"HAVE YOU PRAYED TO-NIGHT, DESDEMONA?"
The sun went down--a fierce and wrathful sunset. Black and brazen
yellow flamed in the western sky; the sea lay glassy and breathless;
the wind came in fitful gusts until the sun went down, and then died
out in dead and ominous calm; night fell an hour before its time.
My lady sat by her chamber window, looking out at black sea and blacker
sky. Exquisite pictures, wonderful bric-a-brac treasures, inlaid
tables and cabinets, richest carpets and curtains, and chairs that were
like ivory touched up with gold, made the room a miracle of beauty.
But my lady herself, sitting alone amid the rose-colored curtains,
looking blankly out at the menacing sky, wore a face as dark as that
sky itself. She had wasted to a shadow; dark circles under her hollow
eyes told of sleepless nights and wretched days; her cheeks were
haggard, her lips bloodless.
The white morning-dress she still wore clung loosely around her wasted
figure; all the bright hair was pushed impatiently off her face and
confined in a net.
No one who had seen Harrie Hunsden, radiant as Hebe, blooming as Venus,
daring as Diana, at the memorable fox-hunt of a little more than a year
ago, would ever have recognized this haggard, pallid, wretched-looking
Lady Kingsland as the same.
She sat still and alone, gazing out at the dreary desolation of earth
and heaven. The great house was still as a tomb; the bustle of the
servants' regions was far removed, the gnawing of a mouse behind the
black paneling, the soft ticking of the toy clock sounded unnaturally
loud.
"Darkening," Harriet thought, looking at the leaden
twilight--"darkening, like my life. Not two months a wife, and his
love and trust gone forever. May Heaven pity me, for there is none on
earth!"
There was a tap at the door. Lady Kingsland had learned to know that
soft, light tap.
"Come in," she said; and Sybilla entered.
She did not pause at the closed door as usual; she glided noiselessly
across the room and stood beside her. So like a ghost she came, her
dead-black garments making no rustle, her footfall making no sound, her
white face awfully corpse-like in the spectral light, her black eyes
glowing like a cat's in the dark; my lady shrunk in absolute affright.
"Don't come any nearer!" she cried, putting out her hands. "What do
you want?"
"I have seen Mr. Parmalee, my lady."
Her tones were the same as usual--respectful. But the gentle voice did
not reassure Lady Kingsland.
"Well?" she said, coldly.
"He will be there, my lady. At half past eleven to-night you will
find--your mother"--slowly and distinctly--"waiting for you on the
terrace down by the shore."
"Half past eleven. Why so very late?"
"My lady, it will not be safe for you to venture out before. You are
watched!"
"Watched!" she repeated, haughtily. "Do you mean, Sybilla Silver--"
"I mean, my lady," Miss Silver said, firmly, "Sir Everard has set
spies. The Beech Walk is watched by night and by day. Claudine is
little better than a tool in the hands of Edwards, the valet, with whom
she is in love. She tells everything to Edwards, and Edwards repeats
to his master. A quarter past eleven all will be still--the household
will have retired--you may venture forth in safety. The night will be
dark, the way lonely and dismal; but you know it every inch. On the
stone terrace, at half past eleven, you will find--your mother awaiting
you. You can talk to her in perfect safety, and for as long as you
choose."
"Have you seen her?" she asked.
"At the window of the Blue Belt Inn--yes, my lady. It is very rash for
her to expose herself, too, for hers is a face to strike attention at
once, if only for the wreck of its beauty, and for its unutterable look
of despair. But as she leaves again soon, I dare say nothing will come
of it."
"When do they leave?"
"To-night. It appears a friend of Mr. Parmalee is captain of a little
vessel down in the harbor, and he sails for Southampton at the turn of
the tide--somewhere past midnight. It is a very convenient arrangement
for all parties. By the by, Mr. Parmalee told me to remind you, my
lady, of the three hundred pounds."
"Mr. Parmalee is impertinent. I need no reminder. Have you anything
more to say, Miss Silver?"
"Only this, my lady: the servants' entrance on the south side of the
house will be the safest way for you to take, and the nearest. If you
dread the long, dark walk, my lady, I will be only too happy to
accompany you."
"You are very good. I don't in the least dread it. When I wish you to
accompany me anywhere I will say so."
