"No, no, although
The air of Paradise did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all: I will be gone--
... Come, night; end, day!
For with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away."
Whether or not he entertained decided views regarding the power of his
personal magnetism over Romaine, it is certain that Morton felt no
perturbation, no uncertainty of touch, in his management of her. Loth,
as we have seen him, to admitting that he possessed any so-called
mesmerism, he was convinced that he held the key to her volition, and
that he need have no further anxiety on that score. Come what might,
no matter what contingency might arise, he was persuaded that she
would second his wishes, would obey him in any event. Why should it
not be so if, as he strove to believe--nay, as he was obliged to
believe or perish--she were actuated by the spirit of his wife?
Doubtless he would have been stronger in his belief if that belief had
not resorted to the make-shift of interrogation. He was vaguely
conscious of the weakness, of the masked doubt, that a question
implies--especially when it is a question of faith; and yet his very
inability to answer such question satisfactorily lent him a species of
Dutch courage that materially assisted him to tread his dubious way.
As the belated way-farer whistles in the night or affrightedly calls
upon his common-sense to assign suspicious sounds to the harmlessness
of natural causes, so he groped his way, fondly believing the darkness
light, satisfied if an unanswered query dispelled a doubt.
If, then, he experienced no uneasiness as regarded his management of
Romaine, he was forced to admit great apprehension as to the
successful control of Mrs. Effingham at the decisive moment. Granting
his power of magnetism over the daughter, he had reason seriously to
doubt the virtue of his occult gifts if applied to the mother.
Something of this moral hesitancy must have mirrored itself upon his
countenance as he thrust aside the drapery that concealed the library
door and found himself in the presence of the lady.
Serena Effingham had seated herself at the writing-table, arranged
paper, and taken pen in hand; but, as the sound of Morton's footsteps
reached her, she hastily dropped the pen and removed a tiny rose
colored shade from the candle, the better to scan the intruder's face.
"I disturb you," he said shortly, in a tone that promptly secured her
curious attention.
"No," she answered; "as you see, I am not engaged, I have not begun to
write. What is it, Loyd? You have something of importance to say to
me?"
She half rose as she spoke, but he motioned her back to her seat.
"Yes, something of importance to say," he replied; "a request to ask,
which you can grant nowhere so well as here, since you must write."
"Write--what? To whom?"
"To Mr. Drummond."
"To Colston! He may be here during the evening; I do not doubt he will
be."
"Colston Drummond will not call this evening."
Hubert's insinuations, together with the mysterious behavior of the
two men earlier in the evening, recurred to her mind with unpleasant
vividness; yet she hesitated to divulge alike her son's and her own
involuntary espionage upon their guests. Consequently she had recourse
to temporization for present safety.
"Colston would be remiss in his duty if he failed to inquire for
Romaine before he slept," she remarked nervously. "Whatever may be his
faults--and he has as few as any man I know--indifference is not one
of them; at least, indifference as regards those he loves."
It was like her valiantly to defend the absent, and she spoke from her
heart.
Morton watched her with his soul in his eyes, though he turned a shade
more pallid, while the lines about his lips grew more tense as each
word of hers broke the silence.
"Why should you defend him?" he asked almost harshly.
"Why?" she faltered, at a loss for words.
"Such defence as yours implies some suspicion."
"Why so?"
"Because it was wholly unprovoked."
"Loyd," the lady exclaimed, "you dislike Colston!"
"Why should I?"
"Do you not?"
"No! He is almost a stranger to me; I am not called upon either to
like or dislike him. I do not belong to his sphere in life; he has
simply crossed mine as a thousand and one persons meet me
professionally and part, never to meet again."
"But you are likely to meet him frequently in the future."
"I think not. I confess that I am not so completely indifferent to his
welfare as to hope he might some day have need of my services, which
would be the only opportunity we could have of meeting."
Mrs. Effingham bit her lip to conceal some rising emotion, and toyed
absently with the pen.
"Let us dismiss him from our thoughts for the present," she said with
a sigh, "and attend to your request."
"I would willingly comply," Morton remarked, "but unfortunately we
cannot dismiss Mr. Drummond, since he is intimately connected with my
request."
She turned a swift, startled glance upon the speaker.
