The cowering form rose up; but, seeing who it was, sank down again, with its face groveling in the dust, and with another prolonged, moaning cry.
“Madame Masque!” he said, wonderingly; “what is this?”
He bent to raise her; but, with a sort of scream she held out her arms to keep him back.
“No, no, no! Touch me not! Hate me—kill me! I have murdered your friend!”
Sir Norman recoiled as if from a deadly serpent.
“Murdered him! Madame, in Heaven's name, what have you said?”
“Oh, I have not stabbed him, or poisoned him, or shot him; but I am his murderer, nevertheless!” she wailed, writhing in a sort of gnawing inward torture.
“Madame, I do not understand you at all! Surely you are raving when you talk like this.”
Still moaning on the edge of the plague-pit, she half rose up, with both hands clasped tightly over her heart, as if she would have held back from all human ken the anguish that was destroying her,
“NO—no! I am not mad—pray Heaven I were! Oh, that they had strangled me in the first hour of my birth, as they would a viper, rather than I should have lived through all this life of misery and guilt, to end it by this last, worst crime of all!”
Sir Norman stood and looked at her still with a dazed expression. He knew well enough whose murderer she called herself; but why she did so, or how she could possibly bring about his death, was a mystery altogether too deep for him to solve.
“Madame, compose yourself, I beseech you, and tell me what you mean. It is to my friend, Ormiston, you allude—is it not?”
“Yes—yes! surely you need not ask.”
“I know that he is dead, and buried in this horrible place; but why you should accuse yourself of murdering him, I confess I do not know.”
“Then you shall!” she cried, passionately. “And you will wonder at it no longer! You are the last one to whom the revelation can ever be made on earth; and, now that my hours are numbered, it matters little whether it is told or not! Was it not you who first found him dead?”
“It was I—yes. And how he came to his end, I have been puzzling myself in vain to discover ever since.”
She rose up, drew herself to her full majestic height, and looked at him with a terrible glance,
“Shall I tell you?”
“You have had no hand in it,” he answered, with a cold chill at the tone and look, “for he loved you!”
“I have had a hand in it—I alone have been the cause of it. But for me he would be living still!”
“Madame,” exclaimed Sir Norman, in horror.
“You need not look as if you thought me mad, for I tell you it is Heaven's truth! You say right—he loved me; but for that love he would be living now!”
“You speak in riddles which I cannot read. How could that love have caused his death, since his dearest wishes were to be granted to-night?”
“He told you that, did he?”
“He did. He told me you were to remove your mask; and if, on seeing you, he still loved you, you were to be his wife.”
“Then woe to him for ever having extorted such a promise from me! Oh, I warned him again, and again, and again. I told him how it would be—I begged him to desist; but no, he was blind, he was mad; he would rush on his own doom! I fulfilled my promise, and behold the result!”
She pointed with a frantic gesture to the plague-pit, and wrung her beautiful hands with the same moaning of anguish.
“Do I hear aright?” said Sir Norman, looking at her, and really doubting if his ears had not deceived him. “Do you mean to say that, in keeping your word and showing him your face, you have caused his death?”
“I do. I had warned him of it before. I told him there were sights too horrible to look on and live, but nothing would convince him! Oh, why was the curse of life ever bestowed upon such a hideous thing as I!”
Sir Norman gazed at her in a state of hopeless bewilderment. He had thought, from the moment he saw her first, that there was something wrong with her brain, to make her act in such a mysterious, eccentric sort of way; but he had never positively thought her so far gone as this. In his own mind, he set her down, now, as being mad as a March hare, and accordingly answered in that soothing tone people use to imbeciles,
“My dear Madame Masque, pray do not excite yourself, or say such dreadful things. I am sure you would not willfully cause the death of any one, much less that of one who loved you as he did.”
La Masque broke into a wild laugh, almost worse to hear than her former despairing moans.
“The man thinks me mad! He will not believe, unless he sees and knows for himself! Perhaps you, too, Sir Norman Kingsley,” she cried, changing into sudden fierceness, “would like to see the face behind this mask?—would like to see what has slain your friend, and share his fate?”
“Certainly,” said Sir Norman. “I should like to see it; and I think I may safely promise not to die from the effects. But surely, madame, you deceive yourself; no face, however ugly—even supposing you to possess such a one—could produce such dismay as to cause death.”
“You shall see.”
She was looking down into the plague-pit, standing so close to its cracking edge, that Sir Norman's blood ran cold, in the momentary expectation to see her slip and fall headlong in. Her voice was less fierce and less wild, but her hands were still clasped tightly over her heart, as if to ease the unutterable pain there. Suddenly, she looked up, and said, in an altered tone:
“You have lost Leoline?”
