IDRIS DECLARES HIS LOVE
How long should a man have known a woman before venturing upon a
proposal of love? Such was the question now occupying the mind of Idris.
He had seen Mademoiselle Rivière three times only: he had not spent
above seven hours in her presence: yet had they been seven hundred
instead of seven he knew that his feeling for her would be no stronger
at the end of that time than at the beginning. The moon might have its
period of crescent and wane: not so his love: its circle was full and
complete from the first moment of his setting eyes upon her.
She was now the sole object of his thoughts. All other matters: the
quest for his father, the problem of the Viking's skull, were relegated
to the dim and distant future; what were they compared with the winning
of Lorelie?
He found himself continually dwelling upon her manner towards him at
the moment of their last parting. He was uncertain whether she was
startled only, or vexed, by his act of gallantry; whether he must draw
hope or despair from that event; and he knew not which was the wiser
course--to declare his love at once, or to defer the proposal till he
had gained a greater hold upon her affections. A too premature avowal
might be disastrous: on the other hand to be dilatory might lead to his
being forestalled by Viscount Walden.
This latter argument prevailed with him, and he resolved to see
Lorelie at once, and take the momentous step of giving utterance to his
feelings. Even rejection was preferable to the state of suspense in
which he was now living.
On presenting himself at The Cedars he was told by the maid who opened
the door that her mistress was out. Where had she gone? The maid was
not certain, but she fancied that "Ma'amzelle" had said something about
spending the afternoon in Ravenhall Park.
Accordingly Idris betook himself to this park, a large extent of which
was open to the public: and after a short search he found Lorelie
seated within a charming recess formed by dark rocks overhung with
blossoming foliage. She was holding in her hand a small writing-pad,
upon which lay some sheets of manuscript that she was apparently
correcting and annotating with a pencil, doubtless putting some
emendatory touches to her drama, _The Fatal Skull_.
The place, though picturesque, was hardly the ideal spot for his
love-avowal, since it was within sight of the majestic towers of
Ravenhall, which, in Idris' opinion, offered a very powerful argument
in favour of Lord Walden's suit.
On seeing Idris Lorelie at once made way for him on the seat beside
her, the glad light in her eyes showing that he was far from being an
unwelcome visitor.
Though Idris had set out in bold spirit, yet now, faced by opportunity,
he began to realize that the task required more courage than he was
master of: and for a long time he talked of other matters, or rather
he let Lorelie carry on the conversation, finding it easier to be a
listener than a speaker.
And Lorelie _could_ talk: charmingly, and upon many topics that are
supposed to be the peculiar province of the masculine mind. She had
never seemed so bright and interesting as on this present occasion.
How sweet and silvery her laugh! How pretty the curve of her lips, and
how glowing their colour! Supposing he were to stoop suddenly and kiss
them? Would not such an act be tantamount to a love-avowal, and thus
relieve him from the difficulty of an oral confession?
Lorelie, observant at last of Idris' quiet manner, rallied him on his
want of spirits.
"You seem very grave to-day, Mr. Breakspear?"
"Do I, mademoiselle? I am thinking."
"May I share your thoughts?"
"You may share my life if you will."
"Mr. Breakspear, what are you saying?" exclaimed Lorelie, quickly,
breathlessly.
"That I love you. Is that a fault? Nay, rather, it would be a fault not
to love you."
Lorelie drew a deep shuddering breath. Their eyes met: a strange
wistful tenderness in hers. Such a look Idris had never before received
from woman: he knew what it meant, and grew giddy at the thought that
he had the power to evoke it.
Then, in a moment, all was changed!
A priestess, starting in agony from the Delphic tripod, could not have
exhibited a wilder mien than did Lorelie at that moment as she rose to
her feet, her hands pressed to her bosom as if to repress the emotion
struggling there: in her eyes an expression of horror, the startled
guilty look of one who, tempted to listen to wrong, is suddenly
recalled to a sense of duty.
Idris had wanted to say more, to speak of the depth of his love, but
that look chilled all the warmth of his feelings, and checked the words
that were rising to his lips.
