CHAPTER XXXII.
THE END OF CLAUDIA'S PRIDE.
Is she saved by pangs that pained her?
Is there comfort in all it cost her?
Before the world had gained her,
Before the Lord had lost her,
Or her soul had quite disdained her?
For her soul—(and this is the worst
To bear, as we well know)—
Has been watching her from the first
As closely as God could do,
And herself her life has curst!
Talk of the flames of hell,
We build, ourselves, I conceive,
The fire the fiend lights.—Well!
Believe or disbelieve,
We know more than we tell.
—Owen Meredith.
After a sleepless night, whose lonely anguish would have driven almost any woman who was compelled to endure it mad, Claudia arose and rung her bell.
No one answered it.
Too impatient to wait for the tardy attendance of her servants,
Claudia thrust her feet into slippers, drew on her dressing-gown,
and went and opened the window-shutters to let in the morning light.
Then she rang again.
Still no one obeyed the summons.
She was not alarmed. Even with the knowledge of what had gone before, she felt no uneasiness. She went to the dressing glass and loosened her hair, and let it fall all over her shoulders to relieve her burning head. And then she bathed her face in cold water. She was impatient to make her toilet and leave the castle.
She knew that all was over with her worldly grandeur; that all her splendid dreams had vanished forever; that obscurity, perhaps deepened by degradation, was all that awaited her in the future.
Wounded, bruised, and bleeding as her heart was, she felt glad to go; glad to leave the abode of splendid discord, misery, and crime, for any quiet dwelling-place. For she was utterly worn out in body, mind, and spirit.
She no longer desired wealth, rank, admiration, or even love; she only longed for peace; prayed for peace.
She knew a turbulent future threatened her; but she feebly resolved to evade it. She knew that Lord Vincent would sue for a divorce from her; would drag her name before the world and make it a by-word of scorn in those very circles of fashion over which she had once hoped to reign; she would not oppose him, she thought; she had no energy left to meet the overwhelming mass of testimony with which he had prepared to crush her. If her father should come over and defend her cause—well and good. She would let him do it; but as for her, she would go away, and seek peace.
You see, Claudia was in a very different mood of mind from that of the night previous, which had inspired her with such royal dignity and heroic courage to withstand and awe her accusers.
There had come the natural reaction from high excitement, and feats which had appeared easy, in the hour of her exalted indignation, seemed now impossible. She could now no more go to the American minister, and tell him her story, and claim his assistance, than she could have run into a burning fire. But, thank Heaven, she could go from the castle.
She rang her bell a third time, and more sharply than before. After a few minutes it was answered by the housekeeper, who entered with her customary respectful courtesy.
"She has not heard of last night's scandal," thought Claudia, as she noticed the dame's unaltered manner.
"I have rung three times, Mrs. Murdock. Why has not my maid come up?" she inquired.
"Indeed, me leddy, I dinna ken. I ha' na seen the lass the morn," answered the woman.
"What! You do not mean to say that Sally has not made her appearance this morning?"
"Indeed and she ha' na, me leddy."
"Mrs. Murdock, pray go at once to her room and see if she is there."
The housekeeper went away; and after an absence of fifteen minutes returned to say that Sally was not in her room.
"But I dinna think she is far awa', me leddy; because her bed is all tumbled as if she was just out of it. And her shoes and clothes are lying there, just as she put them off."
"I will dress and go and make inquiries myself. This house is a place of mysterious disappearances. I wonder if the beach below is of quicksand, and does it swallow people up alive?"
"I dinna ken, me leddy," gravely answered the dame.
"Mrs. Murdock, can you help me to dress?"
"Surely, me leddy," said the housekeeper, approaching Claudia with so much respectful affection that the unhappy lady said once more to herself:
"She knows nothing of last night's work."
And then Claudia, who was much too high-spirited and sincere to receive attentions rendered by the dame in ignorance of that night's scandal which she might not have so kindly rendered had she known of them, said:
"Mrs. Murdock, do you know what happened last night?"
"Aye, surely, me leddy, I ken a' about it, if your leddyship means the fause witness o' that de'il Frisbie," said the housekeeper, growing red with emotion.
"It was a false witness! a base, wicked, infamous calumny! I think the more highly of you, Mrs. Murdock, for so quickly detecting this. And I thank you," said Claudia, with difficulty restraining the tears, which for the first time since her great wrong were ready to burst from her eyes.
"Ou, aye, me leddy! It did na require the Witch of Endor to see the truth of that business. Ye'll see I ken Laird Vincent and Frisbie and the player-quean, wha is worst o' a'! And I hanna served ye, me leddy, these twa months without keening yer ladyship as well. And sae I ken the differ, me leddy. I ken the differ—-"
"Oh, Mrs. Murdock, in this deep desolation I find some comfort in your faith in me!"
"And sae I dinna believe a word the fause knave Frisbie says. And neither does auld Cuthbert, honest man! But wae's me, me leddy, whate'er our convictions may be, we canna disprove the lees o' yon de'il."
"No, we cannot," said Claudia, with a sigh of despair; "and unless
Providence intervenes to save me, I am lost."
