Mr. Collinson said he would take the case and give it his undivided attention, but would promise nothing else.

The Duke of Hereward, obliged to be contented with this answer, arose to leave the room. In passing out he met the chief, who had not been present when he first entered.

"Oh, I beg your grace's pardon, but I consider this meeting very fortunate," said that officer, respectfully touching his hat.

"Upon what ground?" gravely inquired the duke.

"Your grace is wanted as a witness for the Crown, on the trial of John Potts and Rose Cameron, charged with the murder of the late Sir Lemuel Levison. The girl, who was arrested at a house in Westminster Road a few days ago, has been sent down to Scotland, and the trial will commence, on the day after to-morrow, at the Assizes now open at Bannff. But, according to the newspaper report, we thought your grace to be now on your way to Paris, and we were just about to dispatch a special messenger to you. So your grace will perceive how fortunate this meeting turns out to be."

"Yes, I perceive," said the duke, dryly.

"And your grace will not be inconvenienced, I hope," said the chief, as he bowed and placed a folded paper in the duke's hand.

It was a subpoena commanding the recipient, under certain pains and penalties, to render himself at the Town Hall of Bannff as a witness for the Crown, in the approaching trial of John Potts, alias Abraham Peters, and Rose Cameron.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS

When the emissary of Rose Cameron had gone, the young Duchess of Hereward, in a whirlwind of long-repressed excitement, slammed, locked and bolted all the doors leading from her apartments into the hall, and then fled into her dressing-room and cast herself head long down upon the floor in the collapse of utter, infinite despair—despair in all its depth of darkness, without its benumbing calmness!

Her soul was shaken by a tempest of warring passions! Amazement, indignation, grief, horror, raged through her agonized bosom!

It was well that no human eye beheld her in this deep degradation of woe! For in the madness of her anguish, she rolled on the floor, and tore the clothing from her shoulders and the dark hair from her head! She uttered such groans and cries as are seldom heard on this earth—such as perhaps fill the murky atmosphere of hell. She impiously called on Heaven to strike her dead as she lay! She was indeed on the very brink of raving insanity.

There was but one thought that held her reason on its throne—the necessity of immediate flight and escape—escape from the man whom she had just vowed at the altar to love, honor, and obey until death—the man whom she had worshiped as an archangel!

The man?—the fiend, rather!

What had she just now found him proved to be?

Yes proved to be, beyond the merciful possibility of a saving doubt!—proved to be by the most overwhelming and convicting testimony, corroborated also by the evidence of her own eyes and ears, too long discredited for his sake.

Her eyes had seen him lurking stealthily in the dark hall, near her father's bedroom door, late on the night of that father's murder. She had spoken to him, and at the sound of her voice he had shrunk silently out of sight.

Yet she had discredited the evidence of her own eyes, and persuaded herself that she had been the subject of an optical illusion.

Her ears had heard a part of his midnight conversation with his female confederate under the balcony—had heard his prediction that something would happen that night to prevent the marriage that he promised her should never take place—a prediction so awfully fulfilled in the morning by the discovery of the dead body of her murdered father! She had fainted at the sound of his voice, uttering such treacherous and cruel words; yet on her return to consciousness she had disbelieved the evidence of her own ears, and convinced herself that she had been the victim of a nightmare dream!

Yes! she had disallowed the direct evidence of her own senses rather than believe such diabolical wickedness of her idol! But now the evidence of her own eyes and ears was corroborated by the most complete and convincing testimony—the conversation under the balcony, as reported by Rose Cameron's messenger, corresponded exactly with the conversation overheard by herself at the time and place it was said to have occurred, but which she dismissed from her mind as an evil dream! This corroborating testimony proved it to be an atrocious reality! And the man to whom she had given her hand that morning was an accomplice in the murder of her father! unintentionally perhaps, for the witness testified to the horror he expressed on learning from his confederate that a murder had been committed: "The old man squealed and we had to squelch him!" How she shuddered at the memory of these horrible words!

But this man was not her husband, after all! Although a marriage ceremony had been performed between them by a bishop, he was not her husband, but the husband of Rose Cameron. She had overwhelming and convincing proof of this also!

The letters written to Rose Cameron, calling her his dear wife, and signing himself her devoted husband "Arondelle," were in the handwriting of the Duke of Hereward! She could have sworn to that handwriting, under any circumstances.

And the photograph shown as the likeness of Rose Cameron's husband, was a duplicate of one in her own possession, given her by the duke himself.

And, above all, the certificate of marriage between them, signed by the officiating clergyman and witnessed by the officers of the church, was unquestionably genuine, regular, and legal!

No! there was not one merciful doubt to found a hope of his innocence upon! It was amazing, stupefying, annihilating, but it was true. Her idol was a fiend, glorious in personal beauty, diabolical in spirit, as the fallen archangel Lucifer, Son of the Morning!

He was deeply, atrociously, insanely guilty!

Yes, insanely! for how could he have acted so recklessly, as well as so criminally, if he had not been insane? Would he not have known that swift discovery and disgrace were sure to follow the almost open commission of such base crimes? And if no feeling of honor or conscience could have deterred him, would not the fear of certain consequences have done so?

His insanity was her only rational theory of the case! But his supposed insanity did not vindicate him to her pure and just mind. For he was not an insane man so much as an insane devil! He had only been mad in his recklessness, not in his crimes.

Then quickly through her storm-tossed soul passed the thought that both sacred and profane history recorded instances of crimes committed by righteous and honorable men. Amazing truth! She remembered the piety and the sin of David, when he stole the wife of Uriah, and betrayed that loyal servant and brave soldier to a treacherous and bloody death! She remembered the loyalty and the treason of that chivalrous young Scottish prince who headed a fratricidal rebellion, in which his father and his king was slain, and who, as James IV., lived a life of remorse and penance, until, in his turn, he was slain on the fatal field of Flodden. She thought of these, and other instances, in which it might seem as if an angel and a devil lived together, animating one man's body. This would, of course, produce inconsistency of conduct, insanity of mind.

But among all the harrowing thoughts that hurried through her tortured mind, one feeling was predominant—the necessity of instant flight. There was no other cause for her to pursue. The bridal train was awaiting her down stairs. Soon they would send to summon her again. How could she meet them? What could she say to them? How could she ever look upon the face of the Duke of Hereward and live?

She must fly at once. No, there was no time to write a note and leave it pinned on her dressing-table cushion. Besides, what could she say in her note? Nothing; or nothing that she would say.

She must go and make no sign. She forced herself to rise from the floor and commence hurried preparations for immediate flight.

In all the tumult of her soul, some intuition guided her through her hasty arrangements to take the most effectual means to elude pursuit and baffle discovery.

She took off her handsome mourning dress of black silk and crape that she had put on to travel in, and she packed it, with the black felt hat, vail, sack and gloves that belonged to the suit, in one of her trunks, which she carefully locked.

Then from some receptacle of her left-off colored dresses, she selected a dark-gray silk suit, with sack, hat, vail and gloves to match. And in that she dressed herself.

Then she reflected.

"They will think that I went away in my mourning dress, which they will miss. If they describe me, they will describe a lady in deep mourning. If any one comes in pursuit, they will look for a young woman in black, and pass me by, because I shall wear gray and keep my vail down."

Then she concealed in her bosom all the cash she had in hand, being about fifteen hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, which she had previously drawn out for her own private uses during her bridal tour. This she thought would go far to meet the unknown expenses of her future. She also took her diamonds. She might have to sell them, she thought, for support.

Then, when she was quite ready, dressed in the dark gray suit, sack, hat, vail and gloves, and with a small valise in her hand, she went into her bath-room, and to the back door at the head of the private stairs leading down to the little garden of roses that was her own favorite bower.

She watched for a few seconds, to be sure that no one was in sight, and then she slipped swiftly down the stairs and crossed the garden to a narrow back door, which she quickly opened and passed through, shutting it after her. It closed with a spring and cut off her re-entrance there, even if she had been disposed to turn back.

But she was not.

She glanced nervously up and down the lane at the back of the garden wall, but saw no one there.

Then she walked rapidly away, and turned into a narrow street, keeping her gray vail doubled over her face all the time.

She purposely lost herself in a labyrinth of narrow streets, getting farther and farther from her home, before she ventured near a cab-stand.

At length she hailed a closed cab, engaged it, entered it, closed all the blinds, and directed the driver to take her to the Brighton, Dover, and South Coast Railway Station at London Bridge, and promised him a half-sovereign if he would catch the next train.

Yes! after a few moments of rapid reflection, as to whither she would go, she resolved to leave London by that very same tidal-train on which she and her husband were to have commenced their bridal tour, for there, of all places, she felt that she would be safest from pursuit; that, of all directions, would be the last in which they would think of seeking her!

And while they should be waiting and watching for her at Elmhurst House, she would be speeding towards the sea coast, and by the time they should discover her flight, she would be on the Channel, en voyage for Calais.

Beyond this she had no settled plan of action. She did not know where she would go, or what she should do, on reaching France.

