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Title: The Lost Lady of Lone

Author: E.D.E.N. Southworth

Release Date: June 11, 2005 [EBook #16039]

Language: English

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                          THE LOST LADY OF LONE

                       By MRS. E.D.E.N. SOUTHWORTH

     Author of "Nearest and Dearest," "The Hidden Hand," "Unknown,"
     "Only a Girl's Heart," "For Woman's Love," etc.

                                   1876




PUBLISHERS' NOTICE.


"THE LOST LADY OF LONE" is different from any of Mrs. Southworth's other
novels. The plot, which is unusually provocative of conjecture and
interest, is founded on thrilling and tragic events which occurred in the
domestic history of one of the most distinguished families in the
Highlands of Scotland. The materials which these interesting and tragic
annals place at the disposal of Mrs. Southworth give full scope to her
unrivalled skill in depicting character and developing a plot, and she
has made the most of her opportunity and her subject.




CONTENTS.


       I. The bride of Lone

      II. An ideal love

     III. The ruined heir

      IV. Salome's choice

       V. Arondelle's consolation

      VI. A horrible mystery on the wedding-day

     VII. The morning's discovery

    VIII. A horrible discovery

      IX. After the discovery

       X. The letter and its effect

      XI. The vailed passenger

     XII. The house on Westminster Road

    XIII. A surprise for Mrs. Scott

     XIV. The second bridal morn

      XV. The cloud falls

     XVI. Vanished

    XVII. The lost Lady of Lone

   XVIII. The flight of the duchess

     XIX. Salome's refuge

      XX. Salome's protectress

     XXI. The bridegroom

    XXII. At Lone

   XXIII. A startling charge

    XXIV. The vindication

     XXV. Who was found?

    XXVI. Off the track

   XXVII. In the convent

  XXVIII. The soul's struggle

    XXIX. The stranger in the chapel

     XXX. The haunter

    XXXI. The abbess' story

   XXXII. The duke's double

  XXXIII. After the earthquake

   XXXIV. Risen from the grave

    XXXV. Face to face

   XXXVI. A gathering storm

  XXXVII. A sentence of banishment

 XXXVIII. The storm bursts

   XXXIX. The rivals

      XL. After the storm

     XLI. Father and son

    XLII. Her son

   XLIII. The duke's ward

    XLIV. Retribution

     XLV. After the revelation

    XLVI. Retribution

   XLVII. The end of a lost life

  XLVIII. Husband and wife




THE LOST LADY OF LONE.




CHAPTER I.

THE BRIDE OF LONE.


"Eh, Meester McRath? Sae grand doings I hae na seen sin the day o' the
queen's visit to Lone. That wad be in the auld duke's time. And a waefu'
day it wa'."

"Dinna ye gae back to that day, Girzie Ross. It gars my blood boil only
to think o' it!"

"Na, Sandy, mon, sure the ill that was dune that day is weel compensate
on this. Sooth, if only marriages be made in heaven, as they say, sure
this is one. The laird will get his ain again, and the bonnyest leddy in
a' the land to boot."

"She _is_ a bonny lass, but na too gude for him, although her fair
hand does gie him back his lands."

"It's only a' just as it sud be."

"Na, it's no all as it sud be. Look at they fules trying to pit
up yon triumphal arch! The loons hae actually gotten the motto
'HAPPINESS' set upside down, sae that a' the blooming red roses
are falling out o' it. An ill omen that if onything be an ill omen. I
maun rin and set it right."

The speakers in this short colloquy were Mrs. Girzie Ross, housekeeper,
and Mr. Alexander McRath, house-steward of Castle Lone.

The locality was in the Highlands of Scotland. The season was early
summer. The hour was near sunset. The scene was one of great beauty and
sublimity. The occasion one of high festivity and rejoicing.

The preparations were being completed for a grand event. For on the
morning of the next day a deep wrong was to be made right by the marriage
of the young and beautiful Lady of Lone to the chosen lord of her heart.

Lone Castle was a home of almost ideal grandeur and loveliness, situated
in one of the wildest and most picturesque regions of the Highlands, yet
brought to the utmost perfection of fertility by skillful cultivation.

The castle was originally the stronghold of a race of powerful and
warlike Scottish chieftains, ancestors of the illustrious ducal line of
Scott-Hereward. It was strongly built, on a rocky island, that arose from
The midst of a deep clear lake, surrounded by lofty mountains.

For generations past, the castle had been but a picturesque ruin, and the
island a barren desert, tenanted only by some old retainer of the ancient
family, who found shelter within its huge walls, and picked up a scanty
living by showing the famous ruins to artists and tourists.

But some years previous to the commencement of our story, when
Archibald-Alexander-John Scott succeeded his father, as seventh Duke of
Hereward, he conceived the magnificent, but most extravagant idea of
transforming that grim, old Highland fortress, perched upon its rocky
island, surrounded by water and walled in by mountains--into a mansion of
Paradise and a garden of Eden.

When he first spoke of his plan, he was called visionary and extravagant;
and when he persisted in carrying it into execution, he was called mad.

The most skillful engineers and architects in Europe were consulted and
their plans examined, and a selection of designs and contractors made
from the best among them. And then the restoration, or rather the
transfiguration, of the place was the labor of many years, at the cost
of much money.

Fabulous sums were lavished upon Lone. But the Duke's enthusiasm grew
as the work grew and the cost increased. All his unentailed estates in
England were first heavily mortgaged and afterwards sold, and the
proceeds swallowed up in the creation of Lone.

The duchess, inspired by her husband, was as enthusiastic as the duke.
When his resources were at an end and Lone unfinished she gave up her
marriage settlements, including her dower house, which was sold that the
proceeds might go to the completion of Lone.

But all this did not suffice to pay the stupendous cost.

Then the duke did the maddest act of his life. He raised the needed money
from usurers by giving them a mortgage on his own life estate in Lone
itself.

The work drew near to its completion.

In the meantime the duke's agents were ransacking the chief cities in
Europe in search of rare paintings, statues, vases, and other works of
art or articles of virtu to decorate the halls and chambers of Lone; for
which also the most famous manufacturers in France and Germany were
elaborating suitable designs in upholstery.

Every man directing every department of the works at Lone, whether as
engineer, architect, decorator, or furnisher, every man was an artist in
his own speciality. The work within and without was to be a perfect work
at whatever cost of time, money, and labor.

At length, at the end of ten years from its commencement, the work was
completed.

And for the sublimity of its scenery, the beauty of its grounds, the
almost tropical luxuriance of its gardens, the magnificence of its
buildings, the splendor of its decorations, and the luxury of its
appointments, Lone was unequalled.

What if the mad duke had nearly ruined himself in raising it?

Lone was henceforth the pride of engineers, the model of architects, the
subject of artists, the theme of poets, the Mecca of pilgrims, the eighth
wonder of the world.

Lone was opened for the first time a few weeks after its completion, on
the occasion of the coming of age of the duke's eldest son and heir, the
young Marquis of Arondelle, which fell upon the first of June.

A grand festival was held at Lone, and a great crowd assembled to do
honor to the anniversary. A noble and gentle company filled the halls and
chambers of the castle, and nearly all the Clan Scott assembled on the
grounds.

The festival was a grand triumph.

Among the thousands present were certain artists and reporters of the
press, and so it followed that the next issue of the _London News_
contained full-page pictures of Castle Lone and Inch Lone, with their
terraces, parterres, arches, arbors and groves; Loch Lone, with its
elegant piers, bridges and boats; and the surrounding mountains, with
their caves, grottoes, falls and fountains.

Yes, the birthday festival was a perfect triumph, and the fame of Lone
went forth to the uttermost ends of the earth. The English Colonists at
Australia, Cape of Good Hope, and New Zealand, read all about it in
copies of the _London News_, sent out to them by thoughtful London
friends. We remember the day, some years since, when we, sitting by our
cottage fire, read all about it in an illustrated paper, and pondered
over the happy fate of those who could live in paradise while still on
earth. Five years later, we would not have changed places with the
Duke of Hereward.

But this is a digression.

The duke was in his earthly heaven; but was the duke happy, or even
content?

Ah! no. He was overwhelmed with debt. Even Lone was mortgaged as deeply
as it could be--that is, as to the extent of the duke's own life
interests in the estate. Beyond that he could not burden the estate,
which was entailed upon his heirs male. Besides his financial
embarrassments, the duke was afflicted with another evil--he was
consumed with a fever too common with prince and with peasant, as well
as with peer--the fever of a land hunger.

The prince desires to add province to province; the peer to add manor to
manor; the peasant to own a little home of his own, and then to add acre
to acre.

The Lord of Lone glorying in his earthly paradise, wished to see it
enlarged, wished to add one estate to another until he should become
the largest land-owner in Scotland, or have his land-hunger appeased.
He bought up all the land adjoining Lone, that could be purchased at any
price, paying a little cash down, and giving notes for the balance on
each purchase. Thus, in the course of three years, Lone was nearly
doubled in territorial extent.

But the older creditors became clamorous. Bond, and mortgage holders
threatened foreclosure, and the financial affairs of the "mad duke,"
outwardly and apparently so prosperous, were really very desperate. The
family were seriously in danger of expulsion from Lone.

It was at this crisis that the devoted son came to the help of his
father--not wisely, as many people thought then--not fortunately, as it
turned out. To prevent his father from being compelled to leave Lone, and
to protect him from the persecution of creditors, the young Marquis of
Arondelle performed an act of self-sacrifice and filial devotion seldom
equalled in the world's history. He renounced all his own entailed
rights, and sold all his prospective life interest in Lone. His was a
young, strong life, good for fifty or sixty years longer. His interest
brought a sum large enough to pay off the mortgage on Lone and to settle
all others of his father's outstanding debts.

Thus peaceable possession of Lone might have been secured to the family
during the natural life of the duke. At the demise of the duke, instead
of descending to his son and heir, it would pass into the possession of
other parties, with whom it would remain as long the heir should live.

Thus, I say, by the sacrifice of the son the peace of the father might
have been secured--for a time. And all might have gone well at Lone but
for one unlucky event which finally set the seal on the ruin of the ducal
family.

And yet that event was intended as an honor, and considered as an honor.

In a word the Queen, the Prince Consort, and the royal family, were
coming to the Highlands. And the Duke of Hereward received an intimation
that her majesty would stop on her royal progress and honor Lone with a
visit of two days. This was a distinction in no wise to be slighted by
any subject under any circumstances, and certainly not by the duke of
Hereward.

The Queen's visit would form the crowning glory of Lone. The chambers
occupied by majesty would henceforth be holy ground, and would be pointed
out with reverence to the stranger in all succeeding generations.

In anticipation of this honor the "mad" Duke of Hereward launched out
into his maddest extravagances.

He had but ten days in which to prepare for the royal visit, but he made
the best use of his time.

The guest chambers at Lone, already fitted up in princely magnificence,
had new splendors added to them. The castle and the grounds were adorned
and decorated with lavish expenditure. The lake was alive with
gayly-rigged boats. Triumphal arches were erected at stated intervals
of the drive leading from the public road, across the bridge connecting
the shore with the island, and--maddest extravagance of all--the ground
was laid out and fitted up for a grand tournament after the style of the
time of Richard Coeur de Lion, to be held there during the queen's
visit--that fatal visit spoken of in the early part of this chapter.

Yes, fatal!--for a hundred thousand pounds sterling, won by the son's
self-sacrifice, which should have gone to satisfy the clamorous creditors
of the duke, was squandered in extravagant preparations to royally
entertain England's expensive royal family.

A second time Lone was the scene of unparalleled display, festivity, and
rejoicing. Once more all the country round about was assembled there;
again the artists and reporters of the London press were among the crowd;
and again full-page pictures of the ceremonies attending the queen's
reception and entertainment were published in the illustrated papers, and
the fame of that royal visit went out to the uttermost parts of the
earth.

But mark this: Every footman that waited at the grand state-dinner table
was a bailiff in disguise, in charge of the plate and china, which,
together with all the fabulous riches of art, literature, science and
_virtu_ collected at Lone had been taken in execution, by the
officers secretly in possession.

The royal party, with their retinue, left Lone on the afternoon of the
third day.

And then the crash came? The blow was sudden, overwhelming and utterly
destructive.

The shock of the fall of Lone was felt from one end of the kingdom to the
other.

For the last time a crowd gathered around Castle Lone. But they came not
as festive guests but as a flock of vultures around a carcass, bent on
prey. For the last time artists and reporters came not to illustrate the
triumphs, but to record the downfall of the great ducal house of
Scott-Hereward; to make sketches, take photographs and write descriptions
of the magnificent and splendid halls and chambers, picture-galleries and
museums, before they should be dismantled by the rapacious purchasers who
flocked to the vendue of Lone, to profit by the ruin of the proprietor.

And for the last time illustrations of Lone and its glories went forth
over every part of the world where the English language is spoken, or the
English mails penetrate.

Another heavy blow fell upon the doomed duke. Even while the grand vendue
was still in progress the duchess died of grief.

When all was over, and the good duchess was laid in the family vault, the
duke and the young marquis disappeared from Lone and none knew whither
they went. Some said that they had gone to Australia; some that they were
in America; some that they were on the Continent. Others declared that
they had hidden themselves in the wilderness of London, where they were
living in great poverty and obscurity, and even under assumed names.

Opinions and rumors differed also concerning the character and conduct of
the young marquis. Many called him a devoted son, filled with the spirit
of heroic self-sacrifice. Many others affirmed that he was a hypocrite
and a villain, addicted to drinking, gambling, and other vices and even
cited times, places, and occasions of his sinning.

There never lived a man of whom so much good and so much evil was
said as of the young Marquis of Arondelle. A stranger coming into the
neighborhood of Lone, would hear these opposite reports and never be able
to decide whether the absent and self-exiled young nobleman was a model
of virtue or a monster of vice.

But there was one whose faith in him was firm as her faith in Heaven.

Rose Cameron was the daughter of a Highland shepherd, living about ten
miles north of Ben Lone. No court lady in the land was fairer than this
rustic Highland beauty. Her form was tall, fine, and commanding. Her step
was stately and graceful as the step of an antelope. Her features were
large, regular, and clear cut, as if chiseled in marble, yet full of
blooming and sparkling life as ruddy health and mountain air could fill
them. Her hair was golden brown, and clustered in innumerable shining
ringlets closely around her fair open forehead and rounded throat. Her
eyes were large, and clear bright blue. Her expression full of innocent
freedom and joyousness.

Rumor said that the fast young Marquis of Arondelle, while deer-stalking
from his hunting lodge in the neighborhood of Ben Lone, had chanced to
draw rein at the gate of Rob. Cameron's sheiling, and had received from
the shapely hand of the beautiful shepherdess a cup of water, and had
been so suddenly and forcibly smitten by her Juno-like beauty, that
thenceforth his visits to his hunting lodge became very frequent, both in
season and out of season, and that he was a very dry soul, whose thirst
could be satisfied by nothing but the spring water that spouted close by
the shepherd's sheiling, dipped up and offered by the hands of the
beautiful shepherdess.

Much blame was cast by the rustic neighbors upon all parties
concerned--first of all, upon the young marquis, who they declared "meant
nae guid to the lass," and then to the old shepherd, who they said, "suld
tak mair care o' his puir mitherless bairn," and lastly, to the girl,
who, as they affirmed, "suld guide hersel' wi' mair discretion."

None of these criticisms ever came to the ears of the parties concerned:
they never do, you know.

Besides the lovers seemed to be infatuated with each other, and the
shepherd seemed to be blind to what was going on in his sheiling. To be
sure, he was out all day with his sheep, while his lass was alone in the
sheiling. Or, if by sickness _he_ was forced to stay home, then
_she_ was out all day with the sheep alone.

Gossip said that the young marquis visited the handsome shepherdess in
her sheiling, and met her by appointment, when she was out with her
flock.

And as the occasion grew, so grew the scandal, and so grew indignation
against the marquis and scorn of the shepherdess.

"He'll nae mean to marry the quean! If she were my lass, I'd kick him
out, an' he were twenty times a markis!" said the shepherd's next
neighbor, and many approved his sentiment. These were among the
detractors of the young nobleman.

But he had warm defenders--who affirmed that the Marquis of Arondelle
would never seek a peasant girl to win her affections, unless he intended
to make her his marchioness--which was an idea too preposterous to be
entertained for an instant--therefore there could be no truth in these
rumors.

And at length, when the great thunderbolt fell that destroyed Lone and
banished the ducal family, there were not wanting "guid neebors" who
taunted Rose Cameron with such words as these:

"The braw young markis hae made a fule o' ye, lass. Thoul't ne'er see him
mair. And a guid job, too. Best ye'd ne'er see him at a'!"

But the handsome shepherdess betrayed no sign of mortification or doubt.
When such prognostics were uttered, she crested her queenly head with a
smile of conscious power, and looked as though--"she could, an if she
would,"--tell more about the Marquis of Arondelle, than any of these
people guessed.

Meanwhile, princely Lone passed into the possession of Sir Lemuel
Levison, a London banker of enormous wealth. He had not always been Sir
Lemuel Levison. But he had once been Lord Mayor of London, and for some
part that he had taken in a public demonstration or a royal pageant, (I
forget which,) he had been knighted by her Majesty.

He was, at this time, a tall, spare, fair-faced, gray-haired and gray
bearded man of sixty-five. He was a widower, with "one only daughter,"
the youngest and sole survivor of a large family of children.

This daughter, Salome, had never known a mother's love nor a father's
care. She was under three years old when her mother passed away.

Then her father, hating his desolate home, broke up his establishment on
Westbourne Terrace, London, and placed his infant daughter under the care
of the nuns in the Convent of the Holy Nativity in France.

Here Salome Levison passed the days of her dreamy childhood and early
youth. Her father seldom found time to visit her at her convent school,
and she never went home to spend her holidays. She had no home to go to.

When Salome was eighteen years of age, the Superior of the convent wrote
to Sir Lemuel Levison, enclosing a letter from his daughter that
considerably startled the absorbed banker and forgetful father. He had
not seen his daughter for two years, and now these letters informed him
that she wished to become a Nun of the Holy Nativity, and to enter upon
her novitiate immediately! But that being a minor, she could not do so
without his consent.

His sole surviving child! The sole heiress of his enormous wealth! On
whom he depended, to make a home for him in his declining years, when he
should have made a few more millions of millions upon which to retire!

And now this long neglected daughter had found consolation in devotion,
and wished to take the vail which was to hide her forever from the world!

Sir Lemuel Levison hastened to France, and brought his daughter back to
England. He took apartments at a quiet London hotel, and looked about for
a suitable country-seat to purchase.

At this time Lone was advertised. He went thither with the crowd.

He saw Lone, liked it, wanted it, and determined to "pay for it and take
it."

He stopped the vandalish dismantling of the premises by outbidding
everybody else and purchasing all the furniture, decorations, plate,
pictures, statues, vases, mosaics, and everything else, and ordering
them to be left in their old positions.

He then engaged the house-steward, the housekeeper, and as many more of
the servants of the late proprietor as he could induce to remain at Lone.

And when the princely castle was cleared of its crowds, and once more
restored to order, beauty and peace, Sir Lemuel Levison went back to
London to bring his daughter home.

Salome, submissive to her father's will, yet disappointed in her wish to
take the vail, met every event in life with apathy.

Even when the splendors of Lone broke upon her vision she regarded them
with an air of indifference that amused, while it mortified, her father.

"I see how it is, my girl," he said. "You have renounced the world, and
are pining for the convent. But you know nothing of the world. Give it a
fair trial of three years. Then you will be twenty-one years old, of
legal age to act for yourself, with some knowledge of that which you
would ignorantly renounce; and then if you persist in your desire to take
the vail--well! I shall then have neither the power nor the wish to
prevent you," added the wise old banker, who felt perfectly confident
that at the end of the specified time his daughter would no longer pine
to immure herself in a convent.

Salome, grateful for this concession, and feeling perfectly self-assured
that she would never be won by the world, kissed her father, and roused
herself to be as much of a comfort and solace to him as she might be in
the three years of probation. And she took her place at the head of her
father's magnificent establishment at Lone with much of gentle quiet and
dignity.

And now it is time to give you some more accurate knowledge of the
outward appearance and the inner life of this motherless, convent-reared
girl, who, though a young and wealthy heiress, was bent on forsaking the
world and taking the vail. In the first place, she was not beautiful at
all in repose. There can be no physical beauty without physical health.
And Salome Levison partook of the delicate organization of her mother,
who had passed away in early womanhood, and of her brothers and sisters,
who had gone in infancy or childhood.

Salome, when still and silent, was, at first sight plain. She was rather
below the medium height, slight and thin in form, pale and dark in
complexion, with irregular features, and quiet, downcast, dark-gray eyes,
whose long lashes cast shadows upon pallid cheeks, and which were arched
with dark eyebrows on a massive forehead, shaded with an abundance of
dark brown hair, simply parted in the middle, drawn back and wound into
a rich roll. Her dress was as simple as her station permitted it to be.

Altogether she seemed a girl unattractive in person and reserved in
speech.

The very opposite of the handsome shepherdess of Ben Lone.

And yet when she looked up or smiled, her face was transfigured into a
wondrous beauty; such intellectual and spiritual beauty as that perfect
piece of flesh and blood never could have expressed. And she was a
"sealed book." Yet the hour was at hand when the "sealed book" was to be
opened--when her dreaming soul, like the sleeping princess in the wood,
was to be awakened by the touch of holy love to make the beauty of her
person and the glory of her life.




CHAPTER II.

AN IDEAL LOVE.


A few weeks after their settlement at Lone, Sir Lemuel Levison returned
to London on affairs connected with his final retirement from active
business.

Salome was left at the castle, with the numerous servants of the
establishment, but otherwise quite alone. She had neither governess,
companion, nor confidential maid. She suffered from this enforced
solitude. She had seen all the splendors of the interior of Lone, and
there was nothing new to discover--except--yes, there was Malcom's Tower,
which tradition said was the most ancient portion of the castle, whose
foundations had been dug from the solid rock, hundreds of feet below the
surface of the lake.

The tower had been restored with the rest of the castle, but had never
been fitted up for occupation.

Salome determined to spend one morning in exploring the old tower from
foundation to top.

She summoned the housekeeper to her presence, and made known her purpose.

"Macolm's Watch Tower, Miss! Weel, then, it's naething to see within,
forbye a few auld family portraits and sic like, left there by the auld
duke; but there'll be an unco' foine view frae the top on a braw day like
this," said Dame Ross, as she detached a bunch of keys from her belt, and
signified her readiness to attend her young mistress.

I need not detail the explorations of the young lady from the horrible
dungeon of the foundation--up the narrow, winding steps, cut in the
thickness of the outer wall, which was perforated on the inner side by
doorways on each landing, leading into the strong, round stone rooms or
cells on each floor, lighted only by long narrow slits in the solid
masonry. All the lower cells were empty.

But when they reached the top of the winding steps and opened the door of
the upper cell, the housekeeper said:

"Here are deposited some o' the relics left by the auld duke until such
time as he shall be ready to tak' them awa'."

Salome followed her into the room and suddenly drew back in surprise.

She saw standing out from the gloom, the form of a young man of majestic
beauty and grace.

A second look showed her that this was only a full-length life-sized
portrait--but of whom?

Her gaze became riveted on the glorious presence.

The portrait represented a young man of about twenty-five years of age,
tall, finely formed, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with a well-turned,
stately head, a Grecian profile, a fair, open brow, dark, deep blue eyes,
and very rich auburn hair and beard. He wore the picturesque highland
dress--the tartan of the Clan Scott.

But it was not the dress, the form, the face that fascinated the gaze of
the girl. It was the air, the look, the SOUL that shone through
it all!

A sun ray, glancing through the narrow slit in the solid wall, fell
directly upon the fine face, lighting it up as with a halo of glory!

"It is the face of the young St. John! Nay, it is more divine! It is
the face of Gabriel who standeth in the presence of the Lord! But it
expresses more of power! It is the face of Michael rather, when he put
the hosts of hell to flight! Oh! a wondrously glorious face!" said the
rapt young enthusiast to herself, as she gazed in awe-struck silence on
the portrait.

"Ye are looking at that picture, young leddy? Ay it weel deserves your
regards! It is a grand one!" said Dame Ross, proudly.

"_Who is it? One of the young princes?_" inquired Salome, in a low
tone, full of reverential admiration.

"Ane o' the young princes? Gude guide us! Nae, young leddy; I hae seen
the young princes ance, on an unco' ill day for Lone! And I dinna care
if I never see ane mair. But they dinna look like that," said the
housekeeper, with a deep sigh.

"Who is it, then?" whispered Salome, still gazing on the portrait with
somewhat of the rapt devotion with which she had been wont to gaze on
pictured saint, or angel, on her convent walls. "Who is it, Mrs. Ross?"

"Wha is it? Wha suld it be, but our ain young laird? Our ain bonny
laddie? Our young Markis o' Arondelle? Oh, waes the day he ever left
Lone!" exclaimed Dame Girzie, lifting her apron to her eyes.

"The Marquis of Arondelle!" echoed Salome, catching her breath, and
gazing with even more interest upon the glorious picture.

Even while she gazed, the ray that had lighted it for a moment was
withdrawn by the setting sun, and the picture was swallowed up in sudden
darkness.

"The Marquis of Arondelle," repeated Salome in a low reverent tone, as
if speaking to herself.

"Ay, the young Markis o' Arondelle; wae worth the day he went awa'!" said
the housekeeper, wiping her eyes.

Salome turned suddenly to the weeping woman.

"I have heard--I have heard--" she began in a low, hesitating voice, and
then she suddenly stopped and looked at the dame.

"Ay, young leddy, nae doubt ye hae heard unco mony a fule tale anent our
young laird; but if ye would care to hear the verra truth, ye suld do so
frae mysel. But come noo, leddy. It is too dark to see onything mair in
this room. We'll gae out on the battlements gin ye like, and tak' a luke
at the landscape while the twilight lasts," said Dame Girzie.

Salome assented with a nod, and they climbed the last steep flight of
stairs, cut in the solid wall, and leading from this upper room to the
top of the watch-tower.

They came out upon a magnificent view.

The bright, long twilight of these Northern latitudes still hung
luminously over island, lake and mountain.

While Salome gazed upon it Dame Girzie said:

"All this frae the tower to the horizon, far as our eyes can reach, and
far'er, was for eight centuries the land of the Lairds of Lone. And noo!
a' hae gane frae them, and they hae gane frae us, and na mon kens where
they bide or how they fare. Wae's me!"

"It was indeed a household wreck," said Salome, with sigh of sincere
sympathy.

"Ye may say that, leddy, and mak' na mistake."

"What is that lofty mountain-top that I see on the edge of the horizon
away to the north, just fading in the twilight?" inquired Salome, partly
to divert the dame from her gloomy thoughts.

"Yon? Ay. Yon will be, Ben Lone. It will be twenty miles awa', gin it be
a furlong. Our young laird had a braw hunting lodge there, where in the
season he was wont to spend weeks thegither wi' his kinsman, Johnnie
Scott, for the young laird was unco' fond of deer stalking, and sic like
sport. I dinna ken wha owns the lodge now, or whether it went wi' the
lave of the estate," said Dame Girzie, with a deep sigh.

"It is growing quite chilly up here," said Salome, shivering, and drawing
her little red shawl more closely around her slight frame. "I think we
will go down now, Mrs. Ross. And if you will be so good as to come to me
after tea, this evening, I shall like to hear the story of this sorrowful
family wreck," she added, as she turned to leave the place.

That evening, as the heiress sat in the small drawing room appropriated
to her own use, the housekeeper rapped and was admitted.

And after seating herself at the bidding of her young mistress, Girzie
Ross opened her mouth and told the true story of the fall of Lone, as I
have already told to my readers.

"And this devoted son actually sacrificed all the prospects of his whole
future life, in order to give peace and prosperity to his father's
declining days," murmured Salome, with her eyes full of tears and her
usually pale cheeks, flushed with emotion.

"He did, young leddy, like the noble soul, he was," said Dame Girzie.

"I never heard of such an act of renunciation in my life," murmured
Salome.

"And the pity of it was, young leddy, that it was a' in vain," said the
housekeeper.

"Yes, I know. Where is he now?" inquired the young girl, in a subdued
voice.

"I dinna ken, leddy. Naebody kens," answered Girzie Ross, with a deep
sigh, which was unconsciously echoed by the listener.

Then Dame Ross not to trespass on her young mistress's indulgence, arose
and respectfully took her leave.

Salome fell into a deep reverie. From that hour she had something else to
think about, beside the convent and the vail.

The portrait haunted her imagination, the story filled her heart and
employed her thoughts. That night she dreamed of the self-exiled heir,
a beautiful, vague, delightful dream, that she tried in vain to recall
on the next morning.

In the course of the day she made several attempts to ask Mrs. Girzie
Ross a simple question. And she wondered at her own hesitation to do it.
At length she asked it:

"Mrs. Ross, is that portrait in the tower very much like Lord Arondelle?"

"Like him, young leddy? Why, it is his verra sel'! And only not sae bonny
because it canna move, or smile, or speak. Ye should see him _alive_
to ken him weel," said the housekeeper, heartily.

That afternoon Salome went up alone to the top of the tower, and spent a
dreamy, delicious hour in sitting at the feet of the portrait and gazing
upon the face.

That evening, while the housekeeper attended her at tea, she took courage
to make another inquiry, in a very low voice:

"Is Lord Arondelle engaged, Mrs. Ross?"

She blushed crimson and turned away her head the moment she had asked the
question.

"Engaged? What--troth-plighted do you mean, young leddy?"

"Yes," in a very low tone.

"Bless the lass! nay, nor no thought of it," answered the housekeeper.

"I was thinking that perhaps it would be well if he were not, that is
all," explained Salome, a little confusedly.

That night, as she undressed to retire to bed, she looked at herself in
the glass critically for the first time in her life.

It was not a pretty face that was reflected there. It was a pale, thin,
dark face, that might have been redeemed by the broad, smooth forehead,
shaped round by bands of dark brown hair, and lighted by the large,
tender, thoughtful gray eyes, had not that forehead worn a look of
anxious care, and those eyes an expression of eager inquiry.

"But then I am so plain--so very, very plain," she said to herself, as if
uttering the negation of some preceding train of thought.

And with a deep sigh she retired to rest.

The next day Girzie Ross herself was the first to speak of the young
marquis.

"I hae been thinking, young leddy, what garred ye ask me gin the young
laird, were troth plighted. And I mistrust ye must hae heard these fule
stories anent his hardship, having a sweetheart at Ben Lone. There's
nae truth in sic tales, me leddy. No that I'm denying she's a handsome
hizzy, this Rose Cameron; but she's nae one to mak' the young laird
forget his rank. Ye'll no credit sic tales, me young leddy."

"I have heard no tales of the sort," said Salome, looking up in surprise.

"Ay, hae ye no? Aweel, then, its nae matter," said the dame.

"But what tales are there, Mrs. Ross?" uneasily inquired the heiress.
And then she instantly perceived the indiscretion of her question, and
regretted that she had asked it.

"Ou aye, it's just the fule talk o' thae gossips up by Ben Lone. They
behoove to say that's its na the game that draws the young laird sae
often to Ben Lone; but just Rab Cameron's handsome lass, Rose, and she
_is_ a handsome quean as I said before; but nae 'are to mak' the
young master lose his head for a' that! Sae ye maun na beleiv' a word
of it, me young leddy," said Dame Girzie.

And she hastened to change the subject.

"Ah! what a power beauty is! It can make a prince forget his royal state,
and sue to a peasant girl," sighed Salome to herself. "I wonder--I
wonder, if there _is_ any truth in that report? Oh, I hope there is
not, for his own sake. I wonder where he is--what he is doing? But that
is no affair of mine. I have nothing at all to do with it! I wonder if I
shall ever meet him. I wonder if he would think me very ugly? Nonsense,
what if he should? He is nothing to me. I--I _do_ wonder if a young
man so noble in character, so handsome in person as he is, ever could
like a girl without any beauty at all, even if she--even if she--Oh,
dear! what a fool I am! I had better never have come out of the convent.
I will think no more about him," said Salome, resolutely taking up a
volume of the "Lives of the Saints," and turning to the page that related
how--

                 "St. Rosalie,
Darling of each heart and eye,
From all the youth of Italy
Retired to God."

"That is the noblest love and service, after all," she said--"the
noblest, surely, because it is Divine!"

And she resolved to emulate the example of the young and beautiful
Italian virgin. She, too, would retire to God. That is, she would enter
her convent as soon as her three probationary years should be passed.

But though she so resolved to devote herself to Heaven in this abnormal
way, the natural human love that now glowed in her heart, would not be
put down by an unnatural resolve.

Days and nights passed, and she still thought of the banished heir all
day, and dreamed of him all night--the more intensely as well as purely
perhaps, because she had never looked upon his living face.

To her he was an abstract ideal.

Later in the month her father returned to Lone--on business of more
importance than that which had hurried him away.

He had only retired from one phase of public life to enter upon another.

There was to be a new Parliament. And at the solicitations of many
interested parties, and perhaps also at the promptings of his own late
ambition, Sir Lemuel Levison consented to stand for the borough of Lone.
In the absence of the young Marquis of Arondelle there was no one to
oppose him, and he was returned by an almost unanimous vote.

Early in February, Sir Lemuel Levison took his dreaming daughter and went
up to London to take his seat in the House of Commons at the meeting of
Parliament.

He engaged a sumptuously furnished house on Westbourne Terrace, and
invited a distant relative, Lady Belgrave, the childless widow of a
baronet, to come and pass the season with him and chaperone his daughter
on her entrance into society.

Lady Belgrade was sixty years old, tall, stout, fair-complexioned,
gray-haired, healthy, good-humored, and well-dressed--altogether as
commonplace and harmless a fine lady as could be found in the fashionable
world.

Salome had never seen her, scarcely ever heard of her before the day of
her arrival at Westbourne Terrace.

Salome met Lady Belgrade with courtesy and kindness, but with much
indifference.

Lady Belgrade, on her part, met her young kinswoman with critical
curiosity.

"She is not pretty, not at all pretty, and one does not like to have a
plain girl to bring out. She is not pretty, and what is worse than all,
she seems _to know it_. And she can only grow pretty by believing
that she is so. A girl with such a pair of eyes as hers can always get
the reputation of beauty if she can only be made to believe in herself,"
was Lady Belgrade's secret comment; but--

"What beautiful eyes you have, my dear!" she said with effusion, as she
kissed Salome on both cheeks.

The girl smiled and blushed with pleasure, for this was the first time
in all her life that she had been credited with any beauty at all.

Lady Belgrade was partly right and partly wrong.

A girl with such a physique as Salome could never be pretty, never be
handsome, but, with such a soul as hers, might grow beautiful.

At her Majesty's first drawing-room, Salome Levison was presented at
court, where she attracted the attention, only as the daughter of Sir
Lemuel Levison, the new Radical member for Lone, and as the sole heiress
of the great banker's almost fabulous wealth.

Then under the experienced guidance of Lady Belgrade, she was launched
into fashionable society. And society received the young expectant of
enormous wealth, as society always does, with excessive adulation.

Salome was admired, followed, flattered, feted, as though she had been
a beauty as well as an heiress. She was petted at home and worshiped
abroad. Her father gave unlimited pocket-money in form of bank-cheques,
to be filled up at her own discretion. For she was his only daughter, and
he wished to get her in love with the world and out of conceit of a
convent. And surely the run of his bank, and of all the fine shops of
London, would do that, he thought, if anything could.

But Salome remained a "sealed book" to the wealthy banker, and a great
trial to the fashionable chaperon who had her in training. Salome
_would not_ grow pretty, in spite of all that could be done for her.
Salome would not make a sensation, for all her father's wealth and her
own expectations. She remained quiet, shy, silent, dreamy, even in the
gayest society, as in the Highland solitudes, with one worship in her
soul--the worship of that self-devoted son--that self-banished prince,
whose "counterfeit presentment" she had seen in the tower at Lone, and
who had become the idol of her religion.

But all this did not hinder the heiress from receiving some very matter
of fact and highly eligible offers of marriage; for though Salome, in the
holiness of her dreams, was almost unapproachable, the banker was not
inaccessible. And it was through her father that Salome, in the course of
the season, had successively the coronet of a widowed earl, the title of
a duke's younger son, and the fortune of a baronet who was just of age,
laid at her feet.

She rejected them all--to her father's great disappointment and
disturbance.

"I fear--I do much fear that her mind still runs on that convent. She
does nothing but dream, dream, dream, and absolutely ignore homage that
would turn another girl's head. I wish she were well married, or--I had
almost said ill married! anything is better than the convent for my only
surviving child! If she will not accept an earl or a baronet, why cannot
her perversity take the form of any other girl's perversity? Why can she
not fall in love with some penniless younger son, or some dissipated
captain in a marching regiment? I am sure even under such circumstances
I should not perform the part of the 'cruel parent' in the comedies! I
should say, 'Bless you my children,' with all my heart! And I should
enrich the impecunious young son, or reform the tipsy soldier. Anything
but the convent for my only child!" concluded the banker, with a sigh.

But Salome had ceased to think of the convent. She thought now only of
the missing marquis.

The offers of marriage that had been made to Salome, rejected though they
were, had this good effect upon her mind. They encouraged her to think
more hopefully of herself. Salome was too unworldly, too pure, and holy,
to suspect that these offers had been made her from any other motive than
personal preference. It was possible, then, that she might be loved. If
other men preferred her, so also might he on whom she had fixed. And now
it had come to this with the dreaming girl--she resolved to think no more
of retiring to a convent, but to live in the world that contained her
hero; to keep herself free from all engagements for his sake, to give
_herself_ to him, if possible, if not to give his land back to him
some day, at least. So in her secret soul she consecrated herself in a
pure devotion to a man she had never seen, and who did not even know of
her existence.

When Parliament rose at the end of the London season, Sir Lemuel Levison
took his daughter on an extended Continental tour, showing her all the
wonders of nature, and all the glories of art in countries and cities.
And Salome was interested and instructed, of course. Yet the greatest
value her travels had for her was in the possibility of their bringing
her to a meeting with the missing heir. It had been said that the mad
duke and his son were somewhere on the Continent. A wide field! Yet, on
the arrival of Sir Lemuel and Miss Levison at any city, Salome's first
thought was this:

"Perhaps they are living here, and I shall see him."

But she was always disappointed. And at the end of a seven months'
sojourn on the Continent, Sir Lemuel Levison brought his daughter back
to London, only in time for the meeting of Parliament.

Only two years of Salome's probation was left--only two more seasons
in London. Her father's anxiety increased.

He sent for her chaperone again, and opened his house in Westbourne
Terrace to all the world of fashion. Again the young heiress was
followed, flattered, feted as much as if she had been a beauty as well.
Again she received and rejected several eligible offers of marriage. And
so the second season passed.

Sir Lemuel Levison took his daughter to Scotland, and invited a large
company to stay with them at Lone, thinking that, after all, more matches
were made in the close daily intercourse of a country house, than in the
crowded ball-rooms of a London season.

But though the banker's daughter received two or three more eligible
offers of marriage, she politely declined them all, and stole away as
often as she could to worship the pictured image in the old tower.

Her chaperone was in despair.

"How many good men and brave has she refused, do you know, Lemuel?"
inquired Lady Belgrade.

"Seven, to my certain knowledge," angrily replied the banker.

"Perhaps she likes some one you know nothing about," suggested the
dowager.

"She does not; I would let her marry almost any man rather than have her
enter a convent, as she is sure to do when she is of age. I would let her
marry any one; aye, even Johnnie Scott, who is the most worthless scamp I
know in the world."

"And pray who is Johnnie Scott!"

"Oh, a handsome rascal; is sort of kinsman and hanger-on of the young
Marquis of Arondelle; he used to be. I don't know anything more about
him."

"Perhaps he _is_ the man."

"Oh, no, he is not. There is no man in the convent. Well, we go up to
London again in February. It will be her last season. If she does not
fall in love or marry before May, when she will be twenty-one years of
age, she will immure herself in a convent, as I am pledged not to prevent
her."

The conversation ended unsatisfactorily just here.

In the beginning of February Sir Lemuel Levison, with his daughter and
her chaperone, went up to London for her third season. They established
themselves again in the sumptuous house on Westbourne Terrace, and again
entered into the whirl of fashionable gayeties.

It was quite in the beginning of the season that Sir Lemuel and Miss
Levison received invitations to a dinner party at the Premier's.

It was to be a semi-political dinner, at which were to be entertained
certain ministers, members of Parliament, with their wives, and leading
journalists.

Sir Lemuel accepted for himself and Miss Levison. On the appointed day
they rendered themselves at the Premier's house, where they were
courteously welcomed by the great minister and his accomplished wife.

After the usual greetings had been exchanged with the guests that were
present, and while Sir Lemuel and Miss Levison were conversing with their
hostess, the Premier came up with a stranger on his right arm.

Salome looked up, her heart gave a great bound and then stood still.

The original of the portrait in the tower, the self-devoted son, the
self-exiled heir, the idol of her pure worship, the young Marquis of
Arondelle stood before her.

And while the scene swam before her eyes, the Premier bowed, and
presenting him, said:

"Sir Lemuel, let me introduce to you, Mr. John Scott of the _National
Liberator_. Mr. Scott, Sir Lemuel Levison, our new member for Lone."

Mr. John Scott!




CHAPTER III.

THE RUINED HEIR.


Where, meanwhile, was the "mad" duke with his loyal son?

Various reports had been circulated concerning them, so long as they had
been remembered. Some had said that they had emigrated to Australia;
others that they had gone to Canada; others again that they were living
on the Continent. All agreed that wherever they were, they must be in
great destitution.

But now, three years had passed since the fall of Lone and the
disappearance of the ruined ducal family, and they were very nearly
forgotten.

Meanwhile where were they then?

They were hidden in the great wilderness of London.

On leaving Lone, the stricken duke, crushed equally under domestic
affliction and financial ruin, and failing both in mind and body, started
for London, tenderly escorted by his son.

It was the last extravagance of the young marquis to engage a whole
compartment in a first-class carriage on the Great Northern Railway
train, that the fallen and humbled duke might travel comfortably and
privately without being subjected to annoyance by the gaze of the
curious, or comments of the thoughtless.

On reaching London they went first to an obscure but respectable inn in
a borough, where they remained unknown for a few days, while the marquis
sought for lodgings which should combine privacy, decency and cheapness,
in some densely-populated, unfashionable quarter of the city, where their
identity would be lost in the crowd, and where they would never by any
chance meet any one whom they had ever met before.

They found such a refuge at length, in a lodging-house kept by the widow
of a curate in Catharine street, Strand.

Here the ruined duke and marquis dropped their titles, and lived only
under their baptismal name and family names.

Here Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Duke of Hereward and Marquis of
Arondelle in the Peerage of England, and Baron Lone, of Lone, in the
Peerage of Scotland, was known only as old Mr. Scott.

And his son Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, by courtesy Marquis of
Arondelle, was known only as young Mr. John Scott.

Now as there were probably some thousands of "Scotts," and among them,
some hundreds of "John Scotts," in all ranks of life, from the old landed
proprietor with his town-house in Belgravia, to the poor coster-monger
with his donkey-cart in Covent Garden, in this great city of London,
there was little danger that the real rank of these ruined noblemen
should be suspected, and no possibility that they should be recognized
and identified. They were as completely lost to their old world as
though they had been hidden in the Australian bush or New Zealand
forests.

Here as Mr. Scott and Mr. John Scott, they lived three years.

The old duke, overwhelmed by his family calamity, gradually sank deeper
and deeper into mental and bodily imbecility.

Here the young marquis picked up a scanty living for himself and father
by contributing short articles to the columns of the _National
Liberator_, the great organ of the Reform Party.

He wrote under the name of "Justus." After a few months his articles
began to attract attention for their originality of thought, boldness
of utterance, and brilliancy of style.

Much speculation was on foot in political and journalistic circles as to
the author of the articles signed "Justus." But his incognito was
respected.

At length on a notable occasion, the gifted young journalist was
requested by the publisher of the _National Liberator_, to write
a leader on a certain Reform Bill then up before the House of Commons.

This work was so congenial to the principles and sentiments of the
author, that it became a labor of love, and was performed, as all such
labors should be, with all the strength of his intellect and affections.

This leader made the anonymous writer famous in a day. He at once became
the theme of all the political and newspaper clubs.

And now a grand honor came to him.

The Premier--no less a person--sent his private secretary to the office
of the _National Liberator_ to inquire the name and address of the
author of the articles by "Justus," with a request to be informed of them
if there should be no objection on the part of author or publisher.

The private secretary was told, with the consent of the author, what the
name and address was.

"Mr. John Scott, office of the _National Liberator_."

Upon receiving this information, the Premier addressed a note to the
young journalist, speaking in high terms of his leader on the Reform
Bill, predicting for him a brilliant career, and requesting the writer
to call on the minister at noon the following day.

The young marquis was quite as much pleased at this distinguished
recognition of his genius as any other aspiring young journalist might
have been.

He wrote and accepted the invitation.

And at the appointed hour the next day he presented himself at Elmhurst
House, the Premier's residence at Kensington.

He sent up his card, bearing the plain name:

"Mr. John Scott."

He was promptly shown up stairs to a handsome library, where he found the
great statesman among his books and papers.

His lordship arose and received his visitor with much cordiality, and
invited him to be seated.

And during the interview that followed it would have been difficult to
decide who was the best pleased--the great minister with this young
disciple of his school, or the new journalist with this illustrious head
of his party.

This agreeable meeting was succeeded by others.

At length the young journalist was invited to a sort of semi-political
dinner at Elmhurst House, to meet certain eminent members of the reform
party.

This invitation pleased the marquis. It would give him the opportunity
of meeting men whom he really wished to know. He thought he might accept
it and go to the dinner as plain Mr. John Scott, of the _National
Liberator_, without danger of being recognized as the Marquis of
Arondelle.

For in the days of his family's prosperity he had been too young to enter
London society.

And in these days of his adversity he was known to but a limited number
of individuals in the city, and only by his common family name.

On the appointed evening, therefore, he put on his well-brushed
dress-suit, spotless linen, and fresh gloves, and presented himself at
Elmhurst House as well dressed as any West End noble or city nabob there.

He was shown up to the drawing-room by the attentive footman, who opened
the door, and announced:

"Mr. John Scott."

And the young Marquis of Arondelle entered the room, where a brilliant
little company of about half a dozen gentlemen and as many ladies were
assembled.

The noble host came forward to welcome the new guest. His lordship met
him with much cordiality, and immediately presented him to Lady ----, who
received him with the graceful and gracious courtesy for which she was
so well known.

Finally the minister took the young journalist across the room toward
a very tall, thin, fair-skinned, gray-haired old gentleman, who stood
with a pale, dark-eyed, richly-dressed young girl by his side.

They were standing for the moment, with their backs to the company, and
were critically examining a picture on the wall--a master-piece of one
of the old Italian painters.

"Sir Lemuel," said the host, lightly touching the art-critic on the
shoulder.

The old gentleman turned around.

"Sir Lemuel, permit me to present to you Mr. John Jones--I beg
pardon--Mr. John Scott, of the _National Liberator_--Mr. Scott, Sir
Lemuel Levison, our member for Lone," said the minister.

Sir Lemuel Levison saw before him the young Marquis of Arondelle, whom he
had know as a boy and young man for years in the Highlands, and of whom,
indeed, he had purchased his life interest in Lone. But he gave no sign
of this recognition.

The young marquis, on his part, had every reason to know the man who had
succeeded, not to say supplanted, his father at Lone Castle. But by no
sign did he betray this knowledge.

The recognition was mutual, instantaneous and complete. Yet both were
gravely self-possessed, and addressed each other as if they had never met
before.

Then the banker called the attention of the young lady by his side:

"My daughter."

She raised her eyes and saw before her the idol of her secret worship,
knowing him by his portrait at Lone. She paled and flushed, while her
father, with old-fashioned formality, was saying:

"My daughter, let me introduce to your acquaintance, Mr. John Scott of
the _National Liberator_. You have read and admired his articles
under the signature of Justus, you know!--Mr. Scott, my daughter, Miss
Levison."

Both bowed gravely, and as they looked up their eyes met in one swift
and swiftly withdrawn glance.

And before a word could be exchanged between them the doors were thrown
open and the butler announced:

"My lady is served."

"Sir Lemuel, will you give your arm to Lady ----, and allow me to take
Miss Levison in to dinner?" said the noble host, drawing the young lady's
hand within his arm.

"Mr. John Scott" took in Lady Belgrave.

At dinner Miss Levison found herself seated nearly opposite to the young
marquis. She could not watch him, she could not even lift her eyes to his
face, but she could not chose but listen to every syllable that fell from
his lips. It was the cue of some of the leading politicians present to
draw out this young apostle of the reform cause. And of course they
proceeded to do it.

The young journalist, modest and reserved at first, as became a disciple
in the presence of the leaders of the great cause, gradually grew more
communicative, then animated, then eloquent.

Among his hearers, none listened with a deeper interest than Salome
Levison. Although he did not address one syllable of his conversation
to her, nor cast one glance of his eyes upon her, yet she hung upon his
words as though they had been the oracles of a prophet.

If the high ideal honor and reverence in which she held him, could have
been increased by any circumstance, it must have been from the sentiments
expressed, the principles declared in his discourse.

She saw before her, not only the loyal son, who had sacrificed himself
to save his father, but she saw also in him the reformer, enlightener,
educator and benefactor of his race and age.

Of all the men she had met in the great world of society, during the
three years that she had been "out," she had not found his equal, either
in manly beauty and dignity, or in moral and intellectual excellence.

_His_ brow needs no ducal coronet to ennoble it! _His_ name
needs no title to illustrate it. The "princely Hereward!" "If all the men
of his race resembled him, they well deserved this popular soubriquet.
And whether this gentleman calls himself Mr. Scott or Lord Arondelle,
I shall think of him only as the 'princely Hereward.'" mused Salome, as
she sat and listened to the music of his voice, and the wisdom of his
words.

She was sorry when their hostess gave the signal for the ladies to rise
from the table and leave the gentlemen to their wine.

They went into the drawing-room, where the conversation turned upon the
subject of the brilliant young journalist. No one knew who he was. Scott,
though a very good name, was such a common one! But the noble host's
endorsement was certainly enough to pass this gifted young gentleman
in any society. The ladies talked of nothing but Mr. Scott, and his
perfection of person, manner and conversation, until the entrance of
the gentlemen from the dining-room.

The host and the member for Lone came in arm in arm, and a little in the
rear of the other guests, and lingered behind them.

"This most extraordinary young man, this Mr. Scott--you have known him
some time, my lord?" said Sir Lemuel Levison, in a low tone.

"Ay, probably as long as you have, Sir Lemuel," replied the Premier, with
a peculiarly intelligent smile.

"Ah, yes! I see! Your lordship has possibly detected my recognition of
this young gentleman," said Sir Lemuel.

"Of course. And I, on my part, knew him when I first saw him again after
some years."

"His name was common enough to escape detection."

"Yes, but his face was not, my dear sir. The profile of the 'princely
Hereward' could never be mistaken. Our first meeting was purely
accidental. He was pointed out to me one evening at a public meeting,
as the 'Justus' of the '_National Liberator_.' I looked and
recognized the Marquis of Arondelle. Nothing surprises or _should_
surprise a middle-aged man. Therefore, I was not in the least degree
moved by what I had discovered. I sent, however, to the office of the
_Liberator_ to inquire the address, not of the Marquis of Arondelle,
but of the writer, under the signature of 'Justus.' Received for answer
that it was Mr. John Scott, office of the _Liberator_. I wrote to
Mr. John Scott, and invited him to call on me. That was the beginning of
my more recent acquaintance with this gifted young gentleman. Why he has
chosen to drop his title I cannot know. He has every right to be called
by his family name, only, if he so pleases. And, Sir Lemuel, we must
regard his pleasure in this matter. Not even to my wife have I betrayed
him," said the Premier, as they passed into the drawing-room.

"Umph, umph, umph," grunted the banker, who, surfeited with wealth though
he was, could think of but one cause to every evil in the world, and
that the want of money, and of but one remedy for that evil, and that
was--plenty of money. "Umph, umph, umph! It is his poverty has made him
drop the title that he cannot support. If he would only marry my girl
now, it would all come right."

The entrance of the tea-service occupied the guests for the next half
hour, at the end of which the little company broke up and took leave.

Salome Levison went home more thoughtful and dreamy than ever
before--more out of favor with herself, more in love with her "paladin,"
more resolved never to marry any man except he should be John Scott,
Marquis of Arondelle.

She almost loathed the hollow world of fashion in which she lived. Yet
she went more into society than ever, though she enjoyed it so much less.
She had a powerful motive for doing so. She attended all the balls,
parties, dinners, concerts, plays, and operas to which she was invited,
only with the hope of meeting again with him whose image had never left
her heart since it first met her vision.

But she never was gratified. She never saw him again in society. John
Scott was unknown to the world of fashion.

The season drew to its close. Constant going out, day after day, and
night after night, would have weakened much stronger health than that
possessed by Salome Levison. And, when added to this was constant longing
expectation, and constant sickening disappointment, we cannot wonder that
our pale heroine grew paler still.

Her chaperone declared herself "worn out" and unable to continue her
arduous duties much longer.

Sir Lemuel Levison was puzzled and anxious.

"I cannot see what has come to my girl! She goes out all the time; she
accepts every invitation; gives herself no rest; yet never seems to enjoy
herself anywhere. She grows paler and thinner every day, and there is a
hectic spot on her cheeks and a feverish brightness in her eyes that I do
not like at all. I have seen them before, and I have too much reason to
know them! I do believe she is fretting herself into a decline for her
convent. I do believe she only goes out as a sort of penance for her
imaginary sins! Poor child! I must really have a talk and come to an
understanding with her!" said the anxious father to himself, as he mused
on the condition of his daughter.




