up her embroidery. ‘It is pleasant to know that there is a little
gratitude left in the world; only I wish, somehow, that to-day, of all
days, he had not spoken to me about a past which I so often pray that
I might be able to forget. Was it not enough that the writing of that
letter this morning should cause all my old wounds to bleed afresh,
should call up one spectre after another which I would fain chain
down for ever in the lowest dungeon of my memory! Yes, the letter is
written which reveals the secret of my life—a secret unknown even to
dear Clarice. What will he say, what will he do, when he has read it?
I fear, and yet I hope. If I did not hope a little, I should be one of
the most miserable women alive.’
She rose, opened her sunshade, and stepped down from the veranda on to
the lawn. Here she paced slowly to and fro. For the time being she had
that part of the grounds to herself.
‘Two months ago, he asked me to marry him, and I refused, although
even then I had learned to love him. But how could I say Yes with that
terrible secret clinging round me like a shroud? When he was gone, and
I thought I had lost him for ever, I found out how dear he was to me.
Five days ago he came again and told me that his feelings were still
unchanged. My heart refused to say No, and yet I dreaded to say Yes. He
went away unanswered. But to-day he is coming back—to-day must decide
the happiness or misery of all my life to come.’ She sighed deeply, and
closing her sunshade, went slowly back to her seat in the veranda.
‘He asks no questions, he seeks to know nothing of my past life. But
if I were to marry him without telling him, and some day, by some
strange chance, he were to learn the truth, would he not say that I
had deceived him? Would not his love?—— No, no; I dare not. Come what
may, he must know the truth before it is too late, and then if he—— O
Harold, Harold! why have you taught me to love you so deeply!’
Her head drooped forward into her hands. She thought herself unseen;
but her sister had entered the sitting-room unheard, and was now
standing at the open window, gazing at her.
‘Mora dear, what is the matter? what is amiss? are you ill?’ she asked
as she crossed to her sister. Then drawing up a footstool, she sat down
on it, and took one of Mora’s hands in both hers.
‘The matter, dear! Nothing. What should be the matter?’ asked the
latter with a fine assumption of indifference, but her under-lip
trembled so much that she was fain to bite it.
‘That is just what I want to find out,’ answered Clarice. ‘For the last
four days there has been a change in you, that puzzles me and makes me
unhappy. You scarcely speak, you scarcely eat, you shut yourself up in
your room; nothing seems to interest you. Since Colonel Woodruffe was
here, you have been a changed woman.’
‘Colonel Woodruffe!’
‘Ah, Mora dear, you can’t deceive me. Since I began to love Archie, I
see many things that I never used to think of before. One thing I see,
and see plainly, that Colonel Woodruffe is very much in love with my
sister.’
‘Clarice!’
‘Oh, I know quite well what I am talking about. I say again that
he loves you. And, O Mora, he is so good, so kind, such a _preux
chevalier_ in every way, that if you could only find in your heart to
love him a little in return, it would make me very, very happy!’
‘Why should it make you happy, dear?’
Clarice, who was still holding one of her sister’s hands, pressed it
fondly to her cheek, and for a moment or two she did not speak.
‘Because—because you know, darling, that when Archie and I are married,
I may be compelled to leave you,’ she said at last with a little break
in her voice. ‘And think how lonely you will be then! But if you and
Colonel Woodruffe were married, I’——
Madame De Vigne did not let her finish, but turning up the fair young
face, bent down her own and kissed it.
‘Hush! you foolish child; you must not talk in that way,’ she said. ‘I
had to live a lonely life for years while you were away at school, and
should it ever become needful, I daresay I could do the same again.’
‘It will nearly break my heart if I am compelled to leave you.’
‘You must not say that, dear.’
‘Do you know, Mora, as I lay awake last night, my thoughts all at once
went back to that day, now so many years ago, when poor mamma lay
dying—when she took your hand and placed it on my head, and said in a
voice so faint that we could scarcely hear it: “When I am gone, Mora,
you must be mother and sister in one to my little Clari.” You were only
a girl yourself at the time, but from that day you devoted yourself to
me. I lost one mother, only to find another in you!’
‘Your love, darling, has repaid me a hundredfold for everything,’
answered Mora while her fingers touched the young girl’s hair
caressingly.
‘Here comes Miss Gaisford,’ cried Clarice, a moment later, as she
started to her feet.
