On the morning after his adventure on the seashore Idris went out with the intention of calling upon Mademoiselle Rivière: and that he might not lack reasonable pretext for his visit, he took with him the book which she had asked him to return. Apart altogether from the charm of her beauty Lorelie interested him, both as being the daughter of Captain Rochefort, and likewise as the depositary of some strange secret relating to his father's history. Though earnestly pressed by Idris she had firmly declined to give any account of Eric Marville from the time of his escape to the sinking of the yacht in Ormsby Race. It was difficult to assign a motive for her refusal, but Idris did not doubt that in course of time he would be able to overcome her reticence: and therefore, if only on this account, Lorelie Rivière was a person whose friendship it behoved him to cultivate.
The way to her villa, The Cedars, took him past Saint Oswald's Church, and moved by a sudden impulse, he turned aside to enter the edifice, which in more than one sense was hallowed ground to him, inasmuch as it was here that he had first met with Lorelie.
Surely Eros was directing his steps! For, scarcely had he passed within the porch of the Ravengar Chantry when his ear caught the soft rustle of silk, and Mademoiselle Rivière herself was standing before him. She had entered by another door, and the basket of flowers hanging from her arm seemed to indicate thather object in visiting the church was to deck its altar. Dressed in a graceful costume of black and silver that harmonized exquisitely with her delicate complexion she looked more beautiful and witching than ever in Idris' eyes, as with a bright smile she extended her hand.
"And your sprained ankle?" he asked, when their first greetings were over.
"Is not my presence here a satisfactory answer to that question?" she smiled.
"May I ask for a flower in exchange, mademoiselle?" said Idris, as he returned the book to her.
"Here is variety to choose from. Let me learn your favourite."
She held out the basket for Idris to make his choice.
"You are taking nothing but forget-me-nots," she cried.
"I am in a parabolical mood, you see. The name of this flower expresses what my lips would say."
"And thereby you accuse me of ingratitude."
"How so?"
"By suggesting the possibility of my forgetting one who has saved my life," replied Lorelie, the colour stealing over her cheek. She raised her eyes to his with an expression in them that thrilled him, and continued, "Shall I tell you the dream I had last night? I thought I was still lying on those sands where I fell, unable to move. The rising tide came on and rippled around me, striking a chill through my clothing. At last the water was so high that it flowed over my face, filling my mouth and nostrils. I fought with it, but it ascended higher and ever higher above me, till I was deep down below the surface.
"And the curious part of it all was that I still lived. I lay there as in a trance, motionless, staring upwards. I could see the air-bubbles of my breath ascending to thesurface. The moon with tremulous motion shone through the glassy water, looking—oh! ever so far away. The sea-weed drifted around and clung to my cheek and hair. Curious sea-monsters came and looked at me, then went away again: shell-fish crawled over me, and all night long the restless water flowed over my face and plashed in and out of my mouth. Its faint murmur rings in my ears still. In the morning I awoke and found it a dream. Then I said to myself, 'This is what would have happened if—if no one had been near to aid me.'"
"It is past now," replied Idris, observing her shiver. "Don't think any more about it."
"The peril is past, but the memory of it remains. Ah, that dream! If it should occur again to-night I shall begin to be like Richard III, and tremble at the thought of sleep. Shall I put those flowers in your coat, Mr. Breakspear? You seem to find it a difficulty."
Idris readily accepted her proffered aid.
"Forget-me-not," she murmured, fastening the nosegay to his button-hole; and Idris wondered whether the words were addressed to him, or whether she was simply repeating the name of the flower: the latter it seemed by her next remark. "Why should our Frenchmyosotisbe called in English, 'Forget-me-not'? Can you tell me the origin of the name?"
Idris could, and did: relating the somewhat apocryphal story of the youth, who, in wading to the opposite bank of a river with a view of procuring some flowers for his sweetheart, was swept off by the current and drowned, but not before he had had time to fling the flowers at her feet with the parting cry of "Forget-me-not!"
"The moral of which is," added Idris, "learn to swim."
"You are spoiling a pretty story by your cynicism,"said Lorelie. "His love was all the greater if he could not swim."
She turned to arrange her flowers upon the altar of the Ravengar Chantry. Idris was watching her when his eye was caught by a shadow outlined on the stone pavement. The sun was shining through the window above the altar, and casting at his feet glowing splashes of various hues. For a few seconds he continued to stare, doubtful whether he saw aright, and then, slowly raising his gaze, he followed the slanting shaft of coloured light upward from the pavement till his eyes rested upon the stained window.
The central pane was blazoned with the armorial device of the Ravengars. The shield, supported on each side by a raven, in canting allusion to the family name, was charged in the centre with a silver circlet, a thin purple line forming the perimeter.
The runic ring!
Yes: there was its facsimile gleaming from the coloured glass, and seeming in the morning sunlight to sparkle with a new and mysterious significance. That this argent circle was intended to represent the Norse altar-ring Idris had not the shadow of a doubt: and for a moment he felt resentment both against Beatrice and Godfrey: for, familiar as they must be with this coat of arms—Beatrice herself, as a Ravengar, being entitled to assume it—they had made no allusion to it when he was telling them the story of the runic ring. It was singular, too, that he himself should have failed to notice this blazon in his previous visit to this chantry.
What was the reason for its figuring in the Ravengar shield?
Curious stories are often latent within armorial devices, as students of heraldry can testify. Was it possible that this ring had been adopted by the Ravengars of a pastgeneration because it had been in some way connected with their history?
"Mademoiselle Rivière," said Idris, impulsively, thinking that she might be able to throw some light upon the matter, "can you tell me whether the Ravengars of past times had any historic reason for decorating their armorial shield with a silver ring?"
"There is an interesting legend to account for it," she said after a moment's hesitation, "which you will find in a curious old book entitled, 'Traditions of the House of Ravengar.'"
"You know the story, then? May I not learn it from you rather than from the book?"
"It is a story that will take a long time in the telling."
This, in Idris' opinion, was an excellent reason for hearing it. Lorelie found herself unable to resist his persuasive manner: so, sitting down, she proceeded to tell the story with a detail that showed how it had caught her own imagination.
In the ninth century—so ran the legend—there lived a Norse sea-king, who, either from the terror inspired by his arms, or from the gilt figure on the prow of his galley, was called Draco, or "The Dragon." From the great wealth acquired in his various water-expeditions he gained the additional name of "The Golden."
Like many other heroes of the north this Draco claimed descent from Odin, and among his hereditaments nothing was more prized by him than the silver altar-ring used in the religious ceremonies of his clan, since it was said to have belonged originally to his divine ancestor.
