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THE HOUR OF THE DREAM

When Seraphine led Captain Herrick into the bedroom where Penelope lay propped up against pillows, her dark hair in braids and a Chinese embroidered scarf brightening her white garment, it seemed to Christopher that his beloved had never been so adorably beautiful.

Gallantly and tenderly he kissed the slim white hand that his lady extended with a brave but pathetic smile.

Seraphine withdrew discreetly.

The lovers were alone.

It was an oppressive night, almost like summer, and Penelope, concerned for her sweetheart's comfort, insisted that he take off his heavy coat, and draw up an easy chair by her bedside.

They tried to talk of pleasant things—the lovely flowers he had sent her—how well she was looking—but it was no use. The weight of the approaching crisis was upon both of them.

“Oh, Chris, how we go on pretending—up to the very last!” she lifted her eyes appealingly. “We know what has happened—what may happen, but—” she drew in her breath sharply and a little shiver ran through her. “I—I'm afraid.”

He took her hand strongly in his and with all a lover's ardor and tenderness tried to comfort her. Then, rather clumsily, he showed her the automatic writing, not quite sure whether to present this as a thing that he believed in or not.

Penelope studied the large, scrawled words.

“How wonderful!” she murmured. “I remember vaguely writing something, but I had no idea what it was. My mother! It must be true! It's her handwriting. She was watching over us, dear—she is watching over us still. That ought to give us courage, oughtn't it?”

She glanced nervously at the little gilt clock that was ticking quietly over the fireplace. Ten minutes to twelve!

“What is this danger, that she speaks of, Chris? What is it—that you are carrying?”

The captain's answer was partly an evasion. He really did not know what danger was referred to, unless it could be a small flask from the laboratory with a gas specimen for Dr. Owen that he had left in the other room in his coat, but this was in a little steel container and could do no harm.

“It may mean some spiritual danger, Pen, from selfishness or want of faith or—or something like that,” he suggested. “I guess I am selfish and impatient—don't you think so?”

“Impatient, Chris?”

“I mean impatient for you to get well, impatient to take you far away from all these doctors and dreams, and just have you to myself. That isn't very wicked, is it, sweetheart?”

He stroked her hand fondly and looked deep into her wonderful eyes. Penelope sighed.

“I—I suppose it will all be over soon—I mean we shall know what's going to happen, won't we?”

It was her first open reference to the peril hanging over them, and again, involuntarily, she glanced at the clock. Five minutes to twelve! It was really twenty-five minutes past twelve!—but she did not know that.

“Darling, I don't believe anything is going to happen. Our troubles are over. You are guarded by this beautiful love—all these prayers. I've been saying prayers, myself, Pen—for both of us.”

“Dear boy!”

“I want you to promise me one thing—you love me, don't you? No matter what happens, you love me?”

Her eyes glowed on him.

“Oh yes, with all my heart.”

“You're going to be my wife.”

“Ye—es, if—if—”

“All right, we'll put down the ifs. I want you to promise that if this foolish spell, or whatever it is, is broken tonight—if nothing happens at half-past twelve, and you don't have this bad dream, then you'll forget the whole miserable business and marry me tomorrow. There! Will you?”

“Oh, Chris! Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow! I'm not a psychologist or a doctor, but I believe I can cure you myself. Will you promise, Pen?”

Her eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude and fondness.

“You want me—anyway?”

“Anyway.”

“Then I say—yes! I will! I will! Oh my love!” She drew him slowly down to her and kissed his eyes gently, her face radiant with sweetness and purity. A moment later the chimes rang out twelve.

As the minutes passed Christopher watched her in breathless but confident expectation. The crisis had come and she was passing it—she had passed it safely. They talked on fondly—five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, and still there were no untoward developments, no sign of anything evil or irrational. Penelope was her own adorable self. The spell was broken. Nothing had happened.

“You see, it's all right?” he laughed. “You needn't be afraid any more.”

“Wait!” she looked at the clock. “Ten minutes yet!”

He longed to tell her that they had already passed the fatal moment, passed it by twenty minutes, but he restrained his ardor.

“Chris, my love, if we are really to be married tomorrow—how wonderful that seems!—I must have no secrets from you. What my mother said is true—a woman must cleanse her soul. I want to tell you something—for my sake, not for yours—then we will never refer to it again.”

“But, Penelope—”

“For my sake, Chris.”

“It isn't about that steamboat?”

“It is, darling. I must tell it. Fix the pillows behind me. There! Sit close to me—that's right. Now listen! This dream is a repetition of what happened on the boat. It would have been much better if I had told you all about it long ago.”

“Why?”

She hesitated.

“Because—it is not so much the memory of what I did that worries me, as the fear that—you will be ashamed of me or—or hate me—when you know.”

Herrick saw that her cheeks were flushed, but at least her mind was occupied, he reflected, and the minutes were passing.

“I could never be ashamed of you, Penelope.”

“If I were only sure of that,” she sighed, then with a great effort, and speaking low, sometimes scarcely lifting her eyes, she told her lover the story of the Fall River steamboat.

The main point was that her husband, a coarse sensualist, whom she despised, had, during the year preceding his death, accepted a chambre apart arrangement, that being the only condition on which Penelope would continue to live with him, but, on the occasion of this journey down from Newport, he had broken his promise and entered her stateroom.

