Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15

by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1. 1)

  “Then I am sure of you, and I swear you never shall regret your confidence; for as soon as my peace is made at home, you shall be received there as my honored wife.”

  “Are you very sure that you will be forgiven?” she asked anxiously, as if weighing possibilities even then.

  “I am sure of pardon after the first anger is over, for they love me too much to disinherit or banish me, and they need only see you to be won at once.”

  “This marriage, Allan—it will be a true one? You will not deceive me; for if I leave Victor I shall have no friend in the wide world but you.”

  The most disloyal lover could not have withstood the pleading look, the gesture of appeal which accompanied her words, and this one, who harbored no treachery, assured her with solemn protestations and the most binding vows.

  A few moments were spent in maturing their plan, and Virginie was just leaving him with the word “Tomorrow” on her lips when an animated flame of fire seemed to dart into the room. It was a youth whose scarlet-and-silver costume glowed and glittered in the light, as with one marvelous bound he crossed the room and stood before them. Supple, sinewy, and slight was the threatening figure which they saw; dark and defiant the face, with fierce black eyes, frowning brows, and the gleam of set teeth between lips parted by a muttered malediction. Lovely as the other apparition had been, this was far more striking, for it seemed full of the strong grace and beauty of the fallen angel whom it represented. The pose was magnificent; a flaming crown shone in the dark hair, and filmy pinions of scarlet flecked with silver drooped from shoulder to heel. So fiery and fierce he looked, it was little wonder that one lover drew back and the other uttered an exclamation of surprise. Instantly recovering herself, however, Virginie broke into a blithe laugh, and airily twirled away beyond the reach of Victor s outstretched hand.

  “It is late; you are not dressed—you will be disgraced by a failure. Go!” he said, with an air of command.

  “Au revoir, monsieur; I leave Paris with you.” And as she uttered the words with a glance that pointed their double meaning, Virginie vanished.

  Turning to the long mirror behind him, the young gentleman replaced his hat, resettled in his buttonhole the flower just given him, tranquilly drew on his gloves, saying, as he strolled toward the door, “I shall return to my box to witness this famous ‘Pas des Deesses.’ Virginie, Lucille, and Clotilde, upon my word, Paris, you will find it difficult to decide upon which of the three goddesses to bestow the golden apple.” Not a word spoke Victor, till the sounds of steps died away. Then he departed to his dressing room, moodily muttering as he went, “Tomorrow, she said. They intend to meet somewhere. Good! I will prevent that. There has been enough of this—it must end, and Virginie shall keep her promise. I will stand guard tonight and watch them well tomorrow.” Three hours later, breathless and pale with fatigue and rage, Victor sprang up the steps leading to his cousin’s chamber in the old house by the Seine. A lamp burned in a niche beside her door; a glass of wine and a plate of fruit stood there also, waiting as usual for him. As his eye fell upon these objects a long sigh of relief escaped him.

  “Thank heaven, she has come home then. Yet hold! It may be but a ruse to prevent my discovering her absence. Virginie! Cousin! Are you there?”

  He struck upon the door, lightly at first, then vehemently, and to his great joy a soft, sleepy voice replied, “Who calls?”

  “It is Victor. I missed you, searched for you, and grew anxious when I found you gone. Why did you not wait, as usual?”

  “Mile. Clotilde offered me a seat in her carriage, and I gladly accepted it. She was set down first, and it is a long distance there and back, you know. Now let me rest; I am very tired.”

  “Good night, my heart,” answered Victor, adding, in a tone of pain and tenderness, as he turned away, “mon Dieul How I love that girl, and how she tortures me! Rest well, my cousin; I shall guard your sleep.”

  Hour after hour passed, and still a solitary figure paced to and fro with noiseless feet along the narrow terrace that lay between the ancient house and the neglected garden sloping to the river. Dawn was slowly breaking in the east when the window of Virginie’s chamber opened cautiously, and her charming head appeared. The light was very dim, and shadows still lay dark upon the house; but Victor, coming from the water gate whither he had been drawn by the sound of a passing boat, heard the soft movement, glided behind a group of shrubs, and eyed the window keenly, remembering that now it was “tomorrow.” For a moment the lovely face leaned out, looking anxiously across terrace, street, and garden. The morning air seemed to strike cold on her uncovered shoulders, and with a shiver she was drawing back when a man’s hand laid a light cloak about her, and a man’s head appeared beside her own.