“And found her again. She is in the power of one Count L'Estrange.”
“And if in his power, pray, how have you found her?”
“Because we are both to meet in her presence within this very hour, and she is to decide between us.”
“Has Count L'Estrange promised you this?”
“He has.”
“And you have no doubt what her decision will be?”
“Not the slightest.”
“How came you to know she was carried off by this count?”
“He confessed it himself.”
“Voluntarily?”
“No; I taxed him with it, and he owned to the deed; but he voluntarily promised to take me to her and abide by her decision.”
“Extraordinary!” said La Masque, as if to herself. “Whimsical as he is, I scarcely expected he would give her up so easily as this.”
“Then you know him, madame?” said Sir Norman, pointedly.
“There are few things I do not know, and rare are the disguises I cannot penetrate. So you have discovered it, too?”
“No, madame, my eyes were not sharp enough, nor had I sufficient cleverness, even, for that. It was Hubert, the Earl of Rochester's page, who told me who he was.”
“Ah, the page!” said La Masque, quickly. “You have then been speaking to him? What do you think of his resemblance to Leoline?”
“I think it is the most astonishing resemblance I ever saw. But he is not the only one who bears Leoline's face.”
“And the other is?”
“The other is she whom you sent me to see in the old ruins. Madame, I wish you would tell me the secret of this wonderful likeness; for I am certain you know, and I am equally certain it is not accidental.”
“You are right. Leoline knows already; for, with the presentiment that my end was near, I visited her when you left, and gave her her whole history, in writing. The explanation is simple enough. Leoline, Miranda, and Hubert, are sisters and brother.”
Some misty idea that such was the case had been struggling through Sir Norman's slow mind, unformed and without shape, ever since he had seen the trio, therefore he was not the least astonished when he heard the fact announced. Only in one thing he was a little disappointed.
“Then Hubert is really a boy?” he said, half dejectedly.
“Certainly he is. What did you take him to be?”
“Why, I thought—that is, I do not know,” said Sir Norman, quite blushing at being guilty of so much romance, “but that he was a woman in disguise. You see he is so handsome, and looks so much like Leoline, that I could not help thinking so.”
“He is Leoline's twin brother—that accounts for it. When does she become your wife?”
“This very morning, God willing!” said Sir Norman, fervently.
“Amen! And may her life and yours be long and happy. What becomes of the rest?”
“Since Hubert is her brother, he shall come with us, if he will. As for the other, she, alas! is dead.”
“Dead!” cried La Masque. “How? When? She was living, tonight!”
“True! She died of a wound.”
“A wound? Surely not given by the dwarfs hand?”
“No, no; it was quite accidental. But since you know so much of the dwarf, perhaps you also know he is now the king's prisoner?”
“I did not know it; but I surmised as much when I discovered that you and Count L'Estrange, followed by such a body of men, visited the ruin. Well, his career has been long and dark enough, and even the plague seemed to spare him for the executioner. And so the poor mock-queen is dead? Well, her sister will not long survive her.”
“Good Heavens, madame!” cried Sir Norman, aghast. “You do not mean to say that Leoline is going to die?”
“Oh, no! I hope Leoline has a long and happy life before her. But the wretched, guilty sister I mean is, myself; for I, too, Sir Norman, am her sister.”
At this new disclosure, Sir Norman stood perfectly petrified; and La Masque, looking down at the dreadful place at her feet, went rapidly on:
“Alas and alas! that it should be so; but it is the direful truth. We bear the same name, we had the same father; and yet I have been the curse and bane of their lives.”
“And Leoline knows this?”
“She never knew it until this night, or any one else alive; and no one should know it now, were not my ghastly life ending. I prayed her to forgive me for the wrong I have done her; and she may, for she is gentle and good—but when, when shall I be able to forgive myself?”
The sharp pain in her voice jarred on Sir Norman's ear and heart; and, to get rid of its dreary echo, he hurriedly asked:
“You say you bear the same name. May I ask what name that is?”
“It is one, Sir Norman Kingsley, before which your own ancient title pales. We are Montmorencis, and in our veins runs the proudest blood in France.”
“Then Leoline is French and of noble birth?” said Sir Norman, with a thrill of pleasure. “I loved her for herself alone, and would have wedded her had she been the child of a beggar; but I rejoice to hear this nevertheless. Her father, then, bore a title?”
