The Midnight Queen by May Agnes Fleming (first e reader TXT) 📕

an odd and wonderful thing. And you and I may thank our stars, dear readers, that we are a great deal too sensible to wear our hearts in our sleeves for such a bloodthirsty dew to peck at. Ormiston's flame was longer-lived than Sir Norman's; he had been in love a whole month, and had it badly, and was now at the very crisis of a malady. Why did she conceal her face--would she ever disclose it--would she listen to him--would she ever love him? feverishly asked Passion; and Common Sense (or what little of that useful commodity he had left) answered--probably because she was eccentric--possibly she would disclose it for the same reason; that he had only to try and make her listen; and as to her loving him, why, Common Sense owned he had her there.

I can't say whether the adage! "Faint heart never won fair lady!" was extant in his time; but the spirit of it certainly was, and Ormiston determined to prove it. He wanted to see La Masque, and try his fate once again; and see her he would, if he had to stay there as a sort of ornamental prop to the house for a week. He knew he might as well look for a needle in a haystack as his whimsical beloved through the streets of London--dismal and dark now as the streets of Luxor and Tadmor in Egypt; and he wisely resolved to spare himself and his Spanish leathers boots the trial of a one-handed game of "hide-and-go-to-seek." Wisdom, like Virtue, is its own reward; and scarcely had he come to this laudable conclusion, when, by the feeble glimmer of the house-lamps, he saw a figure that made his heart bound, flitting through the night-gloom toward him. He would have known that figure on the sands of Sahara, in an Indian jungle, or an American forest--a tall, slight, supple figure, bending and springing like a bow of steel, queenly and regal as that of a young empress. It was draped in a long cloak reaching to the ground, in color as black as the night, and clasped by a jewel whose glittering flash, he saw even there; a velvet hood of the same color covered the stately head; and the mask--the tiresome, inevitable mask covered the beautiful--he was positive it was beautiful--face. He had seen her a score of times in that very dress, flitting like a dark, graceful ghost through the city streets, and the sight sent his heart plunging against his side like an inward sledge-hammer. Would one pulse in her heart stir ever so faintly at sight of him? Just as he asked himself the question, and was stepping forward to moot her, feeling very like the country swain in love--"hot and dry like, with a pain in his side like"--he suddenly stopped. Another figure came forth from the shadow of an opposite house, and softly pronounced her name. It was a short figure--a woman's figure. He could not see the face, and that was an immense relief to him, and prevented his having jealousy added to his other pains sad tribulations. La Masque paused as well as he, and her soft voice softly asked:

"Who calls?"

"It is I, madame--Prudence."

"Ah! I am glad to meet you. I have been searching the city through for you. Where have you been?"

"Madame, I was so frightened that I don't know where I fled to, and I could scarcely make up my mind to come back at all. I did feel dreadfully sorry for her, poor thing! but you know, Madame Masque, I could do nothing for her, and I should not have come back, only I was afraid of you."

"You did wrong, Prudence," said La Masque, sternly, or at least as sternly as so sweet a voice could speak; "you did very wrong to leave her in such a way. You should have come to me at once, and told me all."

"But, madame, I was so frightened!"

"Bah! You are nothing but a coward. Come into this doorway, and tell me all about it."

Ormiston drew back as the twain approached, and entered the deep portals of La Masque's own doorway. He could see them both by the aforesaid faint lamplight, and he noticed that La Masque's companion was a wrinkled old woman, that would not trouble the peace of mind of the most jealous lover in Christendom. Perhaps it was not just the thing to hover aloof and listen; but he could not for the life of him help it; and stand and listen he accordingly did. Who knew but this nocturnal conversation might throw some light on the dark mystery he was anxious to see through, and, could his ears have run into needle-points to hear the better, he would have had the operation then and there performed. There was a moment's silence after the two entered the portal, during which La Masque stood, tall, dark, and commanding, motionless as a marble column; and the little withered old specimen of humanity beside her stood gazing up at her with something between fear and fascination.

"Do you know what has become of your charge, Prudence?" asked the low, vibrating voice of La Masque, at last.

"How could I, madame? You know I fled from the house, and I dared not go back. Perhaps she is there still."

"Perhaps she is not? Do you suppose that sharp shriek of yours was unheard? No; she was found; and what do you suppose has become of her?"

The old woman looked up, and seemed to read in the dark, stern figure, and the deep solemn voice, the fatal truth. She wrong her hands with a sort of cry.

"Oh! I know, I know; they have put her in the dead-cart, and buried her in the plague-pit. O my dear, sweet young mistress."

