When Mr. Malcolm Ormiston, with his usual good sense and penetration, took himself off, and left Leoline and Sir Norman tete-a-tete, his steps turned as mechanically as the needle to the North Pole toward La Masque's house. Before it he wandered, around it he wandered, like an uneasy ghost, lost in speculation about the hidden face, and fearfully impatient about the flight of time. If La Masque saw him hovering aloof and unable to tear himself away, perhaps it might touch her obdurate heart, and cause her to shorten the dreary interval, and summon him to her presence at once. Just then some one opened the door, and his heart began to beat with anticipation; some one pronounced his name, and, going over, he saw the animated bag of bones—otherwise his lady-love's vassal and porter.
“La Masque says,” began the attenuated lackey, and Ormiston's heart nearly jumped out of his mouth, “that she can't have anybody hanging about her house like its shadow; and she wants you to go away, and keep away, till the time comes she has mentioned.”
So saying the skeleton shut the door, and Ormiston's heart went down to zero. There being nothing for it but obedience, however, he slowly and reluctantly turned away, feeling in his bones, that if ever he came to the bliss and ecstasy of calling La Masque Mrs. Ormiston, the gray mare in his stable would be by long odds the better horse. Unintentionally his steps turned to the water-side, and he descended the flight of stairs, determined to get into a boat and watch the illumination from the river.
Late as was the hour, the Thames seemed alive with ferries and barges, and their numerous lights danced along the surface like fire-flies over a marsh. A gay barge, gilded and cushioned, was going slowly past; and as he stood directly under the lamp, he was recognized by a gentleman within it, who leaned over and hailed him,
“Ormiston! I say, Ormiston!”
“Well, my lord,” said Ormiston, recognizing the handsome face and animated voice of the Earl of Rochester.
“Have you any engagement for the next half-hour? If not, do me the favor to take a seat here, and watch London in flames from the river.”
“With all my heart,” said Ormiston, running down to the water's edge, and leaping into the boat. “With all this bustle of life around here, one would think it were noonday instead of midnight.”
“The whole city is astir about these fires. Have you any idea they will be successful?”
“Not the least. You know, my lord, the prediction runs, that the plague will rage till the living are no longer able to bury the dead.”
“It will soon come to that,” said the earl shuddering slightly, “if it continues increasing much longer as it does now daily. How do the bills of mortality run to-day?”
“I have not heard. Hark! There goes St. Paul's tolling twelve.”
“And there goes a flash of fire—the first among many. Look, look! How they spring up into the black darkness.”
“They will not do it long. Look at the sky, my lord.”
The earl glanced up at the midnight sky, of a dull and dingy red color, except where black and heavy clouds were heaving like angry billows, all dingy with smoke and streaked with bars of fiery red.
“I see! There is a storm coming, and a heavy one! Our worthy burghers and most worshipful Lord Mayor will see their fires extinguished shortly, and themselves sent home with wet jackets.”
“And for weeks, almost month, there has not fallen a drop of rain,” remarked Ormiston, gravely.
“A remarkable coincidence, truly. There seems to be a fatality hanging over this devoted city.”
“I wonder your lordship remains?”
The earl shrugged his shoulders significantly.
“It is not so easy leaving it as you think, Mr. Ormiston; but I am to turn my back to it to-morrow for a brief period. You are aware, I suppose, that the court leaves before daybreak for Oxford.”
“I believe I have heard something of it—how long to remain?”
“Till Charles takes it into his head to come back again,” said the earl, familiarly, “which will probably be in a week or two. Look at that sky, all black and scarlet; and look at those people—I scarcely thought there were half the number left alive in London.”
“Even the sick have come out to-night,” said Ormiston. “Half the pest-stricken in the city have left their beds, full of newborn hope. One would think it were a carnival.”
“So it is—a carnival of death! I hope, Ormiston,” said the earl, looking at him with a light laugh, “the pretty little white fairy we rescued from the river is not one of the sick parading the streets.”
Ormiston looked grave.
“No, my lord, I think she is not. I left her safe and secure.”
“Who is she, Ormiston?” coaxed the earl, laughingly. “Pshaw, man! don't make a mountain out of a mole-hill! Tell me her name!”
“Her name is Leoline.”
“What else?”
“That is just what I would like to have some one tell me. I give you my honor, my lord, I do not know.”
The earl's face, half indignant, half incredulous, wholly curious, made Ormiston smile.
“It is a fact, my lord. I asked her her name, and she told me Leoline—a pretty title enough, but rather unsatisfactory.”
