Books: The Midnight Queen
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May Agnes Fleming >> The Midnight Queen
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"Ah! I am glad to meet you. I have been searching the city
through for you. Where have you been?"
"Madame, I was so frightened that I don't know where I fled to,
and I could scarcely make up my mind to come back at all. I did
feel dreadfully sorry for her, poor thing! but you know, Madame
Masque, I could do nothing for her, and I should not have come
back, only I was afraid of you."
"You did wrong, Prudence," said La Masque, sternly, or at least
as sternly as so sweet a voice could speak; "you did very wrong
to leave her in such a way. You should have come to me at once,
and told me all."
"But, madame, I was so frightened!"
"Bah! You are nothing but a coward. Come into this doorway, and
tell me all about it."
Ormiston drew back as the twain approached, and entered the deep
portals of La Masque's own doorway. He could see them both by
the aforesaid faint lamplight, and he noticed that La Masque's
companion was a wrinkled old woman, that would not trouble the
peace of mind of the most jealous lover in Christendom. Perhaps
it was not just the thing to hover aloof and listen; but he could
not for the life of him help it; and stand and listen he
accordingly did. Who knew but this nocturnal conversation might
throw some light on the dark mystery he was anxious to see
through, and, could his ears have run into needle-points to hear
the better, he would have had the operation then and there
performed. There was a moment's silence after the two entered
the portal, during which La Masque stood, tall, dark, and
commanding, motionless as a marble column; and the little
withered old specimen of humanity beside her stood gazing up at
her with something between fear and fascination.
"Do you know what has become of your charge, Prudence?" asked the
low, vibrating voice of La Masque, at last.
"How could I, madame? You know I fled from the house, and I
dared not go back. Perhaps she is there still."
"Perhaps she is not? Do you suppose that sharp shriek of yours
was unheard? No; she was found; and what do you suppose has
become of her?"
The old woman looked up, and seemed to read in the dark, stern
figure, and the deep solemn voice, the fatal truth. She wrong
her hands with a sort of cry.
"Oh! I know, I know; they have put her in the dead-cart, and
buried her in the plague-pit. O my dear, sweet young mistress."
"If you had stayed by your dear, sweet young mistress, instead of
running screaming away as you did, it might not have happened,"
said La Masque, in a tone between derision and contempt.
"Madame," sobbed the old woman, who was crying, "she was dying of
the plague, and how could I help it? They would have buried her
in spite of me."
"She was not dead; there was your mistake. She was as much alive
as you or I at this moment."
"Madame, I left her dead!" said the old woman positively.
"Prudence, you did no such thing; you left her fainting, and in
that state she was found and carried to the plague-pit."
The old woman stood silent for a moment, with a face of intense
horror, and then she clasped both hands with a wild cry.
"O my God! And they buried her alive - buried her alive in that
dreadful plague-pit!"
La Masque, leaning against a pillar, stood unmoved; and her
voice, when she spoke, was as coldly sweet as modern ice-cream.
"Not exactly. She was not buried at all, as I happen to know.
But when did you discover that she had the plague, and how could
she possibly have caught it?"
"That I do not know, madam. She seemed well enough all day,
though not in such high spirits as a bride should be. Toward
evening die complained of a headache and a feeling of faintness;
but I thought nothing of it, and helped her to dress for the
bridal. Before it was over, the headache and faintness grew
worse, and I gave her wine, and still suspected nothing. The
last time I came in, she had grown so much worse, that
notwithstanding her wedding dress, she had lain down on her bed,
looking for all the world like a ghost, and told me she had the
most dreadful burning pain in her chest. Then, madame, the
horrid truth struck me - I tore down her dress, and there, sure
enough, was the awful mark of the distemper. `You have the
plague!' I shrieked; and then I fled down stairs and out of the
house, like one crazy. O madame, madame! I shall never forget
it - it was terrible! I shall never forget it! Poor, poor child;
and the count does not know a word of it!"
La Masque laughed - a sweet, clear, deriding laugh, "So the count
does not know it, Prudence? Poor man! he will be in despair when
he finds it out, won't he? Such an ardent and devoted lover as
he was you know!"
Prudence looked up a little puzzled.
"Yes, madame, I think so. He seemed very fond of her; a great
deal fonder than she ever was of him. The fact is, madame," said
Prudence, lowering her voice to a confidential stage whisper,
"she never seemed fond of him at all, and wouldn't have been
married, I think, if she could have helped it."