  “Imprudent! Go quickly, or Victor will be stirring. At noon I shall be ready,” she said half aloud, and as she withdrew the curtain fell.

  With the bound of a wounded tiger, Victor reached the terrace, and reckless of life or limb, took the short road to his revenge. The barred shutters of a lower window, the carved ornaments upon the wall, and the balcony that hung above, all offered foot- and handhold for an agile climber like himself, as, creeping upward like a stealthy shadow, he peered in with a face that would have appalled the lovers had they seen it. They did not, for standing near the half-opened door, they were parting as Romeo and Juliet parted, heart to heart, cheek to cheek, and neither saw nor heard the impending doom until the swift stroke fell. So sure, so sudden was it that Virginie knew nothing, till, with a stifled cry, her lover started, swayed backward from her arms, and dyeing her garments with his blood, fell at her feet stabbed through the heart.

  An awful silence followed, for Virginie uttered no cry of alarm, made no gesture of flight, showed no sign of guilt; but stood white and motionless as if turned to stone.

  Soon Victor grasped her arm and hissed into her ear, “Traitress! I could find it in my heart to lay you there beside him. But no; you shall live to atone for your falsehood to me and mourn your lover.”

  Something in the words or tone seemed to recall her scattered senses and rouse her to a passionate abhorrence of him and of his deed. She wrenched herself from his hold, saying vehemently, though instinctively below her breath, “No; it is you who shall atone! He was my husband, not my lover. Look if I lie!”

  He did look as a trembling hand was stretched toward him over that dead form. On it he saw a wedding ring, and in it the record of the marriage which in a single night had made her wife and widow. With an ejaculation of despair he snatched the paper as if to tear and scatter it; but some sudden thought flashed into his mind, and putting the record in his bosom, he turned to Virginie with an expression that chilled her by its ominous resolve.

  “Listen/’ he said, “and save yourself while you may; for I swear, if you raise your voice, lift your hand against me, or refuse to obey me now, that I will denounce you as the murderer of that man. You were last seen with him, were missed by others besides me last night. There lies his purse; here is the only proof of your accursed marriage; and if I call in witnesses, which of us looks most like an assassin, you or I?”

  She listened with a terror-stricken face, glanced at her bloody garments, knew that she was in the power of a relentless man, and clasped her hands with a gesture of mute supplication and submission.

  “You are wise,” he said. “Apart, we are both in danger; together we may be strong and safe. I have a plan—hear it and help me to execute it, for time is life now. You have spoken to many of going into the country; it shall be so, but we will give our departure the appearance of a sudden thought, a lover’s flight. Leave everything behind you but money and jewels. That purse will more than pay you the sum you cannot claim. While I go to fling this body into the river, to tell no tales till we are safe, destroy all traces of the deed, prepare yourself for traveling, and guard the room in silence until I come. Remember! One sign of treachery, one cry for help, and I denounce you where my word will have much weight
and yours none.”

  She gave him her hand upon the dark bargain, and covering up her face to hide the tragic spectacle, she heard Victor leave the room with his awful burden.

  When he returned, she was nearly ready, for though moving like one in a ghastly dream, bewildered by the sudden loss of the long coveted, just won prize, and daunted by the crime whose retribution a word might bring upon herself, she still clung to life and its delights with the tenacity of a selfish nature, a shallow heart. While she finished her hasty preparations, Victor set the room in order, saw that the red witnesses of the crime were burnt, and dashed off a gay note to a friend, enclosing money for all obligations, explaining their sudden flight as an innocent ruse to escape congratulations on their hasty marriage, and promising to send soon for such possessions as were left behind. Then, leaving the quiet room to be forever haunted by the memory of a night of love, and sin, and death, like two pale ghosts they vanished in the dimness of the dawn.