“Her father was the Marquis de Montmorenci, but Leoline's mother and mine were not the same—had they been, the lives of all four might have been very different; but it is too late to lament that now. My mother had no gentle blood in her veins, as Leoline's had, for she was but a fisherman's daughter, torn from her home, and married by force. Neither did she love my father notwithstanding his youth, rank, and passionate love for her, for she was betrothed to another bourgeois, like herself. For his sake she refused even the title of marchioness, offered her in the moment of youthful and ardent passion, and clung, with deathless truth, to her fisher-lover. The blood of the Montmorencis is fierce and hot, and brooks no opposition” (Sir Norman thought of Miranda, and inwardly owned that that was a fact); “and the marquis, in his jealous wrath, both hated and loved her at the same time, and vowed deadly vengeance against her bourgeois lover. That vow he kept. The young fisherman was found one morning at his lady-love's door without a head, and the bleeding trunk told no tales.
“Of course, for a while, she was distracted and so on; but when the first shock of her grief was over, my father carried her off, and forcibly made her his wife. Fierce hatred, I told you, was mingled with his fierce love, and before the honeymoon was over it began to break out. One night, in a fit of jealous passion, to which he was addicted, he led her into a room she had never before been permitted to enter; showed her a grinning human skull, and told her it was her lover's! In his cruel exultation, he confessed all; how he had caused him to be murdered; his head severed from the body; and brought here to punish her, some day, for her obstinate refusal to love him.
“Up to this time she had been quiet and passive, bearing her fate with a sort of dumb resignation; but now a spirit of vengeance, fiercer and more terrible than his own, began to kindle within her; and, kneeling down before the ghastly thing, she breathed a wish—a prayer—to the avenging Jehovah, so unutterably horrible, that even her husband had to fly with curdling blood from the room. That dreadful prayer was heard—that wish fulfilled in me; but long before I looked on the light of day that frantic woman had repented of the awful deed she had done. Repentance came too late the sin of the father was visited on the child, and on the mother, too, for the moment her eyes fell upon me, she became a raving maniac, and died before the first day of my life had ended.
“Nurse and physician fled at the sight of me; but my father, though thrilling with horror, bore the shock, and bowed to the retributive justice of the angry Deity she had invoked. His whole life, his whole nature, changed from that hour; and, kneeling beside my dead mother, as he afterward told me, he vowed before high Heaven to cherish and love me, even as though I had not been the ghastly creature I was. The physician he bound by a terrible oath to silence; the nurse he forced back, and, in spite of her disgust and abhorrence, compelled her to nurse and care for me. The dead was buried out of sight; and we had rooms in a distant part of the house, which no one ever entered but my father and the nurse. Though set apart from my birth as something accursed, I had the intellect and capacity of—yes, far greater intellect and capacity than, most children; and, as years passed by, my father, true to his vow, became himself my tutor and companion. He did not love me—that was an utter impossibility; but time so blunts the edge of all things, that even the nurse became reconciled to me, and my father could scarcely do less than a stranger. So I was cared for, and instructed, and educated; and, knowing not what a monstrosity I was, I loved them both ardently, and lived on happily enough, in my splendid prison, for my first ten years in this world.
“Then came a change. My nurse died; and it became clear that I must quit my solitary life, and see the sort of world I lived in. So my father, seeing all this, sat down in the twilight one night beside me, and told me the story of my own hideousness. I was but a child then, and it is many and many years ago; but this gray summer morning, I feel what I felt then, as vividly as I did at the time. I had not learned the great lesson of life then—endurance, I have scarcely learned it yet, or I should bear life's burden longer; but that first night's despair has darkened my whole after-life. For weeks I would not listen to my father's proposal, to hide what would send all the world from me in loathing behind a mask; but I came to my senses at last, and from that day to the present—more days than either you or I would care to count—it has not been one hour altogether off my face.”
“I was the wonder and talk of Paris, when I did appear; and most of the surmises were wild and wide of the mark—some even going so far as to say it was all owing to my wonderful unheard-of beauty that I was thus mysteriously concealed from view. I had a soft voice, and a tolerable shape; and upon this, I presume, they founded the affirmation. But my father and I kept our own council, and let them say what they listed. I had never been named, as other children are; but they called me La Masque now. I had masters and professors without end, and studied astronomy and astrology, and the mystic lore of the old Egyptians, and became noted as a prodigy and a wonder, and a miracle of learning, far and near.
“The arts used to discover the mystery and make me unmask were innumerable and almost incredible; but I baffled them all, and began, after a time, rather to enjoy the sensation I created than otherwise.