"Aweel, me leddy, ye maun just hope that he will intervene. Na, na, dinna greet sae sairly!" the good woman entreated, for Claudia had burst into a flood of tears, and was weeping bitterly.
This refreshed her spirit and cleared her brain. Presently, wiping her eyes and looking up, she said:
"Mrs. Murdock, I cannot meet those wretches at breakfast. Send me some coffee; and order the carriage to be at the door in an hour; also send Sally, who must be at hand by this time, to help me pack."
The dame went on this errand, and after a short absence returned, bringing Claudia's breakfast on a tray.
"Where is Sally?" inquired Lady Vincent, as the housekeeper arranged the breakfast on a little table.
"She hanna come yet, me leddy," said the housekeeper, who remained and waited on Lady Vincent at breakfast.
Claudia could eat but little. To all her own sources of trouble was now added alarm, on account of Sally. What if the hapless girl had shared old Katie's fate? was the question that now began to torture her.
"Have you seen my footman this morning, Mrs. Murdock?" she inquired.
"Nae, me leddy; the lad aye gaes to Banff for the mail about this hour."
"When he comes send him to me at once. And now please take the service away. And when you go downstairs institute a search for my maid. And do you, if you can do so conveniently, return and help me to pack."
"Aye, me leddy," replied the woman, as she lifted the tray and carried it away.
In a few minutes she returned and assisted Lady Vincent to fill one large trunk.
"That is all I shall take with me. I shall leave the remainder of my wardrobe in your care, Mrs. Murdock, and I must request you to see them packed and sent on to Edinboro', where I shall stop before deciding on my future steps," said Lady Vincent.
"Aye, me leddy; ye may be sure I will do a' in my power to serve your leddyship."
"And now pray see if Jim has returned from the post office."
Mrs. Murdock went; but returned with startling news:
"The lad Jamie has na got back, me leddy; and it e'en appears that he has na gane. I just asked ane o' the stable lads what time it was when Jamie took the horse to gang to the post office, and the lad said that Jamie had na come for the horse at a'!"
Claudia sprang up and gazed at the speaker in consternation; and then sunk down in her chair, and covered her face with her hands and groaned.
"Dinna do that, me leddy—dinna do that!"
"Oh, Mrs. Murdock! don't leave me! don't lose sight of me, or I shall vanish too; swallowed up in this great ruin!" she cried, with a shudder.
There was a rap at the door. Mrs. Murdock opened it. Lord Vincent's footman stood there.
"My lord sends his compliments to my lady, and says that the carriage is waiting to take her from the castle; the tide is rising, which will render the road impassable for several hours; and he hopes she will take that fact into consideration and not delay her departure."
"'Delay'? I am only too glad to go. But oh, my poor faithful servants. Mrs. Murdock, tell the man to send someone up here to carry my trunk down," said Lady Vincent, hastily putting on her sable cloak and tying on her bonnet.
Her heart ached at the thought of abandoning her servants; and she only reconciled herself to the measure by reflecting that to lodge information with the detective police at Banff would really be the best means she could possibly take for their recovery.
When two of the men servants had carried down her trunk, Lady Vincent shook hands with the kind-hearted housekeeper, and prepared to follow them. In taking leave of Mrs. Murdock she said:
"I thank you sincerely for your kindness to the strangers that came to your land. You are really the only friend that I and my unfortunate servants have met since our arrival in this country; and I shall not forget you!"
The housekeeper wept.
"When my poor servants reappear, if they ever should do so, you will be so good as to send them to me at Edinboro'. Send them to the railway office, where I will leave my address."
"Aye, me leddy, I will na forget," sobbed the old dame.
Claudia pressed her hand, dropped it, and went below.
In crossing the central hall towards the principal entrance Claudia suddenly stopped as though the Gorgon's head had blasted her sight. For Lord Vincent stood near the open door, as if to witness and triumph over her expulsion. With a strong effort she conquered her weakness and approached the door. The viscount made a low and mocking bow and stepped aside. Claudia confronted him.
"My lord," she said, "you think you have very successfully conspired against my honor; but if there is justice on earth, or in heaven, you will yet be exposed and punished."
Lord Vincent made her an ironical bow; but no other reply.
"Where are my servants?" she inquired solemnly.
"I am not their manager, my lady, that I should be conversant with their movements," answered the viscount.
"My lord, you well know where they are. And if Heaven should bless my efforts this morning, the world shall soon know."
"My lady, the way is open; the north wind rather piercing. Will you please to pass out and let me close it?" said his lordship, holding the door wide open for her exit.
"Will you tell me where my servants are?" persisted Claudia.
"I do not know, my lady. They have probably stolen the plate and gone. I will ask the butler, and if it is so, I will put the constables on their track," said Lord Vincent, bowing and waving his hand towards the door.
"I leave you to the justice of Heaven, evil man!" replied Claudia, as she passed through and left the castle. She entered the carriage and was driven off.
Lord Vincent closed the door behind her and then went into the breakfast room, where the cloth was already laid. Neither Mrs. MacDonald nor Mrs. Dugald had yet come down. They seemed to be sleeping late after their disturbed night.
