"Well, don't you understand? I will conduct you and such of your men as you can trust to the castle; admit you secretly; lead you to the bedside of the negroes, who are sure at this hour to be in a deep sleep; administer the chloroform to send them into a deeper one; and so transport them to the vessel."
"And by that time we will be ready to raise anchor and sail. And when our sleepers awake we shall be safely on our way to Cuba."
"Exactly. But no time is to be lost. Will you go now?" inquired the viscount, rising.
"Certainly," said the captain, and he went on deck to order the boat manned to go on shore.
In a few minutes it was reported ready, and the captain, the mate, and two sailors whom they supposed they could rely upon, entered it. In a very few minutes they reached the shore and left the boat.
"Leave the two sailors here with the boat; the mate will be sufficient for our purpose," said the viscount.
The captain gave the necessary directions to the boatmen. Lord Vincent, Captain Costo, and Paolo went up the narrow pass leading to the top of the cliff and entered the castle courtyard.
"Your boots are heavy; they might awaken the household, even at this hour of its deepest sleep; you must put them off here," whispered the viscount.
It was no sooner said than done. The men cast off both shoes and stockings and stood in their bare feet.
"We must keep them dry to put on again," said the mate, as he stuffed the stockings into the boots.
Then, silent as death, they stole into the castle and glided along the dark, deserted halls and up its staircases.
The viscount paused before the door of Mrs. Dugald's boudoir, and taking the maid's pass-key from its hiding place, softly unlocked and entered the room, beckoning his companions in crime to follow.
Silently he stole across the room, drew aside the crimson-satin hangings, exposed the oak-paneled walls, and touched a spring.
A secret door opened, revealing a narrow flight of stairs. Making a sign for his companions to follow, he descended.
Down many narrow flights of stairs, through many winding labyrinths, along many dark passages, the sailors followed their leader, until far down in the deepest foundations of the castle they reached a large, circular stone crypt, with many rusted iron doors around it, leading into little dungeons. On one side of this horrible place was a rude stone altar with an iron crucifix. In the center was a block. It was probably a vault which in the old and dark ages had been used for a place of secret imprisonments, executions, and burials.
Lord Vincent flashed his lantern around upon the scene and then went up to one of the grated doors, unfastened it, and entered the dungeon.
It was a small stone cavity, a hard hole, where it seemed impossible for a human being to live and breathe for an hour. And yet poor old Katie, with the wonderful tenacity of life which belongs to the pure African, had clung to existence there ever since the hour when, seeming dead, she had been dragged from the apartments of Faustina to this hideous vault.
So you see he had deceived Faustina into the belief that Katie had died in the vault from the effects of chloroform.
By the dim light of the lantern her form could now be seen squatted in the corner of the dungeon. Her knees were drawn up, her arms folded on them, and her head buried in them. She had fallen asleep; probably after long watching and fasting and the effects of mental and physical exhaustion. The entrance of the viscount did not awaken her.
"This is the woman; I was obliged to confine her here for a violent assault upon a lady of my family. She is fast asleep; but to attempt to remove her might awaken her; so we will make all sure by sending her into a deeper sleep," whispered the viscount, drawing from his pocket first a bottle of chloroform and then a piece of sponge, which he proceeded to saturate with the liquid.
But it required tact to apply it. Katie's face was buried in her arms. So he first put the lantern out of the way where it could not shine upon her, and then went and gently lifted Katie's head with one hand while he applied the sponge near her nose with the other.
"Yes, chile; I tink so too—my ladyship—whited saltpetre—Bottomy Bay," muttered Katie, who was sleeping the deep sleep of her race, and probably dreaming of her lady and her lady's dangers.
The viscount laid her head back on his own breast, put the chloroform sponge to her nose, and fitted his own slouch hat over her face in such a manner as to confine the fumes.
Poor old Katie's wide nostrils soon inhaled the whole of the deadly vapor, which acted with unusual power upon her exhausted frame, so that she speedily lay as one dead.
"Take her up! make haste! There is a shorter way out of this vault; but I could not bring you here by it because it is fastened on this side," said the viscount, leaving the den.
The captain and mate went in, and raised old Katie's unresisting form in their arms, and followed the viscount, who led them from the vault into a long stone passage, at the end of which was a door, fastened on the inside with a chain and padlock.
The viscount unlocked this door, which opened out into a rocky cave, through which they passed to an intricate, winding, and rugged labyrinth, which finally led out into the open air, on the beach near which the boat was left.
The captain and mate laid down their burden, and stretched their limbs, and took a long breath. The viscount beckoned the boatmen to approach, and they came. Then turning to the captain, he said:
"You had better order these men to take this woman immediately to the boat, and carry her across to the vessel, and lock her up in some place of safety. Then they can return for us; and in the meantime we will return to the castle for the other two."
"Yes, senor," said the captain; and he promptly gave the order.
The viscount waited until he saw Katie safely in the boat and half across on her way to the vessel, and then he beckoned his companions to follow him, and led the way back to the castle.
This time he conducted them to an old turret that had been appointed to the use of Lady Vincent's servants; it was remote from the sleeping apartments of the other domestics. The locks were without keys.
"We will take the man first," said Lord Vincent, softly opening an old oaken door and leading them into a small circular room, scantily furnished, where, upon a rude bedstead, lay poor Jim in a profound sleep. He was a fine subject for their villainous practices. He was lying on his back, with his head stretched back over his pillow, his eyes fast closed, and his mouth wide open. One touching incident in the appearance of this poor fellow was the presence of two large tears on his cheeks. He had probably lain awake all night, and just cried himself to sleep over the fate of his mother, whom his loyal heart loved so faithfully.
The viscount applied the chloroform, and Jim's sleep sunk into insensibility. The captain and the mate then raised him in their arms and bore him from the room and through the many passages and down the many stairs, and along the great hall to the outside of the castle.
They had a hard time getting him down the cliff. But they accomplished the task at last. They found the boat returned and the boatmen waiting patiently for their arrival.
"Captain, the tide serves," said one of these men.
"I know it, Jacques. We will sail in half an hour. Where did you put the woman?"
"I locked her in your cabin for the present, captain."
