"Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die,
for I have liv'd long enough: this is the period of my
ambition."
Romaine Effingham's convalescence was as rapid as the advent of summer
that year. As the brief April days glided into May, she grew strong
and well again; sound physically, at all events. Her mental condition
remained a matter of conjecture to those who watched her with anxious
hearts. Apparently she was perfectly herself, save for her infatuation
for Morton which, after all, was scarcely a flattering view of the
case to take. Naturally there was no reason why she should not fall in
love with the young physician, setting Drummond's undeniable claims
aside; but that Drummond should be set aside, for no apparent cause,
in favor of Morton, argued a distemper which perhaps might most easily
be placed to the account of mental aberration. It was evident that
something must be seriously wrong with her that she should wholly and
completely ignore the existence of her affianced lover. She never
mentioned him, while if, in the common course of conversation his name
chanced to be uttered, which was not often the case for obvious
reasons, she maintained as unaffected an indifference as if the name
of some stranger, in whom by no chance could she be interested, had
been called in question.
As a matter of course Mrs. Effingham indulged in a purely sentimental
view of the singular situation. If she were not betrayed into saying
so, in so many words, she was convinced that as Romaine's health
strengthened, her mind would resume its sovereignty, her former
predilections and affections would duly re-assert themselves, and as a
consequence, her dormant love for Drummond would awake and claim its
idol, which had simply suffered temporary eclipse, not obliteration.
The good lady felt persuaded that Romaine's love for her betrothed was
dormant, not defunct.
On the other hand, man-like, Hubert Effingham was of opinion--and,
true son of his father, he had the courage of his opinions--that
either his sister's mind was hopelessly deranged, her unwarrantable
neglect of Drummond giving ample proof of the incipience of the
baleful distemper, or else she was making herself a glaring example of
that frailty which is imputed to woman. Standing between the horns of
a dilemma which he had evolved from his independent consideration of
the question, he was satisfied that he had rather accept the former
position, painful as it must be to him, than force himself to believe
Romaine guilty of an inconstancy as reprehensible as it was
unjustifiable. Setting aside his strong fraternal regard for Morton,
Hubert esteemed Drummond one of God's noblemen, as out of doubt he
was. Had Morton been the favored one primarily, Hubert would have been
content; but such was his sense of justice he could not passively
stand by and see Morton, deeply as he loved and respected him, usurp
the rights and place of one whom he had no reason to regard with a
lighter love and respect.
Such being the case, he felt himself called upon to probe the mystery
and right the wrong, if wrong there were, while his mother remained in
optimistic apathy. He kept his counsel and patiently awaited his
opportunity.
One perfect spring morning, perhaps a week removed from that dark and
perplexing day that had befallen Belvoir, Hubert met Romaine as she
emerged from the house accompanied by a splendid mastiff in leash,
evidently prepared for a tour of the gardens and the surrounding park.
Loyd Morton had gone into the city for the purpose of making further
arrangements with his friend Chalmers to attend to his practice
indefinitely. For reasons best known to himself, he considered his
presence indispensable at Belvoir, and no incentive had been offered
him to think otherwise.
The present was the first occasion upon which brother and sister had
met, since Romaine's illness, free of the surveillance of Morton. It
was surely an opportunity not to be neglected.
"You are going for a walk?" inquired Hubert, engagingly.
"Yes, for our first walk, as in the good old times! Eh, Molossus?"
Romaine replied, with a gay smile that embodied much of the vernal
buoyancy of the morning, stooping as she spoke to stroke the tawny
velvet of the dog's head.
"May I bear you company?"
She hesitated an instant, with that fascinating archness which was
hers to employ with telling effect.
"Well," she remarked, "I have no objection to your company if Molossus
has not; but you see we have so long been deprived of each other's
companionship that--well, we are just a trifle averse to intruders.
You see it seems an age since we were free and alone together."
As if to second her words the great animal pressed closely into the
folds of her gown, looking up into her face the while with eloquent
affection.
"The old traitor!" laughed Hubert; "what would he have done but for
my devotion while you were ill? For the time being he transferred all
his love to me."
