp the fleeting memories they leave me groping in
darkness. Can’t you help me, Reuel?”
With a laugh he kissed away her anxieties, although he was dismayed to
know that at most any time full memory might return. He must speak to
Aubrey. Then he closed her lips with warm lingering kisses.
“Be a good girl and pray for your husband’s safety, that God may let
us meet again and be happy! Don’t get excited. That you _must_ guard
against.”
And Reuel Briggs, though his eyes were clouded with tears, was a happy
man at heart that day. Just that once he tasted to the full all that
there is of happiness in human life. Happy is he who is blessed with
even _one_ perfect day in a lifetime of sorrow. His last memory of her
was a mute kiss and a low “God bless you,” broken by a sob. And so
they parted.
In the hall below Molly Vance met him with a sisterly kiss for
good-bye; outside in the carriage sat Mr. Vance, Sr., Charlie and
Aubrey waiting to drive to the depot.
* * * * *
Reuel Briggs, Charlie Vance and their servant, Jim Titus, sailed from
New York for Liverpool, England, on the first day of July.
* * * * *
The departure of the young men made a perceptible break in the social
circle at Vance Hall. Mr. Vance buried himself in the details of
business and the two girls wandered disconsolately about the house and
grounds attended by Livingston, who was at the Hall constantly and
pursued them with delicate attentions.
By common consent it was determined that no summer exodus could be
thought of until after the travellers had reached August, all being
well, they would seek the limit of civilized intercourse in Africa.
While waiting, to raise the spirits of the family, it was decided to
invite a house party for the remainder of July, and in the beauties of
Bar Harbor. Soon gaiety and laughter filled the grand old rooms; the
days went merrily by.
Two men were sitting in the billiard room lounging over iced punch.
Light, perfumed and golden, poured from the rooms below upon the summer
night, and the music of a waltz made its way into the darkness.
“What an odd fish Livingston has grown to be,” said one, relighting a
thin, delicate-looking cigar. “I watched him out of curiosity a while
ago and was struck at the change in him.”
“Ah!” drawled the other sipping the cooling beverage. “Quite a Priuli
on the whole, eh?”
“Y-e-s! Precisely. And I have fancied that the beautiful Mrs. Briggs
is his Clarisse. What do you think? She shudders every time he draws
near, and sinks to the ground under the steady gaze of his eye. Odd,
isn’t it?”
“Deucedly odd! About to marry Miss Vance, isn’t he?”
“That don’t count. Love is not always legitimate. If there’s anything
in it, it is only a flirtation probably; that’s the style.”
“What you say is true, Skelton. Let’s drink the rest of this stuff and
go down again. I know we’re missed already.”
When they had swallowed the punch and descended, the first person they
saw was Livingston leaning against the door of the salon. His face was
abstracted and in dead repose, there lurked about the corners of his
full lips implacable resolution. The waltz was ended.
Some interminable argument was going on, generally, about the room.
Conversation progressed in sharp, brisk sentences, which fell from the
lips like the dropping shots of sharpshooters. There was a call for
music. Molly mentally calculated her available talent and was about to
give up the idea and propose something else, when she was amazed to see
Dianthe rise hurriedly from her seat on an ottoman, go to the piano
unattended and sit down. Unable to move with astonishment she watched
in fascination the slender white fingers flash over the keys. There was
a strange rigid appearance about the girl that was unearthly. Never
once did she raise her eyes. At the first sharp treble note the buzz in
the room was hushed at stillness. Livingston moved forward and rested
his arm upon the piano fastening his gaze upon the singer’s quivering
lips.
Slowly, tremulously at first, pealed forth the notes:
“Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land,
Tell ol’ Pharaoh, let my people go.”
Scarcely was the verse begun when every person in the room started
suddenly and listened with eager interest. As the air proceeded,
some grew visibly pale, and not daring to breathe a syllable, looked
horrified into each other’s faces. “Great heaven!” whispered Mr. Vance
to his daughter, “do you not hear another voice beside Mrs. Briggs’?”
It was true, indeed. A weird contralto, veiled as it were, rising and
falling upon every wave of the great soprano, and reaching the ear as
from some strange distance. The singer sang on, her voice dropping
sweet and low, the echo following it, and at the closing word, she fell
back in a dead faint. Mr. Vance caught her in his arms.
“Mrs. Briggs has the soul of an artiste. She would make a perfect prima
donna for the Grand Opera,” remarked one man to Molly.
“We are as surprised as anyone,” replied the young girl; “we never knew
that Mrs. Briggs was musical until this evening. It is a delightful
surprise.”
They carried her to the quiet, cool library away from the glaring
lights and the excitement, and at her request left her there alone.
Her thoughts were painful. Memory had returned in full save as to her
name. She knit her brow in painful thought, finally leaning back among
her cushions wearily, too puzzled for further thought. Presently a step
paused beside her chair. She looked up into Livingston’s face.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked, gently taking in her slender wrist
and counting the pulse-beats.
Instead of answering his question, she began abruptly: “Mr. Livingston,
Reuel told me to trust you implicitly. Can you and will you tell me
what has happened to me since last I sang the song I have sung here
tonight? I try to recall the past, but all is confusion and mystery. It
makes my head ache so to think.”
Livingston suddenly drew closer to her.
“Yes, Felice, there _is_ a story in your life! I can save you.”
“Save me!” exclaimed the girl.
“Yes, and will! Listen to me.” In gentle accents he recounted to her
there in the stillness, with the pulsing music of the viols beating and
throbbing in her ears like muffled drums, the story of Dianthe Lusk as
we have told it here. At the close of the tale the white-faced girl
turned to him in despair the more eloquent because of her quietness.
“Did Reuel know that I was a Negress?”
“No; no one recognized you but myself.”
She hid her face in her hands.
“Who ever suffered such torture as mine?” she cried, bitterly. “And
there is no rest out of the grave!” she continued.
“Yes, there is rest and security in my love! Felice, Dianthe, I have
learned to love you!”
She sprang from his touch as if stung.
He continued: “I love you better than all in the world. To possess you
I am prepared to prove false to my friend--I am prepared to save you
from the fate that must be yours if ever Reuel learns your origin.”
“You would have me give up all for you?” she asked with a shudder.
“Ay, from your husband--from the world! We will go where none can ever
find us. If you refuse, I cannot aid you.”
“Pity me!”
She sank upon her knees at his feet.
“I give you a week to think it over. I can love, but cannot pity.”
In vain the girl sought to throw off the numbing influence of the man’s
presence. In desperation she tried to defy him, but she knew that she
had lost her will-power and was but a puppet in the hands of this false
friend.