CHAPTER IV.

SALOME'S CHOICE.


Sir Lemuel Levison was taking his breakfast in bed. The London season was
near its close. Parliament sat late at night, and often all night. Sir
Lemuel, a punctual and diligent member of the House, seldom returned home
before the early dawn.

So Sir Lemuel was taking his breakfast in bed, and "small blame to him."

It was a very simple breakfast of black tea, dry toast, fresh eggs, and
cold ham.

"Take these things away now, Potts. Go and find Miss Levison's maid, and
tell her to let her mistress know that I wish to see my daughter here,
before she goes out," said the banker, as he drained and set down his
tea-cup.

"Yes, Sir Lemuel," respectfully answered the servant, as he lifted the
breakfast tray and bore it off.

"Umph! that is the manner in which I have to manoeuvre for an interview
with my own daughter, before I can get one," grumbled the banker, as he
lay back on his pillow and took up a newspaper from the counter-pane.

Before he had time to read the morning's report of the night's doings at
the House, Salome entered the room.

The banker darted a swift keen look at her, that took in her whole aspect
at a glance.

She was dressed for a drive. She wore a simple suit of rich brown silk,
with hat, vail and gloves to match, white linen collar and cuffs, and
crimson ribbon bow on her bosom, and a crimson rose in her hat. Her face
was pale and clear, but so thin that her broad, fair forehead looked too
broad beneath its soft waves of dark hair, and her deep gray eyes seemed
too large and bright under their arched black eyebrows.

"You wished to see me, dear papa?" she said, gently.

"Yes, my love. But--you are going out? Of course you are. You are always
going out, when you are not gone. I hope, however, that I have not
interfered with any very important engagement of yours, my dear?" said
the banker, half impatiently, half affectionately.

"Oh, no, papa, love! I was only going with Lady Belgrade to a flower-show
at the Crystal Palace. I will give it up very willingly if you wish me to
do so," said Salome, gently, stooping and pressing her lips to his, and
then seating herself on the side of his bed.

"I do not wish you to do so, my child. I shall be going out myself in
a couple of hours. But I want to have a little conversation with you.
I suppose a few minutes more or less will make no difference in your
enjoyment of the flower-show."

"None whatever, papa, dear."

"Humph! Salome, now that I look at you well, I do not believe you care
a penny for the flower-show. Come, tell me the truth, girl. Do you care
one penny to go to the flower-show?" he inquired, looking keenly into her
pensive face.

"No, papa, dear," she answered, in a very low tone.

"Humph! I thought not. Now do you care for _any_ of the shows,
plays, balls, and other tom-fooleries that occupy you day and night?
I pause for a reply, my daughter."

"No, papa, I do not," she answered, in a still lower tone.

"Then why the deuce do you go to them?" demanded the banker.

His daughter's soft, gray eyes sank beneath his scrutinizing gaze, but
she did not answer. How _could_ she confess that she went out into
company daily and nightly only in the hope of seeing again the one man
to whom she had given her unsought heart, and for whose presence her very
soul seemed famishing.

"What is it that you _do_ care for, then, Salome?" demanded her
father, varying his question.

Her head sank upon her bosom, but still she did not answer. How could she
tell him that she cared only for a man who did not care for her.

"This is unbearable!" burst forth the banker. "Here you are with every
indulgence that affection can yield you, every luxury that money can give
you, and yet you are not well nor content. What ails you girl? Are you
pining after your convent? Set fire to it. Are you pining after your
convent, I ask you, Salome?"

"Indeed, _no_, papa!"

"What!" demanded her father, starting up at her reply and gazing with
doubt into her pale, earnest face.

"I am not thinking of the convent, dear papa. Indeed I had forgotten all
about it. If it will give you any pleasure to hear it, dear papa, let me
tell you that I have quite given up all ideas of entering a convent,"
added Salome, with a pensive smile.

"What!" exclaimed the banker, starting up in a sitting position and
bending toward his daughter as if in doubt whether to gaze her through
and through or to catch her to his heart.

She met that look and understood her father's love for his only child,
and reproached herself for having been so blind to it for these three
years past.

"Dearest papa," she said, with tender earnestness, "I have no longer the
slightest wish or intention of ever entering a convent. And I wonder now
how I ever could have been so insane as to think I could live all my life
contentedly in a convent, or so selfish as to forget that by doing so I
should leave my father alone in the world!"

"My darling child! Is this truly so? Are these really your thoughts?"
exclaimed the banker, with such a look of delight as Salome had not
believed possible in so aged a face.

"Really and truly, my father! And does it give you so much pleasure?"

"Pleasure my daughter! It gives me the greatest joy! Hand me my
dressing-gown, my dear. I must get up. I cannot lie here any longer.
You have put new life into me!"

Salome handed him his gown, socks, and slippers, and then went to clear
off his big easy-chair, which was burdened with his yesterday's dress
suit, and draw it up for his use.

And in a few minutes the banker, wrapped in his gown, with his feet in
his slippers, was seated comfortably in his arm-chair.

"Now, shall I ring for Potts, papa, dear?" inquired Salome.

"No, my love, I don't want Potts, I want you. Sit down near me, Salome,
and listen to me. You have made me very happy this morning, my darling;
and now I wish to make you happy; you are not so now; but I am your
father; you are my only child; all that I have will be yours; but in the
meantime, you are not happy. What can I do, my beloved child, to make
you so?" said the banker, drawing her to his side and kissing her
tenderly, and then releasing her.

"Papa, dear, I should be a most ungrateful daughter if I were not happy,"
answered the girl.

"Then you _are_ a very thankless child, my little Salome, for you
are very far from happy," said her father, gravely shaking his head, yet
looking so tenderly upon her as to take all rebuke from his words.

Salome dropped her eyes under his searching, loving gaze.

"My child, I know that I have the power to bless you, if you will only
tell me how. Tell me, my dear," persisted her father.

But still she dropped her eyes and hung her head.

"If your mother were here, you could confide in her. You cannot confide
in your father, my poor, motherless girl, and he cannot blame you," said
Sir Lemuel, sadly.

"Father, dear father, I _do_ love you; and I will confide in you,"
said Salome, earnestly.

For just then a mighty power of faith and love arose in her soul, casting
out fear, casting out doubt, subduing pride and reserve.

"What is it, then, my love? Have you formed any attachment of which you
have hesitated to tell me? Hesitate no longer, my dearest Salome. Tell me
all about it. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Love is natural. Love is
holy. Oh, it is your mother that should be telling you all this, my poor
girl, not your awkward, blundering old father," suddenly said the banker,
breaking off in his discourse as his daughter hid her crimson face upon
his shoulder.

"My dear, gentle father, no mother could be tenderer than you," murmured
Salome.

"Tell me all, then, my darling. It is the first wish of my heart to see
you happily married. And no trifling obstacle shall stand in the way of
its accomplishment. _Who is he, Salome?_" he inquired, in a low
whisper, as he passed his hand around her neck.

She did not answer, but she kissed and fondled his hand.

"You cannot bring yourself to tell me yet? Well, take your own time, my
love. You will tell me some time or another," he continued, returning her
soft caresses.

"Yes, I will tell you sometime, dear, good, tender father. But now--when
do we leave town papa?"

"In less than three weeks, my dear."

"And where do we go?"

"To Lone Castle, if you like; if not, anywhere you prefer, my dear."

"Then we _will_ go to Lone, if you please, papa."

"Certainly, my dear."

"Papa?"

"Yes, love."

"Will you do something for me before we leave town?"

"I will do anything on earth that you wish me to do for you, my dear,"
said the banker, looking anxiously toward her.

She hesitated for a few moments, and then said:

"Papa, I want you to give just such a semi-political dinner party as that
given by the Premier in the beginning of the season."

"What! my little, pale Salome taking an interest in politics!" exclaimed
the banker, in droll surprise.

"Yes, papa; and turning politician on a small, womanish scale. You will
give this semi-political dinner?"

"Why of course I will! Whom shall we invite?"

"Papa, the very same party to a man, whom we met at the Premier's
dinner."

"Let me see. Who was there? Oh! there were three members of Parliament
and their wives; two city magnates and their daughters; you and myself,
Lady Belgrade, and--and the Marquis of--John--Mr. John Scott, I mean."

"Yes, papa, that was the company. Send the invitations out to-day, for
this day week please--if no engagement intervenes to prevent you."

"Very well, my dear. You see to it. I leave it all in your hands. Now you
may ring for Potts, my dear. I have to dress and go down to the House. I
am chairman of a committee there, that meets at two. And you, my love,
must be off to your flower-show. You must not keep Lady Belgrade
waiting."

Salome touched the bell, and on the entrance of the valet, she kissed her
father's hand and retired.

"Now I wonder," mused the old gentleman, "who it is she wants to meet
again, out of that dinner company? It cannot be either of the old M.P.'s
or their wives; nor the two elderly city magnates, or their tall
daughters; that disposes of ten out of the fourteen invited guests.
The remainder included Lady Belgrade, myself, Salome herself, and--Lord,
bless my soul, alive!" burst forth the banker, with such a start, that
his valet, who was brushing his hair, begged his pardon, and said that he
did not mean it.

"Lord, bless my soul alive," mentally continued the banker, without
paying the slightest attention to the apologizing servant. "The Marquis
of Arondelle! He was the fourteenth guest, and the only young man
present! And upon my word and honor, the very handsomest and most
attractive young fellow I ever saw in all the days of my life! Come!" he
added to himself, as the full revelation of the truth burst upon his
mind; "_that_ can be easily enough arranged. If he is the sensible,
practical man I take him to be, he will get back his estates and the very
best little wife that ever was wed into the bargain; and my girl will be
a marchioness, and in time a duchess. But stay--what is that I heard up
at Lone about the young marquis and a handsome shepherdess? Chut! what is
that to us? That is probably a slander. The marquis is a noble young
fellow; and I will bring him home with me this evening. I will not wait
a week until that dinner comes off. We cannot afford to lose so much time
at the end of the season," mused the banker, through all the time his
valet was dressing him.

And now we must glance back to that evening when John Scott, Marquis of
Arondelle, first met Salome Levison. He had met many statuesque, pink and
white beauties in his young life; and he had admired each and all with
all a young man's ardor. But not one of them had touched his heart, as
did the first full gaze of those large, soft gray eyes that were lifted
to his and immediately dropped as the old banker had presented him to--

"My daughter, Miss Levison."

She was not statuesque. She was not pink and white. She was not at all
handsome, or even pretty; yet something in the pale, sweet, earnest face,
something in the soft clear gray eyes touched his heart even before he
was presented to her. But when she lifted those eloquent eyes to his
face, there was such a world of sympathy, appreciation and devotion in
their swift and swiftly-withdrawn gaze, that her soul seemed then and
there to reveal itself to his soul.

He never again met the full gaze of those spirit eyes. He never exchanged
a word with her after the first few formal words of greeting. He had only
bowed to her, in taking leave that evening.

Yet those eyes had haunted him in their meek appealing tenderness ever
since. He did not meet her anywhere by accident, and he did not try to
meet her by design. He only thought of her constantly. But what had he to
do with the banker's wealthy heiress, the future mistress of Lone? If he
were so unwise as to seek her acquaintance, the world would be quick to
ascribe the most mercenary motives to his conduct. But like weaker minded
lovers, he comforted himself by writing such transcendental poetry as
"The Soul's Recognition," "The Meeting of the Spirits," "What Those Eyes
Said," etc. He did not publish these. After having relieved his mind of
them, he put them away to keep in his portfolio. So you see the handsome,
"princely" Hereward was as much in love with our pale, gray-eyed girl as
She could possibly be with him.

And so with the young marquis also the season passed slowly and heavily
away, until the day came when into his den at the office of the
_Liberator_ walked Sir Lemuel Levison.

His heart really beat faster, although it was only her father who
entered.

He arose, and placed a chair for his visitor.

"Lord Arondelle, you _know_ I knew you when I met you at Lord P.'s
dinner-party, and I saw that you knew me. It was not my business to
interfere with your incognito, and so I met you as you met me--as a
stranger. But surely here and now we may meet as friends without
disguise," said the banker, as he slowly sank into his seat.

"We must do so, Sir Lemuel, since we are _tete-a-tete_. It would
be idle and useless to do otherwise," replied the young marquis,
courteously.

"And now, my young friend, you are wondering what has brought me here,"
continued the banker.

"I am at least most grateful to any circumstance that gives me the
pleasure of your company, Sir Lemuel," courteously replied the young
marquis.

"Well, my lord, I come to beg you to waive ceremony, and go home with me
to dinner this evening. I hope you have no engagement to prevent you from
coming," added Sir Lemuel, with more earnestness than the occasion seemed
to call for.

"I have no engagement to prevent me," answered the young man frankly, but
slowly and thoughtfully, for he was wondering not only at the invitation
but at the suddenness and earnestness with which it was given.

"Then I _hope_ you will come?" said the banker.

"You are very kind, Sir Lemuel. Yes, thanks, I will come," said the
marquis.

"So happy! Will you allow me to call for you--at--at your lodgings?"

"Thanks, Sir Lemuel, if you will kindly call _here_ at your own
hour, it will be more directly in your way home, and you will find me
ready to accompany you."

"Quite right. I will be here at seven. Good morning."

And with this the banker went away.

"He wants me to make an article about something, I suppose," mused the
young man when the elder had gone. "I will go. I will see that sweet girl
again, even if I never see her afterwards."

The temptation was certainly very strong. And so, at the appointed hour,
when the banker called at the office of the _National Liberator_ he
found the young gentleman in evening dress ready to accompany him home.

Salome Levison was dressed for dinner, and seated in the drawing-room
with her chaperone, Lady Belgrade.

Salome was certainly not expecting any guest. But she intended to go to
the opera that evening with Lady Belgrade, to hear the last act of Norma.
Luckily for Sir Lemuel's plan, it was not a peremptory engagement, and
could easily be set aside.

On this evening she was beautifully dressed. She wore a delicate tea-rose
tinted rich silk skirt, with an over skirt of point lace, looped up with
tea-rose buds, a tea-rose in her dark hair, a necklace of opals set in
diamonds, and bracelets of the same beautiful jewels. Refined, elegant,
and most interesting she certainly looked.

Meanwhile, the banker came home, and himself conducted the unexpected
guest to the drawing-room.

"Mr. John Scott, my dear," said Sir Lemuel, bringing the young gentleman
up to his daughter.

The young marquis caught the sudden lighting up of those soft, gray eyes,
and the sudden flushing of those delicate cheeks.

It was but for an instant; for even as he bowed before her, her eyes fell
and her color faded.

It was but for an instant, yet in that glance those eyes had again
revealed her soul to his.

The young marquis was not a vain man. He could not at once believe the
evidence of his own consciousness. But he found it rather more awkward to
sit down and open a conversation with this pale, shy girl, than he ever
had in his palmiest days to make himself agreeable to the brightest
beauty that ever honored Castle Lone with a visit.

For once the presence of a chaperone was not unwelcome to a pair of young
people secretly in love with each other.

Lady Belgrade chattered of the weather, the opera the park, and what not,
and relieved the embarrassment of the lovers during the interval in which
Sir Lemuel Levison had gone to change his dress.

The young marquis seldom spoke to Salome, but when he did, his voice sank
to a low, tender, reverential tone that thrilled her inmost spirit. She
replied to him only in soft monosyllables, but her drooping eyelids, and
kindling cheeks, told him all he wished to know. He might have wondered
more at the interest he had seemed to excite in a girl he had met but
once before, had he not had a corresponding experience himself. He knew
that he himself had been deeply impressed by this sweet, shy, pale girl,
on the first meeting of her soft gray eyes, with their soul of love
shining through them.

He did not know that this "soul of love" had first been awakened in her,
by hearing his story and seeing his portrait, and that it was which so
powerfully attracted him--for love creates love.

Sir Lemuel Levison hurried over his toilet, and soon entered the
drawing-room.

Dinner was immediately announced.

"Mr. Scott, will you take my daughter to the table?" said the banker, as
he gave his own arm to Lady Belgrade.

It was an elegant little dinner for four, arranged upon a round table.
There was no possibility of estrangement, in so small a party as that.

Sir Lemuel talked gayly, and without effort, for he was very happy. Lady
Belgrade chattered, because she was spiritually a magpie. And as both
constantly appealed to "Mr. Scott," or to Salome, it was impossible for
either of the lovers to relapse into awkward silence. The conversation
was general and lively.

Sir Lemuel Levison and Lady Belgrade would have talked in the most
flattering manner of "Mr. Scott's" leaders, if that young gentleman had
not laughingly waived off all such direct compliments.

When dinner was over, Lady Belgrade gave the signal, and arose from the
table. Salome followed her, and left the two gentlemen to their wine.

"It afflicts me to have to call you Mr. Scott, my lord," said Sir Lemuel,
when he found himself alone with his guest.

"Then call me John, as you used to do when I rode upon your foot in my
childhood, and when I used to come to you in all my worst scrapes in
boyhood--I shall never resume my title, Sir Lemuel," replied the young
man.

"Never!" exclaimed the banker.

"Never, Sir Lemuel. A pauper lord is rather a ridiculous object. I will
never be one."

"You _could_ not be one. I won't hear you say such things about
yourself. See here, John. Do you know why I bought Lone when I knew it
was to be sold?"

"I suppose because you wanted it."

"Now what did I want with Lone? I, an old widower, without family, except
one little girl at school? I did not want Lone. I wanted you to have it.
But I knew that if I did not buy it some one else would. And--I had this
only daughter, who would have Lone after me. And I thought perhaps--But
then you disappeared, you know, and no one on earth could tell for three
years what had become of you, when you suddenly turned up as Mr. John
Scott at the Premier's dinner."

The banker paused, and ran his hand through his gray hair.

The young man looked at him with curiosity and interest.

"Plague take it all! her mother, if she has one, could manage this matter
so much better than I can," muttered the banker, as he poured out a glass
of wine and drank it. "Well, Lord Arondelle--I will give myself the
pleasure of calling you so while we are _tete-a-tete_ 'over the
walnuts and wine.' Lord Arondelle, there is my daughter; what do you
think of her?" he demanded, bending down his gray brows and fixing his
keen blue eyes scrutinizingly upon the young man's face which flushed at
the suddenness of the question. But he quickly recovered himself, and
replied in a low, reverent tone:

"I think Miss Levison the loveliest young creature I have ever had the
happiness to know."

"You do! So do _I_! I think so too. And the man who gets my girl to
wife will get a pearl of price."

"I truly believe that," said the young man, with an involuntary sigh.

"That is right! Ahem! Bother it! a woman could do this so much better
than such a blundering old fellow as I! Well, there! Salome has, in the
three years since her first entrance into society, refused half a score
of eligible men. She is, and always has been, perfectly free from any
such engagement. If you are equally free, my dear marquis--(If I could
only be her mother for three seconds)--Ahem! if you are equally free,
and if you admire my girl as you say you do, and if you can win her
affections--she--she shall be yours, and I will settle Lone upon her.
There, her mother would have done this better, I know. So much better
that you would have proposed to my daughter without ever dreaming that
the suggestion came from our side. But as for me, I have flung my girl
at your head, nothing less!" grumbled the banker.

"My dear Sir Lemuel," said the young man, with some emotion, as he left
his seat and came and stood by the banker's chair, leaning affectionately
over him; "when I first met your lovely daughter, I was so deeply
impressed by her rare sweetness, gentleness, intelligence--ah! Heaven
knows what it was! It was something more than all these. In a word, I was
so deeply impressed by her perfect loveliness, that had I been as really
the heir of Lone as I was the Marquis of Arondelle, I should at once have
cultivated her further acquaintance, and, before this, have laid my heart
and hand, titles and estates, at her feet."

"Well, well, my boy? Well, my dear lad, why didn't you do it?" inquired
the banker, with tears rising to his kind eyes.

"I have just told you, because I was a ruined man," said the marquis with
mournful dignity.

"'A ruined man?'" echoed the banker, with almost angry earnestness.
"_I_ know that you are _not_ a ruined man! And you know, even
better than I do, because you have more brains than I have; YOU
know that no young man, sound in body and sound in mind, can be ruined
by any financial calamity that can fall upon him. You love my daughter,
you say. Well, then, you have my authority to ask her to be your wife.
There, what do you say?"

The young marquis sat down and covered his face with his hand for one
thoughtful moment, and then replied:

"This is a happiness so unexpected that it seems unreal. Sir Lemuel, do
you really appreciate the fact that I am a man without a shilling that
I do not earn by my labor?"

"I really appreciate the fact, and most highly appreciate the fact that
you are Marquis of Arondelle, and to be Duke of Hereward--and that you
are personally as noble in nature as you are fortunately noble in
descent. And although my first motive in favoring this marriage is the
pure desire for yours and for my daughter's happiness, still I assure
you, my lord, I am keenly alive to its eligibility in a mere worldly
point of view. Your ancient historical title is, (to speak as a man of
the world,) much more than an equivalent for my daughter's expectations.
But it is not, as I said before, as a highly eligible, conventional
marriage that I most desire it, but as a marriage that I feel sure will
secure the happiness of yourself and my daughter, whom I shall,
nevertheless, be very proud to see, some day, Duchess of Hereward.
Come, now, I never saw a gallant young man hesitate so long. I shall grow
angry presently."

"Sir Lemuel," said the marquis, with some irrepressible emotion, "were
I now really the Duke of Hereward, and the owner of Lone, and were your
lovely daughter as dowerless as I am penniless at this moment, and did
you give her to me, my deepest gratitude would be due you, and you have
it now. When may I see Miss Levison and put my fate to the test?"

"That's right. Upon my word, my boy, if I were a galvanic foreigner
instead of a staid Englishman, I should jump up and embrace you. Consider
yourself embraced. When shall you see her? We will go into the dining
room now and get a cup of tea from the ladies; after which, you shall see
her as soon and as often as you please. And after you win her, as I am
sure you will, we will have a blithe wedding and you and your bride will
do the Continent for a wedding-tour, and then come back and spend the
Autumn at Lone. We two old papas, the duke and myself, will join you
there, and everything will be quite as it used to be in the old days."

"Ah! my poor father!" sighed the young man.

"What of the duke, my dear boy? You told me he was well," said the
banker, anxiously.

"Yes, he is well in body, better in body than he has been for years; but
I think that is only because his mind is failing."

"I am very sorry to hear that! In what respect does this failure show
itself--in loss of memory?"

"In partial loss of memory; but chiefly in a hallucination that possesses
him. He thinks that he is still the master of Lone as well as the Duke
of Hereward. He thinks that he lives in London, and in the most
Objectionable part of London, only to gratify my 'eccentric whim' of
being a journalist. And he daily and hourly urges me to return with him
to Lone!"

"In the name of Heaven, then gratify him! Take him to Lone as my guest,
until you can keep him there as your own. Let him be happy in the
illusion that he is still its master. I will see that the servants there,
who are most of them his own old people, do not say or do anything to
dispel the illusion! Come, my son-in-law, that is to be, will you take
your father at once to Lone?"

For all answer the young marquis grasped and wrung the hand of his old
friend.

"But will you do it?" persisted the banker, who wanted to be satisfied on
that point.

"I will think of it. I will think most gratefully of your kind
invitation, Sir Lemuel. And now shall we join the ladies?"

"Certainly," said the banker.

They went into the drawing-room.

Lady Belgrade was presiding over the tea urn.

Salome, who was seated near her, looked up and saw him. Again the marquis
noted the sudden, beautiful lighting up of those soft, gray eyes, as they
were lifted for a moment to his face. Again they fell beneath his glance,
as her pale cheeks flushed up. He could not be mistaken. This sweet girl
whom he loved, loved him in return.

"I was just about to send for you. You lingered long at table, Sir
Lemuel," said Lady Belgrade, as the two gentlemen bowed and seated
themselves.

"Oh, important political and journalistic matters to discuss," said Sir
Lemuel. ("Only they were _not_ discussed,") he added, mentally.

"So I supposed," said Lady Belgrade, as she handed him a cup of tea,
which he immediately passed to his guest.

After tea, when the service was removed, Sir Lemuel challenged Lady
Belgrade for a game of chess, and told his daughter to show Mr. Scott
those chromoes of the Madonnas of Raphael which had arrived in the last
parcel from Paris.

Salome flushed to the edges of her dark hair as she arose, glanced
shyly at her guest for an instant, and walked to the other end of the
drawing-room.

There, on a gilded stand, under a brilliant gasolier, lay a large and
handsome volume, which Salome indicated as the one referred to by her
father.

The marquis brought two chairs to the stand, and they sat down to go over
the book.

Meanwhile, the banker and the dowager commenced their game of chess. But
from time to time, each looked furtively in the direction of the young
people. _They_ were looking at the Madonnas of Raphael, and, once
in a while, shyly into each other's eyes. All that Sir Lemuel saw there
pleased him. All that Lady Belgrade saw there _dis_pleased her.

At length she put her hand over that of her antagonist, and stopped his
move while she said:

"Sir Lemuel, a conflagration may be arrested by stamping out a spark of
fire."

"Whatever do you mean, my lady!" inquired the perplexed banker.

"An inundation may be prevented by stopping up a small leak."

"I am more mystified than ever!"

"Look at Salome and Mr. Scott, then," said her ladyship, solemnly.

"Well, what of them? They seem to be very happy and very well pleased
with each other."

"Ah! that is it, and worse may come of it."

"What worse can come of it?"

"Sir Lemuel, this Mr. Scott, you must remember, is nothing but an
adventurer, who only gains an entrance into respectable circles on
account of his journalistic reputation. He is probably also a pauper,
but being a very handsome and attractive man, he is certainly a very
dangerous, and likely to be a very successful fortune-hunter."

"You mean he may try to marry my heiress?"

"Yes, Sir Lemuel."

"He has my full consent to do so."

"Sir Lemuel!"

"Listen, my good lady, I have a secret to tell you. That gentleman whom
we have known as Mr. John Scott only, is really Archibald-Alexander-John
Scott, Marquis of Hereward."

A woman of the world is hardly ever "taken aback." Lady Belgrade gave no
exclamation. But she caught her breath and stared at the speaker.

"It is as I have told you. He is the Marquis of Arondelle. He is going to
marry my daughter. He will get back Lone through her. And she will be
Marchioness of Arondelle, and in due time Duchess of Hereward."

"You--don't--say--so!" breathed her ladyship, slowly.

"And now, you know how to manage it. You must aid the young couple as
much as you can by giving them as much as possible of each other's
society."

"Yes, I see," said her ladyship. "And now--don't look toward them again."

The banker nodded intelligently. And they gave their attention to the
game.

And the two young people seemed to find inexhaustible interest in the
volume they were bending over.

It was eleven o'clock before the young marquis arose to take leave.

"I have asked Miss Levison to ride with me in the Park to-morrow, and she
has kindly consented--with your approbation, Sir Lemuel," said the young
man.

"Certainly, Mr. Scott. I consider horseback riding one of the most
healthful of exercises," said the banker, heartily.

The young marquis then bowed and took his leave.

Lady Belgrade gathered up her embroidery work and bade them good-night.

"My girl, what do you think of Mr. Scott?" asked the banker, when he was
left alone with his daughter.

"Oh, papa," she breathed in an embarrassed manner.

"Do you know who he really is, my dear?"

"Yes, papa, I knew him when I first met him at the Premier's dinner.
I knew him by his portrait that I saw at Castle Lone!"

"Oh, you did!" said the banker, musing.

His daughter looked at him for a moment, and then suddenly threw herself
into his arms, clasped his neck and kissed him fervently, exclaiming,
with her face radiant with delight:

"Oh, papa! this is all your doing! I understand it all, dear papa! Bless
you! bless you! bless you, my own, own dear papa! You have made your
child so happy!"




CHAPTER V.

ARONDELLE'S CONSOLATION.


On the next day, at the appointed hour, Salome came down to the
drawing-room dressed for her ride.

She wore a rich habit of dark blue summer-cloth, fastened with small
gold buttons, fine, tiny white linen cuffs and collar, dark blue gloves,
dark blue velvet hat with a short, white ostrich plume secured by a small
gold butterfly, and she carried in her hand a slender ivory-handled
riding-whip, set with a sapphire. Her dress was neat, elegant, and
appropriate; and her face was for the moment radiant and beautiful
from inward joy.

In due time, the young marquis presented himself, and the lovers went
forth for their ride.

It is not necessary to linger over this courtship, in which "the course
of true love" ran so smooth as to seem monotonous to all but the lovers
themselves.

The ride was followed by the small dinner party. And after that the young
marquis became a daily visitor at Elmthorpe House, where he was ever
received with fatherly affection by Sir Lemuel, and with subdued delight
by Salome.

The lovers had come to a mutual understanding for days before the marquis
made a formal proposal for Miss Levison's hand.

But it happened one evening that they found themselves alone in the
drawing-room. They were seated at a table, loaded with books of
engravings, photographs, and so forth.

Salome was turning over the pages of Dore's Milton.

"Close the volume, now, Miss Levison," Lord Arondelle said at length,
uttering the formal words with a tone and look of such reverential
tenderness as to seem a caress.

Salome shut the book, and looked up to read the open volume of his
eloquent face; but her eyes instantly sank beneath the gaze of ardent
passion that met them.

"Listen to me, Salome, my beloved; for I love you, and have loved you
ever since the first moment when I met the beautiful spirit beaming
through your sweet eyes--'Sweetest eyes were ever seen!' Dear eyes! look
on me!"

Salome, for all her profound and ardent affections, was still a very shy
maiden. She wished to raise her eyes to his; she wished to pour her heart
out to him; to let him have the comfort of knowing how perfectly she
loved him, how utterly she was his own. But she could not look at him,
she could not speak to him as yet. Her dark eyelashes drooped to her
crimson cheeks.

"My beloved, do you hear me? I am telling you how I have loved you since
I first met your heavenly eyes. This is no lover's rhapsody, my own, for
your eyes are heavenly in their spiritual beauty. And they have haunted
me, Salome, like the eyes of a guardian angel ever since they first
looked upon me. Daily they would have drawn me to your side but for my
wrecked and ruined state," he said, with a half suppressed sigh.

His look, his tone, and, more than all, his allusion to the calamity of
his house, reached her soul, and broke the spell of reserve by which she
was bound.

"Oh, do not say that you are ruined!" she cried, in a voice thrilled and
thrilling with profound emotion. "Do not think that you are ruined.
_You_ could _never_ be ruined. _Nothing_ could ruin
_you_. It is not in the power of fate to ruin a man like
YOU. And if you loved me when you first met my eyes it was
because you read in them the soul that was created yours! And if these
eyes have haunted you ever since it was because this soul has been always
longing, yearning, aspiring towards yours!" And she dropped her face in
her hands and wept for pure joy.

"Salome, Salome, can this be indeed true? Can I have been so blessed? Am
I indeed so happy? Then is this abundant compensation for all that I have
lost in this world! Heavenly consolation for all I have suffered on
earth! Speak again, oh, my dearest! Tell me once more, for I can scarcely
realize my happiness! Speak again, beloved, for your words are life to
me!" he exclaimed, with profound emotion.

"Yes, I will tell you all!" she said, wiping away her joyful tears and
looking up. "I will tell you everything for it is your right! You have
made me so happy to-day! I loved you from the beginning. First, I loved
the magnanimous, self-sacrificing man who, at the age of twenty-one
years, with a brilliant future before him, could renounce all his
prospects to give peace to his father's latter years. I loved you then,
Lord Arondelle, before I knew what manner of man you looked!"

"How blessed, how surely blessed I am in hearing you," he breathed, in
a low and reverent tone.

"Afterward I saw your portrait in Malcolm's Tower at Lone," she
continued, in a soft voice. "And I saw a beauty and a grandeur in the
face and form that seemed the fitting manifestation of a soul like yours.
And I loved you more than ever. My mornings were passed in the tower near
the glory of that picture. But I gazed on it so hopelessly! You were
missing, you were lost to your world! And then I was so plain, so pale,
and dark and gray-eyed. If I should ever be so fortunate as to meet you,
I thought you would never be likely to love me!"

"My consolation! You are most lovely from your spirit, and now you
_know_ that I loved you from my first meeting with you," he
breathed, in a low, earnest tone, pouring his whole soul's devotion
through the gaze that he fixed on her face.

Again her eyes drooped as she murmured:

"If I am lovely in the very least, it must be that my love for you has
made me so; for, even then, when I had only heard your story and seen
your portrait, I loved you so, that I could not think of marriage with
any other man."

"And that was the reason why you refused so many excellent offers?" he
inquired, with a smile.

"Perhaps that was the reason," she replied, lowly bending her head.

"Tell me more, my consolation! I thirst for your words; they are as the
words of life to me," he murmured, eagerly.

She continued, still speaking in a low, thrilling voice:

"At last--at last--at last--after three long years of waiting, longing,
aspiring, I met you face to face. Oh!" she exclaimed, and as she spoke
her hand for the first time went out to meet his, which closed upon it
with a close clasp, and her eyes lifted themselves to his in a full
blaze of love that seemed to blend their spirits into one.

"Oh! if in that moment you loved me, it must have been because you read
my soul, for in that moment I consecrated my life to you for acceptance
or rejection. I recorded a vow in heaven to be no man's wife unless
I could be yours; but to live unmarried so that when, in the course of
nature, my dear father should pass to the higher life and leave me Castle
Lone, I might be free to transfer it to its rightful owner."

"Ah! my beloved! you would have been capable of such an act of
renunciation as that! But I could not have accepted the sacrifice,
Salome."

"In that case I should have made a will and bequeathed it to you, and
then prayed to the Lord to take me from the earth, that you might have it
all the sooner. But let that pass. Thanks be to Heaven, there is no need
of that. It would have been sweet to die for you, but it is so much
sweeter to _live_ for you, dearest!" she said, lifting up a face
in which rosy blushes, radiant smiles, and beaming eyes were blended in
dazzling beauty.

"Oh! angel of my destiny, what can I render you for all the blessings you
have brought me?" exclaimed her lover, clasping her to his bosom in a
close embrace.

"Your love--your love! which will crown me a queen among women!" she
whispered, softly.

The morning succeeding this scene, Lord Arondelle called and asked for
a private interview with Sir Lemuel Levison.

He was invited up into the library, where he found the banker alone among
his books.

"Good morning, Arondelle. Glad to see you. Take this chair," said the old
gentleman, rising, shaking hands with his visitor, and placing a seat for
him.

The young marquis returned the hearty shake of the banker's hand, and
took the offered chair.

"Now, I suppose that you have come to tell me that you have taken up the
girl I flung at your head about a month ago?" said the banker, rubbing
his hands.

"No, nothing of the sort," replied the young marquis, effectually
declining to understand the jest of his host. "I do not remember that you
ever flung any girl at my head. I came, Sir Lemuel, to tell you that I am
so happy as to have won Miss Levison's consent to be my wife, if we have
your approbation," he added, with a bow.

"Humph! It amounts to about the same thing. Well, my dear boy, you have
my consent and blessing on two conditions."

"Name them, Sir Lemuel."

"The first is, that you can assure me on your honor that you really do
love my daughter. I would not give her to an emperor who did not love her
as she deserves to be loved," said the banker, emphatically.

"Love her!" repeated the young man, in a deep and earnest tone. "Love is
scarcely the word, nor adoration, nor worship! She is the soul of my
soul! She lives in my life, and my life is the larger, higher, holier for
her!"

"Humph! I don't understand one word of what you are talking about, but I
suppose it means that you really do love Salome. So the first condition
will be fulfilled," said the banker, with a smile.

"And the second, sir. What is the second?"

"The second is, that the marriage shall take place within a month from
this time."

"Agreed, sir. The sooner the better. The sooner I may call your lovely
daughter mine, the sooner I shall be the most blessed among men,"
exclaimed the young marquis, earnestly clapping his palm into the open
hand of the banker, and shaking it heartily.

"There! well, the second condition will be fulfilled. And now I will tell
you what I never told you in so many words before, namely, that on the
day Salome Levison becomes Marchioness of Arondelle, I will give her Lone
as a marriage portion. There, now, not a word more upon that subject. I
will send a message to my attorney to meet us here to-morrow morning,"
said the banker, rising and ringing the bell.

"You will let me thank--" began the marquis.

"No, I won't!" exclaimed the banker, cutting short the young gentleman's
acknowledgements. "Excuse me now half a minute, I want to write a line,"
he added, as he hastily scribbled off a note.

A footman entered in answer to the bell.

"Take this to the office of the Messrs. Prye, Lincoln's Inn Fields, and
wait an answer," said Sir Lemuel, handing the folded note to the man, who
bowed and retired.

"Prye must meet us here to-morrow morning to see to the marriage
settlements. And I must see to Prye! Even lawyers may be hurried if they
be well paid for making haste!" concluded the banker, rubbing his hands.
"But now go and find Salome, and tell her it is all right! She has not
got a stern father to ruffle the course of her true love, but a spooney
old fellow who spreads out his hands over your heads and says: 'Bul-less
you, my chee-ild-der-en!'"

Lord Arondelle smiled at the dry banker's imitation of the heavy
stage-father, but made no comment.

"Yes, go see Salome; and then go to the duke, your father, and acquaint
him with the result of your proposal. I take it for granted that you had
his grace's authority for making it."

"I had, sir. He told me to be guided by my own judgment."

"Well tell him all about the settlements as I have told them to you.
Agree to any amendment he may propose, for I will make it all right."

"That is allowing a very large margin, indeed. I thank you, Sir Lemuel;
but I must reflect before taking advantage of it."

"Well, well; perhaps the duke will meet my solicitor here to-morrow
morning in regard to the settlements. I consider the fact that he has
steadily declined every invitation I have sent him to come to us on any
occasion. Still, I hope he may be induced to honor us with his presence
to-morrow in the interest of these marriage settlements, and to remain
and dine with us in honor of this betrothal," said the banker.

"I hope you will kindly continue to excuse my father, sir. His age, his
infirmities, his failing mind and body, will, I trust, be his sufficient
apologies," said the young marquis gravely.

"You think that he will not come, then!"

"I fear that he cannot."

"I'm sorry for that. However, tell him all that I have told you, and
agree to any alterations in the settlements that he may see fit to
suggest. There! Go to Salome! Go to Salome! I must be off to the House,"
said the conscientious M.P. rising, and putting an end to the interview.

It was subsequently arranged that the marriage should be celebrated at
Castle Lone on that day three weeks.

Two weeks out of the three, Sir Lemuel Levison remained in town to give
his daughter and her chaperon an opportunity of getting up as good a
trousseau as could be prepared in so short a time. But jewellers,
milliners, and dressmakers may be hurried as well as lawyers, when they
are well paid to make haste. And so, in two weeks, the banker's heiress,
the future Marchioness of Arondelle and Duchess of Hereward, had a
trousseau as magnificent and splendid as if it had been in preparation
for two years. When it was all carefully packed and sent down to Lone,
Sir Lemuel Levison and his household prepared to follow.

On the day before their departure a very curious thing happened.

Sir Lemuel was waiting in his library, when a footman entered and laid a
card before him. It was not a visiting card, but a business card. And it
bore the name of a firm:

Dazzle and Sparkle, jewellers, Number Blank, Bond street.

"What is the meaning of this?" inquired the banker.

"If you please, sir, the person who brought it directed me to say, that
he craves to speak with you on the most important business," answered the
man.

"Important to himself most likely, and not in the least so to me. Well,
show him up," said Sir Lemuel.

The servant withdrew and, after a few moments, reappeared and announced:

"Mr. Dazzle, of Dazzle and Sparkle, Bond street."

A little, round-bodied, bald-headed man entered the library.

Sir Lemuel Levison received him with some surprise, but with much
politeness.

"I have come, sir, on a little business," began the visitor, who
forthwith proceeded and explained his business at length.

It seemed that the imbecile Duke of Hereward, being well pleased with his
son's marriage, and imagining himself still to be the master of Lone and
of a princely revenue, went to Messrs. Dazzle and Sparkle, and ordered
a splendid set of diamonds for his prospective daughter-in-law.

The firm, who, as well as all the world of London, had heard of the
forthcoming marriage between the son of the pauper duke and the daughter
of the wealthy banker, gravely accepted the order, pondered over it, and
finally determined to lay the whole matter before the banker himself.

"You have acted with much discretion, Mr. Dazzle. Fill the duke's order,
and hold me responsible for the amount. And say nothing of the affair,"
was the banker's answer to the tradesman, who bowed and left the room.

The next morning Sir Lemuel Levison, his daughter, her chaperon, and
their household, went down to Castle Lone.

Active preparations were at once commenced for the wedding, which was to
take place at Lone on the Tuesday of the following week.

The first thing that Salome did on reaching the castle was to have the
portrait of the Marquis of Arondelle brought down from the tower and
mounted in state between the two lofty front windows of her favorite
sitting-room.

Among the servants at Lone, none received the bride elect with more
effusive love than the old housekeeper, Girzie Ross.

"Eh, me leddy! Heaven, sent ye to redeem Lone. My benison on ye, me
leddy! and my ban on yon hizzie, wha hae been makin' sic' an ado, ever
sin the report o' your betrothal has been noised about!" said the dame.

"But who are you talking about, my dear Mrs. Ross?" inquired Salome.

"Ou just that handsom hizzie, Rosy Cameron, wha will hae it that she, her
vera sel', is troth-plighted to our young laird--the jaud!" replied the
housekeeper.

"But, Mrs. Ross, surely that must be a mistake of yours. No girl could
have the impertinence to say such a false thing of Lord Arondelle,"
exclaimed Salome, in disgust and abhorrence of the very idea presented.

"Indeed, then, my young lady, _she_ ha' the impertinence to say just
that thing--not in a whisper and in a corner, but loudly in the vera
castle court, to whilk she cam yestreen, sae noisily that I was fain to
threaten her wi' the constable before I could get shet o' her," said the
housekeeper nodding her head.

"What can the girl mean by it? What excuse can she possibly have to
justify such a mad charge?" inquired Salome, in a painful anxiety that
she could neither conquer nor yet explain to herself. She did not doubt
the honor of her promised husband. She would have died rather than doubt
him. Why, then, should this sudden anguish wring her heart. "What excuse
can she have, Mrs. Ross?" repeated Salome.

"Eh, me leddy, wha kens? Boys will be boys. And whiles the best o' them
will be wild where a bonny lassie is concerned. No that's I'm saying sic
a thing anent our young laird. But ye ken he used to be unco fond o' the
sport o' deer stalking up by Ben Lone, where this handsome hizzie, Rose
Cameron, bides wi' her owld feyther. And I e'en think the young laird,
may whiles, hae putten a speak on the lass. Nae mair nor less than just
that," said the housekeeper as she left the room to look after some
important household work.

A few minutes after her exit, Sir Lemuel Levison entered.

Finding his daughter almost in tears, he naturally inquired:

"What on earth is the matter with you, my child?"

"Nothing, papa! At least nothing that should trouble me!"

"But what is it?"

"Well then, papa, dear, here has been a foolish girl--_very_
foolish, I think she must be, going about, intruding even into the
Castle, and telling all that will listen to her, that _she_ is
betrothed to the Marquis of Arondelle."

"Oh! Just as I feared!" muttered the banker, in a tone that instantly
riveted the attention of his daughter.

"_What_ did you fear, my father?" she inquired, fixing her eyes upon
his face.

The banker hesitated.

His daughter repeated her question:

"_What_ did you fear, my dear father?"

"Why, just what has happened, my love!" impatiently answered the banker.
"That this silly report would reach your ears and give you uneasiness. It
_has_ reached you; but do not, I beseech you, let it trouble you!"

"There is no truth in it of course, papa?" said Salome, in a tone of
entreaty.

"No, no, at least none that need concern you. Lord bless my soul, girl,
young men will be young men! Arondelle is now about twenty-five years of
age. And he was not brought up in a convent, as you were. He has lived
for a quarter of a century in the world! Surely, you do not expect that
a young man should live as long as that without ever admiring a pretty
face, and even telling its owner so, do you?"

"I never once thought about that, at all, papa," said Salome, in a
mournful tone.

"No, I'll warrant you didn't! Well, don't think anything more of it now.
And don't expect too much of human nature. In this year of grace there
are no saints left alive! Believe that, and accept it, my girl!"




CHAPTER VI.

A HORRIBLE MYSTERY ON THE WEDDING DAY.


On the day before the wedding all the preparations were completed.

The grounds around the castle, paradisial in their own natural beauty
under this heavenly blue sky of June, were adorned with all that art and
taste and wealth could bring to enhance their attractions in honor of the
occasion.

Triumphal arches of rare exotic flowers were erected at intervals along
the avenue leading from the castle courtyard down to the bridge that
spanned Loch Lone from the island, to the mountain hamlet on the main
land. The bridge itself was canopied with evergreens, and starred with
roses. Every house in the little hamlet of Lone was so wreathed and
festooned with flowers as to look like a fairy bower. The little gothic
church, said to be coeval in history with the castle itself, was
decorated within and without as for an Easter or Christmas festival. And
the only inn of the place, an antiquated but most comfortable public
house, known for centuries as the "Hereward Arms," was almost covered
with flags, banners and bushes, in honor of the presence of the Duke of
Hereward, and the Marquis of Arondelle, especially, and of other noble
guests who had arrived there to assist at the wedding of the next day.

Yes, the expectant bridegroom and his aged father were at the Hereward
Arms. Etiquette did not admit of their being guests at the Castle on the
day before the expected marriage. And much ado had the young marquis to
keep the duke quietly at the inn. The old man enjoying his pleasing
hallucination of being still the proprietor of Lone, and the possessor of
a princely revenue, fretted against the delay that detained him at the
Hereward Arms, when he was so anxious to go on to Castle Lone. And his
son did not venture to leave him until late at night, when he left him in
bed and asleep.

Then the young marquis walked out and crossed the evergreen covered
bridge leading to the Castle grounds. He knew that custom did not
sanction his visit to his bride-elect on the night before their wedding,
but he could at least gaze on the walls that sheltered her, while he
rambled over the rich lawns, parterres, shrubberies, and terraces.

Within the Castle, meanwhile, all the arrangements for the morning's
festivity were completed.

Halls, drawing-rooms, parlors, chambers, and dining-rooms, all
sumptuously furnished and beautifully decorated, were ready for the
wedding guests.

In the dining-room the luxurious wedding-breakfast was set. The service
was of solid gold and finest Sevres china; the viands comprised every
foreign and domestic delicacy fitting the feast.

In the drawing-room the magnificent bridal presents were
displayed--coronets, necklaces, earrings, brooches, bracelets, rings,
of pearls, diamonds, opals, emeralds, sapphires, and amethysts; jewel
caskets, dressing cases, work boxes, and writing desks, of ormolu, of
malachite, of pearl, and of ivory, of silver, and of gold; illuminated
prayer-books and Bibles, with antique covers and clasps set with precious
stones; tea and dinner sets of solid gold; camel's hair and Cashmere
shawls and scarfs; sets of lace in Honiton, Brussels, Valencia. Irish
point and old point--on to an endless list of the most splendid
offerings.

"The wealth of Ormus and of Ind"

seemed to load the tables in costly gifts to the banker's daughter, and
marquis' bride.

In the bride's own luxurious dressing-room, the elegant bridal costume
was displayed. It consisted of a fine point-lace dress over a
trained-skirt of rich white satin, a full-length vail of priceless
cardinal point-lace; white kid boots, embroidered with small pearls;
white kid gloves, trimmed at the wrists with lace; wreath and bouquet of
orange flowers; necklace and pendant earrings and bracelets of rich
Oriental pearls, set with diamonds. These jewels were the imaginary gift
of the mad duke to the bride-elect of his son, and were paid for, as has
been already explained, by the bride's own father. A sentiment of tender
reverence for the unfortunate old duke had inspired Salome to select
these jewels from all the others that had been lavished upon her, to wear
on her wedding day.

To the credit of the good banker's delicacy and discretion let it be
said, that not even Salome knew but that this elegant gift had been given
by the duke in reality as it was in intention.

The Castle was now full of guests, friends of the bride and of her
father's family. The eight young ladies who were to attend her to the
altar, had arrived early in the afternoon, each chaperoned by her mother,
aunt, or some matronly friend. These had all been shown to their separate
apartments.

They assembled again at the seven o'clock dinner in the family
dining-room, and afterwards made a little tour of inspection through
the rooms, looking with approval and admiration upon the sumptuous
wedding-breakfast table, set in the great dining-room, and with surprise
and enthusiasm at the splendid wedding presents displayed in the
drawing-room. Finally, after a social cup of tea, they separated and
retired to their several rooms, that they might be up in good time the
next morning.

When Salome entered her own bed-chamber, she found the old housekeeper,
Girzie Ross, awaiting her.

"I took the liberty, me leddy, to come to see ye, gin ye hae ony commands
for me the night," said the dame, courtesying.

"No, Mrs. Ross, I have no orders to give. All is done, as I understand.
If there be anything left undone, you will use you own discretion about
it. I can thoroughly trust you," said Salome.

"Guid-night, then, me leddy. And a guid rest and a blithe waking till
ye," said the dame, courtesying again, and turning to leave the room.

"One moment, Mrs. Ross, if you please," said the young lady, gently
arresting her steps.

"Ay, me leddy, as mony as ye'll please," promptly replied the dame,
returning to her place.

"I wish to ask you a question," began Salome, in a slow and hesitating
manner. "Have you seen or heard anything more of that girl, Mrs. Ross?"

"Meaning that ne'er-do-weel light o' love Rose Cameron, me leddy!"
inquired the housekeeper.

"Yes, Rose Cameron. There have been such crowds of people on the island
today to inspect the decorations, that I thought--I thought--"

"As that handsome jaud might be amang 'em, me leddy? Ou, ay, and sae she
waur! But when I caught her prowling about here, I sent Mr. McRath to
warn her off the place, and threaten her wi' the constable gin she
didna gang!" said the housekeeper.

"But that was cruel, Mrs. Ross."

"Na, na, me leddy. It waur unco well dune! She was after no guid prowling
about here, and making an excuse o' luking at the deekorated grounds. She
didna care for the sight a bodle! Aweel she's gane, and a guid riddance."

"What does the girl look like, Mrs. Ross?"

"Eh, leddy, she's a strapping wench! tall and broad-shouldered, and
full-breasted, with a handsome head that she carries unco high, and big,
bold blue eyes, and a heap o' long, red hair. That's Rosy Cameron, me
leddy."

This was a rather rough portrait of the Juno-like Highland beauty; but
then, it was drawn by an enemy, you know.

"But dinna fash yersel' about yon hizzie ony mair, me young leddy. She'll
na be permitted to trouble ye," concluded the housekeeper.

"That will do, Mrs. Ross. Thanks. But pray do not let anyone be harsh
with that poor girl. If she is a little crazy, she is all the more to be
pitied. Good-night," said Salome, thus gently dismissing her talkative
attendant.

"Guid night, me young leddy. Guid rest and blithe waking to ye," repeated
the old woman, as she courtesied and left the room.

"Poor girl!" mused Salome. "I cannot help sympathizing with her tonight.
What if Arondelle who is so courteous to all, were courteous to her also.
And she, unused to courtesy in her rude Highland home, mistook such
gentle courtesy for preference, for love, and gave him her love in
return? He would not be in the least to be blamed, while she would be
much to be pitied. What a cruel sight these wedding preparations must be
to her! What a miserable night this must be for her! I must see to that
poor girl's welfare," concluded Salome.

A low rap at her door disturbed her.

"Come in."

Her maid entered.

"What is it, Janet?"

"If you please, Miss, Sir Lemuel's man has just brought me a message for
you. Sir Lemuel requests, Miss, that you will come to his room before you
retire."

"Dear papa, I will go at once. You need not wait for me here, Janet. Just
turn the lights down low--they make the room so warm--and leave the
windows partly open, and then go to bed, my girl, I shall not want you
again tonight," said Salome, as she passed out of the chamber and went
down to the long hall, at the opposite extremity of which was her
father's room.

She entered silently, and found the banker wrapped in his gray silk
dressing-gown and seated in his large resting-chair.

"Come and sit by me, my dear. I only wanted to have a little talk with
you tonight," he said, holding out his hand to her.

She went up to him, clasped and kissed the out-stretched hand, and then
seated herself, not on the chair by his side, for that would not have
brought her near enough to him, but on the footstool at his feet, so that
she could lay her head upon his knees.

"Salome, my darling, I have not been a good father to you," he said,
sadly, as he ran his long white fingers through the tresses of the little
dark-haired head that lay upon his knees.

"Oh, papa! the best and dearest papa that ever lived!" she answered,
drawing his hand to her lips and kissing it fondly.

"No, no; I have not been a good father to you, my poor motherless child.
I feel it to-night. I left you fourteen years in a foreign convent, and
scarcely ever saw you. Was that being a good father to you, my child?"

"Yes, dear, it was. I had to be educated. And the nuns did their whole
duty by me, did they not?" said Salome, soothingly.

"They sent me home a sweet and lovely child, who in the three years that
she has been my greatest blessing and comfort has made me feel and know
how much I lost in banishing her from my presence so long--fourteen
years!--a time never to be redeemed!" said the banker, with a sigh.

"Yes, papa, dear. It can and shall be redeemed. For now you know I shall
live with you as long as you live. My marriage will not deprive you of
your daughter, but give you a dear and noble son. You know it is settled
that after our brief wedding we shall return to Lone, and you and the
duke, and Arondelle and myself, will all live here together until the
meeting of Parliament in February, and then we shall go up to London
together. So cheer up, papa. All the coming years shall compensate
for all we have lost in the past," said Salome, gayly caressing him.

"'The coming years?' Ah, my darling! do you forget that I am quite an old
man to be your father? You were the child of my old age, Salome! I was
nearly fifty when you were born. I am nearly seventy now!"

"_Dear father!_" murmured Salome, caressing him with ineffable
tenderness.

