A CRANIOLOGICAL EXPERIMENT
Idris Breakspear strolled slowly to and fro beneath the lime-trees
in the garden of Wave Crest, reading for the twentieth time a letter
received by him the previous evening.
Accompanying the letter was a note worded thus:--"The enclosed
speaks for itself. Can you ever forgive me for my seven years'
silence?--LORELIE ROCHEFORT."
The missive forwarded to Idris was her mother's confession relative
to the murder of M. Duchesne, a confession which, it need scarcely be
said, overwhelmed Idris with amazement.
The hope entertained by him during so many long years was at last
realized: it was now within his power to clear his father's memory;
but the knowledge brought with it as much pain as pleasure, for to
establish his father's innocence was to bring ignominy upon the name of
the woman he loved.
A soft footfall attracted his attention, and raising his eyes from
the letter he saw Lady Walden herself. Sadly and timidly she stood,
obviously in doubt as to the sort of reception she would meet with. To
face the reproachful eyes of Idris was a more trying ordeal than that
of accompanying the earl to the terrible vault.
She was the first to speak.
"You are reading my mother's letter, I perceive. You know now that it
was my father and not yours that murdered Duchesne. I have come," she
faltered, "I have come to ask, yet scarcely daring to ask, whether you
can forgive me for maintaining silence hitherto. I have longed to tell
you the truth, but have been afraid. Do not," she added, breathlessly,
"do not reproach me. You cannot reproach me more than my own conscience
has."
The look of sorrow in her eyes instantly effaced from Idris' mind all
resentment for his father's wrongs. The oath sworn to his mother in
childhood's days became forgotten.
"Lady Walden," he replied, "if there be anything on my part to forgive,
I freely forgive. I cannot blame you for seeking to shield your
father's name."
The look of gratitude that came over her face thrilled Idris, who would
gladly have forgiven her ten times as much for such a glance as she now
gave him.
She had expected to be treated with coldness, if not with anger by
Idris, instead of which she received from him the same tender respect
as heretofore. She trembled with secret pleasure to think that she
still held a place in his regard.
"And now you know the truth, you will publish it to the world," she
said.
"I think not," he replied, speaking slowly and thoughtfully. "No, I am
sure I shall not."
"You will not redeem your father's memory from guilt?" said Lorelie,
with a little gasp of surprise. "Why not?"
"Because the fair name of Lady Walden must not be darkened by the
shadow of the past."
Her eyes drooped. She had no need to ask why he was desirous of
shielding her name from reproach, knowing full well that it was from
love of her.
"But this--this is not just," she said in a low voice.
"To proclaim the truth would injure the living," he replied, "without
in any way benefiting the dead."
"It is not right," she declared, "that your father and you should bear
the stigma that belongs to me and mine. I will proclaim the truth
myself."
"Lady Walden, if it be your desire to please me, you will maintain
silence. But pardon my discourtesy, you are standing all this time."
He led her to a garden-seat, and took his place beside her.
"You once asked me," said Lorelie, "to let you read my father's
correspondence. I have brought his letters with me. They are here."
She held out a packet of letters.
"Will you not read them to me, Lady Walden? You can then omit what you
think necessary."
"I have no wish to conceal anything contained in them," she answered,
placing the letters in his hand. "But before you read, let me forestall
and correct an erroneous impression you may be likely to draw from
them. Guided partly by these letters, partly by other considerations,
I have, till a few days ago, entertained the belief that the Earl of
Ormsby was none other than--your father, Eric Marville."
Despite his desire to be serious Idris could not refrain from smiling
at this statement.
"And what has led you to discard this extraordinary theory?" he asked.
"I was glancing yesterday over a copy of an old French
newspaper--_L'Étoile de la Bretagne_--in which is given a full
description of your father as he appeared at his trial in the Palais de
Justice. Now in this account Eric Marville is described as having very
dark eyes, whereas Lord Ormsby's eyes are light grey in colour."
"Which deprives me of the honour of claiming an earl as my father,"
said Idris, with an air of mock disappointment.
