"Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!"
The portentous interview in the library was held within closed doors,
and at its conclusion the two gentlemen left the house by one of the
casement windows of the room that gave upon the terrace. Through the
gathered dusk they passed side by side, their blurred shadows tracking
them in the faint radiance of the young moon. Side by side they
crossed the lawn, bearing down towards the belt of woodland beyond
which lay Drummond Lodge--two apparitions, voiceless and black. At
last the blackness of the woods embraced them and they vanished.
Not until the dense umbrage of the budding trees was reached was a
word exchanged between the ill-assorted pair. It was there, upon the
fragrant hem of the grove, that Morton paused, removed his hat and
mopped his brow, though the evening was damp and chill.
"I see no occasion for me to go farther," he remarked, a note of
nervous irritation in his tone.
"I did not intend to bring you so far," replied Drummond; "but I
wished to think of your proposition; to think before I gave an answer
to your--your unnatural demand."
His companion listened to the words, his pallid face agleam in the wan
twilight.
"Well," he muttered, "you have arrived at some conclusion?"
"I admit that I am curious to know the limit of your powers," was the
reply, bitter with irony.
"I boast no special powers. I will simply try to do that which I have
proposed."
Drummond broke off a spray of dogwood blossom and tossed it away
unheeded.
"You understand," he said sternly, "understand thoroughly, that I
insist upon complete satisfaction in the matter."
"I understand."
"That I must have the proof and testimony which I have named."
"I understand."
"You speak confidently."
"I speak as I feel--as I have reason to speak."
"As you _think_ you have reason to speak," echoed Drummond, an ominous
gloom shadowing his fierce eyes. "Well, sir, do your best--accomplish
what you can--then come to me at any hour of the night. You may suit
your own convenience. Between this hour and daybreak you will find a
light burning which will guide you straight to me. You will find me
alone and waiting--but, mark you! if you come to me with any trickery,
any fabrication, any counterfeit proof, I shall detect you in your
infamy, and shall be merciless; so beware! Likewise should you attempt
to evade me in the humiliation of failure, I warn you that I shall be
equally relentless."
Morton replied in a tense tone which betrayed the struggle for
composure that he was undergoing.
"I do not fear you," he said, "your approbation or displeasure is
alike a matter of indifference to me. In any case, though I admit but
_one_ to be possible, I shall come to you before daybreak."
Drummond drew up his stalwart figure to its full height and folded his
arms.
"Under the circumstances, then," he observed with a sneer, "I should
be unreasonable were I to encroach upon another instant of your
precious time."
Perhaps his mockery was unheeded. Be that as it may, Morton had turned
abruptly while he was speaking, and had begun rapidly to retrace his
steps to the mansion beyond the lawn.
Upon the fringe of the wood, Colston Drummond stood watching the
receding figure until, its lineaments mingling with the pervading
gloom, it was lost to sight.
"Charlatan! fool!" he muttered. "I have given you the rope; go hang
yourself!"
He turned upon his heel and pressed into the path that led across the
copse, through which twinkled the lights of Drummond Lodge.
Suddenly he paused with clenched hands, and only the budding leaves
and fronds were auditors of the groan that came, wrung from his inmost
soul.
"My God! _if_ she should fail me!"
Meanwhile dinner had been announced at Belvoir. Plenty of candles had
been lighted to dispel the gloom. The butler stood at his post before
the side-board, but as yet the four chairs placed about the table
lacked occupants. The man glanced at the clock upon the mantel-piece
and heaved a decorous sigh, doubtless in memory of the well-ordered
days of his late master. At last, and just as the hands of the clock
marked the half-hour after seven, Hubert Effingham appeared and
requested the "faithful Adam" to serve the repast.
"Doctor Morton will dine with us," he said, and turned to meet his
mother and Morton as they entered.
Mother and son had indulged in no little surmise as to the sudden
disappearance of their two guests, and had delayed dinner until the
last moment on their account. Morton's return, unattended, did not
serve to elucidate matters, since he did not appear to be in a
communicative frame of mind.
