Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

ALLWORTH ABBEY.

BY

MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

AUTHOR OF “THE FATAL MARRIAGE,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE DESERTED WIFE,” “LOST HEIRESS,” “DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “WIFE’S VICTORY,” “VIVIA,” “LADY OF THE ISLE,” “HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “MOTHER-IN-LAW,” “THE TWO SISTERS,” “THREE BEAUTIES,” “CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,” “MISSING BRIDE,” “INDIA,” “BRIDAL EVE,” ETC.

“There is probation to decree,

Many and long must the trials be;

But she’ll victoriously endure,

For her love is true and her faith is sure.

“Sunrise will come next!

The shadow of the night will pass away!

The glory and the grandeur of each dream

And every prophecy shall be fulfilled.”—Browning.

Philadelphia:

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

306 CHESTNUT STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern

District of Pennsylvania.

TO

MRS. FANNIE M^CDONALD MEAD,

OF NEW YORK,

THIS WORK IS DEDICATED,

AS A SLIGHT TESTIMONIAL OF

THE HIGHEST ESTEEM AND WARMEST AFFECTION

OF

THE AUTHOR,

E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

PROSPECT COTTAGE.

November 25th, 1865.

CONTENTS.

ALLWORTH ABBEY.

CHAPTER I.
THE FEARFUL WARNING.

“She stood once more in the halls of pride,

And the light of her beauty was deified,

And she seemed to the eyes of men a star,

Lovely but lonely—flashing but far.

“She fixed his gaze with her fearful spell,

And the book from his failing fingers fell;

While her low voice hissed in his shuddering ear,

‘We’ve met at last, slave! Dost thou fear?’”

A few years only have elapsed since the public mind was electrified by the discovery of a strange tissue of crimes, through which had perished within the space of twelve months every member of a noble family, and in which was implicated the honor of one of England’s haughtiest peers and the life of one of her loveliest daughters, and finally, which added a recent and thrilling domestic drama to those ancient histories and ghostly traditions that have long rendered Allworth Abbey the resort of the curious, and the terror of the ignorant and the superstitious.

The principal circumstances were made sufficiently public at the time of the discovery; some at least of the guilty parties were brought to justice, and the effigy of the chief criminal may even now be seen in a certain celebrated “Room of Horrors.” But much also remained enveloped in mystery, for, underlying the bare facts that were openly proved, there was a secret history, stranger, more atrocious and more appalling, even, than those ruthless crimes for which the convicted felons suffered.

The knowledge of this secret history came to me in a singular manner; and with the purpose of showing over what fatal pitfalls the most innocent feet may sometimes stray, I proceed to relate the story, entreating my readers to remember, amidst its strangest revelations, that “nothing is so strange as reality,” and nothing more incredible than truth:—

Allworth Abbey, the scene of these events, is one of the most ancient monuments of monastic history left standing in the United Kingdom. The precise date of its foundation is lost in the dimness of far-distant ages, and remains to this day a disputed point among learned antiquarians.

It is a vast and gloomy pile of Gothic architecture, situated at the bottom of a deep and thickly-wooded glen, surrounded by high hills, that even at noonday cast a sombre shadow over the whole scene, which is one of the wildest, loneliest, and most picturesque to be found on the northwest coast of England. The surrounding country may be called mountainous, from the imposing height of the hills, and the profound depth of the vales.

Nothing can be more secluded, solitary, and sombre than the aspect of this place. The grim old Abbey, lurking at the bottom of its deep dell, reflected dimly in its dark lake, overshadowed by its tall trees, and closely shut in by high hills, is just the object to depress and awe the beholder, even though he never may have heard the fearful stories connected with the place.

Allworth Abbey is rich in historical associations and traditional lore. Its cloisters have sheltered kings; its walls have withstood sieges; it possesses its haunted cell, its spectre monk and phantom maiden.

In the reign of Henry the Church-burner and Wife-killer, Allworth Abbey was the home of a rich fraternity of Benedictine monks. And at the time of that tremendous visitation of wrath which overswept the land, when

“The ire of an infuriate king

Rode forth upon destruction’s wing,”

Allworth Abbey was besieged and sacked by a party of soldiers under Lord Leaton, a baron of ancient lineage in the North of England, and of great merit in the estimation of King Henry Bluebeard. The abbot was slain at the altar, the brethren were put to the sword, the Abbey was given to the flames, and the lands conferred by the King upon the conqueror.

Lord Leaton rebuilt the ruined portions of the Abbey, adapted it as a family residence, and constituted it the principal seat of his race, in whose possession it remained from that time until the date of those strange household mysteries that I am about to disclose.

The last male representative of the Leatons of Allworth was Henry, Lord Leaton, whose name has since become so painfully memorable. With an ancient title, an ample fortune, a handsome person, well-cultivated mind, and amiable disposition, he married, early in life, a fair woman, every way worthy of his affections. Their union was blest by one child, Agatha, “sole daughter of his house,” who, at the opening of this story, had just attained her eighteenth year.

It is scarcely possible for a human being to be happier than was Lord Leaton at this time. In the prime of his manly life, blessed with a fair wife in the maturity of her matronly beauty, and a lovely daughter, just budding into womanhood, endowed with an ancient title, an immense fortune, and a wide popularity, Lord Leaton was the most contented man in England.

It was not even a drawback to his happiness that there was no male heir to his titles and estates, for in Malcolm Montrose, the betrothed of his daughter, he had found a son after his own heart.

Malcolm Montrose, and Norham, his younger brother, were the sons of Lord Leaton’s half sister, who had married a poor but proud Scotch laird. Their parents were now both dead. From their father they had inherited little more than an ancient name, a ruined tower, and a blasted heath. It was therefore only by the assistance of Lord Leaton, that Malcolm was enabled to enter the University of Oxford, and Norham to obtain a commission in the army.

It was the high character of Malcolm Montrose that commended him so favorably to the esteem of Lord Leaton, and induced his lordship to promote the betrothal between that young gentleman and the young heiress of Allworth; for be it known that the engagement was rather of Lord Leaton’s making than of the young pair’s seeking.

They loved each other as brother and sister, nor dreamed of the possibility of a stronger affection. They had naturally and easily glided into the views of Lord and Lady Leaton, and had at length plighted their hands, in perfect good faith, if not with the passionate love of which neither young heart had as yet any experience. One of the conditions of the betrothal was, that upon his marriage with the heiress, Malcolm Montrose should assume the name and arms of Leaton. It was also hoped that, in the event of the death of Lord Leaton, his son-in-law might obtain the reversion of the title.

It was soon after this solemn betrothal, that took place in the spring of 185–, that Malcolm Montrose took leave of his friends, and left England for an extended tour of the Continent.

Up to this time the life of Lord Leaton and his family had been one of unbroken sunshine. From this time the clouds began to darken around them.

