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

She read it silently through. It dropped from her nerveless clasp, and she looked at him with a bitter pain in her white face.

"Oh, God, my poor, unhappy sister!" she moaned. "I have been the cause of her death."

"Say rather her own reckless passion was her doom," he answered, solemnly. "Do not accuse yourself, Queenie. She did not blame you. She was very sorrowful and repentant at the last. She wanted your forgiveness."

"Oh, my poor Sydney! She went mad for love," said Queenie, weeping.

"As I had almost done," he answered. "For, Queenie, I have been nearly beside myself these last few weeks. I knew you in spite of all your denials, and the bitterness of it all nearly broke my heart. But now I shall have my own again. Sydney wished it, dearest," he added, seeing a look of hesitancy on her face.

She did not answer, and her blue eyes drooped away from his fond glance.

He moved nearer and took her unresisting hand in his.

"Darling, forgive me for pressing it now in your grief and trouble, but tell me, shall it be as Sydney wished? Will you come back to my heart?"

"Perhaps you will not want me when I have told you all I have to tell," she answered, her sweet face crimson with painful blushes.

"There is nothing left for you to tell, my darling. Sydney has told me all," he answered, quickly.

"And you do not blame me? You are not angry with me?" she said, lifting her fair, troubled face with a look of wonder, mingled with relief.

"No, my sweet one. How could I blame you? It was like your sweet, impulsive self," he answered. "But tell me now, Queenie if you will–"

But at that moment the shrill scream of a woman broke the silence of the night, and Queenie sprang to her feet with a sob of grief and terror.

"It is your mother, dearest. She is there with Sydney. Can you bear to go to her, Queenie? Perhaps it may comfort her to have one daughter restored to her in the hour that she has lost another."

"Yes, yes, I will go," she moaned, turning toward the door. He drew her hand into his and led her around to the fatal western door.

Mrs. Lyle was there, down on her knees by her dead daughter, weeping and mourning, and Georgina stood apart, sobbing in her husband's arms.

Queenie rushed forward and threw herself down by the side of the kneeling woman.

"Mamma, mamma," she sobbed, "let me comfort you a little. Sydney is dead, but Queenie has come back to you to try to fill her place."

Mrs. Lyle shook off the white arm that had been thrown around her neck and sprang to her feet.

"How dare you touch me?" she cried, "you whose siren wiles have wrought my daughter's death? Go away from me, vile imposter that you are! My daughter Queenie is dead."

"No, no, mamma, she lives; she was saved from death! Oh, let me tell you all! I am your daughter Queenie!" cried the actress, in a voice of passionate pleading, lifting her streaming eyes to her mother's face.

"Begone! You are no child of mine!" was the angry reply, as Mrs. Lyle drew away from her, disdainful of her very touch. "Oh, go! go! You have stolen Sydney's husband; you have caused her death; you cannot deceive me also. Will not someone take her away?"

Queenie stood still, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, listening to her mother's cruel words. Then she crossed over to Lady Valentine, who stood within the clasp of her husband's arms weeping bitterly.

"Georgie," she said, in a tremulous voice, "won't you speak to me? Don't you know me? Sydney recognized me and owned me for her sister, even though I stood in her way. Surely you will not disown me!"

Georgie lifted her head and looked at the beautiful pleader a moment in silence.

She was not a bad woman, this Lady Valentine, and for a moment an impulse of pity stirred her heart and prompted her to believe this strange story at which her husband had sneered, and which her mother affected to disbelieve.

If she had been left to herself the better impulse in her heart would have triumphed, perhaps. Even as it was a momentary tender remembrance came into her heart as she recalled the night of her father's and sister's death! She recalled his words:

"Georgie, forgive her; she was more sinned against than sinning. She went mad and avenged the wrong. Remember that when she comes back."

"How did he know she would come back?" thought Lady Valentine to herself, in wonder. "We all thought she was dead then. But perhaps dying eyes can see more clearly than others. Poor papa, must I go against his dying charge to me?"