“There was one, in particular, possessed of even more devouring curiosity than the rest, a certain young countess of miraculous beauty, whom I need not describe, since you have her very image in Leoline. The Marquis de Montmorenci, of a somewhat inflammable nature, loved her almost as much as he had done my mother, and she accepted him, and they were married. She may have loved him (I see no reason why she should not), but still to this day I think it was more to discover the secret of La Masque than from any other cause. I loved my beautiful new mother too well to let her find it out; although from the day she entered our house as a bride, until that on which she lay on her deathbed, her whole aim, day and night, was its discovery. There seemed to be a fatality about my father's wives; for the beautiful Honorine lived scarcely longer than her predecessor, and she died, leaving three children—all born at one time—you know them well, and one of them you love. To my care she intrusted them on her deathbed, and she could have scarcely intrusted them to worse; for, though I liked her, I most decidedly disliked them. They were lovely children—their lovely mother's image; and they were named Hubert, Leoline, and Honorine, or, as you knew her, Miranda. Even my father did not seem to care for them much, not even as much as he cared for me; and when he lay on his deathbed, one year later, I was left, young as I was, their sole guardian, and trustee of all his wealth. That wealth was not fairly divided—one-half being left to me and the other half to be shared equally between them; but, in my wicked ambition, I was not satisfied even with that. Some of my father's fierce and cruel nature I inherited; and I resolved to be clear of these three stumbling-blocks, and recompense myself for my other misfortunes by every indulgence boundless riches could bestow. So, secretly, and in the night, I left my home, with an old and trusty servant, known to you as Prudence, and my unfortunate, little brother and sisters. Strange to say, Prudence was attached to one of them, and to neither of the rest—that one was Leoline, whom she resolved to keep and care for, and neither she nor I minded what became of the other two.”
“From Paris we went to Dijon, where we dropped Hubert into the turn at the convent door, with his name attached, and left him where he would be well taken care of, and no questions asked. With the other two we started for Calais, en route for England; and there Prudence got rid of Honorine in a singular manner. A packet was about starting for the island of our destination, and she saw a strange-looking little man carrying his luggage from the wharf into a boat. She had the infant in her arms, having carried it out for the identical purpose of getting rid of it; and, without more ado, she laid it down, unseen, among boxes and bundles, and, like Hagar, stood afar off to see what became of it. That ugly little man was the dwarf; and his amazement on finding it among his goods and chattels you may imagine; but he kept it, notwithstanding, though why, is best known to himself. A few weeks after that we, too, came over, and Prudence took up her residence in a quiet village a long way from London. Thus you see, Sir Norman, how it comes about that we are so related, and the wrong I have done them all.”
“You have, indeed!” said Sir Norman, gravely, having listened, much shocked and displeased, at this open confession; “and to one of them it is beyond our power to atone. Do you know the life of misery to which she has been assigned?”
“I know it all, and have repented for it in my own heart, in dust and ashes! Even I—unlike all other earthly creatures as I am—have a conscience, and it has given me no rest night or day since. From that hour I have never lost sight of them; every sorrow they have undergone has been known to me, and added to my own; and yet I could not, or would not, undo what I had done. Leoline knows all now; and she will tell Hubert, since destiny has brought them together; and whether they will forgive me I know not. But yet they might; for they have long and happy lives before them, and we can forgive everything to the dead.”
“But you are not dead,” said Sir Norman; “and there is repentance and pardon for all. Much as you have wronged them, they will forgive you; and Heaven is not less merciful than they!”
“They may; for I have striven to atone. In my house there are proofs and papers that will put them in possession of all, and more than all, they have lost. But life is a burden of torture I will bear no longer. The death of him who died for me this night is the crowning tragedy of my miserable life; and if my hour were not at hand, I should not have told you this.”
“But you have not told me the fearful cause of so much guilt and suffering. What is behind that mask?”
“Would you, too, see?” she asked, in a terrible voice, “and die?”
“I have told you it is not in my nature to die easily, and it is something far stronger than mere curiosity makes me ask.”
“Be it so! The sky is growing red with day-dawn, and I shall never see the sun rise more, for I am already plague-struck!”
That sweetest of all voices ceased. The white hands removed the mask, and the floating coils of hair, and revealed, to Sir Norman's horror-struck gaze, the grisly face and head, and the hollow eye-sockets, the grinning mouth, and fleshless cheeks of a skeleton!
He saw it but for one fearful instant—the next, she had thrown up both arms, and leaped headlong into the loathly plague-pit. He saw her for a second or two, heaving and writhing in the putrid heap; and then the strong man reeled and fell with his face on the ground, not feigning, but sick unto death. Of all the dreadful things he had witnessed that night, there was nothing so dreadful as this; of all the horror he had felt before, there was none to equal what he felt now. In his momentary delirium, it seemed to him she was reaching her arms of bone up to drag him in, and that the skeleton-face was grinning at him on the edge of the awful pit. And, covering his eyes with his hands, he sprang up, and fled away.
