ONRAI CONFESSES HIS LOVE.
Yes, it was only too true. The sufferings of that mad ride before the
storm and the long exposure had unbalanced Enola’s reason. As Mr. Bruce
entered the apartment after visiting Gip he found two women attendants
struggling with her trying to prevent her leaving the couch, while Mrs.
Graham was standing near trying to reason with her. But there was no
longer any reason in Enola. She had awakened to oblivion, her mind
groveling in darkness.
Mr. Bruce walked up, and looking at Enola closely, saw that she was in a
high fever; feeling her pulse he knew that she was in a very dangerous
condition. His troubled look told the story to Mrs. Graham and Nellie as
they stood watching him anxiously. He sent for the small medicine chest
which they had brought with them from the States, and which they had
thought to place with the equipments when starting on this excursion.
From this he took medicines that would allay the fever, first giving
Enola a quieting powder. This had to be forced down her throat as she
closed her teeth tightly and refused to take anything. It soon had its
effect and as her muscles relaxed and bruised limbs became quiet, Mr.
Bruce could better diagnose the disease.
After a careful examination he came to the conclusion that she was
suffering more from a nervous fever than anything else, caused by the
fearful suspense, suffering and exposure of the night before.
“Is there any hope for her?” asked Harry, who had come into the
apartment.
“I cannot say,” said Mr. Bruce, “but we will hope until the disease has
run its course and the change comes.”
“But of her reason,” questioned Harry. “If she lives, will her mind
always be clouded?” and Harry’s look of agony was fearful.
“That I cannot say, for unfortunately, I am not an expert in mind
diseases,” answered Mr. Bruce. “It may be though only the ravings of a
fever-racked brain, and when this has passed she may regain her reason.”
“God grant that this may be true,” said Harry.
Mr. Bruce was a great advocate of ice in cases of fever and he had at
once ordered a liberal use of this. Fortunately Mrs. Graham and Nellie
were with Enola, for they had both had experience as nurses and knew
just what to do, and then their love for her would insure her the very
best of treatment.
The day rolled by and Enola had not yet come out of the long sleep into
which the morphine had thrown her. Harry had strolled up and down before
the door of the sick chamber, stopping occasionally to listen, hoping to
hear signs of returning consciousness from within. But all had remained
quiet and Harry had kept up the vigil from without. He had suffered
fearfully in those few short hours since Enola, snatched by the storm,
had been carried away, giving her up only after it had destroyed the
greatest gift of God—reason. It seemed an age to him, these few short
hours and the suffering had grown more intense as the day advanced, and
the possibilities of returning life and reason grew less. Harry was not
one to say much or to carry his heart on his sleeve, but his love for
Enola was deep and sincere, and his suffering now fearful as a
consequence. He had seen Enola’s growing friendliness or infatuation for
the King and this had wounded him terribly. Still he had so much faith
in her that he could not doubt but that she would be perfectly true to
herself in the matter, and if, in the meantime she should learn to love
Onrai, she would tell him candidly.
But the thought was torturing, the very possibility of his losing her
after these long years. The barbarous grandeur, so it might be called,
of the King and his people, was enough to turn the head of any woman or
man, for that matter, and he could not blame Enola if she should turn
from him to the King. Yet there was something about these people which
could not be understood, a certain mystery unsolved and unsolving; they
had now been among them several weeks, and had been let into all their
mode of life, their customs, habits, and nothing, seemingly, had been
kept from them; but there had been mentioned a certain day, the Day of
Resis, over which there hung a cloud. This had only been mentioned
unguardedly, and there seemed to be a secret connected with it, which
was not to be divulged to the vulgar ears of the strangers. Harry had
hopes that the uncertainty of this mystery would guard Enola from
allowing herself to form an alliance with the King, an alliance which
might make life a hell ever afterwards.
Harry was not superstitious, but there was a certain dread of the future
with these people; a sort of premonition of coming evil; that before
long this pleasant life would end, and a something would occur which
would make the party forever regret the day they entered this strange
country. These thoughts might have been occasioned by the fear that
Enola was being infatuated by the subtle influence of the King; an
influence, which he, Harry, thought lay in the mystery overhanging the
entire race. But when Enola would once come to believe as he did, that
there was a future life with these people, which was the very reverse to
the one they were now enjoying, she would at once turn a deaf ear to the
love-making of Onrai. But had he made love to her? Harry could not make
himself believe that Enola would allow this from one whom she had known
but such a short while; and then Onrai, when Harry came to think of him,
was such a great, powerful man, so straightforward and free from all
deceit, so brave and strong; he looked a lover, and yet he did not know.
One thing Harry was assured of: Onrai did not make love to Enola with
those simple nothings which make up the wooings of modern lovers in
civilized countries. And it might be the total absence of these idiotic
expressions which won her friendship and esteem, and finally, love. It
might be the grand physique and strength of the man which attracted her.
But at any rate, Harry would not relinquish all hope of yet winning
Enola, and when he thought of that mysterious something which threw a
sort of shroud over the future of these people, he felt almost confident
that Enola would not allow herself to become entirely infatuated, or, as
it has been said, allianced with this King.
