If things were done right—but they are not and, never will be, while this whirligig world of mistakes spins round, and all Adam's children, to the end of the chapter, will continue sinning to-day and repenting to-morrow, falling the next and bewailing it the day after. If Leoline had gone to bed directly, like a good, dutiful little girl, as Sir Norman ordered her, she would have saved herself a good deal of trouble and tears; but Leoline and sleep were destined to shake hands and turn their backs on each other that night. It was time for all honest folks to be in bed, and the dark-eyed beauty knew it too, but she had no notion of going, nevertheless. She stood in the centre of the room, where he had left her, with a spot like a scarlet roseberry on either cheek; a soft half-smile on the perfect mouth, and a light unexpressibly tender and dreamy, in those artesian wells of beauty—her eyes. Most young girls of green and tender years, suffering from “Love's young dream,” and that sort of thing, have just that soft, shy, brooding look, whenever their thoughts happen to turn to their particular beloved; and there are few eyes so ugly that it does not beautify, even should they be as cross as two sticks. You should have seen Leoline standing in the centre of her pretty room, with her bright rose-satin glancing and glittering, and flowing over rug and mat; with her black waving hair clustering and curling like shining floss silk; with a rich white shimmer of pearls on the pale smooth forehead and large beautiful arms. She did look irresistibly bewitching beyond doubt; and it was just as well for Sir Norman's peace of mind that he did not see her, for he was bad enough without that. So she stood thinking tenderly of him for a half-hour or so, quite undisturbed by the storm; and how strange it was that she had risen up that very morning expecting to be one man's bride, and that she should rise up the next, expecting to be another's. She could not realize it at all; and with a little sigh—half pleasure, half presentiment—she walked to the window, drew the curtain, and looked out at the night. All was peaceful and serene; the moon was full to overflowing, and a great deal of extra light ran over the brim; quite a quantity of stars were out, and were winking pleasantly down at the dark little planet below, that went round, and round, with grim stoicism, and paid no attention to anybody's business but its own. She saw the heaps of black, charred ashes that the rush of rain had quenched; she saw the still and empty street; the frowning row of gloomy houses opposite, and the man on guard before one of them. She had watched that man all day, thinking, with a sick shudder, of the plague-stricken prisoners he guarded, and reading its piteous inscription, “Lord have mercy on us!” till the words seemed branded on her brain. While she looked now, an upper window was opened, a night-cap was thrust out and a voice from its cavernous depths hailed the guard.
“Robert! I say, Robert!”
“Well!” said Robert, looking up.
“Master and missus be gone at last, and the rest won't live till morning.”
“Won't they?” said Robert, phlegmatically; “what a pity! Get 'em ready, and I'll stop the dead-cart when it comes round.”
Just as he spoke, the well-known rattle of wheels, the loud ringing of the bell, and the monotonous cry of the driver, “Bring out your dead! bring out your dead!” echoed on the pale night's silence; and the pest-cart came rumbling and jolting along with its load of death. The watchman hailed the driver, according to promise, and they entered the house together, brought out one long, white figure, and then another, and threw them on top of the ghastly heap.
“We'll have three more for you in on hour of so—don't forget to come round,” suggested the watchman.
“All right!” said the driver, as he took his place, whipped his horse, rang his bell, and jogged along nonchalantly to the plague-pit.
Sick at heart, Leoline dropped the curtain, and turned round to see somebody else standing at her elbow. She had been quite alone when she looked out; she was alone no longer; there had been no noise, yet some one had entered, and was standing beside her. A tall figure, all in black, with its sweeping velvet robes spangled with stars of golden rubies, a perfect figure of incomparable grace and beauty. It had worn a cloak that had dropped lightly from its shoulders, and lay on the floor and the long hair streamed in darkness over shoulder and waist. The face was masked, the form stood erect and perfectly motionless, and the scream of surprise and consternation that arose to Leoline's lips died out in wordless terror. Her noiseless visitor perceived it, and touching her arm lightly with one little white hand, said in her sweetest and most exquisite of tones:
“My child, do not tremble so, and do not look so deathly white. You know me, do you not?”
“You are La Masque!” said Leoline trembling with nervous dread.
“I am, and no stranger to you; though perhaps you think so. Is it your habit every night to look out of your window in full dress until morning?”
“How did you enter?” asked Leoline, her curiosity overcoming for a moment even her fear.
“Through the door. Not a difficult thing, either, if you leave it wide open every night, as it is this.”