“How long have you known her?”
“To the best of my belief,” said Ormiston, musingly, “about four hours.”
“Nonsense!” cried the earl, energetically. “What are you telling me, Ormiston? You said she was an old friend.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord, I said no such thing. I told you she had escaped from her friends, which was strictly true.”
“Then how the demon had you the impudence to come up and carry her off in that style? I certainly had a better right to her than you—the right of discovery; and I shall call upon you to deliver her up!”
“If she belonged to me I should only be too happy to oblige your lordship,” laughed Ormiston; “but she is at present the property of Sir Norman Kingsley, and to him you must apply.”
“Ah! His inamorata, is she? Well, I must say his taste is excellent; but I should think you ought to know her name, since you and he are noted for being a modern Damon and Pythias.”
“Probably I should, my lord, only Sir Norman, unfortunately, does not know himself.”
The earl's countenance looked so utterly blank at this announcement, that Ormiston was forced to throw in a word of explanation.
“I mean to say, my lord, that he has fallen in love with her; and, judging from appearances, I should say his flame is not altogether hopeless, although they have met to-night for the first time.”
“A rapid passion. Where have you left her, Ormiston?”
“In her own house, my lord,” Ormiston replied, smiling quietly to himself.
“Where is that?”
“About a dozen yards from where I stood when you called me.”
“Who are her family?” continued the earl, who seemed possessed of a devouring curiosity.
“She has none that I know of. I imagine Mistress Leoline is an orphan. I know there was not a living soul but ourselves in the house I brought her to.”
“And you left her there alone?” exclaimed the earl, half starting up, as if about to order the boatman to row back to the landing.
Ormiston looked at his excited face with a glance full of quiet malice.
“No, my lord, not quits; Sir Norman Kingsley was with her!”
“Oh!” said the earl, smiling back with a look of chagrin. “Then he will probably find out her name before he comes away. I wonder you could give her up so easily to him, after all your trouble!”
“Smitten, my lord?” inquired Ormiston, maliciously.
“Hopelessly!” replied the earl, with a deep sigh. “She was a perfect little beauty; and if I can find her, I warn Sir Norman Kingsley to take care! I have already sent Hubert out in search of her; and, by the way,” said the earl, with a sudden increase of animation, “what a wonderful resemblance she bears to Hubert—I could almost swear they were one and the same!”
“The likeness is marvelous; but I should hate to take such an oath. I confess I am somewhat curious myself; but I stand no chance of having it gratified before to-morrow, I suppose.”
“How those fires blaze! It is much brighter than at noon-day. Show me the house in which Leoline lies?”.
Ormiston easily pointed it out, and showed the earl the light still burning in her window.
“It was in that room we found her first, dead of the plague!”
“Dead of the what?” cried the earl, aghast.
“Dead of the plague! I'll tell your lordship how it was,” said Ormiston, who forthwith commend and related the story of their finding Leoline; of the resuscitation at the plague-pit; of the flight from Sir Norman's house, and of the delirious plunge into the river, and miraculous cure.
“A marvelous story,” commented the earl, much interested. “And Leoline seems to have as many lives as a cat! Who can she be—a princess in disguise—eh, Ormiston?”
“She looks fit to be a princess, or anything else; but your lordship knows as much about her, now, as I do.”
“You say she was dressed as a bride—how came that?”
“Simply enough. She was to be married to-night, had she not taken the plague instead.”
“Married? Why, I thought you told me a few minutes ago she was in love with Kingsley. It seems to me, Mr. Ormiston, your remarks are a trifle inconsistent,” said the earl, in a tone of astonished displeasure.
“Nevertheless, they are all perfectly true. Mistress Leoline was to be married, as I told you; but she was to marry to please her friends, and not herself. She had been in the habit of watching Kingsley go past her window; and the way she blushed, and went through the other little motions, convinces me that his course of true love will ran as smooth as this glassy river runs at present.”
“Kingsley is a lucky fellow. Will the discarded suitor have no voice in the matter; or is he such a simpleton as to give her up at a word?”
Ormiston laughed.
“Ah! to be sure; what will the count say? And, judging from some things I've heard, I should say he is violently in love with her.”
“Count who?” asked Rochester. “Or has he, like his ladylove, no other name?”
“Oh, no! The name of the gentleman who was so nearly blessed for life, and missed it, is Count L'Estrange!”
The earl had been lying listlessly back, only half intent upon his answer, as he watched the fire; but now he sprang sharply up, and stared Ormiston full in the face.
