As George spoke, they parted, and while the dark servant watched Douglas going up the wide oaken stairs, he shook his clenched hand after the retreating figure, and his lips moved as if he muttered something low between his teeth.
A few moments afterward, as Earl sat musing over his fire, there came a tap at his door. Having vainly bidden the knocker to enter, he answered the summons, and saw Jitomar obsequiously offering a handkerchief. Douglas examined it, found the major’s name, and, pointing out that gentleman’s room, farther down the corridor, he returned the lost article with a nod of thanks and dismissal. While he had been turning the square of cambric in his hands, the man’s keen eyes had explored every corner of the room. Nothing seemed to escape them, from the ashes on the hearth, to a flower which Diana had worn, now carefully preserved in water; and once a gleam of satisfaction glittered in them, as if some desired object had met their gaze. Making a low obeisance, he retired, and Douglas went to bed, to dream waking dreams till far into the night.
The great hall clock had just struck one, and sleep was beginning to conquer love, when something startled him wide awake. What it was he could not tell, but every sense warned him of impending danger. Sitting up in his bed, he pushed back the curtains and looked out. The night lamp burned low, the fire had faded, and the room was full of dusky shadows. There were three doors: one led to the dressing room, one to the corridor, and the third was locked on the outside. He knew that it opened upon a flight of narrow stairs that communicated with the library, having been built for the convenience of a studious Lennox long ago.
As he gazed about him, to his great amazement the door was seen to move. Slowly, noiselessly it opened, with no click of lock, no creak of hinge. Almost sure of seeing some ghostly visitant enter, he waited mute and motionless. A muffled hand and arm appeared and, stretching to their utmost, seemed to take something from the writing table that stood near this door. It was a human hand, and with a single leap Douglas was halfway across the room. But the door closed rapidly, and as he laid his hand upon it, the key turned in the lock. He demanded who was there, but not a sound replied; he shook the door, but the lock held fast; he examined the table, but nothing seemed gone, till, with an ominous thrill, he missed the iron ring. On reaching his chamber, he had taken it off, meaning to restore it to its place; had laid it down, to put Diana’s rose in water; had forgotten it, and now it was gone!
Flinging on dressing gown and slippers, and taking a pistol from his traveling case, he left his room. The house was quiet as a tomb, the library empty, and no sign of intruders visible, till, coming to the door itself, he found that the rusty lock had been newly oiled, for the rusty key turned noiselessly, and the hinges worked smoothly, though the dust that lay thickly everywhere showed that this passage was still unused. Stepping into his room, Douglas gave a searching glance about him, and in an instant an expression of utter bewilderment fell upon his face, for there, on the exact spot which had been empty five minutes ago, there lay the iron ring!
Chapter IV
A SHRED OF LACE
LONG before any of the other guests were down, Diana stole into the m garden on her way to the park. Hope shone in her eyes, smiles sat on her lips, and her heart sang for joy. She had long loved in secret; had believed and despaired alternately; and now her desire was about to be fulfilled, her happiness assured by a lover’s voice. Hurrying through the wilderness of autumn flowers, she reached the shrubbery that divided park and garden. Pausing an instant to see if anyone awaited her beyond, she gave a great start, and looked as if she had encountered a ghost.
It was only Mrs. Vane; she often took early strolls in the park, followed by her man; Diana knew this, but had forgotten it in her new bliss. She was alone now, and as she seemed unconscious of her presence, Diana would have noiselessly withdrawn, if a glimpse of Mrs. Vane’s face had not arrested and detained her. As if she had thrown herself down in a paroxysm of distress, sat Mrs. Vane, with both hands tightly clasped; her white lips were compressed, and in her eyes was a look of mingled pain, grief, and despair. The most careless observer would have detected the presence of some great anxiety or sorrow, and Diana, made generous by the assurance of her own happiness, for the first time felt a touch of pity for the woman of whom she had been both envious and jealous. Forgetting herself, she hastened forward, saying kindly, “Are you suffering, Mrs. Vane? What can I do for you?”
