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

madame," he said, bowing low.

"You have saved my life, have you not?"

"It was the Earl of Rochester who reserved you from the river; but I would have done it a moment later."

"I do not mean that. I mean"--with a slight shudder--"are you not one of those I saw at the plague-pit? Oh! that dreadful, dreadful plague-pit!" she cried, covering her face with her hands.

"Yes. I am one of those."

"And who was the other?"

"My friend, Sir Norman Kingsley.

"Sir Norman Kingsley?" she softly repeated, with a sort of recognition in her voice and eyes, while a faint roseate glow rose softly over her face and neck. "Ah! I thought--was it to his house or yours I was brought?"

"To his," replied Ormiston, looking at her curiously; for he had seen that rosy glow, and was extremely puzzled thereby; "from whence, allow me to add, you took your departure rather unceremoniously."

"Did I?" she said, in a bewildered sort of way. "It is all like a dream to me. I remember Prudence screaming, and telling me I had the plague, and the unutterable horror that filled me when I heard it; and then the next thing I recollect is, being at the plague-pit, and seeing your face and his bending over me. All the horror came back with that awakening, and between it and anguish of the plague-sore I think I fainted again." (Ormiston nodded sagaciously), "and when I next recovered I was alone in a strange room, and in bed. I noticed that, though I think I must have been delirious. And then, half-mad with agony, I got out to the street, somehow and ran, and ran, and ran, until the people saw and followed me here. I suppose I had some idea of reaching home when I came here; but the crowd pressed so close behind, and I felt though all my delirium, that they would bring me to the pest-house if they caught me, and drowning seemed to me preferable to that. So I was in the river before I knew it--and you know the rest as well as I do. But I owe you my life, Mr. Ormiston--owe it to you and another; and I thank you both with all my heart."

"Madame, you are too grateful; and I don't know as we have done anything much to deserve it."

"You have saved my life; and though you may think that a valueless trifle, not worth speaking of, I assure you I view it in a very different light," she said, with a half smile.

"Lady, your life is invaluable; but as to our saving it, why, you would not have us throw you alive into the plague-pit, would you?"

"It would have been rather barbarous, I confess, but there are few who would risk infection for the sake of a mere stranger. Instead of doing as you did, you might have sent me to the pest-house, you know."

"Oh, as to that, all your gratitude is due to Sir Norman. He managed the whole affair, and what is more, fell--but I will leave that for himself to disclose. Meantime, may I ask the name of the lady I have been so fortunate as to serve!"

"Undoubtedly, sir--my name is Leoline." "Leoline is only half a name."

"Then I am so unfortunate an only to possess half a name, for I never had any other."

Ormiston opened his eyes very wide indeed.

"No other! you must have had a father some time in your life; most people have," said the young gentleman, reflectively.

She shook her head a little sadly.

"I never had, that I know of, either father or mother, or any one but Prudence. And by the way," she said, half starting up, "the first thing to be done is, to see about this same Prudence. She must be somewhere in the house."

"Prudence is nowhere in the house," said Ormiston, quietly; "and will not be, she says, far a month to come. She is afraid of the plague."

"Is she?" said Leoline, fixing her eyes on him with a powerful glance. "How do you know that?"

"I heard her say so not half an hour ago, to a lady a few doors distant. Perhaps you know her--La Masque."

"That singular being! I don't know her; but I have seen her often. Why was Prudence talking of me to her, I wonder?"

"That I do not know; but talking of you the was, and she said she was coming back here no more. Perhaps you will be afraid to stay here alone?"

"Oh no, I am used to being alone," she said, with a little sigh, "but where"--hesitating and blushing vividly, "where is--I mean, I should like to thank sir Norman Kingsley."

Ormiston saw the blush and the eyes that dropped, and it puzzled him again beyond measure.

"Do you know Sir Norman Kingsley?" he suspiciously asked.

"By sight I know many of the nobles of the court," she answered evasively, and without looking up: "they pass here often, and Prudence knows them all; and so I have learned to distinguish them by name and sight, your friend among the rest."

"And you would like to see my friend?" he said, with malicious emphasis.

"I would like to thank him," retorted the lady, with some asperity: "you have told me how much I owe him, and it strikes me the desire is somewhat natural."

"Without doubt it is, and it will save Sir Norman much fruitless labor; for even now he is in search at you, and will neither rest nor sleep until he finds you."

"In search of me!" she said softly, and with that rosy glow again illumining her beautiful face; "he is indeed kind, and I am most anxious to thank him."

