"Now help, ye charming spells and periapts!"
Sir Francis Bacon maintained that every man is a debtor to his
profession, and that in seeking to receive countenance and profit
therefrom, he should of duty endeavor, by way of amends, to be a help
and ornament thereunto. Undoubtedly every genuine professor realizes
this obligation; while if he be of a truly appreciative nature, he
will not lose sight of a concomitant duty towards those whose favor
has lent encouragement to the practice of his art or profession,
especially at the period of its incipience.
Such a debt of gratitude did young Doctor Loyd Morton owe the
Effingham family.
Sidney Effingham had been a magnate in his day; a man who had freely
given his distinguished influence towards the refinement of our, in
some respects, too rapid Republican growth, and he had gone down to the
tomb of his ancestors, leaving behind him worthy exemplars in the
persons of his widow, his son and daughter. There had been an elder
son, Malcolm by name, whose unwavering friendship for Morton in boyhood
and early manhood had opened an avenue to the penniless student and
orphan into the bosom of the Effingham family; but Malcolm Effingham
had died of the Roman fever in Italy, and it had been Morton's
melancholy duty, as the young gentleman's travelling-companion and
guest, to close his friend's eyes in death and return to America with
his body.
The untimely demise of his elder son had proved a grievous stroke to
Sidney Effingham; yet he bore up bravely, in a measure transferring
his thwarted interest to Malcolm's friend and class-mate. Thus it came
about that Loyd Morton owed the perfecting of his education to Mr.
Effingham, who insisted that the young man should return to Europe at
his expense and complete his studies. Moreover, such was his almost
morbid affection for all that pertained to his dead son, Sidney
Effingham bequeathed a comfortable living to Morton, thus
acknowledging him, as it were, an adopted son.
The death of this beneficent gentleman occurred during Morton's
courtship in Germany, precipitating his marriage and immediate return
to his native land. Though the widow welcomed young Mrs. Morton with
maternal fervor, to Morton she frankly expressed her regret that he
had placed himself beyond the possibility of assuming Malcolm's vacant
place in her household.
"But my interest in you remains unabated," she assured the young
physician, "and it shall be my pleasure to do all that lies in my
power to insure you success in your chosen profession. Otherwise,
leaving my personal affection for you out of the account, I should
fail in my duty as the wife and mother of those who held your welfare
and success so closely at heart."
And Serena Effingham had acted in accordance with her noble
convictions and promise. Thanks to her unflagging interest in his
behalf, Morton seemed to spring with winged feet into the coveted
haven of fashionable patronage. There is no gainsaying the fact that
he maintained his position by consummate ability, and equally there is
no disputing the fact that he was fortunate in the possession of such
eminently influential backing.
As has been stated, such were his engagements that but few hours of
the day or night could he call his own, even during the period of his
bereavement. His success had been phenomenal, two brief years having
assured his standing among the leading physicians of his day.
This great burden of obligation weighed upon the young doctor's mind,
as he sat beside Malcolm Effingham's brother while the carriage-wheels
dashed through the murky streets of the town and out over the sodden
road that led to Belvoir,--weighed upon his mind to the partial
obliteration of his recent weird experience with Margaret Revaleon.
Romaine Effingham--dying!
Oh, it seemed incredible! How was it possible to couple that brilliant
spirit with the grim austerity of Death?
"And yet," he thought, with a sickening pang at his heart, "should she
die now, in her nineteenth year, she will have enjoyed as many days as
were vouchsafed my poor Paula."
Paula! Merciful heaven, how came it about that he should feel at that
moment as though he were summoned to Paula's bedside and not
Romaine's?
With a start that was half-guilty, half-superstitious, he laid his
hand upon the arm of the mutely eloquent figure at his side.
"Hubert!" he exclaimed in the tone of one who would fain drown the
voice of conscience, "Hubert, my dear boy, why do you not speak? Are
you so anxious?"
"Anxious!" replied young Effingham, "I am almost distracted. What will
become of us should anything happen to Romaine! O Loyd, what was I to
mother compared with father and Malcolm? what am I to her compared
with Romaine?"
"You are unjust to yourself, Hubert, you----"
"Hush, hush! Such words from you, who know us so well, sound like lame
condolence! I cannot bear it while there is a glimmer of hope. By and
by, should there be no help for it, I may be glad to listen to you;
but not now--oh, not now!"
"Hubert," Morton remarked after a momentary pause, "you must be calm.
In the few minutes that remain to us I must learn from you something
concerning Romaine's condition."