Presently, however, they entered—Mrs. MacDonald looking very much embarrassed, Faustina pale as death. Lord Vincent received them with grave politeness, and they all sat down to the table.
It was then Lord Vincent said:
"Mrs. MacDonald, Lady Vincent has this morning left this house upon which she has brought so much dishonor. It is also necessary for me to go to London to take measures for the dissolution of my marriage. I am, therefore, about to ask of you a great favor."
"Ask any you please, my lord. I am very anxious to be of service to you in this awful crisis. And I will gladly do all in my power to help you," replied this very complaisant lady.
"I thank you, madam. I thank you very much. The favor I had to ask of you is this—that you will kindly remain here with Mrs. Dugald, until some plan is formed for her future residence."
"Surely, my lord, I will remain with great pleasure," answered this needy lady, who was only too glad to leave for a season the straitened home of her married sister, and take up her abode in this plentiful establishment.
"Again I thank you, madam; thank you cordially on the part of my widowed sister as well as on my own part," said the viscount courteously.
And this point being settled, the party dispersed.
Mrs. MacDonald retired to her own apartments to write a note to her sister, requesting that her effects might be forwarded to Castle Cragg.
Mrs. Dugald went to her boudoir to await there in feverish impatience the arrival of the viscount.
He did not keep her long in suspense; he soon entered, locked the door behind him, and seated himself beside her.
"She is gone—really gone?" whispered Faustina, in a low, eager, breathless voice.
"Yes, my angel; you heard me say so."
"Really and truly gone?"
"Really and truly."
"Oh, I am so glad! And her servants? Ah, I always hated those blacks! She has not left them behind?"
"Certainly not," answered the viscount evasively.
"Ah, what a relief! The house is well rid of them."
"It is, indeed, my love."
"But—but—but—the dead body?" whispered the woman in a husky voice, while her eyes dilated with terror.
"It is gone."
"Where? how?"
"I tied a heavy weight to its feet and sunk it in the depths of the sea," replied the viscount, who felt no scruples in deceiving anyone, least of all his accomplice in crime.
And this shows the utter falsity of the absurd proverb that asserts "there is honor among thieves." There can be no honor and no confidence in any league wherein the bond is guilt.
Lord Vincent was completely under the influence of Mrs. Dugald, whom he worshiped with a fatal passion—a passion the more violent and enduring because she continually stimulated without ever satisfying it. Up to this time she had never once permitted the viscount to kiss her. Thus he was her slave; but, like all slaves, he deceived his tyrant. He had deceived Mrs. Dugald from the first; he habitually deceived her.
In this instance he persuaded her that old Katie died under the influence of the chloroform that she had helped to administer on that fatal night when the old negress had been discovered eavesdropping behind the curtain in Mrs. Dugald's apartments.
What his motive could have been for this deception it would be difficult to say; perhaps it was for the purpose of gaining some power over her; perhaps it was from the pleasure of torturing her and seeing her terrors—for his passion for the woman was by no means that pure love which seeks first of all the good of its object; and, finally, perhaps it was from the mere habit of duplicity.
However that might be, he had persuaded her that Katie was dead, dead from the effects of the chloroform they had forced her to take.
And now that he had really committed a felony by selling the three negroes to a West Indian smuggler, he was not inclined to confess the truth. For not upon any account would he have confided to his companion in guilt the secret of a criminal transaction in which she had not also been implicated. He could not have trusted her so far as to place his liberty in her keeping. Therefore he preferred she should believe Katie's body had been sunk in the depths of the sea; and that Sally and Jim had accompanied their lady in her departure from the castle. It is true, the household servants might soon disabuse her mind of the mistake that the lady's maid and footman had gone with their mistress. But if they should do so, the viscount knew he could easily plead ignorance as to the fact; and say that all he knew was, she had not left them at the castle.
Mrs. Dugald listened to his account of the disposition of old Katie's body with deep delight. She clapped her little hands in her usual silly manner and exclaimed eagerly:
"That is good; oh, that is good! But are you sure it will stay down there? Great Heaven, if it should rise against us!"
"There is no danger, love, no danger."
"We should all be guillotined!" she repeated for the twentieth time since that night. And she shuddered through all her frame.
"Hanged, my dearest, not guillotined; hanged by the neck till we are dead," said the viscount, smiling.
"Ah, but you look like Mephistopheles when you say that!" she shrieked, covering her face with her hands.
"But there is no danger, none at all, I assure you. And now, my angel, I must leave you; I ordered the brougham to be at the door at twelve precisely to take me to Banff to meet the Aberdeen coach. And I have some preparations to make. Come down into the drawing room and wait to take leave of me, that is a dear."
"Oh, yes, yes! but before you go, promise me! You will write every day?"
"Every day, my angel," said the viscount, bowing over her hand, before he withdrew from the room.
His preparations were soon made. Old Cuthbert performed the duties of valet. And punctually at twelve o'clock the viscount took leave of his evil demon and her chaperon and departed for Banff, where he took the coach to Aberdeen, at which place he arrived in time to catch the night train up to London.