THE VENGEANCE OF THE SKULL
Viscount Walden's twenty-first birthday was drawing near, and Ravenhall
was making grand preparations for the occasion. Invitations were
issued to the local magnates and their families--invitations eagerly
accepted, for everybody was curious to see both the earl, who had
so long secluded himself from society, and the new viscountess,
whose secret marriage had invested her with a romantic interest.
Entertainment of various kinds was provided, for the earl's guests,
as well as for the tenantry of his estates, the day to terminate in
a grand ball, preceded by the performance of a poetic drama, written
by Lady Walden, and entitled _The Fatal Skull_, a drama in which the
authoress herself was to take the leading _rôle_. The other _dramatis
personæ_ were drawn from a select circle of Ormsby society, and their
frequent rehearsals filled Ravenhall with a mirth and a gaiety not
known in that gloomy mansion for many years. Lorelie took upon herself
the office of stage-directress, and flung herself heart and soul into
the work. She was ably seconded by Beatrice Ravengar, who, to the
surprise of everybody in Ormsby, had left her brother Godfrey in order
to be the companion of the new viscountess. A number of carpenters and
scene-shifters from London had transformed the great hall of the castle
into a suitable stage and auditorium. Scenic artists were busy at the
canvas. Money was freely lavished upon the appropriate theatrical
costumes. A leading society-paper had asked for, and had obtained,
the favour of having a reporter present to record the day's doings;
in short, everything had been done to ensure success, and the amateur
actors looked forward to the event with a pleasurable zest.
The great day came at last, as sunny and fair as could be desired.
The earl moved about among his guests and tenantry with a dignified
courtesy, bestowing 'nods and becks and wreathed smiles' on all sides,
in a manner surprising to those who had hitherto regarded him as a sort
of gloomy Manfred.
Ivar was on excellent terms with himself: he flirted with the ladies,
and patronized the young men with a truly lordly air. A descendant
of a noble house: heir to a splendid estate: husband of a wife
whose loveliness and literary abilities were the theme of universal
praise--what more could he desire? Indifferent himself to Lorelie's
charms he was not displeased to witness the admiration they excited in
others. She was a part of his property, as it were: it was but fitting
that she should receive her tribute of praise along with the other
items of the Ravengar estate.
Lady Walden made an ideal hostess, and the guests whispered in
secret that if the rumour were true that her own family was not of
the highest, her beauty and sprightliness amply compensated for the
deficiency. From her manner one would have thought her the happiest
lady in the county. Once only did she give evidence of the real
feeling that lay masked beneath her pleasant exterior, and that was
when the Mayor of Ormsby, standing upon the flight of steps leading
up to the grand entrance of Ravenhall, read a long address to Ivar,
congratulating him on the attainment of his majority, and expressing
the hope that both the viscount and his lady might long live to enjoy
their exalted rank. At this Lorelie's lips curved for a moment into a
bitter smile, and she cast a significant glance at Beatrice, who was
seldom absent from her side that day. To those who noted the smile it
recurred with peculiar force upon the morrow.
With the coming of twilight Beatrice stole away from the company to a
private portion of the park, taking her course towards a little gateway
in the western wall. Near this gate was a wooden bench, and seating
herself upon it she drew forth a telegram and glanced at the message it
contained, which was singularly brief:--"Will be at the place appointed
by seven o'clock."
The sender of this telegram was punctual to the minute. St. Oswald's
Church clock was chiming the hour when there came a knocking at the
wicket-gate. Instantly unlocking it Beatrice threw it open, and stood
face to face with Idris Breakspear.
She greeted him with an air which Idris intuitively felt to be a
foreboding of grave things.
"On the point of sailing for India," he observed, "I received a letter
from Miss Ravengar bidding me return at once to Ormsby. Such a message
cannot be ignored, and therefore I am here. And the question is, 'Why
am I here?'"
"I have not sent for you without cause. It is your duty to follow me,
to ask no questions, but to await developments."
"And where are you taking me?" he asked, as she locked the gate.
"There!" exclaimed Beatrice, appealing to an imaginary audience. "His
first utterance is a defiance of my orders. However, I will answer that
question. You are coming with me to Ravenhall."
Impressed by the oddity of her manner Idris made no demur but offered
his arm and accepted her guidance.
Their way led by a private path amid dense shrubbery: now and again
through a long-drawn vista in the trees Idris caught a glimpse of the
more distant portions of the park.
The dusk of a lovely summer's eve was descending upon the lordly
terraces and verdant lawns of Ravenhall. Mellowed by the distance the
music of a regimental band floated on the air. _Al fresco_ dancing was
taking place beside the margin of a grey-gleaming lake. Above was a
sky of darkest blue: below, the myriad lanterns shining amid the dark
foliage made the park appear like a scene from fairyland.
