"Idris!" she said, with a sudden start, as if the name had touched some chord in her memory. "Idris! It is a somewhat uncommon name."
"We will say, then, that its rarity is a point in its favour," smiled Idris, who had observed her start, and wondered at the cause.
"Have we not met before, Mr. Breakspear?"
"I saw you two days ago in the Ravengar Chantry," he replied. He did not say, as he might truthfully have said, that during these two days he had been thinking of little else but that brief meeting. "Miss Ravengar and I," he continued, "had been listening to your recital on the organ. I must congratulate you on your skill as a musician, Mademoiselle Rivière. May I ask the name of the last chant you played? Was it taken from some oratorio, or was it your own improvisation?"
"The last chant?" repeated Lorelie, with a pensive air. "Let me think? What was it? Did it run like this?"
And in a sweet silvery tone she trilled off a bar which Idris immediately recognized as a part of the refrain that had been played by her.
"That is the 'Ravengar Funeral March,'" explained Lorelie. "Its origin goes far back into the depths of thedark ages, tradition affirming that it is the composition of an ancient scald, and was first chanted at the burial of the old Norse chieftain who founded the Ravengar family. It has been the custom to play it at the funeral of every Ravengar, though he would be a bold person who should say that the tune has not undergone variations in its descent to our times. The unknown minstrel with whom it originated was a genius, a mediæval Mozart. Could you not fancy that you heard the tread of numerous feet in procession, the clang of shield and spear, the groans of warriors, the plaintive weeping of women?"
"It certainlywasa weird requiem; it moved me as no other piece of music ever has."
And then, absorbed in a new idea, Idris forgot for the moment the presence of even Lorelie Rivière.
"What are these Ravengars to me," he thought, "or am I to them, that their Funeral Chant should produce in me such clairvoyant sensations?"
This question was succeeded by another. How had Mademoiselle Rivière become familiar with this requiem? As if in answer to his thoughts Lorelie remarked:—
"I heard Viscount Walden play it once in Venice: he gave it as a specimen of the weird and uncanny in music. It so took my fancy that I did not rest till I had obtained a copy of it."
It was somewhat disquieting to learn that she had met Lord Walden abroad, and that she was on terms of sufficient friendship to beg from him a copy of music. Had this friendship changed into something deeper? Was he to regard Lord Walden in the light of a rival? Had Mademoiselle Rivière come to Ormsby in order to be near the viscount? In saving her from being overwhelmed by the tide Idris had doubtless gained a high place in her favour, but then gratitude is not love, and Ravenhall and a coronet were powerful attractions.
"Do you often play at St. Oswald's Church?" he asked, after an interval of silence.
"Yes. I find a charm in its 'dim religious light.'"
"And the quietude of the place," said Idris, "is also favourable to the study of mediæval historians—Paulus Diaconus, for example."
"Ah! Mr. Breakspear," she said, "so it wasyouwho carried off my book from the organ-loft. I guessed as much when I went back, and found it gone. You must not forget to return it, for I value it highly. Now, confess, that you have wondered why I, a woman, should take to poring over that old Lombard historian?"
"Curiosity is not confined to the sex with whom it is supposed to have originated," smiled Idris, "and I am willing to admit, mademoiselle, that Ihavebeen puzzled. The book does not belong to the style of literature usually patronized by ladies."
"Merci!I regard that last remark as a compliment. Well, I will explain the mystery, if you will promise to keep the matter a secret." And upon Idris giving his assurance, she continued: "I am trying to write a poetical play, a tragedy relating to the times of the Italo-Lombard kings, and as I do not wish to commit anachronisms, it behoves me to study the historical authorities in the original."
"I understand," answered Idris, his opinion of Lorelie rising higher than ever: besides being a musician and a Latin scholar, she was also a poetess! "And what are you going to call your play?"
"'The Fatal Skull,'" she replied. "You look surprised, Mr. Breakspear. Is there already a play of that name?"
"I have never heard of it."
"Because one must not borrow another author's title, is it not so?"
"The Fatal Skull!" Idris could not but think it a curious coincidence that Lorelie's drama should bear such a title, when he himself at this time was much interested in a skull, to wit, that of Orm the Viking.
"Why so weird a title, mademoiselle?"
"Because it is appropriate to the leading incident in the piece: for the play turns on the famous historic banquet at which the Lombard Queen Rosamond was forced by her husband to drink from her father's skull. So now you understand, Mr. Breakspear," she went on, "that wherever the words 'Fatal Skull,' or the initials 'F. S.,' occur in the margin of my book, they mean that there is something in the passage thus marked capable of being worked into my drama."
"And when do you intend to publish it?"
"Not yet: perhaps never. I write, not for fame, but for my own pleasure."
"Do not say that, mademoiselle. If one has noble thoughts the world will be the better for hearing them. I hope, therefore, to see the day when your work will be published: nay, more, I hope to see it acted."
"It is kind of you to say so," she murmured. The light of pleasure in her eyes, and the colour mantling her cheek, so enhanced her beauty that it was with difficulty the impulsive Idris could repress the temptation of telling her of his love. But, even as he watched, the look of pleasure faded from her face, and there succeeded the melancholy air that he had previously noticed, an air that said almost as plainly as words, "I am forgetting myself: it is not for me to be glad."
Yet the smile returned to her lip when Idris ventured upon a suggestion.
"I see neither boat nor vessel within hail," he remarked, glancing over the sea. "We have several hours yet before us. Now in the Christmas tales, you know, whenthe stage-coach passengers are snowed up at the country-inn, or the sea-voyagers wrecked on the lonely isle, they always beguile the time by story-telling. It's the orthodox thing to do. Suppose we imitate them."
"A good idea! and," added Lorelie archly, "it becomes the mover of the proposition to take the initiative."
"Caught in the net I was preparing for another!" smiled Idris. "I was hoping to hear you recite some portions of your play. But that will come later. Well, mademoiselle, what shall my story be?"
