The earl, having carefully deposited the urn in one corner of the coffin, referred again to his catalogue.
"'Article 2. Norse altar-ring of pure silver, inscribed with runic characters.' Yes, this is it," he continued, receiving the article from Ivar's hand. "The ring of Odin, that figures in our armorial shield. Many a legend of blood clings to this relic. What a history it could unfold, were it but endowed with speech!"
The golden vase had puzzled Lorelie, but this silver relic puzzled her still more. She did not doubt that the object before her was the identical ring, the non-production of which at the trial of Eric Marville, was one of the points that had told against him. She knew the story of its theft from Mrs. Breakspear, and, like Idris, knew not whither it had vanished. Now, after all these years, it thus reappeared! By what circuitous route, through how many bloodstained hands, had it passed before regaining its ancient abode?
Mechanically she took the ring from the earl's hand. If this were indeed the very relic, there should be a black mark upon the inner perimeter of the ring. Uponexamining it, however, she could discover no stain at all: the metal band was bright and unsullied.
Was this ring, like the vase, a replica: or was there truth in the ancient legend that the bloodstain would vanish when some one should meet with a violent end as an atonement for the slaying of the Norse herald? Certain it was that a deathhadoccurred in connection with the finding of the treasure.
With a bewildered air she handed back the ring to the earl, who placed it within the coffin beside the vase, and turned again to his list.
"'Article 3. A sapphire drinking-cup. Weight'—ah! look at this!" he cried, breaking off from his reading in an ecstasy of delight. "Look at it! Handle it! Admire it! Can the Dresden Gallery produce its like?"
A low and prolonged cry of admiration flowed from Lorelie's lips. The object handed to her by the earl was a miniature goblet, the tiny bowl, stem, and stand being delicately sculptured from one entire sapphire. It was a work of art, as well as a splendid gem. With the delight of a child over a new toy Lorelie raised the gleaming brilliant aloft, placing it between her eye and the light in order to mark its lovely azure transparency. Its beauty was such as almost to reconcile her to her lot with Ivar. To think if she chose, she might in time to come be the joint-possessor of such a gem!
"A million of money would not buy that cup," cried the earl, watching her look of admiration. "It belonged originally to the great Caliph, Abderahman the Second, and was taken by Draco and his Vikings at the sacking of the Moorish palace at Seville. It vanished from human ken, and has lain hidden in a night of ten centuries. The lapidaries of the present age scoff at its description in history, believing the gem to be the creation of Arabian fancy: but here it is, existing to-day, to confutetheir shallow scepticism. Were this gem known to the world it would take the title of 'The Queen of Sapphires.'"
Charmed beyond the power of words to describe, Lorelie turned the cup slowly round, flashing the light from a hundred facets: and then—and then—she made a discovery. A minute air-bubble was faintly visible in the crystalline azure!
She glanced at the earl. His triumphant face showed that he had not the least inkling of the truth. She looked at Ivar, who happened at this moment to be standing behind his father. The sudden change in Lorelie's countenance assured the viscount of the fact of her discovery: and now, he, the coward who had been willing to take her life, was appealing to her by gesture and expression to keep her knowledge a secret from his father.
For that which gave the earl such pride was in truth nothing but an artificial gem, a marvellous imitation of the real thing, but still merely a piece of coloured glass!
Lorelie became more perplexed than ever at this discovery. How came Ivar to know that the gem was false, and why was he so anxious to conceal the truth from his father?
Then in a moment everything became clear.
Always pressed for money, and precluded by his father's parsimony from obtaining it, Ivar had formed the plan of appropriating a certain portion of the plate and gems contained in the coffin. To secure himself from detection he had artfully replaced the originals by clever facsimiles, fabricated on the continent by goldsmiths and glass-workers of the class who would ask no inconvenient questions provided that they were well paid for their work. To obtain the necessary counterfeits Ivarmust have conveyed the originals to the continent, a very hazardous thing to do, seeing that if the earl had paid a visit of inspection to the treasure during his son's absence, discovery would have been inevitable. The counterfeits being completed, Ivar had brought them concealed in the reliquary to Ravenhall, and had transferred them to the coffin, his remark while doing so—the remark overheard by Godfrey—to wit, "I hope Lorelie will be satisfied," being doubtless drawn from him by the fact that Lorelie was often making monetary demands upon him, a fact which she herself would be the first to admit, though she little dreamed of the means taken by him to supply her costly tastes. She could not avoid the feeling that, to some extent, she was responsible for Ivar's peculations: and, therefore, compliant with his wish, she kept silent, and permitted the earl to remain in his ignorance.
