HORRIBLE SUSPICIONS.
The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements.—_Shakspeare._
The beautiful Asiatic girl soon won her way into every heart in the
household. No one could meet the soft, appealing gaze of her large,
dark, Oriental eyes, or hear the plaintive tones of her low, deep, sweet
voice, without feeling powerfully drawn towards her. No one could be
with her long without seeing that the angel form was tenanted by an
angel spirit, too.
Eudora became the darling of the household. And yet, from all events
that quickly followed, it would seem that the previsions of the Princess
Pezzilini had been true.
First of all the father of the family, Lord Leaton, a man in the early
prime of life and the full enjoyment of the finest health, sickened with
a strange disease that baffled all the skill and science of his medical
attendants. The most competent nurses were engaged to take their turns
day and night at his bedside.
The ladies of the family also vied with each other in their attentions
to the invalid. But it was observed that in his moments of greatest
suffering, he would bear no one to approach him except his niece Eudora.
This might be explained by the circumstances that Eudora’s presence was
very soothing, her step was noiseless, her motions smooth, her touch
soft, her voice low, and her gaze gentle; and all this had a very
calming and subduing effect upon the irritable invalid. And thus Eudora
became almost a fixture beside his couch. And all who loved Lord Leaton
were grateful to the gentle girl, who patiently resigned her daily
recreations and her nightly repose to devote herself to him.
All except the Princess Pezzilini, who was observed to shake her head
and murmur to herself—
“The fascination of the cobra-di-capella!”
But no one paid attention to the murmured remarks of the lady,
especially as even she herself did not escape the charms of Eudora’s
presence, but frequently fell under the sweet spell that bound all
hearts to the beautiful girl.
At length, one night, Eudora, worn out with fatigue, was ordered to go
to her bed. She mixed the sleeping-draught for her uncle, put it in the
hands of her aunt, and retired to her room. Lady Leaton was left alone
to watch by the bedside of her husband.
She sat the sleeping potion down upon a stand near the head of the bed,
until Lord Leaton should awake from the light doze into which he had
fallen, and she went out to her dressing-room to change her dress for a
warmer wrapper, in which to sit up and watch the invalid.
It was while she stood before the looking-glass which was opposite the
door and reflected a portion of the adjoining room, that Lady Leaton saw
the shadow of a female figure glide along the wall, and at the same
moment heard the rustle of a silk dress.
She immediately turned and entered the chamber, but found no one there.
Lord Leaton had just awakened and turned over.
“Has any one been here?” inquired her ladyship.
“No one at all,” he answered.
“It was fancy, then,” muttered the lady to herself, as she gave the
sleeping-draught to her husband.
He drank it to the dregs; yet it did not seem to produce the usual
effects. The patient could not get to sleep; on the contrary, he grew
more and more restless, and soon became violently ill.
Lady Leaton, in alarm, aroused the servants, and despatched a messenger
to Poolville, the adjoining village, for their medical attendant, who
immediately hastened to the bedside of his patient. But the utmost skill
of the physician was unavailing, for, before morning, Lord Leaton
expired.
It was then that the medical attendant felt it his duty to declare to
the grieving widow that her husband had died from the effects of a
virulent poison, and to demand an investigation by the coroner’s jury.
This would have been a terrible blow to Lady Leaton could she have been
made to receive it. But she indignantly repudiated the idea.
What, _he_ poisoned?—_he_, Lord Leaton, who was so kind-hearted that he
would not have crushed a worm in his path, or killed a wasp that stung
him?—_he_, who was so universally beloved and honored that he had not
one enemy in the wide world?—_he_, in whose premature death no one could
have a benefit, but in whose beneficent life thousands possessed the
deepest interest?—_he_ taken off by foul means? The idea was too
preposterous as well as too dreadful to believe.
No; the horror of such a suspicion was not added to the unspeakable
sorrow of the widow.
But, as the doctor was firm in his purpose of having a _post-mortem_
examination and a coroner’s inquest, of course both had to be held.
Nothing decisive, however, was elicited. No trace of poison was found
either in the body of the deceased or in the glasses from which he had
drank, or anywhere else.
The single suspicious circumstance of Lady Leaton’s seeing the shadow of
a female on the wall, and hearing the rustle of a silk dress in her
husband’s chamber, was disproved by a separate examination of each
member of the household, in which it was clearly shown that every one
was at that hour in bed. And Lady Leaton herself admitted that her
imagination might have deceived her. The verdict of the coroner’s
inquest, therefore, was that the deceased died from natural causes.
Lord Leaton had died too suddenly to have made a will, but his wishes
were so well understood by Lady Leaton, that she lost no time in
carrying them into effect. She wrote to Rome to Malcolm Montrose,
informing him of the sudden death of his uncle, and requesting him to
come immediately to England. She wrote, also, to Norham Montrose, who
was absent with his regiment in Ireland, giving him the same fatal
intelligence, and inviting him to join his brother at Allworth Abbey by
a certain day.
