Lorelie took up another letter, which was dated more than a twelvemonth after the first.
"Hôtel d'Angleterre,Salerno,10th May, 1876."I verily believe that the continual mention of an absent evil has the power of causing that evil to appear. In every one of your letters you have alluded, despite my forbiddance, to Eric Marville and his innocence. Your persistency in this respect seems to have raised him up again from the things of the past—a past I was beginning to forget."You can guess what is coming."I have met with Eric Marville. More than a year has passed since I parted from him in the village inn of Pajares, hoping never more to set eyes upon him: and now his disturbing presence is with me again. 'Disturbing?' you say. Yes. You know the aphorism, 'We hate those whom we have injured;' and I suppose Ihaveinjured him: you so often say it in your letters that I have come at last to believe it."What folly led me to Campania? I might have foreseen our meeting; for, prior to the rescue, did not I transfer his banking account under an assumed name to Messrs. Stradella, of Naples?"But to our meeting."Yesterday I made an excursion to Paestum, and, fortunately, had the place to myself. Not one tourist was there. Solitary and charmed I wandered for a whole day among the magnificent ruins of the past."Amid the stillness of a lovely twilight I sat down at the base of a marble column belonging to the Temple of Neptune. The whole circle of the sky, from the wine-dark sea before me to the peaks of the cypress-clad mountains behind, was flushed with the deep violet hues to be seen only in this southern clime."I smoked a cigar and drank in the pure air of peace. It was a time disposing one to turn poet, monk, or somebody equally moral. I had almost forgotten that night at Nantes."Suddenly my eye caught sight of a shadow. I looked up; and there was Eric Marville watching me with an expression that made me feel uneasy, I could not tell why."On seeing that I had noticed him he came forward. He did not offer his hand, but smiled mysteriously, almost exultantly, so it seemed to me, and took a seat opposite me on a fallen pillar."At first we talked commonplaces. Presently he remarked:"'I am going yachting among the fiords of Norway. You must accompany me.'"His manner implied thathewas master andIservant! Why should he desire me for hiscompagnon de voyage, seeing that, as matters are at present, we are so unlike each other, he gloomy, I gay?"'There is a fine yacht for sale at Naples. The price is moderate. I propose that we divide it between us.'"Do you believe, Thérèse, that man is a free agent, with full control over his own actions? Of course you answer 'Yes'; your father-confessor has preached thedoctrine a hundred times. I answer 'No'! How, otherwise, can I account for my conduct? I hate the fellow; I do not wish to go yachting; I have a presentiment that ill will come of it. Nevertheless, I have given him my promise. Explainthat, if you can."
"Hôtel d'Angleterre,Salerno,10th May, 1876.
"I verily believe that the continual mention of an absent evil has the power of causing that evil to appear. In every one of your letters you have alluded, despite my forbiddance, to Eric Marville and his innocence. Your persistency in this respect seems to have raised him up again from the things of the past—a past I was beginning to forget.
"You can guess what is coming.
"I have met with Eric Marville. More than a year has passed since I parted from him in the village inn of Pajares, hoping never more to set eyes upon him: and now his disturbing presence is with me again. 'Disturbing?' you say. Yes. You know the aphorism, 'We hate those whom we have injured;' and I suppose Ihaveinjured him: you so often say it in your letters that I have come at last to believe it.
"What folly led me to Campania? I might have foreseen our meeting; for, prior to the rescue, did not I transfer his banking account under an assumed name to Messrs. Stradella, of Naples?
"But to our meeting.
"Yesterday I made an excursion to Paestum, and, fortunately, had the place to myself. Not one tourist was there. Solitary and charmed I wandered for a whole day among the magnificent ruins of the past.
"Amid the stillness of a lovely twilight I sat down at the base of a marble column belonging to the Temple of Neptune. The whole circle of the sky, from the wine-dark sea before me to the peaks of the cypress-clad mountains behind, was flushed with the deep violet hues to be seen only in this southern clime.
"I smoked a cigar and drank in the pure air of peace. It was a time disposing one to turn poet, monk, or somebody equally moral. I had almost forgotten that night at Nantes.
"Suddenly my eye caught sight of a shadow. I looked up; and there was Eric Marville watching me with an expression that made me feel uneasy, I could not tell why.
"On seeing that I had noticed him he came forward. He did not offer his hand, but smiled mysteriously, almost exultantly, so it seemed to me, and took a seat opposite me on a fallen pillar.
"At first we talked commonplaces. Presently he remarked:
"'I am going yachting among the fiords of Norway. You must accompany me.'
"His manner implied thathewas master andIservant! Why should he desire me for hiscompagnon de voyage, seeing that, as matters are at present, we are so unlike each other, he gloomy, I gay?
"'There is a fine yacht for sale at Naples. The price is moderate. I propose that we divide it between us.'
"Do you believe, Thérèse, that man is a free agent, with full control over his own actions? Of course you answer 'Yes'; your father-confessor has preached thedoctrine a hundred times. I answer 'No'! How, otherwise, can I account for my conduct? I hate the fellow; I do not wish to go yachting; I have a presentiment that ill will come of it. Nevertheless, I have given him my promise. Explainthat, if you can."
"The Hôtel Crocelle, Naples,2d June, 1876."The transfer of the yacht is complete. It is as pretty a vessel as one could desire. Over it my first open variance with Marville arose. I say 'open,' because, secretly, we have been in a state of hostility to each other since the day of our meeting at Paestum."Marville was desirous of changing the name of our new-bought yacht. I suggestedLorelie, after the little daughter whom I trust one day to see; he wished it to be calledIdris, afterhischild. The spin of a coin decided the point in his favour. The crew are all English, and have given proof of it. When Marville ordered the new name to be painted, they begged him not to rechristen the vessel, declaring that to do so would bring ill-luck. Marville treated their opinion with contempt. He rolled up his shirt-sleeves, slung a plank over the side, and set to work himself, painting the nameIdrisas if to the manner born. Two of the crew deserted in consequence. Strange that English sailors, so bold in fight, should be so superstitious!"
"The Hôtel Crocelle, Naples,2d June, 1876.
"The transfer of the yacht is complete. It is as pretty a vessel as one could desire. Over it my first open variance with Marville arose. I say 'open,' because, secretly, we have been in a state of hostility to each other since the day of our meeting at Paestum.
"Marville was desirous of changing the name of our new-bought yacht. I suggestedLorelie, after the little daughter whom I trust one day to see; he wished it to be calledIdris, afterhischild. The spin of a coin decided the point in his favour. The crew are all English, and have given proof of it. When Marville ordered the new name to be painted, they begged him not to rechristen the vessel, declaring that to do so would bring ill-luck. Marville treated their opinion with contempt. He rolled up his shirt-sleeves, slung a plank over the side, and set to work himself, painting the nameIdrisas if to the manner born. Two of the crew deserted in consequence. Strange that English sailors, so bold in fight, should be so superstitious!"
"The YachtIdris, Gibraltar,7th July, 1876."Marville is a wretched companion. Twelve months of freedom ought to have made him as bright and gay as in the old days, instead of which he is the same melancholy being who left me at Pajares, with only one topic of conversation—his unjust conviction."You ask me whether I shall ever tell him that it was I who slew Duchesne? You might as well ask me whether I want my throat cut at once? That little affair at Nantes was the beginning of a train of circumstances that ended in the death of his wife. He would hold me primarily responsible for this last unlucky accident. Tell him the true story! I would as soon tell the Minister of Justice, who would at least see that I had a fair trial, whereas Marville, in his present state of gloom, is incapable of listening to reason. Yesterday, while toying with his knife at dinner, he muttered, 'I would that the assassin of Duchesne were before me now!' You can guess how I felt at those words. I am in a trying situation. Every day I have to listen to a new theory accounting for the cause of the murder, with remarks as to how an intelligent detective ought to set to work. It is not enough for me to smoke in silence; he wants to hear theories frommeon the matter, and becomes angry because I have none to give. I wish to God he would talk of something else besides the one everlasting theme! I feel that I shall be betraying myself some day."You remember the silver altar-ring engraved with runic letters, the ring that he entrusted to my secret keeping on the morning of his arrest? After his trial I handed the relic to his wife, but scarcely knowing why, I made a copy of the runic inscription. This copy happened to be among my papers on board theNemesis, and, believe me, when leaving the sinking yacht, Marville betrayed more concern over this wretched piece of writing than over anything else on board."It seems that he has been studying my transcript during the past year, trying to extract some meaning from it: and though failing hitherto, he still perseveres."He talks oddly at times, and I am beginning tobelieve that his mind is unhinged. He declared to-day that he is the rightful heir to a peerage, and could take his rank to-morrow if he chose. Of course I believe this!"
