The Amethyst Box

  III

  A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT

  I turned and, hardly conscious of my actions, stumbled from the room. Abevy of young people at once surrounded me. What I said to them I hardlyknow. I only remember that it was several minutes before I found myselfagain alone and making for the little room into which Beaton hadvanished a half-hour before. It was the one given up to card-playing.Did I expect to find him seated at one of the tables? Possibly; at allevents I approached the doorway and was about to enter when a heavy stepshook the threshold before me and I found myself confronted by theadvancing figure of an elderly lady whose portrait it is now time for meto draw. It is no pleasurable task, but one I can not escape.

  Imagine, then, a broad, weighty woman of not much height, with a facewhose features were usually forgotten in the impression made by hergreat cheeks and falling jowls. If the small eyes rested on you, youfound them sinister and strange, but if they were turned elsewhere, youasked in what lay the power of the face, and sought in vain amid itslong wrinkles and indeterminate lines for the secret of that spiritualand bodily repulsion which the least look into this impassivecountenance was calculated to produce. She was a woman of immense means,and an oppressive consciousness of this spoke in every movement of herheavy frame, which always seemed to take up three times as much space asrightfully belonged to any human creature. Add to this that she wasseldom seen without a display of diamonds which made her broad bust looklike the bejeweled breast of some Eastern idol, and some idea may beformed of this redoubtable woman whom I have hitherto confined myself tospeaking of as _the gorgon_.

  The stare she gave me had something venomous and threatening in it.Evidently for the moment I was out of her books, and while I did notunderstand in what way I had displeased her, for we always had metamicably before, I seized upon this sign of displeasure on her part asexplanatory, perhaps, of the curtness and show of contradictory feelingson the part of her dependent niece. Yet why should the old woman frownon me? I had been told more than once that she regarded me with greatfavor. Had I unwittingly done something to displease her, or had thegame of cards she had just left gone against her, ruffling her temperand making it imperative for her to choose some object on which to venther spite? I entered the room to see. Two men and one woman stood inrather an embarrassed silence about a table on which lay some cards,which had every appearance of having been thrown down by an impatienthand. One of the men was Will Beaton, and it was he who now remarked:

  "She has just found out that the young people are enjoying themselves.I wonder upon which of her two unfortunate nieces she will expend herill-temper to-night?"

  "Oh, there's no question about that," remarked the lady who stood nearhim. "Ever since she has had a reasonable prospect of working Gilbertineoff her hands, she has devoted herself quite exclusively to herremaining burden. I hear," she impulsively continued, craning her neckto be sure that the object of her remarks was quite out of earshot,"that the south hall was blue to-day with the talk she gave DorothyCamerden. No one knows what about, for the girl evidently tries toplease her. But some women have more than their own proper share ofbile; they must expend it on some one." And she in turn threw down hercards, which up till now she had held in her hand.

  I gave Beaton a look and stepped out on the veranda. In a minute hefollowed me, and in the corner facing the ocean, where the vines clusterthe thickest, we held our conversation.

  I began it, with a directness born of my desperation.

  "Beaton," said I, "we have not known each other long, but I recognize aman when I see him, and I am disposed to be frank with you. I am introuble. My affections are engaged, deeply engaged, in a quarter where Ifind some mystery. You have helped make it." (Here a gesture escapedhim.) "I allude to the story you related the other morning of the younggirl you had seen hanging over the verge of the cliff, with everyappearance of intending to throw herself over."

  "It was as a dream I related that," he gravely remarked.

  "That I am aware of. But it was no dream to me, Beaton. I fear I knowthat young girl; I also fear that I know what drove her intocontemplating so rash an act. The conversation just held in thecard-room should enlighten you. Beaton, am I wrong?"

  The feeling I could not suppress trembled in my tones. He may have beensensitive to it or he may have been simply good-natured. Whatever thecause, this is what he said in reply:

  "It was a dream. Remember that I insist upon its being a dream. But someof its details are very clear in my mind. When I stumbled upon thisdream-maiden in the moonlight her face was turned from me toward theocean, and I did not see her features then or afterwards. Startled bysome sound I made, she crouched, drew back and fled to cover. Thatcover, I have good reason to believe, was this very house."

  I reached out my hand and touched him on the arm.

  "This dream-maiden was a woman?" I inquired. "One of the women now inthis house."

  He replied reluctantly.

  "She was a young woman and she wore a long cloak. My dream ends there. Ican not even say whether she was fair or dark."

