The Amethyst Box Read online

  II

  BEATON'S DREAM

  Mrs. Armstrong, our hostess, was fond of gaiety, and amusements werenever lacking. As we stepped down into the great hall we heard music inthe drawing-room and saw that a dance was in progress.

  "That is good," observed Sinclair. "We shall run less risk of findingthe library occupied."

  "Shall I not look and see where the girls are? It would be a greatrelief to find them both among the dancers."

  "Yes," said he, "but don't allow yourself to be inveigled into joiningthem. I could not stand the suspense."

  I nodded and slipped toward the drawing-room. He remained in thebay-window overlooking the terrace.

  A rush of young people greeted me as soon as I showed myself. But I wasable to elude them and catch the one full glimpse I wanted of the greatroom beyond. It was a magnificent apartment, and so brilliantly lightedthat every nook stood revealed. On a divan near the center was a ladyconversing with two gentlemen. Her back was toward me, but I had nodifficulty in recognizing Miss Murray. Some distance from her, but withher face also turned away, stood Dorothy. She was talking with anunmarried friend and appeared quite at ease and more than usuallycheerful.

  Relieved, yet sorry that I had not succeeded in catching a glimpse oftheir faces, I hastened back to Sinclair, who was watching me withfurtive eyes from between the curtains of the window in which he hadsecreted himself. As I joined him a young man, who was to act as usher,sauntered from behind one of the great pillars forming a colonnade downthe hall, and, crossing to where the music-room door stood invitinglyopen, disappeared behind it with the air of a man perfectly contentedwith his surroundings.

  With a nervous grip Sinclair seized me by the arm.

  "Was that Beaton?" he asked.

  "Certainly; didn't you recognize him?"

  He gave me a very strange look.

  "Does the sight of him recall anything?"

  "No."

  "You were at the breakfast-table yesterday morning?"

  "I was."

  "Do you remember the dream he related for the delectation of such aswould listen?"

  Then it was my turn to go white.

  "You don't mean--" I began.

  "I thought at the time that it sounded more like a veritable adventurethan a dream; now I am sure that it was such."

  "Sinclair! You do not mean that the young girl he professed himself tohave surprised one moonlit night standing on the verge of the cliff,with arms upstretched and a distracted air, was a real person?"

  "I do. We laughed at the time; he made it seem so tragic andpreposterous. I do not feel like laughing now."

  I gazed at Sinclair in horror. The music was throbbing in our ears, andthe murmur of gay voices and swiftly moving feet suggested nothing butjoy and hilarity. Which was the dream? This scene of seeming mirth andhappy promise, or the fancies he had conjured up to rob us both ofpeace?

  "Beaton mentioned no names," I stubbornly protested. "He did not evencall the vision he encountered a woman. It was a wraith, you remember, adream-maiden, a creature of his own imagination, born of some tragedy hehad read."

  "Beaton is a gentleman," was Sinclair's cold reply. "He did not wish toinjure, but to warn the woman for whose benefit he told his tale."

  "Warn?"

  "He doubtless reasoned in this way. If he could make this young andprobably sensitive girl realize that she had been seen and herintentions recognized, she would beware of such attempts in the future.He is a kind-hearted fellow. Did you notice which end of the table heignored when relating this dramatic episode?"

  "No."

  "If you had we might be better able to judge where his thoughts were.Probably you can not even tell how the ladies took it?"

  "No, I never thought of looking. Good God! Sinclair, don't let us harrowup ourselves unnecessarily! I saw them both a moment ago, and nothing intheir manner showed that anything was amiss with either of them."

  For answer he drew me toward the library.

  This room was not frequented by the young people at night. There weretwo or three elderly people in the party, notably the husband and thebrother of the lady of the house, and to their use the room was more orless given up after nightfall. Sinclair wished to show me the cabinetwhere the box had been.

  There was a fire in the grate, for the evenings were now more or lesschilly. When the door had closed behind us we found that this same firemade all the light there was in the room. Both gas-jets had been put outand the rich yet home-like room glowed with ruddy hues, interspersedwith great shadows. A solitary scene, yet an enticing one.

  Sinclair drew a deep breath. "Mr. Armstrong must have gone elsewhere toread the evening papers," he remarked.

  I replied by casting a scrutinizing look into the corners. I dreadedfinding a pair of lovers hid somewhere in the many nooks made by thejutting book-cases. But I saw no one. However, at the other end of thelarge room there stood a screen near one of the many lounges, and I wason the point of approaching this place of concealment when Sinclair drewme toward a tall cabinet upon whose glass doors the firelight wasshimmering, and, pointing to a shelf far above our heads, cried:

  "No woman could reach that unaided. Gilbertine is tall, but not tallenough for that. I purposely put it high."

  I looked about for a stool. There was one just behind Sinclair. I drewhis attention to it.

  He flushed and gave it a kick, then shivered slightly and sat down in anear-by chair. I knew what he was thinking. Gilbertine was taller thanDorothy. This stool might have served Gilbertine if not Dorothy.

