Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (5 page)

 
          
“Thank
heaven, she has come home then. Yet hold! It may be but a ruse to prevent my
discovering her absence. Virginie! Cousin! Are you there?”

 
          
He
struck upon the door, lightly at first, then vehemently, and to his great joy a
soft, sleepy voice replied, “Who calls?”

 
          
“It
is Victor. I missed you, searched for you, and grew anxious when I found you
gone. Why did you not wait, as usual?”

 
          
“Mile.
Clotilde offered me a seat in her carriage, and I
gladly accepted it. She was set down first, and it is a long distance there and
back, you know. Now let me rest; I am very tired.”

 
          
“Good
night, my heart,” answered Victor, adding, in a tone of pain and tenderness, as
he turned away, “mon Dieul How I love that girl, and how she tortures me! Rest
well, my cousin; I shall guard your sleep.”

 
          
Hour
after hour passed, and still a solitary figure paced to and fro with noiseless
feet along the narrow terrace that lay between the ancient house and the
neglected garden sloping to the river. Dawn was slowly breaking in the east
when the window of Virginie’s chamber opened cautiously, and her charming head
appeared. The light was very dim, and shadows still lay dark upon the house;
but Victor, coming from the water gate whither he had been drawn by the sound
of a passing boat, heard the soft movement, glided behind a group of shrubs,
and eyed the window keenly, remembering that now it was “tomorrow.” For a
moment the lovely face leaned out, looking anxiously across terrace, street,
and garden. The morning air seemed to strike cold on her uncovered shoulders,
and with a shiver she was drawing back when a man’s hand laid a light cloak
about her, and a man’s head appeared beside her own.

 
          
“Imprudent!
Go quickly, or Victor will be stirring. At
noon
I shall be ready,” she said half aloud, and
as she withdrew the curtain fell.

 
          
With
the bound of a wounded tiger, Victor reached the terrace, and reckless of life
or limb, took the short road to his revenge. The barred shutters of a lower
window, the carved ornaments upon the wall, and the balcony that hung above,
all offered foot- and handhold for an agile climber like himself, as, creeping
upward like a stealthy shadow, he peered in with a face that would have
appalled the lovers had they seen it. They did not, for standing near the
half-opened door, they were parting as Romeo and Juliet parted, heart to heart,
cheek to cheek, and neither saw nor heard the impending doom until the swift
stroke fell. So sure, so sudden was it that Virginie knew nothing, till, with a
stifled cry, her lover started, swayed backward from her arms, and dyeing her
garments with his blood, fell at her feet stabbed through the heart.

 
          
An
awful silence followed, for Virginie uttered no cry of alarm, made no gesture
of flight, showed no sign of guilt; but stood white and motionless as if turned
to stone.

 
          
Soon
Victor grasped her arm and hissed into her ear, “Traitress! I could find it in
my heart to lay you there beside him. But no; you shall live to atone for your
falsehood to me and mourn your lover.”

 
          
Something
in the words or tone seemed to recall her scattered senses and rouse her to a
passionate abhorrence of him and of his deed. She wrenched herself from his
hold, saying vehemently, though instinctively below her breath, “No; it is you
who shall atone! He was my husband, not my lover. Look if I lie!”

 
          
He
did look as a trembling hand was stretched toward him over that dead form. On
it he saw a wedding ring, and in it the record of the marriage which in a
single night had made her wife and widow. With an ejaculation of despair he
snatched the paper as if to tear and scatter it; but some sudden thought
flashed into his mind, and putting the record in his bosom, he turned to
Virginie with an expression that chilled her by its ominous resolve.

 
          
“Listen/’
he said, “and save yourself while you may; for I swear, if you raise your
voice, lift your hand against me, or refuse to obey me now, that I will
denounce you as the murderer of that man. You were last seen with him, were missed
by others besides me last night. There lies his purse; here is the only proof
of your accursed marriage; and if I call in witnesses, which of us looks most
like an assassin, you or I?”