‘Why did you stir?’ said the vicar’s sister. ‘You made such a pretty
picture as I walked up from the lake, that I should like to have
sketched you then and there.’ Then turning to Clarice, ‘Any news yet?’
she asked.
The answer was a doleful shake of the head. ‘I begin to think there
never will be any news again.’
‘Oh, but there will. Don’t be in too great a hurry to begin the next
chapter of your romance; enjoy the present one while it lasts.’
At this moment, Nanette, Madame De Vigne’s maid, put in an appearance.
‘Tea is served, madame,’ she said.
‘The very thing I was longing for,’ remarked Miss Gaisford.
Clarice followed Nanette into the room.
‘Has Colonel Woodruffe arrived yet?’ asked Miss Gaisford.
‘His train is due at seven-thirty.’
‘These are trying moments for you, my dear friend.’
‘I would not live the last five days over again for—well, not for a
very great deal,’ answered Madame De Vigne as she stepped from the
veranda into the room.
‘Here am I, the sister of a quiet country parson,’ remarked Miss
Gaisford to herself as she lingered behind for a moment, ‘who never had
a love affair of my own, made a confidant in the love affairs of two
other people! It’s delightful—it’s bewildering—it’s far better than
any novel. Two plots in real life working themselves out under my very
eyes! My poor stories will seem dreadfully tame after this.’ She smiled
and shook her curls, and then went in search of a cup of tea.
* * * * *
While this had been going on, a stranger had stepped out of the hotel
and sauntered across the lawn, and sat down on the seat erstwhile
occupied by Mr Dulcimer. There was nothing in his appearance calculated
to draw the special attention of any one to him, and no one seemed
to bestow more notice on him than they might have done on any other
commonplace tourist. He was a tall, thin man, with sandy hair, and a
reddish, close-cropped beard and moustache. An artist who might have
scanned his features with a view to painting them, would probably have
said that his eyes were too close together, and that they were deeper
set in their orbits than is at all common. Their habitual expression,
when he was not talking to any one, seemed to be one of listening
watchfulness, as though he were continually expecting some tidings, or
some strange event to happen of which he might hear the news at any
moment. He was dressed in an ordinary tourist suit, with a large,
soft felt hat. He sat down on the bench, crossed his legs, and lit a
cigarette.
He went on smoking for a few moments, as if in contemplative enjoyment
of his cigarette. Then he extracted from his pocket a telegram in
cipher, which had reached him that morning at a little country
post-office some fifty miles away. The telegram was headed, ‘From John
Smith, London, to Cornelius Santelle, Post-office, Morsby-in-the-Marsh.’
The stranger proceeded to read the telegram, translating it slowly word
by word.
“You will take up your quarters at the _Palatine Hotel_, Windermere, at
which place you will be joined in the course of to-morrow by B. and K.,
who will arrive at different times by different trains.”—B. and K. must
mean Borovski and Koriloff.—“They will place themselves unreservedly
at your disposal, their orders being to take the whole of their
instructions from you. Meanwhile, you will make all needful inquiries
as instructed, so that no unnecessary time may be lost. You are fully
aware of the arrangements that are always made in circumstances of a
similar kind.”’
He folded up the telegram and put it away again. ‘Well, here I am at
the _Palatine Hotel_, and a very pretty place it is, and quiet—oh,
very quiet. Perhaps before next week at this time, the good people—and
they all look very good—may have something to talk about—something to
wake them up a little, and stir the torpid current of their lives. Who
knows?’
Although he spoke his thoughts half aloud, as men sometimes get into
the habit of doing who have lived much alone, and have been debarred
by circumstances from that amount of human companionship which is
needful for every one’s health of mind, yet any one who might have
wished to overhear what he was saying, would have had to be in very
close proximity to him indeed. It is not impossible that at some
period of his life this man may have undergone a long term of solitary
confinement, and that his habit of talking aloud to himself dated its
origin and growth from that time.
Whether this Mr Santelle was an Englishman or a foreigner was a
question which might well have puzzled many people, especially those
individuals whose travels had never extended beyond their own insular
boundaries. If his English differed by certain fine shades from that
which a cultured Londoner speaks, it was certainly in no point like the
English of Northumberland or Devon. Mr Santelle spoke with very slight
traces of an alien accent; the difference in his case consisted chiefly
in an almost imperceptible lengthening of some of the vowels, and a
slightly more emphatic enunciation of certain syllables over which the
native tongue glides as if they had no separate existence.