"Did she recover her senses?"
"No, captain."
"The devil! I hope she won't die."
"No danger, Costo; they lie insensible under the influence of chloroform sometimes for hours, and then recover in a better condition than they were before," said the viscount, hazarding an opinion on a subject of which he knew very little. "But, now, order the sailors to convey this man to the vessel and then return once more for us."
"Pardon, senor. We had better bind him first. If he should recover before he reaches the vessel he might jump out and make his escape," replied the captain, drawing a large silk handkerchief from his pocket and tying the hands of the captive firmly behind his back.
"Lend me yours, Paolo," he next requested, holding his hands out for the required article.
With this second handkerchief twisted into a rope the captain firmly tied together the feet of the captive.
Jim was now as effectually bound as if his fetters had been iron or rope; but he was beginning to show signs of recovery. The viscount saw this and applied the chloroform again, and Jim relapsed into insensibility. In this condition he was conveyed into the boat and rowed swiftly to the vessel.
Meanwhile Lord Vincent and his confederates in crime retraced their steps up the cliff.
"We must be very quick this time, for the household will soon be astir," whispered Lord Vincent eagerly, as he noticed on the eastern horizon the faint dawn of the late winter morning.
They entered the castle, which, luckily for them, was still buried in repose, and wound their circuitous way back to the turret where the last victim, poor Sally, lay.
The viscount opened the oaken door and preceded his companions into her chamber.
But, oh, horror! Sally was awake and up! She was seated on the side of her bed and in the act of putting on her shoes. On seeing the viscount enter she raised her eyes and gazed in dumb amazement.
He lost no time. Like a wild beast he sprang upon her before she could utter a cry.
Throwing one arm around her throat, with his hand upon her mouth, he forced her head back against his breast and applied the chloroform until she succumbed to its fatal power and sunk like a corpse in his arms.
Then his two accomplices took her, and by the same winding route of halls, stairs, and passages carried her out of the castle and down to the beach, where the boat was waiting to receive her. They put her into it, and the viscount, the captain, and the mate followed. In three minutes they reached the vessel, and all went on board, taking the captive girl with them.
The viscount accompanied the captain to his little office and received the six hundred pounds in gold which was the price of this last infamy.
Then the accomplices shook hands and parted.
The sailors rowed the viscount back to the shore, and then returned to their vessel. The viscount stood on the beach, watching the brigantine until she raised her anchor and made sail. And then, as it was growing light, he turned and climbed the cliff and entered the castle, wearing a smile of triumph.
Is she saved by pangs that pained her?Is there comfort in all it cost her?Before the world had gained her,Before the Lord had lost her,Or her soul had quite disdained her?
For her soul—(and this is the worstTo bear, as we well know)—Has been watching her from the firstAs closely as God could do,And herself her life has curst!
Talk of the flames of hell,We build, ourselves, I conceive,The fire the fiend lights.—Well!Believe or disbelieve,We know more than we tell.—Owen Meredith.
After a sleepless night, whose lonely anguish would have driven almost any woman who was compelled to endure it mad, Claudia arose and rung her bell.
No one answered it.
Too impatient to wait for the tardy attendance of her servants,Claudia thrust her feet into slippers, drew on her dressing-gown,and went and opened the window-shutters to let in the morning light.Then she rang again.
Still no one obeyed the summons.
She was not alarmed. Even with the knowledge of what had gone before, she felt no uneasiness. She went to the dressing glass and loosened her hair, and let it fall all over her shoulders to relieve her burning head. And then she bathed her face in cold water. She was impatient to make her toilet and leave the castle.
She knew that all was over with her worldly grandeur; that all her splendid dreams had vanished forever; that obscurity, perhaps deepened by degradation, was all that awaited her in the future.
Wounded, bruised, and bleeding as her heart was, she felt glad to go; glad to leave the abode of splendid discord, misery, and crime, for any quiet dwelling-place. For she was utterly worn out in body, mind, and spirit.
She no longer desired wealth, rank, admiration, or even love; she only longed for peace; prayed for peace.
She knew a turbulent future threatened her; but she feebly resolved to evade it. She knew that Lord Vincent would sue for a divorce from her; would drag her name before the world and make it a by-word of scorn in those very circles of fashion over which she had once hoped to reign; she would not oppose him, she thought; she had no energy left to meet the overwhelming mass of testimony with which he had prepared to crush her. If her father should come over and defend her cause—well and good. She would let him do it; but as for her, she would go away, and seek peace.
You see, Claudia was in a very different mood of mind from that of the night previous, which had inspired her with such royal dignity and heroic courage to withstand and awe her accusers.
There had come the natural reaction from high excitement, and feats which had appeared easy, in the hour of her exalted indignation, seemed now impossible. She could now no more go to the American minister, and tell him her story, and claim his assistance, than she could have run into a burning fire. But, thank Heaven, she could go from the castle.
She rang her bell a third time, and more sharply than before. After a few minutes it was answered by the housekeeper, who entered with her customary respectful courtesy.
"She has not heard of last night's scandal," thought Claudia, as she noticed the dame's unaltered manner.
"I have rung three times, Mrs. Murdock. Why has not my maid come up?" she inquired.
"Indeed, me leddy, I dinna ken. I ha' na seen the lass the morn," answered the woman.
"What! You do not mean to say that Sally has not made her appearance this morning?"
"Indeed and she ha' na, me leddy."
"Mrs. Murdock, pray go at once to her room and see if she is there."
The housekeeper went away; and after an absence of fifteen minutes returned to say that Sally was not in her room.
"But I dinna think she is far awa', me leddy; because her bed is all tumbled as if she was just out of it. And her shoes and clothes are lying there, just as she put them off."
"I will dress and go and make inquiries myself. This house is a place of mysterious disappearances. I wonder if the beach below is of quicksand, and does it swallow people up alive?"
"I dinna ken, me leddy," gravely answered the dame.
"Mrs. Murdock, can you help me to dress?"
"Surely, me leddy," said the housekeeper, approaching Claudia with so much respectful affection that the unhappy lady said once more to herself:
"She knows nothing of last night's work."
