A bell rang from below, but she did not hear it; steps came through the drawing room, yet she did not heed them; and Douglas stood before her, but she did not see him till he spoke. So great was her surprise, that with all her power of dissimulation she would have found difficulty in concealing it, had not the pale gravity of the newcomer’s face afforded a pretext for alarm.
“You startled me at first, and now you look as if you brought ill news,” she said, with a vain effort to assume her usual gaiety.
“I do” was the brief reply.
“The senor? Is he with you? I am waiting for him.”
“Wait no longer, he will never come.”
“Where is he?”
“Quiet in his shroud.”
He thought to see her shrink and pale before the blow, but she did neither; she grasped his arm, searched his face, and whispered, with a look of relief, not terror, in her own, “You have killed him?”
“No, his blood is not upon my head; he killed himself.”
She covered up her face, and from behind her hands he heard her murmur, ‘Thank God, he did not come! I am spared that.”
While he pondered over the words, vainly trying to comprehend them, she recovered herself, and turning to him said, quite steadily though very pale, “This is awfully sudden; tell me how it came to pass. I am not afraid to hear.”
“I will tell you, for you have a right to know. Sit, Mrs. Vane; it is a long tale, and one that will try your courage to the utmost.
“Six years ago I went abroad to meet my cousin Allan,” Douglas began, speaking slowly, almost sternly. “He was my senior by a year, but we so closely resembled each other that we were often taken for twin brothers. Alike in person, character, temper, and tastes, we were never so happy as when together, and we loved one another as tenderly as women love. For nearly a year we roamed east and west, then our holiday was over, for we had promised to return. One month more remained; I desired to revisit Switzerland, Allan to remain in Paris, so we parted for a time, each to our own pleasures, appointing to meet on a certain day at a certain place. I never saw him again, for when I reached the spot where he should have met me, I found only a letter, saying that he had been called from Paris suddenly, but that I should receive further intelligence before many days. I waited, but not long. Visiting the Morgue that very week, I found my poor Allan waiting for me there. His body had been taken from the river, and the deep wound in his breast showed that foul play was at the bottom of the mystery. Night and day I labored to clear up the mystery, but labored secretly, lest publicity should warn the culprits, or bring dishonor upon our name, for I soon found that Allan had led a wild life in my absence, and I feared to make some worse discoveries than a young man’s follies. I did so; for it appeared that he had been captivated by a singularly beautiful girl, a danseuse, had privately married her, and both had disappeared with a young cousin of her own. Her apartments were searched, but all her possessions had been removed, and nothing remained but a plausible letter, which would have turned suspicion from the girl to the cousin, had not the marriage been discovered, and in her room two witnesses against them. The handle of a stiletto, half consumed in the ashes, which fitted the broken blade entangled in the dead man’s clothes, and, hidden by the hangings of the bed, a woman’s slipper, with a bloodstain on the sole. Ah, you may well shudder, Mrs. Vane; it is an awful tale.”
“Horrible! Why tell it?” she asked, pressing her hand upon her eyes, as if to shut out some image too terrible to look upon.
“Because it concerns our friend Arguelles, and explains his death,” replied Earl, in the same slow stern voice. She did not look up, but he saw that she listened breathlessly, and grew paler still behind her hand.
“Nothing more was discovered then. My cousin’s body was sent home, and none but our two families ever knew the truth. It was believed by the world that he died suddenly of an affection of the heart- poor lad! it was the bitter truth—and whatever rumors were about regarding his death, and the change it wrought in me, were speedily silenced at the time, and have since died away. Over the dead body of my dearest friend, I vowed a solemn vow to find his murderer and avenge his death. I have done both.”
“Where? How?”
Her hand dropped, and she looked at him with a face that was positively awful in its unnatural calmness.
“Arguelles was Victor Varens. I suspected, watched, ensnared him, and would have let the law avenge Allan’s death, but the murderer escaped by his own hand.”