Draco lived at the time when the Norsemen were sailing by thousands from their own land in order to gain by the sword new and fairer homes in Britain. He, too, determined to have a share in the territorial spoil, andaccordingly, equipping his dragon-keels, and gathering his warcarls around him, he sailed off over the seas.
On arriving within sight of the Northumbrian coast he had recourse to the gods for fixing the precise point of his disembarkation: he let fly two ravens consecrated to Odin, and following in their wake landed where they had alighted.
He quickly put to the rout those Northumbrians who attempted to oppose him, and proceeded to confirm his victory by building a fortress on the site of the existing Ravenhall. Sallying forth from this place he would plunder the neighbouring monasteries, or, putting out to sea, attack the merchant vessels that passed his shores, thus becoming possessed in course of time, of a vast quantity of treasure in the shape of gold and silver, church-plate, coinage, jewels, and the like.
In his old age he met with the end deemed worthy of a warrior, being slain in battle whilst contending against a neighbouring chieftain. At his burial a Norse scald composed that wild barbaric requiem, which Idris had heard Lorelie playing on the organ—a requiem that had accompanied the funeral of every Ravengar since: though doubtless with considerable variations from the original strain.
Draco left one son only, Magnus by name. He was but a child at the time of his father's death, and the widowed mother, Hilda, fearing that an attempt might be made to deprive him of his patrimonial treasure, secretly buried it, purposing to give it to her son when he should be of age to defend his rights.
For a time all went well. The warriors who had followed the standard of Draco rallied around his son, and looked forward to the day when he should emulate or surpass the deeds of his father. But eventually murmurings arose. The boy was too much under his mother'sinfluence, they thought: the hand that should have been wielding the spear was more often found holding the pen. She was accused of teaching him dark and curious arts.
It was a long time, however, before the Vikings ventured to express their displeasure openly, for they feared Hilda. She was an Alruna, that is, anall-runicor all-wise woman, who had power to cast pernicious spells upon those who offended her.
At last, one day, provoked to the extreme by some act of imprudence on her part, they came to Magnus and telling him that they were going to banish his mother, they gave him the choice of being their chieftain or of accompanying her into exile. Magnus elected to stand with his father's warriors, and, as head of the clan, in full and solemn doom-ring, he pronounced upon his mother sentence of perpetual banishment.
Cut to the heart by this unfilial act Hilda vowed that she would never reveal to him the hiding-place of the treasure: and so, being banished, she returned to her native Norseland, taking with her the silver altar-ring.
With the lapse of time, however, she began to relent towards her absent son. She yearned to see him again, but was now too old to undertake the fatigues attending the voyage. She resolved to break her oath of silence and to tell him where the treasure lay concealed. To secure herself from treachery on the part of her messenger, who might have appropriated the wealth himself if entrusted with the secret of its hiding-place, she had recourse to the following expedient. She engraved upon the altar-ring a sentence indicative of the exact site of the treasure, making use of runic letters, arranged in such a way that none but Magnus could understand them: for cryptic writing had been one of the many arts she had taught him. This done, she despatched the ring by the hand of a herald.
But Magnus was now dead. His son and successor was Ulric, who, because his lance bore a small pennon decorated with the figure of a raven, was called Ravengar or Raven Spear, a name that became hereditary.
Hilda's messenger entered the hall at the hour when Ulric sat feasting with his warriors. In accordance with the Norse rites of hospitality the herald was given a seat at the board. No question was asked of him, and he resolved to defer his message till the meal should be over. This delay proved fatal to him, for, during the course of the feast, he accidentally drew forth the altar-ring. In a moment the ancient greybeards—old companions of Draco—recognized the sacred relic of Odin, and sternly commanded the stranger to explain how he became possessed of their former chieftain's ring: it had formed a part of the missing treasure: he must, therefore, know where the remainder was.
With a stammering tongue the herald stated that he was a messenger from the Lady Hilda, and pointing to the inscription upon the ring, said that it indicated the hiding-place of the treasure.
Ulric, unskilled in the art of letters, passed the ring on to the sagamen and scalds, who shook their heads over it. Magnus, the only one capable of reading the riddle, was no more. The herald himself was unable to decipher the message that his mistress had caused to be engraved. To the assembled Vikings his words seemed an idle tale: his ignorance was imputed to knavery: swords gleamed in the air: the oaken rafters rang with excited cries.
At one end of the hall on a daïs there stood, as was usual in those days, rude images of the gods. To this spot the herald was dragged and told that unless he revealed the hiding-place of the treasure he should be sacrificed there and then to Odin and Thor.
Vain was his plea of ignorance: vain his appeal formercy: he was slain by the dagger of Ulric, himself the priest as well as the chief of the clan: the altar-ring was dipped in the blood of the victim, and the red drops were sprinkled on all present. With his dying breath the herald called upon heaven to be his avenger, invoking a curse upon the head of him who should discover the treasure, and praying that the finder might meet with a death as violent as his own.
Afterwards, when Ulric came to clean the ring, he found he could not remove the stain of blood, and the sagamen who examined it declared that the mark would never be effaced till one of the Raven-race should die as an atonement for the death of the herald, whose sacred character had been impiously set at nought.
Ulric retained the ring as the symbol of his authority: at his death it passed to his son, and so from generation to generation it continued in the Ravengar family as a venerated heirloom. In the days of Charles II the first Earl of Ormsby, Lancelot Ravengar, adopted the ring as an armorial device, taking as his supporters two ravens, in allusion to the birds that were said to have directed the course of Draco's galley.
Such was the story of the runic ring, a story to which Idris listened with the deepest interest. It was clear to him that his Viking Orm and Lorelie's Draco were identical, the Norse form of the name having doubtless been changed into its Latin equivalent by the original monkish chronicler.
"And is the ring still in the possession of the Ravengars?" he asked, when Lorelie had come to the end of her story.
"No: about fifty years ago it was stolen."
"Under what circumstances?"
"The affair was a mystery. The ring was kept with other heirlooms in the jewel-room at Ravenhall.According to the butler it was secure in its glass case when he locked the door of the jewel-room at night: in the morning it was gone. Suspicion fell upon a steward who was under notice of dismissal: it is supposed that he was actuated by a spirit of revenge. The detectives employed in the case failed, however, to connect him with the theft, nor did their investigations lead to any result so far as regards the recovery of the ring."
"The steward, if he were guilty, probably disposed of the relic on the Continent," said Idris. "At any rate it found its way to Nantes, for the Ravengar heirloom must surely have been the very ring which led to the murder of M. Duchesne and the consequent arrest of my father."
"I believe—nay, I am certain it was," answered Lorelie.
Her eyes drooped and a shadow passed over her face. Any reference to Eric Marville seemed to trouble her, and Idris resolved to avoid the mention of his name.