“Was it open?” said Leoline, in dismay. “I never knew it.”
“Ah! then it was not you who went out last. Who was it?”
“It was—was—” Leoline's cheeks were scarlet; “it was a friend!”
“A somewhat late hour for one's friends to visit,” said La Masque, sarcastically; “and you should learn the precaution of seeing them to the door and fastening it after them.”
“Rest assured, I shall do so for the future,” said Leoline, with a look that would have reminded Sir Norman of Miranda had he seen it. “I scarcely expected the honor of any more visits, particularly from strangers to-night.”
“Civil, that! Will you ask me to sit down, or am I to consider myself an unseasonable intruder, and depart?”
“Madame, will you do me the honor to be seated. The hour, as you say, is somewhat unseasonable, and you will oblige me by letting me know to what I am indebted for the pleasure of this visit, as quickly as possible.”
There was something quite dignified about Mistress Leoline as she swept rustling past La Masque, sank into the pillowy depths of her lounge, and motioned her visitor to a seat with a slight and graceful wave of her hand. Not but that in her secret heart she was a good deal frightened, for something under her pink satin corsage was going pit-a-pat at a wonderful rate; but she thought that betraying such a feeling would not be the thing. Perhaps the tall, dark figure saw it, and smiled behind her mask; but outwardly she only leaned lightly against the back of the chair, and glanced discreetly at the door.
“Are you sure we are quite alone?”
“Quite:”
“Because,” said La Masque, in her low, silvery tones, “what I have come to say is not for the ears of any third person living:”
“We are entirely alone, madame,” replied Leoline, opening her black eyes very wide. “Prudence is gone, and I do not know when she will be back.”
“Prudence will never come back,” said La Masque, quietly.
“Madame!”
“My dear, do not look so shocked—it is not her fault. You know she deserted you for fear of the plague.”
“Yes, yes!”
“Well, that did not save her; nay, it even brought on what she dreaded so much. Your nurse is plague-stricken, my dear, and lies ill unto death in the pest-house in Finsbury Fields.”
“Oh, dreadful!” exclaimed Leoline, while every drop of blood fled from her face. “My poor, poor old nurse!”
“Your poor, poor old nurse left you without much tenderness when she thought you dying of the same disease,” said La Masque, quietly.
“Oh, that is nothing. The suddenness, the shock drove her to it. My poor, dear Prudence.”
“Well, you can do nothing for her now,” said La Masque, in a tone of slight impatience. “Prudence is beyond all human aid, and so—let her rest in peace. You were carried to the plague-pit yourself, for dead, were you not?”
“Yes,” answered the pale lips, while she shivered all over at the recollection.
“And was saved by—by whom were you saved, my dear?”
“By two gentlemen.”
“Oh, I know that; what were their names?”
“One was Mr. Ormiston, the other was,” hesitating and blushing vividly, “Sir Norman Kingsley.”
La Masque leaned across her chair, and laid one dainty finger lightly on the girl's hot cheek.
“And for which is that blush, Leoline?”
“Madame, was it only to ask me questions you came here?” said Leoline, drawing proudly back, though the hot red spot grew hotter and redder; “if so, you will excuse my declining to answer any more.”
“Child, child!” said La Masque, in a tone so strangely sad that it touched Leoline, “do not be angry with me. It is no idle curiosity that sent me here at this hour to ask impertinent questions, but a claim that I have upon you, stronger than that of any one else in the world.”
Leoline's beautiful eyes opened wider yet.
“A claim upon me! How? Why? I do not understand.”
“All in good time. Will you tell me something of your past history, Leoline?”
“Madame Masque, I have no history to tell. All my life I have lived alone with Prudence; that in the whole of it in nine words.”
La Masque half laughed.
“Short, sharp, and decisive. Had you never father or mother?”
“There is a slight probability I may have had at some past period,” said Leoline, sighing; “but none that I ever knew.”
“Why does not Prudence tell you?”
“Prudence is only my nurse, and says she has nothing to tell. My parents died when I was an infant, and left me in her care—that is her story.”
“A likely one enough, and yet I see by your face that you doubt it.”
“I do doubt it! There are a thousand little outward things that make me fancy it is false, and an inward voice that assures me it is so.”
“Then let me tell you that inward voice tells falsehoods, for I know that your father and mother are both dead these fourteen years!”
Leoline's great black eyes were fixed on her face with a look so wild and eager, that La Masque laid her hand lightly and soothingly on her shoulder.