"You said a while ago that you have led a somewhat adventurous life, and that you once took part in a battle. I call for some of your adventures."
"You flatter my vanity. A man's self is an insidious theme. TheApologia pro meâ vitâis rarely to be trusted, the author being naturally prone to magnify his virtues, and minimize his faults. Always receive the autobiographycum grano salis."
"Very well," replied Lorelie, with a smile irresistible in its witchery. "Begin your story, and I will supply thegranum salisas you proceed."
Vain was it for Idris to protest. She was not to be deterred from her purpose of hearing something of his personal history; and, accordingly, after due reflection, he proceeded to relate some of his experiences in the Græco-Turkish War of '97, in which he had taken a part, in common with some other Englishmen of adventurous spirit.
Idris was master of a certain natural eloquence, an eloquence very effective in the case of an imaginative maiden. At any rate Lorelie seemed to take a deep interest in his words. Never before had he seen so attentive a listener. Her face, like water lit by the changing rays of the sun, reflected all the varying expressions on his owncountenance, as he passed from grave to gay, from scene to scene.
A significant incident occurred during the telling of these reminiscences.
He was relating that on one occasion he had been entrusted by a Greek commander with the task of conveying a secret dispatch to a village beyond the enemy's lines. The ordinary route to this place ran through a mountain-pass, which at that time was carefully guarded by Bashi-Bazouks. Idris, therefore, determined to scale the face of an almost perpendicular cliff, and passing, as it were, above the heads of the watchers, come out in their rear. When he was three-fourths of the way up the cliff his heart almost leaped into his mouth as he caught a glimpse of a Bashi-Bazouk, dagger in hand, waiting for him at the top. The shades of twilight were falling: to descend was impossible: to go upward was to meet certain death: yet upward he continued to pull himself, little by little, hoping that by some good fortune he might be able to outwit the armed watcher. In graphic language he painted his sensations as none could, save those only who have been in a position.
At this point Lorelie's interest became intense, even painful. So vivid was her realization of the scene that she seemed at that very moment to see Idris before her, clinging feebly to the edge of the cliff in the dusky gloom, with the savage enemy above him dealing the death-stroke. She leaned forward in her seat with parted lips: then, quite unconsciously, and all-forgetful of her sprained ankle, she half rose with her arm extended as if to ward off the coming blow.
"O, but you arehere," she murmured, realizing her mistake. "How absurd of me!" and, with a heightened colour, she sank back in confusion.
"Yes, I am here," replied Idris, his heart leaping withdelight at this proof of her interest in his welfare. "Near the summit of the cliff was a narrow shelf of rock: on this ledge I lay down and waited, with my revolver pointing to the night sky. I knew that my gentleman would peep over again presently to mark my progress. He did. What the kites left of him you'll find at the foot of the cliff."
If pleasure at the death of a fellow-mortal be an anti-Christian feeling, it must be confessed that Lorelie Rivière had little of the Christian in her at that moment.
Now that he had once entered upon his personal history, she would not let him quit it, betraying such interest that Idris almost wondered whether she had a secret motive in wishing to hear his biography.
The most romantic part of his career, however, namely, that relating to the runic ring and the quest for his father, he carefully reserved, giving instead an account of his travels through Europe, and recalling many a curious legend from "out-of-the-way" places.
Long ere Lorelie was sated with these reminiscences the first stars of night glimmered in the blue air above: and, that nothing might be wanting to complete a romantic situation, the moon, rising in all her glory from the depth of ocean, silvered with its radiance the entrance of the cave. The light passed within bringing into relief the statuesque pose of Lorelie's figure. It gleamed on her wealth of raven hair, and hallowed her face with new and mystic beauty, as, with her cheek pillowed on her hands, she sat attentive to Idris, drinking in his words as the fabled Oriental bird is said to drink the moonbeams.
So lovely and interested a listener might well have turned the head of the frostiest hermit. What wonder, then, that the one thought in Idris' mind at this moment was:—"O that this might last forever!"
Observing a shiver on the part of Lorelie, due to the chilly air, Idris rose to put into effect a plan that had suddenly occurred to him. Charming as the situation was to himself, he had no wish to prolong it at the expense of discomfort to his companion.
"'Ye gods, I grow a talker.' I do wrong to sit here inactive. The air is becoming cold. Since no boat has hove in sight it is time we tried to attract one. Some of this timber, piled upon the rocks at the entrance of our cave, and set alight, will 'contrive a double debt to pay'—of giving warmth to yourself, and of serving as a signal-fire to the coast-guard of Ormsby."
Collecting a supply of logs and planks, Idris proceeded to form them into a little pyramid upon the boulders outside the mouth of the cavern. He applied a lighted match to the pile, and within a few minutes a glorious bonfire was blazing upon the rock, challenging the pale light of the moon, and flinging a ruddy glow over the breast of the heaving waters around.
"Now, Mademoiselle Rivière, if you will sit in this nook here, you will be both sheltered from the wind and warmed by the fire."
Lorelie accepted the suggestion: and, as her ankle was still painful, she permitted Idris to assist her to the assigned spot, where she sat, pleased with the cheerful warmth.
"This blaze ought surely to be seen and understood as a signal of distress," said Idris.
As he stared at the distant moonlit cliff behind which the town of Ormsby lay hidden, he suddenly became aware that Lorelie was speaking.
"Idris! Idris!"
He turned quickly with a curious feeling. Surely she was not addressing him by his Christian name? Let his name sound ever so silvery as it came from her lips, still, this mode of address in a friendship so recently formed as theirs, was a familiarity which jarred upon him.
"Idris! Idris!" she repeated.
"Yes,MademoiselleRivière," he replied, with a cold and significant emphasis upon the second word.
But he found her eyes fixed, not upon him, but upon the flames. He followed the direction of her gaze and beheld a surprising sight. There, burning in the fire, was a thick piece of planking, and on the part of it not yet consumed were five black-painted letters, forming in their arrangement the word:—
"I-d-r-i-s!"