"Mr. Breakspear," she began, with a strange "catch" in her voice, "you
saved my life from the sea, and it may be that gratitude has led me
to--to--how shall I express myself?--to be too warm in my friendship.
I have not guarded myself sufficiently. If there has been anything
in my manner or words calculated to impress you with the belief
that your addresses would be acceptable to me, I beg--I entreat--of
you to forgive me. Such utterance--such action--on my part has been
unintentional. I cannot listen to you."
With many women a "No" may sometimes mean "Yes," but this was not the
case with Lorelie Rivière. Idris felt that her decision was final,
irrevocable. And yet what was the meaning of that first look of rapture
that had come into her eyes?
"You do well to refuse me, mademoiselle: to refuse in truth any suitor,
for who indeed is worthy of you, but----"
"Mr. Breakspear, for pity's sake be silent. See!"
She drew something from her dress-pocket, turned aside for a moment,
and then held out the third finger of her left hand. And at the sight
Idris, strong man though he was, staggered as a man may stagger on
hearing his death sentence.
"Great heaven! You are not married?" he said hoarsely.
"Ten months ago. Secretly. At Nice."
"To--to----?"
But he knew the name before she pronounced it.
"To Lord Walden--yes."
The earth that afternoon was roofed with a sky of deep delicious azure:
the soft breeze rippled the leaves of the woodland, and at each breath
the air became alive with the white blossoms of the trees. Nothing
could be sweeter or fairer than this summer day, but its charm was not
for Idris. With the knowledge that Lorelie could never be his, there
passed away a glory from the earth.
Mechanically he turned his eyes towards Ravenhall. Lorelie followed
the direction of his glance. Through a vista in the trees they could
see the castellated pile, set with mullioned casements, and fronted
with ivied terraces ascended by stately flights of stone steps. She
knew--and bitter was the knowledge--that Idris was thinking that
_there_ was the prize for which she had sold herself.
He wronged her, however, by this thought.
When Lorelie, eighteen months before, had listened to the vows of
Viscount Walden she had honestly believed herself to be in love with
him. Idris' avowal had shown her the hollowness of that belief. Vivid
as fire on a dark night there suddenly flashed upon her trembling mind
the overwhelming revelation that her feeling for her husband was as
nothing compared with her feeling for Idris. If all the happiness she
had previously known had been suddenly sublimated and concentrated
into one single intense sensation of a moment's duration it would not
have equalled the rapture evoked by Idris' avowal. But in a moment the
feeling had gone, giving place to the dull lethargy of despair. Though
realizing but too plainly that she had married the wrong man, the
knowledge of the fact did not diminish the loyalty due to her husband.
Faithful she would ever remain, but it was not her fault if the love
that she could henceforth give him would be scarcely deserving of the
name.
She would have died rather than have given utterance to this
confession, but Idris had read the secret in her eyes: she knew that
he had read it, and the knowledge added to her confusion and made her
unable to meet his glance.
There was a long silence between them. What was there to talk about?
Their mutual love? That was of necessity a forbidden subject; and to
talk of anything less than this seemed a mockery of the deep feelings
within them.
Parted from Lorelie by adverse fortune what remained for Idris but to
face the situation bravely?
"Mademoiselle," he said, using from habit the title that was no longer
hers, "I take my leave. Forgive me, if my words have caused you pain.
Farewell."
"But not forever. We may meet from time to time as--as friends."
Did she not realize that such friendship might be perilous? No: and
as Idris gazed upon her clear eyes he saw there a spirit too pure to
suffer itself to do wrong.
"You must forget," she faltered, "that you have ever entertained
this--this feeling for me."
Idris smiled bitterly. He knew--_she_ knew--that it was the one event
in their lives they never would forget.
At their last parting he had kissed her hand: he did not venture even
to touch it now, but, lifting his hat, he quietly withdrew.
With tears in her eyes Lorelie watched him till he was lost to view.
"If you knew the truth," she murmured, "your feeling for me would not
be love but hatred."
In melancholy mood Idris returned to Wave Crest. Beatrice, quick to
interpret his looks, guessed what had happened: and though the result
was such as she herself desired, yet the sight of his dejection touched
her to the quick and filled her with a mixed feeling of pity and anger.