“Don't look at me with such a spectral face! What is there so extraordinary in all I have said?”
“You said you knew my father and mother.”
“No such thing! I said I knew they were dead, but the other fact is true also; I did know them when living!”
“Madame, who are you? Who were they?”
“I? Oh, I am La Masque, the sorceress, and they—they were Leoline's father and mother!” and again La Masque slightly laughed.
“You mock me, madame!” cried Leoline, passionately. “You are cruel—you are heartless! If you know anything, in Heaven's name tell me—if not, go and leave me in peace!”
“Thank you! I shall do that presently; and as to the other—of course I shall tell you; what else do you suppose I have come for to-night? Look here! Do you see this?”
She drew out from some hidden pocket in her dress a small and beautifully-wrought casket of ivory and silver, with straps and clasps of silver, and a tiny key of the same.
“Well!” asked Leoline, looking from it to her, with the blank air of one utterly bewildered,
“In this casket, my dear, there is a roll of papers, closely written, which you are to read as soon as I leave you. Those papers contain your whole history—do you understand?”
She was looking so white, and staring so hard and so hopelessly, that there was need of the question. She took the casket and gazed at it with a perplexed air.
“My child, have your thoughts gone wool-gathering? Do you not comprehend what I have said to you! Your whole history is hid in that box?”
“I know!” said Leoline, slowly, and with her eyes again riveted to the black mask. “But; madame, who are you?”
“Have I not told you? What a pretty inquisitor it is! I am La Masque—your friend, now; something more soon, as you will see when you read what I have spoken of. Do not ask me how I have come by it—you will read all about it there. I did not know that I would give it to you to-night, but I have a strange foreboding that it is destined to be my last on earth. And, Leoline my child, before I leave you, let me hear you say you will not hate me when you read what is there.”
“What have you done to me? Why should I hate you?”
“Ah! you will find that all out soon enough. Do content me, Leoline—let me hear you say; `La Masque, whatever you've done to me, however you have wronged me, I will forgive you!' Can you say that?”
Leoline repeated it simply, like a little child. La Masque took her hand, held it between both her own, leaned over and looked earnestly in her face.
“My little Leoline! my beautiful rosebud! May Heaven bless you and grant you a long and happy life with—shall I say it, Leoline?”
“Please—no!” whispered Leoline, shyly.
La Masque softly patted the little tremulous hand.
“We are both saying the name now in our hearts, my dear, so it is little matter whether our lips repeat it or not. He is worthy, of you, Leoline, and your life will be a happy one by his side; but there is another.” She paused and lowered her voice. “When have you seen Count L'Estrange?”
“Not since yesterday, madame.”
“Beware of him! Do you know who he is, Leoline?”
“I know nothing of him but his name.”
“Then do not seek to know,” said La Masque, emphatically. “For it is a secret you would tremble to hear. And now I must leave you. Come with me to the door, and fasten it as soon as I go out, lest you should forget it altogether.”
Leoline, with a dazed expression, thrust the precious little casket into the bosom of her dress, and taking up the lamp, preceded her visitor down stairs. At the door they paused, and La Masque, with her hand on her arm, repeated, in a low, earnest voice,
“Leoline, beware of Count L'Estrange, and become Lady Kingsley as soon as you can.”
“I will hear that name to-morrow!” thought Leoline, with a glad little thrill at her heart, as La Masque flitted out into the moonlight.
Leoline closed and locked the door, driving the bolts into their sockets, and making all secure. “I defy any one to get in again tonight!” she said, smiling at her own dexterity; and lamp in hand, she ran lightly up stairs to read the long unsolved riddle.
So eager was she, that she had crossed the room, laid the lamp on the table, and sat down before it, ere she became aware that she was not alone. Some one was leaning against the mantel, his arm on it, and his eyes do her, gazing with an air of incomparable coolness and ease. It was a man this time—something more than a man,—a count, and Count L'Estrange, at that!
Leoline sprang to her feet with a wild scream, a cry full of terror, amaze, and superstitious dread; and the count raised his band with a self-possessed smile.
“Pardon, fair Leoline, if I intrude! But have I not a right to come at all hours and visit my bride?”
“Leoline is no bride of yours!” retorted that young lady, passionately, her indignation overpowering both fear and surprise. “And, what is more, never will be! Now, sir!”
“So my little bird of paradise can fire up, I see! As to your being my bride, that remains to be seen. You promised to be tonight, you know!”