His own name! Yes: there it was, plain to be seen on the plank, the black characters shining out clearly through the yellow flame.
Lorelie had simply been murmuring the word as it caught her eyes, without any intention of addressing him by it.
How came his name to be inscribed on this piece of timber? If the materials composing the fire were driftwood picked up from the beach (and he did not doubt that such was the origin of the timber in the cave), then this plank was probably a relic of a sunken vessel, the wordIdrisforming its name.
Was there any connection between himself and this lost barque other than mere identity of name?
His active mind, eager to give an affirmative to this question, immediately devised a theory. Captain Rochefort, on flying from Brittany with Eric Marville, would be compelled by considerations of safety either to disguise and rename the yacht in which the flight had been effected, or, what was more probable, dispose of theNemesisin some way, and purchase another vessel. That Captain Rochefort had so acted, naming his new barque after the son of his escaped friend, became Idris' firm conviction: for, lost to reason in his excitement, he overlooked the possibility that other yacht-owners might have a partiality for the same name.
The plank now burning before his eyes had come from the figure-head of the yacht in which his father and Captain Rochefort had cruised about, after disposing of theNemesis.
What more likely than that, on discovering the meaning of the Norse runes (a copy of which had been made by Rochefort while the altar-ring was in his possession), the two friends, in a spirit of adventure, should steer their yacht's course to Ormsby, the site of the supposed treasure? And here off this coast their vessel had foundered.
This conclusion, if correct, would seem almost to justify the idea that it was impossible to escape from the malign influence of Odin's ring.
Desire for its possession had led Eric Marville into a mischance that had doomed him to a prison-life: he had escaped from the convict's cell, and had wrested the secret from the runic ring, only to meet with a watery grave in sight of the very treasure-hill that he had come to explore!
But, stay! had Eric Marville and Captain Rochefort perished in the fierce currents of Ormsby Race, or had one, or both, been washed ashore alive? Was theremoval of the Viking's treasure due to one of them, or to the joint action of the two?
So occupied was Idris with these thoughts that he had almost forgotten the presence of Lorelie, but now, on glancing at her, he noticed that her face wore a grave, not to say startled, expression, obviously due to the name that had been so strangely presented to her view. The discovery seemed to disquiet her as much as it disquieted himself.
Then in a moment it occurred to him that the dead in Saint Oswald's Churchyard, whose grave she was decking with a marble cross, were men who had perished in the sinking of this same vessel,The Idris. Lorelie could explain the mystery, if she chose. He resolved to question her.
"Mademoiselle Rivière," he began, in an earnest tone, "I believe it is within your power to throw some light upon a matter that, to me, is one almost of life and death. Pardon me, if I presume too much on our very recent friendship. To come to the point, I beg, nay, I entreat of you, to tell me all you know concerning the vessel whose timbers we see burning before us, the yachtIdris, that went down in Ormsby Race on the night of the thirteenth of October, 1876."
Swift surprise stole over Lorelie's face.
"And why should you think thatIknow anything of that lost vessel?"
"Ah! mademoiselle, you are not erecting a costly memorial over the grave of men of whom you know nothing."
Lorelie was silent for a few moments, as if reflecting how to answer an obviously embarrassing question.
"It is true," she said at last. "I will admit that Idoknow something of that lost vessel, and that I have taken a deep interest in it."
"The vessel carried some one dear to you?"
"Really, Mr. Breakspear, you are very curious," she cried, with a flash of her bright eyes. "Before answering I must know the motive for this catechism."
"I have reason to believe," answered Idris, "that there was on board one, Eric Marville by name."
"And what," asked Lorelie—and at the chilling fall in her voice Idris started—"what is Eric Marville to you, that you should take an interest in his fate?"
For a moment Idris hesitated, loth to tell the woman whom he loved that he was the son of a fugitive convict. Then he resolved to be frank, believing that if she were a true woman she would not despise him for a misfortune not of his own causing.
"Eric Marville," he answered humbly, "is my father's name."
At these words Lorelie Rivière shrank back in the Hermit's Seat, staring at Idris, her face white, her hand lifted to her side.
"Your father?" she gasped. "You Eric Marville's son—you?"
"The same, mademoiselle."
"No, no. It cannot be. You have said that your name is Breakspear."
"For obvious reasons I have thought proper to assume my mother's maiden name."
"Eric Marville's son!" she repeated wildly. "Impossible! I will not believe it." Her wildness suddenly gave way to an air of disdain, and she exclaimed: "Why do you seek to impose upon me? Idris Marville was burned to death at Paris seven years ago."
"Not so," replied Idris, with a smile, as he proceeded to give his reasons for permitting himself to be advertised as dead.
As Lorelie became gradually convinced of his identitya look of dismay came over her face. She shrank from him, and glanced down upon the sea, as if tempted to plunge beneath its surface.
"To think that you, you of all persons," she murmured in a tone of awe, "should have saved my life!"
"Then by that fact, mademoiselle, I entreat you to tell me whether my father perished in that shipwreck. You doubtless know something of his sad history?"
"I ought to know," she returned, "seeing that my real name is Lorelie Rochefort."
"What do you say?" cried Idris in amazement. "You are the daughter of Captain Noel Rochefort?"
She inclined her head in assent.
"Then we shall be the best of friends, as our fathers were before us."
"You speak without knowledge," she replied, with a curious dry laugh.
"Did not Captain Rochefort prove his friendship by aiding my father to escape?"
"At my mother's urging: he would not otherwise have moved in the matter."
"Why was Madame Rochefort so anxious to see my father free?"
"You must not ask me that," replied Lorelie quickly, and looking alarmed the moment afterwards, as if betrayed into a rash statement.
