One Day Part 27

Opal crouched in her bed, and buried her head in the pillows. She had never before known the meaning of fear, but now she was alone, and the consciousness of guilt was upon her--the acute agony of their separation mingled with the despairing prospect of a long, miserable loveless--yes, _shameful,_--life as the legal slave of a man she abhorred.

She did not regret the one day she had given to her lover. Whatever the cost, she would never, never regret, she said to herself, for it had been well worth any price that might be required of her. She gloried in it, even now, while the storm raged outside.

And the thunders crashed like the falling of mighty rocks upon the roof over her head. Should she summon Celeste, her maid?

Suddenly, as the tempest paused as if to catch its breath, she heard footsteps in the corridor outside. It was very late--who could be prowling about at this hour? She listened intently, every nerve and sense keenly alert. Nearer and nearer the steps came, and then she remembered with a start that in the excitement of her stealthy return to the hotel and the anguish and madness of their parting, she had forgotten to fasten her door.

There came a light tap on the panel. She did not speak or move--hardly breathed. Then the door opened, noiselessly, cautiously, and he--her lover, her king--entered, the dim light of her room making his form, as it approached, appear of even more than its usual majestic height and power.

"Paul!" she whispered.

He seemed in a strange daze. Had the storm gone to his head and driven him mad?

"Yes, it is I," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "It is Paul. Don't cry out. See, I am calm!" and he laid his hand on hers. It was burning with fever. "I will not hurt you, Opal!"

Cry out? Hurt her? What did he mean? She had no thought of crying out.

Of course he would not hurt her--her lover, her lord, her king! Did she not belong to him--now?

He sat down and took her hands in his.

"Opal," he muttered, "I've been thinking, thinking, thinking, till I feel half-mad--yes, mad! Dearest, I cannot give you up like this--I cannot! Let you go to _his_ arms--you who have been mine! Oh, Opal, I've pictured it all to myself--seen you in his arms--seen his lips on yours--seen--seen--Can't you imagine what it means to me? It's more than I can stand, dearest! I may be crazy--I believe I am--but wouldn't it be better for you and me to--to--cease forever this mockery of life, and--forget?"

She did not understand him.

"Forget?" she murmured, holding his hand against her cheek, while her free arm pulled his head down to hers. "Forget?"

He pressed his burning lips to her cool neck, and then, after a moment, went on, "Yes, beloved, to forget. Think, Opal, think! To forget all ambition, all restlessness, all disappointment, all longing for what can never be, all pain, all suffering, all thought of responsibility or growth or desire, all success or failure--all life, all death--to forget! to forget! Ah, dearest, one must have loved as we have loved, and lost as we have lost, to wish to--forget!"

"But there is no such respite for us, Paul. We are not the sort who can put memory aside. To live will be to remember!"

"Yes, that is it. To live _is_ to remember. But why should we live longer? We've lived a lifetime in one day, have we not, sweetheart? What more has life to give us?"

He was calmer now, but it was the calmness of determination.

"Let us die, dear--let us die! Virginius slew his daughter to save her honor. You are more to me than a thousand daughters. You are my wife, Opal!--Opal, my very own!"

His eyes softened again, as the storm outside lulled for a moment.

"My darling, don't be afraid! I will save you from him. I will keep you mine--mine!"

The thunder crashed again, and again the fury leaped to his eyes. He drew from his pocket a curious foreign dagger, engraved with quaint designs, and glittering with encrusted gold. Opal recognized it at once.

She had toyed with it the day before, admiring the richness of its material and workmanship.

"She--has been--mine--my wife," he muttered to himself, wildly, disconnectedly, yet with startling distinctness. "She shall never, never lie in his arms!"

He pa.s.sed his hand across his eyes, as if to brush away a veil.

"Oh, the red! the red! the red! It's blood and fire and h.e.l.l! It glares in my eyes! It screams in my ears! Bidding me kill! kill!"

He clasped her to him fiercely.

"To see you, after all this--to see you go from me--and know you were going to him--_him_--while I went ... Oh, beloved! beloved! G.o.d never meant that! Surely He never meant that when He created us the creatures that we are!"

