IDRIS REDIVIVUS
"Ivar has been at home two months, yet we have had no visit from him."
The speaker was Godfrey Rothwell, and the scene the breakfast-room of
his villa, Wave Crest.
"Why should he visit us?" asked Beatrice.
"Ahem! as a suitor for your hand, in compliance with his father's wish."
"Ivar had better not insult me by such an offer."
"An offer of marriage can scarcely be called an insult, Trixie."
"It would be--from _him_," returned Beatrice with a heightened colour.
"I speak what I know," she added oracularly.
She began to pour out the coffee: while Godfrey, somewhat puzzled by
her words, turned to the letters awaiting him. No sooner had he glanced
at the handwriting on the envelope of the first than he gave a great
start.
"Heavens! have the dead returned to life?"
He hastily broke the seal and ran his eye over the letter, while the
mystified Beatrice awaited the explanation of his words.
"From my old college-friend, Idris Marville."
"What?" cried Beatrice with a little scream of surprise. "Is he not
dead, then? Did he escape the fire?"
"That's self-evident. There has been a dreadful mistake somewhere. He
will prove that he is alive by paying us a visit. In fact, he will be
here this very morning. Well, this _is_ a surprise!"
"More--a pleasure," added his sister.
Beatrice had never seen Idris, but she had often heard of him from
Godfrey, and knew the painful story of his boyhood. She was aware, too,
that on one occasion, Godfrey, being in pecuniary difficulties, had
applied to Idris in preference to the Earl of Ormsby, and had received
by return of post a handsome cheque. The memory of this event was still
fresh in her mind, and she was desirous of showing her gratitude to her
brother's benefactor.
"He signs himself 'Breakspear,' I see," she said, glancing at the
signature of Idris.
"Yes: he has dropped the name of Marville, and has taken his mother's
maiden name. It is easy to guess his reason."
True to the promise contained in his letter Idris arrived that same
morning, and Beatrice took a good view of him from behind the curtain
of her bedroom window, as he strode up the garden path accompanied by
Godfrey.
Twenty-three years had passed since that memorable night at Quilaix,
and Idris was now verging upon thirty--dark-eyed, handsome, athletic,
with a face bronzed by southern suns. His appearance impressed Beatrice
favourably.
"There is nothing mean or ignoble about _him_," she murmured.
The first greetings being ended, Idris sat down to a pleasant luncheon,
presided over by Beatrice.
"Your name has been so often on Godfrey's lips," she said, "that you
seem quite like an old friend, though I never thought to see you after
the announcement of your death in the newspapers."
Idris smiled.
"Perhaps I have done wrong in letting people think that I perished in
the burning of the '_Hôtel de l'Univers_.' At the time of the fire I
was at the opera-house. On leaving I found the boulevards ringing with
the news. I bought a newspaper and discovered my own name erroneously
inserted among the list of victims. I resolved not to set the mistake
right, for it suddenly occurred to me that here was a convenient
opportunity to die--to the world. Wherever I went, the name Marville
recalled my father's crime, or rather, supposed crime. 'Let the world
think that Eric Marville's son is dead,' I thought, 'and let him begin
life anew, and under a different name.'"
"Was the yacht _Nemesis_, in which your father escaped, never heard of
again?" asked Godfrey.
"It vanished, leaving not a trace behind."
"Strange! The news of your father's escape, together with a description
of the delinquent vessel, would be telegraphed to all civilized
countries. Every ocean-steamer, every seaport, would be on the watch
for the yacht, and yet you say it was never seen again."
"Its disappearance shows how well Captain Rochefort had devised his
plans," Idris answered.
"Since your father did not communicate with you, his only son, it
follows, almost as a matter of course, that he did not communicate with
his more distant relatives?"
"His relatives, if he had any, are unknown to me: in fact, I am quite
in the dark as to my father's antecedents. Among all his papers there
was not one letter relating to his kinsfolk, nor any clue whatever to
indicate his history prior to his settling at Nantes in 1866."
"You are certain that your father was English born? Because if so, his
name, and date and place of birth, together with his parents' names,
should be among the records of Somerset House."
"I have tried Somerset House, and have traced several Eric Marvilles,
some living and some dead, but none of them could I identify as my
father. I am sometimes disposed to believe that Marville was not his
real name, but one assumed by him on settling at Nantes."