"The YachtIdris, Gibraltar,7th July, 1876.
"Marville is a wretched companion. Twelve months of freedom ought to have made him as bright and gay as in the old days, instead of which he is the same melancholy being who left me at Pajares, with only one topic of conversation—his unjust conviction.
"You ask me whether I shall ever tell him that it was I who slew Duchesne? You might as well ask me whether I want my throat cut at once? That little affair at Nantes was the beginning of a train of circumstances that ended in the death of his wife. He would hold me primarily responsible for this last unlucky accident. Tell him the true story! I would as soon tell the Minister of Justice, who would at least see that I had a fair trial, whereas Marville, in his present state of gloom, is incapable of listening to reason. Yesterday, while toying with his knife at dinner, he muttered, 'I would that the assassin of Duchesne were before me now!' You can guess how I felt at those words. I am in a trying situation. Every day I have to listen to a new theory accounting for the cause of the murder, with remarks as to how an intelligent detective ought to set to work. It is not enough for me to smoke in silence; he wants to hear theories frommeon the matter, and becomes angry because I have none to give. I wish to God he would talk of something else besides the one everlasting theme! I feel that I shall be betraying myself some day.
"You remember the silver altar-ring engraved with runic letters, the ring that he entrusted to my secret keeping on the morning of his arrest? After his trial I handed the relic to his wife, but scarcely knowing why, I made a copy of the runic inscription. This copy happened to be among my papers on board theNemesis, and, believe me, when leaving the sinking yacht, Marville betrayed more concern over this wretched piece of writing than over anything else on board.
"It seems that he has been studying my transcript during the past year, trying to extract some meaning from it: and though failing hitherto, he still perseveres.
"He talks oddly at times, and I am beginning tobelieve that his mind is unhinged. He declared to-day that he is the rightful heir to a peerage, and could take his rank to-morrow if he chose. Of course I believe this!"
"The YachtIdris, Penzance,12th July, 1876."If you perceive a difference in my penmanship ascribe it to my trembling hand. I am in a state of nervous fear. The strangest, the most inexplicable, the weirdest event of my life, happened yesterday. I was cleansing my hands in a bowl of water. Marville was standing beside me. Suddenly he observed in a very strange tone, 'Do your hands always redden the water like that?'"I glance downwards. The water in the basin—believe me or not, as you will—was as crimson as blood! My God! it looked for all the world like the water in which I washed my hands that night!"I could see by the mirror that my face had turned as white as chalk. My agitation was too obvious to escape Marville's notice. He smiled strangely, and turned away. What does it mean? Can it be that he suspects me of—that? I have not yet recovered from the shock, though it happened twenty-four hours ago, nor have I washed my hands since then. My God! if it should happen again! I never expected to feel regret for the death of Duchesne; nevertheless, I do. It has reduced me to a devilishly nervous state of mind. I suppose moralists would say that I am suffering retribution."One of the sailors declares that he heard me talking in my sleep. I must keep my cabin-door locked at night. If I should babble ofthat, and wake to find Marville sitting by my bedside with an awful smile and with glassy eyes fixed on me!"
"The YachtIdris, Penzance,12th July, 1876.
"If you perceive a difference in my penmanship ascribe it to my trembling hand. I am in a state of nervous fear. The strangest, the most inexplicable, the weirdest event of my life, happened yesterday. I was cleansing my hands in a bowl of water. Marville was standing beside me. Suddenly he observed in a very strange tone, 'Do your hands always redden the water like that?'
"I glance downwards. The water in the basin—believe me or not, as you will—was as crimson as blood! My God! it looked for all the world like the water in which I washed my hands that night!
"I could see by the mirror that my face had turned as white as chalk. My agitation was too obvious to escape Marville's notice. He smiled strangely, and turned away. What does it mean? Can it be that he suspects me of—that? I have not yet recovered from the shock, though it happened twenty-four hours ago, nor have I washed my hands since then. My God! if it should happen again! I never expected to feel regret for the death of Duchesne; nevertheless, I do. It has reduced me to a devilishly nervous state of mind. I suppose moralists would say that I am suffering retribution.
"One of the sailors declares that he heard me talking in my sleep. I must keep my cabin-door locked at night. If I should babble ofthat, and wake to find Marville sitting by my bedside with an awful smile and with glassy eyes fixed on me!"
"The YachtIdris, Trondheim,10th September, 1876."I verily believe that Marville is mad! He pretends that he has deciphered the runic inscription. It relates to the buried treasure of an old Norse Viking—which treasure, he avers, still exists in the spot where it was hidden, a thousand years ago, the site being some point on the eastern coast of England. A short run across the North Sea will bring us to the place. He is bent on finding it. Is it not clear that he is mad?"HithertoIhave taken charge of the yacht. Nowhehas assumed the command, heedless of my mild protests. The crew do not like this change of masters. His seamanship is of the wildest character. He delights to sport with reefs and eddies, with winds and storms. Thank heaven! we are going no farther north, or he would take a diabolical pleasure in steering us all into the Maëlstrom in order to demonstrate how cleverly he could get us out again. This may be all very well for him, who is in love with death, but for my part I prefer to live."He has exchanged his former melancholy mood for one of reckless mirth. He drinks: talks loudly: laughs: and promises to divide his imaginary treasure among the crew. 'To obtain it,' he says, 'we shall have to penetrate to the chamber of the dead, for its hiding-place is the tomb. But the ancient curse must be fulfilled; and you,' he added, turning to me, 'shall be our Protesilaus.'"My classics have grown rusty. Who the devil was Protesilaus?"
"The YachtIdris, Trondheim,10th September, 1876.
"I verily believe that Marville is mad! He pretends that he has deciphered the runic inscription. It relates to the buried treasure of an old Norse Viking—which treasure, he avers, still exists in the spot where it was hidden, a thousand years ago, the site being some point on the eastern coast of England. A short run across the North Sea will bring us to the place. He is bent on finding it. Is it not clear that he is mad?
"HithertoIhave taken charge of the yacht. Nowhehas assumed the command, heedless of my mild protests. The crew do not like this change of masters. His seamanship is of the wildest character. He delights to sport with reefs and eddies, with winds and storms. Thank heaven! we are going no farther north, or he would take a diabolical pleasure in steering us all into the Maëlstrom in order to demonstrate how cleverly he could get us out again. This may be all very well for him, who is in love with death, but for my part I prefer to live.
"He has exchanged his former melancholy mood for one of reckless mirth. He drinks: talks loudly: laughs: and promises to divide his imaginary treasure among the crew. 'To obtain it,' he says, 'we shall have to penetrate to the chamber of the dead, for its hiding-place is the tomb. But the ancient curse must be fulfilled; and you,' he added, turning to me, 'shall be our Protesilaus.'
"My classics have grown rusty. Who the devil was Protesilaus?"
