The Midnight Queen by May Agnes Fleming (best books under 200 pages txt) 📖

of getting angry, us he felt he ought to have done, mechanically answered:

"The watchman told you of the two young men who brought her out and laid her in the dead-cart--I was one of the two."

"And who was the other?"

"A friend of mine--one Malcolm Ormiston."

"Ah! I know him! Pardon my abruptness, Sir Norman," said the stranger, once more speaking in his assumed suave tone, "but I feel deeply on this subject, and was excited at the moment. You spoke of her being brought to the house of a friend--now, who may that friend be, for I was not aware that she had any?"

"So I judged," said Sir Norman, rather bitterly, "or she would not have been left to die alone of the plague. She was brought to my house, sir, and I am the friend who would have stood by her to the last!"

Sir Norman sat up very straight and haughty on his horse; and had it been daylight, he would have seen a slight derisive smile pass over the lips of his companion.

"I have always heard that Sir Norman Kingsley was a chivalrous knight," he said; "but I scarcely dreamed his gallantry would have carried him go far as to brave death by the pestilence for the sake of an unknown lady--however beautiful. I wonder you, did not carry her to the pest-house."

"No doubt! Those who could desert her at such a time would probably be capable of that or any other baseness!"

"My good friend," said the stranger, calmly, "your insinuation is not over-courteous, but I can forgive it, more for the sake of what you've done for her to-night than for myself."

Sir Norman's lip curled.

"I'm obliged to you! And now, sir, as you have seen fit to question me in this free and easy manner, will you pardon me if I take the liberty of returning the compliment, and ask you a few in return?"

"Certainly; pray proceed, Sir Norman," said the stranger, blandly; "you are at liberty to ask as many questions as you please--so am I to answer them."

"I answered all yours unhesitatingly, and you owe it to me to do the same," said Sir Norman, somewhat haughtily. "In the first place, you have an advantage of me which I neither understand, nor relish; so, to place us on equal terms, will you have the goodness to tell me your name?"

"Most assuredly! My name," said the stranger, with glib airiness, "is Count L'Estrange."

"A name unknown to me," said Sir Norman, with a piercing look, "and equally unknown, I believe, at Whitehall. There is a Lord L'Estrange in London; or you and he are certainly not one and the same."

"My friend does not believe me," said the count, almost gayly--"a circumstance I regret, but cannot help. Is there anything else Sir Norman wishes to know?"

"If you do not answer my questions truthfully, there to little use in my asking them," said Sir Norman, bluntly. "Do you mean to say you are a foreigner?"

"Sir Norman Kingsley is at perfect liberty to answer that question as he pleases," replied the stranger, with most provoking indifference.

Sir Norman's eye flashed, and his hand fell on his sword; but, reflecting that the count might find it inconvenient to answer any more questions if he ran him through, he restrained himself and went on.

"Sir, you are impertinent, but that is of no consequence, just now. Who was that lady--what was her name?"

"Leoline."

"Was she your wife?"

The stranger paused for a moment, as if reflecting whether she was or not, and then said, meditatively,

"No--I don't know as she was. On the whole, I am pretty sure she was not."

Sir Norman felt as if a ton weight had been suddenly hoisted from the region of his heart.

"Was she anybody else's wife?"

"I think not. I'm inclined to think that, except myself, she did not know another man in London."

"Then why was she dressed as a bride?" inquired Sir Norman, rather mystified.

"Was she? My poor Leoline!" said the stranger, sadly. "Because-" he hesitated, "because--in short, Sir Norman," said the stranger, decidedly, "I decline answering any more questions!"

"I shall find out, for all that," said Sir Norman, "and here I shall bid you good-night, for this by-path leads to my destination."

"Good-night," said the stranger, "and be careful, Sir Norman-remember, the plague is abroad."

"And so are highwaymen!" called Sir Norman after him, a little maliciously; but a careless laugh from the stranger was the only reply as he galloped away.


CHAPTER V. THE DWARF AND THE RUIN.

