CHAPTER VII.
"Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!"
The portentous interview in the library was held within closed doors, and at its conclusion the two gentlemen left the house by one of the casement windows of the room that gave upon the terrace. Through the gathered dusk they passed side by side, their blurred shadows tracking them in the faint radiance of the young moon. Side by side they crossed the lawn, bearing down towards the belt of woodland beyond which lay Drummond Lodge—two apparitions, voiceless and black. At last the blackness of the woods embraced them and they vanished.
Not until the dense umbrage of the budding trees was reached was a word exchanged between the ill-assorted pair. It was there, upon the fragrant hem of the grove, that Morton paused, removed his hat and mopped his brow, though the evening was damp and chill.
"I see no occasion for me to go farther," he remarked, a note of nervous irritation in his tone.
"I did not intend to bring you so far," replied Drummond; "but I wished to think of your proposition; to think before I gave an answer to your—your unnatural demand."
His companion listened to the words, his pallid face agleam in the wan twilight.
"Well," he muttered, "you have arrived at some conclusion?"
"I admit that I am curious to know the limit of your powers," was the reply, bitter with irony.
"I boast no special powers. I will simply try to do that which I have proposed."
Drummond broke off a spray of dogwood blossom and tossed it away unheeded.
"You understand," he said sternly, "understand thoroughly, that I insist upon complete satisfaction in the matter."
"I understand."
"That I must have the proof and testimony which I have named."
"I understand."
"You speak confidently."
"I speak as I feel—as I have reason to speak."
"As you think you have reason to speak," echoed Drummond, an ominous gloom shadowing his fierce eyes. "Well, sir, do your best—accomplish what you can—then come to me at any hour of the night. You may suit your own convenience. Between this hour and daybreak you will find a light burning which will guide you straight to me. You will find me alone and waiting—but, mark you! if you come to me with any trickery, any fabrication, any counterfeit proof, I shall detect you in your infamy, and shall be merciless; so beware! Likewise should you attempt to evade me in the humiliation of failure, I warn you that I shall be equally relentless."
Morton replied in a tense tone which betrayed the struggle for composure that he was undergoing.
"I do not fear you," he said, "your approbation or displeasure is alike a matter of indifference to me. In any case, though I admit but one to be possible, I shall come to you before daybreak."
Drummond drew up his stalwart figure to its full height and folded his arms.
"Under the circumstances, then," he observed with a sneer, "I should be unreasonable were I to encroach upon another instant of your precious time."
Perhaps his mockery was unheeded. Be that as it may, Morton had turned abruptly while he was speaking, and had begun rapidly to retrace his steps to the mansion beyond the lawn.
Upon the fringe of the wood, Colston Drummond stood watching the receding figure until, its lineaments mingling with the pervading gloom, it was lost to sight.
"Charlatan! fool!" he muttered. "I have given you the rope; go hang yourself!"
He turned upon his heel and pressed into the path that led across the copse, through which twinkled the lights of Drummond Lodge.
Suddenly he paused with clenched hands, and only the budding leaves and fronds were auditors of the groan that came, wrung from his inmost soul.
"My God! if she should fail me!"
Meanwhile dinner had been announced at Belvoir. Plenty of candles had been lighted to dispel the gloom. The butler stood at his post before the side-board, but as yet the four chairs placed about the table lacked occupants. The man glanced at the clock upon the mantel-piece and heaved a decorous sigh, doubtless in memory of the well-ordered days of his late master. At last, and just as the hands of the clock marked the half-hour after seven, Hubert Effingham appeared and requested the "faithful Adam" to serve the repast.
"Doctor Morton will dine with us," he said, and turned to meet his mother and Morton as they entered.
Mother and son had indulged in no little surmise as to the sudden disappearance of their two guests, and had delayed dinner until the last moment on their account. Morton's return, unattended, did not serve to elucidate matters, since he did not appear to be in a communicative frame of mind.