She only longed, with breathless anxiety, to fly from England, from the Duke of Hereward, and all the horrors connected with him. She felt that she was not his wife, could never have been his wife, and that the mockery of a marriage ceremony, which had been performed for them by the Bishop of London that morning, at St. George's Hanover Square, had made the duke a felon and not a husband!

If she should remain in England she might even be called upon, in the course of events, to take a part in his prosecution. And guilty as she believed him to be, she could not bring herself to do that!

No! she must fly from England and conceal herself on the Continent!

But where?

She knew not as yet!

Her mind was in a fever of excitement when she reached London Bridge.

She paid and discharged her cab, giving the driver the promised half sovereign for catching the train.

Then, with her thick vail folded twice over her pale face, and her little valise in her hand, she went into the station, made her way to the office and bought a first-class ticket.

Then she went to the train, and stopping before one of the first carriages called a guard to unlock the door and let her enter.

"Oh, you can't have a seat in this compartment, Miss," said a somewhat garrulous old guard, coming up to her. "This whole carriage is reserved for a wedding party—the Duke and Duchess of Hereward, as were married this morning, and their graces' retinue, which they are expected to arrive every minute, Miss. But you can have a seat in this one, Miss. It is every bit as good as the other," concluded the old man, leading the way to a lady's carriage some yards in advance.

"Reserved for a wedding party—reserved for the Duke and Duchess of Hereward and their retinue!"

How her heart fainted, almost unto death, with a new sense of infinite disappointment and regret at what might have been and what was! Reserved for the Duke and Duchess of Hereward! Ah, Heaven!

"Here you are, Miss!" said the guard, opening the door of an empty carriage.

"How long will it be before the train starts?" inquired the fugitive in a low voice.

The guard looked at his big silver watch and answered:

"Time'll be up in three minutes, Miss."

"But if the—the—wedding party should not arrive before that?" hesitatingly inquired Salome.

"Train starts all the same, Miss! Can't even wait for dukes and duchesses. 'Gin the law!" answered the old guard, as he touched his hat and closed and locked the door.

Salome sank back in her deeply-cushioned seat, thankful, at least, that she was alone in the carriage.

And in three minutes the tidal train started.



CHAPTER XIX.

SALOME'S REFUGE.

Salome was scarcely sane. Married that morning, with the approval and congratulations of all her friends, by one of the most venerable fathers of the church, to one of the most distinguished young noblemen in the peerage, who was also the sole master of her heart, and—

Flying from her bridegroom this afternoon as from her worst and most hated enemy!

She could not realize her situation at all.

All seemed a horrible nightmare dream, from which she was powerless to arouse herself; in which she was compelled to act a painful part, until some merciful influence from without should awaken and deliver her!

In this dream she was whirled onward toward the South Coast, on that clear, autumnal afternoon.

In this dream she reached Dover, and got out at the station amid all the confusion attending the arrival of the tidal train, and the babel of voices from cabmen, porters, hotel runners, and such, shouting their offers of:

"Carriage, sir!"

"Carriage, ma'am!"

"Steamboat!"

"Calais steamer!"

"Lord Warden's!"

"Victoria!" and so forth.

Acting instinctively and mechanically, she made her way to the steamboat.

There seemed to be an unusually large number of people going across.

She saw no one among the passengers, whom she recognized; but still she kept her vail folded twice across her face, as she passed to a settee on deck.

She was scarcely seated before the boat left the pier.

Wind and tide was against her, and the passage promised to be a slow and rough one.

And soon indeed the steamer began to roll and toss amid the short, crisp waves of Dover Straits, now whipped to a froth by wind against tide.

Most of the passengers succumbed and went below.

Now, whether intense mental pre-occupation be an antidote to sea-sickness, we cannot tell. But it is certain that Salome did not suffer from the violent motion of the boat. She was indeed scarcely conscious of it.

She sat upon the deck, wrapped in a large shepherd's plaid shawl, with her gray vail thickly folded over her face, which was turned toward the west, where the setting sun was sinking below the ocean horizon, and drawing down after him a long train of glory from over the troubled waters.

But it is doubtful if Salome even saw this, or knew what hour, what season it was!

A rough night followed. Wrapped in her shawl, absorbed in her dream, Salome remained on deck, unaffected by the weather, and indifferent to its consequences, although more than once the captain approached and kindly advised her to go below.

It was after midnight when the boat reached her pier at Calais.

In the same dream Salome left her seat and landed among the sea-sick crowd.

In the same dream she allowed the custom-house officers to tumble out the contents of her little valise, and satisfied, without cavil, all their demands, and answered without hesitation all the questions put to her by the officials.

In the same dream she made her way to a carriage on the railway train just about to start for Paris.

There were three other occupants of the carriage, which was but dimly lighted by two oil lamps. Salome did not look toward them, but doubled her vail still more closely over her face as she sat down in a corner and turned toward the window, on the left side of her seat.

The night was so dark that she could see but little, as the train flashed past what seemed to be but the black shadows of trees, fields, farm-houses, groves, villages, and lonely chateaux.

A weird midnight journey, through a strange land to an unknown bourne.

Occasionally she stole a glance through her thick vail toward her three fellow passengers, who sat opposite to her, on the back seat—three silent, black-shrouded figures who sat mute and motionless as watchers of the dead.

Very terrifying, but very appropriate figures to take part in her nightmare dream.

She turned her eyes away from those silent, shrouded, mysterious figures, and prayed to awake.

She could not yet.

But as she peered out through the darkness of the night, and saw the black shadows of the roadway flying behind her as the train sped southward, her physical powers gradually succumbed to fatigue, and her waking dream passed off in a dreamless sleep.

She slept long and profoundly. She slept through many brief stoppages and startings at the little way stations. She slept until she was rudely awakened by the uproar incident upon the arrival of the train at a large town.

She awoke in confusion. Day was dawning. Many passengers were leaving the train. Many others were getting on it.

She rubbed her eyes and looked around in amazement and terror. She did not in the least know where she was, or how she had come there.

For during her deep and dreamless sleep she had utterly forgotten the occurrences of the last twenty-four hours.

Now she was rudely awakened, bewildered, and frightened to find herself in a strange scene, amid alarming circumstances, of which she knew or could remember nothing; connected with which she only felt the deep impression of some heavy preceding calamity. She saw before her the three silent, black, shrouded forms of her fellow-passengers, but their presence, instead of enlightening, only deepened and darkened the gloomy mystery.

She pressed her icy fingers to her hot and throbbing temples, and tried to understand the situation.

Then memory flashed back like lightning, revealing all the desolation of her storm-blasted, wrecked and ruined life.

With a deep and shuddering groan she threw her hands up to her head, and sank back in her seat.

"Is Madame ill? Can we do anything to help her?" inquired a kindly voice near her.

In her surprise Salome dropped her hands, and at the same time her vail fell from before her face.

Suddenly she then saw that the three mute, shrouded forms before her were Sisters of Mercy, in the black robes of their order, and knew that they had only maintained silence in accordance with their decorous rule of avoiding vain conversation.

Even now the taller and elder of the three had spoken only to tender her services to a suffering fellow-creature.

The fugitive bride and the Sister of Mercy looked at each other, and at the instant uttered exclamations of surprise.

In the sister, Salome recognized a lay nun of the Convent of St. Rosalie, in which she had passed nearly all the years of her young life, and in which she had received her education, and to which it had once been her cherished desire to return and dedicate herself to a conventual service.

In Salome the nun saw again a once beloved pupil, whom she, in common with all her sisterhood, had fondly expected to welcome back to her novitiate.

"Sister Josephine! You! Is it indeed you! Oh, how I thank Heaven!" fervently exclaimed the fugitive.

"Mademoiselle Laiveesong! You here! My child! And alone! But how is that possible?" cried the good sister in amazement.

Before Salome could answer the guard opened the door with a party of passengers at his back. But seeing the compartment already well filled by the three Sisters of Mercy and another lady, he closed the door again and passed down the platform to find places for his party elsewhere.

The incident was little noticed by Salome at the time, although it was destined to have a serious effect upon her after fate.

In a few minutes the train started.

"My dear child," recommenced Sister Josephine, as soon as the train was well under way—"my dear child, how is it possible that I find you here, alone on the train at midnight! Were you going on to Paris, and alone? Was any one to meet you there?"

"Dear, good Sister Josephine, ask me no questions yet. I am ill—really and truly ill!" sighed Salome.

"Ah! I see you are, my dear child. Ill and alone on the night train! Holy Virgin preserve us!" said the sister, devoutly crossing herself.

"Ask me no questions yet, dear sister, because I cannot answer them. But take me with you wherever you go, for wherever that may be, there will be peace and rest and safety, I know! Say, will you take me with you, good Sister Josephine?" pleaded Salome.

"Ah! surely we will, my child. With much joy we will. We—(Sister Francoise and Sister Felecitie—Mademoiselle Laiveesong,)" said Sister Josephine, stopping to introduce her companions to each other.

The three young persons thus named bowed and smiled, and pressed palms, and then sat back in their seats, while the elder Sister, Josephine, continued:

"We have come up from Fontevrau, and are now going straight on to our convent. With joy we will take you with us, my dear child. Our holy mother will be transported to see you. Does she expect you, my dear child?" inquired the sister, forgetting her tacit promise to ask no more questions.