All this time, the attendant, George, had been sitting, very much at his ease, on horseback, looking after Sir Norman's charger and admiring the beauties of sunrise. He had seen Sir Norman in conversation with a strange female, and not much liking his near proximity to the plague-pit, was rather impatient for it to come to an end; but when he saw the tragic manner in which it did end, his consternation was beyond all bounds. Sir Norman, in his horrified flight, would have fairly passed him unnoticed, had not George arrested him by a loud shout.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Norman,” he exclaimed, as that gentleman turned his distracted face; “but, it seems to me, you are running away. Here is your horse; and allow me to say, unless we hurry we will scarcely reach the count by sunrise.”
Sir Norman leaned against his horse, and shaded his eyes with his hand, shuddering like one in an ague.
“Why did that woman leap into the plague-pit?” inquired George, looking at him curiously. “Was it not the sorceress, La Masque?”
“Yes, yes. Do not ask me any questions now,” replied Sir Norman, in a smothered voice, and with an impatient wave of his hand.
“Whatever you please, sir,” said George, with the flippancy of his class; “but still I must repeat, if you do not mount instantly, we will be late; and my master, the count, is not one who brooks delay.”
The young knight vaulted into the saddle without a word, and started off at a break-neck pace into the city. George, almost unable to keep up with him, followed instead of leading, rather skeptical in his own mind whether he were not riding after a moon-struck lunatic. Once or twice he shouted out a sharp-toned inquiry as to whether he knew where he was going, and that they were taking the wrong way altogether; to all of which Sir Norman deigned not the slightest reply, but rode more and more recklessly on. There were but few people abroad at that hour; indeed, for that matter, the streets of London, in the dismal summer of 1665, were, comparatively speaking, always deserted; and the few now wending their way homeward were tired physicians and plague-nurses from the hospitals, and several hardy country folks, with more love of lucre than fear of death bending their steps with produce to the market-place. These people, sleepy and pallid in the gray haze of daylight, stared in astonishment after the two furious riders; and windows were thrown open, and heads thrust out to see what the unusual thunder of horses' hoofs at that early hour meant. George followed dauntlessly on, determined to do it or die in the attempt; and if he had ever heard of the Flying Dutchman, would undoubtedly have come to the conclusion that he was just then following his track on dry land. But, unlike the hapless Vanderdecken, Sir Norman came to a halt at last, and that so suddenly that his horse stood on his beam ends, and flourished his two fore limbs in the atmosphere. It was before La Masque's door; and Sir Norman was out of the saddle in a flash, and knocking like a postman with the handle of his whip on the door. The thundering reveille rang through the house, making it shake to its centre, and hurriedly brought to the door, the anatomy who acted as guardian-angel of the establishment.
“La Masque is not at home, and I cannot admit you,” was his sharp salute.
“Then I shall just take the trouble of admitting myself,” said Sir Norman, shortly.
And without further ceremony, he pushed aside the skeleton and entered. But that outraged servitor sprang in his path, indignant and amazed.
“No, sir; I cannot permit it. I do not know you; and it is against all orders to admit strangers in La Masque's absence.”
“Bah! you old simpleton!” remarked Sir Norman, losing his customary respect for old age in his impatience, “I have La Masque's order for what I am about to do. Get along with you directly, will you? Show me to her private room, and no nonsense!”
He tapped his sword-hilt significantly as he spoke, and that argument proved irresistible. Grumbling, in low tones, the anatomy stalked up-stairs; and the other followed, with very different feelings from those with which he had mounted that staircase last. His guide paused in the hall above, with his hand on the latch of a door.
“This is her private room, is it!” demanded Sir Norman.
“Yes.”
“Just stand aside, then, and let me pass.”
The room he entered was small, simply furnished, and seemed to answer as bed-chamber and study, all in one. There was a writing-table under a window, covered with books, and he glanced at them with some curiosity. They were classics, Greek and Latin, and other little known tongues—perhaps Sanscrit and Chaldaic, French belles lettres, novels, and poetry, and a few rare old English books. There were no papers, however, and those were what he was in search of; so spying a drawer in the table, he pulled it hastily open. The sight that met his eyes fairly dazzled him. It was full of jewels of incomparable beauty and value, strewn as carelessly about as if they were valueless. The blaze of gems at the midnight court seemed to him as nothing compared with the Golconda, the Valley of Diamonds shooting forth sparks of rainbow-fire before him now. Around one magnificent diamond necklace was entwined a scrap of paper, on which was written:
“The family jewels of the Montmorencis. To be given to my sisters when I am dead.”