Idris contemplated the picture with mixed feelings. If--and it was a
very great "if," he admitted--Lorelie was right in asserting that he
himself was the true Earl of Ormsby, then all this fair estate was
really his. Well, he had resigned his claim in favour of Lorelie, and
would not go from his word. But not till this moment did he fully
realize the extent of the sacrifice.
"It is a gala day, I perceive," he remarked. "I learned on my way
from the station that Lord Walden has attained his majority. He has a
splendid estate _in futuro_. He ought to be a proud man to-day."
"He _is_ proud, ignorant that, like Agamemnon, he is treading on purple
to his doom."
Idris was surprised at these words, surprised still more by the
bitterness with which Beatrice emphasized them. What did this speech
portend?
"You have been living at Ravenhall for the past two months, I
understand?" he remarked, for want of something better to say.
"Yes, as Lorelie's companion. This is our last day here. Lorelie and I
take our departure to-night."
Idris was more mystified than ever. Beatrice smiled as if enjoying his
perplexity.
They had now reached the western wing of the mansion, and Beatrice,
unlocking a small door, invited Idris to enter.
"Am I to be smuggled in?"
"Yes, for this once, Cousin Idris."
"_Cousin_ Idris," he repeated, emphasizing the first word.
"Did I say 'cousin'?" she asked, with a simulation of innocence. "Well,
I won't withdraw the term. Let it remain."
Idris stared hard at her, trying to read her thoughts. If he were
really a Ravengar it might be that he was cousin to Beatrice. Was it
possible that she and Lorelie had obtained proofs of this? Nay, could
it be true that he was really entitled to the earldom? Had he been
summoned here by Beatrice to take part in some plot by which the earl
should be made to confess himself a usurper? Full of wonder he silently
followed his guide. They traversed several corridors and ascended two
staircases without encountering any one, a fact which led Idris to
believe that Beatrice had prearranged matters with a view to keeping
his visit a secret. Opening a door in an upper corridor Beatrice drew
him forward, remarking: "This is our destination."
Idris, looking around, found himself in a dainty little chamber very
like an opera-box in appearance, inasmuch as there was a sort of
balcony on one side of it. Silken draperies prevented him from seeing
into what this balcony projected, but from below it there came the
subdued murmur of voices.
"We are here," said Beatrice, "to view Lorelie's tragedy. It is to be
acted to-night, and in this little place you and I will be able to
witness the play unseen either by actors or audience."
Stepping forward she cautiously put the curtains aside, an action which
disclosed the fact that they were standing on an elevated balcony that
projected into, and looked down upon, a grand Gothic hall, brilliantly
illuminated with electric light.
Under the manipulation of carpenters and upholsterers the place had
assumed a somewhat theatre-like aspect. The southern end of the hall
was appropriated to the stage, which for the time being was hidden
from view by the folds of a heavy curtain. The pavement of the body of
the hall was covered with velvet carpeting. Fauteuils, lounges, seats
of every description, were disposed here and there: and these were
now becoming occupied by a number of fashionably-dressed ladies and
gentlemen, the time fixed for the beginning of the performance being
close at hand.
"I daresay," said Beatrice, "you are wondering whether it is reasonable
on the part of Lorelie and myself to stop your voyage and to summon you
here merely to witness a play? The sequel will show. It is something
more than a play that you are asked to witness: it is an experiment. If
Lorelie were to choose a motto for her drama it would be the words of
Hamlet:--
"'The play's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.'"
"I am altogether in the dark," said her companion, lugubriously.
"Be patient, Cousin Idris, and you shall have light anon."
"Cousin Idris again! Come, if we really _are_ cousins, I shall exercise
a cousin's privilege."
So saying he stole his arm around her, and turned her pretty face
upward to his own. And Beatrice, unable to escape, submitted her lips
to his, laughing, yet feeling more disposed to cry, knowing full well
that there was another whom he would much rather have kissed.
She broke from his arms and essayed to hide her confusion in the study
of a playbill printed on white satin. Of the _dramatis personæ_, four
names only were familiar to Idris.
_Rosamond_ (Queen of the Lombards) LADY WALDEN.
_Alboin_ (King of the Lombards) LORD WALDEN.
_Cunimund_ (King of the Gepidæ) DR. G. ROTHWELL.
_Paulinus_ (a bishop) THE EARL OF ORMSBY.
"The earl among the actors?" cried Idris in surprise.