"And during the many centuries in which this ring was in the possession of the Ravengars," he continued, "was no one ever found capable of deciphering the runic inscription?"
"No one. In time past the ring was submitted to many antiquaries, but they could make nothing of it."
Idris, though justly proud of his success in a matter wherein experts had failed, kept his own counsel for the present, and refrained from mentioning thathehad accomplished the feat.
"Then, of course, the treasure of old Orm—Draco, I mean—has never been discovered?"
"Not by a Ravengar."
"But by some one else probably. It is not likely that the buried treasure has remained undiscovered for a thousand years."
"The legend says that only a Ravengar can discoverit, and that in the very moment of discovery he will forfeit his life as an atonement for the death of the herald. But this," added Lorelie with a smile, "is, of course, mere poetic fancy."
"There is one omission in your story. You did not state where this sea-king, Draco, was buried."
"The legend does not say. You are forgetting that itisa legend, invented, perhaps, by some imaginative king-at-arms in order to decorate the vanity of the first Earl of Ormsby with a long pedigree and a romantic origin."
But Idris had received proofs that the story was true in the main. For example, there had actually existed an altar-ring such as described—for he had seen and handled it himself—a ring engraved with a sentence which not only spoke of a buried treasure, but also bore the names of the very persons, Orm, Hilda, and Magnus, who had figured so prominently in the story. The fragment of tapestry brought from the interior of the ancient tumulus supplied additional evidence as to the historic existence of the Golden Viking and the widowed Hilda.
"This Draco," continued Idris, "if he received the sepulchral honours due to a Norse chief, would be buried beneath an immense mound of earth. If we are to look for his tomb in this neighbourhood we shall perhaps find it in a tumulus on the seashore about four miles from here."
"I know the eminence you refer to," replied Lorelie. "It is called Ormfell, that is, Orm's Hill; and therefore it cannot be Draco's tomb, otherwise it would be called Draconfell, or something similar."
Idris did not stop to show the fallacy of this mode of reasoning, but continued:—
"Has this hillock never been opened by the Earls of Ormsby to see what it contains?"
"Not that I am aware of."
It was strange, Idris thought, that while the tumulus had retained the true Norse name of the Viking, his descendants, the Ravengars, should have remembered him only by his Latinized name of Draco. This explained why Ormfell had never suggested itself to them as the tomb of their ancestor. In forgetting that he was likewise called Orm, they had unwittingly deprived themselves of an indication as to the place of the buried treasure.
Idris' musings were brought to an end by Lorelie's rising to take her departure, which caused him to murmur something about the sadness of parting.
"But if there were no parting there would never be the sweetness of meeting," was her reply.
Was this no more than a pretty saying on her part; or did she really look forward with pleasure to their next meeting?
Emboldened by her words he raised her hand to his lips before she was aware of his intention.
"Mr. Breakspear, you must not do that," she said in a trembling voice, and hastily withdrawing her hand from his. Her face was pale: a strange look came into her eyes, and she turned and hurried away. Idris, trembling lest he should have given offence, watched her till she was out of sight, and then went slowly back to Wave Crest.
Verily he was a fortunate fellow! Fresh from a charmingtête-à-têtewith one fair lady he was now to have the like with a second: for, on passing through the garden-gate, he saw Beatrice Ravengar reading in a low chair beneath the apple-trees—Beatrice, the sea-king's daughter, the descendant of that very Viking whose bones reposed in Ormfell!
Her heart beat more quickly as Idris approached. He,little divining the cause of the colour that played so enchantingly over her cheek, thought Godfrey's sister a very pretty maiden indeed. True, she lacked the dark starry beauty of Lorelie—Idris' tastes ran in favour of brunettes—yet there was a subtle witchery in Beatrice's soft grey eyes and winsome expression; in her sunny hair: and in her graceful figure, set off as it then was, by a dainty dress of soft muslin.
"My name, being Breakspear," said he, with mock sternness, as he took a seat beside her, "you will not be surprised to learn that I have a lance to break with you."
"And what have I done that is amiss?" asked Beatrice, outwardly smiling, but inwardly uneasy: for some secret feeling told her that he had just left the presence of Mademoiselle Rivière, and she feared lest that lady should have said something to prejudice her in the eyes of Idris. A fair return, for had not she herself let fall in Idris' presence words unfriendly to Lorelie?
"You have committed the sin of omission in not telling me that the armorial shield of the Ravengars is decorated with a silver ring."
"I am aware that a ring figures in their coat of arms," said Beatrice, with wide, wondering eyes, "but where is my fault in not telling you of it? Surely," she added, with a sudden intuition as to his meaning, "surely you do not mean to say that there is some connection between your runic ring and the Ravengar device?"
Idris' reply was to repeat the story he had just heard.
"This is all new to me," said Beatrice, when he had finished, "but then I never was a Ravengar. I am the daughter of my mother, and have taken little, if any, interest in the genealogy and family traditions of my ancestors, the belted earls."
"You should now look with more favour on the Viking's skull as being that of your great forefather. His object in coming down the staircase last night was evidently to introduce himself to you, his youngest descendant.—But I have interrupted your reading, for which I beg pardon. May I ask the title of your book?"
"Longfellow's 'Saga of King Olaf.' You have read it?"
"No: but a Norse saga in verse is, by its very nature, certain to interest me. Will you not read aloud, Miss Ravengar?"
There is little Beatrice would not have done to please Idris, and accordingly she began the reading of the poem. Her voice was clear and silvery, and marked at times by a cadence, plaintive and pretty. Idris would have fared ill had he been required to give a summary of the poem, for he paid little attention to the words, finding a greater charm in the face and voice of the reader. More than once the thought stole over him that if he had not seen Mademoiselle Rivière his love might have found its resting-place in Beatrice.
Reading smoothly onward Beatrice came to the scene in which the reluctant bride Gudrun, on her wedding-night, draws near to the couch of Olaf, dagger in hand and murder in her heart.
"'What is that,' King Olaf said,'Gleams so bright above thy head?Wherefore standest thou so whiteIn pale moonlight?'"''Tis the bodkin that I wearWhen at night I bind my hair.'"
"'What is that,' King Olaf said,'Gleams so bright above thy head?Wherefore standest thou so whiteIn pale moonlight?'"''Tis the bodkin that I wearWhen at night I bind my hair.'"
"'What is that,' King Olaf said,'Gleams so bright above thy head?Wherefore standest thou so whiteIn pale moonlight?'
"'What is that,' King Olaf said,
'Gleams so bright above thy head?
Wherefore standest thou so white
In pale moonlight?'
"''Tis the bodkin that I wearWhen at night I bind my hair.'"
