And she was beautiful, they said;I saw that she was more—One of those women women dread,Men fatally adore.—Anon.
It was a saloon of magnificent proportions and splendid decorations. And Claudia was sailing across it with majestic gait, in the full consciousness of being the Viscountess Vincent and Lady of the Castle, when suddenly her eyes fell upon an object that arrested her footsteps, while she gazed in utter amazement.
One of the most transcendently beautiful women that she had ever beheld lay reclining in the most graceful and alluring attitude upon a low divan. Her luxuriant form, arrayed in rich, soft, white moire antique and lace, was thrown into harmonious relief by the crimson velvet cover of the divan. She was asleep, or perhaps affecting to be so. One fine, round, brown arm, with its elbow deep in the downy pillow, rose from its falling sleeve of silk and lace, and with its jeweled hand, buried in masses of glittering, purplish black ringlets, supported a head that Rubens would have loved to paint. Those rich ringlets, flowing down, half veiled the rounded arm and full, curved neck and bosom that were otherwise too bare for delicacy. The features were formed in the most perfect mold of Oriental beauty, the forehead was broad and low; the nose fine and straight; the lips plump and full; and the chin small and rounded. The eyebrows were black, arched, and tapering at the points; the eyelashes were black, long, and drooping over half-closed, almond- shaped, dark eyes that seemed floating in liquid fire. The complexion was of the richest brown, ripening into the most brilliant crimson in the oval cheeks and dewy lips that, falling half open, revealed the little glistening white teeth within. While one jeweled hand supported her beautiful head the other drooped over her reclining form, holding negligently, almost unconsciously, between thumb and finger, an odorous tea-rose.
Claudia herself was a brilliant brunette, but here was another brunette who eclipsed her in her own splendid style of beauty as an astral lamp outshines a candle. Cleopatra, Thais, Aspasia, or any other world-renowned siren who had governed kingdoms through kings' passions, might have been just such a woman as this sleeping Venus.
Doubting really whether she slept or not, Claudia approached and looked over her; and the longer she looked the more she wondered at, admired, and instinctively hated this woman.
Who was she? What was she? How came she there?
So absorbed was Claudia in these questions, while gazing at the beautiful and unconscious subject of them, that she did not perceive the approach of Lord Vincent until he actually stood at her side.
Then she looked up at him inquiringly, and pointed at the sleeping beauty.
But instead of replying to her, he bent over the sleeper and whispered:
"Faustina!"
Now, whether she were really sleeping or shamming, the awakening, real or pretended, was beautiful. The drooping, black-fringed eyelids slowly lifted themselves from the eyes—two large black orbs of soft fire; and the plump, crimson lips opened, and dropped two liquid notes of perfect music—the syllables of his baptismal name:
"Malcolm!"
"Faustina, you are dreaming; awaken! remember where you are," he said in a low voice.
She slowly raised herself to a sitting posture and looked around; but every movement of hers was perfect grace.
"Lady Vincent, this is Mrs. Dugald," said the viscount.
Claudia drew back a step, and bent her head with an air of the most freezing hauteur.
Mrs. Dugald also bent hers, but immediately threw it up and shook it back with a smile.
So graceful was this motion that it can be compared to nothing but the bend and rebound of a lily.
But when Claudia looked up she detected a strange glance of intelligence between her two companions. The beauty's eyes flashed from their sheath of softness and gleamed forth upon the man—two living stilettos pointed with death.
His look expressed annoyance and fear.
He turned away and touched the bell.
"Let dinner be served immediately," he said to the servant who answered the summons.
"Dinner is served, my lord," answered the man, pushing aside the sliding doors opening into the dining room.
Lord Vincent waved his hand to Lady Vincent to precede them, and then gave his arm to Mrs. Dugald to follow her.
But when they reached the dining room Mrs. Dugald left his arm, advanced to the head of the table, and stood with her hand upon the back of the chair and her gaze upon the face of the viscount.
"No; Lady Vincent will take the head of the table," said his lordship, giving his hand to Claudia and installing her.
"As you will; but 'where the MacDonald sits, there is the head of the table,'" said Mrs. Dugald, quoting the haughty words of the Lord of the Isles, as she gave way and subsided into a side seat.
Lord Vincent, with a lowering brow, sat down.
Old Cuthbert, who sometimes officiated as butler, placed himself behind his lord's chair, and two footmen waited on the table.
The dinner was splendid in its service, and luxurious in its viands; but most uncomfortable in its company, and it suggested the Scripture proverb: "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith."
Claudia, for one, was glad when it was over, and they were permitted to return to the saloon, where coffee awaited them.
"Mrs. Dugald, will you give me some music?" said Lord Vincent, in the course of the evening.
The beauty arose, and floated away in her soft, swimming gait towards the piano.
Lord Vincent went after her and opened the instrument; and when she sat down he stood behind her chair to turn over the music.
She played a brilliant prelude, and then commenced singing.
Claudia, who, at the proposition that Mrs. Dugald should give Lord Vincent "some music," had shrugged her shoulders and turned her back, was now startled. She turned around—listened. Claudia was a most fastidious connoisseur of music, and she recognized in this performer an artiste of the highest order. Claudia had heard such music as this only from the best opera singers—certainly from no unprofessional performer.
After executing a few brilliant pieces the beautiful musician arose with a weary air and, saying that she was tired, courtesied, smiled, and withdrew from the room.
Lord Vincent walked slowly up and down the floor.
"Who is Mrs. Dugald?" inquired Claudia coldly.
"Mrs. Dugald is—Mrs. Dugald," replied his lordship, affecting a light tone.
"That is no answer, my lord." "Well, my lady, she is a relation of mine. Will that do for an answer?"
"What sort of a relation?"
"A very near one."
"How near?"
"She is my—sister," smiled Lord Vincent.
"Your sister? I know that you have only two sisters, and they are styled 'ladies'—Lady Eda and Lady Clementina Dugald. This is a 'Mrs.' She cannot be your sister, and not even your sister-in-law, since you have no brother."
The viscount coolly lighted his cigar and walked out of the room.