This was certainly a strange answer, and Idris pondered over it in the silence that followed. There seemed no other explanation of her words than that there had existed a guilty love-intrigue between Madame Rochefort and Eric Marville. Was it possible that Lorelie herself was the offspring of——? With a shiver he put the suspicion aside. No: he would not thinkthat!
"Is Captain Rochefort still living?"
"It is extremely unlikely."
"He went down with the yachtIdris?"
"In all probability."
"He was not among the bodies washed ashore?"
"They were bruised and swollen beyond recognition."
"Was my father on board the yacht the night it sank?"
"So far as I have been able to gather he was not."
"Not?" said Idris, in a tone of joy. "Then he may still be living. May I ask, mademoiselle, how you have learned this?"
"From my father's last letter to my mother, with whom he kept up a correspondence during his cruise. The letter is dated 'The yachtIdris. In Ormsby Roads, October 13th, 1876. 7P. M.,' and the postscript is something to this effect, 'Marville is going ashore, leaving me aboard. He will not return till the morrow. I am despatching this letter to the post by the sailor who rows Marville ashore.' Those are the last words my mother received. That same night, four hours after the letter was written, theIdriswent down."
"And you cannot tell me whether my father is living to-day?"
"I know nothing more of Eric Marville since the night of the wreck."
"You have preserved all your father's letters?"
"Naturally."
Idris here ventured on a very bold request.
"Would it be asking too much to let me see this correspondence, or at least, some part of it?"
"Not if you were to give me a diamond for each word it contained," she said firmly.
"At least, mademoiselle," he continued more humbly, "you will give me the purport of those passages that relate to my father?"
"That would be to compromise myself."
"Whatever secrets those letters contain shall be respected by me."
"Not so," said Lorelie sadly. "Mr. Breakspear, Idris Marville, or whatever name you will, I believe you to be a man of honour——"
"Then why not trust me?"
"Because you would consider yourself justified in breaking your pledge of secrecy. I dare not trust you. No oath could be binding in such a case as this. You would proclaim aloud to the world the contents of those letters."
In spite of her words, Idris, with justifiable curiosity, continued to press her with questions relative to his father's movements after the flight from Quilaix, but to all his interrogations Lorelie remained coldly mute.
"And you will tell me nothing more than you have told?" he said at last.
His sorrowful tone seemed to touch her to the quick. The icy expression faded from her face and gave way to one of warmth and tenderness. Her eyes became luminous with tears, but, as if desirous of resisting his pleading, she averted her head and hid her face in her hands.
"Do not question me further," she entreated. "Not to answer is painful, but to answer would be more painful still. O, why did you reveal your true name? I shall never be happy again. If I had but known you twelve months ago, all would have been well, but now—now it is too late. In revealing what you wish, nay, what you ought to know, I should be injuring the interests of, not myself, for that would matter little, but the interests of others. You do not understand—how should you?—but some day you will learn my meaning, and then—and then——" her voice faltered, "how the world will despise me! you more than all others.Mr. Breakspear, if you knew my real character you would have left me lying on the sand to be overwhelmed by the tide. I would that you had!"
Though Idris knew not what meaning to affix to this speech, it did not abate in one degree his love for her: nay, her very air of humiliation, plaintive and touching, served only to enhance her attractiveness. When he recalled the heroic look upon her face in the presence of death, and the clasping of her hands in prayer upon her deliverance, he could not bring himself to think ill of her. Her mysterious self-accusations must be the result of some delusion: or, if somethingdidattach to her that the world would call guilt, he did not doubt that justification would be found for it.
"Mademoiselle," he replied, with a grave smile, "you seem to regard me in the light of an enemy, when my chief desire is to occupy a high place in your friendship." He would have said "heart" had he dared. "Since the subject of the yacht is painful to you, I will not refer to it again in your presence."
"Then my reticence will not make an enemy of you?" asked Lorelie, raising her beautiful eyes with a yearning in them that moved him strangely.
"Certainly not, mademoiselle. Let me know that you do not despise me on account of my father's guilt, or supposed guilt, and I am content."
"Despise you? Oh, no! How can you say that? Mr. Breakspear," she continued, with a faltering voice, "if—if there be one circumstance more than another that enlists my sympathies in your behalf, it is—the—the event of which you speak."
The pitying look in her eyes caused Idris' blood to course like liquid fire through his veins. Had she been the guiltiest woman living that glance would have palliated all and have made him her slave forever.
There is no knowing what he might have said or done at this moment had he not been checked by a sudden exclamation from her. Looking in the direction indicated by her he saw a boat rowed by seven of the Ormsby fishermen coming over the waves towards them in gallant style.
"Our imprisonment is drawing to an end," said Idris, adding to himself, "the more's the pity."
The sight of the approaching boat seemed to put an end to Lorelie's emotion. She began to regain something of her former sweet self.
By her own unaided efforts she rose to her feet, and leaning against the rock, waved her handkerchief as an encouragement to the rowers. A cheer broke from the men as soon as they recognized her; for, by reason of her liberality to the poor of Ormsby, Mademoiselle Rivière had become, at least among the lower orders of the town, a favourite second only to Beatrice Ravengar herself.
Ere long the boat's side grated against the rock, and Lorelie, assisted by Idris on the one hand, and by a gallant fisherman on the other, was lifted down from point to point, and finally lodged in the bow of the rocking boat, Idris taking his seat beside her.
The still-flaming timbers of the fire having been extinguished by the easy process of tossing them into the sea, the men pushed off, and the Hermit's Cave rapidly receded from view.
In answer to the questioning of her rescuers Lorelie gave an account of the circumstances which had led to the enforced captivity of herself and Idris, adding:—
"We owe you something more substantial than thanks for responding so quickly to our fire-signal."
"Lord bless you!" responded one of the crew gallantly, "to rescue such a bonny bird we would row fifty miles."