"I do not think you will esteem it much of an honour when you hear what
I have to say. But, first, will you not read these letters?"
Idris, though much surprised by her words, made no further comment, but
turned to the correspondence of Captain Rochefort.
Lorelie had arranged the letters in chronological order, and Idris
began his perusal, becoming more interested with each successive
missive. When he had finished reading he looked extremely grave, and
said:--
"The final letters, interpreted by what we know to have taken place
within Ormfell, would almost seem to suggest--how shall I say it?--that
your father was killed by mine!"
"That at first was my belief, but I know now it cannot have been."
"I trust that you are right. But why cannot it have been?"
"Beatrice in her hypnotic trance recognized the face of the assassin.
But she has never seen either your father or mine. Therefore we cannot
impute the murder to either of these."
"True!" replied Idris, with a sudden feeling of relief. "But tell me,
Lady Walden, what face _did_ she see, for I am convinced that you know."
"If," she replied evasively, "if we can discover the present possessor
of the Viking's treasure, we shall obtain a strong clue to the
assassin?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Well, then, the Viking's treasure is at Ravenhall, concealed in the
secret vault."
And she proceeded to intensify Idris' surprise by relating the incident
of her visit to the crypt, saying nothing, however, as to the earl's
purpose in taking her thither.
"Who placed the treasure there?" asked Idris.
"Four persons only have had access to this vault--the earl, Viscount
Walden, the family solicitor, and the Rector of Ormsby. The two latter
we can at once dismiss from our list of 'suspects.'"
Idris turned a startled face upon Lorelie.
"Surely you would not have me charge your husband--your father-in-law,
with murder!"
"I strongly suspect the latter from the perturbed air manifested by him
when I once hinted at my knowledge of the crime."
"The grave and dignified earl the author of such a deed! Impossible!"
"Not more impossible than that my own father should be a murderer!"
Idris started at her bitter tone. Truly the Fates had dealt hardly with
her in the matter of kinsfolk. Those ladies of Ormsby who were disposed
to envy Mademoiselle Rivière her new rank would have had little cause
for envy could they have seen into her mind at that moment.
"I have found," continued Lorelie, "the very instrument with which the
deed was wrought. It is here."
As she spoke she produced a jewelled hat-pin shaped like a stiletto,
the steel blade being broken off short at the hilt.
"This belonged to the late Countess of Ormsby, in whose jewel-case
it has lain for over twenty years: at least, so the old housekeeper
declares. The blade was broken a short time before the death of the
countess, and has never been repaired."
"Does the housekeeper give any account of how the steel came to be
broken?"
"She tells a very significant story. The countess lost this stiletto
when walking in the park one day. On discovering her loss she
immediately set the servants to look for it, but their search was
unavailing. Next morning, however, the earl returned the hat-pin to the
countess, saying that while taking a walk by moonlight he had found it
in its broken condition.
"Now my belief is that the earl, having discovered that Ormfell was
the site of a buried treasure, was proceeding thither at night, either
alone or attended by a servant, for the purpose of opening the hillock,
and while on his way through the park he chanced to light upon his
wife's hat-pin. Naturally he did not leave it lying upon the ground,
but picked it up and placed it upon his person. And this is the weapon
with which he attacked the other man, whoever he may have been, that
was with him in the hillock. When the countess next morning received
back her hat-pin from her husband, she little knew of the terrible use
to which it had been put."
"Your theory, if correct, proves that the deed was unpremeditated,
otherwise the earl would have gone provided with a more efficient
weapon. Do you know the date of the countess's death?"
"She died in the autumn of '77."
"Then the crime must have taken place more than twenty-one years ago."
Idris fell to thinking: and the result of his thought was that it would
be an ungrateful task to bring to justice an aged peer for a crime
committed more than twenty years ago. For all he knew to the contrary
the deed might have been a case of justifiable homicide: the earl had
perhaps been compelled to slay the other in self-defence. Besides,
was he not Lorelie's father-in-law? If ignominy fell upon the House
of Ravengar it must fall likewise upon her. No breath of scandal must
touch her name. Idris felt that his hands were tied: he could make no
move in the matter.
