AT LORELIE'S VILLA
On the following day Beatrice Ravengar, with some misgivings, set out
for the purpose of making an afternoon call upon Mademoiselle Rivière,
or, to use her rightful title, Viscountess Walden.
Idris accompanied her, nominally as her escort, in reality consumed
with the longing to meet Lorelie again. True wisdom told him that he
was but tormenting himself in thus seeing her, that the better way was
to avoid her altogether: but he found this latter course impossible:
he despised himself for his weakness, yet as the moth is attracted by
the light so was Idris attracted by the fascinating personality of
Viscountess Walden.
On arriving at The Cedars Beatrice was received in a manner so gracious
and winning that her misgivings were immediately put to flight.
"We are cousins, you and I," said Lorelie, kissing her affectionately,
"and must ever be good friends."
Beatrice, quick to read character, could tell that the other was really
desirous of her friendship: and as she recalled her unjust suspicion
she felt full of a guilty shame, and was almost tempted to fall upon
her knees, confess her fault, and beg for pardon.
Aware of the circumstances under which Lorelie and Idris had last
parted, Beatrice viewed their greeting of each other with an interest
that was almost painful to her, and the viscountess knowing that she
was watched, extended to Idris the dignified courtesy that she might
have extended to a stranger, though all the time she was inwardly
tormented lest Idris should think her unduly cold. None but herself
knew how her heart was pulsating beneath her calm exterior. She was
not to be blamed, she argued, for the feeling that had sprung up
self-originated within her breast. Action and tongue may be controlled:
thought never. So long, then, as she controlled her words and action,
what more was required of her? What more? A secret voice seemed to say,
"Never to see Idris again!"
They sat on the veranda conversing on various topics, and as Beatrice
listened to the charming words and the sweet laugh of the viscountess,
and contemplated her brilliant beauty, she no longer wondered that
Idris should have fallen in love with her.
During the course of the conversation some details of Lorelie's history
became revealed.
She was now twenty-three years of age, and had been born at Nantes in
the same year in which her father, Captain Rochefort, had aided Eric
Marville to escape from the Breton prison. Her father she had never
known, nor had he ever been seen again by Madame Rochefort after his
flight in the yacht _Nemesis_.
When Lorelie was sixteen years of age her mother died, leaving to her
an income sufficient with economy for her maintenance. Henceforward she
had led a solitary independent life, content with her books and music.
In her twenty-first year she met Lord Walden at Monaco.
They were married privately, and while the earl supposed his son
to be carrying on the course of study requisite for the diplomatic
profession, that son was in reality quietly celebrating his honeymoon
on the Riviera.
After a few months of wedded life Lorelie suddenly conceived the
purpose of visiting Ormsby, though her husband was opposed to the
idea. By preconcerted arrangement she took up her residence at The
Cedars, some weeks prior to Ivar's home-coming, lest their coincident
arrival should give rise to suspicion.
And here she remained, concealing her rightful name and rank in
compliance with Ivar's wish, and waiting till a favourable opportunity
should arrive for making the marriage known to the stern old earl.
Secret contempt stole over Idris at the course pursued by the viscount.
A man might be very well content to brave his father's anger and the
loss of an estate, however splendid, for such a wife as Lorelie. By
some subtle process of telepathy his thoughts communicated themselves
to her, and knowing that _he_ would not have hesitated at such
sacrifice, the viscountess trembled and durst not meet his glance,
lest he should read in her eyes more than he ought. Contrary to the
proverb the third person on this occasion was not _de trop_. Lorelie
felt grateful for the presence of Beatrice, and clung to her as to a
protecting angel.
"May I add one to this pleasant trio?" said a new voice, breaking in
upon them: and, looking up, Idris caught the suspicious glance of the
man whom he was striving not to hate--Lorelie's husband!
Lord Walden coldly acknowledged Idris' presence, smiled at Beatrice,
and still keeping up the pretence of being merely a personal friend of
Lorelie's, was addressing her as "Mademoiselle Rivière," when Beatrice
intervened with, "Why disguise the truth, Cousin Ivar? We know that
there is no Mademoiselle Rivière now."
"Ah! then that makes it much more pleasant for all concerned."
