THE SECRET OF THE FUNERAL CRYPT
On the day following her recognition at Ravenhall Lorelie sat at
luncheon with the earl and the viscount. The servants had retired,
leaving them free to indulge in private conversation.
"To my fair daughter-in-law," said the earl, touching his glass with
his lips and bowing to Lorelie, who returned the greeting but coldly.
The space of twenty-four hours had not reconciled her any the more to
his presence.
"Do you know that old Lanfranc is dead?" remarked Ivar, addressing his
father.
"No. Where did you learn that?"
"Saw it just now in the obituary column of the _Times_."
"May one ask who Lanfranc is?" said Lorelie.
"Sir George Lanfranc," replied the earl, "is----"
"Was," corrected Ivar.
"Our family solicitor," continued the earl, with a frown--he hated to
be corrected--"and one of the privileged four admitted to the knowledge
of our secret funeral vault."
"The other three being----?" queried Lorelie.
"Ivar and I, as a matter of course: and the Rector of Ormsby."
"I think I could name a fifth," murmured Lorelie to herself.
For, on the day prior to her coming to Ravenhall she had chanced to
meet with Godfrey, and, moved by a sudden impulse, he had told her
how he had followed Ivar to the crypt and what had happened there, not
omitting Lord Walden's utterance that it was done on Lorelie's account.
The story was a complete revelation to her, and, while thanking Godfrey
for his communication, she determined to discover the meaning of the
strange affair with which Ivar had associated her name. A favourable
opportunity seemed now to present itself, and she resolved to essay a
bold stroke.
"We shall have to choose some one to supply Lanfranc's place," said the
earl, turning to his son.
"Permit me to offer myself," suggested Lorelie.
Lord Ormsby raised his eyebrows in manifest surprise.
"Ladies have never been admitted to that vault," he replied. "In that
respect it resembles the Baptist's Chapel in the Genoese Cathedral."
"But that chapel _is_ open to ladies on one day in the year," replied
Lorelie. "Therefore, your parallel will not hold."
"Are you really serious in making this suggestion?" asked the earl.
"Perfectly."
"What is your reason?"
Lorelie shrugged her shoulders.
"You don't require reason from a woman," she replied. "It would be hard
for me to give my reason. Curiosity, mainly: the desire of seeing what
no other woman has seen, or ever will see."
"The initiated have to swear an oath to keep the secret," said Ivar.
"That gives quite a romantic charm to the adventure," Lorelie replied.
The earl sat silent for a moment as if weighing the matter, and then
cast at his son a look which seemed to convey a silent suggestion, a
suggestion that appeared to meet with tacit acceptance from the other.
"There is really no reason why we should not admit you to the vault,"
he remarked. "Better one of the family than an outsider. And you are
one of us now," he added with a sigh, as though the fact were much to
be regretted. "You shall be one of the privileged four, if you desire
it. When would you like to pay your first visit?"
"Why not now?" she asked impulsively, rising from her seat as she spoke.
"Humph!" replied the earl, thoughtfully. "Suppose we say to-night. The
late hour will enable us the better to escape the prying eyes of the
servants. You consent? Good! Then we will meet in this dining-hall a
little before twelve to-night. But--not a whisper of this to any one.
Let the matter be kept secret."
Lorelie rose and sought the retirement of her own room, not without
wonder that the earl should accept her strange proposal almost as soon
as he heard it. Then, as she recalled the curious look he had cast at
Ivar, together with his injunction to observe secrecy respecting the
intended visit, there swept over her a sudden wave of cold feeling
induced by a thought so dreadful that she could scarcely bring herself
to entertain it. But the idea would persist in stamping itself in
letters of fire upon her mind.
"I know he hates me!" she gasped. "I saw that in his eyes when he first
heard my name. I know he hates me, but--my God! to such an extent as
_that_! Is he afraid that the daughter will seek to avenge her father?
And will he get Ivar to consent?"
While she was occupied with these terrible misgivings her husband came
slouching in. He seated himself on a chair and regarded her for a
moment with a strange expression that set her trembling.
"So you've quite made up your mind to visit the vault?"