  I recognized that he had reached the limit of his explanations, and,wringing his hand, I started for the nearest window, which proved to bethat of the music-room. I was about to enter when I saw two womencrossing to the opposite doorway, and paused with a full heart to notethem, for one was Mrs. Lansing and the other Dorothy. The aunt hadevidently come for the niece and they were leaving the room together.Not amicably, however. Harsh words had passed, or I am no judge of thehuman countenance. Dorothy especially bore herself like one who findsdifficulty in restraining herself from some unhappy outburst, and as shedisappeared from my sight in the wake of her formidable companion myattention was again called to her hands, which she held clenched at hersides.

  I was stepping into the room when my impulse was again checked. Anotherperson was sitting there, a person I had been most anxious to see eversince my last interview with Sinclair. It was Gilbertine Murray, sittingalone in an attitude of deep, and possibly not altogether happythought.

  I paused to study the sweet face. Truly she was a beautiful woman. I hadnever before realized how beautiful. Her rich coloring, her noble traitsand the spirited air, which gave her such marked distinction, bespoke atonce an ardent nature and a pure soul.

  I did not wonder that Sinclair had succumbed to charms so pronounced anduncommon, and as I gazed longer and noted the tremulous droop of herripe lips and the faraway look of eyes which had created a great stir inthe social world when they first flashed upon it. I felt that ifSinclair could see her now he would never doubt her again, despite thefact that the attitude into which she had fallen was one of greatfatigue, if not despondency.

  She held a fan in her hand, and as I stood looking at her she droppedit. As she stooped to pick it up, her eyes met mine, and a startlingchange passed over her. Springing up, she held out her hands in wordlessappeal--then let them drop again as if conscious that I would not belikely to understand either herself or her mood. She was very beautiful.

  Entering the room, I approached her. Had Sinclair managed to have hislittle conversation with her? Something must have happened, for neverhad I seen her in such a state of suppressed excitement, and I had seenher many times, both here and in her aunt's house when I was visitingDorothy. Her eyes were shining, not with a brilliant, but a soft light,and the smile with which she met my advance had something in itstrangely tremulous and expectant.

  "I am glad to have a moment in which to speak to you alone," I said. "AsSinclair's oldest and closest friend, I wish to tell you how truly youcan rely both on his affection and esteem. He has an infinitely goodheart."

  She did not answer as brightly and as quickly as I expected. Somethingseemed to choke her, something which she finally mastered, though onlyby an effort which left her pale, but self-contained and even morelovely, if that is possible, than before.

  "Thank you," she then said, "my prospects are very happy. No one butmyself knows how happy." And she smiled again, but with
an expressionwhich recalled to my mind Sinclair's fears.

  I bowed; some one was calling her name; evidently our interview was tobe short.

  "I am obliged," she murmured. Then quickly, "I have not seen the moonto-night. Is it beautiful? Can you see it from this veranda?"

  But before I could answer, she was surrounded and dragged off by a knotof young people, and I was left free to keep my engagement withSinclair.

  I did not find him at his post nor could any one tell me where he hadvanished.

  It was plain that his conduct was looked upon as strange, and I feltsome anxiety lest it should appear more so before the evening was over.I found him at last in his room sitting with his head buried in hisarms. He started up as I entered.

  "Well?" he asked sharply.

  "I have learned nothing decisive."

  "Nor I."

  "I exchanged some words with both ladies and I tackled Beaton; but thematter remains just about where it was. It may have been Dorothy whotook the box and it may have been Gilbertine. But there seems to begreater reason for suspecting Dorothy. She lives a hell of a life withthat aunt."

  "And Gilbertine is on the point of escaping that bondage. I know; I havethought of that. Walter, you are a generous fellow;" and for a momentSinclair looked relieved. Before I could speak, however, he was sunkagain in his old despondency. "But the doubt," he cried, "the doubt! Howcan I go through this rehearsal with such a doubt in my mind? I can notand will not. Go tell them I am ill and can not come down againto-night. God knows you will tell no untruth."

  I saw that he was quite beside himself, but ventured upon oneremonstrance.

  "It will be unwise to rouse comment," I said. "If that box was takenfor the death it holds, the one restraint most likely to act upon theyoung girl who retains it will be the conventionalities of her positionand the requirements of the hour. Any break in the settled order ofthings--anything which would give her a moment by herself--mightprecipitate the dreadful event we fear. Remember, one turn of the handand all is lost. A drop is quickly swallowed."