But though he spoke thus, there was on his face a look that showed he
was not over-pleased to learn that the truth had become known.
"You may rely upon our secrecy," added Beatrice, thinking to put him at
his ease.
"I trust so," replied Ivar, coldly.
He took a seat beside Lorelie, and proceeded to roll a cigarette,
remarking as he did so, "You do not object?"
Lorelie assented with a smile that evoked the jealousy of the foolish
Idris. If a woman may not smile upon her husband, upon whom may she
smile?
Concluding that he and Beatrice were better away, Idris now arose, but
Lorelie opposed their departure.
"Going after so short a stay?" she remonstrated. "Now you are here you
must remain for the evening, and--and Mr. Breakspear as well," she
added, glancing at Idris.
Her manner was so persuasive that the two visitors lacked courage
to refuse the invitation. Thinking, however, that the viscount and
his wife might wish to exchange confidences, Idris offered his arm
to Beatrice and invited her to a stroll through the grounds that
surrounded the villa.
As Beatrice withdrew leaning on the arm of Idris and blushing at some
compliment of his, Lorelie glanced after them with a touch of envy
in her eyes. Her days for receiving such attentions were over: her
husband had ceased to be her lover. She could not avoid contrasting
the appearance of the two men--Ivar's pallid face and languid air with
Idris' healthful bronzed complexion and splendid physique. There was
a difference of ten years in their ages: and though Ivar was scarcely
past twenty, his face bore signs of dissipation--signs which his wife
perceived with surprise and sorrow.
No sooner were Idris and Beatrice out of earshot than Ivar turned a
frowning countenance upon his wife.
"Why have you told them of our marriage?"
"It was necessary, Ivar."
As she recalled the occasion of its disclosure a faint colour tinged
her cheek; and Ivar, though not usually a quick-witted person,
immediately suspected the cause.
"Necessitated by that fellow's making love to you, I presume?" he said,
eyeing her keenly.
"Ivar," she answered quietly, evading his question, "so long as men
think me free----"
"Free! that's a good word."
"So long as I am supposed to be unmarried," she continued, correcting
her expression, "so long shall I be liable to receive attentions from
other men. You can easily remedy this by making our marriage known."
"O, harping on that string again," said Ivar impatiently. "It's out
of the question--at present. The governor would never forgive me for
marrying a woman of no family, especially," he added, with something
like a sneer, "especially a woman who admits that there is a shadow on
her name."
There was a flash of resentment in the eyes that were turned suddenly
upon him.
"You can bear me witness it was before our marriage and not after that
I confessed to having a secret."
"You would not tell me its nature."
"No: nor ever shall," replied Lorelie, with a hardening of her
features. "You were willing to take me as I was, and to ask no
questions as to my past. You promised never to refer to my secret.
But--how often have you reproached me with it?"
Ivar smoked on in moody silence. It was true he had given no thought
to her secret in his first glow of passion. A slave to sensuality he
had married Lorelie for her beauty, not knowing who or whence she was,
ignorant even that her true name was Rochefort. Now that her beauty was
beginning to pall upon him, a fact he took little pains to disguise,
this secret that darkened her past began to trouble him. What
answer was he to give to the editors of "Debrett" and "Burke," when
interrogated as to his wife's family?
"Ivar," Lorelie continued earnestly, "your visits here are beginning to
be noticed. My character is becoming exposed to suspicions. You will
let the world know that I am your wife, will you not?"
No true man could have resisted the appealing glance of her eyes, the
pleading tone of her soft voice; but Ivar, being no true man, was proof
against both.
"Impossible, at present," he frowned. "I have raised you from
comparative poverty to affluence; I have surrounded you with luxury,
and, by heaven! you little know at what cost, and at what risk to
myself! I have made you my wife: be content with that. You will be a
countess some day; think of your future triumph over those who slight
you now. If people talk, you must put up with it, or go away from
Ormsby. It was against my wish that you came here. But your vanity is
such that you must feast your eyes daily upon your future heritage of
Ravenhall."
"It was neither the desire to see the Ravengar lands, nor the wish even
to be near you, that drew me to Ormsby, but a very different motive."
"In the devil's name, what motive?" said Ivar, elevating his eyebrows
in surprise.
"It is a part of the secret of my life. But, being here, here I remain.