Mr Santelle flung away the end of his cigarette and drew a small
memorandum book from his pocket. ‘What was the name of the man I was to
ask for?’ he said as he turned over the leaves of the book.—‘Ah, here
it is. Jules Decroze, waiter at the _Palatine Hotel_. Good.’
He shut up the book and put it away, and then he turned his head in
the direction of the main entrance to the hotel. An open carriage
was standing there containing two travellers, who were on the point
of departure. There too stood Jules the waiter, superintending the
arrangements. ‘Yonder man looks somewhat like the one I want,’ murmured
Mr Santelle. ‘We shall soon find out.’
He sat watching till the carriage which held the travellers drove away.
Then he held up a finger in readiness to catch the eye of Jules, should
the latter look his way. As if unwittingly magnetised, Jules a moment
or two later turned and looked in the direction of the stranger. Then
the finger beckoned him. He crossed the lawn leisurely with his napkin
thrown over his arm after the manner of his class.
‘A votre service, m’sieur,’ he said with a little bow and a smile. He
seemed instinctively to recognise that the stranger who had summoned
him was not an Englishman.
‘Oblige me with your name, my friend,’ said Mr Santelle in French.
‘When I require a person, I like to know how to ask for him.’
‘My name is Jules Decroze, at monsieur’s service.’
‘Once on a time passing under the name of Jean Reboul, and previously
to that known to the world as Pierre Lebrun.’
‘How! monsieur knows’—— exclaimed the little Frenchman with a gasp.
‘Perfectly,’ answered the other impassively. Then he rapidly made
certain cabalistic signs with his fingers.
The face of Jules turned as white as the napkin on his arm.
Then still addressing him in French, the mysterious stranger said in
his most impressive tones: ‘_The right hand of the Czar is frozen._’
To which, after a moment or two, the blanched lips of Jules framed the
response: ‘But Signor Sanguinetti lives and is well.’
For an instant or two the men gazed into each other’s eyes. ‘It is
well,’ said the stranger presently. ‘We understand each other.’
‘Monsieur has something to say to me—some instructions to impart?’ said
the other obsequiously, while his knees shook under him.
‘I have. Come to my room at midnight, and I will talk with you.’
‘I am at the service of monsieur.’
‘Till midnight, then.’
‘Till midnight.’
With a low bow, Jules turned and went. Santelle watched him with a grim
smile as long as he was visible, then he lit another cigarette, and
sauntered down the winding path that led from the high ground of the
hotel to the level of the lake.
ORKNEY FOLK-LORE.
LEGEND OF THE DWARFIE STONE.
Not the least interesting of archæological remains in the Orkneys is
the Dwarfie Stone, which has given rise to much speculation on the part
of the learned. Situated in a beautiful valley among the hills in the
island of Hoy, the stone cannot fail to attract the attention of the
traveller, both on account of its size—some twenty-eight by fourteen
feet—and its romantic situation. A close inspection of this natural
curiosity puts one in possession of the fact, that human ingenuity
has been exercised to render what was originally a solid block of
sandstone, a shelter for man. Whether the implements used were flint or
steel, we know not; but certain it is that a chamber has been hollowed
out of the stone, to which there is access through a doorway and a hole
on the top.
We have no clue to the name of the architect of this strange dwelling.
He probably belonged to a race long since extinct, whose history is
unwritten; but that the Dwarfie Stone at various periods harboured men,
who, either from necessity or a love of solitude, sought there a refuge
‘far from the madding crowd,’ is evidenced by the traditionary tales
related of its several tenants. The following legend embodies the most
popular of these.
Not even the oldest inhabitant of Hoy could remember when Snorro the
Dwarf took up his abode in the hollow stone in the green valley far
away among the hills. Indeed, the country-folk had come to regard his
appearance as coeval with his dwelling. Both were mysterious, and as
like as not, the first might have been the originator of the second.
It was whispered that Snorro was the son of a _trolld_ (Norwegian
fairy), hence his more than human longevity; but that his mother was of
mortal mould. From her he inherited certain characteristics peculiar to
humanity; these were—ambition and vanity; the former being gratified by
the obsequious attitude assumed by all who approached him; the latter,
by the frequent contemplation of his face in a small steel mirror
which he wore round his neck; for Snorro, though short of stature and
distorted of form, possessed a countenance of singular beauty, and
which had hitherto defied the ravages of time.
