"The Devil tempts thee here
In likeness of a new untrimmed bride."
"Such a mad marriage never was before."
If Serena Effingham derived any comfort from the contemplation of
Romaine's precipitate union with Morton, that comfort resided in the
fact that having secured the constant attendance and companionship of
the young physician, the girl would enjoy immunity from the mysterious
crises that were likely to assail her whenever he was not at hand.
There was no gainsaying the point that Romaine was perfectly herself
while under Morton's influence. No one could deny the potency of the
spell he exerted; consequently Mrs. Effingham was forced to accept the
lesser of the evils, if so strong a term may be applied to her gentle
estimate of the situation.
It was the good lady herself who discovered her daughter lying
insensible at the foot of the terrace steps; and as Romaine, upon the
recovery of her consciousness, guarded the secret of her stormy
interview with Mrs. Drummond even from her mother, who was in
ignorance of the unwonted visit, Mrs. Effingham remained in an agony
of suspense and anxiety until Morton returned from town. At sight of
him the girl flung herself into his arms and clung to him
hysterically, to the perplexity of all concerned.
When questioned regarding the cause of her illness, she returned
answers of adroit incoherency, simply maintaining that her existence
was a burden to her when separated from Morton; that she was wholly
wretched and unable to command herself when left to herself. Naturally
such extraordinary assertions lent color to the suspicion that her
mind was affected; yet, when in the presence of her heart's desire,
she appeared perfectly sane and as soundly reasonable as ever she had
been. Her condition seemed a hopeless mystery to all save Morton who
was persuaded beyond peradventure, that he detected the almost jealous
reliance of his departed wife through the mask of her reincarnation.
From that time forth he no longer absented himself from Belvoir, and
the expectant hours crowded themselves into days that all too rapidly
took their departure.
The eve of Romaine's wedding-day proved to be one of those rare epochs
of spring that are instinct with the genial presage of summer, one of
those intense days which May has in her gift, when one involuntarily
seeks the shady side of city streets, or wanders into the shadows of
the woods to escape the garish splendor of the open fields. Such
weather is always premature and ominous of impending inclemency; but
it is none the less exquisite while it lasts.
All day long the lovers had luxuriated in the balmy air, and the
setting sun surprised them bending their reluctant steps homeward
through Drummond copse. One by one the swift hours had registered
their happiness, their constantly reiterated oaths of fealty and their
expressions of confidence in the future. They had uttered nothing
worthy of being chronicled, for they had talked simply as lovers talk,
with an intent significant only to themselves. They had laid their
plans for the future as the poets fancy the short-sighted birds scheme
at their nest building. Morton had proposed that, the ceremony over,
they should drive to his town-house and there, amidst its renovated
glories, forget the world until such time as they cared to claim its
diversions again. There was method in the plan since he entertained
some vague fancy that his reclaimed wife would be more at her ease,
more at home among scenes which had witnessed the happiest hours of
her past. And Romaine's joyous acquiescence increased his fancy until
it became positive conviction. He even went so far as to surmise that
the soul of Paula would evince a keen delight and interest in the new
beauties of the old abode.
So the sun had set and the full moon had reared her colossal lamp to
light them home. Suddenly, as they emerged from the copse and found
themselves upon the rustic path that ran between Belvoir and Drummond
Lodge, Romaine laid her hand upon her lover's arm with a sharp gasp.
"I have left my book up yonder upon the rocks where we sat!" she
exclaimed; "oh, Loyd, how careless of me! and _you_ gave it me!"
Morton laughed light-heartedly.
"We will send one of the men for it in the morning," he said; "there
will be no pilfering lovers in that place to-night, I warrant you."
"But it will be ruined by the dews," she insisted; "we may forget to
send for it to-morrow; besides, I do not wish to leave it there. I
will go back and get it."
"You!" he cried, with a laugh; "if you _must_ have the worthless
thing, I will go for it."
"We will go together, Loyd."
"No," he objected, in the gently authoritative tone which had become
habitual with him, "you are completely tired out and the climb would
prove the one straw too many. But how can I leave you here?"
"What is there to fear? We are within gun-shot of home."