  Chapter II

  EARL’S MYSTERY

  FOUR ladies sat in the luxurious privacy of Lady Lennox’s boudoir, whiling away the listless hour before dinner with social chat. Dusk was deepening, but firelight filled the room with its warm glow, flickering on mirrors, marbles, rich hues, and graceful forms, and bathing the four faces with unwonted bloom.

  Stately Diana Stuart leaned on the high back of the chair in which sat her aunt and chaperon, the Honorable Mrs. Berkeley. On the opposite side of the wide hearth a slender figure lounged in the deep corner of a couch, with a graceful abandon which no Englishwoman could hope to imitate. The face was hidden by a hand-screen, but a pair of ravishing feet were visible, and a shower of golden hair shone against the velvet pillow. Directly before the fire sat Lady Lennox, a comely, hospitable matron who was never so content as when she could gather her female guests about her and refresh herself with a little good-natured gossip. She had evidently been discussing some subject which interested her hearers, for all were intently listening, and all looked eager for more, when she said, with a significant nod:

  “Yes, I assure you there is a mystery in that family. Lady Carrick has known them all her life, and from what she has dropped from time to time, I quite agree with her in believing that something has gone wrong.”

  “Dear Lady Lennox, pray go on! There is nothing so charming as a family mystery when the narrator can give a clue to her audience, as I am sure you can,” exclaimed the lady on the couch, in a persuasive voice which had a curious ring to it despite its melody.

  “That is just what I cannot do, Mrs. Vane. However, I will gladly tell you all I know. This is in strict confidence, you understand.”

  “Certainly!” “Upon my honor!” “Not a word shall pass my lips!” murmured the three listeners, drawing nearer, as Lady Lennox fixed her eyes upon the fire and lowered her voice.

  “It is the custom in ancient Scottish families for the piper of the house, when dying, to put the pipes into the hand of the heir to name or title. Well, when old Dougal lay on his deathbed, he called for Earl, the fourth son—”

  “What a peculiar name!” interrupted Mrs. Berkeley.

  “It was not his proper name, but they called him so because of his strong resemblance to the pictures of the great earl, Black Douglass. They continued to call him so to this day, and I really don’t know whether his name is Allan, Archie, or Alex, for they are all family names, and one cannot remember which belongs to whom. Now the eldest son was Robert, and Dougal should have called for him, because the title and the fortune always go to the eldest son of the eldest son. But no, Earl must come; and into his hands the pipes were put, with a strange prophecy that no heir would enjoy the title but a year until it came to him.”

  “Was the prediction fulfilled?” asked Diana.

  “To the letter. This was five or six years ago, and not one year has passed without a death, till now a single feeble life is all that stands between Earl and the title. Nor was this all. When his father died, though he had lain insensible for days, he rose up in his bed at the last and put upon Earls hand the iron ring which is their most precious heirloom, because it belonged to the ancient earl. This, too, should have gone to Robert; but the same gift of second sight seemed given to the father as to the servant, and these strange things made a deep impression upon the family, as you may suppose.”

  “That is the mystery, then?” said Mrs. Vane, with an accent of disappointment in her voice.

  “Only a part of it. I am not superstitious, so the prediction and all the rest of it don’t trouble me much, but what occurred afterward does. When Earl was one-and-twenty he went abroad, was gone a year, and came home so utterly and strangely changed that everyone was amazed at the alteration. The death of a cousin just then drew people’s attention from him, and when that stir was over the family seemed to be reconciled to the sad change in him. Nothing was said, nothing ever transpired to clear up the matter; and to this day he has remained a cold, grave, peculiar man, instead of the frank, gay fellow he once was.”

  “He met with some loss in an affair of the heart, doubtless. Such little tragedies often mar a young man’s peace for years—perhaps for life.”

  As Mrs. Vane spoke she lowered her screen, showing a pair of wonderfully keen and brilliant eyes fixed full upon Diana. The young lady was unconscious of this searching glance as she intently regarded Lady Lennox, who said:

  “That is my opinion, though Lady Carrick never would confirm it, being hampered by some promise to the family, I suspect, for they are almost as high and haughty now as in the olden time. There was a vague rumor of some serious entanglement at Paris, but it was hushed up at once, and few gave it credence. Still, as year after year passed, and Earl remains unmarried, I really begin to fear there was some truth in what I fancied an idle report.”