"If you had stayed by your dear, sweet young mistress, instead of running screaming away as you did, it might not have happened," said La Masque, in a tone between derision and contempt.

"Madame," sobbed the old woman, who was crying, "she was dying of the plague, and how could I help it? They would have buried her in spite of me."

"She was not dead; there was your mistake. She was as much alive as you or I at this moment."

"Madame, I left her dead!" said the old woman positively.

"Prudence, you did no such thing; you left her fainting, and in that state she was found and carried to the plague-pit."

The old woman stood silent for a moment, with a face of intense horror, and then she clasped both hands with a wild cry.

"O my God! And they buried her alive--buried her alive in that dreadful plague-pit!"

La Masque, leaning against a pillar, stood unmoved; and her voice, when she spoke, was as coldly sweet as modern ice-cream.

"Not exactly. She was not buried at all, as I happen to know. But when did you discover that she had the plague, and how could she possibly have caught it?"

"That I do not know, madam. She seemed well enough all day, though not in such high spirits as a bride should be. Toward evening die complained of a headache and a feeling of faintness; but I thought nothing of it, and helped her to dress for the bridal. Before it was over, the headache and faintness grew worse, and I gave her wine, and still suspected nothing. The last time I came in, she had grown so much worse, that notwithstanding her wedding dress, she had lain down on her bed, looking for all the world like a ghost, and told me she had the most dreadful burning pain in her chest. Then, madame, the horrid truth struck me--I tore down her dress, and there, sure enough, was the awful mark of the distemper. `You have the plague!' I shrieked; and then I fled down stairs and out of the house, like one crazy. O madame, madame! I shall never forget it--it was terrible! I shall never forget it! Poor, poor child; and the count does not know a word of it!"

La Masque laughed--a sweet, clear, deriding laugh, "So the count does not know it, Prudence? Poor man! he will be in despair when he finds it out, won't he? Such an ardent and devoted lover as he was you know!"

Prudence looked up a little puzzled.

"Yes, madame, I think so. He seemed very fond of her; a great deal fonder than she ever was of him. The fact is, madame," said Prudence, lowering her voice to a confidential stage whisper, "she never seemed fond of him at all, and wouldn't have been married, I think, if she could have helped it."

"Could have helped it? What do you mean, Prudence? Nobody made her, did they?"

Prudence fidgeted, and looked rather uneasy.

"Why, madame, she was not exactly forced, perhaps; but you know--you know you told me--"

"Well?" said La Masque, coldly.

"To do what I could," cried Prudence, in a sort of desperation; "and I did it, madame, and harassed her about it night and day. And then the count was there, too, coaxing and entreating; and he was handsome and had such ways with him that no woman could resist, much less one so little used to gentlemen as Leoline. And so, Madame Masque, we kept at her till we got her to consent to it at last; but in her secret heart, I know she did not want to be married--at least to the count," said Prudence, on serious afterthought.

"Well, well; that has nothing to do with it. The question is, where it she to be found?"

"Found!" echoed Prudence; "has she then been lost?"

"Of coarse she has, you old simpleton! How could she help it, and she dead, with no one to look after her?" said La Masque, with something like a half laugh. "She was carried to the plague-pit in her bridal-robes, jewels and lace; and, when about to be thrown in, was discovered, like Moses is the bulrushes, to be all alive."

"Well," whispered Prudence, breathlessly.

"Well, O most courageous of guardians! she was carried to a certain house, and left to her own devices, while her gallant rescuer went for a doctor; and when they returned she was missing. Our pretty Leoline seems to have a strong fancy for getting lost!"

There was a pause, during which Prudence looked at her with a face fall of mingled fear and curiosity. At last:

"Madame, how do you know all this? Were you there?"

"No. Not I, indeed! What would take me there?"

"Then how do you happen to know everything about it?"

La Masque laughed.

"A little bird told me, Prudence! Have you returned to resume your old duties?"

"Madame, I dare not go into that house again. I am afraid of taking the plague."

"Prudence, you are a perfect idiot! Are you not liable to take the plague in the remotest quarter of this plague-infested city? And even if you do take it, what odds? You have only a few years to live, at the most, and what matter whether you die now or at the end of a year or two?"

"What matter?" repeated Prudence, in a high key of indignant amazement. "It may make no matter to you, Madame Masque, but it makes a great deal to me; I can tell you; and into that infected house I'll not put one foot."

"Just as you please, only in that case there is no need for further talk, so allow me to