Books: The Midnight Queen
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May Agnes Fleming >> The Midnight Queen
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"Ah, the page!" said La Masque, quickly. "You have then been
speaking to him? What do you think of his resemblance to
Leoline?"
"I think it is the most astonishing resemblance I ever saw. But
he is not the only one who bears Leoline's face."
"And the other is?"
The other is she whom you sent me to see in the old ruins.
Madame, I wish you would tell me the secret of this wonderful
likeness; for I am certain you know, and I am equally certain it
is not accidental."
"You are right. Leoline knows already; for, with the
presentiment that my end was near, I visited her when you left,
and gave her her whole history, in writing. The explanation is
simple enough. Leoline, Miranda, and Hubert, are sisters and
brother."
Some misty idea that such was the case had been struggling
through Sir Norman's slow mind, unformed and without shape, ever
since he had seen the trio, therefore he was not the least
astonished when he heard the fact announced. Only in one thing
he was a little disappointed.
"Then Hubert is really a boy?" he said, half dejectedly.
"Certainly he is. What did you take him to be?"
"Why, I thought - that is, I do not know," said Sir Norman, quite
blushing at being guilty of so much romance, "but that he was a
woman in disguise. You see he is so handsome, and looks so much
like Leoline, that I could not help thinking so."
"He is Leoline's twin brother - that accounts for it. When does
she become your wife?"
"This very morning, God willing!" raid Sir Norman, fervently.
"Amen! And may her life and yours be long and happy. What
becomes of the rest?"
"Since Hubert is her brother, he shall come with us, if he will.
As for the other, she, alas! is dead."
"Dead!" cried La Masque. "How? When? She was living, tonight!"
"True! She died of a wound."
"A wound? Surely not given by the dwarfs hand?"
"No, no; it was quite accidental. But since you know so much of
the dwarf, perhaps you also know he is now the king's prisoner?"
"I did not know it; but I surmised as much when I discovered that
you and Count L'Estrange, followed by such a body of men, visited
the ruin. Well, his career has been long and dark enough, and
even the plague seemed to spare him for the executioner. And so
the poor mock-queen is dead? Well, her sister will not long
survive her."
"Good Heavens, madame!" cried Sir Norman, aghast. "You do not
mean to say that Leoline is going to die?"
"Oh, no! I hope Leoline has a long and happy life before her.
But the wretched, guilty sister I mean is, myself; for I, too,
Sir Norman, am her sister."
At this new disclosure, Sir Norman stood perfectly petrified; and
La Masque, looking down at the dreadful place at her feet, went
rapidly on:
"Alas and alas! that it should be so; but it is the direful
truth. We bear the same name, we had the same father; and yet I
have been the curse and bane of their lives."
"And Leoline knows this?"
"She never knew it until this night, or any one else alive; and
no one should know it now, were not my ghastly life ending. I
prayed her to forgive me for the wrong I have done her; and she
may, for she is gentle and good - but when, when shall I be able
to forgive myself?"
The sharp pain in her voice jarred on Sir Norman's ear and heart;
and, to get rid of its dreary echo, he hurriedly asked:
"You say you bear the same name. May I ask what name that is?"
"It is one, Sir Norman Kingsley, before which your own ancient
title pales. We are Montmorencis, and in our veins runs the
proudest blood in France."
"Then Leoline is French and of noble birth?" said Sir Norman,
with a thrill of pleasure. "I loved her for herself alone, and
would have wedded her had she been the child of a beggar; but I
rejoice to hear this nevertheless. Her father, then, bore a
title?"
"Her father was the Marquis de Montmorenci. but Leoline's mother
and mine were not the same - had they been, the lives of all four
might have been very different; but it is too late to lament that
now. My mother had no gentle blood in her veins, as Leoline's
had, for she was but a fisherman's daughter, torn from her home,
and married by force. Neither did she love my father
notwithstanding his youth, rank, and passionate love for her, for
she was betrothed to another bourgeois, like herself. For his
sake she refused even the title of marchioness, offered her in
the moment of youthful and ardent passion, and clung, with
deathless truth, to her fisher-lover. The blood of the
Montmorencis is fierce and hot, and brooks no opposition" (Sir
Norman thought of Miranda, and inwardly owned that that was a
fact); "and the marquis, in his jealous wrath, both hated and
loved her at the same time, and vowed deadly vengeance against
her bourgeois lover. That vow he kept. The young fisherman was
found one morning at his lady-love's door without a head, and the
bleeding trunk told no tales.