Claudia remained sitting where he had left her, deeply perplexed in mind. Then, feeling too restless to sit still, she arose and began to walk about the room and examine its objects of interest—its pictures, statues, vases, et cetera.
She then went to the windows; the shutters were closed, the blinds down and the curtains drawn, so that she could not look out into the night; but she could hear the thunder of the sea as it broke upon the rock on which the castle was founded.
Tired of that, she went to the music stand, near the piano, and began to turn over the music books.
She picked up one from which Mrs. Dugald had been singing. In turning it over her eyes fell upon the picture of a full-length female form engraved upon the cover. She looked at it more closely. It was the portrait of the woman who had been introduced to her as Mrs. Dugald. But it bore the name: La Faustina, as Norma.
Alas! a thought of saddest weightPresses and will have vent:Had she not scorned his love, her fateHad been so different!Had her heart bent its haughty willTo take him for its lord,She had been proudly happy still;Still honored, still adored.—Monckton Milnes
Indignation rooted Claudia to the spot.
Instinct had already warned her that she was insulted and degraded by the presence of this strange woman in the house.
Reason now confirmed instinct.
And Claudia was entirely too self-willed and high-spirited to submit to either insult or degradation.
She instantly resolved to demand of Lord Vincent the immediate dismissal of this woman, and to keep her own rooms until her demand was complied with.
This, in fact, was the only truly dignified course of conduct that, under the circumstances, Claudia could have pursued.
With this resolution she withdrew from the drawing rooms, and went upstairs to seek her own apartment.
Here the very accident happened that we mentioned as being so likely to happen to any newcomer to the castle.
As she reached the great hall on the second floor she looked around upon the many doors that opened from its four walls into the many suites of apartments that radiated from it, as from a common center, to the outer walls of the castle keep.
But which was her own door she was puzzled for a moment to decide.
The chandelier that hung from the ceiling gave but a subdued light that helped her but little.
At last she thought she had found her own door; she judged it to be her own because it was partly open and she saw, through the vista of the three rooms, the little coal fire that burned dimly in the last one.
So she silently crossed the hall, walking on the soft deep drugget, into which her footsteps sank noiselessly, as she entered what she supposed to be her own boudoir.
The room was dark, except from the gleam of light that stole in from the chandelier in the hall, and the dull glow of the coal fire that might be dimly seen in the distant dressing room, at the end of the suite.
Claudia, however, had no sooner entered the room and looked around than she discovered that it was not hers. This suite of apartments was arranged upon the same plan as her own—first the boudoir, then the bed chamber, and last the dressing room with the little coal fire; but—the hangings were different; for, where hers had been golden brown, these were rosy red.
And she was about to retire and close the door softly when the sound of voices in the adjoining room arrested her steps.
The first that spoke was the voice of Faustina, in tones of passionate grief and remonstrance. She was saying:
"But to bring her here! here, of all the places in the world! here, under my own very eyes! Ah!"
"My angel, I had a design in bringing her here, a design in which your future honor and happiness is involved," said the voice of Lord Vincent, in such tones of persuasive tenderness as he had never used in speaking to his betrayed and miserable wife.
"My honor and happiness! Ah!" cried the woman with a half-suppressed shriek.
"Faustina, my beloved, listen to me!" entreated the viscount.
"Do not love her! Do not, Malcolm! If you do I warn you that I shall kill her!" wildly exclaimed the woman, interrupting him.
"My angel, I love only you. How can you doubt it?"
"How can I doubt it? Because you have deceived me. Not once, nor twice, nor thrice; but always and in everything, from first to last!"
"Deceived you, Faustina! How can you say so? In what have I ever deceived you? Not in vowing that I love you; for I do! You must know it. How, then, have I deceived you?"
"You promised to make me your viscountess."
"And I will do so. I swear it to you, Faustina."
"Ah, you have sworn so many oaths to me."
"I will keep them all—trust me! I would die for you; would go to perdition for you, Faustina!"
"You will keep all your oaths to me, you say?"
"All of them, Faustina!"
"One of them is, that you will make me your viscountess!"
"Yes, and I will do it, my angel. Who but yourself should share my rank with me? I will make you my viscountess, Faustina."
"How can you do that, even if you wished to do so? She is your viscountess."
"Yes, for a little while; and for a little while only. Until she has served the purpose for which I married her—and no longer," said the viscount.
"Ah! what do you mean?" There was breathless eagerness and ruthless cruelty in the tone and manner in which the woman put this question.
The viscount did not immediately reply.
And Claudia, her blood curdling with horror at what seemed plainly a design against her life, left her position near the door of the boudoir and concealed herself behind the crimson satin hangings; feeling fully justified in becoming an eavesdropper upon conversation that concerned her safety.
"What do you mean?" again whispered the woman, with restrained vehemence.
"'Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, 'till you approve the deed,'" quoted Lord Vincent.
"But trust me; I am ready to aid you in the deed, and to share with you the danger it must bring, for I love you, Malcolm, I love you! Confide in me! Tell me what you mean," she whispered in low, deep, vehement tones.
"I mean—not what you imagine, Faustina. Turn your face away. Those eyes of yours make my blood run cold. No! We English are not quite so ready with bowl and dagger as you Italians seem to be. We like to keep within bounds."
"I do not understand you, then."
"No, you do not. And you will not understand me any better when I say to you, that I shall get rid of my Indian Princess, not by breaking the law, but by appealing to the law."
"No; it is true; I do not understand you. You seem to be playing with me."
"Listen, then, you bewitching sprite. You reproached me just now with bringing her here, here under your very eyes, you said. Faustina, I brought her here, to this remote hold, that she might be the more completely in my power. That I might, at leisure and in safety, mature my plans for getting entirely rid of her."
"But, Malcolm, why did you marry her at all? Ah, I fear, I fear, it was after all a real passion, though a transient one, that moved you!"
"No; I swear to you it was not! I have never loved woman but you!"
"But why then did you marry her at all?"
"My angel, I told you why. You should have believed me! My marriage was a financial necessity. The earl, my father, chose to take umbrage at what he called my disreputable—"
"Bah!" exclaimed the woman, in contempt.