And, Ivar, I must be acknowledged," she added firmly.
"Of course: you are burning to exhibit yourself as Viscountess Walden;
to shine in ancestral diamonds; to reign at Ravenhall; to be queen of
the county-side; to be courted and admired at fêtes and balls."
"No, Ivar, no; I care nothing for these things, but much for the name
of wife. To think that I must plead with my own husband to redeem my
name from reproach! What have you to fear from your father's anger? As
you are his legitimate and only son he cannot deprive you of the title,
even if he would; as to the Ravengar estate, that is entailed, and must
therefore descend to you. Of what, then, are you afraid?"
"It is true that the original estate, the estate of the first earl, is
entailed; but since his day the Ravengar lands have more than doubled.
These later acquisitions the governor can dispose of as he will. If
I offend him he may make them over to some one else, to Beatrice for
example, since she is a great favourite of his."
"That's a temptation with me to reveal our marriage," said Lorelie with
a smile. "One half of the Ravengar estate would form a pretty dowry for
her and Mr. Breakspear."
"Her and Breakspear?" Ivar repeated. "Is it your wish, then, that he
should marry Beatrice? That fellow may have saved your life," he added
darkly, "but it doesn't follow that you must seek to reward him with
the hand of my cousin."
"Events are shaping themselves that way," Lorelie remarked quietly,
with a glance at the distant Beatrice, who was laughing gaily while
Idris bent over her. "And really it can be no concern of yours whom she
marries."
"She is a Ravengar," replied Ivar, loftily. "There is the family name
to be considered. Pray, who is this insolent Breakspear, that first
makes love to you, and now aspires to Beatrice?"
"Mr. Idris Breakspear----" began Lorelie, and then she stopped,
surprised at the look upon Ivar's face.
"_Idris!_" said the viscount quickly. "Is his name Idris?"
"Yes, why?"
"O, nothing. It's an uncommon name, that's all." With a half-laugh, he
added, more to himself than to Lorelie: "Idris Breakspear. Humph! Now
if it were Idris Marville!"
It was now Lorelie's turn to be surprised. Till this moment she had
been unaware that the name of Idris Marville was known to her husband.
"But, Ivar," she answered quietly, "Marville, and not Breakspear,
happens to be his true name."
Lord Walden stopped short in his smoking, took the cigarette from his
lips, and stared open-mouthed at Lorelie with a look very much like
fear upon his face.
"What do you say?" he muttered hoarsely. "Idris Marville. But, bah!" he
continued, an expression of relief clearing his features: "that can't
be the fellow I have in mind. My Idris Marville died at Paris seven
years ago."
"And so did he--in the newspapers. For a reason of his own he let the
world think that he had perished in a hotel-fire."
At this statement Ivar's agitation became extreme. The cigarette
dropped from his fingers; his face became livid.
"Why should his being alive trouble you?" asked Lorelie, looking in
wonder at her husband.
For some moments Ivar hesitated, and when at last his answer came,
Lorelie intuitively felt that he was not stating the true cause of his
disquietude.
"You would marry that fellow to Beatrice?" he said, moistening his dry
white lips. "Why he is the son of a--a--felon: his father was tried for
murder at Nantes, and found guilty."
"Have you made a point of studying the bygone criminal trials of
France? If not, how have you learned this?"
"I heard the story from--from my father," replied Ivar slowly, as if
reluctant to make the admission.
At this Lorelie gave a very palpable start. A curious light came into
her eyes. She seemed as if struck by some new and surprising idea.
"And how came _he_ to learn it?"
"He was in Brittany at the time of the trial, and could not avoid
hearing all about it. The crime created, as newspapers say, a great
sensation. For weeks the people of Nantes talked of little else."
"Your father's ten years' absence from Ravenhall was spent in Brittany,
then?"
"A portion of the time," replied Ivar, evidently uneasy under his
wife's catechism.
"And so this murder-trial," observed Lorelie, with a thoughtful
air, "this trial which took place so far back as twenty-seven years
ago--that is before you and I were born--has formed a topic of
conversation between yourself and your father. What necessity led him
to talk of the matter to you?"
But Ivar waived this question by asking one.
"What has brought that fellow to Ormsby?" he said, nodding his head in
the direction of Idris.
