"SHE IS MY WIFE."
It was later in the season than people were in the habit of remaining at
Mentone; but the unusual attraction of a wedding in high life had
induced many to delay their departure and so a large number had tarried,
much to the gratification and profit of hotel proprietors and other
natives, only to be disappointed by missing the wedding, after all.
Everything possible was done to obtain some clew to the missing girl,
but all to no purpose. Three weeks went by, and every one, save Lord
Cameron, had given up all hope of ever solving the sad mystery. He alone
still patiently kept up his search day by day.
By the beginning of the fourth week, Mr. and Mrs. Mencke both agreed
that the girl must be dead, and announced their intention of leaving in
a few days for Switzerland. Mrs. Mencke was so confirmed in her opinion
that Violet was not living that she assumed mourning for her, and while
she remained in Mentone her deeply bordered handkerchiefs were never out
of her hands, and were frequently brought into ostentatious use.
The day before the one set for their departure was intensely warm and
oppressive, and everybody was almost prostrated by the heat.
Lady Cameron and Mrs. Mencke could only exist by lying, lightly clad, in
hammocks swung upon the north piazza of the hotel, while Mr. Mencke
idled away the hours as best he could, in the smoking and reading-room,
or in imbibing mint juleps.
Lord Cameron, as was his invariable custom, had departed, in spite of
the heat, upon one of his long rides immediately after breakfast. His
quest for the girl whom he had so fondly loved was becoming almost a
mania.
He had grown thin and pale; his appetite failed, until he seemed not to
eat sufficient to keep life in him. He was depressed, and absent-minded,
and so nervous and restless that his mother suffered the keenest anxiety
lest all this strain upon his mind and body should end in insanity!
"Oh, what an interminable day this has seemed!" sighed Lady Cameron to
her companion, as, soft on the saltry stillness of the air, there came
to them the sound of a distant church clock striking the hour of six. "I
hope I may never pass another like it--I could neither read nor work,
while my thoughts and the dread of something--I know not what--have
nearly driven me wild."
Mrs. Mencke shivered, in spite of the heat, at these words. She also had
felt as if she could never live through another twelve hours like the
past, and she believed if she could but once get away from the place
where she had suffered so much of disappointment and wretchedness, this
terrible oppression and weight would in a measure disappear.
Tomorrow they would go, and she longed for tomorrow to come. During the
latter part of the afternoon she had simply lain still and watched the
lengthening shadows, which told that the sun was declining and evening
drawing on apace, and longed for night and slumber to lock her senses in
oblivion.
"I believe the name of Mentone will always give me a chill after this,"
she said, in a husky tone.
"Hark! is not that the sound of a horse's hoofs?" cried Lady Cameron,
starting up to look down the road. "Yes, there comes Vane and--Mrs.
Mencke, he is riding at a break-neck pace! Can he--do you believe he has
any--news?"
The woman was so overcome by the thought that the last word was uttered
in a whisper, while her eager eyes were intently fastened upon the
approaching horseman.
Mrs. Mencke started to a sitting posture, and waited with breathless
interest for Lord Cameron to arrive.
Nearer and nearer he came, and now they could see that his noble steed
was flecked with foam.
Vane checked his headlong speed as he caught sight of the two figures
upon the piazza; but, as he entered the grounds of the hotel, both
ladies could see that his face was frightful in its ghastliness.
Instinctively they knew that he was the bearer of evil tidings.
Arriving at the steps, he threw his bridle to a man who approached to
take his horse, then turned to enter the hotel.
"Vane--you have--news!" his mother said, in an awe-stricken voice, as
she went forward to meet him.
He glanced up at her, and the sympathy and love written on her gentle
face seemed to unman him for a moment.
He staggered, reeled, and then caught at a post, while he put his hand
to his head and groaned aloud with anguish.
"Tell me," gasped Mrs. Mencke, coming toward him, her own face now as
white as his, "have you heard anything of--Violet?"
He nodded, but hid his face from the gaze of the two women, while a
shudder shook him from head to foot; then he said, in a hollow tone:
"Yes--she is found."
"Found!" repeated his startled hearers, in shrill, tense voices. "Where?
Alive?"
He shook his head at that last word.