"Well, let the phrase pass. The Earl of Hurstmonceux chose to take offense at my friendship with your lovely self. And he—did not threaten to stop my allowance unless I would break with you; but he actually and promptly did stop it until I should do so."
"Beast!"
"Certainly; but then what was to be done? I had no income; nothing to support myself; much less you, with your elegant tastes."
"I could have gone on the boards again! I did not love you for your money; you know it, Malcolm."
"I do know it, my angel; and in that respect, as in all others, you were immeasurably above your fancied rival, who certainly loved me only for my rank."
"But why then did you not rather let me return to the boards?"
"Where your beauty brought you so many admirers and me so many rivals?"
"But I preferred you to them all."
"I know it, Faustina."
"Why then not let me go?"
"I could not bear the thought of it, my precious treasure. I preferred to sacrifice myself. The opportunity occurred in this way. You know that I left England as the bearer of dispatches to our minister in the United States."
"Yes."
"The very day after I reached Washington I met at the evening reception at the President's house this Indian Princess, as she was called. I was no sooner presented to her than she began to exercise all her arts of fascination upon me. But my heart was steeled by its love for you against the charms of all others."
"Ah! don't stop to pay compliments; go on."
"Well, but I was good-natured, and I flattered her vanity by flirting with her a little."
"A little!" repeated the woman, curling her beautiful lip.
"Yes, only a little; for I had no idea of seriously addressing her until I discovered that she possessed in her own right one of the largest fortunes in the—world, I was going to say—and I should not have been far wrong, for she had in fact inherited three immense fortunes. This was the way of it. Her mother was the only child of a millionaire, and of course inherited the whole of her father's estate. She had also two bachelor uncles who had made immense fortunes in trade, and who left the whole to their niece, in her own right. She, dying young, bequeathed the whole unconditionally to her daughter."
"Ciel! what good luck! How much is it all put together?"
"About three millions of pounds sterling."
"Ma foi! In what does it consist?"
"It did consist in bank stock, railway shares, lead mines, city houses, iron foundries, tobacco plantations, country seats, gorillas, etc. It now consists in money."
"But what good, if you get rid of her, will it do you? Is it not settled on the lady?"
"No! I took very good care of that. When I saw that she was doing all she could to entrap—not me, for for me she did not care, but—a title, I humored her by falling into the snare. I addressed her. We were engaged. Then her governor talked of settlements. I took a high tone, and expressed astonishment and disgust that any lady who was afraid to trust me with her money should be so willing to confide to me the custody of her person. And the negotiations might have come to an end then and there, had not the lady herself intervened and scornfully waived the question of settlements. She had always ruled her father and everyone else around her in every particular, and she ruled in this matter also. The fact is, that she was determined to be a viscountess at any price, and she is one—for a little while!"
"What a fool!"
"Yes, she was a poor gambler; for it was a game between us. She was playing for a title, I for a fortune; well, she won the title and I won the fortune. Or rather you may call it purchase and sale. She bought a title and paid a fortune for it. For the moment the marriage ring encircled her finger she became the Viscountess Vincent and I became the possessor of her three millions of pounds sterling."
"Ah, that marriage ring! There is another broken oath! You swore to me, once, that no living woman should ever wear a marriage ring of your putting on, except myself!" complained Faustina.
"And I have kept that oath, my angel. If ever you see Lady Vincent without her gloves, look on the third finger of her left hand and see if there is any wedding ring to be found there."
"But you yourself, just now, spoke of the ring on her finger, saying that as soon as it was placed there, you became the possessor of her three millions of pounds sterling."
"I will explain. Listen! I remembered my vow to you. I got the ring purposely too large for her finger; consequently, soon after it was placed on, it dropped off and rolled away. When the ceremony was over the gentlemen searched for it. I found it and concealed it. She never saw it again. Here it is. I give it to you."
Claudia from her hiding place stooped forward until she got a glimpse of the two traitors.
She saw the viscount open his pocketbook and take from an inner compartment her own wedding ring, and place it upon the finger of his companion, saying:
"There, my angel, wear it; it will fit your fat finger, though it was too large for her slender one."
"What will she say when she sees it?" inquired the woman, contemplating the golden circle with a triumphant smile.
"She will not recognize it. All wedding rings are alike. This one has no mark to distinguish it from all other wedding rings."
"And so I have got it!" said the woman, clapping her hands gleefully.
"Yes, my sweet, and you shall have everything else; the three millions of pounds sterling and the title of viscountess included."
"Ah! but how got you all the fortune in money so easily?"
"I sold everything, bank stock, railway shares, city houses, tobacco plantations, lead mines, foundries, gorillas, and all! And I have transferred the whole in simple cash to this country."
"And it is three millions?"
"Three millions."
"Ciel! Now, then, I can have my villa at Torquay, and my yacht, and my—"
"You can have everything you want now, and the rank and position of viscountess as soon as I can get rid of her."
"Ah, yes! but when will that be?"
"Very, very soon, I hope. Just as soon as I can mature my plans."
"But what are they?"
"Scarcely to be breathed even here. The very walls have ears, you know."
"Tell me; what does the earl think of this marriage of yours?"
"So, so; he wrote me a cool letter, saying that he would have preferred that I should have married an Englishwoman of my own rank; but that since the lady was of respectable family and large fortune, he should welcome her as a daughter. And finally, that any sort of a decent marriage was better than—but let that pass!"
"Yes, let it pass. Beast!"
"Never mind, my angel. Your turn will come."
"Ah, surely, yes! But is he not expecting to welcome his wealthy daughter-in-law?"
"Not yet. No, we have come over a full month before we were looked for. The earl is traveling on the Continent. His daughter-in-law will be disposed of before he returns to England."
"Ha, ha, good! But is not miladie amusing herself with the anticipation of being introduced to her noble father-in-law?"
"Ha, ha, ha! yes! You would have been diverted, 'Tina, if you could have heard her talk of her plans when coming over. Ah! but that was good. I laughed in my sleeve."
