A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) 📖

must go to him.”

 

To her dying day France never forgot the utter wretchedness of the face

uplifted at her command.

 

“He is dying, France, and I—I have killed him. I made him swear to save

Eric, no matter how, no matter how, and he has given his life for my

son. And, last night, Eric struck him, struck him full in the face. No,

I cannot go to him—I can never look upon him again.”

 

“This is folly, Lady Dynely!” exclaimed the girl, her eyes kindling.

“Are you altogether heartless? He has asked for you—your absence will

embitter his last hour. You must go to him, Eric must go. Oh!” France

cried, “have you not made him suffer enough, you and Eric, that you are

so ready to make him suffer still at the last?”

 

Lady Dynely arose wildly to her feet.

 

“I will go to him! I will do anything! I will go to him at once.”

 

“Not quite at once. A clergyman is with him. Leave them alone for a

little. But rouse up Eric; fetch him with you; tell him all.”

 

“Tell him all!” Lady Dynely repeated. She stood, a strange, excited

expression crossing her face. “Yes,” she said, under her breath, “I will

tell him all—ALL. It is time.”

 

She ran from the room, and into Eric’s. He was moving and muttering

restlessly now, the opiate beginning to lose its effect. She seized him

by the arm and shook him roughly.

 

“Awake, Eric!” she cried; “awake at once.”

 

He opened his eyes immediately and stared up at her in a dazed way.

 

“What’s the matter, mother? Have you gone mad? Crystal—”

 

He half rose on his elbow with a look of alarm.

 

“Never mind Crystal—wake up!”

 

“I have woke up. What’s the matter with you? What’s the hour?” Then,

like lightning, memory rushed upon him; his face flushed, turned pale.

He pulled out his watch and looked at the time. A quarter of nine.

“Great Heaven!” he exclaimed, and fell back among the pillows.

 

“Ay!” his mother cried, bitterly, “look at the hour. The time for the

duel is past, is it not? And the duel has been fought, and your honor

saved. Oh, my heart! such honor. You are safe here, and he lies dying

there—for you. Your own brother, Eric—your elder brother!”

 

He sat and stared at her, thinking she had gone mad, quite speechless.

 

“No,” she said, “I have not lost my senses, though you look as if you

thought it. The duel has been fought; Terry took your place, and he lies

dying in yonder room now, for you, and for me, and for Crystal—the

friend whom you struck last night—the brother whose birthright you have

usurped all your life!”

 

Still he sat speechless—still he was staring at her, not comprehending

a word.

 

“Oh, you don’t understand—you won’t understand, and time is flying and

every moment is precious. I must go to him. Eric, rouse yourself! try to

comprehend what I am saying. Terry met Prince Di Venturini this morning,

and fought your duel for you. I made him! I nearly went mad when he

came to me last night and told me of Crystal’s accident first, and of

your challenge. I don’t know what I said, I don’t know what I did, only

I made him promise to save you, and he has, he has!”

 

He was beginning to understand now. His face turned white, his lips set

themselves.

 

“Go on,” he said, speaking for the first time.

 

“I gave you an opiate and you slept while he went out and met the

prince in your place. He is dying in that room, and he has asked for you

and for me; and he is your brother, Eric, your own brother.”

 

“My brother! Mother, are you mad? I have no brother.”

 

But he grew whiter still as he said it. The resemblance between

them—the vague, unsatisfactory story of his relationship to them—all

flashed upon him; and then he knew what manner of man his father had

been.

 

“He is your brother—your very own; your father’s son. Oh, not as you

think,” seeing the expression of his face; “his mother was Lord Dynely’s

wife. I have all the proofs, and he was three years old when you were

born.”

 

He rose up.

 

“His mother was Lord Dynely’s wife—his wife! And Terry is three years

older than I am. Mother, what is this?”

 

“The truth! And Terry Dennison is your father’s elder son and heir! I

knew it since the night of your father’s death; he confessed all, dying,

whilst I knelt by his bedside. You never for one moment have had a right

to the title you bear. Terry Dennison is Lord Viscount Dynely!”

 

He fell heavily back on the seat he had quitted.

 

“And you concealed this?” he said, in a hoarse whisper.

 

“No—I told him. I told him last August. When he wanted to go down to

Lincolnshire and ask Crystal Higgins to be his wife, I detained him. I

could not let him go in ignorance. I kept him and told him all—all,

Eric! I thought he would have ousted you and claimed his own. That was

why I wanted you so much to marry France Forrester and her fortune. But

he gave up all, Eric—name, title, wealth—for the love of you and me.”

 

He buried his face in his hands and turned from her—stunned.

 

“He might have won Crystal—she was his before you came—she was all he

had, and you took her from him. He might have taken from you title and

fortune, and he did not. Last night he came to you in all good faith and

brotherly love, and—and,” a great gasp, “you struck him, Eric! I

kissed the brutal mark on his poor face last night. This morning he went

out in your place and met the prince, and was shot down as you would

have been. And he lies dying there; he will be dead before the hour

ends.”

 

He put out his hand with a fierce gesture to stop her.

