CHAPTER IX
A MARRIAGE THAT WAS A FAILURE
Denzil did not reply at once to the accusation levelled by Diana at Mrs.Vrain, as he was too astonished at her vehemence to find his voicereadily. When he did speak, it was to argue on the side of the prettywidow.
"I think you must be mistaken," he said at length.
"But, Mr. Denzil, you declared that you suspected her yourself!"
"At one time, but not now," replied Lucian decisively, "because at thetime of the murder Mrs. Vrain was keeping Christmas in Berwin Manor."
"Like Nero fiddling when Rome was burning," retorted Diana sharply; "butyou mistake my meaning. I do not say that Mrs. Vrain committed the crimepersonally, but she inspired and guided the assassin."
"And who is the assassin, in your opinion?"
"Count Hercule Ferruci."
"An Italian?"
"As you may guess from the name."
"Now, that is strange," cried Lucian, with some excitement, "for, fromthe nature of the wound, I believe that your father was stabbed by anItalian stiletto."
"Aha!" said Diana, with satisfaction. "That strengthens the accusation Ibring against Ferruci."
"And, again," continued Denzil, hardly listening to what she was saying,"when I mentioned my suspicion about the stiletto in the hearing of Mrs.Vrain, she fainted."
"Which showed that her guilty conscience pricked her. Oh, I am sure ofit, Mr. Denzil! My stepmother and the count are the criminals!"
"Our evidence, as yet, is only circumstantial," said Lucian cautiously."We must not jump to conclusions. At present I am completely in the darkregarding this foreigner."
"I can enlighten you, but it is a long story."
"The longer the better," said Denzil, thinking he could hear Diana speakand watch her face for hours without weariness. "I wish for all details,then I shall be in a better position to judge."
"What you say is only reasonable, Mr. Denzil. I shall tell you myfather's history from the time he went to Italy some three years ago. Itwas in Italy--to be precise, in Florence--that he met with Lydia Clyneand her father."
"One moment," said Denzil. "Before you begin, will you tell me what youthink of the couple?"
"Think!" cried Diana disdainfully. "I think they are a couple ofadventurers; but she is the worst of the two. The old man, Jabez Clyne,I think moderately well of; he is a weak fool under the thumb of hisdaughter. If you only knew what I have suffered at the hands of thatgolden-haired doll!"
"I should think you could hold your own, Miss Vrain."
"Not against treachery and lies!" retorted Diana fiercely. "It is not myhabit to employ such weapons, but my stepmother used no others. It wasshe who drove me out of the house and made me exile myself to theAntipodes to escape her falseness. And it was she," added Miss Vrainsolemnly, "who treated my father so ill as to drive him out of his ownhome. Lydia Vrain is not the doll you think her to be; she is a false,cruel, clever adventuress, and I hate her--I hate her with all my heartand soul!"
This feminine outburst of anger rather bewildered Denzil, who saw veryplainly that Diana was by no means the lofty angel he had taken her tobe in the first appreciation of her beauty. But her passion of themoment suited so well with her stately looks that she seemed rather aMargaret of Anjou defying York and his faction than an injured womanconcerned with so slight a thing as the rebuke of one of her own sex forwhom she had little love. Diana saw the surprise expressed on Lucian'sface, and her own flushed a little with annoyance that she should havebetrayed her feelings so openly. With a vexed laugh, she recovered hertemper and composed demeanour.
"You see I am no saint, Mr. Denzil," she said, resuming her seat, forin her anger she had risen to her feet. "But even if I were one, I couldnot have restrained myself from speaking as I did. When you know mystepmother as well as I do--but I must talk calmly about her, or youwill not understand my reasons for thinking her concerned in theterrible fate of my poor father."
"I am all attention, Miss Vrain."
"I'll tell you all I know, as concisely as possible," she replied, "andyou can judge for yourself if I am right or wrong. Three years ago myfather's health was very bad. Since the death of my mother--now some tenyears--he had devoted himself to hard study, and had lived more or lessthe life of a recluse in Berwin Manor. He was writing a history of theElizabethan dramatists, and became so engrossed with the work that heneglected his health, and consequently there was danger that he mightsuffer from brain fever. The doctors ordered him to leave his books andto travel, in order that his attention might be distracted by new scenesand new people. I was to go with him, to see that he did not resume hisstudies, so, in an evil hour for us both, we went to Italy."
"Your father was not mad?" said Lucian, thinking of the extraordinarybehaviour of Vrain in the square.
"Oh, no!" cried Diana indignantly. "He was a trifle weak in the headfrom overwork but quite capable of looking after himself."
"Did he indulge in strong drink?"
Miss Vrain looked scandalised. "My father was singularly abstemious ineating and drinking," she said stiffly. "Why do you ask such aquestion?"
"I beg your pardon," replied Lucian, with all humility, "but it wasreported in Geneva Square that Berwin--the name by which your father wasknown--drank too much; and when I met him he was certainly not--notquite himself," finished the barrister delicately.