They created quite a sensation as they drew near the beach of Ormsby, where a miscellaneous crowd was assembled; for the news had been spread abroad by Lorelie's frightened maid that her mistress had been missing since the morning, and, accordingly, it had been conjectured that the strange light visible at the foot of the distant cliff might have some connection with her disappearance. And when it was seen that the approaching boat contained the missing lady there arose an outburst of cheering and a waving of hats, that drew the colour to her hitherto pale cheek.
Among the first to meet the boat at the water's edge was Godfrey; and on learning that Lorelie had hurt her foot, nothing less would satisfy him than an immediate inspection of her ankle.
"The case may be more serious than you think it," said he.
So Lorelie, escorted by Idris and Godfrey, repaired, under smiling protest, to the parlour of a cottage fronting the beach, where, after due examination, the surgeon pronounced the injury to be nothing more serious than a sprain.
"Still, you must not set your foot to the ground just yet," he added. "We will procure a carriage to take you home."
Scarcely had he said this when the rattle of wheels was heard outside. A vehicle of some sort had drawn up in front of the cottage. A minute afterwards the parlour door opened giving entrance to Viscount Walden.
His acknowledgment of the surgeon was limited to, "Ah! Godfrey:" of Idris he took no notice at all. Walking up to Lorelie he smiled in a manner which showed that they were no strangers to each other, and Godfrey, recalling the viscount's utterances in the crypt of Ravenhall, "I hope Lorelie will be satisfied," lookedon at their meeting with considerable interest, wondering whether there really were some guilty secret between them.
"Mademoiselle Rivière, I am delighted to meet you in England," said Ivar. "Passing along the road outside and observing the crowd in front of this cottage I stopped my carriage to ascertain the cause. Imagine my surprise on learning thatyouwere within. Welcome to Ormsby! You find our climate a little trying, I expect, after the sunny air and the blue skies of the Riviera? You have sprained your ankle, I understand, and find a difficulty in walking. If you desire a carriage to convey you home, mine is at your service."
Ivar's proposal to carry off Lorelie in his own carriage roused all Idris' jealousy, of which he had the ordinary mortal's share. It was not very agreeable to hear Lorelie assenting, and to observe that she smiled upon Ivar as pleasantly as she had smiled upon himself.
With a motion of her hand she directed the viscount's attention to Idris.
"Lord Walden, Mr.——"
"Breakspear," interposed Idris quickly, fearing lest she should inadvertently pronounce the name of Marville.
Lorelie gave him a sympathetic glance, which assured him that his secret was quite safe in her keeping.
"Lord Walden," she continued, "Mr. Breakspear, a gentleman to whom I owe my life."
In some surprise Ivar turned to survey the saviour of Mademoiselle Rivière, and beheld a man of about thirty years, with fine dark eyes and an athletic figure—a man evidently of good birth; his countenance expressive of a spirit that showed if he should set his mind upon accomplishing an object, say of winning a woman's love, he would succeed, or make it go extremely ill with those whoendeavoured to thwart him: and, noting all this, Ivar, who was of a mean nature, took secret umbrage.
Idris was about to offer his hand, but observing that the viscount was stiffly bowing with his hands behind him, he thought he could not do better than imitate the other's example.
For a moment the two men eyed each other, both apparently animated by a spirit of defiance, the cause of which was patent enough to Godfrey in the person of the charming woman sitting between them.
Idris, mindful of the fact that he was the son of an escaped convict, while Ivar was the descendant of a line of belted earls, felt bitterly the contrast between their respective positions.
"How this fellow would sneer, if he knew the truth!" was his thought.
"Lord save us!" the woman, who owned the cottage, whispered to Godfrey. "How like they are! The same proud face upon each!"
The surgeon glanced from one to the other, and was compelled to admit that there certainlywasa resemblance in features between the two men, a resemblance which would have been the stronger, had not Idris been dark, and Ivar fair.
While Lorelie gave a brief account of her rescue, Ivar listened with impatience, evidently of opinion that Fortune, while permitting Idris to save Mademoiselle Rivière, might at least have had the good sense to drown him afterwards.
"At the next Parish Council," said Lorelie to Godfrey, "you must call attention to the 'Stairs of David.'"
"The ladder ought certainly to be seen to," said Idris, "but for my part, mademoiselle," he added, bowing to Lorelie, "I shall never regret the instability of that structure."
Ivar, who had refrained from speech both during Lorelie's story and at its close, now offered his arm to help her to the carriage. A shade of vexation passed over her face at the viscount's obvious indifference to Idris' services on her behalf.
"My ankle is still weak," she said, turning to Idris. "Mr. Breakspear, may I ask for your help, too?"
Idris responded with a cheerfulness that became the more cheerful as he noticed Ivar's scowl.
Thus escorted Lorelie passed into the moonlit air without, and reached the brougham. Idris held the door while she stepped in. The viscount followed, shutting the door with a loud slam, that said as plainly as words, "No more shall enter here."
Lorelie looked more vexed than ever at this discourtesy towards Godfrey and Idris: but as the carriage was not hers it was out of her power to offer them a seat.
However, as if desirous of sweetening the parting, she extended her little hand through the carriage-window, accompanying her action with a gracious smile.
"Good-night, Mr. Breakspear," she murmured, softly. "I shall never forget the debt I owe you."
"Drive on," cried Ivar, brusquely, to the coachman. "The Cedars, North Road."
The horses dashed off, and as the brougham turned the corner of the road, Idris caught a glimpse of Lorelie, bending forward at the carriage-window, with her face turned in his direction.
He lifted his hat, and the next moment she was lost to view.
"Idris," said Godfrey, "you love that young lady."
"And you must have a heart of stone not to love her, too."
"Humph! it would be rather awkward if all men wereto desire the same woman. Isn't one rival enough for you?"
Truth to tell, Idris had been much disquieted by the readiness with which Lorelie had surrendered herself to the will of Viscount Walden. It seemed almost as if some secret understanding existed between them. Godfrey, though he refrained from saying so, had no doubt whatever on the point.