"No, no one expects me," sighed the fugitive, in so faint a voice that the good Sister forbore to make any more inquiries for the moment.

The train rushed onward. Day was broadening. The horizon was growing red in the east.

The party travelled on in silence for some ten or fifteen minutes, and then, Sister Josephine growing impatient to have her curiosity satisfied, made a few leading remarks.

"And so you were coming to us unannounced by any previous communication to our holy mother? And coming alone on the night train! You possess a noble courage, my child, but the adventure was hazardous to a young and lovely unmarried woman. The Virgin be praised we met you when we did!" said the Sister, devoutly crossing herself.

"Amen, and amen, to that!" sighed Salome.

"Our holy mother will be overjoyed to see you. You are sure she does not expect you, my dear child?"

"No, Sister, she does not expect me, unless she has the gift of second sight. For I did not expect myself to return to St. Rosalie, to-day, or ever. When I took my place in this carriage at midnight, I did not know how far I should go, or where I should stop. I took a through ticket to Paris; but I did not know whether I should stop at Paris, or go on to Marseilles, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, or New York, or where!" moaned the fugitive.

"The holy saints protect us, my child! What wild thing is this you are saying?" exclaimed Sister Josephine, making the sign of the cross.

"No matter what I say now, good Sister, I will tell our holy mother all. Is la Mere Genevieve now your lady superior?" softly inquired the fugitive.

"Yes, surely, my child. And she will be transported to behold her best beloved pupil again. You are sure that she will be taken by surprise?" said the good, simple minded Sister, still innocently angling for a farther explanation.

"Yes, I feel sure that I shall surprise our good mother if I do not delight her; for, as I told you before, I gave her no intimation of any intended visit. I repeat that when I set foot upon this train, I had no fixed plan in my mind. I did not know where I should go. My meeting with you is providential. It decides me, nay, rather let me say, it directs me to seek rest and peace and safety there where my happy childhood and early youth were passed, and where I once desired to spend my whole life in the service of Heaven. I, too, fervently praise the Virgin for this blessed meeting. I too thank the Mother of Sorrows for being near me in my sorrow and in my madness!" murmured Salome, in a low, earnest tone.

"Holy saints, my child! What can have happened to you to inspire such words as these?" exclaimed Sister Josephine in alarm.

"Never mind what, good Sister. You shall hear all in time. I am forced by fate to keep a promise that I made and might have broken. That is all."

"Ah, my dear child, I comprehend sorrow and despair in your words; but I do not comprehend your words!" sighed Sister Josephine.

"When I left your convent three years ago, I promised did I not, that after I should have become of age and be mistress of my fate, I would return, dedicate my life to the service of Heaven, and spend the remainder of it here? Did I not?" inquired Salome, in a low voice.

"You did, you did, my child. And for a long time we looked for you in vain. And when you did not come, or even write to us, we thought the world had won you, and made you forget your promise," sighed Sister Josephine crossing herself.

The two youthful Sisters followed her example, sighed and crossed themselves.

There was a grave pause of a few minutes, and then the voice of Salome was heard in solemn tones:

"The world won me. The world broke me and flung me back upon the convent, and forced me to remember and keep my promise. I return now to dedicate myself to the service of Heaven, at the altar of your convent, if indeed Heaven will take a heart that earth has crushed!"

She sighed.

"It is the world-crushed, bleeding heart that is the sweetest offering to all-healing, all-merciful Heaven," said Sister Josephine, tenderly lifting the hand of Salome and pressing it to her bosom.

Again a solemn silence fell upon the little party.

Salome was the first to break it.

"It seems to me we have come a very long way, since we left the last station. Are we near ours?" she inquired, in a voice sinking with fatigue.

"We will be at our station in a very few minutes. A comfortable close carriage will meet us there to convey us to St. Rosalie," said Sister Josephine, soothingly.

Salome sank wearily back in her corner seat. The short-lived energy that enabled her to talk was dying out. Her hands and feet were cold as ice. Her head was hot as fire. Her frame was faint almost to swooning.

The train sped on. The party in the carriage fell into silence that lasted until the train "slowed," and stopped at a little way station.

"Here we are!" said Sister Josephine, rising to leave the carriage with her companions.

The guard opened the door.

Sister Josephine led the way out, and then took the hand of the half fainting Salome, to help her on.

The two other sisters followed. A close carriage, with an aged coachman on the box, awaited them. The old man did not leave his seat; but Sister Josephine opened the door and helped Salome into the carriage, and placed her comfortably on the cushions in a corner of the back seat, and then sat down beside her.

The two younger sisters followed and placed themselves on the front seat.

The aged coachman, who knew his duty, did not wait for orders, but turned immediately away from the station, and drove off just as the train started again on its way to Paris.

They entered a country road running through a wood—a pleasant ride, if Salome could have enjoyed it—but she leaned back on her cushions, with closed eyes, fever-flushed cheeks, and fainting frame. The sisters, seeing her condition, refrained from disturbing her by any conversation.

They rode on in perfect silence for about a mile, when they came to a high stone wall, which ran along on the left-hand side of their road, while the thick wood continued on their right-hand side. The road here ran between the wood and the wall of the convent grounds.



CHAPTER XX.

SALOME'S PROTECTRESS.

"We have arrived. Welcome home, my dear child," said Sister Josephine, as the carriage drew up before the strong and solid, iron-bound, oaken gates of the convent.

The aged coachman blew a shrill summons upon a little silver whistle that he carried in his pocket for the purpose.

The gates were thrown wide open and the carriage rolled into an extensive court-yard, enclosed in a high stone wall, and having in its centre the massive building of the convent proper, with its chapel and offices.

A straight, broad, hard, rolled, gravelled carriage-way led from the gates through the court-yard and up to the main entrance of the building. This road was bordered on each side by grass-plots, now sear in the late October frosts, and flower-beds, from which the flowers had been removed to their winter quarters in the conservatories. Groups of shade trees, statues of saints, and fountains of crystal-clear water adorned the grounds at regular intervals. In the rear of the convent building was a thicket of trees reaching quite down to the back wall.

The carriage rolled along the gravelled road, crossing the court-yard, and drew up before the door of the convent.

Sister Josephine got out and helped Salome to alight.

The sun was just rising in cloudless glory.

"See, my child," said Sister Josephine, cheerily pointing to the eastern horizon; "see, a happy omen; the sun himself arises and smiles on your re-entrance into St. Rosalie."

Salome smiled faintly, and leaned heavily upon the arm of her companion as they went slowly up the steps, passed through the front doors, and found themselves in a little square entrance hall, surrounded on three sides by a bronze grating, and having immediately before them a grated door, with a little wicket near the centre.

Behind this wicket sat the portress, a venerable nun, whom age and obesity had consigned to this sedentary occupation.

"Benedicite, good Mother Veronique! How are all within the house?" inquired Sister Josephine, going up to the wicket.

"The saints be praised, all are well! They are just going in to matins. You come in good time, my sisters! But who is she whom you bring with you?" inquired the old nun, nodding toward Salome, even while she detached a great key from her girdle, and unlocked the door, to admit the party.

"Why, then, Mother Veronique, don't you see? An old, well-beloved pupil come back to see our holy mother? Don't you recognize her? Have you already forgotten Mademoiselle Laiveesong, who left us only three years ago?" inquired Sister Josephine, as she led Salome into the portress' parlor, followed by the two younger sisters, Francoise and Felecitie.

"Ah! ah! so it is! Mademoiselle Salome come back to us!" joyfully exclaimed the old nun, seizing and fondling the hands of the visitor, and gazing wistfully into her flushed and feverish face. "Yes, yes, I remember you! Mademoiselle Laiveesong! Mademoiselle, the rich banker's heiress! I am very happy to see you, my dear child! And our holy mother will be filled with joy! She has gone to matins now, but will soon return to give you her blessing. Ah! ah! Mademoiselle Salome! Mais Helas! How ill she looks! Her hands are ice! Her head is fire! Her limbs are withes! She is about to faint!" added Mother Veronique, aside to Sister Josephine.

"She is just off a long and fatiguing journey. She is tired and hungry, and needs rest and refreshment. That is all," answered the sister, drawing the arm of the fainting girl through her own, and supporting her as she led her from the portress' parlor.

"Ah! ah! is this so? The dear child! Take her in and rest and feed her, my sisters! And when matins are over, bring her to our venerable mother, whose soul will be filled with rapture to see her," twaddled the old nun, until the party passed in from her sight.

Sister Josephine led Salome to her own cell, and made her loosen her clothes and lie down on the cot-bed, while Sister Francoise and Sister Felecitie went to the refectory and brought her a plate of biscuit and a glass of wine and water.

Wine was not the proper drink for Salome, in her flushed and feverish condition. But she was both faint and thirsty, and the wine, mixed with water, seemed cool and refreshing, and she quaffed it eagerly.

But she refused the biscuits, declaring that she could not swallow. And so she thanked her kind friends for their attention, and sank back on her pillow and closed her eyes, as if she would go to sleep.