"Of course, for a while, she was distracted and so on; but when
the first shock of her grief was over, my father carried her off,
and forcibly made her his wife. Fierce hatred, I told you, was
mingled with his fierce love, and before the honeymoon was over
it began to break out. One night, in a fit of jealous passion,
to which he was addicted, he led her into a room she had never
before been permitted to enter; showed her a grinning human
skull, and told her it was her lover's! In his cruel exultation,
he confessed all; how he had caused him to be murdered; his head
severed from the body; and brought here to punish her, some day,
for her obstinate refusal to love him.
"Up to this time she had been quiet and passive, bearing her fate
with a sort of dumb resignation; but now a spirit of vengeance,
fiercer and more terrible than his own, began to kindle within
her; and, kneeling down before the ghastly thing, she breathed a
wish - a prayer - to the avenging Jehovah, so unutterably
horrible, that even her husband had to fly with curdling blood
from the room. That dreadful prayer was heard - that wish
fulfilled in me; but long before I looked on the light of day
that frantic woman had repented of the awful deed she had done.
Repentance came too late the sin of the father was visited on the
child, and on the mother, too, for the moment her eyes fell upon
me, she became a raving maniac, and died before the first day of
my life had ended.
"Nurse and physician fled at the sight of me; but my father,
though thrilling with horror, bore the shock, and bowed to the
retributive justice of the angry Deity she had invoked. His
whole life, his whole nature, changed from that hour; and,
kneeling beside my dead mother, as he afterward told me, he vowed
before high Heaven to cherish and love me, even as though I had
not been the ghastly creature I was. The physician he bound by a
terrible oath to silence; the nurse he forced back, and, in spite
of her disgust and abhorrence, compelled her to nurse and care
for me. The dead was buried out of sight; and we had rooms in a
distant part of the house, which no one ever entered but my
father and the nurse. Though set apart from my birth as
something accursed, I had the intellect and capacity of - yes,
far greater intellect and capacity than, most children; and, as
years passed by, my father, true to his vow, became himself my
tutor and companion. He did not love me - that was an utter
impossibility; but time so blunts the edge of all things, that
even the nurse became reconciled to me, and my father could
scarcely do less than a stranger. So I was cared for, and
instructed, and educated; and, knowing not what a monstrosity I
was, I loved them both ardently, and lived on happily enough, in
my splendid prison, for my first ten years in this world.
"Then came a change. My nurse died; and it became clear that I
must quit my solitary life, and see the sort of world I lived in.
So my father, seeing all this, sat down in the twilight one night
beside me, and told me the story of my own hideousness. I was
but a child then, and it is many and many years ago; but this
gray summer morning, I feel what I felt then, as vividly as I did
at the time. I had not learned the great lesson of life then -
endurance, I have scarcely learned it yet, or I should bear
life's burden longer; but that first night's despair has darkened
my whole after-life. For weeks I would not listen to my father's
proposal, to hide what would send all the world from me in
loathing behind a mask; but I came to my senses at last, and from
that day to the present - more days than either you or I would
care to count - it has not been one hour altogether off my face."
"I was the wonder and talk of Paris, when I did appear; and most
of the surmises were wild and wide of the mark - some even going
so far as to say it was all owing to my wonderful unheard-of
beauty that I was thus mysteriously concealed from view. I had a
soft voice, and a tolerable shape; and upon this, I presume, they
founded the affirmation. But my father and I kept our own
council, and let them say what they listed. I had never been
named, as other children are; but they called me La Masque now.
I had masters and professors without end, and studied astronomy
and astrology, and the mystic lore of the old Egyptians, and
became noted as a prodigy and a wonder, and a miracle of
learning, far and near.
"The arts used to discover the mystery and make me unmask were
innumerable and almost incredible; but I baffled them all, and
began, after a time, rather to enjoy the sensation I created than
otherwise.