"We know the author of the deed, it seems," he murmured, "but the
identity of the victim still remains a mystery. Who was he?"
"That is a problem I am trying to solve."
"And you say the Viking's treasure is in the crypt of Ravenhall? What
is Lord Ormsby's object in keeping it concealed?"
"I can but guess. Treasure-trove, as you know, is the property of
the Crown: therefore the earl, on finding it, was compelled to act
circumspectly. The sudden acquisition of a vast quantity of plate
and jewels might have given rise to awkward questions on the part of
the steward, and especially on the part of Lanfranc, the Ravenhall
solicitor, a man somewhat given to suspicion. The earl was therefore
obliged to secrete his ill-acquired wealth: and this he did by placing
it within one of the coffins in the crypt, gratifying his avarice by
occasional visits of inspection. That is my theory, but of course I may
be wrong."
"Mortifying that he should have to secrete it," remarked Idris, "when
if the story of the runic ring be true, the wealth is his by hereditary
right, as the eldest lineal descendant of Orm the Viking."
"Mr. Breakspear, your right to that treasure is greater than the
earl's."
Idris was disposed to think so, too, in virtue of the long years he had
spent in his attempts to decipher the runic ring. But this was not what
Lorelie meant.
"Did you not notice what my father says in one of these letters, that
Eric Marville claimed to be heir to a peerage?"
"It did not escape me. A surprising statement, if true."
"And the interest taken by your father in the runic ring, the heirloom
of the Ravengars, proves his peerage to have been the Earldom of
Ormsby."
"I fear you are dealing in fanciful hypotheses," smiled Idris.
"Your likeness to the family portraits of the Ravengars is very
remarkable."
"Mere coincidence."
"Not so. It is as certain that you are the rightful Earl of Ormsby as
it is that the sun is shining."
"But how? In what way?" cried Idris, impressed, in spite of himself, by
her air of conviction.
"That I cannot tell. I am trying to find out."
"I thank you, Lady Walden, for interesting yourself in my fortunes, but
supposing that your surmise should prove correct--what then?"
"You will take the title and station that are rightfully yours."
"And, by so doing, deprive you of your position? No, Lady Walden, I
cannot do that. If, as is implied by your words, you are seeking to
prove that I have a claim to the Earldom of Ormsby, I would ask you to
desist. Let matters be as they are. I am quite content to remain plain
Idris Breakspear, and to leave to you the coronet of the Ravengars.
I do not believe that I am of noble birth, but in any case I will do
nothing detrimental to your position."
"My position!" thought Lorelie, bitterly, as she recalled the attempt
made upon her life. "Heaven help me to escape from my position! But,"
she said, aloud, "you are doing a wrong to your future wife. She may
not appreciate the generosity that deprives her of a coronet."
"My future wife!" smiled Idris. "I shall never marry."
"And why not?"
"They do not love who love twice."
Lorelie, knowing his meaning, trembled, miserable and happy at one and
the same time.
"I am glad," he continued, "to have this opportunity of saying
good-bye, Lady Walden, for I leave England soon, probably forever."
Lorelie received this news with dismay. Whether the feeling of pleasure
derivable from Idris' friendship was a right or a wrong feeling she
had never stopped to inquire, but it _was_ a pleasure, and a sense of
desolation fell upon her on hearing that she was to enjoy it no longer.
"A friend of mine has received a secret commission from the Indian
Government to explore Tibet, the tour to include the forbidden city of
Lassa. I have agreed to accompany him."
Lorelie was not ignorant of the perils attending such an enterprise.
"You will never return," she cried.
"So much the better," he answered quietly.
She glanced at him for a moment, and then her eyes fell, for she
understood him. Involuntarily her mind was led to contrast the husband,
who had sought to take her life, with Idris, so anxious to keep her
name fair before the world: Idris, whose love was such that he was
willing to sacrifice everything--even his life--for her sake! She could
not hide the tears glistening beneath her lashes. The situation was
a trying one for both, but fortunately at this moment a third person
appeared on the scene.