The contents of the coffin were a mixture of the genuine and the spurious. The altar-ring was the genuine article: it would not have paid for the trouble of counterfeiting. The jewelled vase was spurious: on glancing again at this last, Lorelie wondered how she could have taken the metal for gold: it now seemed to her eyes merely like common bronze. The "sapphire cup" was but worthless glass: she almost sighed at the thought that the lovely original should have been exchanged for current coin of the realm. The selling of such a gem was an act little short of sacrilege.
"Well may you linger over it!" cried the earl, thinking that her long retention of the cup was the result of admiration. "Such a gem as that is too lovely for earth, too precious even for an empress to drink from."
"But not for a Ravengar, surely?" said Lorelie.
And taking up the decanter she filled the azure cup with wine, and held it out to him.
"Drink, my lord," she said smiling, and recalling his own words, "''Tis of a choice vintage, one of the rarest of the Madeiras.'"
But from that cup the earl recoiled as from the summons of Death himself.
"Why, you start as though 'twere poison," laughed Lorelie. "Will you not drink, Ivar?" she added, turning to the viscount and offering him the cup. "What! and do you, too, shrink from a few drops of innocent Malvazia? refuse the honour of drinking from the great Abderahman's cup? the caliph's own, veritable, genuine, historic cup! you understand?"
He did—fully. Stepping forward, she said in a fierce thrilling whisper:—
"How much is your life worth, if I let your father know that this cup is but a piece of coloured glass?"
It was not in Lorelie's nature to take pleasure in another's pain; yet on the present occasion the despair and fear expressed in Ivar's eyes was a luxury to her, almost compensating for his attempt on her life.
"It was for your sake I did it," he muttered with white lips.
Contemptuously turning away from him, she said:—
"Well, then, if neither will drink, I, too, shall refuse. I will imitate those excellent examples, my husband and father. Let us be classical and pour out a libation. Here's to the great Archfiend himself, the author and giver of the treasure, for Heaven, I am convinced, has had little to do with it."
She inverted the cup: but, either by accident or design, the greater part of the liquid fell in splashes upon her dress, very few drops reaching the floor.
* * * * * *
On reaching her bedroom Lorelie's first care was to lock the door: her next, to cut from her dress everyportion stained with wine. These fragments of cloth she placed in a glass phial, steeping them in water. Then the spirit that had sustained her through the long and terrible ordeal gave way, and reeling forward she fell heavily across the bed.
Idris Breakspear strolled slowly to and fro beneath the lime-trees in the garden of Wave Crest, reading for the twentieth time a letter received by him the previous evening.
Accompanying the letter was a note worded thus:—"The enclosed speaks for itself. Can you ever forgive me for my seven years' silence?—Lorelie Rochefort."
The missive forwarded to Idris was her mother's confession relative to the murder of M. Duchesne, a confession which, it need scarcely be said, overwhelmed Idris with amazement.
The hope entertained by him during so many long years was at last realized: it was now within his power to clear his father's memory; but the knowledge brought with it as much pain as pleasure, for to establish his father's innocence was to bring ignominy upon the name of the woman he loved.
A soft footfall attracted his attention, and raising his eyes from the letter he saw Lady Walden herself. Sadly and timidly she stood, obviously in doubt as to the sort of reception she would meet with. To face the reproachful eyes of Idris was a more trying ordeal than that of accompanying the earl to the terrible vault.
She was the first to speak.
"You are reading my mother's letter, I perceive. You know now that it was my father and not yours that murdered Duchesne. I have come," she faltered, "I have come to ask, yet scarcely daring to ask, whether you canforgive me for maintaining silence hitherto. I have longed to tell you the truth, but have been afraid. Do not," she added, breathlessly, "do not reproach me. You cannot reproach me more than my own conscience has."
The look of sorrow in her eyes instantly effaced from Idris' mind all resentment for his father's wrongs. The oath sworn to his mother in childhood's days became forgotten.
"Lady Walden," he replied, "if there be anything on my part to forgive, I freely forgive. I cannot blame you for seeking to shield your father's name."
The look of gratitude that came over her face thrilled Idris, who would gladly have forgiven her ten times as much for such a glance as she now gave him.
She had expected to be treated with coldness, if not with anger by Idris, instead of which she received from him the same tender respect as heretofore. She trembled with secret pleasure to think that she still held a place in his regard.
"And now you know the truth, you will publish it to the world," she said.
"I think not," he replied, speaking slowly and thoughtfully. "No, I am sure I shall not."
"You will not redeem your father's memory from guilt?" said Lorelie, with a little gasp of surprise. "Why not?"
"Because the fair name of Lady Walden must not be darkened by the shadow of the past."
Her eyes drooped. She had no need to ask why he was desirous of shielding her name from reproach, knowing full well that it was from love of her.
"But this—this is not just," she said in a low voice.
"To proclaim the truth would injure the living," he replied, "without in any way benefiting the dead."