"The YachtIdris, Bergen,7th October, 1876."I have discovered who Protesilaus was—a Greek hero who sacrificed his life to procure the safety of hisfriends. Curious! What does Marville mean by calling me Protesilaus?"A strange occurrence took place last night. A subdued wailing was heard among the shrouds. The thick fog prevented us from discovering the origin of the sound. Fear fell on the crew, and none of them would ascend the rigging to ascertain the cause. They muttered that it was a ghost, and that it foreboded ill to all on board. Marville laughed at them for a pack of fools! Of course it was nothing but the moaning of some seabird, but, for all that, in my then state of mind it was sufficiently disquieting."I retired to rest, but only to lie awake all night with that eerie sound playing around the vessel. The sailors have lost all cheerfulness, and believe themselves to be living on a doomed ship. 'What vessel ever did well, after she was re-named?' asked one. I confess that I myself am affected by the general gloom, but when I expressed to Marville my intention of remaining at Bergen till his return from the treasure-search, he cried, 'No, no! you, of all persons, must not leave us.' Why not? I thought of Protesilaus again."The more I consider his moody watchful manner towards me of late, the more convinced I grow that he suspects me of the killing of Duchesne. He has lured me on board this yacht with the object of torturing my conscience; by perpetually dwelling upon the crime he hopes to entrap me into a confession. So far he has failed, but my position is a terrible one. I feel intuitively that he is maturing some scheme of vengeance."'Why do I not escape?' you may ask. Impossible! The sailors, I believe, have orders to watch me. If I go ashore he accompanies me, ostensibly from friendship, in reality to keep guard over me. His dreadful smile fascinates me, and chains me to him. I seem to have lost allfreedom of will and action, and to have fallen completely under the spell of some weird being from another world. I feel that ere long he will draw the secret from me."When I behold my reflection in the glass I cannot refrain from the thought, 'Can that be the once brilliant and handsome Rochefort?' I look ten years older—grey, haggard. I should be quite safe in returning to France, for no one would recognize me now."If there be a tribunal above to which one is responsible for the deeds done on earth, I trust that the remorse I have suffered of late will be taken into account."
"The YachtIdris, Bergen,7th October, 1876.
"I have discovered who Protesilaus was—a Greek hero who sacrificed his life to procure the safety of hisfriends. Curious! What does Marville mean by calling me Protesilaus?
"A strange occurrence took place last night. A subdued wailing was heard among the shrouds. The thick fog prevented us from discovering the origin of the sound. Fear fell on the crew, and none of them would ascend the rigging to ascertain the cause. They muttered that it was a ghost, and that it foreboded ill to all on board. Marville laughed at them for a pack of fools! Of course it was nothing but the moaning of some seabird, but, for all that, in my then state of mind it was sufficiently disquieting.
"I retired to rest, but only to lie awake all night with that eerie sound playing around the vessel. The sailors have lost all cheerfulness, and believe themselves to be living on a doomed ship. 'What vessel ever did well, after she was re-named?' asked one. I confess that I myself am affected by the general gloom, but when I expressed to Marville my intention of remaining at Bergen till his return from the treasure-search, he cried, 'No, no! you, of all persons, must not leave us.' Why not? I thought of Protesilaus again.
"The more I consider his moody watchful manner towards me of late, the more convinced I grow that he suspects me of the killing of Duchesne. He has lured me on board this yacht with the object of torturing my conscience; by perpetually dwelling upon the crime he hopes to entrap me into a confession. So far he has failed, but my position is a terrible one. I feel intuitively that he is maturing some scheme of vengeance.
"'Why do I not escape?' you may ask. Impossible! The sailors, I believe, have orders to watch me. If I go ashore he accompanies me, ostensibly from friendship, in reality to keep guard over me. His dreadful smile fascinates me, and chains me to him. I seem to have lost allfreedom of will and action, and to have fallen completely under the spell of some weird being from another world. I feel that ere long he will draw the secret from me.
"When I behold my reflection in the glass I cannot refrain from the thought, 'Can that be the once brilliant and handsome Rochefort?' I look ten years older—grey, haggard. I should be quite safe in returning to France, for no one would recognize me now.
"If there be a tribunal above to which one is responsible for the deeds done on earth, I trust that the remorse I have suffered of late will be taken into account."
"The YachtIdris. In Ormsby Roads,13th October, 1876, 7 p.m."We are anchored off the English coast in front of a little town called Ormsby-on-Sea. To the right of the town and about a mile from the shore rise the towers of some old castle, embowered in a woodland vale, and forming a pretty feature in the landscape. Marville seems to take a great interest in this edifice; all this morning he has been studying it through the telescope."'Haven't seen the place for ten years,' he muttered, 'wonder ifheis still alive.'"I asked him the name of the place. A scowl was my only answer. He hasn't improved in amiability since we left Bergen. In the dictatorial spirit assumed by him of late he will not permit any of us to land. He himself is going ashore for some purpose which he refuses to disclose. He will not return to the yacht till to-morrow. I am dispatching this letter to the post by the sailor who is to row Marville ashore—a sailor whom I can trust.—Farewell!"
"The YachtIdris. In Ormsby Roads,13th October, 1876, 7 p.m.
"We are anchored off the English coast in front of a little town called Ormsby-on-Sea. To the right of the town and about a mile from the shore rise the towers of some old castle, embowered in a woodland vale, and forming a pretty feature in the landscape. Marville seems to take a great interest in this edifice; all this morning he has been studying it through the telescope.
"'Haven't seen the place for ten years,' he muttered, 'wonder ifheis still alive.'
"I asked him the name of the place. A scowl was my only answer. He hasn't improved in amiability since we left Bergen. In the dictatorial spirit assumed by him of late he will not permit any of us to land. He himself is going ashore for some purpose which he refuses to disclose. He will not return to the yacht till to-morrow. I am dispatching this letter to the post by the sailor who is to row Marville ashore—a sailor whom I can trust.—Farewell!"
"The last letter we ever received from him," murmured Lorelie, laying down the missive.
The tone of the final letters conveyed an impression terrible in its suggestiveness to her mind now that by means of her hypnotic experiment she had become aware of the tragedy that had taken place within the interior of Ormfell.
"TheIdriswent down on the evening of October 13th," she murmured, "and late that same night Olave Ravengar returned to Ravenhall after an absence of ten years. Is this a coincidence, or is the present earl the same person as Eric Marville? Did my father go down with the yacht, or did he escape the sea only to fall within the interior of Ormfell by the hand of the man whom he had wronged?"
Lord Walden was reading a newspaper one afternoon in the quietude of his own room at Ravenhall, when the step of some person entering the chamber unannounced caused him to look up, and he found Lorelie standing before him.
"Hul-lo!" he muttered, throwing down the newspaper, and startled beyond measure at seeing his wife so near his father's presence. "What bringsyouhere?"
"To claim my rights," she answered quietly. "Why should the wife occupy a modest villa while the husband lives in castled state?"
She took off her toque and mantle, threw them upon the table, and, with the air of one who had come to stay, sat down in an armchair opposite him.
For some moments Ivar frowned darkly at his fair young wife, and was obviously dismayed by her determination.
When the earl, a few weeks previously, had urged upon him the necessity for marrying Beatrice, Ivar had lacked the courage to confess that he had a wife already, knowing that the statement would be certain to evoke his father's anger, and Ivar stood in considerable awe of his father.
Accordingly, he had made a pretence of submission, and had gone so far as to delude the earl with the fiction that he was paying successful court to Beatrice. This contemptible subterfuge was not one that could be long continued in any circumstances; but Lorelie's suddenresolve for recognition threatened to bring matters to a climax that very day.
"You have come here to create a vulgar scene before all the servants, I see," scowled Ivar.
"I have come here to redeem my name," she answered indignantly. "Do you know that at the flower-show yesterday ladies turned aside to avoid me, and that I caught the half-whispered words, 'Lord Walden's mistress'? Do you wish me to return to The Cedars to live there under such a name? I will keep silent no longer. To day all Ormsby shall know that I am Viscountess Walden."
Vainly did Ivar try to temporize, to persuade, to cajole, to threaten. Lorelie continued inflexible.
"Take me to your father," she said. "My maiden name will compel him to acknowledge me."
"What is there in the name of Rivière to charm him?" asked Ivar, in surprise.