“Count what did you say?” was his eager question, while his eyes, more eager than his voice, strove to read the reply before it was repeated.
“Count L'Estrange. You know him, my lord?” said Ormiston, quietly.
“Ah!” said the earl. And then such a strange meaning smile went wandering about his face. “I have not said that! So his name is Count L'Estrange? Well, I don't wonder now at the girl's beauty.”
The earl sank back to his former nonchalant position and fell for a moment or two into deep musing; and then, as if the whole thing struck him in a new and ludicrous light, he broke out into an immoderate fit of laughter. Ormiston looked at him curiously.
“It is my turn to ask questions, now, my lord. Who is Count L'Estrange?”
“I know of no such person, Ormiston. I was thinking of something else! Was it Leoline who told you that was her lover's name?”
“No; I heard it by mere accident from another person. I am sure, if Leoline is not a personage in disguise, he is.”
“And why do you think so?”
“An inward conviction, my lord. So you will not tell me who he is?”
“Have I not told you I know of no such person as Count L'Estrange? You ought to believe me. Oh, here it comes.”
This last was addressed to a great drop of rain, which splashed heavily on his upturned face, followed by another and another in quick succession.
“The storm is upon us,” said the earl, sitting up and wrapping his cloak closer around him, “and I am for Whitehall. Shall we land you, Ormiston, or take you there, too?”
“I must land,” said Ormiston. “I have a pressing engagement for the next half-hour. Here it is, in a perfect deluge; the fires will be out in five minutes.”
The barge touched the stairs, and Ormiston sprang out, with “Good-night” to the earl. The rain was rushing along, now, in torrents, and he ran upstairs and darted into an archway of the bridge, to seek the shelter. Some one else had come there before him, in search of the same thing; for he saw two dark figures standing within it as he entered.
“A sudden storm,” was Ormiston's salutation, “and a furious one. There go the fires—hiss and splutter. I knew how it would be.”
“Then Saul and Mr. Ormiston are among the prophets?”
Ormiston had heard that voice before; it was associated in his mind with a slouched hat and shadowy cloak; and by the fast-fading flicker of the firelight, he saw that both were here. The speaker was Count L'Estrange; the figure beside him, slender and boyish, was unknown.
“You have the advantage of me, sir,” he said affecting ignorance. “May I ask who you are?”
“Certainly. A gentlemen, by courtesy and the grace of God.”
“And your name?”
“Count L'Estrange, at your service.”
Ormiston lifted his cap and bowed, with a feeling somehow, that the count was a man in authority.
“Mr. Ormiston assisted in doing a good deed, tonight, for a friend of mine,” said the count.
“Will he add to that obligation by telling me if he has not discovered her again, and brought her back?”
“Do you refer to the fair lady in yonder house?”
“So she is there? I thought so, George,” said the count, addressing himself to his companion. “Yes, I refer to her, the lady you saved from the river. You brought her there?”
“I brought her there,” replied Ormiston.
“She is there still?”
“I presume so. I have heard nothing to the contrary.”
“And alone?”
“She may be, now. Sir Norman Kingsley was with her when I left her,” said Ormiston, administering the fact with infinite relish.
There was a moment's silence. Ormiston could not see the count's face; but, judging from his own feelings, he fancied its expression must be sweet. The wild rush of the storm alone broke the silence, until the spirit again moved the count to speak.
“By what right does Sir Norman Kingsley visit her?” he inquired, in a voice betokening not the least particle of emotion.
“By the best of rights—that of her preserver, hoping soon to be her lover.”
There was an other brief silence, broken again by the count, in the same composed tone:
“Since the lady holds her levee so late, I, too, must have a word with her, when this deluge permits one to go abroad without danger of drowning.”
“It shown symptoms of clearing off, already,” said Ormiston, who, in his secret heart, thought it would be an excellent joke to bring the rivals face to face in the lady's presence; “so you will not have long to wait.”
To which observation the count replied not; and the three stood in silence, watching the fury of the storm.
Gradually it cleared away; and as the moon began to straggle out between the rifts in the clouds, the count saw something by her pale light that Ormiston saw not. That latter gentleman, standing with his back to the house of Leoline, and his face toward that of La Masque, did not observe the return of Sir Norman from St. Paul's, nor look after him as he rode away. But the count did both; and ten minutes after, when the rain had entirely ceased, and the moon and stars got the better of the clouds in their struggle for supremacy, he beheld La Masque flitting like a dark shadow in the same direction, and vanishing in at Leoline's door. The same instant, Ormiston started to go.
