The Bride of the Tomb, and Queenie's Terrible Secret

"Now, that is rather strange," thought the detective as he walked his horse slowly past the deserted-looking place.

"What business has Colville in there? I can imagine that Pratt may have a patient inside those gloomy walls; but what the deuce can Colville have to do with it? I am almost positive that I heard shrieks issuing thence when they went in at the gate. I wonder can it be a private asylum for the insane?"

He spurred his horse ahead and rode on for some distance, then paused, and remained as erect and still as a statue while he watched and waited for the pair of confederates to come forth. But at least an hour elapsed before they emerged, and pursued the devious tenor of their guilty way.

"Now, upon my word," thought the wary spy, "Doctor Pratt must have a very interesting case inside of those gloomy, prison-like walls. I have a mind to stop somewhere in the neighborhood and inquire about the inhabitants thereof."

He accordingly suffered Doctor Pratt's carriage to drive on out of sight, and stopping before a cottage on the road with the ostensible purpose of obtaining a drink of water, he inquired of the woman who gave it to him as to the names of the people who inhabited the old house with the stone wall.

"And indade, it's mesilf that cannot tell ye, sor," said she, with a very broad Hibernian accent, "for shure, Mickey and mesilf have but lately moved intil the cot, and knows naught about the nayburs!"

Mr. Shelton rode on and made the same inquiry at the next house, but elicited no encouraging answer. People did not seem to know anything about the deserted-looking old house in such close proximity to them.

After several similar experiences he rode on quite disgusted with the general stupidity of the neighborhood.

Almost two miles from the old house that had so powerfully attracted his interest, he came upon a little house standing close to the roadside.

A kind-looking woman sat in the doorway, though the day was chilly, and as she kept knitting away on the homely gray stocking, sang cheerily at her work.

"Now that is a pleasant-looking old soul," he thought. "Perhaps her intellect is above the average of her neighbors. Perhaps she is better informed than they are. At any rate, I will speak to her."

He dismounted from his horse this time, fastened him at the gate-post, and walked up the narrow path to the door.

The good woman arose in quite a flutter.

"Do not let me disturb you," said he, courteously. "I only wish to trouble you for a drink of water. I have ridden far and feel very thirsty."

"Certainly, sir," said the woman, in a voice as pleasant as her face. "Come in and have a seat, sir, and you shall have a draught fresh from the spring."

She hurried away on hospitable thoughts intent, and soon returned with a glass of pure cold water. The guest sat still in his homely chair and sipped at the water very slowly considering how thirsty he had professed himself to be.

The fact was, he had drank several glasses of water already while prosecuting his inquiries, and began to feel himself almost unequal to this latter one.

"You do well to sip your water slowly, sir," said the woman, observing him, "for the doctors do say that it is very imprudent to drink rapidly when tired and overheated."

"Bless the good, unsuspecting soul," thought the detective. Aloud he said very politely: "Yes, madam, I am aware of that fact, and I believe some very severe illnesses have resulted from injudicious gulping down of cold water by thoughtless persons. I always make a point of sipping mine very slowly."

"And very right of you, too, sir," said the kind soul, approvingly.

"Ah, by the way," said he, "I am a stranger in this neighborhood, and I passed a house about two miles back that powerfully attracted my curiosity. It was an old, deserted-looking building, inclosed by a high stone wall. Its prison-like aspect repelled me. Do you know anything about it?"

"They do say it was a convent once, sir," answered the good woman, readily. "I know the place you speak of, and as you say, sir, it has a very repelling aspect."

"Is it inhabited now?" inquired the wayfarer.

The hearer shuddered.

"That it is, sir," said she; "and by a wicked lot, I assure you."

"Is it possible?"

"It is quite true, sir. The place has been inhabited for many years by an old couple of the name of Leveret. They have no family at all, and live there alone, having no friends or neighbors, and it is said that they keep a powerful bloodhound upon the place. Strange tales are told of these people, but nothing is known certainly. Both of them are hideously ugly, and many people declare that the old woman is a witch."

"Is either of them sick, do you know?" inquired the detective.

