The long-hidden light had flashed at last, making his heart radiant with a supreme happiness which even the blaze of his towering and successful ambition had never kindled; and to-day he found it difficult indeed to stand aside, with folded arms and sealed lips, while she reeled upon the brink of an abyss, which was so wide and deep, that it threatened to bury all his hopes of that sacred home life—which sooner or later sings its dangerous siren song in every man's heart.
To his proud worldly nature this dream of pure, deep, unselfish love, had stolen like the warm, rich spicy breath of June roses—swung unexpectedly over a glacier, bringing the flush and perfume of early summer to the glittering blue realms of winter; and he longed inexpressibly to open all his heart to the sweet sunshine, to gather it in, garnering it as his own for ever. How his stern soul clung to that shy, shrinking girl, who seemed in contrast to the gay brilliant self-asserting women he met in society as some white marble-lidded Psyche, standing on her pedestal, amid a group of glowing Venetian Venuses! He had seen riper complexions, and more rounded symmetry; and had smiled and bowed at graceful polished persiflage, more witty than aught that ever crossed her quiet, daintily carved lips; but though he had admired many lovely women of genius and culture, that pale girl, striving to hide her grieved countenance against his carriage curtain, was the only one he had ever desired to call his wife. That any other man dared hope to win or claim her seemed sacrilegious; and he felt that he would rather see her lying in her coffin, than know that she was profaned by any touch save his.
Neither spoke, and when the carriage stopped at the telegraph office, Mr. Palma went in and remained some time. As he returned, she felt that he held her destiny for all time in his hands, and in after years he often recalled the despairing, terrified expression of the face that leaned forward, with parted quivering lips, and eyes that looked a prayer for pity.
"The wires are not yet working fully, but probably messages will go through during the day. Regina, try to be patient, and believe that you shall learn the nature of Mrs. Lindsay's answer as soon as I receive it. Tell Mrs. Palma I shall not come home to dine, have pressing business at court, and cannot tell how long I may be detained at my office. Good-bye. The despatch shall be sent to you without delay."
He lifted his hat, closed the carriage door, and motioned to Farley to drive home.
Locked in her own apartment Olga denied admittance to even her mother, who improved the opportunity to answer a number of neglected letters, and Regina was left to the seclusion of her room. As the day wore slowly away, her restlessness increased, and she paced the floor until her limbs trembled from weariness. Deliberately she recalled all the incidents of the long residence at the parsonage, and strove to live again the happy season, during which the young minister had contributed so largely to her perfect contentment. The white pets they had tended and caressed together, the books she had read with him, the favourite passages he had italicized, the songs he loved best, the flowers he laid upon her breakfast plate, and now and then twined in her hair; above all, his loving persuasive tone, quiet gentle words of affectionate counsel, and tender pet name for her, "my white dove."
How fervent had been his prayer that when he returned, he might find her "unspotted from the world." Was she? Could she bear to deceive the brave loyal heart that trusted her so completely?
Once at church she had witnessed a marriage, heard the awfully solemn vows that the bride registered in the sight of God, and to-day the words flamed like the sword of the avenging angel, like a menace, a challenge. Would Douglass take her for his wife, if he knew that Mr. Palma had become dearer to her than all the world beside? Could she deny that his voice and the touch of his hand on hers magnetized, thrilled her, as no one else had power to do? She could think without pain of Mr. Lindsay selecting some other lady and learning to love her as his wife, forgetting the child Regina; but when she forced herself to reflect that her guardian would soon be Mrs. Carew's husband, the torture seemed unendurable.
Unlocking a drawer, she spread before her all the little souvenirs Mr. Lindsay had given her. The faded flowers that once glowed under the fervid sun of India, the seal and pen, the blue and gold Tennyson, and Whittier, and the pretty copy of Christina Rossetti's poems, he had sent from Liverpool. One by one she read his letters ending with the last which Mr. Palma had laid on her lap when he left the carriage.
Despite her efforts, above the dear meek gentle image of the consecrated and devout missionary towered the stately proud form of the brilliant lawyer, with his chilling smile and haughty marble brow; and she knew that he reigned supreme in her heart. He was not so generous, so nobly self-sacrificing, so holy and pious as Mr. Lindsay, nor did she reverence him so entirely; but above all else she loved him. Conscience, pride, and womanly delicacy all clamoured in behalf of the absent but faithful lover; and the true heart answered, "Away with sophistry, and gratitude, pitying affection, and sympathy! I am vassal to but one; give me Erle Palma, my king."