LORELIE AT RAVENHALL
Lord Walden was reading a newspaper one afternoon in the quietude
of his own room at Ravenhall, when the step of some person entering
the chamber unannounced caused him to look up, and he found Lorelie
standing before him.
"Hul-lo!" he muttered, throwing down the newspaper, and startled beyond
measure at seeing his wife so near his father's presence. "What brings
_you_ here?"
"To claim my rights," she answered quietly. "Why should the wife occupy
a modest villa while the husband lives in castled state?"
She took off her toque and mantle, threw them upon the table, and, with
the air of one who had come to stay, sat down in an armchair opposite
him.
For some moments Ivar frowned darkly at his fair young wife, and was
obviously dismayed by her determination.
When the earl, a few weeks previously, had urged upon him the necessity
for marrying Beatrice, Ivar had lacked the courage to confess that he
had a wife already, knowing that the statement would be certain to
evoke his father's anger, and Ivar stood in considerable awe of his
father.
Accordingly, he had made a pretence of submission, and had gone so far
as to delude the earl with the fiction that he was paying successful
court to Beatrice. This contemptible subterfuge was not one that could
be long continued in any circumstances; but Lorelie's sudden resolve
for recognition threatened to bring matters to a climax that very day.
"You have come here to create a vulgar scene before all the servants, I
see," scowled Ivar.
"I have come here to redeem my name," she answered indignantly. "Do you
know that at the flower-show yesterday ladies turned aside to avoid me,
and that I caught the half-whispered words, 'Lord Walden's mistress'?
Do you wish me to return to The Cedars to live there under such a name?
I will keep silent no longer. To day all Ormsby shall know that I am
Viscountess Walden."
Vainly did Ivar try to temporize, to persuade, to cajole, to threaten.
Lorelie continued inflexible.
"Take me to your father," she said. "My maiden name will compel him to
acknowledge me."
"What is there in the name of Rivière to charm him?" asked Ivar, in
surprise.
"Nothing, but much in the name of Rochefort," she answered, rising to
her feet. "Will you go with me, or shall I go alone to inform him that
I have married a craven who lacks the spirit and courage to tell the
truth?"
Ivar saw the necessity of yielding. Looking with a very ill grace at
his wife he touched a hand-bell on the table.
"Where is the earl?" he asked of the footman, who appeared in answer to
the summons.
"His lordship is taking the air on the western terrace," was the reply.
The viscount rose and moved off in the direction of the said terrace
accompanied by his wife, while the footman stared curiously after them.
Lorelie had come to Ravenhall for the purpose of verifying, if
possible, the strange suspicion she had of late begun to entertain
that the present Earl of Ormsby was none other than Eric Marville. If
this surmise were correct, it behoved her to make known to him the
truth concerning the murder of Duchesne. But of what avail was it to
clear the character of Eric Marville from the guilt of the long-past
crime, if her other suspicion should prove true that he was the slayer
of her father? She was precluded from denouncing him for this latter
deed by reason of her position as his daughter-in-law, and by the
thought that Captain Rochefort, in falling by the hand of the man whom
he had wronged, had met with a justly merited doom.
If the earl were really Eric Marville, it followed that Idris, as his
elder son, was being unjustly deprived of his rights by the younger
half-brother Ivar.
Ignorant of the causes that had contributed to render Idris an object
of aversion to the earl, Lorelie, nevertheless, determined to compel
the earl to acknowledge him. Thus much justice should at least be done.
And in coming to this resolve Lorelie tried to persuade herself that
she was actuated simply by the desire for justice, whereas her heart
more truly told her that secret love for Idris was her controlling
motive.
On reaching the western terrace they found the earl standing at one end
of it with his back towards them. He had just come from the library
after a long spell of study, and was now refreshing his tired eyes
by a contemplation of the lawns and the woods that surrounded his
castellated mansion.
On hearing footsteps he turned, and his cold grey eyes lighted upon
Lorelie: not, however, for the first time, since her pew in St.
Oswald's Church faced his own; but beyond the fact that she was called
Mademoiselle Rivière he knew nothing whatever respecting her, and, it
may be added, had no desire to know more.
He supposed that Ivar had been showing her over his historic mansion,
portions of which were open to the public on certain days. But this
western terrace was private ground, reserved for the family. What did
Ivar mean by bringing this young lady to him, who had no desire for
an introduction? With something like a frown upon his face he awaited
their approach.
Could this cold and dignified peer of the realm, thought Lorelie, be
the man who, twenty-three years before, had escaped from a felon's cell
in Brittany? Was this really the father of Idris? It seemed too strange
to be true. Was his the face that Beatrice in her hypnotic trance had
seen peering into the Viking's tomb? A chilling sensation seized her as
Ivar escorted her towards the presence of the man whom she believed to
be her father's murderer.
