Kitabı oku: «Belford's Magazine, Vol II, No. 10, March 1889», sayfa 17
CHAPTER XI
"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.
CHAPTER XII
"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."