That settled their destiny. All this blaze of diamonds, rubies, and opals were Leoline's; and with the energetic rapidity characteristic of our young friend that morning, he swept them out on the table, and resumed his search for papers. No document was there to reward his search, but the brief one twined round the necklace; and he was about giving up in despair, when a small brass slide in one corner caught his eye. Instantly he was at it, trying it every way, shoving it out and in, and up and down, until at last it yielded to his touch, disclosing an inner drawer, full of papers and parchments. One glance showed them to be what he was in search of—proofs of Leoline and Hubert's identity, with the will of the marquis, their father, and numerous other documents relative to his wealth and estates. These precious manuscripts he rolled together in a bundle, and placed carefully in his doublet, and then seizing a beautifully-wrought brass casket, that stood beneath the table, he swept the jewels in, secured it, and strapped it to his belt. This brisk and important little affair being over, he arose to go, and in turning, saw the skeleton porter standing in the door-way, looking on in speechless dismay.
“It's all right my ancient friend!” observed Sir Norman, gravely. “These papers must go before the king, and these jewels to their proper owner.”
“Their proper owner!” repeated the old man, shrilly; “that is La Masque. Thief-robber-housebreaker—stop!”
“My good old friend, you will do yourself a mischief if you bawl like that. Undoubtedly these things were La Masque's, but they are so no longer, since La Masque herself is among the things that were!”
“You shall not go!” yelled the old man, trembling with rage and anger. “Help! help! help!”
“You noisy old idiot!” cried Sir Norman, losing all patience, “I will throw you out of the window if you keep up such a clamor as this. I tell you La Masque is dead!”
At this ominous announcement, the ghastly porter fell back, and became, if possible, a shade more ghastly than was his wont.
“Dead and buried!” repeated Sir Norman, with gloomy sternness, “and there will be somebody else coming to take possession shortly. How many more servants are there here beside yourself?”
“Only one, sir—my wife Joanna. In mercy's name, sir, do not turn us out in the streets at this dreadful time!”
“Not I! You and your wife Joanna may stagnate here till you blue-mold, for me. But keep the door fast, my good old friend, and admit no strangers, but those who can tell you La Masque is dead!”
With which parting piece of advice Sir Norman left the house, and joined George, who sat like an effigy before the door, in a state of great mental wrath, and who accosted him rather suddenly the moment he made his appearance.
“I tell you what, Sir Norman Kingsley, if you have many more morning calls to make, I shall beg leave to take my departure. As it is, I know we are behind time, and his ma—the count, I mean, is not one who it accustomed or inclined to be kept waiting.”
“I am quite at your service now,” said Sir Norman, springing on horseback; “so away with you, quick as you like.”
George wanted no second order. Before the words were well out of his companion's mouth, he was dashing away like a bolt from a bow, as furiously as if on a steeple-chase, with Sir Norman close at his heels; and they rode, flushed and breathless, with their steeds all a foaming, into the court-yard of the royal palace at Whitehall, just as the early rising sun was showing his florid and burning visage above the horizon.
The court-yard, unlike the city streets, swarmed with busy life. Pages, and attendants, and soldiers, moving hither and thither, or lounging about, preparing for the morning's journey to Oxford. Among the rest Sir Norman observed Hubert, lying very much at his ease wrapped in his cloak, on the ground, and chatting languidly with a pert and pretty attendant of the fair Mistress Stuart. He cut short his flirtation, however, abruptly enough, and sprang to his feet as he saw Sir Norman, while George immediately darted off and disappeared from the palace.
“Am I late Hubert?” said his hurried questioner, as he drew the lad's arm within his own, and led him off out of hearing.
“I think not. The count,” said Hubert, with laughing emphasis, “has not been visible since he entered yonder doorway, and there has been no message that I have heard of. Doubtless, now that George has arrived, the message will soon be here, for the royal procession starts within half an hour.”
“Are you sure there is no trick, Hubert? Even now he may be with Leoline!”
Hubert shrugged his shoulders.
“He maybe; we must take our chance for that; but we have his royal word to the contrary. Not that I have much faith in that!” said Hubert.
“If he were king of the world instead of only England,” cried Sir Norman, with flashing eyes, “he shall not have Leoline while I wear a sword to defend her!”