"Do not let me sadden you, my darling. I would not be a day younger. It
is well to be old. It is well to have lived a long time in this world,
for it is a good world. But good as it is, it is but rudimentary. It is
to the human being only what the soil is to the seed--the germinating
bed; the full and perfect world is beyond. Young Christians believe this.
Aged Christians know it. There, brighten up! And think that this marriage
of yours and Arondelle's if it be as true as I feel assured it is--will
be not for time only but for all eternity! Believe this and be happier
than you were ever before! There now, my darling! I called you in here
to make my little confession. I have received absolution. Now go to your
rest. Good night," said the banker, bending and kissing her forehead.

"Dear, dearest father! bless your daughter before she goes," said Salome,
in a voice thrilling with emotion, as she raised from her seat and knelt
at her father's feet.

The old man laid his hand upon her bowed head and solemnly invoked a
blessing upon her.

"May the Lord look down on you, my daughter. May He give you health and
grace to bear your burdens and do your duties as wife and mother, and
save and bless you and yours, now and ever more, for Christ's dear sake.
AMEN."

She arose in silence from her knees, put her arms around his neck, kissed
him, and glided from the room.

And now a terrible and mysterious thing happened to the bride-elect.

The lights had been turned very low in the hall. The household had all
retired to rest. The stillness and the sense of darkness awed her as she
glided noiselessly along in the deep shadows. Suddenly she saw the form
of a man approaching from the direction of her own room. He might be some
belated servant on some legitimate business for one of the guests, yet he
startled her. She looked intently toward him, but in the obscure light
she could only see that he was a tall man in dark clothing, and with a
very white face. She shrank back in the shadow of the wall as he swiftly
and silently approached her.

Then with amazement she recognized the face and form of her betrothed
husband. But the face was deadly pale, and the form was shaking as with
an ague fit.

"ARONDELLE! _You here!_" she exclaimed, starting towards
him.

But she met only the empty air, the form had vanished.

In unbounded amazement she stared all around to see where it could have
gone, and in what part of the darksome hall she herself then stood.

She found herself opposite to the entrance of a long, narrow passage
opening from the hall and leading to the door of a staircase
communicating with the dungeons of Malcolm's Tower.

She looked down that passage. It was black as the mouth of Hades!

A nameless terror seized her, and she fled precipitately down the hall,
nor stopped until she had reached her own room, rushed in, and shut and
bolted the door. Then she sank down into the nearest chair, feeling cold
as ice, and trembling from head to foot.

Her maid had over-acted her instructions, and had not only turned the
lights low, but had turned them out entirely.

There was no need of artificial light, however; for the windows were open
and the room was flooded with the brilliant moonshine of these northern
latitudes.

Salome did not know or care how the room was lighted. She sat there
thrilled with awe of what she had just experienced.

Had she really seen the marquis?--or his spirit? Or had she been the
victim of an optical illusion?

If she had seen the marquis, what could have brought him secretly into
the house and up into the hall of the bed-rooms, at that hour of the
night? And why did he not answer her, when she called him?

It surely could not have been the marquis whom she saw! He never would
have crept into the house and up to their private-rooms, at that hour of
the night, or fled from her, when she called him?

What was it then that she had seen in the likeness of her lover?

Was it the disembodied spirit of Arondelle? _Could_ the spirit of a
living man appear in one place, while the body of the man was present in
another? She had heard and read of such wonders, yet she could not accept
them as facts.

No, this was no spirit.

What then? Had she been the subject of an optical illusion? She had heard
of those wonders also!

But no! This was too real, too solid, too substantial for an optical
illusion!

Was the form she had seen possibly that of some other person, some guest
of the house, who had lost his way.

No, and a thousand noes! She knew every guest staying at the castle, and
knew that not one of them bore the slightest resemblance to the Marquis
of Arondelle.

No, the form that she had seen in the murky hall seemed that of her
betrothed husband, or it was his spirit.

She could not tell which, nor could she test the question now. The house
was full of wedding guests, who were now most probably sound asleep in
their beds. And the household all had long since retired. She could not
rouse them only to satisfy her own doubts without any other practical
result. For what if the intruder were Lord Arondelle? He was not in the
least an objectional guest. And in the morning he would explain his
strange presence.

By this time Salome had reasoned herself into some degree of calmness.
But she was still too much excited to feel sleepy or to think of retiring
to bed.

The mid-summer night was warm and close, even there in the Highlands--or
in her nervous condition it seemed to her to be so. She wanted more air.
She went to the window, and seated herself in an easy-chair, and looked
out.

A heavenly night!

The deep-blue sky was spangled with myriads of sparkling stars. The full
harvest moon was at the zenith and pouring down a flood of silvery
radiance over mountain, lake and island.

Right opposite the window was the elegant little bridge that spanned the
lake between the island and the mountain, at the base of which stood the
little Gothic church with the cottages of the hamlet clustered around it.

A beautiful scene!

This morning it had been gay and noisy with a rejoicing crowd come to
inspect the decorated grounds, and to triumph over the approaching
marriage of their disinherited young lord, with the present heiress of
his lost estate.

To-morrow this scene would be even more gay and more noisy, with a
greater and more rejoicing crowd. For all the Clan Scott were to gather
here to do honor to the nuptials of their hereditary chieftain.

But to-night the beautiful scene was holy in its solitude and stillness.

Hark!

A sound of voices beneath the window.

Salome started, and drew back. And the next moment, paralyzed by
consternation and despair, she overheard the following conversation:

"_Hist!_ are you there, Rose?" inquired a dear familiar voice.

"Ay, I'm here, me laird! After being turnit frae the castle like a thief,
or a beggar, or a dog! after being threatened wi' a constable and a
prison if I ever showed my face here; but once mair I hae come agen, in
obedience to your bidding! Come creeping, creeping, creeping ander the
castle wa', by night, like ony puir cat afeared o' scauding water! Ay, me
laird, I'm here, mair fule I!" replied a woman's voice.

"Hush, Rose! Do not say so, my girl. And do not call me 'lord;' I am your
slave and not your 'lord,' my lady queen! You know I love you--you only
of all women."

"Luve me? Ou, ay, sae ye tell me. But this gran' wedding is coming unco
near to be naething but a jest. How far will ye carry the jest? Up till
the altar railings? Into the bridal chamber? It's deceiving and fuling
me, ye are, me laird! But I'll tell ye weel! Ye sail no marry yon girl,
I say! Gin ye gae sae far as to lead her to the kirk mesel' will meet you
at the altar and forbid the marriage. And _then_ see wha will put me
out!"

"Hush, hush, you wild Highland witch, and listen to me. I shall not marry
that girl! How can I, when I am married to you? I have had an object in
letting this thing go on thus far. My plans could not all be accomplished
until to-night. But to-night something will happen that will put all
thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage effectually out of the heads
of all parties concerned, I will warrant. And to-morrow, you and I will
be far away from this place--together, and never to part again. Wait here
for me, my love; I shall not be long away. But on your life, do not stir,
or speak, or scarcely breathe until you see me again."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Perhaps an hour. Perhaps two hours. You can be patient?"

"Ay, I can be patient."

Here the low, whispering voice ceased. And Salome?

Before that conversation was half through, Salome had fallen back in her
chair in a deadly swoon.




CHAPTER VII.

THE MORNING'S DISCOVERY.


When Miss Levison recovered her consciousness it was broad daylight. The
rising sun glancing over the top of the Eastern mountain sent arrows of
golden light in through the window at which she sat.

Music filled the morning air!

Salome passed her hands over her eyes, and gazed around. So long and
deep had been her swoon that, for the time, she had utterly lost her
memory, and now found difficulty in trying to recover it. Bewildered,
she looked about, and listened to the strange, wild music sounding under
her window--a sort of morning serenade or reveille, it seemed.

Next her eyes fell upon her magnificent bridal array, displayed on stands
near the elegant dressing-table.

Then she remembered that this was her wedding-day, and a flush of joy
lighted up her face.

But it passed in a moment.

What was this that lay so heavy at her heart! Was it the remnant of an
evil dream?

What had happened? Something must have happened! Else why should she find
herself seated in that easy-chair at the open window, and see that her
bed had not been occupied?

Then, slowly, she recollected the events of the previous night--her
retirement to her chamber; her talk there with the housekeeper about Rose
Cameron, the "handsome hizzie," who had been haunting the premises and
giving trouble all that day; the message from her father; her affecting
interview with him in his bedroom; her return to her own apartment
through the dimly-lighted, deserted hall, where she met the pale and
spectral form of Lord Arondelle, who vanished as she called to him!
her terrified flight into her own chamber!

All these incidents she clearly remembered.

Then her excited vigil in the easy-chair, by the open window, and the two
voices that broke upon it--that of her betrothed husband and that of a
woman--of this same Rose Cameron, whose name had been so disreputably
connected with Lord Arondelle's; who then and there claimed to be his
wife and was not contradicted!

There! that was the weight that lay so heavy at her heart!

"And yet it must have been a dream!" she said to herself. Of course she
had fallen asleep there in the easy-chair, and with her thoughts running
on the apparition she had met in the hall, and on the country people's
gossip about Lord Arondelle and Rose Cameron, she had had that evil
dream. Unquestionably it was only a dream! Lord Arondelle could never
play so base a part as he had seemed to do in her dream! She reproached
herself for having even involuntarily been the subject of it.

And yet! and yet! the weight lay heavy at her heart, and although this
was a warm June morning, she shivered as though it had been January.

She arose to close the window.

Then--

What a magnificent and beautiful scene burst upon her vision! The eastern
horizon was ablaze with glory. Lovely morning clouds, soft, transparent
white, tinted with rose, violet and gold, tempered the dazzling splendor
of the rising sun, and half vailed the opal-hued mountain tops, and even
hung upon the emerald mountain side. Morning sky, rosy clouds, and opal
mountains, were all reflected as by a mirror in the clear water of the
lake below.

The hamlet at the foot of the mountain was gay with flags and banners and
festoons of flowers. The bridge spanning the lake and connecting the
hamlet with the island, was grand with triumphal arches. The lake was
alive with gayly-trimmed pleasure-boats of every description. The island,
with its groves, shrubberies, parterres, arbors, terraces, statues, was
decorated with flags and banners, innumerable colored lamps and floral
mottoes and devices.

The streets of the hamlet, the bridge and the island was each alive with
a merry crowd of tenantry and peasantry in their picturesque holiday
suits, coming to see the wedding pageant.

Gayer than all was the gathering of the Clan Scott, in their brilliant
tartans, and with their national music to do honor to the nuptials of the
heir of their chief.

As Miss Levison looked and listened, the shadows of the night vanished
from her mind as clouds before the sun!

How strange the thought that the evil dream should have troubled her at
all! But the dream had seemed as real as any waking experience. But then,
again, dreams often do seem so! She would think no more of it, except
to repent having been so unjust to Lord Arondelle, even though it was but
in an involuntary dream.

It was as yet very early in the morning--not seven o'clock. Her
serenaders had waked her betimes, and the country people had clearly
determined to lose not one hour of that festive day. But Miss Levison was
still shivering in the mild June morning. She thought she would ask for a
cup of coffee to warm her.

She rang her bell.

Her maid entered the room, courtesied, and stood waiting

"Janet, tell the housekeeper to send me a strong, hot cup of coffee," she
said.

"Yes, Miss. If you please, Miss, my lord's gentleman is below with a note
and a parcel for you, Miss."

"Very well, Janet. Do you bring it up and ask the man to wait. There may
be answer," replied Miss Levison, as the rose clouds rolled over her
clear, pale cheeks.

The girl courtesied and withdrew.

"To think of my being so wicked as to have such a dream about
him--_him_!" she said to herself, as again she shivered with cold.

Presently the housekeeper entered with a tiny cup of coffee on a small
silver tray in her hand, and with many cordial congratulations on her
lips.

Fortunately the lace curtains of the bed were down, so that she could not
see that it had not been slept in, and annoy her young mistress with
exclamations and questions.

"Eh, me young leddy! a blithe bridal morn ye hae got; and a braw sight on
the ramparts of a' the Scotts, wi' their tartans and bag-pipes, come to
do ye honor!" said the housekeeper, as she held the tray to her mistress.

Miss Levison drank the coffee, returned the cup, and then inquired:

"Where is Janet? I sent her with a message; she should have returned by
this time."

"Ou, aye, sae she should. She's clacking her clavvers wi' yon lad frae
the 'Hereward Arm.' But here she is now, me young leddy," answered the
housekeeper, as the maid entered the room and placed in her mistress'
hand a note and a small parcel, tied up in white paper with narrow white
ribbon, and sealed with the Hereward crest.

Miss Levison opened the note and read:

"HEREWARD ARMS INN, Tuesday Morning.

"I greet you, my only beloved, on this our bridal morning--the
commencement of a long and happy union for both of us! Yes, a long union,
for it will stretch into eternity, and a happy one, for come what will,
we shall be happy in each other. I send you the richest jewel that has
ever been in our possession, the only one which has survived the wreck of
our fortunes. It has been preserved more on account of its traditionary
interest than for its intrinsic value. Tradition tells us that at the
taking of Jerusalem, in the first crusade, this jewel was snatched from
the turban of Saladin, the Sultan, in single combat, by our wild
crusading ancestor, Ranulph d' Arondelle. It adorned his own hemlet at
the siege of St. Jean d' Acre, some years later. In short, it has been
handed down from father to son through six centuries and sixteen
generations. It has "in the thickest carnage blazed" on battle-fields,
and in the maddest merriment flashed in festive scenes. Yet it is an
offering all too poor for my great love to make, or your great worth to
receive. But take it as the best I have to give.

"ARONDELLE."

She read this note with tearful eyes, roseate cheeks' and smiling lips.
And then she untied the white ribbon and opened the white paper. It first
disclosed a golden casket about four inches square, richly chased and
bearing the Hereward arms set in small precious stones. The tiny key was
in the lock. She opened it and found, lying on a bed of rich white satin,
a large, burning, blazing ruby heart--the famous ruby of the Hereward,
said to be the largest in the world. Miss Levison had read of this jewel
as one of the most valuable among precious stones. She had heard also,
what evidently the young marquis did not think worth while to tell her in
connection with its history, namely, that it had been held as an amulet
of such power that it was believed the ducal house of Hereward would
never be without a male heir as long as it possessed that priceless ruby
heart. Miss Levison supposed this to be the reason why it had been
preserved by the old duke from the total wreck of his fortune. And the
marquis had given it to her! Well, that was not giving it out of the
family, since she was to be his wife. While offering it he had
undervalued the royal gift. But how highly she appreciated it, rating
it far above all the other jewels that blazed upon her table.

"And to think I should have had such an evil dream about him, and even
suffered myself to be troubled by it!" she said, pressing his note to her
lips.

Then she shivered so hardly that her old housekeeper exclaimed:

"Me dear young leddy, ye hae surely taken cauld. Let me order a fire
kindled here."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Ross--a fire on this warm summer morning? I could not
bear it. Besides if I shiver with cold one moment, I glow with heat the
next," said Miss Levison, smiling.

"Ay; I am sair afeard ye's gaun to be ill, wi' all thae shivers and
glows," replied the dame, shaking her head.

"Nonsense again, Mrs. Ross, dear woman. I am well enough. Now, Janet, did
you tell his lordship's messenger to wait?"

"Yes, Miss."

Miss Levison drew a little writing-stand to her side, opened the desk,
took out materials and penned the following note:

"LONE CASTLE, Tuesday.

"MY MOST BELOVED AND HONORED: Your right royal gift is beyond all
price for richness, beauty, traditional interest, and symbolism, and as
such I shall hold it above all other gifts, and cherish it to the end of
my life. But it is not only to speak of your invaluable gift I write; it
is also to ask you to do a strange thing to please me this morning. It is
now eight o'clock. We are appointed to meet at the church at eleven. Will
you meet me _here_ first at half-past nine? I wish to tell you
something before we go to the altar. It is nothing important that I have
to tell you--you will probably only laugh at it; but I must get it off my
mind; for it weighs there like a sin. Come and receive my little
confession, and give absolution to YOUR OWN SALOME."

She enveloped and directed this note, and gave it to Janet, with orders
to hand it to Lord Arondelle's man.

When the girl had left the room, Miss Levison turned to the housekeeper
and inquired:

"Has my father's bell rung yet, do you know?"

"Na, me young leddy, it has na rung yet. Sir Lemuel's man, Mr. Peter, is
down-stairs, waiting for the summons."

"Perhaps he had better call his master," suggested Miss Levison.

"Na, Miss, sae I tauld him; but he said his orders were no to call his
master the morn', but to wait till he heard his bell ring. He's waiting
for that e'en noo."

"Very well, Mrs. Ross. Papa was up late last night, I know, and is
probably tired this morning. So we must let him sleep as long as
possible. But as soon as his bell rings, be sure to take him up a cup
of coffee."

"Verra weel, Miss."

"And, Mrs. Ross, I hope that all our guests are cared for, and served in
their own rooms with tea and toast, or coffee and muffins, as they
choose?"

"Ou, ay, me dear young leddy, I hae ta'en care of a' that. And what will
I bring yersel', Miss, before ye begin to dress?"

"Nothing; I have had a cup of coffee. That is sufficient for the
present."

"Neathing but ae wee bit cup o' coffee, my dear young leddy?"

"No; I have no appetite. I suppose no girl ever did have on her wedding
morning," said Miss Levison, shivering and then flushing.

The housekeeper contemplated her young mistress with growing anxiety.

"I am sure ye are no weel," she ventured again to suggest.

"I am quite well, my dear Mrs. Ross. Do not disturb yourself. But go now
and send Janet and Kitty to me. I must begin to dress."

The housekeeper left the room, and was soon replaced by the lady's maid
and the upper house-maid.

"Is my bath ready, Kitty?"

"Yes, Miss; and I have poured six bottles of ody collone intil it," said
the girl, with a very self-approving air.

"You needn't have done that," said Miss Levison, with an amused smile,
"but you meant well, and I thank you."

She took her customary morning bath, and slipping on a soft, white,
cashmere wrapper, placed herself in the hands of her maidens to be
dressed for the altar.

Janet combed, and brushed and arranged the shining dark brown hair. Kitty
laced the dainty white velvet boots. Janet arrayed her in her bridal
robes, and Kitty clasped the costly jewels around her neck and arms. One
placed the bridal vail and wreath upon her head, while the other drew the
pretty pearl-embroidered gloves upon her hands.

At length her toilet was complete, and she stood up, beautiful in her
youth, love, and joy, and imperial in her array.

She wore a long trained dress of the richest white satin, trimmed with
deep point lace flounces, headed with trails of orange flower buds; an
over-dress of fine cardinal point lace, looped up with festoons of orange
buds; a point lace berthe and short sleeve ruffles; a necklace, pendant,
and bracelets of pearls set in diamonds, white kid gloves, embroidered
with fine white silk; white satin boots worked with pearls. On her head
the rich, full orange flower wreath. And over all, like mist over frost
and snow, fell the long bridal vail of finest point lace, softening the
whole effect.

"The young ladies, your bridesmaids, bid me tell you, Miss, that they are
quite ready to come to you, when you are so to receive them," said Kitty,
as she placed the bouquet of orange flowers in its jewelled holder, and
handed it to her mistress.

"Very well. I will send for them in good time," answered Miss Levison,
glancing at the little golden clock upon the mantel-piece, and noticing
that it was nearly half-past nine, the hour at which she expected Lord
Arondelle. "But now, Kitty, my good girl, go and inquire if my father is
up, and return and let me know. I would like to see him in his room."

The house-maid courtesied and went out, and after a few minutes' absence
returned running.

"If you please, Miss, Sir Lemuel hasn't rung his bell yet, and Mr. Peters
says, with his duty to you, Miss, as it is so late, hadn't he better call
his master?"

"By no means! Let Mr. Peters obey his master's orders not to disturb him
until his bell rings," answered the young lady.

"Yes, Miss; and if you please, Miss, here is a card, and his lordship,
Lord Arondelle, is down stairs asking for you, Miss," said the girl,
laying the pasteboard in question before her young mistress.

"Lord Arondelle! Yes, I expected his lordship. Where is he?"

"Mr. McRath showed him into the library, Miss."

"Quite right. None of our guests have left their rooms yet?"

"No, Miss, they be all busy a dressing of themselves, as I think."

"Ah! then go before me and open the door, and tell his lordship that
I shall be with him in a moment," said Miss Levison.

The girl dropped another courtesy and preceded her mistress down stairs.
In going down the great upper hall, Miss Levison passed the door of the
dark, narrow passage at right angles with the hall, and leading to the
tower stairs, where she had seen the apparition of the night before. She
shivered and hurried on. She paused a moment before the door leading to
the ante-room of her father's bed-chamber, and listened to hear if he
were stirring; but all within seemed as still as death. She went on and
descended the stairs and reached the library-door, just as Kitty opened
it and said:

"Miss Levison, my lord," and retired to give place to the young lady.

Miss Levison entered the library.

Lord Arondelle, in his wedding dress, stood by the central book-table. As
his costume was the regulation uniform of a gentleman's full dress, it
needs no description here. Gentlemen array themselves much in the
same style for a dinner or a ball, a wedding or a funeral--the only
difference to mark the occasion being in the color of the gloves.

Lord Arondelle advanced to meet his bride.

"My love and queen! this meeting is a grace granted me indeed! How
beautiful you are!" he exclaimed, taking both her hands and carrying them
to his lips. "But you are shivering, sweet girl! You are cold!" he added
anxiously, as he looked at her more attentively.

"I have been shivering all the morning. I sat at my open window late
last night and got a little chilled; but it is nothing," she answered,
smiling.

"You shall not do such suicidal things, when I have the charge of you, my
little lady," he said, half jestingly, half seriously, as he led her to a
sofa and seated her on it, taking his own seat by her side.

"Come, now," he gayly continued, "was that indiscreet star-gazing which
has resulted in a cold the little sin for which you wish me to give you
absolution?"

"No, my lord. My sin was an evil dream."

"A dream!"

"Ay, a dream."

"But a dream cannot be a sin!"

"Hear it, and then judge. But first--tell me--were you in the castle late
last night?" she gravely inquired.

He paused and gazed at her before he replied:

"_I_ in the castle late last night? Why, most certainly not! Why
ever should you ask me such a question, my love?"

"Because if you were not in the castle last night--"

"Well?"

"I met your 'fetch,' as the country people would call it."

"My--I beg your pardon."

"Your 'fetch,' your double, your spectre, your spirit, whatever you may
call it."

"Whatever do you mean, Salome?"

"Shall I tell you all about it?"

"Of course--yes, do."

Miss Levison began and related all the circumstances in detail of her
night visit to her father's room, and her meeting with an appearance
which she took to be that of her betrothed husband, but which, on being
called by her, instantly vanished.

Lord Arondelle mused for awhile. Miss Levison gazed on him in anxious
suspense for a few minutes, and then inquired:

"What do you think of it?"

"My love, if I were a transcendental visionary, I might say, that at
the hour you saw my image before you, my thoughts, my mind, my spirit,
whatever you choose to call my inner self, was actually with you, and
so became visible to you; but--" he paused.

"But--what?" she inquired.

"Not being a transcendentalist or a visionary, I am forced to the
conclusion that what you thought you saw, was, really nothing but an
optical illusion!"

"You think that?"

"Indeed I do!"

"I assure you, that the image seemed as real, as substantial, and as
solid to me then as you do now."

"No doubt of it! Optical illusions always seem very real--perfectly
real."

"It was an optical illusion then! That is settled! And now!" exclaimed
Salome. Then she paused.

"Yes, and now! About the sinful dream! What did you dream of? Throwing me
over at the last moment and marrying a handsomer man?" gayly inquired the
young marquis.

"I will tell you presently what I dreamed; but first tell me, were you in
our grounds last night?" she gravely inquired.

"Yes, my little lady; but how did you know of it?" inquired the young
marquis in surprise.

"I did not know it. Were you under my window?" she asked, in a low,
tremulous tone.

"Yes, love. How came you to suspect me?" he inquired, more than ever
astonished.

"I did not suspect you. Had you a companion with you?" she murmured.

"No, Salome. Certainly not. Why, sweet, do you ask me?"

"I thought I heard your voice speaking to some one who answered you under
my window."

"But, love, there was no one with me. I was quite alone. And I
did not speak at all--not even to myself. I am not in the habit of
soliloquizing."

"Please tell me, if you can, at what hour you were under my window."

"It was between ten and eleven o'clock. I was walking in the grounds,
and I went under your wall and looked up. I saw three shadows pass
the lighted windows, which I took to be those of yourself and your
attendants, and then suddenly the lights were turned off and all was
dark. I knew then that you had retired to rest, and of course I turned
away and walked back to the hamlet. But, love, instead of telling the
little story you promised, it seems that you have put me through a very
sharp examination," said his lordship, laughing. "Now, what do you mean
by it? There is something behind all this," he added, gravely.

"Of course there is something behind. Did I not tell you that I had a
confession to make concerning a wicked dream? Listen, Lord Arondelle. At
the time you stood under my window and saw the light turned off, and
supposing that I had gone to rest, you turned away and left the grounds,
at that time I had _not_ gone to rest, but had gone to my father's
room, in returning from which I experienced that strange optical
illusion. My nerves must have been strangely disordered, for when I
reached my own chamber again, and finding it quite dark, opened the
window and sat down to look out upon the moonlit lake, I immediately fell
asleep, and had a terrible, and a terribly real and distinct dream--a
dream, dear, that nearly overturned my reason, I do believe."

"What was it, love?" he inquired.

She told him without the least reserve.

He listened to her with interest, and then laughed aloud.

"The idea of your having such a dream about me as that! I do not wonder
it weighed upon your mind. Yes, it was very wicked of you, my sinful
child--very. But since you sincerely repent, I freely absolve you.
_Benedicite!_"

Salome looked and listened to him with surprise; for as she spoke of
dreaming that he called Rose Cameron his wife, he not only laughed at
that idea, but really appeared as if the very existence of the girl was
unknown to him.

Then Salome ventured another question:

"Do you know any one of the name of Rose Cameron?"

"No, not personally. I believe one of our shepherds, up at Ben Lone, has
a very handsome daughter of that name, but I have never seen her," said
the young marquis, with an open sincerity that carried conviction with
it.

Salome was amazed, but convinced. What could have started the false
reports concerning the young marquis and the handsome shepherdess?
Clearly Rose's own hallucination. She had seen the marquis somewhere,
without having been seen by him; she had fallen in love with him, and
had partly lost her reason and imagined all the rest, she thought.

"And so you have never even looked upon the beauty of that dream?" she
said, with a smile.

"Never even looked upon her," assented the marquis.

"Then I do, in downright earnest, beg your pardon for my dream," said
Salome, gravely.

"But I have already given you absolution, my erring daughter?
_Benedicite! Benedicite!_" replied the marquis still laughing.

At that moment there was a light rap at the library door, followed by the
entrance of a footman who placed a small, twisted note in the hands of
Miss Levison. She opened it and read:

"MY DEAR CHILD: It is after ten o'clock. We go to church at
eleven. Sir Lemuel has not yet rung his bell. His valet having received
his orders last night not to call him this morning, has declined to do
so. What is to be done under these circumstances? Send me a verbal
message by the bearer. Your loving Aunt,

"SOPHIE BELGRADE."

"My father not yet risen!" exclaimed Salome in surprise. "He must have
overslept himself with fatigue. Tell Lady Belgrade, with my thanks, that
I will go to my father's room and waken him," she added, turning to the
footman, who bowed and went to deliver his message.

"I hope Sir Lemuel is quite well?" said the young marquis, earnestly.

"He is quite well. My father regulates his habits so well as to live in
perfect harmony with the laws of life and health. If he fatigues himself
over night, he always takes a compensating rest in the morning. That is
what he is doing now. But I think he is sleeping even longer than he
intended to do, so I really must arouse him now, if we are to keep our
appointment with the minister. Good-by, until we meet at the church, Lord
Arondelle," she said, as she floated from the room in her bridal robe,
and vail.

"Who says that she is not beautiful, belies her? She is lovely in person
and in spirit," murmured the young marquis, as he took up his hat to
leave the house.




CHAPTER VIII.

A HORRIBLE DISCOVERY.


In order not to attract the attention of the crowds of people who swarmed
in the village, on the bridge, and on the island, Lord Arondelle had
driven over to the castle in a closed cab that now waited at the gates
to take him back again.

He left the library and went out into the great hall.

The hall porter, an elderly, stout, and important-looking functionary,
slowly arose from his chair to honor the young marquis by opening the
doors with his own official hands instead of leaving that duty to the
footman.

And Lord Arondelle was just in the act of passing out when his steps were
suddenly arrested.

A WILD AND PIERCING SHRIEK RANG THROUGH THE HOUSE, STARTLING ALL ITS
ECHOES!

It was followed by a dead silence, and then by the sound of many hurrying
feet and terrified exclamations.

"Salome! my bride! Oh, what has happened!" thought the startled young
marquis, rushing back into the hall and up the stairs.

In the upper hall he found a crowd of terrified people, all hurrying in
one direction--toward the bedroom of the banker.

"The dear old gentleman has got a fit, I fear, and his daughter has
discovered him in it," was the next thought that flashed upon the mind of
the marquis as, without waiting to ask questions, he rushed through and
distanced the crowd, and reached the door of the banker's bedroom, which
was blocked up by men and women, wedding guests, and servants, some
questioning and exclaiming, some weeping and wailing, some standing in
panic-stricken silence.

"What has happened?" cried the young marquis pushing his way with more
violence than ceremony through all that impeded his entrance into the
chamber.

No one answered him. No one dared to do so.

"It is Lord Arondelle--let his lordship pass," said one of the wedding
guests, recognizing the expectant bridegroom as he entered the room.

An awe-struck group of persons was gathered around some object on the
floor; they made way in silence for the approach of the marquis.

He passed in and looked down.

HORROR UPON HORRORS! There lay the dead body of the banker,
full-dressed as on the evening before, but with his head crushed in and
surrounded by a pool of coagulated blood! The face was marble white; the
eyes were open and stony, the jaws had dropped and stiffened into death.
Across the body lay the swooning form of his daughter, with her bridal
vail and robes all dabbled in her father's blood.

"HEAVEN OF HEAVENS! Who has done this?" cried the marquis, a
cold sweat of horror bursting from his pallid brow as he stared upon this
ghastly sight!

A dozen voices answered him at once, to the effect that no one yet knew.

"Run! run! and fetch a doctor instantly! Some of you! any of you who can
go the quickest!" he cried, as he stooped and lifted the insensible form
of his bride and laid her on the bed--the bed that had not been occupied
during the night. Evidently from these appearances, the banker had been
murdered before his usual hour of retiring.

"Who has gone for a doctor?" inquired Lord Arondelle, in an agony of
anxiety, as he bent over the unconscious form of his beloved one.

"I have despatched Gilbert, yer lairdship. He will mak' unco guid haste,"
answered the steward, who stood overcome with grief as he gazed upon the
ghastly corpse of his unfortunate master.

"My lord," said Lady Belgrade, who stood by too deeply awed for tears,
and up to this moment for action either--"my lord, you had better go out
of the room for the present, and take all these men with you, and leave
Miss Levison to the care of myself and the women. This is all unspeakably
horrible! But our first care should be for her. We must loosen her dress,
and take other measures for her recovery."

"Yes, yes! Great Heaven! yes! Do all you can for her! This is maddening!"
groaned the marquis, smiting his forehead as he left the bedside,
yielding his place to the dowager.

"Do try to command yourself, Lord Arondelle. This is, indeed, a most
awful shock. It would have been awful at any time, but on your wedding
day it comes with double violence. But do summon all your strength of
mind, for _her_ sake. Think of her. She came to this room in her
bridal dress to call her father, that he might get ready to take her to
the altar, to give her to you, and she found him here murdered--weltering
in his blood. It was enough to have killed her, or unseated her reason
forever," said the lady, as she busied herself with unfastening the rich,
white, satin bodice of the wedding robe.

"Oh, Salome! Salome! that I could bear this sorrow for you! Oh, my
darling, that all my love should be powerless to save you from a sorrow
like this!" cried the young man, dropping his head upon his clenched
hands.

"My lord," continued Lady Belgrade, who was now applying a vial of sal
ammonia to her patient's nostrils: "my dear Lord Arondelle, rouse
yourself for her sake! She has no father, brother, or male relative to
take direction of affairs in this awful crisis of her life. You, her
betrothed husband, should do it--must do it! Rouse yourself at once. Look
at this stupefied and gaping crowd of people! Do not be like one of them.
Something must be done at once. Do WHAT OUGHT TO BE DONE!" she
cried with sudden vehemence.

"I know what should be done, and I will do it," said the young man, in
a tone of mournful resolution. Then turning to the crowd that filled the
chamber of horror, he said:

"My friends we must leave this room for the present to the care of Lady
Belgrade and her female attendants."

Then to the dowager he said:

"My lady, let one of your maids cover that body with a sheet and let no
one move it by so much as an inch, until the arrival of the coroner. As
soon as it is possible to do so, you will of course have Miss Levison
conveyed to her own chamber. But when you leave this room pray lock it
up, and place a servant before the door as sentry, that nothing may be
disturbed before the inquest."

Lastly addressing the stupefied house-steward, he said:

"McRath, come with me. The castle doors must all be closed, and no
one permitted to learn the arrival of a police force, which must be
immediately summoned."

So saying, after a last agonized gaze upon the insensible form of his
bride, he left the room of horrors, followed by the house-steward and all
the male intruders.

The news of the murder spread through the castle and all over the island,
carrying consternation with it. Yet the wedding guests outside, who were
quite at liberty to go, showed no disposition to do so. They had come to
take part in a joyous wedding festival--they remained, held by the
strange fascination of ghastly interest that hangs over the scene of
a murder--and such a murder!

So, the crowd, instead of diminishing, greatly increased. Peasants from
the hills around, who, having had no wedding garments, had forborne to
appear at the feast, now came in their tattered plaids, impelled by an
eager curiosity to gaze upon the walls of the castle, and see and hear
all they could concerning the mysterious murder that had been perpetrated
within it.

The country side rang with the terrible story. And soon the telegraph
wires flashed it all over the kingdom.

The coroner hastened to the castle, inspected the corpse, and ordered
that everything should remain untouched. He then empanelled a jury for
the inquest, whose first session was held in the chamber of death, from
which the suffering daughter of the deceased banker had been tenderly
removed.

Such among the guests who were not detained as witnesses, found
themselves at liberty to depart. But very few availed themselves of
the privilege. They preferred to stop and see the end of the inquest.

Skillful and experienced detectives were summoned by telegraph from
Scotland Yard, London, and arrived at the castle about midnight.

The house was placed in charge of the police while the investigation was
pending.

But the materials for the formation of a decided verdict seemed very
meagre.

A careful examination of the body showed that the banker had been killed
by one mortal blow inflicted by a blunt and heavy instrument that had
crushed in the skull. The instrument was searched for, and soon found
in a small but very heavy bronze statuette of Somnes that used to stand
on the bedroom mantel-piece; but was now picked up from the carpet,
crusted with blood and gray hair. But the miscreant who had held that
deadly weapon, and dealt that mortal blow, could not be detected.

Investigation further brought to light that an extensive robbery had been
committed. From the banker's person his diamond-studded gold watch,
chain, and seals, his gold snuff-box, set with emeralds, a heavy
cornelian seal ring set in gold, and his diamond studs and sleeve buttons
were taken. A patent safe, which stood in his room, and contained
valuable documents as well as a large amount of money, had been broken
open, the documents scattered, and the money carried off.

Yet no trace of the robber could be found.

The broken safe was the only piece of "professional" burglary to be seen
anywhere about the house. The fastenings on every door and every window
were intact.

The most plausible theory of the murder was, that some burglar, or
burglars, attracted and tempted by the rumor of almost fabulous treasure
then in the castle in the form of wedding offerings to the bride, had
gained access to the building, and penetrated to the upper chambers,
where, finding the banker still up and awake, they had killed him by one
fell blow, to prevent discovery.

True, the priceless wedding presents had not been disturbed. They still
blazed in their open caskets upon the drawing-room table--a splendid
spectacle. But then they had been guarded all through the night by two
faithful men-servants armed with revolvers and seated at the table under
a lighted chandelier. It was supposed that the robbers, seeing this
lighted and guarded room, had crept past it and mounted to the banker's
chamber to pursue their nefarious purpose there; that simple robbery was
their first intention, but being seen by the watchful banker, they had
instantly killed him to prevent his giving the alarm.

For no alarm had been given!

Every inmate of the house who was examined testified to having passed
a quiet night, undisturbed by any noise.

The hall porter and footmen whose duty it was to see to the closing of
the castle at night, and the opening of it in the morning, testified to
having fastened every door at eleven o'clock on the previous night, and
to having found them still fastened at six in the morning.

How, then, did the murderers and robbers gain access to the house, since
there was no sign of a broken lock or bolt to be seen anywhere, except in
the safe in the banker's room.

Suspicion seemed to point to some inmate of the castle, who must have let
the miscreants in.

Yes, but what inmate?

No member of the small family, of course; no visitor, certainly; no
servant, probably! Yet, for want of another subject, suspicion fell upon
Peters, the valet. He was always the last to see his master at night, and
the first to see him in the morning. He had a pass-key to the ante-room
of his master's chamber. It was believed to be a very suspicious
circumstance, also that he had so persistently declined to call his
master that morning, asserting as he did to the very last that Sir Lemuel
had given orders that he should not be disturbed until he rang his bell.

This story of the valet was doubted. It was suspected that he might have
been in league with the robbers and murderers, might have admitted them
to the house that night after the family had retired, and concealed them
until the hour came for the commission of their crime; and that he made
excuses in the morning not to call his master so as to prevent as long as
possible the discovery of the murder, and give the murderers time to get
off from the scene of their awful crime.

The valet was not openly accused by any one. The officers of the law were
too discreet to permit that to be done.

But he was detained as a witness, and subjected to a very severe
examination.

Peters was a very tall, very spare, middle-aged man, with a slight stoop
in his shoulders, with a thin, flushed face, sharp features, weak, blue
eyes, and scanty red hair and whiskers, dressed with foppish precision.
He looked something like a fool; but as little like the confederate
of robbers and murderers as it was possible to imagine.

Witness testified that his name was Abraham Peters, that he was born in
Drury Lane, London, and was now forty years of age; that he had been in
the service of Sir Lemuel Levison for the last five years; that he loved
and honored the deceased banker, and had every reason to believe that his
master valued him also. He said that it was his service every night to
assist his master in undressing and getting to bed, and every morning in
getting up and dressing.

A juror asked the witness whether he was in the habit of waiting every
morning for his master's bell to ring before going to his room.

The witness answered that he was not; that he had standing orders to call
his master every morning at seven o'clock, except otherwise instructed by
Sir Lemuel.

Another juror inquired of the witness whether he had received these
exceptional instructions on the previous night.

The witness answered that he had received such; that his master had sent
him with a message to his daughter, Miss Levison, requesting her to come
to his room, as he wished to have a talk with her. He delivered his
message through Miss Levison's maid, and returned to his master's room.
But when Miss Levison was announced Sir Lemuel dismissed him with
permission to retire to bed at once, and not to call his master in the
morning, but to wait until Sir Lemuel should ring his bell.

"I left Miss Levison with her father, your honor, and that was the last
time as ever I saw my master alive," concluded the valet, trembling like
a leaf.

"I presume that Miss Levison will be able to corroborate this part of
your testimony. Where _is_ Miss Levison? Let her be called," said
the coroner.

The family physician, who was present at the inquest, arose in his place
and said:

"Miss Levison, sir, is not now available as a witness. She is lying in
her chamber, nearly at the point of death, with brain fever."

"Lord bless my soul, I am sorry to hear that! But it is no wonder, poor
young lady, after such a shock," said the kind-hearted coroner.

"But here, sir," continued the doctor, "is a witness who, I think, will
be able to give us some light."




CHAPTER IX.

AFTER THE DISCOVERY.


"Sir, if you please, I request that this witness be immediately placed
under examination," said Lord Arondelle, who sat, with pale, stern
visage, among the spectators, now addressing the coroner.

"Yes, certainly, my lord. Let the man be called," answered the latter.

A short, stout, red-haired and freckle-faced boy, clothed in a well-worn
suit of gray tweed, came forward and was duly sworn.

"What is your name, my lad?" inquired the coroner's clerk.

"Cuddie McGill, an' it please your worship," replied the shock-headed
youth.

"Your age?"

"Anan?"

"How old are you?"

"Ou, ay, just nineteen come St. Andrew's Eve, at night."

"Where do you live?"

"Wi' my maister, Gillie Ferguson, the saddler, at Lone."

"Well now, then, what do you know about this case?" inquired the clerk,
who, pen in hand, had been busily taking down the unimportant,
preliminary answers of the witness under examination.

"Aweel, thin your worship, I ken just naething of ony account; but I just
happen speak what I saw yestreen under the castle wa', and doctor here,
he wad hae me come my ways and tell your honor; its naething just,"
replied Cuddie McGill, scratching his shock head.

"But tell us what you saw."

"Aweel, then, your worship, I had been hard at wark a' the day, and could
na get awa to see the wedding deecorations. But after my wark was dune
and I had my bit aitmeal cake and parritch, I e'en cam' my way over the
brig to hae a luke at them."

"Well, and what did you see besides the decorations?"

"An it please your worship, as I cam through the thick shrubbery I spied
a lassie, standing under the balcony on the east side o' the castle wa'."

"At what hour was this?"

"I dinna ken preceesely. It may hae been ten o'clock; for I ken the moon
was about twa hours high."

"Ay, well; go on."

"I hid mysel' in the firs and watchit the lassie; for I said to mysel' it
wair a tryste wi' her lad, and I behoove to find out wha they were. Sae I
watchit the lassie. And presently a tall gallant cam' up till her, and
they spake thegither. I could na hear what they said. But anon the tall
mon went his ways, and the lassie bided her lane under the balcony. I
wondered at that. And I waited to see the end. I waited, it seemed to me,
full twa hour. The moon was weel nigh overhead, when at lang last the
gallant cam' on wi' anither tall mon. And they passed sae nigh that I
heard their talk. Spake the gallant: 'I would na hae had it happened for
a' we hae gained.' Said the ither ane: 'It could na be helpit. The auld
mon skreekit. He would hae brocht the house upon us, and we hadna stappit
his mouth.' And the twa passit out o' hearing, and sune cam' to the
lassie under the balcony. And the three talkit thegither, but I just
couldna hear a word they spake. And sae I went my ways home, wondering
what it a' meant. But I thocht nae muckle harm until the morn when I
heerd o' the murder."

"Would you know the tall man again if you were to see him?" inquired the
coroner.

"Na, for ye ken I could na see a feature o' his face."

"Would you know the girl again?"

"Na. I could na see the lass ony mair than the gallant."

"Nor the third man?"

"Na, nor the ither ane."

"Did you hear any name or any place spoken of between the parties?"

"Na, na name, na pleece. I hae tuld your honor all I heerd. I heerd no
mair than I hae said," replied the witness.

And the severest cross-examination could not draw anything more from him.

The officials put their heads together and talked in whispers.

This last witness gave, after all, the nearest to a clue of any they had
yet received.

The notes of the testimony were put in the hands of the London detective
then present.

"Allow me to remind you, sir," said Lord Arondelle, "that this interview
testified to by the last witness, was said to have taken place between
ten and twelve at night, and that there is a train for London which stops
at Lone at a quarter past twelve. Would it not be well to make inquiries
at the station as to what passengers, if any, got on at Lone?"

"A good idea. Thanks, my lord. We will summon the agent who happened to
be on duty at that hour," said the coroner.

And a messenger was immediately dispatched to Lone to bring the railway
official in question.

In the interim, several of the household servants were examined, but
without bringing any new facts to light.

After an absence of two hours, the messenger returned accompanied by
Donald McNeil, the ticket-agent who had been in the office for the
midnight train of the preceding day.

He was a man of middle age and medium size, with a fair complexion, sandy
hair and open, honest countenance. He was clothed in a suit of black and
white-checked cloth.

He was duly sworn and examined. He gave his name as Donald McNeil, his
age forty years, and his home in the hamlet of Lone.

"You are a ticket-agent at the Railway Station at Lone?" inquired the
coroner's clerk.

"I am, sir."

"You were on duty at that station last night, between twelve midnight and
one, morning?"

"I was, sir."

"Does the train for London stop at Lone at that hour?"

"The up-train stops at Lone, at a quarter past twal, sir, and seldom
varies for as muckle as twa minutes."

"It stopped last night as usual, at a quarter past twelve?"

"It did, sir, av coorse."

"Did any passengers get on that train from Lone?"

"_One_ passenger did, sir; whilk I remarked it more particularly,
because the passenger was a young lass, travelling her lane, and it is
unco seldom a woman tak's that train at that hour, and never her lane."

"Ah! there was but one passenger, then, that took the midnight train from
Lone for London?"

"But one, sir."

"And she was a woman?"

"A young lass, sir."

"Did she take a through ticket?"

"Ah, sir, to London."

"What class?"

"Second-class."

"Had she luggage?"

"An unco heavy black leather bag, sir, that was a'."

"How do you know the bag was heavy?"

"By the way she lugged it, sir. The porter offered to relieve her o' it,
but she wad na trust it out o' her hand ae minute."

"Ah! Was it a large bag?"

"Na, sir, no that large, but unco heavy, as it might be filled fu' o'
minerals, the like of whilk the college lads whiles collect in the
mountains. Na, it was no' large, but unco heavy, and she wad na let it
out o' her hand ae minute."

"Just so. Would you know that young woman again if you were to see her?"

"Na, I could na see her face. She wore a thick, dark vail, doublit over
and over her face, the whilk was the moir to be noticed because the nicht
was sae warm."

"You say her face was concealed. How, then, did you know her to be a
young woman?"

"Ou, by her form and her gait just, and by her speech."

"She talked with you, then?"

"Na, she spak just three words when she handed in the money for her
ticket: 'One--second-class--through.'"

"Would you recognize her voice again if you should hear it?"

"Ay, that I should."

"How was this young woman dressed?"

"She wore a lang, black tweed cloak wi' a hood till it, and a dark vail."

A few more questions were asked, but as nothing new was elicited the
witness was permitted to retire.

Other witnesses were examined, and old witnesses were recalled hour after
hour and day after day, without effect. No new light was thrown upon the
mystery.

No one, except Cuddie McGill, the saddler's apprentice, could be found
who had seen the suspicious man and woman lurking under the balcony.

Certainly Lord Arondelle remembered the "dream" Miss Levison had told him
of the two persons whom she mistook to be himself and Rose Cameron
talking together under her window. But Miss Levison was so far incapable
of giving evidence as to be lying at the point of death with brain fever.
So it would have been worse than useless to have spoken of her dream, or
supposed dream.

The coroner's inquest sat several days without arriving at any definite
conclusion.

The most plausible theory of the murder seemed to be that a robbery had
been planned between the valet and certain unknown confederates, who had
all been tempted by the great treasures known to be in the castle that
night in the form of costly bridal presents; that no murder was at first
intended; that the confederates had been secretly admitted to the castle
through the connivance of the valet; that the strong guard placed over
the treasures in the lighted drawing-room had saved them from robbery;
that the robbers, disappointed of their first expectations, next went,
with the farther connivance of the valet, to the bedchamber of Sir Lemuel
Levison, for the purpose of emptying his strong box; that being detected
in their criminal designs by the wakeful banker, they had silenced him by
one fatal blow on the head; that they had then accomplished the robbery
of the strong box, and of the person of the deceased banker; and had been
secretly let out of the castle by the valet.

Finally, it was thought that the man and the woman discovered under the
balcony by Cuddie McGill on the night of the murder, were confederates
in the crime, and the woman was the midnight passenger to whom Donald
McNeil sold the second-class railway ticket to London, and that the heavy
black bag she carried contained the booty taken from the castle.

On the evening of the third day of the unsatisfactory inquest a verdict
was returned to this effect.

That the deceased Sir Lemuel Levison, Knight, had come to his death by
a blow from a heavy bronze statuette held in the hands of some person
unknown to the jury. And that Peters, the valet of the deceased banker,
was accessory to the murder.

A coroner's warrant was immediately issued, and the valet was arrested,
and confined in jail to await the action of the grand jury.

An experienced detective officer was sent upon the track of the
mysterious, vailed woman, with the heavy black bag, who on the night
of the murder had taken the midnight train from Lone to London.

Then at length the coroner's jury adjourned, and Castle Lone was cleared
of the law officers and all others who had remained there in attendance
upon the inquest.

And the preparations for the funeral of the deceased banker were allowed
to go on.

In addition to the long train of servants there remained now in the
castle but seven persons:

The young lady of the house, who lay prostrate and unconscious upon the
bed of extreme illness or death; Lady Belgrade, who in all this trouble
had nearly lost her wits; the Marquis of Arondelle, who had been
requested to take the direction of affairs; the old Duke of Hereward,
who had been brought to the castle in a helpless condition; the family
physician, who had turned over all his other patients to his assistant,
and was now devoting himself to the care of the unhappy daughter of the
house; and lastly the family solicitor, and his clerk, who were down
for the obsequies.

Beside these, the undertaker and his men came and went while completing
their preparations for the funeral.

There had been some talk of embalming the body, and delaying the burial,
until the daughter of the deceased banker should view her father's face
once more; but the impossibility of restoring the crushed skull to shape
rendered it advisable that she should not be shocked by a sight of it. So
the day of the funeral was set.

But before that day came, another important event occurred at Lone
Castle. It was not entirely unexpected. The old Duke of Hereward, since
his arrival at the castle, had sunk very fast. He had been carefully
guarded from the knowledge of the tragedy which had been enacted within
its walls. He knew nothing of the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, or even
of the banker's presence in the castle. His failing mind had gone back to
the past, and he fondly imagined himself, as of yore, the Lord of Lone
and of all its vast revenues. The presence and attendance of all his old
train of servants, who, as I said before, had been kindly retained in the
service of the banker's family, helped the happy illusion in which the
last days of the old duke were passed, until one afternoon, just as the
sun was sinking out of sight behind Ben Lone, the old man went quietly
to sleep in his arm-chair, and never woke again in this world.

A few days after this, in the midst of a large concourse of friends,
neighbors and mourners, the mortal remains of Archibald-Alexander-John
Scott, Duke of Hereward and Marquis of Arondelle, in the peerage of
England, and Lord of Lone and Baron Scott, in the peerage of Scotland,
were laid side by side with those of Sir Lemuel Levison, Kt., in the
family vault of Lone.

The reading of the late banker's will was deferred until his daughter and
sole heiress should be in a condition to attend it.

And the family solicitor took it away with him to London to keep until it
should be called for.

The crisis of Salome's illness passed safely. She was out of the imminent
danger of death, though she was still extremely weak.

The family physician returned to his home and his practice in the village
of Lone, and only visited his patient at the castle morning and evening.

Now, therefore, besides the train of household servants, there remained
at the castle but three inmates--Salome Levison, reduced by sorrow and
illness to a state of infantile feebleness of mind and body; Lady
Belgrade, nearly worn out with long watching, fatigue, and anxiety; and
the young Marquis of Arondelle, whom we must henceforth designate as the
Duke of Hereward, and whom even the stately dowager, who was "of the most
straitest sect, a Pharisee" of conventional etiquette, nevertheless
implored to remain a guest at the castle until after the recovery of the
heiress, and the reading of the father's will.

The young duke who wished nothing more than to be near his bride, readily
consented to stay.

But Salome's recovery was so slow, and her frame so feeble, that she
seemed to have re-entered life through a new infancy of body and mind.

Strangely, however, through all her illness she seemed not to have lost
the memory of its cause--her father's shocking death. Thus she had no new
grief or horror to experience.

No one spoke to her of the terrible tragedy. She herself was the first to
allude to it.

The occasion was this:

On the first day on which she was permitted to leave her bedchamber and
sit for awhile in an easy resting chair, beside the open window of her
boudoir, to enjoy the fresh air from the mountain and the lake, she sent
for the young duke to come to her.

He eagerly obeyed the summons, and hastened to her side.

He had not been permitted to see her since her illness, and now he was
almost overwhelmed with sorrow to see into what a mere shadow of her
former self she had faded.

As she reclined there in her soft white robes, with her long, dark hair
flowing over her shoulders, so fair, so wan, so spiritual she looked,
that it seemed as if the very breeze from the lake might have wafted her
away.

He dropped on one knee beside her, and embraced and kissed her hands, and
then sat down next her.

After the first gentle greetings were over, she amazed him by turning and
asking:

"Has the murderer been discovered yet?"

"No, my beloved, but the detectives have a clue, that they feel sure will
lead to the discovery and conviction of the wretch," answered the young
duke, in a low voice.

"Where have they laid the body of my dear father?" she next inquired in
a low hushed tone.

"In the family vault beside those of my own parents," gravely replied the
young man.

"Your own--_parents_, my lord? I knew that your dear mother had gone
before, but--your father--"

"My father has passed to his eternal home. It is well with him as with
yours. They are happy. And we--have a common sorrow, love!"

"I did not know--I did not know. No one told me," murmured Salome, as she
dropped her face on her open hands, and cried like a child.

"Every one wished to spare you, my sweet girl, as long as possible. Yet
I _did_ think, they had told you of my father's departure, else I
had not alluded to it so suddenly. There! weep no more, love! Viewed in
the true light, those who have passed higher are rather to be envied than
mourned."

Then to change the current of her thoughts he said:

"Can you give your mind now to a little business, Salome?"

"Yes, if it concerns you," she sighed, wiping her eyes, and looking up.

"It concerns me only inasmuch as it affects your interests, my love. You
are of age, my Salome?"

"Yes, I was twenty-one on my last birthday."

"Then you enter at once upon your great inheritance--an onerous and
responsible position."

"But you will sustain it for me. I shall not feel its weight," she
murmured.

