“The highest, the lowest, the loveliest spot,They searched for the lady, and found her not.”
No, though there was not the slightest trace of robbers or intruders, neither was there the slightest trace of the beautiful plague-patient. Everything in the house was precisely as it always was, but the silver shining vision was gone.
The search was given over at last in despair, and the doctor took his hat and disappeared. Sir Norman and Ormiston stopped in the lower hall and looked at each other in mute amaze.
“What can it all mean?” asked Ormiston, appealing more to society at large than to his bewildered companion.
“I haven't the faintest idea,” said Sir Norman, distractedly; “only I am pretty certain, if I don't find her, I shall do something so desperate that the plague will be a trifle compared to it!”
“It seems almost impossible that she can have been carried off—doesn't it?”
“If she has!” exclaimed Sir Norman, “and I find out the abductor, he won't have a whole bone in his body two minutes after!”
“And yet more impossible that she can have gone off herself,” pursued Ormiston with the air of one entering upon an abstruse subject, and taking no heed whatever of his companion's marginal notes.
“Gone off herself! Is the man crazy?” inquired Sir Norman, with a stare. “Fifteen minutes before we left her dead, or in a dead swoon, which is all the same in Greek, and yet he talks of her getting up and going off herself!”
“In fact, the only way to get at the bottom of the mystery,” said Ormiston, “is to go in search of her. Sleeping, I suppose, is out of the question.”
“Of course it is! I shall never sleep again till I find her!”
They passed out, and Sir Norman this time took the precaution of turning the key, thereby fulfilling the adage of locking the stable-door when the steed was stolen. The night had grown darker and hotter; and as they walked along, the clock of St. Paul's tolled nine.
“And now, where shall we go?” inquired Sir Norman, as they rapidly hurried on.
“I should recommend visiting the house we found her first; if not there, then we can try the pest-house.”
Sir Norman shuddered.
“Heaven forefend she should be there! It is the most mysterious thing ever I heard of!”
“What do you think now of La Masque's prediction—dare you doubt still?”
“Ormiston, I don't know what to think. It is the same face I saw, and yet—”
“Well—and yet—”
“I can't tell you—I am fairly bewildered. If we don't find the lady at her own house, I have half a mind to apply to your friend, La Masque, again.”
“The wisest thing you could do, my dear fellow. If any one knows your unfortunate beloved's whereabouts, it is La Masque, depend upon it.”
“That's settled then; and now, don't talk, for conversation at this smart pace I don't admire.”
Ormiston, like the amiable, obedient young man that he was, instantly held his tongue, and they strode along at a breathless pace. There was an unusual concourse of men abroad that night, watching the gloomy face of the sky, and waiting the hour of midnight to kindle the myriad of fires; and as the two tall, dark figures went rapidly by, all supposed it to be a case of life or death. In the eyes of one of the party, perhaps it was; and neither halted till they came once more in sight of the house, whence a short time previously they had carried the death-cold bride. A row of lamps over the door-portals shed a yellow, uncertain light around, while the lights of barges and wherries were sown like stars along the river.
“There is the house,” cried Ormiston, and both paused to take breath; “and I am about at the last gasp. I wonder if your pretty mistress would feel grateful if she knew what I have come through to-night for her sweet sake?”
“There are no lights,” said Sir Norman, glancing anxiously up at the darkened front of the house; “even the link before the door is unlit. Surely she cannot be there.”
“That remains to be seen, though I'm very doubtful about it myself. Ah! whom have we here?”
The door of the house in question opened, as he spoke, and a figure—a man's figure, wearing a slouched hat and long, dark cloak, came slowly out. He stopped before the house and looked at it long and earnestly; and, by the twinkling light of the lamps, the friends saw enough of him to know he was young and distinguished looking.
“I should not wonder in the least if that were the bridegroom,” whispered Ormiston, maliciously.
Sir Norman turned pale with jealousy, and laid his hand on his sword, with a quick and natural impulse to make the bride a widow forthwith. But he checked the desire for an instant as the brigandish-looking gentleman, after a prolonged stare at the premises, stepped up to the watchman, who had given them their information an hour or two before, and who was still at his post. The friends could not be seen, but they could hear, and they did so very earnestly indeed.
“Can you tell me, my friend,” began the cloaked unknown, “what has become of the people residing in yonder house?”
The watchman, held his lamp up to the face of the interlocutor—a handsome face by the way, what could be seen of it—and indulged himself in a prolonged survey.
“Well!” said the gentleman, impatiently, “have you no tongue, fellow? Where are they, I say?”
“Blessed if I know,” said the watchman. “I, wasn't set here to keep guard over them was I? It looks like it, though,” said the man in parenthesis; “for this makes twice to-night I've been asked questions about it.”
“Ah!” said the gentleman, with a slight start. “Who asked you before, pray?”
“Two young gentlemen; lords, I expect, by their dress. Somebody ran screaming out of the house, and they wanted to know what was wrong.”
“Well?” said the stranger, breathlessly, “and then?”
“And then, as I couldn't tell them they went in to see for themselves, and shortly after came out with a body wrapped in a sheet, which they put in a pest-cart going by, and had it buried, I suppose, with the rest in the plague-pit.”