“The storm has entirely ceased,” he said, stepping out, and with the profound air of one making a new discovery, “and we are likely to have fine weather for the remainder of the night—or rather, morning. Good night, count.”
“Farewell,” said the count, as he and, his companion came out from the shadow of the archway, and turned to follow La Masque.
Ormiston, thinking the hour of waiting had elapsed, and feeling much more interested in the coming meeting than in Leoline or her visitors, paid very little attention to his two acquaintances. He saw them, it is true, enter Leoline's house, but at the same instant, he took up his post at La Masque's doorway, and concentrated his whole attention on that piece of architecture. Every moment seemed like a week now; and before he had stood at his post five minutes, he had worked himself up into a perfect fever of impatience. Sometimes he was inclined to knock and seek La Masque in her own home; but as often the fear of a chilling rebuke paralyzed his hand when he raised it. He was so sure she was within the house, that he never thought of looking for her elsewhere; and when, at the expiration of what seemed to him a century or two, but which in reality was about a quarter of an hour, there was a soft rustling of drapery behind him, and the sweetest of voices sounded in his ear, it fairly made him bound.
“Here again, Mr. Ormiston? Is this the fifth or sixth time I've found you in this place to-night?”
“La Masque!” he cried, between joy and surprise. “But surely, I was not totally unexpected this time?”
“Perhaps not. You are waiting here for me to redeem my promise, I suppose?”
“Can you doubt it? Since I knew you first, I have desired this hour as the blind desire sight.”
“Ah! And you will find it as sweet to look back upon as you have to look forward to,” said La Masque, derisively. “If you are wise for yourself, Mr. Ormiston, you will pause here, and give me back that fatal word.”
“Never, madame! And surely you will not be so pitilessly cruel as to draw back, now?”
“No, I have promised, and I shall perform; and let the consequences be what they may, they will rest upon your own head. You have been warned, and you still insist.”
“I still insist!”
“Then let us move farther over here into the shadow of the houses; this moonlight is so dreadfully bright!”
They moved on into the deep shadow, and there was a pulse throbbing in Ormiston's head and heart like the beating of a muffed drum. They paused and faced each other silently.
“Quick, madame!” cried Ormiston, hoarsely, his whole face flushed wildly.
His strange companion lifted her hand as if to remove the mask, and he saw that it shook like an aspen. She made one motion as though about to lift it, and then recoiled, as if from herself, in a sort of horror.
“My God! What is this man urging me to do? How can I ever fulfill that fatal promise?”
“Madame, you torture me!” said Ormiston, whose face showed what he felt. “You must keep your promise; so do not drive me wild waiting. Let me—”
He took a step toward her, as if to lift the mask himself, but she held out both arms to keep him off.
“No, no, no! Come not near me, Malcolm Ormiston! Fated man, since you will rush on your doom, Look! and let the sight blast you, if it will!”
She unfastened her mask, raised it, and with it the profusion of long, sweeping black hair.
Ormiston did look—in much the same way, perhaps, that Zulinka looked at the Veiled Prophet. The next moment there was a terrible cry, and he fell headlong with a crash, as if a bullet had whined through his heart.
I am not aware whether fainting was as much the fashion among the fair sex, in the days (or rather the nights) of which I have the honor to hold forth, as at the present time; but I am inclined to think not, from the simple fact that Leoline, though like John Bunyan, “grievously troubled and tossed about in her mind,” did nothing of the kind. For the first few moments, she was altogether too stunned by the suddenness of the shock to cry out or make the least resistance, and was conscious of nothing but of being rapidly borne along in somebody's arms. When this hazy view of things passed away, her new sensation was, the intensely uncomfortable one of being on the verge of suffocation. She made one frantic but futile effort to free herself and scream for help, but the strong arms held her with most loving tightness, and her cry was drowned in the hot atmosphere within the shawl, and never passed beyond it. Most assuredly Leoline would have been smothered then and there, had their journey been much longer; but, fortunately for her, it was only the few yards between her house and the river. She knew she was then carried down some steps, and she heard the dip of the oars in the water, and then her bearer paused, and went through a short dialogue with somebody else—with Count L'Estrange, she rather felt than knew, for nothing was audible but a low murmur. The only word she could make out was a low, emphatic “Remember!” in the count's voice, and then she knew she was in a boat, and that it was shoved off, and moving down the rapid river. The feeling of heat and suffocation was dreadful and as her abductor placed her on some cushions, she made another desperate but feeble effort to free herself from the smothering shawl, but a hand was laid lightly on hers, and a voice interposed.
