Part 76 (1/2)
”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 pa.s.sages 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 G.o.d, and to-day the words flamed like the sword of the avenging angel, like a menace, a challenge. Would Dougla.s.s 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 n.o.bly 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 grat.i.tude, pitying affection, and sympathy! I am va.s.sal to but one; give me Erle Palma, my king.”
If she married Dougla.s.s and he afterward discovered the truth, could he be happy, could he ever trust her again? She resolved to go to San Francisco, to tell Mr. Lindsay without reservation all that she felt, withholding only the name of the man whom she loved best; and if he could be content with the little she could give in return for his attachment, then with no deception flitting like a ghoul between them, she would ask her mother's permission to dedicate the future to Dougla.s.s Lindsay. She would never see her guardian again, and when he was married it would be sinful even to think of him, and her duties and new ties must help her to forget him.
Pleading weariness and indisposition, she had absented herself from dinner, and when night came it was upon leaden wings that oppressed her. Feverish and restless she raised the sash, and though the temperature was freezing outside, she leaned heavily on the sill and inhaled the air. A distant clock struck eleven, and she stood looking at the moon that flooded the Avenue with splendour, and shone like a sheet of silver on the gla.s.s of a window opposite.
Very soon a peculiarly measured step, slow and firm, rung on the pavement beneath her, and ere the m.u.f.fled figure paused at the door, she recognized her guardian. He entered by means of a latch-key, and closing the window Regina sat down and listened. Her heart beat like a drum, drowning other sounds, and all else was so still that after a little while she supposed no message had been received, and that Mr.
Palma had gone to sleep.
She dreaded to lie down, knowing that her pillow would prove one not of roses, but thorns. She prayed long and fervently that G.o.d would help her to do right under all circ.u.mstances, would enable her to conquer and govern her wilful, riotous heart, subduing it to the dictates of duty; and in conclusion she begged that the heavenly Father would spare and strengthen His feeble, suffering, consecrated minister, spare a life she would strive to brighten.
Rising from her knees she opened a little ill.u.s.trated Testament Mr.
Lindsay had given her on her thirteenth birthday, and which she was accustomed to read every night. The fourteenth chapter of St. John happened to meet her eye.
”Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid; ye believe in G.o.d, believe also in Me.” Just then she heard a low, cautious tap upon her door. Her heart stood still, she felt paralyzed, but found voice to say hoa.r.s.ely:
”Come in.”
The door was partly opened but no one entered, and she went forward to the threshold. Mr. Palma was standing outside, with his face averted, and in his outstretched hand she saw the well-known telegraphic envelope, which always arouses a thrill of dread, bearing so frequently the bolt of destruction into tranquil households.
Shaking like aspens when the west wind blows, she took it.
”Tell me, is he better?”
Mr. Palma turned, gave one swift pitying glance at her agonized face, and as if unable to endure the sight, walked quickly away. She shut the door, stood a moment, spellbound by dread, then held the sheet to the light.
”SAN FRANCISCO.
”MR. ERLE PALMA,--My Dougla.s.s died last night.
”ELISE LINDSAY.”
”Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best; They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast.”