"Nothing, but much in the name of Rochefort," she answered, rising to her feet. "Will you go with me, or shall I go alone to inform him that I have married a craven who lacks the spirit and courage to tell the truth?"
Ivar saw the necessity of yielding. Looking with a very ill grace at his wife he touched a hand-bell on the table.
"Where is the earl?" he asked of the footman, who appeared in answer to the summons.
"His lordship is taking the air on the western terrace," was the reply.
The viscount rose and moved off in the direction of the said terrace accompanied by his wife, while the footman stared curiously after them.
Lorelie had come to Ravenhall for the purpose of verifying, if possible, the strange suspicion she had oflate begun to entertain that the present Earl of Ormsby was none other than Eric Marville. If this surmise were correct, it behoved her to make known to him the truth concerning the murder of Duchesne. But of what avail was it to clear the character of Eric Marville from the guilt of the long-past crime, if her other suspicion should prove true that he was the slayer of her father? She was precluded from denouncing him for this latter deed by reason of her position as his daughter-in-law, and by the thought that Captain Rochefort, in falling by the hand of the man whom he had wronged, had met with a justly merited doom.
If the earl were really Eric Marville, it followed that Idris, as his elder son, was being unjustly deprived of his rights by the younger half-brother Ivar.
Ignorant of the causes that had contributed to render Idris an object of aversion to the earl, Lorelie, nevertheless, determined to compel the earl to acknowledge him. Thus much justice should at least be done. And in coming to this resolve Lorelie tried to persuade herself that she was actuated simply by the desire for justice, whereas her heart more truly told her that secret love for Idris was her controlling motive.
On reaching the western terrace they found the earl standing at one end of it with his back towards them. He had just come from the library after a long spell of study, and was now refreshing his tired eyes by a contemplation of the lawns and the woods that surrounded his castellated mansion.
On hearing footsteps he turned, and his cold grey eyes lighted upon Lorelie: not, however, for the first time, since her pew in St. Oswald's Church faced his own; but beyond the fact that she was called Mademoiselle Rivière he knew nothing whatever respecting her, and, it may be added, had no desire to know more.
He supposed that Ivar had been showing her over his historic mansion, portions of which were open to the public on certain days. But this western terrace was private ground, reserved for the family. What did Ivar mean by bringing this young lady to him, who had no desire for an introduction? With something like a frown upon his face he awaited their approach.
Could this cold and dignified peer of the realm, thought Lorelie, be the man who, twenty-three years before, had escaped from a felon's cell in Brittany? Was this really the father of Idris? It seemed too strange to be true. Was his the face that Beatrice in her hypnotic trance had seen peering into the Viking's tomb? A chilling sensation seized her as Ivar escorted her towards the presence of the man whom she believed to be her father's murderer.
Lord Ormsby was the first to speak.
"Mademoiselle Rivière, I believe," he said, bowing stiffly.
"Not so, my lord."
"No?" queried the earl.
"No!" she replied with a smile that annoyed him. As if it mattered to him who she was!
"Hum, some mistake. What name, then, may I ask——?"
"Viscountess Walden, my lord," she replied, with an air as stately as his own.
For a few moments the earl's surprise was too great for words. He sank upon a stone seat, and stared from one to the other.
"You hear what this woman says," he remarked in a harsh voice, turning to his son. "Is it true?"
"We are married—yes," returned Ivar, sullenly.
"You have given me to understand," continued the earl, "that you were paying your addresses to Beatrice."
"Father, listen to me," muttered Ivar. "I was already married at the time when you pressed Beatrice's name upon me, and seeing how earnestly you were set upon the match I—I lacked the courage to—to state the truth."
Lorelie heard her husband's words with secret contempt. The craven was almost apologizing for marrying her! With an effort she controlled her feelings, and remained silent.
Casting a contemptuous glance at his son the earl turned, and with a coldly critical eye surveyed his new daughter-in-law. Yes, she was undeniably beautiful, with an exquisite taste in dress; and bore herself with the air and dignity of a princess; clearly an ornament to Ravenhall, provided only that her antecedents were above the criticism of Society.
"And who and whence is the lady that now bears Viscount Walden's name?" he asked.
"My name is Lorelie,néeRochefort."
"Rochefort?" repeated the earl, with a sharp intonation on the word.
"I am the daughter of Captain Noel Rochefort, of Nantes."
The earl's sudden start did not escape her attentive eyes. It seemed to give confirmation to her suspicion.
"Your lordship has perhaps heard of him? His is a notable name."
"No. Yes. That is to say," replied the earl in some confusion, "unless my memory is at fault, some one of that name figured prominently in the French newspapers about twenty-three years ago. Did your father aid in the escape of a certain prisoner from Valàgenêt?"
"Your lordship has an excellent memory."
"I was in Brittany at the time of the escape, and the story was in everybody's mouth. The name of theprisoner was—was," pursued the earl, with the air of one striving to recall a forgotten fact, "was Eric Marville, I think."
"I must again commend your lordship's memory."
"Of what crime was this Marville found guilty?"
"He was accused of murder."
"Murder. Ay! so it was. I remember now," replied the earl with a thoughtful air.
Few could have surmised from his manner that in recalling the name of Eric Marville he was, in reality, speaking of himself, and Lorelie found herself in a state of doubt again.
"Your father," continued the earl, "was a great friend of this Marville, otherwise he would not have planned and carried out this rescue-plot?"
"We may presume that he was."
The earl's conduct would certainly have seemed singular to an ordinary by-stander. The lady before him was waiting for recognition as his daughter-in-law, but neglecting that as a matter of no consequence, he was interesting himself in events that had happened more than twenty years before. Lorelie found her suspicion returning.
"Do you know what ultimately became of this Marville—I mean of your father, or rather of both of them?"
"They went yachting together in '76, and their vessel went down in Ormsby Race."
"So near our own doors? Strange! Then this Marville was drowned?"
"I have reason to believe that he was not."
"Ay! and what is your reason?"
"My lord, doyouask that?" she answered with significant intonation.
"I don't understand you."
But he did not press for her meaning; Lorelie marked that. And there was an interval of silence ere he resumed his catechism.
"Your father, Captain Rochefort—washedrowned?"
"I have reasons—very strong reasons—for believing that he escaped the fury of the sea, only to be murdered."
While speaking she kept her gaze fixed upon the earl's face to mark the effect of her words. Unless she was mistaken there was in his eyes something very like the light of fear.
"Murdered?" he said. "What leads you to this strange belief?"
"With your lordship's permission I will reserve my reasons for another time.—You have not yet said," she added quietly, "whether you acknowledge me."
"You are my son's wife, and, therefore, my daughter. Welcome to Ravenhall!"
Rising from his seat he approached and kissed her. And at this seal of recognition Ivar heaved a sigh of relief. The trying ordeal was over, and it had not ended, as he had fancied that it might, in his enforced retirement from Ravenhall.
When the earl touched Lorelie's cheek with his lips he found her skin as cold as marble. She had submitted to the act, not knowing how to repulse it; but—kissed by her father's murderer! To receive such a kiss seemed to her mind like a condonation of the crime—a purchase of her position at the price of her father's blood.
She grew faint. Why was she placing herself in a position where day by day she would encounter the presence of this terrible earl? for to her he was terrible. A great longing came upon her to go back to The Cedars; but the thought of Idris calmed her. For his sake she would stay. Her belief that he was the rightful heir of Ravenhall was, after all, a matter of conjecture, not ofknowledge: she must have proofs before telling him of her opinion: and, in her judgment, such proofs would be found at Ravenhall.
Hating herself for the hypocrisy she masked her feelings with a smile and endeavoured to appear gratified with her new position.
Learning that Lorelie had not yet seen the interior of Ravenhall the earl, as if wishful to conciliate her, undertook to conduct her over the mansion.
He escorted his new daughter-in-law through the finer parts of the castle, pointing out the various treasures contained within its walls: but though he talked much during this tour of inspection Lorelie was conscious all the time of being furtively scanned by him, as if he were trying to fathom her character and aims: and the belief was borne in upon her mind that she was the object of his suspicion and fear.