 
          
She
listened with a terror-stricken face, glanced at her bloody garments, knew that
she was in the power of a relentless man, and clasped her hands with a gesture
of mute supplication and submission.

 
          
“You
are wise,” he said. “Apart, we are both in danger; together we may be strong
and safe. I have a plan—hear it and help me to execute it, for time is life
now. You have spoken
to
many of going into the
country; it shall be so, but we will give our departure the appearance of a
sudden thought, a lover’s flight. Leave everything behind you but money and
jewels. That purse will more than pay you the sum you cannot claim. While I go
to fling this body into the river, to tell no tales till we are safe, destroy
all traces of the deed, prepare yourself for traveling, and guard the room in
silence until I come. Remember! One sign of treachery, one cry for help, and I
denounce you where my word will have much weight and yours none.”

 
          
She
gave him her hand upon the dark bargain, and covering up her face to hide the
tragic spectacle, she heard Victor leave the room with his awful burden.

 
          
When
he returned, she was nearly ready, for though moving like one in a ghastly
dream, bewildered by the sudden loss of the long coveted, just won prize, and
daunted by the crime whose retribution a word might bring upon herself, she
still clung to life and its delights with the tenacity of a selfish nature, a
shallow heart. While she finished her hasty preparations, Victor set the room
in order, saw that the red witnesses of the crime were burnt, and dashed off a
gay note to a friend, enclosing money for all obligations, explaining their
sudden flight as an innocent ruse to escape congratulations on their hasty
marriage, and promising to send soon for such possessions as were left behind.
Then, leaving the quiet room to be forever haunted by the memory of a night of
love, and sin, and death, like two pale ghosts they vanished in the dimness of
the dawn.

EARL’S MYSTERY

 
          
FOUR
ladies sat in the luxurious privacy of Lady Lennox’s boudoir, whiling away the
listless hour before dinner with social chat. Dusk was deepening, but firelight
filled the room with its warm glow, flickering on mirrors, marbles, rich hues,
and graceful forms, and bathing the four faces with unwonted bloom.

 
          
Stately
Diana Stuart leaned on the high back of the chair in which sat her aunt and
chaperon, the Honorable Mrs. Berkeley. On the opposite side of the wide hearth
a slender figure lounged in the deep corner of a couch, with a graceful abandon
which no Englishwoman could hope to imitate. The face was hidden by a
hand-screen, but
a pair of ravishing feet were
visible, and a shower of golden hair shone against the velvet pillow. Directly
before the fire sat Lady Lennox, a comely, hospitable matron who was never so
content as when she could gather her female guests about her and refresh
herself with a little good-natured gossip. She had evidently been discussing
some subject which interested her hearers, for all were intently listening, and
all looked eager for more, when she said, with a significant nod:

 
          
“Yes,
I assure you there is a mystery in that family. Lady Carrick has known them all
her life, and from what she has dropped from time to time, I quite agree with
her in believing that something has gone wrong.”

 
          
“Dear
Lady Lennox, pray go on! There is nothing
so
charming
as a family mystery when the narrator can give a clue to her audience, as I am
sure you can,” exclaimed the lady on the couch, in a persuasive voice which had
a curious ring to it despite its melody.

           
“That is just what I cannot do, Mrs.
Vane. However, I will gladly tell you all I know. This is in strict confidence,
you understand.”

 
          
“Certainly!”
“Upon my honor!”
“Not
a word shall pass my lips!” murmured the three listeners, drawing nearer, as
Lady Lennox fixed her eyes upon the fire and lowered her voice.

 
          
“It
is the custom in ancient Scottish families for the piper of the house, when
dying, to put the pipes into the hand of the heir to name or title. Well, when
old Dougal lay on his deathbed, he called for Earl, the fourth son—”

 
          
“What
a peculiar name!” interrupted Mrs. Berkeley.

