"Has he gone?" was Lady Helena's response.
"I believe so—I hope so. He had nothing to stay for. Of course he has gone."
"I am glad of that, at least. And now, as it seems I can do nothing more at present, I will return home. Watch Victor, Inez—he needs it, believe me. I will return at the earliest possible moment to-morrow."
So, in the chill gray of the fast-coming morning, Lady Helena, very heavy-hearted, returned to Powyss Place and her sick husband's bedside.
Meantime matters were really beginning to look dark for Miss Catheron. The superintendent of the district, Mr. Ferrick, was filling his note-book with very ominous information. She had loved Sir Victor—she had hated Sir Victor's wife—they had led a cat-and-dog life from the first—an hour before the murder they had had a violent quarrel—Lady Catheron had threatened to make her husband turn her out of the house on the morrow. At eight o'clock, Jane Pool had left the nursery with the baby, my lady peacefully asleep in her chair—the Eastern poniard on the table. At half-past eight, returning to arouse my lady, she had encountered Miss Inez coming out of the nursery, and Miss Inez had ordered her sharply away, telling her my lady was still asleep. A quarter of nine, Ellen, the maid, going to the room, found my lady stone dead, stabbed through the heart. Miss Inez, when summoned by Hooper, is ghastly pale at first, and hardly seems to know what she is doing or saying. A very pretty case of tragedy in high life, Superintendent Ferrick thinks, pursing up his lips with professional zest, and not the first murder jealousy has made fine ladies commit, either. Now if that Turkish dagger would only turn up.
Two policemen are sent quietly in search of it through the grounds. It isn't likely they'll find it, still it will do no harm to try. He finds out which are Miss Catheron's rooms, and keeps his official eye upon them. He goes through the house with the velvet tread of a cat. In the course of his wanderings everywhere, he brings up presently in the stables, and finds them untenanted, save by one lad, who sits solitary among the straw. He is rather a dull-looking youth, with a florid, vacant face at most times, but looking dazed and anxious just now. "Something onhismind," thinks the superintendent, and sits sociably down on a box beside him at once.
"Now, my man," Mr. Ferrick says, pleasantly, "and what is it that's troublingyou? Out with it—every little's a help in a case like this."
The lad—his name is Jimmy—does not need pressing—his secret has been weighing uneasily upon him for the last hour or more, ever since he heard of the murder, in fact, and he pours his revelation into the superintendent's eager ear. His revelation is this:
Last evening, just about dusk, strolling by chance in the direction of the Laurel walk, he heard voices raised and angry in the walk—the voices of a man and a woman. He had peeped through the branches and seen my lady and a very tall man. No, it wasn't Sir Victor—it was a much bigger man, with long black curling hair. Didn't see his face. It was dark in there among the trees. Wasn't sure, but it struck him it might be the tall, black-avised man, who came first the night Sir Victor brought home my lady, and who had been seen skulking about the park once or twice since. Had heard a whisper, that the man was Miss Inez's brother—didn't know himself. All he did know was, that my lady and a man were quarrelling on the evening of the murder in the Laurel walk. What were they quarrelling about? Well, he couldn't catch their talk very well—it was about money he thought. The man wanted money and jewels, and my lady wouldn't give 'em. He threatened to do something or tell something; thenshethreatened to have him put in Chesholm jail if he did. He, Jimmy, though full of curiosity, was afraid the man would spring out and catch him, and so at that juncture he came away. There! that was all, if it did the gentleman any good, he was welcome to it.
It did the gentleman a world of good—it complicated matters beautifully. Five minutes ago the case looked dark as night for Miss Catheron—here was a rift in her sky. Who was this man—wasit Miss Catheron's scapegrace brother? Jimmy could tell him nothing more. "If you wants to find out about Miss Inez' brother," said Jimmy, "you go to old Hooper.Heknows. AllIknow is, that they say he was an uncommon bad lot; but old Hooper, he's knowed him ever since he was a young'un and lived here. If old Hooper says he wasn't here the night Sir Victor brought my lady home, don't you believe him—he was, and he's been seen off and on in the grounds since. The women folks in the servants' hall, they say, as how he must have been an old sweetheart of my lady's. You go to old Hooper and worrit it out of him."
Mr. Superintendent Ferrick went. How artfully he began his work, how delicately and skillfully he "pumped" old Hooper dry, no words can tell. Mr. Juan Catheronwasan "uncommon bad lot," he had come to the house and forced an entrance into the dining-room the night of Lady Catheron's arrival—there had been a quarrel, and he had been compelled to leave. Bit by bit this was drawn from Mr. Hooper. Since then, Jackson, the head groom, and Edwards, the valet, had seen him hovering about the grounds watching the house.
Mr. Ferrick ponders these things in his heart, and is still. This vagabond, Juan Catheron, follows my lady to Catheron Royals, is expelled, haunts the grounds, and a man answering to his description is discovered quarrelling with my lady, demanding money, etc., two or three hours before the murder. The window of the room, in which she takes that fatal sleep, opens on the lawn; any one may enter who sees fit. No one is about. The Oriental dagger lies convenient to his hand on the table. "Here, now," says Mr. FerricktoMr. Ferrick, with a reflective frown, "which is guilty—the brother or sister?"
He goes and gives an order to one of his men, and the man starts in search of Mr. Juan Catheron. Mr. Catheron must be found, though they summon the detectives of Scotland Yard to aid them in their search.
The dull hours wear on—the new day, sunny and bright, is with them. The white drawing-room is darkened—the master of Catheron Royals sits there alone with his dead. And presently the coroner comes, and talks with the superintendent, and they enter softly and look at the murdered lady. The coroner departs again—a jury is summoned, and the inquest is fixed to begin at noon next day in the "Mitre" tavern at Chesholm.
Lady Helena returns and goes at once to her nephew. Inez, in spite of her injunctions, has never been near him once. He sits there still, as she left him many hours ago; he has never stirred or spoken since. Left to himself he is almost apathetic in his quiet—he rouses into fury, when they strive to take him away. As the dusk falls, Lady Helena, passing the door, hears him softly talking to the dead, and once—oh, pitiful Heaven! she hears a low, blood-chilling laugh. She opens the door and goes in. He is kneeling besides the sofa, holding the stark figure in his arms, urging her to get up and dress.
"It is a lovely night, Ethel," he says; "the moon is shining, and you know, you like to walk out on moonlight nights. Do you remember, love, those nights at Margate; when we walked together first on the sands? Ah! you never lay like this, cold and still, then. Do get up, Ethel!" petulantly this; "I am tired of sitting here and waiting for you to awake. You have slept long enough. Get up!"
He tries to lift her. Horror struck, Lady Helena catches him in time to prevent it.
"Victor, Victor!" she cries, "for the love of Heaven put her down.Come away. Don't you know she is dead?"
He lifts his dim eyes to her face, blind with the misery of a dumb animal.
"Dead!" he whispers.
Then with a low, moaning gasp, he falls back in her arms, fainting wholly away.