"Cannot your mother's relatives give you any information?"
"They, too, are ignorant of my father's origin. My mother was an
English governess at Nantes when she first met my father. A few months
after her marriage the death of an aunt endowed her with an ample
fortune, a fortune which has devolved upon me."
"If twenty-three years have passed since your father was last heard
of," said Beatrice, "do you not think that the probabilities point to
his death? He must be dead," she added. "He would not be so unfatherly
as not to communicate with you during all these years."
"That is my opinion--at times: and at other times I think he is still
living, but resolved, from some mistaken notion of honour, to ignore me
until he can give me the heritage of a fair name."
"If he is alive," continued Beatrice, "he has perhaps married again,
and has children, and, though it sounds harsh to say it, other and new
interests which your appearance on the scene might embarrass."
This was a bitter thought, but by no means new to Idris.
"I trust I am not offending you by the question," observed Godfrey,
"but do you really, in your heart of hearts, believe that your father
was innocent?"
"There, the torture. My mother was firmly convinced of his innocence,
and only an hour or two before her death, as if gifted with prevision,
she did her best to impress me with her belief; nay, more, she made me
take an oath that I would, on attaining manhood, use all my endeavours
to clear my father's name. Yet the thought often strikes me that I am
nursing an illusion in thinking him innocent. Who am I that I should
set up my opinion against that of the judge, the jury, and the press?"
"And the masked man who stole the runic ring--what of him?" Godfrey
asked.
"He, too, is a person who has eluded all my inquiries. And small
wonder! Had I been a man at the time when these events happened,
instead of a boy of seven, my investigations, begun at once, might
have met with success, whereas the long lapse of years has handicapped
my efforts. And yet, fanciful as it may sound to you, Godfrey, I am
not without hope, even at this late day, of finding my father, and of
vindicating his innocence. At any rate, this is the object to which my
life is devoted, and from which I shall never swerve."
And Idris, having satisfied the curiosity of his friends on various
other points, immaterial in themselves, dropped the subject, and the
conversation flowed into other channels.
Presently they were interrupted by the appearance of the page-boy,
with a note addressed to Godfrey, who, finding that he was wanted in a
critical case, withdrew, leaving Beatrice to entertain the guest.
"I am afraid, Mr. Breakspear," she said, "that you will spend a rather
dull time here; our household is a quiet one, and Ormsby offers little
in the shape of entertainment. Our only show-places are the old Saxon
church on the hill-top, and Ravenhall--Lord Ormsby's seat."
"I think I'll take a stroll towards the old Saxon church," said Idris,
who was simple in his tastes, and easily pleased.
"I have to pass that way," Beatrice said, "and, if you care to
accompany me----"
Idris, who found Beatrice's soft grey eyes very attractive, readily
accepted her offer; and, after a pleasant walk of half an hour, the two
reached the ancient church of the Northumbrian saint, Oswald.
"This," said Beatrice, as they passed through an arched doorway, and
stood within the subdued light cast by the stained glass, "this is the
Ravengar Chantry."
"A sort of oratory and burial-place of the Ravengars?"
"Yes. These monumental brasses are the tombs of my ancestors, that is,
of those who antedated the Restoration; those who lived after that
time are interred in the private crypt at Ravenhall. For you must
know---- Ah, listen!" she said, breaking off abruptly. "Some one is
playing the organ."
"And playing with a masterly touch, too," remarked Idris, after a brief
interval of listening.
"Who can it be?" murmured Beatrice. "Our own organist is not capable of
such music."
She was about to advance on tiptoe from the transept to the nave in
order to obtain a view of the organ-loft, but Idris gently checked her.
"Stay a moment. If we show ourselves we may disconcert the musician and
put an end to his playing."
He sat down on a stone seat in the transept. Beatrice followed his
example: and for several minutes they listened in silence, entranced by
the sweet and noble strains flowing from the organ-loft.
Then, gradually, a peculiar change came over the spirit of the music.
"Ah! what an eerie strain!" murmured Beatrice, a shiver passing over
her.
Idris, too, found himself curiously affected. Becoming oblivious of
external things, yielding himself entirely to the influence of the
music, he essayed to enter into the spirit and meaning of the piece.
