CHAPTER XXI.

DREAM OR VISION?

Oh, spirit land! thou land of dreams! A world thou art of mysterious gleams, Of startling voices and sounds of strife— A world of the lost who have entered life! FELICIA HEMANS.

She warned in dreams, her murder she did tell From point to point, as really it befell. DRYDEN.

The vision fled and vanished from her sight; The dreamer wakened in a mortal fright. IBID.

Net and Arielle were left with only each other and the two children for company; and if they could not be called absolutely happy they were at least very peaceful and contented.

On the third day of her sojourn at the castle Net received a short note from Antoinette Deloraine, saying that she was no longer able to ride or walk out, and scarcely able to sit at her writing-table long enough to write that note, and imploring Net to come to her, even if she had to bring the children with her.

If Net then could have divided herself between Arielle and Antoinette, she would have done so.

She could not bear to refuse Antoinette, and she could not bear to leave Arielle at this juncture.

She wrote a most affectionate note to her cousin, telling her of the state of affairs at Castle Montjoie, and promising her that she would set out for Deloraine Park immediately after Christmas.

In fact, Net was secretly looking forward to the return of Valdimir Desparde, and his full reconciliation with Lady Arielle.

Such a happy consummation for the young lovers would set her so much at ease on her young friend’s account that she would feel quite free to leave her.

Once she tried to sound Arielle upon the subject.

“We have not heard anything from Cloudland since Lord Beaudevere and Vivienne left us. But I suppose we shall hear from them as soon as Mr. Desparde arrives,” she said.

“I do not know why they should announce his arrival to us,” replied Lady Arielle, coldly, though with a slight tremor in her voice.

“Because he is coming to vindicate himself, my dear,” replied Net, gently—“and, indeed, he needs to vindicate himself to _you_ more than any one else alive.”

“I do not wish to hear his vindication. We already know what it will amount to. He fell into low company; he was entrapped into marrying a low girl; his wife and child have perished by yellow fever in New Orleans; he devoted himself to the care of the sufferers until the reign of the plague was over; and now he comes back a free man to vindicate his character. What sort of a vindication is this! I want none of it!”

“Oh, my dear Arielle! remember how he loved you, notwithstanding all, and try to forgive him,” pleaded Net.

“I _do_ forgive him! I _must_ forgive him, or never expect to be forgiven myself! But I cannot—cannot receive him on the old conditions again! I could pass over almost any other fault in a man but this one that he has committed! He allowed himself to be drawn away from me by another woman! I cannot condone that offense—no I cannot! I cannot! It has opened a great gulf between our souls, wider than that which separated Dives from Lazarus!” said Arielle, passionately, while her delicate frame shook under the storm of emotion aroused by the theme.

“I do believe that you could more easily forgive your lover for murdering another man than for loving another woman!” exclaimed Net.

“I—do—believe—I—could,” answered Arielle.

“Perhaps he never did either love or marry another woman. We have not _his_ word for it that he did. We have only the detective’s report; and they fall upon false clews with masterly ingenuity. Mr. Desparde says nothing but this—that he is coming home to vindicate himself from all reproach. We should at least give him the opportunity, and not prejudge him,” persisted Net.

“Say no more! I cannot bear the subject, Net; but tell me, dear girl, do you often hear from Mr. Fleming?” inquired Lady Arielle, not maliciously at all—because she had not the slightest suspicion that Adrian Fleming had deserted his wife—but only to change the subject.

Net flushed to her temples, and answered evasively:

“Not for a month. When I heard last, he was in America, and was about to start for the wilds of the West to hunt the buffalo.”

Net did not add, that even for this information she was indebted to the “Personal” column of a Devonshire paper that had accidentally fallen into her hands.

How Net loathed the part she had to play to shield her recreant husband from reproach! Had it been only herself who was to suffer, she would have told the whole story of her hapless marriage, rather than have appeared in false colors and lived a lie!

Arielle perceived that this subject pained her friend as much as the other one had pained herself, and she therefore refrained from pursuing it; thinking, perhaps, that Net felt the continued absence of her husband as a humiliating neglect of herself, and thinking no worse than that.

“Well, never mind! Let us leave off talking of the men! The theme is a most unprofitable one! Let us talk of women! What _is_ the matter with Antoinette Deloraine?” she inquired, with much interest.

“A hereditary delicacy of constitution that shortened the lives of her foremothers for many generations past. Each one has died younger than the mother who bore her, and poor Antoinette, who thinks that _she_ is dying, is several years younger than her own mother was when she passed away. I am very sorry for Antoinette. Her position is truly pitiable, her fate almost tragical. Think of it! Not yet nineteen years old—youthful, beautiful, wealthy, accomplished, and ambitious. _So_ ambitious! She declared she would not marry any one under the rank of a duke, you know. And now to be dying, alone in that remote country house, with no one near her but nurses and servants! It is too sorrowful. I must go to her immediately after Christmas,” said Net.