"The play, as an experiment, would be a failure without him," returned
Beatrice, oracularly. "To persuade him to take part in it was a matter
requiring very delicate handling on the part of Lorelie and myself. But
we have gained our end, you see."
At this juncture there arose the twanging of violin-strings, the
puffing of wind instruments, and other sounds preliminary to orchestral
music. Then in a moment more the overture had begun.
Idris, having drawn a velvet lounge to a point convenient for obtaining
a clearer view of the stage, seated Beatrice beside himself. They were
almost screened from sight by the arrangement of the silken curtains,
and by a profusion of flowers and fernery that decorated the exterior
ledge of the balcony.
The overture was a really brilliant piece, but Beatrice appeared to
give little heed to it.
"There was once," she murmured, in a dreamy voice, "there was once a
son, who at the age of seven years promised his mother on oath that
when he became a man he would do his utmost to clear his father's name
from a false charge. The son attained manhood; the opportunity came
for proving his father's innocence, and what did the son do? Nothing!
Absolutely nothing!"
"Would you have me darken Lorelie's name?" asked Idris, with a slight
touch of anger in his voice.
But without heeding this interruption Beatrice went on:--
"And therefore, as you have failed in your duty, Lorelie herself will
perform the act of justice to the dead. At this very hour two leading
newspapers--the one in Paris, the other in London--are setting up
the type of an article entitled 'The story of an almost forgotten
tragedy,' an article that will bear the signature of Lorelie Rochefort.
To-morrow morning the world will learn that Eric Marville was innocent
of the crime laid to his charge. And to-night, here, in this very
hall, Lorelie hopes to prove who Eric Marville really was: and her
experiment, if it terminate as she expects, will depress her fortune in
just the same proportion as it will raise yours.
"And this she does by way of making atonement to you for her guilty
silence in the matter of Eric Marville's innocence. That silence was
the only fault in a life otherwise noble and good; how good no one
knows so well as myself. But see! the play is beginning."
As Beatrice spoke, the music of the orchestra stopped with a sudden
crash. The electric light was switched off, leaving the body of the
hall in semi-darkness. The buzz of conversation ceased, and amid a
death-like silence the curtain rose on the opening act of the tragedy
of _The Fatal Skull_.
The first scene of this drama was styled on the playbill, "An
audience-chamber in the palace of Cunimund."
Clad in barbaric splendour, and seated upon a canopied throne, was the
royal Cunimund, in the person of Godfrey Rothwell. On each side of him
stood armed warriors and venerable counsellors, among the latter being
the earl himself in his character of Bishop Paulinus, a _rôle_ for
which his grave and dignified bearing seemed naturally adapted.
Idris gazed upon the earl with considerable interest, beholding him
for the first time. This was the man whom Lorelie--oddly enough now it
seemed--had identified with his own father! She had been compelled to
admit herself in error, but was there truth in her other theory that
the earl was the author of the deed done in Ormfell? He turned from the
contemplation of this problem to listen to the words of the play.
The opening speech of King Cunimund, addressed to his followers, showed
that he had assembled them for the purpose of giving audience to a
herald from the Lombard king, Alboin. The messenger being admitted,
demanded, on behalf of his royal master, the hand of Cunimund's
daughter, the fair princess Rosamond. From the herald's address Alboin
appeared to be a somewhat savage wooer, inasmuch as he was encamped
with an army upon the frontier, prepared, in the event of refusal, to
ravage the Gepid kingdom with fire and sword.
"It is for Rosamond herself to decide the question," was the just
arbitrament of Cunimund, when the herald had finished his oration.
So a messenger was despatched off the stage to bring in the princess.
Then, from the right wing, to the sound of music soft and sweet,
Lorelie entered in the character of Rosamond, the limelight playing
with enchanting effect over the curves of her graceful figure and over
the silken sheen of her dress. In Idris' eyes she had never looked more
lovely, her natural beauty being enhanced by the attractions of art.
And Beatrice, watching his face, sighed, for she knew herself to be
forgotten.
Idris had hoped to receive a glance from Lorelie on her entrance, but
in this he was disappointed: her whole soul was evidently absorbed in
the part she was playing.
With a half-smile upon her lip Rosamond listened while her father
Cunimund briefly explained the purpose for which she had been summoned.
Then, standing erect with girlish grace Rosamond pleaded, in sweet and
maidenly language, not to be given up to the will of a king well known
for his savage character. There was something so pathetic and touching
in her appeal as she stood alone facing the rough warriors, that tears
rose to the eyes of many ladies in the audience. It seemed not to be
acting, but nature itself.
Tumultuous shouts from the Gepid warriors applauded Rosamond's
decision, and the curtain descended upon an exciting tableau--the
running to and fro of men, the buckling on of armour, and the giving of
orders for the coming fray.