"There was one, in particular, possessed of even more devouring
curiosity than the rest, a certain young countess of miraculous
beauty, whom I need not describe, since you have her very image
in Leoline. The Marquis de Montmorenci, of a somewhat
inflammable nature, loved her almost as much as he had done my
mother, and she accepted him, and they were married. She may
have loved him (I see no reason why she should not), but still to
this day I think it was more to discover the secret of La Masque
than from any other cause. I loved my beautiful new mother too
well to let her find it out; although from the day she entered
our house as a bride, until that on which she lay on her
deathbed, her whole aim, day and night, was its discovery. There
seemed to be a fatality about my father's wives; for the
beautiful Honorine lived scarcely longer than her predecessor,
and she died, leaving three children - all born at one time - you
know them well, and one of them you love. To my care she
intrusted them on her deathbed, and she could have scarcely
intrusted them to worse; for, though I liked her, I most
decidedly disliked them. They were lovely children - their
lovely mother's image; and they were named Hubert, Leoline, and
Honorine, or, as you knew her, Miranda. Even my father did not
seem to care for them much, not even as much as he cared for me;
and when he lay on his deathbed, one year later, I was left,
young as I was, their sole guardian, and trustee of all his
wealth. That wealth was not fairly divided - one-half being left
to me and the other half to be shared equally between them; but,
in my wicked ambition, I was not satisfied even with that. Some
of my father's fierce and cruel nature I inherited; and I
resolved to be clear of these three stumbling-blocks, and
recompense myself for my other misfortunes by every indulgence
boundless riches could bestow. So, secretly, and in the night, I
left my home, with an old and trusty servant, known to you as
Prudence, and my unfortunate, little brother and sisters.
Strange to say, Prudence was attached to one of them, and to
neither of the rest - that one was Leoline, whom she resolved to
keep and care for, and neither she nor I minded what became of
the other two."
"From Paris we went to Dijon, where we dropped Hubert into the
turn at the convent door, with his name attached, and left him
where he would be well taken care of, and no questions asked.
With the other two we started for Calais, en route for England;
and there Prudence got rid of Honorine in a singular manner. A
packet was about starting for the island of our destination, and
she saw a strange-looking little man carrying his luggage from
the wharf into a boat. She had the infant in her arms, having
carried it out for the identical purpose of getting rid of it;
and, without more ado, she laid it down, unseen, among boxes and
bundles, and, like Hagar, stood afar off to see what became of
it. That ugly little man was the dwarf; and his amazement on
finding it among his goods and chattels you may imagine; but he
kept it, notwithstanding, though why, is best known to himself.
A few weeks after that we, too, came over, and Prudence took up
her residence in a quiet village a long way from London. Thus
you see, Sir Norman, how it comes about that we are so related,
and the wrong I have done them all."
"You have, indeed!" said Sir Norman, gravely, having listened,
much shocked and displeased, at this open confession; "and to one
of them it is beyond our power to atone. Do you know the life of
misery to which she has been assigned?"
"I know it all, and have repented for it in my own heart, in dust
and ashes! Even I - unlike all other earthly creatures as I am -
have a conscience, and it has given me no rest night or day
since. From that hour I have never lost sight of them; every
sorrow they have undergone has been known to me, and added to my
own; and yet I could not, or would not, undo what I had done.
Leoline knows all now; and she will tell Hubert, since destiny
has brought them together; and whether they will forgive me I
know not. But yet they might; for they have long and happy lives
before them, and we can forgive everything to the dead."
"But you are not dead," said Sir Norman; "and there is repentance
and pardon for all. Much as you have wronged them, they will
forgive you; and Heaven is not less merciful than they!"
"They may; for I have striven to atone. In my house there are
proofs and papers that will put them in possession of all, and
more than all, they have lost. But life is a burden of torture
I will bear no longer. The death of him who died for me this
night is the crowning tragedy of my miserable life; and if my
hour were not at hand, I should not have told you this."
"But you have not told me the fearful cause of no much guilt and
suffering. What is behind that mask?"
"Would you, too, see?" she asked, in a terrible voice, "and die?"
"I have told you it is not in my nature to die easily, and it is
something far stronger than mere curiosity makes me ask."
"Be it so! The sky is growing red with day-dawn, and I shall
never see the sun rise more, for I am already plague-struck!"
That sweetest of all voices ceased. The white hands removed the
mask, and the floating coils of hair, and revealed, to Sir
Norman's horror-struck gaze, the grisly face and head, and the
hollow eye-sockets, the grinning mouth, and fleshless cheeks of a
skeleton!
He saw it but for one fearful instant - the next, she had thrown
up both arms, and leaped headlong into the loathly plague-pit.