"Tell me! and I will laugh now."
"Well, she expected to land on the shores of England like any royal bride; to find the Earl of Hurstmonceux waiting to welcome her; to be introduced to my family; to be presented to her majesty; to be feted by the nobility; lionized by the gentry; and idolized by our own tenantry. In short, she dreamed of a grand royal progress through England, of which every stage was to be a glorious triumph! Ha, ha, ha!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" echoed Faustina.
"But instead of entering England like a royal bride, she was smuggled into England like a transported felon, who had returned before her time of penal service in the colonies had expired. Instead of a triumphal entry and progress along the highways, she was dragged ignominiously through the byways! Instead of halting at the palatial Adelphia, we halted at the obscure Crown and Miter."
"Ha, ha, ha! Good! that was very good! But why did you do this? Not that I care for her. I care not. But my curiosity. And it must have inconvenienced you, this squalor."
"Well, it did. But I was resolved she should meet no countrymen; form no acquaintances; contract no friendships; in fine, have no party here in England. The Adelphia was full of American travelers; the Queen's was full of my friends. In either she would have got into some social circles that might have proved detrimental to my purposes. As it was managed by me, no one except the passengers that came over with us, and dispersed from Liverpool all over the Continent, knew anything about her arrival. At the Crown and Miter she was half a mile in distance and half a thousand miles in degree from anyone connected with our circle. No one, therefore, knows her whereabouts; no inquiries will be made for her; we may do with her as we like."
"Oh, ciel! and we will quickly make way with her."
"Quickly."
"But how?"
"Another time I will tell you, 'Tina. Now I must be gone. I must not linger here. It becomes us to be very wary."
"Go, then. But ah! you go to her. Misery! Do not love her! If you do—remember I will kill her! I have sworn it. You say that you will make way with her by the help of the law. Do it soon; or be sure I will make way with her in spite of the law."
"Hush! be tranquil. Trust in me. You shall know all in a few days.Good-night!"
"Ah! you are leaving me. You, that I have not seen for so many months until now—and now have seen but a few minutes alone. And you go to her—her, with whom you have been in company all the time you have been away from me! Ah, I hate her! I will kill her!" exclaimed the woman, in low, vehement tones.
"Faustina, be quiet, or all is lost! You must be my sister-in-law only until you can be my wife. To accomplish this purpose of ours, you must be very, very discreet, as I shall be. Be on your guard always. Treat Lady Vincent with outward respect, as I must do, in the presence of the servants. They must be our future witnesses. Surely you will be enabled to do what I require of you in this respect, when I assure you that I hate my viscountess as deeply as you hate your rival."
"Ha! you?"
"Yes; for in her heart she despises me and adores another. She is unfaithful to me in thought. And it shall go hard, but I will make it appear that she is unfaithful in deed, too, and so send her, dishonored and impoverished, from the castle," said the viscount vindictively.
"Ciel! Is that your plan? I understand now. I trust you, myMalcolm."
"Good-night, then; and don't be jealous."
"Never! I trust you. I shall triumph."
Her heart is sick with thinkingOf the misery she must find.Her mind is almost sinking—That once so buoyant mind—She cannot look before her,On the evil-haunted way.Redeem her! oh! restore her!Thou Lord of night and day!—Monckton Milnes.
Overwhelmed with, horror, terror, and indignation, Claudia just tottered from the room in time to escape discovery.
On reaching the hall she saw the door leading into her own suite of apartments wide open and all the rooms lighted up and old Katie moving about, unpacking trunks and hanging up dresses. Katie, it seemed, with something like canine instinct as to locality, had experienced no difficulty in finding her mistress' rooms.
As soon as Lady Vincent entered her dressing room the old woman drew the resting chair and footstool up to the fire, and when Claudia had dropped into the seat she leaned over the back of the chair, and forgetting ceremony, spoke to her nursling as she had spoken to her in the days of that nursling's infancy.
"Miss Claudia, honey, I wants to talk to you downright ser'us, I do."
"Talk on, Katie," sighed Claudia.
"But, 'deed, I'm feared I shall hurt your feelings, honey."
"You cannot do that."
"Well, then, honey—but 'deed you must excuse me, Miss Claudia, because I wouldn't say a word, only I think how it is my bounden duty."
"For Heaven's sake, Katie, say what you wish to without so much preface."
"Well, then, Miss Claudia—laws, honey, I's nussed you ever since you was borned, and been like another mammy to you ever since your own dear mammy went to heaven, and if I haven't got a right to speak free, I'd like to know who has!"
"Certainly; certainly! Only, in mercy, go on!" exclaimed Claudia, who, fevered, excited, and nearly maddened by what she had overheard, could scarcely be patient with her old servant.
"Well, Miss Claudia, honey, it is all about this strange foreign 'oman as is a-wisiting here."
"Ah!" exclaimed Claudia, looking up and becoming at once interested.
"Miss Claudia, honey, that 'oman aint no fitting company for you.She aint."
"Ah! what do you know of her?" inquired Claudia in a low, breathless, eager voice.
"Honey, I cotch my eye on her dis evening. You see dis was de way of it, chile. I was in dis very room; but I hadn't lighted up de lamps, so I was in 'parative darkness, and de big hall was in 'parative light; so dey couldn't see me, but I could see dem, when dey come into de big hall, her and my lordship. And I seen her how she look at him, and smile on him, and coo over him like any turkle dove, as no 'spectable lady would ever do. And so dey walks into dat room, opposite to dis."
"Katie, I do not wish to hear any more of this stuff. You forget yourself, surely!" said Lady Vincent, suddenly waking to the consciousness that she was compromising her dignity in listening to the tale-bearing of a servant, even so old and tried as Katie was.
"Very well, Miss Claudia, honey, you knows best; but take one piece of advice from de best friend you's got on dis side o' de big water. You 'void dat 'oman. Oh, Miss Claudia, chile! wouldn't you keep out'n de way of anybody as had de smallpox or any other deadly plague? Tell me dat!"
"Of course I would."