"Ah, but, my dear boy, I always told you that Molossus is simply
human; he feels like all of us, that first love is always the best; we
return to it as if by instinct."
"Do we?" inquired Hubert sharply, scarcely able to conceal the
thoughts that were uppermost in his mind; "do _you_ find it to be
true?"
"Why should I not?" she answered, with the most innocent of smiles;
then, bending to the dog, she added, "Come, Molossus, we will permit
this young unbeliever to trespass upon our privacy, just this once, if
only to convince him how enduring a first love is."
So, side by side, the three companions passed down the steps and
strolled away through the broad garden-paths, whence the crocuses and
snow-drops had retired to give place to hyacinths and tulips, standing
in serried lines, like small armies gorgeous in fresh uniforms. There
was a general bourgeoning of rose-trees in the sun, while the perfume
of shy violets was borne far and wide upon the pregnant air. It was a
day of days, a halcyon day, instinct with proud summer's boast, when
birds have cause to sing.
They walked along in congenial silence, the mastiff sniffing at the
trim box-edging of the path, or ever and anon making abortive lunges
at some new-fledged butterfly that, disturbed at their approach,
winged its devious flight sunward.
Presently, after much cautious preparation, Hubert broke the charmed
silence by remarking, "I have been at Drummond Lodge several times
since you were ill, Romaine."
"Yes?" she replied, half unconsciously, "you found them well there?"
"Mrs. Drummond is as well as any hopeless invalid can be. Colley has
gone away."
He set his eyes keenly upon her face as he spoke. Romaine was looking
straight before her calmly, fancy-free.
"Gone away?" she echoed; "where?"
"No one at the Lodge seems to know."
"Not even his mother?"
"No."
She started forward suddenly, stooping to pick a tiny sprig of
forget-me-not that gemmed the border.
"The very first of the season!" she exclaimed in childish delight;
"you dear little blossoms! how dared you venture here before there is
even a rose-bud to bear you company? Here, Hubert," she cried, "you
shall wear them!"
She was about to attach the spray to the lapel of his coat, when she
surprised a look of keen disappointment, almost of chagrin upon his
face.
"You do not like them!" she murmured, turning sad in a moment, as an
April day is obscured.
He took her hands in his gently, but there was a note of firmness in
his voice, as he said,
"It is not to the flowers that I object, but to the way in which you
slight their meaning."
"What can you mean?" she asked in a puzzled, nearly pained way.
"You are forgetful, Romaine."
"Of what?"
"Of your duty."
She turned pale and started back so suddenly that the mastiff,
startled likewise, uttered a deep-mouthed growl.
"Of what do you accuse me?" she cried piteously. "O Hubert, my
brother! what have I done?"
"What are you leaving undone?" he persisted rashly. "Ask your heart,
and let it answer me--your best friend--answer me honestly."
She made a movement as though she were groping in the darkness, which
young Effingham was too eager and excited to notice.
"I--I do not understand," she faltered.
"What month is this, Romaine? Is it not the month of May?"
"I think it is."
"Then what event, what happy event, was to have happened in this
month, _shall_ happen if God wills?"
"My marriage," she sighed.
"Yes, yes," he cried earnestly; "your marriage, dear--your marriage
with whom?"
She twisted the blue-starred sprig between her white fingers until it
wilted.
"You say you are my best friend, Hubert?" she murmured.
"You should know it, dear."
"Then I will confide in you. If--if my marriage is to take place this
month--"
"Yes, yes, this month! Whom are you to marry?"
"Loyd."
The name escaped her blanched lips almost inaudibly; but his eager ear
caught it, and he recoiled from her with a gasp, as though she had
stung him.
She wavered for an instant, then flung out her hands blindly, as if
grasping for support.
"Oh, take me into the house!" she moaned; "I am ill again."
He sprang to her side just in time to feel her delicate weight in his
arms; but she did not quite lose consciousness, possibly because, in
swift contrition, he whispered,
"Of course you shall marry Loyd, darling, if you will." While under
his breath he added, "God forgive me, never again will I hazard her
precious life, come what may! But, in Heaven's name, what does it all
mean? I am satisfied that her mind is _not_ deranged!"