He bade her select as her own whatever apartments might take her fancy, and introduced her to the housekeeper, telling the latter that, as regarded the domestic arrangements of Ravenhall, she must now receive her orders from the new viscountess. Then, having rendered these honours, the earl went back to his library with the remark that they would meet again at dinner.
"Egad, we're in luck's way!" exclaimed the delighted Ivar. "Who'd have thought the old boy would prove so gracious? But why have you always kept it a secret from me that you are Captain Rochefort's daughter?" He gave Lorelie no time to reply, for, suddenly struck by a new thought, he continued, "O, by the way, just a hint, lest you should unwittingly betray a secret of mine. Don't let the governor ever know that I have given you a golden vase."
"Very well, Ivar. But may I ask your reason for this caution?"
The viscount tugged the ends of his light moustache with a shamefacedness very unusual in him.
"Hum! ah! well! I suppose I had better speak the truth. The fact is I've had to forestall my future heritage by appropriating some pieces of the family plate."
"Appropriating! That is a good word, Ivar."
"Call it what you like. It was necessitated by the expense of keeping a wife. Your tastes are costly. Pictures, works of art, rare furniture, rich dresses are the breath of life to you. Deny it if you can. I was obliged to resort to some expedient in order to satisfy your extravagance. That vase was one of my—er—appropriations. I gave it to you to convert into cash, but you seem to prefer keeping it."
"And so the money you have given me during the past few months has come from the sale of this plate?"
Ivar nodded assent.
"Was this plate contained in the jewel-room through which the earl has just taken us?"
"O, dear no! The store I refer to is far too valuable and tempting to be exposed to the eyes of even the oldest and most trusted of our family servants—at least, that's the governor's opinion. He is somewhat eccentric, you know. So he keeps this treasure to himself in a secret place."
Lorelie did not ask Ivar to name this secret place: she had her own opinion as to the locality, and would not have believed Ivar if he had declared it to be elsewhere.
"Your father inspects these treasures occasionally, I presume?"
"Of course—with the joy of an old miser."
"And he keeps a catalogue of them?"
"You bet he does!"
"Then how have you contrived to keep your appropriations undiscovered?"
A look of low conceit and cunning overspread the face of the viscount.
"Ah! that's my secret. The governor thinks he still possesses the missing plate. It's there before his eyes, and yet it isn't there. He sees it, and yet he doesn't see it. He's an artful fellow, the old boy! But for once he's been outwitted. You don't understand. Some day I'll explain my meaning. Meantime, remember, mum's the word on this business."
And here Ivar went off to inspect a new hunter that had just arrived, while Lorelie turned away with a look of unspeakable horror in her eyes.
"So the Viking's treasure found its way to Ravenhall," she murmured. "And by whose hand it is clear. The price of my father's blood! My God! to think that I have been living on money derived from such a source!"
That same evening at sunset Lorelie sat alone on the grand terrace overlooking the undulating landscape that surrounded Ravenhall. Behind her rose the ivied mansion with its fine halls and treasures of art. Roses, glowing in sculptured vases along the terrace, filled the air with their sweetness. Marble fountains flashed aloft their silvery spray. Below, in front of her, green lawns and woodlands stretched away to the margin of a shimmering lake—all bathed in the dusky golden glow of sunset.
This day should have been one of the proudest of her life. She had received recognition from the earl, and was now an acknowledged wife, a peeress, and the destined queen of the county-side.
While living at The Cedars she had been slighted by some of the society of Ormsby, and had been cruelly traduced by others; how great, then, would be the mortification of her enemies to learn that the person whom they had contemned held the proud rank of ViscountessWalden! They would be but too willing now to efface the past and do her homage; for, to be on visiting terms at Ravenhall was the ambition of all theéliteof Ormsby. What a triumph for her! Youth and beauty, rank and wealth—all were hers!
That was one side of the medal; how different the reverse!
Her father was a murderer; her father-in-law was a murderer; her husband was, in his own language, an "appropriator," or, in other words, a thief: and she herself was but a spy at Ravenhall, seeking for proofs to deprive him of his prospective wealth and title! Even now he manifested indifference to her: what would be his feelings if, through her instrumentality, Idris Breakspear should succeed to the coronet of the Ravengars?
Whether she spoke out, or whether she remained mute, a melancholy future lay before her. On the one hand splendour purchased at the price of injustice to Idris: on the other the lifelong hatred of her husband for preferring the interests of Idris to his own.
The voice of Ivar jarred upon her meditations. He was lounging along the terrace smoking the inevitable cigarette.
"My lady doesn't seem very happy now that she dwells 'in marble halls, with vassals and serfs by her side.' Look around you," he continued, with a sweep of his arm that took in the whole landscape. "As far as you can see, north, east, south, and west, all is ours. Isn't the prospect fair enough for you?"
"As fair as the Dead Sea fruit—all ashes to the taste."
She lifted her head, and he saw that her face was pale, that her eyes were suffused with tears, that her expression was one of unutterable melancholy.
"Why the devil did you come here, if you don't likeit? Upon my word you are hard to please! Is this your gratitude to the pater for his gracious reception of you!"
"To be called 'Viscountess Walden,' and 'Your ladyship,'" she murmured to herself, "knowing all the time that I am listening to a lie!"
Ivar started, but made no reply. He lounged off to the end of the terrace, where he stood watching his wife with a dark expression on his face.
"Got a fit of the blues on!" he muttered. "Thinking of Breakspear, and how hard it is he should be kept from his own, and so forth. By God! supposing she lets her craze for that fellow carry her to the extreme of declaring the truth! She loves him, and a woman in love will commit any folly. She's not to be trusted."
While he was occupied with these uneasy reflections a footman appeared, carrying on a silver salver a letter addressed to the viscount.
Ivar gave a start when he perceived the handwriting on the envelope, and ere opening it cast a glance at the distant Lorelie.
The note was a sweet-scented one, signed "Lilias Winter," and contained a request for a subscription to a local charity, at least so the simple-minded would have read it, but to Ivar it conveyed a very different meaning. Interpreted by a prearranged code the note signified that on the part of the sender circumstances were favourable that night for receiving a visit from the viscount. For Ivar, with a perversity of taste, not uncommon in the immoral, found more pleasure in carrying on an intrigue with a widow of forty than in cultivating the society of his fair young wife.
A few days previously, when ignorant of the existence of Idris, the viscount would have laughed in Lorelie's face had she reproached him with this amour.
Now he suddenly became conscious that this intrigue was no laughing matter.
His succession to the title and estates depended on his wife's good will. Any act on his part tending to provoke her might end in his ruin. When the handsome widow, who had entertained hopes herself of one day becoming Viscountess Walden, should learn of Ivar's marriage, disappointment and jealousy might prompt her to reveal this amour to Lorelie. And then——? Ill usage from her husband Lorelie might tolerate, but infidelity, never! Goaded by such an outrage she would fling his interests to the winds, and make it known that Idris was the rightful heir of Ravenhall.
"No help for it," muttered Ivar. "I must tell the governor at once, and tell him all without disguise; that Idris Marville is not only alive, but dwelling here to-day at Ormsby; that Lorelie suspects who he is, and that Lilias will have to be bribed into silence, otherwise she will create a scandal of which Lorelie will avail herself to our confusion and ruin. Breakspear at present is ignorant of his lineage; something must be done to prevent him from ever learning it—but what?"
* * * * * *
The lights in the library at Ravenhall burned till a late hour that night, or rather they were continued till far into the morning.
The sleep of the new viscountess in her distant bedchamber was fitful and troubled, but there would have been no sleep at all for her could she have known the character of the conversation taking place in the library between the Ravengars, father and son.
On the day following her recognition at Ravenhall Lorelie sat at luncheon with the earl and the viscount. The servants had retired, leaving them free to indulge in private conversation.
"To my fair daughter-in-law," said the earl, touching his glass with his lips and bowing to Lorelie, who returned the greeting but coldly. The space of twenty-four hours had not reconciled her any the more to his presence.