On the day succeeding the departure of Malcolm, Lord Leaton received a letter from India, informing him of the death of his younger brother, who had left England many years previous to seek his fortune under the burning sun of Hindostan. The large fortune he had apparently found was the love of a beautiful native girl, whom he had secretly married, and who, in ten months after, in the same hour, made him a widower and the father of a female infant—the little Eudora, who, under her father’s care, had managed to grow up even in that deadly climate. But now that father had fallen a victim to the fatal fever of the country, and his daughter Eudora was left destitute.

Lord Leaton had been too long separated from his brother to feel keenly his death; his fraternal affection took a more practical turn than grief; he lost no time in procuring a proper messenger to send out to India for the purpose of bringing back his niece, who, as the only child of his sole brother, was, after Agatha, the heiress-presumptive of his estates.

As soon as Lord Leaton had despatched his messenger, he set out with his family to visit Paris. They took the first floor of a handsome house in a fashionable quarter of the city; but the circumstance of their being in mourning for Lord Leaton’s brother caused them to live in great retirement.

This was about the time that the concerted revolution in the Papal States had been discovered and suppressed, and when some of the noblest Romans had fallen on the scaffold, and others had been driven into exile. Among those whose fate excited the liveliest sympathy were the Prince and Princess Pezzilini. The prince fell gloriously in the cause of civil and religious liberty, and the princess was said to have perished in the flames when the Palace Pezzilini was burned by the mob. This was the common talk of Paris when Lord Leaton and his family arrived there.

It was within a few days after their settlement in their apartments, that the attention of Lord and Lady Leaton was attracted by a lady who frequently passed them on the grand staircase. She was a tall, fine-formed, fair woman, of great beauty, clothed in mourning, and wearing the aspect of the profoundest sorrow. No one could have seen her without becoming interested—no one could have passed her without a backward glance. She was sometimes attended by a stout, dark-complexioned, middle-aged man, whose manner towards her seemed half way between that of a good uncle and a faithful and trusted domestic.

The feminine curiosity of Lady Leaton had been so much excited by this mysterious lady and her strange attendant, that she had at length inquired about her of the old portress of the house. And it was from that garrulous personage Lady Leaton learned to her astonishment that the beautiful stranger was no other than the Princess Pezzilini, who had not perished in the burning Palace of Pezzilini, but who had made her escape with the assistance of a faithful servant, Antonio Mario, who, for her better security, had circulated the report of her death, while he bore her off to France. She was now living on the fourth floor of that house, in great poverty and seclusion, attended only by her faithful servant, Antonio Mario.

So much Lady Leaton learned from the portress; but she lost no time in delicately seeking the acquaintance of the beautiful and unfortunate exile.

She found the Princess Pezzilini very accessible to respectful sympathy. She learned from her some further particulars of her history—among other matters, that she had succeeded in securing from the burning palace a box of valuable family documents and a casket of costly family jewels. As, however, these jewels were heirlooms, she was unwilling to part with the least one of them until extreme want should actually compel her to do so; hence with almost boundless wealth at her command, she chose to live in poverty and privation. This was her story.

The lively imagination of Lady Leaton was affected by her beauty, sensibility and accomplishments. The good and benevolent heart of Lord Leaton was touched by her misfortunes, her courage, and her resignation. And the end of it was that they invited her to return with them to England, and make Allworth Abbey her home until the clouds that lowered over her House should be dispersed, and the sun should shine forth again.

They spent the autumn in Paris, and returned to Allworth Abbey just in time to prepare for Christmas.

And it was on Christmas-eve that the messenger to India returned, bringing with him Eudora Leaton. It was evening, and the family circle of Allworth Abbey, consisting of Lord and Lady Leaton, Miss Leaton, and the Princess Pezzilini, were assembled in the drawing-room, when Eudora was announced.

She entered, and her extreme beauty at once impressed the whole company.

It was a beauty that owed nothing to external circumstances, for she had arrived weary, sorrowful, and travel-stained; yet it was a beauty that sank at once into the very soul of the beholder, filling him with a strange delight. She was of medium height, and slender yet well-rounded form. Her graceful little head was covered with shining, jet-black ringlets, that fell around a face lovely as ever haunted the dream of poet or painter. Her features were regular; her complexion was a pure, clear olive, deepening into a rich bloom upon the oval cheeks, and a richer still upon the small full lips; her eyebrows were perfect arches of jet, tapering off to the finest points at the extremities; her eyes were large, dark and liquid, and fringed by the longest and thickest black lashes; her nose was small and straight; her mouth and chin faultlessly carved; her throat, neck and bust were rounded in the perfect contour of beauty; the whole outline of her form was ineffably beautiful. A poet would have said that her most ordinary motions might have been set to music, but to no music more melodious than the tones of her voice.

Such was the beautiful young Asiatic that stood trembling before her strange English relatives in the drawing-room of Allworth Abbey on Christmas-eve.

Lord Leaton was the first to arise and greet her.

“Welcome to England, my dearest Eudora,” he said, embracing her fondly; “think that you have come to your own home, and to your own father and mother, for after our daughter Agatha we shall love you best of all the world, as after her, you know, you are the next heiress of our name and estates.”

“Dear uncle, give me but a place in your heart next to my cousin Agatha, and—let the rest go,” said Eudora, in a voice vibrating with emotion.

Lord Leaton then formally presented his niece to her aunt and cousin, and to the Princess Pezzilini, all of whom received the beautiful young stranger with the utmost kindness and courtesy.

Agatha, in particular, seemed delighted with the acquisition of a congenial companion in her charming Indian cousin.

The evening passed delightfully; but for the sake of the weary traveller, the family party supped and separated at an unusually early hour.

It was soon after Lady Leaton had retired to her dressing-room that she heard a light tap at her door, and to her surprised exclamation of “Come in,” entered the Princess Pezzilini.

“You will pardon me for intruding upon you at this hour, but you know what great reason I have to be devoted to your service, Lady Leaton, and you know the force of my faith in presentiments. It is a presentiment that forces me to your presence to-night,” said the princess in a mournful voice.

“Madame, I thank you earnestly for the interest you deign to take in my welfare; but—I do not understand you,” said Lady Leaton, in surprise.

“And I do not understand myself; but I must speak, for the power of prophecy is upon me! Lady Leaton, beware of that Asiatic girl!”

“Madame!” exclaimed Lady Leaton, in extreme surprise.

“Yes, I know what you would say: she is your niece, the daughter of your husband’s brother. But I tell you that she is of the treacherous, cruel, and deadly Indian blood! I have watched her thoughts through this evening. I noted her look when Lord Leaton told her that she was the next heiress after Agatha. And I tell you that the gaze of the deadly cobra-di-capella of her native jungles is not more fatal than the glance of that Indian girl!”

“Madame, in the name of Heaven, what mean you?” exclaimed Lady Leaton, in vague alarm.

The voice of the princess sank to its deepest tones, as she answered:

“The deadly upas-tree of the Indies suffers nothing to live in its dread neighborhood. If you could transplant such a tree from an Indian plain to a fair English park, as it should grow and thrive, all beautiful life would wither under its poisonous breath, until nothing should remain but a blasted desert, and the deadly upas-tree should be all in all! Lady Leaton, beware of the young Indian sapling transplanted to your fair English park!”