  I felt a great sympathy for him. After all, his case was more seriousthan mine. The bishop was coming to marry him the next day.

  "Sinclair," said I, "the stool means nothing. Dorothy has more inchesthan you think. With this under her feet, she could reach the shelf bystanding tiptoe. Besides, there are the chairs."

  "True, true!" and he started up; "there are the chairs! I forgot thechairs. I fear my wits have gone wool-gathering. We shall have to takeothers into our confidence." Here his voice fell to a whisper. "Somehowor by some means we must find out if either of them was seen to comeinto this room."

  "Leave that to me," said I. "Remember that a word might raisesuspicion, and that in a case like this--Halloo, what's that?"

  A gentle snore had come from behind the screen.

  "We are not alone," I whispered. "Some one is over there on the lounge."

  Sinclair had already bounded across the room. I pressed hurriedly behindhim, and together we rounded the screen and came upon the recumbentfigure of Mr. Armstrong, asleep on the lounge, with his paper fallenfrom his hand.

  "That accounts for the lights being turned out," grumbled Sinclair."Dutton must have done it."

  Dutton was the butler.

  I stood contemplating the sleeping figure before me.

  "He must have been lying here for some time," I muttered.

  Sinclair started.

  "Probably some little while before he slept," I pursued. "I have oftenheard that he dotes on the firelight."

  "I have a notion to wake him," suggested Sinclair.

  "It will not be necessary," said I, drawing back, as the heavy figurestirred, breathed heavily and finally sat up.

  "I beg pardon," I now entreated, backing politely away. "We thought theroom empty."

  Mr. Armstrong, who, if slow to receive impressions, is far from lackingintelligence, eyed us with sleepy indifference for a moment, then roseponderously to his feet and was, on the instant, the man of manner andunfailing courtesy we had ever found him.

  "What can I do to oblige you?" he asked; his smooth, if hesitatingtones, sounding strange to our excited ears.

  I made haste to forestall Sinclair, who was racking his brains for wordswith which to propound the question he dared not put too boldly.

  "Pardon me, Mr. Armstrong, we were looking about for a small pin droppedby Miss Camerden." (How hard it was for me to use her name in thisconnection only my own heart knew.) "She was
in here just now, was shenot?"

  The courteous gentleman bowed, hawed, and smiled a very polite butunmeaning smile. Evidently he had not the remotest notion whether shehad been in or not.

  "I am sorry, but I am afraid I lost myself for a moment on that lounge,"he admitted. "The firelight always makes me sleepy. But if I can helpyou," he cried, starting forward, but almost immediately pausing againand giving us rather a curious look. "Some one was in the room. Iremember it now. It was just before the warmth and glow of the firebecame too much for me. I can not say that it was Miss Camerden,however. I thought it was some one of quicker movement. She made quite arattle with the chairs."

  I purposely did not look back at Sinclair.

  "Miss Murray?" I suggested.

  Mr. Armstrong made one of his low, old-fashioned bows. This, I doubtnot, was out of deference to the bride-to-be.

  "Does Miss Murray wear white to-night?"

  "Yes," muttered Sinclair, coming hastily forward.

  "Then it may have been she, for as I lay there deciding whether or notto yield to the agreeable somnolence I felt creeping over me, I caught aglimpse of her skirt as she passed out of the room. And that skirt waswhite--white silk, I suppose you call it. It looked very pretty in thefirelight."

  Sinclair, turning on his heel, stalked in a dazed way toward the door.To cover this show of abruptness which was quite unusual on his part, Imade the effort of my life, and, remarking lightly, "She must have beenhere looking for the pin her friend has lost," I launched forth into animpromptu dissertation on one of the subjects I knew to be dear to theheart of the bookworm before me, and kept it up, too, till I saw by hisbrightening eye and suddenly freed manner that he had forgotten theinsignificant episode of a minute ago, never in all probability torecall it again. Then I made another effort and released myself withsomething like deftness from the long-drawn-out argument I sawimpending, and, making for the door in my turn, glanced about forSinclair. So far as I was concerned the question as to who had taken thebox from the library was settled.

  It was now half-past eight. I made my way from room to room and fromgroup to group, looking for Sinclair. At last I returned to my old postnear the library door, and was instantly rewarded by the sight of hisfigure approaching from a small side passage in company with the butler,Dutton. His face, as he stepped into the full light of the open hall,showed discomposure, but not the extreme distress I had anticipated.Somehow, at sight of it, I found myself seeking the shadow just as hehad done a short time before, and it was in one of the recesses made bya row of bay trees that we came face to face.

  He gave me one look, then his eyes dropped.

  "Miss Camerden has lost a pin from her hair," he impressively explainedto me. Then turning to Dutton he nonchalantly remarked. "It must besomewhere in this hall; perhaps you will be good enough to look for it."

  "Certainly," replied the man. "I thought she had lost something when Isaw her come out of the library a little while ago holding her hand toher hair."

  My heart gave a leap, then sank cold and almost pulseless in my breast.In the hum to which all sounds had sunk, I heard Sinclair's voice riseagain in the question with which my own mind was full.