“Well for him it was so. May his sins be forgiven. Now let us go elsewhere, and forget this dark story and its darker end.”
She rose as she spoke, and a load seemed lifted off her heart; but it fell again, as Douglas stretched his hand to detain her, saying, “Stay, the end is not yet told. You forget the girl.”
“She was innocent—why should she suffer?” returned the other, still standing as if defying both fear and fate.
“She was not innocent—for she lured that generous boy to marry her, because she coveted his rank and fortune, not his heart, and, when he lay dead, left him to the mercies of wind and wave, while she fled away to save herself. But that cruel cowardice availed her nothing, for though I have watched and waited long, at length I have found her, and at this moment her life lies in my hand—for you and Virginie are one!”
Like a hunted creature driven to bay, she turned on him with an air of desperate audacity, saying haughtily, “Prove it!”
“I will.”
For a moment they looked at one another. In his face she saw pitiless resolve; in hers he read passionate defiance.
“Sit down, Virginie, and hear the story through. Escape is impossible—the house is guarded, Dupres waits in yonder room, and Victor can no longer help you with quick wit or daring hand. Submit quietly, and do not force me to forget that you are my cousin’s—wife.”
She obeyed him, and as the last words fell from his lips a new hope sprang up within her, the danger seemed less imminent, and she took heart again, remembering the child, who might yet plead for her, if her own eloquence should fail.
“You ask me to prove that fact, and evidently doubt my power to do it; but well as you have laid your plots, carefully as you have erased all traces of your former self, and skillfully as you have played your new part, the truth has come to light, and through many winding ways I have followed you, till my labors end here. When you fled from Paris, Victor, whose mother was a Spaniard, took you to Spain, and there, among his kindred, your boy was born.”
“Do you know that, too?” she cried, lost in wonder at the quiet statement of what she believed to be known only to herself, her dead cousin, and those far-distant kindred who had succored her in her need.
“I know everything,” Earl answered, with an expression that made her quail; then a daring spirit rose up in her, as she remembered more than one secret, which she now felt to be hers alone.
“Not everything, my cousin; you are keen and subtle, but I excel you, though you win this victory, it seems.”
So cool, so calm she seemed, so beautifully audacious she looked, that Earl could only resent the bold speech with a glance, and proceed to prove the truth of his second assertion with the first.
“You suffered the sharpest poverty, but Victor respected your helplessness, forgave your treachery, supplied your wants as far as possible, and when all other means failed, left you there, while he went to earn bread for you and your boy. Virginie, I never can forgive him my cousin’s death, but for his faithful, long-suffering devotion to you, I honor him, sinner though he was.”
She shrugged her shoulders, with an air of indifference or displeasure, took off the widow’s cap, no longer needed for a disguise, and letting loose the cloud of curls that seemed to cluster round her charming face, she lay back in her chair with all her former graceful ease, saying, as she fixed her lustrous eyes upon the man she meant to conquer yet, “I let him love me, and he was content. What more could I do, for I never loved hi
m?”
“Better for him that you did not, and better for poor Allan that he never lived to know it was impossible for you to love.”
Earl spoke bitterly, but Virginie bent her head till her face was hidden, as she murmured, “Ah, if it were impossible, this hour would be less terrible, the future far less dark.”
He heard the soft lament, divined its meaning, but abruptly continued his story, as if he ignored the sorrowful fact which made her punishment heavier from his hand than from any other.
“While Victor was away, you wearied of waiting, you longed for the old life of gaiety and excitement, and, hoping to free yourself from him, you stole away, and for a year were lost to him. Your plan was to reach France, and under another name dance yourself into some other man’s heart and home, making him your shield against all danger. You did reach France, but weary, ill, poor, and burdened with the child, you failed to find help, till some evil fortune threw Vane in your way. You had heard of him from Allan, knew his chivalrous nature, his passion for relieving pain or sorrow, at any cost to himself, and you appealed to him for charity. A piteous story of a cruel husband, desertion, suffering, and destitution you told him; he believed it, and being on the point of sailing for India, offered you the place of companion to a lady sailing with him. Your tale was plausible, your youth made it pathetic, your beauty lent it power, and the skill with which you played the part of a sad gentlewoman won all hearts, and served your end successfully. Vane loved you, wished to marry you, and would have done so had not death prevented. He died suddenly; you were with him, and though his last act was to make generous provision for you and the boy, some devil prompted you to proclaim yourself his wife, as soon as he was past denying it. His love for you was well-known among those with whom you lived, and your statement was believed.”