"Yes," he continued, coming close to the table and leaning above it;
"I wish you to write to Mr. Drummond, forbidding him to come here--for
the present; at least, forbid him to intrude upon Romaine until she is
stronger and better able to bear his importunity."
"Loyd! what can you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. Either Mr. Drummond vacates the field to me, or I
vacate the field to Mr. Drummond and such other physician as you may
choose to call in. I cannot, and will not, suffer my efforts to be
balked by his interference. You have placed Romaine in my charge to
cure, and I will do my utmost to secure the desired end so long as I
am undisturbed; any physician demands so much. If you consider me
unreasonable, I beg you to say so frankly. No candid opinion, honestly
uttered, ever gave offence or caused a breach in friendship. At all
events, it shall not in my case."
The heroism of his words was belied by his tone, the expression of his
face, his very attitude.
If Colston Drummond's rights at Belvoir were maintained in spite of
Morton's semi-truthful plea, the day would be lost to him, and he knew
it. If Drummond held his ground, he must retreat. He felt the solid
earth beneath him changing to a shifting quick-sand, from which only a
miracle could save him. If Drummond were restored to Romaine, he must
leave her, and, in leaving her, leave that chimerical love to which he
had become enslaved, abandon his spirit-wife--and go mad, for aught he
knew to the contrary.
The suspense of that supreme moment aged him appreciably, while the
reaction that succeeded well-nigh deprived him of self-control.
He could have cried aloud in the exuberance of his joy, could have
flung himself upon the earth, or indulged in any other fantastic mode
of relief when at last Mrs. Effingham tremulously replied,
"Come what may, you shall remain in command here. O Loyd, do not
desert us in this the eleventh hour of our anxiety! In heaven's name,
stand by us until your good work is accomplished! You have dragged
Romaine back from the threshold of death; sustain her until the
threatening portals are closed and she is safe!"
She rose as she spoke, with outstretched arms, and he hastened to her
to receive her embrace.
She clung to him hysterically for a moment, then sank into her chair
and with an effort caught up the pen in her trembling fingers.
"Dictate--I will write," she faltered sobbingly.
It was Morton's very good fortune that Mrs. Effingham never so much as
dreamed of suspecting his perfect disinterestedness in her daughter's
cause. In intrusting Romaine's life to his care, she placed in his
keeping that which she considered infinitely more precious than the
salvation of her own immortal soul, since she unhesitatingly
considered her welfare here and hereafter as second to that of her
children, such was the perfection of her maternal self-denial. From
long association with her, Morton was well aware of this fact;
consequently it was from prudential motives that he stepped behind her
chair to conceal the guilty triumph that distorted his countenance.
Had she seen his face at that moment, the depth of his deceit would
have been instantly apparent to her, and this he was wise enough to
know. Her woman's instinct would have warned her that he did not love
Romaine for herself, that he was actuated in his devotion by some
ulterior motive in which Romaine held no share. At least, he knew such
to be the case, knew that his success in the future depended upon his
keeping that knowledge an inviolate secret. He was well aware that the
treason against Colston Drummond was vividly depicted upon his face,
and that in perfect concealment of it resided his only hope of further
communion with the spirit of his wife, that reincarnation in which he
now as devoutly believed, as he believed in his own existence.
Be it said in his favor that he was not wholly selfish in his conduct,
notwithstanding the insatiable yearning of his soul for the affinity
from which he had been separated, since he felt himself to be
responsible for having summoned that spirit back to earth, for having
conjured it from the realms of bliss through the spell of his great
love, even overcoming its reluctance to return by his importunity;
but, having succeeded in his invocation, having secured the
reincarnation, how could he abandon the imprisoned spirit? What right
had he to leave it to pine among strangers?
What was the spirit of his wife to Drummond, or Drummond to the spirit
of his wife? They had never met upon earth, and now, wrapped in a veil
of invisibility, how could that spirit hope for the sympathy and love
upon which it had fed, and for the renewal of which it had returned to
earth?
Could he in duty, in honor, in love, desert the habitation which that
blessed spirit had chosen, and leave it enslaved to a doom beside
which total annihilation would seem paradise?