She assented with a nod, not daring to trust herself to speak. Her
heart was beating like a steam-hammer; faint murmurs were ringing in
her ears; she seemed to see Ivar as through a mist.
"Bah! you lack the courage. You will be crying off from the venture
before the night comes."
His sneer roused her spirit, and she spoke in a low tone, striving to
control the tremors of her voice.
"I will not cry off: no," she added, emphasizing her words, as if to
fix his attention, "not if it should end in my death."
Ivar started and glanced suspiciously at her.
Suddenly Lorelie rose, and walking to an oak-press produced a small
piece of faded black velvet fringed on one edge with silver lace.
Sitting down with needle and thread she proceeded with deft fingers to
manipulate this velvet into a sort of ornamental bow, without cutting
the fabric or in any way diminishing its original size.
Her husband moodily watched her, wondering why she should form a
dress-ornament from such faded stuff and why she should select this
particular juncture for making it.
"What's that thing you are making?" he asked in a sullen voice.
"Merely a bow," she answered, extending the half-finished article
towards him. "Of what do you suppose this velvet once formed part?"
"It might have been cut from a pall by the look of it."
"I commend your discernment. You are not far wrong."
"Perhaps you will enlighten me," he asked, scowling, as he noticed her
air of satisfaction at his perplexity.
"It is not the first time you have seen this velvet and its parent
fabric," said Lorelie.
Approaching a mirror she held the bow against the neck-band of her
dress.
"I shall wear this bow to-night. True, it does not look very pretty,
yet it may serve as a talisman, and----"
But on looking up she found that Ivar was gone. The velvet dropped to
the carpet, and she clasped her hands.
"They mean it," she murmured. "I can read it in Ivar's guilty
manner--half-resolve, half-fear: letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I
would.' My God! But I will go through with it. I will put their base
courage to the test."
Her first fears had vanished, leaving her hard and firm as steel.
The spirit that loves danger for its own sake, the spirit derived
from her Corsican ancestors, began to reawake in the breast of their
nineteenth-century descendant.
At six in the evening Lorelie, who had spent the afternoon in arranging
her plan of action, stole quietly to her bedroom, having told the
butler she would not come down to dinner.
"I must sleep," she murmured, "that my faculties may be fresh and
unimpaired for to-night's work."
Her first care was to lock and bolt the door that opened upon the
corridor, and next that communicating with Ivar's bedroom. She paid
considerable attention to these doors, as well as to the fastenings of
the windows. A traveller putting up for the night at some lonely and
suspicious hostelry could not have shown more caution. Thus secured
from intrusion she laid herself down, dressed as she was, upon the bed.
But fully two hours elapsed ere she succeeded in falling asleep.
When she awoke she found herself shivering with cold and in total
darkness. For a few moments she lay dreamily conscious that some
ordeal awaited her, but unable at first to recall what it was. Then
memory revived. The visit to the vault! Yes! that was it; and the
thought made her pulses quicken.
She rose, procured a light, and found that it was close upon midnight.
"So late! They will begin to think that I am not coming."
Fastening the velvet bow to the neck-band of her dress she unlocked the
chamber-door and walked out into the corridor. A deep silence reigned
throughout the mansion, a silence that to her imagination had something
awesome in it. It seemed like the prelude to a tragedy. With a firm
step she descended the staircase and made her way to the dining-hall,
where a murmur of voices told her that the earl and Ivar were awaiting
her.
Their conversation ceased upon her entrance, and both looked up, Ivar
seeming somewhat perturbed in spirit, the earl smiling and evidently
pleased that she had come.
"We were just discussing the probability of your appearing," said he.
"Ivar was confident that you would cry off from the business. And,
certainly, a coffin-vault is not a very cheerful place."
"It is not the dead one has to fear," replied Lorelie, "but the living."
"Your wife has more courage than you gave her credit for, Ivar,"
remarked the earl approvingly. "If you will carry the lamp I will give
her my arm."
"Thank you," replied Lorelie, declining the proffered arm, "but I can
walk without aid."