He saw her for a second or two, heaving and writhing in the
putrid heap; and then the strong man reeled and fell with his
face on the ground, not feigning, but sick unto death. Of all
the dreadful things he had witnessed that night, there was
nothing so dreadful as this; of all the horror he had felt
before, there was none to equal what he felt now. In his
momentary delirium, it seemed to him she was reaching her arms of
bone up to drag him in, and that the skeleton-face was grinning
at him on the edge of the awful pit. And, covering his eyes with
his hands, he sprang up, and fled away.
CHAPTER XXII.
DAY-DAWN.
All this time, the attendant, George, had been sitting, very much
at his ease, on horseback, looking after Sir Norman's charger and
admiring the beauties of sunrise. He had seen Sir Norman in
conversation with a strange female, and not much liking his near
proximity to the plague-pit, was rather impatient for it to come
to an end; but when he saw the tragic manner in which it did end,
his consternation was beyond all bounds. Sir Norman, in his
horrified flight, would have fairly passed him unnoticed, had not
George arrested him by a loud shout.
"I beg your pardon, Sir Norman," he exclaimed, as that gentleman
turned his distracted face; "but, it seems to me, you are running
away. Here is your horse; and allow me to say, unless we hurry
we will scarcely reach the count by sunrise."
Sir Norman leaned against his horse, and shaded his eyes with his
hand, shuddering like one in an ague.
"Why did that woman leap into the plague-pit?" inquired George,
looking at him curiously. "Was it not the sorceress, La Masque?"
"Yes, yes. Do not ask me any questions now," replied Sir Norman,
in a smothered voice, and with an impatient wave of his hand.
"Whatever you please, sir," said George, with the flippancy of
his class; "but still I must repeat, if you do not mount
instantly, we will be late; and my master, the count, is not one
who brooks delay."
The young knight vaulted into the saddle without a word, and
started off at a break-neck pace into the city. George, almost
unable to keep up with him, followed instead of leading, rather
skeptical in his own mind whether he were not riding after a
moon-struck lunatic. Once or twice he shouted out a sharp-toned
inquiry as to whether he knew where he was going, and that they
were taking the wrong way altogether; to all of which Sir Norman
deigned not the slightest reply, but rode more and more
recklessly on. There were but few people abroad at that hour;
indeed, for that matter, the streets of London, in the dismal
summer of 1665, were, comparatively speaking, always deserted;
and the few now wending their way homeward were tired physicians
and plague-nurses from the hospitals, and several hardy country
folks, with more love of lucre than fear of death bending their
steps with produce to the market-place. These people, sleepy and
pallid in the gray haze of daylight, stared in astonishment after
the two furious riders; and windows were thrown open, and heads
thrust out to see what the unusual thunder of horses' hoofs at
that early hour meant. George followed dauntlessly on,
determined to do it or die in the attempt; and if he had ever
heard of the Flying Dutchman, would undoubtedly have come to the
conclusion that he was just then following his track on dry land.
But, unlike the hapless Vanderdecken, Sir Norman came to a halt
at last, and that so suddenly that his horse stood on his beam
ends, and flourished his two fore limbs in the atmosphere. It
was before La Masque's door; and Sir Norman was out of the saddle
in a flash, and knocking like a postman with the handle of his
whip on the door. The thundering reveille rang through the
house, making it shake to its centre, and hurriedly brought to
the door, the anatomy who acted as guardian-angel of the
establishment.
"La Masque is not at home, and I cannot admit you," was his sharp
salute.
"Then I shall just take the trouble of admitting myself," said
Sir Norman, shortly.
And without further ceremony, he pushed aside the skeleton and
entered. But that outraged servitor sprang in his path,
indignant and amazed.
"No, sir; I cannot permit it. I do not know you; and it is
against all orders to admit strangers in La Masque's absence."
"Bah! you old simpleton!" remarked Sir Norman, losing his
customary respect for old age in his impatience, "I have La
Masque's order for what I am about to do. Get along with you
directly, will you? Show me to her private room, and no
nonsense!"
He tapped his sword-hilt significantly as he spoke, and that
argument proved irresistible. Grumbling, in low tones, the
anatomy stalked up-stairs; and the other followed, with very
different feelings from those with which he had mounted that
staircase last. His guide paused in the hall above, with his
hand on the latch of a door.
"This is her private room, is it!" demanded Sir Norman.
"Yes."
"Just stand aside, then, and let me pass."