"He is trying to discover his father; for he believes, rightly or
wrongly, that Eric Marville is still alive. He has traced him to this
neighbourhood," she added, her eyes attentive to every variation in
Ivar's countenance.
"And here he may end his quest," said the viscount, "for Eric Marville
was shipwrecked off this coast and drowned many years ago. At least,
that is my father's statement," he added in some confusion, and looking
like a man who has been unwittingly betrayed into a rash statement.
"What was the name of the vessel in which Eric Marville went down?"
asked Lorelie, speaking as if she had never before heard of it.
"_The--The Idris_," returned the viscount, giving the name with obvious
reluctance.
There was on Lorelie's face a smile that somehow made Ivar feel as if
he had walked into a net prepared for him.
"And how long ago is it since this vessel was wrecked?"
"Twenty-two years ago."
"Twenty-two years ago," murmured Lorelie, with the air of one making a
mental calculation, "will take us back to 1876."
"October the thirteenth, 1876, if you wish for the exact date."
"And was it not on this same night of October the thirteenth, 1876,
that your father the earl walked into Ravenhall after a mysterious
absence of ten years?"
"What of that?"
"O nothing! Mere coincidence, of course. And so," continued Lorelie,
with a retrospective air, "and so the foundering of the yacht _Idris_
is another of the little matters about which your father has conversed
with you. Strange that a peer of the realm should take such interest in
the fate of an escaped felon!" She paused, as if expecting Ivar to make
some reply, but he did not speak. "Well," she went on, "I will make
the confession that I, too, take an interest--a strong interest--in
this Eric Marville; nay, I will go so far as to say that to discover
what ultimately became of him is one of the objects that has led me to
Ormsby. And in pursuance of this object I have had the good fortune to
obtain from its present editor a copy of _The Ormsby Weekly Times_,
dated October 20th, 1876, in which paper there is given an account both
of the foundering of the yacht and also of the inquest upon the bodies
that were washed ashore. Now, as the coroner was unable to ascertain
either the name of the vessel, or the names of any of the men aboard,
is it not a little curious that the earl should know that the yacht was
called _Idris_, and that it carried on board one Eric Marville? How
comes your father to know more than could be elicited in the coroner's
court?"
"Egad, you'd better ask him," returned Ivar sullenly.
"Well, I must controvert your father on one point. Eric Marville was
_not_ drowned. I have proof that he was on shore at the time the yacht
sank."
The viscount was obviously startled by this statement.
"Oh! then what became of him?"
"Have I not said that I am trying to find out?"
"You've got a difficult task before you. No one has heard of him since
the night of the wreck."
"No one has heard of him by the name Marville, of course. He would not
be likely to adhere to a name that would suggest reminiscences of the
felon from Valàgenêt. He perhaps resumed his old family name."
"His old family name," repeated Ivar. "What is your reason for
supposing that Marville was not his true name?"
"Because it does not appear among the list of names in the peerage."
"The peerage?"
"Do you not know that Marville claimed to be a peer of the realm?"
The viscount smiled, but it was obvious that he was ill at ease.
"Felon in Brittany; peer in Britain. A likely story that! Odd that the
detectives and journalists did not discover the fact at the time of his
trial."
"It is odd, as you say, Ivar. He certainly kept his secret well. I do
not think he revealed it even to his wife."
"Which proves his lack of a coronet. It is not likely that he would
conceal from his wife the fact that he was heir to a peerage."
"He doubtless had his reasons. Having perhaps quarrelled with his
family he may have left England forever, determined to begin life anew
in another land, and to hide his identity under an assumed name. An
imperial archduke of Austria has done the like in our time, and so
successfully, too, as to baffle all endeavours to trace him."
"And, pray, to what peerage did this Marville lay claim?"
"I do not know."
"Dormant, or _in esse_?"
"I do not know."
"What was its rank? A baronage: a viscountship: a----"
"I do not know."
Ivar seemed rather pleased than otherwise with Lorelie's want of
knowledge.
"Where, when, and under what circumstances, then, did Eric Marville
claim to be a peer?"
"So far as I am aware he referred to it but once, and then to no more
than one person, a French military officer, now dead. 'I am heir to a
peerage and could take my rank to-morrow, if I chose,' were his words."