They set forward from the dining-hall, the earl going first, Ivar
a model of ill-grace walking beside Lorelie. He did not speak, but
glanced curiously at her from time to time.
The expedition was so strange, so unlike anything she had ever known
before, that Lorelie began to wonder whether the whole scene was
not a dream. It was difficult to believe that the earl, so smiling
and courteous, could really entertain the black design of which she
suspected him.
At the end of the Picture Gallery they reached that little lumber-room
which Godfrey Rothwell had so long hesitated to enter on that memorable
night when tracking Ivar to the vault. Making his way to the hearth the
earl stood in the wide space beneath the mantel, and lifting his hand
within the chimney he touched what Lorelie judged was a hidden spring,
for his action was immediately followed by a faint creaking of pulleys
and ropes, and then the perpendicular slab forming one side of the
fireplace began slowly to descend, revealing behind it an empty space.
"The secret way to our crypt," remarked the earl.
He passed through the entrance. Ivar, who had not spoken one word since
leaving the dining-hall, followed. Lorelie went last.
She looked about her. The light carried by Ivar faintly illumined the
place. She was standing in a narrow passage, paved, walled, and roofed,
with stone. Its length could not be ascertained by the eye, for it
stretched away indefinitely in the gloom.
The earl began to manipulate the machinery, and the stone slab slowly
ascended till its lower end rested upon the hearth again. Lorelie,
attentive to his action, grasped with quick eye the principle of the
mechanism. Such knowledge would be useful in the event of her having to
return alone.
All communication with the outer world was now cut off. She was
completely at the mercy of the two men, and though this was only what
she had foreseen, yet none the less the sudden realization of the fact
caused a certain chilling of her high courage.
The order of their march was now changed: they walked abreast: Lorelie
in the centre, the earl on her right, Ivar, still silent, on her left.
Though apparently staring about with interest and curiosity Lorelie in
reality never took her eyes from the earl. It might have been simply
the effect of the flickering light, but in her opinion his face had
an exultant and sinister expression. She became more than ever on her
guard, and any sudden movement on his part caused her right hand to
seek her dress pocket in which a loaded revolver lay concealed.
A steep descent of stone steps now yawned in front of them. With her
left hand Lorelie drew her dainty skirts around her, and glanced in
disgust at the black slimy ooze and the patches of fungous growth.
"These stairs look slippery," she murmured.
"A former lord of Ormsby broke his neck down these very steps,"
remarked the earl.
"I have no wish to imitate his feat," said Lorelie, drawing back a
little. "Do you go first. If I slip I shall be but a light weight,
whereas if you should fall upon me," she added, with a shrug of her
shoulders, "there is no knowing what might happen."
The earl gave her a suspicious look as if detecting a hidden meaning
in her words: then, compliant with her wish, he led the way down the
steps. Lorelie came last, feeling more at ease in being at the rear.
The stairs terminated in the flagged flooring of another long passage,
at the end of which was the crypt.
As Lorelie entered she could not repress a shiver, the atmosphere of
the place striking her senses with a damp chilling effect.
Ivar, by aid of the light he had carried, proceeded to kindle the lamp
pendent from the roof, and every object in the chamber became clearly
visible.
At a glance Lorelie took in the whole scene--the octagonal crypt, the
black velvet curtains draping the alcoves, the massive oak table,
and the four antique carved chairs: everything just as Godfrey had
described it.
As her eye fell upon the silver lace edging the lower end of a curtain
adjacent to the door, her face expressed satisfaction, a satisfaction
that became instantly lost in a very different feeling: for there,
on the floor by one of the alcoves, was a chest of cypress wood, an
object she readily identified as the reliquary that had figured so
conspicuously in Godfrey's narration. The lid stood erect and she
noticed that the contents consisted of a whitish powder.
"_Quicklime!_" she murmured with a cold thrill.
Becoming doubly vigilant she sat down in one of the chairs and prepared
herself for emergencies.
On the table stood a decanter partly filled with wine, and beside it
some glasses. Observant of everything Lorelie saw that though the
smooth surface of the table was overlaid with a coating of dust, the
display of glass exhibited not a trace of it; evidently the wine was of
recent introduction--perhaps placed there specially for her use.