"There are thousands in this realm, my love, good men and true, who would
gladly relieve me of the dear trust," said the duke, with a smile. "We
must, however, be guided by your father's will, which I am happy to know
is in entire harmony with your own wishes. And that brings me to what I
wished to say. Kage, your late father's solicitor, is in possession of
his last will. He could not follow the custom, and read it immediately
after the funeral, because your illness precluded the possibility of your
presence at its perusal. But he only waits for your recovery and a
summons from me to bring it. Whenever, therefore, you feel equal to the
exertion of hearing it, I will send a telegram to Kage to come down,"
concluded the duke.

"My father's last will!" softly murmured Salome. "Send the telegram
to-day, please. To hear his last will read will be almost like hearing
from him."

"There is beside the will a letter from your father, addressed to you,
and left in the charge of Kage, to be delivered with the reading of the
will, in the case of his, the writer's, sudden death," gravely added the
duke.

"A letter from my dear father to me? A letter from the grave! No, rather
a letter from Heaven! Telegraph Mr. Kage to bring down the papers at
once, dear John," said Salome, eagerly, as a warm flush arose on her
pale, transparent cheek.

"I will do so at once, love; for to my mind, that letter is of equal
importance with the will--though no lawyer would think so," said the
duke.

"You know its purport then?"

"No, dearest, not certainly, but I surmise it, from some conversations
that I held with the late Sir Lemuel Levison."

As he spoke the door opened and Lady Belgrade entered the room, saying
softly, as she would have spoken beside the cradle of a sick baby:

"I am sorry to disturb your grace; but the fifteen minutes permitted by
the doctor have passed, and Salome must not sit up longer."

"I am going now, dear madam," said the duke, rising.

He took Salome's hand, held it for a moment in his, while he gazed into
her eyes, then pressed it to his lips, and so took his morning's leave of
her.

The same forenoon he rode over to the Lone Station, and dispatched a
telegram to the family solicitor, Kage.




CHAPTER X.

THE LETTER AND ITS EFFECT.


Mr. Kage arrived at Lone, within twenty-four hours after having received
the duke's telegram. He reached the castle at noon and had a private
interview with the duke in the library, when it was arranged that the
will and the letter should be read the same afternoon in the presence of
the assembled household.

"The letter also? Is not that a private one from the father to his
daughter?" inquired the duke.

"No, your grace. There are reasons why it must be public, which you will
recognize when you hear it read," answered the lawyer.

"Then I fear I have been mistaken in my private thoughts concerning it.
Pray, will it give us any clue to the perpetrators of the murder?"

"None whatever! It certainly was not a violent death that the banker
anticipated for himself when he prepared that letter to be delivered in
the event of his sudden decease."

"Has any clue yet been found to the murderer?"

"None that I have heard of."

"Or to the mysterious woman who was supposed to have carried off the
booty?"

"None, Detective Keightley called on me yesterday for some information
regarding the stolen property, and I furnished him with a photograph of
that snuff-box given to Sir Lemuel Levison by the Sultan of Turkey--the
gold one richly set with precious stones. Sir Lemuel had it photographed
by my advice, for identification in case of its being stolen. And he left
several duplicate copies with me. I gave one to Keightley. But the man
could give me no information in return. The missing woman seemed lost in
London. And the proverbial little needle in the haystack might be as
easily found," said the lawyer.

The announcement of luncheon put an end to the interview.

The two gentlemen passed on into the smaller dining-room where Lady
Belgrade awaited them. She received the solicitor politely and invited
him to the table.

After the three were seated and helped to what they preferred, her
ladyship turned to the lawyers and said:

"My niece understands that you have a letter for her, left in your charge
by her father. She wishes you to send it to her immediately. Her maid is
here waiting to take it."

"Pardon me, my dear lady, the letter must remain in my possession until
after the reading of the will, when, for certain reasons, it must be
read, as the will, in the presence of the household. Pray explain this to
Miss Levison, and tell her that I shall be ready to read and deliver both
at five o'clock this afternoon, if that will meet her convenience," said
the lawyer, respectfully.

"That will suit her; but I hope the forms will not occupy more than an
hour. Miss Levison is still extremely feeble, and ought not to sit up
longer," said the dowager.

"It will not require more than half an hour, madam," replied Mr. Kage.

Lady Belgrade gave the message to the maid for her mistress. And when the
girl retired, the conversation turned upon the proceedings of the London
detectives in pursuit of the unknown murderers.

At the appointed hour the household servants were all assembled in the
dining-room. At the head of the long table sat the family attorney and
his clerk. Before them lay a japanned tin box, secured by a brass
padlock. It contained the last will, the letter, and other documents
appertaining to the deceased banker's estate. They were only waiting for
the entrance of Miss Levison and her friends. No one else was expected.
There was not the usual crowd of poor relatives who "crop up" at the
reading of almost every rich man's will. The late Sir Lemuel Levison had
no poor relations whatever. His people were all rich, and all scattered
over Europe and America, at the head of banks, or branches of banks, in
every great capital, of the almost illustrious house of "Levison,
Bankers."

The assembled household had not to wait long. The door opened and the
young lady of Lone entered, supported on each side by the Duke of
Hereward and the dowager, Lady Belgrade.

Her fair, transparent, spiritual face looked whiter than ever, in
contrast to her deep black crape dress, as she bowed to the lawyer, and
passed to her seat at the table.

The duke and the dowager seated themselves on either side of her.

"Are you quite ready, Miss Levison, to hear the will of the late Sir
Lemuel Levison?" inquired the attorney.

"I am quite ready, Mr. Kage, thanks," replied the young lady, in a low
voice, and speaking with an effort.

The attorney unlocked the box, took out the will, unfolded and proceeded
to read it.

The document was dated several years back. It was neither long nor
complex. After liberal bequests to each one of his household servants,
rich keepsakes to his dear friends, an annuity to the dowager Lady
Belgrade, and a princely endowment to found an orphan asylum and
children's hospital in the heart of London, he bequeathed the residue of
his vast estates, both real and personal, without reserve and without
conditions, to his only and beloved child, Salome.

After the reading of the will was finished, the attorney arose, came
around to where the ladies sat, and congratulated Miss Levison and Lady
Belgrade, on their rich inheritance.

"How could he do it?" thought the unconventional and weeping heiress.
"Oh, how could he congratulate me on an inheritance which came, and could
only have come, through my dear father's decease!" Then in a voice broken
with emotion, she said:

"Thanks, Mr. Kage. Will you please now to read my dear papa's
letter?--since you _are_ to read it aloud, I think," she added.

"Such was the deceased Sir Lemuel's direction, my dear Miss Levison,"
said the lawyer. And returning to his place at the head of the table, he
took the letter from the japanned box, opened it, and said:

"This letter from my late honored client to his daughter was committed by
the late Sir Lemuel Levison to my charge to be retained and read after
the will, in the event of a circumstance which has already occurred--I
mean the sudden and unexpected death of the writer. The letter will
explain itself."

Here the lawyer cleared his throat, and began to read:

"ELMHURST HOUSE, Kensington, London,

"Monday, May 1st, 18--.

"MY DEAREST ONLY CHILD: Blessings on your head! Nothing could
have made me happier, than has your betrothal to so admirable a young man
as the Marquis of Arondelle. Had I possessed the privilege of choosing
a husband for you, and a son-in-law for myself, from the whole race of
mankind, I should have chosen him above all others. But, my dearest
Salome, the satisfaction I enjoy in your prospects of happiness is
shadowed by one faint cloud. It is not much, my love; it is only the
consciousness of my age and of the precarious state of my health. I may
not live to see you united to the noble husband of your choice. Therefore
it is that I have urged your speedy marriage with what your good
chaperon, Lady Belgrade, evidently considers indecorous haste. She must
continue to think it indecorous, because unreasonable. I cannot, and will
not, darken your sunshine of joy, by giving to you _now_ the real
reason of my precipitation--the extremely precarious state of my health.
Yet, in the event of my being suddenly taken from you, I must prepare
this letter to be delivered to you after my death, that you may know my
last wishes. If I live to see you wedded to the good Lord Arondelle,
this paper shall be torn up and destroyed; if not, if I should be
suddenly snatched away from you before your wedding-day, this letter will
be read to you, after my will shall have been read, in the presence of
your betrothed husband, your good chaperon and your assembled household,
that you and they and all may know my last wishes concerning you, and
that none shall dare to blame you for obeying them, even though in doing
so you have to pursue a very unusual course. My wish, therefore, is that
your marriage with Lord Arondelle may not be delayed for a day upon
account of my death; but that it take place at the time fixed or as soon
thereafter as practicable. In giving these directions, I feel sure that I
am consulting the wishes of Lord Arondelle, the best interests of
yourself, and the happiness of both. Follow my directions, therefore, my
dearest daughter, and may the blessing of our Father in Heaven rest upon
you and yours, is the prayer of

"Your devoted father, LEMUEL LEVISON."

During the reading of the letter the face of Salome was bathed in tears
and buried in her pocket-handkerchief.

The duke sat by her, with his arm around her waist, supporting her.

At the end of the reading, without looking up, she stretched out her hand
and whispered softly:

"Give me my dear father's letter now."

The attorney, who was engaged in re-folding the documents and restoring
them to the japanned box, left his seat, and came to her side, and placed
the letter in her hands.

"Thanks, Mr. Kage," she said, wiping her eyes and looking up. "But now
will you tell me if you know what my dear father meant by writing of the
precarious state of his health? He seemed to enjoy a very vigorous
and green old age."

"Yes, he '_seemed_' to do so, my dear young lady; but it was all
seeming. He was really affected with a mortal malady, which his
physicians warned him might prove fatal at any moment," gravely replied
the lawyer.

"And he never hinted it to us!"

"He did not wish to sadden your young life with a knowledge of his
affliction."

"My own dear papa! My dear, dear papa! loving, self-sacrificing to the
end of his earthly life! never thinking of his own happiness--always
thinking of mine or of others! My dear, dear father!" murmured the still
weeping daughter.

"He thought of your happiness, and of the happiness of your betrothed
husband, my dear young lady, when he committed that letter to my care, to
be delivered to you in case of his sudden death, and when he charged me
to urge with all my might, your compliance with its instructions. And now
permit me to add, my dear Miss Levison, that to obey your father's will
in
this matter would be the very best and wisest course you could pursue."

"Thanks, Mr. Kage; I know that you are a faithful friend to our family;
but--I must have a little time to recover," murmured Salome, faintly.

"Here, you may remember my dear Salome, that when I told you of this
letter in the possession of Mr. Kage, I said that I thought I knew its
purport from certain conversations I had held with your late father. He
had hinted to me the dangerous condition of his health, and he had
expressed a hope that no accident to himself should be permitted to
postpone our marriage; and then he told me that he had left a letter with
his solicitor to be read in case of his sudden death, and that the letter
would explain itself. He concluded by begging me if anything should
happen to him to necessitate the delivery of that letter to you, to urge
upon you the wisdom and policy of following its direction. He could not
have given me a commission I should be more anxious or earnest in
executing. My dear Salome, will you obey your good father's wishes? Will
you give me at once a husband's right to love and cherish you?" he
added in a low whisper.

"Oh, give me a little time," she murmured--"give me a little time. There
is nothing I wish more than to do as my dear father directed me, and as
you wish me; but my heart is so wounded and bleeding now, I am still so
weak and broken-spirited. Give me a little time, dear John, to recover
some strength to overcome my sorrow."

Here she broke down and wept.

"I think we had best take her back to her room," said Lady Belgrade,
rising.

Mr. Kage locked up the documents in the japanned box, put the key in his
pocket-book, and consigned the box to the care of his clerk.

Lady Belgrade dismissed the assembled servants to their several duties,
and then, assisted by Lord Arondelle, led the bereaved and suffering girl
from the room.

The lawyer and his clerk, who were to dine and sleep at the castle, were
left alone.

The lawyer rang and asked for a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses,
and lighted his cigar, to pass away the time until the dinner hour.

The next morning Mr. Kage and his clerk went back to London.

It now became an anxious question, whether the marriage of the young Duke
of Hereward and the heiress of Lone should proceed according to her
father's wishes.

Mr. Kage, the family attorney, urged it: Dr. McWilliams, the family
physician, urged it: above all the expectant bridegroom, the Duke of
Hereward; only the bride-elect, Salome, and her chaperon, Lady Belgrade,
objected to it.

Salome, ill and nervous from the severe shock she had received, could
decide upon nothing hastily and pleaded for a short delay.

Lady Belgrade argued etiquette and conventionalities--the impropriety of
the daughter's marriage so soon after the father's murder.

Meanwhile the summer had merged into early autumn; the season of the
Highlands was over, and the cold Scotch mists were driving summer
visitors to the South coast, or to the Continent.

The climate was telling heavily upon the delicate organization of Salome
Levison. She contracted a serious cough.

Then the family physician, (so to speak,) "put down his foot" with
professional authority so stern as not to be contested or withstood.

"This is a question of life or death, my lady," he said to the
dowager--"a question of life and death, ye mind! And not of
conventionality and etiquette! Let conventionality and etiquette go to
the D., from whom they first came. This girl must die, or she must marry
immediately, and go off with her husband to the islands of the Grecian
Archipelago. That is all that can save her. And as for you, my laird
duke," continued the honest Scotch doctor, breaking into dialect as he
always did whenever he forgot himself under strong excitement, "as for
you, me laird duke, if ye dinna overcome the lassie's scruples, and marry
her out of hand, the de'il hae me but I'll e'en marry her mysel', and
tak' her awa to save her life! Now, then will I tak' her mysel' or will
you?"

"I will take her!" said the young duke, smiling. Then turning to the
dowager, he added, gravely: "Lady Belgrade, this marriage must and shall
take place immediately. You must add your efforts to mine to overcome
your niece's scruples. Your ladyship has been working against me
heretofore. I hope now, after hearing what the doctor has said, that
you will work with me."

"Of course, if the child's life and health are in question: and, indeed,
this climate is much too severe for her, and she certainly does need
rousing; and as it has been three months now since Sir Lemuel Levison's
funeral, I don't see--But, of course, after all, it is for you and Salome
to decide as you please;" answered Lady Belgrade, in a confused and
hesitating manner, for when the dowager went outside of her
conventionalities she lost herself.

Salome Levison was again besieged by the pleadings of her lover, the
counsels of her solicitor, and the arguments of her physician, all with
the co-operation of her chaperon.

"I do not see what else can be done, my dear," she said to her protegee.
"The ceremony can be performed as quietly as possible, and you two can go
away, and the world be no wiser."

"As if I cared for the world! I will do this in obedience to my dear
father's directions and my betrothed husband's wishes, and I do not even
think of the world," gravely replied Salome.

"Now, then, to the details, my dear. What day shall we fix? And shall the
ceremony be preformed here at the castle or at the church at Lone?"

"Oh, not here! not here! I could not bear to be married here, or at the
Lone church either. No, Lady Belgrade. We must go up to our town house in
London, and be married quietly at St. Peter's in Kensington, where I used
to attend divine service with my dear papa," said Salome, becoming
agitated.

"Very well, my love. But don't excite yourself. We will go. And the
sooner the better. These horrid Scotch mists are aggravating my
rheumatism beyond endurance," concluded the dowager.

It was now the last week in September. But so diligently did the dowager,
and the servants under her orders exert themselves both at Castle Lone
and in London, that before the first of October, Miss Levison, with her
chaperon and their attendants, were all comfortably settled in the
luxurious town-house in the West End.

The Duke of Hereward took lodgings near the home of his bride-elect.

As the marriage settlements had been executed, and the bridal
paraphernalia prepared for the first marriage day set three months
before, there was really nothing to do in the way of preparation for the
wedding, and no reason for even so much as a week's delay. An early
day was therefore set. It was decided that the ceremony should be
performed without the least parade.

Since her departure from Castle Lone and her arrival at their town house,
the change of scene and of circumstances, and the preliminaries of her
wedding and her journey, had the happiest effects upon Miss Levison's
health and spirits.

She recovered her cheerfulness, and even acquired a bloom she had never
possessed before. And her attendants took care to keep from her all that
could revive her memory of the tragedy at Lone.

One morning the Duke of Hereward came to the house and asked to see Lady
Belgrade alone.

The dowager received him in the library.

"Has Miss Levison seen the morning papers?" he inquired, as soon as the
usual greetings were over.

"No, they have not yet come," answered her ladyship.

"Thank Heaven! Do not let her see them on any account! I would not have
her shocked. The truth is," he added, in explanation of his words to the
wondering dowager, "I have important news to tell you. The mysterious
vailed woman, supposed to be connected with the robbery and murder at
Lone Castle, has been found and arrested. The stolen property has been
discovered in her possession. And she--you will be infinitely
shocked--she proves to be Rose Cameron, the daughter of one of our
shepherds, living near Ben Lone."




CHAPTER XI.

THE VAILED PASSENGER.


We must return to the night of the murder, and to the man and woman whom
Salome Levison heard, and did not merely "dream" that she heard,
conversing under her balcony at midnight.

When left alone in her dark and silent hiding-place, the woman waited
long and impatiently. Sometimes she crept out from her shadowy nook, and
stole a look up to the casements of the castle, but they were all dark
and silent, and closely shut, save one immediately above her head, which
stood open, though neither lighted nor occupied.

She had waited perhaps an hour when stealthy footsteps were heard
approaching, and not one, but two men came up whispering in hurried and
agitated tones. She caught a few words of their troubled talk.

"You have betrayed me! I never meant, under any circumstances, that you
should have done such a deed!" said one.

"It was necessary to our safety. We should have been discovered and
arrested," said the other.

"You have brought the curse of Cain upon my head!" groaned the first
speaker.

"Come, come, my lord, brace up! No one intended what has happened. It was
an accident, a calamity, but it is an accomplished fact, and 'what is
done, is done,' and 'what is past remedy is past regret.' If the old man
hadn't squealed--"

"Hush! burn you! the girl will hear!" whispered the first speaker, as
they approached the woman under the balcony.

"Rose, here; don't speak. Take this bag; be very careful of it; do not
let it for a moment go out of your sight, or even out of your hand. Go
to Lone station. The train for London stops there at 12:15. Take a
second-class ticket, keep your face covered with a thick vail until you
get to London, and to the house. I will join you there in a few days,"
said the first speaker, earnestly.

"Why canna ye gae now, my laird?" impatiently inquired the girl.

"It would be dangerous, Rose."

"I'm thinking it is laughing at me ye are, Laird Arondelle. You'll bide
here and marry yon leddy," said the girl, tossing her head.

"No, on my soul! How can I, when I have married you? Have you not got
your marriage certificate with you?"

"Ay, I hae got my lines, but I dinna like ye to bide here, near your
leddy, whiles I gang my lane to London."

"Rose, our safety requires that you should go alone to London. You cannot
trust me; yet see how much I trust you. You have in that bag, which I
have confided to your care, uncounted treasures. Take it carefully to
London and to the house on Westminster Road. Conceal it there and wait
for me."

"Who is yon lad that cam' wi' ye frae the castle?" inquired the girl,
pointing to the other man who had withdrawn apart.

"He is one of the servants of the castle, who is in my confidence. Never
mind him. Hurry away now, my lass. You have just time to cross the bridge
and reach the station, to catch the train. You are not afraid to go
alone?"

"Nay, I'm no feared. But dinna be lang awa' yersel', my laird, or
I shall be thinking my thoughts about yon leddy," said the girl, as she
folded the dark vail around and around the hat, and without further
leave-taking, started off in a brisk walk toward the bridge.

She passed through the castle grounds and over the bridge, and went on to
the station, without having met another human being.

She secured her ticket, as has been related, and when the train stopped,
she took her place on a second-class car.

Being very much of an animal, and very much fatigued, she could not be
kept awake even by the excitement of her novel and perilous position,
but, holding on to her booty, and lulled by the swift motion of the
train, she fell asleep, and slept until eight o'clock next morning,
when she was awakened by the stopping of the train and the bustle of the
arrival at Euston Square Station. Her first thought was for the safety of
her bag. With a start of dismay she missed it from her lap, where she had
been holding it so tightly.

"An' it 's yer little valise yer a looking for, my dear, there it be at
yer feet, where it fell, with a crash, while ye slept. An' there was
anything in it would break, sure it 's broken entirely," said a kindly
man, pointing to the bag upon the floor.

She hastily picked it up.

"Oh! if any one had known what it contains, would it have been left there
in safety all the time I slept?" she asked herself, as her hands closed
tightly upon her recovered treasure.

But the passengers were all leaving the train, and so she got out with
the rest.

She was too cunning to take a cab from the station. She left it on
foot and walked a mile or two, making many turns, before, at length she
hailed a "four wheeler," hired it and directed the cabman to drive to
Number ---- Westminster Road.




CHAPTER XII.

THE HOUSE ON WESTMINSTER ROAD.


An hour's ride through some of the most crowded streets of London brought
her to her destination--a tall, dingy, three-storied brick house, in a
block of the same.

She paid and dismissed the cab at the door, and then went up and rang the
bell.

It was answered by an old woman, in a black skirt, red sack, white apron,
and white cap.

"Well, to be sure, ma'am, you have taken me unexpected; but I'm main
glad to see you so soon. Come in, and I'll make you comfortable in no
time," said the woman, with kindly respect, as she held the door wide
open for her mistress.

"Any one been here sin' we left Mrs. Rogers?" inquired the traveller.

"No, ma'am--no soul. It is very lonely here without you. Let me take your
bag, ma'am. It do seem heavy," said Mrs. Rogers, as she held out her hand
and took hold of the handle of the satchel.

"Na, I thank ye. It's na that heavy neither," exclaimed the girl,
nervously jerking back the bag, and following her conductor into the
house and up stairs.

An unlikely house to be the shelter of thieves and the receptacle of
stolen goods. There was a look of sober respectability about its
dinginess that might have appertained to a suburban doctor with a large
family and a small practice. An old oil cloth, whole, but with its
pattern half washed off, covered the narrow hall--an old stair-carpet of
originally good quality, but now thread-bare in places, covered the
steps. This was all that could be seen from the open door by any chance
caller. But upstairs all was very different.

As the girl reached the landing, the old woman opened a door on her left
and ushered her into a bright, glaring room, filled up with cheap new
furniture, in which blinding colors and bad taste predominated. Carpets,
curtains, chair and sofa covers, and hassocks, all bright scarlet;
cornices, mirrors, and picture frames, (framing cheap, showy pictures,)
all in brassy looking gilt. Through this sitting-room the girl passed
into a bedroom, where, also, the furniture was in scarlet and gilt,
except the white draperied bed and the dressing-table. Here the girl
threw herself down in an easy-chair saying:

"I'll just bide here a bit and wash my face and hands, while ye'll gae
bring my breakfast."

"Yes, ma'am. What would you like to have?" inquired the woman.

"Ait meal parritch, fust of a', to begin wi' twa kippered herrings; a
sausage; a beefsteak; twa eggs; a pot o' arange marmalade; a plate of
milk toast, some muffins, and some fresh rolls," concluded the girl.

"Anything more, ma'am?" dryly inquired Mrs. Rogers.

"Nay--ay! Ye may bring me a mutton chop, wi' the lave."

"Tea or coffee, ma'am?"

"Baith, and mak' haste wi' it," answered the girl.

The old woman, smiling to herself, went out.

The girl being left alone, fastened both doors of her room, hung napkins
over the key-holes, drew close the scarlet curtains of her windows, and
then sat down on the floor and opened the bag and turned out its contents
on the carpet.

Fortunatus! what a sight! Well might her fellow-passenger have heard
a crash when the bag slipped from her lap to the bottom of the car!

About twelve little canvas bags filled with coins, and marked variously
on the sides--£50, £100, £500, £1,000.

She gazed at the treasure in a sort of rapture of possession! How fast
her heart beat! She did not think that there was so much money in the
whole world! She began to count the bags, and add up their marked
figures, to try to estimate the amount. There were two bags marked one
thousand, four marked five hundred, three marked one hundred, and three
marked fifty pounds--in all twelve little canvas bags containing
altogether four thousand four hundred and fifty pounds.

What a mine of wealth! How she gloated over it! She longed to cut open
the little canvas bags and spread the whole glittering mass of gold and
silver on the carpet before her, that she might gaze upon it--not as a
miser to hoard it, but as a vain beauty to spend it. How many bonnets and
dresses and shawls and laces and jewels this money would buy? How she
longed to lay it out! But she dared not do it yet. She dared not even
open the canvas bags. She must conceal her riches.

She began to put the bags back in the satchel.

In doing so, she perceived that she had not half emptied it--there was
something in each of the buttoned pockets on the inside. She opened the
pockets and turned out their contents.

Rainbows and sunbeams and flashes of lightning!

Her eyes were dazzled with splendor. There was set in a ring a large
solitaire diamond in which seemed collected all the light and color of
the sun! There was a watch in a gold hunting case, thickly studded with
precious stones, and bearing in the center of its circle the initials of
the late owner, set in diamonds, and which was suspended to a heavy gold
chain. There was a snuff-box of solid gold encrusted with pearls, opals,
diamonds, rubies, emeralds, amethysts and sapphires, in a design of
Oriental beauty and splendor.

There were also diamond studs and diamond sleeve-buttons--each a large
solitaire of immense value, and there were other jewels in the form of
seals, lockets, and so forth; and all those delighted her woman's eyes
and heart. But, above all, the golden box, set with all sorts of flaming
precious stones, with its splendid colors and blazing fires dazzled her
sight and dazed her mind.

"I _will_ keep this for mysel'," she said, as she put it in the
bosom of her dress--"I will, I _will_, I WILL! He shall na hae this
again. I'll tell him it was lost or sto'en."

Then she opened the satchel and began to put away the other jewels, until
she took up the watch, looked at it longingly, put it in the bag, took it
out again, and finally, without a word, slipped it into her bosom beside
the box.

Next she trifled with the temptation of the diamond ring. She slipped it
on and off her finger. She had large beautiful hands in perfect
proportion to her large beautiful form, and the ring that had fitted the
banker's long thin finger fitted her round white one perfectly. So, she
took the jewelled box from her bosom, opened it, put the diamond ring in
it, then closed and returned it to its hiding place.

Finally retaining the box, the watch and the rings, she replaced all the
jewels and the money-bags in the satchel, and put the satchel for the
present between the mattresses of her bed. While thus engaged she heard
her old attendant moving about in the next room, and she knew that she
was setting the table for her breakfast.

So she hastened to smooth the bed again, and snatch the napkins off the
keyholes, and unlock the doors lest her very caution should excite
suspicion.

Then at length she took time to wash the railroad dust from her face, and
brush it from her hair.

And finally she passed into her sitting-room where she found the table
laid for her single breakfast.

Presently her housekeeper entered bringing one tray on which stood tea
and coffee with their accompaniments, and followed by a young kitchen
maid with another tray on which stood the bread, butter, marmalade,
meat, fish, etc., with _their_ accompaniments.

When all these were arranged upon the table, Rose Cameron sat down and
fell to.

Being a very perfect animal, she was blessed with an excellent appetite
and a healthy digestion. She was therefore, a very heavy feeder; and now
bread, butter, fish, meat, marmalade disappeared rapidly from the scene,
to the great amusement of the housekeeper and kitchen maid, who had never
seen "a lady" eat so ravenously.

When the breakfast service was removed, she went back into her bedroom,
locked the door, and covered the keyholes as before, and took the satchel
from between the mattresses, and opened it to gloat over her treasures;
for she quite considered them as her own. Again she was "tempted of the
devil." She thought of the fine shops in London, and the fine ready-made
dresses she could buy with the very smallest of these bags of money.

"Why should I no'? What's his is mine! I'll e'en tak the wee baggie, and
gae till the fine shops," she said to herself. And selecting one of the
fifty pound bags, she replaced the others in the satchel, and put the
satchel in its hiding place.

She got ready for her expedition by arraying herself in a cheap,
dark-blue silk suit, and a straw hat with a blue feather. Then she
carefully locked her bedroom door, and took the key with her when she
left the house.

Her ambition did not take any very high flights, although she did believe
herself to be a countess. She knew nothing of the splendid shops of the
West End. She only knew the Borrough and St. Paul's churchyard, both of
which she thought, contained the riches and splendors of the whole world.
She went to the nearest cab-stand, took a cab, and drove to St. Paul's
churchyard, (in ancient times a cemetery, but now a network of narrow,
crowded streets, filled with cheap, showy shops.) She spent the best part
of the day in that attractive locality.

When she returned, late in the afternoon, the canvas bag was empty and
the cab was full, for Rose Cameron, the country girl, ignorant of the
world, but having a saving faith in the dishonesty of cities, refused to
trust the dealers to send the goods home, but insisted on fetching them
herself.

She displayed her purchases--mostly gaudy trash--to the wondering eyes of
Mrs. Rogers, and then, tired out with her long night's journey and her
whole day's shopping, she ate a heavy supper and went to bed. Such
excesses never seemed to over-task her fine digestive organs or disturb
her sleep. After an unbroken night's rest she awoke the next morning with
a clear head and a keen appetite, and rang for the housekeeper to bring
her a cup of tea to her bedside.

While waiting for her tea she wondered if her "guid mon" would arrive
during the next twenty-four hours.

And that revived in her mind the memory of her supposed rival. During
the preceding day she had been so absorbed in the contemplation of her
newly-acquired treasures in jewelry and money that she had scarcely
thought of what might then be going on at Castle Lone.

Now she wondered what happened there; whether the marriage had failed to
take place; but, of course, she said to herself, it had failed. Lord
Arondelle would never commit bigamy--but _how_ had it failed? What
had been made to happen to prevent it from going on? And what had the
bride and her friends said or thought?

Above all, why had Lord Arondelle, married to herself as she fully
believed him to be, _why_ had Lord Arondelle allowed the affair
to go so far, even to the wedding-morning, when the wedding-feast was
prepared, and the wedding guests arrived?

It must have been done to mortify and humiliate those city strangers who
sat in his father's seat, she thought.

Oh, but she would have given a great deal to have seen her hated rival's
face on that wedding-morning when no wedding took place?

No doubt "John" would tell her all about it when he arrived. And oh! How
impatient she became for his arrival!

Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of the housekeeper with
a cup of tea in one hand and the _Times_ in the other.

"Good morning, ma'am. And hoping you find yourself well this morning!
Here is your tea, ma'am. And here is the paper, ma'am. There's the most
hawful murder been committed, ma'am, which I thought you might enjoy
along of your tea," said the worthy woman, as she drew a little stand by
the bedside and placed the cup and the newspaper upon it.

"A murder?" listlessly repeated Rose Cameron, rising on her elbow, and
taking the tea-cup in her hand.

"Ay, ma'am, the most hawfullest murder as ever you 'eard of, on an'
'elpless old gent, away up at a place in Scotland called Lone!"

"EH!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, starting, and nearly letting fall
her tea-cup.

"Yes, ma'am, and the most hawfullest part of it was, as it was done in
the night afore his darter's wedding-day, and his blessed darter herself
was the first to find her father's dead body in the morning."

"Gude guide us!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, putting down her untasted tea,
and staring at the speaker in blank dismay.

"You may read all about it in the paper, ma'am," said the housekeeper.

"When did it a' happen?" huskily inquired the girl, whose face was now
ashen pale.

"On the night before last, ma'am. The same night you were traveling up to
London by the Great Northern. And bless us and save us, the poor bride
must have found her poor pa's dead body just about the time you arrived
at home here, ma'am, for the paper says it was ten o'clock."

"Ou! wae's me! wae's me! wae's me!" cried Rose, covering her ashen-pale
face with her hands and sinking back on her pillow.

"Oh, indeed I'm sorry I told you anything about it, ma'am, if it gives
you such a turn. I _did_ hope it would amuse you while you sipped
your tea. But la! there! some ladies do be _so_ narvy!"

"An' that's the way the braw wedding was stappit!" cried Rose, without
even hearing the words of her attendant.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Mrs. Rogers, not understanding the allusion of the
speaker, "_that_ was the way the wedding was stopped, in course. No
wedding could go on after _that_, you know, ma'am, anyhow, let alone
the bride falling into a fit the minute she saw the bloody corpse of her
murdered father, and being of a raving manyyack ever since. Instead of a
wedding and a feast there will be an inquest and a funeral."

"Was--there--a--robbery?" inquired Rose Cameron in a low, faint,
frightened tone.

"Ay, ma'am, a great robbery of money and jewelry, and no clue yet to the
vilyuns as did it! But won't you drink your tea, ma'am?"

"Na, na, I dinna need it now. Ou! this is awfu'! Wae worth the day!"
exclaimed the horror-stricken girl, shivering from head to foot as with
an ague.

"Indeed, I am very sorry I told you anything about it, ma'am. But I
thought it would interest you. I didn't think it would shock you. But,
indeed, if I were you, I wouldn't take on so about people I didn't know
anything about. And you didn't know anything about _them_. You
haven't even asked the names," urged the worthy woman.

"Na, na, I did na ken onything anent them; but it is unco awfu'!" said
Rose, in hurried, tremulous tones.

Not for all her hidden treasures would she have had it suspected that she
even remotely knew anything about the murder or the man who was murdered.

"And yet you take on about them. Ah! your heart is too tender, ma'am. If
you are going to take up everybody else's crosses as well as your own,
you'll never get through this world, ma'am. Take an old woman's word
for that."

"Thank'ee, Mrs. Rogers. Noo, please gae awa and leave me my lane. I'll
ring for ye if I want ye," said Rose, nervously.

"Very well, ma'am. I'll go and see after your breakfast."

"Oh, onything at a'! The same as yestreen. Only gae awa!" exclaimed the
excited girl, too deeply moved now even to care what she should eat for
breakfast.

When the housekeeper had left her alone she gave way to the emotions of
horror and fear which prudence had caused her to restrain in the presence
of the woman. She wept, and sobbed, and cried out, and struck her hands
together. She was, in truth, in an agony of terror.

For now she understood the hidden meaning of her lover's words, when on
the night of the murder he had said to her, under the balcony, "Something
will happen to-night that will put all thoughts of marrying and giving
in marriage out of the heads of all concerned." And she comprehended also
how the meaning of the fragmentary conversation she had overheard between
her lover and his companion, as they approached her from the house: "You
have brought the curse of Cain upon me." "It could not be helped." "If
the old man had not squealed out," and so forth.

Sir Lemuel Levison had been robbed and murdered, and she--Rose
Cameron--had been accessory to the robbery and the murder! She had lain
in wait under the balcony while the burglars went in and slaughtered the
old banker, and emptied his money chest. She had received the booty, and
carried it off, and brought it to London. She had it even then in her
possession!

She was liable to discovery, arrest, trial, conviction, execution.

With a cry of intense horror she covered up her head under the bedclothes
and shook as with a violent ague. She had suspected, and indeed, she had
known by circumstance and inference, that the money and jewels contained
in the bag she had brought from Castle Lone, had been taken from the
house, but she had tried to ignore the fact that they had been stolen.
But now the knowledge was forced upon her.

She had been accessory both before and after the facts to the crime of
robbery and murder, and she was subject to trial and execution. It all
now seemed like a horrible nightmare, from which she tried in vain to
wake.

While she shivered and shook under the bedclothes, the housekeeper came
up and opened the door and said:

"Mr. Scott have come, ma'am. Will he come up?"

"Ay, bid him come till me at ance!" cried the agitated woman, without
uncovering her head.

A few minutes passed and the door opened again and her lover entered the
room still wearing his travelling wraps.

"Rose, my lass, what ails you?" he inquired, approaching the bed, and
seeing her shaking under the bedclothes.

"It's in a cauld sweat, I am, frae head to foot," she answered.

"You have got an ague! Your teeth are chattering!" said Mr. Scott,
stooping over her.

"Keep awa' frae me! Dinna come nigh me!" she cried, cuddling down closer
under the clothing. She had not yet uncovered her face or looked at him.

"What is the meaning of all this, Rose?" he inquired, in a tone of
displeasure.

"Speer that question to yoursel'! no' to me!" she answered, shuddering.

"Look at me!" said the man, sternly.

"I canna look at you! I winna look at you! I hae ta'en an awfu' scunner
till ye!"

"What have I done to you, you exasperating woman, that you should behave
to me in this insolent manner?" demanded the man.

"What hae ye dune till me, is it? Ye hae hanggit me! nae less!" cried the
girl, with a shudder.

"_Hanged_ you? Whatever do you mean? Are ye crazy, girl?"

"Ay, weel nigh!"

"But what do you mean by saying that I have hanged you? Come, I insist on
knowing!"

"Oh, then I just ken a' anent the murder up at Lone Castle! Ye hae drawn
me in till a robbery and murder, without me kenning onything anent it
until a' was ower, and me with the waefu' woodie before me!"

"Rose, if I understand you, it seems that you think I was in some sort
concerned in the death of Sir Lemuel Levison?"

"Ay, that is just what I _be_ thinking!" said the shuddering girl.

"Then you do me a very foul and infamous injustice, Rose! Look at me! Do
I look like an assassin? Look at me, I say!" sternly insisted the man.

"I canna luke at ye! I winna luke at ye! I hae lukit at ye ower muckle
for my ain gude already!" cried the girl, cowering under the clothes.

"See here, lass? I say that you are utterly wrong! I had no connection
whatever with the death of the banker! I would not have hurt a hair of
his gray head for all that he was worth! Come! I answer you seriously and
kindly, although your grotesque and horrible suspicion deserves about
equally to be laughed at or punished. Come, look into my face now and see
whether I am not telling you the truth."

"And sae ye did na do the deed?" she inquired at length, uncovering her
head and showing a pale affrighted face.

"My poor lass, how terrified you have been! No, of course, I did not. But
how came you to know anything about that horrible affair?"

Rose took up the morning paper and put it in his hands.

"Ah! confound the press!" muttered the man between his teeth.

"What did ye say?"

"These papers, with their ghastly accounts of murders, are nuisances,
Rose!"

"Ay sae they be! But ye didna do the deed?"

The man made a gesture of impatience.

"Aweel, then sin ye had na knowledge o' the deed until after it was done,
what did ye mean by saying that something wad happen, wad pit a' thoughts
o' marriage and gi'eing in marriage out the heads o' a' concerned?--when
ye spak till me under the balcony that same night?"

"I meant--I meant," said the man, hesitating, "that I would let the
preparations for the wedding go on to the very altar, and then before the
altar I would reject the bride! I had heard something about her."

"Ah! I thought ye did it a' for spite!"

"But Rose, I never thought you were such an utter coward as I have found
you out to be to-day!" said the man reproachfully.

"Ay' I can staund muckle; but I canna staund murder!"

"It is not even certain that there has been any murder committed. The
coroner's jury have not yet brought in their verdict. Many people think
that the old man fell dead with a sudden attack of heart-disease, and in
falling, struck his head upon the top of that bronze statuette, which was
found lying by him."

"Ay! and that wad be likely eneuch! for na robber wou'd gae to kill a man
wi' siccan a weepon as that," said Rose, who had begun to recover her
composure.

Then the man began to question her in his turn:

"You brought the satchel safely?"

"Ay, I brought it safely."

"Where is it?"

"Lock the door and I'll get it."

The man locked the door. While his back was turned, Rose jumped out of
bed and slipped on a dressing-gown. Then she put her hand in between the
mattresses and drew out the bag.

"Have you examined its contents?" inquired the man.

"Na, I hanna opened it once," replied the girl, unhesitatingly telling a
falsehood.

"Oh! then I have a surprise for you. Sir Lemuel Levison was my banker. He
had my money, and also my jewels, in his charge. He delivered them to me
last night a few minutes before I brought them out and gave them to you.
You know I wished you to take them to London because--I meant to reject
Miss Levison at the altar, and after that, of course, I could not return
to the castle for anything. Don't you see?"

"Ay, I see! But stap! stap! Noo you mind me about the bag. When you
brought out the bag that night, I heard you and a man talking. You said
to the man, 'You hae brocht the curse o' Cain upon me.' Noo, an ye had
naething to do wi' the murder, what did ye mean by that?"

The man's face grew very dark. "She cross-questions me," he muttered to
himself. Then controlling his emotions, he affected to laugh, and said:

"How you do twist and turn things, Rose! One would think you were
interested in convicting me. But I had rather think that you are a little
cracked on this subject. I never used the words you think you heard. The
servant had brought me the wrong walking-stick, one that was too short
for me, and so I said, 'You have brought that cursed cane to me.'"

"Ou, _that_ indeed!" said the credulous girl, "But what did
_he_ mean when he said, 'It could na be helpit. The auld man
squealed?'"

"I don't know what he meant, nor do I know whether he used those words.
Probably he did not; and you mistook him as you have mistaken me. But I
am really tired of being so cross-questioned, Rose. Look me in the face,
and tell me whether you really believe me to be guilty or not?" he said,
in his most frank and persuasive manner.

"Na, na, I canna believe ony ill o' ye, Johnnie Scott," replied the girl.

And, in fact, the man had such magnetic power over her that he could make
her believe anything that he wished.

"Now let us look into this satchel," he said, proceeding to open it.

He took out the bags of money.

"There is one bag gone! fifty pounds gone!" he exclaimed.

"Na, that canna be, gin it was in the bag. I hanna opened it ance," said
the girl, unhesitatingly.

The man paid no attention to her words, but took out the jewels and began
to examine them.

"Confound it! The watch and chain are gone, and the solitaire diamond
ring is gone, and--" here the man broke out into a volley of curses
forcible enough to right a ship in a storm, and said: "The jewel
snuff-box, worth ten times all the other jewels put together, is gone!
How is this, Rose?"

"I dinna ken. How suld I ken? I took the bag frae your hands, and I put
it back intil your hands, e'en just as I took it, without ever once
seeing the inside o' it," boldly replied the girl.

A volley of curses from the man followed, and then he inquired:

"Was the bag out of your possession at any time since you received it?"

"Na, not ance."

"Then that infernal valet has taken the lion's share of the prog! I
wish I had him by the throat!" exclaimed the man, with a torrent of
imprecations.

"What do ye mean by a' that?" inquired Rose.

"I mean, that servant I believed in has robbed me, that is all," said the
man.

With her recovered spirits Rose had regained her appetite. She now rang
the bell loudly.

The housekeeper answered it.

"_Is_ breakfast ready?" inquired the hungry creature.

"Yes, madam; and I will put in on the table just as soon as you are ready
for it," answered the old woman.

"Put it on now, then," replied the girl.

The housekeeper left the room.

Rose made a hasty toilet while her husband was washing the railway dust
from his face and head.

And then both went into the adjoining parlor, where the morning meal was
by this time laid.

After breakfast the man went out.

The woman remained in the house. She was in a very unenviable state of
mind. She was not yet quite easy on the subject of the murder at Lone
Castle. For although her husband and herself might have no connection
with the crime, still they had undoubtedly been lurking secretly about
the house on the very night of its perpetration, and therefore might get
into great trouble. And, besides, she was frightened at having secreted
the costly watch and chain, snuff-box, and other jewels, from her Scott,
and then told him a falsehood about them. What if he should find her out
in her dishonesty and duplicity?

She did not dream of giving up her stolen property. She would risk all
for the possession of that precious golden box, whose brilliant colors
and blazing jewels fascinated her very soul; but where could she securely
hide it from her husband's search? At that moment it was with the watch
and the diamond ring under the bolster of her bed. But there it was in
danger of being discovered, should a search be made.

She went into her bedroom and looked about for a hiding-place.

At length she found one which she thought would be secure.

The gilt cornice at the top of her bedroom window was hollow. She climbed
up on top of her dressing bureau, and reaching as far as she could she
pushed first the snuff-box, (which also contained the diamond ring,)
and then the watch and chain, far into the hollow part of the cornice,
over the window.

There she thought they would be perfectly safe.

The next few days passed without anything occurring to disturb the peace
of this misguided peasant girl.

Every morning the man who called himself Lord Arondelle, but who was
known at the house he occupied only as Mr. Scott, and who professed to be
the husband of the young woman--went out in the morning and remained
absent until evening.

Every day the girl, known to her servants as Mrs. Scott, spent in
dressing, going out riding in a cab, and freely spending the money that
her husband lavished upon her, and in gormandizing in a manner that must
have destroyed the digestive organs of any animal less sound and strong
than this "handsome hizzie" from the Highlands.

On the Monday of the week following the tragedy at Castle Lone, however,
Mr. Scott came home in the evening in a state of agitation and alarm.

"Where is that satchel with the money?" he inquired as he entered the
bedroom of his wife.

She stared at him in astonishment, but his looks so frightened her that
she hastened to produce the bag.

He took from it a little bag of gold marked £500, and threw it in her
lap, saying:

"There, take that!" And before she could utter a word, he hurried out of
the room.

She ran down stairs after him, calling:

"John! John! what ails you? What hae fashed ye sae muckle?"

But he banged the hall door and was gone.

"That's unco queer!" said Rose, as she retraced her steps, up stairs,
feeling a vague anxiety creeping upon her.

"He'll be back sune. He has na gane a journey, for he has na ta'en e'en
sa mickle as a change o' linnen, or a second collar," she said, as she
regained her room, and sank down breathless into a chair.

The bag of gold he had left her next attracted her attention. £500--ten
times as much as she had ever possessed in her life. The contemplation of
this fortune drove all speculations about the movements of "John" out of
her head. "John" was always queer and uncertain, and _would_ go off
suddenly sometimes and be gone for days.

"I winna fash mysel' anent him! He may tak' his ain gait, and I'll tak'
mine!" she said to herself, as she resolved to go out the very next day
and buy what her heart had long been set upon--a cashmere shawl!

The next morning's papers however contained news from Lone, which, had
Rose taken the trouble to look at them, must have thrown some light upon
the sudden departure of Mr. Scott.

They contained this telegraphic item, copied from the evening papers:

"The coroner's inquest that has been sitting at Lone, returned last night
a verdict of murder against Peters, the valet of the late Sir Lemuel
Levison, and against some person or persons unknown. The valet has been
arrested and committed to gaol to await the action of the grand jury. It
is said that he is very much depressed in spirits, and it is supposed
that he will make a full confession, and save himself from the extreme
penalty of the law by giving up the names of his confederates in the
crime, and turning Queen's evidence against them."

Rose did not read the papers at all. They did not interest that fine
animal.

She went shopping that day, and bought a blazing scarlet cashmere shawl.
Mr. Scott did not return in the evening, but she was not troubled. She
had a roast pheasant, champagne, and candied fruits for supper, and
she was happy.

She went shopping the next day, and bought a flashing set of jewels.

Mr. Scott did not return in the evening, but she had another luxurious
supper, and was still happy. In this way a week passed, and still Mr.
Scott did not come back. But Rose shopped and gormandized and enjoyed
her healthy animal life.

Then she felt tempted to wear her gold watch and chain when she dressed
to go abroad. So one morning she put it on, and went out. She had not the
slightest suspicion of the danger to which she exposed herself by wearing
it. She was not afraid of any one finding it in her possession, except
her husband. So she wore it proudly day after day.

One morning, about ten days after the departure of "Mr. Scott," the
postman left a letter for her. It was a drop-letter. She opened it and
read.

It was without date or signature, and merely contained these lines:

"Business detains me from you longer than I had expected to stay. Do not
be anxious. I will return or send very soon."

Rose was not anxious. She was enjoying herself. Now after shopping and
eating and drinking all day, she went to the theatre at night. The
theatre--one of the humblest in the city--was a new sensation to her,
and her first visit to one was so delightful that she resolved to repeat
it every evening.

"I shanna fash mysel' anent Johnnie ony mair. He'll come hame when he
gets ready," she said in her heart.

But weeks grew into months, and "Johnnie" did not come home.

Rose's five hundred pounds had sunk down to fifty pounds, and then indeed
she did begin to grow impatient for the return of her husband. Suppose
the money should give out before he came back?

One day, while she was disturbing herself by these questions, she went
out shopping as usual. When she had made her purchases she looked at her
watch, and found that it had stopped. She was too ignorant to know what
was the matter with it. She only knew that when she wound it up it would
not go.

So she asked the dealer from whom she had bought her goods to direct her
to a watchmaker.

The dealer gave her the address of a jeweller not far off.

She took her watch to "Messrs. North and Simms, Watchmakers and
Jewellers," and asked an elderly man behind the counter, who happened to
be one of the firm, if he could make her watch "gae" while she waited for
it in the shop. And she detached it from its chain and handed it to him.

Mr. North received the rich, diamond-studded, gold repeater, and
looked at the tawdry, ignorant, vain creature that presented it, with
astonishment.

Then he examined the initials set in diamonds, and a change came over
his face. He went to his desk, taking the watch with him. He drew out a
small drawer, took from it a photograph, and compared it with the watch
in his hand. Then he placed both together in the drawer and locked it and
beckoned a young man from the opposite counter, scribbled a few words on
a card and sent him out with it.

Rose, who had watched all these movements without the least suspicion of
their meaning, now moved toward the jeweller and said:

"Aweel then, hae ye lookit at my watch and can ye na mak it ga?"

"The spring is broken, Miss, and it will take a little time to repair it.
You can leave it with me, if you please," replied Mr. North.

"Indeed, then, and I'm nae sic a fule! I'll na leave it with you at a'.
If you canna mak it gae just gie it till me," she said.

Now Mr. North did not wish his customer to leave his shop yet a while.
The truth was that photographs of the late Sir Lemuel Levison's watch and
snuff-box, in the possession of his legal steward, had been copied and
the copies distributed by London directory to every jeweller in the city,
as a means of discovering the stolen property, and finally detecting the
criminals.

Messrs. North and Simms had received a copy of each.

And when Rose presented the rich watch to be repaired, Mr. North had at
first suspected and then identified the article as the missing watch of
the late Sir Lemuel Levison. And he had locked it in the drawer with the
photographs, and dispatched a messenger to the nearest police station for
an officer.

His object now was to detain Rose Cameron until the arrival of that
officer.

"Will you look at something in my line this morning, Miss?" he inquired.

"Na. Gi'e me my watch, and I will gae my ways home," she answered.

"I have a set of diamonds here that once belonged to the Empress
Josephine. They are very magnificent. Would you not like to see them?"

"Ou, ay! an empress's diamonds? ay, indeed I wad!" cried the poor fool,
vivaciously.

Mr. North drew from his glass case a casket containing a fine set of
brilliants, which probably the Empress Josephine had never even heard of,
and displayed it before the wondering eyes of the Highland lass.

While she was gazing in rapt admiration upon the blazing jewels, the
messenger returned, accompanied by a policeman in plain clothes.

"Excuse me, Miss, I wish to speak to a customer," said the jeweller, as
he met the officer and silently took him up to the farther end of the
shop to his desk, opened a little drawer and showed him the watch and the
photographs.

Then they conferred together for a short time. The jeweller told the
policeman how the watch had fallen into his hands; but that the pretended
owner, finding that he could not repair it while she waited, had refused
to leave it, and insisted on taking it home with her.

"Give it to her. Let her take it home. She can then be followed and her
residence ascertained. I think, without doubt, that we have now got a
certain clue to the perpetrators of the robbery and murder at Castle
Lone."




CHAPTER XIII.

A SURPRISE FOR MRS. SCOTT.


"Will ye gie me my watch or no?" exclaimed Rose, growing impatient of
the whispered colloquy between the jeweller and the policeman in plain
clothes, although she was quite unsuspicious of its subject.

"Here it is, madam," said the jeweller, with the utmost politeness, as he
came and placed the watch in her hand.

She attached it to her chain and then left the shop.

The policeman sauntered carelessly toward the door and kept his eye
covertly upon her.

She got into a four-wheeled cab and drove off.

The policeman hailed a "Hansom," sprang into it, and directed the driver
to keep the first cab in sight and follow it to its destination.

Rose, as it was now late in the afternoon, and she was longing for her
turbot, green-turtle soup, and roast pheasants and champagne, drove
directly home.

Her housekeeper met her at the door with good news.

"A letter from the master, ma'am. The postman brought it soon after you
left home," she said, putting another "drop" letter in the hand of her
mistress.

"Is dinner ready?" inquired Rose, who was more interested in her meals
than in her lover.

"Just ready, ma'am," replied the housekeeper.

"Put it on the table directly, then," said Rose, as she ran up stairs to
her own room.

She threw herself into a chair and opened the letter to read it, at her
ease.

It was without date and very short. It only informed her that the writer
was still detained by "circumstances beyond his control," and enjoined
her to wait patiently in her house on Westminster Road, until she should
see him.

It was also without signature.

"And there's nae money in it. I dinna ken why he should write to me at
a', if he will send me nae money," was the angry comment of Rose, as she
impatiently threw the letter into the fire.

Her "improved" circumstances had not taught the peasant girl any
refinement of manners. She did not think it at all necessary to change
her dress, or even to wash her face after her dusty drive. But when
dinner was announced, she went to the table as she had come into the
house. And she enjoyed her dinner as only a young person with a perfectly
healthful and intensely sensual organization could. She lingered long
over her dessert of candied fruits, creams, jellies, and light wines.
And when the housekeeper came in at length with the strong black coffee,
she made the woman sit down and gossip with her about London life.

While they were so employed, "the boy in buttons," whose duty it was to
attend the street door and answer the bell, entered the room and said:

"A gemman down stairs axing to see the missus. I told 'im 'er was at
dinner, and mussent be disturbed at meals, which 'e hanswered, and said
as 'is business were most himportant, and 'e must see you whether or no,
ma'am, which I beg yer parding for 'sturbing yer agin horders."

"It will be a mon frae Johnnie Scott. He'll be fetching me a message or
some money. Gae tell him to come in," said Rose, in hopeful excitement.

"Must I bring the gemman up here, missus?" inquired Buttons.

"Ay, ye fule! Where else? Wad ye ask the gentlemon intil the kitchen? And
we had na that money rooms to choose fra!" said Rose, impatiently.

And indeed, in that great empty old house, she had but three to her own
use--the tawdry scarlet parlor, which was also her dining room; the
equally tawdry scarlet chamber; and the dressing-room behind it.

The boy vanished and soon reappeared, ushering in the policeman in plain
clothes.