The pair had met him upon the terrace, where they had been strolling to and fro in the pale moonlight, talking in lowered tones and awaiting some development in the mystery. They had descried his dark figure as he crossed the lawn, coming from the direction of "Drummond Copse," as the belt of woodland separating the estates was familiarly called, and, with no slight sense of curiosity, awaited his arrival at the head of the steps. Their meeting might have seemed strained, but for Hubert Effingham's remark, which relieved the situation.
"If the dinner is spoiled, my dear Loyd," he said cheerily, "pray do not blame the cook; when guests stray away at the dinner-hour, who is responsible for the consequences? And, by the way, where is Colston? Have we to wait until his constitutional is over?"
"Mr. Drummond will not dine with us this evening," replied Morton, with an indifference, the assumption of which was painfully apparent. "And pardon me; I was in hopes that you would begin, and permit me to catch up with you, as—as I have so frequently done."
"The idea of obliging Loyd to apologize for his actions," interposed Mrs. Effingham, laughing, "when his privileges here are the privileges of his own house! Be off with you, you Hector, and tell Anton he may serve dinner."
Thereupon she linked her arm within that of the young doctor, and glanced up into his face with an affection beyond question.
"Why should I mention your privileges in my home, my dearest boy and almost son?" she asked. "Do I need to remind you of my darling Malcolm's love for you, or of the paternal fondness of that dear one who so soon followed my boy to the grave?"
She noted the nervous tremor of Morton's pallid lips, and hastened to remove the painful impression she had produced.
"Of course not!" she added; "more than ever, now, I account you a son. You have saved Romaine, and it is the debt of a mother's gratitude that I have to repay—if such requital be within human power. Oh, Loyd dear, you are again alone in the world! Come to me and fill the vacant place!"
"Of son?" he demanded in a tone, the hoarseness of which concealed its almost fierce eagerness.
"Of nothing less than son, you know it."
His dark eyes lighted with an inward fire that he was powerless to mask.
"God bless you!—mother," he answered, chokingly; "perhaps the hour is not far distant when I may ask requital for the life I have given you back, and put you to the test."
They had entered the lighted hall and she glanced with a slightly wondering start into his face, though the replied in the same fulness of soul,
"Bring me to the test."
Their entrance into the dining-room and the presence of Hubert put an end to the conversation, and dinner began, a single course of which gave ample proof that the atmosphere had cleared. Romaine was out of danger, indeed convalescent, and the awful suspense of the last twenty-four hours was at an end. Mother and son presided in the very best of spirits, and Morton must have been morose indeed had he been able to withstand the contagion of their buoyant mood. Under the influence of their constantly reiterated gratitude for the feat which they ascribed to his skill, of the genial atmosphere, combined with the excellent fare and wines, he warmed while some hint of hope and peace crept back into his tortured heart. Only once did the clutch of inexorable destiny seem laid upon him, causing his blood to halt in its channels, as Hubert exuberantly exclaimed,
"I see but one way, Loyd, and only one, in which you can be repaid for saving Romaine!"
"Relieve my mind by informing me, Hubert," remarked Mrs. Effingham with a smile; "I confess that I have cudgelled my brains in vain."
"By giving him what he has saved—by giving him Romaine!"
"And how about Colston?" laughed the lady in high good humor.
"I did not take him into the account," responded the young man; "at all events he should not object, under the circumstances."
"Which proves that you have never been in love, my boy."
They glanced at Morton, and were slightly chilled at the sternness of his face and the intensity with which he answered,
"Were it her will, I would gladly be Romaine's servant in love as I have been her servant in life and death."
It was as if a frigid wind had crossed the genial atmosphere, chilling their hearts as the mere passage of a current closes the sensitive blossoms of the deep sea. But the constraint was transient; they were used to Morton's moods, and ever were accustomed to make light of them; and in the kindness of their hearts they readily imagined a score of excuses for this particular one. The actual relief to the situation, however, presented itself in the sudden and unexpected apparition of Romaine herself upon the threshold of the dining-room. She stood between the parted draperies, the soft folds of her robe falling about her in the radiance of the candles.