The by-path down which Sir Norman rode, led to an inn, "The Golden Crown," about a quarter of a mile from the ruin. Not wishing to take his horse, lest it should lead to discovery, he proposed leaving it here till his return; and, with this intention, and the strong desire for a glass of wine--for the heat and his ride made him extremely thirsty--he dismounted at the door, and consigning the animal to the care of a hostler, he entered the bar-room. It was not the most inviting place in the world, this same bar-room--being illy-lighted, dim with tobacco-smoke, and pervaded by a strong spirituous essence of stronger drinks than malt or cold water. A number of men were loitering about, smoking, drinking, and discussing the all-absorbing topic of the plague, and the fires that might be kindled. There was a moment's pause, as Sir Norman entered, took a seat, and called for a glass of sack, and then the conversation went on as before. The landlord hastened to supply his wants by placing a glass and a bottle of wine before him, and Sir Norman fell to helping himself, and to ruminating deeply on the events of the night. Rather melancholy these ruminations were, though to do the young gentleman justice, sentimental melancholy was not at all in his line; but then you will please to recollect he was in love, and when people come to that state, they are no longer to be held responsible either for their thoughts or actions. It is true his attack had been a rapid one, but it was no less severe for that; and if any evil-minded critic is disposed to sneer at the suddenness of his disorder, I have only to say, that I know from observation, not to speak of experience, that love at first sight is a lamentable fact, and no myth.

Love is not a plant that requires time to flourish, but is quite capable of springing up like the gourd of Jonah full grown in a moment. Our young friend, Sir Norman, had not been aware of the existence of the object of his affections for a much longer space than two hours and a half, yet he had already got to such a pitch, that if he did not speedily find her, he felt he would do something so desperate as to shake society to its utmost foundations. The very mystery of the affair spurred him on, and the romantic way in which she had been found, saved, and disappeared, threw such a halo of interest round her, that he was inclined to think sometimes she was nothing but a shining vision from another world. Those dark, splendid eyes; that lovely marblelike face; those wavy ebon tresses; that exquisitely exquisite figure; yes, he felt they were all a great deal too perfect for this imperfect and wicked world. Six Norman was in a very bad way, beyond doubt, but no worse than millions of young men before and after him; and he heaved a great many profound sighs, and drank a great many glasses of sack, and came to the sorrowful conclusion that Dame Fortune was a malicious jade, inclined to poke fun at his best affections, and make a shuttlecock of his heart for the rest of his life. He thought, too, of Count L'Estrange; and the longer he thought, the more he became convinced that he knew him well, and had met him often. But where? He racked his brain until, between love, Leoline, and the count, he got that delicate organ into such a maze of bewilderment and distraction, that he felt he would be a case of congestion, shortly, if he did not give it up. That the count's voice was not the only thing about him assumed, he was positive; and he mentally called over the muster-roll of his past friends, who spent half their time at Whitehall, and the other half going through the streets, making love to the honest citizens' pretty wives and daughters; but none of them answered to Count L'Estrange. He could scarcely be a foreigner--he spoke English with too perfect an accent to be that; and then he knew him, Sir Norman, as if he had been his brother. In short, there was no use driving himself insane trying to read so unreadable a riddle; and inwardly consigning the mysterious count to Old Nick, he swallowed another glass of sack, and quit thinking about him.

So absorbed had Sir Norman been in his own mournful musings, that he paid no attention whatever to those around him, and had nearly forgotten their very presence, when one of them, with aloud cry, sprang to his feet, and then fell writhing to the floor. The others, in dismay, gathered abut him, but the ne=t instant fell back with a cry of, "He has the plague!" At that dreaded announcement, half of them scampered off incontinently; and the other half with the landlord at their head, lifted the sufferer whose groans and cries were heart-rendering, and carried him out of the house. Sir Norman, rather dismayed himself, had risen to his feet, fully aroused from his reverie, and found himself and another individual sole possessors of the premises. His companion he could not very well make out; for he was sitting, or rather crouching, in a remote and shadowy corner, where nothing was clearly visible but the glare of a pair of fiery eyes. There was a great redundancy of hair, too, about his head and face, indeed considerable more about the latter than there seemed any real necessity for, and even with the imperfect glimpse he caught of him the young man set him down in his own mind as about as hard-looking a customer as he had ever seen. The fiery eyes were glaring upon him like those of a tiger, through a jungle of bushy hair, but their owner spoke never a word, though the other stared back with compound interest. There they sat, beaming upon each other--one fiercely, the other curiously, until the re-appearance of the landlord with a very lugubrious and woebegone countenance. It struck Sir Norman that it was about time to start for the ruin; and, with an eye to business, he turned to cross-examine mine host a trifle.

"What have they done with that man?" he asked by way of preface.

"Sent him to the pest-house," replied the landlord, resting his elbows on the counter and his chin in his hands, and staring dismally at the opposite wall. "Ah! Lord 'a' mercy on us I these be dreadful times!"

"Dreadful enough!" said Sir Norman, sighing deeply, as he thought of his beautiful Leoline, a victim of the merciless pestilence. "Have there been many deaths here of the distemper?"

"Twenty-five to-day!" groaned the man. "Lord! what will become of us?"

"You seem rather disheartened," said Sir Norman, pouring out a glass of wine and handing it to him. "Just drink this, and don't borrow trouble. They say sack is a sure