Then she remembered what her husband had said to her a little while ago:

"Georgie, do not forget that you have married into a proud old family. Think of the disgrace to us all if you should own this impostor for your sister! True, she is beautiful and gifted, but what then? She is an actress! The men and women of our race do not descend to such. They amuse us on the stage—these clever people. We pay for our amusement, and that ends all. We have nothing in common. Do not allow this clever, deceitful woman to impose on you as she did on your brother-in-law."

Lady Valentine knew quite well what those words meant.

She was not to recognize the actress as her sister, no matter what she thought.

So she strangled the thrill of pity at her heart, and answered in a cold, hard voice, quite unlike her own:

"Go away, Madame De Lisle. You are no sister of mine!"

Queenie turned from her with a heart-wrung sigh and went back to her mother.

"Mamma, let me kiss you once," she said, "only once, dear mamma, before I go away! I have loved you so, I have hungered for you so these long years while I have been away from you! Let me even kiss your hand, mamma, and I will try to be content. Oh! surely you will show me a little kindness if only for papa's sake, who loved me so dearly!"

But the mother's heart was turned to stone. She thrust away the clinging hands, she spurned the tender, beseeching lips.

"Go away," she harshly reiterated, "you are no child of mine. My daughter Queenie is dead and buried!"

The discarded daughter knelt down by Sydney's beautiful, lifeless clay and took the cold hand in hers, then kissed the white, breathless lips.

"Good-bye, Sydney," she whispered against the icy cheek. "You were kinder to me than they. You sought to kill my body, but they have broken my heart!"

She rose, after one long look of grief and pain, and went back to Captain Ernscliffe.

"I have only you left, Lawrence," she said, mournfully.

"I will be father, mother, sister, husband—everything to you, my darling," he answered, fondly, as he drew her hand in his arm.

"Put me in the carriage now," she said. "I am very weary. I must go home."

"You will have to be present at the inquest to-morrow. Did you know that?" he said.

"Yes, I will be there. Good-night, Lawrence," she said, putting her hand out from the carriage window.

He clasped and kissed it, then after watching the carriage out of sight, went back to where the mourners kept their weary vigil by the side of the beautiful woman who had loved him so fondly and fatally.

CHAPTER XXXIII

All London rang with the romantic facts that were elicited at the inquest over the body of poor, murdered Sydney, but though the examination was conducted with the utmost strictness, and every available witness was interrogated, no light was thrown upon the matter that could lead to a conviction of the murderer.

Everyone who heard the tragic story of how Sydney came to her death, thought that Madame Reine De Lisle's evidence would certainly furnish some satisfactory clew to the enemy who had sought her life. To their surprise and consternation, she declared herself utterly ignorant in the matter.

The note which Sydney had read was found on the dressing-room floor but Queenie did not recognize the writing and could not guess the writer.

"If I had found the note myself I should have thought precisely as she did, that it was written by Captain Ernscliffe," she admitted, frankly. "But I should not have gone to meet him, for I had promised my sister to avoid him, and deny my identity to him. I have not an enemy upon earth that I am aware of, neither a jealous lover who might seek my life. I had an enemy once, who was cruel and vindictive enough for any deed of darkness, but he is dead long ago."

They cross-examined her, they tried to trip her in every way, but she never varied in her evidence, and never faltered in her reiterated declarations, so at last they let her go, feeling convinced that nothing but the truth had passed her lips.

So the mystery only deepened, and taken together with the romance and pathos that clung about the story of the resurrected wife and her brilliant career while seeking her husband, it created a perfect furor of excitement.

The interested parties had tried to keep it a secret, but the facts had leaked out in spite of them.

Everybody had heard that the great actress was Captain Ernscliffe's first wife, who had died and been resurrected from the grave and restored to life, kept a prisoner for months, then escaped, and been cared for in her friendlessness and desolation by an old actor and actress, who had found her dying in the wintery night when she had escaped from her cruel jailers.

They had taught her their profession, and she had gone upon the stage to earn money to seek her husband.

All this the world knew, and it knew also that the proud Lady Valentine and her mother refused to recognize the actress, and branded her as a lying impostor.

All these facts only added to the interest and admiration that had followed La Reine Blanche wherever she moved.