Lord Ormsby was the first to speak.
"Mademoiselle Rivière, I believe," he said, bowing stiffly.
"Not so, my lord."
"No?" queried the earl.
"No!" she replied with a smile that annoyed him. As if it mattered to
him who she was!
"Hum, some mistake. What name, then, may I ask----?"
"Viscountess Walden, my lord," she replied, with an air as stately as
his own.
For a few moments the earl's surprise was too great for words. He sank
upon a stone seat, and stared from one to the other.
"You hear what this woman says," he remarked in a harsh voice, turning
to his son. "Is it true?"
"We are married--yes," returned Ivar, sullenly.
"You have given me to understand," continued the earl, "that you were
paying your addresses to Beatrice."
"Father, listen to me," muttered Ivar. "I was already married at the
time when you pressed Beatrice's name upon me, and seeing how earnestly
you were set upon the match I--I lacked the courage to--to state the
truth."
Lorelie heard her husband's words with secret contempt. The craven was
almost apologizing for marrying her! With an effort she controlled her
feelings, and remained silent.
Casting a contemptuous glance at his son the earl turned, and with a
coldly critical eye surveyed his new daughter-in-law. Yes, she was
undeniably beautiful, with an exquisite taste in dress; and bore
herself with the air and dignity of a princess; clearly an ornament to
Ravenhall, provided only that her antecedents were above the criticism
of Society.
"And who and whence is the lady that now bears Viscount Walden's name?"
he asked.
"My name is Lorelie, _née_ Rochefort."
"_Rochefort?_" repeated the earl, with a sharp intonation on the word.
"I am the daughter of Captain Noel Rochefort, of Nantes."
The earl's sudden start did not escape her attentive eyes. It seemed to
give confirmation to her suspicion.
"Your lordship has perhaps heard of him? His is a notable name."
"No. Yes. That is to say," replied the earl in some confusion, "unless
my memory is at fault, some one of that name figured prominently in the
French newspapers about twenty-three years ago. Did your father aid in
the escape of a certain prisoner from Valàgenêt?"
"Your lordship has an excellent memory."
"I was in Brittany at the time of the escape, and the story was in
everybody's mouth. The name of the prisoner was--was," pursued the
earl, with the air of one striving to recall a forgotten fact, "was
Eric Marville, I think."
"I must again commend your lordship's memory."
"Of what crime was this Marville found guilty?"
"He was accused of murder."
"Murder. Ay! so it was. I remember now," replied the earl with a
thoughtful air.
Few could have surmised from his manner that in recalling the name of
Eric Marville he was, in reality, speaking of himself, and Lorelie
found herself in a state of doubt again.
"Your father," continued the earl, "was a great friend of this
Marville, otherwise he would not have planned and carried out this
rescue-plot?"
"We may presume that he was."
The earl's conduct would certainly have seemed singular to an ordinary
by-stander. The lady before him was waiting for recognition as his
daughter-in-law, but neglecting that as a matter of no consequence, he
was interesting himself in events that had happened more than twenty
years before. Lorelie found her suspicion returning.
"Do you know what ultimately became of this Marville--I mean of your
father, or rather of both of them?"
"They went yachting together in '76, and their vessel went down in
Ormsby Race."
"So near our own doors? Strange! Then this Marville was drowned?"
"I have reason to believe that he was not."
"Ay! and what is your reason?"
"My lord, do _you_ ask that?" she answered with significant intonation.
"I don't understand you."
But he did not press for her meaning; Lorelie marked that. And there
was an interval of silence ere he resumed his catechism.
"Your father, Captain Rochefort--was _he_ drowned?"
"I have reasons--very strong reasons--for believing that he escaped the
fury of the sea, only to be murdered."
While speaking she kept her gaze fixed upon the earl's face to mark
the effect of her words. Unless she was mistaken there was in his eyes
something very like the light of fear.
"Murdered?" he said. "What leads you to this strange belief?"
"With your lordship's permission I will reserve my reasons for another
time.--You have not yet said," she added quietly, "whether you
acknowledge me."
"You are my son's wife, and, therefore, my daughter. Welcome to
Ravenhall!"
Rising from his seat he approached and kissed her. And at this seal of
recognition Ivar heaved a sigh of relief. The trying ordeal was over,
and it had not ended, as he had fancied that it might, in his enforced
retirement from Ravenhall.