"It is not right," she declared, "that your father and you should bear the stigma that belongs to me and mine. I will proclaim the truth myself."
"Lady Walden, if it be your desire to please me, you will maintain silence. But pardon my discourtesy, you are standing all this time."
He led her to a garden-seat, and took his place beside her.
"You once asked me," said Lorelie, "to let you read my father's correspondence. I have brought his letters with me. They are here."
She held out a packet of letters.
"Will you not read them to me, Lady Walden? You can then omit what you think necessary."
"I have no wish to conceal anything contained in them," she answered, placing the letters in his hand. "But before you read, let me forestall and correct an erroneous impression you may be likely to draw from them. Guided partly by these letters, partly by other considerations, I have, till a few days ago, entertained the belief that the Earl of Ormsby was none other than—your father, Eric Marville."
Despite his desire to be serious Idris could not refrain from smiling at this statement.
"And what has led you to discard this extraordinary theory?" he asked.
"I was glancing yesterday over a copy of an old French newspaper—L'Étoile de la Bretagne—in which is given a full description of your father as he appeared at his trial in the Palais de Justice. Now in this account Eric Marville is described as having very dark eyes, whereas Lord Ormsby's eyes are light grey in colour."
"Which deprives me of the honour of claiming an earl as my father," said Idris, with an air of mock disappointment.
"I do not think you will esteem it much of an honour when you hear what I have to say. But, first, will you not read these letters?"
Idris, though much surprised by her words, made no further comment, but turned to the correspondence of Captain Rochefort.
Lorelie had arranged the letters in chronological order, and Idris began his perusal, becoming more interested with each successive missive. When he had finished reading he looked extremely grave, and said:—
"The final letters, interpreted by what we know to have taken place within Ormfell, would almost seem to suggest—how shall I say it?—that your father was killed by mine!"
"That at first was my belief, but I know now it cannot have been."
"I trust that you are right. But why cannot it have been?"
"Beatrice in her hypnotic trance recognized the face of the assassin. But she has never seen either your father or mine. Therefore we cannot impute the murder to either of these."
"True!" replied Idris, with a sudden feeling of relief. "But tell me, Lady Walden, what facedidshe see, for I am convinced that you know."
"If," she replied evasively, "if we can discover the present possessor of the Viking's treasure, we shall obtain a strong clue to the assassin?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Well, then, the Viking's treasure is at Ravenhall, concealed in the secret vault."
And she proceeded to intensify Idris' surprise by relating the incident of her visit to the crypt, saying nothing, however, as to the earl's purpose in taking her thither.
"Who placed the treasure there?" asked Idris.
"Four persons only have had access to this vault—the earl, Viscount Walden, the family solicitor, and the Rector of Ormsby. The two latter we can at once dismiss from our list of 'suspects.'"
Idris turned a startled face upon Lorelie.
"Surely you would not have me charge your husband—your father-in-law, with murder!"
"I strongly suspect the latter from the perturbed air manifested by him when I once hinted at my knowledge of the crime."
"The grave and dignified earl the author of such a deed! Impossible!"
"Not more impossible than that my own father should be a murderer!"
Idris started at her bitter tone. Truly the Fates had dealt hardly with her in the matter of kinsfolk. Those ladies of Ormsby who were disposed to envy Mademoiselle Rivière her new rank would have had little cause for envy could they have seen into her mind at that moment.
"I have found," continued Lorelie, "the very instrument with which the deed was wrought. It is here."
As she spoke she produced a jewelled hat-pin shaped like a stiletto, the steel blade being broken off short at the hilt.
"This belonged to the late Countess of Ormsby, in whose jewel-case it has lain for over twenty years: at least, so the old housekeeper declares. The blade was broken a short time before the death of the countess, and has never been repaired."
"Does the housekeeper give any account of how the steel came to be broken?"
"She tells a very significant story. The countess lost this stiletto when walking in the park one day. Ondiscovering her loss she immediately set the servants to look for it, but their search was unavailing. Next morning, however, the earl returned the hat-pin to the countess, saying that while taking a walk by moonlight he had found it in its broken condition.
"Now my belief is that the earl, having discovered that Ormfell was the site of a buried treasure, was proceeding thither at night, either alone or attended by a servant, for the purpose of opening the hillock, and while on his way through the park he chanced to light upon his wife's hat-pin. Naturally he did not leave it lying upon the ground, but picked it up and placed it upon his person. And this is the weapon with which he attacked the other man, whoever he may have been, that was with him in the hillock. When the countess next morning received back her hat-pin from her husband, she little knew of the terrible use to which it had been put."
"Your theory, if correct, proves that the deed was unpremeditated, otherwise the earl would have gone provided with a more efficient weapon. Do you know the date of the countess's death?"
"She died in the autumn of '77."
"Then the crime must have taken place more than twenty-one years ago."