"That I cannot tell you, sir. They are all very reserved, and hold no intercourse with people around them. I have heard that they are misers, and have large quantities of gold buried in their garden, and guarded by the great bloodhound. They might both sicken and die, and not a living soul be the wiser. May I inquire why you asked that question, sir?" asked she.

"Certainly. I saw a doctor's carriage standing in front of the gate, and concluded that someone must be sick, within."

"Perhaps there may be, sir, but I would not have thought they would have called in a doctor. These old witches, like Haidee Leveret, as they say her name is, usually cure sickness with their own herbs and simples."

"Perhaps they failed on this occasion. Well, I must be going," said the detective. "Many thanks for your information. Permit me to offer you a trifle for your kind entertainment," said he, politely tendering a piece of silver.

"Not a penny, sir. The water costs nothing, and as for changing a bit word with you, why, that's a pleasure to a lonesome old lady like me, with few neighbors and friends. Why, it was only last month that a young thing in trouble, passing this way, offered me her fine diamond ring to pay for a bit kindness I showed her. But I refused it, sir. I want nothing for showing a little kindness to the wayfaring," said the good woman, pausing to take breath.

Shelton's attention had been caught unaccountably by the mention of the diamond ring.

"You stimulate my curiosity," said he, deliberately sitting down again. "The young person must have felt your kindness very sensibly to have offered such a costly reward as a diamond ring."

"Aye, she was in sore trouble, sir, that I believe. But now I bethink me," said the good creature, stopping short, "she charged me if any one came here inquiring for her to say she had not been here, and here I am blabbing away at this thoughtless rate."

"But you see I am not inquiring for her," said the visitor briskly. "I am a perfect stranger in these parts, and I am not looking for anyone, so there is no harm done in relating this interesting story to me."

"Why, that is very true, sir," said she, and thereupon followed a minute and detailed account of the visit of Lily Lawrence, and the disguise she had furnished her. Mr. Shelton listened to the story with very close attention.

"How long ago has it been since this happened?" he inquired when she had finished her relation.

"Several weeks, sir. Stay, let me see—I was so excited by it that I put down the date in my little memorandum book," she said, as she began to fumble in her pocket. Presently she produced the book in question, and turning a leaf announced triumphantly, "it was fully two months ago, sir. It was August—the 21st of August."

"The very day that Lily Lawrence appeared to her friends," thought the detective, with a start. "Can there be any connection between the two?"

"She was young and beautiful, you say?" asked he.

"Aye, she was, sir. Not more than seventeen or eighteen, and beautiful as a white lily, sir. She put me in mind of that flower, she was so delicate and pale, sir—not a tint of color in her poor lips and cheeks. Her hair was pale golden too, sir, falling down upon her shoulders, and her eyes of a beautiful deep blue."

"I suppose no one came by to inquire for her?" said Shelton.

"No one, sir; I did not see anyone passing that day except a doctor's carriage that whirled past in a desperate hurry soon after she left here."

"Let us hope she made her escape from whatever evils menaced her," said he, fervently. "Well, I must be going in earnest now. My kind friend, will you tell me your name? I may call on you again."

"My name is Mrs. Mason, sir," she answered.

"Do you live here alone?" asked he, as he jotted it hastily down in his note-book.

"Quite alone, sir. My poor husband and my only child have been dead these ten years—I am quite alone in the world," answered Mrs. Mason with a sigh.

"Good day, Mrs. Mason, and many thanks for your kindness to a wayfaring man," said the detective as he went down the path, leaped into the saddle and rode away.

Mrs. Mason's revelation had thrown his mind into a chaos of doubt, perplexity and suspicion. New light began to break in on him, startling him with a wondrous possibility he had not suspected.

CHAPTER XXIII

Mrs. Vance had done herself more harm than good by the bold avowal of her love for Lancelot Darling. The innate delicacy and almost womanly refinement of his character revolted at the idea of her imprudent and ill-considered step. He could not understand why she should have lowered herself by declaring her love after all he had said regarding the constancy of his affection for his loved and lost Lily. He pitied, and yet the feeling of pity was more closely allied than he knew to a feeling that bordered on contempt.