"Oh, Miss Claudia, honey, listen to me, den! Dere is worser plagues dan de smallpox; more 'fectious and more fatal, too. Moral plagues! De fust plague, Miss Claudia, can only disfigur' de face and kill de body; but de las' plague can disfigur' de heart and kill de soul. Miss Claudia, 'void dat 'oman! She'll 'fect you with the moral plague as is deadly to de heart and soul," said the old woman, with a manner of deep solemnity.
Claudia was moved. She shook as she answered:
"Katie, you mean well; but let us talk no more of this tonight. And whatever your thoughts may be of this evil woman, I must beg that you will not utter them to any one of the other servants."
"I won't, Miss Claudia. I won't speak of her to nobody but you."
"Nor to me, unless I ask you. And now, Katie, bring me my dressing gown and help me to disrobe. I am tired to death."
"And no wonder, honey," said the old woman, as she went to obey.
When she had arranged her young mistress at ease in dressing gown and slippers, in the resting chair, she would still have lingered near her, tendering little offices of affection, but Claudia, wishing to be alone, dismissed her.
Lady Vincent had need of solitude for reflection.
As soon as old Katie had left her alone she clasped her hands and fell back in her chair, exclaiming: "What shall I do? Oh! what shall I do?"
She tried to think; but in the whirl of her emotions, thought was very difficult, almost impossible. She felt that she had been deceived and betrayed; and that her situation was critical and perilous in the extreme. What should she do? to whom should she appeal? how should she escape? where should she go?
Should she now "beard the lion in his den"; charge Lord Vincent with his perfidy, duplicity, treachery, and meditated crime; demand the instantaneous dismissal of Faustina; and insist upon an immediate introduction to his family as the only means of safety to herself? Where would be the good of that? She, a "stranger in a strange land," an inmate of a remote coast fortress, was absolutely in Lord Vincent's power. He would deride her demands and defy her wrath.
Should she openly attempt to leave the castle and return to her native country and her friends? Again, what would be the good of such an attempt? Her departure, she felt sure, would never be permitted.
Should she try to make her escape secretly? That would be difficult or impossible. The castle stood upon the extreme point of its high promontory, overlooking the sea; it was remote from any other dwelling; the roads leading from it were for miles impassable to foot passengers. And besides all this, Claudia was unwilling to take such a very undignified course.
In fact, she was unwilling to abandon her position at all—painful and dangerous as it was; having purchased it at a high price she felt like retaining end defending it.
What then should she do? The answer came like an inspiration. Write to her father to come over immediately to her aid. And get him to bring about her introduction to the Earl of Hurstmonceux's family and her recognition by their circle. This course, she thought, would secure her personal safety and her social position, if not her domestic happiness; for the latter she had never dared to hope.
And while waiting for her father's arrival, she would be "wise as serpents," if not "harmless as doves." She would meet Lord Vincent on his own grounds and fight him with his own weapons; she would beat duplicity with duplicity.
But first to write the letter to her father and dispatch it secretly by the first mail. She arose and rang the bell.
Katie answered it.
"Unpack my little writing desk and place it on this stand beside me."
Katie did as she was ordered.
"Now lock the door and wait here until I write a letter."
Katie obeyed and then seated herself on a footstool near her lady's feet.
Claudia opened her writing desk; but paused long, pen in hand, reflecting how she had better write this letter.
If she should tell her father at once of all the horror of her position the sudden news might throw him into a fit of apoplexy and kill him instantly.
And on the other hand, if she were to conceal all this and merely write him a pressing invitation to come over immediately, he might take his time over it.
Speed Claudia felt to be of the utmost importance to her cause. So, after due reflection, she dipped her pen in ink, and commenced as follows:
"Castle Cragg, near Banff, Buchan, Scotland. "My Dearest Father: We are all in good health; therefore do not be alarmed, even though I earnestly implore you to drop everything that you may have in hand, and come over to me immediately, by the very first steamer that sails after your receipt of this letter. Father, you will comply with my entreaty when I inform you that I have been deceived and betrayed by him who swore to protect and cherish me. My life and honor are both imperiled. I will undertake to guard both for a month, until you come. But come at once to your wronged, though "Loving child, "Claudia."
She sealed the letter very carefully, directed it, and gave it into the hands of her old servant, saying:
"Katie, listen to every word I say, and obey to the very letter. Take this downstairs and give it to Jim privately. Let no one see, or hear, or even suspect what you are doing. Tell him to steal out carefully from the castle and walk to the nearest roadside inn, and hire a horse and ride to Banff, and mail this letter there; and then come back and report progress to you. Now, Katie, do you understand what you have got to do?"
"Yes, Miss Claudia."
"Repeat it to me, then."
Katie rehearsed her instructions.
"That will do. Hurry now and obey them."
When Katie had gone Lady Vincent closed her writing desk, threw herself back in her chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept.
She was startled by the entrance of Lord Vincent.
She hastily dried her eyes, and shifted her position so that her back was to the light and her face in deep shadow.
"You are sitting up late, my lady. I should think you would be tired after your long journey," he said, as he took another armchair and seated himself opposite to her.
"I was just thinking of retiring," answered Claudia, putting severe constraint upon herself.
"But since I find you sitting up, if it will not fatigue you too much, I will answer some questions you asked me concerning Mrs. Dugald," said his lordship.
"Yes?" said Claudia, scarcely able to breathe the single syllable.
"Yes. You inquired of me who she was. I told you she was my sister. You did not believe me; but you should have done so, for I told you the truth. She is my sister."
Scarcely able to restrain her indignation at this impudent falsehood, and fearful of trusting the sound of her own voice, Claudia answered in a low tone:
"I supposed that you were jesting with my curiosity. I knew, of course, that your sisters were titled ladies. Mrs. Dugald is an untitled one, therefore she could not be your sister; nor could she be your sister-in-law, since you are an only son."
"You are mistaken in both your premises: Mrs. Dugald is my sister- in-law, and is a titled lady, since she is the widow of my younger half-brother, the Honorable Kenneth Dugald," said the viscount triumphantly.
"I never heard that your deceased brother had been married," answered Claudia coolly.