 
          
“It
was not his proper name, but they called him so because of his strong
resemblance to the pictures of the great earl, Black Douglass. They continued
to call him so to this day, and I really don’t know whether his name is Allan,
Archie, or Alex, for they are all family names, and one cannot remember which
belongs to whom. Now the eldest son was Robert, and Dougal should have called
for him, because the title and the fortune always go to the eldest son of the
eldest son. But no, Earl must come; and into his hands the pipes were put, with
a strange prophecy that no heir would enjoy the title but a year until it came
to him.”

 
          
“Was
the prediction fulfilled?” asked Diana.

 
          
“To the letter.
This was five or six years ago, and not one
year has passed without a death, till now a single feeble life is all that
stands between Earl and the title.
Nor was this all.
When his father died, though he had lain insensible for days, he rose up in his
bed at the last and put upon Earls hand the iron ring which is their most
precious heirloom, because it belonged to the ancient earl. This, too, should
have gone to Robert; but the same gift of second sight seemed given to the
father as to the servant, and these strange things made a deep impression upon
the family, as you may suppose.”

 
          
“That
is the mystery, then?” said Mrs. Vane, with an accent of disappointment in her
voice.

 
          
“Only a part of it.
I am not superstitious, so the
prediction and all the rest of it don’t trouble me much, but what occurred
afterward does. When Earl was one-and-twenty he went abroad, was gone a year,
and came home so utterly and strangely changed that everyone was amazed at the
alteration. The death of a cousin just then drew people’s attention from him,
and when that stir was over the family seemed to be reconciled to the sad
change in him. Nothing was said, nothing ever transpired to clear up the
matter; and to this day he has remained a cold, grave, peculiar man, instead of
the frank, gay fellow he once was.”

 
          
“He
met with some loss in an affair of the heart, doubtless. Such little tragedies
often mar a young man’s peace for years—perhaps for life.”

 
          
As
Mrs. Vane spoke she lowered her screen, showing a pair of wonderfully keen and
brilliant eyes fixed full upon Diana. The young lady was unconscious of this
searching glance as she intently regarded Lady Lennox, who said:

 
          
“That
is my opinion, though Lady Carrick never would confirm it, being hampered by
some promise to the family, I suspect, for they are almost as high and haughty
now as in the olden time. There was a vague rumor of some serious entanglement
at
Paris
, but it was hushed up at once, and few gave
it credence. Still, as year after year passed, and Earl remains unmarried, I
really begin to fear there was some truth in what I fancied an idle report.”

 
          
Something
in this speech seemed to ruffle Mrs. Berkeley; a look of intelligence passed
between her and her niece as she drew herself up, and before Diana could speak,
the elder lady exclaimed, with an air of mystery, “Your ladyship does Mr.
Douglas great injustice, and a few months, weeks, perhaps, will quite change
your opinion. We saw a good deal of him last season before my poor brother’s
death took us from town, and I assure you that he is free to address any lady
in
England
. More I am not at liberty to say at present.”

 
          
Lady
Lennox looked politely incredulous, but Diana’s eyes fell and a sudden color
bathed her face in a still deeper bloom than that which the firelight shed over
it. A slight frown contracted Mrs. Vane’s beautiful brows as she watched the
proud girl’s efforts to conceal the secret of her heart. But the frown faded to
a smile of intelligent compassion as she said, with a significant glance that
stung Diana like an insult, “Dear Miss Stuart, pray take my screen. This
glowing fire is ruining your complexion.”

 
          
“Thank
you,
I need no screens of any sort.”

 
          
There
was a slight emphasis upon the “I,” and a smile of equal significance curled
her lips. If any taunt was intended it missed its mark, for Mrs. Vane only
assumed a more graceful pose, saying with a provoking little air of superior
wisdom, “There you are wrong, for our faces are such traitors, that unless we
have learned the art of self-control, it is not best for us to scorn such harmless
aids as fans, screens, and veils. Emotions are not well-bred, and their
demonstrations are often as embarrassing to others as to
ourselves
.”

 
          
“That,
doubtless, is the reason why you half conceal your face behind a cloud of
curls. It certainly is a most effectual mask at times,” replied Diana, pushing
back her own smooth bands of hair.