The fair widow herself was not by any means cast down by Lancelot's firm and resolute repulse. She thought, from her knowledge of masculine character in general, that Lancelot's vanity would soon overcome his first shocked repugnance to her unfeminine avowal, and cause him to exult in the knowledge that he was so madly beloved by so beautiful and accomplished a woman.

From that there would be but a slight step to giving his love in return. She had not driven him away from her, for he had not said he would not come again. She would see him often, and work on his feelings by every art of which she was mistress. Surely she could not fail to win him. He was young, impressible, and youth is not prone to constancy to the dead. True he had an idle, romantic fancy that "love is love forevermore," but time and her artifice would cure him of that.

"I will be very shy and humble when he first comes back again," she thought. "No young maiden in her teens shall outdo me in coyness and reserve. I will make him think that my wild outburst that day was entirely unpremeditated and that I am thoroughly ashamed and repentant. He will begin to excuse me to himself, then he will pity my hopeless love, and then—ah, then, 'pity is akin to love!'"

She was sitting in the drawing-room, rocking leisurely back and forth while she trifled over a delicate bit of fancy-work. A fire burned cheerily on the marble hearth, for the late October days were growing chilly, and diffused an air of warmth and comfort in the large, luxuriously appointed apartment. Mrs. Vance herself was quite in keeping with the elegance of the room. Her house dress of delicate pink cashmere, with trimmings of cream-white lace, made a beautiful spot of color in the darker, more subdued coloring of the furnishings around her.

Ada came in from the conservatory with her arms full of flowers, and sitting down opposite the lady, began to arrange them into tasteful bouquets.

"You need two roses to complete the harmony of your dress," said she carelessly, selecting that number and tossing them over to her. Mrs. Vance took the roses and fastened them in her breast and hair. "Now your toilet is perfect," said the young girl in a tone of admiration that was quite sincere, for though she believed Mrs. Vance to be a false and scheming woman, she could not but admit the perfection of her beauty and grace.

There had been no more angry passages between Mrs. Vance and Ada, though the pure-hearted and impulsive girl had in no-wise changed her opinion of the lady. But on mature reflection she began to think that since Mrs. Vance was her father's guest she had acted wrongly in thus declaring war with her. Therefore she treated her as before her sudden outburst against her, with outward politeness and respect.

The young girl appeared very lovely that morning. Her deep mourning dress, with its heavy crape folds, could not obscure her beauty, and set off, like the somber setting of a jewel, her transcendant fairness. All traces of her severe illness in the summer had disappeared. Her cheeks were glowing with a faint, sea shell tint, deepening to glowing crimson on her full and pouting lips. Her large, blue eyes had the serene, innocent look of a child's tender orbs. Her golden hair, simply drawn back and braided, allowed a soft, curly fringe to escape and flutter caressingly over her low, white brow. Mrs. Vance hated her for the beauty that recalled the image of the rival her jealous hand had ruthlessly slain.

While they sat thus engaged there was a ring at the door-bell, and presently the beloved object of Mrs. Vance's secret thoughts was shown in. He looked very handsome and distinguished as he replied to Ada's unembarrassed and sisterly greeting, "Good morning, Lance," but his face flushed slightly as he bowed distantly to her companion. Mrs. Vance replied to his greeting with a bow that was quite as formal, and sinking languidly back into her seat, fixed all her attention upon her work. Not a single glance of her down-drooped eyes was allowed to wander toward him. She preserved entire silence while the other two entered into a simple and desultory chat with the easy familiarity of old friends. At length, as though her embarrassment were becoming unendurable, she rose with an incoherent apology, and heaving a deep sigh quitted the room abruptly and did not appear again. Ada looked after her departing form in amazement.

"What is the matter with Mrs. Vance?" asked she. "You seem to have frozen her into a statue."

"I am sure I cannot tell," he answered with an assumption of carelessness.

"But you barely spoke to each other. I am sure I thought you two were the best of friends—really intimate in fact. Yet you seemed on the most indifferent terms just now," said she, incredulously.

Lance smiled carelessly, and reached out for one of the roses in her lap.