Idris fell to thinking: and the result of his thought was that it would be an ungrateful task to bring to justice an aged peer for a crime committed more than twenty years ago. For all he knew to the contrary the deed might have been a case of justifiable homicide: the earl had perhaps been compelled to slay the other in self-defence. Besides, was he not Lorelie's father-in-law? If ignominy fell upon the House of Ravengar it must fall likewise upon her. No breath of scandal must touch her name. Idris felt that his hands were tied: he could make no move in the matter.
"We know the author of the deed, it seems," he murmured, "but the identity of the victim still remains a mystery. Who was he?"
"That is a problem I am trying to solve."
"And you say the Viking's treasure is in the crypt of Ravenhall? What is Lord Ormsby's object in keeping it concealed?"
"I can but guess. Treasure-trove, as you know, is the property of the Crown: therefore the earl, on finding it, was compelled to act circumspectly. The sudden acquisition of a vast quantity of plate and jewels might have given rise to awkward questions on the part of the steward, and especially on the part of Lanfranc, the Ravenhall solicitor, a man somewhat given to suspicion. The earl was therefore obliged to secrete his ill-acquired wealth: and this he did by placing it within one of the coffins in the crypt, gratifying his avarice by occasional visits of inspection. That is my theory, but of course I may be wrong."
"Mortifying that he should have to secrete it," remarked Idris, "when if the story of the runic ring be true, the wealth is his by hereditary right, as the eldest lineal descendant of Orm the Viking."
"Mr. Breakspear, your right to that treasure is greater than the earl's."
Idris was disposed to think so, too, in virtue of the long years he had spent in his attempts to decipher the runic ring. But this was not what Lorelie meant.
"Did you not notice what my father says in one of these letters, that Eric Marville claimed to be heir to a peerage?"
"It did not escape me. A surprising statement, if true."
"And the interest taken by your father in the runic ring, the heirloom of the Ravengars, proves his peerage to have been the Earldom of Ormsby."
"I fear you are dealing in fanciful hypotheses," smiled Idris.
"Your likeness to the family portraits of the Ravengars is very remarkable."
"Mere coincidence."
"Not so. It is as certain that you are the rightful Earl of Ormsby as it is that the sun is shining."
"But how? In what way?" cried Idris, impressed, in spite of himself, by her air of conviction.
"That I cannot tell. I am trying to find out."
"I thank you, Lady Walden, for interesting yourself in my fortunes, but supposing that your surmise should prove correct—what then?"
"You will take the title and station that are rightfully yours."
"And, by so doing, deprive you of your position? No, Lady Walden, I cannot do that. If, as is implied by your words, you are seeking to prove that I have a claim to the Earldom of Ormsby, I would ask you to desist. Let matters be as they are. I am quite content to remain plain Idris Breakspear, and to leave to you the coronet of the Ravengars. I do not believe that I am of noble birth, but in any case I will do nothing detrimental to your position."
"My position!" thought Lorelie, bitterly, as she recalled the attempt made upon her life. "Heaven help me to escape from my position! But," she said, aloud, "you are doing a wrong to your future wife. She may not appreciate the generosity that deprives her of a coronet."
"My future wife!" smiled Idris. "I shall never marry."
"And why not?"
"They do not love who love twice."
Lorelie, knowing his meaning, trembled, miserable and happy at one and the same time.
"I am glad," he continued, "to have this opportunity of saying good-bye, Lady Walden, for I leave England soon, probably forever."
Lorelie received this news with dismay. Whether the feeling of pleasure derivable from Idris' friendship was a right or a wrong feeling she had never stopped to inquire, but itwasa pleasure, and a sense of desolation fell upon her on hearing that she was to enjoy it no longer.
"A friend of mine has received a secret commission from the Indian Government to explore Tibet, the tour to include the forbidden city of Lassa. I have agreed to accompany him."
Lorelie was not ignorant of the perils attending such an enterprise.
"You will never return," she cried.
"So much the better," he answered quietly.
She glanced at him for a moment, and then her eyes fell, for she understood him. Involuntarily her mind was led to contrast the husband, who had sought to take her life, with Idris, so anxious to keep her name fair before the world: Idris, whose love was such that he was willing to sacrifice everything—even his life—for her sake! She could not hide the tears glistening beneath her lashes. The situation was a trying one for both, but fortunately at this moment a third person appeared on the scene.
Beatrice emerged from the garden-porch, and Lorelie, averting her head, essayed to remove the traces of tears from her eyes.
Beatrice gave her visitor a glad greeting, but there was a subdued air about her, due, as Lorelie knew, to sorrow at the thought of Idris' departure.
"Has Mr. Breakspear told you that he is going to leave us?" she asked, and receiving an affirmative, shecontinued mournfully:—"As this is perhaps the last time we shall be together you must stay with us as long as you can. We are just about to have luncheon. Will you not join us?"