"All things being equal," he continued, "I believe the lady would favour you: but, you see, a prospective coronet is a very powerful attraction, and I fear the coronet will gain the day."
Idris repudiated this forecast, vigorously anathematizing the name of Viscount Walden, after which his thoughts turned to a theme, almost equal in interest to his love for Lorelie, namely, his father's fate.
"He was not on the yacht when it sank, so Mademoiselle Rivière declares: then what became of him? I did right to come to Ormsby, it seems, since it was in this neighbourhood that he was last heard of. But, alas! that was twenty-two years ago. Is he living to-day, and shall I ever find him?"
The clock was striking the hour of ten at night as Beatrice Ravengar rose to put away the embroidery with which she had been occupied.
Save for the companionship of her faithful St. Bernard she was alone. Godfrey was out visiting his patients. Idris had been absent since noon, and Beatrice wondered what had become of him, little thinking that he was passing his time in a moonlit cave,tête-à-têtewith Mademoiselle Rivière. The page-boy, who was accustomed to sleep at his own home, had taken his departure: and as for the housemaid, well, every one knows that when housemaids promise to be home punctually by nineP. M., they mean any time up to eleven, and Beatrice's little domestic was no exception to this rule.
Methodical in all her ways Beatrice was in the habit of mapping out beforehand a certain amount of work to be done during the day. Her self-allotted tasks being now completed she was ready for bed, but could not think of retiring before the return of the absentees.
With a little yawn she wondered what she should do to fill up the gap of time, and seeing a book lying upon the table, one that Idris had been reading earlier in the day, she took it up and found it to be a novel.
Beatrice as a rule avoided fiction, but on the present occasion she felt herself unequal to anything but the lightest kind of literary confectionery, and, accordingly, settling herself comfortably in her armchair, she began to read the novel, which bore the title of "The Fair Orientalist."It was of the nightmare order, and dealt with the doings of an Eastern lady, gifted with occult powers.
After the first chapter Beatrice glanced down to make sure that the faithful Leo was lying at her feet: when reading a story of the supernatural at night it is good to have a companion with us, though that companion be but a dog.
Having finished the second chapter she threw a glance at the windows, and was glad to observe that the blinds were drawn, since at night-time panes of glass are sometimes apt to reflect the gaslight in such a way as to create the impression that there are eyes on the outside watching us.
At the end of the third chapter Beatrice had become positively alarmed at the clairvoyance and occult powers ascribed to the Oriental lady: and yet, so fascinated was she by the story that, despite her growing fears, she found it impossible to lay down the book.
Hark! what was that?
A sound, coming apparently from the upper storey, echoed through the lonely house. With a beating heart Beatrice ceased reading, and listened. The sound was repeated, and she smiled at her fears. The latticed window at the head of the staircase was open, and flapping idly on its hinges. That was all!
This thought, however, was quickly followed by another that revived her uneasiness. Since the casement had been ajar all the evening why had it not flapped before?
"The wind must be rising," thought Beatrice: and with this reasonable explanation she resumed her reading.
O, that window!
It persisted in flapping to and fro at intervals, the irregularity of which was the most annoying part of the matter.
Sometimes the sound was so faint as to be scarcely audible: then, after a lapse of silence so long as to promise that the torment had altogether ceased, the casement would give a rattle louder than ever, and more startling by contrast with the previous stillness. A little more force on the part of the wind would result in the shattering of those diamond panes.
"I must go up and shut it!"
Sensible resolve! But it was not carried out. The incident, trifling though it was, combined with the effect of the novel, had reduced her to a state of nervousness so great that she durst not ascend the staircase to close the window. Despising herself for her cowardice she remained in her armchair, neglecting the only effectual way of ending the annoyance.
She glanced again at the dog, and derived some assurance from his quiet air. Though wideawake he did not display any signs of alarm.
"One advantage brute creatures have over the human," thought she. "Theynever frighten themselves with ghostly fears."
She again fixed her eyes upon the book, endeavouring to ignore the real terror by a forced attention to an imaginary one, a literary homæopathy that was scarcely likely to be successful.
One of the powers possessed by the Fair Orientalist was that of enduing inanimate objects with her own magnetism by virtue of which they became gifted for the time being with sentience and motion.
The fancy now seized Beatrice, so deeply had she fallen under the spell of the weird romance, that the restless casement above was moved by similar means, and that its flapping was designed to call her attention to—she knew not what. A strange idea! But it grew upon her, and increased till it filled her mind to the exclusionof everything else. The book, neglected, slid from her knees, and she sat listening to the swinging of the casement. And as it is possible to tell the mood of a musician by the notes he plays, so Beatrice fancied she could detect a meaning in each variation of sound.
First, there was a sharp slam intended primarily to arrest attention, like the ting-ting of the telegraph operator: next, a low plaintive swing beseeching her to ascend the stairs and come to the rescue, followed by a remonstratory flap censuring her for delaying. Then ensued a slow solemn sound suggestive of the gravity of the situation: finally, there came a loud rattle that echoed through the house as if threatening penalties for her negligence.
The geologist will read history in a cliff: Beatrice read a whole tragedy in the varying tones of that casement.
And now, a mysterious influence, emanating from the latticed window, seemed to steal silently down the staircase like a ghost, and entering the apartment where she sat and enwrapping her with an unseen pall of horror, whispered a thought that swept all the warmth from her body and left her icy-cold.
The Viking's skull!
At the head of the staircase, on the ledge of the embrasured window, was the grim memorial, taken at midnight from the sepulchral mound. Beatrice's mind became impressed with the belief that the casement was flapping in sympathy with the skull, was its mouthpiece, so to speak—nay more, that the dread relic itself was moaning to be taken back to its ancient resting-place. Her quickening fancy drew a picture of the skull, whispering, nodding, grinning, its hollow orbs illumined with blue, phosphorescent light.
Gazing fearfully at the door she saw that it was open.She must close it ere the horrid object should come gliding down the staircase into the room.