"Do you know that old Lanfranc is dead?" remarked Ivar, addressing his father.
"No. Where did you learn that?"
"Saw it just now in the obituary column of theTimes."
"May one ask who Lanfranc is?" said Lorelie.
"Sir George Lanfranc," replied the earl, "is——"
"Was," corrected Ivar.
"Our family solicitor," continued the earl, with a frown—he hated to be corrected—"and one of the privileged four admitted to the knowledge of our secret funeral vault."
"The other three being——?" queried Lorelie.
"Ivar and I, as a matter of course: and the Rector of Ormsby."
"I think I could name a fifth," murmured Lorelie to herself.
For, on the day prior to her coming to Ravenhall she had chanced to meet with Godfrey, and, moved by asudden impulse, he had told her how he had followed Ivar to the crypt and what had happened there, not omitting Lord Walden's utterance that it was done on Lorelie's account. The story was a complete revelation to her, and, while thanking Godfrey for his communication, she determined to discover the meaning of the strange affair with which Ivar had associated her name. A favourable opportunity seemed now to present itself, and she resolved to essay a bold stroke.
"We shall have to choose some one to supply Lanfranc's place," said the earl, turning to his son.
"Permit me to offer myself," suggested Lorelie.
Lord Ormsby raised his eyebrows in manifest surprise.
"Ladies have never been admitted to that vault," he replied. "In that respect it resembles the Baptist's Chapel in the Genoese Cathedral."
"But that chapelisopen to ladies on one day in the year," replied Lorelie. "Therefore, your parallel will not hold."
"Are you really serious in making this suggestion?" asked the earl.
"Perfectly."
"What is your reason?"
Lorelie shrugged her shoulders.
"You don't require reason from a woman," she replied. "It would be hard for me to give my reason. Curiosity, mainly: the desire of seeing what no other woman has seen, or ever will see."
"The initiated have to swear an oath to keep the secret," said Ivar.
"That gives quite a romantic charm to the adventure," Lorelie replied.
The earl sat silent for a moment as if weighing the matter, and then cast at his son a look which seemed toconvey a silent suggestion, a suggestion that appeared to meet with tacit acceptance from the other.
"There is really no reason why we should not admit you to the vault," he remarked. "Better one of the family than an outsider. And you are one of us now," he added with a sigh, as though the fact were much to be regretted. "You shall be one of the privileged four, if you desire it. When would you like to pay your first visit?"
"Why not now?" she asked impulsively, rising from her seat as she spoke.
"Humph!" replied the earl, thoughtfully. "Suppose we say to-night. The late hour will enable us the better to escape the prying eyes of the servants. You consent? Good! Then we will meet in this dining-hall a little before twelve to-night. But—not a whisper of this to any one. Let the matter be kept secret."
Lorelie rose and sought the retirement of her own room, not without wonder that the earl should accept her strange proposal almost as soon as he heard it. Then, as she recalled the curious look he had cast at Ivar, together with his injunction to observe secrecy respecting the intended visit, there swept over her a sudden wave of cold feeling induced by a thought so dreadful that she could scarcely bring herself to entertain it. But the idea would persist in stamping itself in letters of fire upon her mind.
"I know he hates me!" she gasped. "I saw that in his eyes when he first heard my name. I know he hates me, but—my God! to such an extent asthat! Is he afraid that the daughter will seek to avenge her father? And will he get Ivar to consent?"
While she was occupied with these terrible misgivings her husband came slouching in. He seated himself on a chair and regarded her for a moment with a strange expression that set her trembling.
"So you've quite made up your mind to visit the vault?"
She assented with a nod, not daring to trust herself to speak. Her heart was beating like a steam-hammer; faint murmurs were ringing in her ears; she seemed to see Ivar as through a mist.
"Bah! you lack the courage. You will be crying off from the venture before the night comes."
His sneer roused her spirit, and she spoke in a low tone, striving to control the tremors of her voice.
"I will not cry off: no," she added, emphasizing her words, as if to fix his attention, "not if it should end in my death."
Ivar started and glanced suspiciously at her.
Suddenly Lorelie rose, and walking to an oak-press produced a small piece of faded black velvet fringed on one edge with silver lace. Sitting down with needle and thread she proceeded with deft fingers to manipulate this velvet into a sort of ornamental bow, without cutting the fabric or in any way diminishing its original size.
Her husband moodily watched her, wondering why she should form a dress-ornament from such faded stuff and why she should select this particular juncture for making it.
"What's that thing you are making?" he asked in a sullen voice.
"Merely a bow," she answered, extending the half-finished article towards him. "Of what do you suppose this velvet once formed part?"
"It might have been cut from a pall by the look of it."
"I commend your discernment. You are not far wrong."
"Perhaps you will enlighten me," he asked, scowling, as he noticed her air of satisfaction at his perplexity.
"It is not the first time you have seen this velvet and its parent fabric," said Lorelie.
Approaching a mirror she held the bow against the neck-band of her dress.
"I shall wear this bow to-night. True, it does not look very pretty, yet it may serve as a talisman, and——"
But on looking up she found that Ivar was gone. The velvet dropped to the carpet, and she clasped her hands.
"They mean it," she murmured. "I can read it in Ivar's guilty manner—half-resolve, half-fear: letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.' My God! But I will go through with it. I will put their base courage to the test."
Her first fears had vanished, leaving her hard and firm as steel. The spirit that loves danger for its own sake, the spirit derived from her Corsican ancestors, began to reawake in the breast of their nineteenth-century descendant.
At six in the evening Lorelie, who had spent the afternoon in arranging her plan of action, stole quietly to her bedroom, having told the butler she would not come down to dinner.
"I must sleep," she murmured, "that my faculties may be fresh and unimpaired for to-night's work."
Her first care was to lock and bolt the door that opened upon the corridor, and next that communicating with Ivar's bedroom. She paid considerable attention to these doors, as well as to the fastenings of the windows. A traveller putting up for the night at some lonely and suspicious hostelry could not have shown more caution. Thus secured from intrusion she laid herself down, dressed as she was, upon the bed. But fully two hours elapsed ere she succeeded in falling asleep.
When she awoke she found herself shivering with cold and in total darkness. For a few moments she laydreamily conscious that some ordeal awaited her, but unable at first to recall what it was. Then memory revived. The visit to the vault! Yes! that was it; and the thought made her pulses quicken.
She rose, procured a light, and found that it was close upon midnight.
"So late! They will begin to think that I am not coming."
Fastening the velvet bow to the neck-band of her dress she unlocked the chamber-door and walked out into the corridor. A deep silence reigned throughout the mansion, a silence that to her imagination had something awesome in it. It seemed like the prelude to a tragedy. With a firm step she descended the staircase and made her way to the dining-hall, where a murmur of voices told her that the earl and Ivar were awaiting her.
Their conversation ceased upon her entrance, and both looked up, Ivar seeming somewhat perturbed in spirit, the earl smiling and evidently pleased that she had come.
"We were just discussing the probability of your appearing," said he. "Ivar was confident that you would cry off from the business. And, certainly, a coffin-vault is not a very cheerful place."
"It is not the dead one has to fear," replied Lorelie, "but the living."
"Your wife has more courage than you gave her credit for, Ivar," remarked the earl approvingly. "If you will carry the lamp I will give her my arm."
"Thank you," replied Lorelie, declining the proffered arm, "but I can walk without aid."
They set forward from the dining-hall, the earl going first, Ivar a model of ill-grace walking beside Lorelie. He did not speak, but glanced curiously at her from time to time.
The expedition was so strange, so unlike anything she had ever known before, that Lorelie began to wonder whether the whole scene was not a dream. It was difficult to believe that the earl, so smiling and courteous, could really entertain the black design of which she suspected him.