But now this slender hope had been shattered. Enola lay at death’s door
physically and mentally, with but slight hopes of regaining bodily
health, and less of her ever regaining her reason. For the first time
Harry regretted their ever having started on this hazardous journey, but
when he thought of the determination of Enola, and realized that she
would have come at any rate whether he had or not, he felt glad at least
that he was now here to help her. He must be resigned and await the
future. But this was easier said than done, especially when the one
great loved one was lying at death’s door. Again he stopped and
listened, and hearing no sound, walked to the entrance, and looking out
saw Onrai dash madly up on his winded charger and dismount. Onrai almost
stumbled over Harry as he hurried through the entrance. Looking up
almost angrily, he was about to make some passionate remark, when,
seeing that it was Harry, he grasped him by the shoulders, and said,
hoarsely:
“Tell me quickly, how is she?”
“The same,” answered Harry. “Still mad, and no hope.”
“It is fearful!” cried Onrai, as he dropped his hands from Harry’s
shoulders and commenced pacing the floor.
Harry watched the suffering of this strong man, and for a time, almost
gloated over the thought of this rival’s agony. But why should he feel
this way? Had not Onrai been open and above board with him, and did he,
Onrai, ever suspect that he had a rival in himself? So if they were to
be rivals, let it be an open and square fight, and not for a moment
harbor such miserable jealous thoughts. Going up to Onrai, he said:
“Tell me, King, why do you take such an interest in us—in Enola? We are
your guests, certainly, but your interest in us is even greater than we
might expect from you, our host.”
“I cannot answer you,” said Onrai, “further than as you have suggested,
it is because you are my guests. You come to us strangers; you knew not
what to expect when you threw yourselves on our bounty, but you trusted
us, and for that reason you are deserving of every attention which we
can give you.”
“But pardon me, Onrai,” said Harry, “if I ask you a pointed question. I
saw your fearful agitation as you witnessed Enola being borne away from
you last night in the teeth of the storm; I saw that you suffered far
more than if you had only a friendly interest in her; and I saw you
to-night when you came tearing up the driveway and then up the steps of
the terrace, the dead zebra testifying that you must have ridden like
mad: I see you now, your face pale, your eyes bloodshot, your whole
appearance displaying mental anguish. Have you not a personal interest
in Enola, and is not this interest prompted by a feeling deeper than
friendship?”
Onrai now stood with his arms crossed over his breast, his bearing erect
and scornful, as if to give Harry the impression that he was accountable
to himself alone for his actions and did not recognize Harry’s right to
question him. He stood looking at Harry for some time after he had
finished speaking, as if debating with himself as to whether he would
answer him or not. But his just nature asserted itself, and he said:
“Your question is a strange one, but I feel that you have some right to
ask it; for you have been Enola’s companion for years and must have a
brotherly regard or love for her. I cannot blame you, now that I
remember the difference in our lives, for this solicitation for her
future. But have not my attentions to Enola been honorable? Do you think
that I, the King of the Land of On, chosen by the people because they
knew that I was pure of mind, do you think that I could so far forget my
natural traits or early teachings, as to have any but the purest
thoughts of Enola, and do you not know that the Kings of On cannot
marry?”
“So I have learned,” answered Harry, “but are you not still a man, and
as a man have you not human emotions and passions? Because you are a
chosen King, is the ruling passion, love, driven from your heart?”
“No, I would to God that it was,” answered Onrai, and his face betrayed
his fearful agony of mind. “No, this passion is still ours, but
sufficient strength is given us to keep it in check. We must smother it
and cast it out. We must so interest ourselves in our people as to
forget all else.”
“But can you do this?” asked Harry. “Is not love all-powerful? Even
among your people, who are supposed to keep it in check until after
marriage? You have lived, Onrai, thirty-five years; have you not in that
time felt the delightful sensations of love, and have you found it
possible to smother it?”
“Yes, I have loved,” answered Onrai. “But it came over me like a dream
and was so subtle in its movements that I did not realize that it had
taken possession of me until a long time afterwards. But an unlooked for
event opened my eyes to my sin and the knowledge of it nearly crazed
me.”
[Illustration: “No, I would to God that it was.”—_Page 154._]
“Your sin?” asked Harry. “Do you consider it a sin when you did not
realize that it was love that had taken possession of you? I would not
call it by such a name.”
“Still it was a sin,” said Onrai, “for I had allowed myself to be drawn
into its meshes without even making an effort to extricate myself. To
escape this tempter it is necessary that we guard against the influences
which lead to it, and I have not done this.”
“But, King, could you, after your discovery, tear this love from your
breast and go on as if you had never experienced this grand emotion?”
questioned Harry again.
“I must,” answered Onrai, “for it would be death for me to nurture it
and allow it to influence my life, which it would do if I did not kill
it. Still, the struggle will be terrible, and I know not how it will
end. It is too early now in the fight, perhaps, to expect great results,
but I almost doubt my strength to overcome its machinations. But I must
see her,” and Onrai hurried toward the door of Enola’s apartment, Mr.
Bruce having beckoned him to come.