  "When was that? After Mr. Armstrong went into the room, or before?"

  "Oh, after he fell asleep. I had just come from putting out the gas whenI saw Miss Camerden slip in and almost immediately come out again. Iwill search for the pin very carefully, sir."

  So Mr. Armstrong had made a mistake! It was Dorothy and not Gilbertinewhom he had seen leaving the room. I braced myself up and met Sinclair'seye.

  "Dorothy's dress is gray to-night; but Mr. Armstrong's eye may not bevery good for colors."

  "It is possible that both were in the room," was Sinclair's reply. But Icould see that he advanced this theory solely out of consideration forme; that he did not really believe it. "At all events," he went on, "wecan not prove anything this way; we must revert to our original idea. Iwonder if Gilbertine will give me the chance to speak to her."

  "You will have an easier task than I," was my half-sullen retort. "IfDorothy perceives that I wish to approach her she has but to lift hereyes to any of the half-dozen fellows here, and the thing becomesimpossible."

  "There is to be a rehearsal of the ceremony at half-past ten. I mightget a word in then; only, this matter must be settled first. I couldnever go through the farce of standing up before you all at Gilbertine'sside, with such a doubt as this in my mind."

  "You will see her before then. Insist on a moment's talk. If sherefuses--"

  "Hush!" he here put in. "We part now to meet in this same place againat ten. Do I look fit to enter among the dancers? I see a whole group ofthem coming for me."

  "You will in another moment. Approaching matrimony has made you sober,that's all."

  It was some time before I had the opportunity, even if I had thecourage, to look Dorothy in the face. When the moment came she wasflushed with dancing and looked beautiful. Ordinarily she was a littlepale, but not even Gilbertine, with her sumptuous coloring, showed awarmer cheek than she, as, resting from the waltz, she leaned againstthe rose-tinted wall and let her eyes for the first time rise slowly towhere I stood talking mechanically to my partner.

  Gentle eyes they were, made for appeal, and eloquent with a subduedheart language. But they were held in check by an infinite discretion.Never have I caught them quite off their guard, and to-night they werewholly unreadable. Yet she was trembling with something more than thefervor of the dance, and the little hand which had touched mine inlingering pressure a few hours before was not quiet for a moment. Icould not see it fluttering in and out of the folds of her smoke-coloreddress without a sickening wonder if the little purple box which was thecause of my horror lay somewhere concealed amid the airy puffs andruffles that rose and fell so rapidly over her heaving breast. Could hereye rest on mine, even in this cold and perfunctory manner, if the dropwhich could separate us for ever lay concealed over her heart? She knewthat I loved her. From the first hour we met in her aunt's forbiddingparlor in Thirty-sixth Street, she had recognized my passion, howeverperfectly I had succeeded in concealing it from others. Inexperienced asshe was in those days, she had noted as quickly as any society belle theeffect produced upon me by her chill prettiness and her air of meekreserve under which one felt the heart-break; and though she would neveropenly acknowledge my homage and frowned down every attempt on my partat lover-like speech or attention, I was as sure that she rated myfeelings at their real value, as that she was the dearest, yet mostincomprehensible, mortal my narrow world contained. When, therefore, Iencountered her eyes at the end of the dance I said to myself:

  "She may not love me, but she knows that I love her, and, being a womanof sympathetic instincts, would never meet my eyes with so calm a lookif she were meditating an act which must infallibly plunge me intomisery." Yet I was not satisfied to go away without a word. So, takingthe bull by the horns, I excused myself to my partner, and crossed toDorothy's side.

  "Will you dance the next waltz with me?" I asked.

  Her eyes fell from mine directly and she drew back in a way thatsuggested flight.

  "I shall dance no more to-night," said she, her hand rising in itsnervous fashion to her hair.

  I made no appeal. I just watched that hand, whereupon she flushedvividly and seemed more than ever anxious to escape. At which I spokeagain.

  "Give me a chance, Dorothy. If you will not dance come out on theveranda and look at the ocean. It is glorious to-night. I will not keepyou long. The lights here trouble my eyes; besides, I am most anxious toask you--"

  "No, no," she vehemently objected, very much as if frightened. "I cannot leave the drawing-room--do not ask me--seek some other partner--do,to-night."

  "You wish it?"

  "Very much."

  She was panting, eager. I felt my heart sink and dreaded lest I shouldbetray my feelings.

  "You do not honor me then with your regard," I retorted, bowingceremoniously as
I became assured that we were attracting more attentionthan I considered desirable.

  She was silent. Her hand went again to her hair.

  I changed my tone. Quietly, but with an emphasis which moved her inspite of herself, I whispered: "If I leave you now will you tell meto-morrow why you are so peremptory with me to-night?"

  With an eagerness which was anything but encouraging, she answered withsuddenly recovered gaiety:

  "Yes, yes, after all this excitement is over." And, slipping her handinto that of a friend who was passing, she was soon in the whirl againand dancing--she who had just assured me that she did not mean to danceagain that night.