Mrs. Vane started as if she had been shot, sprang to her feet, and putting out her hands as if to keep the other off, cried, almost incoherently, “Go back! Go back, and save yourself! For me you can do nothing —it is too late!”
“Indeed, I hope not. Tell me your trouble, and let me help you if I can,” urged Diana, shocked yet not alarmed by the wildness of Mrs. Vane’s look and manner.
But she only clasped her hands before her face, saying despairingly, “You can help both of us—but at what a price!”
“No price will be too costly, if I can honorably pay it. I have been unjust, unkind; forgive it, and confide in me; for indeed, I pity you.”
“Ah, if I dared!” sighed Mrs. Vane. “It seems impossible, and yet I ought—for you, not I, will suffer most from my enforced silence.”
She paused an instant, seemed to calm herself by strong effort, and, fixing her mournful eyes upon Diana, she said, in a strangely solemn and impressive manner, “Miss Stuart, if ever a woman needed help and pity, it is I. You have misjudged, distrusted, and disliked me; I freely forgive this, and long to save you, as I alone can do. But a sacred promise fetters me—I dare not break it; yet if you will pledge your word to keep this interview secret, I will venture to give you one hint, one warning, which may save you from destroying your peace forever. Will you give me this assurance?”
Diana shrank back, disturbed and dismayed by the appeal and the requirement. Mrs. Vane saw her hesitation, and wrung her hands together in an agony of impotent regret.
“I knew it—I feared it. You will not trust me—you will not let me ease my conscience by trying to save another woman from the fate that darkens all my life. Go your way, then, and when the bitter hour comes, remember that I tried to save you from it, and you would not hear me.” “Stay, Mrs. Vane! I do trust you—I will listen; and I give you my word that I will conceal this interview. Speak quickly—I must go,” cried Diana, won to compliance even against her wishes.
“Stoop to me—not even the air must hear what I breathe. Ask Allan Douglas the mystery of his life before you marry him, else you will rue the hour that you became his wife.”
“Allan Douglas! You know his name? You know the secret of his past?” exclaimed Diana, lost in wonder.
“My husband knew him, and I— Hush! Someone is coming. Quick! Escape into the park, or your face will betray you. I can command myself; I will meet and accost whoever comes.”
Before the rapid whisper ended, Diana was gone, and when Douglas came hastening to his tryst, he too found Mrs. Vane alone—and he too paused a moment, surprised to see her there. But the picture he saw was a very different one from that which arrested Diana. Great indeed must have been Mrs. Vane’s command of countenance, for no trace of agitation was visible, and never had she looked more lovely than now, as she stood with a handful of flowers in the white skirt of her dress, her bright hair blowing in the wind, her soft eyes fixed on vacancy, while a tranquil smile proved that her thoughts were happy ones.
So young, so innocent, so blithe she looked that Douglas involuntarily thought, with a touch of self-reproach: “Pretty creature! What injustice my ungallant smile did her last night! I ask her pardon.” Then aloud, as he approached, “Good morning, Mrs. Vane. I am off for an early stroll.”
With the shy grace, the artless glance of a child, she looked up at him, offering a flower, and saying, as she smilingly moved on, “May it be a pleasant one.”
It was not a pleasant one, however; and perhaps Mrs. Vane’s wish had been sweetly ironical. Diana greeted her lover coldly, listened to his avowal with an air
of proud reserve, that contrasted strangely with the involuntary betrayals of love and joy that escaped her. Entirely laying aside the chilly gravity, the lofty manner, which was habitual to him, Douglas proved that he could woo ardently, and forget the pride of the man in the passion of the lover. But when he sued for a verbal answer to his prayer, although he thought he read the assent in the crimson cheek half turned away, the downcast eyes, that would not meet his own, and the quick flutter of the heart that beat under his hand, he was thunderstruck at the change which passed over Diana. She suddenly grew colorless and calm as any statue, and freeing herself from his hold, fixed a searching look upon him, while she said slowly and distinctly, “When you have told me the mystery of your life, I will give my answer to your love—not before.”
