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

"I will not kill you," he said, hoarsely, "but finish your story quickly. I can scarcely bear your presence."

"It was the first murder I had ever attempted," said the prisoner, after a long-drawn breath. "Naturally enough, I felt nervous over it.

"I walked up and down the river-bank for hours in the rain, trying to excuse myself to myself.

"Then all of a sudden she came up behind me, and pushed me in, and ran away.

"It was then that she went home to her parents. They took her back, kept her terrible secret, and married her to you.

"If I had let her alone then, all might have gone well," pursued the prisoner, "but I hated her for her maddened blow that dark, rainy night.

"I swore revenge. It was I who sent her the bouquet of flowers that caused her seeming death at the altar that night.

"I resurrected her, and made her a prisoner. She escaped the day that Farmer Thorn shot me.

"She thought I was dead, but as soon as I recovered from my wound I started out upon her trail again, still pursuing my hellish scheme of vengeance.

"But she escaped me for years, and I never met her again, until the night that I murdered her sister.

"I had just reached London that night, and went into the theater, full of idle curiosity to see La Reine Blanche, the beautiful idol of the hour.

"The moment she came upon the stage I recognized in the great actress the lovely girl I had treated so inhumanly.

"In an instant I conceived my diabolical plan of revenge. I hurried out of the theater, sent that note to her dressing-room, and waited at the western door.

"The woman who came had the voice, the form, the step of Queenie, and I plunged my dagger in her heart. I killed Sydney, but the blow was meant for Queenie."

He stopped, and there was silence in the gloomy prison-cell, while the criminal waited for Ernscliffe to speak.

"You are telling me the truth?" he demanded, hoarsely.

"As God is my judge, and on the word of a dying man. Let Queenie tell you her story and she will corroborate my words. I have pursued her pitilessly, remorselessly. I have wronged her beyond all reparation, yet she is as pure, and true, and innocent to-day as she was that fatal hour when I first met her, a happy, thoughtless girl, selling her painted fan to buy her simple ball-dress. My terrible sin against her is enough of itself to drag my soul down to the lowest depths of perdition!" added the prisoner, with a hollow groan.

"You have indeed sinned fearfully, and God will punish you," said Captain Ernscliffe, turning to go.

"A moment longer," pleaded the unhappy wretch. "Say that you forgive me before you go."

"Never in this world or in the next!" cried Captain Ernscliffe, furiously.

The grated door unclosing, let in the priest who was to spend the night with the condemned man.

He caught their parting words.

"My son, my son," he said, laying his withered hand on Ernscliffe's arm, "forgive the poor soul; he is almost beyond your resentment. Think where his soul will be to-morrow night. Give him your hand in token of pardon."

"No, no," said the listener, shuddering; "I will not touch his hand, but—but"—with a great effort—"I will forgive him."

"Tell her to forgive me, too," said Leon Vinton, looking at him with his wild, frightened face. "Tell her I am sorry—tell her that I repent. She is an angel. She will forgive me."

The door closed upon the retreating form, and the gentle priest knelt down and began to pray for the guilty soul so soon to be launched into a dread eternity.

CHAPTER XLIII

Captain Ernscliffe found that it was almost midnight when he reached home after his visit to the condemned murderer.

He was too excited for sleep, and going to the library he turned up the dimly-lighted gas and prepared to spend the remaining hours of the night among his books.

A pleasant warmth pervaded the luxurious apartment, and the fragrance of some white hyacinths, blooming in vases on the marble mantel, filled the air with sweetness.

They were Queenie's favorite flowers. He remembered the one she had worn on her breast the day he had come upon her in her strange interview with Sydney.

Breaking off a beautiful spray he pressed it to his lips, then pinned it on his coat.

"I wonder where she is now?" he said to himself, with a heavy sigh, as he drew up a chair to the table and laid his head down upon his folded arms.

Something rustled under his touch as he did so, and he looked up quickly.

There was a sealed letter lying upon the table, addressed to himself in an unfamiliar writing. It had been laid there by a servant while he was absent.

Mechanically he tore it open and glanced at the bottom of the page for his unknown correspondent's name.

"Robert Lyle," he read, aloud, with a suddenly quickened heart-beat.

Yes, it was from Robert Lyle—a brief note, coldly and curtly written.

"Captain Ernscliffe," it simply ran, "I arrived in this city to-day with your wife. She is now quite well and prepared to defend her case at any time the lawyers agree upon—to-morrow, if necessary."

That was all. It was brief, cold, and to the point. Yet the reader's heart thrilled with sudden joy.

"She is here in this city; she is well," he said to himself. "Oh, how can I wait until to-morrow?"

But he waited, nevertheless, though burning with anxiety and impatience, and at the earliest permissible hour he was shown into Robert Lyle's private parlor at the hotel where he was stopping.

Mr. Lyle was sitting cozily over his morning paper and cigar, his slippered feet on the fender, his gorgeous dressing-gown wrapped comfortably around him.

He rose in some surprise as his unexpected visitor was ushered in.

"You did not expect me," said Captain Ernscliffe, as they shook hands. "I received your letter at midnight, sir, and came this morning as early as propriety would allow. I want to see my wife, Mr. Lyle," he added, in a trembling voice. "Will you take her my card and see if she will admit me to her presence?"

Mr. Lyle looked at him curiously a moment. He saw that he was struggling with some unexplained agitation, and that he had not come with any hostile intent.

He pointed toward a side door that stood slightly ajar.

"She is in there," he said; "there is no need of formalities. Go in and see her."

With a faltering step Captain Ernscliffe advanced and passed through the partly open door.

He found himself in a beautiful little dressing-room, with hangings of pale-blue silk, exquisitely furnished and pervaded with the delicate perfume of white hyacinth.