"And that's all the evidence you have?"
"All the evidence I have, Ivar."
"Marville was boasting, beyond a doubt. Does that fellow," he
continued, glancing at Idris' distant figure, "know of his father's
claim to a peerage?"
"He has not the least inkling of it."
"You'll act wisely by keeping the notion out of his pate."
"Why so?"
"It's one thing to claim a peerage, but quite another thing to prove
one's claim. Why fill the fellow with false hopes? Be guided by me, and
refrain from telling him of his father's pretensions."
"Very well, Ivar," responded Lorelie, quietly, "I will be guided by
you. As your wife it is my duty to do nothing to the detriment of your
future interests."
For a moment the two stared curiously at each other.
"My interests?" muttered the viscount. "I don't understand you."
"I think you do," she said gravely. "But," she added, rising to her
feet, "I am neglecting my visitors," and so saying she moved off in the
direction of Idris and Beatrice, who were slowly pacing to and fro on
one side of the lawn.
"Not even the coronet to console me now!" she murmured darkly. "A
fitting punishment this for my long and guilty silence! Justice,
justice, now thy scourge is coming upon me!"
Ivar did not follow his wife, but sat motionless for some moments,
staring after her in blank dismay, and completely confounded by the
startling hints that she had let fall.
"Idris Marville not dead," he muttered, removing with his handkerchief
the cold moisture that glistened on his forehead. "That fellow he!
Living here at Ormsby--in the same house with Beatrice! And Lorelie
suspects! Suspects? She _knows_. By God! supposing she tells him! But,
bah! she will not--she dare not--declare it; she stands to lose too
much." He recalled her words to the effect that she would do nothing
detrimental to his interests. The meaning of this assurance was
obvious, and Ivar breathed more freely. "She'll keep the secret for her
own sake. She'll not be so mad as to cut her own throat. In marrying
her I've stopped her mouth. But if she had known as much a year ago as
she knows to-day----!"
The smile had returned to Lorelie's lips by the time she reached Idris
and Beatrice, and at her invitation they repaired to the drawing-room.
Lord Walden, with a black feeling of hatred in his heart against both
his wife and Idris, slowly followed without speaking, and flung himself
on a distant ottoman as if desiring no companionship but his own.
Idris, thus ignored by the viscount, could but ignore him in turn.
He had never beheld a more sullen and a more ungracious clown than
Lorelie's husband, and he much regretted that he had not followed his
first impulse to depart.
The drawing-room was a handsome apartment, containing many evidences of
taste and wealth. Lorelie took a pride in pointing out her treasures.
"My father," she remarked, observing Beatrice's eyes set upon a
portrait in oils representing a handsome man in the uniform of a French
military officer.
Idris viewed with interest the likeness of the man who for about the
space of a minute had flashed across his childhood's days.
"A man who will ever command my respect," he murmured, "since in
rescuing my father from prison he was forced by that act to become an
exile from his native land."
An expression of pain passed over Lorelie's face.
"Mr. Breakspear, you do not know what you are saying."
"Forgive me. I promised never to allude to that event, and I am
breaking my word. I apologize."
And he wondered, as he had often wondered, why reference to this
matter should trouble her. She had no cause to be ashamed of her
father's deed. Captain Rochefort's act in favour of a friend whom he
believed to be innocent was, from Idris' point of view, a gallant and
romantic enterprise, and in the judgment of most persons would deserve
condonation, if not approval.
After the portrait of Captain Rochefort, what most interested Beatrice
was an antique vase standing upon the carved mantel. It was of gold,
set with precious stones, and the interior was concealed from view by a
tight-fitting lid.
"What a pretty vase!" she said, and with Lorelie's sanction she lifted
it from the mantel. As she did so a cold tremor passed over her. She
placed the urn upon the table, and in a moment the feeling was gone.
She took up the vase again, and the unpleasant sensation returned. Was
this due to something exhaled from the interior of the urn? She drew a
deep breath through her nostrils, but failed to detect any odour.
Puzzled and annoyed, Beatrice became morbidly curious to learn its
contents.
"The lid fits very tightly," she said, addressing Lorelie. "How do you
remove it?"