“You are a magician,” she said suddenly. “I have thought so before; now I am sure of it, for you must have transported yourself to India, to make these discoveries.”
“No—India came to me in the person of a Hindoo, and from him I learned these facts,” replied Douglas, slow to tell her of Victor’s perfidy, lest he should put her on her guard, and perhaps lose some revelation which in her ignorance she might make. Fresh bewilderment seemed to fall upon her, and with intensest interest she listened, as that ruthless voice went on.
“Your plan was this: From Vane you had learned much of Allan’s family, and the old desire to be my lady’ returned more strongly than before. Once in England, you hoped to make your way as Colonel Vane’s widow, and if no safe, sure opportunity appeared of claiming your boy’s right, you resolved to gain your end by wooing and winning another Douglas. You were on the point of starting with poor Vane’s fortune in your power (for he left no will, and you were prepared to produce forged papers, if your possession was questioned in England), when Victor found you. He had traced you with the instinct of a faithful dog, though his heart was nearly broken by your cruel desertion. You saw that he could not serve you; you appeased his anger and silenced his reproaches by renewed promises to be his when the boy was acknowledged, if he would aid you in that project. At the risk of his life, this devoted slave consented, and disguised as an Indian servant came with you to England. On the way, you met and won the good graces of the Countess Camareena; she introduced you to the London world, and you began your career as a lady under the best auspices. Money, beauty, art served you well, and as an unfortunate descendant of the noble house of Montmorenci, you were received by those who would have shrunk from you as you once did from the lock of hair of the plebeian French danseuse, found in Allan’s bosom.”
“I am noble,” she cried, with an air that proved it, “for though my mother was a peasant, my father was a prince, and better blood than that of the Montmorencis flows in my veins.”
He only answered with a slight bow, which might be intended as a mocking obeisance in honor of her questionable nobility, or a grave dismissal of the topic.
“From this point the tale is unavoidably egotistical,” he said, “for through Lady Lennox you heard of me, learned that I was the next heir to the title, and began at once to weave the web in which I was to be caught. You easily understood what was the mystery of my life, as it was called among the gossips, and that knowledge was a weapon in your hands, which you did not fail to use. You saw that Diana loved me, soon learned my passion for her, and set yourself to separate us, without one thought of the anguish it would bring us, one fear of the consequences of such wrong to yourself. You bade her ask of me a confession that I could not make, having given my word to Allan’s mother that her son’s name should not be tarnished by the betrayal of the rash act that cost his life. That parted us; then you told her a tale of skillfully mingled truth and falsehood, showed her the marriage record on which a name and date appeared to convict me, took her to the boy whose likeness to his father, and therefore to myself, completed the cruel deception, and drove that high-hearted girl to madness and to death.”
“I did not kill her! On my soul, I never meant it! I was terror- stricken when we missed her, and knew no peace or rest till she was found. Of that deed I am innocent—I swear it to you on my knees.”
The haunting horror of that night seemed again to overwhelm her; she fell down upon her knees before him, enforcing her denial with clasped hands, imploring eyes, and trembling voice. But Douglas drew back with a gesture of repugnance that wounded her more deeply than his sharpest word, and from that moment all traces of compassion vanished from his countenance, which wore the relentless aspect of a judge who resolves within himself no longer to temper justice with mercy.