"God knows I am willing to help you all I can."
"What has happened to her? How is she affected?"
"We were sitting at dinner, Romaine being in her usual health and
spirits. Indeed, I do not remember when she has been so gay. I suppose
her high spirits were caused by the receipt of a letter to-day from
Colley, stating that he should sail from Havre by the following
steamer, and might outstrip his letter."
At mention of that name, which was simply the nickname of Colston
Drummond, the affianced lover of Romaine Effingham, Loyd Morton
shuddered involuntarily.
"Well, well," he urged, "what then?"
"Well, in the midst of a burst of laughter--you know her laugh, so
like a peal of bells--Romaine suddenly turned ashy pale, and, with a
gasp, sank back in her chair. My God, I shall never forget my
sensation at that moment! She looked as father looked when he died."
"What did you do?"
"Do! We did everything that should be done in such an emergency.
Mother was as firm as a rock; but I saw the look of despair in her
eyes as she turned to me, saying, 'Go for Loyd, with all speed; go
yourself, and bring him back!'--I have secured you; I have done all
that I can. The rest remains with you."
"With _me_!" gasped Morton. "Do you mean to say that you have not
called in some other physician at such a crisis?"
"We have perfect confidence in you, Loyd."
"Good heavens! This is too great a responsibility! I am not--not--" He
was going to add, "I am not equal to such an emergency. You must send
at once for some other doctor," when he paused abruptly, turning
ghastly pale as the words recurred to him, unbidden as the mournful
rustling of the leaves of memory,
"A woman's soul is trembling upon the threshold of eternity. If you
are alone with her when that soul takes wing, my spirit will instantly
take its place, and your skill will do the rest. Accomplish the
resurrection of that body, and secure our further communion."
Consultation with another physician might be the means of saving
Romaine Effingham's life! After all, what mattered it if he were
destined to resurrect her body, though henceforth it was to become the
domicile of a soul for the recovery of which he would have sacrificed
twenty thousand Romaines?
Consequently he bit his lips in silence. And at that moment the
massive gateway of Belvoir gave back a sepulchral echo of the grinding
carriage-wheels, while lights glimmered wanly beyond the fog-trailed
lawn.
An exceedingly charming girl was Romaine Effingham. She possessed that
unconscious grace which resides in the joy of youth and ease of heart.
She was beautiful, accomplished, brilliant, and when, upon the eve of
his departure for Europe, her engagement to Colston Drummond was
announced, the fashionable world joined its plaudits and
congratulations to its acknowledgments for the favor of having been
permitted to witness at least one genuine example of the eternal
fitness of things.
Not to have known Romaine Effingham personally, may be accounted a
positive deprivation; while, to have been ignorant of the existence of
"Colley" Drummond, that estimable corypheus of patrician youth, was
equivalent to confessing one's self quite unknown; and that without a
shade of irony, since Colston Drummond was, in the best sense, a man
of that world which has reason to consider itself well-born. So much
having been admitted, one may feel inclined to sympathize with the
legion who loved Romaine and admired her lover.
It was a grievous sight indeed, to see the fair young girl low lying
in her dainty chamber, with the pallid sign of death on lip and cheek.
Equally pitiful was it to mark the mute anguish of that noble mother,
whose life had been one era of devotion to her children. They had been
her very idols--her treasures beyond price. She had passed whole days
and nights in attendance upon them during their slight juvenile
ailments--days and nights which to fashionable women of her ilk are
precious epochs of social dissipation. To have gone into society
leaving one of her children ill at home, it mattered not how trifling
the indisposition, would have been as utter an impossibility to Serena
Effingham as for her to have regarded with an indifferent eye the
present deathlike syncope of her beautiful daughter. As she had been
faithful in the minutiæ of maternal duty, so was she proportionally
constant in greater exigencies. With eyes haggard with suspense, she
watched the wan face upon the pillow, while her heart-beats told her
how the laggard moments dragged themselves away--away from the happy
past, on towards the menacing future.
A sepulchral silence had settled upon the house, portentous in its
profundity; consequently the slightest sound seemed almost painfully
magnified. Naturally, then, the roll of the carriage-wheels upon the
flagging before the principal entrance sounded an alarm to the anxious
watcher's heart.
"They have come at last!" she breathed. "God grant that they come not
in vain!"