Lorelie readily assented, and went up-stairs with Beatrice to remove her hat and mantle.
"You are not looking very well, Lady Walden."
"No, Beatrice. And I shall never be well again."
Something in her tone went to Beatrice's heart: she guessed that Lorelie's unhappiness arose from Ivar's ill-treatment of her.
The beautiful face was suffused by an expression so miserable that Beatrice, the maiden of eighteen, involuntarily drew the married woman of twenty-three within her arms and kissed her consolingly, as though the viscountess were a little child. And Lorelie, glad of such sympathy, clung to Beatrice's embrace.
"Beatrice," she said presently, "if you should hear that I have slipped from a battlement on the roof of Ravenhall and dislocated my neck, or that I have lost my life by falling into the lake in the park, remember that this event will not have happened by accident."
"What do you mean?" gasped Beatrice, thinking that Lorelie was contemplating suicide.
"Let your brother say whether I am wrong. Did he analyze the contents of the phial that I sent him?"
"He said that the water contained—I forget how many grains of strychnine," replied Beatrice, innocently.
"Then I was right," said Lorelie, with a face as white as death. "O, Beatrice, the earl and Ivar tried to poison me!"
"Lady Walden, how dare you say that?" said Beatrice, with a burst of indignation.
It was against Ravengars that Lorelie's charge wasmade, and Beatrice suddenly remembered that she herself was a Ravengar. Bad as Ivar might be she could not believe him capable of murder: and as for the earl, had he not always treated her with kindness?
But when Lorelie began to relate the incident of her visit to the crypt, Beatrice's scepticism slowly vanished, and she listened with a growing horror upon her face. And when the story was ended, she sat cold and trembling, unable at first to speak.
"Are they aware that you suspected their design?" she asked.
"I do not think so. I continue to speak and act as if I have every confidence in them."
"How can you bear to live with them? What they have attempted once they may attempt again. How can you trust yourself at the same table with them?"
"By eating of the dishes of which they eat; they are not likely to poison themselves. I must remain at Ravenhall till I have accomplished my task."
"And what is that?"
"To obtain proofs of Mr. Breakspear's right to the earldom: for, Beatrice, I have reasons for believing that he is the rightful Earl of Ormsby."
And Lorelie proceeded to repeat the arguments she had addressed to Idris, with some others in addition.
"Have you told Mr. Breakspear this?" said Beatrice, breathless with excitement.
"Yes, and he refuses to move in the matter."
"But we will make him," cried Beatrice, impulsively. "We will persuade him to give up this mad journey to Tibet. Lady Walden——"
"Do not recall my unhappiness by using that name: besides it is not justly mine. Call me Lorelie."
"Lorelie, then. I will come to Ravenhall and live there with you."
Lorelie's smile was like sunlight sweeping over a dark landscape.
"If anything could make me happy it would be your daily companionship, dearest Beatrice."
"It is not safe for you to live alone at Ravenhall," continued Beatrice. "I will return with you to keep watch and ward over you. Together we will work and make what discoveries we can. If Idris really be the owner of Ravenhall we will do our best to establish him in his rights."
The light of justice shone from Beatrice's eyes. There should be a righting of the wrong. Since the earl and Ivar had not hesitated at murder, let them suffer the punishment due to their guilt by losing their rank and estates.
"And when that is done," said Lorelie, "it will be for me to retire to a convent, and for Idris to place a coronet on these tresses," she added, touching Beatrice's hair.
"Ah, no!" replied Beatrice, sadly. "He will not marry me. Idris never loved any one but you. It is impossible for him to have you, yet he will never love any one else."
Lorelie was touched to the quick by Beatrice's look of distress. She felt that if she herself had not appeared upon the scene, Beatrice might now be happy in the love of Idris.
"Beatrice, believe me, I would gladly die if my death would enable you to gain his love."
Beatrice did not doubt the sincerity of this assurance. Brave-hearted and generous the little maiden harboured no resentment against her rival.
"He will come to you some day," said Lorelie, kissing the other tenderly. "He has been with you long enough to know your worth. He will find a want of something in his life when he is away from you. He will begin toask himself what it is. 'It is Beatrice,' his heart will answer: and he will return to seek you."
Beatrice shook her head, refusing to believe in this bright forecast.
"Have you told Idris of the attempt made upon your life?" she asked.
"No."
"We shall be doing well not to tell him of it. He is hot-blooded where your welfare is concerned: his rage would lead him to horsewhip both the earl and Ivar, or to do something equally rash. It is for us to mete out the punishment. We will do it more circumspectly. We will lull them into a false state of security, and then, when they least expect it——"
What more she would have said was cut short by Godfrey who, standing at the foot of the staircase, asked whether he and Idris were or werenotto have the society of the ladies at luncheon; and thus adjured the two went down to the dining-room.