“Regicide!” exclaimed Hubert, holding up both hands in affected horror. “Do my ears deceive me? Is this the loyal and chivalrous Sir Norman Kingsley, ready to die for king and country—”
“Stuff and nonsense!” interrupted Sir Norman, impatiently. “I tell you any one, be he whom he may, that attempts to take Leoline from me, must reach her over my dead body!”
“Bravo! You ought to be a Frenchman, Sir Norman! And what if the lady herself, finding her dazzling suitor drop his barnyard feathers, and soar over her head in his own eagle plumes, may not give you your dismissal, and usurp the place of pretty Madame Stuart.”
“You cold-blooded young villain! if you insinuate such a thing again, I'll throttle you! Leoline loves me, and me alone!”
“Doubtless she thinks so; but she has yet to learn she has a king for a suitor!”
“Bah! You are nothing but a heartless cynic,” said Sir Norman, yet with an anxious and irritated flush on his face, too: “What do you know of love?”
“More than you think, as pretty Mariette yonder could depose, if put upon oath. But seriously, Sir Norman, I am afraid your case is of the most desperate; royal rivals are dangerous things!”
“Yet Charles has kind impulses, and has been known to do generous acts.”
“Has he? You expect him, beyond doubt, to do precisely as he said; and if Leoline, different from all the rest of her sex, prefers the knight to the king, he will yield her unresistingly to you.”
“I have nothing but his word for it!” said Sir Norman, in a distracted tone, “and, at present, can do nothing but bide my time.”
“I have been thinking of that, too! I promised, you know, when I left her, last night, that we would return before day-dawn, and rescue her. The unhappy little beauty will doubtless think I have fallen into the tiger's jaws myself, and has half wept her bright eyes out by this time!”
“My poor Leoline! And O Hubert, if you only knew what she is to you!”
“I do know! She told me she was my sister!”
Sir Norman looked at him in amazement.
“She told you, and you take it like this?”
“Certainly, I take it like this. How would you have me take it? It is nothing to go into hysterics about, after all!”
“Of all the cold-blooded young reptiles I ever saw,” exclaimed Sir Norman, with infinite disgust, “you are the worst! If you were told you were to receive the crown of France to-morrow, you would probably open your eyes a trifle, and take it as you would a new cap!”
“Of course I would. I haven't lived in courts half my life to get up a scene for a small matter! Besides, I had an idea from the first moment I saw Leoline that she must be my sister, or something of that sort.”
“And so you felt no emotion whatever on hearing it?”
“I don't know as I properly understand what you mean by emotion,” said Herbert, reflectively. “But ye-e-s, I did feel somewhat pleased—she is so like me, and so uncommonly handsome!”
“Humph! there's a reason! Did she tell you how she discovered it herself?”
“Let me see—no—I think not—she simply mentioned the fact.”
“She did not tell you either, I suppose, that you had more sisters than herself?”
“More than herself! No. That would be a little too much of a good thing! One sister is quite enough for any reasonable mortal.”
“But there were two more, my good young friend!”
“Is it possible?” said Hubert, in a tone that betrayed not the slightest symptom of emotion. “Who are they?”
Sir Norman paused one instant, combating a strong temptation to seize the phlegmatic page by the collar, and give him such another shaking as he would not get over for a week to come; but suddenly recollecting he was Leoline's brother, and by the same token a marquis or thereabouts, he merely paused to cast a withering look upon him, and walked on.
“Well,” said Hubert, “I am waiting to be told.”
“You may wait, then!” said Sir Norman, with a smothered growl; “and I give you joy when I tell you. Such extra communicativeness to one so stolid could do no good!”
“But I am not stolid! I am in a perfect agony of anxiety,” said Hubert.
“You young jackanapes!” said Sir Norman, half-laughing, half-incensed. “It were a wise deed and a godly one to take you by the hind-leg and nape of the neck, and pitch you over yonder wall; but for your master's sake I will desist.”
“Which of them?” inquired Hubert, with provoking gravity.
“It would be more to the point if you asked me who the others were, I think.”
“So I have, and you merely abused me for it. But I think I know one of them without being told. It is that other fac-simile of Leoline and myself who died in the robber's ruin!”
“Exactly. You and she, and Leoline, were triplets!”
“And who is the other?”
“Her name is La Masque. Have you ever heard it?”
“La Masque! Nonsense!” exclaimed Hubert, with some energy in his voice at last. “You but jest, Sir Norman Kingsley!”
“No such thing! It is a positive fact! She told me the whole story herself!”
“And what is the whole story; and why did she not tell it to me instead of you.”
“She told it to Leoline, thinking, probably, she had the most sense; and she told it to me, as Leoline's future husband. It is somewhat long to relate, but it will help to beguile the time while we are waiting for the royal summons.”