Morton hesitated an instant; then he said with some reluctance,
"Would you mind walking on alone? I will make haste, take a short cut
through the copse and meet you upon the lawn."
"Very well! I will walk slowly."
For some reason, which it would be vain to attempt to account for, he
stooped and kissed her where she stood in a mellow ray of the risen
moon.
"Why are you so particular about that little book?" he asked
tremulously.
"I have already told you, dear," she answered.
"Because _I_ gave it you?"
"Yes; for that reason it is precious, invaluable in my eyes."
"My darling! God bless you for those sweet words! To hear them from
your dear lips again I would go to the ends of the earth!"
It was simply lovers' parley, but for some reason each felt its vague
significance which in some way seemed portentous. He kissed her again,
and left her alone in the woodland path.
At one period of her life, that happy time when a trip to Drummond
Lodge had been numbered among the chief joys of her innocent life,
Romaine had been familiar with every wild flower that bloomed, with
every bird that sang in the copse; but since her mysterious illness
all that had passed and the place seemed strange to her. Small wonder
then that, in the exaltation of parting with Loyd Morton and in the
dubious moon-beams, she turned, not towards Belvoir, but in the
direction of Drummond Lodge. The night was one of ideal loveliness and
as she leisurely threaded her way between the shadows cast by the
great tree-boles, she softly sang to herself and smiled as her quick
ear caught the twitter of the nesting birds. Suddenly the sharp snap
of a twig punctuated the chant and its invisible chorus, causing the
girl to pause abruptly and peer before her into the semi-gloom.
Could it be that love had lent her lover the fleetness of Fortunio's
lackey, so that he had accomplished his quest and returned to surprise
her ere she had reached the verge of the wood? Impossible! And yet the
figure of a man loomed before her in the narrow, moon-lit path! Her
heart fluttered, then sank like a dead thing in her bosom, while the
words of glad welcome expired upon her blanched lips.
For she had recognized the man, and, by some swift divination of
association, knew that he had a right to be where he stood--within his
own domain.
The effect of the unexpected encounter was scarcely less patent in the
case of Colston Drummond. He uttered some inaudible exclamation of
surprise, halted, then advanced a step, staring at the apparition in
awed silence.
"Romaine!" he murmured at last, as if fearful of breaking the spell
and dissolving the vision by the mere sound of his voice; "Romaine,
can it be you--here--at this hour? In heaven's name, where are you
going?"
"Home," she faltered, her very utterance paralyzed by amazement and
vague fear.
"Home!" he echoed more distinctly, emboldened by the vital voice of
the phantom; "you are going in the wrong direction. You are but a few
steps from the Lodge. My poor girl, why are you here and alone?"
He spoke with the infinite tenderness which was part and parcel of his
manly nature; and, though he came close to her side, even taking her
hand in his, she did not cringe. Somehow she felt soothed and calmed
by his presence, notwithstanding that she trembled as the environing
leaves trembled in the rising breeze, and did not speak for lack of
self-command.
"Do not shiver so," he said gently; "it is neither cold here, nor have
you any cause for alarm--with me. You have only lost your way. Come, I
will see you safely home."
Then she roused from her passing stupor.
"Oh no, no, no!" she cried piteously; "I must go alone. I--he is
waiting for me. He must not see you--with me. Only show me the way."
"He!" Drummond asked calmly; "you mean Doctor Morton?"
She bowed in silence, while an unfathomable expression flitted across
his face, to be lost in a pitiful smile.
"Well," he said, still holding the hand that she weakly strove to
wrest from him, "_he_ can wait for a few short minutes."
"No, no, I must go at once," she wailed; "have mercy upon me; let go
my hand."
"Think, Romaine!" he commanded softly; "he will have you for all life,
while these few paltry moments with you are all that remain to me.
Think of it, Romaine, and be generous."
She looked into his face and read the anguished pleading of his eyes.
"First of all," he continued, "tell me how you came here? May I
venture to hope that in the eleventh hour you were coming to speak a
word of comfort to my mother?"
"No, I had lost my way."
"You did not know that I returned to-day?" he inquired, hope
struggling against hope in his eager tone.
"I had forgotten that you had been away."
