"Wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?"
The events which led up to the somewhat dramatic climax in Romaine's
chamber at midnight would scarcely seem to warrant so pronounced a
crisis. An agreeable evening had been passed in the music-room, Morton
and Hubert smoking, Mrs. Effingham busied with some bit of fancy-work,
while Romaine played the piano or sang, as her mood suggested. She was
an ardent musician, possessed of a fine mezzo-soprano voice, which had
been trained in the best schools. Her fancy was for the fantasticism
of the more modern composers; and upon this occasion, being in the
vein, she sang, with remarkable effect, the weird night-song of the
slave in Goldmark's "Queen of Sheba," the dreamy Berceuse from "Lakme"
and two or three of Meyer Helmund's idyllic creations. The vibrant
tenderness and surpassing melody of her voice filled her hearers with
wonder. Never had she sung with such depth of feeling; and they
marvelled at it, regarding the performance as a revelation. Naturally,
as the evening wore on, a reaction set in, a pallid exhaustion took
the place of the heightened color of cheek and lip, and finally
Romaine rose from the piano unnerved and hysterical. The party
promptly broke up, and Mrs. Effingham led the way to her daughter's
chamber.
By eleven o'clock the good lady had left Romaine, apparently calm and
at peace with herself, in the hands of her maid, and had retired for
the night.
The gown of India silk had been exchanged for a garment of soft white
wool, the peculiar flowing pattern of which suggested the graceful
robes of Watteau and Greuze, and in it the young mistress of Belvoir
reclined at ease upon her couch. So lost was she in revery, that she
took no heed of the maid, who, her preparations for the night
completed, glided to the back of the couch and stood waiting. The
Dresden clock's faint tick became audible, and presently the chime
rang out. The oppressive silence broken, the maid spoke:
"Will Miss Romaine have her hair brushed now?"
Romaine turned with a start, casting one exquisitely moulded arm up to
the back of the couch, so that she faced the speaker.
"I must have been asleep or in a trance!" she exclaimed in a dazed
way. "No, no, Eunice; I will braid my hair to-night. Go to bed. It is
late. See, it is half-past eleven."
"But, miss, I--"
"Yes, I know you would work over me until you dropped from sheer
fatigue," the young lady went on, with a smile; "but I shall not
permit it--not to-night. I prefer to be left alone. Good-night."
Reluctantly the maid vanished, closing the door behind her.
The instant she disappeared, Romaine rose and stood in the faint glow
of the single candle, her white robe lying in ample folds about her.
"At last I am alone!" She listened intently for some sound in the
silent house. "Alone--with my thoughts of _him_! How he loves me;
but," with a fluttering sigh, "how he loved that _other one_--that
Paula! Am I she? He says I am; and who should know as well as he? Oh,
it is all so strange, so mysterious, that--that I cannot tell. His
great love assures me that I must have lived before. When I am with
him, I am as sure as he; but, when he is not with me, I seem to doubt,
to be groping somewhere, as it were blindfold, among familiar scenes.
O Loyd, sustain me, be my guide, or I shall fall by the wayside,
fainting, helpless!"
She crossed her chamber and stood before her mirror, gazing intently
at her reflection. Presently she withdrew the golden pin from her hair
and let its rich masses fall about her shoulders like a bronze-gold
veil.
"His wife!" she murmured, smiling wanly at her image; "his wife
_again_ after some lapse of time! How long a time? Ah, does he detect
some change in me which he is too loyal to notice? With time, come
change and decay. How can I tell how changed I may be--in _his_
sight?" She shuddered, and peered more keenly at the mirror. "If I
_am_ changed," she concluded, with a pretty assumption of desperate
resolution, "it is my duty to repair the ravages of time. I will be
dressed like any queen at her bridal. I will wear all my jewels, and
let their lustre conceal defects from even his generous eyes. He loves
me; but I must struggle to _hold_ that love. My jewels! Where are my
jewels? How shall I look in them?"
With feverish haste she opened the compartments of the toilet-table
until her eager hands fell upon a casket of dull red leather, faded
and bruised. Within, however, the velvet cushions were as fresh and
white as though newly lined; there was no more hint that four
generations had gazed upon their sheeny lustre than there was hint of
age in the priceless gems that nestled, glittering like captured
stars, amid their depths.
Romaine uttered a sigh of delight, and, with eager, trembling hands,
hung the chained brilliants upon her neck and arms. Then she lighted
the candelabra beside the mirror, and stood back, speechless before
her own surpassing beauty.