The pair had met him upon the terrace, where they had been strolling
to and fro in the pale moonlight, talking in lowered tones and
awaiting some development in the mystery. They had descried his dark
figure as he crossed the lawn, coming from the direction of "Drummond
Copse," as the belt of woodland separating the estates was familiarly
called, and, with no slight sense of curiosity, awaited his arrival at
the head of the steps. Their meeting might have seemed strained, but
for Hubert Effingham's remark, which relieved the situation.
"If the dinner is spoiled, my dear Loyd," he said cheerily, "pray do
not blame the cook; when guests stray away at the dinner-hour, who is
responsible for the consequences? And, by the way, where is Colston?
Have we to wait until his constitutional is over?"
"Mr. Drummond will not dine with us this evening," replied Morton,
with an indifference, the assumption of which was painfully apparent.
"And pardon me; I was in hopes that you would begin, and permit me to
catch up with you, as--as I have so frequently done."
"The idea of obliging Loyd to apologize for his actions," interposed
Mrs. Effingham, laughing, "when his privileges here are the privileges
of his own house! Be off with you, you Hector, and tell Anton he may
serve dinner."
Thereupon she linked her arm within that of the young doctor, and
glanced up into his face with an affection beyond question.
"Why should I mention your privileges in my home, my dearest boy and
almost son?" she asked. "Do I need to remind you of my darling
Malcolm's love for you, or of the paternal fondness of that dear one
who so soon followed my boy to the grave?"
She noted the nervous tremor of Morton's pallid lips, and hastened to
remove the painful impression she had produced.
"Of course not!" she added; "more than ever, now, I account you a son.
You have saved Romaine, and it is the debt of a mother's gratitude
that I have to repay--if such requital be within human power. Oh, Loyd
dear, you are again alone in the world! Come to me and fill the vacant
place!"
"Of son?" he demanded in a tone, the hoarseness of which concealed its
almost fierce eagerness.
"Of nothing less than son, you know it."
His dark eyes lighted with an inward fire that he was powerless to
mask.
"God bless you!--mother," he answered, chokingly; "perhaps the hour is
not far distant when I may ask requital for the life I have given you
back, and put you to the test."
They had entered the lighted hall and she glanced with a slightly
wondering start into his face, though the replied in the same fulness
of soul,
"Bring me to the test."
Their entrance into the dining-room and the presence of Hubert put an
end to the conversation, and dinner began, a single course of which
gave ample proof that the atmosphere had cleared. Romaine was out of
danger, indeed convalescent, and the awful suspense of the last
twenty-four hours was at an end. Mother and son presided in the very
best of spirits, and Morton must have been morose indeed had he been
able to withstand the contagion of their buoyant mood. Under the
influence of their constantly reiterated gratitude for the feat which
they ascribed to his skill, of the genial atmosphere, combined with
the excellent fare and wines, he warmed while some hint of hope and
peace crept back into his tortured heart. Only once did the clutch of
inexorable destiny seem laid upon him, causing his blood to halt in
its channels, as Hubert exuberantly exclaimed,
"I see but one way, Loyd, and only one, in which you can be repaid for
saving Romaine!"
"Relieve my mind by informing me, Hubert," remarked Mrs. Effingham
with a smile; "I confess that I have cudgelled my brains in vain."
"By giving him what he has saved--by giving him Romaine!"
"And how about Colston?" laughed the lady in high good humor.
"I did not take him into the account," responded the young man; "at
all events he should not object, under the circumstances."
"Which proves that you have never been in love, my boy."
They glanced at Morton, and were slightly chilled at the sternness of
his face and the intensity with which he answered,
"Were it her will, I would gladly be Romaine's servant in love as I
have been her servant in life and death."
It was as if a frigid wind had crossed the genial atmosphere, chilling
their hearts as the mere passage of a current closes the sensitive
blossoms of the deep sea. But the constraint was transient; they were
used to Morton's moods, and ever were accustomed to make light of
them; and in the kindness of their hearts they readily imagined a
score of excuses for this particular one. The actual relief to the
situation, however, presented itself in the sudden and unexpected
apparition of Romaine herself upon the threshold of the dining-room.
She stood between the parted draperies, the soft folds of her robe
falling about her in the radiance of the candles.
