After Henry left the room, Agnes, having inveighed with more than her
usual bitterness against all persons, good or bad, and all events,
past, present, or to come, retired to bed, leaving Marion to muse with
saddened feelings on the untoward turn which her sister's mind was
likely to take for the future, which rendered her every day a more
uncongenial companion, as now Agnes had come to the final conclusion
that she was herself the victim of unmerited and unmitigated
misfortune.
About ten o'clock, Marion lighted her candle to retire, and was slowly
leaving the room, when she became startled by suddenly hearing,
immediately below her window, in the street, a noise of scuffling and
shouting, mingled with vehement cries for help, and dreadful oaths,
till at length a wild and horrid shriek arose, which thrilled to her
very heart. Having hastily summoned Martin, who hurried to the door,
she paused some moments in an agony of alarm, and then rushing to the
window, threw it open, and gazed out, being so close to the combatants
that she could almost have touched them. Two men were engaged,
apparently, in desperate conflict, while Marion's eyes became fixed on
them with the fascination of fear. She could not scream--she could not
move: she seemed to have lost all power of motion, while watching the
whole scene with harrowing interest, yet with the vague indistinctness
of a dream. It seemed as if some frightful night-mare were upon her,
and as if she were chained to the spot, yet there was a frightful
reality in all that followed. It was a fierce and deadly struggle,
carried on with the energetic strength of despair. Again and again, in
a hoarse, deep voice, the fearful cry arose on the night air, of
"Murder!" mingled with agonizing cries for help. Marion clung to the
window for support, and shivered from head to foot; while she still
heard the loud trampling of feet, the fierce tones of defiance,
threatening, groans of suppressed anguish, and then a loud, delirious
shriek of agony, followed by a sharp, gasping cry, when one of the
combatants fell suddenly to the ground, as if a hundred daggers had
pierced him.
Windows were now thrown open on every side, the watchman's rattle
became audible, there was a tread of many feet, the sound of many
voices, and all seemed to promise speedy aid, when, amidst the
death-like silence beside her window, Marion heard a strange, unearthly
laugh, which sounded more appalling in a such a scene than all she had
yet beheld. A mysterious dread fell over her heart, her eyes swam, her
brain reeled, a faint sickness came upon her, she made a feeble attempt
to support herself against the window, and, with a convulsive sigh,
sank almost insensible on a seat. When Marion recovered, a low,
murmuring sound of many voices became audible. Martin hastily opened
the door, and a crowd of strange faces appeared, pale and full of
horror; while several men almost staggered beneath the weight of a
shutter, on which lay a motionless figure, partly concealed by a cloak,
with a bloody napkin over the face; while the stillness, the stiff and
rigid look of that immovable form, could indicate nothing but death.
There was that in the voices of those who entered which caused Marion's
nerves to creep with apprehension. A low murmur stole through the
crowd, while, shivering with apprehension, she silently gazed on the
stone-like, lifeless image before her. The hair was damp and matted
with gore, the hands were clenched in agony, the dress soiled with clay
and blood; but the tall figure retained a look of solemn dignity; and
Marion felt a cold thrill shoot through her heart, while her eyes
became riveted on that ghastly object.
Though unable to speak, or to ask a single question, her mind was
intensely conscious of all that passed; while many surmises were
whispered around respecting the cause and origin of this fearful
catastrophe, and much impatience was expressed for the proper
authorities to arrive and take cognizance of the circumstances. Marion,
at length, feeling herself alone among so great a concourse of
strangers, had slowly turned to leave the room, when her ear was caught
by hearing the name of De Lancey, and, turning hastily round, she
started to find Lord Wigton close beside her, in earnest conference
with an officer, who remarked, in low, ominous accents, "I am perfectly
well aware that several discussions took place between them lately,
respecting the circumstances of his childhood, though I understood them
to be of a friendly nature; but this very evening, at Mrs. Smytheson's,
some very high words, passed relating to a young lady." A faint chill
came over Marion as she heard these words, and turning, with a
bewildered look, to the speaker, she asked, in a low, deep voice, if he
knew anything of Henry De Lancey.
