I am driven to what is either the vehicle for the sentimental vaporings of a school girl, or the last resource of a desperate, friendless woman. I am going to set down on blank paper the record of events here just in the way they occur to me. I am going to enjoy the luxury of being honest to myself. I need not say in which of the above states I am. That is soon shown.
I would to God that I had died before I had come here; before I had sought out my uncle, Count Marioni, and listened to the pitiful story of his wrongs. I am pledged to a purpose so awful that I dare not think of it. Day by day I am expecting the time to arrive for the accomplishment of my hideous vow. God keep it back! Keep me innocent a little longer!
I write this in a weak moment. There are times when my uncle's wistful eyes seem turned upon me, full of mute pleading, and the old spirit of my race stirs up a great passion of hate in my heart. Then the thing seems easy; I long for a weapon that I may end the struggle, and avenge the man who looks to me to strike. Her gentle manners and kind words have no influence. I am adamant. I look across the sea, and I see the figure of a man, pale and lonely, languishing year by year in a Roman prison. Then, indeed, my heart is hard and my hand is ready!
But there are other times, such as these, when I loathe myself and the part I am playing; when an unutterable horror comes upon me, and I see myself and my purpose in hideous, ghastly colors. It is such a mood that has driven me to make use of this dumb confidant, that I may confess what this thing is which has dawned upon me. My cheeks are stained with shame as I write it. Never could it have passed my lips. Oh! my love, my love, cursed am I that I love you!
He shall never know it! He thinks me cold and capricious! Let him! It is my purpose to make him suffer, and he shall suffer! In that I will be true to my oath; I will make of this weakness a scourge! No one will know what it costs me! No one will know how sweet to me are the words which I train my lips to answer with scorn! Never a tender look or word shall he gain from me; yet this much can I promise myself. No one else shall ever be dear to me! No other lover will I have save his memory! He thinks that I dislike him! He shall think so to the end! He shall never know—never!
I took up a novel this morning, and tried to read, but could not. Ah! those fools who write about a woman's love—what do they know about it? Nothing! less than nothing! I, Margharita, am nineteen years old, and I love! I would die this moment cheerfully, sooner than he should know it! Yet, though I shall never hear one word of love from his lips, or rest for one moment in his arms; though I live to be an old woman, I would starve, beg, die, sooner than give myself to any other man. To have loved, even though the love be unknown, and to have been loved, even though it be silently, is sweet to a woman. She can crystallize the memory in her heart and pass through life sad, perhaps, yet content, cold and deaf to all other voices. They say that a man is not like this. Perhaps! A woman's nature is finer than a man's—less passionate, but more devoted.
To-night, as the dressing bell rang, and I was coming upstairs to change my gown for dinner, he met me in the hall and offered me—a spray of white hyacinths! How my fingers shook as I took them! White hyacinths! If he had only known what he had been doing. White hyacinths! What was that oath—"Vengeance upon traitors." Does she remember it, I wonder? I think that she does, for I wore them in the bosom of my dress, and she turned pale when she glanced at them. She looked at me as though she were afraid. Does my face remind her of the past, I wonder? She told me that my features are the features of the Marionis, and I know that I am like my mother! I am glad of it! I would have my face bring a pang to her heart every time she looks at it. That is justice!
She looked, as though fascinated, at the bunch of white flowers in my bosom. I took care to let her know that Lord Lumley had given them to me. I am never so gracious to him as in her presence.
"By the by, mother," he said, during a pause in the conversation, "I have noticed that, while you use every other color of hyacinths for table decorations, you never use any white ones. Why is it?"
She looked at her husband. I saw their eyes meet across the table, and that look told me how near the past was to their thoughts.
"It is a flower I do not care for, Lumley," she said quietly. "The perfume is too faint. Besides, they are so suggestive of funerals."
"Perhaps you would prefer my not wearing mine, then," I remarked carelessly. "I will throw them away."
I saw him bite his lip and frown, and I laughed to myself. Lady St. Maurice was hesitating.
"I should be sorry for you to do that," she said. "Groves can take them away until after dinner, if you would not mind."
"They are scarcely worth keeping," I went on, drawing them from my corsage. "I care nothing for them after all," and opening the window just behind my chair, I threw them into the darkness.
Lord Lumley came to me in the drawing room afterward.
"It was scarcely kind of you to throw my flowers away," he said, bending over my chair.
I turned back with my hands clasped behind my head and laughed up at him.
"Why not? They were nothing to me. It was kind to your mother at any rate."
Oh! hypocrite! hypocrite! If he could only have seen me a few minutes before, stealing along in the shadow of the shrubs outside looking about in the darkness till I had found them, and holding them passionately to my lips. They were in my pocket then, wrapped in a lace handkerchief. They are in a secret drawer of my desk now, and there will they remain forever. I do not mind confessing that they are very precious to me. But he does not know that.
He turned away offended and left me. But I went to the piano and sang a wild Neapolitan love song, and when I had finished he was leaning over me with a deep glow in his pale cheeks and his eyes fixed upon mine. Does he know how handsome he is, I wonder? Whence did I get the strength to look into those deep blue eyes, burning with passion, and mock at him?
"You sing divinely of what you know nothing!" he said.
"Isn't that rather a rash assumption?" I answered lightly. "You are paying me a poor compliment in taking it for granted that I never had a lover, Lord Lumley."
"Have you?"
"Oh, yes, heaps!"
"Are you engaged, then?" he asked fiercely.
"How like a man you jump at conclusions!"
"But, are you?"
"Is it your business, Lord Lumley?"
"Yes!"
"Then if you make everybody's love affairs your concern, you must find plenty to interest you."
"There is only one person in the world in whose love affairs I am interested."
"Naturally!" I answered. "Whose else should be so interesting as your own?"
"I did not mean that!" he exclaimed, almost angrily. "You are bandying words with me."
"On the contrary, it is you who seem bent on mystifying me," I answered, laughing.
"You shall hear me speak more plainly then."
"I would rather not. Enigmas are so much more interesting. Will you allow me to pass?"
"Why," he asked, without moving an inch.
"Because, as your mother does not seem to be coming in again, I should prefer going to my room."
"She is coming in again. I heard her order coffee here in ten minutes."
"I don't want any coffee, and I won't be kept here. Lord Lumley, be so good as to allow me to pass."
"In one minute, Margharita. I——"
"Lord Lumley, I allow no man to call me by my Christian name without permission."
"Then give me permission."
"Never!"
"You don't mean that?"
"I do! Lord Lumley, allow me to pass. I will not be kept here against my will!"
He caught hold of my wrist, but I snatched my hand away.
"Margharita, listen! I love you. Why should you be angry? I want you to be my wife."
I believe he thought that I was won. I had sunk down upon the music stool and covered my face with my hands. My bosom was heaving with sobs. With all my strength I was battling with a strange bewildering succession of feelings. In reality I was more exquisitely and perfectly happy than I had ever dreamed of.