“The mystery of my life!” he echoed, falling back a step or two, with such violent discomposure in face and manner that Diana’s heart sank within her, though she answered steadily:
“Yes; I must know it, before I link my fate with yours.”
“Who told you that I had one?” he demanded.
“Lady Lennox. I had heard the rumor before, but never gave it thought till she confirmed it. Now I wait for your explanation.”
“It is impossible to give it; but I swear to you, Diana, that I am innocent of any act that could dishonor my name, or mar your peace, if it were known. The secret is not mine to tell; I have promised to keep it, and I cannot forfeit my word, even for your sake. Be generous; do not let mere curiosity or pique destroy my hopes, and make you cruel when you should be kind.”
So earnestly he spoke, so tenderly he pleaded, that Diana’s purpose wavered, and would have failed her, had not the memory of Mrs. Vane’s strange warning returned to her, bringing with it other memories of other mysterious looks, hints, and acts which had transpired since Douglas came. These recollections hardened her heart, confirmed her resolution, and gave her power to appear inexorable to the last.
“You mistake my motive, sir. Neither curiosity nor pique influenced me, but a just and natural desire to assure myself that in trusting my happiness to your keeping, I am not entailing regret upon myself, remorse upon you. I must know all your past, before I endanger my future; clear yourself from the suspicions which have long clung to you, and I am yours; remain silent, and we are nothing to each other from this day forth.”
Her coldness chilled his passion, her distrust irritated his pride; all the old hauteur returned fourfold, his eye grew hard, his voice bitter, and his whole manner showed that his will was as inflexible as hers.
“Are you resolved on making this unjust, ungenerous test of my affection, Miss Stuart?”
“I am.”
“You have no faith in my honor, then? No consideration for the hard strait in which my promise places me? No compassion for the loss I must sustain in losing the love, respect, and confidence of the woman dearest to me?”
“Assure me that you are worthy of love, respect, confidence, and I gladly accord them to you.”
“I cannot, in the way you demand. Will nothing else satisfy you?”
“Nothing!”
“Then, in your words, we are nothing to one another from this day forth. Farewell, Diana!”
With an involuntary impulse, she put out her hand to detain him as he turned away. He took it, and bending, kissed it, with a lingering fondness that nearly conquered her. The act, the look that accompanied it, the tremor of the lips that performed it, touched the poor girl’s heart, and words of free acceptance were rising to her lips, when, as he bent, a miniature, suspended by a chain of mingled hair and gold, swung forward from its hiding place in his breast, and though she saw no face, the haste with which he replaced it roused all her suspicions again, and redoubled all her doubts. Scorning herself for her momentary weakness, the gesture of recall was changed to one of dismissal, as she withdrew her hand, and turned from him, with a quiet “Farewell, then, forever!”
“One moment,” he pleaded. “Do not let us destroy the peace of both our lives by an unhappy secret which in no way but this can do us harm. Bear with me for a few days, Diana; think over this interview, remember my great love for you, let your own generous nature appeal to your pride, and perhaps time may show you that it is possible to love, trust, and pardon me.”
Glad of any delay which should spare her the pain of an immediate separation, she hesitated a moment, and then, with feigned reluctance, answered, “My visit was to have ended with the coming week; I will not shorten it, but give you till then to reconsider your decision, and by a full confession secure your happiness and my own.”
Then they parted—not with the lingering adieus of happy lovers, but coldly, silently, like estranged friends—and each took a different way back, instead of walking blissfully together, as they had thought to do.
“Why so triste, Diana? One would think you had seen a ghost in the night, you look so pale and solemn. And, upon my word, Mr. Douglas looks as if he had seen one also,” said Mrs. Berkeley, as they all gathered about the breakfast table two hours later.
“I did see one,” answered Douglas, generously distracting general attention from Diana, who could ill sustain it.
“Last night?” exclaimed Mrs. Berkeley, full of interest at once.
“Yes, madam—at one o’clock last night.”
“How charming! Tell us all about it; I dote upon ghosts, yet never saw one,” said Mrs. Vane.