"Would he could see me _now_!" she exclaimed naïvely, entranced, then
bent forward to insert still other jewels in her ears.
At that moment an object set in gold and rimmed with diamonds caught
her eye. She had not noticed it before, but now it riveted the
inspection of her very soul.
She snatched it from the case with a low, wailing cry, akin to the
smothered utterance of one laboring in nightmare, and held it at arm's
length, breathless, speechless.
Simply a medallion set in gems, the medallion of a man's face--_the
face of Colston Drummond_!
And it was at this moment, supreme enough to thrill poor Romaine's
reviving intellect, that Mrs. Effingham hastily entered the chamber.
The lateness of the hour, coupled with her daughter's incongruous
toilet, startled the good lady into the passing fancy that some
unexpected crisis had arrived--that Romaine had indeed taken leave of
her senses. She uttered some stifled exclamation and stood
spell-bound. As quick as thought the girl dropped the miniature into
its case and turned to confront the intruder.
"Mother!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with repressed emotion,
"thank heaven, you have come! Otherwise I should have been forced to
wake you, for I cannot sleep, I cannot wait another hour, another
minute. I _must_ speak now, this instant!"
She came to her mother and laid her jewelled arms about her neck, her
very attitude eloquent of the yearning of her soul.
It was with the utmost effort that Mrs. Effingham commanded herself
sufficiently to conceal the dire apprehension that assailed her.
"And so you shall speak, my darling," she answered soothingly, as one
would humor a perverted fancy; "unburden your whole heart to me."
"Mother, I was to have been married this month."
"Yes, my dear child."
"How many days are we from the date proposed?"
The anxious pallor of the lady's face overspread her lips and she
hesitated.
"What does it matter, dear?" she faltered.
"What does it matter!" echoed Romaine steadily; "it matters much--to
me. Events have become confused in my mind since my illness; so you
must tell me how soon I was to have been married. You _must_ tell me,
for I wish to know."
"The twentieth of May was the day appointed," was the reluctant reply.
"And it is now?"
"The fifth."
"More than a fortnight to wait! And delays are dangerous. Mother, I
have seen my wedding-dress in the east room. Is everything prepared?"
"Everything, Romaine."
"Then why delay, and so court danger? Let my marriage take place at
once, the sooner the better."
"Romaine!"
"Loyd has spoken to-day; he would second my petition were he here."
"Loyd!"
She recoiled out of the girl's embrace as she spoke, and stood staring
at her in blank amazement.
"Loyd!" she added faintly; "it is _Loyd_ you wish to marry?"
"Whom else?" answered Romaine, smiling calmly; "you would not doubt
it, mother dear, if you knew _all_. Oh, I am not demented, as perhaps
you think. I am myself again, thanks to the magnetism of his great
love. Mother, if I thought that he were never to have the right in the
sight of God and man to call me wife, I should pray for death--ay,
court it as the sweetest boon. Thwart me in my love, and you kill me;
grant my prayer, and you not only give me life, but heaven upon
earth!"
It cannot be said that Mrs. Effingham was wholly unprepared for the
turn affairs had taken. Setting aside Hubert's expressed suspicions,
her woman's instinct had vaguely warned her how this inexplicable
course of love had raised Morton upon its bosom, leaving Drummond high
and dry, stranded upon the stale and unprofitable shore of Neglect.
And yet, out of sheer loyalty to Drummond and his interests, she had
refused to listen to that mysterious voice, stiller and smaller than
the voice of conscience. She had waited to be convinced by some
ulterior medium which, after all, she knew could but accord with her
own unacknowledged convictions.
From her son next day she received but cold comfort, though it was
gently offered, according to his wont.
"I told you so," he remarked. "For Colley's sake, I have done what I
could, only to be met by dismal failure. I will never venture to risk
so much again. We must accept the inevitable, dear mother, and make
the best of a situation which, if inexplicable, is far from desperate.
I can only say, God grant that Romaine's determined action may not
prove to be some insane caprice!"
"Amen to that!" came the faltering reply.
The lady's first interview with Morton after the revelation was
managed in more diplomatic fashion.
She met the young physician in the garden before breakfast on the
following morning. She kissed him in silence, and held his hands while
the unbidden tears welled within her haggard eyes.
"Romaine has spoken!" he exclaimed, interpreting the mute eloquence of
her attitude.
She bowed her head in assent.
"And you--you have given your consent?" he asked tremulously.
"Did you not warn me that it might be fatal to thwart Romaine in any
way?"
"That is not answering my question," he said with sudden sternness;
"do you give your consent to our marriage?"