"It is secured by a hidden spring," replied the viscountess. "If you
can discover the secret, you will be doing me a favour, for I have
never been able to open it myself."
"Then you do not know what treasure it may contain," smiled Beatrice.
"Attar of roses, spices from Arabia, pearls from the Orient, may lurk
within." She shook the urn, and a faint sound accompanied the movement.
"Listen! there is certainly something inside."
"I am full of curiosity myself to know what it is," said Lorelie, "I
have spent hours in trying to discover the spring."
"Then it is useless for me to try."
But though Beatrice spoke thus, she nevertheless made the attempt,
toying with the vase and pressing various figures sculptured upon the
sides. All to no purpose. The jewels sparkled like wicked eyes, seeming
to mock her endeavours. The sound caused by the shaking of the urn
was like the collision of paper pellets, shavings of wood, or of some
other substance equally light. And all the time while handling the vase
Beatrice was conscious of a strange feeling of repulsion. What caused
it she could not tell: the fact was certain: the reason inexplicable.
"Is this vase an heirloom?" she asked, desirous of learning whence
Lorelie had obtained it, and yet not liking to appear too curious.
The viscountess hesitated a moment, evidently adverse to replying, and
then stooped over Beatrice and kissed her.
"Will you think me discourteous, Beatrice, if--if I do not tell you how
I came by it?"
While speaking she glanced aside at Ivar who, from his position on
the couch, was watching the scene with so perturbed an air that Idris
was led to believe there was some strange secret connected with this
vase--a secret known to both husband and wife. Great as was his love
for Lorelie, Idris was compelled to admit that she was very mysterious
in some of her ways.
Then a strange thing happened.
Idris, keenly attentive to all that was passing, observed a curious
expression stealing over Beatrice's face. Once before he had seen this
expression, namely, at the time when she gave her opinion on the piece
of steel taken from the Viking's skull. The pupils of her eyes were
contracted, and set with a bright fixity of gaze upon the jewelled urn.
The rigidity of her figure indicated a cataleptic state.
Her lips parted, and in a voice strangely unlike her own, she said:--
"The ashes of the dead!"
At this Lorelie gave a faint cry and drew away the vase, glancing again
at Ivar. Then, with her hands she closed the eyes of Beatrice, and
shook her gently. Beatrice opened her eyes again, and looked around
with the surprised air of one aroused suddenly from sleep.
"Do you know what you have been saying?" Lorelie asked.
"No--what?"
"That this is a funereal urn."
"Have I been self-hypnotized again?"
"Again?" repeated Lorelie. "Do you often fall into this state?"
"Occasionally--when gazing too long at some bright object: and then the
object seems to whisper its history to me, or rather, as Godfrey more
sensibly remarks, my mind begins to weave all kinds of fancies around
it."
"Why, you must be a clairvoyante," said Lorelie, studying the other
intently. "'The ashes of the dead?' Yes, this may be a crematory vase.
What do you say, Ivar?" she added, turning to the viscount.
"Of course Beatrice knows," was his reply, "for is she not a daughter
of the gods, a descendant of a Norse prophetess? But, Beatrice, I think
that the blood of Hilda the Alruna must have become so diluted during
the course of ten centuries that your claim to the hereditary gift of
intuition is a little laughable."
"I am not aware of having made any such claim," replied Beatrice,
quietly.
"And such claim, if made, would be justified," retorted Idris, roused
by Lord Walden's sneering air, "for Miss Ravengar has given me previous
proof of possessing remarkable intuitive powers."
"Let us say no more on the matter," said Lorelie, gently.
She restored the urn to its place on the mantelpiece, and, desirous of
removing the somewhat unpleasant impression created by the incident,
immediately started a conversation on other topics.
The talk turned presently upon literature, and Idris, remembering that
Lorelie was an author, said:--
"Lady Walden, will you not give us a reading from your play?"
"O, yes, do!" cried Beatrice, impulsively.
Lorelie hesitated. The drama written by her had been a work of time and
patience: it was as near perfection as she would ever be able to bring
it: she had poured her noblest feelings into the work. But she knew
that what seems good to the author often seems bad to the critic: that
the thoughts, supposed to be original, prove to be merely echoes of
what others have said before in far better language: that the line that
separates eloquence from bombast is easily passable on the wrong side.