"''Tis the bodkin that I wear
When at night I bind my hair.'"
Beatrice paused. "Bodkin?" she said. "That's not the right word. Ladies don't fasten their hair with bodkins."
"Poets do not speak with the precision of grammarians. I suppose he should have said hairpin."
"Did they use hairpins in those days, then?"
"Without a doubt," replied Idris, being a little hazy on the point, nevertheless.
"Gudrun must have worn a very large hairpin, if she could liken a dagger to it."
"I suppose it was not very unlike the stiletto contrivances worn by ladies of the present day," answered Idris.
"''Tis the bodkin that I wearWhen at night I bind my hair.'"
"''Tis the bodkin that I wearWhen at night I bind my hair.'"
"''Tis the bodkin that I wearWhen at night I bind my hair.'"
"''Tis the bodkin that I wear
When at night I bind my hair.'"
repeated Beatrice. "At night? Did she wear it in her hair while sleeping?"
"I never knew the lady," laughed Idris, "so I am unable to answer. Why shouldn't she?"
"Because during sleep she might turn her head upon the point and receive an unpleasant stab."
"You speak from experience?"
"An experience as recent only as last night."
"We must leave Gudrun's bodkin suspended in midair while you tell me how this happened."
"There is really nothing to tell. When I went to bed I forgot to remove the stiletto from my hair. Somehow, I was unable to sleep last night."
"You were thinking of the skull, perhaps?"
"Yes, it must have been that," replied Beatrice, colouring at this prevarication, for had she spoken truly, she must have told him thathewas the cause of her unrest.
"And so," she continued, "while I was tossing from side to side, the stiletto must have got loose, and in turning my head on the pillow I received a stab from the point of it. Nothing to speak of, a mere scalp wound."
"It was well the point was not forced into your brain. I have heard of fatal accidents resulting from the use of these stiletto-pins. You discarded it at once?"
"Of course."
"Forever?"
"O, no. Only till the morning," replied Beatrice demurely.
"What? You have not let it serve as a warning? O, Miss Ravengar, Miss Ravengar! what is this I see shimmering in your hair at the present moment?"
"A proof of feminine vanity, for it is of no real use, being merely an ornament."
"May I inspect the savage weapon that might have ended your existence, and may yet, since you decline to learn wisdom from experience?"
Beatrice drew forth the hairpin. It was shaped like a dagger, the steel being slender, rounded, and tapering to a point: the hilt of gold set with brilliants.
As soon as Idris saw it he stared at it as if mesmerized, the tapering point of the slender steel was so strangely suggestive of the metal fragment that had fallen from the Viking's skull. He took it from his pocket and held it out to her.
"Miss Ravengar, what should you say this is?"
"That?" replied Beatrice. "That is a part of a hairpin. See!"
She laid it upon her open palm beside her own stiletto. The terminal of the latter corresponded exactly in form and colour with the broken fragment: at least, the difference, if difference there were, was imperceptible by the naked eye.
"It certainlylookslike a hairpin."
"Looks like it, do you say?" said Beatrice, with a sort of reproach in her tone. "Itis," she asseverated firmly.
"What reason have you for this opinion other than mere resemblance?" asked Idris, a little surprised by her air of certitude.
"I do not reason upon it. Iknowit is a hairpin," she replied, with a peculiar emphasis upon the "know."
There was a strangeness in her manner, an entire reversal of her former self: her face seemed hallowed by a light like the inspired expression of a sibyl. The expression was momentary only, dying as soon as born, but it left Idris curiously impressed.
"Hilda the Alruna may have looked like that, when delivering her oracles," he thought.
"Why do you value this piece of steel?" asked Beatrice, as she restored it to him.
"This little piece of steel, Miss Ravengar, is nothing less than the instrument that gave your ancestor Orm hiscoup-de-grâce. It dropped out of the skull last night. For the future my motto must be, 'When in doubt, consult Miss Ravengar.' By your wit I was enabled to discover the secret entrance to Ormfell; and now, when wondering of what this steel fragment once formed part, you come to my aid again by reading a poem concerning a Norse lady, whose intended action towards her husband seems almost to have a direct bearing upon the Viking's skull. Our Norse forefathers, you will remember, were accustomed to regard their maidens as prophetesses, whose opinions, when solemnly invoked, were to be received as oracles. I will imitate their example, and accept your dictum that this is a fragment of a lady's hairpin."
Godfrey, who had joined the pair a few minutes previously, and had stood a silent listener of the conversation, now intervened with a remark.
"Well, then, you must admit," said he, "that this opinion clashes with the story told by the tapestry, whichtapestry avers that Orm died with a cloth-yard shaft sticking in him."
"The two ideas are not irreconcilable," argued Idris. "My belief is that we have here," holding up the piece of steel, "a silent testimony to a domestic tragedy of a thousand years ago. Old Orm the Viking was carried from the battle-field wounded by an arrow. His wife Hilda was perhaps enamoured of some other warrior: and so, while affecting to nurse her husband, she may have hastened his end by secretly driving her strong hairpin into his head, a feat she could perform with comparative safety to herself, there being no coroner's inquest in those days. His death would be attributed to the arrow-wound, and therefore is so represented on the tapestry."
"If your inference be right," said Beatrice, "it is a strange verification of the old saying, 'Murder will out.' Fancy the crime coming to light after the lapse of a thousand years! Though it is not very kind of you, Mr. Breakspear," she added, with a mock pout, "to attempt to prove that my ancestress Hilda was a murderess. You will be saying next that a taste for assassination is one of our family traits, and that the homicidal microbe runs in my blood."
"The lapse of ten centuries will have effectually eliminated it."
"Merci!" she returned, dropping him a mock curtsey. "Yes: it is consoling to reflect that this little piece of family scandal is removed from us by the space of a full millennium."
"But Idris is altogether wrong in his theory," remarked Godfrey decisively. "This piece of steel is not ancient at all."
"Ay, ay, destroyer of my romance!" returned Idris. "Can you give me satisfactory proof that it is not ancient?"
"I think so: if you will let me do what I like with it."
Idris shook his head.
"I value this fragment," he explained, "believing in its antiquity. You would not willingly destroy the bullet that killed Nelson, nor will I consent to destroy the weapon that slew my Viking."
"But if I could clearly demonstrate to you that it is a modern piece of steel—what then?"
"In that case it would lose its chief value in my eyes, and it would prove, among other things, that the skull is not Orm's: for if this steel be modern, so likewise must be the skull. But how are you going to prove its modernity? Are not iron and steel alike in all ages? Is the steel that was wrought on the anvil of the Norse armourer different from the steel forged to-day in the foundries of Sheffield?"