And then Claudia, who was much too high-spirited and sincere to receive attentions rendered by the dame in ignorance of that night's scandal which she might not have so kindly rendered had she known of them, said:
"Mrs. Murdock, do you know what happened last night?"
"Aye, surely, me leddy, I ken a' about it, if your leddyship means the fause witness o' that de'il Frisbie," said the housekeeper, growing red with emotion.
"It was a false witness! a base, wicked, infamous calumny! I think the more highly of you, Mrs. Murdock, for so quickly detecting this. And I thank you," said Claudia, with difficulty restraining the tears, which for the first time since her great wrong were ready to burst from her eyes.
"Ou, aye, me leddy! It did na require the Witch of Endor to see the truth of that business. Ye'll see I ken Laird Vincent and Frisbie and the player-quean, wha is worst o' a'! And I hanna served ye, me leddy, these twa months without keening yer ladyship as well. And sae I ken the differ, me leddy. I ken the differ—-"
"Oh, Mrs. Murdock, in this deep desolation I find some comfort in your faith in me!"
"And sae I dinna believe a word the fause knave Frisbie says. And neither does auld Cuthbert, honest man! But wae's me, me leddy, whate'er our convictions may be, we canna disprove the lees o' yon de'il."
"No, we cannot," said Claudia, with a sigh of despair; "and unlessProvidence intervenes to save me, I am lost."
"Aweel, me leddy, ye maun just hope that he will intervene. Na, na, dinna greet sae sairly!" the good woman entreated, for Claudia had burst into a flood of tears, and was weeping bitterly.
This refreshed her spirit and cleared her brain. Presently, wiping her eyes and looking up, she said:
"Mrs. Murdock, I cannot meet those wretches at breakfast. Send me some coffee; and order the carriage to be at the door in an hour; also send Sally, who must be at hand by this time, to help me pack."
The dame went on this errand, and after a short absence returned, bringing Claudia's breakfast on a tray.
"Where is Sally?" inquired Lady Vincent, as the housekeeper arranged the breakfast on a little table.
"She hanna come yet, me leddy," said the housekeeper, who remained and waited on Lady Vincent at breakfast.
Claudia could eat but little. To all her own sources of trouble was now added alarm, on account of Sally. What if the hapless girl had shared old Katie's fate? was the question that now began to torture her.
"Have you seen my footman this morning, Mrs. Murdock?" she inquired.
"Nae, me leddy; the lad aye gaes to Banff for the mail about this hour."
"When he comes send him to me at once. And now please take the service away. And when you go downstairs institute a search for my maid. And do you, if you can do so conveniently, return and help me to pack."
"Aye, me leddy," replied the woman, as she lifted the tray and carried it away.
In a few minutes she returned and assisted Lady Vincent to fill one large trunk.
"That is all I shall take with me. I shall leave the remainder of my wardrobe in your care, Mrs. Murdock, and I must request you to see them packed and sent on to Edinboro', where I shall stop before deciding on my future steps," said Lady Vincent.
"Aye, me leddy; ye may be sure I will do a' in my power to serve your leddyship."
"And now pray see if Jim has returned from the post office."
Mrs. Murdock went; but returned with startling news:
"The lad Jamie has na got back, me leddy; and it e'en appears that he has na gane. I just asked ane o' the stable lads what time it was when Jamie took the horse to gang to the post office, and the lad said that Jamie had na come for the horse at a'!"
Claudia sprang up and gazed at the speaker in consternation; and then sunk down in her chair, and covered her face with her hands and groaned.
"Dinna do that, me leddy—dinna do that!"
"Oh, Mrs. Murdock! don't leave me! don't lose sight of me, or I shall vanish too; swallowed up in this great ruin!" she cried, with a shudder.
There was a rap at the door. Mrs. Murdock opened it. Lord Vincent's footman stood there.
"My lord sends his compliments to my lady, and says that the carriage is waiting to take her from the castle; the tide is rising, which will render the road impassable for several hours; and he hopes she will take that fact into consideration and not delay her departure."
"'Delay'? I am only too glad to go. But oh, my poor faithful servants. Mrs. Murdock, tell the man to send someone up here to carry my trunk down," said Lady Vincent, hastily putting on her sable cloak and tying on her bonnet.
Her heart ached at the thought of abandoning her servants; and she only reconciled herself to the measure by reflecting that to lodge information with the detective police at Banff would really be the best means she could possibly take for their recovery.
When two of the men servants had carried down her trunk, Lady Vincent shook hands with the kind-hearted housekeeper, and prepared to follow them. In taking leave of Mrs. Murdock she said:
"I thank you sincerely for your kindness to the strangers that came to your land. You are really the only friend that I and my unfortunate servants have met since our arrival in this country; and I shall not forget you!"
The housekeeper wept.
"When my poor servants reappear, if they ever should do so, you will be so good as to send them to me at Edinboro'. Send them to the railway office, where I will leave my address."
"Aye, me leddy, I will na forget," sobbed the old dame.
Claudia pressed her hand, dropped it, and went below.
In crossing the central hall towards the principal entrance Claudia suddenly stopped as though the Gorgon's head had blasted her sight. For Lord Vincent stood near the open door, as if to witness and triumph over her expulsion. With a strong effort she conquered her weakness and approached the door. The viscount made a low and mocking bow and stepped aside. Claudia confronted him.
"My lord," she said, "you think you have very successfully conspired against my honor; but if there is justice on earth, or in heaven, you will yet be exposed and punished."
Lord Vincent made her an ironical bow; but no other reply.
"Where are my servants?" she inquired solemnly.
"I am not their manager, my lady, that I should be conversant with their movements," answered the viscount.
"My lord, you well know where they are. And if Heaven should bless my efforts this morning, the world shall soon know."
"My lady, the way is open; the north wind rather piercing. Will you please to pass out and let me close it?" said his lordship, holding the door wide open for her exit.
"Will you tell me where my servants are?" persisted Claudia.
"I do not know, my lady. They have probably stolen the plate and gone. I will ask the butler, and if it is so, I will put the constables on their track," said Lord Vincent, bowing and waving his hand towards the door.
"I leave you to the justice of Heaven, evil man!" replied Claudia, as she passed through and left the castle. She entered the carriage and was driven off.