I felt his strong hands close over my fingers and remove them one by one. His head was quite close to mine, and suddenly I felt his mustache brush my cheek.
I sprang to my feet, wildly, fiercely angry. My eyes were flashing, and I had drawn myself up until I seemed almost as tall as he was. If he had dared to kiss me. Oh! if he had dared!
"Let me pass!" I cried passionately. "Let me pass at once, I say."
He fell back immediately. He was half frightened, half puzzled.
"Lord Lumley, I never wish you to speak to me again," I cried, trembling all over with passionate indignation, and dashing the tears from my eyes. "I hate you. Do you hear! I hate you!"
He ought to have been abashed, but he was not.
"You have no cause to hate me!" he said proudly. "Surely a man does not insult a woman by offering her his love, as I have offered you mine. I scarcely see at least how I have deserved your anger."
Suddenly his voice broke down, and he went on in a very altered tone:
"Oh, Margharita, my love, my love! Give me one word of hope! Tell me at least that you are not really angry with me."
And then, without a moment's warning, the fire of indignation which had leaped up to help me suddenly died out. He was standing respectfully away from me, pale and dignified. His face was full of emotion, and his hands were trembling; but some instinct seemed to have told him how I hated his touch, and he did not attempt even to hold my hand. Oh! that moment, terrible as it was at the time, will be very sweet to think upon in after days.
My strength had come to an end. I knew that I was in terrible risk of undoing all that I had done, but I could not help it. That moment seemed somehow sacred. Although my whole life was itself a lie, I could not then have looked in his eyes and spoken falsely. If I had let him see my face, though only for an instant, he would have known my secret; so I buried it in my hands, and swept from the room before he could stop me.
Am I more happy or more miserable, I wonder, since he has spoken those words which seem to be ever ringing in my ears? Both, I think! Life is more intense; it has other depths now besides that well of hate and pity which has brought me into this household. At any rate, I have felt emotions to-night which I never dreamed of before.
If only he knew—knew all, how he would scorn, hate, despise me! How he would hasten to drive me out of his memory, to crush every tender thought of me, to purge his heart of love for me, to pluck it up by the roots and cast it away forever! Would he find it an easy task, I wonder? Perhaps. He loves his mother so much. Why should he not? So far as he is concerned, she deserves it. She is a good mother, and a good wife. If it were not for the past I would call her a good woman. Sometimes I wish that she were not so, that she was still vain and heartless, the same woman who, for the sake of an alien and a stranger, brought down a living death upon the man who had trusted her with his most sacred secrets; and that man the last of the Marionis, my uncle. I think of it, and coldness steals once more into my heart. What she is now is of no account. It is the past for which she must suffer.
This morning I heard noises about the house quite early and heavy footsteps in the drive. I was awake—it was only a few minutes since I had been sitting at the window watching the day break over the sea, and I had the curiosity to look out. I think that something must have told me what it meant, for my heart sank even before I had any idea of what was going on. There were two sailors from Lord Lumley's yacht in the bay, carrying great hampers down from the house. I guessed it all in a moment; he was going away.
I put on my dressing-gown and sat down in a low chair to watch. Through a chink in the blind I could keep it lowered and still see quite plainly. Presently I saw him appear in his yachting clothes, with oilskins on his arm. Would he glance up at all, I wondered. Yes; at the bend in the shrubbery he turned and looked for a full minute up at my window. It was all I could do to keep from waving him to come back. How pale he was, and how dejected his walk seemed. My eyes grew dim, and there was a lump in my throat as he turned and walked away. Would it have made any difference, I wonder, if he had known of my being there; if he could have seen my poor, sad, tear-stained face? I think that it would.
He has gone. I have seen the last of him. Am I glad or sorry, I wonder. Glad that my task has become so much easier, or sorry for my own unreasoning, selfish sake. Why should I be a hypocrite? These pages are to be the mirror of my heart. To others my whole life is a lie. I write here so that I may retain some faint knowledge of what truth really is. I am sorry—desperately, foolishly sorry. I know that my cheeks are leaden, and my heart is heavy. There is no light in the day; none of that swift, keen struggling with myself which his presence always imposed. He is gone, and I miss them; I should have laughed a few short days ago to have believed this true. But it is true!
The first bell has gone, and I have drawn up my blind. The promise of that blood-red sunrise has been fulfilled. I wish that he had waited another day. I have an idea that there is going to be a storm. There is a pale yellow light in the sky which I do not like, and, as far as one can see, the waves are crested with white foam. It is an ugly sea and an ugly sky. I wish that I were going with him, and that a storm might come and we might die together. I would not mind his holding me in his arms then. We would die like that, and death would be joy.
At breakfast I was able to take the news of his departure without making any sign. I fancy that Lady St. Maurice was watching me when she made the announcement. If she was expecting to read my thoughts and fears she was disappointed. She could have seen nothing but the most utter indifference. I felt that my mask was perfect.
But as the day wore on my task grew harder. The wind, which had been blowing hard all the morning, became a hurricane, and even in the house, with closed doors and windows, we could hear the far-off thunder of the sea sweeping in against the cliffs. Every one in the household became strangely restless and anxious. Lord St. Maurice, with a field glass under his arm, went out upon the cliffs, and he returned hatless and with his coat ripped up, shaking his head with ill-affected cheerfulness. There was no sign of theStormy Petrel.
"Lumley would make for Yarmouth harbor directly he saw this beast of a gale blowing up," he declared, walking up and down the morning room with troubled face. "He is a little careless, but he is an excellent sailor, and he must have seen that there was dirty weather brewing. It isn't as though it were a sudden squall, you know, or anything of that sort. There was plenty of warning. All the same, I wish he hadn't started. It was very foolish, and I don't like such whims. I didn't hear him say anything about a cruise yesterday. Did you, Adrienne?"
Was it my fancy, or did Lady St. Maurice indeed glance at me as she answered:
"No, I heard nothing. Late last night he came to my room and told me that he had given Groves some orders, and that he should leave quite early this morning."
Lord St. Maurice frowned.
"It is most extraordinary," he said. "He gave you no reason whatever, then?"
"None!"
"Did he say where he was going to? We were shooting together all yesterday afternoon, and he said not a word about going away. On the contrary, he arranged to go to Norwich on Thursday to look at some horses."
The Countess shook her head.
"I know no more than you do, Geoffrey. I asked him where he was going, and he did not seem at all sure. He said that he would write if he remained away more than a day or two. You know how uncertain he is."
"It is very inconsiderate of him," Lord St. Maurice declared, leaving the room abruptly. "I am surprised at Lumley."
Lady St. Maurice and I were alone. She was pretending to read and I to work. So far as she was concerned, I could see that it was a pretence, for she held her book upside down, and for my part, I did not make a correct stitch. I knew that I ought to have been calm, that I was imperiling my secret every moment. When at last she spoke to me, I made a great effort to control my tone.