“Lady, it is quite useless for you to struggle, as you are irrevocably in my power, but if you will promise faithfully not to make any outcry, and will submit to be blindfolded, I shall remove this oppressive muffling from your head. Tell me if you will promise.”
He had partly raised the shawl, and a gush of free air came revivingly in, and enabled Leoline to gasp out a faint “I promise!” As she spoke, it was lifted off altogether, and she caught one bright fleeting glimpse of the river, sparkling and silvery in the moonlight; of the bright blue sky, gemmed with countless stars, and of some one by her side in the dress of a court-page, whose face was perfectly unknown to her. The next instant, a bandage was bound tightly over her eyes, excluding every ray of light, while the strange voice again spoke apologetically,
“Pardon, lady, but it is my orders! I am commanded to treat you with every respect, but not to let you see where you are borne to.”
“By what right does Count L'Estrange commit this outrage!” began Leoline, almost as imperiously as Miranda herself, and making use of her tongue, like a true woman, the very first moment it was at her disposal. “How dare he carry me off in this atrocious way? Whoever you are, sir, if you have the spirit of a man, you will bring me directly back to my own house.”
“I am very sorry, lady, but I have received orders that must be obeyed! You must come with me, but you need fear nothing; you will be as safe and secure as in your own home.”
“Secure enough, no doubt!” said Leoline, bitterly. “I never did like Count L'Estrange, but I never knew he was a coward and a villain till now!”
Her companion made no reply to this forcible address, and there was a moment's indignant silence on Leoline's part, broken only by the dip of the oars, and the rippling of the water. Then,
“Will you not tell me, at least, where you are taking me to?” haughtily demanded Leoline.
“Lady, I cannot! It was to prevent you knowing, that you have been blindfolded.”
“Oh! your master has a faithful servant, I see! How long am I to be kept a prisoner?”
“I do not know.”
“Where is Count L'Estrange?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Where am I to see him?”
“I cannot say.”
“Ha!” said Leoline, with infinite contempt, and turning her back upon him she relapsed into gloomy silence. It had all been so sudden, and had taken her so much by surprise, that she had not had time to think of the consequences until now. But now they came upon her with a rush, and with dismal distinctness; and most distinct among all was, what would Sir Norman say! Of course, with all a lover's impatience, he would be at his post by sunrise, would come to look for his bride, and find himself sold! By that time she would be far enough away, perhaps a melancholy corpse (and at this dreary passage in her meditations, Leoline sighed profoundly), and he would never know what had become of her, or how much and how long she had loved him. And this hateful Count L'Estrange, what did he intend to do with her? Perhaps go so far as to make her marry him, and imprison her with the rest of his wives; for Leoline was prepared to think the very worst of the count, and had not the slightest doubt that he already had a harem full of abducted wives, somewhere. But no—he never could do that, he might do what he liked with weaker minds, but she never would be a bride of his while the plague or poison was to be had in London. And with this invincible determination rooted fixedly, not to say obstinately, in her mind, she was nearly pitched overboard by the boat suddenly landing at some unexpected place. A little natural scream of terror was repressed on her lips by a hand being placed over them, and the determined but perfectly respectful tones of the person beside her speaking.
“Remember your promise, lady, and do not make a noise. We have arrived at our journey's end, and if you will take my arm, I will lead you along, instead of carrying you.”
Leoline was rather surprised to find the journey so short, but she arose directly, with silence and dignity—at least with as much of the latter commodity as could be reasonably expected, considering that boats on water are rather unsteady things to be dignified in—and was led gently and with care out of the swaying vessel, and up another flight of stairs. Then, in a few moments, she was conscious of passing from the free night air into the closer atmosphere of a house; and in going through an endless labyrinth of corridors, and passages, and suites of rooms, and flights of stairs, until she became so extremely tired, that she stopped with spirited abruptness, and in the plainest possible English, gave her conductor to understand that they had gone about far enough for all practical purposes. To which that patient and respectful individual replied that he was glad to inform her they had but a few more steps to go, which the next moment proved to be true, for he stopped and announced that their promenade was over for the night.
“And I suppose I may have the use of my eyes at last?” inquired Leoline, with more haughtiness than Sir Norman could have believed possible so gentle a voice could have expressed.
For reply, her companion rapidly untied the bandage, and withdrew it with a flourish. The dazzling brightness that burst upon her, so blinded her, that for a moment she could distinguish nothing; and when she looked round to contemplate her companion, she found him hurriedly making his exit, and securely locking the door.
