Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (15 page)

 
          
“I
have.”

 
          
“You
are sure?”

 
          
“Beyond a doubt.”

 
          
“It
is well; I applaud your dexterity. Behold the major, he knows all, he is
perfect in his role. Now hear yours. You will immediately write a challenge.”

 
          
“It
is impossible! Antoine, you are a daft to ask me to meet that man.”

 
          
“Bah!
I ask you to meet, but not to honor him by blowing his brains out. He is a dead
shot, and thirsts for your blood, but look you, he will be disappointed. We
might arrest him this instant, but he will confess nothing, and that clever
creature will escape us. No, my little arrangement suits me better.”

           
“Time flies, Dupres, and so perhaps
may this crafty hind that you are about to snare,” said the major, whose slow
British wits were somewhat confused by the Frenchmans finesse.

 
          
“It
is true; see then, my Earl. In order that our other little affair may come
smoothly off without interference from our friend, I propose to return to the
senor, whom I have lately left writing letters, and amuse myself by keeping him
at home to receive your challenge, which the major will bring about twelve.
Then we shall arrange the affair to take place at sunrise, in some secluded
spot out of town. You will be back here by that time, you will agree to our
plans, and present yourself at the appointed time, when the grand denouement
will take place with much eclat.”

 
          
“Am
I not to know more?” asked
Douglas
.

 
          
“It
would be well to leave all to me, for you will act your part better if you do
not know the exact program, because you do not perform so well with Monsieur as
with Madame. But if you must know, the major will tell you, while you wait for
Hyde and the hour. I have seen him, he has no scruples; I have ensured his
safety, and he will not fail us.
Now the charming billet to
the senor, and I go to my post.”

 
          
Douglas
wrote the challenge; Dupres departed in
buoyant spirits; and while Earl waited for the stranger, Hyde, the major
enlightened him upon the grand finale.

 
          
The
city clocks were striking twelve as two men, masked and cloaked, passed up the
steps of Mrs. Vane’s house and entered noiselessly. No light beamed in the
hall, but scarcely had they closed the door behind them when a glimmer shone
from above, and at the stairhead appeared a woman beckoning. Up they stole, as
if shod with velvet, and the woman flitted like a shadow before them, till they
reached a door to the second story. Opening this, she motioned them to enter,
and as they passed in, she glided up another flight, as if to stand guard over
her sleeping fellow servants.

 
          
One
of the men was tall and evidently young, the other a bent and withered little
man, whose hands trembled slightly as he adjusted
his
mask, and peered about him. It was a large still room, lighted by a night lamp,
burning behind its shade, richly furnished, and decorated with warm hues, that
produced the effect of mingled snow and fire. A luxurious nest it
seemed,
and a fit inmate of it looked the beautiful woman
asleep in the shadow of the crimson-curtained bed. One white arm pillowed her
head; from the little cap that should have confined it
flowed
a mass of golden hair over neck and shoulders; the long lashes lay dark against
her cheek; the breath slept upon her lips; and perfect unconsciousness lent its
reposeful charm to both face and figure.

 
          
Noiselessly
advancing, the taller man looked and listened for a moment, as if to assure
himself
that this deep slumber was not feigned; then he
beckoned the other to bring the lamp. It flickered as the old man took it up,
but he trimmed the wick, removed the shade, and a clear light shone across the
room. Joining his companion, he too looked at the sleeping beauty, shook his
gray head, and seemed to deplore some fact that marred the pretty picture in
his sight.

 
          
"Is
there no danger of her waking, sir:*” he whispered, as the light fell on her
face.

 
          
"It
is impossible for an hour yet. The bracelet is on that wrist; we must move her,
or you cannot reach it,” returned the other; and with a gentle touch drew the
left arm from underneath her head.

 
          
She
sighed in her sleep, knit her brows, as if a dream disturbed her, and turning
on her pillow, all the bright hair fell about her face, but could not hide the
glitter of the chain about her neck. Drawing it forth, the taller man started,
uttered an exclamation, dragged from his own bosom a duplicate of the miniature
hanging from that chain, and compared the two with trembling intentness. Very
like they were, those two young faces, handsome, frank and full of boyish
health, courage, and blithesomeness. One might have been taken a year after the
other, for the brow was bolder, the mouth graver, the eye more steadfast, but
the same charm of expression appeared in both, making the ivory oval more
attractive even to a stranger’s eye than the costly setting, or the initial
letters A. D. done in pearls upon the back. A small silver key hung on the
chain the woman wore, and as if glad to tear his thoughts from some bitter
reminiscence, the man detached this key, and glanced about the room, as if to
discover what lock it would be.

 
          
His
action seemed to remind the other of his own task, for setting down the lamp on
the little table where lay a prayer book, a bell, and a
rosary,
he produced a case of delicate instruments and a bunch of tiny keys, and
bending over the bracelet, examined the golden padlock that fastened it. While
he carefully tried key after key upon that miniature lock, the chief of this
mysterious inspection went to and fro with the silver key, attempting larger
locks. Nowhere did it fit, till in passing the toilet table his foot brushed
its draperies aside, disclosing a quaint foreign-looking casket of ebony and
silver. Quick as thought it was drawn out and opened, for here the key did its
work. In the upper tray lay the opal ring in its curiously thick setting,
beside it a seal, rudely made from an impression in wax of his own iron ring,
and a paper bearing its stamp. The marriage record was in hand, and he longed
to keep or destroy it, but restrained the impulse; and lifting the tray, found
below two or three relics of his friend Vane, and some childish toys, soiled
and broken, but precious still.