She kissed his hot, quivering lips. She had not loved him so much in all their one mad day as she loved him now.

"Paul," she whispered, "beloved!--what would you do?"

There was only a great wonder in her eyes, not the faintest sign of fear. Even in his anguish the Boy noticed that.

"What would I do? Listen, Opal, my darling. Don't you remember, you said it was not life but death--and I said it was both! And it is! it is! I thought I was strong enough to brave h.e.l.l! Opal--though you are betrothed to the Count de Roannes you are _my wife_! And our wedding-journey shall be eternal--through stars, Opal, and worlds--far-off, glimmering worlds--our freed spirits together, always together--together!"

She watched him, fascinated, spell-bound.

"Dear heart, Nature will not repulse us," Paul continued. "She will gather us to her great, warm, peaceful heart, beloved!"

Opal held him close to her breast, almost maternally, with a great longing to soothe and calm his troubled spirit.

"Think," he continued, "of what my poor, unhappy mother said was the cost of love--'_Sorrow and death!_' We have had the sorrow, G.o.d knows!

And now for death! Kiss me, dearest, dearest! Kiss me for time and for eternity, Opal, for in life and in death we can never part more!"

She kissed him--obediently, solemnly--and then, holding her to him, drinking in all the love that still shone for him in those eyes that had driven him to desperation, he suddenly plunged the little dagger to its hilt through her heart.

She did not cry out. She did not even shudder. But looking at him with "the light that never was on sea or land" in her still brilliant eyes, she murmured, "In--life--and--in--death ... beloved! beloved!"

And while he whispered between his set lips, "Sleep, my beloved, sleep,"

her little head dropped back against his arm with a long, peaceful sigh.

He held her form tenderly to his heart, murmuring senseless, meaningless words of comfort and love, like a mother crooning her babe to sleep. And he still clasped her there till the new day peeped through the blinds.

And the storm raged at intervals with all the ferocity of unspent pa.s.sion. But _his_ pa.s.sion was over now, and he laughed a savage laugh of triumph.

No one could take her from him now--no one! His darling was his--his wife--in life and in death!

He laid her down upon the bed and arranged the blankets over her tenderly, hiding the hideous, gaping wound, with its unceasing flow; carefully from sight. He closed her eyes, kissing them as he did so, and folded her little white hands together, and then he pulled out the disarranged lace at her throat and smoothed it mechanically, till it lay quite to his satisfaction. Opal was so fastidious, he thought--so particular about these little niceties of dress. She would like to look well when they found her--dear Heaven!--to-morrow!

"No to-morrow!" he thought. They had spoken more wisely than they knew.

There would be no to-morrow for her--nor for him!

There was a tiny spot of blood upon the frill of her sleeve, and he carefully turned it under, out of sight. He looked at the ugly stains upon his own garments with a thrill of satisfaction. She was his! Was it not quite right and proper that her blood should be upon him?

But even then, frenzied as he was, he had a singular care for appearances, a curious regard for detail, and busied himself in removing all signs of his presence from her chamber--all tell-tale traces of the storm of pa.s.sion that swept away her life--and his! He felt himself already but the ghost of his former self, and laughed a weird, half-mad laugh at the thought as it came to him.

He bent over her again. He would have given much to have lain down beside her and slept his last sleep in her cold, lifeless arms. But no!

Even this was denied him!

He wound a tress of her hair about his fingers, and it clung and twined there as her white fingers had been wont to twine. Oh, the pity of her stillness--her silence--who was never still nor silent--never indifferent to his presence! She looked so like a sleeping child in her whiteness and tranquillity, her red-brown hair in disordered waves about her head, her eyes closed in the last long sleep. And he wept as he pressed his burning lips to hers, so cold, so pitifully cold, and for the first time unresponsive. Oh, G.o.d, unresponsive forever!

"Poor little girl!" he moaned, between sobs of hopeless pain. "Poor little pa.s.sionate girl!... Poor little tired Opal!"

And with a dry sob of unutterable anguish, he picked up the dagger--the cruel, kind little dagger--and crept to his own room.