"What! you have wine here? Pour me out a glass, Ivar."
Speaking in the tone of a woman who suspects nothing she reclined in
her seat in a graceful attitude, extending a glass towards Ivar, and
watching him keenly from beneath the lashes of her half-closed eyes.
Her husband, his face as white as a ghost's, filled her glass, and
setting down the decanter, breathed hard. The earl looked on with
seeming indifference.
With steady motion Lorelie lifted the glass, taking a longer time over
the action than was necessary, as if even the foretaste of drinking
were a pleasure not to be curtailed. Ivar was watching her with an
expression the like of which she had never before seen on his face.
Her lips touched the edge of the glass, and there rested a moment: and
then, without having tasted the wine, she raised the glass and held
it between her half-closed eyes and the lamp above, an action that
displayed to the full the beauty of her rounded arm and bust.
"How bright and clear it is!" she murmured, in a softly modulated
voice. "By the way," she added, suddenly opening her eyes wide, "what
wine do you call this?"
"A choice vintage. Malvazia, one of the rarest of the Madeiras,"
replied the earl.
Lorelie lowered the glass quickly, in real or feigned disappointment.
"_O-oh!_" she murmured, pouting. "A pity--that! I cannot bear Malvazia:
it always gives me the headache. I must refrain from drinking.--And
yet," she added, inhaling the fragrance, "the bouquet is tempting."
She toyed a moment or two with the glass, as if about to drink, but
finally set it down upon the table, glancing at the two men with a
silvery laugh. Her radiant air contrasted strangely with the sombre
spirit which seemed to enwrap both of them.
"This is a very pretty chamber," she said, poising her head upon her
hands, and affecting to survey the crypt with interest. "Nothing very
terrible about it, after all. I might have spared myself the letter to
Dr. Rothwell."
"What is that?" said the earl, with a quick nervous start.
"_Peccavi!_ I have done very wrong, I admit," said Lorelie, with a
sweet smile. "I have ventured to disobey your command that I should
tell nobody of this, our midnight adventure: for, as one never knows
what may happen when visiting the haunts of the dead, I could not
refrain from communicating with Dr. Rothwell on the matter. He is aware
of this visit of ours to the crypt. Commend my wisdom, my lord, in thus
taking precautions to secure our safe return."
Never did human countenance change so quickly as did that of the earl
at these words. He glanced at Ivar. Dismay was reflected in the eyes of
each.
"Here is the note I received from him this afternoon," continued
Lorelie imperturbably, drawing forth the communication and tossing it
carelessly upon the table. "You observe his words. 'Dear Lady Walden, I
give you my promise that if I do not meet you at the porch of Ravenhall
to-morrow morning at eight, I will come and seek you in the vault."
"He would have some trouble in finding it," sneered the earl.
"Not at all. Dr. Rothwell knows his way to this crypt as well as you or
Ivar. He made a secret visit here on April the tenth of this year, the
night on which Ivar returned home from the continent."
"Godfrey _was_ at Ravenhall that night," muttered the viscount uneasily.
"He was here--in this vault, I repeat, at three in the morning. And
the scene he witnessed was past belief. It would do you good, Ivar, to
listen to his story. It would really interest you; you, perhaps, more
than any other person."
It is no exaggeration to say that at these words Ivar became green
with fear. He turned his head from the earl in order to conceal his
agitation. The secret which he had believed to be locked within his own
breast was known to others--was being hinted at in the presence of his
father, the very person from whom he most desired to conceal it. How
much did Lorelie know? What would she be saying next? Words, perhaps,
that would bring him to ruin.
"Ivar, I see, is persuaded of the truth of my statement. You are more
sceptical, my lord, but you shall be convinced."
She detached the velvet bow from her neckband and flung it lightly
beside Godfrey's note.
"Cut the threads of that; unfold the velvet, and you will find that
its shape corresponds exactly with the little rent at the foot of that
curtain. It was Dr. Rothwell who cut off this piece of velvet, bringing
it away with him to prove--if proof should ever be required--that he
has stood in the secret crypt of the Ravengars. Do you still doubt me,
my lord, or do you require further proof?"
