TOLD BY THE VASE
Next morning Idris strove to put aside the fear that had found
expression in his dreams, but the dark idea would persist in forcing
itself upon him. He grew angry with himself. Heavens! was he not master
of his own mind that he could not throw off this suspicion of the woman
whom he loved? Strange and mysterious Lorelie might be, but that she
was a taker of human life he found it impossible to believe.
Doubtless it was true that a murder had taken place within Ormfell,
but that the crime had been wrought by a stiletto hairpin was merely a
conjecture on the part of Beatrice, who had no valid reason to offer in
support of her theory: yet, imbued with this fancy she was persistent
in maintaining that a woman must have been the author of the deed.
Assuming it, however, to be a fact that the piece of steel was a
fragment of a hairpin, and the person who used it as an instrument of
death a woman, it did not follow because Lorelie had drawn a stiletto
pin from her hair in order to illustrate an assassination-scene in her
play, that he must identify her with the guilty woman.
There was not only no evidence to connect Lorelie with the crime, but
much to prove the contrary. For instance, it requires a very long
period of time before a human body will become reduced to the state
of a skeleton such as that which Idris and Godfrey had found in the
interior of the ancient tumulus.
But Lorelie's coming to Ormsby had taken place less than five months
ago. Therefore, unless the remains had been brought from elsewhere, she
could have had no hand in the crime.
But had the remains been brought from elsewhere? and was Godfrey wrong
in limiting the scene of the murder to the interior of Ormfell? With a
sudden thrill of surprise and fear Idris recalled the reliquary brought
to Ravenhall by Ivar on the night of his return from the continent. The
story of the viscount's midnight visit to the vault had been told him
in confidence by Godfrey, and Idris therefore knew that this mysterious
visit had some connection with Lorelie's affairs. The meaning of it all
had completely puzzled the two friends; but now, while pondering over
Ivar's action, Idris felt a return of all his misgivings.
Oblivious of the flight of time he remained on his pillow occupied in
gloomy thought, and when at last he did get up and go down-stairs, he
found that he must breakfast alone, for Beatrice was absent, having
left a message with the maid to the effect that she had gone to The
Cedars.
The Cedars of all places! How came it that Beatrice, after having
evinced such fear of Lorelie on the previous evening, should repair
thither the next morning? Was it to tell Lorelie of her suspicions? to
warn her that the crime was known? to put her on her guard?
Some such motive must have actuated her: so Idris, thinking that he
could not do better than imitate her example, set off himself in the
direction of The Cedars.
On his arrival he learned from the maid who opened the door that
Beatrice was in the drawing-room with Lorelie.
"Let me see them, please."
Without ascertaining whether his presence would be acceptable to her
mistress, the girl ushered him into the drawing-room with the words,
"Mr. Breakspear, ma'amzelle," and there left him.
Idris looked around. No one was visible, but from the other side of
the curtains that draped one end of the room came the sound of voices.
The maid in introducing him had pronounced his name so softly that
apparently those behind the portière were unaware of his presence.
The two curtains forming the portière not being closely drawn left an
opening, through which Idris, as he went forward, caught a glimpse of a
small boudoir. Both Lorelie and Beatrice were there.
On the point of addressing them, he was suddenly stopped in his purpose
by something odd in the appearance and attitude of each.
Beatrice occupied a position at a low table, upon which stood the
vase that had attracted her curiosity on the previous day, the vase
containing "the ashes of the dead."
She sat erect and silent, her hands resting on her lap, her face as
rigid as if sculptured from marble: her attitude gave an impression
that if pushed she would fall over like a dead weight. Her eyes were
set upon the glittering vase with a curious far-off expression in them,
as if observant of some scene a thousand miles away.
Facing her a few paces off, with her eyes concentrating all their
brightness and force upon Beatrice's face, sat Lady Walden. It was
clear at a glance that she held Beatrice's mind and will completely
under her own control.
"As I live," murmured Idris, "she has hypnotized Beatrice. She is going
to conduct some experiment with the vase."
Having an honourable man's aversion to play the spy he was about to
make his presence known, when, suddenly, checked by some motive for
which he could not account, he determined to remain an unseen watcher.
Lorelie rose and placed Beatrice's hands upon the vase, where they
rested, passive and limp. This movement was accompanied by a shiver on
the part of the medium. If the soul be capable of abstraction from the
body, Idris might have believed that Beatrice's soul had left her at
that moment to animate the vase, for the urn seemed to become instinct
with motion, and to sparkle with a new light.