On turning to ascertain Idris' opinion of the first act Beatrice found
him with a look of perplexity on his face.
"The earl! The earl!" he murmured. "Am I dreaming, or have I seen him
before? His attitude in raising his hand to his brow recalls a gesture
on the part of some one I have known in far-off times. In his voice,
too, there is something familiar: it is like the echo of one heard in
my childhood."
Beatrice gave a faint cry of surprise.
"Lorelie was right, then, in her conjecture," she said. "Yes:
Cousin Idris, you _have_ seen the earl before under very different
circumstances from the present. Patience! you shall learn where ere
long."
Quickly the curtain rose upon the second act.
The scene represented the interior of a church by night. Lamps gleaming
from lofty columns shed a solemn light around.
Rosamond was present with her maidens and a few armed attendants.
Their words showed that the Gepid army had suffered defeat. Cunimund
himself was dead--not killed in fair and open fight, but treacherously
assassinated by the bishop Paulinus, who had gone over to the Lombard
side in the midst of the battle, carrying with him the head of the
fallen king, and securing by that gift the favour of Alboin. The
Lombards were now marching upon the Gepid capital, and Rosamond was
seeking to elude capture by taking sanctuary.
Vain hope! From without came cries, the tramp of warriors, the clang
of arms. Torches gleamed through the windows of the church. Rosamond's
attendants tried to bar the door: their feeble efforts yielded to the
superior force of the foe, and the Lombards entered the church with
Alboin at their head, the _rôle_ of that king being sustained by Ivar.
The sanctuary became the scene of an unequal combat. Soon the sword
glimmered in the grasp of the last defender, and the triumphant and
savage Alboin seized the lovely and shrinking form of Rosamond.
Not till Alboin had sworn to accomplish his purpose, with or without
marriage, did Rosamond yield her reluctant assent to become his
wife. The ceremony took place on the spot, Paulinus himself, the
traitor-bishop, performing the marriage-rite.
Rosamond, half-fainting, was led by her attendant maidens to the
altar, and holding Alboin's hand, was forced to utter the words of the
wedding-ritual amid the rude shouting of the Lombard soldiery, one of
whom carried the head of Cunimund affixed to the point of a pike.
Language fails to convey an adequate conception of the wild horror
displayed by Rosamond at this juncture in being mated to a man she
loathed, and by an ecclesiastic whose hands were red with her father's
blood. In an agony of grief and rage she mingled the holy words of the
ritual with fierce "asides." She was no longer the sweet maiden of the
first act, but a woman thirsting for vengeance.
It struck Idris that the situation of Rosamond offered an analogy to
that of Lorelie herself in being wedded to an uncongenial consort
and living in daily communion with a man guilty of bloodshed. Then
slowly the belief came over him that this emotion on her part was not
a piece of acting, but the real expression of her feelings. It was no
mock princess that he beheld, breathing an imaginary hatred against
stage-foes, but a wronged woman animated with a deadly purpose against
her husband and her father-in-law. What had happened to transform
Lorelie's sweet and gracious nature to this dark and vengeful mood?
"As I live," muttered Idris, when the curtain had descended upon the
scene, "she is importing her own personal feelings into the piece. She
hates the earl and Ivar, and is laying some snare for them."
"You have hit it," replied Beatrice. "This play is for their
humiliation and ruin."
"How is it that her object did not reveal itself to them during the
rehearsal?"
"Because she did not act then in the same spirit as now: and, moreover,
she will insert some words not in the printed edition of her play in
order to mark their effect upon the earl. There will be no need to ask
what words, or for what purpose uttered: you will know as soon as you
hear. See!" exclaimed Beatrice, in a voice trembling with suppressed
excitement, "the third act is beginning."
As the curtain ascended again a murmur of admiration rose from the
audience at the beauty of the tableau revealed to view. The scene
represented the refectory of a palace, and was so arranged that the
actual walls of the Gothic hall in which the audience sat formed the
wings and rear of the stage scenery, thus producing an effect more
realistic than could have been attained by painted canvas. A spacious
and splendid arched casement facing the audience made a part of this
refectory; the scene had been purposely timed with regard to the moon's
course, and it was no mock planet, but the real silver orb of night
that shone through the panes of stained glass from a sky of darkest
blue. The moonlight without contrasted curiously with the glow cast by
the lamps pendent from the vaulted roof of the supposed banqueting hall.
A feast was taking place, given by King Alboin to celebrate his victory
over Cunimund. Historically speaking, the memorable and fatal banquet
with which the name of Rosamond is associated, happened several years
after the defeat of the Gepid king, but for the sake of dramatic effect
Lorelie had represented it as the immediate consequence of that defeat.