Who, forsooth, was Mademoiselle Rivière that she should treat Idris'
love as of no account?
Aware that Lorelie was not favourably regarded by Beatrice, Idris
had prudently refrained from making the latter a confidante of his
love-affair, but now, sitting down beside her, he proceeded to tell her
all.
But when Beatrice heard the amazing news that Lorelie Rivière was in
reality Viscountess Walden, and therefore her cousin by marriage, a
look not merely of wonder but of dismay stole over her face.
"Have you proof of this?" she asked breathlessly.
"Proof of what?" exclaimed Godfrey, entering the room at this juncture.
"That Mademoiselle Rivière is Ivar's wife," she replied.
"Well, I did not ask her to produce her marriage certificate," said
Idris, somewhat vexed that Lorelie's word should be doubted. "For the
truth of her words I had better refer you to your cousin, Lord Walden
himself. We see now the cause of his surliness the other night. Any
fellow with so lovely a wife might be jealous on learning that she had
spent five hours in a lonely cave _tête-à-tête_ with a stranger."
"He might, nevertheless, have had the grace to give you a few words of
thanks for saving her life," remarked Godfrey. "I suppose it is from
fear of his father that he keeps the marriage a secret?"
"Presumably."
"Hum! rather hazardous to bring her so near to Ravenhall," said Godfrey.
"And she is really married?" murmured Beatrice. "O, how I have wronged
her!"
"In what way?" asked Godfrey. "Come, Trixie, let us learn the reason of
your past aversion."
It was some time before Beatrice could be induced to reply.
"You remember the case of old Gideon?" she said at last.
"Perfectly," replied Godfrey, adding for Idris' enlightenment, "he was
an old farmer at the point of death. I was unable to procure a nurse,
and Trixie generously offered her services. The poor fellow died at
midnight; and Trixie, though pressed to remain, left the place and
came walking home all by herself, reaching here at two in the morning.
But what has this to do with Mademoiselle Rivière--I beg her pardon,
Lady Walden?"
"On my way home," replied Beatrice, "I had to pass her villa, and whom
should I see walking up the garden-path towards the house but Ivar
himself! He had not noticed me, and I did not make myself known to him:
in truth I was so much amazed that I could do nothing but stand silent
under the shadow of the trees, watching, or, if you will, playing the
spy. I saw him open the door of the villa with a key of his own, and
go in. Not knowing that he was married to Mademoiselle Rivière, what
conclusion could I come to but that--that----"
And here Beatrice paused, leaving her hearers to guess the nature of
her conclusion.
"And you thought _that_ of Mademoiselle Rivière?" said Idris: and
Beatrice felt keenly the reproach in his tone.
"I have never whispered my suspicion to any one--not even to you,
Godfrey."
"The sequel shows the advantage of holding one's tongue," replied her
brother. "It has saved you from having to make a humiliating apology
to the new viscountess. Well, seeing that she is now your cousin, you
cannot do better than acknowledge the relationship by making a call
upon her."
But Beatrice shrank from this ordeal.
"I have always shown her by my manner that I dislike her. She must
think me an odious creature."
"On the contrary," replied Idris, "whenever your name has been
mentioned she has spoken well of you, and has expressed herself as
desirous of your friendship."
Beatrice was finally persuaded into promising that she would pay the
new viscountess a visit on the morrow: after which, Godfrey, turning
to Idris, addressed himself to a new theme.
"I spent this morning," he said, "in my laboratory over that piece of
steel taken from your so-called Viking's skull, and I have discovered
it to be of modern fabrication."
"Ah! and how do you prove it?" said Idris, preparing to argue the point.
"Chemical analysis shows that the steel contains two per cent. of
platinum."
"What of that?" said Idris bluntly.
"Much. Platinum is a metal of modern discovery, first hit on in the
year--well, I forget the exact date, some time about the beginning of
the eighteenth century. Therefore, any steel that is combined with
platinum must have been forged within the past two hundred years, and
consequently cannot be a relic of Norse days."
"For what purpose is platinum mixed with the steel?"
"To impart additional hardness."