"You will be coming frae Mr. Scott, wi' a message?" said Rose, without
rising to receive him.

"No, mum; haven't the pleasure of that gent's acquaintance, though I
would like to enjoy it. I come to _Mrs._ Scott, however, and on
particular unpleasant business. What is your full name, mum?" gruffly
inquired the policeman, approaching her.

"And what will my name be to you, ye rude mon? And wha ga'ed ye
commission to force yersel, on my company at my dinner?" indignantly
inquired Rose.

"My commission, as you call it, mum, lies in this warrant, which
authorizes me to make a thorough search of these premises for property
stolen from Lone Castle on the night of the first of June last."

As the policeman spoke, Rose stared at him with eyes that grew larger,
and a face that grew whiter every minute. And as she stared, she suddenly
recognized the visitor as the man she had seen in the jeweller's shop,
talking with the proprietor while the latter was pretending to be
examining the watch she had put in his hand for repairs.

And now the whole truth burst upon her. The watch had been recognized by
the jeweller, who perhaps had seen it in Sir Lemuel Levison's possession,
or perhaps had had it in his own for cleaning, and he had sent for this
policeman in plain clothes, who had followed her home, "spotted" the
house, and then taken out a search-warrant. Fright and rage possessed her
soul. And oh! in the midst of all, how she cursed her own folly in
secreting those dangerous jewels in the house, and her madness in wearing
the watch abroad.

"I hope you will submit quietly to the necessary search, mum. It will be
the better for you," said the officer.

Then rage got the better of fright in Rose Cameron's distracted bosom.

"I'll tear your e'en out, first, ye--" here followed a volley of
expletives not fit to be reported here--"before ye s' all bring me to sic
an open shame! Search my house, will ye? Ye daur!" and here the handsome
Amazon struck an attitude of resistance.

The policeman went to the front window, threw it up, and beckoned to some
persons below.

In two minutes, the sound of footsteps was heard upon the stairs, the
door was opened, and a couple of officers entered the room.

Rose Cameron gazed at them in terror and defiance.

"Mrs. Scott, you are my prisoner. We arrest you on the charge of
complicity in the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, and the robbery of Castle
Lone!" said the first policeman, laying his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Tak' yer claws affen me, ye de'il!" exclaimed Rose, springing from under
his hand, and then shrinking, shuddering, into the nearest chair.

"Perkins, look after this woman, while I direct the search of the house.
You come with me, Thompson. We will go through this room now," said the
first policeman, putting his hand on the lock of the chamber door.

"Ye sell na gae into my bedroom, ye de'il! It is na decent for a strange
mon to gae into a leddy's chamber!" cried Rose, springing before him to
bar his entrance.

"Never mind her, Mr. Pryor; I'll take care of her," said the man called
Perkins, as with a firm hand he laid hold of his prisoner, and forced
her, screaming, scratching, and resisting with all her might from the
door.

"Excuse me, my girl, but this is a murder case, and we must not stand
upon politeness to the fair sex; here," added Perkins, as he forced her
down upon her chair and held her there so firmly that all she could do
was to spit, glare, and rail at him.

"Oh, my dear, good lady, do be quiet. You are in the hands of the law,
which I believe you to be as innersent as the dove unborn; but it will be
the best for you to submit quietly," said the housekeeper, who had
hitherto sat in appalled silence, taking note of the proceedings.

"I will na submit to ony sic indignity," screamed Rose, with an
additional torrent of very objectionable language.

Meantime officers Pryor and Thompson passed into the bedroom and began
the search. Bureau and bureau drawers, wardrobes, boxes, caskets, cases,
were opened, ransacked, and their contents turned out, but no sign of
the stolen property was discovered. Closets, wash-stands, and chair
cushions next underwent a thorough examination, with a similar result.
Then the bed was pulled to pieces, and the mattresses were closely
scrutinized, to detect any sign of a recent ripping and re-sewing of any
part of the seams through which the stolen jewels might have been pushed
in among the stuffing, but evidently the mattresses had not been tampered
with.

Then the two officers of the law stopped and looked at each other.

"Before proceeding further in our search, we must be sure as the stolen
goods are not in this room," said Pryor.

"I don't know where they can be concealed in this room," said Thompson.

"We must apply our infallible square inch rule, now. Take the inside of
this room from floor to ceiling, and search in succession _every square
inch of it_. No matter whether the part under review seems a likely or
an unlikely, or even a possible or an impossible place of concealment,
search it whether or no. Stolen goods are often found in impossible
places, or in what seems to be such," said Pryor.

The search was re-commenced on the new principle, and following the
square inch system into an impossible place, they at last came upon the
stolen treasure, hidden in the hollow of the cornice at the top of the
scarlet window curtains, near the bedstead.

"Here we are! all right! The jewel snuff box, and the solitaire
diamond ring. The watch and chain will be found upon her person. This
will be sufficient for to-day. We must close and seal these rooms, and
place a couple of men on guard here before we take the girl to the
station-house," said Pryor, as he carefully bestowed the recovered
jewels in the deep breast-pocket of his coat.

The two officers returned to the parlor, where they found Perkins sitting
by the prisoner, who was now pallid and quiet, merely because she had
raged herself into a state of exhaustion.

"Go and fetch a close cab, Thompson. And you, good woman, fetch your
missus' hat and wraps, and whatever else you may think she will need to
go to the Police Station-House, and spend the night there. I will also
trouble you for that watch and chain, my dear," said Pryor, turning
lastly to his prisoner.

"I will na gie my bonny watch! And I will na gae to your filthy
station-house, ye--!"

Whew! Inspector Pryor was used to storms of abuse from female prisoners,
and could stand them well on most occasions; but now he turned as from a
shower of fire, and walked rapidly to the window, while Perkins forcibly
took from her the watch and chain, and put them for the present into his
own pocket.

Thompson came in to announce the cab, and the housekeeper entered
with her mistress's hat and shawl, and a small bundle tied up in a
handkerchief.

But Rose stormed and wept, and utterly refused either to put on the hat
and shawl, or to enter the cab. Nor could any amount of pursuasion or
threats move her obstinacy until she found that the officers of the law
were about to take her by force, and without her proper out-door dress.

Then, indeed, she yielded to the coaxing of her housekeeper, and allowed
the old woman to prepare her for her compulsory drive.

When she was ready, Inspector Pryor would have escorted her down stairs,
but she shook off his hand with angry scorn, and with an expletive that
made even his case-hardened ears burn and tingle again.

"If I maun gae, I will gae; but I willna hae your filthy hand on me, ye
beastly de'il!" she added, as she reached the cab. She paused an instant,
with her foot upon the step, and looked up and down the street, as if
she contemplated for a moment a flight for liberty and life; but probably
she did not like the prospect of the hue and cry, the pursuit and
recapture sure to ensue, for the next instant she stepped into the cab.

That night Rose Cameron passed in the Police Station-House of the
Westminster precinct. She had slept in much less comfortable, if more
respectable quarters, when she lived in the Highland hut at the foot of
Ben Lone.

The officers who had her in charge overlooked all her viciousness in
consideration of her youth and beauty, and afforded her every indulgence
which their own duty and her safe-keeping permitted. They gave her a cell
and a clean cot to herself; and one of them, to whom she gave a
sovereign, went out at her orders and bought for her a luxurious and
abundant supper.

And Rose--a perfect animal, as I beg leave to remind you--ate heartily
and slept soundly, notwithstanding her perils and terrors.

The next morning Rose Cameron was taken before the sitting magistrate of
the Police Court at Vincent Square.

The two witnesses from Lone, McNeil, the saddler, who had seen her
lurking under the window of the castle at midnight on the night of the
murder; and Ferguson, the railway clerk, who had sold her the ticket for
the twelve-fifteen express to London, had been summoned by telegraph on
the day before, had come up by the night train, and were now in court
ready to identify the prisoner. Sir Lemuel Levison's house-steward, also
summoned by telegraph, was there to identify the stolen jewels which were
produced in court. The examination was brief and conclusive. McNeil and
Ferguson swore to the woman as being Rose Cameron, and also as being the
very woman they had each seen on the night of the murder, under the
suspicious circumstances already mentioned.

And McRath swore to the watch and chain, the jewelled snuff-box, and the
solitaire diamond ring as the property of his deceased master, worn upon
his person on the same night of the murder.

The three policemen swore to finding the stolen property in the
possession of the prisoner.

Rose Cameron was incapable of inventing a plausible defence.

When asked how this property came into her possession, she said she had
picked up the watch and chain found upon her person, on the sidewalk, on
Westminster Road, where she supposed the owner must have dropped it, and
as she did not know who the owner might be, she had kept it, to her
sorrow. But as for the gold snuff-box and the solitaire diamond ring, she
did not know anything about them; she had never seen them in her life,
until they were drawn out of the hollow cornice by Inspector Pryor, and
where they must have been hidden by somebody else.

This explanation was not received. And before the morning was over, Rose
Cameron was remanded to her cell in the police station-house to wait
until she could be taken back to Scotland for trial.

When she reached her cell, she gave herself up to a passion of hysterical
weeping and sobbing.

She was interrupted by a visit from her friendly housekeeper.

"My poor, dear, injured lady, I was here early this morning to see you,
but could not get in," said the woman, after the first exciting greetings
were over.

"Sit ye down. Dinna staund, and tire yersel'," said the poor creature,
glad to see any familiar face.

"Oh, my good young lady, you were always very kind to me. And I never can
believe as you've had anything to do with what you are accused of," said
the good woman, weeping.

"And sae I hadna. I dinna ken onything anent it. As for yon braw boxie, I
ne'er set een on it, na, nor the fine ring, till the policeman pu'ed it
doon frae the tap o' the window curtain. And the fine watch, they fund on
me, and said belongit to Sir Lemuel Levison; that watch waur gied to me
by a gude freend," said Rose, wiping the great tears from her stormy
eyes.

"I will believe it, my good young lady. I can very well believe it. I see
how you have been imposed upon by bad people; but do you keep a stiff
upper lip, madam, and don't be in no ways cast down, and your innercence
will come like pure gold from the furniss, as the saying is. And now, my
dear young lady, I have some news for you, as will help to divert your
mind from your troubles, I hope," said the well-meaning woman,
soothingly.

"Is it about Johnnie Scott? Is it about my gude mon?" eagerly inquired
Rose.

"No, my dear young lady, it is not about him. You remember the marriage
that was broken off, for the time between the young Marquis of Arondelle
and the heiress of Lone?"

"Yes! broken off by the murder of the bride's feyther, the nicht before
the wedding day--the murder o' Sir Lemuel Levison, wi' whilk I now staund
accusit. Ou, aye, I mind it! I am na likely to forget it!" sharply
answered Rose Cameron.

"Well, my dear young lady, the marriage is on again."

"_Eh!_" exclaimed Rose Cameron, springing up.

"Yes, my dear young lady. You know I always take time to look over the
morning papers that are left at the house for you, and this morning I
read that a grand marriage would take place at St. George's, Hanover
Square, between the young Duke of Hereward--he who was Marquis of
Arondelle before his father's death--and the heiress of the late Sir
Lemuel Levison. And how, after the ceremony, there would be a breakfast
at the bride's house, and then how the happy pair would set out for their
wedding tower."

While the well-meaning housekeeper was speaking, Rose Cameron was staring
at her in dumb amazement.

"I brought the paper in my pocket, ma'am, thinking, under all the
circumstances, it would interest you and help to make you forget your
own troubles. Would you like to read it for yourself?"

"Yes! gie me the paper," cried Rose, snatching it from the housekeeper
before the latter could hand it.

"Where's the place? Where's the place?" cried the impatient young woman,
wildly turning the pages.

"Here it is ma'am. At the top of the 'FASHIONABLE NEWS,'" said
the landlady, pointing out the item.

Rose pounced upon it, and read aloud:

"The marriage of His Grace, the Duke of Hereward, with Miss Levison, only
daughter and heiress of the late Sir Lemuel Levison, will be celebrated
at twelve, noon, to-day, at St. George's, Hanover Square. After the
ceremony the noble party will adjourn to Elmhurst House, Westbourne
Terrace, the home of the bride, to partake of the wedding breakfast,
after which the happy pair will leave town by the tidal train for Dover,
_en route_ for their continental tour."

Rose Cameron threw down the paper and sprang to her feet with the bound
of a tigress.

"Oh, the villain! Oh, the shamfu', fause, leeing villain! This wad be the
important business that kept him awa' frae me! This wad be the reason why
he got me lockit up in prison here--for I ken weel that he pit the dogs
o' the law on my track noo, if I dinna ken before--to keep me fra getting
out to ban his marriage noo, as I wad ha banned it then hadna something
else dune it for me. But it isna too late yet! I'll ban his wedding
travels, gin I couldna ban his wedding! I'll bring him down to disgrace
and shame afore a' his graund wedding guests--the fause-hearted, leeing,
shamefu' villain! I will pu' him down frae his grandeur yet, gin ye will
only help me!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, pouring out this torrent of words,
as she strode up and down the narrow floor of her cell with the stride of
an enraged lioness.

"My dear, good young lady, I don't know, the least in the world, why you
should get so excited over the young duke's marriage," said the
housekeeper, gazing in amazement and terror upon the face of the
infuriated young creature.

"Why suld I get excited o'er it, indeed?" exclaimed Rose, stopping
suddenly in her furious stride, and confronting her unoffending visitor
with a scowl of rage.

"Come now; come now;" murmured the woman, soothingly, for she began to
fear that she was in the presence, and in the power, of a lunatic.

"Dinna yo ken then, ye auld fule, that the Dooke o' Hareward is my ain
gude mon?" imperiously demanded Rose.

"Oh, her poor head! Her poor head is going, and no wonder, poor lass!"
murmured the old woman, compassionately.

"But how suld ye ken?" cried Rose, scornfully throwing herself down into
her seat again. "He ca'ed himsel' Mr. John Scott. Mr. John Scott! And
mysel' Mrs. John Scott. And sae ye kenned us, and nae itherwise."

"Poor girl! Poor girl!" murmured the housekeeper. "She's far gone! Far
gone! Poor girl!"

"Puir girl, is it? It will be puir dooke before a' is ended! I'll hae him
hanggit for trigomy, or what e'er ye ca' the marryin' o' twa wives at
ance. Twa wives! Ou! I'll nae staund it! I'll nae staund it!" cried Rose,
suddenly bounding to her feet.

"Come now! Come now! my dear, good young lady," said the housekeeper,
coaxingly.

"Ye'll nae believe it! Ye'll nae believe he's my ain gude mon wha has
marrit the heiress the morn? Look here, then! And look here! And look
here!" continued the girl, impetuously, as she took a small morocco
letter-case from her bosom and opened it, and took out one after
another--a parchment, a letter, and a photograph.

"Yes, dear, I'll look at anything you like," said the housekeeper, with
a sigh, for she thought she was only humoring a lunatic.

"Here's my marritge lines. And I was marrit here, in Lunnun town,
at a kirk ye ca' St. Margaret's, by a minister ca'ed Smith. It's a'
doon here in the lines. Look for yoursel'. Ye can read. See! Here will
be my name, Rose Cameron. And here will be my gudeman's--de'il ha'e
him!--Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Marquis of Arondelle. And here will
be the minister's name at the fut--James Smith; and the witnesses--John
Jones, clerk, and Ann Gray, (she waur an auld body in a black bonnet and
shawl). Noo! is that a' richt and lawfu'?" demanded Rose, triumphantly.

"Indeed, ma'am, it looks so!" said the perplexed housekeeper. And
these indiscreet words burst from her lips, almost without her own
volition--"But the idea of the young Marquis of Arondelle marrying of
you in downright earnest is beyond belief! It is, indeed!"

"And what for nae?" cried Rose, angrily. "What for nae, wad he nae marry
me, if he lo'ed me? He wad na hae me without marritge ye suld ken."

"No offence, my dear young madam. None at all. I was only astonished,
that's all," said the housekeeper, deprecatingly, though she wondered and
doubted whether all she heard and saw was truth.

"And, here! See here! Here is a letter I got frae him sune after the
wedding. Ye ken the Dooke o' Harewood was Markiss o' Arondelle time when
he married me?"

"Yes, so it seems," said the housekeeper.

"Aweel then, see here. This letter begins--'_My ain dear Wifie_,' ye
mind?--'_My ain dear Wifie_'--and gaes on wi' a lot o' luve, and a'
that, whilk I need na read, till ye. And it ends, look here--'_Your
devoted husband_--ARONDELLE.' There! what do ye think o'
that?"

"I'm so astonished, ma'am, I don't know what to think."

"But ye ken weel noo, that my gude mon wha ca'ed himsel' John Scott, was
the Markiss o' Arondelle, and is noo the Dooke of Harewood?"

"Yes, ma'am, I know that!--that is, if I'm awake and not dreaming," added
the woman.

"And ye ken weel that the Dooke of Harewood hae get me lappet up here in
prison sae I canna get out to prevent him ha'eing his wicked will, in
marrying the heiress o' Lone?"

"I know that, too, ma'am--that is, if I'm not dreaming, as I said
before," answered the bewildered old woman.

"Aweel, noo, I canna get out to forestal this graund wickedness. The
shamefu' villain took gude care to prevent that, but I can circumvent
him, for a' that, gin ye will help me, Mrs. Brown. Will ye?"

"You may be sure o' that, my poor young lady; for if things be as they
seem, you have suffered much wrong," earnestly answered the woman.

"Aweel, then, tak' my marritge lines, my letter, and this likeness o' my
laird--and may the black de'il burn him in--"

"Oh, my dear child, don't say that. It is dreadful. Tell me what I am to
do with these papers and this picture."

"First of a', ye'll be very carefu' o' 'em, and be sure to bring them
back safe to me."

"Yes, surely, my dear; but what am I to do with them?"

"Ye'll get a cab, and tak' the papers and the picture to the bride's
house, and ask to see the bride alone, on a matter o' life and death. And
ye maun tak' nae denial. Ye maun see her, and tell her anent mysel' here,
betrayed into prison sae I canna come to warn her. And show her my
marritge lines, and my letter, and my laird's pictur'--the foul fien' fly
awa' wi' him!--and tell her, gin she dinna believe them, to gae to the
auld kirk o' St. Margaret's, Wes'minster, and look at the register, and
see the minister, Mr. Smith, and the clerk, Mr. Jones, and the auld
bodie, Mrs. Gray, and she'll find out anent it! Will ye do this for me?"

"Yes, I will, my dear child."

"Here is a half-sovereign then to pay for the cab hire. And, oh! be sure
ye tak' unco gude care o' my papers! They's a' my fortun', ye ken."

"Yes, indeed, I know how important they are to you, and I will bring them
back safe," said the housekeeper, as she put the marriage certificate,
the letter, the portrait, and the money in her pocket, and arose to leave
the cell.

"And noo, we'll see, an' I dinna bring ye to open shame, ye graund
de'il!" exclaimed Rose.

"I don't blame your anger, my poor dear, but don't use bad words. And now
I am off. Good-day to you until I see you again," said the woman, as she
left the cell.

Mrs. Brown was a good woman, but she did delight in hearing and retailing
gossip, and in making and seeing a sensation; so she rather enjoyed her
errand to Westbourne Terrace. She was also a brave woman, so she did not
shrink from meeting the high-born bridegroom and the bride with her
overwhelming revelations.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE SECOND BRIDAL MORN.


We must return to Elmhurst House and take up the thread of Salome's
destiny, where we left it on the morning on which the young Duke of
Hereward had called on Lady Belgrade and informed her ladyship of the
arrest of the mysterious, vailed passenger, and implored her to keep all
the papers announcing that arrest, or in any manner referring to the
tragedy at Castle Lone, from the sight of the bereaved daughter and
betrothed bride.

"And so the mysterious vailed woman had been discovered, and she turns
out to be Rose Cameron!" repeated Lady Belgrade, reflectively. Then,
after a pause, she said: "I wonder who was her confederate in that
atrocious crime--or, rather, who was her master in it? for she is too
weak and simple to have been anything but a blind tool, poor creature!"

"You knew her, then?" said the duke.

"Only by report while I was staying at Castle Lone. But the report came
from the tenantry, who had known her from childhood--a handsome,
ignorant, vain and credulous fool of a peasant girl, more likely to
become the victim of some godless man, than the confederate of murderers.
Did _you_ know her, duke?" meaningly inquired the lady, as she
remembered the reports in circulation at Castle Lone, that connected the
name of the handsome shepherdess with that of the young nobleman.

"No, I never saw the girl in my life. I have heard her beauty highly
praised by some of the late companions of my hunting expeditions at Ben
Lone; but I had no opportunity of judging for myself; and, moreover,
I always discouraged such conversation among my comrades. But there, that
is quite enough of the unhappy girl. I mentioned her arrest not as a most
important fact only, but in order to warn you not to let our dear Salome
get a sight of the daily papers, until you have looked over them, and
assured yourself that they contain no reference to this arrest."

"I see the wisdom of your warning, and I will endeavor to be guided by
it; but it may be difficult to do so. My very sequestration of the papers
may excite Salome's suspicions."

"Then lose them; tear them; but do not let her see any part of them which
may contain any reference to this girl. I thank Heaven that to-morrow I
shall be able to take her out of the country and guard her peace and
safety with my own head and hand. I shall take care also to keep her away
until the trial and conviction of the criminals shall be over and done
with, so that she may not be in any way harassed or distressed by the
proceedings."

"Yes, that will be very wise. If she were in England or Scotland during
the time of the trial, she might be subpoenaed as a witness for the
prosecution. She was the first, poor child, to discover the dead body of
her father, you know," said Lady Belgrade.

"I do not forget that circumstance, or what distress it may yet cause
her," replied the young duke.

And very soon after he took leave and went away.

Lady Belgrade's task in keeping the day's papers from the sight of Salome
Levison was easier than she had anticipated.

Salome, deeply interested and absorbed in the final preparations for her
marriage, did not even think of the newspapers, much less ask for them.

The bridal day dawned, once more, for the heiress of Lone.

Salome, with her attendant, was up early. The young girl, since her
departure from Lone Castle, the scene of her father's murder, and her
arrival at Elmhurst House, and occupations with her wedding preparations,
had wonderfully recovered her health and spirits.

Yet on this, her bridal day, she arose with a heavy heart. A vague dread
of impending evil weighed upon her spirits.

This occasion might well have brought back vividly cruelly to her memory,
that fatal bridal morn when, going to invoke her father's presence and
blessing on her marriage, she found him lying stiff and stark in the
crimson pool of his own curdled blood. She had no father here on earth,
now, to give her to the man she loved, and to bless her union with him.

That, in itself might have been enough to account for the gloom that
darkened her wedding day. But that was not all. For, though her father
was not visibly present here on earth, she knew that he watched and
blessed her from his eternal home. No! but her prophetic soul was
darkened by the shadow of some approaching misfortune.

Margaret, her new maid, brought her a cup of coffee in her chamber. After
she had drank it, she went sadly in her dressing-room, to make her toilet
for the altar.

Margaret was her only attendant and dresser.

Salome was still in the deepest mourning for her murdered father. In
leaving it off, for the marriage altar only, she had resolved to replace
it only by such a simple dress as might have been worn by any portionless
bride in the middle class of society.

She wore a plain white tulle dress, over a lustreless white silk, an
Illusion vail, a wreath of orange buds, and white kid gloves and gaiters.
She wore no jewels of any sort.

Her bridesmaids, only two in number, were dressed like herself, except
that they wore no vails, and that their wreaths were of white rose buds.

At eleven o'clock in the morning, a handsome but very plain coach drew up
before the gate of Elmhurst Terrace.

The bride, attended by her two bridesmaids and Lady Belgrade, entered it,
and was driven off quietly to St. George's, Hanover square.

No invitations had been issued for the wedding, except to the nearest
family connections of the bride and bridegroom.

But unfortunately the news of the approaching marriage had crept out, and
got into the morning papers, and consequently the street before the
church, the churchyard, and the church itself, were crowded with
spectators.

Way was made for the small bridal procession, which was met at the
entrance by the bridegroom's party, consisting of himself, his "best
man," and his second groomsman.

There, with reverential tenderness, the young Duke of Hereward greeted
his bride. And the small procession passed up the central aisle, and
formed before the altar.

Around them stood the nearest friends of the two families.

Behind them, extending back to the farthest extremity of the church,
crowded a miscellaneous mass of spectators.

This must have happened through the oversight of those parties whose duty
it was to have had the church doors closed and guarded, so that the
marriage of the so recently and cruelly orphaned daughter might be as
private and decorous as it was intended to be.

Baron Von Levison, the head of the Berlin branch of the great European
banking firm of Levison, had come over to act the part of father to his
orphan niece, and stood near the chancel to give her away.

The Bishop of London, assisted by two clergymen, all in their sacred
robes of office, stood within the chancel to perform the marriage
ceremony.

After the short preliminary exhortation, the ceremony was commenced. The
bride was very pale, paler than she had ever been, even in those dread
days when she stood always face to face with death. In making the
responses her voice faltered, fainted, and died away with every new
effort. No one would have thought from her look, tone or manner, that she
was giving her hand, where her heart had so long and so entirely been
bestowed. She seemed rather like a victim forced unwillingly to the altar
by despotism or by necessity, than a happy bride about to be united to
the man of her choice.

At length the trial was over. The benediction was pronounced, and the
young husband sealed the sacred rites by a kiss on the cold lips of his
youthful wife.

Friends crowded around with congratulations; but all who took the hand of
Salome, Duchess of Hereward, felt its icy chill even through her glove
and theirs.

"No wonder poor child," they said to themselves; "she is thinking of her
father, murdered on her first appointed wedding-day."

But it was not that. Salome had too clear a spiritual insight not to know
that her father was more alive than he had been while on earth, and that
he was bending down and blessing her, even there.

No; but the dark shadow of the approaching ill drew nearer and nearer.
She could not know what it was. She could only feel it coming and
chilling and darkening her soul.

After a few minutes passed in the vestry, during which the marriage of
Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Duke of Hereward, and Salome Levison was
duly registered and signed and witnessed, the newly-married pair were
at liberty to return home.

The young duke handed his youthful duchess into his own handsomely
appointed carriage.

Baron Von Levison took her vacated place in the carriage with Lady
Belgrade and the bridesmaids.

The few invited guests, being only the nearest family connections of the
bride and bridegroom, got into their carriages and followed to the
bride's residence on Westbourne Terrace, where the wedding breakfast
awaited.

There were now no decorated halls and drawing-rooms, no bands of music,
no display of splendid bridal presents, no parade whatever.

To be sure, an elegant breakfast-table was laid for the guests. It was
decorated only with fragrant white flowers from the home conservatory,
furnished with white Sevres china and silver, and provided with a
luxurious and dainty repast. That was all. All magnificence and splendor
of display was carefully avoided in the feast as in the ceremony.

Only ten in all sat down to the table, viz., the bride and bridegroom,
two bridesmaids, two groomsmen, Lady Belgrade, Baron Von Levison, the
Bishop of London, and the Rector of St. George's.

A graver wedding party never was brought together. Even the youthful
bridesmaids and groomsmen, expected to be "the life of the company," were
awed into silence by the preponderance of age and clerical dignity in the
little assembly, for the bishop was not ready with his usual harmless
little jest, and the rector did not care to take precedence over his
superior.

The conversation was serious rather than merry, and the speeches earnest
rather than witty.

Near the end of the breakfast, the bride's health was proposed by the
first groomsman in a complimentary speech, which was acknowledged in a
few appropriate remarks by her nearest relative, the Baron Von Levison.
The bridegroom's health was then proposed by the baron, and acknowledged
by a deep and silent bow from the duke.

Then the health of the bridesmaids, the clergy, Lady Belgrade, and the
Baron Von Levison were duly honored.

And then the young bride arose, courtesied to her guests, and attended by
her bridesmaids, retired to change her wedding dress for a traveling
suit.

"How deadly pale she looks! Is my niece really happy in this marriage?"
inquired the Baron Von Levison, in a low tone, of Lady Belgrade, as the
guests left the table.

"She is very happy in this marriage, which she has set her heart on for
years. In a word, this young wife is madly in love with her husband. But
you must consider what an awful shock she had on her first appointed
wedding-day, and how it must recur to her mind in this," answered the
dowager.

"Ah, to be sure! to be sure! poor child! poor child!" muttered the German
head of the family.

Meanwhile the young Duchess of Hereward reached her apartments.

Her dresser, Margaret, was in attendance. Her travelling suit of black
bombazine, trimmed with black crape, was laid out. With the assistance of
her maid she slowly divested herself of her white vail and robes, and put
on the black travelling dress. A black sack and a black felt hat, both
deeply trimmed with crape, and black gloves, completed her toilet.

When she was quite ready she kissed her two bridesmaids and said:

"Leave me alone now for a few minutes, dear girls, and wait for me in the
drawing-room. I will join you very soon."

The young ladies returned her kisses and retired.

Then Salome dismissed her maid, that Margaret should prepare to accompany
her mistress.

Finally, as soon as she found herself alone, she sank on her knees to
pray, that, if possible, this dark shadow might be permitted to pass away
from her soul; that light and strength and grace might be given her to do
all her duties and bear all her burdens as Christian wife and neighbor;
that she and her husband might be blessed with true and eternal love for
each other, for their neighbor, and above all for their Lord.

As she finished her prayer, and arose from her knees, her maid re-entered
the room, dressed to attend her mistress on her journey.

The girl did not forget to honor the bride with her new title.

"I beg pardon, your grace," she said, "but there is a strange-looking old
woman down stairs who says she is a widow from Westminster Road, and that
she must see your grace on a matter of life and death, before you start
on your wedding tour."

"I do not know any such person," said the young duchess, slowly, while
that vague shadow of impending calamity gathered over her spirit more
darkly and heavily than before.

"Thomas, the hall footman, brought me the message from the woman, your
grace, and I went down to see her myself before troubling you. I thought
she might be only a bolder begger than usual. But she is no begger, your
grace. She looks respectable," answered the girl.

"Go to the woman and explain to her that I have no time to see her now,
and ask her if she cannot intrust her business to you to be brought to
me," said the duchess.

The maid courtesied and left the room.

"What is it? What is it? Why does every unusual event strike such deadly
terror to my heart?" inquired the bride, as she sank, pale and trembling,
into her resting-chair.

In a few minutes the door opened and Margaret re-appeared.

"I beg your grace's pardon, but the old woman is very obstinate and
persistent. She will not tell me her business. She says it is with your
grace alone; that it concerns your grace most of all; that it is a matter
of more importance than life or death; and that--indeed I beg your
pardon, your grace--but I do not like to deliver the rest of her message,
it seems so impertinent," said the girl, blushing and casting down her
eyes.

"Nevertheless, deliver it. I will excuse you. The impertinence will not
be yours," said the bride, as a cold chill struck her heart.

"Then, your grace, she seized me by the two shoulders and looked me
straight in the face, and said--'Tell your mistress, if she would save
herself from utter ruin, she will see me and hear what I have to tell
her, before she sees the Duke of Hereward again!'" answered the girl,
in a low tone.

"'_Before I see the Duke of Hereward again_.' Ah, what is it? What
is it?" murmured the bewildered bride to herself. Then she spoke to
Margaret. "Bring the woman up here. I will see her at once."

Once more the girl obediently left the room.

The young bride covered her pale face with her hands, and trembled with
dread of--she knew not what!

A few minutes passed. The door opened again, and Margaret re-appeared,
ushering in Rose Cameron's housekeeper.

Salome looked up.




CHAPTER XV.

THE CLOUD FALLS.


When Rose Cameron's emissary entered the bride's chamber, the young
duchess arose from her chair, but almost instantly sank back again,
overpowered by an access of that mysterious foreshadowing of approaching
calamity which had darkened her spirit during the whole of this, her
bridal day.

And it was better, perhaps, that this should be so, as it prepared her to
sustain the shock which might otherwise have proved fatal to one of her
nervous and sensitive organization.

She looked up from her resting-chair, and saw, standing, courtesying
before her, a weary, careworn, elderly woman, in a rusty black bonnet,
shawl, and gown. No very alarming intruder to contemplate.

The woman, on her part, instead of the proud and insolent beauty she had
expected to see, in all the pomp and pride of her bridal day and her new
rank, beheld a fair and gentle girl, still clothed in the deepest
mourning for her murdered father.

And her heart, which had been hardened against the supposed triumphant
rival of the poor peasant girl, now melted with sympathy.

And she, who had persistently forced her way into the bride's chamber,
with the grim determination to spring the news upon her without
hesitation or compassion, now cast about in her simple mind how to
break such a terrible shock with tenderness and discretion.

"You look very much fatigued. Pray sit down there and rest yourself,
while you talk to me," said the young duchess, gently, and pointing to
a chair near her own.

"Ay, I am tired enough in mind and body, my lady, along of not having
slept a wink all last night on account of--what I'll tell you soon, my
lady. So I'll even take you at your kind word, my lady, and presume to
sit down in your ladyship's presence," sighed the woman, slowly sinking
into the indicated seat, and then adding: "I know as ladyship is not
exactly the right way to speak to a duke's lady as is a duchess; but I
don't know as I know what is."

"You must say 'your grace' in speaking to the duchess," volunteered
Margaret, in a low tone.

"Never mind, never mind," said the bride, with a slight smile. "I am
quite ready to hear whatever you may have to say to me. What can I do for
you?"

The visitor hesitated and moaned. All her eager desire to overwhelm Rose
Cameron's rival with the shameful news of her bridegroom's previous
marriage and living wife had evaporated, leaving only deep sympathy
and compassion for the sweet young girl, who looked so kindly, and spoke
so gentle. Yet deeply she felt that, even for this gentle girl's sake,
she must reveal the fatal secret! It was dreadful enough and humiliating
enough to have had the marriage ceremony read over herself and an already
married man, the husband of a living woman; but it would be infinitely
worse, it would be horrible and shameful, to let her go off in ignorance,
believing herself to be that man's wife--to travel with him over Europe.

All this, the honest woman from Westminster Road knew and felt, yet she
had not the courage now to shock that gentle girl's heart by telling the
news which must stop her journey.

"Please excuse me; but I must really beg you to be quick in telling me
what I can do to serve you. My time is limited. Within an hour we have to
catch the tidal train to Dover. And--I have much to do in the interim,"
said the young duchess, speaking with gentle courtesy to this poor,
shabby woman in the rusty widow's weeds.

"Ah, my lady--grace, I mean! there is no need of being quick! When
you hear all I have to tell you--to my sorrow as well as yours, my
grace!--your hurry will all be over; and you will not care about catching
the tidal train--not if you are the lady as I take my--_your_ grace
to be!"

"What do you mean?" inquired Salome, in low, tremulous tones.

"My lady--grace, I mean! will you send your maid away? What I have to
tell you, must be told to you alone," whispered the visitor.

"Margaret, you may retire. I will ring when I want you," said the young
duchess.

And her maid, disgusted, for her curiosity had been strongly aroused,
left the room and closed the door. And, as Margaret had too much
self-respect to listen at the key-hole, she remained in ignorance of
what passed between the young duchess and the uncanny visitor.

"Your strange words trouble me," said Salome, as soon as she found
herself alone with her visitor.

"Ay, my lady, your grace, I know it. And I am sorry for it. But I cannot
help it. And, indeed, I'm very much afeared as I shall trouble you more
afore I am done."

"Then pray proceed. Tell me at once all you have to tell. And permit me
to remind you that my time is limited," urged the young duchess.

"Ay, madam, my lady--grace, I mean. But grant me your pardon if I repeat
that there is indeed no hurry. You will not take the tidal train to
Dover. Not if you be the Christian lady as I take you for," gravely
replied the visitor.

"I must really insist upon your speaking out plainly and at once," said
Salome, with more of firmness than she had as yet exhibited, although her
pale cheeks grew a shade paler.

"My lady--your grace, I should say--when I started to come here this
morning, to bring you the news I have to tell, my heart was _that_
full of anger against him and you, for the deep wrongs done to one I know
and love, that I did not care how suddenly I told it, or how awfully
it might shock you. But now that I see you, dear lady--grace, I mean--I
do hate myself for having of such a tale to tell. But, for all that--for
your sake as well as for hers, I must tell it," said the woman, solemnly.

"For Heaven's sake, go on! What is it you have to tell me?" inquired the
bride, in a fainting voice.

"Well, then, your lady, my grace--Oh, dear! I know that ain't the right
way to speak, but--"

"No matter! no matter! Only tell me what you have to tell and have done
with it!" said Salome, impatiently at last.

"Well, then--I beg ten thousand pardons, my lady, but did your ladyship
ever hear tell, up your way in Scotland, of a very handsome young woman
of the lower orders, by the name of Rose Cameron?"

"Yes, I have heard of such a girl," answered the bride, in a low tone,
averting her face.

"I thought your ladyship must have heard of her. And now--I beg a million
of pardons, my lady--but did your ladyship ever happen to hear of a
certain person's name mentioned alongside of hers?"

"I decline to answer a question so improper. What can such a question
have to do with your present business?" inquired the bride, with more
of gentle dignity than we have ever known her to assume.

"It has a great deal to do with it, your ladyship. It has everything to
do with it, as I shall soon prove to your grace. Take no offence, dear
lady. I won't use any name to trouble you. And I won't say anything but
what I can prove. Will you let me go on on them terms, your ladyship?"
humbly inquired the messenger.

"Yes, yes, if you only WILL be quick. I _wish_ you to go
on. I believe you to mean well, though I do not exactly know what you
really _do_ mean," said Salome, nervously.

"Well, then, my lady, if you ever heard of this handsome Highland peasant
girl, called Rose Cameron, you must have heard that she lived long of her
old father, a shepherd, dwelling at the foot of Ben Lone, near by
where--a--a certain person had his shooting-lodge. My dear lady, it is
the same wicked old story as we hear over and over again, and a many
times too often. Well, the young man--a certain person, I mean--while at
his shooting-box, foot of Ben Lone, happened to see this handsome lass,
and fell in love with her at first sight, as certain persons sometimes do
with young peasant girls as they oughtn't to marry. But mayhap your
ladyship have heard all this before."

Salome had heard it all before; and now, in silence and sadness, she was
wondering what she had to hear more; but certainly not expecting to hear
the degrading revelation her visitor had still to make.

"Well, my lady," resumed the visitor, "a certain person courted handsome
Rose Cameron a long time, trying to coax her to accept of his heart
without his hand, after the manner of certain persons, to poor and pretty
young girls. But the handsome peasant was as proud as a princess, and so
she was. And she would see him hanged first, and so she would, before she
would degrade herself for him, especially as she wasn't overmuch in love
with him herself, but only pleased with his preference, and proud to show
him off. She didn't worship him at all. She worshiped herself, my lady.
And she could take care of herself and keep him in his place, even while
she sort of encouraged his attentions. That was the secret of her power
over him, my lady. She would neither take him on his terms nor let him
go. And the more she resisted him the more he fell down and worshiped
her, until, at length, he was ready to give up everything for her sake,
and offer her marriage. That was what she really wanted to fetch him to,
for she was ambitious as well as honest--that she was! Are you listening
to me, my lady?"

"I am listening," breathed the bride, in a faint voice.

She had turned her chair around, so that her weary head could rest upon
the corner of the dressing-table, where she now leaned, face downward,
on her spread hands.

"Well, my lady, when she had fetched him to that pass as to offer her
marriage, she took him at his word, and he brought her up to London. And
they were married, sure enough, in the old church at St. Margaret's
near by where I live, in Westminster."

"It is false! It is false! It is false as--Oh! Heaven of Heavens!" cried
Salome, wildly, throwing back her head and hands, and then dropping them
again with a low, heart-broken moan.

"I am cut to the soul, my lady, to say this; but I must say it, even for
your sake, my lady, and I only say what I can easy prove," spoke the
woman, humbly.

"Go on, go on," moaned Salome, without lifting her head.

"Well, my lady, after their marriage, they came to my house to live,
which this was the way of it; I had a three-story brick house on
Westminster Road, and I took lodgers. But what between getting only a few
lodgers, and them being bad pay, I got myself over head and ears in debt,
and was in danger of being sold up by my creditors, when a certain
person, as called hisself Mr. John Scott, come and took the whole house
right offen my hands just as it was, and engaged me as his housekeeper,
telling of me as he was just married, and was agoing to bring home his
wife. Well, my lady, he advanced me money to pay my debts, and then he
fetched Mrs. John Scott, which was no other than Rose Cameron, my lady,
as I soon after found out from herself. Well, he fetches Mrs. John Scott
to look at the first floor which he was agoing to refit complete for her,
and according to her taste. Well, your ladyship, she, having of a very
glarish sort of her own, she chooses furniture all scarlet and gold,
enough to put your eyes out. And when all was fixed up onto that first
floor, then he brought her home sure enough."

Without lifting her face, Salome murmured some words in so low and
smothered a tone that they were inaudible to her visitor.

"I beg pardon, my lady. What did you please to say?" inquired the woman,
bending toward the bowed head of the bride.

"I asked how long ago was it?" she repeated, in a faint voice.

"Just about a year, my lady."

"Go on."

"Well, then, my lady, first along he seemed very fond of her, seemed to
doat on her, and loaded her with dresses, and trinkets, and sweetmeats,
and nick-nacks of all sorts, and never came home without bringing of her
something. And she never got anything very nice but what she would call
me up and give me some; for she made quite a companion of me, my lady.
But after a few weeks, Mr. John Scott was frequent away from home for
days together. But this didn't trouble Mrs. John Scott much. I soon saw
as she wasn't that deep in love with him as she couldn't live without
him. And so he kept her well supplied with finery and dainties, or with
the money to get them, he might go off as often, and stay as long as
he liked. She lived an idle, easy, merry life, and frequent went to the
play-house, and took me. 'And all was merry as a marriage bell,' as the
old saying says, until this summer, when Mr. John Scott went off, and
stayed longer then he ever stayed before. Well, my lady, while he was
still away, one morning in last June, Mrs. John Scott takes up the
_Times_ to look over. She didn't often look over the papers, and
when she did it was only to see what was going to be played at the
theatres. But _that_ morning her eyes happened to light down on
something in the paper as put her into a perfect fury. She was so beside
herself as to let out a good deal that she meant to have kept in. And by
her own goings on I found out that it was the announcement of the
marriage, that was to come off in two days at Lone Castle, between the
young Marquis of Hereward and the daughter and heiress of Sir Lemuel
Levison, as had set her on fire. I tried my best to quiet her, and even
asked her what it was to her? She said she would soon let 'em all know
what it was to her. I begged her to explain. But she would give me no
satisfaction. She seemed all cock-a-whoop, begging your ladyship's
pardon, to go somewhere and do something. And that same night she packed
her carpet-bag and off she went. I asked her what I should say to Mr.
John Scott if he should come home before she did. And she told me never
to mind. I shouldn't have any call to say anything. _She_ should
see him before _I_ could. And so off she went that same night."

"What night was that?" slowly and faintly breathed Salome, without
lifting her fallen head.

"Two nights before--before the marriage was to have been, my lady,"
answered the woman, in a low and hesitating tone.

"Proceed, please."

"And now, my lady, I must tell you what happened at Lone, as I received
it from her own lips this very morning, before I came here. She went down
to Scotland by the night express of the Great Northern, and arrived at
Lone early in the morning of the day before the wedding-day that should
have been. She found great preparations going on for the marriage of the
markis and the heiress. She went over to the castle with the crowd of the
country people who gathered there to see the grand decorations for the
wedding. But she saw nothing of the bride or of the bridegroom; and,
moreover, she was warned off with threats by the servants of the castle.
But at length, towards night-fall, my lady, she saw Mr. John Scott, as he
called himself, hanging about the Hereward Arms, and she 'went for him,'
as the saying is. But he drew her apart from the crowd. And there she
charged him with perfidy, and threatened to appear at the church the next
day with her marriage lines and forbid the banns. He did all he could to
quiet her, said that she was deceived and mistaken, and that he could not
marry any one, being already married to herself, and that if she would
meet him that night at the castle, just under the balcony, near Malcolm's
Tower, he would explain everything to her satisfaction."

"_It was no dream, then!_ Oh, Heaven! it was no dream! And my own
senses witness against him!" exclaimed Salome again, throwing up her face
and hands with a cry of anguish, and then dropping them, as before, upon
the table in an attitude of abject despair.

"My lady, this is too much for you! too much!" said the compassionate
woman, weeping over the distress she had caused.

"No, no; go on, go on; I will hear it all. My own senses, pitying Heaven!
my own senses bear witness to it," moaned Salome, in a smothered voice.

"Ah, my lady, it grieves me deeply to go on, as you bid me. They met, Mr.
John Scott, as he called himself, and Rose Cameron, at the time and place
agreed on--at midnight at Castle Lone, under the balcony near Malcolm's
Tower. And there, my lady, he repeated to her that he was not going to
marry anybody, reminding her that he was already married to herself; and
he explained that something would happen before morning, which would put
all thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage out of the heads of all
parties concerned. And then he--"

A groan of anguish burst from the almost breaking heart of the wretched
bride, as she lifted a face convulsed and deathly white with her soul's
great agony.

"My lady! oh, my lady!" exclaimed the woman, in much alarm.

"I heard it all! I heard it all!" cried Salome, as if speaking to herself
and unconscious of the presence of a hearer. "I heard it all! I heard it
all! Yea! my own senses were witnesses of my own dishonor and despair!"
she groaned, as she threw her arms and her head violently forward upon
the table.

"My lady, for mercy's sake, my lady!" exclaimed the widow, standing up
and bending over her.

"Oh, what a hell! what a hell is this world we live in! And what devils
walk to and fro upon the earth!--devils beautiful and deceitful as the
fallen archangel himself!" moaned Salome, all unconscious of the words.

"Ah, my dear lady, for goodness' sake, now don't talk so, that's a
darling," coaxed the good woman.

"DO NOT HEED ME! Go on! go on! Give me the death-blow at once,
and have done with it!" cried Salome, lifting her blanched and writhen
face and wringing hands, and then dashing them down again.

The appalled visitor seemed stricken dumb.

"Go on, go on," moaned the poor bride in a half smothered tone.

"Lord help me! I have forgotten where I was! I wish it had befallen
anybody but me to have this here hard duty to do! Where was I again? Ah!
under the balcony. My lady, he told her to wait there for him until he
came back. And he went away, and was gone an hour or more. Then he came
back, and another man along of him. The night was so still, she heard
them coming before they got in sight. And she heard them a talking in
a low voice. And Mr. John Scott he seemed awful put out about something
or other as the other man had done agin his orders. And he said, hoarse
like, 'I wouldn't have had it done, no, not for all we have got by it!'
And the other one said, 'It couldn't be helped. The old man squealed, and
we had to squelch him.' Says Mr. John Scott: 'You've brought the curse of
Cain upon me!' Says t'other one, 'It was chance. What's done is done,
and can't be undone. What's past remedy is past regret. And what can't be
cured must be endured. The old man squealed, and had to be squelched, or
he'd have brought the house about our ears--'"

"Oh, my father! my dear father! my poor, murdered father! And _you_!
oh _you_! with the beauty and glory of the archangel, and the
cruelty and deceit of the arch fiend, I can never look upon your face
again--never! The sight would blast me like a flame of fire," raved
Salome, throwing back her head, wringing her hands, and gasping as if
for breath of life.

"Ah, my dear lady, I know how hard it is! Pardon me, my lady, but I feel
a mother's heart in my bosom for you. Try to be patient, sweet lady, and
do not despair. You are so young yet, hardly more than a child you seem.
You have a long life before you yet. And if you be good, as I am sure you
will be, it will be a happy life, in which these early sorrows will pass
away like morning mists," said the woman, soothingly.

"Oh, never more for me will morning dawn! Eternal night rests on my soul!
For myself I do not care! But, oh, my ruined archangel!" she wailed,
burying her face in her hands.

A dead silence fell between the two, until Salome, without changing her
position, murmured;

"Go on to the end; I will not interrupt you again. Oh, that I could wake
from this night-mare!--or--expire in it! Go on and finish."

"My lady, while the two men were speaking, they came in sight of the
woman who was waiting under the balcony. Then Mr. John Scott says: 'Hush!
my girl will hear us.' And they hushed, but it was too late--she had
heard them. Mr. John Scott came up to her in a hurry, and put a small but
heavy bag in her hand, saying that she must take it and take care of it,
and never let it go out of her possession, and that she must hurry back
to Lone Station and catch the midnight express train back to London, and
that he himself would follow her, and join her at home the next night."

"And all that, too, was proved--yes, proved by the mouths of two
witnesses at the inquest, though they did not either of them recognize
the man or the woman," moaned Salome.

"Mrs. John Scott returned to my house about breakfast time the next
morning, my lady, bringing that bag with her, which I noticed she
wouldn't let out of her sight, no, nor even out of her hand, while I was
near her. She wouldn't answer any of my questions, or give me any
satisfaction then, even so far as to tell me where she had been, or if
she had seen Mr. John Scott. So I knew nothing until the next morning,
when I got the _Times_. I don't in general care about reading the
papers myself, but opened it that morning to see if there was anything
in it about the grand wedding at Lone. And oh! My lady, I saw how the
wedding had been stopped on account of--on account--of what happened to
Sir Lemuel Levison that night, my lady, as I don't like to talk of it,
or even t think of it. But when Mrs. John Scott rang her bell that
morning, my lady, I took up the paper with her cup of tea, which she
always took in bed. And oh, my lady, when she came to know what had
happened at Lone, she went off into the very worst hysterics I ever
saw. I was struck all of a heap! I couldn't imagine why she should take
it so awfully to heart as that. But that's neither here nor there. I know
_now_ why she took it so to heart. In the midst of all the hubbub,
Mr. John Scott returned. And she fairly flew at him! She said, among
other bitter, things, that he would bring her to the gallows yet! And she
charged him with what she had overheard. But somehow or other he laughed
at her, and explained it all away to her satisfaction. He could always
make her believe whatever he pleased. If he had told her the rainbow was
only a few yards of striped Leamington ribbon, she would have believed
him! He didn't stay more than an hour, and was off again in a hurry. We
didn't see him again until the last of the week. It was the news of the
coroner's verdict on the Lone murder case was telegraphed to London, when
he came rushing in at the door and up the stairs like a mad-man. And in
ten minutes he came rushing down stairs again and out of the street door
like a madman, but he carried the heavy little bag off with him in his
hand. And he has never been back since. But, from time to time, he wrote
to her, and sent her money, and told her that business still kept him
away. But, mind you, my lady, his letters were all without date or
signature, and were drop letters, now from one London post-office, and
now from another, so that she never knew where to address him.
Not that she cared. As long as her money lasted she was, perfectly
satisfied. She lived comfortably, and she amused herself, and often
went to the play and took me with her, and all went merry again until
yesterday, when, all on a sudden, the police made a descent on the house,
and arrested Mrs. John Scott on a charge of being implicated in the
robbery and murder at Castle Lone, and proceeded to search the house,
where they found the watch-chain, snuff-box, and other valuable property
belonging to the late Sir Lemuel Levison!"

"Great Heaven! they found these things in the house rented by--by--"

Salome could say no more, but ended with a groan that
seemed to rend body and soul apart.

"They found the stolen jewels there, my lady. My unhappy mistress denied
all knowledge of them, but her words availed her nothing. She was carried
off to prison that same night. This morning she was taken before the
sitting magistrate, and examined, and remanded to prison, until she can
be carried back to Scotland for trial. Neither she nor I know at what
hour she may be removed, or by what train she may be taken to Scotland.
She may be gone now, for aught I know."

"Where is the poor creature now confined?" inquired Salome, in a dying
voice.

"In the Westminster police station-house, my lady, if she has not been
already removed. But I must tell your ladyship--your grace, I mean--how I
happen to come to you now. I was at the West End this morning, my lady,
and in returning to the city I passed St. George's Church, Hanover
Square, and I saw the pageant of your wedding. And when I got back to
Westminster and looked into the station-house to see my unfortunate
mistress, and to help her mind often her own troubles, I told her about
the wedding of the Duke of Hereward with the heiress of Sir Lemuel
Levison, at St. George's Church, my lady. She went off into the most
terrible fit of excitement I ever seen her in yet, and I have seen her in
some considerable ones, now I do assure your ladyship. And in her raving
and tearing, my lady, I first heerd that Mr. John Scott and the young
Marquis of Arondelle and the Duke of Hereward was all one and the same
gentleman, and he was the lawful husband of Rose Cameron. My lady, I
thought her troubles had turned her head, and so I did not believe a word
she said. And, my lady, I do not expect _you_ to believe _me_
without proof, any more than I believed _her_."

"Oh, Heaven of Heavens! I have the proof! I have the proof in the
evidence of my own senses, too fatally discredited until now. But if you
have further proof, give it me at once," groaned Salome.

"Here is the marriage certificate. Look at that first, my lady, if you
please," said Mrs. Brown, putting the document in her hands.

Salome gazed at it with beclouded vision, but she saw that it was a
genuine certificate of marriage between Archibald-Alexander-John Scott,
Marquis of Arondelle, and, Rose Cameron, signed by James Smith, Rector of
St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, and witnessed by John Thomas Price,
Sexton, and Ann Gray, Pew-opener.

"The man must have been mad! mad! to have done this, in the first
instance, and then--done what he has just this morning," moaned Salome,
as she returned the certificate to the woman.

"My lady, he thought as he had got Rose Cameron lagged, he would never be
found out. Here, my lady, is the first letter he wrote to her after they
were married. I reckon it is a foolish love-letter enough, not worth
reading; but what I want you to notice is, his handwriting, and the way
he commences his letter--'My Darling Wife,' and the way he ends it--'Your
Devoted Husband, Arondelle.'"

"I recognize the handwriting, and I note the signature. I do not wish to
read the letter," muttered Salome, waving it away.

"Well, then, my lady, here is a photograph of his grace, given to his
wife a few days before their marriage," said the widow, offering a small
card.

