"This dream-maiden was a woman?" I inquired. "One of the women now in
this house?"
He replied reluctantly:
"She was a young woman, and she wore a long cloak. My dream ends there.
I cannot even say whether she was fair or dark."
I recognised that he had reached the limit of his explanations, and,
wringing his hand, I started for the nearest window, which proved to be
that of the music-room. I was about to enter when I saw two women
crossing to the opposite doorway, and paused with a full heart to note
them, for one was Mrs. Lansing and the other Dorothy. The aunt had
evidently come for the niece, and they were leaving the room together.
Not amicably, however. Harsh words had passed, or I am no judge of the
human countenance. Dorothy especially bore herself like one who finds
difficulty in restraining herself from some unhappy outburst, and as she
disappeared from my sight in the wake of her formidable companion my
attention was again called to her hands, which she held clenched at her
sides.
I was stepping into the room when my impulse was again checked. Another
person was sitting there, a person I had been most anxious to see ever
since my last interview with Sinclair. It was Gilbertine Murray, sitting
alone in an attitude of deep, and possibly not altogether happy thought.
I paused to study the sweet face. Truly she was a beautiful woman. I had
never before realised how beautiful. Her rich colouring, her noble
traits, and the spirited air which gave her such marked distinction,
bespoke at once an ardent nature and a pure soul.
I did not wonder that Sinclair had succumbed to charms so pronounced and
uncommon, and as I gazed longer and noted the tremulous droop of her
ripe lips and the far-away look of eyes which had created a great stir
in the social world when they first flashed upon it, I felt that if
Sinclair could see her now he would never doubt her again, despite the
fact that the attitude into which she had fallen was one of great
fatigue, if not despondency.
She held a fan in her hand, and as I stood looking at her she dropped
it. As she stooped to pick it up her eyes met mine, and a startling
change passed over her. Springing up, she held out her hands in wordless
appeal, then let them drop again as if conscious that I would not be
likely to understand either herself or her mood. She was very beautiful.
Entering the room, I approached her. Had Sinclair managed to have his
little conversation with her? Something must have happened, for never
had I seen her in such a state of suppressed excitement, and I had seen
her many times, both here and in her aunt's house when I was visiting
Dorothy. Her eyes were shining, not with a brilliant, but a soft light,
and the smile with which she met my advance had something in it
strangely tremulous and expectant.
"I am glad to have a moment in which to speak to you alone," I said. "As
Sinclair's oldest and closest friend, I wish to tell you how truly you
can rely both on his affection and esteem. He has an infinitely good
heart."
She did not answer as brightly and as quickly as I expected. Something
seemed to choke her--something which she finally mastered, though only
by an effort which left her pale, but self-contained, and even more
lovely, if that is possible, than before.
"Thank you," she then said, "my prospects are very happy. No one but
myself knows how happy."
And she smiled again, but with an expression which recalled to my mind
Sinclair's fears.
I bowed. Some one was calling her name; evidently our interview was to
be short.
"I am obliged," she murmured. Then quickly: "I have not seen the moon
to-night. Is it beautiful? Can you see it from this veranda?"
But before I could answer she was surrounded and dragged off by a knot
of young people, and I was left free to keep my engagement with
Sinclair.
I did not find him at his post, nor could any one tell where he had
vanished.
It was plain that his conduct was looked upon as strange, and I felt
some anxiety lest it should appear more so before the evening was over.
I found him at last in his room, sitting with his head buried in his
arms. He started up as I entered.
"Well?" he asked sharply.
"I have learned nothing decisive."
"Nor I."
"I exchanged some words with both ladies and I tackled Beaton; but the
matter remains just about where it was. It may have been Dorothy who
took the box and it may have been Gilbertine. But there seems to be
greater reason for suspecting Dorothy. She lives a terrible life with
that aunt."
"And Gilbertine is on the point of escaping that bondage. I know; I have
thought of that. Walter, you are a generous fellow;" and for a moment
Sinclair looked relieved. Before I could speak, however, he was sunk
again in his old despondency. "But the doubt," he cried--"the doubt! How
can I go through this rehearsal with such a doubt in my mind? I cannot
and will not. Go, tell them I am ill, and cannot come down again
to-night. God knows you will tell no untruth."
I saw that he was quite beside himself, but ventured upon one
remonstrance.
"It will be unwise to rouse comment," I said. "If that box was taken for
the death it holds, the one restraint most likely to act upon the young
girl who retains it will be the conventionalities of her position and
the requirements of the hour. Any break in the settled order of
things--anything which would give her a moment by herself--might
precipitate the dreadful event we fear. Remember, one turn of the hand,
and all is lost. A drop is quickly swallowed."
"Frightful!" he murmured, the perspiration oozing from his forehead.
"What a wedding-eve! And they are laughing down there. Listen to them. I
even imagine I hear Gilbertine's voice. Is there unconsciousness in it,
or just the hilarity of a distracted mind bent on self-destruction? I
cannot tell; the sound conveys no meaning to me."
"She has a sweet, true face," I said, "and she wears a very beautiful
smile to-night."
He sprang to his feet.
"Yes, yes--a smile that maddens me; a smile that tells me nothing,
nothing! Walter, Walter, don't you see that, even if that cursed box
remains unopened, and nothing ever comes of its theft, the seeds of
distrust are sown thick in my breast, and I must always ask: 'Was there
a moment when my young bride shrank from me enough to dream of death?'
That is why I cannot go through the mockery of this rehearsal."
"Can you go through the ceremony of marriage?"
"I must--if nothing happens to-night."
"And then?"
I spoke involuntarily. I was thinking not of him, but of myself. But he
evidently found in my words an echo of his own thought.
"Yes, it is the _then_," he murmured. "Well may a man quail before that
_then_."
He did go downstairs, however, and later on went through the rehearsal
very much as I had expected him to do--quietly and without any outward
show of emotion.
As soon as possible after this the company separated, Sinclair making me
an imperceptible gesture as he went upstairs. I knew what it meant, and
was in his room as soon as the fellows who accompanied him had left him
alone.
"The danger is from now on," he cried, as soon as I had closed the door
behind me. "I shall not undress to-night."
"Nor I."
"Happily we both have rooms by ourselves in this great house. I shall
put out my light, and then open my door as far as need be. Not a move in
the house will escape me."
"I will do the same."
"Gilbertine--God be thanked!--is not alone in her room. Little Miss Lane
shares it with her."
"And Dorothy?"
"Oh, she is under the strictest bondage night and day. She sleeps in a
little room off her aunt's. Do you know her door?"