"My dear little sister," said he, "who can answer for the vagaries of woman? Mrs. Vance has always been exceedingly friendly with me, but she seems to have taken an opposite whim just now. But it would not be fair to question her motives, would it? Men have to bear the caprices of women without complaint—do they not? I believe one of the best of the female poets claims caprice as a right divine of the fair sex."

"Oh, yes. Mrs. Osgood says:

"''Tis helpless woman's right divine,Her only right—caprice,'"

returned Ada, repeating the quotation with a very pretty emphasis.

"Then let us not question Mrs. Vance's right to exercise her divine prerogative. I dare not rebel—I must only submit. And, by the way, begging your pardon for changing the subject, will you ride with me this evening? I came expressly to ask you. I have my new phaeton and cream-white ponies—the ones I purchased for Lily's use," said he, with a smothered sigh.

She went to the window to look at them.

How beautiful, how proud, how thoroughbred were the restive creatures champing at their silver bits, impatient of the little groom's restraint—how exquisite the costly little phaeton with its luxurious cushions of azure satin, and the azure satin carriage-robe thickly embroidered with white lilies. The equipage was dainty enough for Queen Mab herself. Ada sighed as she thought of the beautiful form that had chosen the rest of the coffin rather than these downy cushions to recline upon.

"It is beautiful," she said, "rarely beautiful. Yes, I will ride with you in the park, Lance. Wait a minute until I get on my wrappings, for I believe it is a little chilly to-day."

She tripped away lightly. Lance looked after her with an affectionate glance.

"A dear, sweet girl," he thought to himself; "surely Mrs. Vance misunderstands her, for I am sure she is true and sweet and kind. How like she grows to Lily."

She came back presently, cloaked and heavily veiled.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Not quite," she answered. "I had forgotten to put my bouquets into the vases."

She tripped around and disposed of her flowers in the various vases that adorned the room, then came back to him.

"Now, I am ready," said she.

They went out, took their places in the dainty phaeton, the little groom in blue and silver sprang into his place, and they were whirled swiftly away.

From an upper window Mrs. Vance was watching for the young man's departure. She started as she saw him drive off with Ada beside him, and a lurid fire of rage and jealousy blazed in her heart.

"The fair-faced little devil!" she muttered, clenching her hands tightly together. "Oh! that I dared to murder her as I did that other one who came between me and him!"

She paced up and down, wild with contending passions.

"I was wrong to leave them together," she thought, in bitter anger with herself. "He was glad, perhaps, that I came away and left them to an uninterrupted tete-a-tete. I over-reached myself that time; but, ah! Ada Lawrence, woe be unto you if you win him from me!"

The postman's impatient rattling at the door-bell interrupted her angry mood. In a moment a maid rapped at the door, delivered a letter to her and went away.

Mrs. Vance had no correspondents usually. She guessed, with a sharp quiver of anger and fear, whence it came, and held it at arm's length a moment as if it had been a noxious reptile.

"The greedy old harpy," she muttered indignantly, tearing it open at last. "Must she bleed me again so soon?"

She tore the coarse, yellow envelope into a hundred little bits, then angrily scanned the note in her hand. It was very brief, but amounted to an imperative summons from Haidee Leveret to come to the old house to-morrow and bring all the money she could raise.

CHAPTER XXIV

Old Peter Leveret and Haidee, his wife, after much bickering and mutual recriminations, attended by more or less pummelling and hair pulling, had at last made an amicable adjustment of their difficulty regarding Mrs. Vance's secret.

Old Haidee, termagant and spit-fire though she was, found herself no match for the eternal reproaches and brutal usage of her thoroughly enraged husband, and eventually confessed herself the weaker vessel by yielding to the pressure of a stronger conjugal power and revealing the secret of her influence over Mrs. Vance, at the same time dividing her ill-gotten spoils with the incensed old ruffian.

It is needless to say that old Peter's greedy soul was not content with these ill-gotten gains. He felt that the beautiful widow had not paid, so far, a tithe of what was due to himself and Haidee as the fortunate possessors of so fatal a secret.

"I tell you, Haidee," said he, "the woman has got to come down heavily with the money, or I shall sell her secret to somebody who will pay a better price for it—perhaps to Mr. Lawrence or that young Darling."