 
          
“Thanks
for the suggestion. I wonder it never occurred to me before,” sweetly answered
Mrs. Vane, adding, as she gathered up the disheveled locks, “my poor hair is
called a great ornament, but indeed it is a trial both to Gabrielle and to
myself.”

 
          
Lady
Lennox touched a long tress that rolled down the pillow, saying with motherly
admiration, “My dear, I promised Mrs. Berkeley she should see this wonderful
hair of yours, for she could not believe my account of it. The dressing bell
will ring directly, so you may gratify us without making more work for
Gabrielle.”

 
          
“Willingly, dear Lady Lennox; anything for you!”

 
          
As
she spoke with affectionate goodwill, Mrs. Vane rose, drew out a comb or two,
and a stream of golden hair rippled far below her knee. Mrs. Berkeley
exclaimed, and Diana praised, while watching with a very natural touch of envy
the charming picture the firelight showed her. In its full glow stood Mrs. Vane;
against the deep purple of her dress glittered the golden mass, and a pair of
lovely hands parted the shining veil from a face whose beauty was as peculiar
and alluring as the mingled spirit and sweetness of her smile.

 
          
“A
thousand pardons! I thought your ladyship was alone.” A deep voice broke the
momentary silence, and a tall figure paused upon the threshold of the softly
opened door. All started, and with a little cry of pleasure and surprise, Lady
Lennox
hurried forward to greet her guest.

 
          
“My
dear Earl, this is a most inhospitable welcome. George should have apprised me
of your arrival.”

 
          
“He
is a lazy fellow, as he bade me find you here. I tapped, but receiving no
reply, fancied the room empty and peeped to make sure. Pray accept my
apologies, and put me out if I intrude.”

 
          
The
voice of Mr. Douglas was remarkably calm, his manner stately yet cordial, and
his dark eyes went rapidly from face to face with a glance that seemed to
comprehend the scene at once.

 
          
“Not
in the least,” said Lady Lennox heartily. “Let me present you to Mrs. Berkeley,
Miss Stuart, and—why, where is she? The poor little woman has run away in
confusion, and must receive your apologies by- and-by.”

 
          
“We
must run away also, for it is quite time to dress.” And with a most gracious
smile Mrs. Berkeley led her niece away before the gentleman should have time to
note her flushed face and telltale eyes.

 
          
“You
did not mention the presence of those ladies in your ladyship's letter,” began
Douglas
, as his hostess sat down and motioned him
to do likewise.

 
          
“They
came unexpectedly, and you have met before, it seems. You never mentioned that
fact, Earl,” said Lady Lennox, with a sharp glance.

           
“Why should I? We only met a few
times last winter, and I quite forgot that you knew them. But pray tell me
who was the fair one with golden locks, whom I frightened away
?”

 
          
“The widow of Colonel Vane.”

 
          
“My
dear lady, do you mean to tell me that child is a widow?”

 
          
“Yes;
and a very lovely one, I assure you. I invited you here expressly to fall in
love with her, for George and Harry are too young.”

 
          
“Thank
you. Now be so kind as to tell me all about her, for I knew Vane before he went
to
India
.”

 
          
“I
can only tell you that he married this lady when she was very young, took her
to
India
, and in a year she returned a widow.”

 
          
“I
remember hearing something of an engagement, but fancied it was broken off. Who
was the wife?”

 
          
“A
Montmorenci; noble but poor, you know. The family lost everything in the
revolution, and never regained their former grandeur. But one can see at a
glance that she is of high birth—high enough to suit even a
Douglas
.”

 
          
“Ah,
you know our weakness, and I must acknowledge that the best blood in
France
is not to be despised by the best blood in
Scotland
. How long have you known her?”

 
          
“Only
a few months; that charming Countess Camareena brought her from
Paris
, and left her when she returned. Mrs. Vane
seemed lonely for so young a thing; her
family are
all
gone, and she made herself so agreeable, seemed so grateful for any friendship,
that I asked her here. She went into very little society in
London
, and was really suffering for change and
care.”