Romaine's welcome back to her accustomed place at table was full of
that exuberant congratulation natural to the situation. There was a
general uprising to receive and lead her to the vacant chair, which
had been set in place for Colston Drummond. Although Mrs. Effingham
and Hubert simultaneously saluted the girl's wan cheeks, Romaine had
eyes only for Morton as he bent before her to kiss the hand she
involuntarily outstretched to him. Those eyes, so dark and limpid,
seemed fairly to embrace the young doctor with their eloquent
scrutiny. A conscious flush suffused his face, while an eager, hungry
light flashed into his eyes, hitherto so dull and apathetic.
Romaine sank into the vacant chair and glanced about her with a happy
sigh.
"How good it seems to be well again!" she exclaimed. "I feel as though
I had been away from you all an age. Pray, how long is it since I sat
here?"
"Just twenty-four hours, sister mine," replied Hubert.
"One day, only one brief day," she remarked, as it were,
introspectively, "and yet in that short space of time I have lived
through an eternity--such an eternity!"
Her voice fell almost to a whisper, and her eyes became fixed upon
space with an indescribably dreamy inspection in their depths.
Although the dinner was practically at an end, Hubert seated himself
beside her, watching her with an affectionate interest not unmixed
with sadness. Mrs. Effingham and Morton, however, remained standing
side by side at the head of the table, and it was of the latter that
the lady inquired in a swift undertone,
"Is it not a risk for her to have left her room so soon?"
"I think not," replied Morton, without removing his eyes from Romaine,
upon whom they had rested intently since her appearance; "but I do not
approve of her remaining here. See for yourself! The associations of
the spot seem to be exerting some spell upon her already. Romaine," he
said suddenly, perhaps in answer to the mother's anxious glance, "if I
am to be your physician until you are out of all danger, you must obey
me. You were imprudent to leave your room without my permission."
She raised her eyes quickly, smiling in happy submission, as she
inquired,
"Must I go back again? Command! I am your dutiful patient."
"We will go into the conservatory, if you wish," Morton answered. "It
is warmer there and less exposed to draughts; you shall inspect your
favorite flowers, and then, I think, we shall have you retire for the
night and rest."
She rose with the ready acquiescence of a docile child, and going to
him, placed her arm within his.
"Come!" she said. "Of all things, I would like to show you my plants;
I think you have not seen them for a long, long time." And with an
animated smile, that somehow seemed pathetic, she led Morton away
through the glass doors that opened from the dining-room into the
spacious conservatory lying fragrant and dim in the rays of the
crescent moon.
Hubert had risen as Romaine left the room, and stood with his hand
resting upon the back of his chair, lost in troubled thought that
mirrored itself upon his expressive face; at last, with sudden
resolution, he conquered his painful indecision, and coming to Mrs.
Effingham's side, touched her arm.
"Mother," he remarked, "Loyd is correct."
"Loyd is always correct," replied the lady in a startled way, that
belied the confidence that her words implied.
"Yes, but he is correct upon one point which you and I, in our great
love for Romaine, have been trying to evade during the whole of this
endless day."
"What do you mean, Hubert?"
"I mean that Romaine's mind _is_ affected."
"Merciful heaven!" cried the mother, the ready tears glittering in her
anxious eyes, "how you utter my thoughts! My dear boy, what shall we
do if such be the case?"
"I believe it to be but a temporary aberration, and Loyd thinks so,
too," replied the young man, soothingly.
"But how can we tell? O Hubert, what suspense for us!"
"Yes; but we must bear it bravely, mother, hoping and praying for the
best. All that we can do is to mind Loyd's commands, in regard to
Romaine, to the letter. It must be our duty to see that nothing
troubles or thwarts her."
"Of course!"
"Ah, that may mean more than you think."
"How so?"
"It may mean that we shall be forced to forbid Colston the house, or
at least the privilege of seeing Romaine until she recovers."
"Colston!" exclaimed Mrs. Effingham, in pained amazement; "forbid
Colston Drummond to enter our house!"