Lady Arielle would have expostulated, but she felt that, however unwilling she might feel to part with Net, she could not conscientiously object to have her go to her dying cousin.

“Why—in case of Antoinette Deloraine’s dying unmarried—_you_ are the heiress of Deloraine Park, are you not?” suddenly inquired Lady Arielle, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

“Yes, but don’t let us discuss that, please; the thought is really and truly too distressing to me,” sighed Net, turning away her head.

“Too distressing to you, is it, my unselfish darling, to remember that you are the heiress of Deloraine Park? It will not be too distressing to Sir Adrian and Lady Fleming, take my word for it! But there, I will say no more about it. I suppose you must go to Antoinette after Christmas.”

“Or earlier, if she should get worse. I wrote and told her that.”

A few days after this conversation Arielle received a note from her guardian, telling her that the _Colorado_ steamship, from New York to Southampton, had arrived, bringing Mr. Valdimir Desparde, who had that morning telegraphed to his uncle to send a dog-cart to meet him at the Miston Station at seven o’clock the next morning. The note ended in these words:

“But I shall not send anybody, my dear. I shall go myself to meet my boy. And if he can vindicate himself to my satisfaction, as I hope and believe that he can, I will bring him to your feet without delay. If he cannot—and it may be possible that he cannot—I will not permit him to approach you.”

Arielle read this note to Net, and then asked her:

“What do you think of it?”

“I think, as the baron does, that Mr. Desparde will be able to vindicate himself fully. And in that case he will soon be at your feet, dearest,” confidently replied Net.

Arielle’s delicate face flushed to the edges of her hair.

“I hope they will make no mistake about what I shall consider a full vindication. If he had deserted me for another woman _no_ excuse that he could make would vindicate him in my eyes. I could never, never condone that offense. I _might_ forgive it—nay, I _must_ forgive it—but I can never, never condone it!” she exclaimed.

“Hush, my darling. Do not excite yourself prematurely. I do not believe one word about that other woman. But, thank Heaven, your suspense, this trying suspense, will soon be over!”

“Yes. Valdimir starts from Southampton this morning, and by traveling day and night will reach Miston Station to-morrow at seven in the morning. The baron will meet him there, hear his explanation as they drive home to Cloudland, and if that explanation shall satisfy him, he will bring the wanderer here in the afternoon. _To-morrow afternoon!_ Oh, how near! Ah! I _hope_, I _pray_ that there has been no other woman in the case! But, ah! what is the use of such a hope or prayer in regard to a past event, which is fixed past hoping for or praying for!”

All the rest of that day Net noticed that Lady Arielle was very restless and could settle herself to no occupation.

At night, on leaving her friend to retire, she said:

“I am going to bed, Net, because I do not know what else to do, as it is bed-time, but I know I shall not sleep. Oh, Net! is it not humiliating to feel this interest in a man who offered me the greatest affront a woman could possibly receive?” exclaimed Lady Arielle, in a flame of self-scorn.

“Or who seemed to have offered you this affront. Appearances are deceitful. You must wait for his explanation,” replied Net.

“I shall lie awake and think of him—think of him on the railway train speeding northward through the darkness of the night. He will be traveling all night; he will be at Miston at seven o’clock to-morrow morning; he will be at Cloudland at half-past nine, and—if all should be right in his explanation to Lord Beaudevere—they will be _here_ by twelve! Oh, Net, what a thought! What is the hour now, dear Net? I never carry a watch; look at yours.”

“It wants about two minutes of ten,” answered her friend, after consulting the little time-piece that hung at her girdle.

“Fourteen hours yet to wait! Oh! if I could only sleep seven of them away! I might bear the rest! Ah! it is degrading to care so much about this man! But it is only in the hope that the report of the detectives may have been a false one. If it was true, I will never condone the offense! Never!”

So, with her soul torn between love and wrath, Lady Arielle retired.

Net went to her own apartments, stole on tiptoe into the nursery to look at the sleeping children and assure herself that they were safe and well, and then she offered up her private devotions and went to bed.

Net also lay long awake, thinking of her friend, hoping and praying that Valdimir Desparde’s explanation of his most extraordinary and apparently most unpardonable conduct might prove satisfactory to Lady Arielle, and that a full reconciliation and reunion might make the lovers happy.

The little clock on the mantel had struck twelve before Net fell asleep.

Then she slept soundly for several hours, and dreamed a painful but confused dream about Kit, of which she could make nothing at all coherent.

She was aroused from her sleep at last by a hurried rapping at her chamber door.

She started up, only half awake, exclaiming confusedly:

“Well? Yes! Who is it? What is the matter?”

“It is I, Net! Open the door, dear!” answered the trembling voice of Lady Arielle.

Net, much surprised, sprang out of bed and opened the door in a second.