Robed in purple, and with a jewelled diadem upon his head, sat Alboin,
and beside him, and now his chief counsellor, the traitor-bishop
Paulinus, whose episcopal attire was stiff with brocade and gems.
Disposed along the board with picturesque effect were the Lombard
chiefs and warriors, all arrayed in gleaming mail.
The royal table glittered with a profusion of plate. The shelves of a
carved oaken sideboard were filled with a variety of golden and silver
vessels. The stage twinkled with so many dazzling points of light that
it became hurtful to gaze too long upon it. All the Ravengar heirlooms
were being paraded in this banqueting-scene, probably to impress the
visitors with the extent of the Ravengar wealth.
"Are those jewels, and is that plate real?" muttered Idris, examining
them through a lorgnette.
"All genuine, and not stage-property. I was once promised," murmured
Beatrice in a dreamy manner, "I was once promised a moiety of that
wealth.--I wonder, Cousin Idris, whether you will keep your word: for
it is all yours, or soon will be."
Idris did not catch the last part of her utterance, but he had heard
enough to understand whence came all this display.
"The Viking's treasure!" he cried in wonderment. "But that
blue-gleaming cup that the earl is lifting to his lips!--that cannot be
a sapphire: it must be coloured glass."
"It is a real gem, I assure you. Isn't it a lovely thing? There cannot
be its equal in the wide world. And think of it! Ivar was on the point
of selling it, and other rarities, but fortunately, Lorelie stopped him
in time. But I'll reserve that story."
The walls of the supposed banqueting hall were hung with tapestry,
sufficient in length to drape both the wings and the background.
This arras, decorated with figures in needlework, was obviously very
ancient, apparently one of the Ravengar heirlooms employed to give an
air of antiquity to the refectory-scene.
It was somewhat difficult to obtain a clear view of this tapestry owing
to the intervention of the banqueting-table and the picturesque figures
grouped around it; but, bringing his lorgnette to bear upon such parts
of it as were visible, Idris observed that one of its needlework
pictures was subscribed with the words:--"ORMUS HILDAM NUBIT."
"Orm weds Hilda," he muttered. "By heaven! that is the tapestry that
once decorated the interior of the Viking's tomb!"
"True," returned Beatrice. "But--we are losing the words of the play."
This last was quite true. So occupied had Idris been in contemplating
the scenic effects, that he had not yet caught a word of the act then
in progress.
Fixing his attention upon the dialogue Idris noticed that Alboin (or
Ivar) was inviting his companions-in-arms to drink to their recent
victory. While speaking he lifted on high his own goblet, a goblet of
a very curious character, for it was fashioned from a human skull,
supposedly that of the fallen Cunimund. The upper portion of the
cranium had been sawn off, and being attached to the lower part by
silver hinges, formed the lid of the grim drinking-vessel.
"Do you recognize the relic taken by you from Ormfell?" asked Beatrice.
"That cup is not the 'Viking's' skull," returned Idris decisively, as
he surveyed it through his glasses. "Its colour is white: mine was a
yellowish-brown. Now, notice the lid; it is lifted and turned towards
us: it ought to contain a circular perforation, but there is none, you
see. Trust me, I know my relic too well to be deceived."
"You are quite right, Cousin Idris: the cup now in Ivar's hands is
_not_ the 'Viking's' skull; being merely the one used in the rehearsal.
It would have been a betraying of her purpose had Lorelie employed the
real relic, but it will make its appearance soon."
She turned her attention to the dialogue again, and Idris did the same,
wondering what the end of it would be.
Extending the skull-cup to a slave, Ivar-Alboin cried, in the words of
history:--
"Fill this goblet to the brim: carry it to the queen, and bid her in my
name drink to the memory of her father."
The attendant poured wine into the cup and carried it off the stage
for the purpose of presenting it to Queen Rosamond. And pre-informed
by Beatrice, Idris knew that the goblet carried out would not be the
same as that which would be brought in. Lorelie would enter with the
identical skull taken from Ormfell. Why should this be? He awaited the
sequel with breathless interest, an interest that would have been far
more intense had he known with what person Godfrey had connected this
same skull. But some things had been kept from the knowledge of Idris,
and this was one of them.
The advent of Queen Rosamond was heralded by music of a singular
character. The softer and more melodious instrument ceased, and there
arose a threnody drawn entirely from violin-chords and from the
metallic wires of the harp--a threnody that was staccato, shivering,
weird. The faint whisperings which had been going on here and there
among the audience instantly ceased: every one sat spellbound, thrilled
with awe by that unearthly music, as if it were a prelude to the
entrance of Death himself.