A thousand times, no! As the bonds of wedlock had made him responsible
for the welfare of his wife, even so had this covenant with death
rendered him accountable for the peace of her spirit.
Such was his self-acquittal for the high-handed deceit which he was
practising upon his best of friends.
A portion at least of this defence sped involuntarily through his mind
as he stood behind Mrs. Effingham's chair; and, thanks to it, he was
able to regain some measure of composure, so that, when she faintly
repeated the request that he should dictate the letter to Drummond, he
replied with a reasonable degree of command,
"Write as your heart dictates."
"My heart fails me," she answered piteously. "I can find no words in
which to forbid the man, who was to have been my son-in-law within the
month, to enter my house."
It seemed to Morton then as if the threatening quick-sands were
creeping about his feet again. If he failed to secure this dismissal,
all would be lost.
He might go to Drummond with the ring, feeling himself well armed, but
a vulnerable point would still be exposed as long as Drummond could
freely seek Mrs. Effingham and demand an explanation. Perfect success
to his scheme was in view, and he must secure it at all hazards!
He stepped from his concealment and boldly faced the lady, a horn of
the bull in either hand.
"Believe me, Mrs. Effingham," he said sternly, "this is no
child's-play; we have arrived at a decisive moment, which is not to be
gainsaid. Permit me to present the question from another point of
view. Suppose that I had failed in my management of Romaine's case;
that you saw her steadily growing worse under my treatment instead of
better; that you were satisfied that I was mistaken and surely
courting death for her; would you not dismiss me ere it was too late,
and summon one whose skill could save your child? Answer me that!"
"O Loyd!" she cried, "how can you ask me? How can you find it in your
heart to torture me so?"
"And how can you place impediments in the way of my saving Romaine? I
am simply amazed that you will run any risk where Romaine is
concerned. As I said before, I now repeat--either Mr. Drummond assumes
direction here, or I do; it is for you to choose between us."
"I beseech you, do not be unreasonable, Loyd; you are the physician.
Have I not given you every proof of my confidence? Pursue your way
undisturbed."
"That is out of the question," he answered steadily, "out of the
question, while Mr. Drummond is permitted to come here. His influence
upon Romaine in her present sensitive condition is disastrous. If he
comes here, he will insist upon seeing her; and, if she sees him, I
will not answer for the consequences. I grant you that the gentleman
is not to blame for the baleful influence he exerts--indeed, I
entirely exonerate him; but the fact remains that, for some mysterious
reason, Romaine is reduced almost to frenzy at the very sight of him.
Had you been in her chamber this afternoon when he forced an entrance
there and defied my authority, you would have been satisfied that your
daughter's life is a matter of a few hours' duration if she is left to
his mercy!"
It was a bold stroke, and it struck home.
Hubert's hint of the "unfortunate scene" that had been enacted in
Romaine's presence that afternoon recurred to Mrs. Effingham's mind
most opportunely for Morton. Without further parley, she drew a sheet
of paper to her, caught up the pen, and wrote in breathless haste the
following entreaty:
"MY DEAR COLSTON: I beg you to appreciate the depth of my
solicitude for Romaine, when I tell you that I am more than
willing to assume all the blame for the pain I am forced to
inflict upon you. You already know something of the critical
condition of my darling child; and yet I venture to say that
it is far more critical than you suspect. Complete rest and
total freedom from every description of excitement are
indispensable to her recovery. I shall keep her strictly
removed from all social intrusion, even of the most intimate
kind; and I must beg you, for the present, not to attempt to
see her. Indeed, I will so far hazard the endurance of your
friendship and love for me as to beseech you not even to come
to the house until she is out of all danger. You may deem me a
fanatic in my maternal anxiety--perhaps I am; but nevertheless
I ask you to respect a mother's wishes and second a mother's
prayers. I take this, possibly unwarrantable, step entirely
upon my own responsibility, persuaded that your dear, noble
heart will sympathize with and understand me. Hubert shall
bring you daily tidings of our dear one; and, in the hope that
this moral quarantine may be of brief duration, believe me,
"Ever your fondly attached friend,
SERENA EFFINGHAM."
The manner in which she reached her signature suggested the broken
gait of an exhausted animal that has been lashed almost beyond
endurance, yet accomplishes the behest of its master with its ultimate
gasp. The pen fell from her nerveless hand, and she sank back in her
chair with a quivering sigh.