Lord Vincent closed the door behind her and then went into the breakfast room, where the cloth was already laid. Neither Mrs. MacDonald nor Mrs. Dugald had yet come down. They seemed to be sleeping late after their disturbed night.
Presently, however, they entered—Mrs. MacDonald looking very much embarrassed, Faustina pale as death. Lord Vincent received them with grave politeness, and they all sat down to the table.
It was then Lord Vincent said:
"Mrs. MacDonald, Lady Vincent has this morning left this house upon which she has brought so much dishonor. It is also necessary for me to go to London to take measures for the dissolution of my marriage. I am, therefore, about to ask of you a great favor."
"Ask any you please, my lord. I am very anxious to be of service to you in this awful crisis. And I will gladly do all in my power to help you," replied this very complaisant lady.
"I thank you, madam. I thank you very much. The favor I had to ask of you is this—that you will kindly remain here with Mrs. Dugald, until some plan is formed for her future residence."
"Surely, my lord, I will remain with great pleasure," answered this needy lady, who was only too glad to leave for a season the straitened home of her married sister, and take up her abode in this plentiful establishment.
"Again I thank you, madam; thank you cordially on the part of my widowed sister as well as on my own part," said the viscount courteously.
And this point being settled, the party dispersed.
Mrs. MacDonald retired to her own apartments to write a note to her sister, requesting that her effects might be forwarded to Castle Cragg.
Mrs. Dugald went to her boudoir to await there in feverish impatience the arrival of the viscount.
He did not keep her long in suspense; he soon entered, locked the door behind him, and seated himself beside her.
"She is gone—really gone?" whispered Faustina, in a low, eager, breathless voice.
"Yes, my angel; you heard me say so."
"Really and truly gone?"
"Really and truly."
"Oh, I am so glad! And her servants? Ah, I always hated those blacks! She has not left them behind?"
"Certainly not," answered the viscount evasively.
"Ah, what a relief! The house is well rid of them."
"It is, indeed, my love."
"But—but—but—the dead body?" whispered the woman in a husky voice, while her eyes dilated with terror.
"It is gone."
"Where? how?"
"I tied a heavy weight to its feet and sunk it in the depths of the sea," replied the viscount, who felt no scruples in deceiving anyone, least of all his accomplice in crime.
And this shows the utter falsity of the absurd proverb that asserts "there is honor among thieves." There can be no honor and no confidence in any league wherein the bond is guilt.
Lord Vincent was completely under the influence of Mrs. Dugald, whom he worshiped with a fatal passion—a passion the more violent and enduring because she continually stimulated without ever satisfying it. Up to this time she had never once permitted the viscount to kiss her. Thus he was her slave; but, like all slaves, he deceived his tyrant. He had deceived Mrs. Dugald from the first; he habitually deceived her.
In this instance he persuaded her that old Katie died under the influence of the chloroform that she had helped to administer on that fatal night when the old negress had been discovered eavesdropping behind the curtain in Mrs. Dugald's apartments.
What his motive could have been for this deception it would be difficult to say; perhaps it was for the purpose of gaining some power over her; perhaps it was from the pleasure of torturing her and seeing her terrors—for his passion for the woman was by no means that pure love which seeks first of all the good of its object; and, finally, perhaps it was from the mere habit of duplicity.
However that might be, he had persuaded her that Katie was dead, dead from the effects of the chloroform they had forced her to take.
And now that he had really committed a felony by selling the three negroes to a West Indian smuggler, he was not inclined to confess the truth. For not upon any account would he have confided to his companion in guilt the secret of a criminal transaction in which she had not also been implicated. He could not have trusted her so far as to place his liberty in her keeping. Therefore he preferred she should believe Katie's body had been sunk in the depths of the sea; and that Sally and Jim had accompanied their lady in her departure from the castle. It is true, the household servants might soon disabuse her mind of the mistake that the lady's maid and footman had gone with their mistress. But if they should do so, the viscount knew he could easily plead ignorance as to the fact; and say that all he knew was, she had not left them at the castle.
Mrs. Dugald listened to his account of the disposition of old Katie's body with deep delight. She clapped her little hands in her usual silly manner and exclaimed eagerly:
"That is good; oh, that is good! But are you sure it will stay down there? Great Heaven, if it should rise against us!"
"There is no danger, love, no danger."
"We should all be guillotined!" she repeated for the twentieth time since that night. And she shuddered through all her frame.
"Hanged, my dearest, not guillotined; hanged by the neck till we are dead," said the viscount, smiling.
"Ah, but you look like Mephistopheles when you say that!" she shrieked, covering her face with her hands.
"But there is no danger, none at all, I assure you. And now, my angel, I must leave you; I ordered the brougham to be at the door at twelve precisely to take me to Banff to meet the Aberdeen coach. And I have some preparations to make. Come down into the drawing room and wait to take leave of me, that is a dear."
"Oh, yes, yes! but before you go, promise me! You will write every day?"
"Every day, my angel," said the viscount, bowing over her hand, before he withdrew from the room.
His preparations were soon made. Old Cuthbert performed the duties of valet. And punctually at twelve o'clock the viscount took leave of his evil demon and her chaperon and departed for Banff, where he took the coach to Aberdeen, at which place he arrived in time to catch the night train up to London.
The beauteous woe that charms like faded light,The cheek so pure that knows no youthful bloom,Well suiteth her dark brow and forehead white,And in the sad endurance of her eyeIs all that love believes of woman's majesty.—Elliott.
In the meantime Lady Vincent reached Banff. She drove at once to the principal hotel, where she engaged a room into which her luggage was carried. With a gratuity to the coachman who had driven her she dismissed the carriage, which returned immediately to the castle.
Then she ordered a fly and drove to the police station—at that time a mean little stone edifice, exceedingly repulsive without and excessively filthy within.
A crowd of disreputable-looking ragamuffins of both sexes and all ages obstructed the entrance. Surely it was a revolting scene to one of Lady Vincent's fastidious nature and refined habits. But she did not shrink from her duty. She made her way through this disgusting assemblage, and found just within the door a policeman, to whom she said:
"I wish, if you please, to see your inspector."