The stranger fairly staggered back, and caught at a pillar near for support. For nearly ten minutes, he stood perfectly motionless, and then, without a word, started up and walked rapidly away. The friends looked after him curiously till he was out of sight.
“So she is not there,” said Ormiston; “and our mysterious friend in the cloak is as much at a loss as we are ourselves. Where shall we go next—to La Masque or the peat-house?”
“To La Masque—I hate the idea of the pest-house!”
“She may be there, nevertheless; and under present circumstances, it is the best place for her.”
“Don't talk of it!” said Sir Norman, impatiently. “I do not and will not believe she is there! If the sorceress shows her to me in the caldron again, I verily believe I shall jump in head foremost.”
“And I verily believe we will not find La Masque at home. She wanders through the streets at all hours, but particularly affects the night.”
“We shall try, however. Come along!”
The house of the sorceress was but a short distance from that of Sir Norman's plague-stricken lady-love's; and shod with a sort of seven-league boots, they soon reached it. Like the other, it was all dark and deserted.
“This is the home,” said Ormiston, looking at it doubtfully, “but where is La Masque?”
“Here!” said a silvery voice at his elbow; and turning round, they saw a tall, slender figure, cloaked, hooded, and masked. “Surely, you two do not want me again to-night?”
Both gentlemen doffed their plumed hats, and simultaneously bowed.
“Fortune favors us,” said Sir Norman. “Yes, madam, it is even so; once again to-night we would tax your skill.”
“Well, what do you wish to know?”
“Madam, we are in the street.”
“Sir, I'm aware of that. Pray proceed.”
“Will you not have the goodness to permit us to enter?” said Sir Norman, inclined to feel offended. “How can you tell us what we wish to know, here?”
“That is my secret,” said the sweet voice. “Probably Sir Norman Kingsley wishes to know something of the fair lady I showed him some time ago?”
“Madam, you've guessed it. It is for that purpose I have sought you now.”
“Then you have seen her already?”
“I have.”
“And love her?”
“With all my heart!”
“A rapid flame,” said the musical voice, in a tone that had just a thought of sarcasm; “for one of whose very existence you did not dream two hours ago.”
“Madame La Masque,” said Norman, flushed sad haughty, “love is not a question of time.”
“Sir Norman Kingsley,” said the lady, somewhat sadly, “I am aware of that. Tell me what you wish to know, and if it be in my power, you shall know it.”
“A thousand thanks! Tell me, then, is she whom I seek living or dead?”
“She is alive.”
“She has the plague?” said Sir Norman.
“I know it.”
“Will she recover?”
“She will.”
“Where is she now?”
La Masque hesitated and seemed uncertain whether or not to reply, Sir Norman passionately broke in:
“Tell me, madam, for I must know!”
“Then you shall; but, remember, if you get into danger, you must not blame me.”
“Blame you! No, I think I would hardly do that. Where am I to seek for her?”
“Two miles from London beyond Newgate,” said the mask. “There stand the ruins of what was long ago a hunting-lodge, now a crumbling skeleton, roofless and windowless, and said, by rumor, to be haunted. Perhaps you have seen or heard of it?”
“I have seen it a hundred times,” broke in Sir Norman. “Surely, you do not mean to say she is there?”
“Go there, and you will see. Go there to-night, and lose no time—that is, supposing you can procure a license.”
“I have one already. I have a pass from the Lord Mayor to come and go from the city when I please.”
“Good! Then you'll go to-night.”
“I will go. I might as well do that as anything else, I suppose; but it is quite impossible,” said Sir Norman, firmly, not to say obstinately, “that she can be there.”
“Very well you'll see. You had better go on horseback, if you desire to be back in time to witness the illumination.”
“I don't particularly desire to see the illumination, as I know of; but I will ride, nevertheless. What am I to do when I get there?”
“You will enter the ruins, and go on till you discover a spiral staircase leading to what was once the vaults. The flags of these vaults are loose from age, and if you should desire to remove any of them, you will probably not find it an impossibility.”
“Why should I desire to remove them?” asked Sir Norman, who felt dubious, and disappointed, and inclined to be dogmatical.
“Why, you may see a glimmering of light—hear strange noises; and if you remove the stones, may possibly see strange sights. As I told you before, it is rumored to be haunted, which is true enough, though not in the way they suspect; and so the fools and the common herd stay away.”
“And if I am discovered peeping like a rascally valet, what will be the consequences?”
“Very unpleasant ones to you; but you need not be discovered if you take care. Ah! Look there!”
She pointed to the river, and both her companions looked. A barge gayly painted and gilded, with a light in prow and stern, came gliding up among less pretentious craft, and stopped at the foot of a flight of stairs leading to the bridge. It contained four persons—the oarsman, two cavaliers sitting in the stern, and a lad in the rich livery of a court-page in the act of springing out. Nothing very wonderful in all this; and Sir Norman and Ormiston looked at her for an explanation.
“Do you know those two gentlemen?” she asked.
“Certainly,” replied Sir Norman, promptly; “one is the Duke of York, the other the Earl of Rochester.”
“And that page, to which of them does he belong?”
“The page!” said Sir Norman, with a stare, as he leaned forward to look; “pray, madam, what has the page to do with it?”