Beatrice emerged from the garden-porch, and Lorelie, averting her head,
essayed to remove the traces of tears from her eyes.
Beatrice gave her visitor a glad greeting, but there was a subdued air
about her, due, as Lorelie knew, to sorrow at the thought of Idris'
departure.
"Has Mr. Breakspear told you that he is going to leave us?" she asked,
and receiving an affirmative, she continued mournfully:--"As this is
perhaps the last time we shall be together you must stay with us as
long as you can. We are just about to have luncheon. Will you not join
us?"
Lorelie readily assented, and went up-stairs with Beatrice to remove
her hat and mantle.
"You are not looking very well, Lady Walden."
"No, Beatrice. And I shall never be well again."
Something in her tone went to Beatrice's heart: she guessed that
Lorelie's unhappiness arose from Ivar's ill-treatment of her.
The beautiful face was suffused by an expression so miserable that
Beatrice, the maiden of eighteen, involuntarily drew the married
woman of twenty-three within her arms and kissed her consolingly, as
though the viscountess were a little child. And Lorelie, glad of such
sympathy, clung to Beatrice's embrace.
"Beatrice," she said presently, "if you should hear that I have slipped
from a battlement on the roof of Ravenhall and dislocated my neck, or
that I have lost my life by falling into the lake in the park, remember
that this event will not have happened by accident."
"What do you mean?" gasped Beatrice, thinking that Lorelie was
contemplating suicide.
"Let your brother say whether I am wrong. Did he analyze the contents
of the phial that I sent him?"
"He said that the water contained--I forget how many grains of
strychnine," replied Beatrice, innocently.
"Then I was right," said Lorelie, with a face as white as death. "O,
Beatrice, the earl and Ivar tried to poison me!"
"Lady Walden, how dare you say that?" said Beatrice, with a burst of
indignation.
It was against Ravengars that Lorelie's charge was made, and Beatrice
suddenly remembered that she herself was a Ravengar. Bad as Ivar might
be she could not believe him capable of murder: and as for the earl,
had he not always treated her with kindness?
But when Lorelie began to relate the incident of her visit to the
crypt, Beatrice's scepticism slowly vanished, and she listened with a
growing horror upon her face. And when the story was ended, she sat
cold and trembling, unable at first to speak.
"Are they aware that you suspected their design?" she asked.
"I do not think so. I continue to speak and act as if I have every
confidence in them."
"How can you bear to live with them? What they have attempted once they
may attempt again. How can you trust yourself at the same table with
them?"
"By eating of the dishes of which they eat; they are not likely to
poison themselves. I must remain at Ravenhall till I have accomplished
my task."
"And what is that?"
"To obtain proofs of Mr. Breakspear's right to the earldom: for,
Beatrice, I have reasons for believing that he is the rightful Earl of
Ormsby."
And Lorelie proceeded to repeat the arguments she had addressed to
Idris, with some others in addition.
"Have you told Mr. Breakspear this?" said Beatrice, breathless with
excitement.
"Yes, and he refuses to move in the matter."
"But we will make him," cried Beatrice, impulsively. "We will persuade
him to give up this mad journey to Tibet. Lady Walden----"
"Do not recall my unhappiness by using that name: besides it is not
justly mine. Call me Lorelie."
"Lorelie, then. I will come to Ravenhall and live there with you."
Lorelie's smile was like sunlight sweeping over a dark landscape.
"If anything could make me happy it would be your daily companionship,
dearest Beatrice."
"It is not safe for you to live alone at Ravenhall," continued
Beatrice. "I will return with you to keep watch and ward over you.
Together we will work and make what discoveries we can. If Idris really
be the owner of Ravenhall we will do our best to establish him in his
rights."
The light of justice shone from Beatrice's eyes. There should be a
righting of the wrong. Since the earl and Ivar had not hesitated at
murder, let them suffer the punishment due to their guilt by losing
their rank and estates.
"And when that is done," said Lorelie, "it will be for me to retire
to a convent, and for Idris to place a coronet on these tresses," she
added, touching Beatrice's hair.