"No? Why, bless you, yes! About four years ago he married the beauty over whom all Paris was going raving mad. She was the prima donna of the Italian opera in Paris. But the marriage was not pleasing to the earl, who is severely afflicted with the prejudices of his rank. He immediately disowned his son, the Honorable Kenneth, never speaking to him again during his, Kenneth's, life. And more than that, he carried his resentment beyond the grave; for even after Kenneth died of a fever contracted in the Crimea, and his widow was left unprovided for, and with the pleasant alternative of starving to death or dragging the noble name of Dugald before the footlights of the stage, my father politely informed her that she was at liberty to go on the stage or to go to—hem! It was then that I offered La Faustina an asylum in my house, which she accepted. And I hope, Lady Vincent, that you will be good enough to make her welcome," said Lord Vincent.
Claudia could not reply; the anger, scorn, and disgust that filled her bosom fairly choked her voice.
After a struggle with herself, she managed to articulate:
"How does the earl like your protection of this woman?"
"I wish you would not use that word 'protection,' Claudia. It is an equivocal one."
"Then it is the better suited to describe the relation, which is certainly most equivocal!" Claudia, in spite of all her resolutions, could not for the life of her help replying.
"It is false! And I will not permit you to say it. The position of Mrs. Dugald is not an equivocal one. It is clearly defined. She is my brother's widow. When I invited her to take up her residence in this castle I took care to leave it before she arrived. And I never returned to it until to-day, when I brought you with me. Your presence here, of course, renders the residence of my brother's widow beneath my roof altogether proper."
Claudia had much to do to control her feelings, as she said:
"We will waive the question of propriety, which, of course, is settled by my presence in the house; but you have not yet told me how the earl likes this arrangement."
"I have not seen the earl since the arrangement has been made. I fancy he will like it well, since it relieves him of the burden of having her to support, and saves him from the mortification of seeing her return to the boards."
"Good-night, my lord!" said Claudia abruptly, rising and retiring to her bedroom, for she felt that she could not remain another moment in Lord Vincent's presence, without confronting him with her perfect knowledge of his meditated villainy, and thus losing her only chance of defeating it.
Claudia retired to bed, but, though worn out with fatigue, she could not sleep. This, then, was her coming home! She had sold her birthright, and got not even the "mess of pottage," but the cup of poison.
She lay tossing about with fevered veins and throbbing temples until morning, when, at last, she sunk into a sleep of exhaustion.
She awoke with a prostrating, nervous headache. She attempted to rise, but fell helplessly back upon the pillow. Then she reached forth her hand and rang the bell that hung at the side of her bed.
Katie answered it.
"Did Jim succeed in mailing my letter?" was her first question.
"Yes, my ladyship; but he had to wait ever so long before the tide ebbed to let him cross over to the shore; but he got there all right, and in time to save the mail; but he didn't get back here until this morning."
"Did anyone find out his going?"
"Not a living soul, as I knows of, Miss Claudia."
"Thank Heaven!" said Lady Vincent, with a deep sigh.
Old Katie busied herself with bringing her mistress' stockings, soft slippers, and dressing gown to the bedside; but Claudia said:
"Put them away again, Katie; I shall not rise to-day. I have one of my very bad, nervous headaches. You may bring me a cup of strong coffee."
"Ah, honey, no wonder! I go bring it directly," said Katie, hurrying away with affectionate eagerness to bring the fragrant restorative.
A few minutes afterwards Katie entered with the tray, followed by the housekeeper, Mrs. Murdock, who came with anxious inquiries as to Lady Vincent's health.
"I have a very bad, nervous headache, which is not surprising, after all my fatigue," replied Claudia.
"Nay, indeed, and it is not, me leddy; you should lie quietly in bed to-day, and to-morrow you will be well," said the dame.
"Yes."
"And, me leddy, Mrs. Dugald bid me give her compliments to your leddyship, and ask if she should come and sit with you."
"I cannot receive Mrs. Dugald," said Claudia coldly.
"Ah, then I will say your leddyship is na weel enough to receive company?"
"Say what you please. I cannot receive Mrs. Dugald."
Old Katie had gone into the dressing room to stir the fire, which was to warm the whole suite. Taking advantage of her absence the housekeeper sat down beside Lady Vincent's bed, and, while pouring out her coffee, stooped and nodded and whispered:
"Aye! and sma' blame to your leddyship, gin ye never receive the likes of her."
"What do you know of Mrs. Dugald that you should say so?" was Claudia's cold question. For alas, poor lady, she was in sad straits! She had need to glean knowledge of her dangerous enemy from every possible quarter; but—she felt that she must do so without committing herself, or compromising her dignity.
"Nay, I ken naething! I dinna like the quean! that's all!" said the woman, growing all at once reserved.
"She is the widow of the late Honorable Kenneth Dugald?" said Claudia, in a tone that might be received either as a statement or a question.
"Sae it is said. I ken naething anent it," replied the dame, taking up the tray of empty cups. "Will your leddyship ha' anything more?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Murdock," replied Claudia, in a very sweet tone, for she felt that in her pride of place she had repulsed the offered confidence of an honest old creature who might have been of great use to her.
"Will I sit wi' your leddyship?" inquired the dame.
"No, I am much obliged to you. I must rest now; but I should be glad if you would come to me later in the day."
"Yes, me leddy," answered the dame, somewhat mollified, as she courtesied and withdrew from the room, leaving Lady Vincent to the care of her own faithful servant.
Like love in a worldly breastAlone in my lady's chamberThe lamp burns low, suppressed'Mid satins of broidered amberWhere she lies, sore distressed.
My lady here aloneMay think till her heart is brokenOf the love that is dead and done,Of the day that with no tokenFor evermore hath gone.—Owen Meredith.
All day long Claudia lay abed within her darkened chamber, It was a scene of magnificence, luxury, and repose. Scarcely a ray of light stole through the folds of the golden-brown curtains of window and bed. No sound broke the stillness of the air, except the dull, monotonous thunder of the sea upon the rocks below. This at length soothed her nervous excitement and lulled her to repose.