“Then I'll recall that promise. I have changed my mind.”
“Well, that's not very astonishing; it is but the privilege of your sex! Nevertheless, I'm afraid I must insist on your becoming Countess L'Estrange, and that immediately!”
“Never, sir! I will die first!”
“Oh, no! We could not spare such a bright little beauty out of this ugly world! You will live, and live for me!”
“Sir!” cried Leoline, white with passion, and her black eyes blazing with a fire that would have killed him, could fiery glances slay! “I do not know how you have entered here; but I do know, if you are a gentleman, you will leave me instantly! Go sir! I never wish to see you again!”
“But when I wish to see you so much, my darling Leoline,” said the count, with provoking indifference, “what does a little reluctance on your part signify? Get your hood and mantle, my love—my horse awaits us without—and let us fly where neither plague nor mortal man will interrupt our nuptials!”
“Will no one take this man away?” she cried, looking helplessly round, and wringing her hands.
“Certainly not, my dear—not even Sir Norman Kingsley! George, I am afraid this pretty little vixen will not go peaceably; you had better come in!”
With a smile on his face, he took a step toward her. Shrieking wildly, she darted across the room, and made for the door, just as somebody else was entering it. The next instant, a shawl was thrown over her head, her cries smothered in it, and she was lifted in a pair of strong arms, carried down stairs, and out into the night.
Presentiments are strange things. From the first moment Sir Norman entered the city, and his thoughts had been able to leave Miranda and find themselves wholly on Leoline, a heavy foreboding of evil to her had oppressed him. Some danger, he was sure, had befallen her during his absence—how could it be otherwise with the Earl of Rochester and Count L'Estrange both on her track? Perhaps, by this time, one or other had found her, and alone and unaided she had been an easy victim, and was now borne beyond his reach forever. The thought goaded him and his horse almost to distraction; for the moment it struck him, he struck spurs into his horse, making that unoffending animal jump spasmodically, like one of those prancing steeds Miss Bonheur is fond of depicting. Through the streets he flew at a frantic rate, growing more excited and full of apprehension the nearer he came to old London Bridge; and calling himself a select litany of hard names inwardly, for having left the dear little thing at all.
“If I find her safe and well,” thought Sir Norman, emphatically, “nothing short of an earthquake or dying of the plague will ever induce me to leave her again, until she is Lady Kingsley, and in the old manor of Devonshire. What a fool, idiot, and ninny I must have been, to have left her as I did, knowing those two sleuth-hounds were in full chase! What are all the Mirandas and midnight queens to me, if Leoline is lost?”
That last question was addressed to the elements in general; and as they disdained reply, he cantered on furiously, till the old house by the river was reached. It was the third time that night he had paused to contemplate it, and each time with very different feelings; first, from simple curiosity; second, in an ecstasy of delight, and third and last, in an agony of apprehension. All around was peaceful and still; moon and stars sailed serenely through a sky of silver and snow; a faint cool breeze floated up from the river and fanned his hot and fevered forehead; the whole city lay wrapped in stillness as profound and deathlike as the fabled one of the marble prince in the Eastern tale—nothing living moved abroad, but the lonely night-guard keeping their dreary vigils before the plague-stricken houses, and the ever-present, ever-busy pest-cart, with its mournful bell and dreadful cry.
As far as Sir Norman could see, no other human being but himself and the solitary watchman, so often mentioned, were visible. Even he could scarcely be said to be present; for, though leaning against the house with his halberd on his shoulder, he was sound asleep at his post, and far away in the land of dreams. It was the second night of his watch; and with a good conscience and a sound digestion, there is no earthly anguish short of the toothache, strong enough to keep a man awake two nights in succession. So sound were his balmy slumbers in his airy chamber, that not even the loud clatter of Sir Norman's horse's hoofs proved strong enough to arouse him; and that young gentleman, after glancing at him, made up his mind to try to find out for himself before arousing him to seek information.
Securing his horse, he looked up at the house with wistful eyes, and saw that the solitary light still burned in her chamber. It struck him now how very imprudent it was to keep that lamp burning; for if Count L'Estrange saw it, it was all up with Leoline—and there was even more to be dreaded from him than from the earl. How was he to find out whether that illuminated chamber had a tenant or not? Certainly, standing there staring till doomsday would not do it; and there seemed but two ways, that of entering the house at once or arousing the man. But the man was sleeping so soundly that it seemed a pity to awake him for a trifle; and, after all, there could be no great harm or indiscretion in his entering to see if his bride was safe. Probably Leoline was asleep, and would know nothing about it; or, even were she wide awake, and watchful, she was altogether too sensible a girl to be displeased at his anxiety about her. If she were still awake, and waiting for day-dawn, he resolved to remain with her and keep her from feeling lonesome until that time came—if she were asleep, he would steal out softly again, and keep guard at her door until morning.