"Ah, no!" replied Beatrice, sadly. "He will not marry me. Idris never
loved any one but you. It is impossible for him to have you, yet he
will never love any one else."
Lorelie was touched to the quick by Beatrice's look of distress. She
felt that if she herself had not appeared upon the scene, Beatrice
might now be happy in the love of Idris.
"Beatrice, believe me, I would gladly die if my death would enable you
to gain his love."
Beatrice did not doubt the sincerity of this assurance. Brave-hearted
and generous the little maiden harboured no resentment against her
rival.
"He will come to you some day," said Lorelie, kissing the other
tenderly. "He has been with you long enough to know your worth. He will
find a want of something in his life when he is away from you. He will
begin to ask himself what it is. 'It is Beatrice,' his heart will
answer: and he will return to seek you."
Beatrice shook her head, refusing to believe in this bright forecast.
"Have you told Idris of the attempt made upon your life?" she asked.
"No."
"We shall be doing well not to tell him of it. He is hot-blooded where
your welfare is concerned: his rage would lead him to horsewhip both
the earl and Ivar, or to do something equally rash. It is for us to
mete out the punishment. We will do it more circumspectly. We will lull
them into a false state of security, and then, when they least expect
it----"
What more she would have said was cut short by Godfrey who, standing
at the foot of the staircase, asked whether he and Idris were or were
_not_ to have the society of the ladies at luncheon; and thus adjured
the two went down to the dining-room.
Godfrey was much struck with Lorelie's pallid look, and determined,
before letting her depart, to take a diagnosis of her state, and
prescribe accordingly.
Though full of wonder when Beatrice began to tell him of her intention
to live at Ravenhall as Lorelie's companion, he made no objection,
surmising that there was a mystery somewhere, and that she had good
reason for the course she was taking.
"I shall be sorry to lose you, Trixie," he remarked.
"It is only for a time," replied his sister.
"By the way," said Godfrey, turning to address Idris, "I attended an
old gentleman yesterday, one enthusiastically devoted to botany, and
a little 'touched,' I fancy, over his favourite pursuit. He told me
among other matters that he had once sown some mandrake seeds on the
northern side of Ormfell with a view of learning whether the plant
would outlive the rigours of our Northumbrian winter. Great was his
indignation to find one day that the plant had been wilfully plucked
up by the roots. I did not tell him that I could give the names of the
guilty persons, but contented myself with suggesting that the renewal
of his botanic experiment might have more success if confined to the
limits of his own garden."
"Ah! then there is one mystery cleared up," observed Idris.
"But there are others," remarked Lorelie, "which you are leaving behind
unsolved. Cannot you persuade Mr. Breakspear," she added, turning to
Godfrey, "to abandon his expedition?"
"O, Idris will come back safely," cheerfully responded the surgeon, who
did not view the enterprise with the same fears as the ladies. "He will
return covered with glory. He will have added a valuable chapter to
geographical science, and will of course write a book."
"Of surprising dulness," interjected Idris.
"Of surpassing interest," corrected Godfrey. "I wonder you never took
to authorship, for you have what I classify as the literary head."
"Don't! My vanity is great enough already."
"Did you not know that Godfrey is an expert in phrenology?" asked
Beatrice.
"Not till this moment. But the news comes very opportunely. Man,
know thyself! Godfrey, give me an introduction to Idris Breakspear.
Manipulate my cranium, and let me have a true account of my character.
Be critical, and spare not!"
And Godfrey, responsive to Idris' humour, proceeded to make a study of
his head.
"Take my note-book, Miss Ravengar," smiled Idris, pushing it towards
her, "and record my wicked characteristics. Now, Godfrey, begin."
"Amativeness," said the doctor, placing his finger-tips beneath Idris'
ears, while Beatrice laughingly wrote the word.
"You begin alphabetically, do you?" remarked Idris. "Amativeness: that,
being interpreted, meaneth love--of--of the ladies generally. That
organ is very large, of course?"
"No. Fairly large."