"Yes, in some respects. I want to conduct a chemical experiment with this relic, an experiment which will necessitate its destruction. Still, if I succeed in demonstrating its modernity you will not object?"
"Far from it. But are you likely to demonstrate it?"
"Well, of course, I am open to failure. My opinion rests upon a certain assumption, which assumption, if correct, will conclusively show that this steel was forged within modern times.Nous verrons."
How long should a man have known a woman before venturing upon a proposal of love? Such was the question now occupying the mind of Idris.
He had seen Mademoiselle Rivière three times only: he had not spent above seven hours in her presence: yet had they been seven hundred instead of seven he knew that his feeling for her would be no stronger at the end of that time than at the beginning. The moon might have its period of crescent and wane: not so his love: its circle was full and complete from the first moment of his setting eyes upon her.
She was now the sole object of his thoughts. All other matters: the quest for his father, the problem of the Viking's skull, were relegated to the dim and distant future; what were they compared with the winning of Lorelie?
He found himself continually dwelling upon her manner towards him at the moment of their last parting. He was uncertain whether she was startled only, or vexed, by his act of gallantry; whether he must draw hope or despair from that event; and he knew not which was the wiser course—to declare his love at once, or to defer the proposal till he had gained a greater hold upon her affections. A too premature avowal might be disastrous: on the other hand to be dilatory might lead to his being forestalled by Viscount Walden.
This latter argument prevailed with him, and heresolved to see Lorelie at once, and take the momentous step of giving utterance to his feelings. Even rejection was preferable to the state of suspense in which he was now living.
On presenting himself at The Cedars he was told by the maid who opened the door that her mistress was out. Where had she gone? The maid was not certain, but she fancied that "Ma'amzelle" had said something about spending the afternoon in Ravenhall Park.
Accordingly Idris betook himself to this park, a large extent of which was open to the public: and after a short search he found Lorelie seated within a charming recess formed by dark rocks overhung with blossoming foliage. She was holding in her hand a small writing-pad, upon which lay some sheets of manuscript that she was apparently correcting and annotating with a pencil, doubtless putting some emendatory touches to her drama,The Fatal Skull.
The place, though picturesque, was hardly the ideal spot for his love-avowal, since it was within sight of the majestic towers of Ravenhall, which, in Idris' opinion, offered a very powerful argument in favour of Lord Walden's suit.
On seeing Idris Lorelie at once made way for him on the seat beside her, the glad light in her eyes showing that he was far from being an unwelcome visitor.
Though Idris had set out in bold spirit, yet now, faced by opportunity, he began to realize that the task required more courage than he was master of: and for a long time he talked of other matters, or rather he let Lorelie carry on the conversation, finding it easier to be a listener than a speaker.
And Loreliecouldtalk: charmingly, and upon many topics that are supposed to be the peculiar province of the masculine mind. She had never seemed so brightand interesting as on this present occasion. How sweet and silvery her laugh! How pretty the curve of her lips, and how glowing their colour! Supposing he were to stoop suddenly and kiss them? Would not such an act be tantamount to a love-avowal, and thus relieve him from the difficulty of an oral confession?
Lorelie, observant at last of Idris' quiet manner, rallied him on his want of spirits.
"You seem very grave to-day, Mr. Breakspear?"
"Do I, mademoiselle? I am thinking."
"May I share your thoughts?"
"You may share my life if you will."
"Mr. Breakspear, what are you saying?" exclaimed Lorelie, quickly, breathlessly.
"That I love you. Is that a fault? Nay, rather, it would be a fault not to love you."
Lorelie drew a deep shuddering breath. Their eyes met: a strange wistful tenderness in hers. Such a look Idris had never before received from woman: he knew what it meant, and grew giddy at the thought that he had the power to evoke it.
Then, in a moment, all was changed!
A priestess, starting in agony from the Delphic tripod, could not have exhibited a wilder mien than did Lorelie at that moment as she rose to her feet, her hands pressed to her bosom as if to repress the emotion struggling there: in her eyes an expression of horror, the startled guilty look of one who, tempted to listen to wrong, is suddenly recalled to a sense of duty.
Idris had wanted to say more, to speak of the depth of his love, but that look chilled all the warmth of his feelings, and checked the words that were rising to his lips.
"Mr. Breakspear," she began, with a strange "catch" in her voice, "you saved my life from the sea, and it may be that gratitude has led me to—to—how shall Iexpress myself?—to be too warm in my friendship. I have not guarded myself sufficiently. If there has been anything in my manner or words calculated to impress you with the belief that your addresses would be acceptable to me, I beg—I entreat—of you to forgive me. Such utterance—such action—on my part has been unintentional. I cannot listen to you."
With many women a "No" may sometimes mean "Yes," but this was not the case with Lorelie Rivière. Idris felt that her decision was final, irrevocable. And yet what was the meaning of that first look of rapture that had come into her eyes?
"You do well to refuse me, mademoiselle: to refuse in truth any suitor, for who indeed is worthy of you, but——"
"Mr. Breakspear, for pity's sake be silent. See!"
She drew something from her dress-pocket, turned aside for a moment, and then held out the third finger of her left hand. And at the sight Idris, strong man though he was, staggered as a man may stagger on hearing his death sentence.
"Great heaven! You are not married?" he said hoarsely.
"Ten months ago. Secretly. At Nice."
"To—to——?"
But he knew the name before she pronounced it.
"To Lord Walden—yes."
The earth that afternoon was roofed with a sky of deep delicious azure: the soft breeze rippled the leaves of the woodland, and at each breath the air became alive with the white blossoms of the trees. Nothing could be sweeter or fairer than this summer day, but its charm was not for Idris. With the knowledge that Lorelie could never be his, there passed away a glory from the earth.
Mechanically he turned his eyes towards Ravenhall.Lorelie followed the direction of his glance. Through a vista in the trees they could see the castellated pile, set with mullioned casements, and fronted with ivied terraces ascended by stately flights of stone steps. She knew—and bitter was the knowledge—that Idris was thinking thattherewas the prize for which she had sold herself.
He wronged her, however, by this thought.
When Lorelie, eighteen months before, had listened to the vows of Viscount Walden she had honestly believed herself to be in love with him. Idris' avowal had shown her the hollowness of that belief. Vivid as fire on a dark night there suddenly flashed upon her trembling mind the overwhelming revelation that her feeling for her husband was as nothing compared with her feeling for Idris. If all the happiness she had previously known had been suddenly sublimated and concentrated into one single intense sensation of a moment's duration it would not have equalled the rapture evoked by Idris' avowal. But in a moment the feeling had gone, giving place to the dull lethargy of despair. Though realizing but too plainly that she had married the wrong man, the knowledge of the fact did not diminish the loyalty due to her husband. Faithful she would ever remain, but it was not her fault if the love that she could henceforth give him would be scarcely deserving of the name.