  Something in this speech seemed to ruffle Mrs. Berkeley; a look of intelligence passed between her and her niece as she drew herself up, and before Diana could speak, the elder lady exclaimed, with an air of mystery, “Your ladyship does Mr. Douglas great injustice, and a few months, weeks, perhaps, will quite change your opinion. We saw a good deal of him last season before my poor brother’s death took us from town, and I assure you that he is free to address any lady in England. More I am not at liberty to say at present.”

  Lady Lennox looked politely incredulous, but Diana’s eyes fell and a sudden color bathed her face in a still deeper bloom than that which the firelight shed over it. A slight frown contracted Mrs. Vane’s beautiful brows as she watched the proud girl’s efforts to conceal the secret of her heart. But the frown faded to a smile of intelligent compassion as she said, with a significant glance that stung Diana like an insult, “Dear Miss Stuart, pray take my screen. This glowing fire is ruining your complexion.”

  “Thank you, I need no screens of any sort.”

  There was a slight emphasis upon the “I,” and a smile of equal significance curled her lips. If any taunt was intended it missed its mark, for Mrs. Vane only assumed a more graceful pose, saying with a provoking little air of superior wisdom, “There you are wrong, for our faces are such traitors, that unless we have learned the art of self-control, it is not best for us to scorn such harmless aids as fans, screens, and veils. Emotions are not well-bred, and their demonstrations are often as embarrassing to others as to ourselves.”

  “That, doubtless, is the reason why you half conceal your face behind a cloud of curls. It certainly is a most effectual mask at times,” replied Diana, pushing back her own smooth bands of hair.

  “Thanks for the suggestion. I wonder it never occurred to me before,” sweetly answered Mrs. Vane, adding, as she gathered up the disheveled locks, “my poor hair is called a great ornament, but indeed it is a trial both to Gabrielle and to myself.”

  Lady Lennox touched a long tress that rolled down the pillow, saying with motherly admiration, “My dear, I promised Mrs. Berkeley she should see this wonderful hair of yours, for she could not believe my account of it. The dressing bel
l will ring directly, so you may gratify us without making more work for Gabrielle.”

  “Willingly, dear Lady Lennox; anything for you!”

  As she spoke with affectionate goodwill, Mrs. Vane rose, drew out a comb or two, and a stream of golden hair rippled far below her knee. Mrs. Berkeley exclaimed, and Diana praised, while watching with a very natural touch of envy the charming picture the firelight showed her. In its full glow stood Mrs. Vane; against the deep purple of her dress glittered the golden mass, and a pair of lovely hands parted the shining veil from a face whose beauty was as peculiar and alluring as the mingled spirit and sweetness of her smile.

  “A thousand pardons! I thought your ladyship was alone.” A deep voice broke the momentary silence, and a tall figure paused upon the threshold of the softly opened door. All started, and with a little cry of pleasure and surprise, Lady Lennox hurried forward to greet her guest.

  “My dear Earl, this is a most inhospitable welcome. George should have apprised me of your arrival.”

  “He is a lazy fellow, as he bade me find you here. I tapped, but receiving no reply, fancied the room empty and peeped to make sure. Pray accept my apologies, and put me out if I intrude.”

  The voice of Mr. Douglas was remarkably calm, his manner stately yet cordial, and his dark eyes went rapidly from face to face with a glance that seemed to comprehend the scene at once.

  “Not in the least,” said Lady Lennox heartily. “Let me present you to Mrs. Berkeley, Miss Stuart, and—why, where is she? The poor little woman has run away in confusion, and must receive your apologies by- and-by.”

  “We must run away also, for it is quite time to dress.” And with a most gracious smile Mrs. Berkeley led her niece away before the gentleman should have time to note her flushed face and telltale eyes.

  “You did not mention the presence of those ladies in your ladyship's letter,” began Douglas, as his hostess sat down and motioned him to do likewise.