The sound of the key turning in the lock gave her a most peculiar sensation, which none but those who have experienced it can properly understand. It is not the most comfortable feeling in the world to know you are a prisoner, even if you have no key turned upon you but the weather, and your jailer be a high east wind and lashing rain. Leoline's prison and jailer were something worse; and, for the first time, a chill of fear and dismay crept icily to the core of her heart. But Leoline had something of Miranda's courage, as well as her looks and temper; so she tried to feel as brave as possible, and not think of her unpleasant predicament while there remained anything else to think about. Perhaps she might escape, too; and, as this notion struck her, she looked with eager anxiety, not unmixed with curiosity, at the place where she was. By this time, her eyes had been accustomed to the light, which proceeded from a great antique lamp of bronze, pendent by a brass chain from the ceiling; and she saw she was in a moderately sized and by no means splendid room. But what struck her most was, that everything had a look of age about it, from the glittering oak beams of the floor to the faded ghostly hangings on the wall. There was a bed at one end—a great spectral ark of a thing, like a mausoleum, with drapery as old and spectral as that on the walls, and in which she could no more have lain than in a moth-eaten shroud. The seats and the one table the room held were of the same ancient and weird pattern, and the sight of them gave her a shivering sensation not unlike an ague chill. There was but one door—a huge structure, with shining panels, securely locked; and escape from that quarter was utterly out of the question. There was one window, hung with dark curtains of tarnished embroidery, but in pushing them aside, she met only a dull blank of unlighted glass, for the shutters were firmly secured without. Altogether, she could not form the slightest idea where she was; and, with a feeling of utter despair, she sat down on one of the queer old chairs, with much the same feeling as if she were sitting in a tomb.
What would Sir Norman say? What would he ever think of her, when he found her gone. And what was destined to be her fate in this dreadful out-of-the-way place? She would have cried, as most of her sex would be tempted to do in such a situation, but that her dislike and horror of Count L'Estrange was a good deal stronger than her grief, and turned her tears to sparks of indignant fire. Never, never, never! would she be his wife! He might kill her a thousand times, if he liked, and she wouldn't yield an inch. She did not mind dying in a good cause; she could do it but once. And with Sir Norman despising her, as she felt he must do, when he found her run away, she rather liked the idea than otherwise. Mentally, she bade adieu to all her friends before beginning to prepare for her melancholy fate—to her handsome lover, to his gallant friend Ormiston, to her poor nurse, Prudence, and to her mysterious visitor, La Masque.
La Masque! Ah! that name awoke a new chord of recollection—the casket, she had it with her yet. Instantly, everything was forgotten but it and its contents; and she placed a chair directly under the lamp, drew it out, and looked at it. It was a pretty little bijou itself, with its polished ivory surface, and shining clasps of silver. But the inside had far more interest for her than the outside, and she fitted the key and unlocked it with a trembling hand. It was lined with azure velvet, wrought with silver thread, in dainty wreathe of water lilies; and in the bottom, neatly folded, lay a sheet of foolscap. She opened it with nervous haste; it was a common sheet enough, stamped with fool's cap and bells, that showed it belonged to Cromwell's time. It was closely written, in a light, fair hand, and bore the title “Leoline's History.”
Leoline's hand trembled so with eagerness, she could scarcely hold the paper; but her eye rapidly ran from line to line, and she stopped not till she reached the end. While she read, her face alternately flushed and paled, her eyes dilated, her lips parted; and before she finished it, there came over all a look of the most unutterable horror. It dropped from her powerless fingers as she finished; and she sank back in her chair with such a ghastly paleness, that it seemed absolutely like the lividness of death.
A sudden and startling noise awoke her from her trance of horror—some one trying to get in at the window! The chill of terror it sent through every vein acted as a sort of counter-irritant to the other feeling, and she sprang from her chair and turned her face fearfully toward the sounds. But in all her terror she did not forget the mysterious sheet of foolscap, which lay, looking up at her, on the floor; and she snatched it up, and thrust it and the casket out of sight. Still the sounds went on, but softly and cautiously; and at intervals, as if the worker were afraid of being heard. Leoline went back, step by step, to the other extremity of the room, with her eyes still fixed on the window, and on her face a white terror, that left her perfectly colorless.
Who could it be? Not Count L'Estrange, for he would surely not need to enter his own house like a burglar—not Sir Norman Kingsley, for he could certainly not find out her abduction and her prison so soon, and she had no other friends in the whole wide world to trouble themselves about her. There was one, but the idea of ever seeing her again was so unspeakably dreadful, that she would rather have seen the most horrible spectre her imagination could conjure up, than that tall, graceful, rich-robed form.