These were the motives disposing Lorelie to keep her tragedy
to herself. The person who should have been the first to give
encouragement on this occasion was mute; for Ivar maintained an air of
indifference.
"Deserves kicking," was Idris' secret comment, as he became conscious
of a suggestion of humiliation in Lorelie's manner, due to her
husband's want of appreciation. "And," he added to himself, "I should
very much like to do the kicking."
Moved at last by the solicitations of her two visitors Lorelie produced
the manuscript of her play and prepared to read some portions of it.
"This drama of mine, '_The Fatal Skull_'," she began, "derives its name
from the central incident in it--an incident of early Italian history.
Alboin, King of the Lombards, had become enamoured of Rosamond, the
beautiful daughter of Cunimund, King of the Gepids. Both father and
daughter, however, rejected the suit, for Lombards and Gepids had long
been at feud. Embassies having failed, Alboin resolved to attain his
object by force, and, accordingly, entered the territories of Cunimund
with an army. In the battle that followed, the Gepid king was slain,
his forces put to the rout, and his daughter Rosamond became the prize
and the reluctant bride of the conqueror Alboin."
"How dreadful," murmured Beatrice, "to be compelled to marry the man
who had slain her father!"
"The sequel is more dreadful," returned Lorelie. "The death of Cunimund
was not sufficient to satiate the hatred of Alboin; the skull of the
fallen king, fashioned into a drinking cup, became the most treasured
ornament of his sideboard.
"Feasting one day with his companions-in-arms, Alboin called for
the skull of Cunimund. 'The cup of victory'--to quote the words of
Gibbon--'was accepted with horrid applause by the circle of the Lombard
chiefs. "Fill it again with wine," exclaimed the inhuman conqueror,
"fill it to the brim; carry this goblet to the queen, and request
in my name that she would rejoice with her father." In an agony of
grief and rage, Rosamond had strength to utter, "Let the will of my
lord be obeyed," and, touching it with her lips, pronounced a silent
imprecation that the insult should be washed away in the blood of
Alboin.'"
"And did she kill her husband?" asked Beatrice.
"Yes, with the help of his armour-bearer Helmichis."
Having thus set forth the argument, Lorelie, unfolding her manuscript,
began to read certain scenes from her play. The reading of them was a
revelation both to Idris and Beatrice: there was a masculine vigour
in the lines: the thoughts were as noble as they were original, and
graced by many poetic images and by passages of exquisite beauty.
Charmed by the melody of Lorelie's voice, charmed still more by the
lovely face set in a frame of dark hair, Idris sat entranced, with
something more than admiration in his eyes. And as Beatrice observed
his rapt attitude, his accelerated breathing, she trembled uneasily;
not for herself, but for Lorelie. In the near future, when the young
viscountess should have come to learn the worthlessness of her husband,
and to experience the misery of existence with him, would she have
sufficient strength and purity of soul to resist the temptation of
flying to the arms of Idris? Their meeting with each other was a
foolish playing with fire, and could have but one ending. Beatrice
ceased to listen to the reading of the play, and grew miserable with
her own thoughts.
"Lady Walden," said Idris, when she had finished her recital, "your
drama is a work of real genius."
His praise was sweeter to Lorelie than the praise of a thousand other
critics, and her cheek flushed with triumph.
"You certainly ought to have it put upon the stage," he continued.
"Yes," chimed in Ivar: for even _his_ sullen nature had been moved to
admiration: "you must not hide your light under a bushel. If one is a
genius, let the world know it."
"If this play should ever be acted," said Lorelie, "then let _me_ take
the chief part in it. Who more fit to play the _rôle_ of Rosamond than
the creator of Rosamond?"
"Well, whenever you desire to begin rehearsals," said Idris, jocularly,
"Miss Ravengar can supply you with one item of stage property in the
shape of a real skull."
"But you would not drink from a real skull?" said Beatrice.
"It would add to the effect," smiled Lorelie.
"Drink from a real skull? Ah, how horrid!" exclaimed Beatrice.
In reciting the words of the wronged and indignant Queen, Lorelie had
caught the genuine spirit of the character: and now, inspired by the
idea of becoming its exponent upon the stage, she rose to her feet, her
eyes sparkling as with the light of future triumph.