Upon his return to Belvoir, Doctor Morton was surprised and alarmed to
find his patient restless from sudden fever. And thereupon he
registered a solemn oath never again to leave her, it mattered not how
fared his clientage.
The excitement caused by Romaine's ill turn fortunately proved a false
alarm. There could be no gainsaying the magic of Morton's presence.
The moment she saw him, every trace of the mysterious agitation left
her, the feverish symptoms vanished as suddenly as they had appeared,
and, after a few gentle words of welcome, which induced his promise
that he would remain within call, she lapsed into profound, healthful
slumber, from which she awoke sufficiently refreshed to appear at
dinner in her usual gay spirits.
Poor Hubert found himself more hopelessly mystified than ever
regarding his sister's incomprehensible condition. If he could have
had speech with Colston Drummond, even for the briefest space, there
can be no doubt that the discarded lover's view of the situation would
have gone a long way towards clearing Hubert's vision. Though much too
intelligent a man of the world to sympathize in the slightest degree
with the fanciful "isms" of his day, Drummond was constrained to
accredit Morton with some sort of magnetic influence which had served
to effect the subversion of Romaine's reason, so far as he personally
was concerned. His view of her case was correct, his diagnosis
accurate so far as it went. Upon the recovery of his manliness and
power of cool reasoning, he was inclined to scout the fancy that any
serious consequences would result from Romaine's infatuation. He
argued that such caprices must be transitory, and persuaded himself,
that, without his interference, affairs must right themselves, and
ultimately right themselves in his favor.
However, he smarted under the lash of Mrs. Effingham's dismissal; her
action wounded him far more than did the compulsory return of his
betrothal-ring. He acutely judged that Romaine, being under the
supremacy of Morton, was not responsible for what she might do,
whereas it must be otherwise with her mother. He felt convinced that
were he to go to Mrs. Effingham and masterfully demand an explanation
of her attitude towards him, he could easily win her back to his side.
But she had dismissed him from her house--the fact burned and rankled
inwardly. He was touched in his most vulnerable point--his high-strung
pride; and consequently he found himself unable to confront the
passive days of exile within sight of Belvoir. It was a foolish,
ill-advised step, his going away just at this important juncture; and
he came to a realizing sense of his mistake ere he had placed a
hundred miles between himself and the object of his heart's desire.
Pride is short-lived; and, when pride dies, obstinacy ceases to seem a
virtue. The truth came home to Drummond ere he had gone far from home,
and with results which we shall presently see.
Hubert Effingham never favored Morton with Romaine's confidences of
that unlucky moment in the garden. Much as he cared for Morton, he
would have bitten his tongue off before he would have betrayed his
sister--before he would have placed one pebble of impediment in the
path of Drummond's cause. But, though he steered a middle course with
studious fealty--though he struggled hard to be impartial in his
estimate of both men--insensibly his sympathy fluttered away to the
absent suitor.
Meanwhile no barrier was raised against the intimate intercourse of
Romaine and her medical adviser. While she was with him, she was in
abundant health and spirits; when separated, she pined; consequently,
he was permitted to be her constant companion. Unmolested, they walked
and drove together in the lengthening days of crescent summer. Upon
such blissful occasions he invariably addressed her by the name of
Paula, and she readily, happily answered to the name. Though he
studied her with lynx-like intensity, he never discovered the
slightest tremor of surprise that he should not address her as others
did. So far he was satisfied, and in so far he fancied himself to be
justified in laying the flattering unction to his soul that he was
indeed in communion with the reincarnated spirit of his wife. The
point which baffled him, before the non-committal front of which he
shrank chilled and discouraged, was the total oblivion of all past
events which that spirit evinced.
Yet he was not wholly discouraged, since he never permitted his cult
of the veiled idol to overshadow his system of persistent
investigation. For the hundredth time, he would endeavor to recall to
her mind some sweet episode of his by-gone courtship, or briefly happy
wedded life, and for the hundredth time she would reply, with that
gentle smile,
"How I wish I could remember a time that must have been so joyous! Ah,
my dear Loyd, I fear this poor head of mine is like the Chaldean
idols--more clay than gold!"