“Look and see!”
The two peers has ascended the stairs, and were already on the bridge. The page loitered behind, talking, as it seemed, to the waterman.
“He wears the livery of the Earl of Rochester,” said Ormiston, speaking for the first time, “but I cannot see his face.”
“He will follow presently, and be sure you see it then! Possibly you may not find it entirely new to you.”
She drew back into the shadow as she spoke; and the two nobles, as they advanced, talking earnestly, beheld Sir Norman and Ormiston. Both raised their hats with a look of recognition, and the salute was courteously returned by the others.
“Good-night, gentlemen,” said Lord Rochester; “a hot evening, is it not? Have you come here to witness the illumination?”
“Hardly,” said Sir Norman; “we have come for a very different purpose, my lord.”
“The fires will have one good effect,” said Ormiston laughing; “if they clear the air and drive away this stifling atmosphere.”
“Pray God they drive away the plague!” said the Duke of York, as he and his companion passed from view.
The page sprang up the stairs after them, humming as he came, one of his master's love ditties—songs, saith tradition, savoring anything but the odor of sanctity. With the warning of La Masque fresh in their mind, both looked at him earnestly. His gay livery was that of Lord Rochester, and became his graceful figure well, as he marched along with a jaunty swagger, one hand on his aide, and the other toying with a beautiful little spaniel, that frisked in open violation of the Lord Mayor's orders, commanding all dogs, great and small, to be put to death as propagators of the pestilence. In passing, the lad turned his face toward them for a moment—a bright, saucy, handsome face it was—and the next instant he went round an angle and disappeared. Ormiston suppressed an oath. Sir Norman stifled a cry of amazement—for both recognized that beautiful colorless face, those perfect features, and great, black, lustrous eyes. It was the face of the lady they had saved from the plague-pit!
“Am I sane or mad?” inquired Sir Norman, looking helplessly about him for information. “Surely that is she we are in search of.”
“It certainly is!” said Ormiston. “Where are the wonders of this night to end?”
“Satan and La Masque only know; for they both seem to have united to drive me mad. Where is she?”
“Where, indeed?” said Ormiston; “where is last year's snow?” And Sir Norman, looking round at the spot where she had stood a moment before, found that she, too, had disappeared.
The two friends looked at each other in impressive silence for a moment, and spake never a word. Not that they were astonished—they were long past the power of that emotion: and if a cloud had dropped from the sky at their feet, they would probably have looked at it passively, and vaguely wonder if the rest would follow. Sir Norman, especially, had sank into a state of mind that words are faint and feeble to describe. Ormiston, not being quite so far gone, was the first to open his lips.
“Upon my honor, Sir Norman, this is the most astonishing thing ever I heard of. That certainly was the face of our half-dead bride! What, in the name of all the gods, can it mean, I wonder?”
“I have given up wondering,” said Sir Norman, in the same helpless tone. “And if the earth was to open and swallow London up, I should not be the least surprised. One thing is certain: the lady we are seeking and that page are one and the same.”
“And yet La Masque told you she was two miles from the city, in the haunted ruin; and La Masque most assuredly knows.”
“I have no doubt she is there. I shall not be the least astonished if I find her in every street between this and Newgate.”
“Really, it is a most singular affair! First you see her in the magic caldron; then we find her dead; then, when within an ace of being buried, she comes to life; then we leave her lifeless as a marble statue, shut up in your room, and fifteen minutes after, she vanishes as mysteriously as a fairy in a nursery legend. And, lastly, she turns up in the shape of a court-page, and swaggers along London Bridge at this hour of the night, chanting a love song. Faith! it would puzzle the sphinx herself to read this riddle, I've a notion!”
“I, for one, shall never try to read it,” said Sir Norman. “I am about tired of this labyrinth of mysteries, and shall save time and La Masque to unravel them at their leisure.”
“Then you mean to give up the pursuit?”
“Not exactly. I love this mysterious beauty too well to do that; and when next I find her, be it where it may, I shall take care she does not slip so easily through my fingers.”
“I cannot forget that page,” said Ormiston, musingly. “It is singular since, he wears the Earl of Rochester's livery, that we have never seen him before among his followers. Are you quite sure, Sir Norman, that you have not?”
“Seen him? Don't be absurd, Ormiston! Do you think I could ever forget such a face as that?”
“It would not be easy, I confess. One does not see such every day. And yet—and yet—it is most extraordinary!”
“I shall ask Rochester about him the first thing to-morrow; and unless he is an optical illusion—which I vow I half believe is the case—I will come at the truth in spite of your demoniac friend, La Masque!”
“Then you do not mean to look for him to-night?”
“Look for him? I might as well look for a needle in a haystack. No! I have promised La Masque to visit the old ruins, and there I shall go forthwith. Will you accompany me?”
“I think not. I have a word to say to La Masque, and you and she kept talking so busily, I had no chance to put it in.”
Sir Norman laughed.
“Besides, I have no doubt it is a word you would not like to utter in the presence of a third party, even though that third party be your friend and Pythias, Kingsley. Do you mean to stay here like a plague-sentinel until she returns?”
“Possibly; or if I get tired I may set out in search of her. When do you return?”