"I must accept your dictum as final. Of course the conclusion is that
if the steel be modern, the skull must be modern, too. I must give
up my belief, Miss Ravengar, that I possess the skull of your Viking
ancestor. But then," he went on, "Orm was buried within that hillock:
the pictured tapestry and the name Ormfell prove it. What, then, has
become of his remains?"
"Crumbled to dust, perhaps, with the lapse of time," suggested Beatrice.
"The existence of the tapestry confutes you. Solid bone would not
crumble, if a woollen fabric will endure."
"True," replied Beatrice, with a puzzled look. "I am forgetting the
tapestry. Here's a mystery, indeed! What has become of the Viking's
bones?"
"If the skeleton within the tumulus be that of a modern person," said
Idris, "how on earth came it there? Who buried him, and----"
"We do not yet know that it is a 'him,'" interjected Godfrey. "The
skeleton may be the remains of a woman."
"I speak provisionally. Who buried him, or her, and why should such a
strange grave be chosen?"
"Because," replied the surgeon, gravely, "because, my dear Idris,
cannot you see that the present occupant of Ormfell did not die a
natural death? The piece of steel lodged in the brain proves that.
He was murdered, murdered with a stiletto hairpin: and he, or they,
that did the deed, knowing, as we know, that Ormfell contains a
grave-chamber, disposed of the victim's body by placing it within the
hillock, no doubt thinking that the remains, if ever discovered, would
be taken for those of some ancient warrior, an error into which we
ourselves would have fallen had not that tapestry remained, I might
say, providentially remained, to tell us otherwise."
For a few moments both Beatrice and Idris sat dumbfounded at this
startling theory.
"By heaven! I believe you are right," cried Idris. "And yet this
murder-theory of yours is open to objection. There is the difficulty of
conveying a dead body to Ormfell. Consider the risk of detection that
the murderer would run."
"The murder may have taken place within Ormfell itself," suggested
Beatrice.
"That is my view," replied Godfrey, "for there are signs which seem to
point to that conclusion."
"What signs are they?" asked Idris.
"You will perhaps think my first reason fanciful," replied Godfrey.
"You have continually maintained," he went on, addressing Idris,
"that the divining rod took a downward bend at a certain point in the
mortuary chamber. What formed the attractive force? 'The voice of thy
brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground!' Shall we say that that
was the true cause? For human blood _has_ been shed there. Have you
forgotten how the tapestry taken from that very spot reddened the water
in which it was placed? Now let us suppose that some one standing at
that point was suddenly struck down from behind: his natural action in
falling would be to clutch at the nearest thing he could lay hold of."
"Which in his case would be the tapestry," interjected Idris.
"Just so: and that is my way of accounting for the tearing of that
fabric, and the downward curvature of the rod to which it was attached.
The tapestry at the same time became saturated with the blood of the
victim."
"Your opinion seems reasonable," remarked Idris, "except as regards
the divining rod; I can't believe that dried blood could produce such
an effect. But the difficulty remains--what has become of the Viking's
bones?"
And to this question Godfrey could give no satisfactory answer.
"When do you think this murder took place?" Idris asked. "In our own
days, or long before them?"
"I see no way at present of fixing the date," Godfrey replied.
"It may have been twenty, fifty, or a hundred years ago, or even more,"
ventured Idris.
"Any period since the era of the discovery of platinum," answered
Godfrey.
"Is there no way in these scientific times of ascertaining the age of
that skull?" asked Beatrice.
Godfrey shook his head.
"The most skilled anatomist would be puzzled to determine the age of a
given skull," he replied.
Idris paced uneasily to and fro, assigning the skull in turn to each
of those who, to his knowledge, had been in any way connected with
the runic ring--his father, Lorelie's father, the unknown assassin of
Duchesne, and lastly the masked man of Quilaix.
"Whoever the victim was," said Beatrice, slowly and thoughtfully, "he
must have been murdered by a woman."
"_A woman!_" ejaculated Idris. He could not tell why at that moment a
cold feeling should come over him.
"A woman!" repeated Beatrice, solemnly: "for I still adhere to my
belief that the piece of steel was a fragment of a stiletto hairpin,
and who but a woman would think of using such an instrument?"