Douglas narrated his adventure. The elder ladies looked disturbed, Diana incredulous; and Mrs. Vane filled the room with her silvery laughter, as Harry protested that no ghost belonged to the house, and George explained the mystery as being the nightmare.
“I never have it; neither do I walk in my sleep, and seldom dream,” replied Douglas. “I perfectly remember rising, partially dressing, and going down to the library, up the private stairs, and examining the door. This may be proved by the key, now changed to my side of the lock, and the train of wax which dropped from my candle as I hurried along.”
“What woke you?” asked Mrs. Vane.
“I cannot tell; some slight sound, probably, although I do not remember hearing any, and fancy it was an instinctive sense of danger.”
“That door could not have been opened without much noise, for the key was rusted in the lock. We tried to turn it the other day, and could not, so were forced to go round by the great gallery to reach that room.”
Diana spoke, and for the first time since they parted in the park, Douglas looked at and addressed her.
“You have explored the private passage then, and tried the door? May I ask when?”
“Harry was showing us the house; anything mysterious pleased us, so we went up, tried the rusty key, and finding it immovable, we came down again.”
“Of whom was the party composed?”
“My aunt, Mrs. Vane, and myself, accompanied by Harry.”
“Then I must accuse Harry of the prank, for both key and lock have been newly oiled, and the door opens easily and noiselessly, as you may prove if you like. He must have had an accomplice among the housemaids, for it was a woman's hand that took the ring. She doubtless passed it to him, and while I was preparing to sally forth, both ran away —one to hide, the other to wait till I left my room, when he slipped in and restored the ring. Was that it, Hal?”
As Douglas spoke, all looked at Harry; but the boy shook his head, and triumphantly replied to his brother:
“George will tell you that your accusation is entirely unjust; and as he sat up till dawn, writing poetry, I could not have left him without his knowledge.”
“True, Hal—you had nothing to do with it, I know. Did you distinctly see the hand that purloined your ring, Earl?” asked Lennox, anxious to divert attention from the revelation of his poetical amusements.
“No; the room was dusky, and the hand muffled in something dark. But it was no ghostly hand, for as it was hastily withdrawn when I sprang up, the wrapper slipped aside, and I saw white human flesh, and the outlines of a woman’s
arm.”
“Was it a beautiful arm?” asked Lennox, with his eyes upon Mrs. Vane’s, which lay like a piece of sculptured marble against the red velvet cushion of her chair.
“Very beautiful, I should say; for in that hasty glimpse it looked too fair to belong to any servant, and when I found this hanging to the lock, I felt assured that my spirit was a lady, for housemaids do not wear anything like this, I fancy,” and Douglas produced a shred of black lace, evidently torn from some costly flounce or scarf.
The ladies put their heads together over the scrap, and all pronounced it quite impossible for any dressing maid to have come honestly by such expensive trimming as this must have been.
“It looks as if it had belonged to a deeply scalloped flounce,” said Mrs. Vane. “Who of us wears such? Miss Stuart, you are in black; have I not seen you with a trimming like this?”
“You forget—I wear no trimming but crepe. This never was a part of a flounce. It is the corner of a shawl. You see how unequally rounded the two sides are; and no flounce was ever scalloped so deeply as this,” returned Diana.
“How acute you are, Di! It is so, I really believe. See how exactly this bit compares with the corner of my breakfast shawl, made to imitate lace. Who wears a black lace shawl? Neither Di nor myself,” said Mrs. Berkeley.
“Mrs. Vane often wears one.”
Diana uttered the name with significance, and Douglas stirred a little, as if she put into words some vague idea of his own. Mrs. Vane shrugged her shoulders, sipped her coffee, and answered tranquilly, “So does Lady Lennox; but I will bear all the suspicions of phantom folly, and when I dress for dinner will put on every rag of lace I possess, so that you may compare this bit, and prove me guilty if it gives you pleasure. Though what object I could have in running about in the dark, oiling door locks, stealing rings, and frightening gentlemen is not as clear to me as it appears to be to you—probably because I am not as much interested in the sufferer.”
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