Godfrey was much struck with Lorelie's pallid look, and determined, before letting her depart, to take a diagnosis of her state, and prescribe accordingly.
Though full of wonder when Beatrice began to tell him of her intention to live at Ravenhall as Lorelie's companion, he made no objection, surmising that there was a mystery somewhere, and that she had good reason for the course she was taking.
"I shall be sorry to lose you, Trixie," he remarked.
"It is only for a time," replied his sister.
"By the way," said Godfrey, turning to address Idris, "I attended an old gentleman yesterday, one enthusiastically devoted to botany, and a little 'touched,' I fancy, over his favourite pursuit. He told me among other matters that he had once sown some mandrake seeds on the northern side of Ormfell with a view of learningwhether the plant would outlive the rigours of our Northumbrian winter. Great was his indignation to find one day that the plant had been wilfully plucked up by the roots. I did not tell him that I could give the names of the guilty persons, but contented myself with suggesting that the renewal of his botanic experiment might have more success if confined to the limits of his own garden."
"Ah! then there is one mystery cleared up," observed Idris.
"But there are others," remarked Lorelie, "which you are leaving behind unsolved. Cannot you persuade Mr. Breakspear," she added, turning to Godfrey, "to abandon his expedition?"
"O, Idris will come back safely," cheerfully responded the surgeon, who did not view the enterprise with the same fears as the ladies. "He will return covered with glory. He will have added a valuable chapter to geographical science, and will of course write a book."
"Of surprising dulness," interjected Idris.
"Of surpassing interest," corrected Godfrey. "I wonder you never took to authorship, for you have what I classify as the literary head."
"Don't! My vanity is great enough already."
"Did you not know that Godfrey is an expert in phrenology?" asked Beatrice.
"Not till this moment. But the news comes very opportunely. Man, know thyself! Godfrey, give me an introduction to Idris Breakspear. Manipulate my cranium, and let me have a true account of my character. Be critical, and spare not!"
And Godfrey, responsive to Idris' humour, proceeded to make a study of his head.
"Take my note-book, Miss Ravengar," smiled Idris, pushing it towards her, "and record my wicked characteristics. Now, Godfrey, begin."
"Amativeness," said the doctor, placing his finger-tips beneath Idris' ears, while Beatrice laughingly wrote the word.
"You begin alphabetically, do you?" remarked Idris. "Amativeness: that, being interpreted, meaneth love—of—of the ladies generally. That organ is very large, of course?"
"No. Fairly large."
"O, come, you must be making a mistake. Feel again! It's a libel to limit my amatory sentiment to 'fairly large' only."
"I put it down as seven," replied Godfrey.
"What's the highest figure to which you ascend?"
"Nine—in my system."
"And I do not attain the top figure? Can't you make it eight, or at least seven and three-quarters?"
"The pupil must not dictate to the master," said Beatrice.
"Combativeness," Godfrey went on, his fingers ascending slightly.
"Combativeness," repeated Idris: "readiness to fight for—for the ladies. Don't say that isn't large."
"It is. Very large indeed."
"Good! There may be some truth in phrenology after all. Put 'combativeness' down as nine, Miss Ravengar. Go on, Godfrey! Next item, please!"
So amid Idris' badinage Godfrey proceeded with his statements, all of which Beatrice laughingly wrote down. Presently a grave expression stole over Godfrey's face, and before he had ended his task the expression had become one of doubt and perplexity. Both Lorelie and Beatrice noticed it. Idris, however, was precluded by his position from seeing Godfrey's look.
"Well, now, this is very pleasant reading," said Idris banteringly, receiving his pocketbook from Beatrice, andglancing over what she had written. "I feel as a returned spirit may be supposed to feel when he peruses the virtues inscribed on his tombstone and fails to recognize himself. Such a character as this, duly attested and signed 'G. Rothwell, M. D.,' ought to procure me a free pass to any part of Tibet."
He began to talk of his intended expedition, and a trifling argument arising between himself and Godfrey relative to some point of Tibetan geography, Beatrice, as if to settle the dispute, wickedly despatched Idris to the library for a book that she knew he would not find there.
As soon as he had vanished through the doorway she turned to her brother.
"Godfrey, why did you look so serious while studying Idris' head?"
"Did I look serious?"
"Did you look——? Just listen to him, Lorelie! Don't equivocate. You have discovered something: I know you have. Something that troubles you. What is it? Didn't Idris' character impress you favourably?"
"Idris' character is exactly as I gave it."
"Then why look as if he were an ogre?"
"It is but twenty-four hours since I examined another head."
"Whose?"
"You shall learn presently. Here is the result of my study of 'Nemo,' as I call him."