“It was an oppressive night, like this,” she said, “and I had left the deck door ajar, held on a hook. I was trying to sleep, when suddenly I saw a man's arm pushed in through the opening. I shall never forget my fright, as I saw that black sleeve. Do you understand what I mean? Look!”

Gathering her draperies about her, Penelope sprang lightly out of bed and moved swiftly to the bedroom door, while Christopher, startled, followed the beauty of her sinuous form.

“His arm came through—like this,” she stepped outside the bedroom, and, reaching around the edge of the door showed her exquisite bare arm within. “See? Then my husband entered slowly and—as soon as I saw his eyes,” her agitation was increasing, “I knew what to expect. His face was flushed. He had been drinking. He looked at me and—then he locked the door—like this. I crouched away from him, I was frozen with terror, but—but—” she twined her hands in distress. “Oh, you'll hate me! I know you'll hate me!”

“No!”

“I tried so hard to resist him. I pleaded, I wept. I begged on my knees—like this.”

“Please—please don't,” murmured Christopher, as he felt the softness of her supplicating body.

“But Julian was pitiless. He caught me in his arms. I fought against him. I struck him as I felt his loathsome kisses. I said I would scream for help and—he laughed at me. Then—”

She stopped abruptly, leaving her confession unfinished, and, standing close to her lover, held him fascinated by the wild appeal of her eyes and the heaving of her bosom.

Suddenly Christopher's heart froze with terror. The dreaded change had come. This glorious young creature whose glances thrilled him, whose flaunted beauty maddened him, was not Penelope any more, but the other, Fauvette, the temptress, the wanton.

“Chris!” she stepped before him splendid in the intensity of her emotion. Her garment was disarranged, her beautiful hair spread over her white shoulders. She came close to him—closer—and clung to him.

“Why—why did you lock that door?” he asked unsteadily.

“I did not notice,” she answered in pretended innocence, and he knew that she was lying. “Do you mind, dear? Do you mind being alone with me?” Then, before he could answer, she offered her lips. “My love! My husband! Kiss me!”

It was too much. He clasped her in his arms and held her. He knew his danger, but forgot everything in the deliciousness of her embraces.

“Penelope!”

She drew back in displeasure.

“No! I'm not Penelope. Look at me! Look!”

What was it the soldier read in those siren eyes—what depths of allurement—what sublime degradation?

“Fauvette!” he faltered.

“Yes, your Fauvette. Say it!”

He said it, knowing that his power of resistance was breaking. He was going to yield to her, he could not help yielding. What did the consequences matter? She was too beautiful.

Then slowly, musically, the neighboring chimes resounded.

A quarter to one!

And Christopher remembered.

God! What should he do? He straightened from her with hands clenched and eyes hardening.

In a flash she saw the change. She knew what he was thinking and pressed close to him, offering again her red lips.

“No!”

“Don't be a fool! You can save her, your goody-goody Penelope. It's the only way. I will leave her alone, except occasionally—I swear I will.”

“No! You're lying!” It seemed as if he repeated words spoken within him.

“Lying?” Her eyes half closed over slumberous fires. “Do you think Penelope can ever love you as I can—as your Fauvette can? Share her with me or—” she panted, “or you will lose her entirely. Penelope dies tomorrow night, you know that, unless—”

Frantically she tried to encircle him with her arms, but Herrick repulsed her. Some power beyond himself was strengthening him.

“Oh!” she cried in fury, “you don't deserve to have a beautiful woman. Very well! This is the end!” She darted to the bedroom door and unlocked it. “Come! I'll show you.”

Deathly pale, she led the way into the sitting-room and, going to Christopher's coat, she drew out a small flask.

“There! This is the danger she wrote about. I know. Spiritual danger! Ha! I'm going to open this. Yes, I am. You can't stop me.”

“Don't! It's death!”

But already she had unscrewed a metal stopper and drawn forth a small glass vial filled with a colorless liquid.

“One step nearer, and I'll smash this on the floor!” she threatened. “If I can't have you, she never shall!”

The captain faced her quietly, knowing well what was at stake.

“Penelope!”

She stamped her foot. “I'm not Penelope. I'm Fauvette. I hate Penelope. For the last time—will you do what I want?”

“No!”

She lifted the vial.

“Stop!” came a masterful voice, and, turning, they saw Dr. Leroy standing in the outer doorway. Back of him were Seraphine and Dr. Owen.

“Give that to me.”

The psychologist advanced toward her slowly, holding out his hands. Fauvette stared at him, trembling.

“No! I'll throw it down.”

His eyes blazed upon her. His outspread arms seemed to envelope her.

“You cannot throw it down! Come nearer! Give it to me!”

Like a frightened child she obeyed.

“Now go into the bedroom! Lie down! Sleep!”

Again she obeyed, turning and walking slowly to the bed; but there she paused and said with scornful deliberateness: “You can drive me out now, but I'll come back when she sleeps. I'll make her dream. Damn you! And tomorrow night—Ha! You'll see!”

Dr. Leroy's stern gaze did not falter, but compelled Penelope to go back to the couch, where almost immediately her tragic eyes closed in slumber.