"You had forgotten!" he cried sadly. "O Romaine, how you have blotted
me from your very existence! I can conceive of your love for me having
changed; but why have you so utterly forgotten and neglected me?"
She closed her eyes and replied in sobbing accent, "I--I cannot tell.
I seem to have been dreaming, to be dreaming still."
"Would it _were_ all a dream! My darling--there--there, do not start,
it is the last time that I shall ever call you so--darling, I only
pray the good God that you are happy."
She did not answer, and he went on as though he did not notice her
silence.
"Only to-day, within the last two hours, have I learned that to-morrow
will be your wedding-day. Is--is it so?"
"Yes."
"Can you fancy what that means to me? Oh, heaven is my judge, I do
not mean to reproach you. It is too late for that. I did not even
think to see you again; it is some inexplicable fate which has brought
us together. Believe me, I am resigned to my lot; but, since we have
met, since God in His mercy has vouchsafed me this one ray of comfort,
permit me to beg you, to beseech you ever to regard me as your loyal
friend. O Romaine, my heart's dearest love, if ever the shadow of
sorrow or trouble arises, command me, even unto my last breath, and I
will do my utmost to dispel it. I wish you joy, from my soul, I wish
you joy; I have forgiven, and I shall try to forget. If you doubt me,
try me; test my fidelity to you even unto death. Now, Romaine, have
you no word for me? no little grain of comfort to leaven the
bitterness of this last farewell upon earth? Be merciful!"
With the steadiness of summer rain the tears had been coursing over
the girl's pallid cheeks, and there were tears in her voice as she
cried,
"O my God! let me sleep and continue to dream, for, should I awake, I
should go mad!"
He took her in his arms and pressed her to his breast for one brief
moment, while his kisses mingled with the tears that rained upon her
shining hair. "I understand, I understand," he murmured brokenly,
gently putting her from him; "God help us both! Yonder is your way.
Hark! he is calling you! I need not go with you. Dry your tears and
greet him with a smile; perhaps it is better so, for I am not worthy
of you. Some day we shall know--Good-by, my darling. Go, go quickly!
He must never know that we have met. May God bless and keep you!"
He continued to speak until she had vanished among the clustering
shadows, the weird call of the distant voice punctuating his broken
utterances. When at last she had really gone, and he found himself
actually alone, he fell upon his face in an agony of desolation,
stifling his sobs in the depths of the lush grasses.
And it was a crest-fallen, pallid being who came forth from the
dimness of the woods to relieve Morton's anxiety.
"In mercy's name, where have you been?" he exclaimed, hastening to her
as she emerged into the lambent ways of the moon, and eagerly clasping
her hand in his.
"I lost my way," she faltered, with downcast eyes, vainly striving to
conceal the tears that glistened upon her lashes.
"But you have been weeping!"
"I became confused and frightened," she explained. She was about to
add, "it seemed so lonesome without you;" but the words remained
unuttered.
As they walked side by side across the dewy lawn, Morton was not so
much impressed by the incoherency of the explanation of her present
condition as by the subtle change which had come over her within those
few minutes. What could have caused it, he was completely at a loss to
surmise; what it might portend, he could not conjecture; but that some
mysterious change had taken place in her, he was as certain as though
she had said in so many words,
"You should have been far-sighted enough not to have left me alone for
an instant until I am irrevocably yours!"
He suffered the torture of a lifetime in those few brief moments; and
the torment was all the more poignant that it was too vague to impart,
even if he had dared so to do.
Long ere they reached the house, the silence became so oppressive that
in sheer despair he was forced to break it.
"I found the book," he remarked with effort, displaying the dainty
volume.
She did not offer to take it from him, as he expected, as he fondly
hoped; she simply replied, with eyes intent upon the ground,
"I am sorry to have given you so much trouble."
As if by instinct he felt as if virtue had gone out of him. How, when,
or why, he could not determine, but in that hour an occult warning
came home to him--a presage that his empire over Romaine Effingham was
no longer supreme.
Had he known, had he even suspected, that Romaine would weep herself
to sleep that night with Colston Drummond's jewelled miniature upon
her bosom, he would have pulled himself together, banished the spell
that held him in thrall, and thus averted the catastrophe that the
pregnant moments hastened to consummate.