And poor Sydney was laid away in her grave, while her cowardly murderer roved at large, "unwhipped of justice."

One single clew to the criminal had been found. Captain Ernscliffe had employed the most noted detective of the day to ferret out the mystery.

This man had been thoroughly over the ground of the murder, and had found one trifling clew.

Yet he confidently told his employer that it was an important link in the chain and might possibly convict the murderer.

It seemed a very trifling thing to Captain Ernscliffe, who had not learned by grave experience what simple things might lead to great results.

It was only a woman's handkerchief of plain white linen that he had found outside the western door, wet and soiled where it had lain on the damp earth all night.

Only a woman's handkerchief, but it was marked in one corner with a name—the simple name of "Elsie Gray."

Queenie started when she heard what the detective had said about the handkerchief. She sent for him immediately.

"Do you believe that there was a woman in complicity with the man who murdered my unfortunate sister?" she inquired.

"Madam, I cannot tell you," he answered. "She may have been in complicity with him or she may have been a chance witness. Anyhow I am bound to find Elsie Gray."

"I can give you this much information about her," was the startling reply. "Elsie Gray was my maid, and she has been missing ever since the hour of the murder."

"Elsie Gray your maid!" exclaimed the detective. "That throws new light on the matter. Can you account for her disappearance?"

"Not at all. She was in the habit of going to the theater every night with me to help me to change my costumes for the different scenes. She went with me that night, but when I went to my room after the first act she was not there. I have never seen her since."

"Had she any grudge against you?"

"None that I am aware of. She was a good-natured, middle-aged woman, and appeared to be attached to me."

The detective took out pencil and paper.

"Will you describe her appearance to me, Mrs. Ernscliffe?" he said, courteously.

Queenie started and blushed at being addressed by her husband's name. She had not yet decided whether she would return to him again or not, but she complied with the detective's request and minutely described her maid's appearance.

He carefully noted it down, bowed and withdrew. He reported what he had learned to Captain Ernscliffe, who bade him go ahead and spare neither pains nor expense until he had discovered the murderer.

In the meantime the wide-spread notoriety of the whole affair was very distressing to Mrs. Lyle and the Valentines, and to Queenie and Lawrence Ernscliffe as well. They could not bear to remain in London.

Lord Valentine took his wife and mother-in-law to Italy for an indefinite sojourn.

Lawrence Ernscliffe begged his wife to let him take her back to America to the beautiful home he had prepared for her reception three years before.

"It does not seem right to return to you and be happy after—after that terrible tragedy," she objected.

"Queenie, it was not your fault nor mine. Surely you will not doom me to wretchedness for such a scruple as that. You made every sacrifice she asked of you while living, and she would not wish you to immolate our mutual happiness upon her tomb, now that she is dead."

Her own heart seconded his pleading so fully that she could not say him nay.

"I had meant to fulfill my resolve to retire into a convent for life," she said, "but I cannot keep down my heart's rebellious throbs. I will go with you, my husband."

So it chanced that two weeks later the strangely-reunited husband and wife stood on the deck of a steamer just leaving her moorings for America, and as Queenie turned away from her last look at old England's fading shore, she saw a gentleman hastening toward her—a gentleman so like her poor, dead father, that her heart leaped into her throat.

"Uncle Rob!" she cried, springing forward with her hands extended.

"My little niece, Queenie!" he exclaimed, taking the two little hands warmly into his own.

"This is my Uncle Robert Lyle," she said, presenting him to her husband. "You see, Lawrence, he does not disown me!"

The old gentleman looked down fondly into her sweet face.

"Oh! how could they disown you?" he exclaimed. "You have changed but little since I saw you last, and that change has only made you more lovely. I should have known you anywhere, though it is five years since I saw you last. I have heard your sad story, my dear, and I do not doubt its truth for an instant. I would have hastened to you at once, but I was ill and unable to travel."

She flashed a look of silent gratitude upon him from her dusky eyes.

"And by the way," he said, "I owe you a scolding, little Queenie, for your failure to come abroad with your mother and sisters four years ago. It was a great disappointment to me when they came without you. I did not enjoy the year we traveled together half so well as I should if my little pet had been with us."