“The Fates, that seem to make a foot-ball of my best affections, and kick them as they please, only know. If nothing happens—which, being interpreted, means, if I am still in the land of the living—I shall surely be back by daybreak.”
“And I shall be anxious about that time to hear the result of your night's adventure; so where shall we meet?”
“Why not here? it is as good a place as any.”
“With all my heart. Where do you propose getting a horse?”
“At the King's Arms—but a stones throw from here. Farewell.”
“Good-night, and God speed you!” said Ormiston. And wrapping his cloak close about him, he leaned against the doorway, and, watching the dancing lights on the river, prepared to await the return of La Masque.
With his head full of the adventures and misadventures of the night, Sir Norman walked thoughtfully on until he reached the King's Arms—a low inn on the bank of the river. To his dismay he found the house shut up, and bearing the dismal mark and inscription of the pestilence. While he stood contemplating it in perplexity, a watchman, on guard before another plague-stricken house, advanced and informed him that the whole family had perished of the disease, and that the landlord himself, the last survivor, had been carried off not twenty minutes before to the plague-pit.
“But,” added the man, seeing Sir Norman's look of annoyance, and being informed what he wanted, “there are two or three horses around there in the stable, and you may as well help yourself, for if you don't take them, somebody else will.”
This philosophic logic struck Sir Norman as being so extremely reasonable, that without more ado he stepped round to the stables and selected the best it contained. Before proceeding on his journey, it occurred to him that, having been handling a plague-patient, it would be a good thing to get his clothes fumigated; so he stepped into an apothecary's store for that purpose, and provided himself also with a bottle of aromatic vinegar. Thus prepared for the worst, Sir Norman sprang on his horse like a second Don Quixote striding his good steed Rozinante, and sallied forth in quest of adventures. These, for a short time, were of rather a dismal character; for, hearing the noise of a horse's hoofs in the silent streets at that hour of the night, the people opened their doors as he passed by, thinking it the pest-cart, and brought forth many a miserable victim of the pestilence. Averting his head from the revolting spectacles, Sir Norman held the bottle of vinegar to his nostrils, and rode rapidly till he reached Newgate. There he was stopped until his bill of health was examined, and that small manuscript being found all right, he was permitted to pass on in peace. Everywhere he went, the trail of the serpent was visible over all. Death and Desolation went hand in hand. Outside as well as inside the gates, great piles of wood and coal were arranged, waiting only the midnight hour to be fired. Here, however, no one seemed to be stirring; and no sound broke the silence but the distant rumble of the death-cart, and the ringing of the driver's bell. There were lights in some of the houses, but many of them were dark and deserted, and nearly every one bore the red cross of the plague.
It was a gloomy scene and hour, and Sir Norman's heart turned sick within him as he noticed the ruin and devastation the pestilence had everywhere wrought. And he remembered, with a shudder, the prediction of Lilly, the astrologer, that the paved streets of London would be like green fields, and the living be no longer able to bury the dead. Long before this, he had grown hardened and accustomed to death from its very frequence; but now, as he looked round him, he almost resolved to ride on and return no more to London till the plague should have left it. But then came the thought of his unknown lady-love, and with it the reflection that he was on his way to find her; and, rousing himself from his melancholy reverie, he rode on at a brisker pace, heroically resolved to brave the plague or any other emergency, for her sake. Full of this laudable and lover-like resolution, he had got on about half a mile further, when he was suddenly checked in his rapid career by an exciting, but in no way surprising, little incident.
During the last few yards, Sir Norman had come within sight of another horseman, riding on at rather a leisurely pace, considering the place and the hour. Suddenly three other horsemen came galloping down upon him, and the leader presenting a pistol at his head, requested him in a stentorial voice for his money or his life. By way of reply, the stranger instantly produced a pistol of his own, and before the astonished highwayman could comprehend the possibility of such an act, discharged it full in his face. With a loud yell the robber reeled and fell from his saddle, and in a twinkling both his companions fired their pistols at the traveler, and bore, with a simultaneous cry of rage, down upon him. Neither of the shots had taken effect, but the two enraged highwaymen would have made short work of their victim had not Sir Norman, like a true knight, ridden to the rescue. Drawing his sword, with one vigorous blow he placed another of the assassins hors de combat; and, delighted with the idea of a fight to stir his stagnant blood, was turning (like a second St. George at the Dragon), upon the other, when that individual, thinking discretion the better part of valor, instantaneously turned tail and fled. The whole brisk little episode had not occupied five minutes, and Sir Norman was scarcely aware the fight had began before it had triumphantly ended.
“Short, sharp, and decisive!” was the stranger's cool criticism, as he deliberately wiped his blood-stained sword, and placed it in a velvet scabbard. “Our friends, there, got more than they bargained for, I fancy. Though, but for you, Sir,” he said, politely raising his hat and bowing, “I should probably have been ere this in heaven, or—the other place.”