He drew out his own pocketbook and directed Beatrice's attention to a certain page headed "Character of Nemo."
Very much puzzled, Beatrice conned his notes, but had not proceeded very far before she snatched up Idris' pocketbook and began to compare the remarks in each.
"'Amativeness—seven. Combativeness—nine,'" shemurmured, reading the list of characteristics. "Why, there is no difference between them," she exclaimed. "Idris and your 'Nemo' have heads exactly alike."
"The very thought that struck me just now."
"Who is this 'Nemo'?"
"That is what I wish to know."
"Didn't the man give you his name, then?"
"I didn't ask him for it."
"Why not?"
"He wouldn't have told me if I had."
"He wished to remain incognito?"
"He didn't give verbal expression to that effect in fact he had lost the power of speaking."
"Was he dumb, then?"
"Very much so."
"O, Godfrey, do be explicit, and speak so that we can understand."
"Truth to tell, the man was dead!"
Beatrice gave a little scream.
"And his head reposes in that cabinet," continued Godfrey.
"You mean the Viking's skull?"
"You've hit the mark."
"But what—what——?"
"What made me desirous of learning the character of the man to whom the skull belonged? A passing whim—nothing more. As I was casually opening the cabinet yesterday the skull caught my eye. 'Come!' said I, 'let me see the sort of fellow you were when alive.' And this," added Godfrey, tapping his note-book, "this is the result. Idris spends long years in deciphering a runic inscription on an ancient ring: acting on the vague hints furnished by it he undertakes an expedition to Ormfell, obtaining as his reward a skull whose phrenological development corresponds exactly with his own.He was quite right in his opinion that the Viking's tomb would contain a clue towards solving his father's fate, for it is my firm belief that the skull in that cabinet is none other than the skull of Eric Marville!"
Viscount Walden's twenty-first birthday was drawing near, and Ravenhall was making grand preparations for the occasion. Invitations were issued to the local magnates and their families—invitations eagerly accepted, for everybody was curious to see both the earl, who had so long secluded himself from society, and the new viscountess, whose secret marriage had invested her with a romantic interest. Entertainment of various kinds was provided, for the earl's guests, as well as for the tenantry of his estates, the day to terminate in a grand ball, preceded by the performance of a poetic drama, written by Lady Walden, and entitledThe Fatal Skull, a drama in which the authoress herself was to take the leadingrôle. The otherdramatis personæwere drawn from a select circle of Ormsby society, and their frequent rehearsals filled Ravenhall with a mirth and a gaiety not known in that gloomy mansion for many years. Lorelie took upon herself the office of stage-directress, and flung herself heart and soul into the work. She was ably seconded by Beatrice Ravengar, who, to the surprise of everybody in Ormsby, had left her brother Godfrey in order to be the companion of the new viscountess. A number of carpenters and scene-shifters from London had transformed the great hall of the castle into a suitable stage and auditorium. Scenic artists were busy at the canvas. Money was freely lavished upon the appropriate theatrical costumes. A leading society-paper had asked for, and had obtained, thefavour of having a reporter present to record the day's doings; in short, everything had been done to ensure success, and the amateur actors looked forward to the event with a pleasurable zest.
The great day came at last, as sunny and fair as could be desired. The earl moved about among his guests and tenantry with a dignified courtesy, bestowing 'nods and becks and wreathed smiles' on all sides, in a manner surprising to those who had hitherto regarded him as a sort of gloomy Manfred.
Ivar was on excellent terms with himself: he flirted with the ladies, and patronized the young men with a truly lordly air. A descendant of a noble house: heir to a splendid estate: husband of a wife whose loveliness and literary abilities were the theme of universal praise—what more could he desire? Indifferent himself to Lorelie's charms he was not displeased to witness the admiration they excited in others. She was a part of his property, as it were: it was but fitting that she should receive her tribute of praise along with the other items of the Ravengar estate.
Lady Walden made an ideal hostess, and the guests whispered in secret that if the rumour were true that her own family was not of the highest, her beauty and sprightliness amply compensated for the deficiency. From her manner one would have thought her the happiest lady in the county. Once only did she give evidence of the real feeling that lay masked beneath her pleasant exterior, and that was when the Mayor of Ormsby, standing upon the flight of steps leading up to the grand entrance of Ravenhall, read a long address to Ivar, congratulating him on the attainment of his majority, and expressing the hope that both the viscount and his lady might long live to enjoy their exalted rank. At this Lorelie's lips curved for a moment into a bitter smile, andshe cast a significant glance at Beatrice, who was seldom absent from her side that day. To those who noted the smile it recurred with peculiar force upon the morrow.
With the coming of twilight Beatrice stole away from the company to a private portion of the park, taking her course towards a little gateway in the western wall. Near this gate was a wooden bench, and seating herself upon it she drew forth a telegram and glanced at the message it contained, which was singularly brief:—"Will be at the place appointed by seven o'clock."