"Yes. An unfortunate scene has been enacted this afternoon in
Romaine's room between Colston and Loyd--of course in Romaine's
presence. Then, later, there has been something mysterious going on
between the two men, of what import I do not know."
"What can it be?"
"I say I do not know; but perhaps Loyd will confide in me. In the mean
time I have perfect confidence that he is conscientiously doing his
best for Romaine's welfare. You can see for yourself, that her
consideration even for us, her mother and brother, is second to her
sudden attachment for Loyd."
The significance of the words failed not duly to impress Mrs.
Effingham. Her slight color faded, leaving her face ashy to the very
lips.
"Can you mean," she said, with evident effort, "that some mysterious
mental distemper has interested her in Loyd to the prejudice of
Colston?"
"That is my suspicion."
"You think that her love has turned to Loyd?"
"Can you doubt it?"
"What would be the consequences of her return to reason?"
"Mother dear," replied Hubert Effingham, manfully, "we had better not
torment ourselves with considerations for the future; we have our
hands full with the present."
Meanwhile Romaine and Morton had wandered out of ear-shot of this
significant conversation, into the depths of the conservatory. They
had paused beneath a luxuriant _lapageria_, and the girl had raised
caressing hands, drawing downward a cluster of its frosty bells to her
lips.
The startling likeness in tint between the wan face and the ghostly
blossoms, as they gleamed side by side in the moonlight, so painfully
suggested the sculptured pallor of death, that Morton caught her hands
in his and drew her quickly into his embrace, as he would snatch her
from the brink of the grave. She resigned herself to his clasp, almost
rough in its passion, without a tremor, while she glanced with a
wondering smile up into his face.
"I associate those cold, scentless flowers with a certain funeral," he
said with a shudder that caused her to nestle involuntarily closer to
him; "I saw them near you once, and God knows I would never see them
so placed again!"
"Yes, I have worn them in my hair," she said, "and they were thought
beautiful with my white lace gown."
"They were laid upon your breast when I saw them last," he muttered,
"and they were cut from this very vine."
"Indeed? I do not recollect."
"No, and I would not have you recollect that time, since we are united
again."
"United again!" she echoed dreamily. "O Loyd, teach me to understand
how we have ever been separated!"
"Rather let me teach you how fondly I love you," he whispered; "let me
convince you that every heart-throb of ours distances the past--the
dead past and its shadows. Let your very soul be witness to my avowal
when I tell you that I love you! Paula, I love you!"
"Paula!"
She spoke the name after him in no surprise, with no intonation of
perplexity. It left her lips lingeringly, as though its sound was
pleasing to her ear.
"Yes, Paula," he answered eagerly; "you are Paula, Paula to me, but
Romaine to the rest of the world."
"How strange," she faltered with that dreamy smile, as if fascinated.
"But you comprehend," he insisted--"you appreciate the distinction?"
"Oh, yes."
"Answer to every name in Christendom, if you will, save Paula; you are
Paula alone for _me_!"
His impassioned emphasis seemed to charm her. Her rapt gaze enveloped
his head as she lay in his arms, and there was a smile of ineffable
serenity upon her lips.
"How you love that name!" she murmured.
"_You_ taught me to love it."
"I must have, since you say so."
"You are Paula."
"Yes, I am Paula," she replied as one echoes a dictation; then, with a
half-regretful sigh, "What would I not give to be able to recall the
past!"
"You will recall everything in due time," he said soothingly; "I will
help you."
"After all," she said after a pause, "what is the past, compared with
the present? It seems like an earth-life which I have left behind; the
present is heaven."
"Paula, my own true darling!" he parted in ecstasy, "you recognize me;
you love me!"
"I love you, Loyd."
He bent his head to kiss the calmly smiling lips, when she raised her
hand to stroke, with fond caress, his hair.
A flash like miniature lightning dazed his sight as her hand passed
upward; it was simply the gleam of a diamond upon her finger; but
through its white sheen peered the face of Colston Drummond, distorted
with a grimace of mocking warning, and he reeled from his seventh
heaven to earth, felled by that tiny shaft.
He loosened his hold upon her, and caught her hand, riveting his
burning eyes upon the gem, that returned the glare with flashes of
ruby fire.