“Madame, you frighten me!” exclaimed Lady Leaton.

“No; I only mean to warn you! I spoke from an irresistible impulse. And having spoken, I have no more to say but to bid you good-night,” said the Italian, lifting the hand of Lady Leaton to her lips, and then withdrawing, and leaving her ladyship plunged in deep thought.

CHAPTER II.
HORRIBLE SUSPICIONS.

The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan

Under my battlements.—Shakspeare.

The beautiful Asiatic girl soon won her way into every heart in the household. No one could meet the soft, appealing gaze of her large, dark, Oriental eyes, or hear the plaintive tones of her low, deep, sweet voice, without feeling powerfully drawn towards her. No one could be with her long without seeing that the angel form was tenanted by an angel spirit, too.

Eudora became the darling of the household. And yet, from all events that quickly followed, it would seem that the previsions of the Princess Pezzilini had been true.

First of all the father of the family, Lord Leaton, a man in the early prime of life and the full enjoyment of the finest health, sickened with a strange disease that baffled all the skill and science of his medical attendants. The most competent nurses were engaged to take their turns day and night at his bedside.

The ladies of the family also vied with each other in their attentions to the invalid. But it was observed that in his moments of greatest suffering, he would bear no one to approach him except his niece Eudora.

This might be explained by the circumstances that Eudora’s presence was very soothing, her step was noiseless, her motions smooth, her touch soft, her voice low, and her gaze gentle; and all this had a very calming and subduing effect upon the irritable invalid. And thus Eudora became almost a fixture beside his couch. And all who loved Lord Leaton were grateful to the gentle girl, who patiently resigned her daily recreations and her nightly repose to devote herself to him.

All except the Princess Pezzilini, who was observed to shake her head and murmur to herself—

“The fascination of the cobra-di-capella!”

But no one paid attention to the murmured remarks of the lady, especially as even she herself did not escape the charms of Eudora’s presence, but frequently fell under the sweet spell that bound all hearts to the beautiful girl.

At length, one night, Eudora, worn out with fatigue, was ordered to go to her bed. She mixed the sleeping-draught for her uncle, put it in the hands of her aunt, and retired to her room. Lady Leaton was left alone to watch by the bedside of her husband.

She sat the sleeping potion down upon a stand near the head of the bed, until Lord Leaton should awake from the light doze into which he had fallen, and she went out to her dressing-room to change her dress for a warmer wrapper, in which to sit up and watch the invalid.

It was while she stood before the looking-glass which was opposite the door and reflected a portion of the adjoining room, that Lady Leaton saw the shadow of a female figure glide along the wall, and at the same moment heard the rustle of a silk dress.

She immediately turned and entered the chamber, but found no one there. Lord Leaton had just awakened and turned over.

“Has any one been here?” inquired her ladyship.

“No one at all,” he answered.

“It was fancy, then,” muttered the lady to herself, as she gave the sleeping-draught to her husband.

He drank it to the dregs; yet it did not seem to produce the usual effects. The patient could not get to sleep; on the contrary, he grew more and more restless, and soon became violently ill.

Lady Leaton, in alarm, aroused the servants, and despatched a messenger to Poolville, the adjoining village, for their medical attendant, who immediately hastened to the bedside of his patient. But the utmost skill of the physician was unavailing, for, before morning, Lord Leaton expired.

It was then that the medical attendant felt it his duty to declare to the grieving widow that her husband had died from the effects of a virulent poison, and to demand an investigation by the coroner’s jury.

This would have been a terrible blow to Lady Leaton could she have been made to receive it. But she indignantly repudiated the idea.

What, he poisoned?—he, Lord Leaton, who was so kind-hearted that he would not have crushed a worm in his path, or killed a wasp that stung him?—he, who was so universally beloved and honored that he had not one enemy in the wide world?—he, in whose premature death no one could have a benefit, but in whose beneficent life thousands possessed the deepest interest?—he taken off by foul means? The idea was too preposterous as well as too dreadful to believe.

No; the horror of such a suspicion was not added to the unspeakable sorrow of the widow.

But, as the doctor was firm in his purpose of having a post-mortem examination and a coroner’s inquest, of course both had to be held. Nothing decisive, however, was elicited. No trace of poison was found either in the body of the deceased or in the glasses from which he had drank, or anywhere else.

The single suspicious circumstance of Lady Leaton’s seeing the shadow of a female on the wall, and hearing the rustle of a silk dress in her husband’s chamber, was disproved by a separate examination of each member of the household, in which it was clearly shown that every one was at that hour in bed. And Lady Leaton herself admitted that her imagination might have deceived her. The verdict of the coroner’s inquest, therefore, was that the deceased died from natural causes.

Lord Leaton had died too suddenly to have made a will, but his wishes were so well understood by Lady Leaton, that she lost no time in carrying them into effect. She wrote to Rome to Malcolm Montrose, informing him of the sudden death of his uncle, and requesting him to come immediately to England. She wrote, also, to Norham Montrose, who was absent with his regiment in Ireland, giving him the same fatal intelligence, and inviting him to join his brother at Allworth Abbey by a certain day.

Malcolm, though the farthest from the scene of action, was the first to obey the summons. He hastened to England, and, without resting a single night on his journey, hurried to Allworth Abbey.

It was near the close of a stormy day in March that he got out of the stage-coach at Abbeytown, and leaving his luggage to the care of the landlord of the “Leaton Arms,” set out to walk the short distance to the Abbey. He reached the top of the eastern range of hills that surrounded the Abbey just as the sun, setting behind the western hills, cast the whole dell into deep shadow.

Never had the aspect of that sombre place seemed so gloomy and depressing. The huge collection of buildings comprising the Abbey lurking at the bottom of the deep dell, reflected dimly in its dark lake, overshadowed by its gigantic old trees, enclosed by its lofty hills, and cast into the deepest shade by the sinking of the sun behind those hills, was well calculated to awe the traveller, even though he might not have—as Malcolm had—a personal and tragic interest in the scene.

A few moments he spent in contemplating the picture, and then rapidly descended the precipitous path leading down to the bottom of the dell. At the foot of the precipice was the gamekeeper’s lodge and the principal park gate. He passed this, and took the straightest line to the Abbey.

He passed one more gate and entered the grounds, immediately around the house. A short walk brought him to the outer banks of the shaded lake. An avenue of elms swept right and left around this lake and led up to the centre front entrance to the Abbey. He took the right-hand walk, and proceeding at a rapid pace, soon found himself before the main entrance.

Here the first object that arrested his attention was the funeral hatchment suspended over the doorway. A sigh was given to the memory of his uncle, and then he went up the broad stairs, and knocked at the great folding oak door of the main entrance. It was opened by the aged porter, who welcomed him respectfully, and ushered him at once into the library, while he went to announce the arrival to the widowed Lady Leaton.