Romaine's welcome back to her accustomed place at table was full of that exuberant congratulation natural to the situation. There was a general uprising to receive and lead her to the vacant chair, which had been set in place for Colston Drummond. Although Mrs. Effingham and Hubert simultaneously saluted the girl's wan cheeks, Romaine had eyes only for Morton as he bent before her to kiss the hand she involuntarily outstretched to him. Those eyes, so dark and limpid, seemed fairly to embrace the young doctor with their eloquent scrutiny. A conscious flush suffused his face, while an eager, hungry light flashed into his eyes, hitherto so dull and apathetic.
Romaine sank into the vacant chair and glanced about her with a happy sigh.
"How good it seems to be well again!" she exclaimed. "I feel as though I had been away from you all an age. Pray, how long is it since I sat here?"
"Just twenty-four hours, sister mine," replied Hubert.
"One day, only one brief day," she remarked, as it were, introspectively, "and yet in that short space of time I have lived through an eternity—such an eternity!"
Her voice fell almost to a whisper, and her eyes became fixed upon space with an indescribably dreamy inspection in their depths.
Although the dinner was practically at an end, Hubert seated himself beside her, watching her with an affectionate interest not unmixed with sadness. Mrs. Effingham and Morton, however, remained standing side by side at the head of the table, and it was of the latter that the lady inquired in a swift undertone,
"Is it not a risk for her to have left her room so soon?"
"I think not," replied Morton, without removing his eyes from Romaine, upon whom they had rested intently since her appearance; "but I do not approve of her remaining here. See for yourself! The associations of the spot seem to be exerting some spell upon her already. Romaine," he said suddenly, perhaps in answer to the mother's anxious glance, "if I am to be your physician until you are out of all danger, you must obey me. You were imprudent to leave your room without my permission."
She raised her eyes quickly, smiling in happy submission, as she inquired,
"Must I go back again? Command! I am your dutiful patient."
"We will go into the conservatory, if you wish," Morton answered. "It is warmer there and less exposed to draughts; you shall inspect your favorite flowers, and then, I think, we shall have you retire for the night and rest."
She rose with the ready acquiescence of a docile child, and going to him, placed her arm within his.
"Come!" she said. "Of all things, I would like to show you my plants; I think you have not seen them for a long, long time." And with an animated smile, that somehow seemed pathetic, she led Morton away through the glass doors that opened from the dining-room into the spacious conservatory lying fragrant and dim in the rays of the crescent moon.
Hubert had risen as Romaine left the room, and stood with his hand resting upon the back of his chair, lost in troubled thought that mirrored itself upon his expressive face; at last, with sudden resolution, he conquered his painful indecision, and coming to Mrs. Effingham's side, touched her arm.
"Mother," he remarked, "Loyd is correct."
"Loyd is always correct," replied the lady in a startled way, that belied the confidence that her words implied.
"Yes, but he is correct upon one point which you and I, in our great love for Romaine, have been trying to evade during the whole of this endless day."
"What do you mean, Hubert?"
"I mean that Romaine's mind is affected."
"Merciful heaven!" cried the mother, the ready tears glittering in her anxious eyes, "how you utter my thoughts! My dear boy, what shall we do if such be the case?"
"I believe it to be but a temporary aberration, and Loyd thinks so, too," replied the young man, soothingly.
"But how can we tell? O Hubert, what suspense for us!"
"Yes; but we must bear it bravely, mother, hoping and praying for the best. All that we can do is to mind Loyd's commands, in regard to Romaine, to the letter. It must be our duty to see that nothing troubles or thwarts her."
"Of course!"
"Ah, that may mean more than you think."
"How so?"
"It may mean that we shall be forced to forbid Colston the house, or at least the privilege of seeing Romaine until she recovers."
"Colston!" exclaimed Mrs. Effingham, in pained amazement; "forbid Colston Drummond to enter our house!"