Summoning up her small amount of remaining courage Beatrice rose, and with timid, staccato steps, approached the door, attended by Leo. Mute as a statue she stood in the attitude of listening, her fingers on the door-handle.
Was it the voice of the breeze sighing through the half-opened casement, or was it the skull whispering and chuckling with ghostly glee? She had but to step forward two paces to be within the corridor, and by looking up the staircase would see the skull at its head.
But this was more than she durst do. To her dismay Leo had walked out of the room, and refused to return. She could not shut the door upon the dog: in her present state of mind his presence was an absolute necessity, and yet, to venture out into the passage to bring him back, and by so doing come within sight of the skull, was a feat beyond her courage.
The corridor-lamp had not been lighted. The glory of the full moon shone on the staircase window at such an angle that the outline of the casement was projected upon the floor of the passage directly within view of the door at which she was standing. She could not avoid seeing the oblong patch of spectral white. But that shadow in the centre like a human head, black and still as if nailed to the flooring! It was the silhouette of the skull!
Trembling, she averted her eyes from the shadow, and fortunately at that moment Leo, having decided that the room was more comfortable than the corridor, reentered the apartment, and Beatrice instantly closed the door and turned the key, feeling more at ease now that an inch of oak interposed between herself and the object at the stair head.
But now came another terror!
Leo had taken his place on the hearth-rug where he remained quiet for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, he began to grow restive. Giving a low growl he started to his feet, and after looking about on all sides began to walk round the room, sniffing suspiciously at the floor, as if he expected danger from the cellar below rather than from the staircase above.
His investigations concluded, the poor brute sat down on his haunches, and lifting up his head gave utterance to one long and plaintive howl. And if ever dog uttered prophecy Leo uttered it at that moment, and the tenor of his prediction was that some dire peril was at hand.
Beatrice, who had followed the animal from one part of the room to another, repeating "Leo, Leo, what's the matter?" as if he were capable of speech, knelt by his side and found him quivering in every limb, his hair bristling as if with fear.
Hark!
A gust of wind, more forcible than any that had preceded it, slammed the staircase window with a loud bang, shivering its diamond panes: and—more alarming still!—this accident was accompanied by a sound like the fall of some light object.
Beatrice doubted not for a moment that the skull had dropped from the ledge and was now coming down the staircase.
Nor did she err. A second bump told her that the thing had rolled over one stair. A third fall ensued, and then a fourth. These sounds did not follow instantaneously one upon another, but there was between each a distinct pause, suggestive of the idea that the skull was endowed with a volition and a motion of its own: as if, in fact, it were choosing its way, and descending at leisure.
Awaiting the issue Beatrice sat, the very picture of terror, her hands clasped, her dilated eyes riveted on the door of the apartment. It seemed many minutes since the skull had begun its descent, though, perhaps, fifteen seconds had scarcely elapsed. Finally, the lowest stair was reached, and the skull, pitching forward, rolled up to the door of the apartment, as if seeking admittance.
At its dread knock the walls and floor of the room seemed to tremble. The lights in the gasalier went out, leaving the chamber in semi-darkness. The dying embers of the fire, flickering strangely and unsteadily, caused weird shapes to spring up from floor to ceiling.
At the same time a vibratory motion was communicated to Beatrice's person. She found herself oscillating to and fro, unable to check herself. A mysterious power grasped her ankles with unseen fingers and strove to elevate her in air.
Fully believing that her last hour had come Beatrice gave one long pealing cry, in which the terrified yelp of the dog mingled. She was shot violently forward: a noise like the rattle produced by a thousand falling plates rang in her ears, and tumbling headlong to the carpet she lost all consciousness.
* * * * * *
When Beatrice next opened her eyes she found herself lying on the sofa with three persons standing beside her: Godfrey was sprinkling her face and throat with cold water: the housemaid was applying a bottle of strong salts to her nostrils: and Idris was holding a candle, the feeble light of which he strove to steady by shielding it with his hand. The windows and door were wide open, and the cool night air was blowing through the room, laden with a faint odour of escaped gas.
Beatrice gave a feeble smile of recognition, and thengazed vacantly around the apartment, unable at first to recall what had preceded the present state of affairs.
The room presented a scene of confusion. All the pictures hung awry: the ornaments of the mantel had fallen, and lay, some shattered to pieces, within the fireplace: fragments of one of the gasalier globes starred the carpet: the doors of the bookcase were open, and many of the volumes had been projected from their shelves to the floor. On the table was the Viking's skull, the cause, in some mysterious way, of all this disorder; at least, such was Beatrice's opinion.
"I have been horribly frightened!" she said, as soon as she had recovered the use of speech.
"And well you might be!" replied Idris. "Godfrey and I had just reached the door, when the house shook to its foundations, and out went all the lights. By heaven! I thought the place was coming down. We have had an earthquake shock."
But the imaginative mind of Beatrice, still under the spell of "The Fair Orientalist," was not prepared to accept this rational explanation.
"Earthquakes don't happen in England," she declared.
"Slight shocks occasionally occur here," said Idris, "and the present one is a case in point. Why," he added, observing Beatrice's dissentient shake of her head, "what else could it have been?"
"I cannot say," she answered, shivering, and glancing at the Viking's skull. "But this much I know, that long before the house shook and the gas went out, I was frightened by strange sounds coming from the head of the staircase where the skull was, and so—and so——"
And here Beatrice paused, not knowing how to express to others that which was not very clear to herself.
"And so you began to think that the skull was talkingand threatening you with mystic oracles? Fie, Trixie," said her brother, reprovingly. "I did not think you could be so foolish."
But perceiving that it would be useless at this juncture to try to reason her out of her belief, such process being best reserved for the sober light of morning, Godfrey turned to give some orders to the housemaid.
"Ha!" exclaimed Idris, picking up the novel from the floor, "so you have been reading this? Then I don't wonder that you have been frightened. 'The Fair Orientalist' is not a book to be read at night in a lonely house."
