"But shapes that come not at an earthly call
Will not depart when mortal voices bid."
The augury of the preceding day's perfection proved correct--Romaine's
nuptial morn came up, veiled in murky clouds that promised a period of
dismal rain. The very face of nature, of late so bright and jocund,
suffered an obscuration that left it gray and drear. By sun-rise the
mists crept swiftly up the hill-sides, revealed the verdant landscape
for a moment, and then, as their custom is, descended in a persistent,
chilling downpour.
Morton and Hubert were the only members of the household to meet at
the breakfast-table, which the butler had striven to render
resplendent, in honor of the occasion, by masses of ghastly Freesia
and Narcissi.
The conversation of the two men during the repast was desultory in the
extreme. There were dark rings around Morton's eyes, which betrayed a
sleepless night; he was nervous and constrained in manner, while the
wan pallor of his face contrasted sharply with the unrelieved
blackness of his garments. It was with evident relief that the
brothers-elect left the table and separated by tacit consent.
It had been agreed that the ceremony should be solemnized in the
conservatory at noon, after which the wedded pair should at once be
driven to Morton's house in the city. The preparations were of the
simplest description, if the mere removal of the rustic seats from the
conservatory could be considered such.
To be sure, as the appointed hour drew nigh, various wines were placed
upon the sideboard in the dining-room, where a bridal-cake occupied
the centre of the table, upon which lay bride-roses and
lilies-of-the-valley in richly fragrant garlands. Servants in holiday
attire went hither and thither with muffled step; otherwise the house
maintained the most sepulchral silence. No sound of approaching
equipage disturbed the rainy day without; even the birds restrained
their plaintive twitter beneath the dripping leaves. It was as if some
invisible dead lay in state during that ominous lull which precedes
the arrival of the mourners.
Left to himself, Morton paced to and fro in the library. He grew
calmer, but by degrees more pallid, as the hours wore to noon, until,
when the clergyman was ushered into his presence, his stern composure
impressed the man of God as most extraordinary. It was only when the
slowly chiming clocks proclaimed the appointed hour, that Morton
evinced the least animation. He sprang from his chair, while a hectic
glow flashed into his face, and motioned the clergyman to follow him.
Scarcely had they entered the conservatory when Romaine appeared,
leaning heavily upon her brother's arm, and similarly supported upon
the other side by her mother. A very bride of death she looked, her
splendid attire rather heightening than relieving her pallor. She wore
no jewels, as she had once proposed to do; and she had no need for
them, since, if ever loveliness needed not the foreign aid of
ornament, but was, when unadorned, adorned the most, Romaine Effingham
in her bridal hour proved an exemplar.
They guided her faltering steps forward and gave her into Morton's
keeping. He received her with feverish eagerness, and she seemed to
thrill beneath his touch as he murmured some word into her ear that
summoned the phantom of an answering smile.
Thereupon ensued an ominous pause, broken only by the servants as they
grouped themselves at a respectful distance, and by the pitiless
patter of the rain upon the glazed roof overhead.
Then the solemn words were pronounced which made the twain
one--pronounced to the last Amen, without let or hindrance, and
Romaine Morton turned to her husband to receive his kiss. She seemed
strong and relieved in spirit as she accepted the tearful embraces of
her mother and brother, betraying the while her haste to escape from
the thraldom of her nuptial robes, and to be gone to meet the new life
upon the threshold of which she stood.
During the progress of her change of costume she seized her
opportunity, when unheeded by her mother, to slip a note, addressed to
Colston Drummond, into her maid's hand, with the whispered petition
that it be delivered as soon as she had left the house. And the loyal
little confederate was already upon her way to Drummond Lodge as the
carriage containing the wedded pair dashed into the sodden country
road that led citywards.
It is needless to state that that day had proved the heaviest of
Colston Drummond's existence. It is true that he had brought himself
to that pitch of resignation which closely resembles apathy, but he
suffered none the less the dull misery that inevitably succeeds acute
anguish.
Though he was in ignorance of the hour which should make the idol of
his life another's, it was enough that his doom was destined to be
sealed at some period of the fatal span between sunrise and sunset. In
accordance with his wishes, he had been left in undisturbed solitude
during the morning hours, and, as he took no heed of the flight of
time, the servant who intruded to announce the messenger from Belvoir
found him stretched upon a divan in his sanctum, where he had received
Morton that night, long weeks before.