"Lord Lumley said nothing to you, I suppose, Margharita, about going away?"
"Nothing whatever," I answered quietly. "He would be scarcely likely to mention his plans to me and not to you or Lord St. Maurice."
I was forced to look up, and I met her eyes fixed upon me with a look which I had seen there once or twice before. It was almost a look of fear, as though she saw in my face something which aroused a host of sad, dimly-veiled memories. Was she wondering whether the presence of a Marioni in her house boded ill-fortune to herself and those who were dear to her? It may have been so.
She did not answer immediately, and I took advantage of the pause to leave the room. I could not bear to talk to her.
Ought I not to have been glad at all this—to have watched her pale, suffering face with satisfaction, and even with inward joy. Was she not in trouble greater than any I could bring upon her, and, indeed, had I not had a hand in it? Was it not I who had driven her son out into this danger? Should I not have rejoiced? Alas! alas! how could I, when my own heart was beating fast in a very agony of sickening fear.
My little pupil was away for the day—gone to play with the clergyman's children down in the village, and my time was my own. I was thankful, for I could not possibly have forced myself into the wearisome routine of lesson hearing and teaching. Solitude was my only relief.
The day wore on. Servants had been sent to every point along the coast, and the harbor master at Yarmouth had been telegraphed to every hour. I stood by my window, looking out in the fast gathering twilight, until I could bear it no longer. Dashing the tears from my face, I caught up a thick cloak, and running softly down the back stairs, left the house unobserved.
At first I could scarcely stand, and, indeed, as I turned the corner of the avenue and faced the sea, a gust of wind carried me off from my feet, and I had to cling to the low iron railings for support. The thunder of the storm and the waves seemed to shake the air around me. The sky was dark and riven with faint flashes of stormlight, which slanted down to the sea. By hard struggling I managed to make my way on to the cliffs, and stood there, looking downward, with my arm passed round a tall fir sapling for support. What a night it was! The spray of the waves breaking against the cliff leaped up into my face mingled with the blinding rain, and dimmed my vision so that I could only catch a faint view of the boiling, seething gulf below. Beyond, all was chaos; for a gray haze floated upon the water and met the low hanging clouds. And clear above the deep thunder of the sea came the shrill yelling of the wind in the pine groves which fringed the cliffs, sounding like the demoniacal laughter of an army of devils. Shall I ever forget the horror of that day, I wonder! I think not! It is written upon a page of my memory in characters over which time can have no power.
And in that moment of agony, when my thoughts were full of his peril, I wrestled no longer with my secret; I knew that I loved him. I knew that he was dear to me as no other man could be. I knew that I was face to face with a misery unchanging and unending.
Were not the fates themselves fighting against me in my task? That it should be, of all men upon this earth, he, the son of the woman whose death would be at my door. A murderess! Should I be that! The wind caught up the word which had burst from my pale lips, and I seemed to hear it echoed with fiendish mirth among the bending tree tops of the plantation. A murderess! and of his mother, the mother whom he loved so fondly! If he should know it! If the day should come when my sin should be laid bare, and he should know that he had given his love to such a one. Sin! Was it a sin? Was my love turning the whole world upside down? Had it seemed so to me before? Was it sin or justice! Oh! to whom should I look for strength to hold me to my purpose. To pray would be blasphemous. For me there was no God, no friend on earth, no heaven! I could only think of that one shattered life, and hug it to my memory.
I wandered backward and forward in the storm, drenched and cold, yet all unmindful of my state. I could have borne no roof over my head in those hours of my agony. The thought of his danger maddened me. Even though I knew so well that he could be nothing to me; that if he knew the truth, he would loathe me; that soon the day would come when I should scarcely dare to raise my eyes to his before we parted forever. All these things seemed to make me long the more passionately to look once more into his face, to know that he was safe. It was my fault that he was in this danger. Horrible thought!
I was exhausted; worn out in body and mind by the sickening fears which no effort of will seemed able to quell. Even my limbs at last gave way beneath me, and I sank upon my knees, holding my face in my hands. Had the edge of the cliff been a little nearer, could I have done it without any physical effort, I had been content to close my eyes, and throw myself into the sea. If there are no joys in death, at least there is rest.
Then a voice came to me.
"Margharita!"
I leaped up from the wet ground with wildly-beating heart. Was it some mocking trick of the storm—that voice in my ears, that dear, dear voice? My eyes seemed dilated, and through the deep gloom I saw a tall figure striding toward me. Then I know that I cried out and called to him by his name; and alas! by the tone of my voice, and the light that flashed into my face, my secret was gone! For evil or for good he knew then that I loved him!
There came a time then of blessed and grateful unconsciousness. The tumult of the storm was reduced to a mere singing in my ears, and darkness seemed to have closed in around me. When I opened my eyes, I was resting in his arms, and a delicious sense of happiness was stealing through me. Sensation had overpowered memory, and I was happy. Ah! if life could have ended then—that was how I felt. If only the future and that shrunken relentless figure pointing me on to tragedy—if only they could have melted away! Alas! alas!
He had become bold at my mute self-yielding, and at something which he must have seen in my face. I felt him bending down over me, and suddenly my lips partly opened to frame the feeblest of protests were closed in a long passionate kiss, and his arms drew me toward him. Still I made no effort to release myself. A desperate self-abandonment had crept in upon me. The happiness of that moment should recompense me for the misery to come. Time took to itself wings then; I had no power or will to measure it. If hell itself had been yawning at my feet, I was content.
It was he who spoke at last, still clasping my hands, and looking eagerly into my face.
"Margharita, my love, I have come back to you. How shall I bless this storm!"
"Have you been in danger?" I asked softly.
"Nothing to speak of," he laughed. "We ran for Yarmouth harbor directly we saw what was coming, and only lost a few spars. What a sea it was, though. Wave after wave broke over our bows and swept the deck. It was a miracle we lost no men."
"And how is it that you are home so quickly?"
"I took the first train from Yarmouth, and wired for a special from the junction. I knew that my mother would be anxious, and they told me that there was very little chance of telegrams being delivered safely; so much damage had been done to the wires."
"You thought of no one but your mother?" I whispered, a little reproachfully.
"My darling! how was I to know that any one else cared?"
"Ah!"
The sense of relief in my heart was over-powering, I seemed to have no desire for speech. The sound of his voice was like music to me, and I preferred to listen.
"It seems to me that I have had no thought save of you, Margharita," he went on slowly. "In all that storm, when flying clouds and spray and driving rain shut us in on every side, I thought of nothing else save of you. No one knows the boat so well as I, and for the last four hours I was lashed to a board, steering. Margharita, all that time, and all the time I stood on the bridge, I seemed to see you always. Sometimes it was the mist of rain and spray which opened to let you through; and sometimes—sometimes I almost fancied that you were by my side. Think of you, Margharita! Why, I was a haunted man. In all that thunder of sea and wind, when I had to use a speaking trumpet to make my men hear me a few yards away, I could only hear your voice in my ears as distinctly as you hear me now. They say that when one is in danger, or near death, that the imagination is quickened. It must have been so with me, for your presence and the sound of your voice were very real to me."
