She turned from the life she pictured with a shudder of abhorrence. And Charley was not of the stuff the toilers of the earth are made. She would never spoil his life for him as well as her own—not if her heart broke in giving him up. But it would not break—who breaks her heart in these days? She would say "Yes" to-morrow to Sir Victor Catheron.
Then for a moment the thread of thought broke, and she sat looking blankly out at the soft spring night.
On the day she pledged herself to Sir Victor she must say good-by forever to Charley—so it began again. One house must not contain them both; her word, her plight must be kept bright and untarnished—Charley must go.
She tried to think what her life would be like without him. It seemed to her, she could think of no time, in which he had not belonged to her; all the years before that night in the snow were blank and void. And now, for all time, she must give him up.
She rose, feeling cold and cramped—she undressed with stiffened fingers, and went to bed. She would think no more, her head ached—she would sleep and forget.
She did sleep, deeply, dreamlessly. The sunlight was pouring into her room, flooding it with golden radiance, when she awoke.
She sprang up; her heart gave one bound of recollection and rapture.Sir Victor Catheron had asked her to be his wife.
Doubt was at an end—hesitation was at an end.
"Colors seen by candlelightDo not look the same by day."
Last night a hair might have turned the scale and made her say "No," reckless of consequences—to-day a thousand Charleys would not have influenced her. She would be Lady Catheron.
She sang as she dressed. Not the May sunshine itself was brighter than her face. She left her room, she walked down the corridor, down the stairs, and out upon the emerald green lawn.
A well-known figure, in a gray suit, stood a few yards off, pacing restlessly about and smoking. He flung away his cigar and hurried up to her. One glance at her smiling face, was enough, his own flushed deep with rapture.
"I have come for my answer," he cried. "O Edith, my darling, don't let it be 'No.'"
She laughed aloud at his vehemence—it was the sort of wooing she liked.
"I should like to please you, Sir Victor—what, then, shall it be?"
"Yes! a thousand times, yes! Edith, my love—my love—yes!"
She was smiling still—she looked him frankly in the eyes as no woman on earth, in such an hour, ever looked at the man she loved. She laid in his one slim, brown, ringless hand.
"Since you wish it so much, Sir Victor, let it be as you please. Yes!"
It was half-past twelve, by all the clocks and watches of Powyss Place. Miss Stuart sat alone, in the pleasant boudoir or sitting-room, assigned her, her foot on an ottoman, a novel in her hand, a frown on her brow, and most beautifully dressed. In solitary state, at half-past ten, she had breakfasted, waited upon by the trimmest of English handmaidens in smiles and lace cap. The breakfast had been removed for over an hour, and still Miss Stuart sat alone.
Her mamma had called to see her, so had Lady Helena, buttheydid not count. She wanted somebody else, and that somebody did not come. Her novel was interesting and new, but she could not read; her troubles were too many and great.
First, there was her ankle that pained her, and Trixy did not like pain. Secondly, it was quite impossible she could venture to stand upon it for the next three days, and who was to watch Sir Victor during those three days? Thirdly, next week Lady Helena gave a large party, and at that party it was morally and physically impossible she could play any other part than that of wall-flower; she who was one of the best waltzers, and loved waltzing better than any other girl in New York. Is it any wonder, then, that an absorbing novel failed to absorb her?
The door opened and Edith came in. At all times and in all array, Miss Darrell must of necessity look handsome. This morning in crisp muslin and rose-colored ribbons, a flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes, Miss Darrell was something more than handsome—she was beautiful. Something, that was more the memory of a smile, than a smile itself, lingered on her lips—she was so brightly pretty, so fresh, so fair, that it was a pleasure only to look at her.
"Good morning, Trixy," she said. "How is our poor dear ankle? It doesn't hurt much, I hope?"
She came up behind Miss Stuart's chair, put her arms around her neck, stooped down and kissed her forehead. The frown on Trixy's face deepened—it was the last straw that broke the camel's back, to see Edith Darrell looking so brightly handsome, privileged to go where she pleased, while she was chained to this horrid chair.
"Itdoeshurt," Trixy responded crossly. "I wish I had never had an ankle, sooner than go spraining it this way. The idea of horrid floors, like black looking-glasses, and slipperier than a skating-rink. Edith, how long is it since you got up?"
"Now for it!" thought Edith, and the smile she strove to repress, dimpled her sunny face. Luckily, standing behind Trix's chair, Trix did not see it.
"How long? Oh, since nine o'clock. You know I'm not a very early riser."
"Did you go straight down to breakfast?"
"The breakfast hour was ten. It doesn't take me all that time to dress."
"Where did you go then?"
"I walked in the grounds."
"Edith!" with sudden sharpness, "did you see Sir Victor?"
"Yes, I saw Sir Victor."
"Where? In the grounds too?"
"In the grounds too—smoking a cigar."
"Edith!" the sharpness changing to suspicion and alarm. "Youwere with Sir Victor!"
"I was with Sir Victor. That is to say, Sir Victor was withme."
"Bother! What did you talk about? Did he ask after me?"