Malcolm, though the farthest from the scene of action, was the first to
obey the summons. He hastened to England, and, without resting a single
night on his journey, hurried to Allworth Abbey.
It was near the close of a stormy day in March that he got out of the
stage-coach at Abbeytown, and leaving his luggage to the care of the
landlord of the “Leaton Arms,” set out to walk the short distance to the
Abbey. He reached the top of the eastern range of hills that surrounded
the Abbey just as the sun, setting behind the western hills, cast the
whole dell into deep shadow.
Never had the aspect of that sombre place seemed so gloomy and
depressing. The huge collection of buildings comprising the Abbey
lurking at the bottom of the deep dell, reflected dimly in its dark
lake, overshadowed by its gigantic old trees, enclosed by its lofty
hills, and cast into the deepest shade by the sinking of the sun behind
those hills, was well calculated to awe the traveller, even though he
might not have—as Malcolm had—a personal and tragic interest in the
scene.
A few moments he spent in contemplating the picture, and then rapidly
descended the precipitous path leading down to the bottom of the dell.
At the foot of the precipice was the gamekeeper’s lodge and the
principal park gate. He passed this, and took the straightest line to
the Abbey.
He passed one more gate and entered the grounds, immediately around the
house. A short walk brought him to the outer banks of the shaded lake.
An avenue of elms swept right and left around this lake and led up to
the centre front entrance to the Abbey. He took the right-hand walk, and
proceeding at a rapid pace, soon found himself before the main entrance.
Here the first object that arrested his attention was the funeral
hatchment suspended over the doorway. A sigh was given to the memory of
his uncle, and then he went up the broad stairs, and knocked at the
great folding oak door of the main entrance. It was opened by the aged
porter, who welcomed him respectfully, and ushered him at once into the
library, while he went to announce the arrival to the widowed Lady
Leaton.
While waiting the entrance of his hostess, Malcolm Montrose strolled to
the front window and looked out upon the scene—the dark lake immediately
under the walls of the Abbey, rendered darker still by the overhanging
branches of its encircling trees, and the lofty sides of its surrounding
hills, behind which the full moon was now rising.
While Malcolm gazed moodily upon the scene, his attention was attracted
by a female form, clothed in black and gliding like a spirit among the
trees, that bordered the still lake. He could not at first see her face,
but the ineffable grace of her movements fascinated his eyes to follow
her every motion. At length she turned, and he caught an instant’s
glimpse of a dark face, which, even in that uncertain light, he fancied
to be as beautiful as that of the fable houri. The beauty disappeared in
the thicker foliage of the evergreens, and Malcolm Montrose turned to
greet his aunt, who now entered.
Lady Leaton was a woman of commonplace, agreeable personality,
middle-aged, large, fat and fair in body, conscientious, discreet, and
affectionate in mind. She entered the room now, with her portly form
dressed in widow’s weeds, and her fair, round face encircled by a
widow’s cap. Her eyes were suffused with tears, and her voice was broken
with grief, as she advanced, held out her hand, and welcomed Malcolm
Montrose to Allworth Abbey.
A short and agitated conversation sufficed to put Malcolm in possession
of the facts with which the reader is already acquainted; and of the
result of this interview it is only necessary to say that Malcolm
Montrose entirely coincided in opinion with Lady Leaton and with the
verdict of the coroner’s jury, in supposing that the late Lord Leaton
had died of some obscure disease, and not, as the doctor had believed,
of poison. It was a great relief to Lady Leaton to find that one so
clear-headed and true-hearted as Malcolm Montrose took the same views of
the case with herself.
At the close of the interview she rang for a servant to show him to his
room, where he might change his dress for dinner.
The chamber to which he was shown was situated immediately over the
library, and its front bay window overlooked the same scene.
Involuntarily Malcolm sauntered to the window and looked forth upon the
night. The moon was now so high in the heavens that its face was
reflected even in the shrouded mirror of the dark lake. As he looked
forth he saw the same beautiful female figure emerge from the thicket
and disappear in the direction of the house. She had evidently entered
the building.
Malcolm turned away as though there was no longer any attraction in the
moonlight on the shrouded lake, and turned to give his attention to old
John, the valet of the late Lord Leaton, who stood ready to assist the
young man in making his toilet.
When Malcolm Montrose had refreshed himself with a wash and a change of
dress, and stood ready to descend to the drawing-room, he presented in
himself one of the noblest specimens of manly beauty.