"How did you find me here?" I asked.
"Well, as soon as I could decently get away from my people, I asked for you. They sent to your room, and could not find you. Then one of the servants thought that she had seen you leave the house and come this way. So I started off in search."
"It was foolish of me to come out. I could not rest indoors."
"Why?" eagerly.
"The storm was so dreadful."
"And so you came out into it. A bad reason. Was there no other?"
"I was anxious, too, I think. I wanted to see what the sea looked like."
"Why were you anxious; what about?"
"Somebody was in danger."
"My darling!"
His lips met mine again. My strength seemed altogether gone. I made no effort to escape.
"I didn't say who 'somebody' was," I protested weakly.
He laughed gaily.
"But I know."
"Sure?"
"Quite sure."
"I may have relatives who are sailors."
"You may have, but you haven't."
I considered for a moment.
"It was purely a matter of responsibility, you know. I felt that I had something to do with your going away. I was disagreeable last night, and you were offended. See?"
"Not a bit."
"You are very stupid."
"I am not now; I was last night."
"What do you mean?"
"I will answer you by asking a question. Will you promise to reply to it?"
"Cela dépend.I won't be rash."
"Do you care for me—just a little?" he asked, tenderly but hopefully.
Oh, horrible! A vision seemed to float suddenly before my eyes. The darkness faded away, to be replaced by a little whitewashed chamber in a distant land. I saw an old man dying, with his eyes fixed upon me full of mute reproach, his trembling fingers pointed at me with scorn, and his lips framing a feeble curse. Suddenly his look changed, his arm fell, his face grew suddenly bright and joyful, and the curse changed into a fervent blessing. Then the room widened, and the little figure under that spotless coverlet faded away. It was a chamber in a palace, and I saw Lady St. Maurice, also on her death-bed. Her husband and her son knelt by her side with bared heads, and the air was laden and heavy with the sound of their sobs. She alone did not weep, and her pale, spiritualized face glowed like the face of a martyred saint. And as I watched I seemed to hear one word constantly escaping from those who watched by her side, and caught up and echoed a thousand times by the sad wailing wind until it rang in my ears unceasingly—and the word was "Murderess!"
It passed away—vanished in a phantom of mist, like some weird morbid fancy, but the joy of those last few minutes was quenched. I drew myself from his arms, and pressed my hand to my side. There was a sharp pain there.
"We must go back to the house," I said. "I have been a little mad, I think, and I am very wet."
He looked at me, amazed.
"Won't you answer my question first?" he pleaded. "Margharita, make me very happy. Be my wife."
His wife. Oh, the grim grotesque agony of it all. My strength would never be sufficient to carry me through all this. My heart was faint, and my speech was low; yet it was as cold and resolute as I could make it.
"Never! never! I would sooner die than that. Let us go back at once—at once!"
He caught me by the wrist, and forced me to look into his face. It was unwise of him to touch me against my will, for the fire flashed into my eyes, and my anger gave me strength.
"Margharita, what does this mean? You do care for a me a little, don't you?"
"No!"
I lied, God knows, and all in vain.
"Perhaps not so very much now," he said, with a little sigh, "but you will some day. I know that you will. Be generous, Margharita, give me a little hope."
I laid my hand upon his arm. How could I convince him. Anger, lies, reasoning, all seemed so weak and ineffective; and he was so strong—strong in his own love, strong unconsciously in mine.
"Lord Lumley, I can only give you one answer, and that is—'No.' Nothing can change me. I would sooner throw myself from these cliffs than become your wife."
He considered for a moment, while I watched him anxiously.
"I have a right to know your reason for that speech," he said in a low but firm tone. "Give me your hands for one moment, Margharita—so! Now, look me in the eyes, and tell me that you do not care for me!"
I was a fool to try. I might have known that, after all I had passed through that day, it was beyond my strength. I got as far as the first three words, and then I burst into tears. His whole face lit up with joy at my failure.
"I am satisfied!" he said, drawing my hand through his arm. "Come! we will go back to the house. I must not have you catch cold!"
He spoke with an air of fond proprietorship which made my heart tremble, but I had no more words left with which to fight my battle. My strength was gone; I did not even try to withdraw my hand.
We walked away, and I did my best to choke the hysterical sobs which threatened me. Directly we left the shelter of the pine grove, speech became impossible. We had to fight our way along, step by step, with the wind and rain beating in our faces. I was thankful for it, for the physical effort seemed to stimulate and calm me.
When at last we reached the house and stood inside the hall, he turned to me and spoke for the first time.
"That walk was quite an event, wasn't it? Let me feel how wet you are."
He ran his fingers down my arm and back, and then rang the hall bell violently.
"You are wet through," he said gravely. "And it is my fault. Instead of bringing you home at once, as I ought to have done, I kept you out there talking. Run upstairs at once, Margharita, please, and change all your things. I will send up hot water."
He had been hurrying me to the stairs all the time, and I began slowly to ascend them. He stood down in the white stone hall, watching me anxiously.
"You won't be long, will you?" he said, as I reached the corner. "I want to talk to you before dinner."
I answered him mechanically, and turning away, went along the corridor to my room, and flung myself upon the bed. I had scarcely been there five minutes when there was a knock at the door.
"Who is there?" I asked, sitting up and hastily drying my eyes.
A servant's voice answered, and I recognized Cecile, the Countess's own maid.
"Her ladyship has sent you a cup of tea, miss, and hopes you will be sure to change all your clothes. There is a letter for you, too, miss."
I bade the girl come in and put the tea down. When she had gone, I stretched out my hand, and took up the letter with trembling fingers. It was from my uncle, and the postmark was Rome.
I suppose it is absurd to talk about presentiments, and yet I knew what was in that letter. As plainly as though I saw it written up in characters of fire, I knew its contents and my doom. The climax of all things was at hand. The time was approaching when I must keep my vow, or confess myself foresworn—an unworthy daughter of the Marionis. It was a bitter choice, for there was a life in either balance; the life of this traitress of five-and-twenty years ago, or of an old man sick to the heart with disappointment; deceived by a woman in his youth, and a woman again in his old age.
I bathed my eyes and face, and, throwing off my wet things, wrapped myself in a dressing robe. Then I poured out a cup of tea and drank it over the fire. All the while that letter lay before me on the tray, face upward, and my eyes kept straying unwillingly toward it. It had a sort of fascination for me, and in the end it conquered. I had meant to give myself a few hours' more freedom—to have put it away until bedtime, but a sudden impulse came to me, and I yielded. I caught it up with firm fingers and tore it open.