She would have died rather than have given utterance to this confession, but Idris had read the secret in her eyes: she knew that he had read it, and the knowledge added to her confusion and made her unable to meet his glance.
There was a long silence between them. What was there to talk about? Their mutual love? That was of necessity a forbidden subject; and to talk of anything less than this seemed a mockery of the deep feelings within them.
Parted from Lorelie by adverse fortune what remained for Idris but to face the situation bravely?
"Mademoiselle," he said, using from habit the title that was no longer hers, "I take my leave. Forgive me, if my words have caused you pain. Farewell."
"But not forever. We may meet from time to time as—as friends."
Did she not realize that such friendship might be perilous? No: and as Idris gazed upon her clear eyes he saw there a spirit too pure to suffer itself to do wrong.
"You must forget," she faltered, "that you have ever entertained this—this feeling for me."
Idris smiled bitterly. He knew—sheknew—that it was the one event in their lives they never would forget.
At their last parting he had kissed her hand: he did not venture even to touch it now, but, lifting his hat, he quietly withdrew.
With tears in her eyes Lorelie watched him till he was lost to view.
"If you knew the truth," she murmured, "your feeling for me would not be love but hatred."
In melancholy mood Idris returned to Wave Crest. Beatrice, quick to interpret his looks, guessed what had happened: and though the result was such as she herself desired, yet the sight of his dejection touched her to the quick and filled her with a mixed feeling of pity and anger. Who, forsooth, was Mademoiselle Rivière that she should treat Idris' love as of no account?
Aware that Lorelie was not favourably regarded by Beatrice, Idris had prudently refrained from making the latter a confidante of his love-affair, but now, sitting down beside her, he proceeded to tell her all.
But when Beatrice heard the amazing news that Lorelie Rivière was in reality Viscountess Walden, and thereforeher cousin by marriage, a look not merely of wonder but of dismay stole over her face.
"Have you proof of this?" she asked breathlessly.
"Proof of what?" exclaimed Godfrey, entering the room at this juncture.
"That Mademoiselle Rivière is Ivar's wife," she replied.
"Well, I did not ask her to produce her marriage certificate," said Idris, somewhat vexed that Lorelie's word should be doubted. "For the truth of her words I had better refer you to your cousin, Lord Walden himself. We see now the cause of his surliness the other night. Any fellow with so lovely a wife might be jealous on learning that she had spent five hours in a lonely cavetête-à-têtewith a stranger."
"He might, nevertheless, have had the grace to give you a few words of thanks for saving her life," remarked Godfrey. "I suppose it is from fear of his father that he keeps the marriage a secret?"
"Presumably."
"Hum! rather hazardous to bring her so near to Ravenhall," said Godfrey.
"And she is really married?" murmured Beatrice. "O, how I have wronged her!"
"In what way?" asked Godfrey. "Come, Trixie, let us learn the reason of your past aversion."
It was some time before Beatrice could be induced to reply.
"You remember the case of old Gideon?" she said at last.
"Perfectly," replied Godfrey, adding for Idris' enlightenment, "he was an old farmer at the point of death. I was unable to procure a nurse, and Trixie generously offered her services. The poor fellow died at midnight; and Trixie, though pressed to remain, left the place andcame walking home all by herself, reaching here at two in the morning. But what has this to do with Mademoiselle Rivière—I beg her pardon, Lady Walden?"
"On my way home," replied Beatrice, "I had to pass her villa, and whom should I see walking up the garden-path towards the house but Ivar himself! He had not noticed me, and I did not make myself known to him: in truth I was so much amazed that I could do nothing but stand silent under the shadow of the trees, watching, or, if you will, playing the spy. I saw him open the door of the villa with a key of his own, and go in. Not knowing that he was married to Mademoiselle Rivière, what conclusion could I come to but that—that——"
And here Beatrice paused, leaving her hearers to guess the nature of her conclusion.
"And you thoughtthatof Mademoiselle Rivière?" said Idris: and Beatrice felt keenly the reproach in his tone.
"I have never whispered my suspicion to any one—not even to you, Godfrey."
"The sequel shows the advantage of holding one's tongue," replied her brother. "It has saved you from having to make a humiliating apology to the new viscountess. Well, seeing that she is now your cousin, you cannot do better than acknowledge the relationship by making a call upon her."
But Beatrice shrank from this ordeal.
"I have always shown her by my manner that I dislike her. She must think me an odious creature."
"On the contrary," replied Idris, "whenever your name has been mentioned she has spoken well of you, and has expressed herself as desirous of your friendship."
Beatrice was finally persuaded into promising that she would pay the new viscountess a visit on the morrow:after which, Godfrey, turning to Idris, addressed himself to a new theme.
"I spent this morning," he said, "in my laboratory over that piece of steel taken from your so-called Viking's skull, and I have discovered it to be of modern fabrication."
"Ah! and how do you prove it?" said Idris, preparing to argue the point.
"Chemical analysis shows that the steel contains two per cent. of platinum."
"What of that?" said Idris bluntly.
"Much. Platinum is a metal of modern discovery, first hit on in the year—well, I forget the exact date, some time about the beginning of the eighteenth century. Therefore, any steel that is combined with platinum must have been forged within the past two hundred years, and consequently cannot be a relic of Norse days."
"For what purpose is platinum mixed with the steel?"
"To impart additional hardness."
"I must accept your dictum as final. Of course the conclusion is that if the steel be modern, the skull must be modern, too. I must give up my belief, Miss Ravengar, that I possess the skull of your Viking ancestor. But then," he went on, "Orm was buried within that hillock: the pictured tapestry and the name Ormfell prove it. What, then, has become of his remains?"
"Crumbled to dust, perhaps, with the lapse of time," suggested Beatrice.
"The existence of the tapestry confutes you. Solid bone would not crumble, if a woollen fabric will endure."
"True," replied Beatrice, with a puzzled look. "I am forgetting the tapestry. Here's a mystery, indeed! What has become of the Viking's bones?"
"If the skeleton within the tumulus be that of amodern person," said Idris, "how on earth came it there? Who buried him, and——"
"We do not yet know that it is a 'him,'" interjected Godfrey. "The skeleton may be the remains of a woman."
"I speak provisionally. Who buried him, or her, and why should such a strange grave be chosen?"