Queenie stood silent, growing white and red by turn. Captain Ernscliffe stared from one to the other in blank astonishment.

"Surely, Mr. Lyle, I have misunderstood your meaning," he said, "Queenie certainly went to Europe that year with her mother and sisters!"

CHAPTER XXXIV

For a moment there was a blank silence. Robert Lyle stared silently at his niece's husband as though he doubted his sanity, and after a pause Captain Ernscliffe gravely repeated his words:

"Surely I have misunderstood your meaning sir. Queenie certainly went to Europe that year with her mother and sisters."

"If she did I was certainly not aware of the fact," Mr. Lyle answered dryly, for he felt just a little nettled at the other's persistent contradiction.

Captain Ernscliffe looked around at his wife. He started and uttered a cry of alarm as he did so.

She had fallen back against the deck-rail, grasping it with both hands as if unable to stand alone; her cheeks and lips had blanched to an ashen hue, her eyes were wild and frightened.

"Queenie," he said, with an unconscious accent of sternness, "do I speak the truth or not?"

"Lawrence," she gasped, in a frightened voice, "I thought you knew—did not Sydney tell you? you said she had told you all!"

"I meant she had told me all that had transpired between you two in the last six weeks," he answered; "she did not refer to the past only to say that you had been resurrected from the grave by a disappointed suitor who hated you and kept you for weary months a prisoner. What more is there to tell, Queenie?" he inquired, in a voice rendered sharp by suddenly awakened suspicion that as yet took no tangible form.

Through the wild chaos of conflicting feelings that rushed over her she was conscious of a new feeling of tenderness and respect for poor, erring Sydney.

"She kept my terrible secret after all," she thought. "I believed she had told him everything, but in her desire to atone for her cruelty to me she kept back all that dreadful story, and died in the fond belief that my happiness was secure. She was nobler than I thought. But, oh! what an awful position I am placed in. I thought he knew all and had forgiven me. I meant to tell him everything before I came back to him, and would have done it but for that dreadful mistake. But now, oh, how can I?"

"Uncle Rob is right, Lawrence," she said, speaking with the calmness of despair. "I did not go to Europe with mamma. I meant to go, but at the very last my heart failed me and I begged to remain at home with papa. She gave me my will, though very reluctantly, and I staid behind. Afterward I went out of town on a visit."

"And yet," he said, with a heavy frown, "it was supposed—you allowed everyone to believe that you had been in Europe. Why was that?"

Great crimson waves of color swept into her cheeks at his half-angry words.

"Mamma permitted it," she stammered. "She was so angry and ashamed because I remained behind, and I was, too, after I saw how silly I had been. So when people spoke of it we simply never contradicted it. But you may have noticed that I would never speak of that continental tour—that I always turned the subject when anyone named it."

"Yes, I do remember that," he said. "But you should, at least, have told me, Queenie. It is very strange that you made a secret of such a trifle."

"I am very sorry," she answered, sadly; "I intended to tell you about it before—before I came back to you, but you said when I spoke of it that—that Sydney had told you all. I am very, very sorry."

Her eyes fell and rested on the blue waves of the ocean. Her head felt dizzy with the motion of the ship and the waves. It seemed to her as if she could scarcely stand. She seemed to be whirling round and round. Mr. Lyle came forward and took her hand.

"My dear little Queenie," he said. "I am very sorry that my careless words have exposed your foolish, girlish little secret. But forgive me, my pet, and do not look so sad. Captain Ernscliffe, you must not be angry with my little girl. She was very willful and thoughtless in those days, but she has told you she was sorry and meant to tell you all about it."

One gentle, appealing look from her blue eyes did more to melt the heart of the angry husband than all her uncle's words.

His moody brow unbent; he came back to her side, and, as no one was looking, bent down and kissed away the pearly tears that trembled on her delicate cheek.

"There, I forgive you," he said; "but you must have no more secrets from me, little one."

She shivered slightly, but made no answer, and for this one time the threatened cloud in the sky of their happiness blew safely over, and all was peace between them. Yet the heart of the wife lay like lead in her breast.