The sisters promised to bring the mother abbess to her bedside as soon as the matins should be over. And so they left her to repose, and went silently away to the chapel to take their accustomed places, and join, even at the "eleventh hour," in the morning worship.

But did Salome sleep?

Ah! no. She lay upon that cot-bed with her hands covering her eyes, as if to shut out all the earth. She might shut out all the visible creation, but she could not exclude the haunting images that filled her mind. She could not banish the forms and faces that floated before her inner vision—the most venerable face of her dear, lost father, the noble face of her once beloved—ah! still too well beloved Arondelle!

The music of the matin hymns softened by distance, floated into her room, but failed to soothe her to repose.

At length the sweet sounds ceased.

And then—

The abbess entered the cell so softly that Salome, lying with closed eyes on the cot, remained unconscious of the presence standing beside her, looking down upon her form.

The abbess was a tall, fair, blue-eyed woman, upon whose serene brow the seal of eternal peace seemed set. She was about fifty years of age, but her clear eyes and smooth skin showed how tranquilly these years had passed. She was clothed in the well-known garb of her order—in a black dress, with long, hanging sleeves, and a long, black vail. Her face was framed in with the usual white linen bands, her robe confined at the waist by a girdle, from which hung her rosary of agates; and her silver cross hung from her neck.

The abbess was a lady of the most noble birth, connected with the royal house of Orleans.

In the revolution which had driven Louis Philippe from the throne, her father and her brother had perished. Her mother had passed away long before. She remained in the convent of St. Rosalie, where she was being educated.

And when, early in the days of the Second Empire, her fortune was restored to her, instead of leaving the cloister, where she had found peace, for the world, where she had found only tribulation, she took the vail and the vows that bound her to the convent forever, and devoted her means to enriching and enlarging the house. The convent had always supported itself by its celebrated academy for young ladies. It had also maintained a free school for poor children. But now the heiress of the noble house of de Crespignie added a Home for Aged Women, an asylum for Orphan Girls and Nursery for Deserted Infants. And all these were placed under the charge of the Sisters of Mercy.

Of the fifty years of this lady's life, forty had been spent in the convent where she had lived as pupil, novice, nun and abbess. Her cloistered life had been passed in active good works, if nurturing infancy, educating orphans, cheering age, and ordering and governing an excellent academy for young ladies, can be called so.

And whatever such a life may have brought to others, it brought to this princess of the banished Orleans family perfect peace.

She stood now looking down with infinite pity on the stricken form and face of her late pupil. She saw that some heavy blow from sorrow had crushed her. And she did not wonder at this.

For to the apprehension of the abbess, the world from which her late pupil had returned was full of tribulation, as the convent was full of peace.

She stood looking down on her a moment, and then murmured, in tones of ineffable tenderness:

"My child!"

"Mother Genevieve! My dear mother!" answered Salome, clasping her hands and looking up.

The abbess drew a chair to the side of the cot, sat down, and took the hand of her pupil, saying:

"You have come back to us, my child. I thought you would. You are most welcome."

"Oh, mother! mother! I am driven back to you for shelter from a storm of trouble!" exclaimed Salome, in great excitement, her cheeks burning, and her eyes blazing with the fires of fever.

"We will receive you with love and cherish you in our hearts—unquestioned—for, my child, you are too ill to give us any explanation now," said the abbess, gently, laying her soft, cool hand upon the burning brow of the girl.

"Oh! mother, mother, let me talk now and unburden my heavy heart! You know not how it will relieve me to do so to you. I could not do so to any other. Let me tell you, dear mother, while I may, before it shall be too late. For I am going to be very ill, mother; and perhaps I may die! Oh Heaven grant I may be permitted to die!" fervently prayed Salome, clasping her hands.

"Hush, hush, my poor, unhappy child. I know not what your sorrow has been, but it cannot possibly justify you in your sinful petition. Life, my child, is the greatest of boons, since it contains within it the possibility of eternal bliss. We should be deeply thankful for simple life, whatever may be its present trials, since it holds the promise of future happiness," said the gentle abbess.

"Oh, mother, my life is wrecked—is hopelessly wrecked!" groaned Salome.

"Nay, nay, only storm-tossed on the treacherous seas of the world. Here is your harbor, my child. Come into port, little, weary one!" said the abbess, with a tender, cheerful smile.

"Oh, mother, your wayward pupil has wandered far, far from your teachings! She has become a heathen—an idolator! Yes, she set up unto herself an idol, and she worshiped it as a god, until at last, IT FELL!—IT FELL! AND CRUSHED HER UNDER ITS RUINS!" said Salome, growing more and more excited and feverish.

"It is well for us, my child, when our earthly idols do fall and crush us, else we might go on to perdition in our fatal idolatry. Yes, my child, it is well that your idol has fallen, even though you lie buried and bleeding under its ruins; for our fraternity, like the good Samaritan of the parable, will raise you up and dress your wounds, and set you on your feet again, and lead you in the right path—the path of peace and safety."

"Mother, mother, will you now hear my story, my confession?" said Salome, earnestly.

"My child, I would rather you would defer it until you are better able to talk."

"Mother, mother, I have the strength of fever on me now; but my mind is growing confused. Let me speak while I may!"

"Speak on, then, my dear child, but don't exhaust yourself."

"Mother, though I have failed, through very shame of broken promises, to write to you lately, yet you must have heard from other sources of my father's tragic death?"

"I heard of it, my child. And I have daily remembered his soul in my prayers."

"And you heard, good mother, of how I forgot all my promises to devote myself to a religious life, and how I betrothed myself to the Marquis of Arondelle, who is now the Duke of Hereward?"

"You yielded to the expressed wishes of your father, my child, as it was natural you should do."

"I yielded to the inordinate and sinful affections of my own heart, and I have been punished for it."

"My poor child!"

"Listen, mother! Yesterday morning, at St. George's church, Hanover Square, in London, I was married by the Bishop of London to the Duke of Hereward. Yesterday afternoon I received secret but unquestionable proof that the duke was an already married man when he met me first, and that his wife was living in London!"

"Holy saints, Mademoiselle! What is this that you are telling me?" exclaimed the astonished abbess. "Surely, surely she is growing delirious with fever," she muttered to herself.

"I am telling you a terrible truth, my mother! Listen, and I will tell you everything, even as I know it myself!" said Salome, earnestly.

The abbess no longer opposed her speaking, although it was evident that her illness was hourly increasing.

And Salome told the terrible story of her sorrows, commencing with the first appointed wedding-day at Castle Lone, and ending with the second wedding-day at Elmhurst House, and her own secret flight from her false bridegroom, just as it is known to our readers.

The deeply shocked abbess heard and believed, and frequently crossed herself during the recital.

As Salome proceeded with what she called her confession, her fever and excitement increased rapidly. Toward the end of her recital her thoughts grew confused and wandered into the ravings of a brain fever.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE BRIDEGROOM.

According to his promise given to Lady Belgrade, the Duke of Hereward returned to Elmthorpe House to make his report.

He found the dowager waiting for him where he had left her, in the back drawing-room.

He greeted her only by a silent bow, and she questioned him only by a mute look.

"I have placed the case in the hands of Setter, confidentially, of course. He will commence secret investigations to-night," he said.

"This morning, you mean, Duke. It is now two o'clock," remarked the dowager.

"Is it, indeed, so late?"

"So early you should say. Yes, it is. But what thinks the detective of this affair?"

"He is inclined to think as we do, that our dear Salome has been decoyed away by some tale of extreme distress, and for purposes of robbery," answered the young duke, pressing his white lips firmly together in his effort to control all expression of the anguish that was secretly wringing his heart.

"And what does he think of the chances of finding her soon and finding her safe?" inquired the dowager.

The duke slowly shook his head.

"Well, and what does that mean?" asked the lady.

"It means that Detective Setter cannot form an opinion, or will not commit himself to the expression of one at present. And now, dear Lady Belgrade, as it is after two o'clock, I must bid you good-night—"

"Good-morning, rather," interrupted the dowager.

"And return to my lodgings," continued the duke, passing his hand across his forehead, like one "dazed" with trouble.

"I beg you will do nothing of the sort, Duke," said Lady Belgrade, hastily interposing. "You have left your lodgings for a wedding tour. You are not expected back there. Your people think that you are far from London with your bride. In the name of propriety, let them think so still. Do not go back there to-night, and wake them all up, and start a nine days' wonder of scandal. Stay where you are, Duke, quietly, until we recover our Salome. When we do, you can both leave for Paris. All the world will know nothing of this distressing affair, which, if it were to come to their knowledge, would be exaggerated, perverted, turned and twisted out of all its original shape, into some horrid story of scandal. Remember now, how few people know anything about it—only you, I, the detective necessarily taken into your confidence, and the servants, for whose discretion I can answer. Remain quietly here, therefore, that all gossip may be stopped."

The duke resumed his seat, but did not immediately answer.

"Do you not think my counsel good?" inquired the lady.

"Very good. Thanks, Lady Belgrade. I will follow your advice. There is another reason why I should do so, but with which you are not acquainted. In the absorption of my thoughts with the subject of our Salome, I totally forgot to tell you that I have just been subpoenaed as a witness for the crown, in the approaching trial of John Potts and Rose Cameron for the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison. The case will come on at the Assizes at Banff on Thursday next. I must leave for Scotland to-morrow," said the young duke.