Idris recognized the air as the requiem that was never heard except at
the death of a Ravengar. That it should now be played seemed suggestive
of some coming tragedy. He learned from Beatrice that this requiem had
formed no part of the rehearsals: and, indeed, the wondering looks
interchanged among the amateurs on the stage showed that it came upon
them as a surprise. Idris was not slow to mark the perturbed air of the
earl-bishop. If it were Lorelie's object to unnerve him, she had to
some extent succeeded.
Amid this eerie refrain Queen Rosamond slowly entered the banqueting
hall, carrying in her hands the dread cup, the fatal skull of her
father Cunimund. The eyes of every one, both on and off the stage, were
riveted upon her movements. She had exhibited splendid acting in the
two previous scenes; was she now about to surpass herself?
She was robed in a vesture of violet satin, embroidered with gold, that
shimmered as she moved; and in her flowing raven hair there gleamed
an ornament that gave Idris a thrill of surprise, for he immediately
recognized it as the stiletto hair-pin that had wrought the fatal deed
in Ormfell.
By aid of the lorgnette he surveyed the object she was carrying. Yes:
that golden-brown thing was indeed the 'Viking's skull,' set in silver,
and mounted as a cup--a cup in appearance only, for the cranium was
perfect and entire, and had not been fashioned into a lid.
Rosamond had entered through an arched door in the wall on the
right-hand side of the stage. Ivar-Alboin's throne was on the extreme
left, and therefore to reach him it was necessary to traverse the
entire length of the stage.
Slowly, very slowly, she advanced with silent and majestic tread,
holding aloft the fatal skull.
To Idris, the moment was one of thrilling interest. He felt that the
crucial point of the experiment had come: the object for which Lorelie
had caused her play to be staged was now about to be disclosed.
Not a word passed Lorelie's lips as she moved forward, the ghostly
_tremolo_ music going on all the time. She looked neither to right nor
left: she had eyes for one person only, and that was the earl, and him
she regarded with the air of a triumphant accuser.
And the earl, observant of her manner, and always suspicious of her
since that memorable night in the vault, dreading lest she should have
divined his purpose in taking her there, grew troubled. It began to
dawn upon him that Lorelie had an ulterior purpose in staging her play,
a purpose fraught with ill to himself. His eye rested on the skull she
was carrying: he noted the difference, yet no inkling of her real aim
entered his mind. He stared at her, trying to read her thoughts: she
returned his gaze: their looks became a silent duel.
At last she reached the place where Alboin sat. The shivering music
came to an end, enabling her voice to be heard.
"Ere I comply with my lord-king's request," she said, addressing Ivar,
and using the words of the play, "let me learn from whose skull I
drink."
She set the relic upon the table, keeping one hand over the cranium.
Idris felt that she did this for the purpose of hiding the fatal
perforation. But though her words were addressed to Ivar, she did not
for one moment remove her eyes from the earl's face.
"It is the skull of thy late sire, the royal Cunimund."
"Not so, husband mine," she cried, with a sudden change of voice that
startled everybody present, actors and spectators alike, "not so! Let
us leave acting and be real.--Tell me, my lord of Ravenhall," she said,
bending over the table and addressing the earl in a thrilling sibilant
whisper that penetrated to every part of the hall, "_tell me, whose
skull is this?_"
She withdrew her hand from the skull and pointed to the orifice in the
cranium.
A strange gasp broke from the earl. He cast one glance of fear at
Lorelie, and then sat with parted lips and dilated eyes staring at
the thing before him. Lorelie's significant manner, his own guilty
conscience, the circular perforation in the occiput, were sufficient
to tell him whose skull it was. In one swift awful moment he realized
that his secret was known to the woman whom he had most reason to
fear, and he intuitively divined that she was about to make it known
to all present. And then? He gasped for breath; his throat seemed to
be compressed: he twitched at it with his fingers as if to loosen some
tightly-drawn noose.
He knew now why she had shewn such persistency in urging him to take
part in the play. "Only a minor part, a few words to utter, nothing
more," had been her plea. He knew now why she had flattered, insisted,
threatened: her motive was to surprise and confuse him: to entrap him
into a confession by suddenly producing the skull before his eyes.
And she had nearly succeeded. Sudden amazement had almost wrung the
secret from him. He compressed his lips tightly: he must not speak,
lest by some incautious word he should betray himself. Silence!
Silence! there lay his safety. With such cunning had he overlaid all
traces of the crime that it could not be proved except by his own
confession.