Day and night she thought of the terrible secret she was jealously guarding from the eyes of her husband. But after a calm and lovely voyage, in which she had been most tenderly cared for by her uncle and her husband, she found herself once more in the beautiful city where she had been wooed and wedded.

"Uncle Robert, you will go home with us?" she said, as they were getting into the carriage on the wharf.

"Not now," he answered. "You know I told you that it was bad news regarding some of my property here that brought me over to America. I must go to my lawyer's at once and see what can be done. I will come to you in a day or two and see how you like housekeeping," he added, with a laugh.

"We shall certainly expect you," answered Captain Ernscliffe, heartily, as the carriage drove away to the beautiful mansion he had prepared for his bride years ago.

A cablegram from England to his housekeeper had instructed her to prepare the house for the reception of himself and wife.

Now, as they drew up before the grand marble steps, the front door opened as if by magic, and the cruel woman who had turned Queenie away homeless and friendless years before, appeared in the hall, richly clothed in fine black silk, and smirking and smiling upon her master and his beautiful bride as they came up the steps.

Queenie had told him of that cruel deed, and he looked sternly and coldly upon the woman as she came up to them.

"Mrs. Purdy," he said, haughtily, "this is my wife. Look well at her, and tell me if you have ever met her before?"

The housekeeper looked searchingly at the beautiful face, whose blue eyes flashed lightning scorn upon her. In a moment it all rushed over her mind.

That face was too lovely to be lightly forgotten. She grew pale, and commenced to stammer forth incoherent apologies.

"Ah! I see that you remember me," said Mrs. Ernscliffe, curling a scornful lip.

"Madam, I—pardon me," stammered the crestfallen woman, "you were not then his wife. I thought you a stranger, a–"

"Silence!" thundered Captain Ernscliffe. "She was my wife then as she is now. There is no excuse for your infamous conduct. She might have died but for the kindness of strangers—she, my unfortunate wife, turned from her own house without shelter for her friendless head. Go, now, and never let me see you again. Even as you drove her out I will drive you!"

"No—no," exclaimed Queenie, for she saw how utterly the proud, overbearing woman was abashed. "No—no; I was very angry, but I forgive her now, for I see how she is humbled at remembrance of her fault. Let her stay, and this incident may teach her in future to be guided by the golden rule."

CHAPTER XXXV

"Queenie, are you ready for your drive?" called her husband from the foot of the stairway. "The phaeton is at the door."

A bright, bewitching face peeped down at him from above—a face as sweet as a rose—with coral lips, and softly-tinted cheeks, and eyes as brightly-blue as violets.

Directly she came fluttering down the stairs, and paused, with her slender, white-gloved hand upon his arm.

"I am ready," she said. "Come, Lawrence, let us go. It is too lovely a day to remain indoors."

"Darling, how lovely you are," he cried. "Let me kiss you once before we start."

She smiled, and linked her arm fondly in his as they went down the marble steps together.

"Lawrence," she said, half-gravely, half-fondly, "I almost begin to believe in my happiness now. At first it seemed such a precious thing, and I held it by so frail a grasp that I feared I might lose you again and fall back into the terrible gulf of despair. But now months have elapsed and nothing has happened to part us, so that it seems possible for me to breathe freely and look forward to a happy future with you."

"Darling, these trembling fears of yours have always seemed strange and unnecessary to me. What could happen to part us now?" he said, as he handed her into the lovely little phaeton, with its prancing gray ponies, and sprang in beside her.

"I do not know. Nothing, I hope," she answered, with a quick little sigh, as she took the reins into her hands and touched up the spirited ponies. "Where shall we drive, Lawrence—in the park?"

"Yes, if you like," he answered, leaning back luxuriously.

It was a beautiful day in May, the air so balmy and delicious that it was a luxury to breathe it.

As they flashed along the shady drives in the park many eyes followed them admiringly, for Mrs. Ernscliffe was conceded by all to be the fairest woman in the city.

To-day she wore a wonderful dress of mingled blue and cream-color, and a hat of azure satin, with a streaming white feather set coquettishly on her waves of golden hair.

The colors suited her bright blonde beauty exquisitely.