"Yes, and get yourself into a fatal difficulty," retorted the wife contemptuously. "Let me tell you, Peter Leveret, you have more brute strength than I have, but all the sense we own between us is in the head that rests on my shoulders. Suppose you try to sell this secret to Lawrence or Darling, where is your evidence against Mrs. Vance? Did you see her commit the murder? Did I see her commit it? Did Doctor Pratt see her either? No; to all of these questions you have nothing to urge in support of your assertion except the bare suspicion of Doctor Pratt. And if you brought forward his name and got him into difficulty, why, he knows enough evil of us both to send us to the gallows to-morrow. Ah! that word frightens you, does it? Well, Doctor Pratt would do it willingly if we got him into trouble. So I say to you be content with what we can wring out of the woman's fears, and let all else alone. She will prove a mine of wealth to us as long as we can make her believe that there was an actual eye-witness to her crime."

"Well, perhaps you are right, old woman," said Peter, dimly comprehending the indubitable force of her statements. "You were always more cautious than I was, Haidee. Now, don't understand me to imply that you have more sense than I have, for I don't admit it at all. I am more hasty than you, that is all. But I say, as I said before, Mrs. Vance has got to plank the money down more freely."

"But I have told you she has nothing of her own, stupid!" retorted Haidee, impatiently. "She is dependent on Mr. Lawrence for every penny she gets. We must be satisfied with our small gains now, and wait until she gets the rich husband she is angling for. Then we shall reap our golden harvest."

"Aye, aye; but, Haidee, write to the lady and tell her to come here to-morrow and bring all the gold she can lay her hands upon," said Peter with dogged persistency.

"So soon?" said Haidee, hesitatingly. Her greed was as great as her husband's; but she had a fair modicum of caution and common sense. "It is but a little while since she gave me the jewels, old man."

"No matter. Write to her again, I say, or it will be the worse for you," scowled Peter, wrinkling up his heavy brows ferociously.

Accordingly, the note to Mrs. Vance was written and dispatched, and the pair of plotters awaited her coming impatiently. But they little anticipated what fatal results to themselves would follow that imperative summons.

That letter awoke in Mrs. Vance a burning desire to be rid of the old couple, whose constant demands for money she would soon be entirely unable to meet.

She had a hundred dollars in gold that Mr. Lawrence had kindly presented to her that morning, with a jesting reference to a "new fall suit."

Her wardrobe needed no replenishing, and she could spare this sum to the rapacity of the old people; but she felt that no sooner would this be yielded to their greed than they would demand more.

And where was the next hush-money to come from? It was not probable that the banker would give her any more money before Christmas, and she could not ask him for more than what his own generosity bestowed on her.

She had no claim upon his beneficence whatever. These two old harpies would be down upon her a dozen times before she would have another penny to give them.

And as soon as they learned her inability to bribe them further, they would carry their fatal secret to Lancelot Darling or Mr. Lawrence.

Mrs. Vance looked these difficulties in the face fairly, and could see but one way out of them. The hideous old witch, and her still more hideous old mate, must die.

Must die! No thrill of compunction or pity touched her heart as she made this fatal avowal to herself. On the contrary, she experienced a feeling of relief at the thought, mingled with a longing to consummate the deed quickly that she might taste the sweetness of revenge.

They must die. But how?

Her fertile brain could suggest no feasible plan for the execution of the dreadful deed she was determined upon. All through that night she tossed on a sleepless pillow, revolving various schemes in her excited mind. Morning found her haggard and pale, and all her paints and cosmetics could not conceal her wretchedly ill appearance. She would not present that agitated mien at the breakfast table, and had her morning repast sent up to her room on the plea of a severe headache.

At noon she dressed herself in a plain, dark walking dress, wrapped a double veil about her head and face, and set forth upon her errand. She walked some distance, carefully selecting the most secluded streets, and shunning observation. At length she went into a small apothecary shop and purchased from an inexperienced boy-clerk some strychnine which she said she wanted for the purpose of destroying rats. She paid for it, tucked the small parcel inside the palm of her dark kid glove, and walked on steadily to her destination.

Old Peter and his wife had just sat down to their frugal dinner when her quick rap sounded on the hall door. They looked at each other apprehensively.