While waiting the entrance of his hostess, Malcolm Montrose strolled to the front window and looked out upon the scene—the dark lake immediately under the walls of the Abbey, rendered darker still by the overhanging branches of its encircling trees, and the lofty sides of its surrounding hills, behind which the full moon was now rising.

While Malcolm gazed moodily upon the scene, his attention was attracted by a female form, clothed in black and gliding like a spirit among the trees, that bordered the still lake. He could not at first see her face, but the ineffable grace of her movements fascinated his eyes to follow her every motion. At length she turned, and he caught an instant’s glimpse of a dark face, which, even in that uncertain light, he fancied to be as beautiful as that of the fable houri. The beauty disappeared in the thicker foliage of the evergreens, and Malcolm Montrose turned to greet his aunt, who now entered.

Lady Leaton was a woman of commonplace, agreeable personality, middle-aged, large, fat and fair in body, conscientious, discreet, and affectionate in mind. She entered the room now, with her portly form dressed in widow’s weeds, and her fair, round face encircled by a widow’s cap. Her eyes were suffused with tears, and her voice was broken with grief, as she advanced, held out her hand, and welcomed Malcolm Montrose to Allworth Abbey.

A short and agitated conversation sufficed to put Malcolm in possession of the facts with which the reader is already acquainted; and of the result of this interview it is only necessary to say that Malcolm Montrose entirely coincided in opinion with Lady Leaton and with the verdict of the coroner’s jury, in supposing that the late Lord Leaton had died of some obscure disease, and not, as the doctor had believed, of poison. It was a great relief to Lady Leaton to find that one so clear-headed and true-hearted as Malcolm Montrose took the same views of the case with herself.

At the close of the interview she rang for a servant to show him to his room, where he might change his dress for dinner.

The chamber to which he was shown was situated immediately over the library, and its front bay window overlooked the same scene. Involuntarily Malcolm sauntered to the window and looked forth upon the night. The moon was now so high in the heavens that its face was reflected even in the shrouded mirror of the dark lake. As he looked forth he saw the same beautiful female figure emerge from the thicket and disappear in the direction of the house. She had evidently entered the building.

Malcolm turned away as though there was no longer any attraction in the moonlight on the shrouded lake, and turned to give his attention to old John, the valet of the late Lord Leaton, who stood ready to assist the young man in making his toilet.

When Malcolm Montrose had refreshed himself with a wash and a change of dress, and stood ready to descend to the drawing-room, he presented in himself one of the noblest specimens of manly beauty.

He was at this time about twenty-five years of age, tall and finely proportioned, broad-shouldered, deep-chested and strong-limbed. His head was stately, well poised, and covered with rich, dark, auburn hair that waved around a high, broad, white, forehead. His features were of the noblest Roman cast; his complexion was fair and ruddy, and his eyes of a clear, deep blue. His presence was imposing as that of one born to command; his manners were at once gracious and dignified, and his conversational powers brilliant and profound. He was one of those masterpieces of creation, one of those magnetic men who attract and control without any effort.

When Malcolm Montrose entered the crimson drawing-room he found it already brilliantly lighted up for the evening, and amid its glitter of light and glow of color three fair women were revealed. The first, who was his aunt, Lady Leaton, arose and led him up to the other two, who immediately riveted his attention.

Reclining languidly in an easy-chair sat a fair girl, with a delicate complexion, dark-grey eyes, and light brown hair confined in a net of black silk.

Standing on her right hand, and bending affectionately over her, was a large, tall, finely-formed, fair-haired woman, whose ample dress of black velvet fell around her majestic figure like the robes of a queen or the drapery of a goddess.

“Madame, permit me to present to you my nephew, Mr. Montrose, of Dun-Ellen; the Princess Pezzilini, Mr. Montrose,” said Lady Leaton, respectfully presenting Malcolm to the stranger.

Malcolm bowed deeply and reverently, and expressed himself honored in making the acquaintance of the widow of the heroic Prince Pezzilini.

The lady, on her part, raised her stately head, smiled sweetly, curtsied silently, and immediately resumed her attention to the young girl in the chair. But in that single glimpse of her full face, Malcolm saw that she was of that rarest and strangest type of Italian beauty, a perfect blonde—fair, as though she had been born under the cool, damp fogs of England, instead of the burning sun of Italy; and, indeed, if the land of her birth had given her any of its fire, it was only to be seen in the warm and glowing smile that occasionally lighted up her face and beamed from her clear blue eyes.

Malcolm took in all these impressions during the few moments that were occupied in his presentation, and then he turned to greet the young lady in the easy-chair—his cousin Agatha.

He saluted her gravely and affectionately, as befitted the serious occasion of their meeting, and then, observing for the first time the extreme delicacy of her face and form, and the languor of her attitude and manner, Malcolm looked uneasy, and expressed a fear that she had been indisposed.

“No, she is not indisposed; that is, not seriously so; but she has not seemed quite well or strong since—since our great bereavement,” answered Lady Leaton, concluding the sentence in a faltering voice.

“Not well; no, indeed!” thought Malcolm, as he gazed with concern upon the fair, wan, spiritual face and fragile form of her whom he had left but a few months before the very picture of perfect health. “Not well, yet not seriously indisposed!” Was it possible that this great change could have come over Agatha so gradually that its effects should have escaped the eyes of even her own affectionate mother? Such must have been the case, was the thought of Malcolm, as he held the thin and wasted hand of the young girl in his own, and resolved that upon the next day he would certainly call the attention of Lady Leaton to the fearful change that, though it might have escaped the notice of those in daily communion with the invalid, while their attention had been absorbed by matters of such transcendent importance as the illness and death of Lord Leaton, yet was, withal, so marked and so alarming as to have shocked him who had left her six months before in full and blooming health.

While these thoughts engaged the mind of Malcolm, a soft footstep approached, and Lady Leaton spoke, saying—

“My niece, Eudora, Mr. Malcolm.”

Malcolm raised his eyes carelessly.

Yes, there she stood! the beautiful girl whose graceful form he had followed with a delighted gaze as she glided among the trees upon the banks of the dark lake. There she stood, in the perfect loveliness of her Oriental charms, one of Mohammed’s fabled houris descended upon the earth. There she stood—her elegant little figure drawn up to its full height, her graceful head slightly bent upon her bosom, her jet-black ringlets falling around her rich, warm, olive face, with its slender, arched eyebrows, its large, dark, burning eyes, and its crimson cheeks and lips.

Only to look upon such beauty was a keen though dangerous delight. So Malcolm Montrose felt, as he took her hand, raised his eyes to hers, and met the quick and quickly-withdrawn flashing glance of those great, black, burning stars, so full of half-suppressed fire, so replete with thrilling, mysterious meaning.

“I am very happy to meet you, my dear cousin,” he said, earnestly, as he pressed and released her hand.

With the long lashes dropped lower over her dark eyes, and her rich bloom heightened, she curtsied slightly, and accepted the chair that he set for her.