"Yes! only too much, if all be as we suspect," replied the stranger
sternly. "I always liked De Lancey; but if he had any hand in this
business, great as the provocation may have been, he would be more like
an Italian assassin than a British officer. He was heard once to
declare the greatest abhorrence to duelling; but these canting sort of
speeches never come to any good. At Mrs. Smytheson's, not two hours
ago, he seemed very violently irritated against my unfortunate friend
who lies murdered there."
Marion's countenance became pale and terror-stricken; she looked
irresolutely round, and then, with faltering steps, approached a table
on which the corpse had been laid. She could not speak, and her hand
trembled convulsively; but she grasped a napkin which shrouded the
features of the deceased. Slowly and fearfully she raised it, gave one
shrinking glance, and, with a broken shriek of astonishment, beheld,
stained with blood, and rigid as marble, the well-known features of
Captain De Crespigny.
Marion's heart stood still, a cold shiver ran through her frame, and,
tottering back, with a gasp of pallid horror, she sank upon a seat,
where her blanched cheek and quivering lip revealed the agony of her
amazement and horror. Conscious at once that this must be the work of
Ernest Anstruther, still the world seemed to rock beneath her feet,
with the vibration of crime and misery; while, covering her face with
her hands, she tried to shut out the very thought of all she had
beheld.
Martin had sent an express instantly to Lord Doncaster; and, meanwhile,
the dreadful tale flew far and wide; while the universal appetite for
horror seemed on this occasion more than satiated. A young, handsome,
and talented officer, thus brought down, by some mysterious agency, to
the dust of death! It was appalling; and throughout the whole
neighborhood, a spirit of eager, burning, impatient curiosity, became
general.
A summons at length arrived, for all present to proceed instantly to
Kilmarnock Abbey, that depositions might be taken before Lord Doncaster
and the nearest magistrates, while Marion as a witness was obliged
immediately to appear there, that her testimony might assist with that
of others in clearing up the tragical mystery. The unwarrantable
suspicions which had been expressed respecting Henry, formed a strong
additional motive to Marion for consenting to accompany the melancholy
cavalcade, as she was anxious at once publicly to acquit him, knowing
that, as the proverb says, "if a lie has no feet on which to stand, it
has always wings with which to fly round the world."
Marion hastened into a carriage which had been sent, that she might
follow the body to Kilmarnock Abbey, where she was ushered before long
within the house. It was a solemn scene! That large, old hall hung with
antique armour, spears, horns, cross-bows, and portraits of many a
long-forgotten ancestor. The gothic stained window, magnificent in its
proportions, the ancient grained roof, the black oaken panels, the
cumbrous, carved woodwork, the marble floor, and the faded tapestry,
all dimly illuminated by the glimmering of a single lamp hastily
lighted for the occasion. An uncertain, mysterious gleam was cast on
the nearest objects, while the more distant recesses were thrown into
gloomy shadow, and the tumultuous agitation of those around contrasted
strangely with the locked and riveted limbs of that motionless figure
to which all eyes were directed, the rigid stillness and stern
composure of that countenance now invested with all the majesty of
death, from which Marion turned with shuddering sympathy and amazement,
while the multitude of servants and spectators continued in a state of
wild excitement, uttering on every side subdued exclamations of horror.
At length Lord Doncaster himself slowly entered, with several
gentlemen, some of whom looked deeply concerned, while others were
evidently no more affected than if they had come to see the fifth act
of a well-performed tragedy. Among the first to appear was Henry De
Lancey, to whom Marion had instantly sent an express, and, totally
unconscious of exciting more than ordinary notice, he advanced to Lord
Doncaster with an expression of heartfelt sorrow, wishing to volunteer
his services in unraveling the appalling and mysterious events of the
night. While some eyes were turned on Henry with eager and intense
scrutiny, an anxious investigation was commenced, though without
success, for no clue could be obtained which threw any light upon this
treacherous and unaccountable murder.