 

“Cease!” he said, hoarsely. “Oh, God! I cannot bear it!”

 

She obeyed—a rain of tears pouring over her face. He lay

mute—quivering through all his strong young frame.

 

“Leave me,” he said, in the same hoarse voice, “I want to be alone.”

 

She turned to go, but on the threshold she stopped.

 

“You will come, Eric,” she said, “when we send?”

 

“Yes. Go!”

 

She went. France stood waiting for her at the door.

 

“He has asked for you again. He is sinking fast. Come.”

 

She led her into that other room. The clergyman’s last offices were

over. On the face, lying among the pillows, the cold dews of death

already stood. She fell down on her knees by the bed and took the dying

head in her arms. He opened his heavy eyes and smiled—a smile of great

content. “Mother,” he said, and lay still.

 

“Oh, my Terry! my Terry!” she cried out, “forgive me before you go.”

 

“There is—nothing—to forgive,” he spoke, slowly and faintly, but

clearly. “You were always good to me. I loved you all my life, mother.

Don’t cry—it’s better so. Eric,” his eyes looked wistfully toward the

door, he sighed wearily, “Eric won’t come?”

 

“Eric will come.” She bent down and kissed him, and in that kiss

whispered: “I have told him all.”

 

“All!” He looked up at her quickly, almost in reproof. “That was wrong.”

 

“It was right. I should have told him long ago. Oh, my boy! my own

Terry! how good you are.”

 

He smiled—Terry’s own amused smile. Then he closed his eyes wearily,

and lay still again.

 

Obeying a motion of her hand, France had gone to fetch Eric.

 

He came in—white as death itself, an agony of remorse, of sorrow, upon

his face, changing it beyond all telling. He knelt down on the opposite

side of the bed, and laid his face on one of Terry’s hands, without a

word.

 

“Eric! dear old boy!” The old, glad, loving light lit the dying eyes.

“I’m glad you’ve come. You don’t mind what I did this morning? Di

Venturini will never know. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

 

He was watching him wistfully.

 

Was Eric angry? But Eric only lifted his face for a minute, and laid it

down again.

 

“All right! Oh, Terry! you break my heart.”

 

What was it fell on Terry’s hand? Tears, and from the eyes of Eric

Dynely! For a moment Terry himself could not speak.

 

“It is all right, then,” he said, under his breath. “Dear old boy, I’m

glad of that.”

 

Then there was stillness. He lay in Lady Dynely’s arms, his face

pillowed on her breast, his eyes closed, his breathing coming quick and

hard. On the other side knelt Eric, never moving or looking up. The

dull, melancholy light stole in and fell upon him, stricken down there,

in the glory and strength of his manhood. France Forrester watched him

mournfully, from her post at the foot of the bed.

 

“And his sun went down, while it was yet day,” she thought. “My own dear

Terry! as clean of heart, as brave of soul, as loyal a knight as any

Arthur or Galahad of them all.”

 

Suddenly his eyes opened, and he looked up in Lady Dynely’s face.

 

“I—have—kept my promise,” he said, slowly. “I never quarrelled—with

Eric.”

 

“Oh, my boy! my Terry!” she could only answer through her tears.

 

He moved a little.

 

“Eric,” he whispered, and Eric lifted his pale face and red, tear wet

eyes. “Good-by—_brother_,” he said, so low that Eric had to lay his

ear to his lips to catch the words; “be good—to—Crystal.”

 

He closed them once more, exhausted, and lay still. There was a sudden,

short convulsion of the limbs—it passed, and he was quiet. So he had

lain for fully five minutes, his head resting a dull weight in Lady

Dynely’s arms. A sharp terror seized her—she looked helplessly around.

 

“Is he asleep?” she piteously asked.

 

Hubert Boville came forward and bent over him. He laid his hand on his

heart for a moment, and listened for his breathing. Then he stood up.

 

“Not asleep,” he said, very gently; “dead.”

 

CHAPTER XIX.

 

“POST TENEBR�, LUX.”

 

In Galignani’s Messenger of next day there appeared this paragraph:

 

“FEARFUL DUEL.—Yesterday morning, at seven o’clock, a meeting

took place in the Bois de Boulogne between a certain princely

personage, well known in the Italian political world, and an

English lieutenant of dragoon guards. His excellency the prince

was attended by Captain De C–- cr–- lt, of the —th Zouaves,

and the other combatant by the Hon. H. B—ville, attache of the

British Embassy. As usual there was a lady in the case. The duel

was fought with pistols, at fourteen paces. The first fire proved

fatal—the Englishman being shot through the heart. The police

are on the track of the noble fugitive, but up to the present

without success.”

 

In the same column another paragraph appeared which created a far wider

and deeper sensation.

 

“SUDDEN AND MYSTERIOUS DEATH.—It is with deepest regret we

announce to our readers the awfully sudden and most mysterious

death of the charming actress whose beauty and versatility have

crowded the Varieties for the past four months—Madame Felicia.

Last night she gave one of the delightful receptions for which

she has ever been justly famed, and appeared in her usual

excellent health and spirits. She