Malcolm placed himself beside Agatha, and glided gradually into conversation with herself and the princess; but his eyes involuntarily wandered off to the beautiful Asiatic girl, and every furtive glance thrilled him with a deeper and a stranger delight.

Dinner was announced, and Malcolm gave his arm to the Princess Pezzilini to conduct her to the dining-room. At dinner he sat next to the princess, who was herself a woman of brilliant conversational powers; but while conversing with her his thoughts continually wandered to the lovely, dark-eyed girl on the opposite side of the table.

When dinner was over, and they returned to the drawing-room, the evening was spent in earnest conversation, until at length, when it was quite late, Lady Leaton observed that Agatha seemed fatigued, and rang for her maid to attend her to her chamber. Malcolm led Agatha to the door, where he bade her good-night, and soon after the circle broke up for the evening.

On taking leave of Eudora, Malcolm again touched her hand, and met her eyes with a thrill of delight as strange as it was incomprehensible.

When Malcolm reached his chamber, he at once dismissed the old valet, locked his door, and commenced pacing thoughtfully up and down the room. He had enough of exciting subjects occupying his mind to keep him from rest. The presence of the magnificent Pezzilini in the house; the death of his uncle; the failing health of his fair young cousin; but through all these disturbing subjects glided one image of ineffable loveliness—Eudora, the beautiful Asiatic girl; and this haunting image was so delightful to contemplate, that as often as it glided before his imagination, he paused to dwell enchanted upon it. He would not listen to the still small voice that warned him this was a dangerous vision; he meant no wrong to Agatha, his betrothed bride, to whom his hand was pledged, to whom he thought his heart was given, and he knew nothing of the insidious approaches of that master-passion which steals first through the eyes, then through the imagination, until it effects an immovable lodgment in the heart. The field of his imagination was already occupied; would the citadel of his heart be occupied? Who could tell?

It was after midnight when he retired to rest, resolving to be faithful to his affianced bride, and sank to sleep, dreaming of the beautiful Eastern houri.

Eudora occupied a small, plainly-furnished room adjoining her cousin Agatha’s spacious and sumptuous chamber, and, since Agatha had been ailing, it was a part of Eudora’s duty, whenever the invalid was restless at night, to sit by her bedside and read her to sleep. But on reaching her little room this evening, Eudora found the door communicating with her cousin’s chamber closed and locked on the other side.

“She wishes to be alone to-night,” said the gentle girl to herself, as she drew a low chair and sat down before the little coal fire to fall into one of those reveries to which her poetical temperament inclined her. She thought of the magnificent new relative to whom she had been presented that evening, for magnificent, indeed, to her he seemed in his noble, manly beauty and grace. She dwelt upon his image with a strange feeling of satisfaction and content, as upon some good long wanting in her life, and now found and appropriated. She felt again the earnest pressure of his hand in clasping hers; she saw again his eagle eyes melt into tenderness as they met her own; she heard again the earnest tones of his voice in greeting her. No one had ever before clasped her hand, or looked in her eyes, or spoken to her heart as he did. Every one was kind to the orphan; indeed it would have been impossible for any one to have been otherwise to so gentle a creature, but it was with a superficial kindness that did not seem to recognize her deeper need of sympathy. No one had seemed to remember that the stranger girl had under her black bodice a sensitive heart, to be wounded by neglect or delighted by affection—no one but him; and he, too, so handsome, so accomplished, and so distinguished, that he might have been excused for slighting her. At least, so thought Eudora.

“But the gods are ever compassionate, and he is like a god,” said the hero-worshipping young heart to itself. It was so sweet to recall and live over again that meeting in which he had been so earnestly kind.

“He will understand and love me, I feel that he will!” she murmured to herself, with a delighted smile. But the words had no sooner been breathed from her lips than she understood their full import. It stood revealed to her conscience as by a flash of spiritual light, that her imagination was occupied by a forbidden and perilous vision. And yet it was so sweet to entertain this alluring vision, and so bitter to banish it away.

She dropped her head upon her breast, and her clasped hands upon her lap, and sat, as it were, with her dark eyes gazing into vacancy after her receding dream.

Some time she sat thus, and then murmured—

“I am lonely and desolate indeed. None love me truly and deeply, as I need to be loved, as I long to love. They give me food and clothing and kind words, and with these I ought to be content, but I am not! I am not! My heart is starving for a deeper sympathy and a closer friendship, and I long for that as the famishing beggar longs for bread, but I must not hope to satisfy this hunger of the heart upon forbidden fruit, and a sure instinct warns me that even the kindred affection of my cousin is forbidden fruit to me. I will think no more of him.” And with this wise resolution Eudora offered up her evening prayers and retired to rest. But in the world of sleep the forbidden vision followed her, and her cousin Malcolm was ever by her side with looks of sympathy and words of love.

CHAPTER III.
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN.

I will not think of him—I’ll pace

This old ancestral hall,

And dream of that illustrious race

Whose pictures line the wall.

And from their dark and haughty eyes,

Though faded now and dim,

A better spirit shall arise,

I will not think of him.—Mrs. Warfield.

Flight! In that one short syllable lies the only safety from a forbidden passion, and where flight is impossible, passion becomes destiny.

Malcolm Montrose had come to Allworth Abbey with the full understanding that he was to remain with the bereaved ones for three months, and at the end of that time quietly consummate his betrothal to the heiress by a marriage that, in consideration of the recent decease of the head of the family, was to be celebrated without pomp. Such had been the dying instructions of Lord Leaton to his wife, and such she had conveyed in her letter to Malcolm. To fly from his forbidden love would be to fly also from his betrothed bride. He remained, therefore, happy in the absolute obligation that compelled him to remain. Eudora had no other refuge in the world whither to fly. Flight, therefore, to her also was impossible.

And perhaps by both it was unthought of. Circumstances bound them together, and so passion became destiny. Both struggled perseveringly with the growing madness. They instinctively avoided each other as much as it was possible to do so. But in every casual touch of their hands, every meeting glance of their eyes, and every intonation of their voices, was transmitted the subtle fuel of that secret fire that was smoldering in each bosom. They never remained for a moment alone together; they never voluntarily addressed one word to each other; and yet, when they did meet, or were forced to speak, the blushing cheek of the girl, the faltering tone of the man, the averted looks of both, betrayed to themselves, if not to others, the hidden love that was burning in their breasts.

Every motive of honor, gratitude and humanity constrained them to conquer their passion, and not the least of these was their mutual sorrow in the declining health of Agatha.

Agatha was dying—though no one yet dared to say it, every one knew it. The fair girl herself felt it, and instead of preparing for her bridal, that was arranged to be celebrated on the first of May, she withdrew her thoughts more and more from the things of this world, and fixed them upon Heaven. Always of a thoughtful and serious turn of mind, she became now almost saintly in her self-renunciation, her patience, and her resignation.