When the earl touched Lorelie's cheek with his lips he found her skin
as cold as marble. She had submitted to the act, not knowing how to
repulse it; but--kissed by her father's murderer! To receive such a
kiss seemed to her mind like a condonation of the crime--a purchase of
her position at the price of her father's blood.
She grew faint. Why was she placing herself in a position where day
by day she would encounter the presence of this terrible earl? for to
her he was terrible. A great longing came upon her to go back to The
Cedars; but the thought of Idris calmed her. For his sake she would
stay. Her belief that he was the rightful heir of Ravenhall was, after
all, a matter of conjecture, not of knowledge: she must have proofs
before telling him of her opinion: and, in her judgment, such proofs
would be found at Ravenhall.
Hating herself for the hypocrisy she masked her feelings with a smile
and endeavoured to appear gratified with her new position.
Learning that Lorelie had not yet seen the interior of Ravenhall the
earl, as if wishful to conciliate her, undertook to conduct her over
the mansion.
He escorted his new daughter-in-law through the finer parts of the
castle, pointing out the various treasures contained within its walls:
but though he talked much during this tour of inspection Lorelie was
conscious all the time of being furtively scanned by him, as if he were
trying to fathom her character and aims: and the belief was borne in
upon her mind that she was the object of his suspicion and fear.
He bade her select as her own whatever apartments might take her fancy,
and introduced her to the housekeeper, telling the latter that, as
regarded the domestic arrangements of Ravenhall, she must now receive
her orders from the new viscountess. Then, having rendered these
honours, the earl went back to his library with the remark that they
would meet again at dinner.
"Egad, we're in luck's way!" exclaimed the delighted Ivar. "Who'd have
thought the old boy would prove so gracious? But why have you always
kept it a secret from me that you are Captain Rochefort's daughter?" He
gave Lorelie no time to reply, for, suddenly struck by a new thought,
he continued, "O, by the way, just a hint, lest you should unwittingly
betray a secret of mine. Don't let the governor ever know that I have
given you a golden vase."
"Very well, Ivar. But may I ask your reason for this caution?"
The viscount tugged the ends of his light moustache with a
shamefacedness very unusual in him.
"Hum! ah! well! I suppose I had better speak the truth. The fact is
I've had to forestall my future heritage by appropriating some pieces
of the family plate."
"Appropriating! That is a good word, Ivar."
"Call it what you like. It was necessitated by the expense of keeping a
wife. Your tastes are costly. Pictures, works of art, rare furniture,
rich dresses are the breath of life to you. Deny it if you can. I
was obliged to resort to some expedient in order to satisfy your
extravagance. That vase was one of my--er--appropriations. I gave it to
you to convert into cash, but you seem to prefer keeping it."
"And so the money you have given me during the past few months has come
from the sale of this plate?"
Ivar nodded assent.
"Was this plate contained in the jewel-room through which the earl has
just taken us?"
"O, dear no! The store I refer to is far too valuable and tempting
to be exposed to the eyes of even the oldest and most trusted of
our family servants--at least, that's the governor's opinion. He is
somewhat eccentric, you know. So he keeps this treasure to himself in a
secret place."
Lorelie did not ask Ivar to name this secret place: she had her own
opinion as to the locality, and would not have believed Ivar if he had
declared it to be elsewhere.
"Your father inspects these treasures occasionally, I presume?"
"Of course--with the joy of an old miser."
"And he keeps a catalogue of them?"
"You bet he does!"
"Then how have you contrived to keep your appropriations undiscovered?"
A look of low conceit and cunning overspread the face of the viscount.
"Ah! that's my secret. The governor thinks he still possesses the
missing plate. It's there before his eyes, and yet it isn't there. He
sees it, and yet he doesn't see it. He's an artful fellow, the old
boy! But for once he's been outwitted. You don't understand. Some day
I'll explain my meaning. Meantime, remember, mum's the word on this
business."
And here Ivar went off to inspect a new hunter that had just arrived,
while Lorelie turned away with a look of unspeakable horror in her eyes.
"So the Viking's treasure found its way to Ravenhall," she murmured.
"And by whose hand it is clear. The price of my father's blood! My God!
to think that I have been living on money derived from such a source!"
That same evening at sunset Lorelie sat alone on the grand terrace
overlooking the undulating landscape that surrounded Ravenhall. Behind
her rose the ivied mansion with its fine halls and treasures of art.
Roses, glowing in sculptured vases along the terrace, filled the air
with their sweetness. Marble fountains flashed aloft their silvery
spray. Below, in front of her, green lawns and woodlands stretched away
to the margin of a shimmering lake--all bathed in the dusky golden glow
of sunset.