Still the noises perseveringly continued; there was the sound of withdrawing bolts, and then a pale ray of moonlight shot between the parted curtains, shoving the shutters had been opened. Whiter and whiter Leoline grew, and she felt herself growing cold and rigid with mortal fear. Softly the window was raised, a hand stole in and parted the curtains, and a pale face and two great dark eyes wandered slowly round the room, and rested at last on her, standing, like a galvanized corpse, as far from the window as the wall would permit. The hand was lifted in a warning gesture, as if to enforce silence; the window was raised still higher, a figure, lithe and agile as a cat, sprang lightly into the room, and standing with his back to her, re-closed the shutters, re-shut the window, and re-drew the curtains, before taking the trouble to turn round.
This discreet little manoeuvre, which showed her visitor was human, and gifted with human prudence, re-assured Leoline a little; and, to judge by the reverse of the medal, the nocturnal intruder was nothing very formidable after all. But the stranger did not keep her long in suspense; while she stood gazing at him, as if fascinated, he turned round, stepped forward, took off his cap, made her a courtly bow, and then straightening himself up, prepared, with great coolness, to scrutinize and be scrutinized.
Well might they look at each other; for the two faces were perfectly the same, and each one saw himself and herself as others saw them. There was the same coal-black, curling hair; the same lustrous dark eyes; the same clear, colorless complexion, the same delicate, perfect features; nothing was different but the costume and the expression. That latter was essentially different, for the young lady's betrayed amazement, terror, doubt, and delight all at once; while the young gentleman's was a grand, careless surprise, mixed with just a dash of curiosity.
He was the first to speak; and after they had stared at each other for the space of five minutes, he described a graceful sweep with his hand, and held forth in the following strain,
“I greatly fear, fair Leoline, that I have startled you by my sudden and surprising entrance; and if I have been the cause of a moment's alarm to one so perfectly beautiful, I shall hate myself for ever after. If I could have got in any other way, rest assured I would not have risked my neck and your peace of mind by such a suspicious means of ingress as the window; but if you will take the trouble to notice, the door is thick, and I am composed of too solid flesh to whisk through the keyhole; so I had to make my appearance the best way I could.”
“Who are you?” faintly asked Leoline.
“Your friend, fair lady, and Sir Norman Kingsley's.”
Hubert looked to see Leoline start and blush, and was deeply gratified to see her do both; and her whole pretty countenance became alive with new-born hope, as if that name were a magic talisman of freedom and joy.
“What is your name, and who are you?” she inquired, in a breathless sort of way, that made Hubert look at her a moment in calm astonishment.
“I have told you your friend; christened at some remote period, Hubert. For further particulars, apply to the Earl of Rochester, whose page I am.”
“The Earl of Rochester's page!” she repeated, in the same quick, excited way, that surprised and rather lowered her in that good youth's opinion, for giving way to any feelings so plebeian. “It is—it must be the same!”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Hubert. “The same what?”
“Did you not come from France—from Dijon, recently?” went on Leoline, rather inappositely, as it struck her hearer.
“Certainly I came from Dijon. Had I the honor of being known to you there?”
“How strange! How wonderful!” said Leoline, with a paling cheek and quickened breathing. “How mysterious those things turn out I Thank Heaven that I have found some one to love at last!”
This speech, which was Greek, algebra, high Dutch, or thereabouts, to Master Hubert, caused him to stare to such an extent, that when he came to think of it afterward, positively shocked him. The two great, wondering dark eyes transfixing her with so much amazement, brought Leoline to a sense of her talking unfathomable mysteries, quite incomprehensible to her handsome auditor. She looked at him with a smile, held out her hand; and Hubert received a strange little electric thrill, to see that her eyes were full of tears. He took the hand and raised it to his lips, wondering if the young lady, struck by his good looks, had conceived a rash and inordinate attack of love at first sight, and was about to offer herself to him and discard Sir Norman for ever. From this speculation, the sweet voice aroused him.
“You have told me who you are. Now, do you know who I am?”
“I hope so, fairest Leoline. I know you are the most beautiful lady in England, and to-morrow will be called Lady Kingsley!”
“I am something more,” said Leoline, holding his hand between both hers, and bending near him; “I am your sister!”