He was at this time about twenty-five years of age, tall and finely
proportioned, broad-shouldered, deep-chested and strong-limbed. His head
was stately, well poised, and covered with rich, dark, auburn hair that
waved around a high, broad, white, forehead. His features were of the
noblest Roman cast; his complexion was fair and ruddy, and his eyes of a
clear, deep blue. His presence was imposing as that of one born to
command; his manners were at once gracious and dignified, and his
conversational powers brilliant and profound. He was one of those
masterpieces of creation, one of those magnetic men who attract and
control without any effort.
When Malcolm Montrose entered the crimson drawing-room he found it
already brilliantly lighted up for the evening, and amid its glitter of
light and glow of color three fair women were revealed. The first, who
was his aunt, Lady Leaton, arose and led him up to the other two, who
immediately riveted his attention.
Reclining languidly in an easy-chair sat a fair girl, with a delicate
complexion, dark-grey eyes, and light brown hair confined in a net of
black silk.
Standing on her right hand, and bending affectionately over her, was a
large, tall, finely-formed, fair-haired woman, whose ample dress of
black velvet fell around her majestic figure like the robes of a queen
or the drapery of a goddess.
“Madame, permit me to present to you my nephew, Mr. Montrose, of
Dun-Ellen; the Princess Pezzilini, Mr. Montrose,” said Lady Leaton,
respectfully presenting Malcolm to the stranger.
Malcolm bowed deeply and reverently, and expressed himself honored in
making the acquaintance of the widow of the heroic Prince Pezzilini.
The lady, on her part, raised her stately head, smiled sweetly, curtsied
silently, and immediately resumed her attention to the young girl in the
chair. But in that single glimpse of her full face, Malcolm saw that she
was of that rarest and strangest type of Italian beauty, a perfect
blonde—fair, as though she had been born under the cool, damp fogs of
England, instead of the burning sun of Italy; and, indeed, if the land
of her birth had given her any of its fire, it was only to be seen in
the warm and glowing smile that occasionally lighted up her face and
beamed from her clear blue eyes.
Malcolm took in all these impressions during the few moments that were
occupied in his presentation, and then he turned to greet the young lady
in the easy-chair—his cousin Agatha.
He saluted her gravely and affectionately, as befitted the serious
occasion of their meeting, and then, observing for the first time the
extreme delicacy of her face and form, and the languor of her attitude
and manner, Malcolm looked uneasy, and expressed a fear that she had
been indisposed.
“No, she is not indisposed; that is, not seriously so; but she has not
seemed quite well or strong since—since our great bereavement,” answered
Lady Leaton, concluding the sentence in a faltering voice.
“Not well; no, indeed!” thought Malcolm, as he gazed with concern upon
the fair, wan, spiritual face and fragile form of her whom he had left
but a few months before the very picture of perfect health. “Not well,
yet not seriously indisposed!” Was it possible that this great change
could have come over Agatha so gradually that its effects should have
escaped the eyes of even her own affectionate mother? Such must have
been the case, was the thought of Malcolm, as he held the thin and
wasted hand of the young girl in his own, and resolved that upon the
next day he would certainly call the attention of Lady Leaton to the
fearful change that, though it might have escaped the notice of those in
daily communion with the invalid, while their attention had been
absorbed by matters of such transcendent importance as the illness and
death of Lord Leaton, yet was, withal, so marked and so alarming as to
have shocked him who had left her six months before in full and blooming
health.
While these thoughts engaged the mind of Malcolm, a soft footstep
approached, and Lady Leaton spoke, saying—
“My niece, Eudora, Mr. Malcolm.”
Malcolm raised his eyes carelessly.
Yes, there she stood! the beautiful girl whose graceful form he had
followed with a delighted gaze as she glided among the trees upon the
banks of the dark lake. There she stood, in the perfect loveliness of
her Oriental charms, one of Mohammed’s fabled houris descended upon the
earth. There she stood—her elegant little figure drawn up to its full
height, her graceful head slightly bent upon her bosom, her jet-black
ringlets falling around her rich, warm, olive face, with its slender,
arched eyebrows, its large, dark, burning eyes, and its crimson cheeks
and lips.
Only to look upon such beauty was a keen though dangerous delight. So
Malcolm Montrose felt, as he took her hand, raised his eyes to hers, and
met the quick and quickly-withdrawn flashing glance of those great,
black, burning stars, so full of half-suppressed fire, so replete with
thrilling, mysterious meaning.
“I am very happy to meet you, my dear cousin,” he said, earnestly, as he
pressed and released her hand.
With the long lashes dropped lower over her dark eyes, and her rich
bloom heightened, she curtsied slightly, and accepted the chair that he
set for her.
Malcolm placed himself beside Agatha, and glided gradually into
conversation with herself and the princess; but his eyes involuntarily
wandered off to the beautiful Asiatic girl, and every furtive glance
thrilled him with a deeper and a stranger delight.