At the end of the Picture Gallery they reached that little lumber-room which Godfrey Rothwell had so long hesitated to enter on that memorable night when tracking Ivar to the vault. Making his way to the hearth the earl stood in the wide space beneath the mantel, and lifting his hand within the chimney he touched what Lorelie judged was a hidden spring, for his action was immediately followed by a faint creaking of pulleys and ropes, and then the perpendicular slab forming one side of the fireplace began slowly to descend, revealing behind it an empty space.
"The secret way to our crypt," remarked the earl.
He passed through the entrance. Ivar, who had not spoken one word since leaving the dining-hall, followed. Lorelie went last.
She looked about her. The light carried by Ivar faintly illumined the place. She was standing in a narrow passage, paved, walled, and roofed, with stone. Its length could not be ascertained by the eye, for it stretched away indefinitely in the gloom.
The earl began to manipulate the machinery, and the stone slab slowly ascended till its lower end rested upon the hearth again. Lorelie, attentive to his action, grasped with quick eye the principle of the mechanism. Such knowledge would be useful in the event of her having to return alone.
All communication with the outer world was now cut off. She was completely at the mercy of the two men, and though this was only what she had foreseen, yet nonethe less the sudden realization of the fact caused a certain chilling of her high courage.
The order of their march was now changed: they walked abreast: Lorelie in the centre, the earl on her right, Ivar, still silent, on her left.
Though apparently staring about with interest and curiosity Lorelie in reality never took her eyes from the earl. It might have been simply the effect of the flickering light, but in her opinion his face had an exultant and sinister expression. She became more than ever on her guard, and any sudden movement on his part caused her right hand to seek her dress pocket in which a loaded revolver lay concealed.
A steep descent of stone steps now yawned in front of them. With her left hand Lorelie drew her dainty skirts around her, and glanced in disgust at the black slimy ooze and the patches of fungous growth.
"These stairs look slippery," she murmured.
"A former lord of Ormsby broke his neck down these very steps," remarked the earl.
"I have no wish to imitate his feat," said Lorelie, drawing back a little. "Do you go first. If I slip I shall be but a light weight, whereas if you should fall upon me," she added, with a shrug of her shoulders, "there is no knowing what might happen."
The earl gave her a suspicious look as if detecting a hidden meaning in her words: then, compliant with her wish, he led the way down the steps. Lorelie came last, feeling more at ease in being at the rear.
The stairs terminated in the flagged flooring of another long passage, at the end of which was the crypt.
As Lorelie entered she could not repress a shiver, the atmosphere of the place striking her senses with a damp chilling effect.
Ivar, by aid of the light he had carried, proceeded tokindle the lamp pendent from the roof, and every object in the chamber became clearly visible.
At a glance Lorelie took in the whole scene—the octagonal crypt, the black velvet curtains draping the alcoves, the massive oak table, and the four antique carved chairs: everything just as Godfrey had described it.
As her eye fell upon the silver lace edging the lower end of a curtain adjacent to the door, her face expressed satisfaction, a satisfaction that became instantly lost in a very different feeling: for there, on the floor by one of the alcoves, was a chest of cypress wood, an object she readily identified as the reliquary that had figured so conspicuously in Godfrey's narration. The lid stood erect and she noticed that the contents consisted of a whitish powder.
"Quicklime!" she murmured with a cold thrill.
Becoming doubly vigilant she sat down in one of the chairs and prepared herself for emergencies.
On the table stood a decanter partly filled with wine, and beside it some glasses. Observant of everything Lorelie saw that though the smooth surface of the table was overlaid with a coating of dust, the display of glass exhibited not a trace of it; evidently the wine was of recent introduction—perhaps placed there specially for her use.
"What! you have wine here? Pour me out a glass, Ivar."
Speaking in the tone of a woman who suspects nothing she reclined in her seat in a graceful attitude, extending a glass towards Ivar, and watching him keenly from beneath the lashes of her half-closed eyes. Her husband, his face as white as a ghost's, filled her glass, and setting down the decanter, breathed hard. The earl looked on with seeming indifference.
With steady motion Lorelie lifted the glass, taking a longer time over the action than was necessary, as if even the foretaste of drinking were a pleasure not to be curtailed. Ivar was watching her with an expression the like of which she had never before seen on his face.
Her lips touched the edge of the glass, and there rested a moment: and then, without having tasted the wine, she raised the glass and held it between her half-closed eyes and the lamp above, an action that displayed to the full the beauty of her rounded arm and bust.
"How bright and clear it is!" she murmured, in a softly modulated voice. "By the way," she added, suddenly opening her eyes wide, "what wine do you call this?"
"A choice vintage. Malvazia, one of the rarest of the Madeiras," replied the earl.
Lorelie lowered the glass quickly, in real or feigned disappointment.
"O-oh!" she murmured, pouting. "A pity—that! I cannot bear Malvazia: it always gives me the headache. I must refrain from drinking.—And yet," she added, inhaling the fragrance, "the bouquet is tempting."
She toyed a moment or two with the glass, as if about to drink, but finally set it down upon the table, glancing at the two men with a silvery laugh. Her radiant air contrasted strangely with the sombre spirit which seemed to enwrap both of them.
"This is a very pretty chamber," she said, poising her head upon her hands, and affecting to survey the crypt with interest. "Nothing very terrible about it, after all. I might have spared myself the letter to Dr. Rothwell."
"What is that?" said the earl, with a quick nervous start.
"Peccavi!I have done very wrong, I admit," saidLorelie, with a sweet smile. "I have ventured to disobey your command that I should tell nobody of this, our midnight adventure: for, as one never knows what may happen when visiting the haunts of the dead, I could not refrain from communicating with Dr. Rothwell on the matter. He is aware of this visit of ours to the crypt. Commend my wisdom, my lord, in thus taking precautions to secure our safe return."
Never did human countenance change so quickly as did that of the earl at these words. He glanced at Ivar. Dismay was reflected in the eyes of each.
"Here is the note I received from him this afternoon," continued Lorelie imperturbably, drawing forth the communication and tossing it carelessly upon the table. "You observe his words. 'Dear Lady Walden, I give you my promise that if I do not meet you at the porch of Ravenhall to-morrow morning at eight, I will come and seek you in the vault."
"He would have some trouble in finding it," sneered the earl.
"Not at all. Dr. Rothwell knows his way to this crypt as well as you or Ivar. He made a secret visit here on April the tenth of this year, the night on which Ivar returned home from the continent."
"Godfreywasat Ravenhall that night," muttered the viscount uneasily.
"He was here—in this vault, I repeat, at three in the morning. And the scene he witnessed was past belief. It would do you good, Ivar, to listen to his story. It would really interest you; you, perhaps, more than any other person."
It is no exaggeration to say that at these words Ivar became green with fear. He turned his head from the earl in order to conceal his agitation. The secret which he had believed to be locked within his own breast wasknown to others—was being hinted at in the presence of his father, the very person from whom he most desired to conceal it. How much did Lorelie know? What would she be saying next? Words, perhaps, that would bring him to ruin.
"Ivar, I see, is persuaded of the truth of my statement. You are more sceptical, my lord, but you shall be convinced."
She detached the velvet bow from her neckband and flung it lightly beside Godfrey's note.
"Cut the threads of that; unfold the velvet, and you will find that its shape corresponds exactly with the little rent at the foot of that curtain. It was Dr. Rothwell who cut off this piece of velvet, bringing it away with him to prove—if proof should ever be required—that he has stood in the secret crypt of the Ravengars. Do you still doubt me, my lord, or do you require further proof?"
On the contrary he was so certain of the truth of her words that he did not attempt to verify them, but stood, fingering the velvet bow with a dark expression of countenance.
Looking upon Lorelie as an enemy to be silenced at all costs he had brought her to this vault intending that she should never leave it. Ivar was a reluctant accomplice, his reluctance arising not from any conscientious scruples, but from the dangerous consequences attending the commission of such a deed. The disappearance of the new viscountess on the second day of her coming to Ravenhall would be an event that could not fail to bring suspicion and inquiry in its train.