"O, come, you must be making a mistake. Feel again! It's a libel to
limit my amatory sentiment to 'fairly large' only."
"I put it down as seven," replied Godfrey.
"What's the highest figure to which you ascend?"
"Nine--in my system."
"And I do not attain the top figure? Can't you make it eight, or at
least seven and three-quarters?"
"The pupil must not dictate to the master," said Beatrice.
"Combativeness," Godfrey went on, his fingers ascending slightly.
"Combativeness," repeated Idris: "readiness to fight for--for the
ladies. Don't say that isn't large."
"It is. Very large indeed."
"Good! There may be some truth in phrenology after all. Put
'combativeness' down as nine, Miss Ravengar. Go on, Godfrey! Next item,
please!"
So amid Idris' badinage Godfrey proceeded with his statements, all of
which Beatrice laughingly wrote down. Presently a grave expression
stole over Godfrey's face, and before he had ended his task the
expression had become one of doubt and perplexity. Both Lorelie and
Beatrice noticed it. Idris, however, was precluded by his position from
seeing Godfrey's look.
"Well, now, this is very pleasant reading," said Idris banteringly,
receiving his pocketbook from Beatrice, and glancing over what she had
written. "I feel as a returned spirit may be supposed to feel when he
peruses the virtues inscribed on his tombstone and fails to recognize
himself. Such a character as this, duly attested and signed 'G.
Rothwell, M. D.,' ought to procure me a free pass to any part of Tibet."
He began to talk of his intended expedition, and a trifling argument
arising between himself and Godfrey relative to some point of Tibetan
geography, Beatrice, as if to settle the dispute, wickedly despatched
Idris to the library for a book that she knew he would not find there.
As soon as he had vanished through the doorway she turned to her
brother.
"Godfrey, why did you look so serious while studying Idris' head?"
"Did I look serious?"
"Did you look----? Just listen to him, Lorelie! Don't equivocate. You
have discovered something: I know you have. Something that troubles
you. What is it? Didn't Idris' character impress you favourably?"
"Idris' character is exactly as I gave it."
"Then why look as if he were an ogre?"
"It is but twenty-four hours since I examined another head."
"Whose?"
"You shall learn presently. Here is the result of my study of '_Nemo_,'
as I call him."
He drew out his own pocketbook and directed Beatrice's attention to a
certain page headed "_Character of Nemo_."
Very much puzzled, Beatrice conned his notes, but had not proceeded
very far before she snatched up Idris' pocketbook and began to compare
the remarks in each.
"'Amativeness--seven. Combativeness--nine,'" she murmured, reading the
list of characteristics. "Why, there is no difference between them,"
she exclaimed. "Idris and your '_Nemo_' have heads exactly alike."
"The very thought that struck me just now."
"Who is this '_Nemo_'?"
"That is what I wish to know."
"Didn't the man give you his name, then?"
"I didn't ask him for it."
"Why not?"
"He wouldn't have told me if I had."
"He wished to remain incognito?"
"He didn't give verbal expression to that effect in fact he had lost
the power of speaking."
"Was he dumb, then?"
"Very much so."
"O, Godfrey, do be explicit, and speak so that we can understand."
"Truth to tell, the man was dead!"
Beatrice gave a little scream.
"And his head reposes in that cabinet," continued Godfrey.
"You mean the Viking's skull?"
"You've hit the mark."
"But what--what----?"
"What made me desirous of learning the character of the man to whom the
skull belonged? A passing whim--nothing more. As I was casually opening
the cabinet yesterday the skull caught my eye. 'Come!' said I, 'let me
see the sort of fellow you were when alive.' And this," added Godfrey,
tapping his note-book, "this is the result. Idris spends long years in
deciphering a runic inscription on an ancient ring: acting on the vague
hints furnished by it he undertakes an expedition to Ormfell, obtaining
as his reward a skull whose phrenological development corresponds
exactly with his own. He was quite right in his opinion that the
Viking's tomb would contain a clue towards solving his father's fate,
for it is my firm belief that the skull in that cabinet is none other
than the skull of Eric Marville!"