"Why—you surprise me very much! When was the subpoena served upon you?" inquired the dowager.

"In a chance recounter at the police-office, where I went to find the detective, and where I also found a sheriff's officer holding a subpoena for me, which he was about to send across the channel by a special messenger—supposing me to be in Paris. So you see, my dear Lady Belgrade, my wedding tour would have been stopped at Paris, if not nearer."

"That is well; for now, if the wedding tour is delayed, it will be known to be a legal necessity, which in no way reflects upon the wedding party. And now, my dear Duke, since you consent to stay all night, let me advise you to retire to rest. You will find your valet waiting your orders in the cedar suite of rooms, to which I had your dressing case and boxes taken."

"Thanks, Lady Belgrade. Your ladyship anticipates everything."

"I certainly anticipated the necessity of your remaining here all night, as soon as I found that you could not leave London. And now, Duke, I must really send you to bed. I am exhausted. I must lie down, even if I do not sleep," said the dowager, as she arose and touched the bell.

The Duke of Hereward raised her hand to his lips, bowed, and left the room.

Lady Belgrade followed his example.

And the weary groom of the chambers entered, in answer to the bell, to turn off the gas and fasten up the rooms.

The young duke knew where to find the cedar suite—a sumptuous set of apartments finished and fitted up in the costly and fragrant wood which gave them their name.

He found his servant waiting in the dressing-room.

His grace's valet was no fine gentleman from Paris, as full of accomplishments as of vices; but a simple and honest young man from the estate. The extra gravity which young James Kerr put into his manner of waiting, alone testified of the reverential sympathy he felt for his beloved master.

The duke threw off the travelling coat that he had assumed for his journey and had worn up to this moment; and he took the wadded silk dressing gown, handed him by his valet, and having put it on, he dropped into an easy resting-chair, and ordered Kerr to lower the gas and then leave the room for the night.

The young Duke of Hereward did not retire to bed that night. As soon as he found himself alone in the half-darkened rooms, he arose from his chair and began to walk restlessly up and down the floor, relieving the pent-up anguish of his bosom by such deep groans as had required all his self-control to suppress while he was in the presence of others.

Thus walking and groaning in great agony of mind, he passed the few remaining dark hours of the morning.

At daylight he sank exhausted into his easy-chair. But even then he neither "slumbered nor slept," but passed the time in waiting and longing for the rising sun, that he might go out and renew his search for his lost bride.

The sun had scarcely risen when he rang for his valet.

The young man appeared promptly.

The duke made a hasty toilet, and then called his servant to attend him down stairs.

None of the household were yet astir.

But, by the direction of the duke, Kerr unlocked, unbolted and unbarred the street door to let his master out.

"Close and secure the house after me, James, for it will be hours yet before the household will be up," said the duke, as he passed out.

It was a clear October day for London. The sun was not more than twenty minutes high, and it shone redly and dully through a morning fog. The streets were still deserted, except by milkmen, bakers, costermongers, and other "early birds."

He walked rapidly to the Church Court police station.

Detective Setter was not there. But the Duke left word for him to call at Elmthorpe as soon as he should return.

He left the police station and went on toward Elmthrope. But he did not enter the house. He could not rest. He walked up and down the sidewalk in front of the iron railings until he thought Lady Belgrade might have risen.

Then he went up the steps and rang the bell.

The hall porter opened the door and admitted him.

"Has Lady Belgrade come down yet?" was his first question.

"My lady has, your grace. My lady is waiting breakfast for your grace," respectfully answered the footman.

He longed to ask if any news had been heard of the missing one, but he forbore to do so, and hurried away up-stairs to the breakfast parlor.

There he found Lady Belgrade, dressed in a purple cashmere robe, and wrapped in a rich India shawl, reclining in a rocking-chair beside a breakfast-table laid for two.

"Good morning, madam. I fear I have kept your ladyship waiting," said the duke, as he entered the room.

"Not a second, my dear duke. I have but just this instant come down," answered the dowager, politely, and unhesitatingly telling the conventional lie, as she put out her hand and touched the bell.

"I fear that it is useless to ask you if there is any news of our missing girl," said the duke, in a low tone.

"I have heard nothing. And you? Of course, you have not, or you would not have asked me the question. But, good Heaven, Duke, you are as pale as a ghost! You look as if you had just risen from a sick bed! You look full twenty years older than you did yesterday. What have you been doing with yourself? Where have you been?" inquired the dowager.

The duke answered her last question only.

"I have been to Church Court to look up Detective Setter. I left orders for him to report here this morning. I expect him here very soon. I must do all that I can do in London to-day, as it is absolutely necessary for me to leave town by the night express of the Great Northern Railroad, in order to attend the trial for which I am subpoenaed as a witness, to-morrow."

"I see! Of course, you must go. There is no resisting a subpoena. But who is to co-operate with Setter in the search for Salome?"

"You must do so, if you please, Lady Belgrade, until my return. Of course, I will hurry back with all dispatch."

"No fear of that. The only fear is that you will hurry into your grave. But here is breakfast," said her ladyship, as a footman entered with a tray.

Mocha coffee, orange pekoe tea, Westphalia ham, poached eggs, dry toast, muffins, rolls, and so forth, were arranged upon the table to tempt the appetite of the two who sat at meat.

Lady Belgrade made a good meal. She was at the age of which physicians say, "the constitution takes on a conservative tone," and which poets call "the time of peace." In a word, she was middle-aged, fat, and comfort-loving; and so she was not disposed to lose her rest, or food, or peace of mind for any trouble not personally her own.

She was vexed at the unconventionality of Salome's disappearance, fearful of what the world would say, and anxious to keep the matter as close as possible. That was all, and it did not take away her appetite.

But the anxious young husband could not eat. A feverish and burning thirst, such as frequently attends excessive grief or anxiety, consumed him. He drank cup after cup of tea almost unconsciously, until at length Lady Belgrade said:

"This makes four! I am your hostess, duke; but I am also your aunt by marriage, and upon my word I cannot let you go on ruining your health in this way! You shall not have another cup of tea, unless you consent to eat something with it."

The young duke smiled wanly, and submitted so far as to take a piece of dry toast on his plate and crumble it into bits.

Meanwhile, the dowager, having finished her breakfast, took up the Times to look over.

Presently she startled the duke by exclaiming:

"Thank Heaven!"

"What is it?" hastily inquired the duke, setting down his cup and gazing at the silent reader. "Any news of Salome?" he added, and then nearly lost his breath while waiting for the answer.

"Oh, yes, news of Salome! But scarcely authentic news. Listen! Here is a full account of the wedding—with a description of the bride and bridesmaids, and their dresses and attendants, and of the ceremony and the officiating clergy, and the attending crowd, and the wedding-breakfast, speeches, presents, and so on, all tolerably correct for a newspaper report. But now listen to this—"

Her ladyship here read aloud:

"Immediately after the wedding-breakfast, the happy pair left town, by the London and South Coast Railway, en route for Dover, Paris and the Continent."

"There! what do you think of that?" inquired Lady Belgrade, looking up.

"I think it is not the first occasion upon which a paper has anticipated and described an expected event that some unforeseen accident prevented from coming off," answered the duke, with a sigh.

"I thank fortune for this! Now you have really started on your wedding tour in the belief of all London, and all outside of London who take the Times; and all our world do take it. And now, if any rumor of this most inopportune disappearance of our bride should get out, why, it will never be believed! That is all! For has not the departure of the 'happy pair' been published in the Times? Yes, I am very glad of the news reporter's indiscreet precipitancy on this occasion, at least," concluded Lady Belgrade, as she turned to other "fashionable intelligence."

At that moment a footman entered the breakfast parlor and handed a business-looking card to the duke, saying, with a bow:

"If you please, your grace, the person is waiting in the hall."

"By your leave, Lady Belgrade?—Sims! show the man into the library, and tell him I will be with him in a few moments.—It is Detective Setter," said the duke, as he arose and left the breakfast parlor.

He found that officer awaiting him in the library.

"Any news?" inquired the duke, as he sank into a chair and signed to the visitor to follow his example.

"None, your grace. I have made diligent and careful investigations, in the neighborhoods mentioned by the lady's maid, but have found no trace of any Mrs. White or Brown that answered the rather vague description given. I shall, however, resume my search there," answered the man.

"There must be no cessation of the search until that woman is found. I need not caution you to use great discretion," said the duke, earnestly, but wearily, like a man breaking down under an intolerable burden of mental anxiety.

"Discretion is the very spirit of my business, your grace."

"What is to be your next step?"

"If your grace will permit me, I should like to examine the rooms of the lost lady, and I should like to question, singly and privately, the servants of the house."

"A thorough search has been made of the premises, including the apartments of the duchess. And every domestic on the premises has been examined and cross-examined."

"I do not doubt, your grace, that all this has been done as effectually as it could be done by any one, except a skillful and experienced detective; but if you will pardon me, I should like to make an examination and investigation in person."