With the prayer trembling upon her lips, she met Loyd Morton at the
head of the staircase. She noted the deadly pallor upon the young
doctor's face and the unusual dilation of his eyes; but she thought
they argued his keen anxiety, as, in a certain sense, they did. She
gave him her hand, with a firm clasp, and dimly noted that his were as
cold as ice. She drew him to her and kissed him, heedless of the fact
that he failed to return the salute.
"You must save her, Loyd," she murmured. "Our hope is built upon your
skill. If ever you loved us, have pity upon us now!"
He made no reply to the solemn injunction; perhaps words failed him at
that supreme moment, perhaps he felt silence to be the wiser course.
She relinquished her hold upon him, and he crossed the hall. At the
door of the dimly lighted chamber he paused and turned abruptly. The
rustle of her dress betrayed the fact that she was close in his wake.
"Permit me to make an examination," he faltered, with evident
constraint; "I--I will then report." The strained circumstances seemed
to invest his words with a defiant ring--at least, her woman's
instinct suggested the fancy; but she respected his request and joined
her son, where he stood, at the head of the staircase, leaning upon
his arm for support. From where they stood, mother and son could see
Morton bending above the inanimate form, could watch him as he lowered
his head close to the pillow, holding it in that position for what
seemed a very eternity.
Was he listening for some token of fluttering vitality? Was he
applying some remedy?
Once Serena Effingham started, as a single word, possibly a name,
reached her listening ear from the dim chamber. _Was_ it a name she
heard? If so, _whose_ name? For an instant she was half inclined to
fancy that her tense anxiety had produced some passing delusion. Yet,
had she been put upon her oath, she would have been forced to confess
that the name which had reached her was that of one dead--the name of
_Paula_!
The fancy appeared preposterous; she had no intention of betraying
such a piece of sensationalism to her son, while Hubert Effingham had
no opportunity of inquiring into the cause of her sudden emotion,
since at the moment Morton quitted the bedside and came quickly forth
to join them.
"Her swoon is yielding," he said, in answer to the eloquent appeal of
their eyes.
"Thank God!"
"Yes, she had passed beyond the portals of death, but she has
returned." He spoke according to his present conviction, not as the
scientist he prided himself upon being. "She will shortly be
conscious," he added, cutting short their eager queries; "her mind
will be in an acutely sensitive condition, and, absolute quiet
throughout the house is indispensable. I will watch till midnight
when, if her condition is favorable, I will relinquish my place to
you." He glanced at Serena Effingham. "I would advise you to secure
what rest you can during the intervening hours."
He turned to re-enter the chamber, when the lady laid a detaining hand
upon his arm.
"Loyd," she whispered, "tell me one thing. What do you consider the
cause of this awful trance?"
"Her heart," he answered.
"Then she may die as her father died?"
"It does not follow. She may never have a recurrence of the trouble.
What I fear is--"
"What do you fear?"
The sensitive lines of his face seemed to petrify as with a desperate
resolution he replied:
"I fear her mind may be affected by this attack."
"Her _mind_! Oh, Loyd, tell me anything but that!"
"Would you prefer her death?" he demanded, almost harshly.
"Oh, no, no, no!"
"Then let us hope for the best; or at least make the best of the
inevitable. You may take comfort in the fact that I promise you
Romaine's life."
He turned abruptly as he spoke, and entering the chamber, silently but
securely closed the door.
Then it was that the mother's fortitude gave way, and turning to her
son, she flung herself upon his breast and burst into tears.
"Oh, Hubert," she sobbed, "what dreadful spell is upon us? After all
these years--though I have known Loyd from his infancy, have loved him
almost as one of my own children, to-night he seems a stranger to me!
What does it mean? what does it all portend?"
He strove to soothe her with loving words, and almost bearing her
precious weight in his arms, he led her away to her own apartments.
And then, in expressive silence, the night wore on to its mid-watch.
The pale crescent of the moon dropped behind the hills, while here and
there a lonesome star peered forth in the rifts of the scudding wrack.
At last, and just upon the stroke of midnight, the vigil was disturbed
by the sound of wheels, of footsteps, of voices, and by the muffled
unclosing and closing of doors. Loyd Morton started from his chair at
the bedside of the sleeping girl. He was pallid to the lips, and with
difficulty commanded the desperate condition of his nerves. Contrary
to his commands, the door of the chamber had been opened to admit the
stalwart figure of a man. The pair had not met in many a year, but in
the dim radiance of the shaded lamp, their recognition was
instantaneous.
For an instant Morton quailed. The intruder who had braved his
authority, to which even the anxiety of a mother deferred, was Colston
Drummond!
The confrontation bristled with omen.