His days were spent in the gathering of simples, from which he
distilled medicines; and the study of a huge tome inscribed with
ancient runes; Odin’s book, the country-folk called it, crossing
themselves as they mentioned the great enchanter’s name. But though
seemingly intent on the prosecution of his calling as a vendor of drugs
and philters, the Dwarf’s main object in seeking an asylum in such a
remote place, was its proximity to the Wart Hill of Hoy, where he had
reason to believe the magic carbuncle was to be found. The properties
of this famed gem were various. Health, wealth, and happiness, every
good thing that heart could desire, became the possession of the holder
of the talisman. He had but to wish, and on the instant, that which he
coveted was within his grasp. Only at stated times and seasons, and
under certain conditions, did the carbuncle show itself, changeful of
hue as the rainbow, and seemingly as difficult of access. Many had
risked life and limb to obtain it, but hitherto unsuccessfully; for
like the _ignis fatuus_, it eluded all pursuit.
The Dwarf alone cherished the hope of acquiring the gem, being content
in the meantime to earn his livelihood by the sale of medicines and
love-potions. His constant companion and assistant in all his pursuits
was a gray-headed raven. This bird of ill-omen was as much feared
as his master, who exercised unlimited control over the islanders,
settling their disputes, ordering their households, but altogether
behaving in a manner more calculated to earn their dislike than win
their confidence.
Orkney was at this period (1120 A.D.) governed by two earls, Paul and
Harold. They were half-brothers, and totally dissimilar in appearance
and character. Paul, the elder—surnamed the Silent on account of his
taciturnity—was tall and handsome, dark-haired and dark-eyed, excelled
in all knightly exercises, and charmed both his equals and inferiors by
his gentle, affable manners. Harold, the younger, was, on the contrary,
as fluent of speech as his brother was taciturn; and his admiring
subjects had therefore bestowed upon him the title of the ‘Orator.’ He
was fair-haired and blue-eyed; but though a well-looking man enough,
he possessed neither the gallant bearing nor the winning manner of his
elder brother. Truth to say, Harold was quick-tempered and quarrelsome,
brooking no control, and jealous to a degree of Paul, who was loved
by all classes. This unamiable sentiment on the part of the younger
brother, produced a coldness between the earls which time rather
increased than diminished.
In the summer of 1120, Harold visited Scotland, where he had large
estates, returning to Orkney in the autumn, carrying with him the
Countess Helga, his mother; Fraukirk, her sister, a widow; and many
other distinguished guests, conspicuous amongst whom was the beautiful
Lady Morna, daughter of an Irish earl. This fair lady, whom he had
met at the court of the Scottish king, had taken the Orator’s heart
by storm. That she received his homage with marked coldness, only
increased his ardour; and fearful of a rival coming between him and the
prize he had set his heart on winning, the young earl had, after much
persuasion, induced the noble Irish maiden to visit his court, where
he feared no rival. But in this he reckoned falsely; for ere many days
had passed, it was plainly to be seen that Earl Paul and the lovely
stranger were mutually attracted, and he who had formerly avoided the
society of the gentler sex, now devoted all his time and attention to
his brother’s beautiful guest.
Harold was furious at this unexpected blow to his hopes, and having
encountered his rival one day, alone and unarmed, he drew upon him,
declaring if he did not relinquish then and there all pretensions to
the lady’s hand, he should run him through the body. Undismayed at the
threat, Paul answered firmly, that he declined to forfeit his chance
of winning Morna, though that chance appeared small when compared with
his brother’s—he whose persuasive speech was so much more acceptable
to women than his own deplorable taciturnity. Mollified by the Silent
earl’s modest opinion of himself, the jealous lover sheathed his sword,
and grasping his brother’s hand, begged pardon for his petulance, which
being readily granted, the rivals parted friends.