"Because," replied the surgeon, gravely, "because, my dear Idris, cannot you see that the present occupant of Ormfell did not die a natural death? The piece of steel lodged in the brain proves that. He was murdered, murdered with a stiletto hairpin: and he, or they, that did the deed, knowing, as we know, that Ormfell contains a grave-chamber, disposed of the victim's body by placing it within the hillock, no doubt thinking that the remains, if ever discovered, would be taken for those of some ancient warrior, an error into which we ourselves would have fallen had not that tapestry remained, I might say, providentially remained, to tell us otherwise."
For a few moments both Beatrice and Idris sat dumbfounded at this startling theory.
"By heaven! I believe you are right," cried Idris. "And yet this murder-theory of yours is open to objection. There is the difficulty of conveying a dead body to Ormfell. Consider the risk of detection that the murderer would run."
"The murder may have taken place within Ormfell itself," suggested Beatrice.
"That is my view," replied Godfrey, "for there are signs which seem to point to that conclusion."
"What signs are they?" asked Idris.
"You will perhaps think my first reason fanciful," replied Godfrey. "You have continually maintained," he went on, addressing Idris, "that the divining rod took a downward bend at a certain point in the mortuarychamber. What formed the attractive force? 'The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground!' Shall we say that that was the true cause? For human bloodhasbeen shed there. Have you forgotten how the tapestry taken from that very spot reddened the water in which it was placed? Now let us suppose that some one standing at that point was suddenly struck down from behind: his natural action in falling would be to clutch at the nearest thing he could lay hold of."
"Which in his case would be the tapestry," interjected Idris.
"Just so: and that is my way of accounting for the tearing of that fabric, and the downward curvature of the rod to which it was attached. The tapestry at the same time became saturated with the blood of the victim."
"Your opinion seems reasonable," remarked Idris, "except as regards the divining rod; I can't believe that dried blood could produce such an effect. But the difficulty remains—what has become of the Viking's bones?"
And to this question Godfrey could give no satisfactory answer.
"When do you think this murder took place?" Idris asked. "In our own days, or long before them?"
"I see no way at present of fixing the date," Godfrey replied.
"It may have been twenty, fifty, or a hundred years ago, or even more," ventured Idris.
"Any period since the era of the discovery of platinum," answered Godfrey.
"Is there no way in these scientific times of ascertaining the age of that skull?" asked Beatrice.
Godfrey shook his head.
"The most skilled anatomist would be puzzled to determine the age of a given skull," he replied.
Idris paced uneasily to and fro, assigning the skull in turn to each of those who, to his knowledge, had been in any way connected with the runic ring—his father, Lorelie's father, the unknown assassin of Duchesne, and lastly the masked man of Quilaix.
"Whoever the victim was," said Beatrice, slowly and thoughtfully, "he must have been murdered by a woman."
"A woman!" ejaculated Idris. He could not tell why at that moment a cold feeling should come over him.
"A woman!" repeated Beatrice, solemnly: "for I still adhere to my belief that the piece of steel was a fragment of a stiletto hairpin, and who but a woman would think of using such an instrument?"
On the following day Beatrice Ravengar, with some misgivings, set out for the purpose of making an afternoon call upon Mademoiselle Rivière, or, to use her rightful title, Viscountess Walden.
Idris accompanied her, nominally as her escort, in reality consumed with the longing to meet Lorelie again. True wisdom told him that he was but tormenting himself in thus seeing her, that the better way was to avoid her altogether: but he found this latter course impossible: he despised himself for his weakness, yet as the moth is attracted by the light so was Idris attracted by the fascinating personality of Viscountess Walden.
On arriving at The Cedars Beatrice was received in a manner so gracious and winning that her misgivings were immediately put to flight.
"We are cousins, you and I," said Lorelie, kissing her affectionately, "and must ever be good friends."
Beatrice, quick to read character, could tell that the other was really desirous of her friendship: and as she recalled her unjust suspicion she felt full of a guilty shame, and was almost tempted to fall upon her knees, confess her fault, and beg for pardon.
Aware of the circumstances under which Lorelie and Idris had last parted, Beatrice viewed their greeting of each other with an interest that was almost painful to her, and the viscountess knowing that she was watched, extended to Idris the dignified courtesy that she mighthave extended to a stranger, though all the time she was inwardly tormented lest Idris should think her unduly cold. None but herself knew how her heart was pulsating beneath her calm exterior. She was not to be blamed, she argued, for the feeling that had sprung up self-originated within her breast. Action and tongue may be controlled: thought never. So long, then, as she controlled her words and action, what more was required of her? What more? A secret voice seemed to say, "Never to see Idris again!"
They sat on the veranda conversing on various topics, and as Beatrice listened to the charming words and the sweet laugh of the viscountess, and contemplated her brilliant beauty, she no longer wondered that Idris should have fallen in love with her.
During the course of the conversation some details of Lorelie's history became revealed.
She was now twenty-three years of age, and had been born at Nantes in the same year in which her father, Captain Rochefort, had aided Eric Marville to escape from the Breton prison. Her father she had never known, nor had he ever been seen again by Madame Rochefort after his flight in the yachtNemesis.
When Lorelie was sixteen years of age her mother died, leaving to her an income sufficient with economy for her maintenance. Henceforward she had led a solitary independent life, content with her books and music. In her twenty-first year she met Lord Walden at Monaco.
They were married privately, and while the earl supposed his son to be carrying on the course of study requisite for the diplomatic profession, that son was in reality quietly celebrating his honeymoon on the Riviera.
After a few months of wedded life Lorelie suddenly conceived the purpose of visiting Ormsby, though herhusband was opposed to the idea. By preconcerted arrangement she took up her residence at The Cedars, some weeks prior to Ivar's home-coming, lest their coincident arrival should give rise to suspicion.
And here she remained, concealing her rightful name and rank in compliance with Ivar's wish, and waiting till a favourable opportunity should arrive for making the marriage known to the stern old earl.
Secret contempt stole over Idris at the course pursued by the viscount. A man might be very well content to brave his father's anger and the loss of an estate, however splendid, for such a wife as Lorelie. By some subtle process of telepathy his thoughts communicated themselves to her, and knowing thathewould not have hesitated at such sacrifice, the viscountess trembled and durst not meet his glance, lest he should read in her eyes more than he ought. Contrary to the proverb the third person on this occasion was notde trop. Lorelie felt grateful for the presence of Beatrice, and clung to her as to a protecting angel.
"May I add one to this pleasant trio?" said a new voice, breaking in upon them: and, looking up, Idris caught the suspicious glance of the man whom he was striving not to hate—Lorelie's husband!
Lord Walden coldly acknowledged Idris' presence, smiled at Beatrice, and still keeping up the pretence of being merely a personal friend of Lorelie's, was addressing her as "Mademoiselle Rivière," when Beatrice intervened with, "Why disguise the truth, Cousin Ivar? We know that there is no Mademoiselle Rivière now."
