A Mad Marriage, May Agnes Fleming [best big ereader .TXT] 📗
- Author: May Agnes Fleming
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To her dying day France never forgot the utter wretchedness of the face
uplifted at her command.
“He is dying, France, and I—I have killed him. I made him swear to save
Eric, no matter how, no matter how, and he has given his life for my
son. And, last night, Eric struck him, struck him full in the face. No,
I cannot go to him—I can never look upon him again.”
“This is folly, Lady Dynely!” exclaimed the girl, her eyes kindling.
“Are you altogether heartless? He has asked for you—your absence will
embitter his last hour. You must go to him, Eric must go. Oh!” France
cried, “have you not made him suffer enough, you and Eric, that you are
so ready to make him suffer still at the last?”
Lady Dynely arose wildly to her feet.
“I will go to him! I will do anything! I will go to him at once.”
“Not quite at once. A clergyman is with him. Leave them alone for a
little. But rouse up Eric; fetch him with you; tell him all.”
“Tell him all!” Lady Dynely repeated. She stood, a strange, excited
expression crossing her face. “Yes,” she said, under her breath, “I will
tell him all—ALL. It is time.”
She ran from the room, and into Eric’s. He was moving and muttering
restlessly now, the opiate beginning to lose its effect. She seized him
by the arm and shook him roughly.
“Awake, Eric!” she cried; “awake at once.”
He opened his eyes immediately and stared up at her in a dazed way.
“What’s the matter, mother? Have you gone mad? Crystal—”
He half rose on his elbow with a look of alarm.
“Never mind Crystal—wake up!”
“I have woke up. What’s the matter with you? What’s the hour?” Then,
like lightning, memory rushed upon him; his face flushed, turned pale.
He pulled out his watch and looked at the time. A quarter of nine.
“Great Heaven!” he exclaimed, and fell back among the pillows.
“Ay!” his mother cried, bitterly, “look at the hour. The time for the
duel is past, is it not? And the duel has been fought, and your honor
saved. Oh, my heart! such honor. You are safe here, and he lies dying
there—for you. Your own brother, Eric—your elder brother!”
He sat and stared at her, thinking she had gone mad, quite speechless.
“No,” she said, “I have not lost my senses, though you look as if you
thought it. The duel has been fought; Terry took your place, and he lies
dying in yonder room now, for you, and for me, and for Crystal—the
friend whom you struck last night—the brother whose birthright you have
usurped all your life!”
Still he sat speechless—still he was staring at her, not comprehending
a word.
“Oh, you don’t understand—you won’t understand, and time is flying and
every moment is precious. I must go to him. Eric, rouse yourself! try to
comprehend what I am saying. Terry met Prince Di Venturini this morning,
and fought your duel for you. I made him! I nearly went mad when he
came to me last night and told me of Crystal’s accident first, and of
your challenge. I don’t know what I said, I don’t know what I did, only
I made him promise to save you, and he has, he has!”
He was beginning to understand now. His face turned white, his lips set
themselves.
“Go on,” he said, speaking for the first time.
“I gave you an opiate and you slept while he went out and met the
prince in your place. He is dying in that room, and he has asked for you
and for me; and he is your brother, Eric, your own brother.”
“My brother! Mother, are you mad? I have no brother.”
But he grew whiter still as he said it. The resemblance between
them—the vague, unsatisfactory story of his relationship to them—all
flashed upon him; and then he knew what manner of man his father had
been.
“He is your brother—your very own; your father’s son. Oh, not as you
think,” seeing the expression of his face; “his mother was Lord Dynely’s
wife. I have all the proofs, and he was three years old when you were
born.”
He rose up.
“His mother was Lord Dynely’s wife—his wife! And Terry is three years
older than I am. Mother, what is this?”
“The truth! And Terry Dennison is your father’s elder son and heir! I
knew it since the night of your father’s death; he confessed all, dying,
whilst I knelt by his bedside. You never for one moment have had a right
to the title you bear. Terry Dennison is Lord Viscount Dynely!”
He fell heavily back on the seat he had quitted.
“And you concealed this?” he said, in a hoarse whisper.
“No—I told him. I told him last August. When he wanted to go down to
Lincolnshire and ask Crystal Higgins to be his wife, I detained him. I
could not let him go in ignorance. I kept him and told him all—all,
Eric! I thought he would have ousted you and claimed his own. That was
why I wanted you so much to marry France Forrester and her fortune. But
he gave up all, Eric—name, title, wealth—for the love of you and me.”
He buried his face in his hands and turned from her—stunned.
“He might have won Crystal—she was his before you came—she was all he
had, and you took her from him. He might have taken from you title and
fortune, and he did not. Last night he came to you in all good faith and
brotherly love, and—and,” a great gasp, “you struck him, Eric! I
kissed the brutal mark on his poor face last night. This morning he went
out in your place and met the prince, and was shot down as you would
have been. And he lies dying there; he will be dead before the hour
ends.”