Often as she sat reclining in her easy-chair, watching the mutual embarrassment of Malcolm and Eudora, and seeing, with the clear vision of the dying, the hidden struggles of their hearts, a sweet smile would break over her fair, wan, spiritual face, and she would murmur to herself—

“They are striving bravely to do right—they will not have to strive long; a few more short weeks, and their reward will be certain; their love will be innocent, and their happiness complete. And shall I, who am going hence, envy them their love and joy? Oh, no! oh no! for well I know that whither I go there is a fulness of joy and love that mortal imaginations have never conceived.”

The fair girl faded fast away. Day by day her thin form wasted thinner, her pale cheeks grew paler, and her hollow eyes hollower, while the saintly spirit within burned with a more seraphic brightness. The symptoms of her malady were the same as those that had carried off her father. The utmost skill and science of the medical faculty were taxed in vain; they could neither define the nature of her wasting illness, nor find a cure for it. The fair girl failed rapidly. Her easy-chair in the drawing-room was soon resigned for the sofa in her own dressing-room, from which she never stirred during the day. And about the first of May, when she was to have been united to Malcolm Montrose, the sofa was finally resigned for her bed, from which she never more arose.

Malcolm and Eudora reproached themselves bitterly for their unconquerable love, because it seemed to wrong Agatha. They vied with each other in the most affectionate attention to the invalid; and often as they stood each side her couch, ministering to her wants, she longed to make them happy by releasing Malcolm from his engagement to herself, and placing the hand of Eudora in his own; but instinctive delicacy withheld her from intermeddling with the love affairs of others.

Lady Leaton, heart-broken by the loss of her husband, and the approaching death of her daughter, observed the growing and ill-concealed attachment between Malcolm and Eudora with all a mother’s bitter jealousy. And struggled against as that attachment evidently was, she nevertheless resented it as a grievous wrong to her dying child.

Agatha, with the clairvoyance of a departing spirit, saw into the hearts of all around her, and judged them in justice and mercy. One day while her afflicted mother watched alone beside her bed, she said to her—

“Mamma, dear, I wish to speak with you about Malcolm and Eudora. I know that you are displeased with them, mamma; but it is without just cause. They love each other; they struggle against that love, but they cannot conquer it. It is because they were created for each other. Their marriage is already made in heaven. My marriage with Malcolm, mamma, was designed only on earth as a matter of policy and convenience. Malcolm and I loved each other only as brother and sister; we never could have loved in any other way even if I had lived to become his wife. But he and Eudora love one other as two who are destined for time and eternity to blend into one. Forgive them, mamma; forgive and be kind to them for my sake.”

“But you, Agatha!—my child!—I can think only of you!” sobbed the lady.

“Dear mamma, I know that all your ambition has been for your Agatha’s good, and happiness, and advancement. But consider, if your wildest dreams for your child had been fulfilled, and even more than that, if you could have made her a king’s bride, placed upon her brow a queen’s crown, gathered around her all the wealth, splendor, and glory of this world—could you have rendered her as happy, as blessed, and as exalted as she is now by the free mercy of God—now, when she is departing for that land the joys of which ‘eye hath not seen, ear heard, or imagination conceived,’ and where she shall wait for you in perfect bliss and perfect safety till you come? Mamma, your daughter is the bride of Heaven, and that is better than being the wife of the noblest man or the greatest monarch on this earth.”

The countenance of the young saint was glorious in its holy enthusiasm, and the human jealousy of her mother was dispelled before its heavenly light.

“You are better than I am; my child, my child, you are better than I am; you are a saint prepared for heaven!” exclaimed Lady Leaton, fervently.

“Mamma, grant Agatha one petition. She wants to see them happy before she goes. They are so conscientious and so wretched, mamma; they are afraid to speak to each other, or to look at each other, lest they should wound or wrong me. It makes me miserable to see them so because I love them both, mamma, and I know that they love me, and for my sake they struggle bravely with their passion for each other. Let me speak to Malcolm, mamma; let me tell him that I loved him only as a dear brother; let me release him from his engagement to me, and let me place Eudora’s hand in his with a sister’s frank and warm affection. Then, mamma, when the embargo is taken off their love; when they are free to look at each other and speak to each other as betrothed lovers may, then I shall be happy in their happiness—happier still to know that I have promoted it—happiest of all to feel how they both will love me for it. Dear mamma, let Agatha do this little good and have this little delight before she departs.”

“My angel child, you shall do in all things as you please. You speak and act from Heaven’s own inspiration, and it were sacrilege to hinder you,” exclaimed Lady Leaton, in deep emotion.

“Thank you, dear mamma, I shall be happy,” said Agatha, with a heavenly smile.

“And the deadly upas-tree shall be all in all,” said a low voice at the side of Lady Leaton.

She started, and turned to see the Princess Pezzilini standing there.

“Madame!” she said, in some uneasiness.

“Nay, I did but quote a line from a fable that I read you some three months ago,” said the princess, quietly seating herself beside the bed.

Agatha had been too deeply absorbed in her own benevolent plans to notice what was passing.

That evening, when all was quiet in the house, and the stillness of a deeper repose pervaded her own luxurious chamber—Agatha dismissed all her attendants, and sent for Lady Leaton, Malcolm, and Eudora to attend her. They came immediately. The chamber was illumed with a soft, moonlight sort of radiance from the shaded beams of an alabaster lamp that stood upon the mantelshelf opposite the foot of the bed.

The bed curtains were drawn away, revealing the fair face and fragile form of the dying girl as she reclined upon her bed propped up with pillows. She smiled on her relatives as they entered, and beckoned them to draw very near.

They came, and stood at the side of her bed—accidentally arranged as follows: Eudora nearest the head of the bed, Lady Leaton next, and Malcolm last.

She put out her wasted hand, took the hand of Eudora, and held it quietly within her own, while she seemed to collect her thoughts for utterance. Then, still holding Eudora’s hand she raised her dove-like eyes to Malcolm’s face, and whispered—

“Dearest Malcolm! dearest brother of my heart! you will let the dying speak out freely, I know.”

“Speak, sweet Agatha, speak your will,” murmured the young man, in a voice vibrating with emotion.

“I was your betrothed bride, Malcolm; but our betrothal was a human error, dearest; and the will of Heaven has interposed to break it. I am called hence, Malcolm, to another sphere. Not your bride, but the bride of Heaven shall I be. But before I go hence, Malcolm, I would prove to you how true is the sister’s love I bear you, and the kindred affection I feel for Eudora. I would prove these by two legacies by which I would have you remember me.”

She paused and drew from her wasted finger the keeper-ring, which its attenuated form could scarcely longer hold, and placing it firmly upon the round, plump finger of Eudora, she said—

“This, dear one, is my legacy to you!”

Then taking the same hand with the keeper-ring upon its finger, she placed it in the hand of Malcolm, saying—

“And this, dearest brother of my soul, this is my dying legacy to you!”

She sank back exhausted upon her pillow, while low, half-suppressed sobs broke from those around her. And Malcolm and Eudora each thought how willingly they would give up their mutual love, nay, life itself, to have restored this dying angel to health and joy. And Lady Leaton prayed Heaven that her own life might not outlast that of her beloved child. At length Agatha spoke again.