"Could have helped it? What do you mean, Prudence? Nobody made
her, did they?"
Prudence fidgeted, and looked rather uneasy.
"Why, madame, she was not exactly forced, perhaps; but you know -
you know you told me - "
"Well?" said La Masque, coldly.
"To do what I could," cried Prudence, in a sort of desperation;
"and I did it, madame, and harassed her about it night and day.
And then the count was there, too, coaxing and entreating; and he
was handsome and had such ways with him that no woman could
resist, much less one so little used to gentlemen as Leoline.
And so, Madame Masque, we kept at her till we got her to consent
to it at last; but in her secret heart, I know she did not want
to be married - at least to the count," said Prudence, on serious
afterthought.
"Well, well; that has nothing to do with it. The question is,
where it she to be found?"
"Found!" echoed Prudence; "has she then been lost?"
"Of coarse she has, you old simpleton! How could she help it,
and she dead, with no one to look after her?" said La Masque,
with something like a half laugh. "She was carried to the
plague-pit in her bridal-robes, jewels and lace; and, when about
to be thrown in, was discovered, like Moses is the bulrushes, to
be all alive."
"Well," whispered Prudence, breathlessly.
"Well, O most courageous of guardians! she was carried to a
certain house, and left to her own devices, while her gallant
rescuer went for a doctor; and when they returned she was
missing. Our pretty Leoline seems to have a strong fancy for
getting lost!"
There was a pause, during which Prudence looked at her with a
face fall of mingled fear and curiosity. At last:
"Madame, how do you know all this? Were you there?"
"No. Not I, indeed! What would take me there?"
"Then how do you happen to know everything about it?"
La Masque laughed.
"A little bird told me, Prudence! Have you returned to resume
your old duties?"
"Madame, I dare not go into that house again. I am afraid of
taking the plague."
"Prudence, you are a perfect idiot! Are you not liable to take
the plague in the remotest quarter of this plague-infested city?
And even if you do take it, what odds? You have only a few years
to live, at the most, and what matter whether you die now or at
the end of a year or two?"
"What matter?" repeated Prudence, in a high key of indignant
amazement. "It may make no matter to you, Madame Masque, but it
makes a great deal to me; I can tell you; and into that infected
house I'll not put one foot."
"Just as you please, only in that case there is no need for
further talk, so allow me to bid you good-night!"
"But, madame, what of Leoline? Do stop one moment and tell me of
her."
"What have I to tell? I have told you all I know. If you want
to find her, you must search in the city or in the pest-house!"
Prudence shuddered, and covered her face with her hands.
"O, my poor darling! so good and so beautiful. Heaven might
surely have spared her! Are you going to do nothing farther
about it?"
"What can I do? I have searched for her and have not found her,
and what else remains?"
"Madame, you know everything - surely, surely you know where my
poor little nursling is, among the rest."
Again La Masque laughed - another of her low, sweet, derisive
laughs.
"No such thing, Prudence. If I did, I should have her here in a
twinkling, depend upon - it. However, it all comes to the same
thing in the end. She is probably dead by this time, and would
have to be buried in the plague-pit, anyhow. If you have nothing
further to say, Prudence, you had better bid me good-night, and
let me go."
"Good-night, madame!" said Prudence, with a sort of groan, as she
wrapped her cloak closely around her, and turned to go.
La Masque stood for a moment looking after her, and then placed a
key in the lock of the door. But there is many a slip - she was
not fated to enter as soon as she thought; for just at that
moment a new step sounded beside her, a new voice pronounced her
name, and looking around, she beheld Ormiston. With what
feelings that young person had listened to the neat and
appropriate dialogue I have just had the pleasure of
immortalizing, may be - to use a phrase you may have heard
before, once or twice - better imagined than described. He knew
very well who Leoline was, and how she had been saved from the
plague-pit; but where in the world had La Masque found it out.
Lost in a maze of wonder, and inclined to doubt the evidence of
his own ears, he had stood perfectly still, until his ladylove
had so coolly dismissed her company, and then rousing himself
just in time, he had come forward and accosted her. La Masque
turned round, regarded him in silence for a moment, and when she
spoke, her voice had an accent of mingled surprise and
displeasure.
"You, Mr. Ormiston! How many more times am I to have the
pleasure of seeing you again to-night?"
"Pardon, madame; it is the last time. But you must hear me now."
"Must I? Very well, then; if I must, you had better begin at
once, for the night-air is said to be unhealthy, and as good
people are scarce, I want to take care of myself."