Sir Norman, deeply edified by the easy sang-froid of the speaker, turned to take a second look at him. There was very little light; for the night had grown darker as it wore on, and the few stars that had glimmered faintly had hid their diminished heads behind the piles of inky clouds. Still, there was a sort of faint phosphorescent light whitening the gloom, and by it Sir Norman's keen bright eyes discovered that he wore a long dark cloak and slouched hat. He discovered something else, too—that he had seen that hat and cloak, and the man inside of them on London Bridge, not an hour before. It struck Sir Norman there was a sort of fatality in their meeting; and his pulses quickened a trifle, as he thought that he might be speaking to the husband of the lady for whom he had so suddenly conceived such a rash and inordinate attachment. That personage meantime having reloaded his pistol, with a self-possession refreshing to witness, replaced it in his doublet, gathered up the reins, and, glancing slightly at his companion, spoke again,
“I should thank you for saving my life, I suppose, but thanking people is so little in my line, that I scarcely know how to set about it. Perhaps, my dear sir, you will take the will for the deed.”
“An original, this,” thought Sir Norman, “whoever he is.” Then aloud: “Pray don't trouble yourself about thanks, sir, I should have dome precisely the same for the highwaymen, had you been three to one over them.”
“I don't doubt it in the least; nevertheless I feel grateful, for you have saved my life all the same, and you have never seen me before.”
“There you are mistaken,” said Sir Norman, quietly “I had the pleasure of seeing you scarce an hour ago.”
“Ah!” said the stranger, in an altered tone, “and where?”
“On London Bridge.”
“I did not see you.”
“Very likely, but I was there none the less.”
“Do you know me?” said the stranger; and Sir Norman could see he was gazing at him sharply from under the shadow of his slouched hat.
“I have not that honor, but I hope to do so before we part.”
“It was quite dark when you saw me on the bridge—how comes it, then, that you recollect me so well?”
“I have always been blessed with an excellent memory,” said Sir Norman carelessly, “and I knew your dress, face, and voice instantly.”
“My voice! Then you heard me speak, probably to the watchman guarding a plague-stricken house?”
“Exactly! and the subject being a very interesting one, I listened to all you said.”
“Indeed! and what possible interest could the subject have for you, may I ask?”
“A deeper one than you think!” said Sir Norman, with a slight tremor in his voice as he thought of the lady, “the watchman told you the lady you sought for had been carried away dead, and thrown into the plague-pit!”
“Well,” cried the stranger starting violently, “and was it not true?”
“Only partly. She was carried away in the pest-cart sure enough, but she was not thrown into the plague-pit!”
“And why?”
“Because, when on reaching that horrible spot, she was found to be alive!”
“Good Heaven! And what then?”
“Then,” exclaimed Sir Norman, in a tone almost as excited as his own, “she was brought to the house of a friend, and left alone for a few minutes, while that friend went in search of a doctor. On returning they found her—where do you think?”
“Where?”
“Gone!” said Sir Norman emphatically, “spirited away by some mysterious agency; for she was dying of the plague, and could not possibly stir hand or foot herself.”
“Dying of the plague, O Leoline!” said the stranger, in a voice full of pity and horror, while for a moment he covered his face with his hands.
“So her name is Leoline?” said Sir Norman to himself. “I have found that out, and also that this gentleman, whatever he may be to her, is as ignorant of her whereabouts as I am myself. He seems in trouble, too. I wonder if he really happens to be her husband?”
The stranger suddenly lifted his head and favored Sir Norman with a long and searching look.
“How come you to know all this, Sir Norman Kingsley,” he asked abruptly.
“And how come you to know my name?” demanded Sir Norman, very much amazed, notwithstanding his assertion that nothing would astonish him more.
“That is of no consequence! Tell me how you've learned all this?” repeated the stranger, in a tone of almost stern authority.
Sir Norman started and stared. That voice! I have had heard it a thousand times! It had evidently been disguised before; but now, in the excitement of the moment, the stranger was thrown off his guard, and it became perfectly familiar. But where had he heard it? For the life of him, Sir Norman could not tell, yet it was as well known to him as his own. It had the tone, too, of one far more used to command than entreaty; and Sir Norman, instead of getting angry, as he felt he ought to have done, mechanically answered:
“The watchman told you of the two young men who brought her out and laid her in the dead-cart—I was one of the two.”
“And who was the other?”
“A friend of mine—one Malcolm Ormiston.”
“Ah! I know him! Pardon my abruptness, Sir Norman,” said the stranger, once more speaking in his assumed suave tone, “but I feel deeply on this subject, and was excited at the moment. You spoke of her being brought to the house of a friend—now, who may that friend be, for I was not aware that she had any?”
“So I judged,” said Sir Norman, rather bitterly, “or she would not have been left to die alone of the plague. She was brought to my house, sir, and I am the friend who would have stood by her to the last!”
Sir Norman sat up very straight and haughty on his horse; and had it been daylight, he would have seen a slight derisive smile pass over the lips of his companion.
“I have always heard that Sir Norman Kingsley was a chivalrous knight,” he said; “but I scarcely dreamed his gallantry would have carried him so far as to brave death by the pestilence for the sake of an unknown lady—however beautiful. I wonder you did not carry her to the pest-house.”
“No doubt! Those who could desert her at such a time would probably be capable of that or any other baseness!”
“My good friend,” said the stranger, calmly, “your insinuation is not over-courteous, but I can forgive it, more for the sake of what you've done for her to-night than for myself.”
Sir Norman's lip curled.