“When I am gone, my mother will be very desolate—a widow, and childless. Promise me this—dear Eudora, and dearest Malcolm—that you will be a son and daughter to my mother.”

In earnest tones, and amid suffocating sobs, they promised all she required.

A little while longer she held the hands of Malcolm and Eudora united and clasped within her own, and then releasing them, she said—

“Good-night, dearest Malcolm. Go to rest, beloved mother; Eudora will watch with me to-night.”

Lady Leaton stooped, and gathered Agatha for a moment to her bosom, and with a whispered prayer, laid her back upon her pillows. Malcolm bent down, and pressed a kiss upon her brow; and then both withdrew, leaving Eudora upon the watch. And still holding Eudora’s hand, Agatha sank into a peaceful sleep.

Hours passed. The room was so quiet, the sleep of the patient was so calm, and the position of the watcher so easy within her lounging-chair that Eudora, overcome with fatigue of many nights’ vigil, could scarcely keep her eyes open.

Once, indeed, she must have lost herself in a momentary slumber, for she dreamed that a women in dark raiment, with her head wrapped in a dark veil, glided across the chamber, and disappeared within her own little room; but when she aroused herself, and looked around, and walked into the adjoining room to examine it, there was no one to be seen.

“I have been dreaming—I have slept upon my watch,” said Eudora, regretfully; and to prevent a recurrence of drowsiness, she bathed her forehead and temples with aromatic vinegar, and saturated her handkerchief with the same pungent liquid, and resumed her seat beside the patient.

At this moment Agatha awoke, complained of thirst, and asked for drink.

Eudora went to a side-table, poured out a glass of tamarind-water, and brought it to the invalid.

Agatha drank eagerly, and sank back upon her pillows with a sigh of satisfaction.

Eudora silently resumed her seat and her watch; but scarcely five minutes had passed, when suddenly Agatha started up, her eyes strained outward, her features livid, and her limbs convulsed.

Eudora sprang to her in alarm.

Agatha essayed to speak, but the spasms in her throat prevented utterance.

In the extremity of terror, Eudora laid her down upon the pillows, and sprang to the bell-pull, and rang loudly for assistance.

Then hurrying back to the bedside, she found Agatha livid, rigid, with locked jaws, laboring lungs, and startling eyes.

She caught her up in her arms, rubbed her temples, and rubbed her hands, exclaiming all the while:

“Oh, my dear, dear Agatha! my dear, dear Agatha! what, what is this? Speak to me! Oh, speak to me!”

The strained eyes of the dying girl suddenly softened, and turned upon the speaker a beseeching, helpless look, and then the rigid form suddenly relaxed, and became a dead weight in the arms of Eudora.

Lady Leaton, followed by several of the female servants, now came hurrying in.

“What is the matter? Is she worse?” exclaimed the mother, hurrying to the bedside.

“Lady Leaton, she is dead!” cried Eudora, in a voice of anguish.

Let us draw a vail over the grief of that mother. In all this world of troubles, there is no sorrow like that of a widowed mother grieving for the death of her only child.

At first Lady Leaton would not believe in the extent of her affliction. She wildly insisted that her child could not, should not be dead—dead without a parting word, or look, or prayer! She sent off messengers in haste to bring their medical attendant. And not until Dr. Watkins had come and examined the patient, and pronounced life fled, could Lady Leaton be made to believe the truth, or induced to leave the chamber of death. Then she fainted in the arms of Princess Pezzilini, and was borne to her own apartment in a state of insensibility.

It was some hours after this that Dr. Watkins somewhat peremptorily demanded a private interview with Malcolm Montrose.

The young man, in deep affliction for the death of her whom he loved as a dear sister, gave audience to the doctor in the library.

The family physician entered with a grave and stern brow, and seating himself at the library-table, opposite Mr. Montrose, began—

“Sir, what I have to say to you is painful in the extreme both for me to utter and for you to hear; but the sternest duty obliges me to speak.”

Mr. Montrose withdrew his hand from his corrugated brow, raised his troubled eyes to the speaker, and awaited his further words.

“I know that what I am about to communicate must greatly augment the sorrow under which you suffer, and yet it must be communicated.”

“Speak out, I beseech you, sir,” said Mr. Montrose, with a vague but awful presentiment of what was coming.

“Three months ago I attended the death-bed of the late Lord Leaton. I gave it as my opinion then, I hold it as my opinion now, that his death was accelerated by poison. The coroner’s jury came to a different conclusion, and their verdict, taken together with the fact that the post-mortem examination detected no trace of poison, I confess shook my faith in my own conviction. To-night I have been called to the bedside of his only daughter; I have looked upon her dead body, and heard an account of the manner in which she had died. And now, Mr. Malcolm Montrose, I positively assert that Agatha Leaton came to her death by poison, administered in the tamarind-water of which she drank some five or ten minutes before her death—and I stake my medical reputation upon this issue.”

“My God! it cannot be true!” exclaimed Malcolm Montrose, starting up, and gazing upon the speaker in the extremity of horror and grief.

“Mr. Montrose,” said the doctor, impressively, taking the hand of the young man, and forcing him back to his seat, “the widowed and childless head of this house is now in no condition to meet this crisis. You are her natural representative. You must summon all your firmness and take the direction of affairs. I shall remain here to assist you. I have already taken some steps in the matter; I have secured the jug and glass of tamarind-water to be analyzed. I have also telegraphed for the family solicitor to come down, and I have sent for the coroner, and for a police force to occupy the house, for no one must be permitted to escape until the coroner’s inquest has set upon the deceased and given in their verdict.”

“But, good Heaven, doctor!” exclaimed the young man in horror and amazement; “who, who could aim at so harmless and innocent a life?”

“Who,” repeated the doctor; “who had the greatest interest in her death, and in the death of her father before her?”

“None! no one on earth! Who could have possibly had such an interest?” cried the young man, shuddering.

“Who is the next heiress to this vast estate after Lord Leaton and his daughter?” said the doctor, looking fixedly in the eyes of his companion.

Malcolm Montrose started up, threw his hands to his head, and then reeling back, dropped into his chair again, and remained gazing in horror upon the speaker.

“Who,” pursued the doctor, with a merciless inflexibility, “who had constant access to the bedside of the late Lord Leaton?—who prepared his food and drink?—who has been the constant attendant of his invalid daughter?—who watched by her side last night?—whose hand was it that placed at her lips the fatal draught that laid her dead?”

“My God! my God, doctor! what horrible monster of suspicion has taken possession of your mind? Give it a name!” exclaimed the young man, as great drops of sweat beaded upon his agonized brow.

“Eudora Leaton! Her hand it was that prepared the death-draught for her uncle! her hand it was that gave the poisoned draught to his daughter! It is a terrible charge to make, I know; but we must not deal hesitatingly with the secret poisoner,” said the doctor, solemnly.

“Great Heaven! it cannot be—it cannot be!” groaned the young man, in mortal anguish.