She slept until the evening, and awoke comparatively free from pain.
Her first thought on waking was of the housekeeper, and her first feeling was the desire to see the old creature, and if possible make a friend of her.
Ah! but it was bitterly galling to Lady Vincent's pride to be obliged to stoop to the degradation of questioning a servant concerning the domestic affairs of her own husband's family! But she felt that her life and honor were imperiled, and that she must use such means for her safety as circumstances offered. Mrs. Murdock impressed her as being an honest, truthful, and trustworthy woman. And Claudia wished to discover, by what should seem casual conversation with her, how much or how little truth there might be in Lord Vincent's representations of Mrs. Dugald's position in the family.
She put out her hand and rang the bell that hung just within her reach.
Katie answered it.
"Tell the housekeeper I would like to see her now," said LadyVincent.
Katie tossed her head and went out. Katie was already jealous of the housekeeper.
In a few minutes Mrs. Murdock entered.
"I hope your leddyship is better," she said, courtesying.
"I am better; do not stand; sit down on that chair beside me," saidClaudia kindly.
The dame sank slowly into the offered seat and said: "Will your leddyship please to take onything?"
"Nothing, just yet."
"Can I do naething for you, me leddy?"
"Yes, thank you; you can take that flagon of carmelite water on the stand beside you and bathe my forehead and temples while you sit there," said Claudia slowly and hesitatingly; for she was thinking how best to open the subject that occupied her mind. At length, while the dame was carefully bathing her head, Claudia said, with assumed carelessness:
"Mrs. Dugald is very beautiful."
"Ou, aye, me leddy, she's weel eneugh to look upon, if that was a'," replied the housekeeper dryly.
"Has she been here long?"
"Ever sin' Mr. Kenneth died, me leddy."
"Mr. Kenneth?" echoed Claudia, in an interrogative tone; for she remembered well that Kenneth was the name of Lord Vincent's younger brother, said to have been married to La Faustina; but she wished to hear more without, however, compromising herself by asking direct questions.
"Mr. Kenneth?" she repeated, looking into the housekeeper's face.
"Ou, aye, your leddyship; just the Honorable Kenneth Dugald, puir lad!"
"Why do you say poor lad?"
"I beg your leddyship's pardon. I mean just naething. It's on'y just a way I ha'."
Claudia reflected a moment; and then, though it went sorely against her pride so to speak to a dependent, she said:
"Mrs. Murdock, I am a very young and inexperienced woman; I have been motherless from my infancy; I am 'a stranger in a strange land'; unacquainted even with the members of my husband's family; my meeting with Mrs. Dugald here was unexpected, Lord Vincent never having mentioned her existence to me; my first impression of her was very unfavorable; some words you dropped deepened that impression; and now I feel that there are circumstances with which I ought to be made acquainted and with which you can acquaint me; will you do so?"
"Aye, me leddy, and with the freer conscience that I ken weel his lairdship the airl would approve. Ye ken, me leddy, there were but twa brithers; Laird Vincent and the Honorable Kenneth Dugald?"
"I am aware of that."
"Aweel they were in Paris tegither and fell in somewhere with this quean."
"This—what?"
"This player-bodie, me leddy; who afterwards put the glamour overMr. Kenneth's eyes to make her Mrs. Dugald."
"Oh," said Claudia to herself, "then that is true; the woman really is the widow of Kenneth Dugald and the sister-in-law of Lord Vincent. Go on, Mrs. Murdock; I am listening."
"Aweel, she had the art, me leddy, to make him marry her. A burning shame it was, me leddy, in one of his noble name, but he did it. He was a minor, ye ken, being but twenty years of age, and sae he could na be lawfu' married in France nor in England, and sae he brought his player-woman to auld Scotland and made her his wife—woe worth the day!"
"This must have been a terrible mortification to the earl?"
"Ye may weel say that, me leddy. His lairdship never saw or spoke to Mr. Kenneth afterwards. But he purchased him a commission in a regiment that was just about to embark for the Crimea, where the young gentleman went, taking his wife with him, and where he died of the fever, leaving his widow to find her way back as she would."
"Poor young man!"
"Aye, puir laddie! nae doubt regret helped the fever to kill him. Aweel, his widow come her ways back to Scotland, as I had the honor to tell your leddyship, and made her appeal to his lairdship the airl for dower. But your leddyship may weel ken that me laird would ha'e naething to say till her. Will I bathe your leddyship's head ony langer?"
"Yes, please, and go on with what you are telling me."
"Aweel, me leddy, failing to come over the airl, she began to cast her spells over his lairdship my Laird Vincent. This gave the airl great oneasiness, for ye ken he feared this woman that she should bewitch the ane as she had the ither, e'en to the length of making him marry her. And to say naething of ony ither reason against siccan a marriage, we think it wrang for ony mon to wed wi' his brother's widow. Sae the airl took short measures wi' his son, Laird Vincent, and stopped his siller; but got him an appointment to carry out papers to the minister, away yonder in the States. Sae the young laird sent his sister-in-law, as he calls her, up here to bide her lane, telling his feyther, the airl, he could na' turn his brither's widow out of doors. Which, ye ken, me leddy, sounded weel eneugh. Sae hither she cam'. And an unco' sair heart she's gi'e us a' sin' ever she cam'!"
"Has she been here ever since?"
"Nay, me leddy; she left hame last August and did na come back till a month."
Claudia was satisfied. This was the same woman that she had seen on the platform of the railway station at Jersey City.
"Does the earl know of this lady's continued residence beneath his roof?"
"I dinna ken, me leddy. But I'm just thinking his lairdship will na care onything about it ony langer, sin' his son is weel married to yoursel', me leddy."
"The earl liked his son's marriage, then?" inquired Claudia, for upon this point she felt anxious for authentic information.
"Aye, did he! didna it keep the lad out o' danger o' the wiles o' siccan a quean as yon? And now, will I bring your leddyship some refreshment ?"
"Yes," said Claudia, "you may bring me a bowl of your oatmeal porridge. I should like to taste your national food."
