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 voice

readily. When he did speak, it was to argue on the side of the pretty

widow.

"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 the

time of the murder Mrs. Vrain was keeping Christmas in Berwin Manor."

"Like Nero fiddling when Rome was burning," retorted Diana sharply; "but

you mistake my meaning. I do not say that Mrs. Vrain committed the crime

personally, 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, from

the nature of the wound, I believe that your father was stabbed by an

Italian stiletto."

"Aha!" said Diana, with satisfaction. "That strengthens the accusation I

bring 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 of

it, 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 dark

regarding this foreigner."

"I can enlighten you, but it is a long story."

"The longer the better," said Denzil, thinking he could hear Diana speak

and 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 my

father's history from the time he went to Italy some three years ago. It

was in Italy--to be precise, in Florence--that he met with Lydia Clyne

and her father."

"One moment," said Denzil. "Before you begin, will you tell me what you

think of the couple?"

"Think!" cried Diana disdainfully. "I think they are a couple of

adventurers; 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 his

daughter. If you only knew what I have suffered at the hands of that

golden-haired doll!"

"I should think you could hold your own, Miss Vrain."

"Not against treachery and lies!" retorted Diana fiercely. "It is not my

habit to employ such weapons, but my stepmother used no others. It was

she who drove me out of the house and made me exile myself to the

Antipodes to escape her falseness. And it was she," added Miss Vrain

solemnly, "who treated my father so ill as to drive him out of his own

home. 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 heart

and soul!"

This feminine outburst of anger rather bewildered Denzil, who saw very

plainly that Diana was by no means the lofty angel he had taken her to

be in the first appreciation of her beauty. But her passion of the

moment suited so well with her stately looks that she seemed rather a

Margaret of Anjou defying York and his faction than an injured woman

concerned with so slight a thing as the rebuke of one of her own sex for

whom she had little love. Diana saw the surprise expressed on Lucian's

face, and her own flushed a little with annoyance that she should have

betrayed her feelings so openly. With a vexed laugh, she recovered her

temper and composed demeanour.

"You see I am no saint, Mr. Denzil," she said, resuming her seat, for

in her anger she had risen to her feet. "But even if I were one, I could

not have restrained myself from speaking as I did. When you know my

stepmother as well as I do--but I must talk calmly about her, or you

will not understand my reasons for thinking her concerned in the

terrible fate of my poor father."

"I am all attention, Miss Vrain."

"I'll tell you all I know, as concisely as possible," she replied, "and

you can judge for yourself if I am right or wrong. Three years ago my

father's health was very bad. Since the death of my mother--now some ten

years--he had devoted himself to hard study, and had lived more or less

the life of a recluse in Berwin Manor. He was writing a history of the

Elizabethan dramatists, and became so engrossed with the work that he

neglected his health, and consequently there was danger that he might

suffer from brain fever. The doctors ordered him to leave his books and

to travel, in order that his attention might be distracted by new scenes

and new people. I was to go with him, to see that he did not resume his

studies, so, in an evil hour for us both, we went to Italy."

"Your father was not mad?" said Lucian, thinking of the extraordinary

behaviour of Vrain in the square.

"Oh, no!" cried Diana indignantly. "He was a trifle weak in the head

from overwork but quite capable of looking after himself."

"Did he indulge in strong drink?"

Miss Vrain looked scandalised. "My father was singularly abstemious in

eating and drinking," she said stiffly. "Why do you ask such a

question?"

"I beg your pardon," replied Lucian, with all humility, "but it was

reported in Geneva Square that Berwin--the name by which your father was

known--drank too much; and when I met him he was certainly not--not

quite 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 none

of the best. Sometimes, I admit, he took sleeping draughts

and--and--drugs."

"He was consumptive," said Lucian, noticing Diana's hesitation to speak

plainly.

"His chest was weak, and consumption may have developed itself, but when

I left England, almost two years back, he was certainly not suffering

from that disease. But I see how it is," said Diana, wringing her hands.

"During my short absence, and under the tyranny of his wife, his

physical health and moral principles gave way. Drink and consumption!

Ah! God! were not these ills enough but what the woman must add murder

to cap them both?"

"We do not know yet if she is guilty," said Lucian quietly. "Will you go

on 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 when

you went to Italy."

"It was indeed," said Diana sorrowfully, "for in Florence, at the

Pension Donizetti, on the Lung Arno, we met with Lydia Clyne and her

father. They had only lately arrived in Italy--from New York, I

suppose--but already she was said to be engaged to a needy Italian

nobleman named Hercule Ferruci."

"Then I suppose the Clynes were rich," said Lucian, "for I know those

Italian nobles too well to suspect that this Count Ferruci would pay

attention to any one but an heiress."

"She was supposed to be rich, Mr. Denzil. All Americans, for some

reason, are supposed to be millionaires; but after she married my father

I learned that Mr. Clyne had a very moderate fortune indeed, and his

daughter nothing. It was for that reason that Lydia threw over the

count, to whom she was almost engaged, and began to pay attention to my

father. She heard talk of his estates in the gossip of the Pension, and

believing him to be rich, she decided to marry him instead of throwing

herself 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 a

rich marriage by becoming the second Mrs. Vrain. I never liked her,

knowing that she was false and frivolous; but though I did my best to

stop the marriage, my father would not be controlled. You know that this

woman is pretty and fascinating."

"She is certainly the first, but not the last," interposed Lucian.

"At all events," resumed Diana disconsolately, "she was sufficiently

fascinating to snare my poor foolish old father. We remained four months

in Florence, and before we left it Lydia Clyne became Mrs. Vrain. I

could do nothing with my father, as he was possessed of the headstrong

passion of an old man, and, moreover, Lydia had learned to know his weak

points so well that she could twist him round her finger. But, angered

as I was at my father's folly, I loved him too well to leave him at the

time, therefore I returned to Berwin Manor with the pair.

"There, Mr. Denzil," continued Miss Vrain, her face growing dark, "Lydia

made 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 in

Australia, to whom I went out on a visit. Alas! I wish I had not done

so; yet remain with my colonial cousins I did, until recalled to England

by 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 bound

to say that Mr. Clyne, who is much the better of the two, tried to make

her conduct herself in a more becoming manner. But she defied him and

every one else. After my departure I received letters from a friend of

mine, 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 mistake

he had made, returned to his books, and soon became ill again. Instead

of 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 marry

Count 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 I

cannot explain," she said, with a sigh, "as I was in Australia at the

time. But I expect that his brain grew weaker with study, and perhaps

with the strong drink and drugs which this woman drove him to take. No

doubt the poor man grew jealous of Ferruci; and, unable to assert

himself, seeing how ill he was, left the house and retired to Geneva

Square to meet his death, as we know."

"But all this is supposition," remonstrated Lucian. "We really do not

know 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 the

truth of this matter? I feel certain that Lydia and the Count are

guilty!"

"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. "I

cannot 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 it

will give you any satisfaction, Miss Vrain, I will take you over the

house to-morrow morning."

"Do!" cried Diana, "and we may find proof of Lydia's guilt in a way she

little dreams of. Good-bye, Mr. Denzil--till to-morrow."