“I'm obliged to you! And now, sir, as you have seen fit to question me in this free and easy manner, will you pardon me if I take the liberty of returning the compliment, and ask you a few in return?”
“Certainly; pray proceed, Sir Norman,” said the stranger, blandly; “you are at liberty to ask as many questions as you please—so am I to answer them.”
“I answered all yours unhesitatingly, and you owe it to me to do the same,” said Sir Norman, somewhat haughtily. “In the first place, you have an advantage of me which I neither understand, nor relish; so, to place us on equal terms, will you have the goodness to tell me your name?”
“Most assuredly! My name,” said the stranger, with glib airiness, “is Count L'Estrange.”
“A name unknown to me,” said Sir Norman, with a piercing look, “and equally unknown, I believe, at Whitehall. There is a Lord L'Estrange in London; but you and he are certainly not one and the same.”
“My friend does not believe me,” said the count, almost gayly—“a circumstance I regret, but cannot help. Is there anything else Sir Norman wishes to know?”
“If you do not answer my questions truthfully, there is little use in my asking them,” said Sir Norman, bluntly. “Do you mean to say you are a foreigner?”
“Sir Norman Kingsley is at perfect liberty to answer that question as he pleases,” replied the stranger, with most provoking indifference.
Sir Norman's eye flashed, and his hand fell on his sword; but, reflecting that the count might find it inconvenient to answer any more questions if he ran him through, he restrained himself and went on.
“Sir, you are impertinent, but that is of no consequence, just now. Who was that lady—what was her name?”
“Leoline.”
“Was she your wife?”
The stranger paused for a moment, as if reflecting whether she was or not, and then said, meditatively,
“No—I don't know as she was. On the whole, I am pretty sure she was not.”
Sir Norman felt as if a ton weight had been suddenly hoisted from the region of his heart.
“Was she anybody else's wife?”
“I think not. I'm inclined to think that, except myself, she did not know another man in London.”
“Then why was she dressed as a bride?” inquired Sir Norman, rather mystified.
“Was she? My poor Leoline!” said the stranger, sadly. “Because-” he hesitated, “because—in short, Sir Norman,” said the stranger, decidedly, “I decline answering any more questions!”
“I shall find out, for all that,” said Sir Norman, “and here I shall bid you good-night, for this by-path leads to my destination.”
“Good-night,” said the stranger, “and be careful, Sir Norman—remember, the plague is abroad.”
“And so are highwaymen!” called Sir Norman after him, a little maliciously; but a careless laugh from the stranger was the only reply as he galloped away.
The by-path down which Sir Norman rode, led to an inn, “The Golden Crown,” about a quarter of a mile from the ruin. Not wishing to take his horse, lest it should lead to discovery, he proposed leaving it here till his return; and, with this intention, and the strong desire for a glass of wine—for the heat and his ride made him extremely thirsty—he dismounted at the door, and consigning the animal to the care of a hostler, he entered the bar-room. It was not the most inviting place in the world, this same bar-room—being illy-lighted, dim with tobacco-smoke, and pervaded by a strong spirituous essence of stronger drinks than malt or cold water. A number of men were loitering about, smoking, drinking, and discussing the all-absorbing topic of the plague, and the fires that might be kindled. There was a moment's pause, as Sir Norman entered, took a seat, and called for a glass of sack, and then the conversation went on as before. The landlord hastened to supply his wants by placing a glass and a bottle of wine before him, and Sir Norman fell to helping himself, and to ruminating deeply on the events of the night. Rather melancholy these ruminations were, though to do the young gentleman justice, sentimental melancholy was not at all in his line; but then you will please to recollect he was in love, and when people come to that state, they are no longer to be held responsible either for their thoughts or actions. It is true his attack had been a rapid one, but it was no less severe for that; and if any evil-minded critic is disposed to sneer at the suddenness of his disorder, I have only to say, that I know from observation, not to speak of experience, that love at first sight is a lamentable fact, and no myth.
Love is not a plant that requires time to flourish, but is quite capable of springing up like the gourd of Jonah full grown in a moment. Our young friend, Sir Norman, had not been aware of the existence of the object of his affections for a much longer space than two hours and a half, yet he had already got to such a pitch, that if he did not speedily find her, he felt he would do something so desperate as to shake society to its utmost foundations. The very mystery of the affair spurred him on, and the romantic way in which she had been found, saved, and disappeared, threw such a halo of interest round her, that he was inclined to think sometimes she was nothing but a shining vision from another world. Those dark, splendid eyes; that lovely marblelike face; those wavy ebon tresses; that exquisitely exquisite figure; yes, he felt they were all a great deal too perfect for this imperfect and wicked world. Sir Norman was in a very bad way, beyond doubt, but no worse than millions of young men before and after him; and he heaved a great many profound sighs, and drank a great many glasses of sack, and came to the sorrowful conclusion that Dame Fortune was a malicious jade, inclined to poke fun at his best affections, and make a shuttlecock of his heart for the rest of his life. He thought, too, of Count L'Estrange; and the longer he thought, the more he became convinced that he knew him well, and had met him often. But where? He racked his brain until, between love, Leoline, and the count, he got that delicate organ into such a maze of bewilderment and distraction, that he felt he would be a case of congestion, shortly, if he did not give it up. That the count's voice was not the only thing about him assumed, he was positive; and he mentally called over the muster-roll of his past friends, who spent half their time at Whitehall, and the other half going through the streets, making love to the honest citizens' pretty wives and daughters; but none of them answered to Count L'Estrange. He could scarcely be a foreigner—he spoke English with too perfect an accent to be that; and then he knew him, Sir Norman, as if he had been his brother. In short, there was no use driving himself insane trying to read so unreadable a riddle; and inwardly consigning the mysterious count to Old Nick, he swallowed another glass of sack, and quit thinking about him.