"Ye-e-es," Edith answered doubtfully—the fact being Sir Victor had utterly forgotten Miss Stuart's existence in the dizzy rapture of his acceptance—"he asked for you, of course."
"Was that all?He'sa pretty attentive host, I don't think," cried Trixy, with bitterness, "having a young lady laid up by the le—the ankle in his house, and never so much as calling to see if she is dead or alive!"
"My dearest Trix," said Edith, struggling with a laugh, "gentlemen don't call upon young ladies in their chambers at break of day, even though they have a sprained ankle. It isn'tde rigeur."
"De rigger be blowed! It isn't my chamber; it's my private parlor; and aristocratic as we have got lately, I don't think half-past twelve is the break of day. Edith, upon your word,didhe say anything about—about—you know what?"
"Marrying you? No, Trixy, not a word."
She put her arms closer around poor Trixy's neck, and hid her face inTrixy's chestnut hair.
"Trix, pet, don't you think there may have been a little—just a little, misunderstanding that night at Killarney?"
"Misunderstanding! I don't understandyou, Edith," Miss Stuart exclaimed, in increasing alarm. "For goodness' sake come round where I can see you, and don't stand there like a sort of 'Get thee behind me, Satan.' I like to look people in the face when I talk to them."
"In one moment, dear; please don't be cross. I have something that is not pleasant to say thatyouwon't like. I am afraid to tell you. Trix, therewasa misunderstanding that night."
"I don't see how; I don't believe there was. Edith Darrell, what do you mean? He asked me to marry him—at least he told me he was in love with me in a stupid, round-about way, and asked me if he might hope, and if there was any danger of a refusal, or a rival, when he spoke out, and that balderdash. He said he meant to speak to pa and ma, as plain as print. Now how could there be a misunderstanding in all that?"
"It was, as you say, awfully stupid of him, but these Englishmen have such different ways from what we are accustomed to. There was a misunderstanding, I repeat. He means to speak to your father and mother to-day, but—not about you."
"Edith!" Trix half sprung up, pale as death and with flashing eyes."What do you mean? Speak out, I tell you!"
"O Trix." She twined her arms still closer around her neck, and laid her cheek coaxingly alongside of Miss Stuart's. "There has been a horrid mistake. All the time in that boat on Killarney lake he was talking of—me!"
"Of—you!" The two words drop from Trixy's ashen lips.
"Of me, dear, and he thinks at this moment that you understood him so. Trixy—don't be angry with me—how could I help it—he proposed to me yesterday afternoon."
"Proposed to you yesterday afternoon!" Trix repeats the words like one who has been stunned by a blow, in a dazed sort of tone. "And you—refused him, Edith?"
"Accepted him, Trixy. I said yes to Sir Victor Catheron this morning in the grounds."
Then there was a pause. The ticking of the little Swiss clock, the joyous warble of the thrushes, the soft rustle of the trees sounding preternaturally loud. Beatrix Stuart sat white to the lips, with anger, mortification, amaze, disappointment. Then she covered her face with her hands, and burst into a vehement flood of tears.
"Trix! dear Trix!" Edith exclaimed, shocked and pained; "good Heaven, don't cry! Trix, dearest, I never knew you were in love with him."
"In love with him!" cried Trix, looking up, her eyes flashing through her tears, "the odious little wishy-washy, drawling coxcomb! No, I'm not in love with him—not likely—but what business had he to go talking like that, and hemming and hawing, and hinting, and—oh!" cried Trix, with a sort of vicious screech, "I should like to tear his eyes out!"
"I dare say you would—the desire is both natural and proper," answered Edith, smothering a second desire to laugh; "but, under the circumstances, not admissible. It was a stupid proceeding, no doubt, his speaking to you at all, but you see the poor fellow thinks you understood him, and meant it for the best."
"Thought I understood him!" retorted Miss Stuart, with a vengeful glare. "Oh,shouldn'tI like to make him understand me! The way he went on that night, kissing my hand, and calling me Beatrix, and talking of speaking to pa, and meaning you all the time, is enough—enough to drive a person stark, staring mad. All Englishmen are fools—there!" exclaimed Miss Stuart, sparks of fire drying up her tears, "and Sir Victor Catheron's the biggest fool of the lot!"
"What, Trix! for wanting to marry me?"
"Yes, for wanting to marry you. You, who don't care a bad cent for him!"
"How many bad cents did you care, Miss Stuart, when you were so willing to be his wife?"
"More than you, Miss Darrell, for at least I was not in love with any one else."
"And who may Miss Darrell be in love with, pray?"
"With Charley," answered Trix, her face still afire. "Deny it if you dare! In love with Charley, and he with you."
She was looking up at her rival, her angry gray eyes so like Charley's as she spoke, in everything but expression, that for an instant Edith was disconcerted. She could not meet them. For once in her life her own eyes fell.
"Are we going to quarrel, Trix? Is it worth while, for a man you have decided we neither of us care for—we who have been like sisters so long?"
"Like sisters!" Trix repeated bitterly. "Edith, I wonder if you are not scheming and deceitful!"
"Beatrix!"