This day should have been one of the proudest of her life. She had
received recognition from the earl, and was now an acknowledged wife, a
peeress, and the destined queen of the county-side.
While living at The Cedars she had been slighted by some of the society
of Ormsby, and had been cruelly traduced by others; how great, then,
would be the mortification of her enemies to learn that the person whom
they had contemned held the proud rank of Viscountess Walden! They
would be but too willing now to efface the past and do her homage;
for, to be on visiting terms at Ravenhall was the ambition of all the
_élite_ of Ormsby. What a triumph for her! Youth and beauty, rank and
wealth--all were hers!
That was one side of the medal; how different the reverse!
Her father was a murderer; her father-in-law was a murderer; her
husband was, in his own language, an "appropriator," or, in other
words, a thief: and she herself was but a spy at Ravenhall, seeking for
proofs to deprive him of his prospective wealth and title! Even now he
manifested indifference to her: what would be his feelings if, through
her instrumentality, Idris Breakspear should succeed to the coronet of
the Ravengars?
Whether she spoke out, or whether she remained mute, a melancholy
future lay before her. On the one hand splendour purchased at the price
of injustice to Idris: on the other the lifelong hatred of her husband
for preferring the interests of Idris to his own.
The voice of Ivar jarred upon her meditations. He was lounging along
the terrace smoking the inevitable cigarette.
"My lady doesn't seem very happy now that she dwells 'in marble halls,
with vassals and serfs by her side.' Look around you," he continued,
with a sweep of his arm that took in the whole landscape. "As far as
you can see, north, east, south, and west, all is ours. Isn't the
prospect fair enough for you?"
"As fair as the Dead Sea fruit--all ashes to the taste."
She lifted her head, and he saw that her face was pale, that her eyes
were suffused with tears, that her expression was one of unutterable
melancholy.
"Why the devil did you come here, if you don't like it? Upon my word
you are hard to please! Is this your gratitude to the pater for his
gracious reception of you!"
"To be called 'Viscountess Walden,' and 'Your ladyship,'" she murmured
to herself, "knowing all the time that I am listening to a lie!"
Ivar started, but made no reply. He lounged off to the end of the
terrace, where he stood watching his wife with a dark expression on his
face.
"Got a fit of the blues on!" he muttered. "Thinking of Breakspear, and
how hard it is he should be kept from his own, and so forth. By God!
supposing she lets her craze for that fellow carry her to the extreme
of declaring the truth! She loves him, and a woman in love will commit
any folly. She's not to be trusted."
While he was occupied with these uneasy reflections a footman appeared,
carrying on a silver salver a letter addressed to the viscount.
Ivar gave a start when he perceived the handwriting on the envelope,
and ere opening it cast a glance at the distant Lorelie.
The note was a sweet-scented one, signed "Lilias Winter," and contained
a request for a subscription to a local charity, at least so the
simple-minded would have read it, but to Ivar it conveyed a very
different meaning. Interpreted by a prearranged code the note signified
that on the part of the sender circumstances were favourable that night
for receiving a visit from the viscount. For Ivar, with a perversity of
taste, not uncommon in the immoral, found more pleasure in carrying on
an intrigue with a widow of forty than in cultivating the society of
his fair young wife.
A few days previously, when ignorant of the existence of Idris, the
viscount would have laughed in Lorelie's face had she reproached him
with this amour.
Now he suddenly became conscious that this intrigue was no laughing
matter.
His succession to the title and estates depended on his wife's good
will. Any act on his part tending to provoke her might end in his
ruin. When the handsome widow, who had entertained hopes herself of
one day becoming Viscountess Walden, should learn of Ivar's marriage,
disappointment and jealousy might prompt her to reveal this amour
to Lorelie. And then----? Ill usage from her husband Lorelie might
tolerate, but infidelity, never! Goaded by such an outrage she would
fling his interests to the winds, and make it known that Idris was the
rightful heir of Ravenhall.
"No help for it," muttered Ivar. "I must tell the governor at once, and
tell him all without disguise; that Idris Marville is not only alive,
but dwelling here to-day at Ormsby; that Lorelie suspects who he is,
and that Lilias will have to be bribed into silence, otherwise she will
create a scandal of which Lorelie will avail herself to our confusion
and ruin. Breakspear at present is ignorant of his lineage; something
must be done to prevent him from ever learning it--_but what?_"
* * * * * *
The lights in the library at Ravenhall burned till a late hour that
night, or rather they were continued till far into the morning.
The sleep of the new viscountess in her distant bedchamber was fitful
and troubled, but there would have been no sleep at all for her could
she have known the character of the conversation taking place in the
library between the Ravengars, father and son.