The audience, after a glance at the play-book, looked at each other
in bewilderment, wondering why the viscountess had departed from the
written words of her drama. Instead of playing as finely as heretofore,
she had actually committed the gross blunder of addressing the Bishop
Paulinus as, "My lord of Ravenhall!"
Receiving no answer to her question, for the earl sat silent and
motionless, Lorelie rested her hand upon the table, lightly shook the
sleeve of her silken dress, and the next moment the runic altar-ring
was sparkling on her wrist.
"By the sacred ring of Odin, stolen by you from Edith Breakspear, I
adjure you, speak! Whose skull is this?"
Something like a groan issued from the earl's lips. So, his theft of
the ring was likewise known to this terrible woman!--a theft committed
so long ago that it had almost faded from his memory: and, lo! here the
deed was, starting up to confront him after a lapse of twenty-three
years!
[Illustration]
For a moment he forgot his present position: the stage, the lights,
the audience, all were gone. He found himself again in that quiet
twilight chamber at Quilaix; again he saw the sad eyes, the pale
face of the woman from whom he had taken the ring: again her solemn
utterance sounded in his ears:--"If it should bring upon you the curse
which it has brought upon me and mine, you will live to rue this day."
The voice of Lorelie speaking again, roused him from his reverie.
"By this hoarded treasure, gained at the price of blood, I adjure you,
speak! Whose skull is this?"
Mechanically his eyes wandered over the festal-board with its array
of plate and jewels. The splendid parade of wealth made his present
position only the more ghastly. Like a spectre from the tomb Nemesis
arose to mock him amid the very riches which his guilt had purchased.
A silence had fallen both upon actors and audience. They had begun
to catch a glimpse of the true meaning of this strange tableau. As
motionless as statues they sat: they scarcely breathed: it would have
required an earthquake or the conflagration of the hall itself to have
moved them.
In silent despair the earl looked around upon the array of still faces
set with earnest attention upon him, and then he turned again to the
skull. All lifeless as it was, it was victor over him to-day. It seemed
to be grinning at him in conscious mockery. Powerless itself to speak
it had found a mouthpiece, an avenger, in the person of Lorelie.
Why had he allowed this woman to leave the secret vault, where her life
had been in his hands? He might have known that she would never rest
till she had avenged herself upon him.
He looked into the depth of her dark blue eyes--eyes that were
steeled to pity. "Like for like," they seemed to say: she would show
him the same mercy that he would have shown her, though in truth,
Lorelie thought not of herself, but of the dead Eric Marville, so
cruelly wronged both by her father and herself: Eric Marville, who had
generously refrained from claiming the peerage justly his in order that
the present earl might enjoy it. And he had received his death-stroke
from the hand of the very man whom he had benefited! Was this a case
for pity!
"By yon tapestry, silent witness of the deed, I adjure you, speak!
Whose skull is this?"
A portion of the arras within view of the earl was clutched from behind
by an unseen hand, and was suddenly rent in twain from top to bottom
with a sharp ripping sound: then came the fall of some dull body,
(though nothing was seen by the audience), followed by a faint soughing
like an expiring breath.
The earl shook convulsively. The very sounds that had accompanied the
fall of his victim in Ormfell!
With slow motion Lorelie raised her hand to her head. The earl followed
her action with his eyes, wondering what new terror was in store
for him. Drawing the broken stiletto pin from her hair she placed
the fragment of the blade within the orifice of the skull, where it
remained, the jewelled hilt projecting above, and glittering with weird
effect.
"By the very stiletto that let out the life of your victim, I adjure
you, speak! Whose skull is this?"
She was determined to have her answer, and that openly.
In darkness and secrecy the deed had been wrought: amid brilliant light
and before a crowd of hearers the truth should be proclaimed. Like some
struggling victim in the torture-chamber, who, doggedly speechless, is
forced onward to the rack that will soon wring the confession from his
reluctant lips, so the earl, in dumb agony, felt himself drawn onward
to tell the dread secret of his life.
The jewelled hilt of the stiletto protruding from the skull exercized
a fascination over him: he could not take his gaze from it: like a
gleaming eye it seemed to be commanding him to admit his guilt.
Idris, attentive to every variation in the face of the earl, saw that
he was sinking into a cataleptic state. Unable to obtain the required
confession in any other way Lorelie had resorted to her knowledge of
hypnotism, and had found the earl powerless to resist her mesmeric
influence.
"Speak! Whose skull is this?" she asked once more.
"_My brother's._"
The earl spoke like an automaton, in a tone, cold, mechanical,
passionless--a tone he maintained throughout the whole of his
subsequent answering.
A wave of surprise passed over the audience. Till that moment it had
not been known that Urien Ravengar, the preceding earl, had had more
than one son.
"When did your brother die?"