"Speak, Beatrice," said Lorelie in a solemn tone. "Speak from the
depth of this vase: listen to the voice of its quivering atoms: recall
from it the scenes and sounds of the past.--Tell me, what do you
feel--hear--see?"
A hollow voice arose, a voice that sounded like a mockery of Beatrice's
tones: and although her lips moved, the words seemed to emanate, not
from her, but from the urn.
"It is dark ... very dark ... nothing can be seen.... No sun ... no
stars ... no light.... All is cold ... and damp ... and still.... There
is no air ... or wind ... no life ... or motion.... It is like the
grave.... Above, beneath, on all sides, the earth presses.... Always
the earth around ... nothing but earth.... For ages and ages, deep down
in the ground."
She repeated this last sentence several times.
"For ages and ages, deep down in the ground."
"What next?" asked Lorelie.
"A sound ... faint ... far-off.... Now it comes nearer ... it is as
of a spade digging ... it is coming down ... down ... down.... The
earth above loosens ... disappears.... The blowing of fresh air ...
the gleam of daylight.... Now the blue sky looks down.... Lifted up
by strong hands to the glorious sunshine above.... It is the edge of
a pit.... Small pieces of gold mixed with earth lie about.... It is
spring-time.... The air is full of the sound of falling waters....
There are green hills around, dark here and there with pines and
firs.... Above them snow shining in the sun.... There are men about
... digging ... men with deep blue eyes and flaxen hair.... They wear
close-fitting tunics.... Their legs are bare, crossed by thongs of
leather, ... They talk a strange language.... Now they stop digging ...
laugh ... and drink mead from ox-horns."
Idris started, beginning to detect a glimmer of meaning in these
utterances, hitherto as dark as a Delphic oracle.
"It is hot ... very hot.... There is a fire ... flames playing in
golden and ruddy hues on the rafters above.... Many pieces of metal
are stacked upon the shelves around.... Shields, spears, swords, all
newly-wrought, are lying about.... The clangour of the anvil arises....
The red sparks fly around.... Men are moving to and fro, all busy....
One is pouring molten metal into a clay mould.... It is liquid, glowing
gold.... He is casting a vase ... a funereal urn ... _this!_"
Idris had heard something of the marvels of clairvoyance, but
clairvoyance like this fairly took his breath away. It was clear that
Beatrice was giving the whole history of the vase, from the time when
the metal composing it first issued from the earth in the shape of ore
in the old Norse fatherland!
"It is a long, low, wooden hall. The lady is beautiful, with dark
eyes and raven hair. There are some maidens around. They are at
needlework. They have one long piece of cloth on their knees, and are
sewing different coloured threads into it. The lady directs them. Now
she moves towards the bed. There is some one lying on it, hidden by a
bearskin. At the head is the golden vase. The lady lifts the coverlet.
Beneath, there reposes a dead man, with yellow hair and beard. He lies
upon his shield, his spear and sword beside him. The lady falls across
the body weeping."
This scene was clear enough to Idris' comprehension. The dark-haired
lady was the ancestress of Beatrice herself, Hilda the Alruna, mourning
the death of her husband, Orm the Viking: and the maidens were the
captive nuns who had wrought the figured tapestry that had decorated
the interior of Ormfell.
"The maidens tremble as the stern-faced warriors enter the hall to
carry away the body of their chief. He is borne aloft to the place of
sepulture upon his brazen shield. The lady follows, clasping the urn to
her bosom."
Beatrice paused for a moment, and then began another picture.
"The green hill-tomb rises high in sunny air, and close by murmurs the
voice of the restless sea. The dead warrior is laid upon an altar of
wood. Many persons stand around. A fair-haired boy touches the pile
with a flaming torch. As he does so, a shout goes up to the sky."
Though Beatrice's utterances were not marked by any rhythmic measure,
she nevertheless began to intone them to an air, which Idris
immediately recognized as the Ravengar Funeral March, the requiem that
had made so strange an impression upon him when played by Lorelie upon
the organ of St. Oswald's Church.
"See the gleam of lifted lance and shield! Hark to the wailing of the
women, as they beat their breasts and rend their tresses for the death
of their great chief! List to the warriors, as they clash their brazen
bucklers with clanging sword-strokes! Now rises the wild barbaric song
of the long-haired scald, hymning to his harp the heroic deeds of the
dead, and chanting the dirge that shall never be forgotten by the
Raven-race. Upward mount the flames of the pyre. See how the maddened
raven, tied to the fagot with silken thread, flaps his wings and
screams with terror, pecking at the bond that holds him. The volumed
smoke hides him from view: the fire severs the thread: now he soars
heavenward, bearing the soul of the warrior to Valhalla. The fire burns
long, glowing in the breath of the breeze. Now it fades: glimmers: and
dies out. The lady draws near with the urn: within it are reverently
placed the ashes of the dead."