On the contrary he was so certain of the truth of her words that he did
not attempt to verify them, but stood, fingering the velvet bow with a
dark expression of countenance.
Looking upon Lorelie as an enemy to be silenced at all costs he had
brought her to this vault intending that she should never leave it.
Ivar was a reluctant accomplice, his reluctance arising not from any
conscientious scruples, but from the dangerous consequences attending
the commission of such a deed. The disappearance of the new viscountess
on the second day of her coming to Ravenhall would be an event that
could not fail to bring suspicion and inquiry in its train.
Lorelie had divined their plot, and having taken steps for its
frustration, had fearlessly accompanied them to the destined scene of
her death. And here she was, a slender, fragile woman, in a lonely
situation, with no one to hear her cry for help, in the presence of
two men desirous of her death, and yet, thanks to her forethought, as
safe as if attended by an armed escort.
Her calm air, her radiant beauty, added fuel to the earl's secret
rage. If he had followed his first impulse he would have seized her
in his arms and twining his fingers around her throat have silenced
her forever. But prudence compelled him to refrain from violence. The
thought of having to face on the morrow the stern inquiring eyes of
Godfrey acted as a potent check.
Fortunately for himself he had not proceeded to the length of openly
avowing his awful purpose: he was therefore free to deny it, if she had
any suspicion, as he was strongly disposed to believe that she had.
Besides, what mattered her suspicion? She had no real proof to offer
the world. Opposed to her single testimony was the joint testimony of
himself and her husband.
He began to breathe freely again. The matter might yet end well as
regarded his own safety--the only consideration that troubled him.
Lorelie, knowing the cause of his mortification, sat at ease in her
chair, secretly enjoying her triumph.
At last, feigning to be angry, she exclaimed:--
"How silent you are! Are you going to let me depart from this vault
without enlightening me as to its mysteries? Come, Ivar, play the part
of cicerone. Draw aside the curtain from each alcove, and give me
the names and biographies of the coffined dead. I am in an historic
genealogic mood."
Ivar, not knowing whether to obey, glanced irresolutely at his father.
"Gratify the curious fool," the earl muttered moodily.
With an ill grace at having to obey the wife whom he hated, and
troubled by a secret foreboding that his guilty secret was about to
transpire, Ivar approached the alcove nearest the door, and, lifting
the velvet drapery, disclosed a deep recess, the walls of which were
pierced with niches containing coffins.
"This," he remarked sullenly, touching one, "is the coffin of Lancelot
Ravengar, the first earl of Ormsby."
And so he proceeded from one alcove to another, giving the names of the
dead peers, his amiability not improved by the caustic remarks made by
Lorelie.
"A dull catalogue of nonentities, unknown to fame," she said, when Ivar
had finished his recital. "But I observed that you entirely passed
over the fourth alcove. Why? Raise the curtain and let me see what it
contains."
With manifest reluctance the viscount lifted the drapery, revealing in
the alcove a coffin on trestles.
"This is the coffin of Urien Ravengar, my grandfather."
"In saying that, you of course mean simply that that is the name on the
plate."
"That coffin," broke in the earl in a harsh voice, "contains the body
of my father, Urien Ravengar."
"I do not think so," replied Lorelie quietly.
In a blaze of wrath the earl turned suddenly upon Ivar.
"Fool! what have you been telling this woman?"
"I? Nothing!" replied the viscount, shrinking back. And seeing
disbelief expressed on his father's face, he added, "Ask her: if she
speak truth she will tell you that nothing relating to this coffin has
passed my lips."
"Then how--how?" began the earl: then, breaking off abruptly, he turned
to Lorelie with the question: "Tell me, then, what this coffin does
contain?"
"That is what I wish to learn," she replied coolly. "It is my chief
reason for visiting this vault."
"You will remain in ignorance."
"I shall depart enlightened. Was it not from that coffin, Ivar," she
said, turning to him, "that you took the golden vase you gave me some
time ago?"