Certainly her defective recollection of the leading events in the life
of Romaine Effingham, previous to her acute illness, lent color to the
supposition that Paula Morton might be equally deficient in this
regard, in that both personalities were forced to act through the
same disabled brain; that is, granting the doubt as to which spirit
might be in residence at the time.
Naturally, the reasoning was not logical--not conclusive to a man of
Morton's intelligence; and yet with it he was fain to be content.
Of one thing he was satisfied; Paula, reincarnated, could not have
loved him more fondly than the beautiful being who had voluntarily
abandoned every tie to bind herself to him. Sometimes he wondered,
with the chill of death at his heart, how it was all to end; and she,
seeming to divine the desperate query, as often as it presented
itself, when he was with her, would exclaim,
"What matters it whether I recall the past or not, so long as we are
happy in the present, so long as you have my love for the future and
for all eternity?"
Paula might have said that in just such words; and the glamor of his
fool's paradise encompassed him again. Thus the inexplicable
situation, in the natural course of events, grew to a climax.
One afternoon they had been riding for miles through the park-like
woodland of the neighborhood, their horses keeping leisurely pace
through aisles white with the bloom of dogwood. For a while Morton had
entertained his companion with reminiscences of that happy by-gone
time which was a reality to him, a pleasing effort of the imagination
to her. Her responsiveness was an encouragement to him; and he began
at the beginning, closing with the untimely end.
There were tears--tears of genuine sympathy and sorrow--in her limpid
eyes as he ceased speaking. So graphic had been his description of
that last scene in the cemetery--that end-all to his hope and
joy--that she seemed to see the lonely figure beside the open grave,
to hear his sobs mingling with the sough of the rainy wind, and to
feel the unutterable desolation of that grievous hour.
"Loyd," she said, after a brief pause, her tone suggestive of unshed
tears, "you must take me to her grave some day."
"Whose grave?" he demanded sharply, her sympathy for the first time
striking a discordant note in his soul.
"Her grave," she answered, wonderingly, "your wife's."
He slid from his saddle, allowing his horse to turn to the lush grass,
and came to her side. He took her hand in both of his and looked up
into her face with an intensity that startled her.
"That grave was _your_ grave, Paula," he said. "Can you not
understand?"
"It is hard to realize," she faltered.
"And you are _my wife_!"
She turned pale so suddenly that he would have been alarmed, had not
the fugitive dye instantly returned deeper than before upon cheek and
brow.
"Your wife!"
"My wife in the sight of God! Oh, have no doubt of it; for your
indecision would drive me mad! Paula was my wife, and you are Paula!"
"Yes, but Paula in another form."
"Exactly! But still my wife!"
"Not in the sight of man."
"Then the sooner we are made one again, the better!" he went on
impetuously. "See, you wear your own betrothal-ring. Can you, will you
submit to the absurdity of a second marriage ceremony, for the sake of
the blind world's opinion?"
"I can and will," she answered.
"Then let there be no delay!"
He reached up, and, bending low, she kissed him upon the lips; and she
did it so frankly, trustingly, that henceforth he banished every
doubt, every vestige of uncertainty to that vague realm whither much
of his outraged common-sense had fled.
Late that night a wailing cry startled the quiet of the house--a cry
low, but sufficient in carrying-power to rouse Mrs. Effingham from the
depths of her first sleep. Hurrying, breathless with apprehension,
through the dressing-room which separated her chamber from Romaine's,
speechless was her amazement and alarm to find the girl standing
before her mirror, the candelabra ablaze on either side, robed from
head to foot in white, the splendid masses of her hair sweeping about
her shoulders. Upon her exquisite neck and arms scintillated rivulets
of diamonds, heir-looms of the Effingham family, which descended to
each daughter of the house upon her eighteenth birthday; while in her
hand, held at arm's length, glittered an object which had the sheen of
blent gold and jewels--a tiny object that fitted softly into the snowy
palm. Upon this object were her eyes riveted, with a sort of wild
dismay in their inspection. She seemed entranced, and for a minute the
watcher dared give no sign of her intrusion.