"Certainly, Mr. Setter. Every facility shall be afforded you," said the duke, touching the bell.

A footman entered.

The duke drew a card from his pocket and wrote upon it:

"Detective Setter wishes to search the premises and cross-examine the servants. What does your ladyship say?"

The duke then placed the card in the hand of the footman, saying:

"Be so good as to take this to Lady Belgrade, and wait an answer."

The servant bowed and left the room.

"You are aware, Mr. Setter, that I am under the necessity of leaving London to-night, to attend the trial of Potts and Cameron to-morrow."

"As a witness for the Crown. I am, your grace."

"I shall get back to London as soon as possible. In the meantime, I wish you to pursue your investigations with the utmost diligence, sparing no expense. Report in person every morning and evening to Lady Belgrade in this house, and by telegraph to me at Lone, in Scotland. Use great discretion in wording your telegrams. Avoid the use of names, or titles, or, in fact, any terms, in referring to the duchess, that may identify her. I hope you understand me?"

"Perfectly, your grace. I also understand how to speak and write in enigmas. It is a part of my profession to do so," answered Mr. Setter.

The duke then drew out his portmonaie, opened it, selected two notes of fifty pounds each and put them in the hands of Setter, saying:

"Here are one hundred pounds. Spare no expense in prosecuting this search. Draw on me if you have occasion."

The detective bowed.

At the same moment the footman re-entered the room, bringing a card on a silver waiter, which he handed to the duke.

The duke took it and read:

"Your grace surely forgets that, as the husband of the heiress, you are the absolute master of the house, and your will is law here. Do as you think proper."

"You may go," said the duke to the messenger, who immediately retired.

"Now, Mr. Setter, do you wish to search the premises, or examine the servants first?" inquired the duke.

"Examine the servants first, your grace; as I may thereby gain some clew to follow in my search."

"Very well," said the duke, again touching the bell.

The prompt footman re-appeared.

"Whom do you wish called first?" inquired the duke.

"The lady's maid," answered the detective.

"Go and tell the duchess's maid that she is wanted here immediately," said the duke.

The footman bowed and went away on his errand.

A few minutes passed, and the lady's maid entered.

"This is—I really forget your name, my good girl," said the duke, apologetically.

"Margaret, sir; Margaret Watson," said the lady's maid, with a courtesy.

"Ay. This is Margaret Watson, the confidential maid of her grace, Mr. Setter. Margaret, my good girl, Mr. Setter wishes to put some questions to you, relating to the disappearance of your mistress. I hope you will answer his inquiries as frankly and fearlessly as you have answered ours," said the duke, as he took up a paper for a pretext and walked to the other end of the library, leaving the detective officer at liberty to pursue his investigations alone.

It is needless for us to go over the ground again. It is sufficient to say that Detective Setter questioned and cross-questioned the girl with all the skill of an old and experienced hand, and at the end of half an hour's sharp and close examination, he had obtained no new information.

The girl was dismissed, with a warning not to talk of the affair. And she was followed by the housekeeper, with no better result.

Thus all the domestics of the establishment were called and examined singly; but without success.

When the last servant was done with, and sent out of the room, the detective walked up to the duke.

"Well, Mr. Setter?" inquired the latter.

"Your grace, I have learned nothing from the servants but what you have already told me."

"Do you still wish to search the premises?"

"If your grace pleases. And I wish to begin with the apartments of the duchess."

"Then follow me. I myself will be your guide," said the duke, leading the way from the library.

It would be useless to accompany the detective in this third search. Let it be sufficient to say that this search was thorough, complete, exhaustive, and—unsuccessful.

It was late in the day when it was finished, and the duke and the detective returned to the library.

"You now perceive Mr. Setter, that a day has been lost in these repeated searchings and questionings, and no new information, no sign of a clew to the fate of the duchess has been gained. In an hour I must leave the house to catch the Great Northern Night Express. I leave—I am forced for the present, to leave the fate of my beloved wife in your hands. In saying that, I say that I leave more than my own life in your keeping. Use every means, employ every agency, spend money freely, the day you bring her safely to me, I will deposit ten thousand pounds in the Bank of England to your account."

"Your grace is munificent. If the duchess is on earth, I will find her;—not for the reward only, though it is certainly a very great inducement to a poor man with a large family; but for the love and honor I bear your grace and the late Sir Lemuel Levison," said the detective, earnestly, as he bowed and took leave.

The first dinner-bell rang.

The duke hastened to his own room, not to dress for dinner, but to prepare for his night journey to Scotland.

He ordered his valet to pack a valise with all that would be necessary for a few days' absence, and then sent him to call a close cab.

By this time the second dinner-bell rang, and the duke went down, not to dine, but to take leave of Lady Belgrade.

He found her ladyship in the drawing-room.

"Give me your arm to dinner, if you please, Duke," she said, rising.

"I hope you will excuse me; but I have only come to say good-by. I have but time to catch the train. Kerr has already put my luggage in the cab, which is waiting for me at the door. Good-by, dear Lady Belgrade. You will co-operate with Setter in all things necessary to a successful search, I know. Setter has my orders to report to you—"

"You take my breath away!" gasped the dowager.

"Write to me by every mail. Keep me informed of events—"

"You will kill yourself, Duke! flying off without your dinner, and looking fitter for going to bed than on a journey!" panted the dowager.

"Now then, good-by in earnest, dear Lady Belgrade, and God bless you," concluded the duke, raising her hand to his lips and bowing.

And before the dowager could say another word he was gone.

"Well, if he lives to be as old as I am, he will take things easier. Though, if he goes on at this rate, he won't live to be old," mused the old lady, as she slowly waddled into the dining-room, and took her seat at the table to enjoy her solitary green turtle soup.



CHAPTER XXII.

AT LONE.

The Duke of Hereward went out to the close cab that was waiting for him before the door.

He found his valet standing by it, with a pair of railroad rugs over his arm.

He directed the man to mount to a seat beside the cabman, and gave the latter orders where to drive.

Then he entered the cab and closed all the doors and windows, that he might not be seen by any chance acquaintance.

He was supposed by all the world of London to be away on his wedding tour, and he was willing to let them continue to believe so, until they should be enlightened by a report of the great trial, when they would learn the fact and the explanation at once, and thus be prevented from making undesirable conjectures and speculations concerning his presence at such a time in England.

He leaned back on his seat, and the cabman, having received directions from the valet, drove rapidly off toward the Great Northern Railway Station at Kings Cross.

An hour's fast drive brought them to their destination.

The duke dispatched his valet to the ticket office to engage a coupe on the express train, so that he might be entirely private.

And he remained in the cab with closed doors and windows until the servant had secured the coupe, and conveyed all the light luggage into it.

Then he left the cab, and passed at once into the coupe, leaving his servant to pay and discharge the cab, and to follow him on the train.

James Kerr, after performing these duties, went to the door of his master's little compartment to ask if he had any further orders, before going to take his place in the second-class carriages.

"No, Kerr, but come in here with me. I want you at hand during the journey," replied the duke, who, much as he confided in the young man's devotion and loyalty, could not quite trust his discretion, and therefore desired to keep him from talking.

The valet bowed and entered the coupe, taking the seat that his master pointed out.

The train moved slowly out of the station, but gaining speed as it left the town, soon began to fly swiftly on its northern course.

The October sun was setting as the train flew along the margin of the "New River," as Sir Hugh Myddellen's celebrated piece of water-engineering is called.

The October evening was chill, and the swift flight of the train drawing a strong draught that could not be kept out, increased the chilliness.

The duke leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

The valet attentively tucked the railway rug around his master's knees.

The sun had set. The long twilight of northern latitudes came on.

At the first station where the express stopped, the guard opened the door and offered to light the lamps, but the duke forbade him, saying that he preferred the darkness.

The guard closed the door and retired, and the train started again, and flew on northward through the deepening night.

It stopped only at the largest towns and cities on its route—at Peterboro', at York, at Newcastle, and Edinboro'.

It was sunrise when the train reached Lone, the only small station at which it stopped on the route.

The guard opened the door of the coupe, and the young duke got out, attended by his valet.

The train stopped but one minute, and then shot out of the station and flew on toward Aberdeen.

The distance between the railway station and the "Hereward Arms," was very short, so the duke preferred to walk it, followed by his valet and a railway porter carrying his light luggage.

The sun had risen indeed, although it was nowhere visible.

A Scotch mist had risen from the lake, and settled over the mountains, vailing all the grand features of the landscape.

Early as the hour was, the hamlet, as they passed through it, seemed deserted by all its male inhabitants. None but women and children were to be seen, and even they, instead of being at work, were loitering about their own doors or gossiping with each other.

Though the duke and his servant were the only passengers that got off the train at Lone, the whole force of the "Hereward Arms,"—landlord, head-waiter, hostler, boots and stable boys—turned out to meet them.

"Your grace is unco welcome to the 'Hereward Arms,'" said Donald Duncan, the worthy host, bowing low before his distinguished guest.

And all his underlings followed his example by pulling their red forelocks and scraping their right feet backwards.

"Your hamlet seems to be deserted to-day, landlord. What fair or what else is going on?" inquired the young duke, as he followed the bowing host to the neat little parlor of the inn.