The sender of this telegram was punctual to the minute. St. Oswald's Church clock was chiming the hour when there came a knocking at the wicket-gate. Instantly unlocking it Beatrice threw it open, and stood face to face with Idris Breakspear.
She greeted him with an air which Idris intuitively felt to be a foreboding of grave things.
"On the point of sailing for India," he observed, "I received a letter from Miss Ravengar bidding me return at once to Ormsby. Such a message cannot be ignored, and therefore I am here. And the question is, 'Why am I here?'"
"I have not sent for you without cause. It is your duty to follow me, to ask no questions, but to await developments."
"And where are you taking me?" he asked, as she locked the gate.
"There!" exclaimed Beatrice, appealing to an imaginary audience. "His first utterance is a defiance of my orders. However, I will answer that question. You are coming with me to Ravenhall."
Impressed by the oddity of her manner Idris made no demur but offered his arm and accepted her guidance.
Their way led by a private path amid dense shrubbery:now and again through a long-drawn vista in the trees Idris caught a glimpse of the more distant portions of the park.
The dusk of a lovely summer's eve was descending upon the lordly terraces and verdant lawns of Ravenhall. Mellowed by the distance the music of a regimental band floated on the air.Al frescodancing was taking place beside the margin of a grey-gleaming lake. Above was a sky of darkest blue: below, the myriad lanterns shining amid the dark foliage made the park appear like a scene from fairyland.
Idris contemplated the picture with mixed feelings. If—and it was a very great "if," he admitted—Lorelie was right in asserting that he himself was the true Earl of Ormsby, then all this fair estate was really his. Well, he had resigned his claim in favour of Lorelie, and would not go from his word. But not till this moment did he fully realize the extent of the sacrifice.
"It is a gala day, I perceive," he remarked. "I learned on my way from the station that Lord Walden has attained his majority. He has a splendid estatein futuro. He ought to be a proud man to-day."
"Heisproud, ignorant that, like Agamemnon, he is treading on purple to his doom."
Idris was surprised at these words, surprised still more by the bitterness with which Beatrice emphasized them. What did this speech portend?
"You have been living at Ravenhall for the past two months, I understand?" he remarked, for want of something better to say.
"Yes, as Lorelie's companion. This is our last day here. Lorelie and I take our departure to-night."
Idris was more mystified than ever. Beatrice smiled as if enjoying his perplexity.
They had now reached the western wing of themansion, and Beatrice, unlocking a small door, invited Idris to enter.
"Am I to be smuggled in?"
"Yes, for this once, Cousin Idris."
"CousinIdris," he repeated, emphasizing the first word.
"Did I say 'cousin'?" she asked, with a simulation of innocence. "Well, I won't withdraw the term. Let it remain."
Idris stared hard at her, trying to read her thoughts. If he were really a Ravengar it might be that he was cousin to Beatrice. Was it possible that she and Lorelie had obtained proofs of this? Nay, could it be true that he was really entitled to the earldom? Had he been summoned here by Beatrice to take part in some plot by which the earl should be made to confess himself a usurper? Full of wonder he silently followed his guide. They traversed several corridors and ascended two staircases without encountering any one, a fact which led Idris to believe that Beatrice had prearranged matters with a view to keeping his visit a secret. Opening a door in an upper corridor Beatrice drew him forward, remarking: "This is our destination."
Idris, looking around, found himself in a dainty little chamber very like an opera-box in appearance, inasmuch as there was a sort of balcony on one side of it. Silken draperies prevented him from seeing into what this balcony projected, but from below it there came the subdued murmur of voices.
"We are here," said Beatrice, "to view Lorelie's tragedy. It is to be acted to-night, and in this little place you and I will be able to witness the play unseen either by actors or audience."
Stepping forward she cautiously put the curtains aside, an action which disclosed the fact that they were standingon an elevated balcony that projected into, and looked down upon, a grand Gothic hall, brilliantly illuminated with electric light.
Under the manipulation of carpenters and upholsterers the place had assumed a somewhat theatre-like aspect. The southern end of the hall was appropriated to the stage, which for the time being was hidden from view by the folds of a heavy curtain. The pavement of the body of the hall was covered with velvet carpeting. Fauteuils, lounges, seats of every description, were disposed here and there: and these were now becoming occupied by a number of fashionably-dressed ladies and gentlemen, the time fixed for the beginning of the performance being close at hand.
"I daresay," said Beatrice, "you are wondering whether it is reasonable on the part of Lorelie and myself to stop your voyage and to summon you here merely to witness a play? The sequel will show. It is something more than a play that you are asked to witness: it is an experiment. If Lorelie were to choose a motto for her drama it would be the words of Hamlet:—