Promptly recognizing the maid, he sprang to his feet, breathlessly
demanding the object of her visit.
"I am the bearer of a note from my mistress, sir," the girl replied.
"From Mrs. Effingham?"
"From Mrs. Morton, sir."
He wavered for an instant, but, quickly recovering himself, he
groaned,
"Then the marriage has taken place?"
"It has, sir."
"Then what can she want of me?" he muttered inaudibly, as he accepted
the missive and broke the seal.
He read Romaine's letter to the close with no outward sign of emotion,
beyond a trembling of the hands, which he was powerless to repress.
Suddenly, however, he raised his eyes, and there was the fire of an
invincible resolution in their depths as he demanded,
"Mrs. Morton has left Belvoir?"
"Yes, sir, more than an hour ago."
"Have you an idea where she has gone?"
"To Doctor Morton's house in the city."
"Thank you--stay; you will be faithful to your mistress and--and to
me," he added gently, "and you will keep your errand a secret?"
"You may trust me, sir."
"I shall not forget you."
Once more alone, he hastened to a window and dashed aside the
draperies, the better to secure the sickly light that filtered in.
"She has set my soul on fire!" he panted. "O Romaine, Romaine, it had
been wiser to let me live out my allotted time and die in my enforced
resignation!"
Then his eyes fled over the lines which Romaine had penned, and which
ran as follows:
"My dream is dispelled. I have awakened to the reality. God help me!
Was it His will that I should have met you in the eleventh hour? To
what purpose? Why could I not have slept on, even unto the end? I have
been roused too late. In one hour I shall be a wife; and, with God's
help I will prove myself worthy the name. But--O my friend, why should
_I_ have fallen the prey of such an inscrutable fate? You have said
that some day we shall know. Your words will comfort me and give me
strength to bear my burden without repining. I shall try to sleep and
dream again, for such is my only refuge. God be with you."
He crushed the sheet within his palms, while the panoplies about the
apartment rang with his exultant cry:
"She loves me! Thank God, it is not too late for righteous
interference so long as she remains a wife in name only! There are
hours between this and night, and all I ask is minutes in which to
accomplish her salvation! Come what may, I will go to her!"
Meanwhile, Morton and his bride had sped over the intervening distance
and found themselves safely housed against the storm in his renovated
mansion in the city. Blinds and draperies had been raised to admit
such light as there was; rare exotics spent their fragrance upon the
genial air; and a repast of exceeding daintiness had been spread for
their refreshment. Everything had been done which a refined
forethought could suggest--in a word, the cage had been exquisitely
gilded, and was in all respects worthy of the bird.
Beneath the mystic spell of his presence, Romaine had recovered her
composure, and appeared to all intents and purposes her happiest self.
Like a pair of joyous children they wandered from room to room,
admiring the new splendors; and thus, in due course, they entered the
apartment where, enthroned above the mantel and garlanded with pale
blush roses, hung the portrait of Paula. Morton led his wife to a
point of vantage, and bid her look upward, riveting his eyes upon her
face the while with a hungry longing.
Before the blonde loveliness of the Saxon girl, Romaine paled, while a
shudder rent her from head to foot. She sighed heavily, and turned to
Morton with a piteous gesture.
"My dear Loyd," she murmured sadly, "never again call me Paula."
He recoiled from her as though each innocent word had stung him to the
quick.
"My God!" he cried, "if I thought--" when he checked himself before
her look of abject terror, came to her, and took her in his arms. "My
darling," he faltered, "if you only knew what agony the mere suspicion
of your doubt causes me, you would have pity upon me!"
He spoke with such suppressed passion, with such wild anguish in his
haggard eyes, that her alarm faded to helpless amazement.
"I have expressed no doubt," she murmured; "what can you mean?"
"Oh, I do not know," he moaned. "Perhaps I am not quite myself; all
the happiness of this day has unnerved me. But--but you bid me never
to call you Paula again; what do you mean?"
"Why, simply that I am so inferior to her in loveliness," she answered
with a flurried smile.
"Did I ask, did I expect, you to look like her?" he demanded fiercely.
"Can you not understand that the flesh is dust, and to dust returns;
but the soul is immortal? Paula's body is dust, but her immortal soul
lives--lives, not in the realms of bliss to which it fled, released,
but--_where_ does it live to-day, at this very instant? I want to hear
_you_ tell me!"