"You will have to wait in the outer room, then, miss, because he is engaged now," replied the man curtly; for the beauty of the woman, the costliness of her apparel, and the fact of her having come unattended to a place like that, filled the mind of the officer with evil suspicions concerning her.
He opened a door on the left and let the visitor pass into the anteroom—a wretched stone hall, whose floor was carpeted with dirt and whose windows were curtained with cobwebs. A bench ran along the wall at one end, on which sat several forlorn, stupefied, or desperate-looking individuals waiting their turn to be examined. Two or three policemen, walking up and down, kept these persons in custody.
Claudia could not sit down among them; she walked to one of the windows and looked out.
She waited there some time, while one after another the prisoners were taken in and examined. Some returned from examination free, and walked out unattended and wearing satisfied countenances. Others came back in the custody of policemen and with downcast looks.
It seemed long before the inspector was at leisure to receive her. At length, however, the policeman she had seen at the door came up and said:
"Now, miss!"
Claudia arose and followed him to another room—a small, carpeted office, where Inspector Murray was seated at a desk.
He was a keener observer of character than the policeman had proved himself to be; and so, despite the suspicious circumstances which had awakened that worthy's doubts, Inspector Murray recognized in his visitor a lady of rank. He arose to receive her and handed her a chair, and then seated himself and respectfully waited for her to open her business.
Lady Vincent felt so much embarrassed that it was some time before she spoke. At length, however, she took courage to say:
"My errand here is a very painful one, sir."
The inspector bowed and looked attentive.
"Indeed it is of so strange and distressing a nature that I scarcely know how to explain it," she said.
"I beg you will feel no hesitation in making your communication, madam. We are accustomed to receive strange and distressing complaints."
"Sir," said Claudia, gently preparing the way, "you have not failed, then, in the course of your professional experience, to observe that crime is not an inmate of the houses of the impoverished and the degraded only, but that it may be found in the mansions of the rich and the palaces of the nobility."
"Without a doubt, madam."
"Then you will be the less shocked when I inform you that the circumstances which have driven me to seek your aid occurred recently in Castle Cragg, in the family of Lord Vincent."
"It is not the murder that was lately committed there to which you allude?" gravely inquired the inspector.
"Oh, no, not that murder; but I greatly fear there has been another one," replied Claudia, with a shudder.
"Madam!" exclaimed the inspector, in astonishment.
"I fear it is as I have hinted, sir," persisted Claudia.
"But who has been murdered?"
"I suspect that a harmless old female servant, named Katie Mortimer who became aware of a dangerous secret, has been."
"And—by whom?"
"I fear by a woman called Faustina Dugald and a man named AlickFrisbie."
Now, it is very difficult to surprise or startle an inspector of police. But Mr. Murray was really more than surprised or startled. He was shocked and appalled, as his countenance betrayed when he dropped his pen and fell back in his chair.
"Madam," he said, "do you know what you are saying?"
"Full well, sir; and I entreat you to receive my statement in detail and act upon it with promptitude. Your own investigations will discover how much cause I have for my suspicions," said Claudia firmly.
The inspector drew some writing paper before him, took up his pen, and said:
"Proceed, madam, if you please."
Claudia commenced her statement, but was almost immediately interrupted by the inspector, who said:
"Your name, madam, if you please."
Claudia started and blushed at her own forgetfulness; though, in truth, it had never occurred to her to introduce herself by name to an inspector of police. Now, however, she perceived how necessary it was that her name should attend her statement.
"I am Lady Vincent," she replied.
There was an instantaneous change in the inspector's manner. His deportment had been respectful from the first, because he had recognized his visitor as a lady; but his manner was obsequious now that he heard she was a titled lady.
"I beg your ladyship's pardon," he said. "I had no idea that I was honored with the presence of Lady Vincent. Pray, my lady, do not inconvenience yourself in the least by going over these painful things at the present hour, unless you feel that it is really necessary. I could wait on your ladyship at your residence and receive your communication there."
"Sir, I thank you for your courtesy, but I prefer to make my statement now and here," replied Claudia.
The inspector dipped his pen in ink and looked attentive.
Claudia proceeded with her communication. She related all the circumstances that had come to her knowledge respecting the disappearance of Katie, and the inspector took down her words.
Then she mentioned the more recent evanishment of Sally and Jim; but she alluded to these facts only as collateral circumstances; she could not believe that the two last named had lost their lives.
When the inspector had taken down the whole of her statement she arose to go.
The inspector also arose.
"Will you investigate this matter immediately?" she said.
"I will do so to-day, my lady," replied Mr. Murray, bowing deferentially.
"Can I be of any assistance to you in pursuing your inquiry into this affair?"
"Not at present, I thank your ladyship," replied the inspector, with a second bow.
"Then I will bid you good-morning."
"I beg your ladyship's pardon; but would your ladyship deign to leave your address with me? We might need your ladyship's personal testimony."
"Certainly," said Claudia. "I shall go to Edinboro' to-day, where I shall remain at the best hotel, if you know which that is, for a few days; before I leave I will write and advise you of my destination. And now there is one important part of my errand that I had nearly forgotten. It was to ask you to advertise for the missing servants, and to authorize you to offer a reward of two hundred pounds for any information that may lead to their recovery."
"I will do it immediately, my lady," replied Inspector Murray, as he obsequiously attended Lady Vincent to the door and put her into the fly.
She drove quickly back to her hotel, where she had only time to take a slight luncheon before starting in the eleven o'clock coach for Aberdeen, where, after four hours' ride through a wildly picturesque country, she arrived just in time to take the afternoon train to Edinboro'. It was the express train, and reached the old city at seven o'clock that evening.
Among the many hotels whose handbills, pasted on the walls of the railway station, claimed the attention of travelers, Claudia selected "MacGruder's," because it was opposite Scott's monument.
She took a cab and drove there. She liked the appearance of the house, and engaged a comfortable suite of apartments, consisting of a parlor, bed chamber, and bathroom, and ordered dinner.
Now, by all the rules of tradition, Claudia, ignominiously expelled from her husband's house, deprived of her servants' attendance, far from all her friends, alone in a strange hotel in a foreign city, with a degrading trial threatening her—Claudia, I say, ought to have been very unhappy. But she was not. She was almost happy.