Full of these praiseworthy resolutions, he tried the handle of the door, half expecting to find it locked, and himself obliged to effect an entrance through the window; but no, it yielded to his touch, and he went in. Hall and staircase were intensely dark, but he knew his way without a pilot this time, and steered clear of all shoals and quicksands, through the hall and up the stairs.
The door of the lighted room—Leoline's room—lay wide open, and he paused on the threshold to reconnoitre. He had gone softly for fear of startling her, and now, with the same tender caution, he glanced round the room. The lamp burned on the dainty dressing table, where undisturbed lay jewels, perfume bottles and other knickknacks. The cithern lay unmolested on the couch, the rich curtains were drawn; everything was as he had left it last—everything, but the pretty pink figure, with drooping eyes, and pearls in the waves of her rich, black hair. He looked round for the things she had worn, hoping she had taken them off and retired to rest, but they were not to be seen; and with a cold sinking of the heart, he went noiselessly across the room, and to the bed. It was empty, and showed no trace of having been otherwise since he and the pest-cart driver had borne from it the apparently lifeless form of Leoline.
Yes, she was gone; and Sir Norman turned for a moment so sick with utter dread, that he leaned against one of the tall carved posts, and hated himself for having left her with a heartlessness that his worst enemy could not have surpassed. Then aroused into new and spasmodic energy by the exigency of the case, he seized the lamp, and going out to the hall, made the house ring from basement to attic with her name. No reply, but that hollow, melancholy echo that sounds so lugubriously through empty houses, was returned; and he jumped down stairs with an impetuous rush, flinging back every door in the hall below with a crash, and flying wildly from room to room. In solemn grim repose they lay; but none of them held the bright figure in rose-satin he sought. And he left them in despair, and went back to her chamber again.
“Leoline! Leoline! Leoline!” he called, while he rushed impetuously up stairs, and down stairs, and in my lady's chamber; but Leoline answered not—perhaps never would answer more! Even “hoping against hope,” he had to give up the chase at last—no Leoline did that house hold; and with this conviction despairingly impressed on his mind, Sir Norman Kingsley covered his face with his hands, and uttered a dismal groan.
Yet, forlorn as was the case, he groaned but once, “only that and nothing more;” there was no time for such small luxuries as groaning and tearing his hair, and boiling over with wrath and vengeance against the human race generally, and those two diabolical specimens of it, the Earl of Rochester and Count L'Estrange, particularly. He plunged head foremost down stairs, and out of the door. There he was impetuously brought up all standing; for somebody stood before it, gazing up at the gloomy front with as much earnestness as he had done himself, and against this individual he rushed recklessly with a shock that nearly sent the pair of them over into the street.
“Sacr-r-re!” cried a shrill voice, in tones of indignant remonstrance. “What do you mean, monsieur? Are you drunk, or crazy, that you come running head foremost into peaceable citizens, and throwing them heels uppermost on the king's highway! Stand off, sir! And think yourself lucky that I don't run you through with my dirk for such an insult!”
At the first sound of the outraged treble tones, Sir Norman had started back and glared upon the speaker with much the same expression of countenance as an incensed tiger. The orator of the spirited address had stooped to pick up his plumed cap, and recover his centre of gravity, which was considerably knocked out of place by the unexpected collision, and held forth with very flashing eyes, and altogether too angry to recognize his auditor. Sir Norman waited until he had done, and then springing at him, grabbed him by the collar.
“You young hound!” he exclaimed, fairly lifting him off his feet with one hand, and shaking him as if he would have wriggled him out of hose and doublet. “You infernal young jackanapes! I'll run you through in less than two minutes, if you don't tell me where you have taken her.”
The astonishment, not to say consternation, of Master Hubert for that small young gentleman and no other it was—on thus having his ideas thus shaken out of him, was unbounded, and held him perfectly speechless, while Sir Norman glared at him and shook him in a way that would have instantaneously killed him if his looks were lightning. The boy had recognized his aggressor, and after his first galvanic shock, struggled like a little hero to free himself, and at last succeeded by an artful spring.