He caught her delicate shoulders between his strong white hands and
glared like some ravenous animal into her startled face.
"Answer me!" he commanded.
"O Loyd," she wailed, "how wildly you speak! How can I tell where her
soul may be, since I can see no reason why it should not be in
heaven!"
"If it _is_ in heaven," he cried, thrusting her violently from him,
"then am I in hell!"
With a stifled cry, poor Romaine staggered to a chair and sank upon
it, overcome by the conviction that she had allied herself to a
madman.
And in the ominous pause that ensued, a light rap sounded upon the
closed door.
With a muttered ejaculation Morton pulled himself together and went to
inquire into the untimely intrusion. Upon opening the door, he found
his man upon the threshold, stammering some words of apology, which
were summarily cut short.
"What do you want?" Morton demanded sternly.
"There is a lady in the office, sir."
"Where are your wits, that you have forgotten your orders? I am not at
home to patients."
"But she has called repeatedly, sir."
"Send her to Doctor Chalmers, my colleague."
"She declares that she will not leave without seeing you. Here is her
card."
The sight of that graven name seemed for an instant to petrify the
beholder, and several seconds elapsed ere he was able to command
himself sufficiently to speak.
Going to his shrinking wife, he raised her hand and pressed it to his
lips in a way that was infinitely pathetic.
"I must leave you for a moment, to attend to an urgent case," he
whispered; "and while I am gone, I beseech you to pardon a love which
transcends all bounds. Some day you will understand all I have
suffered. Be lenient with me, for I am an object for pity!"
In the dimness of his office, which had undergone no renovation and no
decoration, he found himself confronted by the tall and slender figure
of a woman whom he knew full well. The veil had been raised from
before the appealing beauty of the face which bore but slight traces
of alteration since last he looked upon Margaret Revaleon!
His greeting was of so cordial a nature as to preclude all attempt on
the part of his visitor to apologize for her intrusion.
"I am more than glad to see you, Mrs. Revaleon," he exclaimed,
excitedly; "your visit is most opportune. For the past week you have
been omnipresent in my thoughts. Who shall say that I am not
developing something of your own peculiar clairvoyance?"
"I trust not," she said, regarding the speaker with apparent
uneasiness.
But he continued, with precipitate heedlessness,
"And how do you find yourself since last we met?"
"My condition remains unchanged," replied the woman. "Indeed, I am
satisfied that I have developed into what is popularly known as a
spiritualistic medium. But I am wretched at the thought of being the
unwilling possessor of this so-called odyllic power; and I have come
to you again to beseech you to treat me for a malady which I am
convinced you can cure if you will."
Yielding to his adroit guidance, Margaret Revaleon found herself once
more seated in the luxurious patient's chair, while the young doctor
seated himself before her with his back to the light.
Thus advantageously placed, he replied with a smile,
"Indeed, my dear madam, you overestimate my ability. I do not profess
electro-biology. In order to do so, I should be obliged to enter upon
an exhaustive course of reading of Reichenbach and his disciples. In
point of fact, I have no sympathy with the believers in mesmerism and
its concomitant fancies."
"No?" she answered dreamily, that singular absence of inspection
dulling her tawny eyes. "Do you know, doctor, that I am impressed to
tell you that you are possessed of the mesmeric power to an
extraordinary degree?"
He winced consciously, but rejoined soothingly, doing his utmost to
increase the stupor which was fast gaining command of his visitor,
"It may be as you say; it is certainly a power second only to your
own. What else have you to impart? Anything that you might say, I
should regard as oracular."
He thrilled from head to foot with a sense akin to sickening
faintness, as he saw her eye-lids slowly droop while she extended her
slim, white hands to him.
"Give me your hands," she murmured; "oh, dear, dear, dear! Stand back;
do not crowd so! How many there are here!--Ah!"
The final word was simply an exhalation. She slumbered profoundly,
breathing stertorously at first, but swiftly relapsing into perfect
calm. The trance had begun. The portals of eternity seemed to be
widening. The solemnity of the moment was supreme.
Morton's features became rigid as he watched; his haggard eyes started
from their sockets and the drops of an icy sweat pearled upon his
brow. He had longed for this moment, and yet, now that it was his, he
would have given his immortal soul to have been able to play the
coward and escape the consequences.