"Romaine's peace of mind is paramount to all other considerations,"
she answered; "her will is my law."
"But you are reluctant to give her to me."
"I know no reluctance where her wishes are concerned. I have closed my
eyes to every other consideration save her happiness, Loyd; and with
all my heart I give her to you--for her sake."
And with, such modicum of consolation he was obliged to be content.
Considering the eminent social position of the persons concerned, it
is small wonder that the report of Romaine's change of heart swept
society like a whirlwind. The indignation that was expressed on the
score of the young lady's so-called frailty was not occasioned by the
fact that the fashionable world loved Morton less, but that it loved
Drummond more. Had the latter gentleman stood by his guns, he would
have been the hero of the hour and received a greater meed of sympathy
than is usually vouchsafed the banished lover; but, as he had played
the renegade when he should have formally opposed his rival, society
shrugged its shoulders, and saw to it that Morton's prowess did not
want praise and esteem. Thus ever does the myopic world deceive
itself.
It was decided that the ceremony should be accomplished upon the
twelfth day of the month, that it should be conducted with the
strictest privacy, and that no invitations should be issued. Of course
there would be "after-cards," and in due course there would be
receptions upon the return of the pair from a sojourn in Europe. Such
were the hasty arrangements, to which all concerned agreed.
The change from doubt to certainty operated most favorably upon
Morton--the galling irritability of the past few weeks vanished; the
natural buoyancy of his early youth returned; he seemed to find a zest
in living, which was a surprise and delight to no one more than to
himself.
Romaine, on the other hand, though to all appearance happy and
content, endured nameless torture when left to herself--her nights
were hideous epochs of harassing suspense and misgiving; the
unattended hours of her days were rendered unbearable by some
invisible incubus which, she was neither able to explain nor banish.
Ever and anon she would seem to herself to be upon the verge of some
explanation, some solution of the enigma with which she wasted herself
in unavailing battle; but no sooner did she find herself approaching
this most desirable consummation, than she fell into the toils of
Morton's irresistible influence, and was content to find herself the
victim of his soothing wiles. In a word, her meditations upon the
subject simply resolved themselves into this formula: When I am with
him, I love him beyond question; when I am _not_ with him, my love is
crossed by doubt.
As if by instinct Morton divined the threatening condition of her
mind, and consequently left no stone unturned to hasten the
preparations for his marriage. Circumstances forced him, in great
measure, to relax his sedulous care and espionage. To all appearance
he found his patient as hale, mentally and physically, as she had ever
been; and, though he was by no means free of apprehension on her
account, he did not scruple to absent himself as often as he found it
necessary for him to make some adjustment of his affairs in view of an
indefinite sojourn abroad. Then, too, he experienced the liveliest
satisfaction in setting his somewhat neglected house in town in order,
and in beautifying its every detail for the reception of his bride.
The wilful, methodical nature of the man manifested itself in just
such _minutiæ_ as the hanging of a drapery here, or the placing of an
ornament there, that he might satisfy himself as to the exact
appearance of the place when she should come home to it--it mattered
not when. He trusted no one; he placed no confidence in judgment other
than his own. It was a labor of love; and, like a labor of love, it
had long since become a work of faith, as was meet--especially under
the circumstances.
Several hours of each day Morton passed in the city, and perhaps
nothing afforded such ample proof of his confidence in the
establishment of affairs as the composure and assurance with which he
returned each time to Belvoir. The truth was, he had made assurance
double sure, and taken a bond of Fate--or so he was constrained to
regard his successful course.
It was during one of these occasions of non-attendance, a day or two
after the rumor of the engagement had spread its facile wing, that an
imposing family-carriage, decorated as to its panels with the ensign
armorial of the Drummonds, turned in at the gates of Belvoir, and
entered upon the gradual ascent of the avenue with the cumbrous roll
of stately equipages in general, and of the Drummond equipage in
particular. Upon the hammer-cloth were seated an ancient coachman and
footman, most punctilious of mien and attire; while within the coach,
bolstered into an upright position among the cushions, sat a lady well
into the decline of life and health, a spare, stern creature, with the
face of an aged queen. It was a face from which the effulgence of
halcyon days had died out, but despite the rigidity of its lines it
was still a countenance replete with an inborn dignity. Letitia
Drummond had been a beauty in her day, and it was some consolation to
her in her decline, to find something of her famed advantages revived
in her only and beloved son.