Not a whisper was heard, while Henry at once related all which had
passed that night between himself and Captain De Crespigny, during the
angry dialogue which had been overheard between them; but as delicacy
to Agnes prevented him from being perfectly explicit respecting the
cause of their dissension, several questions were asked, which he felt
obliged to decline answering, though a cloud of suspicion gradually
gathered over the countenances of several spectators, when he
acknowledged having been in company with the deceased a very few
minutes before the catastrophe, and that they had separated in anger.
All that could be ascertained for certain was, that Captain De
Crespigny had passed the evening at Mrs. Smytheson's--that he seemed in
unusual spirits, which is always remembered to have been the case with
those who suffer some sudden calamity--that he had spoken of plans
involving many years of life and health--that he had mentioned to Lord
Wigton differences having arisen lately between him and Henry De
Lancey--and that some one had been observed lurking near the door, when
he took leave at night of his cousin, Miss Howard, to whom he said in
his usual tone of characteristic gallantry, "I shall count the minutes
till we meet to-morrow."
Little did he then, in the bright glow of youth, health, and spirits,
foresee what that to-morrow should produce!
No farther information could be elicited except the evidence of Marion,
who described, in faltering accents, the deadly conflict she had
witnessed; but, being unable to see the assassin, she could afford no
assistance in identifying him; though she declared in the strongest
terms, that in height and form he bore no resemblance to any one she
had ever seen before, unless it were the madman, Ernest Anstruther. To
have explicitly denied that it was Henry, would have seemed like a
tacit acknowledgment that such a thing might have been conjectured; and
Marion abhorred the very thought of his name being at all implicated in
a catastrophe so revolting.
Some time elapsed before it occurred to the imagination of Henry, that
the eye of suspicion could for a moment rest upon him; and when the
idea flashed into his mind, it seemed so perfectly preposterous, as to
be scarcely worth a thought; but he now perceived with indignant
astonishment, that there were those among the spectators who cast on
him dark glances of doubt and suspicion; therefore feeling that to be
accused, even in momentary thought, of a deed from which his very soul
would have shrunk, was intolerable, he advanced without a moment's
hesitation towards the table before which Lord Doncaster was seated;
and, placing his hand upon that of the corpse beside him, he spoke in a
firm and decided tone, though evidently with deep emotion, while the
spectators crushed forward to hear him, and the dead silence around
gave a solemn distinctness to his words, uttered, as they were, in a
low, impressive tone.
"I perceive--with what degree of astonishment no words can
describe--that I--the last man on earth who would seek the life of
another, even in open and honorable conflict--that I, who had for my
benefactor and instructor the most upright and excellent of men--am
now, by a strange combination of circumstances, likely to become
suspected of a dastardly and treacherous assassination! I disdain to
make any paltry asseverations of innocence! yet, let me not blame any
man for what he thinks! This is a time of sudden and mysterious alarm!
The calamitous event is as little to be accounted for, as it is deeply
to be deplored. Already I have buried in oblivion every cause of
irritation which had recently arisen between us. Nothing personal to
myself had caused our alienation. The deceased acted on many occasions
towards me formerly with the kindest consideration, which I am as ready
now to remember, as I am also to forget all that ever was painful or
unsatisfactory between us."
Henry bent his head to Lord Doncaster with an air of resolute but
melancholy composure, and stood back while several other persons gave
their evidence, and Marion observed with surprise, that, instead of
being occupied in attending to their depositions, young De Lancey gazed
with a look of wondering perplexity all around the large, old-fashioned
hall, while, with an expression of absent astonishment, his eye
wandered over the gigantic chimney-piece of quaint device, the rusty
armour and trophies of the chase, the old historical furniture, the
tapestried chairs, the statues, and the richly sculptured ceiling. At
length he glanced towards Lord Doncaster, who had been for some time
keenly observing him, but whose looks were now hastily averted, while
apparently occupied in arranging some papers, and it was evident that
the aged peer's hand shook with agitation. Much might, of course, be
attributed to the fearful event of the night, and yet Marion felt that
this emotion did not originate from the same cause, for the Marquis
cast frequently a furtive glance at Henry, though avoiding observation,
and his excitement obviously increased.