In fact he did withdraw his hands from the slight grasp, but in the
next moment he was held spell-bound, for Margaret Revaleon was
speaking in that weirdly vaticinal tone.
"Poor Romaine! Where is she?"
"Who speaks? Who are you?" gasped Morton, once more grasping the
outstretched hands.
"Her father. _You_ should know me. I am Sidney--Sidney--"
"Sidney Effingham!"
"Yes, and I am called back to earth in spite of myself. There is
trouble here among those I dearly love, and I am pained, disturbed in
my happiness."
"Your widow and son are well," murmured Morton, profoundly awed by the
impressive tone of the presence.
"Yes, yes; but Romaine! my daughter, where is she? She is no longer
with her mother."
"Of course she is not!" exclaimed Morton; "is she not with _you_ in
heaven?"
The violence of the query appeared to disturb the medium; her eyelids
fluttered and her breathing became labored, as though the conditions
of the trance had been deranged. Presently, however, the transient
agitation subsided and a name escaped her lips.
"Loyd!"
"Who speaks?" whispered Morton, vaguely conscious of a change of
personality.
"How can you ask? Can you not guess?"
"No!" he cried wildly; "O God! I do not dare to guess, even to think!
In heaven's name, do not tell me who you may be! and--and yet I _must_
know! I am resolved to dare death itself to be satisfied! Who is it
that speaks?"
"Paula, your wife--and I am waiting!"
The listening air seemed to cringe before the maddened shriek that
filled the house.
Morton struggled to his feet and for a moment hovered above the
quiescent figure beneath him with hands outstretched and hooked like
the talons of a bird of prey; then with a groan he sank back into his
chair; his arms fell like plummets at his sides and his head dropped
forward upon his breast.
Meanwhile, in the luxurious chamber over which presided the radiant
portrait of the dead, garlanded in roses, the unhappy bride paced to
and fro, now wringing her delicate hands, and again dashing the
terrified tears from her eyes. Each moment but served to increase her
helpless alarm; she knew her husband's return to be immediate, at
least inevitable, and yet she could not support the thought of his
advent. In a word, the last shackle which bound her soul in mystic
spell had fallen away, and she was herself again. It had required
weeks to right the disordered brain and give it the strength requisite
to battle with the mesmeric power of its master; but at last, late as
it was, her mind had fully regained its normal functions.
In the midst of her pitiful quandary Romaine was startled by an
impetuous step outside the closed door. She recoiled to the furthest
corner of the room, and stood bracing her fainting body against the
wall.
Contrary to her expectation it was Colston Drummond who flung wide the
door and stood before her.
The revulsion of feeling well-nigh overpowered her, yet in some way
she was able to demand, in answer to his passionate utterance of her
name,
"Why are _you_ here?"
"To protect you, Romaine."
"You forget that I can claim a husband's protection," she retorted
valiantly.
"It is from him that I seek to protect you," Drummond exclaimed; "you
should not have written to me as you did, should not have laid bare
your tortured heart and revealed the secret which I have had every
reason to suspect, which my great love for you divined long, long ago,
if you did not wish me to fly to your rescue!"
She held up beseeching hands, as though she would ward off that which
she would welcome, and cried piteously,
"Too late! It is too late!"
Whatever he might have said remained unuttered, since at the moment
that frenzied cry reached their ears, freezing their blood with its
baleful import.
"Merciful heaven!" gasped Romaine; "it is Loyd's voice! Something
dreadful has occurred! Oh, prove yourself my protector, and come with
me! Come, quick, quick!"
In the excitement of the moment, the brooding twilight, and their
unfamiliarity with the house they lost much precious time. Indeed they
were only guided at last to the grim little office by the sudden
opening of a door through which the figure of a woman escaped and
passed them in swift flight.
And then they entered in awed silence, to find the bridegroom sitting
in the gloaming of his nuptial-day with pendent arms and sunken head,
lost--
"In that blessed mood,
In which the burden of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened!"
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 1: Copyrighted, 1889, BELFORD, CLARKE & CO.]
THE END.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
"The Cost of Things" (bottom of P. 513): the original appears to be
missing content after "the fallacy of a popular delusion--that" (an
apparent printer's error). Unable to locate alternate publication of
this article in order to identify and replace missing text. An ellipsis
has been added to indicate the incomplete statement.
Obvious typographical errors have been repaired.
Hyphenation inconsistencies present in the original have been retained.