The room he entered was small, simply furnished, and seemed to
answer as bed-chamber and study, all in one. There was a
writing-table under a window, covered with books, and he glanced
at them with some curiosity. They were classics, Greek and
Latin, and other little known tongues - perhaps Sanscrit and
Chaldaic, French belles lettres, novels, and poetry, and a few
rare old English books. There were no papers, however, and those
were what he was in search of; so spying a drawer in the table,
he pulled it hastily open. The eight that met his eyes fairly
dazzled him. It was full of jewels of incomparable beauty and
value, strewn as carelessly about as if they were valueless. The
blaze of gems at the midnight court seemed to him as nothing
compared with the Golconda, the Valley of Diamonds shooting forth
sparks of rainbow-fire before him now. Around one magnificent
diamond necklace was entwined a scrap of paper, on which was
written:
"The family jewels of the Montmorencis. To be given to my
sisters when I am dead."
That settled their destiny. All this blaze of diamonds, rubies,
and opals were Leoline's; and with the energetic rapidity
characteristic of our young friend that morning, he swept them
out on the table, and resumed his search for papers. No document
was there to reward his search, but the brief one twined round
the necklace; and he was about giving up in despair, when a small
brass slide in one corner caught his eye. Instantly he was at
it, trying it every way, shoving it out and in, and up and down,
until at last it yielded to his touch, disclosing an inner
drawer, full of papers and parchments. One glance showed them to
be what he was in search of - proofs of Leoline and Hubert's
identity, with the will of the marquis, their father, and
numerous other documents relative to his wealth and estates.
These precious manuscripts he rolled together in a bundle, and
placed carefully in his doublet, and then seizing a
beautifully-wrought brass casket, that stood beneath the table,
he swept the jewels in, secured it, and strapped it to his belt.
This brisk and important little affair being over, he arose to
go, and in turning, saw the skeleton porter standing in the
door-way, looking on in speechless dismay.
"It's all right my ancient friend!" observed Sir Norman, gravely.
"These papers must go before the king, and these jewels to their
proper owner."
"Their proper owner!" repeated the old man, shrilly; "that is La
Masque. Thief-robber-housebreaker - stop!"
"My good old friend, you will do yourself a mischief if you bawl
like that. Undoubtedly these things were La Masque's, but they
are so no longer, since La Masque herself is among the things
that were!"
"You shall not go!" yelled the old man, trembling with rage and
anger. "Help! help! help!"
"You noisy old idiot!" cried Sir Norman, losing all patience, "I
will throw you out of the window if you keep up such a clamor as
this. I tell you La Masque is dead!"
At this ominous announcement, the ghastly porter fell back, and
became, if possible, a shade more ghastly than was his wont.
"Dead and buried!" repeated Sir Norman, with gloomy
sternness, "and there will be somebody else coming to take
possession shortly. How many more servants are there here beside
yourself?"
"Only one, sir - my wife Joanna. In mercy's name, sir, do not
turn us out in the streets at this dreadful time!"
"Not I! You and your wife Joanna may stagnate here till you
blue-mold, for me. But keep the door fast, my good old friend,
and admit no strangers, but those who can tell you La Masque is
dead!"
With which parting piece of advice Sir Norman left the house, and
joined George, who sat like an effigy before the door, in a state
of great mental wrath, and who accosted him rather suddenly the
moment be made his appearance.
"I tell you what, Sir Norman Kingsley, if you have many more
morning calls to make, I shall beg leave to take my departure.
As it is, I know we are behind time, and his ma - the count, I
mean, is not one who it accustomed or inclined to be kept
waiting."
"I am quite at your service now," said Sir Norman, springing on
horseback; "so away with you, quick as you like."
George wanted no second order. Before the words were well out of
his companion's mouth, he was dashing away like a bolt from a
bow, as furiously as if on a steeple-chase, with Sir Norman close
at his heels; and they rode, flushed and breathless, with their
steeds all a foaming, into the court-yard of the royal palace at
Whitehall, just as the early rising sun was showing his florid
and burning visage above the horizon.
_______________
The court-yard, unlike the city streets, swarmed with busy life.
Pages, and attendants, and soldiers, moving hither and thither,
or lounging about, preparing for the morning's journey to Oxford.
Among the rest Sir Norman observed Hubert, lying very much at his
ease wrapped in his cloak, on the ground, and chatting languidly
with a pert and pretty attendant of the fair Mistress Stuart. He
cut short his flirtation, however, abruptly enough, and sprang to
his feet as he saw Sir Norman, while George immediately darted
off and disappeared from the palace.
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