She was drawing a bow at a venture, but the arrow found its mark. The
sweat glistened on Ivar's forehead. He betrayed all the confusion of a
guilty person. His father eyed him suspiciously.
"A golden vase!" he exclaimed with a bitter smile. "Ivar, I must look
into that coffin!"
Thus speaking he made his way to the alcove where the viscount was
standing. Moved by curiosity Lorelie also drew near.
"Take the screwdriver, and remove the lid," said Lord Ormsby in a stern
voice.
Sullenly and mutely Ivar proceeded to do his father's bidding.
No one spoke, and nothing disturbed the stillness save the crisp
revolution of the screwdriver. With folded arms and compressed lips the
earl stood looking on, an expression on his face that boded ill for his
son should he find his suspicion verified.
The last screw was loosed, and as Ivar raised the lid Lorelie's eyes
instantly closed, dazzled by a thousand rays of many-coloured light,
shooting up in all directions from the coffin, like bright spirits
rejoicing to be free.
Putting up her hand to shield her sight from the radiance she
endeavoured to obtain a clear idea of what was before her.
The coffin, of more than ordinary size, was a veritable treasure-chest,
filled to the lid with plate and precious stones, the latter forming by
far the larger part of the contents.
Forgetful of her aversion to the earl, forgetful of her recent peril,
forgetful of everything but the sight before her, Lorelie stood
with parted lips and dilated eyes, spellbound by the glittering
array of wealth. Her knowledge of art taught her that the antiquity
and workmanship of the ornaments far exceeded the intrinsic value
of the materials composing them. There was a crucifix, formed from
one entire piece of amber, the plunder of some Saxon monastery: an
ivory drinking-horn, engraved with runic letters, that spoke of the
old Norseland: a golden lamp, inscribed with a verse from the Koran,
a relic of Moorish rule in Spain: rare coins, that had found their
way from the Byzantine treasury. Every part of mediæval Europe had
apparently contributed some memorial to this store.
But, as previously stated, the quantity of plate was small in
comparison with the gems. It was these that riveted Lorelie's
attention. Never in any collection of crown-jewels had she seen the
equal of these stones for variety and size, for brilliance and beauty.
The richest caliph of the East might have envied the possessor of such
a store. It suggested a dream of the "Arabian Nights."
"Ah! you may well gaze!" cried the earl to Lorelie, in a fierce
exultant tone. "Find me the man in Britain who owns such wealth as
this! Take every object out of the coffin," he continued, addressing
Ivar. "Lay each and all upon the table. Let Lady Walden handle them
that she may realize the wealthy match she has made."
Lorelie quite understood the earl's motive in making this display.
Since he could not get rid of her, his only other policy was to
conciliate her. She smiled disdainfully to herself. It was not to her
interest, however, to quarrel with him at present: she must simulate
friendly relations till the purpose for which she had come to Ravenhall
should be accomplished.
"Yes, let me see everything," she said in seeming eagerness.
Drawing the table to the entrance of the alcove Ivar proceeded to empty
the coffin of its contents. During this operation Lorelie's surprise
rose almost to fever-heat at sight of some of the objects drawn forth.
When the coffin had been emptied, the earl produced a pocketbook
containing a list of the treasures.
"'Article 1,'" he read out. "'Ancient Norse funereal urn, of pure gold,
set with opals.'"
The viscount handed a vase to his father.
"Safe, I see," said the earl. "I have been unjust to you in thought,
Ivar," he continued, apologetically. "When your wife spoke of a golden
vase given her by you, my thoughts associated themselves with this. I
acknowledge my error."
Ivar cast an anxious look at Lorelie, dreading lest her words should
lead to the betrayal of his secret. But Lorelie said nothing, though in
a state of extreme amazement and perplexity: for the jewelled vessel
now in the earl's hands seemed to be the very vase given to her by Ivar
some weeks previously--the vase that had played so important a part in
her hypnotic experiment with Beatrice.
On coming to Ravenhall Lorelie had left it behind her at The Cedars:
how came it to be here in the vault of the Ravengars? Was it a replica?
If so, it was certainly a marvellous imitation of the original, since
she could detect no points of difference.