Sybilla bowed, and the darkness hid a sinister smile.
"You have no orders for me, then, my lady?"
"None. Yes, you had better see Claudine, and say I shall not require
her services to-night. Inform me when the servants have all retired,
and"--a momentary hesitation, but still speaking proudly--"does Sir
Everard dine at home this evening?"
"Sir Everard just rode off as I came in, my lady. He dines with Major
Morrell and the officers, and will not return until past midnight, very
likely. He is always late at those military dinners."
"That will do; you may go."
"Shall I not light the lamp, my lady?"
"No; be good enough to leave me."
Sybilla quitted the room, her white teeth, set together in a viperish
clinch.
"How she hates me, and how resolved she is to show it! Very well, my
lady. You don't hate me one thousandth part as much as I hate you; and
yet my hatred of you is but a drop in the ocean compared to my deadly
vengeance against your husband. Go, my haughty Lady Kingsland--go to
your tryst--go to your death!"
Left alone, Harriet sat in the deepening darkness for over three hours,
never moving--still and motionless as if turned to stone.
The pretty Swiss clock played a waltz preparatory to striking eleven.
She sat and listened until the last musical chime died away; then she
rose, groped her way to the low, marble chimney-piece, struck a
lucifer, and lighted a large lamp.
The brilliant light flooded the room. Sybilla's rap came that same
instant softly upon the door.
"My lady."
"I hear," my lady said, not opening it. "What is it?"
"All have retired; the house is as still as the grave. The south door
is unfastened; the coast is clear."
"It is well. Good-night."
"Good-night."
She stood a moment listening to the soft rustle of Miss Silver's skirts
in the passage, then, slowly and mechanically, she began to prepare for
her night's work.
She took a long, shrouding mantle, wrapped it around her, drew the hood
over her head, and exchanged her slippers for stout walking shoes.
Then she unlocked her writing-case and drew forth a roll of bank-notes,
thrust them into her bosom, and stood ready.
But she paused an instant yet. She stood before one of the full-length
mirrors, looking at her spectral face, so hollow, so haggard, out of
which all the youth and beauty seemed gone.
"And this is what one short month ago he called bright and
beautiful--this wasted, sunken-eyed vision. Youth and beauty, love and
trust and happiness, home and husband, all lost. Oh, my father, what
have you done?"
She gave one dry, tearless sob. The clock struck the quarter past.
The sound aroused her.
"My mother," she said--"let me think I go to meet my mother. Sinful,
degraded, an outcast, but still my mother. Let me think of that, and
be brave."
She opened her door; the stillness of death reigned. She glided down
the corridor, down the sweeping stair-way, the soft carpeting muffling
every tread--the dim night-lamps lighting her on her way.
No human sound startled her. All in the house were peacefully
asleep--all save that flying figure, and one other wicked watcher. She
gained the door in safety. It yielded to her touch. She opened it,
and was out alone in the black, gusty night.
Harriet Kingsland's brave heart quailed only for a moment; then she
plunged resolutely forward into the gloom. Slipping, stumbling,
falling, rising again, the wind beating in her face, the branches
catching like angry hands at her garments--still she hurried on. It
was a long, long, tortuous path, but it came to an end. The roar of
the sea sounded awfully loud as it rose in sullen majesty, the flags of
the stone terrace rang under her feet. Panting, breathless, cold as
death, she leaned against the iron railing, her hands pressed hard over
her tumultuous heart.
It was light here. A fitful midnight moon, pale and feeble, was
breaking through a rift in the clouds, and shedding its sickly glimmer
over the black earth and raging sea. To her eyes, accustomed to the
dense darkness, every object was plainly visible. She strained her
gaze over the waves to catch the coming boat she knew was to bear those
she had come to meet; she listened breathlessly to every sound. But
for a weary while she listened, and watched, and waited in vain. What
was that? A footstep crashing through the under-wood near at hand.
She turned with a wordless cry of terror. A tall, dark figure emerged
from the trees and strode straight toward her. An awful voice spoke:
"I swore by the Lord who made me I would murder you if you ever came
again to meet that man. False wife, accursed traitoress, meet your
doom!"
She uttered a long, low cry. She recognized the voice--it was the
voice of her husband; she recognized the form--her husband's--towering
over her, with a long, gleaming dagger in his hand.