"Read what I have written," she gasped. "It may be utterly
unintelligible."
For answer, Morton folded the sheet and placed it in an envelope.
"Address this, if you please," he said.
She obeyed his request, limply forcing herself to make the effort;
and, as the pen once more fell from her fingers, she glanced up at him
with a haggard piteousness in her eyes.
"Will you not read what I have written?" she asked again.
"I see no reason why I should," he answered. "I have no wish to
intrude. You are simply doing your duty towards your daughter; such a
proceeding is not open to criticism."
"I only hope and pray that Colston will regard my attitude in the same
magnanimous light," she sighed, taking a little heart at his words.
"He will if he is truly a lover and a gentleman," was the daring
reply.
Mrs. Effingham rose and, crossing the room, opened one of the
casements to admit a breath of the cool night air; and at that moment
a clock somewhere about the house chimed ten.
"It is so late," she remarked sadly, "that there is little danger of
poor Colston's intruding upon us to-night. We may as well defer
sending the note until to-morrow."
She was looking absently forth upon the engloomed landscape, to where,
beyond the crest of the low-lying hills, the blood-red segment of the
moon was sinking to rest; consequently she failed to note the inward
fire that flashed up in Morton's haggard eyes as he hastened to reply,
"I will take a short walk before I sleep, as is my custom, and leave
the note at Drummond Lodge."
She turned with an apprehensive start towards the writing-table, as if
to claim the note, perhaps with a view to its destruction; but it had
disappeared.
Divining her intention, Morton touched his breast. "It is here," he
said, "you may trust me to deliver it safely. Romaine has requested me
to remain here over night," he added, going towards the door that
opened upon the hall, "and I must respect her wish. Doubtless I shall
find Hubert up when I return."
He was about to leave the room, when the lady extended her arms and he
was obliged to return and receive her embrace.
"Good-night," she murmured; "I shall look in at Romaine and then
retire; for I am completely worn out with the events of this day.
Good-night, Loyd. Ah, my dear boy! you little know what comfort it is
to have you to depend upon. I have trusted you with Romaine's precious
life, and you have not failed me; now I intrust to your keeping her
future welfare and happiness. Be faithful. God bless you. Good-night!"
Words of strong significance they seemed to Morton, in his exalted
mood. Could it be that they implied a suspicion of apostasy on his
part?
Like many another constitutionally upright man, laboring in strained
circumstances, he felt his "conscience hanging about the neck of his
heart;" and, like many another good man, overwhelmed by the force of
circumstances, he left himself no time to listen to that conscience.
He grasped his hat and hurried out into the night. As he passed one of
the uncurtained windows of the drawing-room, whence a belt of light
fell out upon the terrace from the shaded lamps within, he paused and
half involuntarily drew Mrs. Effingham's letter to Drummond from his
pocket. He had not sealed it, and, as he drew the folded sheet from
its envelope, he experienced a twinge of shame-faced regret that he
had not read it in the lady's presence, as she had besought him to do.
The desire--nay, the imperative necessity--had been with him at the
time to satisfy himself to what extent her words had coincided with
his requirements; but somehow he could not have brought himself to
read the missive with her confiding eyes resting upon him.
Now, however, with an assurance born of the encompassing darkness, his
eyes flew over the lines, gathering a gleam of hungry satisfaction in
their depths as they read.
"'Indeed, I will so far hazard the endurance of your friendship and
love for me as to beseech you not even to come to the house until she
is out of all danger,'" he read, almost audibly. "Good! good! Nothing
could be better! We are safe from his intrusion, at least for the
precious present! Ah," he concluded, with savage, mirthless humor, "I
am greatly mistaken in his high-mettle if she has not made him his
quietus with a bare bodkin!"
He returned the letter to his pocket and hurried away to the steps
that led down to the lawn, casting one backward, furtive glance at the
lighted windows.