Her spirits rebounded from their long depression. Her sensations were those of escape, freedom, independence. She felt like a bird freed from its cage; a prisoner released from captivity; a soul delivered from purgatory. Oh, she was so glad—so glad to get away entirely, to get away forever—from the hold of sin, that Castle Cragg, where she had been buried alive so long; where she had lived in torment among lost spirits; where the monotony had been like the gloom of the grave, and the guilt like the corruption of death!
She had passed through the depths of Hades, and was happy—how happy!—to rise to the upper air again and see the stars. This, only, was enough for the present. And she scarcely thought of the future. Whatever that unknown future might bring her, it would not bring back Castle Cragg, Lord Vincent, Faustina, or Frisbie.
After she had refreshed herself with a bath and a change of dress, she went into the parlor, where she found a warm fire, a bright light, and a neatly laid table.
And whatever you may think of her, she really enjoyed the boiled salmon, roasted moor-hen, and cabinet custard she had ordered for dinner. After the service was removed she sat comfortably in her easy-chair before the fire, and reflected on her future movements.
She liked her quarters in this hotel very much. The rooms were clean and comfortable; the servants were polite and attentive; the meals delicately prepared and elegantly served.
And she resolved to remain here for the present; to write to her father by the first American mail; and while waiting for his answer, beguile the interval by seeing everything that might prove interesting in the city and in the surrounding country.
And in a locality so rich in historical monuments as this was, she was sure of interesting occupation for the month that must intervene before she could hear from her father in answer to the letter which she meant to write.
She had brought with her from Castle Cragg all the ready money she had; it was something more than two hundred pounds; so that there was nothing to fear from financial embarrassments.
After settling this matter to her satisfaction, Claudia, feeling very tired, went to bed, and having lost two nights' rest, immediately fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, that lasted, unbroken, until morning.
Her first sensation on awakening from this sleep of oblivion to the consciousness of her altered circumstances was—not humiliation at her own unmerited dishonor—not dread of the impending, degrading trial—but pleasure at the recollection that she was free; that she was away from Castle Cragg; that she would not have to meet Lord Vincent and Faustina at breakfast; that she would never have to meet them again.
Ah! only those who have been compelled for months to breathe the vitiated atmosphere of guilt can appreciate the excess of Claudia's joy at her deliverance. It was a joy that not even the distressing circumstances that surrounded her, and the trial that awaited her, had any power to destroy.
To one who knew her position, without being able to enter into her feelings, it would have seemed an extravagant, an unnatural, an insane joy. Perhaps she was a little insane; she had had enough trouble to derange her reason.
She arose gladly. She had a motive for rising now; formerly, at Castle Cragg, she had none, because she had nothing to do. Now she had to order her breakfast, write to her father, and drive round to see the old city.
She dressed herself quickly and went into the parlor. The windows were already opened, the fire lighted, and the breakfast table was laid.
She went to the windows and looked out. The morning was clear and bright. It seemed to her that even Nature sympathized in her deliverance. The winter sun shone down brightly upon Scott's monument, that stood within its inclosure in the middle of the space before her windows. Yes, she was pleased with her quarters.
She rang the bell and ordered breakfast, which was quickly served. When she had finished her morning meal and sent the service away, she got her writing-case from her trunk and sat down to write to her father and give him a detailed account of her misfortunes.
But she found a difficulty in arranging her thoughts; her mind was in too excitable a condition to admit of close application. She commenced, and discarded letter after letter.
Finally, she gave up trying to write for the present. There was time enough; the foreign mail, as she had ascertained, did not close until six o'clock in the evening. She thought a drive through the old city would work off her excitement and tranquilize her nerves. She rang and ordered a fly, and drove out.
First she went to Holyrood, and soon lost all consciousness of her own present and individual troubles in dreaming of all those princes, heroes, and beauties of history who had lived and sinned or suffered within those old palace walls.
She went into Queen Mary's rooms, and fell into a reverie over that fatal bed-chamber, which remains to this day in the same condition in which it was left by the hapless queen about three hundred years ago. She saw the steep, dark, narrow, secret staircase, with its opening concealed behind the tapestry, up which the assassins of Rizzio had crept to their murderous work. She saw the little turret closet in which the poor queen was at supper with her ladies when the minstrel was surprised and massacred in her presence.
She went into the great picture gallery, where hung the portraits of the Scottish kings—each mother's royal son painted with a large curled proboscis—"a nose like a door-knocker," as someone described it. With one exception—that of James IV., the hapless hero of Flodden field. It was a full-length portrait, life-sized, and full of fire. Claudia stood and gazed upon it with delight. She was charmed by its beauty and by the lines that it brought distinctly to her recollection. Whether this was really a faithful portrait of King James or not, it certainly was an accurate likeness of the hero described by the poet:
"The monarch's form was middle size;For feat of strength or exerciseShaped in proportion fair;And hazel was his eagle eye,And auburn of the darkest dyeHis short curled beard and hair.Light was his footstep in the danceAnd firm his stirrup in the lists;And oh! he had that merry glanceThat seldom lady's heart resists."
Yes, there he stood before her, pictured to the very life; all luminous with youth and love, chivalry and royalty; bending graciously from the canvas, smiling upon the spectator, and seeming about to step forward and take her hand.
Claudia turned away from this picture, feeling at the same moment both pleased and saddened. She had spent three hours dreaming amongst the ancient halls and bowers of Holyrood, and now she felt that it was time for her to return to the hotel, especially as the palace was beginning to be filled with the usual daily inflowing of sight-seers, and she felt somewhat fatigued and worried by the crowd.
So she went out and re-entered her cab, and was driven back to the hotel. Here an unexpected misfortune awaited her. As she left the cab she put her hand in her pocket to take out her purse and pay the cabman.
It was gone!
She turned sick with apprehension, for the loss of this purse, which contained all the money which she had brought with her, was, under the circumstances, a serious calamity.
She hurried again into the cab and searched it thoroughly; but no purse was to be found.