"No doubt his troubles drove him to take more than was good for him,"said Diana in a low voice. "Yet I wonder at it, for his health was noneof the best. Sometimes, I admit, he took sleeping draughtsand--and--drugs."
"He was consumptive," said Lucian, noticing Diana's hesitation to speakplainly.
"His chest was weak, and consumption may have developed itself, but whenI left England, almost two years back, he was certainly not sufferingfrom that disease. But I see how it is," said Diana, wringing her hands."During my short absence, and under the tyranny of his wife, hisphysical health and moral principles gave way. Drink and consumption!Ah! God! were not these ills enough but what the woman must add murderto cap them both?"
"We do not know yet if she is guilty," said Lucian quietly. "Will you goon with your story, Miss Vrain? Later on we can discuss these matters,when I am in possession of the facts. You say it was an evil hour whenyou went to Italy."
"It was indeed," said Diana sorrowfully, "for in Florence, at thePension Donizetti, on the Lung Arno, we met with Lydia Clyne and herfather. They had only lately arrived in Italy--from New York, Isuppose--but already she was said to be engaged to a needy Italiannobleman named Hercule Ferruci."
"Then I suppose the Clynes were rich," said Lucian, "for I know thoseItalian nobles too well to suspect that this Count Ferruci would payattention to any one but an heiress."
"She was supposed to be rich, Mr. Denzil. All Americans, for somereason, are supposed to be millionaires; but after she married my fatherI learned that Mr. Clyne had a very moderate fortune indeed, and hisdaughter nothing. It was for that reason that Lydia threw over thecount, to whom she was almost engaged, and began to pay attention to myfather. She heard talk of his estates in the gossip of the Pension, andbelieving him to be rich, she decided to marry him instead of throwingherself away in a romantic fit on Ferruci."
"Did she love this Italian?"
"Yes, I am sure she did; and, what is more, she loves him still!"
"What! Is Count Ferruci still acquainted with Mrs. Vrain?"
"He is, as you shall hear. Miss Clyne, as I said, determined to make arich marriage by becoming the second Mrs. Vrain. I never liked her,knowing that she was false and frivolous; but though I did my best tostop the marriage, my father would not be controlled. You know that thiswoman is pretty and fascinating."
"She is certainly the first, but not the last," interposed Lucian.
"At all events," resumed Diana disconsolately, "she was sufficientlyfascinating to snare my poor foolish old father. We remained four monthsin Florence, and before we left it Lydia Clyne became Mrs. Vrain. Ic
ould do nothing with my father, as he was possessed of the headstrongpassion of an old man, and, moreover, Lydia had learned to know his weakpoints so well that she could twist him round her finger. But, angeredas I was at my father's folly, I loved him too well to leave him at thetime, therefore I returned to Berwin Manor with the pair.
"There, Mr. Denzil," continued Miss Vrain, her face growing dark, "Lydiamade my life so wretched, and insulted me so openly, that I was forced,out of self-respect, to leave the house. I had some relatives inAustralia, to whom I went out on a visit. Alas! I wish I had not doneso; yet remain with my colonial cousins I did, until recalled to Englandby the terrible intelligence of my father's untimely end."
"So the marriage was a failure?"
"Yes; even before I left, Lydia openly neglected my father. I am boundto say that Mr. Clyne, who is much the better of the two, tried to makeher conduct herself in a more becoming manner. But she defied him andevery one else. After my departure I received letters from a friend ofmine, who told me that Lydia had invited Count Ferruci over on a visit.My father, finding that he could do nothing, and seeing what a mistakehe had made, returned to his books, and soon became ill again. Insteadof looking after him, Lydia--as I heard--encouraged him to study hard,hoping, no doubt, that he would die, and that she would be free to marryCount Ferruci. Then my father left the house."
"Why? That is a very necessary detail."
Diana thought for a moment, then shook her head despondingly. "That Icannot explain," she said, with a sigh, "as I was in Australia at thetime. But I expect that his brain grew weaker with study, and perhapswith the strong drink and drugs which this woman drove him to take. Nodoubt the poor man grew jealous of Ferruci; and, unable to asserthimself, seeing how ill he was, left the house and retired to GenevaSquare to meet his death, as we know."
"But all this is supposition," remonstrated Lucian. "We really do notknow why Mr. Vrain left the house."
"What does Lydia say?"
"She gives no feasible explanation."
"Nor will she. Oh!" cried Diana, "is there no way of getting at thetruth of this matter? I feel certain that Lydia and the Count areguilty!"
"You have no proofs," said Denzil, shaking his head.
"No proofs! Why, you said yourself that a stiletto----"
"That is a supposition on my part," interrupted Lucian quickly. "Icannot say for certain that the deed was committed with such a weapon.Besides, if it was, how can you connect the Italian with the deed?"
"Can we not find a proof?"
"I fear not."
"But if we search the house?"
"There is little use in doing that," rejoined Lucian. "However, if itwill give you any satisfaction, Miss Vrain, I will take you over thehouse to-morrow morning."
"Do!" cried Diana, "and we may find proof of Lydia's guilt in a way shelittle dreams of. Good-bye, Mr. Denzil--till to-morrow."