“Sir Norman Kingsley,” he cried, keeping a safe yard or two of pavement between him and that infuriated young knight, “have you gone mad, or what, is Heaven's name, is the meaning of all this?”
“It means,” exclaimed Sir Norman, drawing his sword, and flourishing it within an inch of the boy's curly head,—“that you'll be a dead page in less than half a minute, unless you tell me immediately where she has been taken to.”
“Where who has been taken to?” inquired Hubert, opening his bright and indignant black eyes in a way that reminded Sir Norman forcibly of Leoline. “Pardon, monsieur, I don't understand at all.”
“You young villain! Do you mean to stand up there and tell me to my face that you have not searched for her, and found her, and have carried her off?”
“Why, do you mean the lady we were talking of, that was saved from the river?” asked Hubert, a new light dawning upon him.
“Do I mean the lady we were talking of?” repeated Sir Norman, with another furious flourish of his sword. “Yes, I do mean the lady we were talking of; and what's more—I mean to pin you where you stand, against that wall, unless you tell me, instantly, where she has been taken.”
“Monsieur!” exclaimed the boy, raising his hands with an earnestness there was no mistaking, “I do assure you, upon my honor, that I know nothing of the lady whatever; that I have not found her; that I have never set eyes on her since the earl saved her from the river.”
The earnest tone of truth would, in itself, almost have convinced Sir Norman, but it was not that, that made him drop his sword so suddenly. The pale, startled face; the dark, solemn eyes, were so exactly like Leoline's, that they thrilled him through and through, and almost made him believe, for a moment, he was talking to Leoline herself.
“Are you—are you sure you are not Leoline?” he inquired, almost convinced, for an instant, by the marvelous resemblance, that it was really so.
“I? Positively, Sir Norman, I cannot understand this at all, unless you wish to enjoy yourself at my expense.”
“Look here, Master Hubert!” said Sir Norman with a sudden change of look and tone. “If you do not understand, I shall just tell you in a word or two how matters are, and then let me hear you clear yourself. You know the lady we were talking about, that Lord Rochester picked up afloat, and sent you in search of?”
“Yes—yes.”
“Well,” went on Sir Norman, with a sort of grim stoicism. “After leaving you, I started on a little expedition of my own, two miles from the city, from which expedition I returned ten minutes ago. When I left, the lady was secure and safe in this house; when I came back, she was gone. You were in search of her—had told me yourself you were determined on finding her, and having her carried off; and now, my youthful friend, put this and that together,” with a momentary returning glare, “and see what it amounts to!”
“It amounts to this:” retorted his youthful friend, stoutly, “that I know nothing whatever about it. You may make out a case of strong circumstantial evidence against me; but if the lady has been carried off, I have had no hand in it.”
Again Sir Norman was staggered by the frank, bold gaze and truthful voice, but still the string was in a tangle somewhere.
“And where have you been ever since?” he began severely, and with the air of a lawyer about to go into a rigid cross-examination.
“Searching for her,” was the prompt reply.
“Where?”
“Through the streets; in the pest-houses, and at the plague-pit.”
“How did you find out she lived here?”
“I did not find it out. When I became convinced she was in none of the places I have mentioned, I gave up the search in despair, for to-night, and was returning to his lordship to report my ill success.”
“Why, then, were you standing in front of her house, gaping at it with all the eyes in your head, as if it were the eighth wonder of the world?”
“Monsieur has not the most courteous way of asking questions, that I ever heard of; but I have no particular objection to answer him. It struck me that, as Mr. Ormiston brought the lady up this way, and as I saw you and he haunting this place so much to-night, I thought her residence was somewhere here, and I paused to look at the house as I went along. In fact, I intended to ask old sleepy-head, over there, for further particulars, before I left the neighborhood, had not you, Sir Norman, run bolt into me, and knocked every idea clean out of my head.”
“And you are sure you are not Leoline?” said Sir Norman, suspiciously.
“To the best of my belief, Sir Norman, I am not,” replied Hubert, reflectively.
“Well, it is all very strange, and very aggravating,” said Sir Norman, sighing, and sheathing his sword. “She is gone, at all events; no doubt about that—and if you have not carried her off, somebody else has.”
“Perhaps she has gone herself,” insinuated Hubert.
“Bah! Gone herself!” said Sir Norman, scornfully. “The idea is beneath contempt: I tell you, Master Fine-feathers, the lady and I were to be married bright and early to-morrow morning, and leave this disgusting city for Devonshire. Do you suppose, then, she would run out in the small hours of the morning, and go prancing about the streets, or eloping with herself?”