Young De Lancey seemed evidently struggling with some painful,
agitating perplexity! Again he perused the room with a scrutinizing
gaze, and again his eye became fastened on the aged features of Lord
Doncaster with a steady, earnest examination; while still the
expression of doubt and wonder on his countenance became more obvious,
as if he were attempting to stir up some recollections which would not
come at his bidding. Turning at length to Marion, he whispered in a
low, almost dreaming tone, "It is long,--very long since I have been
here! When did I see this apartment last?"
"You, Henry! never! My uncle ceased to visit Lord Doncaster ages ago!
Indeed, they rather disliked each other than otherwise! We never were
in this old hall before!"
"And yet, Marion," replied Henry, in a tone of increasing decision,
while his eye still wandered round with a look of intense curiosity, "I
could swear that every object in this room is familiar to my memory.
That oak roof blackened with age; those time-stained walls; those
strange old portraits and their massy frames! I seem to look back
through a dark mist, and to remember scenes and circumstances which
occurred in this apartment long ages ago!"
"Yes, Henry! every person living is subject to these unaccountable
delusions! It has often been mentioned as extraordinary, that, when any
very agitated scenes occur, people are apt to feel that sort of
dreaming fancy you describe, as if the whole had been acted over in
their sight before."
"No, Marion, it is not so! The whole is a distinct reality! A hundred
recollections arise like phantoms, and struggle in my memory. Yes! I
have stood upon this floor in former years! I have gazed upon every
object you see there! This was once my home! There, in that large old
chair, I have sat on my mother's knee, and the aged countenance of Lord
Doncaster himself is indelibly imprinted on my recollection."
"Impossible!"
"True, Marion! most true! A thousand remembrances pour in like a flood
upon me! This room has often appeared before my eyes in a dream! it is
connected with my earliest years! Look at the farthest corner of this
hall,--behind that damask curtain stands a secret door, and it leads to
a room where I could swear that some hours of my life were formerly
passed, when or why I cannot even guess. Marion, the house is crowded
at present, and we shall not be remarked, let us verify my
recollection, by gradually approaching the concealed door, and then you
will be convinced that memory has not deceived me."
When Henry, by a slow and difficult progress, had piloted Marion
through the dense mass of persons who filled the hall, they reached at
length the spot he had indicated, where, lifting the tapestry, he at
once opened a door, so nearly resembling the paneling as scarcely to be
discernible, and they entered a small, low room, which seemed to Marion
no larger than a four-post bed, so dusty, dark, and neglected-looking,
that it had evidently not been occupied for years. Long cobwebs hung
like banners from the roof,--it was almost destitute of furniture--and
they found a picture placed on the floor, its face towards the wall,
representing a lady, young and dazzlingly beautiful, and a boy beside
her, playing with a large Newfoundland dog.
Henry silently strode across the room, and, as if perfectly familiar
with its arrangements, he threw open a small cupboard, into which had
been thrown the broken fragments of several childish playthings. He
paused and gave an agitated look towards Marion. His countenance had
become pale, and wore the same expression as at first, of almost
agonizing perplexity, while he was evidently groping through the
darkest recesses of his memory for that which still eluded his grasp.
Leaning his head on his hand, with eyes fixed on the portrait before
him, Henry remained long in this agitating reverie, his countenance
flushed by the inward tumult, while hunting through his recollection
for a more defined shadow of that which flickered in his brain, and
Marion silently observed him. She did not speak, she scarcely even
breathed, for now it seemed to her as if some mystery were there too
deep for her to fathom, connected probably with Henry's early history,
and a secret hope glimmered on her mind that possibly the time had come
at last when a clue might be obtained to the mystery of Henry's birth
and misfortunes.
The child, whose portrait they had here discovered, bore an obvious
resemblance to Henry De Lancey, as she first remembered him. The very
dress was similar, and all around brought to mind what Henry had once
described of his early home. It seemed to Marion as if this were the
very crisis of his existence, and she waited in silent hope, expecting
that the moment might come, when he would again speak to tell her his
thoughts; but a deep oppression seemed gathering over his spirit, he
riveted his hands over his face, as if anxious thus to shut out the
world, and every thing in it, from his shrinking memory, and there was
a silence around like death itself.