He put out his hand with a fierce gesture to stop her.
“Cease!” he said, hoarsely. “Oh, God! I cannot bear it!”
She obeyed—a rain of tears pouring over her face. He lay
mute—quivering through all his strong young frame.
“Leave me,” he said, in the same hoarse voice, “I want to be alone.”
She turned to go, but on the threshold she stopped.
“You will come, Eric,” she said, “when we send?”
“Yes. Go!”
She went. France stood waiting for her at the door.
“He has asked for you again. He is sinking fast. Come.”
She led her into that other room. The clergyman’s last offices were
over. On the face, lying among the pillows, the cold dews of death
already stood. She fell down on her knees by the bed and took the dying
head in her arms. He opened his heavy eyes and smiled—a smile of great
content. “Mother,” he said, and lay still.
“Oh, my Terry! my Terry!” she cried out, “forgive me before you go.”
“There is—nothing—to forgive,” he spoke, slowly and faintly, but
clearly. “You were always good to me. I loved you all my life, mother.
Don’t cry—it’s better so. Eric,” his eyes looked wistfully toward the
door, he sighed wearily, “Eric won’t come?”
“Eric will come.” She bent down and kissed him, and in that kiss
whispered: “I have told him all.”
“All!” He looked up at her quickly, almost in reproof. “That was wrong.”
“It was right. I should have told him long ago. Oh, my boy! my own
Terry! how good you are.”
He smiled—Terry’s own amused smile. Then he closed his eyes wearily,
and lay still again.
Obeying a motion of her hand, France had gone to fetch Eric.
He came in—white as death itself, an agony of remorse, of sorrow, upon
his face, changing it beyond all telling. He knelt down on the opposite
side of the bed, and laid his face on one of Terry’s hands, without a
word.
“Eric! dear old boy!” The old, glad, loving light lit the dying eyes.
“I’m glad you’ve come. You don’t mind what I did this morning? Di
Venturini will never know. It’s all right, isn’t it?”
He was watching him wistfully.
Was Eric angry? But Eric only lifted his face for a minute, and laid it
down again.
“All right! Oh, Terry! you break my heart.”
What was it fell on Terry’s hand? Tears, and from the eyes of Eric
Dynely! For a moment Terry himself could not speak.
“It is all right, then,” he said, under his breath. “Dear old boy, I’m
glad of that.”
Then there was stillness. He lay in Lady Dynely’s arms, his face
pillowed on her breast, his eyes closed, his breathing coming quick and
hard. On the other side knelt Eric, never moving or looking up. The
dull, melancholy light stole in and fell upon him, stricken down there,
in the glory and strength of his manhood. France Forrester watched him
mournfully, from her post at the foot of the bed.
“And his sun went down, while it was yet day,” she thought. “My own dear
Terry! as clean of heart, as brave of soul, as loyal a knight as any
Arthur or Galahad of them all.”
Suddenly his eyes opened, and he looked up in Lady Dynely’s face.
“I—have—kept my promise,” he said, slowly. “I never quarrelled—with
Eric.”
“Oh, my boy! my Terry!” she could only answer through her tears.
He moved a little.
“Eric,” he whispered, and Eric lifted his pale face and red, tear wet
eyes. “Good-by—_brother_,” he said, so low that Eric had to lay his
ear to his lips to catch the words; “be good—to—Crystal.”
He closed them once more, exhausted, and lay still. There was a sudden,
short convulsion of the limbs—it passed, and he was quiet. So he had
lain for fully five minutes, his head resting a dull weight in Lady
Dynely’s arms. A sharp terror seized her—she looked helplessly around.
“Is he asleep?” she piteously asked.
Hubert Boville came forward and bent over him. He laid his hand on his
heart for a moment, and listened for his breathing. Then he stood up.
“Not asleep,” he said, very gently; “dead.”
CHAPTER XIX.
“POST TENEBR�, LUX.”
In Galignani’s Messenger of next day there appeared this paragraph:
“FEARFUL DUEL.—Yesterday morning, at seven o’clock, a meeting
took place in the Bois de Boulogne between a certain princely
personage, well known in the Italian political world, and an
English lieutenant of dragoon guards. His excellency the prince
was attended by Captain De C–- cr–- lt, of the —th Zouaves,
and the other combatant by the Hon. H. B—ville, attache of the
British Embassy. As usual there was a lady in the case. The duel
was fought with pistols, at fourteen paces. The first fire proved
fatal—the Englishman being shot through the heart. The police
are on the track of the noble fugitive, but up to the present
without success.”
In the same column another paragraph appeared which created a far wider
and deeper sensation.
“SUDDEN AND MYSTERIOUS DEATH.—It is with deepest regret we
announce to our readers the awfully sudden and most mysterious
death of the charming actress whose beauty and versatility have
crowded the Varieties for the past four months—Madame Felicia.
Last night she gave one of the delightful receptions for which
she has ever been justly famed, and appeared in her usual
excellent health and spirits. She
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