This son was her idol, in her eyes a very paragon; her worship of him
was the one vital interest of her invalid existence. Secluded from the
world by reason of her malady, she drew vitality from her communion
with him as the frail, unearthly orchid subsists upon the air which
its hale neighbors reject.
It had been years since the widow Drummond had entered her carriage,
and she had by no means dared exposure to the dampness of this May
morning for a trifle. As the horses leisurely took their way along the
avenue the lady glanced forth upon the luxurious verdure of lawn and
budding trees, with a critical scrutiny not unmixed with malevolence.
Presently the glimpse of a girlish figure gathering lilacs in a
by-path, riveted her attention. Quickly she touched a bell, and in the
next instant the coach had stopped and the footman was at the open
door.
"I see Miss Effingham," she remarked; "give me my cane and help me
out. There! Now drive on a short distance, remain there ten minutes,
then return for me here. You understand."
The command was given in a grudging tone, as if each word, each breath
of the balmy air cost her a pang.
From her lilac-bower Romaine had watched the proceeding in wonder; but
as the carriage departed, leaving the withered figure, wrapped in its
finery of a by-gone date, standing alone in the sunshine, she came
forward, her hands filled with snowy blossoms.
They met beside a rustic garden-seat, beneath hawthorns full of rosy
bloom and the carolling of birds.
As Romaine paused, irresolute, the lady spoke:
"You recognize me?"
"You are Mrs. Drummond."
"I _am_ Mrs. Drummond, Colston's mother."
She had drawn her weapon, and seemed figuratively to be examining the
keenness of point and edge.
Romaine shuddered.
"Where is he?" demanded the lady.
"Where is--who?"
"Who!--who but my son? Whose absence in all this wide world should I
give an instant's thought to but my son's? For whom else should I dare
misery and perhaps death to inquire for but my son! Answer me! where
is he?"
Poor Romaine had grown as pallid as the flowers that trembled and
dropped one by one from her nerveless hands.
"Answer me!" repeated Mrs. Drummond; "I am his mother, and I will not
be satisfied with any white-lipped silence. What have you done with my
son? Where is he?"
"I--I do not know."
Most hearts would have been touched by the pitiful innocence of those
words and look.
"You do not know. I will believe you so far; but why has he left his
home--and me?"
"How can I tell?" faltered the girl.
"I can imagine you experience some difficulty," was the harsh reply,
"but I mean to remove all obstacles from your path so that you _can_
tell, and also give me a coherent account. He had entrusted his
happiness to your keeping; he had divided his love for me with you.
What account have you to give of your stewardship?"
The helpless attitude of the girl coupled with her wild-eyed silence,
seemed to infuriate the lady.
"No wonder you do not dare to raise your voice to answer me," she
cried shrilly; "faithless, false-hearted girl! You have wrecked his
life! And when the news of your ill-assorted marriage reaches him, it
will kill him, and I shall not survive his death! Jezebel!" she
hissed, griping Romaine's arm in her gloved claw, "do you comprehend
that two lives, two God-given lives will be upon your soul when you
have consummated this unholy deed? I would die for my son. I would
even be branded with crime for the sake of his peace and happiness! I
_love_ him! And what has your vaunted love amounted to? Answer me, or
I will smite that mutely-mocking mouth of yours! Have you not told him
a thousand times, have you not assured him by word, by deed, by action
that you loved him? Answer me!"
"Yes," came the gasping reply.
"Then why have you played him false?"
"Oh, I do not know, I--I cannot tell!"
She cast the delicate arm from her as though the contact were
contamination.
"I hope to heaven you _are_ insane, as it is whispered," she gasped,
weak from excess of anger and feebleness; "madness would be your only
salvation in _my_ eyes. But I have my doubts, I have my doubts. I
shall raise heaven and earth to find my son, I shall go in search of
him myself if messengers fail, and when he is found I shall send him
to you, and I only pray that the sight of him may strike you dead at
his feet if he comes too late!"
The grinding of the returning carriage-wheels upon the gravel of the
avenue interrupted her further utterance, and in silence she hobbled
back to the footman, who obsequiously replaced her upon her cushions.
Left alone amidst the whispering leaves, the sunshine and the birds,
Romaine slowly struggled back to semi-consciousness. She pressed her
hands upon her throbbing temples, while dry sobs rent her from head to
foot.
"O what have I done?" she sobbed, "and what am I doing?"
Like one stricken with sudden blindness she felt her way from tree to
tree, leaning against their trunks every now and then for support. In
this pitiful way she reached the terrace-steps, stumbled and fell
prostrate in the garish light, like a stricken flower discarded by the
reapers.