“The Doctor is so good to you about letters; so different from poor
Charlie. I can’t imagine what he finds to write about.”
It was the first of August, and the last guest had left the mansion;
tomorrow they started for Bar Harbor. Molly, Dianthe and Livingston sat
together in the morning room.
“He tells me the incidents of the journey. This is the last letter for
three months,” said Dianthe, with a sigh.
“Of course, there is no love-making,” said Aubrey, lazily letting fall
his newspaper, and pushing his hands through his bright hair. He was
a sight for gods and men. His handsome figure outlined against the
sky, as he stood by the window in an attitude of listless grace, his
finely-cut face, so rich in color and the charm of varying expression,
turned indolently toward the two women to whom the morning mail had
brought its offering.
“Have you ever read one of Reuel’s letters?” Dianthe said, quietly.
“You may see this if you like.” A tap sounded on the door.
“Miss Molly, if you please, the dress-maker has sent the things.”
“Oh, thank you, Jennie, I’ll come at once!” and gathering up her
letters, Molly ran off with a smile and a nod of apology.
Aubrey stood by the window reading Reuel’s letter. His face was deadly
white, and his breath came quick and short. He read half the page; then
crushed it in his hand and crossed the room to Dianthe. She, too, was
pale and there was something akin to fear in the gaze that she lifted
to his face.
“How dare you?” he asked breathlessly; “but you are a woman! Not one of
you has any delicacy in her heart! Not one!”
He tore the letter across and flung it from him.
“I do not suffer enough,” he said in a suffocated voice. “You taunt me
with this view of conjugal happiness--with his _right_ to love and care
for you.”
“I did not do it to hurt you,” she answered. “Do you have no thought
for Molly’s sufferings if I succumb to your threats of exposure and
weakly allow myself to be frightened into committing the great wrong
you contemplate toward two true-hearted people? I thought you could
realize if you could _know_ how Reuel loves and trusts me, and how true
and noble is his nature.”
“Do you think I have room to pity Reuel--Molly--while my own pain is
more than I can bear? Without you my ambition is destroyed, my hope for
the future--my life is ruined.”
He turned from her and going to a distant part of the room, threw
himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands. Against her
will, better promptings and desires, the unfortunate girl is drawn
by invisible influences across the room to the man’s side. Presently
he holds her in his eager, strong embrace, his face and tears hidden
against her shoulder. She does not struggle in his clasp, only looks
into the future with the hopeless agony of dumb despair.
At length he broke the silence. “There is nothing you can feel, or say
to me that I do not realize--the sin, the shame, the lasting disgrace.
I know it all. I told you once I loved you; I tell you now that I
cannot _live_ without you!”
An hour later Dianthe sat alone in the pleasant room. She did not
realize the beauty of the languid mid-summer day. She thought of
nothing but the wickedness of betraying her friends. Her perfect
features were like marble. The dark eyes had deep, black circles round
them and gazed wistfully into the far, far distance, a land where
spirit only could compass the wide space. As she sat there in full
possession of all her waking faculties, suddenly there rose from out
the very floor, as it were, a pale and lovely woman. She neither looked
at Dianthe nor did she speak; but walked to the table and opened a book
lying upon it and wrote; then coming back, stood for a moment fixed;
then sank, just as she rose, and disappeared. Her dress was that of a
servant. Her head was bare; her hair fell loosely around her in long
black curls. Her complexion was the olive of mulattoes or foreigners.
As the woman passed from her view, Dianthe rose and went to the table
to examine the book. She did not feel at all frightened, recognizing
instantly the hand of mysticism in this strange occurrence. There
on the open page, she perceived heavy marks in ink, under-scoring
the following quotation from the 12th chapter of Luke: “For there is
nothing covered that shall not be revealed.” On the margin, at the end
of this passage was written in a fine female hand, the single word,
“Mira.”
* * * * *
After luncheon Aubrey proposed that they go canoeing on the river. The
idea was eagerly embraced and by five o’clock the large and luxurious
canoe floated out from the boat-house upon the calm bosom of the lovely
Charles rocking softly to the little waves that lapped her sides.
The day had been oppressive, but upon the river a refreshing breeze
was blowing now that the sun had gone down. For the time all Dianthe’s
cares left her and her tortured mind was at peace. Molly was full of
life and jested and sang and laughed. She had brought her mandolin with
her and gave them soft strains of delicious waltzes.
On, on they glided under the impetus of the paddle-strokes in Aubrey’s
skilful hands, now past the verdure-clad pine hills, now through beds
of fragrant water-lilies getting gradually farther and farther from
the companionship of other pleasure-seekers. On, into the uninhabited
portion where silent woods and long green stretches of pasture-land
added a wild loneliness to the scene.
How lovely was the evening sky with its white clouds dotting the azure
and the pink tinting of the sunset casting over all its enlivening
glow; how deep, and dark was the green of the water beneath the
shadowing trees. From the land came the lowing of cows and the sweet
scent of freshly spread hay.
Suddenly Aubrey’s paddle was caught and held in the meshes of the
water-lily stems that floated all about them. He leaned far over to
extricate it and in a moment the frail craft was bottom up, its living
freight struggling in the river. Once, twice, thrice a thrilling call
for help echoed over the darkening land; then all was still.