Mrs. Effingham bit her lip to conceal some rising emotion, and toyed absently with the pen.
"Let us dismiss him from our thoughts for the present," she said with a sigh, "and attend to your request."
"I would willingly comply," Morton remarked, "but unfortunately we cannot dismiss Mr. Drummond, since he is intimately connected with my request."
She turned a swift, startled glance upon the speaker.
"Yes," he continued, coming close to the table and leaning above it; "I wish you to write to Mr. Drummond, forbidding him to come here—for the present; at least, forbid him to intrude upon Romaine until she is stronger and better able to bear his importunity."
"Loyd! what can you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. Either Mr. Drummond vacates the field to me, or I vacate the field to Mr. Drummond and such other physician as you may choose to call in. I cannot, and will not, suffer my efforts to be balked by his interference. You have placed Romaine in my charge to cure, and I will do my utmost to secure the desired end so long as I am undisturbed; any physician demands so much. If you consider me unreasonable, I beg you to say so frankly. No candid opinion, honestly uttered, ever gave offence or caused a breach in friendship. At all events, it shall not in my case."
The heroism of his words was belied by his tone, the expression of his face, his very attitude.
If Colston Drummond's rights at Belvoir were maintained in spite of Morton's semi-truthful plea, the day would be lost to him, and he knew it. If Drummond held his ground, he must retreat. He felt the solid earth beneath him changing to a shifting quick-sand, from which only a miracle could save him. If Drummond were restored to Romaine, he must leave her, and, in leaving her, leave that chimerical love to which he had become enslaved, abandon his spirit-wife—and go mad, for aught he knew to the contrary.
The suspense of that supreme moment aged him appreciably, while the reaction that succeeded well-nigh deprived him of self-control.