The doctor arose to his feet, saying—

“I leave you, Mr. Montrose, to recover this shock, while I go to put seals upon the effects of this girl, and to prepare for the investigation that shall bring the poisoner to justice.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE ACCUSATION.

“If she prove guilty—

Farewell my faith in aught of human kind.

I’ll hie me to some hermit’s cave, and there

Forget my race.”

When the doctor had left the library, Malcolm Montrose threw himself back in his chair, clasped his forehead between his hands, and strove to master the consternation that seemed to threaten his very reason.

Grief, horror, and amazement, sufficient to have shaken the firmness of the strongest mind, deprived him for the moment of all power of practical and definite action. And yet, through all the terrible emotion that shook his soul to its centre, he was conscious of a profound incredulity in the truth of the doctor’s statement. But the doubt, the uncertainty, the mere suspicion of such atrocious crimes, perpetrated in the bosom of his own family, overwhelmed him with consternation.

“Dead by the hand of the secret poisoner! the baron and his daughter too! the baron whose whole life had been one long act of the noblest beneficence, and his child, whose days had been ever devoted to the happiness of all around her! their benign lives cut off by poison! Impossible! impossible! it cannot be! it is not so!

“And yet, and yet the suddenness and the strangeness of both deaths, and the unquestionable competency of the physician who attended them in their last hours, and who now makes this dreadful assertion!

“And if this is so, by whom, great Heavens? By whom has this atrocious crime been perpetrated? and for what purpose? Who could have any interest in the premature death of this noble man and lovely girl?

“No one but—oh, Heaven! but Eudora! She is their heiress; the estate is now hers, but she is innocent! my life, my honor, my soul will I stake upon her innocence. And yet, if this father and child shall be proved to have died by poison, how black the evidence may be made to appear against her, and how weak her own position! She is an orphan and friendless, and though on her father’s side of English parentage, she is of foreign birth and education, and has been in this country too short a time to establish a character. She has no good antecedents to set against this dreadful charge with the strong testimony that may be brought to support it. She was the third in succession to this estate, and, consequently, her mercenary interest in the deaths of the baron and his daughter. She was the constant attendant of the late Lord Leaton, and prepared the drink of which he died. She watched last night by the side of Agatha, and administered to her the so-called fatal draught. If they are proved to have died by poison it will ruin her indeed. She will be called a second Brinvilliers. She will be arraigned, tried, condemned—oh, Heaven of Heavens! what unspeakable horrors remain in store for her, innocent as an angel though I know her to be.”

Such were the maddening thoughts that coursed through his brain and caused the sweat of agony to start from his brow. He wiped the beaded drops from his pale forehead, and sprang up and paced the room with disordered steps, laboring in vain for the composure that he could not obtain.

The death of the noble-hearted baron in the prime of life, the death of the sweet young girl in dawn of youth, were mournful enough even though they died from natural causes, and if they perished by poison administered by treacherous hands their fate was dreadful indeed. And yet it was nothing to be compared with the unutterable horror of that train of misfortunes which threatened the orphan, stranger, the innocent Eudora. And thus other emotions of sorrow for the loss of his near relatives were swallowed up in an anguish of anxiety for the fate of the orphan girl.

And so he strove for self-command, and coolness, and clearness of mind, that he might be prepared to assist at the approaching investigation, in the hope of discovering the truth, and clearing the fame of Eudora.

He paced up and down the library floor until he had obtained the necessary state of calmness to deal with this mystery.

When the doctor had left the library he was met in the hall by a servant, hastening towards him in great agitation, and saying:

“Sir, I was just coming to see you. The Princess Pezzilini begs that you will hasten at once to my lady’s bedside, as her ladyship is in the death-throe!”

Without a word of reply the doctor turned and hurried up the stairs and along the corridor leading to Lady Leaton’s apartments.

When he entered the chamber he found Lady Leaton in violent convulsions, and restrained from throwing herself out of the bed only by the strong arms of the Italian princess, which thrown around her shoulders supported her heaving form.

But, even as the doctor stepped up to the bedside, her form relaxed and became supple as that of an infant.

The princess laid the head back upon the pillow. Her eyes closed, and the ashen hue of death overspread her features.

The doctor took up her left hand, and placed his fingers upon the pulse. But that pulse was still, and that hand was the hand of the dead. He laid it gently down, and turning, looked upon those gathered around the bed.

They were the Princess Pezzilini, Eudora Leaton, and her ladyship’s maid.

Especially he fastened his eyes upon Eudora, who knelt on the opposite side of the bed, with her face buried in the bed-clothes, in an attitude of deep grief.

“Can any one here inform me whether Lady Leaton drank of the tamarind-water which stood upon the mantleshelf of Miss Leaton’s chamber?” inquired the doctor, looking sternly around him.

“Yes, sir,” answered the lady’s-maid, looking up through her tears; “when my lady was so agitated by seeing the condition of Miss Leaton as to be near swooning, and I was obliged to support her in my arms, I called for a glass of water, and Miss Eudora quickly poured out a tumbler of tamarind-water, saying there was no other at hand, and held it to her ladyship’s lips.”

“And her ladyship drank it?”

“Yes, sir; she eagerly drank off the whole glassful, for she was so anxious to keep up for Miss Leaton’s sake, not believing that she was past all help,” replied the woman.

“That will do,” said the doctor, once bending his eyes sternly upon the kneeling form of Eudora.

But the girl, unconscious of the storm that was gathering over her head, remained absorbed in grief.

“Madame,” said the doctor, turning, to the princess, “your friend has joined her daughter. There is now no lady at the head of this afflicted house. I must, therefore, entreat you for charity to assume some necessary authority here over these dismayed female domestics; at least, until some measures can be taken for the regulation of the establishment.”

The Italian princess lifted her fine face, in which grief seemed to struggle with the habitual composure of pride, and gracefully indicating Eudora by a small wave of her arm, she said:

“You forget, sir, that we stand in the presence of the young lady of the house, who, however bowed with grief she may now be, will soon, no doubt, be found equal to her high position.”

“Madame, if your highness alludes to Miss Eudora Leaton, I must beg to say that she cannot be permitted to intermeddle with any of the affairs of the household for the present,” replied the doctor.

The mention of her name in so stern a manner aroused Eudora from her trance of sorrow, and she arose from her knees, and looked around, to see every eye bent on her in doubt, perplexity, and suspicion. While she looked beseechingly from one face to another, as if praying for some explanation of their strange regards, there came a low rap at the door.

The doctor went and softly opened it. And the voice of a servant was heard saying:

“The coroner has arrived, and begs to see you at once, if you please, sir.”

“In good time,” replied the doctor. “Have the police arrived?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send two of them up to me at once, and say to Coroner Adams, that I will be with him immediately.”

The servant withdrew, and the doctor, returning to the side of the Italian princess, said:

“Madame, will your highness be pleased to retire to your own apartments, as this chamber, with all its other occupants, must be placed in charge of the police.”