"In that case, perhaps you had better let me enter, too. I hate
to talk on the street, for every wall has ears."
"I am aware of that. When I was talking to my old friend,
Prudence, two minutes ago, I saw a tall shape that I have reason
to know, since it haunts me, like my own shadow, standing there
and paying deed attention. I hope you found our conversation
improving, Mr. Ormiston!"
"Madame!" began Ormiston, turning crimson.
"Oh, don't blush; there is quite light enough from yonder lamp to
show that. Besides," added the lady, easily, "I don't know as I
had any objection; you are interested in Leoline, and must feel
curious to know something about her."
"Madame, what must you think of me? I have acted unpardonably."
"Oh, I know all that. There is no need to apologize, and I don't
think any the worse of you for it. Will you come to business,
Mr. Ormiston? I think I told you I wanted to go in. What may
you want of me at this dismal hour?"
"O madame, need you ask! Does not your own heart tell you?"
"I am not aware that it does! And to tell you the truth, Mr.
Ormiston, I don't know that I even have a heart! I am afraid I
mast trouble you to put it in words."
"Then, madame, I love you!"
"Is that all? If my memory serves me, you have told me that
little fact several times before. Is there anything else
tormenting you, or may I go in?"
Ormiston groaned out an oath between his teeth, and La Masque
raised one jeweled, snowy taper finger, reprovingly.
"Don't Mr. Ormiston - it's naughty, you know! May I go in?"
"Madame, you are enough to drive a man mad. Is the love I bear
you worthy of nothing but mockery!"
"No, Mr. Ormiston, it is not; that is, supposing you really love
me, which you don't."
"Madame!"
"Oh, you needn't flash and look indignant; it is quite true!
Don't be absurd, Mr. Ormiston. How is it possible for you to
love one you have never seen?"
"I have seen you. Do you think I am blind?" he demanded,
indignantly.
"My face, I mean. I don't consider that you can see a person
without looking in her face. Now you have never looked in mine,
and how do you know I have any face at all?"
"Madame, you mock me."
"Not at all. How are you to know what is behind this mask?"
"I feel it, and that is better; and I love you all the same."
"Mr. Ormiston, how do you know but I am ugly."
"Madame, I do not believe you are; you are all too perfect not to
have a perfect face; and even were it otherwise, I still love
you!"
She broke into a laugh -one of her low, short, deriding laughs.
"You do! O man, how wise thou art! I tell you, if I took off
this mask, the sight would curdle the very blood in your veins
with horror - would freeze the lifeblood in your heart. I tell
you!" she passionately cried, "there are sights too horrible for
human beings to look on and live, and this -this is one of
them!"
He started back, and stared at her aghast.
"You think me mad," she said, in a less fierce tone, "but I am
not; and I repeat it, Mr. Ormiston, the sight of what this mask
conceals would blast you. Go now, for Heaven's sake, and leave
me in peace, to drag out the rest of my miserable life; and if
ever you think of me, let it be to pray that it might speedily
end. You have forced me to say this: so now be content. Be
merciful, and go!"
She made a desperate gesture, and turned to leave him, but he
caught her hand and held her fast.
"Never!" he cried, fiercely. "Say what you will! let that mask
hide what it may! I will never leave you till life leaves me!"
"Man, you are mad! Release my hand and let me go!"
"Madame, hear me. There is but one way to prove my love, and my
sanity, and that is - "
"Well?" she said, almost touched by his earnestness.
"Raise your mask and try me! Show me your face and see if I do
not love you still!"
"Truly I know how much love you will have for me when it is
revealed. Do you know that no one has looked in my face for the
last eight years."
He stood and gazed at her in wonder.
"It is so, Mr. Ormiston; and in my heart I have vowed a vow to
plunge headlong into the most loathsome plague-pit in London,
rather than ever raise it again. My friend, be satisfied. Go
and leave me; go and forget me."
"I can do neither until I have ceased to forget every thing
earthly. Madame, I implore you, hear me!"
"Mr. Ormiston, I tell you, you but court your own doom. No one
can look on me and live!"
"I will risk it," he said with an incredulous smile. "Only
promise to show me your face."
"Be it so then!" she cried almost fiercely. "I promise, and be
the consequences on your own head."
His whole face flushed with joy.
"I accept them. And when is that happy time to come?"
"Who knows! What must be done, had best be done quickly; but I
tell thee it were safer to play with the lightning's chain than
tamper with what thou art about to do."