"Palezzo Carlotti, Rome.
"Margharita,—Beloved. Success! success! My search is over, my purpose is accomplished. I have found Paschuli. Enclosed in this letter you will find a smaller envelope. It contains the powder.
"Can you wonder that my hand is shaking, and that there is a mist before my eyes! I am an old man, and great joy is hard to bear; harder still after a weary, wretched life such as mine. You will understand, though—you will be able to decipher this faint, uncertain handwriting, and you will forgive me if it tires you. Ay, you will do that, Margharita, I know!
"Let me tell you how I found him. It was by the purest accident. I turned aside into an old curio shop to buy some trifle for you which took my fancy, and it was Paschuli himself who served me. Thus you see how indirectly even your star always shines over mine and leads me aright. If it had not been for you I should never have dreamed of entering the place, but I thought of you and your taste for Roman jewelry, and behold, I found myself in the presence of the man for whom I was making vain search. My Margharita! my good angel! I have you to thank even for the successful accomplishment of my part in that edict of our Order which you and I are banded together to carry out.
"At first, Paschuli did not recognize me, and it was long before I could make him believe that I was indeed that most unfortunate of men, Leonardo di Marioni. But when he was convinced, he promised me what I sought. That same evening he gave it to me.
"Margharita, there is no poison in the world like that which I send you in this letter. The merest grain of it is sufficient, in wine or water, or food of any sort. There is no art of medicine which could detect it—no means by which the death, which will surely follow, can be averted; so you run no risk, my child! Bide your time, and then—then!
"Margharita, I am coming to you. Nay, do not be alarmed, I run no risk. I shall come disguised, and no one will know me, but I must see something of the end with my own eyes, or half its sweetness would be untasted. I would see her face and die! I would trace, day by day, the workings of the poison; and in the last moments of her agony I would reveal myself, and would point to my withered frame and the hand of death upon my forehead, and cry out to her that the Order of the White Hyacinth had kept its vow. I would have her eyes meet mine as the mists of death closed in upon her. I would have her know that the oath of a Marioni, in friendship or in hate, in protection or in vengeance, is one with his honor. This may not be, Margharita! I cannot see all this! I cannot even stand by her bedside for a moment and show her my face, that she might know whose hand it is which has stricken her down. Yet, I must be near! Fear not but that I shall manage it safely! I would not bring danger or the shadow of danger upon you, my beloved.
"I leave Rome to-night, and I leave it with joy. You cannot imagine how inexpressibly sad it has been for me to find myself in the place where the greater part of my youth—my too ambitious youth was spent. All is changed and strange to me. There are new streets and many innovations which puzzle me; and although my friends are kind, twenty-five years have crushed our sympathies. To them I am like a sad figure from a bygone world, a Banquo at the feast, something to pity a little—no more. I am nothing to anybody beyond that. I am a wearisome old man, whose mind is a blank, and who only cumbers the way. Ah, well, it is not for long. The day of my desire is at hand, and God has given me you, Margharita, to accomplish it, and to close my eyes in peace. Bless you, my dear, dear child! You have sweetened the end of a marred and wretched life! Yours has been an angel's task, and you will have an angel's reward."
"We shall meet before long, but of the manner of our meeting I cannot tell you yet. Till then adieu!—Yours in hope,
"Leonardo di Marioni.
"P. S.—I forgot to say that the whole of the poison, or even half a teaspoonful, would produce sudden and abrupt death. Just a pinch, administered twice, perhaps, in order to be quite secure, would be sufficient."
Enclosed in the letter was the oblong envelope he spoke of, which I carefully opened. It contained only a small quantity of pale pink powder, which emitted a faint pungent odor. I locked it up in my desk, and destroyed the letter.
All my strength had returned. I felt myself free from the madness of this overmastering love. Another passion for the moment had taken its place. The vision of that old man, wandering about the streets of Rome, with a sad, weary heart and tottering limbs out of touch with the times, a figure for a half-contemptuous pity; that is the picture which I saw steadily before me to nerve my heart and purpose, and well it succeeded.
The second bell roused me from my thoughts. I hastily rose from my chair, and attired myself in the plainest gown which I possessed. I unlocked my desk, and thrust the little packet into my pocket. Then, without jewelry or flowers, and with my hair plainly coiled upon my head, I went downstairs.
They had commenced dinner when I arrived, and Lord Lumley glanced reproachfully at me as I took my seat. From the sudden silence directly I entered, I imagined they had been talking of me, and I made my excuses with a momentary nervousness. There was something unusual in the air. It seemed to me that Lady St. Maurice was regarding me with a new and kindly interest. She said nothing, as I had dreaded she would, of my long absence from the house, and Lord St. Maurice, with a courtesy unusual even for him, rose when I entered, and motioning the butler away, himself held my chair. What did it all mean? At another time I might have wondered more, but just then there were other thoughts in my mind. Should I have an opportunity to commit my crime that night? I feared not.
I gave no one any chance for sentimental conversation during dinner time, for I talked more than usual, and in a lighter vein. I wanted nothing said which could bring back to my memory that wild scene on the cliffs, or the hours of agony which I had been through. All such things were of the past. I desired to be able to look back upon them as upon some strange night-dream—fair enough of itself, but gone with the first breath of morning. To my relief, the others, too, avoided the subject. There was nothing said about Lord Lumley's escape which even bordered upon the pathetic.
Dinner, which seemed to me to last longer than usual, came to an end at last. I had planned to make some excuse to the Countess, and leave the drawing-room before Lord Lumley could follow, but, as I had half expected that he might, Lord Lumley accompanied us there without waiting to smoke. To my surprise, Lady St. Maurice, before I could frame an excuse to her for my own departure, left us alone. Lord Lumley held the door open for her, and it seemed to me that a meaning glance passed between them. It was beyond my understanding. I could only see that my plans were frustrated, and that I must prepare for another struggle.
He shut the door carefully, and then came back and stood over me. I looked at him calmly. How could he read the agony in my heart.
"I am waiting for my answer, Margharita!" he said simply.
"You have had the only answer which I can ever give you, Lord Lumley! I answered—'No!'"
Then he did a thing which sounds very absurd, but which did not indeed seem so. He sank on one knee and took possession of my hand. I was on a low chair, and his face now was on a level with mine.
"Margharita, my love," he whispered, "'no' is an answer which I shall never take. Yesterday I went away and left you, to-day I am wiser. Nothing can undo those few minutes on the cliffs, dearest. You love me! Ah! you cannot deny it! Have I not read it in your face, and in your eyes? Take back your 'no,' Margharita. By the memory of those few minutes, you are mine forever! You have not the power or the right to deny yourself to me. You are mine! You belong to me!"
I shrank back. I began to be frightened at his earnestness—at the note of triumph in his voice. How strong and masterful he was. Should I be able to hold out against him? Only my will and the memory of a wasted life against my heart and such pleading as this. It was a hard, unequal battle.