"I will bring him here in two hours, then," said Ormiston, with energy; "and though the hour may be a little unseasonable, I hope you will not object to it; for if you do, he will certainly not survive until morning." She gayly laughed, but her cheek was scarlet.

"Rather than that, Mr. Ormiston, I will even see him tonight. You will find me here when you come."

"You will not run away again, will you?" said Ormiston, looking at her doubtfully. "Excuse me; but you have a trick of doing that, you know."

Again she laughed merrily.

"I think you may safely trust me this time. Are you going?"

By way of reply, Ormiston took his hat and started for the door. There he paused, with his hand upon it.

"How long have you known Sir Norman Kingsley?" was his careless, artful question.

But Leoline, tapping one little foot on the floor, and looking down at it with hot cheeks and humid ayes, answered not a word.


CHAPTER VIII. THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN.

When Sir Norman Kingsley entered the ancient ruin, his head was fall of Leoline--when he knelt down to look through the aperture in the flagged floor, head and heart were full of her still. But the moment his eyes fell on the scene beneath, everything fled far from his thoughts, Leoline among the rest; and nothing remained but a profound and absorbing feeling of intensest amaze.

Right below him he beheld an immense room, of which the flag he had raised seemed to form part of the ceiling, in a remote corner. Evidently it was one of a range of lower vaults, and as he was at least fourteen feet above it, and his corner somewhat in shadow, there was little danger of his being seen. So, leaning far down to look at his leisure, he took the goods the gods provided him, and stared to his heart's content.

Sir Norman had seen some queer sights daring the four-and-twenty years he had spent in this queer world, but never anything quite equal to this. The apartment below, though so exceedingly large, was lighted with the brilliance of noon-day; and every object it contained; from one end to the other, was distinctly revealed. The floor, from glimpses he had of it in obscure corners, was of stone; but from end to end it was covered with richest rugs and mats, and squares of velvet of as many colors as Joseph's coat. The walls were hung with splendid tapestry, gorgeous in silk and coloring, representing the wars of Troy, the exploits of Coeur de Lion among the Saracens, the death of Hercules, all on one side; and on the other, a more modern representation, the Field of the Cloth of Gold. The illumination proceeded from a range of wax tapers in silver candelabra, that encircled the whole room. The air was redolent of perfumes, and filled with strains of softest and sweetest music from unseen hands. At one extremity of the room was a huge door of glass and gilding; and opposite it, at the other extremity, was a glittering throne. It stood on a raised dais, covered with crimson velvet, reached by two or three steps carpeted with the same; the throne was as magnificent as gold, and satin, and ornamentation could make it. A great velvet canopy of the same deep, rich color, cut in antique points, and heavily hang with gold fringe, was above the seat of honor. Beside it, to the right, but a little lower down, was a similar throne, somewhat lees superb, and minus a canopy. From the door to the throne was a long strip of crimson velvet, edged and embroidered with gold, and arranged in a sweeping semi-circle, on either side, were a row of great carved, gilded, and cushioned chairs, brilliant, too, with crimson and gold, and each for every-day Christians, a throne in itself. Between the blaze of illumination, the flashing of gilding and gold, the tropical flush of crimson velvet, the rainbow dyes on floor and walls, the intoxicating gushes of perfume, and the delicious strains of unseen music, it is no wonder Sir Norman Kingsley's head was spinning like a bewildered teetotum.

Was he sane--was he sleeping? Had he drank too much wine at the Golden Crown, and had it all gone to his head? Was it a scene of earnest enchantment, or were fairy-tales true? Like Abou Hasson when he awoke in the palace of the facetious Caliph of Bagdad, he had no notion of believing his own eyes and ears, and quietly concluded it was all an optical illusion, as ghosts are said to be; but he quietly resolved to stay there, nevertheless, and see how the dazzling phantasmagoria would end. The music was certainly ravishing, and it seemed to him, as he listened with enchanted ears, that he never wanted to wake up from so heavenly a dream.

One thing struck him as rather odd; strange and bewildered as everything was, it did not seem at all strange to him, on the contrary, a vague idea was floating mistily through his mind that he had beheld precisely the same thing somewhere before. Probably at some past period of his life he had beheld a similar vision, or had seen a picture somewhere like it in a tale of magic, and satisfying himself with this conclusion, he began wondering if the genii of the place were going to make their appearance at all, or if the knowledge that human eyes were upon them had scared them back to Erebus.

While still ruminating on this important question, a portion of the tapestry, almost beneath him, shriveled up and up, and out flocked a glittering throng, with a musical mingling of laughter and voices. Still they came, more and