The housekeeper left the room and Claudia fell into thought. Two important facts she had gained by descending from her dignity to gossip with an upper servant, namely: That La Faustina was really the widow of Kenneth Dugald, and that the Earl of Hurstmonceux was well pleased with his son's marriage to herself, and would therefore be likely to be her partisan in any trouble she might have on account of Mrs. Dugald. She resolved, therefore, to be very wary in her conduct until the arrival of her father, and then to request an introduction to the earl's family. Bitterly galling as it would be to her pride, she even determined to meet Mrs. Dugald in the drawing room and at the table without demur; since she could treat her as the widow of the Honorable Kenneth Dugald without openly compromising her own dignity. Finally she concluded to meet Lord Vincent's treacherous courtesy with assumed civility.
On the third day Lady Vincent felt well enough to join the viscount and Mrs. Dugald at breakfast. Pursuant to her resolution she received their congratulations with smiles, and answered their inquiries as to her health with thanks.
It was a foggy, misty, drizzly day the precursor of a long spell of dark and gloomy weather, that Claudia at length grew to fear would never come to an end.
During this time the monotony of Claudia's life at the castle was really dreadful.
And this was something like it: She would wake about seven o'clock, but knowing that it was hours too early to rise in that house, she would lie and think until she was ready to go mad. At nine o'clock she would ring for her maid, Sally, and spend an hour in dawdling over her toilet. At ten she would go down to breakfast—a miserable, uncomfortable meal of hollow civility or sullen silence. After breakfast she would go into the library and hunt among the old, musty, worm-eaten books for something readable, but without success.
Then, ready to kill herself from weariness of life, she would wrap up in cloak and hood and climb the turret stairs and go out upon the ramparts of the castle and walk up and down with the drizzling mist above and around her and the thundering sea beneath her—up and down—hour after hour—up and down—lashing herself into such excitement that she would be tempted to throw herself from the battlements, to be crushed to death by the rocks or swallowed up by the waves below.
At length, as fearing to trust herself with this temptation, she would descend into the castle again, and go to her own rooms, and try to interest herself in a little needle-work, a little writing, a talk with Katie or with Mrs. Murdock.
At last the creeping hours would bring luncheon, when the same inharmonious party would assemble around the same ungenial table, and eat and drink without enjoyment or gratitude.
After that she would lie down and try to sleep, and then write a letter home, do a little embroidery, yawn, weep, wish herself dead, and wonder how soon she would hear from her father.
The dragging hours would at length draw on the late dinner, when she would make an elaborate toilet, just for pastime, and go to dinner, which always seemed like a funeral feast. Here Claudia formed the habit of drinking much more wine than was good for her: and she did it to blunt her sensibility; to obtund the sharpness of her heartache; to give her sleep.
After dinner they would go into the drawing room, where coffee would be served. And after that, if Mrs. Dugald were in the humor, there would be music. And then the party would disperse. Claudia would go into her own room and pass a long, lonely, wretched evening, sometimes speculating on life, death, and immortality, and wondering whether, in the event of her deciding to walk out of this world with which she was so much dissatisfied, into the other of which she knew nothing, she would be any better off.
At eleven o'clock she always rang for wine and biscuits, and drank enough to make her sleep. Then she would go to bed, sink into a heavy, feverish sleep, that would last until the morning, when she would awake with a headache, as well as a heartache, to pass just such a day as the preceding one.
Such were Claudia's days and nights. Ah! how different to those she had pictured when she sold herself and her fortune for rank and title.
Her days were all so much alike that they could only be distinguished by the change in her dinner dress, and the difference in the bill of fare.
"It is maize-colored moire antique and mutton one day and violet- colored velvet and veal another; that is all!" wrote Claudia in one of her letters home.
That was all! The same leaden sky overhung the land and sea; the same fine, penetrating mist drizzled slowly down and sifted like snow into everything; the same stupid routine of sleeping, walking, dressing, eating, drinking, undressing, and sleeping again, occupied the household.
No visitors ever came to the house, and of course Claudia went nowhere. She was unspeakably miserable, and would have wished for death, had she not been a firm believer in future retribution.
"Misery loves company," it is said. There was one inmate in this unblessed house who seemed quite as miserable as Claudia herself. This was one of the housemaids; the one who had charge of Claudia's own rooms. Lady Vincent had noticed this poor girl, and had observed that she was pale, thin, sad, always with red eyes, and often in tears. Once she inquired kindly:
"What is the matter with you, Ailsie?"
"It's just naething, me leddy," was the weeping girl's answer.
"But I am sure it is something. Can you not tell me? What is it troubles you?"
"Just naething, me leddy," was still the answer.
"Are you away from all your friends? Are you homesick?"
"I ha'e naebody belanging to me, me leddy."
"You are an orphan?"
"Aye, me leddy."
"Then you must really tell me what is the matter with you, my poor child; I will help you if I can."
"Indeed I canna tell you, my leddy. Your leddyship maun please to forgi'e me, and not mind me greeting. It's just naething; it's ony a way I ha'e."
And this was all that Claudia could get out of this poor girl.
Once she inquired of Mrs. Murdock: "What ails Ailsie Dunbar? Her looks trouble me."
"Indeed, me leddy, I dinna ken. The lassie is greeting fra morning till night, and will na gie onybody ony satisfaction about it! But I will try to find out." And that was all Lady Vincent could get out of the housekeeper.
The month of November crept slowly by. And December came, darker, duller, drearier than its predecessor. And now anxiety was added to Claudia's other troubles. She had not heard from her father.
The monotony, deepened by suspense, grew horrible. She wished for an earthquake, or an inundation—anything to break the dreadful spell that bound her, to burst the tomb of her buried life and let in air and light.
Sometimes she overheard the precious pair of friends who shared her home murmuring their sinful nonsense together; and she was disgusted.
And sometimes she heard them in angry and jealous altercation; and she grew insane, and wished from the bottom of her heart that one might murder the other, if it were only to break the horrible monotony of the castle life, by bringing into it the rabble rout of inspectors, constables, coroners, and juries. At length there came a day when that frenzied wish was gratified.