Her cries bring aid—they lift him and carry him up to his room, undress and place him in bed. The family physician is summoned—feels his pulse, hears what Lady Helena has to say, and looks very grave. The shock has been too much for a not overstrong body or mind. Sir Victor is in imminent danger of brain fever.
The night shuts down. A messenger comes to Lady Helena saying the squire is much better, and she makes up her mind to remain all night. Inez comes, pale and calm, and also takes her place by the stricken man's bedside, a great sadness and pity for the first time on her face. The White Room is locked—Lady Helena keeps the key—one pale light burns dimly in its glittering vastness. And as the night closes in blackness over the doomed house, one of the policemen comes in haste to Superintendent Ferrick, triumph in his face. He has found the dagger.
Mr. Ferrick opens his eyes rather—it is more than he expected.
"A bungler," he mutters, "whoever did it. Jones, where did you find this?"
Jones explains.
Near the entrance gates there is a wilderness of fern, or bracken, as high as your waist. Hidden in the midst of this unlikely place Jones has found the dagger. It is as if the party, going down the avenue, had flung it in.
"Bungler," Superintendent Ferrick says again. "It's bad enough to be a murderer without being a fool."
He takes the dagger. No doubt about the work it has done. It is incrusted with blood—dry, dark, and clotted up to the hilt. A strong, sure hand had certainly done the deed. For the first time the thought strikes him—coulda woman's hand, strike that one strong, sure, deadly blow? Miss Catheron is a fragile-looking young lady, with a waist he could span, slim little fingers, and a delicate wrist. Could she strike this blow—it is quite evident only one has been struck.
"And besides," says Superintendent Ferrick, argumentatively to himself, "it's fifteen minutes' fast walking from the house to the gates. Fifteen minutes only elapse between the time Nurse Pool sees her come out of the nursery and Maid Ellen finds her mistress murdered. And I'll be sworn, she hasn't been out of the house to-day. All last night theysayshe kept herself shut up in her room. Suppose she wasn't—suppose she went out last night and tried to hide it, is it likely—come, I say! is it likely, she would take and throw it right in the very spot, where it was sure to be found? A Tartar that young woman is, I have no doubt, but she's a long way off being a fool. She may knowwhohas done this murder, but I'll stake my professional reputation, in spite of Mrs. Pool, that she never did it herself."
A thin, drizzling rain comes on with the night, the trees drip, drip in a feeble melancholy sort of way, the wind has a lugubrious sob in its voice, and it is intensely dark. It is about nine o'clock, when Miss Catheron rises from her place by the sick-bed and goes out of the room. In the corridor she stands a moment, with the air of one who looks, and listens. She sees no one. The dark figure of a woman, who hovers afar off and watches her, is there, but lost in a shadowy corner; a woman, who since the murder, has never entirely lost sight of her. Miss Catheron does not see her, she takes up a shawl, wraps it about her, over her head, walks rapidly along the passage, down a back stairway, out of a side door, little used, and so out into the dark, dripping, sighing night.
There are the Chesholm constabulary on guard on the wet grass and gravel elsewhere—there are none here. But the quiet figure of Jane Pool has followed her, like her shadow, and Jane Pool's face, peers cautiously out from the half-open door.
In that one instant while she waits, she misses her prey—she emerges, but in the darkness nothing is to be seen or heard.
As she stands irresolute, she suddenly hears a low, distinct whistle to the left. It may be the call of a night-bird—it may be a signal.
She glides to the left, straining her eyes through the gloom. It is many minutes before she can see anything, except the vaguely waving trees—then a fiery spark, a red eye glows through the night. She has run her prey to earth—it is the lighted tip of a cigar.
She draws near—her heart throbs. Dimly she sees the tall figure of a man; close to him the slender, slighter figure of a woman. They are talking in whispers, and she is mortally afraid of coming too close. What is to keep them from murdering her too?
"I tell you, youmustgo, and at once," are the first words, she hears Inez Catheron speaking, in a passionate, intense whisper. "I tell you I am suspected already; do you thinkyoucan escape much longer? If you have any feeling for yourself, for me, go, go, I beseech you, at once! They are searching for you now, I warn you, and if they find you—"
"If they find me," the man retorts, doggedly, "it can't be much worse than it is. Things have been so black with me for years, that they can't be much blacker. But I'll go. I'm not over anxious to stay, Lord knows. Give me the money and I'll be off."
She takes from her bosom a package, and hands it to him; by the glow of the red cigar-tip Jane sees her.
"It is all I have—all I can get, jewels and all," she says; "enough to keep you for years with care. Now go, and never come back—your coming has done evil enough, surely."
Jane Pool catches the words—the man mutters some sullen, inaudible reply. Inez Catheron speaks again in the same passionate voice.
"How dare you say so?" she cries, stamping her foot. "You wretch! whom it is my bitterest shame to call brother. But for youshewould be alive and well. Do you think I do not know it? Go—living or dead, I never want to look upon your face again!"
Jane Pool hears those terrible words and stands paralyzed. Can it be, that Miss Inez is not the murderess after all? The man retorts again—she does not hear how—then plunges into the woodland and disappears. An instant the girl stands motionless looking after him, then she turns and walks rapidly back into the house.
The Monday morning edition of theChesholm Courier, September 19th, 18—, contained the following, eagerly devoured by every man and woman in the county, able to read at all:
"In all the annals of mysterious crime (began the editor, with intense evident relish), nothing more mysterious, or more awful, has ever been known, than the recent tragedy at Catheron Royals. In the annals of our town, of our county, of our country we may almost say, it stands unparalleled in its atrocity. A young and lovely lady, wedded little better than a year, holding the very highest position in society, in the sacred privacy of her own household, surrounded by faithful servants, is struck down by the dagger of the assassin. Her youth, her beauty, the sanctity of slumber, all were powerless to shield her. Full of life, and hope, and happiness, she is foully and hideously murdered—her babe left motherless, her young husband bereaved and desolate. If anything were needed to make the dreadful tragedy yet more dreadful, it is, that Sir Victor Catheron lies, as, we write, hovering between life and death. The blow, which struck her down, has stricken him too—has laid him upon what may be his death-bed. At present he lies mercifully unconscious of his terrible loss tossing in the delirium of violent brain fever.
"Who, we ask, is safe after this? A lady of the very highest rank, in her own home, surrounded by her servants, in open day, is stabbed to the heart. Who, we ask again, is safe after this? Who was the assassin—what was the motive? Does that assassin yet lurk in our midst? Let it be the work of the coroner and his jury to discover the terrible secret, to bring the wretch to justice. And it is the duty of every man and woman in Chesholm to aid, if they can, that discovery."
* * * * *
From Tuesday's Edition.
The inquest began at one o'clock yesterday in the parlor of the Mitre Inn, Lady Helena Powyss, of Powyss Place, and Miss Inez Catheron being present. The first witness called was Ellen Butters.
ELLEN BUTTERS sworn.—"I was Lady Catheron's maid; I was engaged in London and came down with her here; on the afternoon of Friday, 16th, I last saw my lady alive, about half-past six in the afternoon; she had dressed for dinner; the family dinner hour is seven; saw nothing unusual about her; well yes, she seemed a little out of spirits, but was gentle and patient as usual; when I had finished dressing her she threw her shawl about her, and took a book, and said she would go out a few minutes and take the air; she did go out, and I went down to the servant's hall; sometime after seven Jane Pool, the nurse, came down in a great flurry and said—"
THE CORONER.—"Young woman we don't want to hear what Jane Pool said and did. We want to know what you saw yourself."
ELLEN BUTTERS (sulkily).—"Very well, that's what I'm trying to tell you. If Jane Pool hadn't said Sir Victor had gone off to Powyss Place, and that she didn't think it would be proper to disturb my lady just then, I would have gone up to my lady for orders. Jane had her supper and went up to the nursery for baby. She came back again after awhile—it was just past eight—in a temper, saying she had left my lady asleep when she took away baby, and returned to awake her. She had met Miss Inez who ordered her away about her business, saying my lady was still asleep. Jane Pool said—"
THE CORONER—"Young woman, wedon'twant to hear what Jane Pool said. Jane Pool will tell her own story presently; we won't trouble you to tell both. At what hour did you go up to the nursery yourself?"
ELLEN BUTTERS (more sulkily).—"I disremember; it was after eight. I could tell all about it better, if you wouldn't keep interrupting and putting me out. It was about a quarter or twenty minutes past eight, I think—"
THE CORONER (dogmatically).—"What you think won't do. Be more precise if you please, and keep your temper. What o'clock was it, I say, when you went up to the nursery?"
ELLEN BUTTERS (excitedly).—"It was about a quarter or twenty minutes past eight—how can I know any surer when Idon'tknow. I don't carry a watch, and didn't look at the clock. I'm sure I never expected to be badgered about it in this way. I said I'd go and wake my lady up and not leave her there, to catch her death, in spite of fifty Miss Catherons. I rapped at the door and got no answer, then I opened it and went in. There was no light, but the moon was shining bright and clear, and I saw my lady sitting, with her shawl around her, in the arm-chair. I thought she was asleep and called her—there was no answer. I called again, and put my hand on her bosom to arouse her. Something wet my hand—it was blood. I looked at her closer, and saw blood on her dress, and oozing in a little stream from the left breast. Then I knew she had been killed. I ran screaming from the room, and down among the rest of the servants. I told them—I didn't know how. And I don't remember any more, for I fell in a faint. When I came to I was alone—the rest were up in the nursery. I got up and joined them—that's everything I know about it."
Ellen Butters retired, and William Hooper was called. This is Mr.Hooper's evidence:
"I have been butler in Sir Victor Catheron's family for twenty years. On the night of Friday last, as I sat in the servants' hall after supper, the young woman, Ellen Butters, my lady's London maid, came screeching downstairs like a creature gone mad, that my lady was murdered, and frightened us all out of our senses. As she was always a flighty young person, I didn't believe her. I ordered her to be quiet, and tell us what she meant. Instead of doing it she gave a sort of gasp and fell fainting down in a heap. I made them lay her down on the floor, and then follow me up to the nursery. We went in a body—I at the head. There was no light but the moon-light in the room. My lady lay back in the arm-chair, her eyes closed, bleeding and quite dead. I ran up to Miss Inez's room, and called her. My master was not at home, or I would have called him instead. I think she must have been dead some minutes. She was growing cold when I found her."
"William Hooper," continued theChesholm Courier, communicatively, "was cross-examined as to the precise time of finding the body. He said it was close upon half-past eight, the half hour struck as he went up to Miss Inez's room."
James Dicksey was next called. James Dicksey, a shambling lad of eighteen, took his place, his eyes rolling in abject terror, and under the evident impression that he was being tried for his life. Every answer was wrung from this frightened youth, as with red-hot pincers, and it was with the utmost difficulty anything consistent could be extorted at all.
"About half-past six on Friday evening, Mr. Dicksey was rambling about the grounds, in the direction of the laurel walk. In the open ground it was still quite light, in the laurel walk it was growing dusk. As he drew near, he heard voices in the laurel walk—angry voices, though not very loud—the voices of a man and a woman. Peeped in and saw my lady. Yes, it was my lady—yes, he was sure. Was it likely now he wouldn't know my lady? The man was very tall, had a furrin-looking hat pulled over his eyes, and stood with his back to him. He didn't see his face. They were quarrelling and—well yes, he did listen. Heard the man call her 'Ethel,' and ask for money. She wouldn't give it to him. Then he asked for jewels. She refused again, and ordered him to go. She was very angry—she stamped her foot once and said: 'If you don't go instantly I'll call my husband. Between you and your sister you will drive me mad.' When she said that, he guessed at once, who the big furrin-looking man was. It was Miss Inez's brother, Mr. Juan Catheron. Had heard tell of him often, and knew he had been at the house the night of my lady's arrival, and that there had been a row."
Mr. Dicksey was here sharply reprimanded, informed that his suspicions and hearsays were not wanted, and requested to come back to the point. He came back.
"My lady wouldn't give him anything, then he got mad and said: (James Dicksey had been vaguely impressed by these remarkable words at the time, and had been silently revolving them ever since) 'Give me the jewels, or by all the gods I'll blow the story of your marriage to me all over England!'"
The breathless silence of coroner, jury, and spectators at this juncture was something not to be described. In that profound silence, James Dicksey went rambling on to say, that he could swear before the Queen herself to those words, that he had been thinking them over ever since he had heard them, and that he couldn't make top or tail of them.
THE CORONER (interrupting)—"What further did you overhear? Be careful, remember you are on oath."
JAMES DICKSEY.—"I heard what my lady said. She was in an awful passion, and spoke loud. She said, 'You will not, you dare not, you're a coward; Sir Victor has you in his power, and if you say one word you'll be silenced in Chesholm jail.' Then she stamped her foot again, and said, 'Leave me, Juan Catheron; I am not afraid of you.' Yes; he was sure of the name; she called him Juan Catheron, and looked as if she could eat him alive. He had heard no more; he was afraid of being caught, and had stolen quietly away. Had said nothing at all about it to any one, was afraid it might reach my lady's ears, and that he would lose his place for eavesdropping. At ten o'clock that night was told of the murder, and was took all of a-tremble. Had told Superintendent Ferrick something of this next day, but this was all—yes so help him, all he had heard, and just as he had heard it."
James Dicksey was rigidly cross-examined, and clung to his testimony with a dogged tenacity nothing could alter or shake. He could swear positively to the name she had uttered, to the words both had spoken, if he were dying. A profound sensation ran through the room as James Dicksey sat down—a thrill of unutterable apprehension and fear.
The examination of these three witnesses had occupied the whole of the afternoon. The court adjourned until next morning at ten o'clock.
On Tuesday morning, despite the inclemency of the weather (said theChesholm Courierto its readers) the parlor of the "Mitre," the halls, the stairways, and even the inn yard were filled at the hour of nine. The excitement was intense—you might have heard a pin drop in the silence, when the examination of witnesses was resumed. William Hooper was again called to take the stand:
THE CORONER.—"You remember, I suppose, the evening on which SirVictor brought Lady Catheron home?"
WITNESS.—"I do."
CORONER.—"You had a visitor on that night. You admitted him, did you not, Mr. Hooper? Who was that visitor?"
"It was Mr. Juan Catheron."
"Was Mr. Juan Catheron in the habit of visiting Catheron Royals?"
"He was not."
"Can you recollect, how long a period had elapsed since his previous visit?"
"Mr. Catheron had not been at the Royals for over four years. He was wild—there was ill-feeling between him and my master."
"Between him and his sister also?"
"I don't know. I—believe so." Here the witness looked piteously at the jury. "I had rather not answer these questions, gentlemen, if you please. I'm an old servant of the family—whatever family secrets may have come under my knowledge, I have no right to reveal."
THE CORONER (blandly).—"Only a few more, Mr. Hooper. We require to know on what footing Mr. Juan Catheron stood with his family. Did he ever come to Catheron Royals to visit his sister?"
"He did not."
"Had he ever been forbidden the house?"
"I—believe so."
"On the evening of Sir Victor and Lady Catheron's arrival, his visit was entirely unexpected then?"
"I don't know."
"You admitted him?"
"I did."
"What did he say to you?"
"I don't remember. Some rattling nonsense—nothing more. He was always lightheaded. He ran upstairs and into the dining-room before I could prevent it."
"How long did he remain?"
"About twenty minutes—not longer, I am certain. Then he came running back and I let him out."
"Had there been a quarrel?"
"I don't know," doggedly; "I wasn't there. Mr. Juan came down laughing, I knowthat. I know nothing more about it. I have never seen him since."
Jane Pool was called. A suppressed murmur of deepest interest ran through the room at the name of this witness. It was understood her evidence would have the deepest bearing on the case. Mrs. Pool took the stand. "A decent, intelligent young woman," said theChesholm Courier, "who gave her evidence in a clear, straightforward way that carried conviction to every hearer." "I am Jane Pool. I am nurse to Sir Victor Catheron's infant son. Early in August I entered the service of the deceased Lady Catheron in London; the first week of September I accompanied them down here. On the evening of the murder, about half-past six o'clock, or perhaps a quarter of seven, while I was busy in the day nursery over my duties, my lady came in, as she often did, though not at that hour. She looked pale and flurried, and bent over baby, who lay asleep, without speaking. Sir Victor came in while she was still there, and without taking any notice of me, told her he had received a note from Lady Helena Powyss saying Squire Powyss had had a stroke, and that he must go at once to Powyss Place. He said he thought he would be absent all night, that he would return as soon as he could, and that she was to take care of herself. He kissed her good-by and left the room. My lady went to the window and waved her hand to him, and watched him out of sight. About ten minutes after, while she still stood there, the door opened and Miss Inez came in and asked for Sir Victor; she said she wanted him. Then she stooped over and looked at the baby, calling him the heir of Catheron Royals. Then she laughed in her soft way, and said: 'I wonder if heisthe heir of Catheron Royals? I have been reading the Scotch marriage law and after what you and my brother said the other night—' If she said any more I didn't catch it—my lady turned round in such a flame of anger as I never saw her in before, and says she: 'You have uttered your last insult, Inez Catheron—you will never utter another beneath this roof. To-morrow you will leave it. I am Sir Victor Catheron's wife, and mistress of Catheron Royals—this is the last night it will ever shelter you.' Then she opens the door. 'Go!' she said; 'when my husband returns you or I leave this forever.' Neither of them took the least notice of me; I was afraid of being seen, and kept as quiet as I could. I heard Miss Inez answer: 'Not all the soap-boilers' daughters in England shall send me from Catheron Royals. You may go to-morrow if you will, but I will never go, never!' With that she went away, and my lady shut the door upon her. I did not want her to see me there, when she turned round, so I slipped out of another door, and downstairs. I took my supper, lingering, I dare say, half an hour; I don't think it was much more than half after seven when I returned to the nursery for baby. I found my lady asleep in the arm-chair besides the open window. She had been crying—there were tears on her cheeks and eyelashes as she slept. I did not disturb her. I lifted baby and carried him up to the nursery. I left him in charge of the under nursemaid, and returned to the room my lady was in. The clock was striking eight as I came downstairs. I was going in to awaken my lady, not liking to have her sleep in the night air. My hand was on the handle, when the door opened and Miss Inez came out. She looked paler than common, I thought but she spoke just as high and haughty as usual. She asked me what I wanted there; I told her I wanted to waken my lady. She looked at me, as though she would like to bite off my head—she was in one of her tempers, I could see. 'You had better let my lady alone,' she says, 'and attend to your nursery. She's asleep still, and it isn'tyourplace to awaken her. Go.' I was in a fury; I don't mind owning that, but I said nothing and I went. When Miss Inez looked and spoke like that, every servant in the house knew it was as much as her place was worth to disobey her. I went back and told Ellen Butters. Ellen was drinking her tea; she couldn't abide Miss Inez, and the minute she finished her cup she jumps up. 'I'mnot afraid of her,' says Ellen; 'she ain'tmymissis; I'll go and wake my lady up.' She went; we staid below. It might be five minutes after, when she comes flying back, screaming fit to wake the dead, 'Murder! murder!' There was blood on one of her hands, and before we could get anything more from her except 'My lady! my lady!' she drops down in a faint. We left her there, and followed Hooper upstairs. There was my lady lying in the arm-chair under the window, as I had seen her last—stone dead. We were all so shocked and frightened, I hardly know what was said or done for a while. Then somebody says—I don't know who to this minute, 'Where is Miss Catheron?' Nobody made answer. Says the person again: 'Where is Miss Catheron?' I think it frightened Hooper. He turned round, and said he would go for her. He went—we waited. He came back with her in a short while, and we all looked at her. She was nearly as much like a dead woman as my lady herself. I never saw such a look on any face before—her eyes seemed dazed in her head, like. She hardly seemed to know what she was saying or doing, and she didn't seem a bit surprised. Hooper said to her: 'Shall I send for Sir Victor?' She answered, still in that stunned sort of way: 'Yes, send for Sir Victor, and the doctor, and the police at once.' She was shivering like one in the chills, as she said it. She said she could do nothing more, and she left us and went back to her room. It was then I first missed the dagger. I can swear it was lying on the table beside a book, when my lady first fell asleep; when I looked round, the book was still there, the dagger gone."
The blood-stained dagger found by the policeman, was here produced and identified at once by the witness.
"It is the same—I have had it in my hand a hundred times, and seen it with her. Oh, my lady—my lady—my dear lady!"
The sight of the blood-incrusted weapon, seemed totally to unnerve the witness. She broke out into hysterical sobbing, which nothing could quiet. It being now noon, the court adjourned till two o'clock.
Jane Pool was then again called, and resumed her important testimony, in the same rapid, narrative, connected style as before.
"I felt dreadfully about the murder, and I don't mind owning I had my suspicions. I said to myself: 'I'll keep an eye on Miss Inez,' and I did, as well as I could. She kept her room nearly all next day. Toward night, Sir Victor was took down with the fever—wild and raving like, and Miss Inez went with Lady Helena to sit with him and watch. I was watching too, Sir Victor's room door. I don't know why, but I seemed to expect something. About nine, or a little later, as I stood at one end of the hall in the shadow, I saw the door open and Miss Inez come out. She looked up and down to see if the coast was clear, then put her shawl over her head, and walked very fast to the opposite end, downstairs and out of the side door. I followed her. It was raining and very dark, and at first I lost her among the trees. Then I heard a whistle, and following it, the next thing I saw was a tall man smoking a cigar, close beside her. It was too dark to see his face; I could just make out that he was very tall. They were talking in whispers, and what with the drip, drip of rain and the rustling of the trees, I couldn't catch at first what they were saying."
"Indeed, Mrs. Pool," the coroner observed at this point, "that is to be regretted. Eavesdropping seems to be your forte."
"I don't think it is any harm to listen in a good cause," Mrs. Pool retorted, sullenly. "If you don't care to have me repeat my eavesdropping, I won't."
"Repeat what you heard, if it bears on this case."
"The first words I heard, were from Miss Inez. She was giving him something—money, I thought, and she said: 'Now go and never come back. Your coming has done evil enough surely.' I couldn't catch his answer. He took what she gave him, and Miss Inez burst out, as she always does, in one of her tearing passions: 'How dare you say so, you wretch! whom it is my bitterest shame to call brother.But for you she would be alive and well—do you think I don't know it? Go! Living or dead, I never want to look upon your face again.'"
The sensation in the court [said theChesholm Courier] as the witness repeated these words, was something indescribable. A low, angry murmur ran from lip to lip; even the coroner turned pale.
"Witness," he said, "take care! You are on oath, remember. How can you recall accurately word for word what you heard?"
"Are they the sort of words likely to be forgotten?" Jane Pool retorted. "I know I'm on oath; I'll take five hundred oaths to these words, if you like. Those were the very words Miss Inez Catheron spoke. She called him her brother. She said but for himshewould be alive to-night. Then he plunged into the wood and disappeared, and she went back to the house. I hav'nt spoken of this to any one since. I wrote the words down when I came in. Here is the writing."
She handed the coroner a slip of paper, on which what she had repeated was written.
"I knew I would have to swear to it, so I wrote it down to make sure.But my memory is good; I wouldn't have forgotten."
The witness was rigidly cross-examined, but nothing could shake her testimony.
"The window," she said, "of the room where the murder was committed, opened on a lawn and flower-garden—any one could have entered by it. The knife lay on the table close by."
Dr. Dane was next called and gave his medical testimony. The dagger shown, would inflict the wound that caused Lady Catheron's death. In his opinion, but one blow had been struck and had penetrated the heart. Death must have been instantaneous. A strong, sure hand must have struck the blow.
The policeman who had found the dagger was called, and testified as to its discovery among the brake, on the evening succeeding the murder.
Miss Catheron was the next and last witness summoned. At the sound of her name a low, ominous hiss was heard—sternly repressed at once by the coroner.
"Miss Catheron came in," quoth theCourier, "as pale as marble and looking as emotionless. Her large dark eyes glanced over the crowded room, and dead silence fell. The young lady gave her evidence clearly and concisely—perfectly calm in tone and manner.
"On the Friday evening in question, the deceased Lady Catheron and myself had a misunderstanding. It was my fault. I made a remark that wounded her, and she retorted by saying I should leave Catheron Royals on the morrow. I answered equally angrily, that I would not, and left the room. When I was alone I began to regret what I had so hastily said. I thought the matter over for a time, and finally resolved to return and apologize. I went back to the nursery, and found Lady Catheron fast asleep. I would not disturb her, and immediately left the room. On the threshold, I encountered Nurse Pool. I had always disliked the woman, and spoke sharply to her, ordering her away. Half an hour after, as I sat in my room alone, Hooper, the butler, came up, and told me my lady was murdered. I was naturally shocked and horrified. I went down with him, and saw her. I hardly knew what to do; I felt stunned and bewildered by the suddenness of so terrible a catastrophe. I told the butler to send for Sir Victor, for the family physician, and the police. I knew not what else to do. I could not remain in the room, because the sight of blood always turns me faint and sick. I retired to my own apartment and remained there until the arrival of Lady Helena Powyss."
* * * * *
There was one fact, theChesholm Courierdid not chronicle, concerning Miss Catheron's evidence—the formal, constrained manner in which it was given, like one who repeats a well-learned lesson by rote.
* * * * *
As she concluded, the coroner ventured to put a few respectful questions.
"On the night succeeding the murder, Miss Catheron, you met after dusk a man in the grounds. Do you object to telling us who that man was?"
"I do," Miss Catheron replied, haughtily. "I most decidedly object. I have told all I have to tell concerning this murder. About my private affairs I will answer no impertinent questions, either now or at any future time."
Miss Catheron was then allowed to retire. The jury held a consultation, and it was proposed to adjourn the inquest for a few days, until Juan Catheron should be discovered.
* * * * *
In one of the rooms of the "Mitre," Miss Catheron stood with Lady Helena, Sir Roger Kendrick, and a few other sympathizing and indignant friends. There was but little said—but little to say. All felt that a dark, terrible cloud was gathering over the girl's head. It broke sooner than they looked for.
As they lingered there for a few moments, awaiting the issue of the inquest, a constable entered with a warrant, approached and touched Miss Catheron lightly on the shoulder.
Lady Helena uttered a gasping cry; Sir Roger strode forward; the young lady slightly recoiled. The constable took off his hat and spoke:
"Very sorry, Miss, but it's my painful duty. I have a warrant here from Squire Smiley, Justice of the Peace, to arrest you on suspicion of wilful murder."
Three days after, a long and stately procession passed slowly through the great gates, under the lofty Norman archway, bearing to the Catheron vaults the body of Ethel, last lady Catheron.
A long and sad ceremonial! Why, it seemed only yesterday that that mournful, passing bell had rung out the welcoming peal; but yesterday since they had lit the bon-fires, and tossed their hats in the air, and cheered with all their hearts and souls, the gallant husband and lovely wife. For a "squire of high degree" to marry beneath him, is something that goes home, warm and true, to every humble heart. Sir Victor's tenantry had never been half so proud of him, as when he had brought among them his low-born wife. It seemed but yesterday that all the parish had seen her, walking up this very aisle, in pale, flowing silks, and with the sweetest face the sun ever shone on, leaning on her happy young husband's arm; and now they carried her dead—foully murdered—to the open Catheron vault, and laid her to sleep forever beside the high-born dames of the race who slept their last sleep there.
"All men are equal on the turf and under it," once said a famous sporting nobleman. Ethel Dobb, the London soap-boiler's daughter, took her place to-day, among the dead daughters of earls and marquises, their equal at last, by right divine of the great leveller, Death.
A great and solemn hush pervaded all ranks, sexes, and classes. Struck down in her sleep, without a moment's warning, in her own home—a deep murmur, that was like the murmur of an angry sea, ran through them as they collected together.
Whohad done this deed?—the girl confined in Chesholm jail, or her scoundrel brother? They remembered him well—like Ishmael of old, his hand against every man, and every man's hand against him, the head and instigator of every poaching fray, or hen-roost robbery, every fight and evil deed done in Chesholm. Both brother and sister hated her—Inez Catheron that she had taken her lover from her—Juan Catheron that he had lost her himself. After Sir Victor he was heir-at-law. Failing the life of the infant son, he might one day write himself Sir Juan.
It was a lucky thing, croaked the Chesholm gossips, that Nurse Pool had removed the baby, else the dagger that stabbed the mother would have found its way to the heart of the child. Curse the black-hearted murderer of sleeping women and from the throng in the churchyard there rose up a groan to Heaven, and a hundred angry hearts pledged themselves to avenge it if the law would not.
"The coroner would have let the young lady escape," said one. "See how he snubbed Mrs. Pool, and how easily he let her betters off. If Justice Smiley hadn't got out his warrant, she'd have been off to the continent and clear away, long before this."
"Why don't they find Juan Catheron?" said another. "Theysaythey're looking for him—why don't they find him then? Murderers don't escape so easily nowadays—the law finds 'em if it wants to find 'em. It's seven days since the murder was done, and no tale or tidings of him yet."
"And when he is found neither he nor his sister shall escape. If the law lets them clear,wewon't. The time when rank could shield crime is over, thank Heaven. Let them hang as high as Haman—they deserve it. I'll be the first to pull the rope."
Day-by-day, the feeling had grown stronger and bitterer, against brother and sister. The Englishman's proverbial love of "fair play," seemed for once forgotten. The merciful reasoning of the law, that takes every man to be innocent until he is proven guilty, was too lenient to be listened to. The brother had murdered her—the sister had aided and abetted. Let them both hang—that was thevox populiof Chesholm—hanging was too good for them.
"How did she take her arrest—she was always as proud as Lucifer and as haughty as a duke's daughter?" asked the curious townfolk.
She had taken it very quietly as though she had expected it. When Lady Helena and Sir Roger had cried out in horror at her arrest, she had stood firm. A slight, sad smile had even crossed her lips.
"Dear Aunt Helena—dear Sir Roger," she had said, "there's nothing to be surprised at. Don't interfere with this man; he is only doing his duty. I knew this would come. I have expected it from the first. It will be unpleasant for the time—of the result I have no fear. In these days, when so many guilty escape, it is not likely the innocent will be punished. Let me go with this man quietly, Aunt Helena; I," a flush of proud pain passed over her face, "I don't want the servants—I don't want the rabble to see me."
She held out her hand to her aunt, and her aunt's old friend.
"Good-by, Aunt Helena," she said wistfully. "Good-by, Sir Roger. Nothing that they can bring against me will shake your faith in me, I know. You will both come to see me often, I hope, and bring me news of poor Victor. Should—I meanwhenhe recovers—don't tell him of this—don't, I beg. It can do no good—it may do him harm. Good-by once more—give my love to Uncle Godfrey. Aunt Helena, don't distress yourself so; I cannot bear it."
"Do you think I will let you go alone? No, I will go with you to the prison, if these besotted wretches persist in sending you there. But oh, theremustbe some mistake—it is too atrocious. Sir Roger, can't you do something? Great Heaven! the idea of Inez Catheron being lodged in Chesholm jail like a common felon!"
"Sir Roger can do nothing," Inez answered; "the law must take its course. Let us end this painful scene—let us go at once." She shuddered in spite of herself. "The sooner it is over the better."
She shook hands again with Sir Roger. A cab was at the door—the old baronet handed the ladies in, and stood bare-headed, until they were driven out of sight. They reached the square, gloomy, black building called Chesholm jail, standing in the center of a gloomy, paved quadrangle. Miss Catheron was shown to a room. The jailer had once been a servant in the Powyss family, and he pledged himself now to make Miss Inez as comfortable as was admissible under the circumstances.
Once in the dreary room, with the heavy door closed and locked, Lady Helena suddenly fell down on the stone floor before her niece and held up her hands.
"Inez," she said, "in Heaven's name hear me! You are shielding some one—that guilty man—you saw him do this deed. Speak out! Save yourself—let the guilty suffer. What is he, that you should perish for his sake? He was always evil and guilty—forget his blood flows in your veins—speak out and save yourself. Let him who is guilty suffer for his own crime!"
The soft September twilight was filling the room. One pale flash of sunset came slanting through the grated window and fell on Inez Catheron's face. She stood in the middle of the floor, her clasped hands hanging loosely before her, an indescribable expression on her face.
"Poor Juan," she said, wearily; "don't be too hard on him, Aunt Helena. We have none of us ever been too gentle with him in his wrong doing, and he wasn't really bad at heartthen. If any letter should come from him to you, for me, say nothing about it—bring it here. I don't think he will be taken; he can double like a hare, and he is used to being hunted. I hope he is far away at sea before this. For the rest, I have nothing to say—nothing. I can live disgraced and die a felon if need be, but not ten thousand disgraceful deaths can make me speak one word more than I choose to utter."
Lady Helena's stifled sobbing filled the room. "Oh, my child! my child!" she cried; "what madness is this, and for one so unworthy!"
"But there will be no such tragical ending. I will be tried at the Assizes and acquitted. Theycan'tbring me in guilty. Jane Pool's circumstancial evidence may sound very conclusive in the ears of Mr. Justice Smiley, but it won't bring conviction with a grand jury. You see it wasn't sufficient even for the coroner. The imprisonment here will be the worst, but you will lighten that. Then when it is all over, I will leave England and go back to Spain, to my mother's people. They will receive me gladly, I know. It is growing dark, Aunt Helena—pray don't linger here longer."
Lady Helena arose, her face set in a look of quiet, stubborn resolve.
"Take good care of poor Victor, and watch the baby well. He is the last of the Catherons now, you know. Don't let any one approach Victor but Mrs. Marsh, and warn her not to speak of my arrest—the shock might kill him. I wish—I wish I had treated her more kindly in the past. I feel as though I could never forgive myself now."
"You had better not talk so much, Inez," her aunt said, almost coldly. "You may be overheard. I don't pretend to understand you. You know best, whether he, for whom you are making this sacrifice, deserves it or not. Good-night, my poor child—I will see you early to-morrow."
Lady Helena, her lips set in that rigid line of resolve, her tears dried, rode back to Catheron Royals. The darkness had fallen by this time—fallen with black, fast-drifting clouds, and chill whistling winds. Two or three lights, here and there, gleamed along the lofty facade of the old mansion, now a house of mourning indeed. Beneath its roof a foul, dark murder had been done—beneath its roof its master lay ill unto death. And for the guilty wretch who had wrought this ruin, Inez Catheron was to suffer imprisonment, suspicion, and life-long disgrace. The curse that the towns-people invoked on Juan Catheron, Lady Helena had it in her heart to echo.
Her first act was to dismiss Jane Pool, the nurse.
"We keep servants, not spies and informers, at Catheron Royals," she said, imperiously. "Go to Mrs. Marsh—what is due you she will pay. You leave Catheron Royals without a character, and at once."
"I'm not afraid, my lady," Jane Pool retorted, with a toss of her head."People will know why I'm turned away, and I'll get plenty of places.I knew I would lose my situation for telling the truth, but I'm notthe first that has suffered in a good cause."
Lady Helena had swept away, disdaining all reply. She ascended to SirVictor's room—the night-lamp burned low, mournful shadows filled it.A trusty nurse sat patiently by the bedside.
"How is he now?" asked his aunt, bending above him.
"Much the same, your ladyship—in a sort of stupor all the time, tossing about, and muttering ceaselessly. I can't make out anything he says, except the name Ethel. He repeats that over and over in a way that breaks my heart to hear."
The name seemed to catch the dulled ear of the delirious man.
"Ethel," he said, wearily. "Yes—yes I must go and fetch Ethel home. I wish Inez would go away—her black eyes make one afraid—they follow me everywhere. Ethel—Ethel—Ethel!" He murmured the name dreamily, tenderly. Suddenly he half started up in bed and looked about him wildly. "What brings Juan Catheron's picture here? Ethel! come away from him. How dare you meet him here alone?" He grasped Lady Helena's wrist and looked at her with haggard, bloodshot eyes. "He was your lover once—how dare he come here? Oh, Ethel you won't leave me for him! I love you—I can't live without you—don'tgo. Oh, my Ethel! my Ethel! my Ethel!"
He fell back upon the bed with a sort of sobbing cry that brought the tears streaming from the eyes of the tender-hearted nurse.
"He goes on like that continual, my lady," she said, "and it's awful wearing. Always 'Ethel.' Ah, it's a dreadful thing?"
"Hooper will watch with you to-night, Martha," Lady Helena said. "Mrs. Marsh will relieve you to-morrow. No stranger shall come near him. I will take a look at baby before going home. I shall return here early to-morrow, and I need not tell you to be very watchful!—I know you will."
"You needn't indeed, my lady," the woman answered, mournfully. "I was his mother's own maid, and I've nursed him in my arms, a little white-haired baby, many a time. I will be watchful, my lady."
Lady Helena left her and ascended to the night nursery. She had to pass the room where the tragedy had been enacted. She shivered as she went by. She found the little heir of Catheron Royals asleep in his crib, guarded by the under-nurse—head-nurse now,viceMrs. Pool cashiered.
"Take good care of him, nurse," was Lady Helena's last charge, as she stooped and kissed him, tears in her eyes; "poor little motherless lamb."
"I'll guard him with my life, my lady," the girl answered, sturdily."No harm shall come tohim."
Lady Helena returned to Powyss Place and her convalescent husband, her heart lying like a stone in her breast.
"If I hadn't sent for Victor that night—if I had left him at home to protect his wife, this might never have happened," she thought, remorsefully; "hewould never have left her alone and unprotected, to sleep beside an open window in the chill night air."
Amid her multiplicity of occupations, amid her own great distress, she had found time to write to Mr. Dobb and his wife a touching, womanly letter. They had come down to see their dead daughter and departed again. She had been taken out of their life—raised far above them, and even in death they would not claim her.
And now that the funeral was over, Inez in prison, the tumult and excitement at an end, who shall describe the awful quiet that fell upon the old house. A ghastly stillness reigned—servants spoke in whispers, and stole from room to room—the red shadow of Murder rested in their midst. And upstairs, in that dusk chamber, while the nights fell, Sir Victor lay hovering between life and death.
Eight days after the burial of Lady Catheron, several events, occurred that wrought the seething excitement of Chesholm to boiling-over point—events talked of for many an after year, by cottage fireside and manor hearth.
The first of these, was Miss Catheron's examination before the police magistrate, and her committal to jail, until the assizes. The justice before whom the young lady appeared was the same who had already issued his warrant for her arrest—a man likely to show her little favor on account of her youth, her beauty, or her rank. Indeed the latter made him doubly bitter; he was a virulent hater of the "bloated aristocracy." Now that he had one of them in his power, he was determined to let the world at large, and Chesholm in small see that neither station nor wealth could be shields for crime.
She took her place in the prisoner's dock, pale, proud, disdainful. She glanced over the dark sea of threatening faces that thronged the court-room, with calmly haughty eyes—outwardly unmoved. Her few friends were there—few indeed, for nearly all believed that if hers was not the hand that had struck the blow, she had been at least her brother's abettor. Many were brought forward who could swear how she had hated my lady; how she had taken every opportunity to insult and annoy her; how again and again my lady had been found crying fit to break her heart after the lash of Miss Inez's stinging tongue. She had loved Sir Victor—she was furiously jealous of his wife—she had fiery Spanish blood in her veins, and a passionate temper that stopped at nothing. Jane Pool was there, more bitter than ever—more deadly in her evidence. Hooper was there, and his reluctantly extorted testimony told dead against her. The examination lasted two days. Inez Catheron was re-committed to prison to stand her trial for murder at the next assizes.
The second fact worthy of note was, that despite the efforts of the Chesholm police, in spite of the London detectives, no tale or tidings of Juan Catheron were to be found. The earth might have opened and swallowed him, so completely had he disappeared.
The third fact was, that Sir Victor Catheron had reached the crisis of his disease and passed it safely. The fever was slowly but steadily abating. Sir Victor was not to die, but to "take up the burden of life again"—a dreary burden, with the wife he had loved so fondly, sleeping in the vaults of Chesholm Church.
The fourth fact was, that the infant heir of the Catherons had been removed from Catheron Royals to Powyss Place, to be brought up under the watchful eye and care of his grand-aunt, Lady Helena.
On the evening of the day that saw Inez Catheron committed for trial, the post brought Lady Helena a letter. The handwriting, evidently disguised, was unfamiliar, and yet something about it set her heart throbbing. She tore it open; it contained an inclosure. There were but three lines for herself:
* * * * *
"DEAR LADY H.: If you will permit a reprobate to be on such familiar terms with your highly respectable name, I address I——, under cover to you, as per order. J.C."
* * * * *
The inclosure was sealed. Lady Helena destroyed her own, and next day drove to the prison with the other. She found her niece sitting comfortably enough in an arm-chair, reading, and except that she had grown thinner and paler, looking little the worse. All that it was possible to do, to make her comfortable, had been done. Without a word the elder woman presented the letter—without a word the younger took it. She turned to the window and read its brief contents.
"Thank Heaven!" her aunt heard her fervently say.
"May I see it, Inez? What does he say? Is he coming here to—"
"Coming here!" The girl's dark eyes looked at her in grave astonishment "Certainly not. He is safe away, I am thankful to say, and out of their reach."
"And he leaves you here to suffer in his stead, and you thank Heaven for it! Inez Catheron, you are the most egregious—. Give me that note!"
Inez smiled as she gave it. Her aunt put up her double eye-glass, and read:
"ON BOARD THE THREE BELLS,"OFF PLYMOUTH, Oct.—.
"DEAR I.:—I've dodged the beaks, you see. I bought a disguise that would have baffled Fouche himself and—here I am. In twenty minutes we'll have weighed anchor and away to the West Indies. I've read the papers, and I'm sorry to see they've taken you on suspicion. Inez, you're a trump, by Jove! I can say no more, but mind you, only I know they can't commit you, I'd come back and confess all. I would, by jingo. I may be a scoundrel, but I'm not such a scoundrel as that.
"I see the baronet's down with brain fever. If he goes off the hooks, there will be only the young 'un between me and the succession. Supposehegoes off the hooks too, then I'll be a full-fledged baronet! But of course he won't. I'm always an unlucky beggar. You may write me on board the Three Bells, at Martinique, and let me know how things go on in England. J."
* * * * *
A flush—a deep angry flush reddened the face of Lady Helena Powyss, as she finished this cool epistle. She crushed it in her hand as though it were a viper.
"The coward! the dastard! And it is for the heartless writer of this insolent letter that you suffer all this. Inez Catheron. I command you—speak out. Tell what you know. Let the guilty wretch you call brother, suffer for his own crime."
Inez looked at her, with something of the stern, haughty glance she had cast upon the rabble of the court room.
"Enough, Lady Helena! You don't know what you are talking about. I have told you before; all I had to say I said at the inquest. It is of no use our talking about it. Come what may, I will never say one word more."
And looking at her stern, resolute face, Lady Helena knew she never would. She tore the letter she held into minutest morsels, and tied them up in her handkerchief.
"I'll burn them when I get home, and I never want to hearhisname again. For you," lowering her voice, "we must save you in spite of yourself. You shall never stand your trial at the assizes."
Miss Catheron looked wistfully at the heavily bolted and barred window.
"I should like to be saved," she said, wearily, "at any other price than that of speaking. Once I thought I would die sooner than stoop to run away—a fortnight's imprisonment changes all that. Save me if you can, Aunt Helena—it will kill me to face that horrible mob again."
Her voice died out in a choking sob. She was thoroughly brave, but she shuddered with sick fear and loathing, from head to foot, as she recalled the dark, vindictive faces, the merciless eyes that had confronted her yesterday on every side.
Lady Helena kissed her quietly and turned to go.
"Keep up heart," she said; "before the week ends you shall be free."
Two days later, Lady Helena and the warden of Chesholm jail sat closeted together in deep and mysterious conference. On the table between them lay a crossed check for seven thousand pounds.
The jailor sat with knitted brows and troubled, anxious face. He had been for years a servant in Lady Helena's family. Her influence had procured him his present situation. He had a sick wife and a large family, and seven thousand pounds was an immense temptation.
"You risk nothing," Lady Helena was saying, in an agitated whisper, "and you gain everything. They will blame you for nothing worse than carelessness in the discharge of your duty. You may lose your situation. Very well, lose it. Here are seven thousand pounds for you. In all your life, grubbing here, you would never accumulate half or quarter that sum. You can remove to London; trust to my influence to procure you a better situation there than this. And oh, think ofher—young, guiltless—think what her life has been, think what it is now destined to be. She is innocent—I swear it. You have daughters of your own, about her age—think of them and yield!"
He stretched forth his hand and answered, resolutely:
"Say no more, my lady. Let good or ill betide—I'll do it."
The issue of theChesholm Courierfour days later contained a paragraph that created the profoundest excitement from end to end of the town. We quote it:
* * * * *
* * * * *
"Early on the morning of Tuesday the under jailer, going to Miss Catheron's cell with her breakfast, found, to his astonishment and dismay, that it was empty and his prisoner flown.
"A moment's investigation showed him the bars of the window cleanly filed through and removed. A rope ladder and a friend without, it is quite evident, did the rest. The man instantly gave the alarm and aid came. The head jailer appears to be as much at a loss as his underling, but he is suspected. He lived in his youth in the Powyss family, and was suspected of a strong attachment to the prisoner. He says he visited Miss Catheron last night as usual when on his rounds, and saw nothing wrong or suspicious then, either about the filed bars or the young lady. It was a very dark night, and no doubt her escape was easily enough effected. If any proof of the prisoner's guilt were needed, her flight from justice surely renders it. Miss Catheron's friends have been permitted from the first to visit her at their pleasure and bring her what they chose—the result is to be seen to-day. The police, both of our town and the metropolis, are diligently at work. It is hoped their labors will be more productive of success in the case of the sister than they have been in that of the brother.
"The head jailer, it is said, will be dismissed from his post. No doubt, pecuniarily, this is a matter of indifference to himnow. He made his appearance once in the street this morning, and came near being mobbed. Let this escape be rigidly investigated, and let all implicated be punished."
The escape created even more intense and angry excitement than the murder. The rabble were furious. It is not every day that a young lady of the upper ten thousand comes before the lower ten million in the popular character of a murderess. They had been lately favored with such rich and sensational disclosures in high life, love, jealousy, quarrels, assassination. Their victim was safely in their hands; they would try her, condemn her, hang her, and teach the aristocracy, law was a game two could play at. And lo! in the hour of their triumph, she slips from between their hands, and, like her guilty brother and abettor, makes good her escape.
The town of Chesholm was furious. If the jailer had shown his face he stood in danger of being torn to pieces. They understood thoroughly how it was—that he had been bribed. In the dead of night, the man and his family shook the dust of Chesholm off their feet, and went to hide themselves in the busy world of London.
Three weeks passed. October, with its mellow days and frosty nights, was gone. And still no trace of the fugitive. All the skill of the officials of the town and country had been baffled by the cunning of a woman. Inez Catheron might have flown with the dead summer's swallows for all the trace she had left behind.
The first week of November brought still another revelation. Sir Victor Catheron had left the Royals; Lady Helena, the squire, the baby, the nurse, Powyss Place. They were all going to the south of France for the young baronet's spirits and health. Catheron Royals, in charge of Mrs. Marsh and Mr. Hooper, and two servants, on board wages, was left to silence and gloom, rats and evil repute, autumnal rain and wind. The room of the tragedy was shut up, a doomed room, "under the ban" forever.
And so for the present the "tragedy of Catheron Royals" had ended. Brother and sister had fled in their guilt, alike from justice and vengeance. Ethel, Lady Catheron, lay with folded hands and sealed lips in the grim old vaults, and a parchment and a monument in Chesholm Church recorded her name and age—no more. So for the present it had ended.