The court of the earls was at this time held in the ancient town of
Kirkwall; but as Yule-tide drew near, Paul took his departure to
his palace in Orphir, distant some nine miles, to prepare for the
reception of his brother and his guests at the approaching feast of
the Nativity. Before leaving Kirkwall, however, he sought an interview
with Morna, which resulted in a mutual confession of their love; the
lady avowing, that never until she beheld her present lover had she
realised her ideal of a perfect knight; while he, kissing her many
times, declared that until his eyes rested on her fair face, he had
never known what it was to love. When he spoke, however, of informing
his brother and stepmother of their betrothal, Morna begged him to
defer doing so till Christmas-day. She should then be under her lover’s
protection, and the sanctity of the feast might have some effect in
restraining any outburst of temper on the part of Harold. Paul agreed
to this, and shortly after went to Orphir. But the lovers’ conversation
had been overheard by the widow Fraukirk, who played the part of
eavesdropper on this occasion to confirm a suspicion she had long
entertained of their attachment. This Fraukirk was a handsome woman,
of middle age, fascinating in manner, but crafty and unscrupulous,
sticking at nothing to further her own interests or those of her
favourites. She loved Harold, and hated his half-brother with a bitter
hatred. He was more popular than her darling nephew; moreover, he
kept him from being sole earl of Orkney; and now he had stolen away
the heart of the Lady Morna. Bent on avenging Harold’s wrongs, she
hastened to her sister the Countess Helga, and communicated the result
of the lovers’ meeting. Then these two women, devoid alike of pity
and remorse, resolved upon the death of the man who stood between
their favourite and the lady of his choice. No suspicion must attach
to Harold. They meant to work for him, without apprising him of their
infamous plans; and having arranged as far as possible the details of
the plot, they parted.
That very night Fraukirk started for the village of Stromness on her
way to the Dwarfie Stone, with the intention of consulting Snorro on
the best means of compassing Earl Paul’s death. Crossing the sound next
day to Hoy, she travelled alone and in disguise to the dwelling of the
Dwarf, who received her joyfully; for she was an old friend and kindred
spirit. But when she disclosed the object of her visit, he at first
flatly refused to aid her. She knew, he said, that he only occupied his
present abode on sufferance; and in the event of the discovery of his
participation in any plot against Earl Paul’s life, he would certainly
be driven to seek another asylum, in which case he should lose all
chance of securing the magic carbuncle. His visitor, however, was equal
to the task of winning him over. She bribed higher and higher, until
at last he was dazzled by her offers of money and rank. He should
be her private secretary, have leave to come and go as he listed,
and she doubted not but she might be able to procure high preferment
for him at the Scottish court. The Dwarf’s ambition was stirred, and
without further demur he promised his assistance. He could weave a
piece of cloth, he said, of unrivalled beauty, which when fashioned
into a garment would cause the wearer’s death in a few minutes; and he
proposed providing his visitor with just such a piece to be made into
a vest for Earl Paul. Fraukirk declared herself perfectly satisfied
by this proposal, and the confederates parted with the understanding,
that the fatal web should be placed in the lady’s hands shortly before
Christmas-day.
During his wicked aunt’s absence, Harold made offer of his heart and
hand to Morna, pleading his cause with eloquence and passion. But when
met by a refusal, he burst into a great rage, anathematised himself and
the object of his affection, rushed from her presence, flung himself
on his horse, and galloped madly away. Two hours’ hard riding brought
him to the village of Stromness, where he drew rein; and his eyes
resting on the snow-capped hills of Hoy, he suddenly recollected that
among those very hills dwelt a Dwarf famous for the sale of philters.
Resolving to visit the wizard, and procure from him a love-potion to
be administered to Morna, Harold set sail for Hoy, actually passing
the craft containing his aunt, who was on her return journey. But
Fraukirk’s disguise defied detection, and all unconscious of her
proximity, her nephew pursued his course. Arrived at Hoy, the Orator
lost no time in seeking out Snorro, whom he found outside the Dwarfie
Stone gazing intently at the setting sun. At his visitor’s approach he
looked up and saluted him gravely.
In few words the earl acquainted the wizard with the object of his
visit, offering him at the same time a handful of gold pieces. The
dwarf eyed the young man scrutinisingly, remarking as he took the gold:
‘Blind must the maiden be, Sir Earl, who needs aught to fix her fancy
on so gallant a knight.’
His visitor laughed harshly. ‘A woman’s fancy is harder to catch than a
sunbeam,’ he said. ‘But hark ye, wizard! time and tide wait for no man.
The philter I must have and instantly.’