 
          
“A child!
Good God! What have I done?” he said to himself,
as the lid fell from his hand.

 
          
“Hush,
come and look, it is off,” whispered the old man, and hastily restoring all
things to their former order, the other relocked and replaced the casket, and
obeyed the call.

 
          
For
a moment a mysterious and striking picture might have been seen in that quiet
room. Under the crimson canopy lay the fair figure of the sleeping woman, her
face half hidden by the golden shadow of her hair, her white arm laid out on
the warm-hued coverlet, and bending over it, the two masked men, one holding
the lamp nearer, the other pointing to something just above the delicate wrist,
now freed from the bracelet, which lay open beside it. Two distinctly traced
letters were seen, V. V., and underneath a tiny true-lover’s knot, in the same
dark lines.

 
          
The
man who held the lamp examined the brand with minutest care, then making a
gesture of satisfaction, he said, “It is enough, I am sure now. Put on the
bracelet, and come away; there is nothing more to be done tonight.”

 
          
The
old man skillfully replaced the hand, while the other put back locket and key,
placed the lamp where they found it; and with a last look at the sleeper, whose
unconscious helplessness appealed to them for mercy, both stole away as
noiselessly as they had come. The woman reappeared the instant they left the
room, lighted them to the hall door, received some reward that glittered as it
passed from hand to hand, and made all fast behind them, pausing a moment in a
listening attitude, till the distant roll of a carriage assured her that the
maskers were safely gone.

IN THE SNARE

 
          
THE
first rays of the sun fell on a group of five men, standing together on a waste
bit of ground in the environs of
London
. Major Mansfield and Dupres were busily
loading pistols, marking off the distance, and conferring together with a great
display of interest.
Douglas
conversed tranquilly with the surgeon in attendance,
a quiet, unassuming man, who stood with his hand in his pocket, as if ready to
produce his case of instruments at a moment’s notice. The Spaniard was alone,
and a curious change seemed to have passed over him. The stately calmness of
his demeanor was gone, and he paced to and fro with restless steps, like a
panther in his cage. A look of almost savage hatred lowered on his swarthy
face; desperation and despair alternately glowed and gloomed in his fierce eye;
and the whole man wore a look of one who after long restraint yields himself
utterly to the dominion of some passion, dauntless and indomitable as death.

 
          
Once
he paused, drew from his pocket an ill-spelled, rudely written letter, which
had been put into his hand by a countryman as he left his hotel, reread the few
lines it contained, and thrust it back into his bosom, muttering, “All things
favor me; this was the last tie that bound her; now we must stand or fall
together.”

 
          
“Senor,
we are prepared,” called Dupres, advancing, pistol in hand, to place his
principal, adding, as Arguelles dropped hat and cloak, “our custom may be
different from yours, but give heed, and at the word I hree, hre.

 
          
“I
comprehend, monsieur,” and a dark smile passed across the Spaniards face as he
took his place and stretched his hand to receive the weapon.

 
          
But
Dupres drew back a step—and with a sharp metallic click, around that extended
wrist snapped a handcuff. A glance showed Arguelles that he was lost, for on
his right stood the counterfeit surgeon, with the well-known badge now visible
on his blue coat, behind him Major Mansfield, armed, before him Douglas,
guarding the nearest outlet of escape, and on his left Dupres, radiant with
satisfaction, exclaiming, as he bowed with grace, “A thousand pardons, Monsieur
Victor Varens, but this little ruse was inevitable.”

 
          
Quick
as a flash that freed left hand snatched the pistol from Dupres, aimed it at
Douglas
, and it would have accomplished its work
had not the Frenchman struck up the weapon. But the ball was sped, and as the
pistol turned in his hand, the bullet lodged in
Victors
breast, sparing him the fate he dreaded more than death. In an instant all
trace of passion vanished, and with a melancholy dignity that nothing could
destroy, he offered his hand to receive the fetter, saying calmly, while his
lips whitened, and a red stain dyed the linen on his breast, “I am tired of my
life; take it.”

 
          
They
laid him down, for as he spoke, consciousness ebbed away. A glance assured the
major that the wound was mortal, and carefully conveying the senseless body to
the nearest house, Douglas and the detective remained to tend and guard the
prisoner, while the other gentlemen posted to town to bring a genuine surgeon
and necessary help, hoping to keep life in the man till his confession had been
made.

 
          
At
nightfall, Mrs. Vane, or Virginie, as we may now call her, grew anxious for the
return of Victor, who was to bring her tidings of the child, because she dared
not visit him just now herself.

 
          
When
dressed for the evening, she dismissed Gabrielle, opened the antique casket,
and put on the opal
ring,
carefully attaching the
little chain that fastened it securely to her bracelet, for the ring was too
large for the delicate hand that wore it. Then with steady feet she went down to
the drawing room to meet her lover and her victim.

 
          
But
some reproachful memory seemed to start up and haunt the present with a vision
of the past. She passed her hand across her eyes, as if she saw again the
little room, where in the gray dawn she had left her husband lying dead, and
she sank into a seat, groaning half aloud, "Oh, if I could forget!”

 
          
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.