"Yes. An unfortunate scene has been enacted this afternoon in Romaine's room between Colston and Loyd—of course in Romaine's presence. Then, later, there has been something mysterious going on between the two men, of what import I do not know."
"What can it be?"
"I say I do not know; but perhaps Loyd will confide in me. In the mean time I have perfect confidence that he is conscientiously doing his best for Romaine's welfare. You can see for yourself, that her consideration even for us, her mother and brother, is second to her sudden attachment for Loyd."
The significance of the words failed not duly to impress Mrs. Effingham. Her slight color faded, leaving her face ashy to the very lips.
"Can you mean," she said, with evident effort, "that some mysterious mental distemper has interested her in Loyd to the prejudice of Colston?"
"That is my suspicion."
"You think that her love has turned to Loyd?"
"Can you doubt it?"
"What would be the consequences of her return to reason?"
"Mother dear," replied Hubert Effingham, manfully, "we had better not torment ourselves with considerations for the future; we have our hands full with the present."
Meanwhile Romaine and Morton had wandered out of ear-shot of this significant conversation, into the depths of the conservatory. They had paused beneath a luxuriant lapageria, and the girl had raised caressing hands, drawing downward a cluster of its frosty bells to her lips.
The startling likeness in tint between the wan face and the ghostly blossoms, as they gleamed side by side in the moonlight, so painfully suggested the sculptured pallor of death, that Morton caught her hands in his and drew her quickly into his embrace, as he would snatch her from the brink of the grave. She resigned herself to his clasp, almost rough in its passion, without a tremor, while she glanced with a wondering smile up into his face.
"I associate those cold, scentless flowers with a certain funeral," he said with a shudder that caused her to nestle involuntarily closer to him; "I saw them near you once, and God knows I would never see them so placed again!"
"Yes, I have worn them in my hair," she said, "and they were thought beautiful with my white lace gown."
"They were laid upon your breast when I saw them last," he muttered, "and they were cut from this very vine."
"Indeed? I do not recollect."
"No, and I would not have you recollect that time, since we are united again."
"United again!" she echoed dreamily. "O Loyd, teach me to understand how we have ever been separated!"
"Rather let me teach you how fondly I love you," he whispered; "let me convince you that every heart-throb of ours distances the past—the dead past and its shadows. Let your very soul be witness to my avowal when I tell you that I love you! Paula, I love you!"
"Paula!"
She spoke the name after him in no surprise, with no intonation of perplexity. It left her lips lingeringly, as though its sound was pleasing to her ear.
"Yes, Paula," he answered eagerly; "you are Paula, Paula to me, but Romaine to the rest of the world."
"How strange," she faltered with that dreamy smile, as if fascinated.
"But you comprehend," he insisted—"you appreciate the distinction?"
"Oh, yes."
"Answer to every name in Christendom, if you will, save Paula; you are Paula alone for me!"
His impassioned emphasis seemed to charm her. Her rapt gaze enveloped his head as she lay in his arms, and there was a smile of ineffable serenity upon her lips.
"How you love that name!" she murmured.
"You taught me to love it."
"I must have, since you say so."
"You are Paula."
"Yes, I am Paula," she replied as one echoes a dictation; then, with a half-regretful sigh, "What would I not give to be able to recall the past!"
"You will recall everything in due time," he said soothingly; "I will help you."
"After all," she said after a pause, "what is the past, compared with the present? It seems like an earth-life which I have left behind; the present is heaven."
"Paula, my own true darling!" he parted in ecstasy, "you recognize me; you love me!"
"I love you, Loyd."
He bent his head to kiss the calmly smiling lips, when she raised her hand to stroke, with fond caress, his hair.
A flash like miniature lightning dazed his sight as her hand passed upward; it was simply the gleam of a diamond upon her finger; but through its white sheen peered the face of Colston Drummond, distorted with a grimace of mocking warning, and he reeled from his seventh heaven to earth, felled by that tiny shaft.
He loosened his hold upon her, and caught her hand, riveting his burning eyes upon the gem, that returned the glare with flashes of ruby fire.
