She held open the door, and the three visitors obeyed her gesture of invitation; but suddenly the girl's face changed. The blood streamed up to her forehead, then ebbed again, leaving her marble-pale. She gave a slight start, as if she would have changed her mind and kept the strangers from entering; yet she made no motion to arrest them.

"She has just remembered something in this room that she doesn't wish us to see," thought Virginia; but it was too late to retreat, without drawing attention to an act which she could not explain. They all went in, the others apparently suspecting nothing; but in a second Virginia instinctively guessed the reason of her hostess's sudden constraint, and the sympathetic thrill that ran through her own veins surprised her. In a panel of the darkly wainscotted and curiously gilded wall was placed a life-size portrait of a man. It was an oil-painting, defective in technique, perhaps, but so spirited, so extraordinarily lifelike as to give an effect, at first glance in the twilight, as if a handsome young man were just stepping in through an open door. Virginia seemed to meet the brilliant, audacious eyes; the frank, almost boyish smile was for her; and--whether because of the half-told story of this strange house, or because of the brave young splendour of the figure in the portrait--her heart gave a bound such as it had never yet given for a man.

She did not need to be told that this was the counterfeit presentment of him who, in some mysterious way, had brought ruin upon those who loved him; and suddenly she understood the full meaning of Loria's words when he had said, "The relatives all believed in his guilt, so his sister would have nothing to do with them."

Virginia Beverly, headstrong, wilful, pa.s.sionate, was only superficially spoilt by the flattery which had been her daily diet as a great beauty and a great heiress. She was impulsive, but her impulses were true and often unselfish. Now her warm heart went out to meet the loyal heart of the pale, sad girl in black, whom an hour ago she had never seen, whose very name she had not known. "She is right to believe in him," Virginia said to herself. "Loyalty is the finest virtue of all. I believe in him too. Whatever crime they say he committed, I'm sure he was innocent.

What--a criminal, with that face? It's not possible, and I wish I could tell her so."

She could scarcely tear her eyes from the portrait, though she feared to let her interest be observed, lest it should unjustly be put down to vulgar curiosity. And when the old man who conducted them, having met and answered a quick glance from his mistress, invited the visitors to continue their tour of inspection, Virginia left her thoughts behind in the room of the portrait, walking as in a dream through the series of lofty, half-dismantled apartments which still remained to be visited.

She hoped that, when they should see their hostess again for the promised leave-taking, it would be in the same room as before. But she was doomed to disappointment. Mademoiselle met the party in the great hall, and, hearing from George Trent that his sister thought seriously of buying the chateau, gave them the address of an estate agent in Mentone.

Virginia was not a self-centred girl, and at any other time she would have been surprised at the encouragement given to this new whim of hers by her half-brother; she would have sought some underlying cause, for George Trent--who was her mother's son by a first marriage--was nearly five years older than she, and rather piqued himself upon influencing her to ways of wisdom. But now, though he extolled the charms of the Chateau de la Roche, and made light of the expenses of restoration, as they rode down the avenue under the olive trees, Virginia was too much occupied with the mystery of the house and the portrait's original to observe the young man's manner. It did not escape Lady Gardiner's observation, however, and her thoughts were troubled.

She was thirty-six and George Trent was ten years younger; but she confessed to twenty-nine, and really did not look more, except when certain worries, which she usually kept in the background, pressed heavily upon her. For a year, ever since Virginia had left America for England and the Continent, she had lived with the sister and brother, and had been reaping a harvest almost literally of gold and diamonds. She did not want Virginia to marry and free herself from chaperonage; and if she could not marry George Trent herself, since he was neither old enough nor rich enough, she could not bear the thought that he might forget his pa.s.sing admiration for her, and fall seriously in love with some one else.

She, too, was curious concerning mademoiselle and her past, but with a very different curiosity from Virginia's, and she determined to learn the story of the Dalahaides and their chateau above the Valley of the Shadow.

She did not, however, wish to appear curious before Virginia or her brother, and hoped that the American girl, with her wonted audacity, would at once approach the topic when they had rejoined Sir Roger Broom and the Marchese Loria. But Virginia asked no questions, contenting herself with answering those of her cousin, which for some reason confined themselves entirely to the chateau. Lady Gardiner was sure, since he admitted having known the Dalahaides, that, being human, Roger would have liked to hear something of the girl who lived there like Mariana in the Moated Grange; and it would have been interesting to know why he refrained from mentioning her.

As they rode through the valley, dark and sad now, in the chill of its early dusk, she brought her horse to Virginia's side in so narrow a defile of the road that Roger, who was with the girl, dropped behind.

"Have you noticed that the Marchese hasn't asked us a single question about your chateau?" she remarked. "He is a changed man since we came into this valley. I wonder if there was ever anything between him and that tragic-looking girl up there? Perhaps Sir Roger knows, and that's the reason he didn't speak of her."

"Perhaps," echoed Virginia listlessly, and Kate Gardiner said no more.

An odd restraint seemed to have settled on the whole party, which had started out so gaily in the sunshine. Each one was sunk deep in his or her own thoughts, as if the twilight had touched them with its delicate melancholy.

They were stopping at the Cap Martin hotel, high on the hill in its beautiful garden, and among its pines; and there was a dance that night, for which Virginia had promised Loria several waltzes; but she complained that the ride had tired her.