"I will not deny that the book frightened me, but what was it that frightened Leo?Hecannot read ghost-stories, and yet he howled piteously."
"Probably with that prevision instinctive in the brute race he discerned the coming of this catastrophe."
Beatrice, having now recovered herself, proposed a tour of the house with a view of ascertaining how much damage had been done.
The walls did not exhibit any cracks or fissures, and apparently were as sound as before, but on the floor of every room proofs of the recent earth-tremor were evident in the shape of fallen articles.
Breakage was especially triumphant in the kitchen.
"Ah me!" sighed Beatrice, sorrowfully. "Good-bye to my new tea-service! And my pretty majolica bread-plate gone, too! Nothing will convince me that this is not the work of the Viking. When he was alive I have no doubt that, being a heathen, he took a pleasure in slaying good Christian folk: and now that he is dead he shows his malignity by destroying their crockery-ware. A noble Viking, one would think, should be above such meanness."
On returning to the sitting-room Idris, for theenlightenment of Beatrice, began to relate his adventure with Mademoiselle Rivière; and, as Beatrice listened, she became strangely disquieted by the incident. Why should this be?
But when Idris, in the course of his story, dwelt on the beauty of Lorelie, and above all on the heroic light of her eyes when she bade him leave her to save himself, Beatrice readily discerned by the warmth of his tone how matters stood with him, and realizing this, her agitation increased. Surprised, frightened, trembling, she found herself borne along on the wild wave of her emotion to the certain knowledge that her feelings towards Idris were not those of friendship simply, but of love!
And perceiving how deeply enthralled he was by the witchery of Lorelie Rivière her mind became tortured with exquisite pain.
Fearing that Idris and Godfrey might observe her emotion and divine its cause, she seized a favourable moment to steal from the apartment, without so little as a "Good-night," lest her voice should betray her.
And on attaining her dainty bedroom she flung herself upon the bed and gave way to emotion, despising herself as foolish, and yet unable to check her tears.
"If he but knew her true character!" she murmured: "If he but knew! But it is not for me to tell him. He will—he must learn it in time. And then—and then—perhaps—it may be—that——"
But Beatrice put this hope from her as too delightful ever to be realized.
"Now to examine my noble Viking," said Idris, taking up the skull from the table. "Let us see whether he has suffered any injury in his roll down-stairs.—Hul-lo!"
Shaking the skull as he spoke, his attention was arrested by a faint rattle within it, a sound that he had not heard in his previous handlings of the relic.
"Listen, Godfrey!" he cried in a curious tone of voice, and shaking the skull again. "What is this inside?"
He stopped the motion to examine the skull more carefully. Strange that till this moment he had not noticed that the occipital bone was pierced by a tiny hole of circular shape!
"Do you see this, Godfrey?" he said, pointing out the orifice. "This could have been caused only by a sharp-pointed instrument. The thing rattling within must be a fragment of some weapon."
He gave the skull another shake, when, from the vertebral orifice there dropped a piece of rusty steel about two inches in length, slender, rounded, and tapering to a point.
"No one could live with a thing like this in his head," said Idris. "So it is clear that we have here a fragment of the identical weapon that gave old Orm hiscoup-de-grâce."
A tiny piece of steel publicly exposed, say in a shop-window, will attract little, if any notice: but let it be known that the said steel is the instrument with which a murder has been wrought, and a whole city will come trooping forth to view: and fancy prices will be offered for it by connoisseurs of the gruesome.
Deep, therefore, was the interest with which the two friends viewed their latest discovery.
"Then this cannot be the skull of Orm the Viking," remarked Godfrey, after a thoughtful pause, "if the tapestry we brought away from the tomb is to be received as an authority, since that represents him as slain by an arrow piercing his breast."
This contradiction between the evidence presented by the skull and that presented by the tapestry, perplexed Idris in no small degree. Having conceived the somewhat pleasing notion that he was the possessor of theskull of Orm the Golden, he was loth to relinquish his belief, and prepared to argue the point.
"Artists, whether in needlework or in oils, are not always to be accepted as historic authorities. I have no doubtsuppressio veriwas practised as much in the Viking age as in our own. If Orm died with a wound in the occiput, what does that seem to show? That he must have turned his back on his foes in defiance of the canons of Norse bravery. Do you think that the weavers of the tapestry would let posterity know that Orm had turned coward? No! therefore they make him die with an arrow in his breast, facing the foe, bold to the last. The tumulus in Ravensdale is certainly Orm's tomb: the name Ormfell and the tapestry prove it, and hence the bones it contains must be those of Orm."
"Hum! I'm not convinced," replied Godfrey. "You believe this steel to be the fragment of a battle-weapon: of what kind of weapon? It is too slender to have formed part of a sword or a dagger: too finely-pointed to have been the barb of a lance or an arrow."
"It may be a spike from that sort of mace which the Vikings in their playful way were wont to call their 'Morning Star.' This is perhaps a stellar ray."
"Rather fragile for the spike of a mace, isn't it?"
"True. I confess I am as much puzzled as yourself to name the weapon of which this once formed part."
For a long time Idris continued to puzzle over the question, polishing the steel fragment till it gleamed with a silvery-azure light. He suggested its connection with all kinds of impossible weapons, but could come to no satisfactory conclusion. Then, vexed by Godfrey's scepticism, he said:—
"Well, old wiseacre, if this be not Orm's skull, tell me whose it is?"
"Impossible to say—at present. My opinion is thatit is not an ancient skull at all, but a modern one. The future will perhaps show whether I am right. As 'there's a Divinity that shapes' human affairs, it may be that the earthquake of to-night has been sent for a purpose. It has had the effect of loosening the fragment of steel hitherto immovably fixed in the cavity of the skull. You will, perhaps, consider me fanciful, Idris, but I have a presentiment that we are on the threshold of a startling discovery to which this piece of steel forms a clue."