Salome took it, looked at it, and dropped it with a long, low wail of
anguish.

It was a duplicate of one presented to herself by the Duke of Hereward,
from the same negative.

Silence again fell between the lady and her visitor until it was broken
by a rap at the door, and the voice of the maid without, saying:

"Beg pardon, your grace, but Lady Belgrade desires me to say that you
have but fifteen minutes to catch the train."

"Very well," replied the young duchess; but her voice sounded strangely
unlike her own.

"Your ladyship will not go on your bridal tour?" said the visitor,
imploringly.

"No, I shall not go on a bridal tour. How can I?--I am not a bride. I am
not a wife. I am not the Duchess of Hereward. I am just Salome Levison,
as I was before that false marriage ceremony was performed over me! But
do you be discreet. Say nothing below stairs of what has passed between
us here," said Salome, speaking now with such amazing self-control that
no one could have guessed the anguish and despair of her soul but for the
marble whiteness and rigidity of her face.

"Be sure I shall not say one word, my lady," answered Mrs. Brown.

There was another low rap at the door, and again the voice of the maid
was heard:

"Please your grace, what shall I say to Lady Belgrade?"

"Tell her ladyship that I am nearly ready," answered the young duchess.
"And, Margaret," she added, "show this good woman out. And then, do not
return here until I ring."

The visitor courtesied and went to the door, where she was met by the
maid, who conducted her down stairs.

Salome locked and double-locked and bolted the doors leading from
her apartments to the front corridor, and then she retreated to her
dressing-room, alone with her terrible trial.

Who can conceive the mortal agony suffered by that young, overburdened
heart and overtasked brain.

Who can estimate the force of the conflict that raged in her bosom,
between her passion and her conscience? Between her love and her duty?
Between what she knew of her worshiped husband, from daily association,
and what she had just heard proved upon him by overwhelming testimony,
confirmed also by the evidence of her own too long discredited senses!

He--her Apollo--her ideal of all manly excellence--her archangel, as in
the infatuation of her passion she had called him--he a bigamist, and an
accomplice in the murder of her father!

It was incredible! incomprehensible! maddening!

Or surely it was some awful nightmare dream, from which she must soon
awake.

What should she do? How meet again the people below?

She would not look upon _his_ face again. She could not. She felt
that to do so would be perdition.

In the darkness of her despair a great temptation assailed her.

But we must leave her alone to wrestle with the demon, while we join the
wedding-party below.




CHAPTER XVI.

VANISHED.


After the withdrawal of the bride and her attendant from the
breakfast-table, the bridegroom and his friends remained a few moments
longer, and then joined Lady Belgrade and the bridesmaids in the
drawing-room.

They passed some fifteen or twenty minutes in pleasant social chat upon
the event of the morning, the state of the weather, and the political,
financial, or fashionable topics of the day.

In half an hour they felt disposed to yawn, and some surreptitiously
consulted their watches.

Then one of the bridesmaids, at the request of Lady Belgrade, sat down to
the piano and condescended to favor the company with a very fine wedding
march.

Three quarters of an hour passed, and then the Baron Von Levison--(Paul
Levison, the head of the great Berlin branch of the banking-house of
"Levison," had been ennobled in Germany, as his brother had been knighted
in England)--Baron Von Levison then inquired of the bridegroom what train
he intended to take.

"The tidal train, which leaves London Bridge Station at three-thirty,"
answered the duke.

"Then your grace should leave here in fifteen minutes, if you wish to
catch that train," said the baron.

The bridegroom spoke aside to Lady Belgrade.

"Had we not better send and see if Salome is ready? We have but little
time to lose."

"Yes," said her ladyship, who immediately rang the bell, and dispatched
a message to the young duchess's dressing-maid.

A few minutes elapsed, and an answer was returned to the effect that her
grace would be ready in time to catch the train.

The travelling carriage was at the door, and all the lighter luggage,
such as dressing-bags, extra shawls and umbrellas, were put in it.

And they waited full fifteen minutes, without seeing or hearing from the
loitering bride.

"I will go up to Salome myself," said Lady Belgrade, impatiently.

"No, pray do not hurry her; if we miss this train we can take the next,
and though we cannot catch the night-boat from Dover to Calais, we can
stop at the 'Lord Warden' and cross the Channel to-morrow morning,"
urged the duke.

"At least I will send another message to her, and let her know that the
time is more than up," said her ladyship.

And again she rang the bell and sent a servant with a message to the
lady's maid.

Full ten minutes passed, and then Margaret, the maid, came herself to the
drawing-room door, begged pardon for her intrusion, and asked to speak
with Lady Belgrade.

Lady Belgrade went out to her.

"What is it? The time is up! This delay is perfectly disgraceful. They
will never be able to catch the tidal train now--never!" said her
ladyship in a displeased tone.

"If you please, my lady, I am afraid something has happened," said the
girl, in a frightened tone.

"What do you mean?" inquired the dowager, sharply.

"If you please, my lady, I went up and found all the doors leading from
the corridor into her grace's suite of apartments locked fast. I knocked
and called, at first softly, then loudly, but received no answer. I
listened, my lady, but I heard no sound nor motion in the rooms."

"I will go up myself," said Lady Belgrade, uneasily.

And she hurried, as fast as her age and her size would permit, to the
part of the house comprising the apartments of the duchess. Three doors
opened from the corridor, relatively, into the boudoir, bed-room, and
dressing-room, which were also connected by communicating doors within.

Lady Belgrade rapped and called at each in succession, but in vain. There
was no response.

"She has fainted in her room! That is what has happened! This day of
fatigue and excitement has been too much for her, in the delicate state
of her health. Every one noticed how ill she looked when she came up
stairs. Margaret, there is a back door, you are aware, leading from your
lady's bath-room down to the flower garden. Go around and go up the back
stairs and see if that door is open--if so, enter the rooms by it and
open this," said her ladyship, never ceasing, while she talked, to rap
at and shake the door at which she stood.

Margaret flew to obey, and made such good haste, that in about two
minutes she was heard within the rooms hurrying to open the closed door.
In two seconds bolts were withdrawn, keys turned, and the door was
opened.

"How is she?" quickly demanded the dowager, as she stepped into the
dressing-room.

"My lady, I haven't seen her grace. If you please, perhaps she is in her
chamber," replied the maid.

Lady Belgrade bustled into the bed-room, looking all around for the
bride, then into the boudoir, calling on her name.

"Salome! Salome, my dear! Where are you?" No answer; all in the luxurious
rooms still and silent as the grave.

"This is very strange! She _may_ be in the garden," said her
ladyship, passing quickly into the bath-room, and descending the stairs
that led directly into a small flower-garden enclosed by high walls.

The garden was now dead and sear in the late October frost. No sign of
the missing girl was there.

"This is very strange! Can she have gone down into the drawing-room,
after all? I will see. There is no possibility of catching the tidal
train now. It is already three o'clock; the train leaves London Bridge
Station at three thirty, and it is a good hour's ride from Kensington!"
said Lady Belgrade, speaking more to herself than to her attendant, as
she came out of the rooms.

"Shall I go through the house and inquire if any one has seen her grace,
my lady?" respectfully suggested Margaret.

"Yes; but first shut and lock that garden door of your lady's bath-room.
It is not safe to leave it open," replied Lady Belgrade, as she again
descended the stairs.

As she entered the drawing-room, the young Duke of Hereward came to meet
her.

"I hope nothing is the matter. Salome was not looking strong this
morning. And this delay? I trust that she is well?" he said, in an
anxious, inquiring tone.

"Salome is not in her apartments. I have sent a servant to seek her
through the house. Her delay has made you miss the train, your grace,"
said Lady Belgrade, in visible annoyance.

"That does not much matter, so that the delay has not been caused by her
indisposition," said the young duke, earnestly.

"No indisposition could possibly excuse such eccentricity of conduct at
such a time. Salome is moving somewhere about the house, according to her
crazy custom," said Lady Belgrade.

"I really cannot hear that sweet girl so cruelly maligned, even by her
aunt," said the duke, with a deprecating smile.

As they spoke, the Baron Von Levison appeared and said:

"I should have been very glad to have seen you off, duke, and to have
thrown a metaphorical old shoe after you; but your bride seems to have
taken so long to tie her bonnet strings, that she has made you miss your
train. And now you can't go until the night express, and I really can't
wait to see you off by that. I have an appointment at the Bank of England
at four. God bless you, my dear duke. Make my adieux to my niece, and
tell her that if the men of her family had been as unpunctual as the
women seem to be, they never would have established banks all over
Europe."

And with a hearty shake of the bridegroom's hand, and a deep bow to Lady
Belgrade, the Baron Von Levison took leave.

His example was followed by the bishop and the rector, who now came up
and expressed regret at the inconvenience the bridegroom would experience
by having missed his train, but agreed that it was much better to know
that fact before starting for it, and having the long drive to London
Bridge Station and back again for nothing. And they extolled the comfort
of the night express, and the elegance of accommodations to be found at
the Lord Warden Hotel. And upon the whole, they concluded that his grace
had not missed much, after all, in missing the "tidal."

Then again they wished much happiness to attend the married life of the
young couple, and so bade adieux and departed.

There now remained of the wedding guests only the two bridesmaids and the
groomsmen.

These were grouped near one of the bay-windows, and engaged in a subdued
conversation.

The Duke of Hereward and Lady Belgrade still stood near the door, waiting
for news of the lingering bride.

To them, at length, came the maid, Margaret, with pallid face and
frightened air.

"If you please, my lady, we have searched all over the house and inquired
of everybody in it. But no one has seen her grace, nor can she be found."




CHAPTER XVII.

THE LOST LADY OF LONE.


"Cannot be found? Whatever do you mean, girl? You cannot mean to say
that the Duchess of Hereward is not in this house?" demanded Lady
Belgrade, in amazement.

"I beg pardon, my lady; but we have made a thorough search of the
premises, without being able to find her grace," respectfully answered
the maid.

"Oh, but this is ridiculous! The duchess is in some of the rooms; she
must be! Go and renew your search, and tell her grace, when you find her,
that she has made the duke miss the tidal train; but that we are waiting
for her here," commanded the lady.

The girl went, very submissively, on her errand.

Lady Belgrade dropped wearily into her chair, muttering:

"I do think servants are so idiotic. They can't find her because she
happens to be out of her own room. I would go and hunt her up myself, but
really the fatigue of this day has been too much for me."

The Duke of Hereward did not reply. He walked restlessly up and down the
floor, filled with a vague uneasiness, for which he could not account to
himself--for surely, he reflected, Salome must be in the house somewhere;
it could not possibly be otherwise; and there were a dozen simple reasons
why she might be missed for a few minutes; doubtless she would soon
appear, and smile at their impatience.

Ay, but the minutes were fast growing into hours, and Salome did not
re-appear.

The maid returned once more from her fruitless search.

"Indeed, I beg your pardon, my lady; but we cannot find her grace, either
in the house or in the garden," she said, with a very solemn courtesy.

"Now this is really beyond endurance! I suppose I must go and look for
her myself," answered Lady Belgrade, rising in displeasure.

"Will you let me accompany your ladyship?" gravely inquired the duke.

Lady Belgrade hesitated for a few moments, and then said:

"Well,--yes, you may come. We will go down stairs first."

They descended to the first floor, and went through the dining-room,
sitting-room, library and little parlors; but without finding her they
sought.

Then they ascended to the next floor and went through the
picture-gallery, the music-room, the dancing-saloon, the hall, and
lastly, the three drawing-rooms, in case that she might have returned
there while they were absent. But their search was still without success.

Then they ascended to the upper floors, and looked all through the
handsome suites of private apartments, but still without discovering
a trace of the missing bride.

And so all over the house, from basement to attic, and from central hall
to garden wall, they went searching in vain for the lost one.

The dowager and the duke returned to the drawing-room and looked each
other in the face.

The dowager was stupefied with bewilderment. The duke was pale with
anxiety.

The mystery was growing serious and alarming.

"What do you think of it, Lady Belgrade?" inquired the duke.

"I cannot think at all. I am at my wit's end," answered the lady. "What
do _you_ think?" she inquired, after a moment's pause.

"I think--that we had better call the servants up, one at a time, and put
them separately through a strict examination," answered the duke.

Lady Belgrade rang the bell.

A footman appeared in answer to it.

"Examine him first, your grace," said the lady.

The duke put the young man through a strict catechism, without
satisfactory results. John was the hall footman, whose business it was
to answer the street-door bell and announce visitors. And he assured
his grace that no one had entered or left the house that morning, to
_his_ knowledge, except the wedding party and their attendants.

The hall-porter was next summoned and examined, and his report was found
to correspond exactly to that of the footman.

The butler was sent for and questioned, but could throw no light on the
mystery of the lady's disappearance.

The pantry footman was next called up. His duty was to wait on the butler
and attend the servants' door, to take in provisions delivered there. And
the first plausible clue to the mystery of Salome's disappearance was
received from him.

"Yes, my lady," he said, "there have been a stranger to the servants'
door this morning--an elderly old widow woman, my lady, dressed in black,
and werry much in earnest about seeing her grace; would take no denial,
my lady, on no account; which compelled me to go to her grace's
lady's-maid, Miss Watson, my lady, and send a message to her grace,"
said the young footman.

"Did the duchess see this strange visitor?" inquired the duke.

"Miss Watson come down and seen her first, your grace, and told her how
she mustn't disturb the duchess. But the visitor was so dead set on
seeing her grace, and used such strong language about it, that at last
Miss Watson took up her message and in a few minutes come back and took
up the visitor."

"She did? And what next?" inquired Lady Belgrade.

"Please, my lady, there was nothing next. In about an hour Miss Margaret
brought the elderly old lady down, and I showed her out of the servants'
door."

"Did she leave the house alone?" inquired the duke.

"Yes, your grace, just as she came, alone."

"Go and tell Margaret Watson to come here," said Lady Belgrade.

The man bowed and retired.

In a few minutes the girl made her appearance again.

"How is it, Watson, that you did not mention the visitor you showed up
into your lady's room this morning?" inquired Lady Belgrade, in a severe
tone.

"If you please, my lady, I did not think the visitor signified anything,"
meekly answered the maid.

"How could you tell _what_ signified at a time like this?"

"I beg pardon, my lady; but it was the time itself that made me forget
the visitor."

"Who was she? What time did she come? What did she want?" sharply
demanded the lady.

"Please, my lady, she said her name was Smith, or Jones, or some such
common name as that. I think it was Jones, my lady. And she lived on
Westminster Road--or it might have been Blackfriars Road. Least-ways
it was one of those roads leading to a bridge because I remember it made
me think of the river."

"Extremely satisfactory! At what hour did this Mrs. Smith or Jones, from
Westminster or Blackfriars, come?" inquired Lady Belgrade.

"Just as her grace went up to her room to change her dress. She had just
finished changing it when the woman was admitted."

"And now! what did the woman want of the duchess?"

"I do not know, my lady. Her business was with her grace alone. And she
requested to have me sent out of the room. I did not see the woman again,
until her grace called me to show her, the woman, out again."

"And you did so?"

"Yes, my lady. And I have not seen the woman since. And--I have not seen
her grace since, either, my lady."

"You may go now," answered Lady Belgrade.

And the girl withdrew.

The Duke of Hereward and Lady Belgrade were once more left alone
together.

Again their eyes met in anxious scrutiny.

"What do you think now, Duke?" inquired her ladyship.

"I think the disappearance of the duchess is connected with the visit of
that strange woman. She may have been an unfortunate beggar, who, with
some story of extreme distress, so worked upon Salome's sympathies as to
draw her away from home, to see for herself, and give relief to the
sufferers. Or--I shudder to think of it--she may have been a thief, or
the companion of thieves, and with just such a story, decoyed the duchess
out for purposes of plunder. This does not certainly seem to be a
probable theory of the disappearance, but it does really seem the only
possible one," concluded the duke, in a grave voice.

And though he spoke calmly, his soul was shaken with a terrible anxiety
that every moment now increased.

"But is it at all likely that Salome, even with all her excessive
benevolence, could have been induced to leave her home at such a time
as this, even at the most distressing call of charity? Would she not
have given money and sent a servant?" inquired Lady Belgrade.

"Under normal conditions she would have done as you say. But remember,
dear madam, that Salome is not in a normal condition. Remember that it is
but three months since she suffered an almost fatal nervous shock in the
discovery of her father's murdered body on her own wedding morning.
Remember that it is scarcely six weeks since her recovery from the nearly
fatal brain fever that followed--if indeed she has ever fully recovered.
_I_ do not believe that she has, or that she will until I shall have
taken her abroad, when total change of scene, with time and distance, may
restore her," sighed the duke.

"I thought she was looking very well for the last few weeks," said Lady
Belgrade.

"Yes, until within the last few days, in which she seems to have
suffered a relapse, easily accounted for, I think, by the association
of ideas. The near approach of her wedding day brought vividly back to
her mind the tragic events of her first appointed wedding morning, and
caused the illness that has been noticed by all our friends this day. The
excitement of the occasion has augmented this illness. Salome has been
suffering very much all day. Every one noticed it, although, with the
self-possession of a gentlewoman, she went calmly through the ceremonies
at the church, and through the breakfast here. But I think she must
have broken down in her room, and while in that state of nervous
prostration she must have become an easy dupe to that beggar, or thief,
whichever her strange visitor may have been," said the duke; and while
he spoke so calmly on such an anxious and exciting subject, he, too,
under circumstances of extreme trial and suspense, exhibited the
self-possession and self-control which is the birthright of the true
gentleman no less than of the true gentlewoman.

"It may be as you think. It would be no use to question the servants
further. They know no more than we do. We can do nothing more now but
wait, with what patience we may, for the return of that eccentric girl,"
said Lady Belgrade, with a deep sigh, as she settled herself down in her
chair.

Another hour passed--an hour of enforced inactivity, yet of unspeakable
anxiety. Three hours had now elapsed since the mysterious disappearance
of the bride; and yet no news of her came.

"She does not return! This grows insupportable!" exclaimed Lady Belgrade,
at length, losing all patience, and starting up from her chair.

"She _may_ be detained by the sick bed, or the death bed, of some
sufferer who has sent for her," replied the duke, huskily, trying to hope
against hope.

"As if she would so absent herself on her wedding day, on the eve of her
wedding tour!" exclaimed the lady, beginning to walk the floor in a
thoroughly exasperated state of mind.

"Of course she would not, in her normal mental condition; but, as I said
before--"

"Oh, yes, I know what you said before. You insinuated that Salome may be
insane from the latent effects of her recent brain fever, developed by
the excitement of the last few days. And, Heaven knows, you may be right!
It looks like it! Mysteriously gone off on her wedding day, in the
interim between the wedding breakfast and the wedding tour! Gone off
alone, no one knows where, without having left an explanation or a
message for any one. What can have taken her out? Where can she be? Why
don't she return? And night coming on fast. If she does not return within
half an hour, you will miss the next train also, Duke," exclaimed Lady
Belgrade, pausing in her restless walk, and throwing herself heavily into
her chair again.

"Perhaps," said the Duke, in great perplexity, "we had better have the
lady's maid up again, and question her more strictly in regard to the
strange visitor's name and address; for I feel certain that the
disappearance of the duchess is immediately connected with the visit of
that woman. If we can, by judicious questions, so stimulate the memory of
the girl as to obtain accurate information about the name and residence,
we can send and make inquiries."

For all answer, Lady Belgrade arose and rung the bell for about the
twentieth time that afternoon.

And Margaret Watson was again called to the drawing-room and questioned.

"Indeed, if you please, my lady, I am very sorry. I would give anything
in the world if I could only remember exactly what the old person's name
was, and where she lived. But indeed, my lady, what with being very
much engaged with waiting on her grace, and packing up the last little
things for the journey, and getting together the dressing-bags and such
like, and having of my mind on them and not on the woman, and no ways
expecting anything like this to happen, I wasn't that interested in the
visitor to tax my memory with her affairs. But I know her name was a
common one, like Smith or Jones, and I _think_ it was Jones. And I
know she said she lived on Westminster Road or Blackfriars Road, or some
other road leading over a bridge, which I remember because it made me
think about the river. But I couldn't tell which," said the girl in
answer to the cross-questioning.

"And is that all you can tell us?" inquired Lady Belgrade.

"I beg pardon, my lady, but that is all I can remember," meekly replied
the girl.

"Then you might as well remember nothing. You can go!" said Lady
Belgrade, in deep displeasure.

The girl retired, a little crestfallen.

"Is there any other fool you would like to have called up and
cross-examined, Duke?" sarcastically inquired the lady.

The duke made a gesture of negation. And the lady relapsed into painful
silence.

And now another weary, weary hour crept by without bringing news of the
lost one.

The watchers seemed to "possess their souls" in patience, if not "in
peace." There was really nothing to be done but to wait. There was no
place where inquiries could be made. At this time of the year nearly all
the fashionable world of London was out of town. Nor at any time had
Salome any intimate acquaintances to whom she would have gone. Nor would
it have been expedient just yet to apply to the detective police for help
to search abroad for one who might of herself return home at any moment.

The Duke of Hereward and Lady Belgrade could only wait it in terrible
anxiety, though with outward calmness, for what the night might bring
forth.

But in what a monotonous and insensible manner all household routine
continues, "in well regulated families," through the most revolutionary
sort of domestic troubles.

The first dinner bell had rung; but neither of the anxious watchers had
even heard it.

The groom of the chambers came in and lighted the gas in the
drawing-rooms, and retired in silence.

Still the watchers sat waiting in a state of intense, repressed
excitement.

The second dinner bell rang. And almost immediately the butler appeared
at the door, and announced, with his formula:

"My lady is served," and then:

"Will your grace join me at dinner?" courteously inquired Lady Belgrade,
thinking at the same time of the unparalleled circumstance of the
bridegroom dining without his bride upon his wedding day--"Will your
grace join me at dinner?" she repeated, perceiving that he had not heard,
or at least had not answered her question.

"I beg pardon. Pray, excuse me, your ladyship. I am really not equal--"

"I see! I see! Nor am I equal to going through what, at best, would be
a mere form," said her ladyship. Then turning toward the waiting butler,
she said--"Remove the service, Sillery. We shall not dine to-day."

The man bowed and withdrew.

And the two watchers, whose anxiety was fast growing into insupportable
anguish, waited still, for still, as yet, they could do nothing else but
wait and control themselves.

"Your grace has missed the last train," said Lady Belgrade, at length, as
the little cuckoo clock on the mantel shelf struck ten.

"Yes the night express leaves London Bridge station for Dover at
ten-thirty, and it is a full hour's drive from Kensington," replied the
duke.

And both secretly thanked fortune that the wedding guests had all
departed before the bride's mysterious absence from the house at such
a time had become known; and they knew not but that "the happy pair
had left by the tidal train for Dover, _en route_ for their
continental tour,"--as per wedding programme. And both silently hoped
that the household servants would not talk.

The time crept wearily on. The clock struck eleven.

"I cannot endure this frightful suspense one moment longer! I never heard
of such a case in all the days of my life! A bride to vanish away on her
bridal day! Duke of Hereward you are her husband! WHAT IS TO BE
DONE?" exclaimed Lady Belgrade, starting up from her seat and giving
full sway to all the repressed excitement of the last few hours.

"My dear lady," said the duke, controlling his own emotions by a strong
effort of will, and speaking with a calmness he did not feel--"My dear
lady, the first thing you should do, should be to command yourself.
Listen to me, dear Lady Belgrade. I have waited here in constrained
quietness, hoping for our Salome's return from moment to moment, and
fearing to expose her to gossip by any indiscreet haste in seeking her
abroad. But I can wait no longer. I must commence the search abroad at
once. I shall go immediately to a skillful detective, whom I know from
reputation, and put the case in his hands. What seems to us so alarming
and incomprehensible, may be to a man of his experience simple and clear
enough. We are too near the fact to see it truly in its proper light.
This man I understand to be faithful and discreet, one who may be
intrusted with the investigation of the most delicate affairs. I will
employ him immediately, in the confidence that no publicity will be given
to this mystery. In the meanwhile, my dear Lady Belgrade, I counsel you
to call the household servants all together. Do not inform them of the
nature of my errand out, but caution them to silence and discretion as to
the absence of their lady. You will allow me to confide this trust to
you?"

"Assuredly, Duke! And let me tell you that these servants are all so
idolatrously devoted to their mistress, that they would never breathe, or
suffer to be breathed in their presence, one syllable that could, in the
remotest degree, reflect upon her dignity," said the lady.

"I will return within an hour, madam," replied the duke, as he bowed and
left the room.

He went directly to the nearest police station at Church Court,
Kensington.

He asked to see Detective Collinson of the force.

Fortunately, Detective Collinson was at the office, and soon made his
appearance.

The duke asked for a private interview.

The detective invited him to sit down in an empty side-room.

There the duke put the case of the missing lady in his hands, giving him
all the circumstances supposed to be connected with her disappearance.

The detective exhibited not the slightest surprise at the hearing of this
unprecedented story, nor did he express any opinion. Detectives never are
surprised at anything that may happen at any time to anybody, nor have
they ever any opinions to venture in advance.

Mr. Collinson said he would take the case and give it his undivided
attention, but would promise nothing else.

The Duke of Hereward, obliged to be contented with this answer, arose to
leave the room. In passing out he met the chief, who had not been present
when he first entered.

"Oh, I beg your grace's pardon, but I consider this meeting very
fortunate," said that officer, respectfully touching his hat.

"Upon what ground?" gravely inquired the duke.

"Your grace is wanted as a witness for the Crown, on the trial of John
Potts and Rose Cameron, charged with the murder of the late Sir Lemuel
Levison. The girl, who was arrested at a house in Westminster Road a few
days ago, has been sent down to Scotland, and the trial will commence, on
the day after to-morrow, at the Assizes now open at Bannff. But,
according to the newspaper report, we thought your grace to be now on
your way to Paris, and we were just about to dispatch a special messenger
to you. So your grace will perceive how fortunate this meeting turns out
to be."

"Yes, I perceive," said the duke, dryly.

"And your grace will not be inconvenienced, I hope," said the chief, as
he bowed and placed a folded paper in the duke's hand.

It was a subpoena commanding the recipient, under certain pains and
penalties, to render himself at the Town Hall of Bannff as a witness for
the Crown, in the approaching trial of John Potts, alias Abraham Peters,
and Rose Cameron.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS


When the emissary of Rose Cameron had gone, the young Duchess of
Hereward, in a whirlwind of long-repressed excitement, slammed, locked
and bolted all the doors leading from her apartments into the hall, and
then fled into her dressing-room and cast herself head long down upon the
floor in the collapse of utter, infinite despair--despair in all its
depth of darkness, without its benumbing calmness!

Her soul was shaken by a tempest of warring passions! Amazement,
indignation, grief, horror, raged through her agonized bosom!

It was well that no human eye beheld her in this deep degradation of woe!
For in the madness of her anguish, she rolled on the floor, and tore the
clothing from her shoulders and the dark hair from her head! She uttered
such groans and cries as are seldom heard on this earth--such as perhaps
fill the murky atmosphere of hell. She impiously called on Heaven to
strike her dead as she lay! She was indeed on the very brink of raving
insanity.

There was but one thought that held her reason on its throne--the
necessity of immediate flight and escape--escape from the man whom she
had just vowed at the altar to love, honor, and obey until death--the man
whom she had worshiped as an archangel!

The man?--the fiend, rather!

What had she just now found him proved to be?

Yes _proved_ to be, beyond the merciful possibility of a saving
doubt!--proved to be by the most overwhelming and convicting testimony,
corroborated also by the evidence of her own eyes and ears, too long
discredited for his sake.

Her eyes had seen him lurking stealthily in the dark hall, near her
father's bedroom door, late on the night of that father's murder. She had
spoken to him, and at the sound of her voice he had shrunk silently out
of sight.

Yet she had discredited the evidence of her own eyes, and persuaded
herself that she had been the subject of an optical illusion.

Her ears had heard a part of his midnight conversation with his female
confederate under the balcony--had heard his prediction that something
would happen that night to prevent the marriage that he promised her
should never take place--a prediction so awfully fulfilled in the morning
by the discovery of the dead body of her murdered father! She had fainted
at the sound of his voice, uttering such treacherous and cruel words;
yet on her return to consciousness she had disbelieved the evidence of
her own ears, and convinced herself that she had been the victim of a
nightmare dream!

Yes! she had disallowed the direct evidence of her own senses rather
than believe such diabolical wickedness of her idol! But now the
evidence of her own eyes and ears was corroborated by the most
complete and convincing testimony--the conversation under the balcony,
as reported by Rose Cameron's messenger, corresponded exactly with the
conversation overheard by herself at the time and place it was said to
have occurred, but which she dismissed from her mind as an evil dream!
This corroborating testimony proved it to be an atrocious reality! And
the man to whom she had given her hand that morning was an accomplice
in the murder of her father! unintentionally perhaps, for the witness
testified to the horror he expressed on learning from his confederate
that a murder had been committed: "The old man squealed and we had to
squelch him!" How she shuddered at the memory of these horrible words!

But this man was not her husband, after all! Although a marriage ceremony
had been performed between them by a bishop, he was not her husband, but
the husband of Rose Cameron. She had overwhelming and convincing proof of
this also!

The letters written to Rose Cameron, calling her his dear wife, and
signing himself her devoted husband "Arondelle," were in the handwriting
of the Duke of Hereward! She could have sworn to that handwriting,
under any circumstances.

And the photograph shown as the likeness of Rose Cameron's husband, was a
duplicate of one in her own possession, given her by the duke himself.

And, above all, the certificate of marriage between them, signed by the
officiating clergyman and witnessed by the officers of the church, was
unquestionably genuine, regular, and legal!

No! there was not one merciful doubt to found a hope of his innocence
upon! It was amazing, stupefying, annihilating, but it was true. Her idol
was a fiend, glorious in personal beauty, diabolical in spirit, as the
fallen archangel Lucifer, Son of the Morning!

He was deeply, atrociously, insanely guilty!

Yes, insanely! for how could he have acted so recklessly, as well as so
criminally, if he had not been insane? Would he not have known that swift
discovery and disgrace were sure to follow the almost open commission
of such base crimes? And if no feeling of honor or conscience could have
deterred him, would not the fear of certain consequences have done so?

_His_ insanity was _her_ only rational theory of the case! But
his supposed insanity did not vindicate him to her pure and just mind.
For he was not an insane _man_ so much as an insane devil! He had
only been mad in his recklessness, not in his crimes.

Then quickly through her storm-tossed soul passed the thought that both
sacred and profane history recorded instances of crimes committed by
righteous and honorable men. Amazing truth! She remembered the piety and
the _sin_ of David, when he stole the wife of Uriah, and betrayed
that loyal servant and brave soldier to a treacherous and bloody death!
She remembered the loyalty and the _treason_ of that chivalrous
young Scottish prince who headed a fratricidal rebellion, in which his
father and his king was slain, and who, as James IV., lived a life of
remorse and penance, until, in his turn, he was slain on the fatal field
of Flodden. She thought of these, and other instances, in which it might
seem as if an angel and a devil lived together, animating one man's body.
This would, of course, produce inconsistency of conduct, insanity of
mind.

But among all the harrowing thoughts that hurried through her tortured
mind, one feeling was predominant--the necessity of instant flight. There
was no other cause for her to pursue. The bridal train was awaiting her
down stairs. Soon they would send to summon her again. How could she meet
them? What could she say to them? How could she ever look upon the face
of the Duke of Hereward and _live_?

She must fly at once. No, there was no time to write a note and leave it
pinned on her dressing-table cushion. Besides, what could she say in her
note? Nothing; or nothing that she would say.

She must go and make no sign. She forced herself to rise from the floor
and commence hurried preparations for immediate flight.

In all the tumult of her soul, some intuition guided her through her
hasty arrangements to take the most effectual means to elude pursuit and
baffle discovery.

She took off her handsome mourning dress of black silk and crape that she
had put on to travel in, and she packed it, with the black felt hat,
vail, sack and gloves that belonged to the suit, in one of her trunks,
which she carefully locked.

Then from some receptacle of her left-off colored dresses, she selected
a dark-gray silk suit, with sack, hat, vail and gloves to match. And in
that she dressed herself.

Then she reflected.

"They will think that I went away in my mourning dress, which they will
miss. If they describe me, they will describe a lady in deep mourning. If
any one comes in pursuit, they will look for a young woman in black,
and pass me by, because I shall wear gray and keep my vail down."

Then she concealed in her bosom all the cash she had in hand, being about
fifteen hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, which she had previously
drawn out for her own private uses during her bridal tour. This she
thought would go far to meet the unknown expenses of her future. She also
took her diamonds. She might have to sell them, she thought, for support.

Then, when she was quite ready, dressed in the dark gray suit, sack, hat,
vail and gloves, and with a small valise in her hand, she went into her
bath-room, and to the back door at the head of the private stairs leading
down to the little garden of roses that was her own favorite bower.

She watched for a few seconds, to be sure that no one was in sight, and
then she slipped swiftly down the stairs and crossed the garden to a
narrow back door, which she quickly opened and passed through, shutting
it after her. It closed with a spring and cut off her re-entrance there,
even if she had been disposed to turn back.

But she was not.

She glanced nervously up and down the lane at the back of the garden
wall, but saw no one there.

Then she walked rapidly away, and turned into a narrow street, keeping
her gray vail doubled over her face all the time.

She purposely lost herself in a labyrinth of narrow streets, getting
farther and farther from her home, before she ventured near a cab-stand.

At length she hailed a closed cab, engaged it, entered it, closed all
the blinds, and directed the driver to take her to the Brighton, Dover,
and South Coast Railway Station at London Bridge, and promised him a
half-sovereign if he would catch the next train.

Yes! after a few moments of rapid reflection, as to whither she would go,
she resolved to leave London by that very same tidal-train on which she
and her husband were to have commenced their bridal tour, for there, of
all places, she felt that she would be safest from pursuit; that, of all
directions, would be the last in which they would think of seeking her!

And while they should be waiting and watching for her at Elmhurst House,
she would be speeding towards the sea coast, and by the time they should
discover her flight, she would be on the Channel, _en voyage_ for
Calais.

Beyond this she had no settled plan of action. She did not know where she
would go, or what she should do, on reaching France.

She only longed, with breathless anxiety, to fly from England, from the
Duke of Hereward, and all the horrors connected with him. She felt that
she was not his wife, could never have been his wife, and that the
mockery of a marriage ceremony, which had been performed for them by the
Bishop of London that morning, at St. George's Hanover Square, had made
the duke a felon and not a husband!

If she should remain in England she might even be called upon, in the
course of events, to take a part in his prosecution. And guilty as she
believed him to be, she could not bring herself to do that!

No! she must fly from England and conceal herself on the Continent!

But where?

She knew not as yet!

Her mind was in a fever of excitement when she reached London Bridge.

She paid and discharged her cab, giving the driver the promised half
sovereign for catching the train.

Then, with her thick vail folded twice over her pale face, and her little
valise in her hand, she went into the station, made her way to the office
and bought a first-class ticket.

Then she went to the train, and stopping before one of the first
carriages called a guard to unlock the door and let her enter.

"Oh, you can't have a seat in this compartment, Miss," said a somewhat
garrulous old guard, coming up to her. "This whole carriage is reserved
for a wedding party--the Duke and Duchess of Hereward, as were married
this morning, and their graces' retinue, which they are expected to
arrive every minute, Miss. But you can have a seat in _this_ one,
Miss. It is every bit as good as the other," concluded the old man,
leading the way to a lady's carriage some yards in advance.

"Reserved for a wedding party--reserved for the Duke and Duchess of
Hereward and their retinue!"

How her heart fainted, almost unto death, with a new sense of infinite
disappointment and regret at what might have been and what was! Reserved
for the Duke and Duchess of Hereward! Ah, Heaven!

"Here you are, Miss!" said the guard, opening the door of an empty
carriage.

"How long will it be before the train starts?" inquired the fugitive in
a low voice.

The guard looked at his big silver watch and answered:

"Time'll be up in three minutes, Miss."

"But if the--the--wedding party should not arrive before that?"
hesitatingly inquired Salome.

"Train starts all the same, Miss! Can't even wait for dukes and
duchesses. 'Gin the law!" answered the old guard, as he touched his
hat and closed and locked the door.

Salome sank back in her deeply-cushioned seat, thankful, at least, that
she was alone in the carriage.

And in three minutes the tidal train started.




CHAPTER XIX.

SALOME'S REFUGE.


Salome was scarcely sane. Married that morning, with the approval and
congratulations of all her friends, by one of the most venerable fathers
of the church, to one of the most distinguished young noblemen in the
peerage, who was also the sole master of her heart, and--

Flying from her bridegroom this afternoon as from her worst and most
hated enemy!

She could not realize her situation at all.

All seemed a horrible nightmare dream, from which she was powerless to
arouse herself; in which she was compelled to act a painful part, until
some merciful influence from without should awaken and deliver her!

In this dream she was whirled onward toward the South Coast, on that
clear, autumnal afternoon.

In this dream she reached Dover, and got out at the station amid all the
confusion attending the arrival of the tidal train, and the babel of
voices from cabmen, porters, hotel runners, and such, shouting their
offers of:

"Carriage, sir!"

"Carriage, ma'am!"

"Steamboat!"

"Calais steamer!"

"Lord Warden's!"

"Victoria!" and so forth.

Acting instinctively and mechanically, she made her way to the steamboat.

There seemed to be an unusually large number of people going across.

She saw no one among the passengers, whom she recognized; but still she
kept her vail folded twice across her face, as she passed to a settee on
deck.

She was scarcely seated before the boat left the pier.

Wind and tide was against her, and the passage promised to be a slow and
rough one.

And soon indeed the steamer began to roll and toss amid the short, crisp
waves of Dover Straits, now whipped to a froth by wind against tide.

Most of the passengers succumbed and went below.

Now, whether intense mental pre-occupation be an antidote to
sea-sickness, we cannot tell. But it is certain that Salome did not
suffer from the violent motion of the boat. She was indeed scarcely
conscious of it.

She sat upon the deck, wrapped in a large shepherd's plaid shawl, with
her gray vail thickly folded over her face, which was turned toward the
west, where the setting sun was sinking below the ocean horizon, and
drawing down after him a long train of glory from over the troubled
waters.

But it is doubtful if Salome even saw this, or knew what hour, what
season it was!

A rough night followed. Wrapped in her shawl, absorbed in her dream,
Salome remained on deck, unaffected by the weather, and indifferent to
its consequences, although more than once the captain approached and
kindly advised her to go below.

It was after midnight when the boat reached her pier at Calais.

In the same dream Salome left her seat and landed among the sea-sick
crowd.

In the same dream she allowed the custom-house officers to tumble out the
contents of her little valise, and satisfied, without cavil, all their
demands, and answered without hesitation all the questions put to her by
the officials.

In the same dream she made her way to a carriage on the railway train
just about to start for Paris.

There were three other occupants of the carriage, which was but dimly
lighted by two oil lamps. Salome did not look toward them, but doubled
her vail still more closely over her face as she sat down in a corner and
turned toward the window, on the left side of her seat.

The night was so dark that she could see but little, as the train
flashed past what seemed to be but the black shadows of trees, fields,
farm-houses, groves, villages, and lonely chateaux.

A weird midnight journey, through a strange land to an unknown bourne.

Occasionally she stole a glance through her thick vail toward her three
fellow passengers, who sat opposite to her, on the back seat--three
silent, black-shrouded figures who sat mute and motionless as watchers
of the dead.

Very terrifying, but very appropriate figures to take part in her
nightmare dream.

She turned her eyes away from those silent, shrouded, mysterious figures,
and prayed to awake.

She could not yet.

But as she peered out through the darkness of the night, and saw the
black shadows of the roadway flying behind her as the train sped
southward, her physical powers gradually succumbed to fatigue, and her
waking dream passed off in a dreamless sleep.

She slept long and profoundly. She slept through many brief stoppages and
startings at the little way stations. She slept until she was rudely
awakened by the uproar incident upon the arrival of the train at a large
town.

She awoke in confusion. Day was dawning. Many passengers were leaving the
train. Many others were getting on it.

She rubbed her eyes and looked around in amazement and terror. She did
not in the least know where she was, or how she had come there.

For during her deep and dreamless sleep she had utterly forgotten the
occurrences of the last twenty-four hours.

Now she was rudely awakened, bewildered, and frightened to find herself
in a strange scene, amid alarming circumstances, of which she knew or
could remember nothing; connected with which she only felt the deep
impression of some heavy preceding calamity. She saw before her the three
silent, black, shrouded forms of her fellow-passengers, but their
presence, instead of enlightening, only deepened and darkened the gloomy
mystery.

She pressed her icy fingers to her hot and throbbing temples, and tried
to understand the situation.

Then memory flashed back like lightning, revealing all the desolation of
her storm-blasted, wrecked and ruined life.

With a deep and shuddering groan she threw her hands up to her head, and
sank back in her seat.

"Is Madame ill? Can we do anything to help her?" inquired a kindly voice
near her.

In her surprise Salome dropped her hands, and at the same time her vail
fell from before her face.

Suddenly she then saw that the three mute, shrouded forms before her were
Sisters of Mercy, in the black robes of their order, and knew that they
had only maintained silence in accordance with their decorous rule of
avoiding vain conversation.

Even now the taller and elder of the three had spoken only to tender her
services to a suffering fellow-creature.

The fugitive bride and the Sister of Mercy looked at each other, and at
the instant uttered exclamations of surprise.

In the sister, Salome recognized a lay nun of the Convent of St. Rosalie,
in which she had passed nearly all the years of her young life, and in
which she had received her education, and to which it had once been her
cherished desire to return and dedicate herself to a conventual service.

In Salome the nun saw again a once beloved pupil, whom she, in common
with all her sisterhood, had fondly expected to welcome back to her
novitiate.

"Sister Josephine! You! Is it indeed you! Oh, how I thank Heaven!"
fervently exclaimed the fugitive.

"Mademoiselle Laiveesong! You here! My child! And alone! But how is that
possible?" cried the good sister in amazement.

Before Salome could answer the guard opened the door with a party of
passengers at his back. But seeing the compartment already well filled by
the three Sisters of Mercy and another lady, he closed the door again and
passed down the platform to find places for his party elsewhere.

The incident was little noticed by Salome at the time, although it was
destined to have a serious effect upon her after fate.

In a few minutes the train started.

"My dear child," recommenced Sister Josephine, as soon as the train was
well under way--"my dear child, how is it possible that I find you here,
alone on the train at midnight! Were you going on to Paris, and alone?
Was any one to meet you there?"

"Dear, good Sister Josephine, ask me no questions yet. I am ill--really
and truly ill!" sighed Salome.

"Ah! I see you are, my dear child. Ill and alone on the night train! Holy
Virgin preserve us!" said the sister, devoutly crossing herself.

"Ask me no questions yet, dear sister, because I cannot answer them. But
take me with you wherever you go, for wherever that may be, there will be
peace and rest and safety, I know! Say, will you take me with you, good
Sister Josephine?" pleaded Salome.

"Ah! surely we will, my child. With much joy we will. We--(Sister
Francoise and Sister Felecitie--Mademoiselle Laiveesong,)" said Sister
Josephine, stopping to introduce her companions to each other.

The three young persons thus named bowed and smiled, and pressed palms,
and then sat back in their seats, while the elder Sister, Josephine,
continued:

"We have come up from Fontevrau, and are now going straight on to our
convent. With joy we will take you with us, my dear child. Our holy
mother will be transported to see you. Does she expect you, my dear
child?" inquired the sister, forgetting her tacit promise to ask no more
questions.

"No, no one expects me," sighed the fugitive, in so faint a voice that
the good Sister forbore to make any more inquiries for the moment.

The train rushed onward. Day was broadening. The horizon was growing red
in the east.

The party travelled on in silence for some ten or fifteen minutes, and
then, Sister Josephine growing impatient to have her curiosity satisfied,
made a few leading remarks.

"And so you were coming to us unannounced by any previous communication
to our holy mother? And coming alone on the night train! You possess a
noble courage, my child, but the adventure was hazardous to a young and
lovely unmarried woman. The Virgin be praised we met you when we did!"
said the Sister, devoutly crossing herself.

"Amen, and amen, to that!" sighed Salome.

"Our holy mother will be overjoyed to see you. You are sure she does not
expect you, my dear child?"

"No, Sister, she does not expect me, unless she has the gift of second
sight. For I did not expect myself to return to St. Rosalie, to-day, or
ever. When I took my place in this carriage at midnight, I did not know
how far I should go, or where I should stop. I took a through ticket to
Paris; but I did not know whether I should stop at Paris, or go on to
Marseilles, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, or New York, or where!" moaned
the fugitive.

"The holy saints protect us, my child! What wild thing is this you are
saying?" exclaimed Sister Josephine, making the sign of the cross.

"No matter what I say now, good Sister, I will tell our holy mother all.
Is la Mere Genevieve now your lady superior?" softly inquired the
fugitive.

"Yes, surely, my child. And she will be transported to behold her best
beloved pupil again. You are sure that she will be taken by surprise?"
said the good, simple minded Sister, still innocently angling for a
farther explanation.

"Yes, I feel sure that I shall surprise our good mother if I do
_not_ delight her; for, as I told you before, I gave her no
intimation of any intended visit. I repeat that when I set foot upon this
train, I had no fixed plan in my mind. I did not know where I should go.
My meeting with you is providential. It decides me, nay, rather let me
say, it directs me to seek rest and peace and safety there where my happy
childhood and early youth were passed, and where I once desired to spend
my whole life in the service of Heaven. I, too, fervently praise the
Virgin for this blessed meeting. I too thank the Mother of Sorrows for
being near me in my sorrow and in my madness!" murmured Salome, in a low,
earnest tone.

"Holy saints, my child! What can have happened to you to inspire such
words as these?" exclaimed Sister Josephine in alarm.

"Never mind what, good Sister. You shall hear all in time. I am forced by
fate to keep a promise that I made and might have broken. That is all."

"Ah, my dear child, I comprehend sorrow and despair in your words; but I
do not comprehend your words!" sighed Sister Josephine.

"When I left your convent three years ago, I promised did I not, that
after I should have become of age and be mistress of my fate, I would
return, dedicate my life to the service of Heaven, and spend the
remainder of it here? Did I not?" inquired Salome, in a low voice.

"You did, you did, my child. And for a long time we looked for you in
vain. And when you did not come, or even write to us, we thought the
world had won you, and made you forget your promise," sighed Sister
Josephine crossing herself.

The two youthful Sisters followed her example, sighed and crossed
themselves.

There was a grave pause of a few minutes, and then the voice of Salome
was heard in solemn tones:

"The world won me. The world broke me and flung me back upon the convent,
and forced me to remember and keep my promise. I return now to dedicate
myself to the service of Heaven, at the altar of your convent, if indeed
Heaven will take a heart that earth has crushed!"

She sighed.

"It is the world-crushed, bleeding heart that is the sweetest offering
to all-healing, all-merciful Heaven," said Sister Josephine, tenderly
lifting the hand of Salome and pressing it to her bosom.

Again a solemn silence fell upon the little party.

Salome was the first to break it.

"It seems to me we have come a very long way, since we left the last
station. Are we near ours?" she inquired, in a voice sinking with
fatigue.

"We will be at our station in a very few minutes. A comfortable close
carriage will meet us there to convey us to St. Rosalie," said Sister
Josephine, soothingly.

Salome sank wearily back in her corner seat. The short-lived energy that
enabled her to talk was dying out. Her hands and feet were cold as ice.
Her head was hot as fire. Her frame was faint almost to swooning.

The train sped on. The party in the carriage fell into silence that
lasted until the train "slowed," and stopped at a little way station.

"Here we are!" said Sister Josephine, rising to leave the carriage with
her companions.

The guard opened the door.

Sister Josephine led the way out, and then took the hand of the half
fainting Salome, to help her on.

The two other sisters followed. A close carriage, with an aged coachman
on the box, awaited them. The old man did not leave his seat; but Sister
Josephine opened the door and helped Salome into the carriage, and placed
her comfortably on the cushions in a corner of the back seat, and then
sat down beside her.

The two younger sisters followed and placed themselves on the front seat.

The aged coachman, who knew his duty, did not wait for orders, but turned
immediately away from the station, and drove off just as the train
started again on its way to Paris.

They entered a country road running through a wood--a pleasant ride, if
Salome could have enjoyed it--but she leaned back on her cushions, with
closed eyes, fever-flushed cheeks, and fainting frame. The sisters,
seeing her condition, refrained from disturbing her by any conversation.

They rode on in perfect silence for about a mile, when they came to a
high stone wall, which ran along on the left-hand side of their road,
while the thick wood continued on their right-hand side. The road here
ran between the wood and the wall of the convent grounds.




CHAPTER XX.

SALOME'S PROTECTRESS.


"We have arrived. Welcome home, my dear child," said Sister Josephine, as
the carriage drew up before the strong and solid, iron-bound, oaken gates
of the convent.

The aged coachman blew a shrill summons upon a little silver whistle that
he carried in his pocket for the purpose.

The gates were thrown wide open and the carriage rolled into an extensive
court-yard, enclosed in a high stone wall, and having in its centre the
massive building of the convent proper, with its chapel and offices.

A straight, broad, hard, rolled, gravelled carriage-way led from the
gates through the court-yard and up to the main entrance of the building.
This road was bordered on each side by grass-plots, now sear in the late
October frosts, and flower-beds, from which the flowers had been removed
to their winter quarters in the conservatories. Groups of shade trees,
statues of saints, and fountains of crystal-clear water adorned the
grounds at regular intervals. In the rear of the convent building was a
thicket of trees reaching quite down to the back wall.

The carriage rolled along the gravelled road, crossing the court-yard,
and drew up before the door of the convent.

Sister Josephine got out and helped Salome to alight.

The sun was just rising in cloudless glory.

"See, my child," said Sister Josephine, cheerily pointing to the eastern
horizon; "see, a happy omen; the sun himself arises and smiles on your
re-entrance into St. Rosalie."

Salome smiled faintly, and leaned heavily upon the arm of her companion
as they went slowly up the steps, passed through the front doors, and
found themselves in a little square entrance hall, surrounded on three
sides by a bronze grating, and having immediately before them a grated
door, with a little wicket near the centre.

Behind this wicket sat the portress, a venerable nun, whom age and
obesity had consigned to this sedentary occupation.

"_Benedicite_, good Mother Veronique! How are all within the house?"
inquired Sister Josephine, going up to the wicket.

"The saints be praised, all are well! They are just going in to matins.
You come in good time, my sisters! But who is she whom you bring with
you?" inquired the old nun, nodding toward Salome, even while she
detached a great key from her girdle, and unlocked the door, to admit the
party.

"Why, then, Mother Veronique, don't you see? An old, well-beloved pupil
come back to see our holy mother? Don't you recognize her? Have you
already forgotten Mademoiselle Laiveesong, who left us only three years
ago?" inquired Sister Josephine, as she led Salome into the portress'
parlor, followed by the two younger sisters, Francoise and Felecitie.

"Ah! ah! so it is! Mademoiselle Salome come back to us!" joyfully
exclaimed the old nun, seizing and fondling the hands of the visitor,
and gazing wistfully into her flushed and feverish face. "Yes, yes,
I remember you! Mademoiselle Laiveesong! Mademoiselle, the rich banker's
heiress! I am very happy to see you, my dear child! And our holy mother
will be filled with joy! She has gone to matins now, but will soon return
to give you her blessing. Ah! ah! Mademoiselle Salome! _Mais Helas!_
How ill she looks! Her hands are ice! Her head is fire! Her limbs are
withes! She is about to faint!" added Mother Veronique, aside to Sister
Josephine.

"She is just off a long and fatiguing journey. She is tired and hungry,
and needs rest and refreshment. That is all," answered the sister,
drawing the arm of the fainting girl through her own, and supporting her
as she led her from the portress' parlor.

"Ah! ah! is this so? The dear child! Take her in and rest and feed her,
my sisters! And when matins are over, bring her to our venerable mother,
whose soul will be filled with rapture to see her," twaddled the old nun,
until the party passed in from her sight.

Sister Josephine led Salome to her own cell, and made her loosen her
clothes and lie down on the cot-bed, while Sister Francoise and Sister
Felecitie went to the refectory and brought her a plate of biscuit and
a glass of wine and water.

Wine was not the proper drink for Salome, in her flushed and feverish
condition. But she was both faint and thirsty, and the wine, mixed with
water, seemed cool and refreshing, and she quaffed it eagerly.

But she refused the biscuits, declaring that she could not swallow. And
so she thanked her kind friends for their attention, and sank back on her
pillow and closed her eyes, as if she would go to sleep.

The sisters promised to bring the mother abbess to her bedside as soon as
the matins should be over. And so they left her to repose, and went
silently away to the chapel to take their accustomed places, and join,
even at the "eleventh hour," in the morning worship.

But did Salome sleep?

Ah! no. She lay upon that cot-bed with her hands covering her eyes, as if
to shut out all the earth. She might shut out all the visible creation,
but she could not exclude the haunting images that filled her mind. She
could not banish the forms and faces that floated before her inner
vision--the most venerable face of her dear, lost father, the noble face
of her once beloved--ah! still too well beloved Arondelle!

The music of the matin hymns softened by distance, floated into her room,
but failed to soothe her to repose.

At length the sweet sounds ceased.

And then--

The abbess entered the cell so softly that Salome, lying with closed eyes
on the cot, remained unconscious of the presence standing beside her,
looking down upon her form.

The abbess was a tall, fair, blue-eyed woman, upon whose serene brow the
seal of eternal peace seemed set. She was about fifty years of age, but
her clear eyes and smooth skin showed how tranquilly these years had
passed. She was clothed in the well-known garb of her order--in a black
dress, with long, hanging sleeves, and a long, black vail. Her face was
framed in with the usual white linen bands, her robe confined at the
waist by a girdle, from which hung her rosary of agates; and her silver
cross hung from her neck.