"Twenty-one years ago."
"In what place did he die?"
"In the interior of Ormfell."
"How came he to die?"
"_I killed him!_"
At this answer a thrill pervaded the assembly. Half-articulate screams
arose from the ladies. From fair jewelled hands play-bills and books of
the words slid to the floor. There they lay unheeded, being no longer
required. The sham-tragedy was over: a new and unrehearsed drama of
real life was taking place before their eyes, and the audience bent
forward to watch and to listen.
Ivar, with a troubled look, rose at this point and made an attempt to
stay Lorelie's action.
"Let down the curtain," he cried to an attendant in the wings. "What
devil's work is this?" he continued, turning fiercely upon his wife.
"Let it cease! Restore my father to his normal state. You have
mesmerized him, and, mistress of his mind, you are making him say
whatever you wish. Do you think that any one here believes him?"
One word from her, one imperious gesture, one flash of her eyes, was
sufficient to quell Ivar's opposition.
"_Malvazia!_" she whispered, pointing to the sapphire cup.
The viscount shrank back, knowing that the hour of his fall and
humiliation was at hand.
"Let none intervene," said Lorelie, addressing her audience with quiet
dignity.
And during the remainder of the scene there was neither movement nor
sound on the part of the spectators, not even from Idris and Ivar, the
two persons most interested in the dialogue.
In cold measured tones Lorelie proceeded with her merciless catechism.
"Was he a younger brother?"
"My senior by three years."
"Why was he not acknowledged by your father, the late earl?"
"He was the son of a secret marriage--a marriage with a village maiden
named Agnes Marville."
"Where can the record of this marriage be found?"
"In the parish church of Oakhurst in Kent."
"Your father did not tell this Agnes that he was a peer of the realm:
and, as soon as a son was born, he deserted her: nay, more, while she
was still living he made a second marriage, which, therefore, renders
your own birth illegitimate. Is not this so?"
"Yes."
"When did the son of this Agnes discover that he was the rightful heir
of Ravenhall?"
"On attaining manhood."
"What course did he take?"
"He wrote a letter to my father to the effect that as that father had
repudiated him in infancy he on his part would accept the repudiation."
"And so, waiving his just rights, he went to live in Brittany under the
name of Eric Marville. Why did you, too, leave England about the same
time?"
"The letter written by Eric fell into my hands and caused a quarrel
between my father and myself."
"Did you, when abroad, ever see your half-brother?"
"During his trial I stood among the spectators."
"Did you not make yourself known to him?"
"No, for I hated him."
"Did you show your hatred in any way?"
"I secretly promised his prosecuting counsel a large sum if he should
secure a conviction."
"How long did you remain abroad?"
"Ten years."
"And by a strange coincidence on the very night of your return to
Ravenhall your brother's yacht went down in Ormsby Race. You believed
he had gone down with it, till----?"
"Till he surprised me in Ormfell as I was in the act of removing the
treasure."
"Let us hear what took place."
"We quarrelled. He had discovered the part I had played in the trial at
Nantes, and also that it was I who had taken the runic ring from his
wife. He threatened to assert his claim to the earldom, and so I struck
him down with a stiletto hair-pin, the only weapon I had upon me at the
time."
"How did you dispose of the body?"
"I left it, covered with quicklime, in Ormfell, so that, if ever
discovered, it might be taken for the remains of some ancient warrior."
"Did your brother have any children?"
"One son."
"Who is, of course, the rightful earl of Ormsby. By what name is this
son known?"
"Idris Breakspear."
Lorelie put no more questions. She had discovered what she wished.
Light had been cast on dark places and all was clear. She had made her
atonement to Idris: and, with a significant glance at the balcony where
he sat, she waved her hand, and at that signal the curtain descended.
Ere the amazed audience had time to exchange remarks the earl's voice
was again heard, proceeding from the other side of the curtain.
"What do you say, Ivar?" he cried, in wild staccato utterances. "I
have accused myself ... of murder?... That my title ... and yours
... are invalid? It is false!... Gentlemen, I am not responsible ...
for my utterances.... This woman hates me.... She is a hypnotizer
... has taken my mind captive ... made me say ... whatever suits her
purpose.... Pay no heed to anything I have said ... in this state ...
of----"
His utterance was checked by a fit of coughing, followed by a strange
gasp, and then all was still.
The next moment one of the amateur actors appeared at the side of the
stage-curtain and beckoned to Godfrey, who, his part having ceased with
the first act, had taken his place amongst the audience. The surgeon
passed behind the curtain, then quickly reappeared.
"Get the company away as quickly as can be managed," he whispered to
the steward of Ravenhall, "the earl is dead!"