Then the truth burst upon her; she had been robbed of it by someone in the crowd of visitors in Holyrood Palace; her pocket had probably been picked while she stood in the picture gallery dreaming before the portrait of King James. How she reproached herself for her carelessness in taking so considerable an amount of money with her.
She was excessively agitated; but she managed to control herself sufficiently to speak calmly to the waiter, and say:
"Be good enough to pay this man and put the item in my bill"
The waiter obeyed and discharged the cab; for, of course, the name of Lady Vincent was as yet a passport to credit. Then she hurried to her room in a state of great agitation that nearly deprived her of all power to think or act. She rang the bell, which brought a waiter to her presence.
"I would like to see the landlord of this hotel," she said.
"I beg your pardon, my lady, but the proprietor lives out of town," returned the man.
"Then send the clerk of the house, or the head waiter, or whoever is in charge here."
"I will send the clerk, my lady," said the waiter, retiring.
The clerk soon made his appearance.
"Sir," said Claudia, "I sent for you to say, that while I was seeing Holyrood Palace, this forenoon, my pocket was picked of my purse, which contained a considerable amount of money; and I wish to ask you what steps I should take for its recovery?"
"Have you any idea of the sort of person that robbed you, my lady?"
"Not the slightest; all I know is that I had the purse with me when I paid the guide on entering the palace, and then I missed it when I reached home; and all I suspect is that it was purloined from me while I was in the picture gallery, standing before the portrait of James IV."
"In what form was the money, my lady?"
"Five and ten pound Bank of England notes."
"Were the numbers taken?"
"Oh, no; I never thought of taking the numbers."
"Then, my lady, I very much fear that it will be difficult or impossible to recover the money. However, I will send for a detective, and we will make an effort."
"Do, sir, if you please."
The clerk retired.
In a few moments Detective Ogilvie waited on Lady Vincent, and received her statement in regard to the robbery, promised to take prompt measures for the discovery of the thief, and retired.
Then suddenly Claudia remembered her letter to her father It was now near the close of the short winter day. Her interview with the detective had occupied her so long that she had barely time to scribble and send off the few urgent lines with which the reader is already acquainted. Then she dined and resigned herself to repose for the remainder of the evening.
While she sat in her easy-chair luxuriating in indolence and solitude before the glowing fire, the thought suddenly occurred to her that she was not really so badly off as the loss of her purse had first led her to suppose. She recollected that she had several costly rings upon her fingers; diamonds, rubies, and emeralds—the least valuable of which was worth more than the purse of money which had been stolen from her; and if she should be driven to extremity she could part with one of these rings; but then, on calm consideration of the subject, she had really no fears of being driven to extremity. She was Lady Vincent, and her credit was as yet intact before the world. This was a first-class hotel, and would supply her with all that she might require for the month that must intervene before her father's arrival.
She would spend this interval in seeing Edinboro' and its environs, and when her father should come she would persuade him to take her to the Continent, and afterwards carry her back to her native country, and to her childhood's home, to pass the remainder of her life in peace and quietness.
Dreaming over this humble prospect for the future, Claudia retired to bed, and slept well.
The next morning, as soon as she had breakfasted, she ordered a carriage from the stables connected with the hotel and drove to Edinboro' Castle, where she spent two or three hours among its royal halls and bowers, dreaming over the monuments of the past.
She lingered in the little cell-like stone chamber where Queen Mary had given birth to her son, afterwards James VI. She read the pathetic prayer carved on the stone tablet above the bedstead, and said to have been composed by the unhappy queen in behalf of her newborn infant.
In the great hall of the castle she paused long before a beautiful portrait of Mary Stuart, that was brought from Paris, where it had been painted, and which represented the young queen in her earliest womanhood, when she was the Dauphiness of France. And Claudia thought that this portrait was the only one, among all that she had ever seen of Mary Stuart, which came up to her ideal of that royal beauty, who was even more a queen of hearts than of kingdoms.
At length, weary of sight-seeing, she re-entered her carriage and returned home. While she was in her bedchamber taking off her bonnet, a card was brought to her.
"This must be a mistake—this cannot be for me; I have no acquaintances in the town," she said, without taking the trouble to glance at the card.
"I beg your ladyship's pardon, but the countess inquired particularly for Lady Vincent," replied the waiter who had brought the card.
"The countess?" repeated Claudia, and she took it up and read the lightly penciled name:
"Berenice, Countess of Hurstmonceux."
"Say to Lady Hurstmonceux that I will be with her in a few minutes," said Claudia.
"'Berenice, Countess of Hurstmonceux,'" she repeated when the man had retired; "that is the widow of the late earl, and the forsaken wife of Herman Brudenell. What on earth brings her here? And how did she know of my presence in the city, and even in this house? However, I shall know soon, I suppose."
And so saying, Claudia made a few changes in her toilet, and went into the parlor.
Standing, looking from the window, was a lady dressed in a black velvet bonnet and plumes, a black silk gown, and a large sable cloak and muff.
As Claudia entered, this lady turned around and lifted her veil, revealing a beautiful, pale face, with large, deep-fringed, mournful dark eyes, and soft, rippling, jet-black hair. At the first glance Claudia was touched by the pensive beauty of that lovely face.
Yes! at the age of forty-five the Countess of Hurstmonceux was still beautiful. She had passed a serene life, free alike from carking cares and fashionable excesses, and so her beauty had been well preserved. It would have taken a keen observer to have detected the few wrinkles that had gathered in the corners of her fine eyes and plump lips, or to have found out the still fewer silver threads that lay hidden here and there among her dark tresses.
Claudia advanced to greet her, holding out her hand, and saying:
"The Countess of Hurstmonceux, I presume?"
"Yes," replied the visitor, with a sweet smile.
"I am Lady Vincent; and very happy to see you. Pray be seated," saidClaudia, drawing forward a chair for her visitor.
"My dear Lady Vincent, I only learned this morning of your arrival in town, and presuming upon my slight connection with the family of the present Earl of Hurstmonceux, I have ventured to call on you and claim a sort of relationship," said Berenice kindly.
"Your ladyship is very good, and I am very glad to see you," said Claudia cordially. Then suddenly recollecting her own cruel position, and feeling too proud as well as too honest to appear under false colors, she blushed, and said:
"I cannot think how your ladyship could know that I was here; but I am sure that when you did me this honor of calling, you did not know the circumstances under which I left Castle Cragg."