As she stood upon the hearth in statuesque pose, she seemed to be
the very queen of tragedy, to be breathing, as it were, the air of
vengeance; a spirit so contrary to her usual sweet self that Idris did
not like to witness its assumption, however suitable it may have been
to the character of the fierce Rosamond.
"I can see the eyes of the theatre riveted upon me," she murmured,
picturing to herself the future representation of her drama, "as I
enter the banqueting-hall of the Lombard chiefs, and advance to drink
from the fatal cup! How the audience will thrill as they watch! How
awful the silence as Rosamond places her lips to her father's skull!"
She illustrated her words by taking the antique vase from the mantel
and going through the action of drinking from it, shuddering as she did
so; though whether her shudder was mere simulation, or a real thing
occasioned by the supposed nature of its contents was more than Idris
could tell.
"And when the hour for vengeance came, I would rise to the height of
the occasion, and strike down Alboin--_so!_"
Drawing from her hair a long and gleaming hairpin shaped like a
stiletto, she went through the motion of stabbing an imaginary figure.
"'Die!'" she exclaimed, in an exultant tone, and quoting the words of
her play. "'This Rosamond sends.'"
There was a weird roll of her glittering eyes as she flung out her left
hand tightly clenched: a swiftness and ferocity in the downward stroke
of the stiletto in her right, so suggestive of real murder that Idris
glanced at her feet, almost expecting to see a human figure lying there.
Beatrice gave a cry of genuine terror. Ivar looked on with evident
admiration.
For a few seconds Lorelie maintained a rigid bending pose, her eyes
dilated with terror, staring at the hearth as if she beheld something
there. Then, with a motion startling in its suddenness, she recovered
her erect attitude, and reeled backward with her lifted hand clenched
upon her brow. The stiletto dropped from her limp fingers, and the
peculiar ringing sound produced by its contact with the tiled hearth
was fresh in Idris' ears for many days afterwards.
"'_A-a-ah!_'" she cried in a long-drawn thrilling sibilant whisper,
which, nevertheless, penetrated to every corner of the apartment, and
again quoting from her play. "'Ah! He moves! His eyes open! That look
of reproach! I dare not,'" she went on, gasping for breath, "'I dare
not strike again! Helmichis, do thou strike for me.'"
With averted face she staggered back and dropped upon a couch,
apparently exhausted by real or simulated emotion.
"Bravo! bravo!" cried Ivar, clapping his hands. "The divine Sarah
couldn't do it better. By heaven! we ought to have this play staged,
with you in the _rôle_ of Rosamond. You'd be the talk of London."
As for Idris, the _diablerie_ of Lorelie's manner had given him a
sensation very much akin to horror.
"What have I been witnessing?" he murmured. "A piece of acting merely,
or a reminiscence of a real tragedy?"
Beatrice, deadly white, and with her eyes closed, lay back upon an
ottoman silent and motionless.
"What do you say?" said Lorelie, coming quickly forward in response to
a remark from Idris.
"I think Miss Ravengar has fainted," he repeated.
"Egad! Lorelie," said Ivar, amused. "There's a tribute to your acting,
if you like."
Lady Walden instantly busied herself in applying restoratives to the
swooning Beatrice.
"I am sorry to have frightened you," she said in gentle tones to
Beatrice when the latter had recovered. "It was very absurd of me to
act so."
But Lorelie's tenderness met with no response from Beatrice, whose eyes
were full of a wild haunting horror. She shrank from Lorelie's touch;
she avoided her glance; her whole manner showed that she was anxious
for nothing so much as to get away from her presence.
"I--I think I'll go home now," she said, glancing at Idris. "Godfrey
will be waiting for us. We promised to return early."
"The walk through the fresh air will do you good," remarked Idris, who
was himself desirous of withdrawing.
It was in vain that Lorelie pressed her visitors to stay. Beatrice
declared that she must go, and within the space of a few minutes she
had taken a very abrupt leave of her hostess.
* * * * * *
That night Idris' sleep was broken by troubled dreams, in all of which
a woman's image mingled, always in the act of striking down some
shadowy foe; but the venue was changed from the elegant apartment at
The Cedars to the grey stone interior of Ormfell!