The Earl of Rochester's page must have had good blood in his veins; for never was there duke, grandee, or peer of the realm, more radically and unaffectedly nonchalant than he. To this unexpected announcement he listened with most dignified and well-bred composure, and in his secret heart, or rather vanity, more disappointed than otherwise, to find his first solution of her tenderness a great mistake. Leoline held his hand tight in hers, and looked with loving and tearful eyes in his face.
“Dear Hubert, you are my brother—my long-unknown brother, and I love you with my whole heart!”
“Am I?” said Hubert. “I dare say I am, for they all say we look as much alike as two peas. I am excessively delighted to hear it, and to know that you love me. Permit me to embrace my new relative.”
With which the court page kissed Leoline with emphasis, while she scarcely knew whether to laugh, cry, or be provoked at his composure. On the whole, she did a little of all three, and pushed him away with a halt pout.
“You insensible mortal! How can you stand there and hear that you have found a sister with so much indifference?”
“Indifferent? Not I! You have no idea how wildly excited I am!” said Hubert, in a voice not betokening the slightest emotion. “How did you find it out, Leoline?”
“Never mind! I shall tell you that again. You don't doubt it, I hope?”
“Of course not! I knew from the first moment I set eyes on you, that if you were not my sister, you ought to be! I wish you'd tell me all the particulars, Leoline.”
“I shall do so as soon as I am out of this; but how can I tell you anything here?”
“That's true!” said Hubert, reflectively. “Well, I'll wait. Now, don't you wonder how I found you out, and came here?”
“Indeed I do. How was it, Hubert?”
“Oh, well, I don't know as I can altogether tell you; but you see, Sir Norman Kingsley being possessed of an inspiration that something was happening to you, came to your house a short time ago, and, as he suspected, discovered that you were missing. I met him there, rather depressed in his mind about it, and he told me—beginning the conversation, I must say, in a very excited manner,” said Hubert, parenthetically, as memory recalled the furious shaking he had undergone—“and he told me he fancied you were abducted, and by one Count L'Estrange. Now I had a hazy idea who Count L'Estrange was, and where he would be most apt to take you to; and so I came here, and after some searching, more inquiring, and a few unmitigated falsehoods (you'll regret to hear), discovered you were locked up in this place, and succeeded in getting in through the window. Sir Norman is waiting for me in a state of distraction so now, having found you, I will go and relieve his mind by reporting accordingly.”
“And leave me here?” cried Leoline, in affright, “and in the power of Count L'Estrange? Oh! no, no! You must take me with you, Hubert!”
“My dear Leoline, it is quite impossible to do it without help, and without a ladder. I will return to Sir Norman; and when the darkness comes that precedes day-dawn, we will raise the ladder to your window, and try to get you out. Be patient—only wait an hour or two, and then you will be free.”
“But, O Hubert, where am I? What dreadful place it this?”
“Why, I do not know that this is a very dreadful place; and most people consider it a sufficiently respectable house; but, still, I would rather see my sister anywhere else than in it, and will take the trouble of kidnapping her out of it as quickly as possible.”
“But, Hubert, tell me—do tell me, who is Count L'Estrange?” Hubert laughed.
“Cannot, really, Leoline! at least, not until to-morrow, and you are Lady Kingsley.”
“But, what if he should come here to-night?”
“I do not think there is much danger of that, but whether he does or not, rest assured you shall be free to-morrow! At all events, it is quite impossible for you to escape with me now; and even as it is, I run the risk of being detected, and made a prisoner, myself. You must be patient and wait, Leoline, and trust to Providence and your brother Hubert!”
“I must, I suppose!” said Leoline, sighing, “and you cannot take me away until day-dawn.”
“Quite impossible; and then all this drapery of yours will be ever so much in the way. Would you object to garments like these?” pointing to his doublet and hose. “If you would not, I think I could procure you a fit-out.”
“But I should, though!” said Leoline, with spirit “and most decidedly, too! I shall wear nothing of the kind, Sir Page!”
“Every one to her fancy!” said Hubert, with a French shrug, “and my pretty sister shall have hers in spite of earth, air, fire, and water! And now, fair Leoline, for a brief time, adieu, and au revoir!”
“You will not fail me!” exclaimed Leoline, earnestly, clasping her hands.
“If I do, it shall be the last thing I will fail in on earth; for if I am alive by to-morrow morning, Leoline shall be free!”
“And you will be careful—you will both be careful!”
“Excessively careful! Now then.”
The last two words were addressed to the window which he noiselessly opened as he spoke. Leoline caught a glimpse of the bright free moonlight, and watched him with desperate envy; but the next moment the shutters were closed, and Hubert and the moonlight were both gone.