A tide of crimson swept over the pale face of Berenice; it arose forClaudia, not for herself, and she replied:
"My dear, wronged lady, I know it all."
"You know all—all that they allege against me, and you call me wronged?" exclaimed Claudia, in pleased surprise.
"I know all that they allege against you, and I believe you to be wronged. Therefore, my dear, I have come to-day to offer you all the service in my power," said Berenice sweetly.
Claudia suddenly caught her hand and clasped it fervently.
"And now, my dear Lady Vincent, will you permit me to explain myself and inform you how I became acquainted with the circumstances of your departure from Castle Cragg, and your arrival at this house?" inquired Berenice.
"Oh, do! do!" replied Claudia.
"You must know, then, that a few of my old domestics, who served the late earl and myself while we lived at Castle Cragg, still remain there in the service of the present earl's family, which is always represented at the castle by Lord Vincent. Among them there are two who, it appears, became very much attached to your ladyship. I allude to the housekeeper, Jean Murdock, and the major-domo, Cuthbert Allan."
"Yes, they were very kind; but, after all, it was old Cuthbert who sent that note to Lord Vincent, which brought him from the play at midnight to burst into my room and find his wretched valet hidden there," replied Claudia gravely.
"Yes; Cuthbert saw the valet steal into your room and sent word to his master, as in duty bound. But, after witnessing the scene of his discovery, Cuthbert's mind instantly cleared your ladyship of suspicion and rushed to the conclusion that the miserable valet concealed himself in your boudoir unknown to you and for the purpose of robbery. I, for my part, believe he was placed there with the connivance of Lord Vincent, and that old Cuthbert was made to play a blind part in that conspiracy."
"I knew, of course, that it was a conspiracy, but really wondered to find the honest old man in it."
"He was a blind tool in their hands. But I was about to tell you how the facts of your departure from the castle and your arrival in this hotel came to my knowledge. In brief, I received a letter from old Cuthbert this morning, in which he related the whole history of the affair, as it was known to him. He expressed great sorrow for the part he had been obliged to bear in the business, and the most respectful sympathy for your ladyship. He said his 'heart was sair for the bonnie leddy sae far frae a' her friends and living her lane in Edinboro' toun.' And he begged me to find you out and protect you. To this letter was added a postscript by Jean Murdock. It was a warm, humble, respectful encomium upon your ladyship, in which she joined her prayers to those of Cuthbert that I would seek you out and succor you."
As Berenice spoke, blushes dyed the cheeks of Claudia, and tears dropped from her eyes. She was softened by the kindness of those two old people, and their patronage humiliated her.
Something of the nature of her emotions the countess must have divined, for she took the hand of Claudia and said:
"Believe me, dear Lady Vincent, I did not need urging to come to you. I needed only to know that you were in town and alone. As soon as I read the letters I sent for the morning paper to look for the arrivals at the various hotels, to see if I could find your name among them. I could not, and so I was about to lay aside the paper and send for the one of the day before, when my eye happened to light on a paragraph in which I found your name. It was the robbery of your purse at Holyrood Palace. There I learned your address. And I came away here immediately."
Claudia's fingers tightened on the hand of the countess which she still retained in hers.
"How much I thank you, Lady Hurstmonceux, you can never know; because you have never felt what it is to be a stranger in a foreign country, with your fame traduced and not one friend to stand by your side and sustain you," she said.
Again that crimson tide swept over the pale face of Berenice; but this time it was for herself, and she answered:
"Oh, yes, yes! I have known just that. Ten years in a foreign country, forsaken, shunned, traduced, without one friend to speak comfort to an almost breaking heart—It is past. I have overlived it. The God of my fathers has sustained me. Let us speak no more of it." And crimson as she had been for a moment she was as pale as marble now.
Claudia laid her hand caressingly upon the shoulder of Berenice and looked in her face with that mute sympathy which is more effective than eloquent words. Something, indeed, she had heard of this before, but the rumor had left no impression on her mind; though she blamed herself now for the momentary forgetfulness.
"Let us speak of yourself and your plans for the future," said the countess.
"My plans are simple enough. I have written to my father. I shall remain here until his arrival," said Claudia.
There was a pause between them for a few minutes, during which the countess seemed in deep thought, and then this still beautiful woman, smiling, said:
"I am old enough to be your mother, Lady Vincent, and in the absence of your father, I hope you will trust yourself to my guardianship. It is not well, under present circumstances, that you should remain alone at a public hotel. Come with me and be my guest at Cameron Court. It is a pretty place, near Roslyn Castle, and despite all the evil in the hearts of men, I think I can make your visit there pleasant and interesting."
Claudia burst into tears; the proud Claudia was softened, almost humbled by this unexpected kindness.
"God bless you!" was all that she could say. "I will gladly go."
"I am your mother, in the meantime, Claudia, you know," said LadyHurstmonceux, touching the bell.
"You are my guardian angel!" sobbed Claudia.
"Lady Vincent's bill, if you please," said the countess to the waiter who answered the bell, and who immediately bowed and disappeared.
But Claudia grasped the arm of the countess and exclaimed in alarm:
"I had forgotten. I cannot leave the hotel yet, because I cannot pay the bill. My lost purse contained all the money that I brought from Castle Cragg." "What of that? I am your mother, Claudia, until you hear from your father; and your banker until you recover your money. Now, my dear, go put on your bonnet, while I settle with the waiter. My carriage is at the door, and we will go at once. I will send my own maid in a fly to pack up your effects and bring them after us."
"How much my father will thank and bless you!" said Claudia, as she left the room to prepare herself.
Lady Hurstmonceux paid the bill, and left half a sovereign in the hands of the chambermaid, bidding her take care of Lady Vincent's effects until they should be sent for.
And when Claudia came out, equipped for her ride, they went below stairs.
A handsome brougham, painted dark green, drawn by fine gray horses, with silver mountings on their harness and with a coachman and footman in gray-and-green livery stood before the door.
And the countess and her protegee entered it and were driven towards the Cameron Court.