Those solemn rhythmic cadences that thrilled him with a melancholy awe
could be interpreted only as a Funeral March. At intervals there pealed
from the organ shivering, staccato notes, like the heart-sobs of those
who "keen" for the dead, succeeded by a mournful, stately measure, as
if the cold voice of Fate were declaring that death must be endured
as the common lot of all. The very soul of grief was voiced in those
notes, which, lofty and sad, mysterious as the moonlight, seemed to
weep as they kissed the cold stones of the chantry.
During the dream-like spell induced by the weird character of the
requiem Idris suddenly became subject to a very strange feeling, the
like of which he had never before known. Vivid as fire on a dark night
there came upon him the startling conviction that this was not his
first visit to the Church of St. Oswald. He had been in this chantry in
time past; he had seen these monumental brasses before: that Funeral
March was a familiar air. The interior of the edifice was as the face
of an old friend who has not been seen for years.
He was sitting in a part of the transept from which it was impossible
for him to view the opposite ends of the nave, unless he possessed the
power of being able to see around a distant corner; yet, directing
his mental eye towards the interior of the church, he could see the
chancel-window at its eastern end, and the hexagonal font by the
western porch.
He felt that he could find his way about the building without once
stumbling, even though it were wrapped in the gloom of night. Every
part of it, from the belfry tower above to the crypt below, was
familiar ground.
With a solemn and long drawn-out diminuendo the music ceased.
Shivering like one roused from a sleep upon the cold ground Idris
started from his reverie, to find Beatrice regarding him with a
curious, half-frightened look.
"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Breakspear. I have spoken to you three
times, and you have given me no answer. Have you seen a ghost? You look
quite 'fey,' as we say in these parts."
"I have been subjected to a very singular experience," Idris answered,
looking around with a perplexed air. "Till to-day I have never set
foot in Ormsby. Yet I know this church, know it as well as I know my
chambers in the Albany. Now, tell me, does not the chancel-window
contain three divisions?"
Beatrice murmured an affirmative, seeing nothing wonderful in Idris'
remark, inasmuch as chancel-windows usually contain three divisions.
"And in the central pane is painted the Madonna, treading upon the Old
Dragon, with the Holy Child in her arms?"
Beatrice, beginning to be surprised, said that this was correct.
"The right-hand pane represents King Oswald setting up the Cross as his
standard for battle, while the left portrays him at his palace-gate,
distributing his gold and silver plate among the poor."
"Yes. How do you know, if you have never been here before?" Beatrice
burst forth, her amazement increasing as Idris proceeded to enumerate
other details.
"Mr. Breakspear, you _must_ have been here before!"
"Never! I solemnly assure you; at least, not in the body."
He walked towards the head of an oblong marble sepulchre, surmounted by
the gilt effigy of a crusading Ravengar, lying in cross-legged repose.
"Mark me," he said, turning to Beatrice, "I shall find on the other
side of this tomb a circular hole large enough to admit my hand."
At the foot of the stone knight was sculptured the heraldic shield
of the Ravengars, much defaced, and crumbling with age; in the first
quartering of which was a round orifice of sufficient dimensions to
admit the insertion of Idris' hand.
"What do you say to this?" he asked of Beatrice, who had followed him
to the tomb.
But Beatrice, full of wonderment, could say nothing.
"I have a distinct remembrance of placing my hand here in days gone
by," Idris continued. "Yes: I have been in this church before: I am
as certain of that as I am of my own existence. But how? There's the
puzzle. Not in the body, for my life has been passed at a distance from
Ormsby. How then? Has the knowledge been imparted to me in a dream?
Or is it a fact that during sleep the spirit of man may visit distant
places? Or was old Pythagoras right in asserting that we have all had a
previous existence? Am I a reincarnation of one who was familiar with
this place in time past? Miss Ravengar, how is one to explain this
psychological puzzle?"
Beatrice's reply was checked by a light footfall. A young lady, attired
in a soft clinging dress of muslin, was coming slowly towards the
chantry.
Idris looked up and met her eyes, eyes of a dark, tender violet. One
glance: and then--and then----
If he had been previously required to write an essay on love, that
essay would have run on the lines that love, to be sincere and lasting,
must be grounded on the esteem that a man and a woman have for each
other's good qualities; that love therefore must be the product of
time; and that, consequently, genuine love at first sight is an
impossibility.