"You must not wear this ring!" he exclaimed; "I cannot bear to see it
upon your dear hand."
Her startled glance left his face and rested upon the exquisite jewel.
"You do not like the ring?" she inquired in a puzzled way.
"It is not a question of my like or dislike," he replied with
increasing eagerness, almost with impatience. "_I_ did not place it
upon your finger; it does not belong to you, Paula."
"Oh, then take it away!" she cried, hastily twisting off the circlet;
"I hate it now, although I thought it so beautiful."
Perhaps it was the utter absence of regret in her tone that brought
that triumphant glitter to his eyes, as he accepted the ring and
slipped it upon the little finger of his left hand.
"It shall return whence it came," he said unsteadily. "It shall
trouble you no more; but in its stead you shall wear this ring, these
pearls. Paula, do you not recognize them?"
As he spoke, he produced a plain gold hoop, set with three perfect
pearls, and held it before her eyes.
"Pearls!" she murmured sadly; "pearls are ill-fated; they mean tears."
He cast his arm about her waist and drew her to him, still holding the
ring within range of her vision.
"All portents, all auguries, all superstitions fail in our case!" he
cried exultantly. "We are exempt from all baleful influences now!
These pearls may _once_ have signified tears, but now there are no
more tears whence they came; they are petrified, and symbolize our
happy reunion. In this supreme moment of our love, try to
recollect--Paula, do you not recognize these pearls?"
A spasm of actual pain crossed the beautiful face, the result of
intense mental exertion.
"O Loyd, I cannot recollect!" she faltered piteously; "and yet--. Did
you not promise to help me to recall the past?"
"Yes, my darling!" he exclaimed, his passion exceeding all bounds;
"and I will fulfil that promise when we have wearied of the blessed
present! A new promise I will make you here and now, and that is never
again to torture you with unavailing considerations; only tell me once
again that you love me with all your renewed strength, with all your
purified soul!"
She raised her arms and wound them about his neck.
"Loyd, I love you," she answered steadily; "I love you--love you as
the angels in heaven love!"
"Of whom you are one!"
He kissed her upon the lips--a long, rapturous kiss, thrilling with
the welcome of his yearning heart; with such rapture only could he
have kissed the one who had been his bride, returned to him from the
imminence of some awful danger or from the shadow of the grave.
As such, and in all good faith, he kissed the woman lying in his arms,
in all reason believing her his loved and lost one sent back to him
from the vague realms of eternity.
Suddenly he raised his head and looked into her face with something
akin to fright, actuated doubtless by the shadow of a last doubt upon
his certitude; as a fleeting remnant of cloud-rack after a night of
storm will sometimes fleck the serenity of a perfect dawn.
Would there be a blush upon her cheek after that impassioned salute?
And, if there were, would not it portend an agitation born of maiden
modesty? His suspicious heart assured him that no such tell-tale hue
dyes the brow in holy wedlock. And he could have cried aloud in his
exceeding joy to find the sweet face as untinged as the ghostly
flower-bells that hung above it.
He placed the ring of pearls upon her finger whence the flashing
diamond had been removed, and kissed it into place; and she, with fond
humility, received the kiss from the jewelled pledge, and returned it
to his lips.
Then they passed, with their arms entwined about each other, through
the dimly lighted rooms and up the stairs to the chamber, where he
surrendered her into the care of her waiting-maid.
"You will not leave the house to-night?" she murmured, as their hands
unclasped at the threshold.
"Not to-night," he answered softly, "nor ever, till you go with me!"
For the instant he forgot his obligation to Colston Drummond that
night; but, when her chamber-door had closed and the diamond upon his
hand flashed a defiant ray at the lamp upon the newel-post, he
bethought himself of his inevitable engagement. However, he did not
blench.
"I am master of the ring!" he murmured in triumph. "One more effort,
and I go to Drummond Lodge within the hour, prepared to remove the
last impediment from my path!"
At that moment he descried the figure of Mrs. Effingham crossing the
hall below in the direction of the library. With rapid steps he
descended the stairs and followed her. He was in search of her, since
from her hand must come the final weapon destined to silence his
rival.