"I take the risk! Will you raise your mask now?"
"No, no - I cannot! But yet, I may before the sun rises. My
face" - with bitter scorn - "shows better by darkness than by
daylight. Will you be out to see, the grand illumination."
"Most certainly."
"Then meet me here an hour after midnight, and the face so long
hidden shall be revealed. But, once again, on the threshold of
doom, I entreat you to pause."
"There is no such word for me!" he fiercely and exultingly cried.
"I have your promise, and I shall hold you to it! And, madame,
if, at last, you discover my love is changeless as fate itself,
then - then may I not dare to hope for a return?"
"Yes; then you may hope," she said, with cold mockery. "If your
love survives the sight, it will be mighty, indeed, and well
worthy a return,"
"And you will return it?"
"I will."
"You will be my wife?"
"With all my heart!"
"My darling!" he cried, rapturously - "for you are mine already -
how can I ever thank you for this? If a whole lifetime devoted
and consecrated to your happiness can repay you, it shall be
yours!"
During this rhapsody, her hand had been on the handle of the
door. Now she turned it.
"Good-night, Mr. Ormiston," she said, and vanished.
CHAPTER VII.
THE EARL'S BARGE.
Shocks of joy, they tell me, seldom kill. Of my own knowledge I
cannot say, for I have had precious little experience of such
shocks in my lifetime, Heaven knows; but in the present instance,
I can safely aver, they had no such dismal effect on Ormiston.
Nothing earthly could have given that young gentleman a greater
shock of joy than the knowledge he was to behold the long hidden
face of his idol. That that face was ugly, he did not for an
instant believe, or, at least, it never world be ugly to him.
With a form so perfect - a form a sylph might have envied - a
voice sweeter than the Singing Fountain of Arabia, hands and feet
the most perfectly beautiful the sun ever shone on, it was simply
a moral and physical impossibility, then, they could be joined to
a repulsive face. There was a remote possibility that it was a
little less exquisite than those ravishing items, and that her
morbid fancy made her imagine it homely, compared with them, but
he knew he never would share in that opinion. It was the
reasoning of lover, rather, the logic; for when love glides
smiling in at the door, reason stalks gravely, not to say
sulkily, out of the window, and, standing afar off, eyes
disdainfully the didos and antics of her late tenement. There
was very little reason, therefore, in Ormiston's head and heart,
but a great deal of something sweeter, joy - joy that thrilled
and vibrated through every nerve within him. Leaning against the
portal, in an absurd delirium of delight - for it takes but a
trifle to jerk those lovers from the slimiest depths of the
Slough of Despond to the topmost peak of the mountain of ecstasy
- he uncovered his head that the night-air might cool its
feverish throbbings. But the night-air was as hot as his heart;
and, almost suffocated by the sultry closeness, he was about to
start for a plunge in the river, when the sound of coming
footsteps and voices arrested him. He had met with so many odd
ad ventures to-night that he stopped now to see who was coming;
for on every hand all was silent and forsaken,
Footsteps and voices came closer; two figures took shape in the
gloom, and emerged from the darkness into the glimmering lamp
light. He recognised them both. One was the Earl of Rochester;
the other, his dark-eyed, handsome page - that strange page with
the face of the lost lady! The earl was chatting familiarly, and
laughing obstreperously at something or other, while the boy
merely wore a languid smile, as if anything further in that line
were quite beneath his dignity.
"Silence and solitude," said the earl, with a careless glance
around, "I protest, Hubert, this night seems endless. How long
is it till midnight?"
"An hour and a half at least, I should fancy," answered the boy,
with a strong foreign accent. "I know it struck ten as we passed
St. Paul's."
"This grand bonfire of our most worshipful Lord Mayor will be a
sight worth seeing," remarked the earl. "When all these piles
are lighted, the city will be one sea of fire."
"A slight foretaste of what most of its inhabitants will behold
in another world," said the page, with a French shrug. "I have
heard Lilly's prediction that London is to be purified by fire,
like a second Sodom; perhaps it is to be verified to-night."
"Not unlikely; the dome of St. Paul's would be an excellent place
to view the conflagration."
"The river will do almost as well, my lord."
"We will have a chance of knowing that presently," said the earl,
as he and his page descended to the river, where the little
gilded barge lay moored, and the boatman waiting.