The abbess was a lady of the most noble birth, connected with the royal
house of Orleans.

In the revolution which had driven Louis Philippe from the throne, her
father and her brother had perished. Her mother had passed away long
before. She remained in the convent of St. Rosalie, where she was being
educated.

And when, early in the days of the Second Empire, her fortune was
restored to her, instead of leaving the cloister, where she had found
peace, for the world, where she had found only tribulation, she took the
vail and the vows that bound her to the convent forever, and devoted her
means to enriching and enlarging the house. The convent had always
supported itself by its celebrated academy for young ladies. It had also
maintained a free school for poor children. But now the heiress of the
noble house of de Crespignie added a Home for Aged Women, an asylum for
Orphan Girls and Nursery for Deserted Infants. And all these were placed
under the charge of the Sisters of Mercy.

Of the fifty years of this lady's life, forty had been spent in the
convent where she had lived as pupil, novice, nun and abbess. Her
cloistered life had been passed in active good works, if nurturing
infancy, educating orphans, cheering age, and ordering and governing
an excellent academy for young ladies, can be called so.

And whatever such a life may have brought to others, it brought to this
princess of the banished Orleans family perfect peace.

She stood now looking down with infinite pity on the stricken form and
face of her late pupil. She saw that some heavy blow from sorrow had
crushed her. And she did not wonder at this.

For to the apprehension of the abbess, the world from which her late
pupil had returned was full of tribulation, as the convent was full of
peace.

She stood looking down on her a moment, and then murmured, in tones of
ineffable tenderness:

"My child!"

"Mother Genevieve! My dear mother!" answered Salome, clasping her hands
and looking up.

The abbess drew a chair to the side of the cot, sat down, and took the
hand of her pupil, saying:

"You have come back to us, my child. I thought you would. You are most
welcome."

"Oh, mother! mother! I am _driven_ back to you for shelter from
a storm of trouble!" exclaimed Salome, in great excitement, her cheeks
burning, and her eyes blazing with the fires of fever.

"We will receive you with love and cherish you in our
hearts--_unquestioned_--for, my child, you are too ill
to give us any explanation now," said the abbess, gently, laying
her soft, cool hand upon the burning brow of the girl.

"Oh! mother, mother, let me talk now and unburden my heavy heart! You
know not how it will relieve me to do so to _you_. I could not do so
to any other. Let me tell you, dear mother, while I may, before it shall
be too late. For I am going to be very ill, mother; and perhaps I may
die! Oh Heaven grant I may be permitted to die!" fervently prayed Salome,
clasping her hands.

"Hush, hush, my poor, unhappy child. I know not what your sorrow has
been, but it cannot possibly justify you in your sinful petition. Life,
my child, is the greatest of boons, since it contains within it the
possibility of eternal bliss. We should be deeply thankful for simple
_life_, whatever may be its present trials, since it holds the
promise of future happiness," said the gentle abbess.

"Oh, mother, my life is wrecked--is hopelessly wrecked!" groaned Salome.

"Nay, nay, only storm-tossed on the treacherous seas of the world. Here
is your harbor, my child. Come into port, little, weary one!" said the
abbess, with a tender, cheerful smile.

"Oh, mother, your wayward pupil has wandered far, far from your
teachings! She has become a heathen--an idolator! Yes, she set up unto
herself an idol, and she worshiped it as a god, until at last, IT
FELL!--IT FELL! AND CRUSHED HER UNDER ITS RUINS!" said Salome,
growing more and more excited and feverish.

"It is well for us, my child, when our earthly idols do fall and crush
us, else we might go on to perdition in our fatal idolatry. Yes, my
child, it is well that your idol has fallen, even though you lie buried
and bleeding under its ruins; for our fraternity, like the good Samaritan
of the parable, will raise you up and dress your wounds, and set you on
your feet again, and lead you in the right path--the path of peace and
safety."

"Mother, mother, will you now hear my story, my confession?" said Salome,
earnestly.

"My child, I would rather you would defer it until you are better able to
talk."

"Mother, mother, I have the strength of fever on me now; but my mind is
growing confused. Let me speak while I may!"

"Speak on, then, my dear child, but don't exhaust yourself."

"Mother, though I have failed, through very shame of broken promises, to
write to you lately, yet you must have heard from other sources of my
father's tragic death?"

"I heard of it, my child. And I have daily remembered his soul in my
prayers."

"And you heard, good mother, of how I forgot all my promises to devote
myself to a religious life, and how I betrothed myself to the Marquis of
Arondelle, who is now the Duke of Hereward?"

"You yielded to the expressed wishes of your father, my child, as it was
natural you should do."

"I yielded to the inordinate and sinful affections of my own heart, and I
have been punished for it."

"My poor child!"

"Listen, mother! Yesterday morning, at St. George's church, Hanover
Square, in London, I was married by the Bishop of London to the Duke of
Hereward. Yesterday afternoon I received secret but unquestionable proof
that the duke was an already married man when he met me first, and that
his wife was living in London!"

"Holy saints, Mademoiselle! What is this that you are telling me?"
exclaimed the astonished abbess. "Surely, surely she is growing delirious
with fever," she muttered to herself.

"I am telling you a terrible truth, my mother! Listen, and I will tell
you everything, even as I know it myself!" said Salome, earnestly.

The abbess no longer opposed her speaking, although it was evident that
her illness was hourly increasing.

And Salome told the terrible story of her sorrows, commencing with the
first appointed wedding-day at Castle Lone, and ending with the second
wedding-day at Elmhurst House, and her own secret flight from her false
bridegroom, just as it is known to our readers.

The deeply shocked abbess heard and believed, and frequently crossed
herself during the recital.

As Salome proceeded with what she called her confession, her fever and
excitement increased rapidly. Toward the end of her recital her thoughts
grew confused and wandered into the ravings of a brain fever.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE BRIDEGROOM.


According to his promise given to Lady Belgrade, the Duke of Hereward
returned to Elmthorpe House to make his report.

He found the dowager waiting for him where he had left her, in the back
drawing-room.

He greeted her only by a silent bow, and she questioned him only by a
mute look.

"I have placed the case in the hands of Setter, confidentially, of
course. He will commence secret investigations to-night," he said.

"This morning, you mean, Duke. It is now two o'clock," remarked the
dowager.

"Is it, indeed, so late?"

"So early you should say. Yes, it is. But what thinks the detective of
this affair?"

"He is inclined to think as we do, that our dear Salome has been decoyed
away by some tale of extreme distress, and for purposes of robbery,"
answered the young duke, pressing his white lips firmly together in
his effort to control all expression of the anguish that was secretly
wringing his heart.

"And what does he think of the chances of finding her soon and finding
her safe?" inquired the dowager.

The duke slowly shook his head.

"Well, and what does that mean?" asked the lady.

"It means that Detective Setter cannot form an opinion, or will not
commit himself to the expression of one at present. And now, dear Lady
Belgrade, as it is after two o'clock, I must bid you good-night--"

"Good-morning, rather," interrupted the dowager.

"And return to my lodgings," continued the duke, passing his hand across
his forehead, like one "dazed" with trouble.

"I beg you will do nothing of the sort, Duke," said Lady Belgrade,
hastily interposing. "You have left your lodgings for a wedding tour. You
are not expected back there. Your people think that you are far from
London with your bride. In the name of propriety, let them think so
still. Do not go back there to-night, and wake them all up, and start
a nine days' wonder of scandal. Stay where you are, Duke, quietly,
until we recover our Salome. When we do, you can both leave for Paris.
All the world will know nothing of this distressing affair, which, if it
were to come to their knowledge, would be exaggerated, perverted, turned
and twisted out of all its original shape, into some horrid story of
scandal. Remember now, how few people know anything about it--only you,
I, the detective necessarily taken into your confidence, and the
servants, for whose discretion I can answer. Remain quietly here,
therefore, that all gossip may be stopped."

The duke resumed his seat, but did not immediately answer.

"Do you not think my counsel good?" inquired the lady.

"Very good. Thanks, Lady Belgrade. I will follow your advice. There is
another reason why I should do so, but with which you are not acquainted.
In the absorption of my thoughts with the subject of our Salome, I
totally forgot to tell you that I have just been subpoenaed as a witness
for the crown, in the approaching trial of John Potts and Rose Cameron
for the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison. The case will come on at the
Assizes at Banff on Thursday next. I must leave for Scotland to-morrow,"
said the young duke.

"Why--you surprise me very much! When was the subpoena served upon you?"
inquired the dowager.

"In a chance recounter at the police-office, where I went to find the
detective, and where I also found a sheriff's officer holding a subpoena
for me, which he was about to send across the channel by a special
messenger--supposing me to be in Paris. So you see, my dear Lady
Belgrade, my wedding tour would have been stopped at Paris, if not
nearer."

"That is well; for now, if the wedding tour is delayed, it will be known
to be a legal necessity, which in no way reflects upon the wedding party.
And now, my dear Duke, since you consent to stay all night, let me advise
you to retire to rest. You will find your valet waiting your orders in
the cedar suite of rooms, to which I had your dressing case and boxes
taken."

"Thanks, Lady Belgrade. Your ladyship anticipates everything."

"I certainly anticipated the necessity of your remaining here all night,
as soon as I found that you could not leave London. And now, Duke, I must
really send you to bed. I am exhausted. I must lie down, even if I do not
sleep," said the dowager, as she arose and touched the bell.

The Duke of Hereward raised her hand to his lips, bowed, and left the
room.

Lady Belgrade followed his example.

And the weary groom of the chambers entered, in answer to the bell, to
turn off the gas and fasten up the rooms.

The young duke knew where to find the cedar suite--a sumptuous set of
apartments finished and fitted up in the costly and fragrant wood which
gave them their name.

He found his servant waiting in the dressing-room.

His grace's valet was no fine gentleman from Paris, as full of
accomplishments as of vices; but a simple and honest young man from the
estate. The extra gravity which young James Kerr put into his manner of
waiting, alone testified of the reverential sympathy he felt for his
beloved master.

The duke threw off the travelling coat that he had assumed for his
journey and had worn up to this moment; and he took the wadded silk
dressing gown, handed him by his valet, and having put it on, he dropped
into an easy resting-chair, and ordered Kerr to lower the gas and then
leave the room for the night.

The young Duke of Hereward did not retire to bed that night. As soon as
he found himself alone in the half-darkened rooms, he arose from his
chair and began to walk restlessly up and down the floor, relieving the
pent-up anguish of his bosom by such deep groans as had required all his
self-control to suppress while he was in the presence of others.

Thus walking and groaning in great agony of mind, he passed the few
remaining dark hours of the morning.

At daylight he sank exhausted into his easy-chair. But even then he
neither "slumbered nor slept," but passed the time in waiting and longing
for the rising sun, that he might go out and renew his search for his
lost bride.

The sun had scarcely risen when he rang for his valet.

The young man appeared promptly.

The duke made a hasty toilet, and then called his servant to attend him
down stairs.

None of the household were yet astir.

But, by the direction of the duke, Kerr unlocked, unbolted and unbarred
the street door to let his master out.

"Close and secure the house after me, James, for it will be hours yet
before the household will be up," said the duke, as he passed out.

It was a clear October day for London. The sun was not more than twenty
minutes high, and it shone redly and dully through a morning fog. The
streets were still deserted, except by milkmen, bakers, costermongers,
and other "early birds."

He walked rapidly to the Church Court police station.

Detective Setter was not there. But the Duke left word for him to call at
Elmthorpe as soon as he should return.

He left the police station and went on toward Elmthrope. But he did not
enter the house. He could not rest. He walked up and down the sidewalk in
front of the iron railings until he thought Lady Belgrade might have
risen.

Then he went up the steps and rang the bell.

The hall porter opened the door and admitted him.

"Has Lady Belgrade come down yet?" was his first question.

"My lady has, your grace. My lady is waiting breakfast for your grace,"
respectfully answered the footman.

He longed to ask if any news had been heard of the missing one, but he
forbore to do so, and hurried away up-stairs to the breakfast parlor.

There he found Lady Belgrade, dressed in a purple cashmere robe, and
wrapped in a rich India shawl, reclining in a rocking-chair beside a
breakfast-table laid for two.

"Good morning, madam. I fear I have kept your ladyship waiting," said the
duke, as he entered the room.

"Not a second, my dear duke. I have but just this instant come down,"
answered the dowager, politely, and unhesitatingly telling the
conventional lie, as she put out her hand and touched the bell.

"I fear that it is useless to ask you if there is any news of our missing
girl," said the duke, in a low tone.

"I have heard nothing. And you? Of course, you have not, or you would not
have asked me the question. But, good Heaven, Duke, you are as pale as a
ghost! You look as if you had just risen from a sick bed! You look full
twenty years older than you did yesterday. What have you been doing with
yourself? Where have you been?" inquired the dowager.

The duke answered her last question only.

"I have been to Church Court to look up Detective Setter. I left orders
for him to report here this morning. I expect him here very soon. I must
do all that I can do in London to-day, as it is absolutely necessary for
me to leave town by the night express of the Great Northern Railroad, in
order to attend the trial for which I am subpoenaed as a witness,
to-morrow."

"I see! Of course, you must go. There is no resisting a subpoena. But who
is to co-operate with Setter in the search for Salome?"

"_You_ must do so, if you please, Lady Belgrade, until my return. Of
course, I will hurry back with all dispatch."

"No fear of that. The only fear is that you will hurry into your grave.
But here is breakfast," said her ladyship, as a footman entered with a
tray.

Mocha coffee, orange pekoe tea, Westphalia ham, poached eggs, dry toast,
muffins, rolls, and so forth, were arranged upon the table to tempt the
appetite of the two who sat at meat.

Lady Belgrade made a good meal. She was at the age of which physicians
say, "the constitution takes on a conservative tone," and which poets
call "the time of peace." In a word, she was middle-aged, fat, and
comfort-loving; and so she was not disposed to lose her rest, or food,
or peace of mind for any trouble not personally her own.

She was vexed at the unconventionality of Salome's disappearance, fearful
of what the world would say, and anxious to keep the matter as close as
possible. That was all, and it did not take away her appetite.

But the anxious young husband could not eat. A feverish and burning
thirst, such as frequently attends excessive grief or anxiety, consumed
him. He drank cup after cup of tea almost unconsciously, until at length
Lady Belgrade said:

"This makes four! I am your hostess, duke; but I am also your aunt by
marriage, and upon my word I cannot let you go on ruining your health in
this way! You shall not have another cup of tea, unless you consent to
eat something with it."

The young duke smiled wanly, and submitted so far as to take a piece of
dry toast on his plate and crumble it into bits.

Meanwhile, the dowager, having finished her breakfast, took up the
_Times_ to look over.

Presently she startled the duke by exclaiming:

"Thank Heaven!"

"What is it?" hastily inquired the duke, setting down his cup and gazing
at the silent reader. "Any news of Salome?" he added, and then nearly
lost his breath while waiting for the answer.

"Oh, yes, news of Salome! But scarcely authentic news. Listen! Here
is a full account of the wedding--with a description of the bride
and bridesmaids, and their dresses and attendants, and of the ceremony
and the officiating clergy, and the attending crowd, and the
wedding-breakfast, speeches, presents, and so on, all tolerably
correct for a newspaper report. But now listen to this--"

Her ladyship here read aloud:

"Immediately after the wedding-breakfast, the happy pair left town, by
the London and South Coast Railway, _en route_ for Dover, Paris and
the Continent."

"There! what do you think of that?" inquired Lady Belgrade, looking up.

"I think it is not the first occasion upon which a paper has anticipated
and described an expected event that some unforeseen accident prevented
from coming off," answered the duke, with a sigh.

"I thank fortune for this! Now you have really started on your wedding
tour in the belief of all London, and all outside of London who take the
_Times_; and all _our_ world _do_ take it. And now, if any
rumor of this most inopportune disappearance of our bride _should_
get out, why, it will never be believed! That is all! For has not the
departure of the 'happy pair' been published in the _Times_? Yes,
I am very glad of the news reporter's indiscreet precipitancy on this
occasion, at least," concluded Lady Belgrade, as she turned to other
"fashionable intelligence."

At that moment a footman entered the breakfast parlor and handed a
business-looking card to the duke, saying, with a bow:

"If you please, your grace, the person is waiting in the hall."

"By your leave, Lady Belgrade?--Sims! show the man into the library, and
tell him I will be with him in a few moments.--It is Detective Setter,"
said the duke, as he arose and left the breakfast parlor.

He found that officer awaiting him in the library.

"Any news?" inquired the duke, as he sank into a chair and signed to the
visitor to follow his example.

"None, your grace. I have made diligent and careful investigations, in
the neighborhoods mentioned by the lady's maid, but have found no trace
of any Mrs. White or Brown that answered the rather vague description
given. I shall, however, resume my search there," answered the man.

"There must be no cessation of the search until that woman is found.
I need not caution you to use great discretion," said the duke,
earnestly, but wearily, like a man breaking down under an intolerable
burden of mental anxiety.

"Discretion is the very spirit of my business, your grace."

"What is to be your next step?"

"If your grace will permit me, I should like to examine the rooms of the
lost lady, and I should like to question, singly and privately, the
servants of the house."

"A thorough search has been made of the premises, including the
apartments of the duchess. And every domestic on the premises has been
examined and cross-examined."

"I do not doubt, your grace, that all this has been done as effectually
as it could be done by any one, except a skillful and experienced
detective; but if you will pardon me, I should like to make an
examination and investigation in person."

"Certainly, Mr. Setter. Every facility shall be afforded you," said the
duke, touching the bell.

A footman entered.

The duke drew a card from his pocket and wrote upon it:

"Detective Setter wishes to search the premises and cross-examine the
servants. What does your ladyship say?"

The duke then placed the card in the hand of the footman, saying:

"Be so good as to take this to Lady Belgrade, and wait an answer."

The servant bowed and left the room.

"You are aware, Mr. Setter, that I am under the necessity of leaving
London to-night, to attend the trial of Potts and Cameron to-morrow."

"As a witness for the Crown. I am, your grace."

"I shall get back to London as soon as possible. In the meantime, I wish
you to pursue your investigations with the utmost diligence, sparing no
expense. Report in person every morning and evening to Lady Belgrade
in this house, and by telegraph to me at Lone, in Scotland. Use great
discretion in wording your telegrams. Avoid the use of names, or titles,
or, in fact, any terms, in referring to the duchess, that may identify
her. I hope you understand me?"

"Perfectly, your grace. I also understand how to speak and write in
enigmas. It is a part of my profession to do so," answered Mr. Setter.

The duke then drew out his portmonaie, opened it, selected two notes of
fifty pounds each and put them in the hands of Setter, saying:

"Here are one hundred pounds. Spare no expense in prosecuting this
search. Draw on me if you have occasion."

The detective bowed.

At the same moment the footman re-entered the room, bringing a card on
a silver waiter, which he handed to the duke.

The duke took it and read:

"Your grace surely forgets that, as the husband of the heiress, you are
the absolute master of the house, and your will is law here. Do as you
think proper."

"You may go," said the duke to the messenger, who immediately retired.

"Now, Mr. Setter, do you wish to search the premises, or examine the
servants first?" inquired the duke.

"Examine the servants first, your grace; as I may thereby gain some clew
to follow in my search."

"Very well," said the duke, again touching the bell.

The prompt footman re-appeared.

"Whom do you wish called first?" inquired the duke.

"The lady's maid," answered the detective.

"Go and tell the duchess's maid that she is wanted here immediately,"
said the duke.

The footman bowed and went away on his errand.

A few minutes passed, and the lady's maid entered.

"This is--I really forget your name, my good girl," said the duke,
apologetically.

"Margaret, sir; Margaret Watson," said the lady's maid, with a courtesy.

"Ay. This is Margaret Watson, the confidential maid of her grace, Mr.
Setter. Margaret, my good girl, Mr. Setter wishes to put some questions
to you, relating to the disappearance of your mistress. I hope you will
answer his inquiries as frankly and fearlessly as you have answered
ours," said the duke, as he took up a paper for a pretext and walked to
the other end of the library, leaving the detective officer at liberty to
pursue his investigations alone.

It is needless for us to go over the ground again. It is sufficient to
say that Detective Setter questioned and cross-questioned the girl with
all the skill of an old and experienced hand, and at the end of half an
hour's sharp and close examination, he had obtained no new information.

The girl was dismissed, with a warning not to talk of the affair. And she
was followed by the housekeeper, with no better result.

Thus all the domestics of the establishment were called and examined
singly; but without success.

When the last servant was done with, and sent out of the room, the
detective walked up to the duke.

"Well, Mr. Setter?" inquired the latter.

"Your grace, I have learned nothing from the servants but what you have
already told me."

"Do you still wish to search the premises?"

"If your grace pleases. And I wish to begin with the apartments of the
duchess."

"Then follow me. I myself will be your guide," said the duke, leading the
way from the library.

It would be useless to accompany the detective in this third search.
Let it be sufficient to say that this search was thorough, complete,
exhaustive, and--unsuccessful.

It was late in the day when it was finished, and the duke and the
detective returned to the library.

"You now perceive Mr. Setter, that a day has been lost in these repeated
searchings and questionings, and no new information, no sign of a clew to
the fate of the duchess has been gained. In an hour I must leave the
house to catch the Great Northern Night Express. I leave--I am
_forced_ for the present, to leave the fate of my beloved wife in
your hands. In saying that, I say that I leave more than my own life in
your keeping. Use every means, employ every agency, spend money freely,
the day you bring her safely to me, I will deposit ten thousand pounds in
the Bank of England to your account."

"Your grace is munificent. If the duchess is on earth, I will find
her;--not for the reward only, though it is certainly a very great
inducement to a poor man with a large family; but for the love and honor
I bear your grace and the late Sir Lemuel Levison," said the detective,
earnestly, as he bowed and took leave.

The first dinner-bell rang.

The duke hastened to his own room, not to dress for dinner, but to
prepare for his night journey to Scotland.

He ordered his valet to pack a valise with all that would be necessary
for a few days' absence, and then sent him to call a close cab.

By this time the second dinner-bell rang, and the duke went down, not to
dine, but to take leave of Lady Belgrade.

He found her ladyship in the drawing-room.

"Give me your arm to dinner, if you please, Duke," she said, rising.

"I hope you will excuse me; but I have only come to say good-by. I have
but time to catch the train. Kerr has already put my luggage in the cab,
which is waiting for me at the door. Good-by, dear Lady Belgrade. You
will co-operate with Setter in all things necessary to a successful
search, I know. Setter has my orders to report to you--"

"You take my breath away!" gasped the dowager.

"Write to me by every mail. Keep me informed of events--"

"You will kill yourself, Duke! flying off without your dinner, and
looking fitter for going to bed than on a journey!" panted the dowager.

"Now then, good-by in earnest, dear Lady Belgrade, and God bless you,"
concluded the duke, raising her hand to his lips and bowing.

And before the dowager could say another word he was gone.

"Well, if he lives to be as old as I am, he will take things easier.
Though, if he goes on at this rate, he won't live to be old," mused the
old lady, as she slowly waddled into the dining-room, and took her seat
at the table to enjoy her solitary green turtle soup.




CHAPTER XXII.

AT LONE.


The Duke of Hereward went out to the close cab that was waiting for him
before the door.

He found his valet standing by it, with a pair of railroad rugs over his
arm.

He directed the man to mount to a seat beside the cabman, and gave the
latter orders where to drive.

Then he entered the cab and closed all the doors and windows, that he
might not be seen by any chance acquaintance.

He was supposed by all the world of London to be away on his wedding
tour, and he was willing to let them continue to believe so, until they
should be enlightened by a report of the great trial, when they would
learn the fact and the explanation at once, and thus be prevented
from making undesirable conjectures and speculations concerning his
presence at such a time in England.

He leaned back on his seat, and the cabman, having received directions
from the valet, drove rapidly off toward the Great Northern Railway
Station at Kings Cross.

An hour's fast drive brought them to their destination.

The duke dispatched his valet to the ticket office to engage a coupe on
the express train, so that he might be entirely private.

And he remained in the cab with closed doors and windows until the
servant had secured the coupe, and conveyed all the light luggage into
it.

Then he left the cab, and passed at once into the coupe, leaving his
servant to pay and discharge the cab, and to follow him on the train.

James Kerr, after performing these duties, went to the door of his
master's little compartment to ask if he had any further orders, before
going to take his place in the second-class carriages.

"No, Kerr, but come in here with me. I want you at hand during the
journey," replied the duke, who, much as he confided in the young man's
devotion and loyalty, could not quite trust his discretion, and therefore
desired to keep him from talking.

The valet bowed and entered the coupe, taking the seat that his master
pointed out.

The train moved slowly out of the station, but gaining speed as it left
the town, soon began to fly swiftly on its northern course.

The October sun was setting as the train flew along the margin
of the "New River," as Sir Hugh Myddellen's celebrated piece of
water-engineering is called.

The October evening was chill, and the swift flight of the train drawing
a strong draught that could not be kept out, increased the chilliness.

The duke leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

The valet attentively tucked the railway rug around his master's knees.

The sun had set. The long twilight of northern latitudes came on.

At the first station where the express stopped, the guard opened the door
and offered to light the lamps, but the duke forbade him, saying that he
preferred the darkness.

The guard closed the door and retired, and the train started again, and
flew on northward through the deepening night.

It stopped only at the largest towns and cities on its route--at
Peterboro', at York, at Newcastle, and Edinboro'.

It was sunrise when the train reached Lone, the only small station at
which it stopped on the route.

The guard opened the door of the coupe, and the young duke got out,
attended by his valet.

The train stopped but one minute, and then shot out of the station and
flew on toward Aberdeen.

The distance between the railway station and the "Hereward Arms," was
very short, so the duke preferred to walk it, followed by his valet and
a railway porter carrying his light luggage.

The sun had risen indeed, although it was nowhere visible.

A Scotch mist had risen from the lake, and settled over the mountains,
vailing all the grand features of the landscape.

Early as the hour was, the hamlet, as they passed through it, seemed
deserted by all its male inhabitants. None but women and children were
to be seen, and even they, instead of being at work, were loitering about
their own doors or gossiping with each other.

Though the duke and his servant were the only passengers that got off
the train at Lone, the whole force of the "Hereward Arms,"--landlord,
head-waiter, hostler, boots and stable boys--turned out to meet them.

"Your grace is unco welcome to the 'Hereward Arms,'" said Donald Duncan,
the worthy host, bowing low before his distinguished guest.

And all his underlings followed his example by pulling their red
forelocks and scraping their right feet backwards.

"Your hamlet seems to be deserted to-day, landlord. What fair or what
else is going on?" inquired the young duke, as he followed the bowing
host to the neat little parlor of the inn.

"Ah! wae's the day! Dinna your grace ken! It will be the trial at
Banff--the trial of yon grand villain, Johnnie Potts, for the murder
of his master."

"Oh, yes, I know the trial will be commenced to-day; but I did not think
that the people here would take so much interest in it as to leave their
work and go such a distance to see it," remarked the duke.

"Would they nae? They'd gae to the North Pole to see it, if necessary,
and they'd gae farrer still to see the murtherer weel hanggit! Ay, your
grace, and what will make it a' the mair exciting, is the rumor whilk
goes round to the effect that the ne'er-do-well, hizzie, Rose Cameron,
hae turnit Crown's evidence to save her ain life, and will gie up all her
accomplices. Sae we are a' fain to hear the mystery of the murther
cleared up."

"Indeed! Is that so? The girl has turned Crown's witness? Then, we
_shall_ get at the truth!" exclaimed the duke, with more interest
than he had hitherto shown.

"It is a' true, your grace! And your grace may weel ken how the report
drawed the heart of the hamlet out to gae to Banff, and hear a' aboot the
murther."

"Yes, yes," murmured the duke to himself.

"And now, will your grace please to have a room? And what will your grace
please to have for breakfast?" inquired the landlord, remembering his
duty, and again bowing to the ground.

"You may show me to a bed-room, where I may get rid of this railway dust,
and--for breakfast, anything you please, so that it is quickly prepared.
Also, landlord, have a chaise at the door, with a good pair of horses. I
must start for Banff within half an hour," said the traveller.

"Save us and sain us! Your grace, also! A' the warld seem ganging to
Banff!" cried honest Donald Duncan.

"I am summoned there as a witness on the trial, landlord."

"Ay, to be sure. Sae your grace maun be. For it is weel kenned that your
grace was amung the first to discover the dead body of the murthered man,
Heaven rest him! And noo, your grace, I will show ye till your room,"
said the landlord, leading the way to a neat bedchamber on the same
floor.

"Be good enough to send my servant here with my luggage," said the duke.

The landlord bowed and went out to deliver the message.

And in another minute the valet entered the room with the valise,
dressing-case, and so forth.

The duke made a rapid morning toilet, and then returned to the parlor,
where the little breakfast table was already laid--coffee, rolls,
oat-meal cake, broiled haddock, broiled black cock, and Dundee marmalade,
formed the bill of fare.

The duke forced himself to partake of some solid food in addition to the
two cups of coffee he hastily swallowed.

And then, as the chaise was announced, he arose to depart.

"I desire to keep these rooms until further notice, landlord. I shall
return here this evening, and stop here during my attendance upon the
trial at Banff," said the duke, as he got into the chaise, followed by
the valet.

The driver cracked his whip and the horses started.

"Aweel," said the landlord to himself, as he watched the chaise winding
its way up the mountain-pass. "Aweel, I waur e'en just confounded to see
the dook here away without the doochess; and I just after reading in the
_Times_ how they were married o' the day before yesterday, and gane
for their wedding trip to Paris! Aweel, I suppose, it will be this
witness business as hae broughten him back. But where's the young
doochess? Ay, to be sure, he hae left her in her grand toon house in
London. He wad na be bringing her here at siccan a painfu' time and
occasion as the trial of her ain father's murtherer. Nae, indeed! that
is nae likely," concluded honest Donald Duncan, as he returned into his
house.

Banff was but ten miles north-east of Lone. But the mountain road was
difficult; and now that the morning mist lay heavy on the landscape, it
was necessary for our travelers to drive slowly and carefully to avoid
precipitating themselves over some rocky steep, into some deep pool or
stony chasm.

They were, thus, an hour in getting safely through the mountain-pass.

At the end of that time, they came out upon a good road, through a forest
of firs, covering a hilly country.

Then the mist began to roll away before the bright beams of the advancing
sun.

And another hour of fast driving brought them into the town of Banff.

The duke directed the driver to turn into the street where was situated
the town-hall, where the court was being held.

The very looks of the street must have informed any stranger that some
event of unusual interest was then transpiring. The sidewalks were filled
with pedestrians, whose steps were all bent in one direction--toward the
town hall.

As our travellers drew up before the front of the building, the duke
alighted and beckoned to a bailiff to come and clear the way for his
passage into the court-room.

The officer hurried to the duke, and using his official authority, soon
made a narrow path through the dense crowd that choked up every avenue
into the edifice.

So, elbowing, pushing and wedging his way, the bailiff led the duke into
the court-room, which was even more closely packed than the ante-rooms.
Pressing through this solid mass of human beings, the bailiff led him to
a seat directly in front of the bench of judges, and there left him.

The duke bowed to the Bench, sat down and looked around upon the strange
and painful scene.

The famous Scotch judge, Baron Stairs, presided. On his right and left
sat Mr. Justice Kinloch and Mr. Justice Guthrie.

Quite a large number of lawyers, law officers, and writers to the seal
were present.

Mr. James Stuart, Q.C., was the prosecutor on the part of the crown. He
was assisted by Messrs. Roy and McIntosh.

Mr. Keir and Mr. Gordon, two rising young barristers from Aberdeen, were
counsel for the prisoner.

John Potts, alias Peters, the accused man, stood alone in the prisoner's
dock.

He was a tall, gaunt, dark man, whose pallid face looked ghastly in
contrast with his damp, lank, black hair, that seemed pasted to his
cheeks by the thick perspiration, and with his black coat and pantaloons
that hung loosely on his emaciated form.

The young duke thought he had never seen a man so much broken down in so
short a time.

While the duke was looking at him, the poor wretch turned caught his eye
and bowed. And then he quickly grasped the front railing of the dock with
both his hands, as if to keep himself from falling.

The young duke turned away his eyes. The sight was too painful. He looked
around him over the densely packed crowd, in which he recognized many of
his old friends and neighbors, a great number of his clansmen and nearly
all the old servants of his family.

Although the month was October, and the weather cool in that northern
climate, the atmosphere of such a packed crowd would have been unbearable
but for the fact that the six tall windows that flanked the court-room
on each side were let down from the top for ventilation.

The duke turned his attention to the Bench.

There seemed to be some pause in the proceedings. The judges were sitting
in perfect silence. The prosecuting counsel were arranging papers and
occasionally speaking to each other in low tones.

The duke turned to a gentleman, a stranger, who was sitting on his left,
and inquired:

"I have heard that the girl Cameron is not to be arraigned. I have also
heard that she is held as a witness for the crown. Can you inform me
whether it is so?"

"Yes, sir, it is so. You perceive that she is not in the dock with the
other prisoner. She is in custody, however, in the sheriff's room. The
prosecution cannot afford to arraign her, because they cannot do without
her testimony," answered the stranger.

A buzz of conversation passed like a breeze through the impatient crowd.

"Silence in the court!" called out the crier.

And all became as still as death.

Mr. Roy, assistant counsel for the crown, arose and read the indictment,
charging the prisoner at the bar with the willful murder of Sir Lemuel
Levison, at Castle Lone, on the twenty-first day of June, Anno Domini,
so and so. Without making any comment, the prosecutor sat down.

The Clerk of Arraigns then arose, and demanded of the accused--

"Prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or not guilty of the crimes with
which you stand indicted?"

Potts, who stood pale and trembling and clutching the rails in front of
the dock, replied earnestly though informally:

"Not guilty, upon my soul, my lords and gentlemen, before Heaven, and as
I hope for salvation."

And overpowered by fear, he sank down on the narrow bench at the back of
the dock.

The trial proceeded.

Queen's Counsel, Mr. James Stuart, took the indictment from the hands of
his assistant, and proceeded to open it with a short, pithy address to
the judges and the jury, and closed by requesting that Alexander McRath,
house-steward of Castle Lone, in the service of the deceased, should be
called.

The venerable, gray-haired old Scot, being duly called, came forward and
took the stand.

Mr. McIntosh, assistant Queen's Counsel, conducted his examination.

Being duly sworn, Alexander McRath testified as to the facts within his
own knowledge relating to the case, and which have already been laid
before our readers--briefly, they referred to the finding of the dead
body of the late Sir Lemuel Levison in his bed-chamber, to which no one
except his confidential valet, the prisoner at the bar, had a pass-key,
or could have gained admittance during the night.

The witness was cross-examined by Mr. Keir of the counsel for the
prisoner, but without having his testimony weakened.

Other domestic servants were called, who corroborated the evidence given
by the last one as to the finding of the dead body, and the intimate and
confidential relations which had subsisted between the deceased and the
prisoner at the bar, who always carried a pass-key to his master's
private apartments.

Then the boy, Ferguson, a saddler's apprentice from the village of Lone,
was called to the stand; and being sworn and examined, testified to the
meeting and the conspiracy at midnight before the murder, under the
balcony, near Malcolm's Tower, at Castle Lone, to which he had been an
eye and ear-witness.

This witness was subjected to a very severe cross-examination, which
rather developed and strengthened his testimony than otherwise.

McNeil, the ticket agent of the railway station at Lone, was next called,
sworn, and examined. He testified to having sold a ticket just after
midnight on the night of the murder to a vailed woman, who carried a
small but very heavy leathern bag, which she guarded with jealous care.
His description corresponded with that given by young Ferguson of the
vailed woman, and the bag he had seen given to her by the balcony at
Castle Lone on the same night.

This witness, also, was sharply cross-examined without effect.

"Now, my lords and gentlemen of the jury," began Queen's Counsel Stuart,
speaking more gravely than he had ever done before, "I shall proceed to
call a witness whose testimony will assuredly fix the deep guilt in the
case we are trying where it justly belongs. Let Rose Cameron be placed
upon the stand."

There was a great sensation in the court-room. The dense crowd was
stirred with emotion as thick forest leaves are stirred with the wind.

"Silence in the court!" called out the crier.

And silence fell like a pall upon the crowd.

A door was opened on the left of the Judge's Bench, and the handsome
Highland girl was led in by a sheriff's officer. She was dressed in a
dark-blue merino suit, with a black felt hat and blue feather to match,
and dark-blue gloves. Her long light hair flowed down her shoulders, a
cataract of gold. She stepped with an elastic and imperial step as
natural to her as to the reindeer. A very Juno of stately beauty she
seemed as she rolled her large, fearless eyes over the crowded
court-room, until, at length, they fell on the form of the young Duke
of Hereward, seated on a front seat.

She started and flushed. Then recovered herself, caught his eyes, and
fixed them with her bold, steady gaze, smiled a vindictive, deadly smile,
and so passed with stately steps to her place on the witness stand.




CHAPTER XXIII.

A STARTLING CHARGE.


The Duke of Hereward was quite unable to account for the look of
vindictive and deadly hatred and malice cast on him by Rose Cameron. He
could only suppose that she mistook him for some one else, or that she
unreasonably resented his active share in the prosecution of the search
for the murderers of Sir Lemuel Levison.

He sat back in his seat and watched her while she stepped upon the
witness-stand and turned to face the jury.

Every pair of eyes in the court-room were also fixed upon her. For it was
believed that she had been an accomplice in the murder, as well as in the
robbery, at Castle Lone, and that she had turned Queen's evidence in
order to escape the extreme penalty of the law. And all there who looked
upon her were as much dazzled by her wondrous beauty, as appalled by her
awful guilt.

The Clerk of the Court administered the oath. The assistant Queen's
Counsel proceeded to examine her.

"Your name is Rose Cameron?"

"Na! I'm nae Rose Cameron. I'm Rose Scott, and an honest, married woman,"
said the witness, turning a baleful look upon the Duke of Hereward, and
letting her large, bold, blue eyes rove defiantly, triumphantly over the
sea of human faces turned toward her. She never blenched a bit under the
fire of glances fixed upon her. These glances would have pierced like
spears any finer and more sensitive spirit. They never seemed to touch
hers.

"What a handsome quean it is!" said some.

"What a diabolical malignity there is in her looks. Eh, sirs! The vera
cut of her 'ee wad convict her, handsome as she is!" whispered another.

"Ay, she looks as if she could ha ta'en a hand in the murther as well as
in the robbery," muttered a third. And so on.

These comments were made in so low a tone that they did not in the least
disturb the decorum of the court.

"Your name is Rose Scott, then?" proceeded Counsellor Keir.

"Ay, it is."

"What is your age?"

"Twenty-six come next Michael-mas."

"Your residence?"

"Are ye meaning my hame?"

"Yes, your home."

"I dinna just ken. It used to be Ben Lone on the Duk' o Harewood's
estate, when I waur a lass. Sin I hae been a guid wife I hae bided in
Westminster Road, Lunnun."

At the mention of Westminster Road, the Duke of Hereward started
slightly, and bent forward to give closer attention to the words of
the witness.

"With whom did you live in Westminster Road?" proceeded the examiner.

"Wi' my ain guid man, ye daft fule!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, in a rage.
"Wha else suld I bide wi'? And noo, ye'll speer nae mair questions anent
my ain preevit life, for I'll nae answer any sic. A woman maunna gie
testimony in open coort against her ain husband, I'm thinking."

"Certainly not."

"Sae I thocht!" said Rose Cameron, cunningly. "And sae ye'll speer nae
mair questions anent my ain preevit affair; but just keep ye to the
point, and it please ye! I am here to tell all I ken anent the murther
and robbery at Castle Lone! Ay! and I will tell a' hang wha' it may!" she
added, with a most vindictive glare at the Duke of Hereward.

"The witness is right so far. We have nothing whatever to do with her
domestic status. Proceed with the examination, and keep to the point,"
interposed the judge.

"We will, my lord. We only wished to prove the fact that the witness was
living on the most intimate terms with one of the parties suspected of
the murder."

"I waur living wi' my ain husband, as I telt ye before, ye born idiwat!
An' I'm no ca'd upon to witness for or against him. Sae I'll tell ye a' I
ked anent the murther and the robbery at Castle Lone; but de'il hae me
gin I tell ye onything else!" exclaimed Rose Cameron.

"The witness is quite right in her premises, though censurable in her
manner of expressing them. Proceed with the examination," said the judge.

The assistant Q.C. bowed to the Bench and turned to the witness.

"Tell us, then, where you were on the night of the murder."

"I waur in the grounds o' Castle Lone."

"At what time were you there?"

"Frae ten till twal o' the clock."

"Were you alone?"

"For a guid part of the time I waur my lane i' the castle court."

"What took you out on the castle grounds alone at so late an hour?"

"I went there to keep my tryste with the Markis of Arondelle," answered
the witness, with a sly, malignant glance at the young nobleman whose
name she thus publicly profaned!

The Duke of Hereward started, and fixed his eyes sternly and inquiringly
upon the bold, handsome face of the witness.

Her eyes did not for an instant quail before his gaze. On the contrary,
they opened wide in a bold, derisive stare, until she was recalled by the
questions of the examiner.

"Witness! Do you mean to say, upon your oath, that you went to Castle
Lone at midnight to meet the Marquis of Arondelle?"

"Aye, that I do. I went to the castle to keep tryste wi' his lairdship,
the Marquis of Arondelle. He wha was troth-plighted to the heiress o'
Lone. Ae wha is noo ca'd his grace the Duk' o' Harewood!" said the
witness, emphatically, triumphantly.

The statement fell like a thunderbolt on the whole assembly.

When Rose Cameron first said that she went to the castle to keep tryste
with the Marquis of Arondelle, those who heard her distrusted the
evidence of their own ears, and turned to each other, inquiring in
whispers:

"What did she say?"

Or answering in like whispers:

"I don't know."

But now that she had reiterated her statement with emphasis and with
triumph, they asked no more questions, but gazed in each other's faces
in awe-struck silence.

And as for the Duke of Hereward! What on earth could a gentleman have
to say to a charge as absurd as it was infamous, thus made upon him by
a disreputable person in open court?

Why, to notice it even by denial would seem to be an infringement of his
dignity and self-respect.

The Duke of Hereward, after his first involuntary start and stare of
amazement, controlled himself absolutely, and sat back in his chair,
perfectly silent and self-possessed under this ordeal.

Not so the senior counsel for the defence.

Rising in his place, he addressed the bench:

"My lord, we object to the question put to the witness, which, while it
tends to compromise a lofty personage of this realm, can, in no manner,
concern the case in hand. My lord, we are not trying his grace the Duke
of Hereward."

"The bench has already instructed the counsel for the Crown to keep to
the point at issue while examining the witness," said the presiding
judge.

"Ou, ay! Ye are nae trying the Duk' o' Harewood, are ye nae? Aweel, then,
I'm thinking ye'll be trying him before a's ower!" put in Rose Cameron,
spitefully.

"Witness, tell the jury what occurred, within your own knowledge, while
you were in the grounds of Castle Lone," said Mr. Keir.

"And how will I tell onything right gin I am forbid to name the name o'
him wha wur maistly concernit?" demanded Rose Cameron.

"You are to give your own testimony in your own way, unless otherwise
instructed by the bench," said Mr. Keir.

"Aweel, then, first of a', I went to the castle by appointment to meet
Laird Arondelle, as he was then ca'd. I walked about and waited fu' an
hour before his lairdship cam' till me."

"At what hour was that?"

"I heard the castle clock aboon Auld Malcom's Tower strike eleven when I
cam' under the balcony o' the bride's chamber, whilk is nigh it. I waited
fu' half an hour there before his lairdship cam' stealing through the
shrubbery--De'il hae him, wha ha brocht a' this trouble on me!" exclaimed
the witness, vehemently, as her eyes, fairly blazing with blue fire,
fixed themselves on the face of the young duke.

The Duke of Hereward bore the searching glare quite calmly. He simply
leaned back in his chair, with folded arms and attentive face, on which
curiosity was the only expression.

"Mr. Keir," said the venerable Counsellor Guthrie, of the defence, "is
all this supposed to concern the case before the jury?"

"Ay, does it!" cried Rose Cameron, before the lawyer addressed could
reply. "Ay, does it, as ye will sune see, gin ye will gie me leave to
speak."

Meanwhile the Duke of Hereward took out his note-book and wrote these
lines:

"_Pray let the witness proceed without regard to her use of my name.
I think the ends of justice require that she be suffered to give her
testimony in her own way_. HEREWARD."

He tore this leaf out and passed it on to Mr. Guthrie, who read it with
some surprise, and then waved his hand to Mr. Keir, and sat down with the
air of a man who had complied with an indiscreet request, and washed his
hands of the consequences.

"The time of the court is being unnecessarily wasted. Let the examination
of the witness go on," said the presiding judge.

"It shall, my lord," answered the Queen's Counsel, with an inclination of
his white-wigged head. Then turning to the bold blonde on the stand, he
proceeded:

"Witness, tell the jury what occurred that night under the balcony of
Miss Levison's apartments at Castle Lone."

Rose Cameron threw another vindictive glance at the Duke of Hereward, and
commenced her narrative.

Now, as her story was substantially the same that has been already given
to the reader, it is not necessary to recapitulate it here. Only in one
respect it differed from the stories she had hitherto told to her
landlady or housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, of Westminster Road; as on this
occasion she reserved all allusion to any real or fancied marriage
between herself and the nobleman she claimed as her lover, and then
accused as the accomplice of thieves and assassins, in the murder and
robbery at Castle Lone, on the night preceding the day appointed for his
own marriage with its heiress!

It would be impossible to describe the effect of this terrible testimony
on the minds of all who heard it.

The Bench, the Bar, and the Jury, whom, it would seem, nothing in this
world had power to startle, astonish, or discompose, sat like statues.

Scarcely less immovable was the young Duke of Hereward, the subject
of this awful charge, who sat back in his seat with an air of grave
curiosity, and with the composure of a man who was master of the
situation.

But the crowd which filled the court-room seemed utterly confounded by
what they heard. Upon the whole, they either disbelieved this witness, or
distrusted their own ears. Their young laird, as she called the present
duke, was their model of all wisdom, goodness, magnanimity. Truly, they
had heard a rumor of some little love-making between the young laird and
a handsome shepherdess at Ben Lone, probably this same Rose Cameron; even
these rumors they did not fully credit; but that the noble young Duke of
Hereward should be the accomplice of thieves and murderers in the robbery
at Castle Lone, and the assassination of Sir Lemuel Levison, on the very
night preceding the morning appointed for his marriage with Sir Lemuel's
daughter!

Oh! the charge was too preposterous, as well as too horrible, to be
entertained for an instant.

Finally the prevailing opinion settled into this: that the young laird
had probably admired the handsome shepherdess a little, and had left her
for the heiress; and that, from jealousy and for revenge, the girl was
now perjuring herself to ruin her late lover.

Would her testimony be believed? Would it have weight enough to cause the
arrest of the young duke?

"Eh, sirs! what an awfu' event the like o' that wad be!" whispered one
gray-haired clansman to another.

And all bent eager ears to hear the remainder of the testimony which was
still going on.

After relating the history of her journey to London, with the stolen
treasure in charge, she proceeded to tell of the abrupt flight of "the
duke," with the bulk of the treasure in his possession, and of her own
subsequent arrest with the stolen jewels found in her apartments.

She was cross-examined by the defence, but without effect.

Her testimony, if it could be established, would ruin the Duke of
Hereward, but could in no way affect the prisoner at the bar.

When the prosecution perceived this, they realized that they had been, in
common parlance, "sold."

They were to be sold again.

"You may stand down," said Mr. Keir, sharply.

"Na, I hanna dune yet. I hae mair to say," persisted the witness.

"Say it, then."

"I ken it is nae lawfu' for a wife to gie testimony against her ain
husband," said Rose Cameron, with a cunning leer that marred the beauty
of her fine blue eyes.

"Certainly not. What has that to do with this case?"

"It hae a' things to do with it."

"Explain yourself, witness; and remember that you are on your oath."

"Ay, I weel ken the solemnity of an aith. And I hae telt the truth under
aith; nathless, maybe my teestimony suld na be received."

"Why not?"

"Why no'? Why, gin a wife maunna teestify agin her ain husband, I suld na
hae teestified agin the Duk' o' Harewood, who is my ain lawfu' husband!"
said Rose Cameron, purposely raising her voice to a clear, ringing tone
that was distinctly heard all over the court-room.

Had a shell fallen and exploded in their midst, it could scarcely have
caused greater consternation.

"What said the lass?" questioned many.

"I dinna just ken," answered many others.

They certainly did not believe the report of their own ears on this
occasion.

As for the Duke of Hereward, who was then engaged in writing a few lines
on the fly-leaf of his note-book, he just looked up for a moment and was
surprised into the first smile that had lighted his grave face since the
opening of the trial.

The cool counsel who was conducting the examination of the witness,
and whom nothing on earth could throw off his track, now proceeded to
inquire:

"Witness! Do we understand you to say that you are the wife of his grace
the Duke of Hereward?"

"Ay, just!" replied Rose Cameron, pertly. "Gin ye hae ony understanding
at a', and gin ye are na the auld daft idiwat ye luke, ye'll understand
me to say I am the lawfu' wedded wife o' the Duk' o' Harewood. Him as
was marrit o' Tuesday last to the heiress o' Lone! Gin ye dinna believe
me, I hae my marriage lines, gie me by the minister o' St. Margaret's
Kirk, Weestminster, where he marrit me! Ou, ay! and I wad hae tell ye a'
this in the beginning, only I kenned weel, if I _did_, ye wad na hae
let me gae on gie' ony teestimony agin me ain husband. De'il hae him! But
noo, as ye hae heerd the truth anent the grand villainy up in Castle
Lone, I dinna mind telling ye wha I am. Ay, and ye may set aside my
witness, gin ye like! But the whole coort hae noo heard it. Ay, and the
whole warld s'all hear it, or a' be dune! And noo I am thinking ye'll een
let the puir mon in the dock just gae free; and pit my laird, his greece,
the nubble duk', intil the prisoner's place. Ye'll no hae to seek him
far," added the woman, suddenly whisking around and facing the young Duke
of Hereward, with a perfectly fiendish look of malice distorting her
handsome face. "There he sits noo! he wha marrit me and afterwards marrit
the heiress o' Lone! he wha betrayed me intil a prison, and wad hae
betrayed me to the gallows, gin I had na been to canny for him! There he
is noo, and he can na face me and deny it!"

The Duke of Hereward did not deign to deny anything. He passed the fly
leaf, upon which he had written some lines, on to the old lawyer,
Guthrie, who looked over it, nodded, and then rising in his place,
addressed the Bench:

"My lord, we desire that the witness, who is now transcending the duties
and privileges of the stand, be ordered to sit down."

"Oh! I'll sit down!" pertly interrupted Rose Cameron. "I hae had my ain
way, and I hae said my ain say, and now I'll e'en gae--gin this auld fule
be done wi' me."

"We have done with you; you can stand down," replied Mr. Keir, in
mortification and disgust.

Rose Cameron stepped down from the stand with the air of a queen
descending from her throne. In look and motion she was graceful and
majestic as the antelope. You had to hear her speak to learn how really
low and vulgar she was.

She darted one baleful blast of hatred from her blue eyes, as she passed
the Duke of Hereward, and was then conducted back to the sheriff's room,
where she was to be detained in custody until the conclusion of the
trial.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE VINDICATION.


Mr. Guthrie now requested that the witness Ferguson might be recalled.

The order was given. And the Lone saddler's red-headed apprentice took
the stand.

Mr. Guthrie referred to the notes that had been passed to him by the Duke
of Hereward, and then said:

"Witness, you told the jury that on the night before the murder of Sir
Lemuel Levison, you were employed in your master's service up to a late
hour."

"Ay, your honor; but I waur fain to see the wedding decorations, for a'
that," said the boy.

"Precisely. But now tell the jury what was the service upon which you
were employed to so late an hour that night."

"It wad be a bit wedding offering to our laird, wha hae always favored
his ain folks wi' his custom. It waur a Russia leather traveling
dressing-bag for his lairdship, the whilk the master had ta'en unco guid
care suld be as brawa bag as ony to be boughten in Lunnen town itsel',
whilk mysel' was commissioned, and proud I waur, to tak', wi' my master's
duty, to his lairdship."

"Doubtless. Now tell the jury at what hour you took this wedding offering
to Lord Arondelle."

"Aweel, it wad be about half-past nine o'clock. I went wi' the
dressing-case to the Arondelle Arms, where his lairdship and his
lairdship's feyther, the auld duk' were biding. The hostler telt me that
his lairdship had gane for a walk o'er the brig to Castle Lone. Sae I
were fain to wait there for him."

"How long did you wait?"

"Na lang. I was na mair than five minutes before I saw his lairdship
coming o'er the brig toward the house. And sune his lairdship came into
the inn, and I made my bow, and offered his lairdship the wedding-gift,
wi' my maister's respectful guid wishes. His lairdship smiled pleasantly,
and tauld me to fetch it after him up to his chamber. I followed my laird
up-stairs to his ain room, where his lairdship's valet, Mr. Kerr, was
waiting on him. His lairdship wrote a braw note of acknowledgements
to my maister, and gie it me to take away. My laird also gie me a
half-sovereign, for mysel'. I dinna tak' the note just then to my
maister. I saw by the clock on the mantel that it only lacked a quarter
to ten o'clock, sae I e'en made my duty to his lairdship and run down
stairs, ran a' the way o'er to Castle Lone, for I war fain to see the
decorations. I got to Malcolm's Tower just in time to hear the auld clock
in the turret strike eleven, and to see the mon and the woman meet
thegither in the shadows."

"Are you sure that you could not identify that man or woman?"

"Anan?"

"Would you know either of them again?" inquired Mr. Guthrie, changing the
manner of his question.