So absorbed had Sir Norman been in his own mournful musings, that he paid no attention whatever to those around him, and had nearly forgotten their very presence, when one of them, with a loud cry, sprang to his feet, and then fell writhing to the floor. The others, in dismay, gathered abut him, but the next instant fell back with a cry of, “He has the plague!” At that dreaded announcement, half of them scampered off incontinently; and the other half with the landlord at their head, lifted the sufferer whose groans and cries were heart-rendering, and carried him out of the house. Sir Norman, rather dismayed himself, had risen to his feet, fully aroused from his reverie, and found himself and another individual sole possessors of the premises. His companion he could not very well make out; for he was sitting, or rather crouching, in a remote and shadowy corner, where nothing was clearly visible but the glare of a pair of fiery eyes. There was a great redundancy of hair, too, about his head and face, indeed considerable more about the latter than there seemed any real necessity for, and even with the imperfect glimpse he caught of him the young man set him down in his own mind as about as hard-looking a customer as he had ever seen. The fiery eyes were glaring upon him like those of a tiger, through a jungle of bushy hair, but their owner spoke never a word, though the other stared back with compound interest. There they sat, beaming upon each other—one fiercely, the other curiously, until the re-appearance of the landlord with a very lugubrious and woebegone countenance. It struck Sir Norman that it was about time to start for the ruin; and, with an eye to business, he turned to cross-examine mine host a trifle.
“What have they done with that man?” he asked by way of preface.
“Sent him to the pest-house,” replied the landlord, resting his elbows on the counter and his chin in his hands, and staring dismally at the opposite wall. “Ah! Lord 'a' mercy on us! These be dreadful times!”
“Dreadful enough!” said Sir Norman, sighing deeply, as he thought of his beautiful Leoline, a victim of the merciless pestilence. “Have there been many deaths here of the distemper?”
“Twenty-five to-day!” groaned the man. “Lord! what will become of us?”
“You seem rather disheartened,” said Sir Norman, pouring out a glass of wine and handing it to him. “Just drink this, and don't borrow trouble. They say sack is a sure specific against the plague.”
Mine host drained the bumper, and wiped his mouth, with another hollow groan.
“If I thought that, sir, I'd not be sober from one week's end to t'other; but I know well enough I will be in a plague-pit in less than a week. O Lord! have mercy on us!”
“Amen!” said Sir Norman, impatiently. “If fear has not taken away your wits, my good sir, will you tell me what old ruin that is I saw a little above here as I rode up?”
The man started from his trance of terror, and glanced, first at the fiery eyes in the corner, and then at Sir Norman, in evident trepidation of the question.
“That ruin, sir? You must be a stranger in this place, surely, or you would not need to ask that question.”
“Well, suppose I am a stranger? What then?”
“Nothing, sir; only I thought everybody knew everything about that ruin.”
“But I do not, you see? So fill your glass again, and while you are drinking it, just tell me what that everything comprises.”
Again the landlord glanced fearfully at the fiery eyes in the corner, and again hesitated.
“Well!” exclaimed Sir Norman, at once surprised and impatient at his taciturnity, “Can't you speak man? I want you to tell me all about it.”
“There is nothing to tell, sir,” replied the host, goaded to desperation. “It is an old, deserted ruin that's been here ever since I remember; and that's all I know about it.”
While, he spoke, the crouching shape in the corner reared itself upright, and keeping his fiery eyes still glaring upon Sir Norman, advanced into the light. Our young knight was in the act of raising his glass to his lips; but as the apparition approached, he laid it down again, untasted, and stared at it in the wildest surprise and intensest curiosity. Truly, it was a singular-looking creature, not to say a rather startling one. A dwarf of some four feet high, and at least five feet broad across the shoulders, with immense arms and head—a giant in everything but height. His immense skull was set on such a trifle of a neck as to be scarcely worth mentioning, and was garnished by a violent mat of coarse, black hair, which also overran the territory of his cheeks and chin, leaving no neutral ground but his two fiery eyes and a broken nose all twisted awry. On a pair of short, stout legs he wore immense jack-boots, his Herculean shoulders and chest were adorned with a leathern doublet, and in the belt round his waist were conspicuously stuck a pair of pistols and a dagger. Altogether, a more ugly or sinister gentleman of his inches it would have been hard to find in all broad England. Stopping deliberately before Sir Norman, he placed a hand on each hip, and in a deep, guttural voice, addressed him:
“So, sir knight—for such I perceive you are—you are anxious to know something of that old ruin yonder?”