Fair-haired Achilles, armed cap-a-pie, could not have led his troops
against Troy with more perfect faith in his invulnerability, in more
profound assurance of his powers to vanquish, than did Morton hasten
through the dew-drenched woodland that separated Belvoir from Drummond
Lodge. He gave no heed to the clinging briers, no thought to the roots
and stubble that vainly essayed to bar his passage. It is even
doubtful if he kept to the slightly defined path; there was a single
light aglow beyond the trees, towards which he bore with feverish
haste. He had lost all sense of physical discomfort or opposition; it
was as if, discarnate, his spirit winged impetuous flight towards the
goal of its desires.
As he approached the dim mansion lying low amidst dense shrubbery, he
descried a small star set low and somewhat in advance of the signal
light, like some strange winged glow-worm poised in air. Soon his
eager eyes were able to detach from the environing gloom the outlines
of a tall man, standing with folded arms, a lighted cigar between his
lips. Some instinct peculiar to his excited condition informed Morton
that the solitary figure was that of Colston Drummond--long before
recognition was possible.
"So he, too, has suffered an anxious moment!" he thought, an
overpowering throb of triumph almost suffocating him.
A minute later the two men stood confronting each other.
The moon had set, and in the darkness a brisk, chill wind was busy
among the tree-tops. Near by an owl hooted dismally, and receiving
answer from the distance, hooted again in eerie ululation.
"Well?" queried Drummond, with difficulty disguising a thrill of
surprise.
"I have kept my appointment," answered Morton, "earlier than I
thought; earlier, probably, than you expected me."
"Well?"
"I am the bearer of a message--a note from Mrs. Effingham."
"Follow me."
Drummond threw away his cigar and led the way across the sodden grass
to the open casement window, within which burned the light. It was a
charming room, decorated with trophies of the chase. From floor to
ceiling the walls were draped with fish-seines festooned upon antlers.
Groups of arms from every quarter of the globe, glistened upon the
various panels, while ancient and modern panoplies scintillated in
every nook and corner. Beside a table shrouded in dull gray velvet,
and littered with books, papers, and smoking-materials, Drummond
paused and turned to face the shadow that followed him.
No word was exchanged, while in breathless silence he accepted and
read to its close the letter which Morton had brought. Without comment
he laid it upon the table, then bent his keen, stern glance upon the
messenger.
"This letter is but a part of our compact," he said, each distinctly
uttered word cutting the silence like a knife.
"I agreed to bring you this letter from Mrs. Effingham," Morton
answered, defiantly, "and your engagement-ring from"--
"Well? You have brought it?"
"I have."
Drummond recoiled a step, casting out his hand behind him and grasping
the table for support.
"Great God!" burst from his tensely drawn lips; "I--I"--
"You recognize the ring?"
Morton had slipped the circlet from his finger and held it before
Drummond's eyes, twinkling in the lamp-light.
"This is some jugglery!" gasped the wretched man; "some infernal
witchcraft! I--I refuse to"--
"This is your ring!"
A pause of awful import ensued, broken only by the weird hubbubboo of
the owls.
"Mr. Drummond," Morton continued at length, his voice fairly startling
the silence, "I have fulfilled my part of the compact. I have brought
you undeniable proof that for the present, at all events, your
attentions to Miss Effingham are"--
"Silence!" gasped Drummond, between his ghastly lips.
"Are distasteful to her," proceeded Morton, steadily, but with no note
of triumph in his tone. "Your part of the compact involves your
relinquishing all claim upon Belvoir, even as a visitor. I have
accomplished my part; as a gentleman you"--
"Silence!" thundered Drummond, his whole being vibrant with an
overmastering fury. "Out of my sight! or by the living God I will not
be responsible for what I may do! Never fear that I shall not abide by
my part of the compact! But as there is justice in heaven, I will
never rest until I have probed this damnable mystery to the heart!
Now, go! before the sight of you reduces me to a ravening beast! Go,
before I tear your heart out, and by drawing your blood, deprive you
of the power of sorcery! Out of my sight!"
Morton's return to Belvoir was effected at the height of his speed.
His interview with Drummond had unmanned him; while the conscience
that hung about the neck of his heart seemed to be strangling his life
out in its deadly clutch. The owls, winging breast to breast, pursued
him, and even the very wind caught up their vague denunciation and
hurled it about his ears. Only the twinkling lights of Belvoir
recalled him from the verge of madness, from the black Gehenna of his
accusing soul.