Instead of dancing she went after dinner to the private sitting-room which she and Lady Gardiner shared, having quietly asked Roger Broom if he would come to her there for a few minutes. He found her, not in the room, but on the balcony, in floods of moonlight, which gave her beauty an unearthly charm as she lay on a _chaise longue_, wrapped in an evening cloak of white and silver brocade.

"You don't mind leaving the dance a little while--for me?" she asked.

Roger smiled his quiet, pleasant smile. "There's nothing in the world I would mind leaving for you, Virginia," he said, "and I think you know that very well."

"Sometimes I believe it's true. I should like to believe it to-night,"

she answered, "because I need your help. There's a secret, and I must find it out."

As the girl spoke there was a slight sound in the room beyond the big, open window.

"What's that?" exclaimed Roger. "Who is there?"

"n.o.body," said Virginia. "It must be a log of olive-wood falling in the fireplace."

CHAPTER II

THE STORY TOLD BY TWO

Roger waited. He knew that Virginia was gathering her forces together, and that he might expect the unexpected.

"I want you to tell me all about that girl in mourning who lives at the Chateau de la Roche," she said after a moment; "and what her brother did."

Roger was slow in answering. "It's not a pleasant story for your ears. I was sorry this afternoon that I had spoken even as freely as I did about it before you. Loria took me to task rather, after you'd gone up to the chateau, and he was right. By Jove! Virginia, I believe that if I'd said nothing, the idea of buying the place would never have occurred to you."

"Perhaps not," she admitted. "But it _has_ occurred to me, and once I have an idea in my head I keep it tenaciously--as all my long-suffering friends know to their sorrow. Will you go to-morrow to the agent whose address I have and make inquiries?"

"Certainly, if you wish."

"Oh, you think if no one thwarts me, I'll get over the fancy. But I won't! I'm going to have that chateau among the olive trees for mine if it costs me fifty thousand pounds (which it won't, I know), even if I only live in it for one month out of five years. The thing is, to feel it's my own. So now, you see, as the place is practically my property, naturally I'd like to know something of the people who have been its owners."

"I don't see why. When one buys a house one doesn't usually agitate oneself much about the family history of one's predecessors."

"Roger, you know this is different. I want you and no one to else tell me. Still, if you won't----"

"Oh, if you insist you must be gratified, I suppose, up to certain limits. What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"H'm! Rather too large an order, my child. However, to begin with, the Dalahaides of the Chateau de la Roche were English in the last generation, but the family is of French origin. When the last member of the French branch died, a banker in London was the next heir. He gave the chateau and the Dalahaide house in Paris as a wedding present to his son, who was about to be married. The bride and bridegroom came over on their honeymoon, and took such a fancy to the chateau that they made their home there, or rather between it and the old house in Paris. This young couple had in time a son, and then a daughter. Perhaps you saw the daughter to-day?"

"Yes, it was she. You didn't ask me about her before."

"No; the fact is, I thought that further conversation on the subject would be too painful for poor Loria. You must have seen that he was upset."

"I couldn't help seeing. But go on."

"Well, the father and mother and their two children were a most devoted family. They were all handsome and clever and popular, and if they were not millionaires, they were extravagant, for they gave delightful entertainments here and in Paris, and their purses were open for any one who wished to dip in his fingers.

"The son Maxime, always called Max, inherited his father's generous, reckless, extravagant ways. He was drawn into the fastest set in Paris, and lost a lot of money at baccarat. That wouldn't have mattered much, perhaps, if at the same time some large investments of the father's hadn't gone wrong and crippled the family resources. Then, as misfortunes generally come in crowds, there was a slight earthquake along this part of the coast, and the chateau was partly ruined, as you saw to-day, for they were not able then to have it restored. 'Next year,' they said; but there was no next year for the Dalahaides. Only a few months after the first two blows came the third, which was to crush the family for ever.

Max Dalahaide was accused of murder, tried, and condemned."

"What--he is _dead_, then? I thought you said--I----" Virginia's heart gave so sudden and violent a bound that she stammered, and grew red and white under the revealing moonlight. She was thinking of the portrait--seeing it again, looking into the eyes which had seemed to speak. Dead! Executed as a murderer! The thought was horrible; it stifled her.

"No, he is not dead," answered Roger gravely; "at least, if he is I haven't heard of it. But--if he still exists--one can't call it living--he must have wished a hundred times a day to die and be out of his misery. Perhaps death has come to him. It might, and I not have known; for from out of the pit which has engulfed him, seldom an echo reaches the world above."

"Roger, you frighten me! What do you mean?" the girl exclaimed.

"Forgive me, child. I forgot for a moment, and was thinking aloud. I don't often forget you, do I? I said to-day that Max Dalahaide was dead in life. That is true. Family influence, the tremendous eloquence of a man engaged to plead his cause, the fact that Max insisted upon his innocence, while the evidence was entirely circ.u.mstantial, saved him from the guillotine, which I believe he would have preferred, in his desperation. He was sent to that Hades upon earth, New Caledonia, a prisoner for life."

"But--he was _English_!"

"No. His parents had been English, but he, having been born in France, was a French subject. He had even served his time in the army. Naturally he was amenable to French law; and he is buried alive in Noumea, the most terrible prison in the world."

"And he was innocent!"