"Margharita, I love you all the more that you are not lightly won!" he continued, drawing me closer to him—almost into his arms. "Listen! I believe that I have some idea as to the reason of your answer. You think, perhaps, that my people might not be willing. You are proud—too proud. Tell me, is this not so?"
"A governess is no fitting wife for you. You should choose one from among the noble women of your country. I——"
He interrupted me. If I had not drawn back quickly he would have stopped my lips with a kiss.
"No one in this world could be as fit as you, for it is you, and you only, whom I love. But listen! I have spoken to my mother. I have told her."
"You have told her what?" I cried.
"That I love you. That I have asked you to be my wife."
"What did she say?"
"What a true woman and good mother should say; that if you were indeed my choice, then she was ready to welcome you as her daughter, and my wife."
"You cannot mean it!" I cried. "She knows nothing of me, and I am penniless."
"She knows that I love you, and that would be sufficient, dearest. But, as it happens, she knew more about you than I did. From her I learned, for the first time, that your mother came from a family which was great and noble before ours was ever founded. She told me a sad story of your uncle, Margharita, which you, too, doubtless know of, and she seemed glad to think that our marriage would be, in a certain sense, an act of poetic justice. She told me, too, Margharita, that if your uncle died unmarried, you could, if you chose, take his name and call yourself the Countess di Marioni. Why, sweetheart, I am not sure that I ought to aspire to the hand of so great a lady."
"Your mother, the Countess of St. Maurice, told you all this? She desires our marriage? She knows what you are asking me?" I repeated breathlessly.
"Most certainly! Shall I call her? She will tell you so herself."
"Do not speak to me for a moment, please."
I was an idiot, but I could not help it. I buried my head in the sofa cushion, and sobbed. Everything seemed fighting against me, to make my purpose more difficult.
I think that tears have a softening effect. I had steeled my heart against my lover, and yet he conquered. I felt his strong arms around me, and his lips were pressed against my wet cheeks. Oh! for strength to thrust him from me—to deny my love, but I could not.
Why should I try to recall his words? Nay! if I could, I would not set them down here! I felt every fiber of my nature glowing with delight as I listened; every chord seemed quivering with heart-stirring music. I had given up all idea of resistance. A strange drowsy peace had stolen in upon me. One of his arms was around my waist, and my hand was imprisoned in his. So we sat, and the moments became golden.
Interruption came at last. The door opened, and Lady St. Maurice entered. My lover rose at once, still holding my hand.
"Mother," he said, "Margharita has made me very happy. Will you speak to her?"
She came to us, and bent over me, her face looking very soft and sweet in the shaded light. In another moment she would have kissed me. I sprang to my feet, pale with horror.
"No, no, it cannot be!" I cried. "I am not fit to be his wife—to be anybody's wife! Lady St. Maurice, will you not tell him so for me? Let me go away!"
She looked surprised at my agitation, but she little guessed its cause. How was she to know anything of that little packet which seemed to be burning a hole in my heart?
"No! I will not tell him that!" she said, smiling. "He loves you, and I believe that you are worthy of his love. That is quite sufficient. I shall be glad to have you for a daughter, Margharita."
Lord Lumley thanked her with a look, and took her hand. They stood together on the hearthrug, and I was on the other side facing the window. Suddenly my heart gave a great leap, and the color died out of my face. Pressed against the dark pane I could see a pale, white face watching us. It was the face of my uncle, Count di Marioni.
I stood swaying backward and forward for a moment, sick and dizzy with the horror of it. My eyes grew dim, and a mist seemed to fill the room. Then I felt myself sink back into my lover's arms, and memory became a blank. I had fainted.
The sun has risen upon the last day which I shall spend on earth; and I sit down calmly to write all that happened to me yesterday, and my reason for the step which I am about to take.
It is a fair still morning, and the birds are singing gaily in the grove. My window is open, and the early freshness of the autumnal air is filling the room. For hours I have been on my bed there, hot and restless, praying for the dawn, that I might carry out my purpose; and as soon as the first faint gleam of light in the east broke through the dark night clouds, I arose and bathed my eyes and sat down here to wait. I have watched the sun rise up from the ocean, slowly gathering strength until its first quivering beams glanced across the dull gray sea, and even penetrated into my chamber. And with the dawn has come peace. I sit here calm and prepared for the trial to come.
It was the evening before yesterday when I saw my uncle's face pressed against the window pane, and fainted with the shock. Early on the following morning a note from him was brought up to me, having been left by a messenger from the village. Here it is:—
"My Beloved Margharita,—Many a time have I reproached myself for my imprudence last night, and the effects which I fear it had upon you. It was thoughtless and rash of me to come near the house at all; but, indeed, I meant only to watch from a safe distance; only, as I crouched behind a shrub upon the lawn, I saw her face, and the sight drew me nearer against my better judgment. I met your eyes, and I knew that you were overcome with fright; but I feared to linger lest they might ask what it was that alarmed you, and seek for me. And although I fancy that I am altered past recognition, yet I would run no risks.
"I, too, had a great surprise, Margharita. You will not wonder what I mean by that when I tell you that in the light which streamed from the uncurtained window everything in the room was distinctly visible to me. Was I dreaming, child, or were you indeed assenting to the embrace of the man whose arms were surely around you? Him, I could not see, for his back was turned to the window; but will you laugh at me, I wonder, if I tell you that I felt strangely jealous of him. I am a foolish old man, Margharita, but all the love of my heart is yours, and I had begun almost to look upon you—in my thoughts—as my own child. I cannot bear the thought of giving you up to any one. You will not think me very, very selfish. I have only a few more months to live, and I know that you will not grudge that much out of your future, that you will stay by me to the end. Afterwards, I have no wish save for your happiness; and although I must confess that I had hoped you might have married one of the sons of our own country, still it is you who must choose, and I owe you, or shall owe you soon, too great a debt to press upon you any desire of mine which is not at one with your wishes. But tell me this—Is he an Englishman? Alas! I fear so. Send me a word by the bearer, and tell me; tell me, too, of what family he is, and whether he is noble. But of that I feel already assured, if he be indeed the man to whom your love is given.
"You must surely have sustained a shock at my sudden and rash appearance. Doubtless you wonder at seeing me here at all. I could not keep away. I must have news day by day, almost hour by hour. It is all that keeps me alive. I must be near to feel that I am breathing the same air as the woman on whom a long-delayed vengeance is about to fall.
"I have taken a furnished cottage on the outskirts of this village, and a little more than a mile from Mallory Grange. But do not come to me. Dearly as I would love to have you talk to me, and hear from your own lips that all goes well, yet at present it were better not. I will devise some means of communication, and let you know of it shortly. I am living here as Mr. Angus.—Yours ever,
"L. M."