“Stand up,” he said. “I will listen to no appeal, believe no oath, let no touch of pity soften my heart, for your treachery, your craft, your sin deserve nothing but the heavy retribution you have brought upon yourself. Diana’s death lies at your door, as much as if you had stabbed her with the same dagger that took Allan’s life. It may yet be proved that you beguiled her to that fatal pool, for you were seen there, going to remove all traces of her, perhaps. But in your hasty flight you left traces of yourself behind you, as you sprang away with an agility that first suggested to me the suspicion of Virginie’s presence. I tried your slipper to the footprint, and it fitted too exactly to leave me in much doubt of the truth of my wild conjecture. I had never seen you. Antoine Dupres knew both Victor and yourself. I sent for him, but before the letter went, Jitomar, your spy, read the address, feared that some peril menaced you both, and took counsel with you how to delude the newcomer, if any secret purpose lurked behind our seeming friendliness. You devised a scheme that would have baffled us, had not accident betrayed Victor. In the guise of Arguelles he met Dupres in Paris, returned with him, and played his part so well that the Frenchman was entirely deceived, never dreaming of being sought by the very man who would most desire to shun him. You, too, disguised yourself, with an art that staggered my own senses, and perplexed Dupres, for our masculine eye could not fathom the artifices of costume, cosmetics, and consummate acting. We feared to alarm you by any open step, and resolved to oppose craft to craft, treachery to treachery. Dupres revels in such intricate affairs, and I yielded, against my will, till the charm of success drew me on with increasing eagerness and spirit. The day we first met here, in gathering a flower you would have fallen, had not the Spaniard sprung forward to save you; that involuntary act betrayed him, for the momentary attitude he assumed recalled to Dupres the memory of a certain pose which the dancer Victor often assumed. It was too peculiar to be accidental, too striking to be easily forgotten, and the entire unconsciousness of its actor was a proof that it was so familiar as to be quite natural. From that instant Dupres devoted himself to the Spaniard; this first genuine delusion put Victor off his guard with Antoine; and Antoine’s feigned friendship was so adroitly assumed that no suspicion woke in Victors mind till the moment when, instead of offering him a weapon with which to take my life, he took him prisoner.”
“He is not dead, then? You lie to
me; you drive me wild with your horrible recitals of the past, and force me to confess against my will. Who told you these things? The dead alone could tell you what passed between Diana and myself.”
Still on the ground, as if forgetful of everything but the bewilderment of seeing plot after plot unfolded before her, she had looked up and listened with dilated eyes, lips apart, and both hands holding back the locks that could no longer hide her from his piercing glance. As she spoke, she paled and trembled with a sudden fear that clutched her heart, that Diana was not dead, for even now she clung to her love with a desperate hope that it might save her.
Calm and cold as a man of marble, Douglas looked down upon her, so beautiful in all her abasement, and answered steadily, “You forget Victor. To him all your acts, words, and many of your secret thoughts were told. Did you think his love would endure forever, his patience never tire, his outraged heart never rebel, his wild spirit never turn and rend you? All day I have sat beside him, listening to his painful confessions, painfully but truthfully made, and with his last breath he cursed you as the cause of a wasted life, and ignominious death. Virginie, this night your long punishment begins, and that curse is a part of it.”
“Oh, no, no! You will have mercy, remembering how young, how friendless I am? For Allan’s sake you will pity me; for his boy’s sake you will save me; for your own sake you will hide me from the world’s contempt?”
“What mercy did you show poor Diana? What love for Allan? What penitence for your child’s sake? What pity for my grief? I tell you, if a word would save you, my lips should not utter it!”
He spoke passionately now, and passionately she replied, clinging to him, though he strove to tear his hands away.
“You have heard Victor’s confession, now hear mine. I have longed to repent; I did hope to make my life better, for my baby’s sake; and oh, I did pity you, till my cold heart softened and grew warm. I should have given up my purpose, repaid Victor’s fidelity, and gone away to grow an honest, happy, humble woman, if I had not loved you. That made me blind, when I should have been more keen-sighted than ever; that kept me here to be deceived, betrayed, and that should save me now.”
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