"You must not wear this ring!" he exclaimed; "I cannot bear to see it upon your dear hand."
Her startled glance left his face and rested upon the exquisite jewel.
"You do not like the ring?" she inquired in a puzzled way.
"It is not a question of my like or dislike," he replied with increasing eagerness, almost with impatience. "I did not place it upon your finger; it does not belong to you, Paula."
"Oh, then take it away!" she cried, hastily twisting off the circlet; "I hate it now, although I thought it so beautiful."
Perhaps it was the utter absence of regret in her tone that brought that triumphant glitter to his eyes, as he accepted the ring and slipped it upon the little finger of his left hand.
"It shall return whence it came," he said unsteadily. "It shall trouble you no more; but in its stead you shall wear this ring, these pearls. Paula, do you not recognize them?"
As he spoke, he produced a plain gold hoop, set with three perfect pearls, and held it before her eyes.
"Pearls!" she murmured sadly; "pearls are ill-fated; they mean tears."
He cast his arm about her waist and drew her to him, still holding the ring within range of her vision.
"All portents, all auguries, all superstitions fail in our case!" he cried exultantly. "We are exempt from all baleful influences now! These pearls may once have signified tears, but now there are no more tears whence they came; they are petrified, and symbolize our happy reunion. In this supreme moment of our love, try to recollect—Paula, do you not recognize these pearls?"
A spasm of actual pain crossed the beautiful face, the result of intense mental exertion.
"O Loyd, I cannot recollect!" she faltered piteously; "and yet—. Did you not promise to help me to recall the past?"
"Yes, my darling!" he exclaimed, his passion exceeding all bounds; "and I will fulfil that promise when we have wearied of the blessed present! A new promise I will make you here and now, and that is never again to torture you with unavailing considerations; only tell me once again that you love me with all your renewed strength, with all your purified soul!"
She raised her arms and wound them about his neck.
"Loyd, I love you," she answered steadily; "I love you—love you as the angels in heaven love!"
"Of whom you are one!"
He kissed her upon the lips—a long, rapturous kiss, thrilling with the welcome of his yearning heart; with such rapture only could he have kissed the one who had been his bride, returned to him from the imminence of some awful danger or from the shadow of the grave.
As such, and in all good faith, he kissed the woman lying in his arms, in all reason believing her his loved and lost one sent back to him from the vague realms of eternity.
Suddenly he raised his head and looked into her face with something akin to fright, actuated doubtless by the shadow of a last doubt upon his certitude; as a fleeting remnant of cloud-rack after a night of storm will sometimes fleck the serenity of a perfect dawn.
Would there be a blush upon her cheek after that impassioned salute? And, if there were, would not it portend an agitation born of maiden modesty? His suspicious heart assured him that no such tell-tale hue dyes the brow in holy wedlock. And he could have cried aloud in his exceeding joy to find the sweet face as untinged as the ghostly flower-bells that hung above it.
He placed the ring of pearls upon her finger whence the flashing diamond had been removed, and kissed it into place; and she, with fond humility, received the kiss from the jewelled pledge, and returned it to his lips.
Then they passed, with their arms entwined about each other, through the dimly lighted rooms and up the stairs to the chamber, where he surrendered her into the care of her waiting-maid.
"You will not leave the house to-night?" she murmured, as their hands unclasped at the threshold.
"Not to-night," he answered softly, "nor ever, till you go with me!"
For the instant he forgot his obligation to Colston Drummond that night; but, when her chamber-door had closed and the diamond upon his hand flashed a defiant ray at the lamp upon the newel-post, he bethought himself of his inevitable engagement. However, he did not blench.
"I am master of the ring!" he murmured in triumph. "One more effort, and I go to Drummond Lodge within the hour, prepared to remove the last impediment from my path!"
At that moment he descried the figure of Mrs. Effingham crossing the hall below in the direction of the library. With rapid steps he descended the stairs and followed her. He was in search of her, since from her hand must come the final weapon destined to silence his rival.