He thought differently now, as he gazed upon a face fairer than any he
had ever seen: so pure the spirit breathing from it that, like the face
of a Madonna upon a cathedral window, it seemed hallowed by a light
coming from beyond.
If, in the language of the mystic, all beauty be a manifestation of the
Divinity, is it any marvel that Idris, as he stood mute and motionless,
should have felt an awe, a sense of adoration, stealing over him?
As the young lady drew near she acknowledged Beatrice's presence with
an inclination of her head, an action to which Beatrice responded with
a frigid air, an air that seemed to trouble the other, for her eyes
drooped, and a faint colour mantled her face. With quiet dignity she
passed by, and the next moment had vanished through the porch.
Not till then did Idris find his tongue.
"What a divine face!" he murmured. "Who is she?"
"Her name is Rivière--Lorelie Rivière," answered Beatrice somewhat
coldly.
"Rivière. She is French, then?"
Though evidently disinclined to pursue the subject, Beatrice, seeing
Idris' interest in the stranger, proceeded to enlighten him so far as
she was able.
"Mademoiselle Rivière is a lady, apparently of independent means. She
came to Ormsby about four months ago, taking for her residence The
Cedars, a villa on the North Road. She lives a quiet and secluded life.
Her name indicates French nationality, but beyond that fact no one
knows anything of her origin and antecedents. Godfrey once attended
her professionally, and she impressed him as being a lady of birth and
refinement: but," added Beatrice, compressing her lips, "_I_ do not
like her."
The tone in which she delivered herself of this last sentiment somewhat
vexed Idris: but whatever might be the cause of her dislike, he felt
that it did not originate from jealousy of the stranger's beauty.
Beatrice was too high-minded to be actuated by so paltry a motive. For
his own part he could not associate anything bad with the sad grave
eyes of Lorelie Rivière. Beatrice, in her judgment of the other's
character, must surely be the victim of some misapprehension.
"But--but--was she the musician?" he asked.
"It seems so," replied Beatrice, moving into the nave. "There is no one
in the organ-loft now. But here comes the boy who blows. He will tell
us. Roger, was it Mademoiselle Rivière who was playing just now?"
The lad gave an affirmative nod, and exhibited with pleasure the coin
he had received as a fee.
"Comes here often," he said. "Calls at our cottage when she wants me to
blow."
Idris was silent, marvelling that one so young should play with a touch
so masterly: marvelling still more that her music should have wrought
upon him an impression so weird.
He moved around the church with Beatrice, and then mounted the stairs
leading to the gallery, feigning to be interested in what he saw, in
reality seeing nothing but the beautiful face of Lorelie Rivière.
On the seat fronting the organ was a book, left behind probably by an
oversight. Idris lifted the volume, a handsome one, bound in vellum and
gold, and was much surprised at the title.
"_Paulus Diaconus de Gestis Langobardorum_," he read aloud.
"What a dreadful title!" murmured Beatrice. "What does it mean?"
"It is Paul Warnefrid's _History of the Lombards_, a book you'll
scarcely meet with once in a lifetime. Quite a thrilling work, no
doubt, to antiquaries of the Dryasdust order, but I cannot imagine a
lady taking to this style of literature. To begin with, it's all in
Latin: evidently she understands that language."
"Perhaps the book does not belong to Mademoiselle Rivière."
"The margin of almost every page contains notes in a lady's
handwriting--obviously the remarks of one who understands the work. She
seems to have been a diligent student," continued Idris, observing the
numerous annotations. "Ah! what is this? 'The Fatal Skull,' written
across the title-page. On other pages are the initials 'F. S.,'
presumably standing for the same words, 'Fatal Skull.' See here, 'F.
S.,' and here again, 'F. S.'"
"_The Fatal Skull!_" said Beatrice in wonderment. "What is meant by
that?"
At Beatrice's request Idris translated some of the passages marked with
the letters "F. S.," but he failed to grasp their significance, there
being no connection whatever between a skull and the subject-matter of
the paragraph. Then, becoming conscious that it was an unchivalrous
proceeding to pry into an absent lady's book, he was on the point of
closing it, when his eye was caught by the following words written upon
the fly-leaf:--
Lorelie Rivière,
16, Place Graslin,
Nantes.
"16, Place Graslin?" murmured Idris in great surprise. "Heavens! It
was before the door of 16, Place Graslin that M. Duchesne was murdered
twenty-seven years ago!"