  "Frightful!" he murmured, the perspiration oozing from his forehead."What a wedding-eve! And they are laughing down there; listen to them. Ieven imagine I hear Gilbertine's voice. Is there unconsciousness in itor just the hilarity of a distracted mind bent on self-destruction? Ican not tell; the sound conveys no meaning to me."

  "She has a sweet, true face," I said, "and she wears a very beautifulsmile to-night."

  He sprang to his feet.

  "Yes, yes; a smile that maddens me; a smile that tells me nothing,nothing! Walter, Walter, don't you see that, even if that cursed boxremains unopened and nothing ever comes of its theft, the seeds ofdistrust are sown thick in my breast, and I must always ask: 'Was therea moment when my young bride shrank from me enough to dream of death?'That is why I can not go through the mockery of this rehearsal."

  "Can you go through the ceremony of marriage?"

  "I must--if nothing happens to-night."

  "And then?"

  I spoke involuntarily. I was thinking not of him, but of myself. But heevidently found in my words an echo of his own thought.

  "Yes, it is the _then_," he murmured. "Well may a man quail before that_then_."

  He did go down stairs, however, and later on, went through the rehearsalvery much as I had expected him to do, quietly and without any outwardshow of emotion.

  As soon as possible after this the company separated, Sinclair making mean imperceptible gesture as he went up stairs. I knew what it meant,and was in his room as soon as the fellows who accompanied him had lefthim alone.

  "The danger is from now on," he cried, as soon as I had closed the doorbehind me. "I shall not undress to-night."

  "Nor I."

  "Happily we both have rooms by ourselves in this great house. I shallput out my light and then open my door as far as need be. Not a move inthe house will escape me."

  "I will do the same."

  "Gilbertine--God be thanked--is not alone in her room. Little Miss Laneshares it with her."

  "And Dorothy?"

  "Oh, she is under the strictest bondage night and day. She sleeps in alittle room off her aunt's. Do you know her door?"

  I shook my head.

  "I will pass down the hall and stop an instant before the two doors weare most interested in. When I pass Gilbertine's I will throw out myright hand."

  I stood on the threshold of his room and watched him. When the two doorswere well fixed in my mind, I went to my own room and prepared for myself-imposed watch. When quite ready, I put out my light. It was theneleven o'clock.

  The house was very quiet. There had been the usual bustle attending theseparation of a party of laughing, chattering girls for the night, butthis had not lasted long, for the great doings of the morrow called forbright eyes and fresh cheeks, and these can only be gained by sleep. Inthis stillness twelve o'clock struck and the first hour of my anxiousvigil was at an end. I thought of Sinclair. He had given no token of thewatch he was keeping, but I knew he was sitting with his ear to thedoor, listening for the alarm which must come soon if it came at all.

  But would it come at all? Were we not wasting strength and a great dealof emotion on a dread which had no foundation in fact? What were we twosensible and, as a rule, practical men thinking of, that we shouldascribe to either of these dainty belles of a conventional and shallowsociety the wish to commit a deed calling for the vigor and daring ofsome wilful child of nature? It was not to be thought of in this sober,reasoning hour. We had given ourselves over to a ghastly nightmare andwould yet awake.

  Why was I on my feet? Had I heard anything?

  Yes, a stir, a very faint stir somewhere down the hall--the slow,cautious opening of a door, then a footfall--or had I imagined thelatter? I could hear nothing now.

  Pushing open my own door, I looked cautiously out. Only the pale face ofSinclair confronted me. He was peering from the corner of an adjacentpassageway, the moonlight at his back. Advancing, we met in silence. Forthe moment we seemed to be the only persons awake in the vast house.

  "I thought I heard a step," was my cautious whisper after a moment ofintense listening.

  "Where?"

  I pointed toward that portion of the house where the ladies' rooms weresituated.

  "That is not what I heard," was his murmured protest, "what I heard wasa creak in the small stairway running down at the end of the hall wheremy room is."

  "One of the servants," I ventured, and for a moment we stood irresolute.Then we both turned rigid as some sound arose in one of the far-offrooms, only to quickly relax again as that sound resolved itself into amurmur of muffled voices. Where there was talking there could be nodanger of the special event we feared. Our relief was so great we bothsmiled. Next instant his face and, I have no doubt, my own, turned thecolor of clay and Sinclair went reeling back against the wall.

  A scream had risen in this sleeping house--a piercing and insistentscream such as raises the hair and curdles the blood.