Beatrice ceased her intonation, and continued in a quieter tone.
"It is a square place, built of stone. Men are moving about. Some carry
torches. Others are decking the walls with tapestry, hanging it from a
metal rod. There is a stone receptacle in the centre. The dark-haired
lady places the urn within this, and retires. The lights vanish. All is
silence and darkness--silence and darkness."
It was clear that Beatrice had been describing the incidents attending
the death and burial of Orm. Her account had cleared up one mystery.
The contents of the urn were nothing less than the ashes of the old
Viking, the ancestral dust from which Beatrice herself had sprung! This
completely answered the question as to what had become of his remains,
and furnished additional proof that the skeleton in the sarcophagus was
not that of Orm.
But here a disquieting thought presented itself. Who had removed this
urn from the tomb in Ormfell, and in what way had Lorelie become
possessed of it? He dismissed the question for the moment in order to
listen to Beatrice who was speaking again.
"Footsteps round about. Light shines through the interstices of the
tomb. Some one is speaking. It is the dark-haired lady. There is a man
with her. They take off the lid of the tomb and put in all kinds of
bright things--coins and rings: gold and silver ingots: cups, lamps,
precious stones, and the like. They sparkle in the light. The tomb is
full. They lay the rest on the floor. Now they steal away. The light
goes with them. Silence and darkness again."
Thus far Beatrice's monologue had dealt with a period of history
distant by a thousand years, and had told Idris little that he did
not already know. Would she continue the story of the urn through the
succeeding centuries? Would she reach modern times, and speak of those
who had removed the treasure? would she describe the murder that had
taken place, and tell how the urn came to be in Lorelie's possession?
Spellbound he waited for the sequel. If any one had told him that the
Viking's treasure was lying upon the roadway outside to be his own for
the mere trouble of walking thither, he would not have stirred from his
position.
Beatrice had been silent for some time, when Lorelie, speaking in the
same tone of authority that she had used throughout, said:--
"What comes next?"
"The dropping of moisture from the roof."
"What next?"
"Silence and darkness."
Idris began to think that he was doomed to disappointment. Each scene
described by Beatrice had been followed by an interval, sometimes long,
sometimes short, apparently proportionate to the actual length of time
that had elapsed between each event. How many minutes were to serve
as a measure of the space that separated the age of Orm from the date
of the removal of the treasure? Not so many, he trusted, as to cause
Lorelie to bring her experiment to a close.
"How much time is passing?"
"Centuries--long centuries--centuries of silence and darkness."
For a long time Beatrice continued to sit without speaking. At length,
to Idris' satisfaction, she resumed her monologue.
"A muffled noise like a spade digging. The falling of earth. Some one
is going to enter."
"Is this person the first to enter the hillock since the days of the
dark-haired lady?"
"The very first.--Cool air blows down the passage, filling the chamber
with its freshness. It penetrates the chinks of the tomb."
"Are there several men, or only one?"
"One only."
"What is he doing?"
"He waits a long time at the entrance. Now he comes forward along the
passage. He carries a light: it gleams through the interstices of the
tomb. He walks about, his feet striking against pieces of metal. He
seems to be picking up some. Now, with a cry, he drops them. They ring
on the hard earth. There are fresh footsteps coming along the passage.
Coming quickly, too!"
Beatrice's voice had lost some of its cold ring: she seemed to be less
of an automaton and more of a living woman, capable of being moved by
what she saw and heard. Idris did not fail to notice the change. It
was an agreeable change, but ominous for his hopes. She seemed to be
emerging from her trance: emerging, too, at a very significant point of
the story.
He noticed, too, that Lorelie's interest had kept pace with his own:
there was on her face a look of painful anxiety that had been entirely
absent in the earlier stages of the experiment.
"A second man has entered the place. There is a silence. They seem to
be standing still, looking at each other. Now they walk to and fro
speaking."
"What do they say?"
"Their voices are hushed! Ha! A sound like the tearing of cloth.
The dull thud as of a body falling to the earth. A gasp, and all is
still. The footsteps move about again. It seems as if only one man
is there. He comes slowly forward and approaches the tomb. He places
the light upon the floor. He is going to lift the lid. It is heavy.
He can scarcely move it. He pushes it aside with his hands. Ah!" she
exclaimed in a tone of disgust, "ah! his fingers are wet with blood.