"Dead!" whispered Mrs. Mencke, hoarsely.
"Dead," said Lord Cameron, in an awful tone and with another groan.
Then with a mighty effort he partially recovered his composure, made
them sit down, and told them as briefly as he could all about his
dreadful day.
He had started out that morning determined to make one last vigorous
effort--to spare neither himself, his horse, nor his purse to gain some
clew; then, if he learned nothing of the fate of his lost love, he would
give up his search and go home to England with his mother.
He followed the coast along the gulf, as he had done a dozen times
before, but intending to extend his search farther than he had yet done.
He rode many miles, until the heat became so intense that he was forced
to turn back without as yet having made any discovery.
Suddenly, however, as he was nearing Mentone, he saw a group of
fishermen gathered around something which they had evidently just drawn
from the water at the foot of a cliff, along the edge of which the
highway ran.
Approaching nearer, he saw what appeared to be a long black object, and
knew that it was contemplated with horror by the spectators, for the
men's faces were gray and awe-stricken.
A nameless fear seized upon his own heart, and leaping from his horse,
he fastened him to a tree, and springing down the cliff with all the
speed he could force into his faltering feet, he saw, while a groan of
despair burst from him, that the object lying upon the beach was the
body of a woman.
Such a horror he had never looked upon before--he hoped never to look
upon again.
The woman was clad, not in black, as he had at first thought, but in a
dark gray suit trimmed with bands of blue silk. Upon the head was a grey
hat, also trimmed with blue, and having a gray wing among the folds of
velvet, and wound about this was a thick blue vail.
"Violet?" moaned Mrs. Mencke, with a shiver, as Lord Cameron reached
this portion of his tale.
"Yes, Violet, without any doubt," he answered, in a hollow voice, "for
the clothing all corresponded exactly with your description of what she
wore away; but otherwise she was past all recognition, excepting the
hair, which was golden like hers, though sadly matted and disheveled by
the action of the sea. What her object was in leaving the hotel we can
probably never know; perhaps it was simply a walk--I hope that was her
object," the young man said, something like a sob bursting from him;
"but she must have wandered too near the edge of the cliff, missed her
foothold, and fallen into the sea. The coast is very bold near
there--overhanging the water in many places, while the road runs very
near the edge of the cliff. It was a terrible fate for the poor child,
and the experiences of this day will haunt me as long as I live."
It was a horrible story, gently as he tried to break it to them, and the
hearts of his listeners stood still with awe and misery. And yet,
dreadful as it was, they all felt that the certainty of knowing that
Violet was no more, did not equal the agonizing suspense which had
tortured them during the last four weeks.
There was not much sleep for any of them that night, and Lord Cameron
looked as if he had just risen from a long illness when he appeared the
next morning.
He was calmer, however, than on the previous evening, and went about his
sad duties with a sorrowful dignity which deeply impressed and touched
every one.
Of course all thoughts of any of the party leaving Mentone for the next
few days were given up, for their loved dead must be cared for before
they could turn their faces northward.
The authorities would not allow the body to be removed from the place;
but ordered that the young girl should be buried there without delay.
After this was attended to, the few mourning friends, together with many
sympathizing residents of Mentone, gathered in the church, where the
grand wedding was to have taken place, and a simple memorial service was
observed, after which they all repaired to the spot where the
unfortunate girl had been laid to rest.
Lord Cameron had chosen the spot, which was a little remote from other
graves in the place of burial and beneath a beautiful, wide-spreading
beech. The low mound had been covered with myrtle and a profusion of
choice flowers, the greensward was like velvet about it, and not far
away could be seen the deep blue sea which Violet had loved so much.
Mrs. Mencke appeared to be greatly overcome as she visited this lonely
grave, and many glances of sympathy were bent upon her by those gathered
about; but they could not know of the guilty secret which lay so heavily
upon her conscience and caused remorse to outweigh whatever of natural
grief she might otherwise have experienced. She alone knew that she was
wholly responsible for all the sorrow and trouble which had thus
overtaken the fair girl in the very morning of her life.
The next day they all spent in resting, for they had arranged to leave
Mentone the following morning.
Lady Cameron and Mrs. Mencke remained in their rooms until evening, only
coming down to join the gentlemen after tea for a little while.