“Why, of course, Sir Norman, I can't take it upon myself to answer positively; but, to use the mildest phrase, I must say the lady seems decidedly eccentric, and capable of doing very queer things. I hope, however, you believe me; for I earnestly assure you, I never laid eyes on her but that once.”
“I believe you,” said Sir Norman, with another profound and broken-hearted sigh, “and I'm only too sure she has been abducted by that consummate scoundrel and treacherous villain, Count L'Estrange.”
“Count who?” said Hubert, with a quick start, and a look of intense curiosity. “What was the name?”
“L'Estrange—a scoundrel of the deepest dye! Perhaps you know him?”
“No,” replied Hubert, with a queer, half musing smile, “no; but I have a notion I have heard the name. Was he a rival of yours?”
“I should think so! He was to have been married to the lady this very night!”
“He was, eh! And what prevented the ceremony?”
“She took the plague!” said Sir Norman, strange to say, not at all offended at the boy's familiarity. “And would have been thrown into the plague-pit but for me. And when she recovered she accepted me and cast him off!”
“A quick exchange! The lady's heart must be most flexible, or unusually large, to be able to hold so many at once.”
“It never held him!” said Sir Norman, frowning; “she was forced into the marriage by her mercenary friends. Oh! if I had him here, wouldn't I make him wish the highwaymen had shot him through the head, and done for him, before I would let him go!”
“What is he like—this Count L'Estrange?” said Hubert, carelessly.
“Like the black-hearted traitor and villain he is!” replied Sir Norman, with more energy than truth; for he had caught but passing glimpses of the count's features, and those showed him they were decidedly prepossessing; “and he slinks along like a coward and an abductor as he is, in a slouched hat and shadowy cloak. Oh! if I had him here!” repeated Sir Norman, with vivacity; “wouldn't I—”
“Yes, of course you would,” interposed Hubert, “and serve him right, too! Have you made any inquiries about the matter—for instance, of our friend sleeping the sleep of the just, across there?”
“No—why?”
“Why, it seems to me, if she's been carried off before he fell asleep, he has probably heard or seen something of it; and I think it would not be a bad plan to step over and inquire.”
“Well, we can try,” said Sir Norman, with a despairing face; “but I know it will end in disappointment and vexation of spirit, like all the rest!”
With which dismal view of things, he crossed the street side by side with his jaunty young friend. The watchman was still enjoying the balmy, and snoring in short, sharp snorts, when Master Hubert remorselessly caught him by the shoulder, and began a series of shakes and pokes, and digs, and “hallos!” while Sir Norman stood near and contemplated the scene with a pensive eye. At last while undergoing a severe course of this treatment the watchman was induced to open his eyes on this mortal life, and transfix the two beholders with, an intensely vacant and blank share.
“Hey?” he inquired, helplessly. “What was you a saying of, gentlemen? What is it?”
“We weren't a saying of anything as yet,” returned Hubert; “but we mean to, shortly. Are you quite sure you are wide awake?”
“What do you want?” was the cross question, given by way of answer. “What do you come bothering me for at such a rate, all night, I want to know?”
“Keep civil, friend, we wear swords,” said Hubert, touching, with dignity, the hilt of the little dagger he carried; “we only want to ask you a few questions. First, do you see that house over yonder?”
“Oh! I see it!” said the man gruffly; “I am not blind!”
“Well who was the last person you saw come out of that house?”
“I don't know who they was!” still more gruffly. “I ain't got the pleasure of their acquaintance!”
“Did you see a young lady come out of it lately?”
“Did I see a young lady?” burst out the watchman, in a high key of aggrieved expostulation. “How many more times this blessed night am I to be asked about that young lady. First and foremost, there comes two young men, which this here is one of them, and they bring out the young lady and have her hauled away in the dead-cart; then comes along another and wants to know all the particulars, and by the time he gets properly away, somebody else comes and brings her back like a drowned rat. Then all sorts of people goes in and out, and I get tired looking at them, and then fall asleep, and before I've been in that condition about a minute, you two come punching me and waken me up to ask questions about her! I wish that young lady was in Jerico—I do!” said the watchman, with a smothered growl.
“Come, come, my man!” said Hubert, slapping him soothingly on the shoulder. “Don't be savage, if you can help it! This gentleman has a gold coin in some of his pockets, I believe, and it will fall to you if you keep quiet and answer decently. Tell me how many have been in that house since the young lady was brought back like a drowned rat?”