And hereupon Sir Norman, without farther preface, launched into a rapid resume of La Masque's story, feeling the cold chill with which he had witnessed it creep over him as he narrated her fearful end.
“It struck me,” concluded Sir Norman, “that it would be better to procure any papers she might possess at once, lest, by accident, they should fall into other hands; so I rode there directly, and, in spite of the cantankerous old porter, searched diligently, until I found them. Here they are,” said Sir Norman, drawing forth the roll.
“And what do you intend doing with them?” inquired Hubert, glancing at the papers with an unmoved countenance.
“Show them to the king, and, though his mediation with Louis, obtain for you the restoration of your rights.”
“And do you think his majesty will give himself so much trouble for the Earl of Rochester's page?”
“I think he will take the trouble to see justice done, or at least he ought to. If he declines, we will take the matter in our own hands, my Hubert; and you and I will seek Louis ourselves. Please God, the Earl of Rochester's page will yet wear the coronet of the De Montmorencis!”
“And the sister of a marquis will be no unworthy mate even for a Kingsley,” said Hubert. “Has La Masque left nothing for her?”
“Do you see this casket?” tapping the one of cared brass dangling from his belt; “well, it is full of jewels worth a king's ransom. I found them in a drawer of La Masque's house, with directions that they were to be given to her sisters at her death. Miranda being dead, I presume they are all Leoline's now.”
“This is a queer business altogether!” said Hubert, musingly; “and I am greatly mistaken if King Louis will not regard it as a very pretty little work of fiction.”
“But I have proofs, lad! The authenticity of these papers cannot be doubted.”
“With all my heart. I have no objections to be made a marquis of, and go back to la belle France, out of this land of plague and fog. Won't some of my friends here be astonished when they hear it, particularly the Earl of Rochester, when he finds out that he has had a marquis for a page? Ah, here comes George, and bearing a summons from Count L'Estrange at last.”
George approached, and intimated that Sir Norman was to follow him to the presence of his master.
“Au revoir, then,” said Hubert. “You will find me here when you come back.”
Sir Norman, with a slight tremor of the nerves at what was to come, followed the king's page through halls and anterooms, full of loiterers, courtiers, and their attendants. Once a hand was laid on his shoulder, a laughing voice met his ear, and the Earl of Rochester stood beside him!
“Good-morning, Sir Norman; you are abroad betimes. How have you left your friend, the Count L'Estrange?”
“Your lordship has probably seen him since I have, and should be able to answer that question best.”
“And how does his suit progress with the pretty Leoline?” went on the gay earl. “In faith, Kingsley, I never saw such a charming little beauty; and I shall do combat with you yet—with both the count and yourself, and outwit the pair of you!”
“Permit me to differ from your lordship. Leoline would not touch you with a pair of tongs!”
“Ah! she has better taste than you give her credit for; but if I should fail, I know what to do to console myself.”
“May I ask what?”
“Yes! there is Hubert, as like her an two peas in a pod. I shall dress him up in lace and silks, and gewgaws, and have a Leoline of my own already made its order.”
“Permit me to doubt that, too! Hubert is as much lost to you as Leoline!”
Leaving the volatile earl to put what construction pleased him best on this last sententious remark, he resumed his march after George, and was ushered, at last, into an ante-room near the audience-chamber. Count L'Estrange, still attired as Count L'Estrange, stood near a window overlooking the court-yard, and as the page salaamed and withdrew, he turned round, and greeted Sir Norman with his suavest air.
“The appointed hour is passed, Sir Norman Kingsley, but that is partly your own fault. Your guide hither tells me that you stopped for some time at the house of a fortune-teller, known as La Masque. Why was this!”
“I was forced to stop on most important business,” answered the knight, still resolved to treat him as the count, until it should please him to doff his incognito, “of which you shall hear anon. Just now, our business is with Leoline.”
“True! And as in a short time I start with yonder cavalcade, there is but little time to lose. Apropos, Kingsley, who is that mysterious woman, La Masque?”
“She is, or was (for she is dead now) a French lady, of noble birth, and the sister of Leoline!”
“Her sister! And have you discovered Leoline's history?”
“I have.”
“And her name!”
“And her name. She is Leoline De Montmorenci! And with the proudest blood of France in her veins, living obscure and unknown—a stranger in a strange land since childhood; but, with God's grace and your help, I hope to see her restored to all she has lost, before long.”
“You know me, then?” said his companion, half-smiling.
“Yes, your majesty,” answered Sir Norman, bowing low before the king.