I folded up this letter with a shudder, and sitting down dashed off my reply. It is here:—
"My dear Uncle,—I am a culprit—a miserable, pleading culprit. It is true that I love an Englishman—the man who was standing by my side last night; and it is true that he has asked me to marry him. But I have not told him so, and I have not promised to marry him. That is not all of my confession. Not only is he an Englishman, but his name is Lord Lumley St. Maurice, and he is—her son.
"Now you know the terrible trouble I am in. Last night he was telling me of his love, and assuring me of his mother's sanction and approval, when your face appeared at the window. Can you wonder at my start, and that I fainted? Can you wonder that I sit here, after a sleepless night, with eyes that are dim and a heart that has become a stone? I dread to stir from the room. My position is horrible. I have tried my utmost to avoid him, to treat him with disdain, to send him away from me. I have steeled my heart and clothed my face with frowns—in vain! The bald fact remains that I love him. Do you despise me, uncle? Sometimes I feel that I deserve it; but I have suffered, I am suffering now. I am punished. Do not add your anger to my load!
"Immediately you get this, sit down and write to me. Write to me just what is in your heart. Your words I shall set before me as my law. Do not delay, and, if you blame, do not fail to pity me.—Yours ever unchanged,
"Margharita."
I sent this letter off with a certain sense of relief, and then, finding by my watch that it was late, finished dressing hastily, and went down into the schoolroom. Instead of my pupil, Lord Lumley was there lounging in my low basket-chair, yawning over a German grammar. He sprang up as I entered, and throwing the book into a corner of the room, advanced toward me with outstretched hands.
"Margharita, you are better, dear? I have been waiting here more than an hour for you."
Then, before I could prevent him, he had kissed me. Let me be honest, though, here, at any rate. Did I really try to prevent him? I think not.
"Where is Gracie?" I asked, looking round. "And what have you done to myOttos?"
"Gracie has gone out with the nurse," he answered, laughing, "and as for that wretched volume, well, I've got a good mind to send the rest after it. You've a nasty brain-worrying lot of lesson books here. I've been looking through them."
"One cannot teach without them. Elementary books always look tiresome, but they are indispensable."
"Not for you any longer, I'm glad to say," he remarked.
"Why not?"
He looked at me, surprised.
"Surely you don't expect to go on teaching that child?" he asked. "You are a visitor here now, and I am responsible for your entertainment. To commence with, I have invited myself to breakfast with you. The tray is here, as you perceive, and the kettle is boiling. Kindly make the tea."
I did as I was bid, with a meekness which astonished myself, and he sat opposite to me. The servant brought in the remainder of the things, and closed the door. Gracie was not coming.
"Well, how do you like the first item in my programme?" he asked, taking my hand for a moment between his. "Atête-à-têtebreakfast was not a bad idea, was it?"
"Does Lady St. Maurice know?" I asked, suddenly conscious of the utter impropriety of what we were doing.
He laughed reassuringly.
"Of course she does, sweetheart. In fact, she as good as suggested it. She thinks you feel a little strange about it all, and that a long, quiet day alone with me would help you to realize matters. Accordingly, I am having a luncheon basket packed, and after breakfast we are going for a sail, just you and I. You see the sea is as calm as a duck pond this morning. Shall you like it, do you think?"
Like it! Oh! how long was this mockery to go on! How long before I could find strength to tell him the truth—that this thing could never be! I tried to tell him then, but the words died away upon my lips. I would give myself one more day. After that there must be action of some sort or other. My uncle's reply would have come, and I should know exactly what lay before me.
"I should like it, yes," I answered, looking into my lover's handsome, glowing face. "You are sure that your mother will not mind—that she approves?"
"Quite," he answered confidently. "We talked it over together for some time. To-night I am going to speak to my father. He has an inkling of it already, but he will expect me to tell him. Dearest, there is nothing to be frightened about. Why should you tremble so? You are not well?"
"I shall be better out of doors," I answered faintly. "I will get my hat, and we will start."
He rose up at once, and opened the door for me.
"Do. There must be a little pink coloring in those cheeks before we get back," he said fondly.
"Let us meet at the boat-house in a quarter of an hour. Shall you be ready by then?"
"Yes," I answered. "I will be there."
I did not give myself time to think. I had made up my mind with a sort of desperate determination that this day should be my very own, my own to spend in paradise, without scruples or after thought. In a few minutes my black dress was changed for a navy blue one and a straw hat, and I was hurrying down to the beach. Our boat, a dainty little skiff, only large enough for two, was ready when I got there, and Lord Lumley was standing up unfurling the sail.
I settled myself down comfortably in the cushioned seat, and we were off almost at once, gliding over the smooth surface of the water with a scarcely perceptible motion. We were about a quarter of a mile from the shore when we met Lord Lumley's yacht, rounding the point on her way back from Yarmouth. Lord Lumley stood up in the bows and hailed her.
"All well, Dyson?" he cried, as she swept past.
"All well, my Lord!" was the prompt reply.
"Is the breeze stiffening, do you think? It's calm enough here, but I see the white horses are showing their heads outside the bay."
"Ay! ay! my Lord, it's blowing hard round the headland. You'll have to keep her well away. Shall we take you up?"
Lord Lumley shook his head.
"You would not prefer the yacht?" he asked, turning to me.
"I like this best," I answered. "It is more exciting."
"We'll stick to the skiff, Dyson," Lord Lumley called out.
The man looked doubtful; but while he hesitated, we shot far ahead, so that his voice only reached us faintly.
"There's a heavy sea running, my Lord, and it'll blow great guns before night."
"Are you nervous, Margharita?" he asked tenderly.
"Not in the least," I answered, carelessly wiping the spray from my face. "I like it, and hope it will be rougher."
"Can't say that I do," he laughed. "What a plucky girl you are. Now that we're in a quieter sea, I think that I may venture to come and talk to you."
So he came and sat by my side. It is not my purpose to set down all that passed between us that day. There are pages in our lives which we never willingly open; which have for us a peculiar sacredness, and a sweetness which never altogether fades away. There came a sort of abandon upon me, the forerunner of a fit of nervous desperation which well-nigh sent us both, hand in hand, into another world—closed the gates of my memory upon the past, and withdrew my shuddering thoughts from the future, to steep them in the delight of the present. My lover sat by my side, and his words were filling my heart with music. The strong sea breeze blew in our faces, and the salt spray leaped like glittering silver into the sunlight. Over our heads the sea-gulls screamed, and the coast line grew faint in the distance. So we sailed on, hand in hand, heart whispering to heart in the golden silence, till the sun lay low in the west, and our tiny craft pitched and tossed in the trough of the ocean waves.
Then my lover suddenly became conscious of time and place, and he sprang up bewildered.
"A miracle!" he cried. "The sun is low, and it cannot yet be afternoon."
"Flatterer," I laughed, showing him my watch. "It is past five o'clock."