“How many?” said the man, meditating, with his eyes fixed on Sir Norman's garments, and he, perceiving that, immediately gave him the promised coin to refresh his memory, which it did with amazing quickness. “How many—oh—let me see; there was the young man that brought her in, and left her there, and came out again, and went away. By-and-by, he came back with another, which I think this as gave me the money is him. After a little, they came out, first the other one, then this one, and went off; and the next that went in was a tall woman in black, with a mask on, and right behind her there came two men; the woman in the mask came out after a while; and about ten minutes after, the two men followed, and one of them carried something in his arms, that didn't look unlike a lady with her head in a shawl. Anything wrong, sir?” as Sir Norman gave a violent start and caught Hubert by the arm.
“Nothing! Where did they carry her to? What did they do with her? Go on! go on!”
“Well,” said the watchman, eyeing the speaker curiously, “I'm going to. They went along, down to the river, both of them, and I saw a boat shove off, shortly after, and that something, with its head in a shawl, lying as peaceable as a lamb, with one of the two beside it. That's all—I went asleep about then, till you two were shaking me and waking me up.”
Sir Norman and Hubert looked at each other, one between despair and rage, the other with a thoughtful, half-inquiring air, as if he had some secret to tell, and was mentally questioning whether it was safe to do so. On the whole, he seemed to come to the conclusion, that a silent tongue maketh a wise head, and nodding and saying “Thank you!” to the watchman, he passed his arm through Sir Norman's, and drew him back to the door of Leoline's house.
“There is a light within,” he said, looking up at it; “how comes that?”
“I found the lamp burning, when I returned, and everything undisturbed. They must have entered noiselessly, and carried her off without a struggle,” replied Sir Norman, with a sort of groan.
“Have you searched the house—searched it well?”
“Thoroughly—from top to bottom!”
“It seems to me there ought to be some trace. Will you come back with me and look again?”
“It is no use; but there is nothing else I can do; so come along!”
They entered the house, and Sir Norman led the page direct to Leoline's room, where the light was.
“I left her here when I went away, and here the lamp was burning when I came back: so it must have been from this room she was taken.”
Hubert was gazing slowly and critically round, taking note of everything. Something glistened and flashed on the floor, under the mantel, and he went over and picked it up.
“What have you there?” asked Sir Norman in surprise; for the boy had started so suddenly, and flushed so violently, that it might have astonished any one.
“Only a shoe-buckle—a gentleman's—do you recognize it?”
Though he spoke in his usual careless way, and half-hummed the air of one of Lord Rochester's love songs, he watched him keenly as he examined it. It was a diamond buckle, exquisitely set, and of great beauty and value; but Sir Norman knew nothing of it.
“There are initials upon it—see there!” said Hubert, pointing, and still watching him with the same powerful glance. “The letters C. S. That can't stand for Count L'Estrange.”
“Who then can it stand for?” inquired Sir Norman, looking at him fixedly, and with far more penetration than the court page had given him credit for. “I am certain you know.”
“I suspect!” said the boy, emphatically, “nothing more; and if it is as I believe, I will bring you news of Leoline before you are two hours older.”
“How am I to know you are not deceiving me, and will not betray her into the power of the Earl of Rochester—if, indeed, she be not in his power already.”
“She is not in it, and never will be through me! I feel an odd interest in this matter, and I will be true to you, Sir Norman—though why I should be, I really don't know. I give you my word of honor that I will do what I can to find Leoline and restore her to you; and I have never yet broken my word of honor to any man,” said Hubert, drawing himself up.
“Well, I will trust you, because I cannot do anything better,” said Sir Norman, rather dolefully; “but why not let me go with you?”
“No, no! that would never do! I must go alone, and you must trust me implicitly. Give me your hand upon it.”
They shook hands silently, went down stairs, and stood for a moment at the door.
“You'll find me here at any hour between this and morning,” said Sir Norman. “Farewell now, and Heaven speed you!”
The boy waved his hand in adieu, and started off at a sharp pace. Sir Norman turned in the opposite direction for a short walk, to cool the fever in his blood, and think over all that had happened. As he went slowly along, in the shadow of the houses, he suddenly tripped up over something lying in his path, and was nearly precipitated over it.
Stooping down to examine the stumbling-block, it proved to be the rigid body of a man, and that man was Ormiston, stark and dead, with his face upturned to the calm night-sky.