Lorelie had divined their plot, and having taken steps for its frustration, had fearlessly accompanied them to the destined scene of her death. And here she was, a slender, fragile woman, in a lonely situation, with no one to hearher cry for help, in the presence of two men desirous of her death, and yet, thanks to her forethought, as safe as if attended by an armed escort.
Her calm air, her radiant beauty, added fuel to the earl's secret rage. If he had followed his first impulse he would have seized her in his arms and twining his fingers around her throat have silenced her forever. But prudence compelled him to refrain from violence. The thought of having to face on the morrow the stern inquiring eyes of Godfrey acted as a potent check.
Fortunately for himself he had not proceeded to the length of openly avowing his awful purpose: he was therefore free to deny it, if she had any suspicion, as he was strongly disposed to believe that she had. Besides, what mattered her suspicion? She had no real proof to offer the world. Opposed to her single testimony was the joint testimony of himself and her husband.
He began to breathe freely again. The matter might yet end well as regarded his own safety—the only consideration that troubled him.
Lorelie, knowing the cause of his mortification, sat at ease in her chair, secretly enjoying her triumph.
At last, feigning to be angry, she exclaimed:—
"How silent you are! Are you going to let me depart from this vault without enlightening me as to its mysteries? Come, Ivar, play the part of cicerone. Draw aside the curtain from each alcove, and give me the names and biographies of the coffined dead. I am in an historic genealogic mood."
Ivar, not knowing whether to obey, glanced irresolutely at his father.
"Gratify the curious fool," the earl muttered moodily.
With an ill grace at having to obey the wife whom he hated, and troubled by a secret foreboding that his guilty secret was about to transpire, Ivar approached the alcovenearest the door, and, lifting the velvet drapery, disclosed a deep recess, the walls of which were pierced with niches containing coffins.
"This," he remarked sullenly, touching one, "is the coffin of Lancelot Ravengar, the first earl of Ormsby."
And so he proceeded from one alcove to another, giving the names of the dead peers, his amiability not improved by the caustic remarks made by Lorelie.
"A dull catalogue of nonentities, unknown to fame," she said, when Ivar had finished his recital. "But I observed that you entirely passed over the fourth alcove. Why? Raise the curtain and let me see what it contains."
With manifest reluctance the viscount lifted the drapery, revealing in the alcove a coffin on trestles.
"This is the coffin of Urien Ravengar, my grandfather."
"In saying that, you of course mean simply that that is the name on the plate."
"That coffin," broke in the earl in a harsh voice, "contains the body of my father, Urien Ravengar."
"I do not think so," replied Lorelie quietly.
In a blaze of wrath the earl turned suddenly upon Ivar.
"Fool! what have you been telling this woman?"
"I? Nothing!" replied the viscount, shrinking back. And seeing disbelief expressed on his father's face, he added, "Ask her: if she speak truth she will tell you that nothing relating to this coffin has passed my lips."
"Then how—how?" began the earl: then, breaking off abruptly, he turned to Lorelie with the question: "Tell me, then, what this coffin does contain?"
"That is what I wish to learn," she replied coolly. "It is my chief reason for visiting this vault."
"You will remain in ignorance."
"I shall depart enlightened. Was it not from that coffin, Ivar," she said, turning to him, "that you took the golden vase you gave me some time ago?"
She was drawing a bow at a venture, but the arrow found its mark. The sweat glistened on Ivar's forehead. He betrayed all the confusion of a guilty person. His father eyed him suspiciously.
"A golden vase!" he exclaimed with a bitter smile. "Ivar, I must look into that coffin!"
Thus speaking he made his way to the alcove where the viscount was standing. Moved by curiosity Lorelie also drew near.
"Take the screwdriver, and remove the lid," said Lord Ormsby in a stern voice.
Sullenly and mutely Ivar proceeded to do his father's bidding.
No one spoke, and nothing disturbed the stillness save the crisp revolution of the screwdriver. With folded arms and compressed lips the earl stood looking on, an expression on his face that boded ill for his son should he find his suspicion verified.
The last screw was loosed, and as Ivar raised the lid Lorelie's eyes instantly closed, dazzled by a thousand rays of many-coloured light, shooting up in all directions from the coffin, like bright spirits rejoicing to be free.
Putting up her hand to shield her sight from the radiance she endeavoured to obtain a clear idea of what was before her.
The coffin, of more than ordinary size, was a veritable treasure-chest, filled to the lid with plate and precious stones, the latter forming by far the larger part of the contents.
Forgetful of her aversion to the earl, forgetful of her recent peril, forgetful of everything but the sight beforeher, Lorelie stood with parted lips and dilated eyes, spellbound by the glittering array of wealth. Her knowledge of art taught her that the antiquity and workmanship of the ornaments far exceeded the intrinsic value of the materials composing them. There was a crucifix, formed from one entire piece of amber, the plunder of some Saxon monastery: an ivory drinking-horn, engraved with runic letters, that spoke of the old Norseland: a golden lamp, inscribed with a verse from the Koran, a relic of Moorish rule in Spain: rare coins, that had found their way from the Byzantine treasury. Every part of mediæval Europe had apparently contributed some memorial to this store.
But, as previously stated, the quantity of plate was small in comparison with the gems. It was these that riveted Lorelie's attention. Never in any collection of crown-jewels had she seen the equal of these stones for variety and size, for brilliance and beauty. The richest caliph of the East might have envied the possessor of such a store. It suggested a dream of the "Arabian Nights."
"Ah! you may well gaze!" cried the earl to Lorelie, in a fierce exultant tone. "Find me the man in Britain who owns such wealth as this! Take every object out of the coffin," he continued, addressing Ivar. "Lay each and all upon the table. Let Lady Walden handle them that she may realize the wealthy match she has made."
Lorelie quite understood the earl's motive in making this display. Since he could not get rid of her, his only other policy was to conciliate her. She smiled disdainfully to herself. It was not to her interest, however, to quarrel with him at present: she must simulate friendly relations till the purpose for which she had come to Ravenhall should be accomplished.
"Yes, let me see everything," she said in seeming eagerness.
Drawing the table to the entrance of the alcove Ivar proceeded to empty the coffin of its contents. During this operation Lorelie's surprise rose almost to fever-heat at sight of some of the objects drawn forth.
When the coffin had been emptied, the earl produced a pocketbook containing a list of the treasures.
"'Article 1,'" he read out. "'Ancient Norse funereal urn, of pure gold, set with opals.'"
The viscount handed a vase to his father.
"Safe, I see," said the earl. "I have been unjust to you in thought, Ivar," he continued, apologetically. "When your wife spoke of a golden vase given her by you, my thoughts associated themselves with this. I acknowledge my error."
Ivar cast an anxious look at Lorelie, dreading lest her words should lead to the betrayal of his secret. But Lorelie said nothing, though in a state of extreme amazement and perplexity: for the jewelled vessel now in the earl's hands seemed to be the very vase given to her by Ivar some weeks previously—the vase that had played so important a part in her hypnotic experiment with Beatrice.
On coming to Ravenhall Lorelie had left it behind her at The Cedars: how came it to be here in the vault of the Ravengars? Was it a replica? If so, it was certainly a marvellous imitation of the original, since she could detect no points of difference.
"Observe the lustre of the opals," said the earl, his eyes gleaming with pleasure; and Lorelie perceived that his love of study, great though it might be, had not quenched in him the passion of avarice. "An interesting and precious relic of Norse antiquity, this!" continued the earl, tapping the urn affectionately. "Itcontains the ashes of Draco the Golden, the founder of our family. From the grey dust within this urn all we Ravengars have sprung."
The vase at The Cedars also held the remains of the same Viking, if the story told by Beatrice in her hypnotic trance was to be relied upon. The supposition that the ashes of Orm had been divided between two urns seemed absurd: and yet how otherwise was this mystery to be explained, unless indeed Ivar, unknown to her, had paid a visit to The Cedars, and having obtained the vase, had restored it to the place whence he had originally taken it. Unlikely as this last hypothesis might be, it seemed the only one capable of meeting the requirements of the case.