“Well,” said Sir Norman, so far recovering from his surprise as to be able to speak, “suppose I am? Have you anything to say against it, my little friend?”
“Oh, not in the least!” said the dwarf, with a hoarse chuckle. “Only, instead of wasting your breath asking this good man, who professes such utter ignorance, you had better apply to me for information.”
Again Sir Norman surveyed the little Hercules from head to foot for a moment, in silence, as one, nowadays, would an intelligent gorilla.
“You think so—do you? And what may you happen to know about it, my pretty little friend?”
“O Lord!” exclaimed the landlord, to himself, with a frightened face, while the dwarf “grinned horribly a ghastly smile” from ear to ear.
“So much, my good sir, that I would strongly advise you not to go near it, unless you wish to catch something worse than the plague. There have been others—our worthy host, there, whose teeth, you may perceive, are chattering in his head, can tell you about those that have tried the trick, and—”
“Well?” said Sir Norman, curiously.
“And have never returned to tell what they found!” concluded the little monster, with a diabolical leer. And as the landlord fell, gray and gasping, back in his seat, he broke out into a loud and hyena-like laugh.
“My dear little friend,” said Sir Norman, staring at him in displeased wonder, “don't laugh, if you can help it. You are unprepossessing enough at best, but when you laugh, you look like the very (a downward gesture) himself!”
Unheeding this advice, the dwarf broke again into an unearthly cachinnation, that frightened the landlord nearly into fits, and seriously discomposed the nervous system even of Sir Norman himself. Then, grinning like a baboon, and still transfixing our puissant young knight with the same tiger-like and unpleasant glare, he nodded a farewell; and in this fashion, grinning, and nodding, and backing, he got to the door, and concluding the interesting performance with a third hoarse and hideous laugh, disappeared in the darkness.
For fully ten minutes after he was gone, the young man kept his eyes blankly fixed on the door, with a vague impression that he was suffering from an attack of nightmare; for it seemed impossible that anything so preposterously ugly as that dwarf could exist out of one. A deep groan from the landlord, however, convinced him that it was no disagreeable midnight vision, but a brawny reality; and turning to that individual, he found him gasping, in the last degree of terror, behind the counter.
“Now, who in the name of all the demons out of Hades may that ugly abortion be?” inquired Sir Norman.
“O Lord! be merciful! sir, it's Caliban; and the only wonder is, he did not leave you a bleeding corpse at his feet!”
“I should like to see him try it. Perhaps he would have found that is a game two can play at! Where does he come from and who is he!”
The landlord leaned over the counter, and placed a very pale and startled face close to Sir Norman's.
“That's just what I wanted to tell you, sir, but I was afraid to speak before him. I think he lives up in that same old ruin you were inquiring about—at least, he is often seen hanging around there; but people are too much afraid of him to ask him any questions. Ah, sir, it's a strange place, that ruin, and there be strange stories afloat about it,” said the man, with a portentious shake of the head.
“What are they?” inquired Sir Norman. “I should particularly like to know.”
“Well, sir, for one thing, some folks say it is haunted, on account of the queer lights and noises about it, sometimes; but, again, there be other folks, sir, that say the ghosts are alive, and that he”—nodding toward the door—“is a sort of ringleader among them.”
“And who are they that cut up such cantrips in the old place, pray?”
“Lord only knows, sir. I'm sure I don't. I never go near it myself; but there are others who have, and some of them tell of the most beautiful lady, all in white, with long, black hair, who walks on the battlements moonlight nights.”
“A beautiful lady, all in white, with long, black hair! Why, that description applies to Leoline exactly.”
And Sir Norman gave a violent start, and arose to proceed to the place directly.
“Don't you go near it, sir!” said the host, warningly. “Others have gone, as he told you, and never come back; for these be dreadful times, and men do as they please. Between the plague and their wickedness, the Lord only knows what will become of us!”
“If I should return here for my horse in an hour or two, I suppose I can get him?” sad Sir Norman, as he turned toward the door.
“It's likely you can, sir, if I'm not dead by that time,” said the landlord, as he sank down again, groaning dismally, with his chin between his hands.
The night was now profoundly dark; but Sir Norman knew the road and ruin well, and, drawing his sword, walked resolutely on. The distance between it and the ruin was trifling, and in less than ten minutes it loomed up before him, a mass of deeper black in the blackness. No white vision floated on the broken battlements this night, as Sir Norman looked wistfully up at them; but neither was there any ungainly dwarf, with two-edged sword, guarding the ruined entrance; and Sir Norman passed unmolested in. He sought the spiral staircase which La Masque had spoken of, and, passing carefully from one ancient chamber to another, stumbling over piles of rubbish and stones as he went, he reached it at last. Descending gingerly its tortuous steepness, he found himself in the mouldering vaults, and, as he trod them, his ear was greeted by the sound of faint and far-off music. Proceeding farther, he heard distinctly, mingled with it, a murmur of voices and laughter, and, through the chinks in the broken flags, he perceived a few faint rays of light. Remembering the directions of La Masque, and feeling intensely curious, he cautiously knelt down, and examined the loose flagstones until he found one he could raise; he pushed it partly aside, and, lying flat on the stones, with his face to the aperture, Sir Norman beheld a most wonderful sight.