Dinner was announced, and Malcolm gave his arm to the Princess Pezzilini
to conduct her to the dining-room. At dinner he sat next to the
princess, who was herself a woman of brilliant conversational powers;
but while conversing with her his thoughts continually wandered to the
lovely, dark-eyed girl on the opposite side of the table.
When dinner was over, and they returned to the drawing-room, the evening
was spent in earnest conversation, until at length, when it was quite
late, Lady Leaton observed that Agatha seemed fatigued, and rang for her
maid to attend her to her chamber. Malcolm led Agatha to the door, where
he bade her good-night, and soon after the circle broke up for the
evening.
On taking leave of Eudora, Malcolm again touched her hand, and met her
eyes with a thrill of delight as strange as it was incomprehensible.
When Malcolm reached his chamber, he at once dismissed the old valet,
locked his door, and commenced pacing thoughtfully up and down the room.
He had enough of exciting subjects occupying his mind to keep him from
rest. The presence of the magnificent Pezzilini in the house; the death
of his uncle; the failing health of his fair young cousin; but through
all these disturbing subjects glided one image of ineffable
loveliness—Eudora, the beautiful Asiatic girl; and this haunting image
was so delightful to contemplate, that as often as it glided before his
imagination, he paused to dwell enchanted upon it. He would not listen
to the still small voice that warned him this was a dangerous vision; he
meant no wrong to Agatha, his betrothed bride, to whom his hand was
pledged, to whom he thought his heart was given, and he knew nothing of
the insidious approaches of that master-passion which steals first
through the eyes, then through the imagination, until it effects an
immovable lodgment in the heart. The field of his imagination was
already occupied; would the citadel of his heart be occupied? Who could
tell?
It was after midnight when he retired to rest, resolving to be faithful
to his affianced bride, and sank to sleep, dreaming of the beautiful
Eastern houri.
Eudora occupied a small, plainly-furnished room adjoining her cousin
Agatha’s spacious and sumptuous chamber, and, since Agatha had been
ailing, it was a part of Eudora’s duty, whenever the invalid was
restless at night, to sit by her bedside and read her to sleep. But on
reaching her little room this evening, Eudora found the door
communicating with her cousin’s chamber closed and locked on the other
side.
“She wishes to be alone to-night,” said the gentle girl to herself, as
she drew a low chair and sat down before the little coal fire to fall
into one of those reveries to which her poetical temperament inclined
her. She thought of the magnificent new relative to whom she had been
presented that evening, for magnificent, indeed, to her he seemed in his
noble, manly beauty and grace. She dwelt upon his image with a strange
feeling of satisfaction and content, as upon some good long wanting in
her life, and now found and appropriated. She felt again the earnest
pressure of his hand in clasping hers; she saw again his eagle eyes melt
into tenderness as they met her own; she heard again the earnest tones
of his voice in greeting her. No one had ever before clasped her hand,
or looked in her eyes, or spoken to her heart as he did. Every one was
kind to the orphan; indeed it would have been impossible for any one to
have been otherwise to so gentle a creature, but it was with a
superficial kindness that did not seem to recognize her deeper need of
sympathy. No one had seemed to remember that the stranger girl had under
her black bodice a sensitive heart, to be wounded by neglect or
delighted by affection—no one but him; and he, too, so handsome, so
accomplished, and so distinguished, that he might have been excused for
slighting her. At least, so thought Eudora.
“But the gods are ever compassionate, and he is like a god,” said the
hero-worshipping young heart to itself. It was so sweet to recall and
live over again that meeting in which he had been so earnestly kind.
“He will understand and love me, I feel that he will!” she murmured to
herself, with a delighted smile. But the words had no sooner been
breathed from her lips than she understood their full import. It stood
revealed to her conscience as by a flash of spiritual light, that her
imagination was occupied by a forbidden and perilous vision. And yet it
was so sweet to entertain this alluring vision, and so bitter to banish
it away.
She dropped her head upon her breast, and her clasped hands upon her
lap, and sat, as it were, with her dark eyes gazing into vacancy after
her receding dream.
Some time she sat thus, and then murmured—
“I am lonely and desolate indeed. None love me truly and deeply, as I
need to be loved, as I long to love. They give me food and clothing and
kind words, and with these I ought to be content, but I am not! I am
not! My heart is starving for a deeper sympathy and a closer friendship,
and I long for that as the famishing beggar longs for bread, but I must
not hope to satisfy this hunger of the heart upon forbidden fruit, and a
sure instinct warns me that even the kindred affection of my cousin is
forbidden fruit to me. I will think no more of him.” And with this wise
resolution Eudora offered up her evening prayers and retired to rest.
But in the world of sleep the forbidden vision followed her, and her
cousin Malcolm was ever by her side with looks of sympathy and words of
love.