He looked round as he gathered in the sail, and a shade of anxiety crept into his face. Especially he looked with bewildered eyes at the faint blue line where land lay.
"What an idiot I have been," he said, knitting his brows. "Port, Margharita! The left string! That's right! Now, sit firm, and when we go down, lean to the other side. You mustn't mind if you get a little wet. We are running in the teeth of the wind, and it will be roughish."
It was deliciously exhilarating. The breeze, without our noticing it, had been gradually freshening, and now it was almost a gale. The sky above was mackerel-hued and wind-swept. The sea seemed to be getting rougher every minute. Lord Lumley had to pass his arm round the frail mast which creaked and bent with the straining of the sail. Once we heeled right over, and were within an ace of being capsized. I only laughed, and the color came into my cheeks. Death would be a sweet and welcome thing, I thought—death here on the ocean, with my lover's arms around me. So I had no fear, and Lord Lumley found time to glance at me admiringly.
"You're the pluckiest woman I ever knew in all my life!" he exclaimed lightly. "Gad! that was a shave! It's no use, dear, we must tack. This is too good to last."
Round we swept, first one way then another, but we made no headway. In an hour's time we were no nearer land, and in the gathering twilight the coast line was dim and blurred. Here and there we could see a few lights burning from the villages along the shore, and away northward the revolving light from Gorton headland shone out like a beacon.
"What will become of us?" I asked softly, for Lord Lumley had ceased his exertions for a moment with a little gesture of despair. His face was very pale, but it might have been from fatigue.
"Nothing very serious. Fortunately the sail is a new one, and very strong. I think it will hold, and while it does, I can keep her in position. We shall be tacking about most of the night, though, I am afraid. It is such a provoking shifty wind. I can't depend upon it for a moment."
"And supposing the sail went?"
"We have the oars. It would be uncommonly hard work, rowing, but it would keep us afloat. It was just a chance that I put them in—a lucky one as it happens."
"Supposing you had forgotten them, and that we had no oars?"
Lord Lumley shook his head.
"Don't add to the horrors," he said, smiling. "I'd rather not suppose anything of the kind. It's bad enough as it is."
"There would be danger, then?"
"Yes."
"In what way?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yes, please."
"Well, we should drift out to sea, and the first heavy wave that caught us broadside would probably swamp us. The great thing is, you see, to keep our head to the waves. Are you cold, love?"
I shook my head. I had no thought of it
"Frightened?"
"Not a bit of it. Do I look it?"
"That you don't," he answered, smiling. "You are brave, dearest. I shall never forgive myself for being so careless, though."
I think that it was then that the madness first came to me. I held my hands up to my head, and strove to fight against that frantic impulse. The air seemed full of voices whispering to me to end by one swift stroke this hideous dilemma into which I had drifted of my own foolish will. It was so simple; so easy a manner of escape. And she, too, would be punished. In a manner, my oath would have been accomplished. What vengeance could be sweeter to the heart of that desolate old man than the death of her son—her only son? It could be done so easily, so secretly. And as for me, should I not die in his arms with his dear face pressed close to mine, his kisses upon my cold lips, and his voice the last to fall upon my ears? What was life to me, a pledged murderess? Would not such a death be a thousand times better? The wind rushing across the waters seemed to bring mocking whispers to my ears. I seemed to read it in the silent stars, and in the voices of the night. Death, painless and sudden. Death, in my lover's arms. My heart yearned for it.
In the darkness I stretched down my hand, and felt for the oars. My lover's back was turned to me, for he was on his knees in the bows, gazing ahead with strained eyesight. One oar I raised and balanced on the side of the boat. A quick push, and it was gone. The dull splash in the water was lost in the rushing of the wind and the creaking of the ropes. I watched it drift away from us with anxious eyes. It was gone, irrevocably gone.
There was only the sail now. I had not meant to touch that; to leave so much to chance, but the desire for death had grown. I was no longer mistress of myself. A small pocket-knife was lying in the bottom of the boat, and I stooped down cautiously and picked it up. Just as my fingers closed upon it, Lord Lumley looked round. My eyes fell before his, and I trembled, thankful for the darkness.
"Frightened yet, dearest?" he asked tenderly.
I laughed. There was no fear in my heart. If only he had known.
"No! I am not afraid! I am happy!"
He looked at me, wondering. Well he might!
"How your eyes are gleaming, love! After all, I don't think that we need a lantern!"
"A lantern! What use would it have been to us?"
"To warn anything off from running us down. If the sail holds till morning, and I think it will, we shall be all right if we escape collisions."
"Is that what you are fearing?" I asked.
"Yes. I fancy that we must be getting in the track of the coal steamers. If only the moon would rise! This darkness is our greatest danger! Even if they had a smart lookout man, I am afraid that they would never see us."
He turned round again, and remained gazing with fixed eyes into the darkness. Then I held my breath, and stooping forward, with the penknife in my hand, commenced steadily sawing at the bottom knot which bound the sail to the mast. Directly it parted I cut a great slit in the sail itself.
The knife was sharp, and my task was over in less than a minute. I dropped it into the sea, and leaned back breathless. The wind was coming.
"Lumley!" I faltered, "will you come to me? I am afraid!"
He turned round with a quick loving word. At that moment the catastrophe happened. A sudden gust of wind filled out the sail. There was a crash as it parted from the mast, a confused mass of canvass and limp rope. The whole of the strain for a moment was upon the topmost portion of the mast, and the result was inevitable. It snapped short, and the whole tangled heap fell down, half in the bottom of the boat, half in the sea.
We heeled right over, and it seemed as if we must be capsized. But my lover had presence of mind, and a strong desire to live. He leaned heavily on the other side of the boat, and whipping a large sailor's knife from his pocket, cut away the whole of the wreckage from the stump of the mast with a few lightning-like strokes. It fell away overboard at once, and though we shipped a lot of water, the boat righted itself again. While it was yet trembling with the shock he leaned across to me, pale, but with no fear in his set face or his clear, resolute tone.
"Courage, Margharita! The oars! Quick, dear!"
Then for the first time my heart smote me for what I had done; for the passionate desire of life was alight in his eyes. What right had I to make him share my fate? My deep joy was suddenly numbed. I was a murderess!
I handed him the remaining one, and pretended to feel about in the bottom of the boat. In that moment I recovered myself.
"There is only one here," I announced calmly.
"Impossible!" he cried. "I saw the pair laid out myself."
He dropped on his knee and felt anxiously around. Then he struck a match; with the same result. The oar was gone.
He knew then that my words were true, and he came over to my side with a great despair in his dark eyes.
"Margharita!" he cried, taking me into his arms, "there is death before us, and it is I who have brought it upon you. Oh, my love, my love!"
His kisses fell upon my lips, and my head fell upon his shoulder. Then I drew a sigh of deep content, and I felt that I had done well.
"I do not mind," I whispered softly. "Let us stay like this. I am happy."
"My darling!"