"Ah! then that makes it much more pleasant for all concerned."
But though he spoke thus, there was on his face a look that showed he was not over-pleased to learn that the truth had become known.
"You may rely upon our secrecy," added Beatrice, thinking to put him at his ease.
"I trust so," replied Ivar, coldly.
He took a seat beside Lorelie, and proceeded to roll a cigarette, remarking as he did so, "You do not object?"
Lorelie assented with a smile that evoked the jealousy of the foolish Idris. If a woman may not smile upon her husband, upon whom may she smile?
Concluding that he and Beatrice were better away, Idris now arose, but Lorelie opposed their departure.
"Going after so short a stay?" she remonstrated. "Now you are here you must remain for the evening, and—and Mr. Breakspear as well," she added, glancing at Idris.
Her manner was so persuasive that the two visitors lacked courage to refuse the invitation. Thinking, however, that the viscount and his wife might wish to exchange confidences, Idris offered his arm to Beatrice and invited her to a stroll through the grounds that surrounded the villa.
As Beatrice withdrew leaning on the arm of Idris and blushing at some compliment of his, Lorelie glanced after them with a touch of envy in her eyes. Her days for receiving such attentions were over: her husband had ceased to be her lover. She could not avoid contrasting the appearance of the two men—Ivar's pallid face and languid air with Idris' healthful bronzed complexion and splendid physique. There was a difference of ten years in their ages: and though Ivar was scarcely past twenty, his face bore signs of dissipation—signs which his wife perceived with surprise and sorrow.
No sooner were Idris and Beatrice out of earshot than Ivar turned a frowning countenance upon his wife.
"Why have you told them of our marriage?"
"It was necessary, Ivar."
As she recalled the occasion of its disclosure a faint colour tinged her cheek; and Ivar, though not usually a quick-witted person, immediately suspected the cause.
"Necessitated by that fellow's making love to you, I presume?" he said, eyeing her keenly.
"Ivar," she answered quietly, evading his question, "so long as men think me free——"
"Free! that's a good word."
"So long as I am supposed to be unmarried," she continued, correcting her expression, "so long shall I be liable to receive attentions from other men. You can easily remedy this by making our marriage known."
"O, harping on that string again," said Ivar impatiently. "It's out of the question—at present. The governor would never forgive me for marrying a woman of no family, especially," he added, with something like a sneer, "especially a woman who admits that there is a shadow on her name."
There was a flash of resentment in the eyes that were turned suddenly upon him.
"You can bear me witness it was before our marriage and not after that I confessed to having a secret."
"You would not tell me its nature."
"No: nor ever shall," replied Lorelie, with a hardening of her features. "You were willing to take me as I was, and to ask no questions as to my past. You promised never to refer to my secret. But—how often have you reproached me with it?"
Ivar smoked on in moody silence. It was true he had given no thought to her secret in his first glow of passion. A slave to sensuality he had married Lorelie for her beauty, not knowing who or whence she was, ignorant even that her true name was Rochefort. Now that her beauty was beginning to pall upon him, a fact he took little pains to disguise, this secret that darkened her pastbegan to trouble him. What answer was he to give to the editors of "Debrett" and "Burke," when interrogated as to his wife's family?
"Ivar," Lorelie continued earnestly, "your visits here are beginning to be noticed. My character is becoming exposed to suspicions. You will let the world know that I am your wife, will you not?"
No true man could have resisted the appealing glance of her eyes, the pleading tone of her soft voice; but Ivar, being no true man, was proof against both.
"Impossible, at present," he frowned. "I have raised you from comparative poverty to affluence; I have surrounded you with luxury, and, by heaven! you little know at what cost, and at what risk to myself! I have made you my wife: be content with that. You will be a countess some day; think of your future triumph over those who slight you now. If people talk, you must put up with it, or go away from Ormsby. It was against my wish that you came here. But your vanity is such that you must feast your eyes daily upon your future heritage of Ravenhall."
"It was neither the desire to see the Ravengar lands, nor the wish even to be near you, that drew me to Ormsby, but a very different motive."
"In the devil's name, what motive?" said Ivar, elevating his eyebrows in surprise.
"It is a part of the secret of my life. But, being here, here I remain. And, Ivar, I must be acknowledged," she added firmly.
"Of course: you are burning to exhibit yourself as Viscountess Walden; to shine in ancestral diamonds; to reign at Ravenhall; to be queen of the county-side; to be courted and admired at fêtes and balls."
"No, Ivar, no; I care nothing for these things, but much for the name of wife. To think that I must pleadwith my own husband to redeem my name from reproach! What have you to fear from your father's anger? As you are his legitimate and only son he cannot deprive you of the title, even if he would; as to the Ravengar estate, that is entailed, and must therefore descend to you. Of what, then, are you afraid?"
"It is true that the original estate, the estate of the first earl, is entailed; but since his day the Ravengar lands have more than doubled. These later acquisitions the governor can dispose of as he will. If I offend him he may make them over to some one else, to Beatrice for example, since she is a great favourite of his."
"That's a temptation with me to reveal our marriage," said Lorelie with a smile. "One half of the Ravengar estate would form a pretty dowry for her and Mr. Breakspear."
"Her and Breakspear?" Ivar repeated. "Is it your wish, then, that he should marry Beatrice? That fellow may have saved your life," he added darkly, "but it doesn't follow that you must seek to reward him with the hand of my cousin."
"Events are shaping themselves that way," Lorelie remarked quietly, with a glance at the distant Beatrice, who was laughing gaily while Idris bent over her. "And really it can be no concern of yours whom she marries."
"She is a Ravengar," replied Ivar, loftily. "There is the family name to be considered. Pray, who is this insolent Breakspear, that first makes love to you, and now aspires to Beatrice?"
"Mr. Idris Breakspear——" began Lorelie, and then she stopped, surprised at the look upon Ivar's face.
"Idris!" said the viscount quickly. "Is his name Idris?"
"Yes, why?"
"O, nothing. It's an uncommon name, that's all." With a half-laugh, he added, more to himself than to Lorelie: "Idris Breakspear. Humph! Now if it were Idris Marville!"
It was now Lorelie's turn to be surprised. Till this moment she had been unaware that the name of Idris Marville was known to her husband.
"But, Ivar," she answered quietly, "Marville, and not Breakspear, happens to be his true name."
Lord Walden stopped short in his smoking, took the cigarette from his lips, and stared open-mouthed at Lorelie with a look very much like fear upon his face.
"What do you say?" he muttered hoarsely. "Idris Marville. But, bah!" he continued, an expression of relief clearing his features: "that can't be the fellow I have in mind. My Idris Marville died at Paris seven years ago."