"Ah! wae's the day! Dinna your grace ken! It will be the trial at Banff—the trial of yon grand villain, Johnnie Potts, for the murder of his master."

"Oh, yes, I know the trial will be commenced to-day; but I did not think that the people here would take so much interest in it as to leave their work and go such a distance to see it," remarked the duke.

"Would they nae? They'd gae to the North Pole to see it, if necessary, and they'd gae farrer still to see the murtherer weel hanggit! Ay, your grace, and what will make it a' the mair exciting, is the rumor whilk goes round to the effect that the ne'er-do-well, hizzie, Rose Cameron, hae turnit Crown's evidence to save her ain life, and will gie up all her accomplices. Sae we are a' fain to hear the mystery of the murther cleared up."

"Indeed! Is that so? The girl has turned Crown's witness? Then, we shall get at the truth!" exclaimed the duke, with more interest than he had hitherto shown.

"It is a' true, your grace! And your grace may weel ken how the report drawed the heart of the hamlet out to gae to Banff, and hear a' aboot the murther."

"Yes, yes," murmured the duke to himself.

"And now, will your grace please to have a room? And what will your grace please to have for breakfast?" inquired the landlord, remembering his duty, and again bowing to the ground.

"You may show me to a bed-room, where I may get rid of this railway dust, and—for breakfast, anything you please, so that it is quickly prepared. Also, landlord, have a chaise at the door, with a good pair of horses. I must start for Banff within half an hour," said the traveller.

"Save us and sain us! Your grace, also! A' the warld seem ganging to Banff!" cried honest Donald Duncan.

"I am summoned there as a witness on the trial, landlord."

"Ay, to be sure. Sae your grace maun be. For it is weel kenned that your grace was amung the first to discover the dead body of the murthered man, Heaven rest him! And noo, your grace, I will show ye till your room," said the landlord, leading the way to a neat bedchamber on the same floor.

"Be good enough to send my servant here with my luggage," said the duke.

The landlord bowed and went out to deliver the message.

And in another minute the valet entered the room with the valise, dressing-case, and so forth.

The duke made a rapid morning toilet, and then returned to the parlor, where the little breakfast table was already laid—coffee, rolls, oat-meal cake, broiled haddock, broiled black cock, and Dundee marmalade, formed the bill of fare.

The duke forced himself to partake of some solid food in addition to the two cups of coffee he hastily swallowed.

And then, as the chaise was announced, he arose to depart.

"I desire to keep these rooms until further notice, landlord. I shall return here this evening, and stop here during my attendance upon the trial at Banff," said the duke, as he got into the chaise, followed by the valet.

The driver cracked his whip and the horses started.

"Aweel," said the landlord to himself, as he watched the chaise winding its way up the mountain-pass. "Aweel, I waur e'en just confounded to see the dook here away without the doochess; and I just after reading in the Times how they were married o' the day before yesterday, and gane for their wedding trip to Paris! Aweel, I suppose, it will be this witness business as hae broughten him back. But where's the young doochess? Ay, to be sure, he hae left her in her grand toon house in London. He wad na be bringing her here at siccan a painfu' time and occasion as the trial of her ain father's murtherer. Nae, indeed! that is nae likely," concluded honest Donald Duncan, as he returned into his house.

Banff was but ten miles north-east of Lone. But the mountain road was difficult; and now that the morning mist lay heavy on the landscape, it was necessary for our travelers to drive slowly and carefully to avoid precipitating themselves over some rocky steep, into some deep pool or stony chasm.

They were, thus, an hour in getting safely through the mountain-pass.

At the end of that time, they came out upon a good road, through a forest of firs, covering a hilly country.

Then the mist began to roll away before the bright beams of the advancing sun.

And another hour of fast driving brought them into the town of Banff.

The duke directed the driver to turn into the street where was situated the town-hall, where the court was being held.

The very looks of the street must have informed any stranger that some event of unusual interest was then transpiring. The sidewalks were filled with pedestrians, whose steps were all bent in one direction—toward the town hall.

As our travellers drew up before the front of the building, the duke alighted and beckoned to a bailiff to come and clear the way for his passage into the court-room.

The officer hurried to the duke, and using his official authority, soon made a narrow path through the dense crowd that choked up every avenue into the edifice.

So, elbowing, pushing and wedging his way, the bailiff led the duke into the court-room, which was even more closely packed than the ante-rooms. Pressing through this solid mass of human beings, the bailiff led him to a seat directly in front of the bench of judges, and there left him.

The duke bowed to the Bench, sat down and looked around upon the strange and painful scene.

The famous Scotch judge, Baron Stairs, presided. On his right and left sat Mr. Justice Kinloch and Mr. Justice Guthrie.

Quite a large number of lawyers, law officers, and writers to the seal were present.

Mr. James Stuart, Q.C., was the prosecutor on the part of the crown. He was assisted by Messrs. Roy and McIntosh.

Mr. Keir and Mr. Gordon, two rising young barristers from Aberdeen, were counsel for the prisoner.

John Potts, alias Peters, the accused man, stood alone in the prisoner's dock.

He was a tall, gaunt, dark man, whose pallid face looked ghastly in contrast with his damp, lank, black hair, that seemed pasted to his cheeks by the thick perspiration, and with his black coat and pantaloons that hung loosely on his emaciated form.

The young duke thought he had never seen a man so much broken down in so short a time.

While the duke was looking at him, the poor wretch turned caught his eye and bowed. And then he quickly grasped the front railing of the dock with both his hands, as if to keep himself from falling.

The young duke turned away his eyes. The sight was too painful. He looked around him over the densely packed crowd, in which he recognized many of his old friends and neighbors, a great number of his clansmen and nearly all the old servants of his family.

Although the month was October, and the weather cool in that northern climate, the atmosphere of such a packed crowd would have been unbearable but for the fact that the six tall windows that flanked the court-room on each side were let down from the top for ventilation.

The duke turned his attention to the Bench.

There seemed to be some pause in the proceedings. The judges were sitting in perfect silence. The prosecuting counsel were arranging papers and occasionally speaking to each other in low tones.

The duke turned to a gentleman, a stranger, who was sitting on his left, and inquired:

"I have heard that the girl Cameron is not to be arraigned. I have also heard that she is held as a witness for the crown. Can you inform me whether it is so?"

"Yes, sir, it is so. You perceive that she is not in the dock with the other prisoner. She is in custody, however, in the sheriff's room. The prosecution cannot afford to arraign her, because they cannot do without her testimony," answered the stranger.

A buzz of conversation passed like a breeze through the impatient crowd.

"Silence in the court!" called out the crier.

And all became as still as death.

Mr. Roy, assistant counsel for the crown, arose and read the indictment, charging the prisoner at the bar with the willful murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, at Castle Lone, on the twenty-first day of June, Anno Domini, so and so. Without making any comment, the prosecutor sat down.

The Clerk of Arraigns then arose, and demanded of the accused—

"Prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or not guilty of the crimes with which you stand indicted?"

Potts, who stood pale and trembling and clutching the rails in front of the dock, replied earnestly though informally:

"Not guilty, upon my soul, my lords and gentlemen, before Heaven, and as I hope for salvation."

And overpowered by fear, he sank down on the narrow bench at the back of the dock.

The trial proceeded.

Queen's Counsel, Mr. James Stuart, took the indictment from the hands of his assistant, and proceeded to open it with a short, pithy address to the judges and the jury, and closed by requesting that Alexander McRath, house-steward of Castle Lone, in the service of the deceased, should be called.

The venerable, gray-haired old Scot, being duly called, came forward and took the stand.

Mr. McIntosh, assistant Queen's Counsel, conducted his examination.

Being duly sworn, Alexander McRath testified as to the facts within his own knowledge relating to the case, and which have already been laid before our readers—briefly, they referred to the finding of the dead body of the late Sir Lemuel Levison in his bed-chamber, to which no one except his confidential valet, the prisoner at the bar, had a pass-key, or could have gained admittance during the night.

The witness was cross-examined by Mr. Keir of the counsel for the prisoner, but without having his testimony weakened.

Other domestic servants were called, who corroborated the evidence given by the last one as to the finding of the dead body, and the intimate and confidential relations which had subsisted between the deceased and the prisoner at the bar, who always carried a pass-key to his master's private apartments.

Then the boy, Ferguson, a saddler's apprentice from the village of Lone, was called to the stand; and being sworn and examined, testified to the meeting and the conspiracy at midnight before the murder, under the balcony, near Malcolm's Tower, at Castle Lone, to which he had been an eye and ear-witness.

This witness was subjected to a very severe cross-examination, which rather developed and strengthened his testimony than otherwise.

McNeil, the ticket agent of the railway station at Lone, was next called, sworn, and examined. He testified to having sold a ticket just after midnight on the night of the murder to a vailed woman, who carried a small but very heavy leathern bag, which she guarded with jealous care. His description corresponded with that given by young Ferguson of the vailed woman, and the bag he had seen given to her by the balcony at Castle Lone on the same night.

This witness, also, was sharply cross-examined without effect.