"Na! I tauld ye sae before. They were half hidden i' the bushes."

"You say it was a quarter to ten when you left Lord Arondelle in his room
at the inn?"

"Ay, war it."

"And that it was eleven o'clock when you witnessed the meeting between
the man and the woman at Castle Lone!"

"Ay, war it. And I had to run a' the way to do it in that time. It waur
guid rinning."

"You left his lordship's valet with him, do you say?"

"Ay, I did. And the head waiter o' the Arondelle Arms, too, wha was just
gaeing in wi' his lairdship's supper."

"That will do. You may now stand down," said Mr. Guthrie.

The shock-headed apprentice, who had done such good service to his Grace
the Duke of Hereward, and such damage to the false witness against him,
now left the stand and made his way through the crowd to his distant
seat.

Mr. Guthrie once more got upon his feet to address the Bench, and said:

"May it please the Court, I move that the testimony of the Crown's
witness, Rose Cameron, alias Rose Scott, be set aside as totally
unreliable; and, further, that she be indicted for perjury."

Upon this motion of Mr. Guthrie there followed some discussion among the
lawyers.

Finally it was decided to put the duke's valet, the hotel waiter, and
other witnesses, on the stand, who would be able to corroborate or rebut
the evidence given by the lad Ferguson, and thereby break down or
establish the testimony offered by Rose Cameron.

James Kerr was, therefore, called to the witness-stand, sworn and
examined.

He said that he had been in the service of the duke's family ever since
he was nine years of age, first as page to the late duchess, but for the
last three years as valet to the present duke; that he was with his
master at the "Arondelle Arms" on the night of the murder; that the duke,
who was then the Marquis of Arondelle, left the inn at half-past eight
o'clock, to walk over the bridge to Castle Lone; that he returned at
half-past nine, accompanied to his room by the boy Ferguson, who brought
a handsome Russia leather travelling-case; that the marquis sat down to
his writing-table, wrote a note and gave it to the boy, who immediately
left the house.

"At what hour was this?" inquired Mr. Guthrie.

"It was a few minutes before ten. The clock struck very soon after the
boy left. I remember it well, because his lordship's supper had been
ordered for ten, and the waiter just entered to lay the cloth when the
lad left, and his lordship sat down to supper at ten precisely. After the
supper-service had been removed, his lordship went to his writing-desk
and wrote for an hour, and then sealed and dispatched a packet directed
to the _Liberal Statesman_. I took it myself to the Post-Office, to
ensure its being in time for the midnight mail. It was then about
half-past eleven o'clock. I was gone on my message for about five
minutes. On my return I found my master where I had left him, sitting at
his writing-desk, arranging his papers. But when I entered he locked his
desk and said he would go to bed. I waited on him at his night toilet.
And then, as the inn was very much crowded, I slept on a lounge in my
master's bed-room. The house was full of noise; so many of the Scots
were present, making merry over the approaching marriage of their
chieftain's son. Neither my master nor myself rested well that night.
I arose early to see my master's bath. The marquis arose at eight
o'clock."

Such was the substance of James Kerr's testimony, which perfectly
corroborated that of the lad Ferguson, and greatly damaged that of Rose
Cameron.

The hotel waiter happened to be among those who had cast all their
worldly interests to the winds, abandoned their callings of whatever
sort, and come at all risk of consequences to be present at the trial.
He was found in the court-room, called to the witness-stand, sworn and
examined.

His testimony corroborated that of the two last witnesses, and utterly
broke down that of Rose Cameron.

There was further consultation between the Bar and the Bench. Finally the
testimony of the Crown's witness was set aside, and a warrant was made
out for the arrest of Rose Cameron, otherwise Rose Scott, upon the
charge of perjury.

The warrant was sent out to the sheriff's room, to which, after leaving
the witness-stand, Rose Cameron had been conducted.

And now the crowd in the court-room, composed chiefly of neighbors,
friends, kinsmen, and clansmen of the young Duke of Hereward, breathed
freely.

The thunder-cloud had passed.

Their hero was vindicated. Truly they had never for an instant doubted
his integrity, much less had they suspected him of a heinous, an
atrocious crime. Still, it was an immense relief to have the black shadow
of that bloody charge withdrawn.

There was but one more witness for the prosecution to be examined; that
witness was no less a person than the young Duke of Hereward himself.

He was called to the stand, and sworn.

Every pair of eyes in the court-room availed themselves of the
opportunity afforded by the elevated position of the witness-stand,
to gaze on the man who had so recently been the subject of such a
terrible accusation; and all admired the calmness, self-possession,
and forbearance of his conduct during the fearful ordeal through which
he had just passed.

He simply testified as to the finding of the dead body, the position of
the corpse, the condition of the room, and so forth. He was not subjected
to a cross-examination, but was courteously notified that he was at
liberty to retire.

He resumed his former seat.

The case for the prosecution was closed.

Mr. Kinlock, junior counsel for the prisoner, arose for the defence. He
made a short address to the jury, in which he spoke of the slight grounds
upon which his unhappy client had been charged with an atrocious crime,
and brought to trial for his life. The law demanded a victim for that
heinous crime, which had shocked the whole community from its centre to
its circumference, and his unfortunate client had been selected as a sin
offering. He reminded the jury how the very esteem and confidence of the
master and the fidelity and obedience of the servant had been most
ingeniously turned into strong circumstantial evidence, to fix the
assassination of the master upon the servant. The deceased, had entirely
trusted the prisoner; had given him a pass-key with which he might enter
his chambers at any hour of the day or night; and hence it was argued
that the prisoner, being the only one who had the entree to the
deceased's apartments, must have been the person who admitted the
murderer to his victim. The prisoner had faithfully obeyed his master's
orders for the day, in declining to enter his rooms before his bell
should ring; and thence it was argued that he only delayed to call his
master because he knew that master lay murdered in his room, and he
wished to give the murderers, with whom he was said to be confederated,
time to make good their escape. He was sure, he said, that a just and
intelligent jury must at once perceive the cruel injustice of such
far-fetched inferences. In addition he would call witnesses who would
testify to the good character of the accused, and prove that the great
esteem and confidence in which he had been held by his late master was
abundantly justified by the excellent character and blameless conduct of
the servant.

Mr. Kinlock then proceeded to call his witnesses.

They were the fellow-servants of the accused. Some of them were the very
same witnesses that had been called by the prosecution, and were now
re-called for the defence. One and all, in turn, testified to the uniform
good behavior of the valet while in the service of Sir Lemuel Levison,
deceased.

The presiding judge, Baron Stairs, summed up the evidence in a very few
words.

The evidence against the prisoner at the bar was circumstantial only. It
had appeared in evidence that some servant of the family had admitted the
assassin to the house. It did not appear who that servant was. The valet
John Potts, was the only one who had the pass-key to the apartments of
the deceased. That circumstance had fixed suspicion upon him; had brought
him to trial; the trial had brought out no new facts; the witness
principally relied on by the prosecution had not only failed to give any
testimony to convict the prisoner, but had certainly perjured herself to
shield the real criminal, whoever he was, and to accuse a noble
personage, whose high character and lofty station alike placed him
infinitely above suspicion. On the other hand, many witnesses had
testified to the good character and conduct of the prisoner, and the
estimation in which he had been held by his late master. Such was the
evidence, pro and con.

His lordship concluded by saying that the jury might now retire and
deliberate upon their verdict, remembering that in all cases of
uncertainty they should lean to the side of mercy.

The jury arose from their seats, and, conducted by a bailiff, retired to
the room provided for them.

Many of the people now left the court-room to get refreshments.

But as the judges remained upon the bench, the Duke of Hereward kept his
seat. He felt sure that the jury would not long deliberate before
bringing in their verdict.

Meanwhile he turned to glance at the prisoner.

John Potts looked like a man without a hope in the world. We have already
seen that an awful change had come over him since the day of his arrest,
three months before. Now, as he leaned forward where he sat, and rested
his head upon his skeleton hands, that clasped the top of the railing of
the dock, his face, or what could be seen of it, was ghastly pale with
agony, while his emaciated frame trembled from head to foot. _He looked
like a guilty man._ And his looks were now, as they had been from the
moment in which the dead body of his master had been discovered, the
strongest testimony against him.

For all that, you know, they cannot hang a man merely because he looks as
if he ought to be hung.

After an absence of about fifteen minutes, the jury, led by a bailiff,
returned to the court-room.

The prisoner looked up, shivered, and dropped his head upon his clasped
hands again.

The dead silence of breathless expectation in the court-room was now
broken by the solemn voice of the Clerk of Arraigns, inquiring, in
measured tones:

"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?"

"We have," answered the foreman, a jolly, red-headed, round bodied Banff
baker.

"Prisoner at the bar, stand up and look upon the jury," ordered the
clerk.

The poor, abject, and terrified wretch tottered to his feet and stood,
pallid, shaking, and grasping the front rails of the dock for support.

"Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner. How say you, is the
prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the felony herewith he stands
charged?" demanded the clerk.

"We find the charge against the prisoner to be--NOT PROVEN,"[A]
answered the foreman, speaking for the whole in a strong, distinct voice,
that was heard all over the court-room.

[Footnote A: "Not Proven"--a Scotch verdict in uncertain cases.]

On hearing the verdict which saved him from death, even if it did not
vindicate him, John Potts let go the rails of the dock and fell back in
his chair in a half-fainting condition.

"The prisoner is discharged from custody. The Court is adjourned," said
the presiding baron, rising and leaving his seat.

While one of the bailiffs was kindly supporting the faltering steps of
the released prisoner, in taking him from the dock, and while the crowd
in the court-room were pouring out of the front doors, the presiding
judge, Baron Stairs, came down to the place where the young Duke of
Hereward still sat. He had known the duke's father, and had also known
the duke himself from boyhood. He now held out his hand cordially,
saying:

"I am very glad to see your grace, though the occasion is a painful one.
Let me congratulate you on your marriage, I wish you every good thing in
life. You have already got the _best_ thing--a good wife. I knew
Miss Levison. A finer young woman never lived. I congratulate you with
all my heart, Duke!"

"I thank you very much, Lord Stairs," said the bridegroom, warmly
returning the greeting of the judge.

"But I fear I must condole with you also. It was really too bad to have
your honeymoon eclipsed at its rising, by a summons to attend as a
witness on a criminal trial!--too bad! However, fortunately, the trial
was a short one. And you are now at liberty to fly to your bride! I hope
the duchess is well," added his lordship.

"She has never been quite well, I grieve to say, since the catastrophe at
Lone," answered the duke, evasively.

"Ah, no! ah no! It cannot be expected that she should be so yet. It will
take time! It will take time! By the way, where are you stopping, my dear
Duke? I am at the 'Prince Consort!' Will you come home with me and dine?"
heartily inquired the baron.

"Many thanks, my lord. But I am not staying in town. I must hurry back to
Lone this evening in order to secure the midnight express to London. The
most important business demands my immediate presence there," gravely
replied the young duke.

"Ah, of course! of course! the bride! the duchess! Certainly, my dear
duke. I will not press you further," said the baron, laughing cordially.

Neither of the gentlemen made the slightest allusion to the testimony
given by the crown's evidence which had cast so foul and false an
aspersion on the character of the duke.

By this time the court-room was nearly emptied.

The duke and the baron walked out together.

The crowd had dispersed from before the court-house.

The duke and the baron shook hands and parted on the sidewalk.

"Give my warm respects to the duchess. Tell her grace that I shall hope
to meet her and present my congratulations in person, on her return from
the Continent. That will be in time for the meeting of Parliament, I
presume," said his lordship, as he was about to step into his carriage.

"Thanks, my lord. Yes, I hope so," answered his grace, as he lifted his
hat and turned away.

The baron's carriage drove off to his hotel.

The duke walked rapidly to the inn, where he had ordered his post-chaise
to be put up.

He partook of a light luncheon while his horses were being harnessed, and
then entered the chaise, attended by his valet, and ordered the coachman
to drive as fast as possible, without hurting the horses, to Lone.

He was most anxious to reach the "Arondelle Arms," to see if any telegram
from Detective Setter had reached the office for him.

So long as the road ran through the Firwood, and was comparatively smooth
and level, the coachman kept his horses at their best speed; but when it
entered the mountain pass of the chain running around Loch Lone, he was
compelled to drive slowly and carefully.

The sun set before they emerged from the pass, and it was nearly dark
when the chaise drew up before the Arondelle Arms.

The duke got out of the chaise, and passed through the little assemblage
of villagers who were standing there discussing the verdict of the jury.
He hurried at once to the bar-room to inquire if any letter or telegram
had come for him.

"Na, naething o' the sort," replied the landlord, who, seeing the
disappointment expressed upon the duke's face, added: "But, under favor,
your grace, there's time eneuch yet. Your grace hae na been twenty-four
hours awa' fra Lunnun."

Without waiting to answer the host, the young duke hurried out, and
walked rapidly off to the telegraph office, which was at the railway
station.

"Ye see yon lad?" said the landlord to his wife. "He hanna been a day fra
his bride, and yet he expects to hae a letter or a message frae her every
minute. Aweel we hae a' been fules in our time!"

So saying the philosophical host of the Arondelle Arms gave his mind to
the service of his numerous customers, who had come from the trial at
Banff very hungry and thirsty, and now filled the bar-room with their
persons, and all the air with their complaints.

They were not at all satisfied with the verdict. They had had a murder,
and they had a right to have a hanging. They had been defrauded of their
prospect of this second entertainment, and they were not well pleased.

Meanwhile, the duke hurried off to the telegraph office, to see if by any
chance a telegram had been received there for him and detained.

When he entered the little den, he found the operator at work. He
forebore to interrupt the man until the clicking of the wires ceased.
Then he asked:

"Can you tell if there is any message here for me?--the Duke of
Hereward," added his grace, seeing the puzzled look of the operator,
who was a stranger in the country.

"Yes, your grace. It has only just now come," respectfully answered the
young man, as he drew out a long, narrow strip of thick, white paper,
upon which the message had been stamped by the instrument, and proceeded
to select an official envelope in which to inclose it.

"Never mind that. Give it to me at once," said the duke, taking the strip
from the hand of the operator and hastily perusing it.

The message ran thus:

"OLD CHURCH COURT, KENSINGTON, LONDON,

"October 31st, 3 P.M.

"To HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF HEREWARD, Arondelle Arms, Lone, N.B.
She is found. Pray come to London immediately. It is important.

"J.A. SETTER."




CHAPTER XXV.

WHO WAS FOUND!


"She is found."

"Who is found? The lost bride, or that mysterious messenger who was with
the fugitive an hour before her flight, who was suspected to have lured
her away, and who might be able to give a clew to her whereabouts? Good
Heaven! why could not the detective have sent a definite message?"
thought the duke, as he studied the telegram.

Suddenly his face lighted up as he said to himself. "It is Salome who is
found! Of course it must be Salome, since no one else was really lost. It
is Salome, and that is the very reason why Setter spoke so indefinitely;
for I remember now that I instructed him to avoid using the name of the
duchess in any telegram. Salome is found! Ah! I thank Heaven! She is
found! But--" he reflected with a sudden re-action of feeling--"how,
where, when, by whom, under what circumstances was my bride found? Is she
well or ill? Can she give any satisfactory explanation of her absence?"
were the next anxious, soul-racking questions that chased each other
through his mind.

"Oh, for the strong pinions of the eagle, that I might fly to her at once
and satisfy all these anxious doubts," he breathed.

It was now but six o'clock in the afternoon. The first train for London
would not stop at Lone until midnight, and would not reach London until
eight o'clock the next morning--fourteen hours of suspense!

He could not bear that.

The telegraph operator was about to close the office.

The duke stopped him by saying:

"I wish to send a telegram to London."

"It is after hours, your grace," answered the operator, very
deferentially.

"I will pay you whatever you may demand for your extra services, over and
above your usual fee," said the duke.

The operator hesitated.

"That is to say, if there is no rule in your office to forbid it," added
the duke.

"There is no rule to prevent it, your grace. My time is up, and I was
about to go home to supper, that was all. I will send your grace's
message, if you please," the operator explained, as he took his seat
again.

The duke hastily dashed off the following message:

"LONE, N.B., October 31st, 6 P.M.

"To J.A. SETTER, Police Station, Old Church Court, Kensington,
London: Shall leave for London by this midnight express-train. Is she
quite well? Answer immediately. HEREWARD."

The operator took the message with a bow. The click of the instrument was
soon heard, as the message, with the speed of light, flew on its errand.

"Will you remain here until I can receive an answer?" inquired the duke,
as soon as the sound ceased.

"I should be happy to accommodate your grace; but if there should be no
answer, say up to twelve o'clock?" suggested the young man.

"In that case I should not ask you to remain; as you must know by my
telegram that I am to take the train for London at that hour."

"Certainly, your grace; but I thought it possible that you might wish the
message taken to some other person in the event of your absence."

"Not at all. I want it for myself alone. If it does not come before
twelve I shall have no use for it."

"Then I will remain here until midnight, if necessary; but it may not be
necessary."

"And you shall set your own price upon your time," said the duke.

"Thanks, your grace; I am happy to be able to accommodate you; and would
prefer to leave all other considerations to yourself," said the young
man, very politely and--politicly.

Even while they spoke, a warning vibration of the wires was perceived,
followed by the _click, click, click_, of the instrument.

"There is a message coming--most probably an answer to yours, though it
is very soon to get one," said the operator, as he turned to give his
whole attention to his work.

The duke looked on with breathless eagerness.

As soon as the sound ceased, the operator drew off the message and handed
it to the duke, who seized it and hastily read;

"LONDON, October, 31st, 7 P.M.

"TO THE DUKE OF HEREWARD, LONE, N.B.: She is perfectly well.

"J.A. SETTER."

"Thank Heaven! I breathe freely now!" said the young duke to himself, as
he arose from his seat.

He liberally rewarded the telegraph operator, and then left the office
and walked back to the inn.

The Arondelle Arms was all alive with excitement. More travellers had
come down from Banff, and the inn was crowded, principally by men of the
Clan Scott. Every room was filled, every window lighted up. The bar
and the tap room reeked.

The duke was making his way through the crowd as best he might, when he
was met by the landlord, who bowed, and apologized, and finally offered
to conduct his grace by a private entrance to the parlor connected with
the duke's own reserved suit of apartments.

"An' noo, what will your grace hae to your supper?" hospitably inquired
the host, as soon as his guest was comfortably seated in his arm-chair
before the fire.

"Anything at all, so that it is cleanly served, for which I can, of
course, trust the Arondelle Arms," said the duke, smiling.

The landlord bowed and went out.

The duke leaned back in his chair, and stretched his feet to the genial
warmth of the fire.

He was feeling very happy. An immense load of anxiety was lifted from his
heart. She was found! She was perfectly well! In twelve hours he would
see her, and hear her own explanation of her very strange conduct. Her
explanation would be perfectly satisfactory. So great was his confidence
in her that he felt sure of this.

She was found. She was perfectly well. There was nothing to prevent them
from starting on their wedding tour as soon as they might wish to do so.
They would, therefore, leave London by the tidal train for Dover on the
next afternoon. The world would take it for granted that the wedding tour
had been interrupted and delayed only by the trial. The world would never
suspect Salome's strange escapade.

While these thoughts were passing through the mind of the duke, the
waiter came in and laid the cloth for supper.

And soon the landlord himself entered, bearing a tray on which was
arranged a choice bill of fare, the principal item of which was a roasted
pheasant.

The duke who had scarcely tasted food during the twenty-four hours of his
terrible anxiety, now that his anxiety was relieved, felt his appetite
return, demanding refreshment at the rate of compound interest.

He sat down to the table. The landlord waited on him.

The honest host of the Arondelle Arms was "dying," so to speak, for a
confidential conversation with his noble guest. For some little time his
respect for the Duke of Hereward held his curiosity in check; but at
length curiosity conquered respect, and he burst forth with:

"That wad be an unco impudent claim, the hizzie Rose Cameron tried to set
up agin your grace, as I hear all the folk say out by--the jaud maunn be
clear daft."

"It would be charitable to suppose that she is 'daft,' as you call it,
landlord. It would be well if a jury could be persuaded to think so, as,
in that case, it would save her from the penalty of perjury. But we will
speak no more of the poor girl. Take away the service, if you please,"
said the duke, quietly.

The landlord, balked of his desire to gossip, bowed, and cleared the
table.

It was not yet nine o'clock. There were more than three hours to be
passed before the express-train for London would reach Lone.

The duke, refreshed by his supper, felt no sense of weariness, no
disposition to lie down and sleep away the three remaining hours of his
stay. His mind was in too excited a condition to think of sleep. Neither
could he read.

So, soon after he was left alone by the landlord, he arose and sauntered
out through the private entrance into the night air.

The streets of the village were very quiet, for the reason that on this
night the men were all collected at the Arondelle Arms, discussing the
events of the day; and at this hour the women were all sure to be in
their houses, putting their children to bed, setting bread to rise, or
"garring th' auld claithes luke amaist as guid as the new."

The hamlet was very still under the starlit sky.

The Arondelle Arms, lighted up and musical, was the only noisy spot about
it.

The mountains stood, grand and silent, like gigantic sentinels around it.

The lake, the island, and the castle of Lone lay beneath it.

A sudden impulse seized the duke to cross the bridge, and re-visit once
more the home of his youth, the scene of his family's disaster, the stage
of that frightful tragedy which had shocked the civilized world.

He went down to the beach, and stepped upon the bridge. Now, no floral
wedding decorations wreathed the arches. All was bare and bleak beneath
the last October sky.

He crossed the bridge and entered on the grounds of the castle. All here
was sear under the late autumnal frosts. He did not approach the castle
walls. He would not disturb the servants at this hour. He walked about
the grounds until he heard the clock in Malcolm's Old Tower strike ten.
Then he turned his steps toward the hamlet.

Just before he reached the bridge, he overtook the tall, dark figure of a
man, clothed in a long, close overcoat, in shape not unlike a priest's
walking habit. The man tottered and stumbled as he walked, so that the
duke was soon abreast to him. And then he discovered the wanderer to be
John Potts, valet to the late Sir Lemuel Levison.

The young Duke of Hereward shrunk from this man. He could not bring
himself to speak with one whom he could not, in his own mind, clear from
suspicion.

He passed the valet, walking quickly, and gaining the bridge.

Then he heard footsteps rapidly following him, and the voice of the
ex-valet excitedly calling after him:

"My Lord Arondelle! oh! I beg pardon! Your grace! Your grace! For the
love of Heaven, let me speak to you!"

Thus adjured, the Duke of Hereward paused, and permitted the ex-valet to
come up beside him.

The wretched man was out of breath, pale, panting, trembling, ready to
faint. He tottered toward the bulwarks of the bridge, grasped them, and
leaned on them for support.

"What do you want of me, Potts?" inquired the duke.

"Oh, your grace! only to speak to you!" gasped the man.

"What can you have to say to me?" sternly demanded the duke.

"_This_, your grace!" said the man, suddenly springing forward and
falling on his knees at the feet of the duke. "_This_ I have to say,
your grace! Although the Court has not cleared me, I am innocent of my
master's blood! I am! I am! I am! as the Heaven above us hears and
knows! Oh! say you believe me, my lord duke!" cried the poor wretch,
wringing his hands.

"Your words and manner are very impressive; nevertheless, I cannot place
confidence in them," said the duke, coldly.

"Oh, my lord! my lord! Oh, my lord! my lord!" groaned the valet, lifting
both his hands to heaven, as if in appeal from a great injustice.

The duke was moved.

"If you _are_ guiltless, why should you care whether I, or any other
fallible mortal, should consider you guilty?" he inquired.

"Oh," cried the man, clasping his hands with the energy of
despair--"because _every_ body thinks me guilty! _No_ one
believes me innocent, though I am guiltless of my master's blood, so help
me Heaven!"

"The circumstances, though not enough to convict you in a court of law,
where every doubt must go in favor of the accused, were still strong
enough to lay you under suspicion, and open to a second arrest and trial
for your life, should new evidence turn up," quietly replied the duke.

"I know it! I know it, your grace. But no new evidence against me can
turn up! Lord grant that evidence in my favor might do so! But that
cannot happen either. The circumstances that accused, but could not
convict, nor acquit me, leave me still under the ban! Yes! under the ban
I must remain! But do not _you_, my lord duke, believe me guilty of
my master's death! Guilty of much I am! Guilty of neglect of duty, but
not of my master's death! The Heavens that hear me know it! Oh, pray,
pray try to believe it, my lord duke!" pleaded the wretch, still
kneeling, still lifting his clasped hands in an agony of appeal.

"Get upon your feet, Potts. Never kneel to any man. To do so is to
degrade yourself and the man to whom you kneel. Get up, before I speak
another word to you," said the duke.

The miserable creature struggled to his feet and stood leaning against
the bulwarks of the bridge, for support.

"Now, then, if you are not guilty, if your conscience acquits you in the
sight of Heaven of all complicity in your late master's death, why should
you feel and show such extreme distress--distress that has worn your
frame to a skeleton, and stricken your life with old age?" gravely
demanded the duke.

"Why?--oh, your grace! I loved my master as a son his father! He was more
like a father than a master to me. And he was cut off suddenly by a
bloody death! In the midst of my grief for his loss I was arrested and
accused of murdering him--my beloved master. I have seen the gallows
looming before me for the last three months. I have been shut in prison,
with no companions but my own awful thoughts. I have been put on trial
for my life. And though the jury could not convict me, it would not
acquit me! though I am set at large for the present, I am subject to
re-arrest and trial for death, if new evidence, however false, should
arise against me. Meanwhile, no one believes me innocent. All believe me
guilty. No one will ever speak to me. They made the inn too hot to hold
me. My life is ruined--my heart is broken! Is not all that enough, lord
duke, to have worn my body to a skeleton and turned my hair gray, without
remorse of conscience?" impetuously demanded the man.

"No, Potts, it is not. Nothing but remorse, it seems to me, could so
reduce a man," gravely replied the duke.

"Oh, your grace! you still believe me guilty of my good master's murder!"
passionately exclaimed the man. "Ah, Heaven! what will become of me? I
shall die unless I can have the stay of _some_ one's faith in me!"

"Potts," said the duke, in a softened tone, "I do not now think that you
had any active or conscious share in the foul murder of Sir Lemuel
Levison. But not the less do I see that you are suffering from remorse.
_You are still keeping something back from me!_" he added, very
solemnly.

The valet groaned, but made no answer.

"That is the reason why I have no confidence in you," said his grace.

The valet wrung his gaunt hands, but continued silent.

"Now I do not ask you to confide in me; but I will give you this
warning--so long as you hold in your bosom a secret which, if revealed,
would bring the real criminal to justice, so long you will yourself
remain the object of suspicion from others and the victim of remorse
in yourself. Now, Potts, I must leave you; for I must get to Lone in time
to catch the London express. Good-night," said the duke, as he moved
away.

"One moment more, oh, my lord duke! for the love of Heaven! One moment to
do a piece of justice," pleaded the ex-valet, tottering after the young
nobleman.

"Well, well, what is it now?" inquired the latter, pausing and turning
back.

"That poor, misguided girl, Rose Cameron," said the valet.

"Well, what of _her_, man?" impatiently demanded the young nobleman.

"Listen, my lord duke! You saw her committed to prison on the charge of
perjury."

"A charge that she was self-convicted of."

"My lord duke, she was not guilty of perjury!" sighed the valet.

"What! What is that you say?" quickly demanded the duke.

"I say, Rose Cameron, poor misguided girl that she was, did not, however,
perjure herself--_intentionally_ I mean," repeated John Potts.

"Is she _mad_, then? The victim of a monomania?" gravely inquired
the duke, fixing his eyes upon the troubled face of the valet.

"No, your grace, she was never more in her right senses."

"What do you mean? Do you _dare_--"

"My lord duke, I dare nothing. I never was a daring man; if I had been,
the daring would have been taken out of me by the troubles of this last
quarter of a year! But, my lord duke, I am right. Rose Cameron did not
intentionally perjure herself, neither is she mad. Rose Cameron believes
in her heart every word of the statement she made under oath in the open
court this morning."

While the man thus spoke, the duke looked fixedly at him in perfect
silence, in the forlorn hope of hearing some solution to the enigma.

"Rose Cameron was deceived, my lord duke--grossly, cruelly, basely
deceived--not in one respect only, but in many. She was, first of all,
deceived into the idea of being the wife of a gentleman of high rank,
when, in fact she is nobody's wife at all. Next she was deceived into
becoming an accomplice in a robbery and murder, of which she was as
ignorant and as innocent as--as _myself_. She could not have been
more so!"

"Who was her deceiver?" sternly demanded the duke.

"I beg pardon. I know no more than your grace! I only presumed to speak
about it, so as to explain the strange conduct of that poor girl, and
clear her of intentional penury in your sight," said the valet, meekly.

"Potts, you know much more than you are willing to divulge. You have,
however, unwittingly given me a clew that I shall take care to follow up.
Once more let me warn you to get rid of sinful secrets, and amend your
life, if you wish to be at peace. Good-night."

So saying, the duke walked rapidly away to make up for the time lost in
talking with the ex-valet.

It was after eleven o'clock when he reached the Arondelle Arms, yet the
little hostel gave no signs of closing. The windows were all still ablaze
with light, and the bar and the tap-room were uproarious with fun.
Evidently the Clan Scott had been drinking the health of the duke and
duchess until they had become--

        "Glorious!
O'er all the ills of life victorious!"

The duke slipped in at the private entrance and gained his own apartment,
where he found his valet engaged in packing his valise.

He sent the man out to pay the tavern bill.

In a few minutes Kerr returned, accompanied by the landlord, who brought
the receipt, and inquired if his grace would have a carriage.

"No," the duke said; as the distance was short, he preferred to walk to
the station.

In a few moments he left the inn, followed by his valet carrying his
valise.

They caught the train in good time, having just secured their tickets
when the warning shriek of the engine was heard, and it thundered up to
the station and stopped.

The duke, followed by his servant, entered the coupe he had secured for
the journey.

Three nights of sleeplessness, anxiety and fatigue had prostrated the
vital forces of the young nobleman, and so, no sooner had the train
started, than he sat himself comfortably back among his cushions, and,
being now in a great measure relieved from suspense, he fell into a
deep and dreamless sleep. This sleep continued almost unbroken through
the night, and was only slightly disturbed by the bustle of arrival when
the train reached a large city on its route. He awoke when it arrived at
Peterborough; but fell asleep again, and slept through the long twilight
of that first day of November.




CHAPTER XXVI.

OFF THE TRACK.


It was eight o'clock in the morning of a dark and cloudy day, when the
duke was finally aroused by the noise and confusion attending the arrival
of the Great Northern Express train at King's Cross Station, London.

He shook himself wide awake, adjusted his wrap, and sprang out of his
coupe, while yet his servant was but just bestirring himself.

The first man he met in the station was Detective Setter.

"_How_ is she?" eagerly inquired the traveller, hastening to meet
the officer.

"She is perfectly well, and expresses herself as not only willing, but
anxious to see your grace," replied the detective.

"_Not only willing!_ that is a strange phrase, too! But I presume I
shall understand it all when I see her. _Where_ is she?" demanded
the duke.

"At the house on Westminster Road. The address _was_ Westminster,
and not Blackfriars Road."

"At the house on Westminster Road! Did you find her there?"

"I did your grace."

"But why, in the name of propriety, and good sense, does she not return
home?"

"Your grace, she is at home," said the perplexed detective.

"Just now you told me that she was at the house on Westminster Road!"
said the bewildered duke.

"Beg pardon, your grace, but the house on Westminster Road _is_ her
home. She has no other that I know of."

The duke stared at the detective a moment, and then hastily demanded:

"Who _are_ you talking of?"

"Beg pardon again, your grace, but I am afraid there is some
misunderstanding."

"_Who_ are you talking about?"

"I am talking of the woman who came to the duchess just before she
disappeared," answered the detective.

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the duke, with such a look of deep
disappointment that the detective hastened to deprecate his displeasure
by saying:

"I am very sorry, your grace, that there should have been any
misapprehension."

"You idiot!" were the words that arose spontaneously to the duke's lips;
but they were not uttered. The "princely Hereward" habitually governed
himself.

"Why did you not tell me in your telegram _who_ was found?" he
demanded.

"I certainly thought that your grace would have understood. In the
telegram dispatched at nine o'clock yesterday morning, I told your grace
that I had a clew to the woman who had called at Elmthorpe House on
Tuesday. In the telegram sent at three in the afternoon, I said--'She is
found.' I certainly thought your grace would understand that the woman to
whom I had gained the clew was found. I grieve to know how much mistaken
I was," sighed Mr. Setter.

"Ah! that accounts for everything. I never received that first telegram."

"Your grace never received it?"

"Certainly not."

"Then my messenger was false to his trust. I was so indiscreet as to send
it to the office by a ticket porter, believing the fellow would do his
duty faithfully, after having been paid in advance. The more fool I. I am
certainly old enough to have known better!" said the detective, with a
mortified air.

"Well Mr. Setter, it is useless to regret that mistake now. Be so good as
to call a cab. We will go at once to Westminster Road and see this Mrs.
Brown. What information has she given you?"

"None whatever, except this, which we knew before--that she visited the
bride on the afternoon of the wedding day. She declines to tell _me_
the nature of her business with the duchess; but says that she will
explain it to you; she further denies all knowledge of the present abode
of the duchess."

"Then we must lose no time in going to the woman," said the duke.

As he spoke, the cab which had been signalled by the detective drove up,
and the cabman jumped down and opened the door.

The duke entered it and sat down on the back cushions.

His grace's servant, Kerr, came up to the window for orders.

"Take my luggage home to Elmthorpe House. Give my respects to Lady
Belgrade, and say that I will join her ladyship this afternoon," said the
duke.

The servant touched his hat and withdrew.

"To Number ----, Westminster Road," ordered Mr. Setter, as he mounted to
the box-seat beside the cabman.

The latter started his horses at a good rate of speed, so that a drive of
about forty minutes brought them to their destination.

The detective jumped down and opened the door, saying,

"Excuse me, your grace; but, I think, perhaps I ought to go in first to
ensure you an interview with the woman?"

"By all means go in first, officer. I will remain here in the cab until
you return to summon me," answered the duke.

Detective Setter went up to the door and knocked, and then waited a few
seconds until the door was opened, and he was admitted by an unseen hand.

A few minutes elapsed, and then detective Setter reappeared, and came up
to the cab and said:

"She will see you at once, early as it is, your grace, I do not know what
in the world possesses the old woman; but she is chuckling in the most
insane manner in the anticipation of meeting you 'face to face,' as she
calls it."

"Well, we shall soon see," said the duke, as, with a resigned air, he
followed Mr. Setter into the house.

The detective led him up stairs to the gaudy parlor which had once been
Rose Cameron's sitting-room.

There was no one present; but the detective handed a chair to the duke,
and begged him to sit down and wait for Mrs. Brown's appearance.

The duke threw himself into the chair, and gazed around him upon the
garish scene, until a chamber door opened, and Mrs. Brown, in her
Sunday's best suit, sailed in. The duke arose.

Mrs. Brown came on toward him, courtesying stiffly, and saying:

"Good morning to you, Mr. Scott! It is a many months since I have had the
pleasure of seeing you in this house."

The duke was not so much amazed at this greeting as he might have been,
had he not heard the astounding testimony of Rose Cameron. So he answered
quietly:

"I do not think, madam, that you ever 'had the pleasure' of seeing me 'in
this house' or, in fact, anywhere else. I have never seen _you_ in
my life before."

"Oh! oh! oh! here to the man! He would brazen it out to my very face!"
exclaimed Mrs. Brown.

The duke started and flushed crimson as he stared at the woman.

"Oh, I am not afeard of you! Deuce a bit am I afeard of you! You may
glare till your eyes drop out, but you'll not scare me! And you may be
the Markiss of Arondelle and the Duke of Hereward, too, for aught
I know, or care either! But you were just plain Mr. John Scott to me, and
also to that poor, wronged lass whom you have betrayed into prison, if
not unto death! And now, Mr. John Scott, as you wished to see me (and
I can guess why you wished to see me,) and as I have no objection to see
you, besides having something of importance to tell you, perhaps you will
send that man off," said Mrs. Brown pointing to the detective.

"No. I prefer that Mr. Setter should stay here, and be a witness to all
that passes between us," answered the duke.

"All right. It is no business of mine, and no _shame_ of mine. Only
I thought as you mightn't like a stranger to hear all your secrets, and
I wish to spare your feelings," said the woman.

"I beg you will not consider my feelings in the least, madam," answered
the duke, with a slight smile of amusement; "and I hope you will allow
Mr. Setter to remain," he added.

"Oh, in course! _I_ have no objection, if _you_ have none."

"Pray go on and say what you have to say," urged the duke.

"Then, first of all, I have to tell you that I know why you have come
here. You have come to inquire about Miss Salome Levison, the great
banker's heiress."

"You are speaking of the Duchess of Hereward, madam," interrupted the
duke, in a stern voice.

"No, I'm not. I am speaking of Miss Salome Levison. She is not the
Duchess of Hereward. I don't know but one Duchess of Hereward, and _her
you are ashamed to own_," spitefully added Mrs. Brown.

"You are a woman, aged and insane, and therefore entitled to our utmost
indulgence," said the duke, putting the strongest control upon himself.
"But tell me now, what was your business with the Lady of Lone, upon whom
you called at Elmthorpe House on Tuesday afternoon?"

"I went from your true wife, whom you had betrayed into prison, to your
false wife, to let her know what you were, and to tell her that there was
but one step between herself and ruin!"

"Good Heaven! you did that!" exclaimed the duke, utterly thrown off his
guard.

"Yes, I did! And I showed the young lady your real wife's marriage lines,
all regularly signed and witnessed by the rector of St. Margaret's and
the sexton, and the pew-opener! I did! And there were letters in your own
handwriting, and photographs, the very print of you, which I took along
with the marriage lines, to prove my words when I told her that you had
been married for over a year, and had lived in my house with your wife
all that time!"

"Heaven may forgive you for that great wrong, woman; but I never can!
And--the lady believed you?"

"Of course she did! How could she help it, when she saw all the proofs?
It almost killed her. Indeed, and I think it _did_ quite craze her!
But she saw her duty, and she had the courage to do it! She knew as she
ought to leave you, before the false marriage could go any further. So
she left you. I do really respect her for it!"

"In the name of Heaven, _where_ did she go? Tell me that! Tell me
where to find her, and I may be able to pardon the great wrong you have
done us under some insane error," said the husband of the lost wife,
striving to control his indignation.

"Indeed, then," exclaimed Mrs. Brown, defiantly, "I am not asking any
pardon at all from you, Mr. Scott. It ain't likely as I'll want pardon
from Heaven for doing my duty, much less from _you_, Mr. John Scott.
Oh, yes! I know you are called the Duke of Hereward; and no doubt you are
the Duke of Hereward; but I knew you as Mr. John Scott, and nobody else;
and I knew a deal too much of you as _him_. But as to wanting your
pardon--that's a good one!"

"Will you be good enough to tell me where my wife, the Duchess of
Hereward, has gone?" demanded the duke, putting a strong curb upon his
anger.

"_You_ know where _she_ is well enough. _She_ is in the _trap_ you set
for her!" spitefully answered the woman.

In truth, the duke needed all his powers of self-control to enable him to
reply calmly:

"I ask you to tell me where is the Lady of Lone, to whom you went on
Tuesday afternoon, with a story which has driven her from her home, and
driven her, perhaps, to madness, or to death. I charge you to tell me,
where is she?"

"Ah! where is Miss Salome Levison, the heiress of Lone, you ask! Exactly!
That is what you would give a great deal to know, wouldn't you! You want
to follow and join her, and live with her abroad, because you have got a
wife living in England. You're a noble duke, so you are! Well, if
_this_ is what the nobility are a coming to, the sooner them
Republicans have it all their own way the better, I say!" exclaimed Mrs.
Brown, throwing herself back in her chair and folding her arms.

Detective Setter here joined the Duke of Hereward, and deferentially drew
him away to the other end of the room, and whispered:

"I beg your grace not to remain here, subjected to the insolence of this
mad woman, whose every second word is treason or blasphemy, or worse, if
anything can be worse. Leave me to deal with her. A very little more, and
I shall arrest her on the grave charge of conspiracy."

"No, Setter, do nothing of the sort. Use no violence; utter no threats.
_Now_, if ever--here, if anywhere--is a crisis, at which we must be
not only 'wise as serpents, but _harmless_ as doves,' if we would
gain any information from this woman," answered Salome's husband, as he
walked back and rejoined Mrs. Brown.

"Will you tell me, _on any terms_, where the Lady of Lone is to be
found?" he inquired.

"Humph! I like that! Aren't you a sharp? You _can't_ call her the
duchess, and you _won't_ call her Miss Levison, so you call her the
Lady of Lone, anyway!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, with a chuckling laugh.

"But, will you, _for any price_, tell me where she has gone?"
repeated the duke.

"As to where Miss Salome Levison has gone, I would not tell you to save
your life, even if I could. I could not tell you, even if I would. I left
her sitting in her bed-chamber at Elmthorpe House, on that Tuesday
afternoon after her false marriage. She was sitting clothed in her deep
mourning travelling suit, as she had put on again for her father directly
the wedding breakfast was over. She looked the very image of sorrow and
despair. She did not tell me where she was going. I don't believe she
even knew herself. There, that's all that I have got to tell you, even if
you had the power to put me on the rack, as you used to have in the bad
old times!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, once more folding her arms and settling
herself in her chair.

The Duke of Hereward walked toward the detective officer.

"There is nothing more to be learned from the woman, at present, Setter.
We have already gained much, however, in the knowledge of the base
calumny that drove the duchess from her home. It is a relief to be
assured that she has not fallen among London thieves. She has probably
gone abroad. You must inquire, discreetly, at the London Bridge Railway
Stations, for a young lady, in deep mourning, travelling alone, who
bought a first-class ticket, on Tuesday evening. There, Setter! There
is a mere outline of instructions. You will fill it up as your discretion
and experience may suggest," concluded the duke, as he drew on his
gloves.

"I would suggest, your grace, that we go to St. Margaret's Old Church,
where this strange marriage, in which they try to compromise you, is said
to have taken place, and which is close by," said the detective.

"By all means, let us go there and look at the register," assented the
duke.

They took leave of Mrs. Brown, and left the house.

Five minutes drive took them to Old St. Margaret's.

They were fortunate as to the time. The daily morning service was just
over, and the curate who had officiated was still in the chancel.

The Duke of Hereward went in, and requested the young clergyman to favor
him with a sight of the parish register.

The curate complied by inviting the two visitors to walk into the vestry.

He then placed two chairs at the green table, requested them to be
seated, and laid before them the brass-bound volume recording the births,
marriages and deaths of this populous, old parish.

The Duke of Hereward turned over the ponderous leaves until he came to
the page he sought.

And there he found, duly registered, signed and witnessed, the marriage,
by special license, of Archibald-Alexander-John Scott and Rose Cameron,
both of Lone, Scotland.

"The mystery deepens," said the duke as he pointed to the register.

"It is incomprehensible," answered the detective.

"That is my name," added the duke.

"Some imposter must have assumed it," suggested the officer.

"Then the imposter, in taking my name, must have also taken my face and
form, voice and manner, for though, upon my soul, I never married Rose
Cameron, there are two honest women who are ready to swear that I did!"
whispered the duke, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes; for there were
moments when the absurdity of the situation overcame its gravity.

The duke then thanked the curate for his courtesy and left the church,
attended by the detective.

"Where shall I tell the cabman to drive?" inquired Setter, as he held the
door open after his employer had entered the cab.

"To Elmthorpe House, Kensington. And then, get in here, with me, if you
please, Mr. Setter. I have something to say to you," answered his grace.

The detective gave the order and entered the cab.

The duke then made many suggestions, drawn from his own intimate
knowledge of the tastes and habits of the duchess, to assist the
detective in his search.

"You may safely leave the whole affair in my hands, sir. I will act with
so much discretion that no one in London shall suspect that the Duchess
of Hereward is missing. For the rest, I have no doubt that we shall soon
find out the retreat of her grace. A young lady, dressed in elegant deep
mourning, and travelling unattended, would be sure to have attracted
attention and aroused curiosity, even in the confusion of a crowded
railway station. We are safe to trace her, your grace," said Detective
Setter, confidently.




CHAPTER XXVII.

IN THE CONVENT.


Salome was tenderly nursed by the nuns during the nine days in which her
fever raged with unabated violence.

At the end of that time, having spent all its force, the fever went off,
leaving her weak as a child, in mind as well as in body.

As soon as she was convalescent the abbess had her carefully removed from
the infirmary in which she had lain ill, to a spacious chamber, with
windows overlooking the convent garden--a gloomy outlook now, however,
with its seared grass and withered foliage, shivering under the dreary
November sky.

The room was very clean and very scantily furnished; the walls were
whitewashed and the floor was painted gray. The two windows were shaded
with plain white linen; the cot bedstead, which stood against the wall
opposite the windows, was covered with a coarse, white, dimity spread.

Between the windows stood a small table, covered with a white cloth, and
furnished with a white, earthen-ware basin and ewer. On each side of this
table sat two wooden chairs, painted gray.

In one corner of the room stood a little altar, draped with white linen,
and adorned with a crucifix, surrounded with small pictures of saints and
angels.

In the opposite corner stood a small, porcelain stove, which barely
served to temper the coldness of the air.

There were few articles of comfort, and none of luxury, in the room--a
strip of gray carpet, laid down beside the bed, an easy-chair with soft,
padded back, arms, and seat, covered with white dimity, drawn up to
the window nearest the stove, and a footstool of gray tapestry on the
floor before it. These comforts were allowed to none but invalids.

The abbess came in to see her every day.

One morning Salome said to her visitor:

"Mother, I have left this affair with the Duke of Hereward incomplete.
I must complete it, that I may have peace."

"I do not understand you, my child," said the abbess, in some uneasiness.

"I have left him as in duty bound. I must write to him to let him know
_why_ I left him; but I must not let him know the place of my
retreat. I think I heard you say that our father-director was going to
Rome this week?"

"Yes, my child."

"Then I will write to the Duke of Hereward for the last time, and bid him
an eternal farewell. I will not date my letter from any place; but I will
give it to the father-director that he may post it from Rome. You shall
read my letter before I close it, dear mother. And now, on these terms,
will you let me have writing materials?"

"Certainly, my child. I will send them to you; or rather I will bring
them," answered the meek lady-superior, as she arose and left the room.

In a very few minutes she returned with the required articles.

Salome wrote her letter, and then submitted it to the perusal of the
abbess, who accorded it her full approval.

"Now, dear mother, if the father-director will take that with him and
post it from Rome, all will be over between the Duke of Hereward and
myself! We shall be dead to each other," said Salome, as the abbess took
the letter and left the room.

Then the invalid sank back, exhausted, in her easy-chair.

In this easy-chair by the window, with her feet upon the footstool,
Salome sat day after day of her convalescence; sometimes for hours
together, with her hands clasped upon her lap, and her eyes fixed upon
the floor, in a sort of stupor; sometimes with her sad gaze turned upon
the sear garden, as she murmured to herself:

"Withered like my life!"

Some one among the nuns was always with her; but she took no notice of
her companion, seeming quite unconscious of the sister's presence.

The abbess had taken care to have books of devotion laid upon her little
table, but Salome never opened one of them.

Apathy, lethargy, like a moral death, had fallen upon her.

The story of her sorrows, known only to the abbess, to whom she had
confided it on the eve of her illness, was never alluded to.

Salome seemed to have buried it in silence. The abbess feared to raise it
from the dead.

Not one in the convent suspected the real circumstances of the case.

All the sisterhood knew Miss Salome Levison, the young English heiress,
who had been educated within their walls; all knew that in leaving the
convent, three years before she had declared her intention to return at
the end of three years and take the vail. She had returned, according to
her word, and no one was surprised. Her sickness they considered purely
accidental. They had no knowledge of her marriage. She was to them still
Miss Salome Levison, who had once been their pupil, and was now soon to
be their sister.

No newspapers were taken in at the convent, or the nuns might have seen
repeated notices of her approaching marriage before it took place, as
well as a long account of the ceremony and the breakfast, after they had
come off.

The abbess tried many gentle expedients to arouse Salome from her moral
torpor, but all her efforts were fruitless.

Salome had once been an enthusiast in music, and a very accomplished
performer on several instruments. Her favorite had always been the harp,
and next to that the guitar.

She was not yet strong enough to play on the former, but she might very
well manage the latter.

So the abbess caused a light and elegant little guitar to be placed in
her room.

Salome never even noticed it; but sat with her eyes fixed on her clasped
hands that lay on her lap.

So November and a good part of December passed, with very little change.

The abbess, whose rule was absolute in her own house, had most solemnly
warned the whole sisterhood that they were not to speak of "Miss
Levison's" presence in the convent to any visitor, or pupil, or any other
person whatever, or to write of it to any correspondent. The nuns had
obeyed their abbess so well, that not a whisper of Salome's presence in
the house had been heard outside its walls.

At length Christmas drew near.

The academy was closed for the season, and the pupils all went home to
spend their holidays.

After the departure of their young charges, the sisterhood were very busy
in making preparations to celebrate the joyous anniversary of our Lord's
birth.

There were so many delightful little duties to be done; the chapel to be
decorated with evergreens and exotics; the shrines of the saints to be
decked; extra dainties to be made for the sick in the Infirmary; presents
to be got up for the aged men and women of the "Home" attached to the
convent; entertaining books to be selected and inscribed with the names
of the boys and girls of their Orphan Asylum; doll-babies to be dressed
and toys to be chosen for the infants of their Foundling; and, finally,
a great Christmas-tree to be mounted and decorated for the delight of the
whole community within their walls.

The sisterhood took so much pleasure in all these preparations for
Christmas, that it occurred to the abbess she might be able so far to
interest her unhappy guest in the work as to arouse her from that fearful
lethargy which seemed to be destroying both her mind and body.

Salome Levison, while she had been a pupil in the convent, had never
performed any services for the charities of the community except by
giving liberally from her ample means.

Gladly would she have ministered in person to the needs of old age,
illness, or infancy; but for her to have done so would have been against
the rules of the establishment. The pupils of the academy were not
permitted to hold any intercourse whatever with the inmates of the
charitable institutions of the convent. This was a concession to the
prudence of parents, who feared all manner of contaminations from any
communication between their children and such _miserables_.

The convent was so planned as to effect a complete separation between the
academy and the asylums.

The buildings were erected around a hollow square. They measured a
hundred feet on each side, and arose to a height of four stories.

In the centre of the front, or northern, face, stood the chapel, a
beautiful little Gothic temple, surmounted by a steeple and a gilded
cross; on each hand, in a line with the chapel, stood the buildings
containing the cloisters, dormitories, and refectories of the nuns and
novices.

On the east front stood the Foundling for abandoned infants; the Asylum
for orphan boys and girls, and the Home for aged men and women.

On the south end were the offices, kitchens, laundries, store-houses,
gas-house, and so forth, for the whole establishment.

Finally, on the west front, farthest removed from the asylums, were the
academy buildings, containing school and class-rooms, dormitories and
refectory for the accommodation of pupils.

It was in these west buildings that Salome had lived and learned during
the years she had spent at the Convent of St. Rosalie. She had never
entered any other part of the establishment except the chapel, and on the
north front, which was reached by a long passage running with an angle
from the school-hall to the chapel aisle.

The square courtyard within the enclosure of these buildings was paved
with gray flag-stones, and adorned in the centre by a marble fountain.
But no footstep ever crossed it except that of some lay sister
occasionally sent from the cloisters to the office, on some household
errand. So no opportunity was afforded of making the courtyard a place
of meeting between the "young ladies" of the academy and the poor little
children of the asylums.

The academy opened from its front upon its own gardens, lawns,
shrubberies, and other pleasure-grounds, the resort of its pupils during
their hours of recreation.

Thus Salome Levison, with all her school-mates, had been completely cut
off from all intercourse with the objects of the convent's charity during
the whole period of her residence at the academy, which, indeed, covered
the greater portion of her young life.

Now, however, since her return to the convent, she had been domiciliated
in the nun's house on the right of the chapel, and possessed, if she
pleased to exercise it, the freedom of the establishment.

On the Saturday before Christmas (which would also come on Saturday that
year) the abbess went into the room occupied by her invalid guest.

Salome was seated in the white easy-chair beside the window, and near the
porcelain stove. She was dressed in a deep mourning wrapper of black
bombazine, and an inside handkerchief and undersleeves of white linen.
Her pallid face and plain hair, and the severe, funereal black and white
of her surroundings, made a very ghastly picture altogether.

The Sister Francoise sat there in attendance on her.

The mother-superior dismissed the nun, took her vacated seat, and looked
in the face of her guest.

Salome seemed utterly unconscious of the superior's presence. She sat
with her hands clasped upon her lap and her eyes fixed upon the floor.

"Salome, my daughter, how is it with you?" softly inquired the abbess,
taking one of the limp, thin hands within her own, and tenderly pressing
it.

"I am the queen of sorrow, crowned and frozen on my desert throne,"
murmured the girl, in a trance-like abstraction.

"Salome, my child!" said the mother-superior, gazing anxiously into her
stony face, whose eyes had never moved from their fixed stare; "Salome,
my dear daughter, look at me."

"'I am the star of sorrow, pale and lonely in the wintry sky.'"

"My poor girl, what do you mean?"

"I read that somewhere, long ago,--oh, so long ago, when I was a happy
child, and yet I wept then for that solitary mourner as I am not able to
weep now for myself, though it suits me just as much," murmured Salome,
in the same trance-like manner, still staring on the floor, as she
continued:

"Yes, just as much, just as much, for--

"Never was lament begun
By any mourner under sun
That e'en it ended fit but one!"

"Salome, look at me, speak to me, my dear daughter," said the abbess,
tend