They were gathered in a small private parlor, where each seemed to
strive to assume a cheerfulness which no one felt.
Suddenly there came a sharp, imperative knock upon the door.
Lord Cameron arose to open it, and found himself face to face with a
young man several years his junior, and who would have been regarded as
strikingly handsome but for the worn and haggard look upon his face, and
the wild, almost insane expression in his restless eyes.
Vane bowed to him courteously, then inquired:
"Can I do anything for you, sir? Whom do you wish to see?"
"Lord Cameron, Earl of Sutherland," was the brief but stern reply.
"I am he," the young man began, when his visitor unceremoniously pushed
his way into the room, closing the door behind him.
At this act Wilhelm Mencke and his wife started to their feet, one with
a cry of surprise and dismay, the other with an oath of anger, while
both had grown deathly pale.
"Pardon me, sir, but are you not somewhat brusque and uncourteous in
your demeanor?" Vane demanded, with some hauteur. "Who are you, and what
do you want?"
"I want to meet the woman whom report says you are to marry or have
married. I want to meet her here and now, in your presence," was the
quick, passionate, quivering response.
Lord Cameron shuddered and grew white to his lips at this imperative
demand, and wondered if the man was mad.
"That is impossible," he said, in a husky voice. Then he added, in a
conciliatory tone, for something seemed to tell him that the man was in
great mental suffering, though he had not a suspicion of its cause: "But
pray explain why you make such a request. Who are you sir?"
"My name is Wallace Hamilton Richardson," tersely returned the stranger.
Vane Cameron recoiled as if the man had struck him a blow instead of
simply stating his name.
He was so much overcome by the announcement that those observing him
feared he was upon the point of fainting, strong man though he was.
"Wallace Richardson--from America?" he whispered, hoarsely.
"Yes."
"I--I thought you were dead! She believed you were dead!" the young lord
returned, with ashen lips.
"Dead!" repeated Wallace, wonderingly, his hitherto inflexible face
softening a trifle. "Oh, say it again--does Violet really believe that I
am dead?" and the eager, quivering tones rang sharply through the room.
"Yes, she believes so; it was so announced in one of the American
papers," Lord Cameron replied, with something more of composure, but
never losing that first look of horror.
Like a flash Wallace wheeled about and faced Wilhelm Mencke and his
trembling wife.
"Then that was some more of your miserable work!" he cried, in a
terrible voice, "a diabolical plot to separate us. From the first you
have left nothing undone to part us, and so, when all else failed, you
reported me dead, knowing well that she would never marry another while
she believed me to be living. Oh! I see it all now, and my love, my
love, I have wronged you!" he concluded, in a tone of anguish.
When he had turned with such fiery denunciation upon them, Mrs. Mencke
shrank from him with such an expression of awe, fear, and guilt upon her
face, that she was instantly self-condemned; every one in the room was
as sure that she had caused that lying paragraph, announcing Wallace's
death, to be inserted in the paper to mislead Violet, as if she had
openly confessed it.
"Did you do it--did you drive that poor child thus to promise to become
my wife?" demanded Lord Cameron, in a voice that was like the ominous
calm before a tempest.
The woman was speechless; but her guilty eyes drooped beneath his stern
look, for she knew that her miserable secret was revealed.
"You do not know what you have done," Wallace cried, growing wild again,
"but you will pay dearly for your treachery--ha! ha! you little dream
how dearly it will cost you, when the consequences of your wretched plot
shall be noised abroad from the aristocratic summit upon which you have
hitherto so proudly stood, and from which you will soon be ruthlessly
hurled."
Wilhelm Mencke, having by this time begun to recover somewhat from the
shock of Wallace's unexpected appearance, commenced to bluster:
"Look here, you young upstart," he cried, growing very red in the face,
and assuming a threatening attitude, "all these charges and accusations
may or may not be true--we won't discuss that point just now; but
whether it is or not, it can be no possible concern of yours. I should
like to know what you mean by bursting in upon respectable people in
this rude way. What was Violet to you?--what right or business have you
to interfere with whatever she might have chosen to do?"
"The most sacred right in the world, sir, for--she is my wife!"