"Observe the lustre of the opals," said the earl, his eyes gleaming
with pleasure; and Lorelie perceived that his love of study, great
though it might be, had not quenched in him the passion of avarice. "An
interesting and precious relic of Norse antiquity, this!" continued the
earl, tapping the urn affectionately. "It contains the ashes of Draco
the Golden, the founder of our family. From the grey dust within this
urn all we Ravengars have sprung."
The vase at The Cedars also held the remains of the same Viking, if the
story told by Beatrice in her hypnotic trance was to be relied upon.
The supposition that the ashes of Orm had been divided between two urns
seemed absurd: and yet how otherwise was this mystery to be explained,
unless indeed Ivar, unknown to her, had paid a visit to The Cedars,
and having obtained the vase, had restored it to the place whence he
had originally taken it. Unlikely as this last hypothesis might be, it
seemed the only one capable of meeting the requirements of the case.
The earl, having carefully deposited the urn in one corner of the
coffin, referred again to his catalogue.
"'Article 2. Norse altar-ring of pure silver, inscribed with runic
characters.' Yes, this is it," he continued, receiving the article from
Ivar's hand. "The ring of Odin, that figures in our armorial shield.
Many a legend of blood clings to this relic. What a history it could
unfold, were it but endowed with speech!"
The golden vase had puzzled Lorelie, but this silver relic puzzled
her still more. She did not doubt that the object before her was the
identical ring, the non-production of which at the trial of Eric
Marville, was one of the points that had told against him. She knew
the story of its theft from Mrs. Breakspear, and, like Idris, knew
not whither it had vanished. Now, after all these years, it thus
reappeared! By what circuitous route, through how many bloodstained
hands, had it passed before regaining its ancient abode?
Mechanically she took the ring from the earl's hand. If this were
indeed the very relic, there should be a black mark upon the inner
perimeter of the ring. Upon examining it, however, she could discover
no stain at all: the metal band was bright and unsullied.
Was this ring, like the vase, a replica: or was there truth in the
ancient legend that the bloodstain would vanish when some one should
meet with a violent end as an atonement for the slaying of the Norse
herald? Certain it was that a death _had_ occurred in connection with
the finding of the treasure.
With a bewildered air she handed back the ring to the earl, who placed
it within the coffin beside the vase, and turned again to his list.
"'Article 3. A sapphire drinking-cup. Weight'--ah! look at this!" he
cried, breaking off from his reading in an ecstasy of delight. "Look at
it! Handle it! Admire it! Can the Dresden Gallery produce its like?"
A low and prolonged cry of admiration flowed from Lorelie's lips. The
object handed to her by the earl was a miniature goblet, the tiny bowl,
stem, and stand being delicately sculptured from one entire sapphire.
It was a work of art, as well as a splendid gem. With the delight of
a child over a new toy Lorelie raised the gleaming brilliant aloft,
placing it between her eye and the light in order to mark its lovely
azure transparency. Its beauty was such as almost to reconcile her to
her lot with Ivar. To think if she chose, she might in time to come be
the joint-possessor of such a gem!
"A million of money would not buy that cup," cried the earl, watching
her look of admiration. "It belonged originally to the great Caliph,
Abderahman the Second, and was taken by Draco and his Vikings at the
sacking of the Moorish palace at Seville. It vanished from human ken,
and has lain hidden in a night of ten centuries. The lapidaries of the
present age scoff at its description in history, believing the gem to
be the creation of Arabian fancy: but here it is, existing to-day, to
confute their shallow scepticism. Were this gem known to the world it
would take the title of 'The Queen of Sapphires.'"
Charmed beyond the power of words to describe, Lorelie turned the cup
slowly round, flashing the light from a hundred facets: and then--and
then--she made a discovery. A minute air-bubble was faintly visible in
the crystalline azure!
She glanced at the earl. His triumphant face showed that he had not the
least inkling of the truth. She looked at Ivar, who happened at this
moment to be standing behind his father. The sudden change in Lorelie's
countenance assured the viscount of the fact of her discovery: and now,
he, the coward who had been willing to take her life, was appealing to
her by gesture and expression to keep her knowledge a secret from his
father.