Some drops fall into the tomb. Oh!" she gasped in the voice of one who
suddenly realizes an awful truth. "Oh! he is a murderer! He has killed
the other. He peers into the tomb. The lamp on the floor lights up his
face. I can see the sparkle of his eyes. _Oh! it is----_"
In sheer horror Beatrice paused as if recognizing the visionary face.
"What! You know him," cried Lorelie, wildly: and to Idris' mind there
was as much horror in her voice as in that of Beatrice. "You know him?
Who is it?"
Instead of replying Beatrice tried to lift her hands as though their
removal from the vase would dissolve the terrible vision. Lorelie came
swiftly forward and stayed her action with an imperative gesture.
Much as Idris felt the necessity for intervention, he refrained, for he
was as eager for the name as Lorelie herself.
"You recognize him?" cried Lorelie. "Who is it? His name? Who has more
right to know it than I? Speak! God of heaven, I'll wrest the name
from you, though you were dying---- No! stop! silence!" she suddenly
exclaimed. "Do not say the name."
Eager to learn the secret Idris had been incautiously pressing against
the silken portière, and even in the midst of her agitation, Lorelie
had seen the movement of the curtain.
There was a moment's silence, and then she cried:--
"Who is there?"
"A friend," replied Idris: and seeing that he was discovered he lifted
the curtain and entered the recess. "Let us have the name, and then----"
"It was honourable of you to play the spy!" said Lorelie, coldly: and
Idris could not help feeling that he deserved the reproach.
"Miss Ravengar," he said, stepping up to Beatrice and taking both her
hands in his own: "tell me whose face you see peering into the tomb."
"A face peering into the tomb? I--I don't understand."
Beatrice's voice had assumed its sweet natural ring. From her low seat
she looked up at Idris with the light of gladness in her eyes at seeing
him, a colour on her cheek at finding her hands clasped in his.
For a moment he eyed her keenly, thinking that in order to shield
the guilty person she was going to deny the recognition. Then the
truth flashed upon him. She had emerged from her hypnotic trance. On
detecting his presence the viscountess by some quick sleight of hand
must have restored her to her normal state of mind.
Beatrice's wondering eyes showed that she was entirely ignorant of the
story that had flowed from her lips.
That story had accomplished one good end. She had spoken of the
assassin as a man, and a weight was lifted from Idris' mind. Thank
heaven, Lorelie was not the author of the deed! But a troubling thought
remained. Was she a friend of the assassin, an accessory after the
fact? If not, why was she so anxious to conceal his name?
A question or two on the part of Idris elicited the fact that it was
Beatrice herself who had suggested the experiment with the vase.
Lorelie, who was versed in the art of hypnotism, had readily assented,
being as eager as Beatrice to learn its secret.
And now that the experiment was over Beatrice looked from Lorelie to
Idris, and from Idris to Lorelie, wondering why each seemed so grave.
"What have I been saying?" she asked.
Lorelie turned to Idris. "How long have you been here?"
"From the beginning of your experiment," he answered.
"Then Beatrice shall learn the story from you."
"But the story lacks completion. You left the experiment unfinished at
its most interesting point.--Lady Walden," continued Idris, gravely,
"you know now, if you did not know before, that a murder was committed
within the interior of Ormfell. Justice requires that the murderer
should be punished."
"Go on," she murmured, as he paused.
"That urn," he continued, pointing to the golden vase, "formed a part
of the treasure that led to the crime. Whoever gave you the urn was
either the assassin, or obtained it through the agency of the assassin."
Idris paused again, and Lorelie herself uttered the question that was
in his mind.
"And, therefore, you would learn the name of the giver?"
Idris bowed.
"Mr. Breakspear, you ask too much."
"You desire to shield a murderer?"
"That is nothing new--with me. I have been doing that for many years."
No look could be more mournful than that accompanying her words.
"You will not give me the name that was trembling upon the lips of Miss
Ravengar?"
"I did not hear it," replied Lorelie, evasively.
"But you have formed a suspicion?"
"My suspicions might compromise the innocent, even as I myself have
been compromised," she added, with a reproachful glance at Beatrice.
"Forgive me," murmured Beatrice, with drooping eyes.
"Are we not all liable to error?" said Lorelie, kissing her tenderly.
"I commend your frankness in coming to state your suspicions, painful
though it was for me to listen. No; though fallen from what I might
be, I have not yet stooped to murder." And then, turning to Idris, she
said:--
"If I refuse your request I do so in order that I may not rashly accuse
the innocent. When I have verified my suspicions, you shall know the
truth: for, if I am not mistaken, no one will have more right to the
knowledge than yourself. And then," she added, with a melancholy smile,
"then it may be that you will find your desire for justice evaporating."