Pale as marble, in the early winter morning light, cold and shivering, Lady Arielle stood there in her white night-dress.

“MY DEAR! What is the matter?” exclaimed Net, in consternation.

“Let me get into bed with you, Net! I—I—I’ve seen—I’ve seen—” began the girl, but her voice died away in her shaking frame and chattering teeth.

Net hurriedly turned down the warm bed-clothes and led her shuddering friend up to it.

Arielle threw herself in and drew the covering up over her head and lay shaking as with a hard ague.

Net hastily drew on her warm dressing-gown and slippers, and then bent over the shuddering form that had taken possession of her bed.

“Arielle, dearest, what is it? A chill or a fright? Shall I call up the housekeeper?”

“Oh, no, no, no! It is not a chill! Call no one. Get into bed again! It is not near time to rise! You’ll take cold!” muttered the girl, in smothered tones, as she shivered and shook under the cover.

“But, Arielle, you need assistance. Let me—”

“No, no! It is the shock! The fright! Come to bed! I’ll tell you!”

Net went and locked the chamber door and then got into bed and lay down beside the shaking girl, who at once clasped her closely like a frightened child.

“Now, when you are sufficiently composed, you will tell me what has alarmed you,” said Net, in a soothing tone.

But Arielle continued to shiver and cling to her friend in silence for a few moment’s longer; then she said:

“Oh, Net! You remember, after grandmamma left us I told you that I saw her sitting in her chair in my room?”

“Yes, dear, I remember you told me so,” replied the little woman; forbearing, however, to utter her thought that it was only a delusion of the imagination.

“Well, Net, I was not afraid of _her_; no, nor of grandpapa either, for I saw _him_ also, Net, though I never told you so. I would not tell you because I thought you would only smile at me, as you did when I told you of my seeing grandmamma.”

“My dear, I thought you were the subject of some hallucination of your senses, the result of your weakened nervous system,” answered Net, gently.

“I know you did. And indeed my weakness made me more susceptible to impressions from the spirit world; but, Net, they were real impressions. I _did_ see my grandmother sitting in her own arm-chair in my room, within a week after her departure, and I did see my grandfather sitting at his study table when I opened the door one day.”

“Did you address either of them?”

“No, for though I was not afraid of them, I was startled by their apparitions, and then they disappeared.”

“But you have not seen either of them lately?”

“No, it was shortly after grandmamma departed that I saw her several times; but never after the first few weeks. I have seen grandpapa but once.”

“Then it was not the apparition of either of these that frightened you?” ventured Net.

“Oh, no! oh, no! I should not have been afraid of them! _They_ looked _so_ natural! _But this one—Oh-h-h!_” shuddered Arielle, clinging to Net.

“Tell me all about it and you will feel better. I dare say it was a nightmare dream,” said Net, re-assuringly.

“A dream! How could it have been a dream, when I never slept for one instant? And as for the nightmare, I never had it in my life.”

“What was it, then, my darling?”

“I am going to tell you! I have not been asleep to-night. I did not even doze. I was so wide awake. The room was so dark that towards morning, when the smouldering fire on the hearth went entirely out, I could see the first faint approach of day between the folds of the curtains and the slats of the shutters. I was watching that faint, increasing light, and saying to myself that—_he_—Valdimir—had just about reached Miston Junction, and while I was so watching, I heard the clock strike seven. Then feeling very tired, I closed my eyes and—”

“Fell asleep,” added Net.

“No, I did not! I fell into a quiet, conscious, restful state that seemed better than sleep. I lay enjoying this benign repose for some moments—I know not how long—when—oh, Net!” suddenly exclaimed the young lady, covering her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out some terrific vision that memory had conjured up visibly before them.

“Go on, my dear,” said her companion, in a low voice.

“Oh, Net! With my eyes closed, with every sense closed in perfect rest, as I lay there I became aware—in some mysterious, occult manner, which was not through sight or hearing, or any material faculty—I say I became aware of _some presence at my bedside_. This awed me into a deeper quietude. Soon I seemed to hear, not through my bodily ears, but through my spirit—_deep breathing over me_. It laid me under a deathlike spell. Soon, out of this breathing issued sighs, softer than the softest notes of the Eolian harp, bearing these words: ‘_See me. He slew me for sending the letter that saved you!_’ Then—oh, shall I ever get over it!—then, out of the deep darkness loomed upon my sealed sight the shadowy form of a tall woman, clothed in long, black raiments. Spell-bound with awe, I could not move, or speak, or breathe, while the shadowy, black-robed form grew out into more distinct outlines—a clear-cut, marble-white face, with fire-bright, azure eyes, and a long, cloudy vail of pallid, golden-hued hair. I had no power to draw my gaze, my mental sight, from that marble-white face, those fire-bright eyes, until I recognized Kit Ken! Then I screamed, and the vision vanished!”

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]