For that which gave the earl such pride was in truth nothing but an
artificial gem, a marvellous imitation of the real thing, but still
merely a piece of coloured glass!
Lorelie became more perplexed than ever at this discovery. How came
Ivar to know that the gem was false, and why was he so anxious to
conceal the truth from his father?
Then in a moment everything became clear.
Always pressed for money, and precluded by his father's parsimony
from obtaining it, Ivar had formed the plan of appropriating a
certain portion of the plate and gems contained in the coffin. To
secure himself from detection he had artfully replaced the originals
by clever facsimiles, fabricated on the continent by goldsmiths and
glass-workers of the class who would ask no inconvenient questions
provided that they were well paid for their work. To obtain the
necessary counterfeits Ivar must have conveyed the originals to the
continent, a very hazardous thing to do, seeing that if the earl had
paid a visit of inspection to the treasure during his son's absence,
discovery would have been inevitable. The counterfeits being completed,
Ivar had brought them concealed in the reliquary to Ravenhall, and had
transferred them to the coffin, his remark while doing so--the remark
overheard by Godfrey--to wit, "I hope Lorelie will be satisfied,"
being doubtless drawn from him by the fact that Lorelie was often
making monetary demands upon him, a fact which she herself would be the
first to admit, though she little dreamed of the means taken by him to
supply her costly tastes. She could not avoid the feeling that, to some
extent, she was responsible for Ivar's peculations: and, therefore,
compliant with his wish, she kept silent, and permitted the earl to
remain in his ignorance.
The contents of the coffin were a mixture of the genuine and the
spurious. The altar-ring was the genuine article: it would not have
paid for the trouble of counterfeiting. The jewelled vase was spurious:
on glancing again at this last, Lorelie wondered how she could have
taken the metal for gold: it now seemed to her eyes merely like common
bronze. The "sapphire cup" was but worthless glass: she almost sighed
at the thought that the lovely original should have been exchanged for
current coin of the realm. The selling of such a gem was an act little
short of sacrilege.
"Well may you linger over it!" cried the earl, thinking that her long
retention of the cup was the result of admiration. "Such a gem as that
is too lovely for earth, too precious even for an empress to drink
from."
"But not for a Ravengar, surely?" said Lorelie.
And taking up the decanter she filled the azure cup with wine, and held
it out to him.
"Drink, my lord," she said smiling, and recalling his own words, "''Tis
of a choice vintage, one of the rarest of the Madeiras.'"
But from that cup the earl recoiled as from the summons of Death
himself.
"Why, you start as though 'twere poison," laughed Lorelie. "Will you
not drink, Ivar?" she added, turning to the viscount and offering him
the cup. "What! and do you, too, shrink from a few drops of innocent
Malvazia? refuse the honour of drinking from the great Abderahman's
cup? the caliph's own, veritable, genuine, historic cup! you
understand?"
He did--fully. Stepping forward, she said in a fierce thrilling
whisper:--
"How much is your life worth, if I let your father know that this cup
is but a piece of coloured glass?"
It was not in Lorelie's nature to take pleasure in another's pain; yet
on the present occasion the despair and fear expressed in Ivar's eyes
was a luxury to her, almost compensating for his attempt on her life.
"It was for your sake I did it," he muttered with white lips.
Contemptuously turning away from him, she said:--
"Well, then, if neither will drink, I, too, shall refuse. I will
imitate those excellent examples, my husband and father. Let us be
classical and pour out a libation. Here's to the great Archfiend
himself, the author and giver of the treasure, for Heaven, I am
convinced, has had little to do with it."
She inverted the cup: but, either by accident or design, the greater
part of the liquid fell in splashes upon her dress, very few drops
reaching the floor.
* * * * * *
On reaching her bedroom Lorelie's first care was to lock the door: her
next, to cut from her dress every portion stained with wine. These
fragments of cloth she placed in a glass phial, steeping them in water.
Then the spirit that had sustained her through the long and terrible
ordeal gave way, and reeling forward she fell heavily across the bed.