"Now, my lords and gentlemen of the jury," began Queen's Counsel Stuart, speaking more gravely than he had ever done before, "I shall proceed to call a witness whose testimony will assuredly fix the deep guilt in the case we are trying where it justly belongs. Let Rose Cameron be placed upon the stand."

There was a great sensation in the court-room. The dense crowd was stirred with emotion as thick forest leaves are stirred with the wind.

"Silence in the court!" called out the crier.

And silence fell like a pall upon the crowd.

A door was opened on the left of the Judge's Bench, and the handsome Highland girl was led in by a sheriff's officer. She was dressed in a dark-blue merino suit, with a black felt hat and blue feather to match, and dark-blue gloves. Her long light hair flowed down her shoulders, a cataract of gold. She stepped with an elastic and imperial step as natural to her as to the reindeer. A very Juno of stately beauty she seemed as she rolled her large, fearless eyes over the crowded court-room, until, at length, they fell on the form of the young Duke of Hereward, seated on a front seat.

She started and flushed. Then recovered herself, caught his eyes, and fixed them with her bold, steady gaze, smiled a vindictive, deadly smile, and so passed with stately steps to her place on the witness stand.



CHAPTER XXIII.

A STARTLING CHARGE.

The Duke of Hereward was quite unable to account for the look of vindictive and deadly hatred and malice cast on him by Rose Cameron. He could only suppose that she mistook him for some one else, or that she unreasonably resented his active share in the prosecution of the search for the murderers of Sir Lemuel Levison.

He sat back in his seat and watched her while she stepped upon the witness-stand and turned to face the jury.

Every pair of eyes in the court-room were also fixed upon her. For it was believed that she had been an accomplice in the murder, as well as in the robbery, at Castle Lone, and that she had turned Queen's evidence in order to escape the extreme penalty of the law. And all there who looked upon her were as much dazzled by her wondrous beauty, as appalled by her awful guilt.

The Clerk of the Court administered the oath. The assistant Queen's Counsel proceeded to examine her.

"Your name is Rose Cameron?"

"Na! I'm nae Rose Cameron. I'm Rose Scott, and an honest, married woman," said the witness, turning a baleful look upon the Duke of Hereward, and letting her large, bold, blue eyes rove defiantly, triumphantly over the sea of human faces turned toward her. She never blenched a bit under the fire of glances fixed upon her. These glances would have pierced like spears any finer and more sensitive spirit. They never seemed to touch hers.

"What a handsome quean it is!" said some.

"What a diabolical malignity there is in her looks. Eh, sirs! The vera cut of her 'ee wad convict her, handsome as she is!" whispered another.

"Ay, she looks as if she could ha ta'en a hand in the murther as well as in the robbery," muttered a third. And so on.

These comments were made in so low a tone that they did not in the least disturb the decorum of the court.

"Your name is Rose Scott, then?" proceeded Counsellor Keir.

"Ay, it is."

"What is your age?"

"Twenty-six come next Michael-mas."

"Your residence?"

"Are ye meaning my hame?"

"Yes, your home."

"I dinna just ken. It used to be Ben Lone on the Duk' o Harewood's estate, when I waur a lass. Sin I hae been a guid wife I hae bided in Westminster Road, Lunnun."

At the mention of Westminster Road, the Duke of Hereward started slightly, and bent forward to give closer attention to the words of the witness.

"With whom did you live in Westminster Road?" proceeded the examiner.

"Wi' my ain guid man, ye daft fule!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, in a rage. "Wha else suld I bide wi'? And noo, ye'll speer nae mair questions anent my ain preevit life, for I'll nae answer any sic. A woman maunna gie testimony in open coort against her ain husband, I'm thinking."

"Certainly not."

"Sae I thocht!" said Rose Cameron, cunningly. "And sae ye'll speer nae mair questions anent my ain preevit affair; but just keep ye to the point, and it please ye! I am here to tell all I ken anent the murther and robbery at Castle Lone! Ay! and I will tell a' hang wha' it may!" she added, with a most vindictive glare at the Duke of Hereward.

"The witness is right so far. We have nothing whatever to do with her domestic status. Proceed with the examination, and keep to the point," interposed the judge.

"We will, my lord. We only wished to prove the fact that the witness was living on the most intimate terms with one of the parties suspected of the murder."

"I waur living wi' my ain husband, as I telt ye before, ye born idiwat! An' I'm no ca'd upon to witness for or against him. Sae I'll tell ye a' I ked anent the murther and the robbery at Castle Lone; but de'il hae me gin I tell ye onything else!" exclaimed Rose Cameron.

"The witness is quite right in her premises, though censurable in her manner of expressing them. Proceed with the examination," said the judge.

The assistant Q.C. bowed to the Bench and turned to the witness.

"Tell us, then, where you were on the night of the murder."

"I waur in the grounds o' Castle Lone."

"At what time were you there?"

"Frae ten till twal o' the clock."

"Were you alone?"

"For a guid part of the time I waur my lane i' the castle court."

"What took you out on the castle grounds alone at so late an hour?"

"I went there to keep my tryste with the Markis of Arondelle," answered the witness, with a sly, malignant glance at the young nobleman whose name she thus publicly profaned!

The Duke of Hereward started, and fixed his eyes sternly and inquiringly upon the bold, handsome face of the witness.

Her eyes did not for an instant quail before his gaze. On the contrary, they opened wide in a bold, derisive stare, until she was recalled by the questions of the examiner.

"Witness! Do you mean to say, upon your oath, that you went to Castle Lone at midnight to meet the Marquis of Arondelle?"

"Aye, that I do. I went to the castle to keep tryste wi' his lairdship, the Marquis of Arondelle. He wha was troth-plighted to the heiress o' Lone. Ae wha is noo ca'd his grace the Duk' o' Harewood!" said the witness, emphatically, triumphantly.

The statement fell like a thunderbolt on the whole assembly.

When Rose Cameron first said that she went to the castle to keep tryste with the Marquis of Arondelle, those who heard her distrusted the evidence of their own ears, and turned to each other, inquiring in whispers:

"What did she say?"

Or answering in like whispers:

"I don't know."

But now that she had reiterated her statement with emphasis and with triumph, they asked no more questions, but gazed in each other's faces in awe-struck silence.

And as for the Duke of Hereward! What on earth could a gentleman have to say to a charge as absurd as it was infamous, thus made upon him by a disreputable person in open court?

Why, to notice it even by denial would seem to be an infringement of his dignity and self-respect.

The Duke of Hereward, after his first involuntary start and stare of amazement, controlled himself absolutely, and sat back in his chair, perfectly silent and self-possessed under this ordeal.

Not so the senior counsel for the defence.

Rising in his place, he addressed the bench:

"My lord, we object to the question put to the witness, which, while it tends to compromise a lofty personage of this realm, can, in no manner, concern the case in hand. My lord, we are not trying his grace the Duke of Hereward."

"The bench has already instructed the counsel for the Crown to keep to the point at issue while examining the witness," said the presiding judge.

"Ou, ay! Ye are nae trying the Duk' o' Harewood, are ye nae? Aweel, then, I'm thinking ye'll be trying him before a's ower!" put in Rose Cameron, spitefully.

"Witness, tell the jury what occurred, within your own knowledge, while you were in the grounds of Castle Lone," said Mr. Keir.

"And how will I tell onything right gin I am forbid to name the name o' him wha wur maistly concernit?" demanded Rose Cameron.

"You are to give your own testimony in your own way, unless otherwise instructed by the bench," said Mr. Keir.

"Aweel, then, first of a', I went to the castle by appointment to meet Laird Arondelle, as he was then ca'd. I walked about and waited fu' an hour before his lairdship cam' till me."

"At what hour was that?"

"I heard the castle clock aboon Auld Malcom's Tower strike eleven when I cam' under the balcony o' the bride's chamber, whilk is nigh it. I waited fu' half an hour there before his lairdship cam' stealing through the shrubbery—De'il hae him, wha ha brocht a' this trouble on me!" exclaimed the witness, vehemently, as her eyes, fairly blazing with blue fire, fixed themselves on the face of the young duke.

The Duke of Hereward bore the searching glare quite calmly. He simply leaned back in his chair, with folded arms and attentive face, on which curiosity was the only expression.

"Mr. Keir," said the venerable Counsellor Guthrie, of the defence, "is all this supposed to concern the case before the jury?"

"Ay, does it!" cried Rose Cameron, before the lawyer addressed could reply. "Ay, does it, as ye will sune see, gin ye will gie me leave to speak."

Meanwhile the Duke of Hereward took out his note-book and wrote these lines:

"Pray let the witness proceed without regard to her use of my name. I think the ends of justice require that she be suffered to give her testimony in her own way. HEREWARD."

He tore this leaf out and passed it on to Mr. Guthrie, who read it with some surprise, and then waved his hand to Mr. Keir, and sat down with the air of a man who had complied with an indiscreet request, and washed his hands of the consequences.

"The time of the court is being unnecessarily wasted. Let the examination of the witness go on," said the presiding judge.

"It shall, my lord," answered the Queen's Counsel, with an inclination of his white-wigged head. Then turning to the bold blonde on the stand, he proceeded: