"No words can be strong enough to reprehend your conduct, Victor. You have acted disgracefully; you are listening, sir,—disgracefully, I say, to your cousin Inez. And you are the first of your line who has blurred the family escutcheon. Dukes' daughters have entered Catheron Royals as brides. It was left for you to wed a soap-boiler's daughter!"
Thus Lady Helena Powyss, of Powyss Place, to her nephew, Sir Victor Catheron, just one fortnight after that memorable night of his wife and heir's coming home. The young man stood listening in sullen anger, the red blood mounting to his very temples. His Cousin Inez had managed during the past two weeks to make his existence as thoroughly uncomfortable as a thoroughly jealous and spiteful woman can. He had flown at last to his aunt for comfort, and this is how he got it.
"Lady Helena," he burst forth, "this is too much! Not even from you will I bear it. A soap-boiler's daughter my wife may be—it is the only charge that can be brought against her. I have married to please myself, and itdoesplease me enormously. Inez, confound her! badgers me enough. I didn't expect, Aunt Helena, to be badgered by you."
"I have no wish to badger you. I bring no charge against your wife. I have seen her but once, and personally I like her excessively. I believe her to be as good as she is pretty. But againyourconduct I do and will protest. You have cruelly, shamefully wronged your cousin—humiliated her beyond all telling. I can only wonder—yes, Victor, wonder—that with her fiery nature she takes it as quietly as she does."
"As quietly as she does! Good Heavens!" burst forth this "badgered" baronet. "You should live in the same house with her to find out how quietly she takes it. Women understand how to torture—they should have been grand inquisitors of a Spanish inquisition, if such a thing ever existed. I am afraid to face her. She stabs my wife in fifty different ways fifty times a day, and I—my guilty conscience won't let me silence her. Ethel has not known a happy hour since she entered Catheron Royals, and all through her infernal serpent tongue. Let her take care—if she were ten times my cousin, even she may go one step too far."
"Does that mean, Victor, you will turn her from Catheron Royals?"
"It means that, if you like. Inez is my cousin, Ethel is my wife. You are her friend, Aunt Helena; you will be doing a friendly action if you drop her a hint. I wish you good-morning."
He took his hat and turned to go, his handsome blonde face sullen and set.
"Very well," Lady Helena answered; "I will. You are to blame—not that poor fair-haired child. I will speak to Inez; and, Victor, I will try to forgive you for your mother's sake. Though you broke her heart she would have forgiven you. I will try to do as she would have done—and I like the little thing. You will not fail me on Thursday next? IfItake up your wife all the neighborhood will, you may depend."
"We are not likely to fail. The invitation is like your kindness, AuntHelena. Thanks very much!"
His short-lived anger died away; he gave his hand frankly to his aunt. She was his wife's friend—the only one who had taken the slightest notice of her since her arrival. For the resident gentry had decided that they couldn't—really couldn't—call upon the soap-boiler's daughter.
Sir Victor Catheron had shocked and scandalized his order as it had not been shocked and scandalized for half a century. A banker's daughter, a brewer's daughter, they were prepared to accept—banking and brewing are genteel sort of things. But a soap-boiler!—and married in secret!—and a baby born in lodgings!—and Miss Catheron jilted in cold blood!—Oh it was shameful!—shameful! No, they could not call upon the new Lady Catheron—well, at least until they saw whether the Lady Helena Powyss meant to take her up.
Lady Helena was the only sister of the young baronet's late mother, with no children of her own, and very strongly attached to both Sir Victor and Inez. His mother's dying desire had been that he should marry his cousin. He had promised, and Lady Helena's strongest hope in life had been to see that promise fulfilled. The news of his low marriage fell upon her like a thunderbolt. She was the proudest of dowagers—when had a Catheron made amesalliancebefore? No; she could not forgive him—could never receive his wife.
But when he came to her, pale, sad, appealing for pardon, she relented. It was a very tender and womanly heart, despite its pride of birth, that beat in Lady Helena's bosom; and jolly Squire Powyss, who had seen the little wife at the Royals, took sides with his nephew.
"It's done, and can't be undone, my dear," the squire said, philosophically; "and it's always wise to make the best of a bad bargain; and 'pon my life, my love, it's the sweetest little face the sun ever shone on! Gad! I'd have done it myself. Forgive him, my dear—boys will be boys—and go and see his wife."
Lady Helena yielded—love for her boy stronger than pride or anger. She went; and there came into one of the dusk drawing-rooms of the Royals, a little white vision, with fair, floating hair, and pathetic blue eyes—a little creature, so like a child, that the tender, motherly heart of the great lady went out to her at once.
"You pretty little thing!" she said, taking her in her arms and kissing her as though she had been eight rather than eighteen. "You're nothing but a baby yourself and you have got a baby they tell me. Take me to see him, my dear."
They were friends from that hour. Ethel, with grateful tears in her eyes, led her up to the dainty berceaunette where the heir of Catheron Royals slept, and as she kissed his velvet cheek and looked pityingly from babe to mother, the last remains of anger died out of her heart. Lady Helena Powyss would "take Lady Catheron up."
"She's pretty, and gentle, and good, and a lady if ever I saw one," she said to Inez Catheron; "and she doesn't look too happy. Don't be too hard on her, my dear—it isn't her fault. Victor is to blame. No one feels that more than I. But not that blue-eyed child—try to forgive her Inez, my love. A little kindness will go a long way there."
Inez Catheron sitting in the sunlit window of her own luxurious room, turned her face from the rosy sunset sky full upon her aunt.
"I know what I owe my cousin Victor and his wife," she answered steadily, "and one day I shall pay my debt."
The large, lustrous Spanish eyes turned once more to the crimson light in the western sky. Some of that lurid splendor lit her dark, colorless face with a vivid glow. Lady Helena looked at her uneasily—there was a depth here she could not fathom. Was Inez "taking it quietly" after all?
"I—I don't ask you to forgivehim, my dear," she said, nervously—"at least, just yet. I don't think I could do it myself. And of course you can't be expected to feel very kindly to her who has usurped your place. But I would let her alone if I were you. Victor is master here, and his wife must be mistress, and naturally he doesn't like it. You might go too far, and then—"
"He might turn me out of Catheron Royals—is that what you are trying to say, Aunt Helena?"
"Well, my dear—"
"Victor was to see you yesterday. Did he tell you this? No need to distress yourself—I see he did. And so I am to be turned from Catheron Royals for the soap-boiler's daughter, if I don't stand aside and let her reign. It is well to be warned—I shall not forget it."
Lady Helena was at a loss. What could she say? What could she do? Something in the set, intense face of the girl frightened her—absolutely frightened her. She rose hurriedly to go.
"Will you come to Powyss Place on Thursday next?" she asked. "I hardly like to press you, Inez, under the circumstances. For poor Victor's sake I want to make the best of it. I give a dinner party, as you know; invite all our friends, and present Lady Catheron. There is no help for it. If I take her up, all the country will; but ifyouhad rather not appear, Inez—"
There was a sharp, quick, warning flash from the black eyes.
"Why should I not appear? Victor may be a coward—Iam not. I will go. I will face our whole visiting list, and defy them to pity me. Take up the soap-boiler's heiress by all means, but, powerful as you are, I doubt if even you will be able to keep her afloat. Try the experiment—give the dinner party—I will be there."
"It's a very fine thing for a tradesman's daughter to marry a rich baronet, no doubt," commented Lady Helena, as she was driven home; "but, with Inez for my rival,Ishouldn't care to risk it. I only hope, for my sake at least, she will let the poor thing alone next Thursday."
The "poor thing" indeed! If Sir Victor's life had been badgered during the past fortnight, his wife's life had been rendered nearly unendurable. Inez knew so well how to stab, and she never spared a thrust. It was wonderful, the bitterest, stinging things she could say over and over again, in her slow,legatotones. She never spared. Her tongue was a two-edged sword, and the black deriding eyes looked pitilessly on her victim's writhes and quivers. And Ethel bore it. She loved her husband—he feared his cousin—for his sake she endured. Only once, after some trebly cruel stab, she had cried aloud in her passionate pain:
"I can't endure it, Victor—I cannot! She will kill me. Take me back to London, to Russell Square, anywhere away from your dreadful cousin!"
He had soothed her as best he might, and riding over to Powyss Place, had given his aunt that warning.
"It will seem a horribly cruel and inhuman thing to turn her from the home where she has reigned mistress so long," he said to himself. "I will never be able to hold up my head in the county after—but shemustlet Ethel alone. By fair means or foul she must."
The day of Lady Helena Powyss' party came—a terrible ordeal for Ethel. She had grown miserably nervous under the life she had led the past two weeks—the ceaseless mockery of Miss Catheron's soft, scornful tones, the silent contempt and derision of her hard black eyes. What should she wear? how should she act? What if she made some absurd blunder, betraying her plebeian birth and breeding? What if she mortified her thin-skinned husband? Oh! why was it necessary to go at all?
"My dear child," her husband said, kissing her good-humoredly, "it isn't worth that despairing face. Just put on one of your pretty dinner-dresses, a flower in your hair, and your pearls. Be your own simple, natural, dear little self, and there will not be a lady at Aunt Helena's able to shine you down."
And when an hour after, she descended, in a sweeping robe of silvery blue, white lilies in her yellow hair, and pale pearls clasping her slim throat, she looked fair as a dream.
Inez's black eyes flashed angrily as they fell upon her. Soap-boiler's daughter she might be, with the blood of many Dobbs in her veins, but no young peeress, born to the purple, ever looked more graceful, more refined.
For Miss Catheron herself, she was quite bewildering in a dress of dead white silk, soft laces and dashes of crimson about her as usual, and rubies flashing here and there. She swept on to the carriage with head held haughtily erect, a contemptuous smile on her lips, like anything on earth but a jilted maiden.
Lady Helena's rooms were filled when they entered; not one invitation had been declined. Society had mustered in fullest force to see Sir Victor Catheron's low-born wife, to see how Miss Catheron bore her humiliation. How would the one bear their scrutiny, the other their pity? But Miss Catheron, handsome, smiling, brilliant, came in among them with eyes that said: "Pity me if you dare!" And upon Sir Victor's arm there followed the small, graceful figure, the sweet, fair face of a girl who did not look one day more than sixteen—by all odds the prettiest girl in the rooms.
Lady Helena—who, when she did that sort of thing,diddo it—took the little wife under her wing at once. People by the score, it seemed to the bewildered Ethel, were presented, and the stereotyped compliments of society were poured into her ear. Sir Victor was congratulated, sincerely by the men, with an under-current of pity and mockery by the women. Then they were all at dinner—the bride in the place of honor—running the gauntlet of all those eyes on the alert for any solecism of good manners.
She went through it all, her cheeks flushing, her eyes kindling with excitement growing prettier every moment. Her spirits rose—she would let these peoples and Inez Catheron see, she was their equal in all things save birth. She talked, she laughed, she took captive half the male hearts, and when the ladies at length sailed away to the drawing-room, Lady Helena stooped and kissed her, almost with motherly pride.
"My dear," she whispered, "let me congratulate you. Nothing could be a greater success. All the men are in love with you—all the women jealous. A most excellent beginning indeed!"
She laughed pleasantly, this kindly dowager, and passed on. It was, an unspeakable relief to her to see her nephew's low-born wife face society so bravely and well. And better still, Inez had not launched one single poisoned dart. But the evening was not ended yet. Inez's time was to come. Enter the gentlemen presently, and flirtations are resumed,tete-a-tetesin quiet comers recommenced, conversation becomes general. There is music. A certain Lord Verriker, the youngest man present, and the greatest in social status, monopolizes Lady Catheron. He leads her to the piano, and she sings. She is on trial still, and does her best, and her best is very good—a sweet Scotch ballad. There is quite a murmur of applause as she rises, and through it there breaks Miss Catheron's soft, sarcastic laugh. The flush deepens in Ethel's cheek—the laugh is at her performance she feels.
And now the hour of Inez's vengeance comes. Young Captain Varden is leaning over her chair; he is in love with Miss Catheron, and hovers about her unceasingly. He talks a great deal, though not very brilliantly. He is telling her in an audible undertone how Jack Singleton of "Ours" has lately made an object of himself before gods and men, and irretrievably ruined himself for life by marrying the youngest Miss Potter, of Potter's Park.
"Indeed!" Miss Catheron responds, with her light laugh, and her low, clear voice perfectly distinct to all; "the youngest Miss Potter. Ah, yes! I've heard of them. The paternal Potter kept a shop in Chester, didn't he—a grocer, or something of the sort, and having made money enough behind the counter, has retired. And poor Lieutenant Singleton has married the youngest Miss Potter! 'Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad.' A very charming girl no doubt, as sweet as the paternal treacle, and as melting as her father's butter. It's an old custom in some families—my own for instance—to quarter the arms of the bride on the family shield. Now what do you suppose the arms of the Potter family may be—a white apron and a pair of scales?"
And then, all through the room, there is a horrible suppressed laugh. The blood rushes in a fiery tide to the face of Sir Victor, and Lady Helena outglows her crimson velvet gown. Ethel, with the youthful Lord Verriker still hovering around her, has but one wild instinct, that of flight. Oh! to be away, from these merciless people—from that bitter, dagger-tongued Inez Catheron! She looks wildly at her husband. Must she bear this? But his back is to her—he is wilfully blind and deaf. The courage to take up the gauntlet for his wife, to make a scene, to silence his cousin, is a courage he does not possess.
Under the midnight stars Lady Helena's guests drive home. In the carriage of Sir Victor Catheron there is dead silence. Ethel, shrinking from her husband almost as much as from his cousin, lies back in a corner, pale and mute. Inez Catheron's dauntless black eyes look up at the white, countless stars as she softly hums a tune. Sir Victor sits with his eyes shut, but he is not asleep. He is in a rage with himself, he hates his cousin, he is afraid to look at his wife. One way or other he feels there must be an immediate end of this.
The first estrangement that has parted him and Ethel has come. He hardly knows her to-night—her cold, brief words, her averted face, her palpable shrinking as he approaches. She despises him, and with reason, a man who has not the courage to protect his wife from insult.
Next day Lady Catheron declines to appear at either breakfast or luncheon, and when, five minutes before dinner, Sir Victor and Miss Catheron meet in the dining-room, she is absent still. He rings the bell angrily and demands where she is.
"My lady has gone out," the footman answers. "She went half an hour ago. She had a book with her, and she went in the direction of the laurel walk."
"I will go in search of her," Sir Victor says, taking his hat; "let dinner wait until our return."
Ethel has gone, because she cannot meet Inez Catheron again, never again break bread at the same board with her pitiless enemy. She cried herself quietly to sleep last night; her head aches with a dull, sickening pain to-day. To be home once more—to be back in the cosy, common-place Russell square lodgings! If it were not for baby she feels as though she would like to run away, from Sir Victor and all, anywhere that Inez Catheron's black eyes and derisive smile could never come.
The September twilight, sparkling with frosty-looking stars, is settling down over the trees. The great house looms up, big, sombre, stately, a home to be proud of, yet Ethel shudders as she looks at it. The only miserable days of her life have been spent beneath its roof; she will hate it before long. Her very love for her husband seems to die out in bitter contempt, as she thinks of last night, when he stood by and heard his cousin's sneering insult. The gloaming is chilly, she draws her shawl closer around her, and walks slowly up and down. Slow, miserable tears trickle down her cheeks as she walks. She feels so utterly alone, so utterly forlorn, so utterly at the mercy of this merciless woman.
"Oh!" she says, with a passionate sob, and unconsciously aloud, "whydid I ever marry him?"
"If you mean Sir Victor Catheron," answers a voice, "I think I can tell you. You married Sir Victor Catheron because hewasSir Victor Catheron. But it isn't a marriage, my dear—you know that. A young lady can't have two husbands, and I'm your legal, lawful-wedded spouse."
She utters a cry—she recoils with a face of terror, for there in the twilight before her, tall, black, sinister, stands Juan Catheron.
"You!" she gasps.
"I, my dear—I, in the flesh. Did you think I had gone? My dear Ethel, so I would have gone, if Inez had come down in the sisterly way she should. But she hasn't. I give you my word of honor her conduct has been shabby in the extreme. A few hundreds—I asked no more—and she wouldn't. What was a miserly fifty pun' note to a man like me, with expensive tastes, and who has not set foot on British soil for two years? Not a jewel would she part with—all Sir Victor's presents, forsooth! And she's in love with Sir Victor, you know. Perhaps youdon'tknow, though. 'Pon my life, she is, Ethel, and means to have him yet, too. That's what she says, and she is a girl to do as she says, is Inez. That's why I'm here to-night, my dear. I can't go to Sir Victor, you understand—motives of delicacy, and all that—so I waited my chance, and have come to you. You may be fickle, but I don't think you're stingy. And something is due to my outraged feelings, blighted affections, and all that. Give me five hundred pounds, Ethel, and let us call it square."
He came nearer, his big, brown hand outstretched. She shrank away, hatred and repulsion in her face.
"Stand back!" she said. "Don't come near me, Juan Catheron! How dare you intrude here! How dare you speak to me!"
"How dare I? Oh, come now, I say, I like that. If a man may not speak to his own wife, to whommayhe speak? If it comes to that, how dare you throw me over, and commit bigamy, and marry Sir Victor Catheron? It's of no use your riding the high horse with me, Ethel; you had better give me the five hundred—I'm sure I'm moderate enough—and let me go."
"I will not give you a farthing; and if you do not leave this place instantly, I will call my husband. Oh!" she burst forth, frantically, "between you and your sister you will drive me mad!"
"Will you give me the money?" asked Juan Catheron, folding his arms and turning sullen.
"I have not got it. What money have I?—and if I had, I say I would not give you a farthing. Begone! or—"
"You have diamonds." He pointed to her hands. "They will do—easily convertible in London. Hand them here, or, by all the gods, I'll blow the story of your bigamy all over England!"
"You will not!" she cried, her eyes flashing in the twilight—"you coward! you dare not! Sir Victor hasyouin his power, and he will keep his threat. Speak one word of that vile lie, and your tongue will be silenced in Chesholm jail. Leave me, I say!"—she stamped her foot passionately—"I am not afraid of you, Juan Catheron!"
"And you will not give me the jewels?"
"Not one—not to keep you from spreading your slander from end to end of England! Do your worst!—you cannot make me more wretched than I am. And go, or I will call for help, and see whether my husband has not courage to keep his word."
"You will not give me the rings?"
"Not to save your life! Hark! some one is coming! Now you will see which of us is afraid of the other!"
He stood looking at her, a dangerous gleam in his black eyes.
"Very well!" he said; "so be it! Don't trouble yourself to call your hero of a husband—I'm going. You're a plucky little thing after all, Ethel. I don't know but that I rather admire your spirit. Adieu, my dear, until we meet again."
He swung round, and vanished among the trees. He was actually singing as he went,
"To-day for me.To-morrow for thee—But will that to-morrow ever be?"
The last rustle of the laurels died away; all was still; the twilight was closing darkness, and, with a shudder, Ethel turned to go.
"But will that to-morrow ever be?"—the refrain of the doggerel rung in her ears. "Am I never to be free from this brother and sister?" she cried to herself, desperately, as she advanced to the house. "Am I never to be free from this bondage?"
As the last flutter of her white dress disappeared, Sir Victor Catheron emerged from the shadow of the trees, and the face, on which the rising moon shone, was white as the face of death.
He had not overheard a word, he had not tried to overhear; but he had seen them together—that was enough. He had reached the spot only a moment before their parting, and had stood confounded at sight of his wife alone here in the dusk with Juan Catheron.
He saw them part—saw him dash through the woodland, singing as he went—saw her turn away and walk rapidly to the house. She had come here to meet him, then, her former lover. He had not left Chesholm; he was lurking in the neighborhood of the Royals, and she knew it. She knew it. How many times had they met before—his wife and the man he abhorred—the man who claimed her as his wife. What if shewerehis wife? What if that plight pledged in the Scotch kirk were binding? She had loved Juan Catheron then. What if she loved him still? She had hidden it from him, until it could be hidden no longer—she had deceived him in the past, she was deceiving him in the present. So fair and so false, so innocent to all outward seeming. Yet so lost to all truth and honor.
He turned sick and giddy; he leaned against a tree, feeling as though he could never look upon her false face again. Yet the next moment he started passionately up.
"I will go to her," he thought; "I will hear what she has to say. If she voluntarily tells me, I must, I will believe her. If she is silent, I will take it as proof of her guilt."
He strode away to the house. As he entered, his man Edwards met him, and presented him a note.
"Brought by a groom from Powyss Place, Sir Victor," he said. "SquirePowyss has had a stroke."
The baronet tore it open—it was an impetuous summons from Lady Helena.
"The squire has had an attack of apoplexy. For Heaven's sake come at once."
He crushed it in his hand, and went into the dining-room. His wife was not there. He turned to the nursery; he was pretty sure of always finding herthere.
She was there, bending over her baby, looking fair and sweet as the babe itself. Fair and sweet surely. Yet why, if innocent, that nervous start at sight of him—that frightened look in the blue eyes. The nurse stood at a distance, but he did not heed her.
"A summons from Powyss Place," he said; "the poor old squire has had a fit of apoplexy. This is the second within the year, and may prove fatal. I must go at once. It is not likely I shall return to-night."
She looked at him, startled by his deadly paleness; but then, perhaps, the summons accounted for that. She murmured her regrets, then bent again over her baby.
"You have nothing to say to me, Ethel, before I go?" he said, looking at her steadily.
She half-lifted her head, the words half-rose to her lips. She glanced at the distant nurse, who was still busy in the room, glanced at her husband's pale set face, and they died away again. Why detain him now in his haste and trouble? Why rouse his rage against Juan Catheron at this inopportune time? No, she would wait until to-morrow—nothing could be done now; then she would reveal that intrusion in the grounds.
"I have nothing to say, except good-by. I hope poor Mr. Powyss may not be so ill as you fear."
He turned away—a tumult of jealous rage within him. A deliberate lie he thought it; there could be no doubt of her guilt now. And yet, insanely inconsistent as it seems, he had never loved her more passionately than in that hour.
He turned to go without a word. He had reached the door. All at once he turned back, caught her in his arms almost fiercely, and kissed her again and again.
"Good-by," he said, "my wife, my love—good-by."
His vehemence frightened her. She released herself and looked at him, her heart fluttering. A second time he walked to the door—a second time he paused. Something seemed to stay his feet on the threshold.
"You will think me foolish, Ethel," he said, with a forced laugh; "but I seem afraid to leave you to-night. Nervous folly, I suppose; but take care of yourself, my darling, until I return. I shall be back at the earliest possible moment."
Then he was gone.
She crossed over to the low French window, standing wide open, and looked after him wistfully.
"Dear Victor," she thought, "how fond he is of me, after all."
The moon was shining brightly now, though the day still lingered. She stood and watched him out of sight. Once, as he rode away, he turned back—she kissed and waved her hand to him with a smile.
"Poor Victor!" she thought again, "he loves me so dearly that I ought to forgive him everything. How happy we might be here together, if it were not for that horrible brother and sister. I wish—I wish he would send her away."
She lingered by the window, fascinated by the brilliancy of the risingSeptember moon. As she stood there, the nursery door opened, and MissCatheron entered.
"You here," she said, coolly; "I didn't know it. I wanted Victor. I thought I heard his voice. And how is the heir of Catheron Royals?"
She bent, with her usual slight, chill smile over the crib of that young gentleman, and regarded him in his sleep. The nurse, listening in the dusk, she did not perceive.
"By the bye, I wonder if heisthe heir of Catheron Royals though? I am reading up the Scottish Law of Marriage, and really I have my doubts. If you are Juan's wife, you can't be Sir Victor's, consequently the legitimacy of his son may yet be—"
She never finished the sentence. It was the last drop in the brimming cup—the straw that broke the camel's back—the one insult of all others not to be borne. With eyes afire in the dusk, Sir Victor's wife confronted her.
"You have uttered your last affront, Inez Catheron," she exclaimed. "You will never utter another beneath this roof. To-morrow you leave it! I am Sir Victor Catheron's wife, the mistress of Catheron Royals, and this is the last night it shall ever shelter you. Go!" She threw open the nursery door. "When my husband returns either you or I leave this house forever!"
The nurse was absolutely forgotten. For a second even Inez Catheron quailed before the storm she had raised; then black eyes met blue, with defiant scorn.
"Not all the soap-boiler's daughters in London or England shall send me from Catheron Royals! Not all the Miss Dobbs that ever bore that distinguished appellation shall drive me forth.Youmay go to-morrow if you will. I shall not."
She swept from the room, with eyes that blazed, and voice that rang. And Jane Pool, the nurse, thinking she had heard a little too much, softly opened an opposite door and stole out.
"Good Lor'!" she thought, "herebe a pretty flare up! Ain't Miss Inez just got a temper though. I wouldn't stand in my lady's shoes, and her a-hating me so; no, not for all her money. I'll go down and get my supper, and call for Master Baby by and by."
Mrs. Pool descended to the servants' hall, to narrate, of course in confidence, to her most particular friends, the scene she had just overheard. There was Welsh rabbits for supper—nurse was particularly fond of Welsh rabbits—and in discussing it and Miss Inez's awful temper half an hour slipped away. Then she arose again to see after her charge.
"Which he should have been undressed and tucked away for the night half an hour ago, bless him," she remarked; "but I could not make up my mind to face my lady afterthatrow. Poor thing! It does seem hard now she can't be mistress in her own 'ouse. It's a pity Sir Victor can't turn Turk and marry 'em both, since he can't abear to part with neither."
Mrs. Pool made her exit and wended her way to the nursery. She tapped at the door—there was no reply—she opened it and went in—my lady had quitted it, no doubt.
No—to her surprise my lady was still there. The window still stood wide open, the white, piercing moonlight streamed in. An arm-chair stood near this window, and lying back in the arm-chair was my lady, fast asleep.
Fast asleep. Jane Pool tiptoed over to make sure. She was pale as the moonlight itself. Her lips quivered as she slept like the lips of a hurt child, her eyelashes were yet wet with tears. Sitting there alone she had cried herself to sleep.
"Poor thing!" Jane Pool said again. She was so young, so pretty, so gentle, that all the household loved her. "Poor dear thing! I say it's a burning shame for Sir Victor, so fond as he is of her too, to let Miss Inez torment her.Iwouldn't stand her hairs and her 'aughtiness, her temper and her tongue; no, not to be ten baronets' ladies, ten times hover!"
In his pretty blue silk, white lace, and carved rosewood nest, Master Victor lay still, sleeping also. Mrs. Pool softly folded a shawl around her lady's shoulder, lifted babe without awakening him, and stole softly out. The night nursery was an upper room. Jane Pool carried him up, disrobed him, fed him, and tucked him up for the night. He fell again asleep almost instantly. She summoned the under nurse-maid to remain with him, and went back to the lower regions. Half an hour had passed since she left; it struck the half hour after eight as she descended the stairs.
"I'm sore afraid my lady will catch cold sleeping in the night air.I do think now I ought to go in and wake her."
While she stood hesitating before it, the door opened suddenly and Miss Catheron came out. She was very pale. Jane Pool was struck by it, and the scarlet shawl she wore twisted about her, made her face look almost ghastly in the lamplight.
"Youhere?" she said, in her haughty way. "What do you want? Where is baby?"
"Baby's asleep, miss, for the night," Jane answered, with a stiff little curtsey; "and what I'm here for, is to wake my lady. Sleeping in a draught cannot be good for anybody. But perhaps she is awake."
"You will let my lady alone," said Miss Catheron sharply, "and attend to your nursery. She is asleep still. It is notyourplace to disturb her. Go!"
"Drat her!" Nurse Pool exclaimed inwardly, obeying, however; "she's that 'aughty and that stuck up, that she thinks we're the dirt under her feet. I only hope she'll be sent packing to-morrow, but I has my doubts. Sir Victor's afraid of her—anybody can see that with half an eye."
She descended to the servants' regions again, and encountered Ellen,Lady Catheron's smart maid, sociably drinking tea with the housekeeper.And once more into their attentive ears she poured forth this addendato her previous narrative.
"What was Miss Inez doing in there?" demanded the maid; "no, good, I'll be bound. She hates my lady like poison; Sir Victor jilted her, you know, and she's in love with him yet. My ladyshallbe woke up in spite of her; she'd like her to get her death in the night air, I dare say. I've an easy missis and a good place, and I mean to keep 'em. I ain't afraid of Miss Inez's black eyes and sharp tongue;I'llgo and wake my lady up."
She finished her tea and left. She reached the nursery door and rapped as Nurse Pool had done. There was no reply. She turned the handle softly and went in.
The large, crystal, clear moon was high in the sky now; its chill brightness filled the room. The arm-chair still stood under the window; the small figure of my lady still lay motionless in it.
"My lady," Ellen said gently, advancing, "please wake up."
There was no reply, no stir. She bent closer over her.
"Please, my lady, wake up; I'm afraid you'll catch your death of—"
The words ended in a shriek that rang through the house from end to end—a woman's shrill, ear-splitting shriek. She had laid her hand upon my lady's bosom to arouse her; she snatched it away and sprang back in horror. Asleep! Yes the sleep that knows no waking. Sir Victor Catheron's pretty young wife lay there in the moonlight—dead.
Dead! There is blood on the white dress, blood on the blue shawl, blood on Ellen's hand, blood trickling in a small red stream from under the left breast. Ethel, Lady Catheron, lies there before her in the moonlight stone dead—foully murdered.
She stands for a moment paralyzed—struck dumb by a horror too great for word or cry. Then she rushes to the door, along the passages, into the midst of the startled household like a mad creature, shrieking that one most awful word, "Murder!"
They flock around her, they catch hold of her, and keep her still by main force. They ask her questions, but she only screams still that ghastly word, "Murder!"
"Whois murdered? Where—what do you mean? Good Lord! young woman," cries Mr. Hooper, the butler, giving her a shake, "do come out of these hysterics if you can, and speak!Who'smurdered?"
"My lady! Oh, my lady! my lady! my lady!"
She is like a creature distraught. There is blood on her right hand; she sees it, and with a gasping cry at the grisly sight, and before they know what she is about, she falls down in a faint in their midst.
They lift her up; they look into one another's pale faces.
"My lady!" they repeat, in an awe-struck whisper. "Murdered!"
"Here!" cries Mr. Hooper, his dignity coming to his aid, "let us investigate this here. Lay this young woman flat on her back on the floor, sprinkle her with water, and let her come to. I'm going to find out what she means."
They lay poor Ellen stiffly out as directed, some one dashes water into her face, then in a body, with Mr. Hooper at their head, they march off to investigate.
"She was in the day-nursery," Nurse Pool suggests, in a whisper, and to the day-nursery they go.
On the threshold for a second or two they halt, their courage failing. But there is nothing very terrifying. Only the solemn moonlight, only the motionless little figure in the arm-chair. And yet a great awe holds them back. Does death—does murder stand grisly in their midst?
"Let us go in, in the name of Providence," says Mr. Hooper, a tremble in his voice; "it—it can't be what she says. O good Lord, no!"
They go forward on tiptoe, as if afraid of awakening that quiet sleeper whom only the last trump will ever awake now. They bend above her, holding their breath. Yes, there it is—the blood that is soaking her dress, dripping horribly on the carpet—oozing slowly from that cruel wound.
A gasping, inarticulate sort of groan comes heavily from every lip. Old Hooper takes her wrist between his shaking fingers. Stilled forever, already with the awful chill of death. In the crystal light of the moon the sweet young face has never looked fairer, calmer, more peaceful than now.
The old butler straightens himself up, ashen gray.
"It's too true," he says, with a sort of sob. "O Lord, have mercy on us—it's too true! She's dead! She's murdered!"
He drops the wrist he holds, the little jewelled, dead hand falls limp and heavy. He puts his own hands over his face and sobs aloud:
"Who will tell Sir Victor? O my master! my dear young master!"
No one speaks—a spell of great horror has fallen upon them. Murdered in their midst, in their peaceful household—they cannot comprehend it. At last—
"Where is Miss Catheron?" asks a sombre voice.
No one knows who speaks; no one seems to care; no one dare reply.
"Where is Inez Catheron?" the voice says again.
Something in the tone, something in the ghastly silence that follows, seems to arouse the butler. Since his tenth year he has been in the service of the Catherons—his father before him was butler in this house. Their honor is his. He starts angrily round now.
"Who was that?" he demands. "Of course Miss Inez knows nothing of this."
No one had accused her, but he is unconsciously defending her already.
"She must be told at once," he says. "I'll go and tell her myself.Edwards, draw the curtains, will you, and light the candles?"
He leaves the room. The valet mechanically does as he is bid—the curtains are drawn, the waxlights illumine the apartment. No one else stirs. The soft, abundant light falls down upon that tranquil, marble face—upon that most awful stain of blood.
The butler goes straight up to his young lady's room. Wayward, passionate, proud Miss Inez may be, but she is very dear to him. He has carried her in his arms many a time, a little laughing, black-eyed child. A vague, sickening fear fills him now.
"She hated my lady," he thinks, in a dazed, helpless sort of way; "everybody knows that. What will she say when she hears this?"
He knocks; there is no reply. He knocks again and calls huskily:
"Miss Inez, are you there? For the dear Lord's sake open the door!"
"Come in!" a voice answers.
He cannot tell whether it is Miss Inez or not. He opens the door and enters.
This room is unlit too—the shine of the moon fills it as it fills that other room below. Here too a solitary figure sits, crouches, rather, near the window in a strange, distorted attitude of pain. He knows the flowing black hair, the scarlet wrap—he cannot see her face, she does not look round.
"Miss Inez!"—his voice shakes—"I bring you bad news, awful news.Don't be shocked—but—a murder has been done."
There is no answer. If she hears him she does not heed. She just sits still and looks out into the night.
"Miss Inez! you hear me?"
He comes a little nearer—he tries to see her face.
"You hear me?" he repeats.
"I hear you."
The words drop like ice from her lips. One hand is clutching the arm of her chair—her wide-open black eyes never turn from the night-scene.
"My lady is dead—cruelly murdered. O Miss Inez! do you hear?—murdered! What is to be done?"
She does not answer. Her lips move, but no word comes. An awful fear begins to fill the faithful servant's heart.
"Miss Inez!" he cries out, "youmustcome—they are waiting for you below. There is no one here but you—Sir Victor is away. Sir Victor—"
His voice breaks; he takes out his handkerchief and sobs like a child.
"My dear young master! My dear young master! He loved the very ground she walked on. Oh, who is to tell him this?"
She rises slowly now, like one who is cramped, and stiff, and cold. She looks at the old man. In her eyes there is a blind, dazed sort of horror—on her face there is a ghastliness no words can describe.
"Who is to tell Sir Victor?" the butler repeats. "It will kill him—the horror of it. So pretty and so young—so sweet and so good. Oh, how could they do it—how could they do it!"
She tries to speak once more—it seems as though her white lips cannot shape the words. Old Hooper looks up at her piteously.
"Tell us what is to be done, Miss Inez," he implores; "you are mistress here now."
She shrinks as if he had struck her.
"Shall we send for Sir Victor first?"
"Yes," she says, in a sort of whisper, "send for Sir Victor first."
The voice in which she speaks is not the voice of Inez Catheron. The butler looks at her, that great fear in his eyes.
"You haven't seen her, Miss Inez," he says. "It is a fearful sight—but—will you come down?"
He almost dreads a refusal, but she does not refuse.
"I will go down," she answers, and turns at once to go.
The servants stand huddled together in the centre of the room.Itlies there, in its dreadful quiet, before them. Every eye turns darkly upon Miss Catheron as she comes in.
She never sees them. She advances like a sleep-walker, that dazed, dumb horror still in her eyes, the whiteness of death on her face. She walks over and looks down upon the dead mistress of Catheron Royals. No change comes over her—she softens neither into pity nor tears. So long she stands there, so rigid she looks, so threatening are the eyes that watch her, that Hooper interposes his portly figure between her and them.
"Miss Inez," he says, "will you please give your orders? Shall I send for Sir Victor at once, or—"
"Yes, send for Sir Victor at once." She arouses herself to say it. "And I think you had better send to Chesholm for a doctor and—and the police."
"The police!"
"A murder has been committed," she says, in a cold, hard voice; "the murderer must be found."
Something of her old calm, stately haughtiness returns as she speaks.
"This room must be cleared. Let no one touchher," she shudders and looks away, "until Sir Victor comes. Ellen, Pool, Hooper, you three had better remain to watch. Edwards, mount the fastest horse in the stables and ride to Powyss Place for your life."
"Yes, miss," Edwards answers, in a low voice; "and please, miss, am I to tell Sir Victor?"
She hesitates a moment—her face changes, her voice shakes a little for the first time.
"Yes," she answers, faintly, "tell him."
Edwards leaves the room. She turns to another of the men servants.
"You will ride to Chesholm and fetch Dr. Dane. On your way stop at the police station and apprise them. The rest of you go. Jane Pool, where is the baby?"
"Up stairs in the night nursery," Jane Pool answers sullenly.
"And crying, too—I hear him. Hannah," to the under nurse, "go up and remain with him. I am going to my own room. When," she pauses a second and speaks with an effort, "when Sir Victor comes, you will receive your further orders from him. I can do nothing more."
She left the room. Jane Pool looked ominously after her.
"No," she said, between her set lips; "you have done enough."
"Oh, Jane, hush!" Ellen whispers in terror.
There has still been no direct accusation, but they understand each other perfectly.
"When the time comes to speak, you'll see whether I'll hush," retorts Jane. "What was she doing in this room fifteen minutes before you found my lady dead? Why wouldn't she let me in? why did she tell me a lie? what made her say my lady was still asleep? Asleep! Oh, poor soul, to think of her being murdered here, while we were all enjoying ourselves below. And if I hadn't took away the baby its my opinion it would have been—"
"Oh, Jane!"
"'Oh, Jane,' as much as you please, it's the gospel truth. Them that killed the mother hated the child. When the time comes I'll speak, if she was twice the lady she is, Ellen!"
"Lor!" Ellen cried with a nervous jump, "don't speak so jerky Mrs.Pool. You make my blood a mask of ice. What is it?"
"Ellen," Jane Pool said solemnly, "where is the dagger?"
"What dagger?"
"The furrin dagger with the gold handle and the big ruby set in it, that my lady used as a paper knife. I'll take my oath I saw it lying on the table there, shining in the moonlight, when I took away baby. Where is it now?"
The dagger the nurse spoke of, was a curious Eastern knife, that had belonged to Sir Victor's mother. It had a long, keen steel blade, a slim handle of wrought gold set with a large ruby. Sir Victor's wife had taken a fancy to the pretty Syrian toy, and converted it into a paper knife.
"I saw it on that there table when I took away baby," Jane said compressing her lips; "itwould do it. Where is it now?"
"Gone," Ellen answered. "Oh, Jane do you think—"
"She has been stabbed, you see, right through the heart, and there isn't much blood. That devilish little glittering knife has done the deed. There it was ready for its work, as if Satan himself had left it handy. Oh, poor lady—poor lady! to think that the toy she used to play with, should one day take her life!"
While they whispered in the death room, up in her chamber, while the hours of the dreary night wore on, Inez Catheron sat, crouched in a heap, as Hooper had found her, her face hidden in her hands. Two hours had passed, an awful silence filled the whole house, while she sat there and never stirred. As eleven struck from the turret clock, the thunder of horses' hoofs on the avenue below, came to her dulled ears. A great shudder shook her from head to foot—she lifted her haggard face. The lull before the storm was over—Sir Victor Catheron had come.
Half an hour's rapid gallop had brought Edwards, the valet, to Powyss Place. The stately mansion, park, lawn, and terraces, lay bathed in the silvery shower of moonlight. From the upper windows, where the sick man lay, lights streamed; all the rest of the house was in deep shadow.
In one of those dimly lighted rooms Sir Victor Catheron lay upon a lounge fast asleep. He had remained for about two hours by the sick man's bedside; then, persuaded by his aunt, had gone to lie down in an inner department.
"You look pale and ill yourself," she had said, tenderly; "lie down and rest for a little. If I need you, I will call you at once."
He had obeyed, and had dropped off into a heavy sleep. A dull oppression of heart and soul beset him; he had no mind to slumber—it had come upon him unawares. He was awakened suddenly by some one calling his name.
"Victor! Victor!" the voice called, "awake!"
He sat up with a bewildered face. Was that his aunt's voice, so hoarse, so strange? Was this his aunt with that white, horror-struck face?
"Victor!" she cried, the words a very wail. "Oh, my boy! my boy! how shall I ever tell you? Oh, why did I send for you this dreadful night? Ethel"—her voice choked.
He rose to his feet, staring at her blankly.
"Ethel!" he repeated. "Ethel—"
She covered her face with her hands and burst into a hysterical outbreak of tears. Edwards, standing behind her in the doorway, made a step forward.
"Tell him, Edwards," said Lady Helena. "I cannot. It seems too horrible to tell or to believe. Oh, my poor Victor! my poor, poor boy!"
Edwards came forward reluctantly, with a very pale, scared face.
"It's dreadful news, Sir Victor—I don't know how to tell you, but my lady, I'm afraid she—she's dead."
"Dead!"
He repeated the word dully, staring almost stupidly at the speaker.
"Dead, Sir Victor!" the man repeated, solemnly. "I'm sore afraid, murdered!"
There was a sudden, headlong rush from the room; no other reply. Like a flash Sir Victor passed them both. They heard him clear the stairs, rush along the lower hall, and out of the house. The next instant the valet and Lady Helena were in pursuit.
He was mounted on Edwards' horse and dashing furiously away, before they reached the court-yard. They called to him—he neither heard nor heeded. He dashed his spurred heel into the horse's side and flew out of sight like the wind.
"Follow him!" Lady Helena cried, breathlessly, to the groom. "Overtake him, for the love of Heaven! Oh,whocan have done this awful deed? Edwards, you are sure there is no mistake? It seems too unnatural, too impossible to believe."
"There is no mistake, my lady," the man answered, sadly. "I saw her myself, the blood flowing where they had stabbed her, cold and dead."
Lady Helena wrung her hands and turned away.
"Ride for your life after your master!" she said. "I will follow you as soon as I can."
She went back to her husband's side. He was no worse—he seemed if anything, better. She might leave him in her housekeeper's charge until morning.
She ordered the carriage and rapidly changed her dress. It was about one in the morning when she reached Catheron Royals. The tall turrets were silvered in the moonlight, the windows sparkled in the crystal light. The sweet beauty and peace of the September night lay like a benediction over the earth. And, amid all the silence and sweetness, a foul, a most horrible murder had been done.
She encountered Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, in the hall, her face pale, her eyes red with weeping. Some dim hope that up to this time had upheld her, that, after all, theremightbe a mistake, died out then.
"Oh, Marsh," she said, piteously, "isit true?"
Mrs. Marsh's answer was a fresh burst of tears. Like all the rest of the household, the gentle ways, the sweet face, and soft voice of Sir Victor's wife had won her heart from the first.
"It is too true, my lady—the Lord have mercy upon us all. It seems too horrid for belief, but it is true. As she lay asleep there, four hours ago, in her own house, surrounded by her own servants, some monster in human form stabbed her through the heart—through the heart, my lady—Dr. Dane says one blow did it, and that death must have been instantaneous. So young, so sweet, and so lovely. Oh, how could they do it—how could any one do it?"
Mrs. Marsh's sobs grew hysterical. Lady Helena's own tears were flowing.
"I feel as though I were guilty in some way myself," the housekeeper went on. "If we had only woke her up, or fastened the window, or anything! I know the monster, whoever he was, got in through the window. And, oh, my lady!"—Mrs. Marsh wiped her eyes suddenly, and lowered her voice to an excited whisper—"I wish you would speak to Jane Pool, the nurse. She doesn't dare say anything out openly, but the looks she gives, and the hints she drops, are almost worse than the murder itself. You can see as clear as day that she suspects—Miss Inez."
"Marsh! Great Heaven!" Lady Helena cried, recoiling in horror. "MissInez!"
"Oh, my lady,Idon't say it—Idon't think it—Heaven forbid!—it's only that wicked, spiteful nurse, Pool. She hates Miss Inez—she has hated her from the first—and she loved my lady. Ah! who could help being fond of her—poor, lovely young lady!—with a sweet smile and pleasant word for every one in the house? And you know Miss Inez's high, haughty way. Jane Pool hates her, and will do her mischief if she can. A word from you might check her. No one knows the harm a babbling tongue may do."
Lady Helena drew herself up proudly.
"I shall not say one word to her, Marsh. Jane Pool can do my niece no harm. The bare repetition of it is an insult. Miss Catheron—that I should have to say such a thing!—is above suspicion."
"My lady, I believe it; still, if you would only speak to her. You don't know all. She saw Miss Inez coming out of the nursery a quarter of an hour before we found Lady Catheron dead. She wished to enter, and Miss Inez ordered her away. She has been talking to the police, and I saw that Inspector Darwin watching Miss Inez in a way that made my blood run cold."
But Lady Helena waived the topic away haughtily.
"Be silent, Marsh! I will not hear another word of this—it is too horrible! Where is Miss Inez?"
"In her own room, my lady. And—I beg your pardon for alluding to it again—but I think she suspects. She seemed dazed-like, stupefied at first; she is more like herself now. Will you not go in and seeher, poor soul, before you go to Miss Inez? Oh, my lady, my lady! it breaks my heart when I look at her—when I look at Sir Victor."
For a moment Lady Helena shrank.
"Sir Victor is in there—with her?" she faltered.
"Yes, my lady—like a man all struck stupid. It frightens me to see him. If he would only speak, or cry, or fly out against the murderer—but he just sits there as if turning to stone."
His aunt covered her face for an instant with both hands, heart-sick with all these horrors; then she looked up, and moved forward.
"Where is she?" she asked—"in which room?"
"In the white drawing-room, my lady; the doctors brought her there.Sir Victor is with her, alone."
Lady Helen slowly advanced. At the door she paused a moment to nerve herself for what she must see; then she turned the handle and went in.
It was one of the stateliest rooms in the house—all white and gold, and dimly lit now by wax tapers. Lying on one of the white velvet sofas she saw a rigid figure, over which a white covering was drawn; but the golden hair and the fair, marble face gleaming in the waxlights as beautiful as ever in life.
He sat beside his dead—almost as motionless, almost as cold, almost as white. He had loved her with a love that was akin to idolatrous—he had grudged that the eye of man should rest on his treasure—and now he sat beside her—dead.
If he heard the door open, he neither moved nor stirred. He never once looked up as his aunt came forward; his eyes were riveted upon that ineffably calm face with a vacant, sightless sort of stare that chilled her blood.
"Victor!" she cried out, in a frightened voice; "Victor speak to me.For pity's sake, don't look like that?"
The dull, blinded eyes looked up at her, full of infinite, unutterable despair.
"She is dead," he said, in a slow, dragging sort of voice—"dead! And last night I left her well and happy—left her to be murdered—to—be—murdered."
The slow words fell heavily from his lips—his eyes went back to her face, his dulled mind seemed lapsing into its stupefied trance of quiet. More and more alarmed, his aunt gazed at him. Had the death of his wife turned his brain?
"Victor!" she exclaimed, almost angrily, "you must rouse yourself. You must not stay here. Be a man! Wake up. Your wife has been murdered. Go and find her murderer."
"Her murderer," he replied, in the same slow tone of unnatural quiet; "her murderer. It seems strange, Aunt Helena, doesn't it, that any onecouldmurder her? 'I must find her murderer.' Oh," he cried, suddenly, in a voice of anguish; "what does it matter about her murderer! It won't bring her back to life. She is dead I tell you—dead!"
He flung himself off his chair, on his knees by the couch. He drew down the white satin counterpane, and pointed to that one dark, small stab on the left side.
"Look!" he said, in a shrill, wailing voice, "through the heart—through the heart! She did not suffer—the doctors saythat. Through the heart as she slept. Oh, my love, my darling, my wife!"
He kissed the wound—he kissed the hands, the face, the hair. Then with a long, low moan of utter desolation, he drew back the covering and buried his face in it.
"Leave me alone," he said, despairingly; "I will not go—I will never go from her again. She was mine in life—mine only. Juan Catheron lied, she is mine in death. My wife—my Ethel!"
He started up as suddenly as he had flung himself down, his ghastly face flaming dark red.
"Leave me alone, I tell you! Why do you all come here? I willnotgo! Leave me, I command you—I am master here!"
She shrank from him in absolute physical terror. Never over-strong at any time, her worst fears were indeed true, the shock of his wife's tragic death was turning Sir Victor's brain. There was nothing to be done—nothing to be said—he must be obeyed—must be soothed.
"Dear Victor," she said, "I will go. Don't be hard with poor AuntHelena. There is no one in all this world as sorry for you as I am.Only tell me this before I leave you—shall we not send for her fatherand mother?"
"No," he answered, in the same fierce tone; "they can't bring her back to life—no one can now. I don't want them. I want nobody. Ethel is mine I tell you—mine alone!"
He motioned her imperiously to leave him—a light in his eye—a flush on his face there was no mistaking. She went at once. How was it all to end she wondered, more and more sick at heart—this mysterious murder, this suspicion against Inez, this dreadful overthrow of her nephew's mind?
"May Heaven help us!" she cried. "What have we done that this awful trouble should come upon us!"
"Aunt Helena."
She looked round with a little cry, all her nerves trembling and unstrung. Inez stood before her—Inez with dark, resolute eyes, and stony face.
"I have been waiting for you—they told me you werethere." She pointed with a shudder to the door. "What are we to do?"
"Don't ask me," Lady Helena answered, helplessly. "I don't know. I feel stunned and stupid with all these horrors."
"The police are here," Miss Catheron went on, "and the coroner has been apprised. I suppose, they will hold an inquest to-morrow."
Her aunt looked at her in surprise. The calm, cold tone of her voice grated on her sick heart.
"Have you seenhim?" she asked almost in a whisper. "Inez—I fear—I fear it is turning his brain."
Miss Catheron's short, scornful upper lip, curled with the old look of contempt.
"The Catheron brain was never noted for its strength. I shall not be surprised at all. Poor wretch!" She turned away and looked out into the darkness. "It does seem hard on him."
"Who can have done it?"
The question on every lip rose to Lady Helena's, but somehow she could not utter it. Did Inez know of the dark, sinister suspicion against herself?Couldshe know and be calm like this?
"I forgot to ask for Uncle Godfrey," Inez's quiet voice said again. "Of course he is better, or even at such a time as this you would not be here?"
"He is better, Inez," she broke out desperately. "Who can have done this? She had not an enemy in the world. Is—is there any one suspected?"
"There is," Inez answered, turning from the window, and facing her aunt. "The servants suspectme."
"Inez!"
"Their case isn't a bad one as they make it out," pursued Miss Catheron, cooly. "There was ill blood between us. It is of no use denying it. I hated her with my whole heart. I was the last person seen coming out of the room, fifteen minutes before they found her dead. Jane Pool says I refused to let her go in—perhaps I did. It is quite likely. About an hour previously we had a violent quarrel. The ubiquitous Mrs. Pool overheard that also. You see her case is rather a strong one."
"But—Inez—!"
"I chanced to overhear all this," still went on Miss Catheron, quietly, but with set lips and gleaming eyes. "Jane Pool was holding forth to the inspector of police. I walked up to them, and they both slunk away like beaten curs. Orders have been issued, that no one is to leave the house. To-morrow these facts are to be placed before the coroner's jury. If they find me guilty—don't cry, Aunt Helena—I shall be sorry foryou—sorry I have disgraced a good old name. For the rest, it doesn't much matter what becomes of such a woman as I am."
She turned again to the window and looked out into the darkness. There was a desperate bitterness in her tone that Lady Helena could not understand.
"Good Heaven!" she burst forth, "one would think you were all in a conspiracy to drive me mad. It doesn't matter, what becomes of you, doesn't it? I tell you if this last worst misery falls upon us, it will kill me on the spot; just that."
The girl sighed drearily.
"Kill you, Aunt Helena," she repeated, mournfully. "No—we don't any of us die so easily. Don't be afraid—I am not likely to talk in this way before any one but you. I am only telling you the truth. They will have the inquest, and all that Jane Pool can say against me will be said. Do you think Victor will be able to appear?"
"I don't think Victor is in a condition to appear at an inquest or anywhere else. Ah, poor boy! he loved her so dearly, it is enough to shake the mind of a stronger man."
But Miss Catheron was dead silent—it was evident her feelings here were as bitter as ever—that even the tragic death of her rival had not softened her.
"He will survive it," she answered, in the same half-contemptuous tone."Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love."
"Inez," said her aunt, suddenly coming a step nearer, "a rumor has reached me—is it true?—that Juan is back—that he has been here?"
"It is quite true," her niece answered, without turning round; "hehasbeen here. He was here on the night Lady Catheron first came."
"There is another rumor afloat, that there was a violent quarrel on that occasion—that he claimed to be an old lover of Ethel's, poor child, and that Victor turned him out. Since then it is said he has been seen more than once prowling about the grounds. For everybody's sake I hope it is not true."
Inez faced round suddenly—almost fiercely.
"And what if I say itistrue, in every respect? He did come—there was a quarrel, and Victor ordered him out. Since then he has been here—prowling, as you call it—trying to see me, trying to force me to give him money. I was flinty as usual, and would give him none. Where is the crime in all that?"