As they passed from sight Ormiston came forth, and watched
thoughtfully after them. The face and figure were that of the
lady, but the voice was different; both were clear and musical
enough, but she spoke English with the purest accent, while his
was the voice of a foreigner. It most have been one of those
strange, unaccountable likenesses we sometimes see among perfect
strangers, but the resemblance in this ease was something
wonderful. It brought his thoughts back from himself sad his own
fortunate love, to his violently-smitten friend, Sir Norman, and
his plague-stricken beloved; and he began speculating what he
could possibly be about just then, or what he had discovered in
the old ruin. Suddenly he was aroused; a moment before, the
silence had been almost oppressive but now on the wings of the
night, there came a shout. A tumult of voices and footsteps were
approaching.
"Stop her! Stop her!" was cried by many voices; and the next
instant a fleet figure went flying past him with a rush, and
plunged head foremost into she river.
A slight female figure, with floating robes of white, waving hair
of deepest, blackness, with a sparkle of jewels on neck and arms.
Only for an instant did he see it; but he knew it well, and his
very heart stood still. "Stop her! stop her! she is ill of the
plague!" shouted the crowd, preying panting on; but they came too
late; the white vision had gone down into the black, sluggish
river, and disappeared.
"Who is it? What is it? Where is it?" cried two or three
watchmen, brandishing their halberds, and rushing up; and the
crowd-a small mob of a dozen or so-answered all at once: "She is
delirious with the plague; she was running through the streets;
we gave chase, but she out-stepped us, and is now at the bottom
of the Thames."
Ormiston, waited to hear no more, but rushed precipitately down
to the waters edge. The alarm has now reached the boats on the
river, and many eyes within them were turned in the direction
whence she had gone down. Soon she reappeared on the dark
surface - something whiter than snow, whiter than death; shining
like silver, shone the glittering dress and marble face of the
bride. A small batteau lay close to where Ormiston stood; in two
seconds he had sprang in, shoved it off, and was rowing
vigorously toward that snow wreath in the inky river. But he was
forestalled, two hands white and jeweled as her own, reached over
the edge of a gilded barge, and, with the help of the boatmen,
lifted her in. Before she could be properly established on the
cushioned seats, the batteau was alongside, and Ormiston turned a
very white and excited face toward the Earl of Rochester.
"I know that lady, my lord! She is a friend of mine, and you
must give her to me!"
"Is it you, Ormiston? Why what brings you here alone on the
river, at this hour?"
"I have come for her," said Ormiston, pressing over to lift the
lady. "May I beg you to assist me, my lord, in transferring her
to my boat?"
"You must wait till I see her first," said Rochester, partly
raising her head, and holding a lamp close to her face, "as I
have picked her out, I think I deserve it. Heavens! what an
extraordinary likeness!"
The earl had glanced at the lady, then at his page, again at the
lady, and lastly at Ormiston, his handsome countenance fall of
the most unmitigated wonder. "To whom?" asked Ormiston, who had
very little need to inquire.
"To Hubert, yonder. Why, don't you see it yourself? She might
be his twin-sister!"
"She might be, but as she is not, you will have the goodness to
let me take charge of her. She has escaped from her friends, and
I meet bring her back to them."
He half lifted her as he spoke; and the boatman, glad enough to
get rid of one sick of the plague, helped her into the batteau.
The lady was not insensible, as might be supposed, after her cold
bath, but extremely wide-awake, and gazing around her with her great,
black, shining eyes. But she made no resistance; either she was
too faint or frightened for that, and suffered herself to be
hoisted about, "passive to all changes." Ormiston spread his
cloak in the stern of the boat, and laid her tenderly upon it,
and though the beautiful, wistful eyes were solemnly and
unwinkingly fixed on his face, the pale, sweet lips parted not -
uttered never a word. The wet bridal robes were drenched and
dripping about her, the long dark hair hung in saturated masses
over her neck and arms, and contrasted vividly with a face,
Ormiston thought at once, the whitest, most beautiful, and most
stonelike he had ever seen.
"Thank you, my man; thank you, my lord," said Ormiston, preparing
to push off.
Rochester, who had been leaning from the barge, gazing in mingled
curiosity, wonder, and admiration at the lovely face, turned now
to her champion.
"Who is she, Ormiston?" he said, persuasively.
But Ormiston only laughed, and rowed energetically for the shore.
The crowd was still lingering; and half a dozen hands were
extended to draw the boat up to the landing. He lifted the light
form in his arms and bore it from the boat; but before he could
proceed farther with his armful of beauty, a faint but imperious
voice spoke: "Please put me down. I am not a baby, and can walk
myself."
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