"Oh, you needn't 'Beatrix' me! I mean it. I believe there has been double dealing in this. He paid attention to me before you ever came to New York. I believe if I hadn't been sea-sick he would have proposed to me on the ship. But Iwassea-sick,—it's always my luck to be everything that's miserable,—andyouwere with him night and day."
"Night and day! Good gracious, Trixy, this is awful!"
"You know what I mean," pursued Trix loftily. "You got him in love with you. Then, all the way to Killarney you flirted with Charley—poor Charley—and made him jealous, and jealousy finished him. You're a very clever girl, Edith, and I wish you a great deal of joy."
"Thank you; you say it as if you did. I don't take the trouble to deny your charges; they're not worth it—they are false, and you know them to be so. I never sought out Sir Victor Catheron, either in New York, on board ship, or elsewhere. If he had been a prince, instead of a baronet, I would not have done it. I have borne a great deal, but even you may go too far, Trixy. Sir Victor has done me the honor of falling in love with me—for he does love me, and he has asked me to be his wife. I have accepted him, of course; it was quite impossible I could do otherwise. If, at Killarney, he was stupid, and you made a blunder, am I to be held accountable? He does not dream for a moment of the misunderstanding between you. He thinks he made his meaning as clear as day. And now I will leave you; if I stay longer we may quarrel, and I—I don't want to quarrel with you, Trixy."
Her voice broke suddenly. She turned to the door, and all the smallness of her own conduct dawned upon Trix. Her generous heart—itwasgenerous in spite of all this—smote her with remorse.
"Oh, come back, Edith!" she said; "don't go. I won't quarrel with you. I'm a wretch. It's dreadfully mean and contemptible of me, to make such a howling about a man that does not care a straw for me. When I told you,youwished me joy. Just come back and give me time to catch my breath, and I'll wish you joy too. But it's so sudden, so unexpected. O Dithy, I thought you liked Charley all this while!"
Howlike Charley's the handsome dark gray eyes were! Edith Darrell could not meet them; she turned and looked out of the window.
"I like him, certainly; I would be very ungrateful if I did not. He is like a brother to me."
"A brother! Oh, bother," retorted Trix, with immeasurable scorn and dignity. "Edith, honor bright! Haven't you and Charley been in love with each other these two years?"
Edith laughed.
"A very leading question, and a very absurd one. I don't think it is in either your brother or me to be very deeply in love.Hewould find it feverish and fatiguing—you know how he objects to fatigue; and I—well, if love be anything like what one reads of in books, an all-absorbing, all consuming passion that won't let people eat or sleep, I have never felt it, and I don't want to. I think that sort of love went out of fashion with Amanda Fitzallen. You're a sentimental goose, Miss Stuart, and have taken Byron and Miss Landon in too large doses."
"But you like him," persisted his sister, "don't you, Dithy?"
"Like him—likehim!" Her whole face lit up for a second with a light that made it lovely. "Well, yes, Trix, I don't mind owning that much—I do like Charley—like him so well that I won't marry and ruin him. For it means just that, Trixy—ruin. The day we become anything more than friends and cousins your father would disinherit him, and your father isn't the heavy father of the comedy, to rage through four acts, and come round in the fifth, with his fortune and blessing. Charley and I have common-sense, and we have shaken hands and agreed to be good friends and cousins, nothing more."
"What an admirable thing is common-sense! Does Sir Victor know about the hand-shaking and the cousinly agreement?"
"Don't be sarcastic, Beatrix; it isn't your forte! I have nothing to confess to Sir Victor when I am married to him; neither your brother nor any other man will hold the place in my heart (such as it is) that he will. Be very sure of that."
"Ah! such as it is," puts in Trix cynically; "and when, is it to be,Dithy—the wedding?"
"My dear Trix, I only said yes this morning. Gentlemen don't propose and fix the wedding-day all in a breath. It will be ages from now, no doubt. Of course Lady Helena will object."
"You don't mind that?"
"Not a whit. A grand-aunt is—a grand-aunt, nothing more. She is his only living relative, he is of age, able to speak and act for himself. The true love of any good man honors the woman who receives it. In that way Sir Victor Catheron honors me, and in no other. I have neither wealth nor lineage; in all other things, as God made us, I am his equal!"
She moved to the door, her dark eyes shining, her head erect, looking in her beauty and her pride a mate for a king.
"There is to be a driving-party to Eastlake Abbey, after luncheon," she said; "you are to be carried down to the barouche and ride with your father and mother, and Lady Helena—Charley and Captain Hammond for your cavaliers."
"And you?"
"Sir Victor drives me."
"Alone, of course?" Trixy says, with a last little bitter sneer.
"Alone, of course," Edith answers coldly. Then she opens the door and disappears.
But the driving-party did not come off. The ruins of Eastlake Abbey were unvisited that day, at least. For while Edith and Trixy's somewhat unpleasant interview was taking place in one part of the house, an equally unpleasant, and much more mysterious, interview was taking place in another, and on the same subject.
Lady Helena had left the guests for awhile and gone to her own rooms. The morning post had come in, bringing her several letters. One in particular she seized, and read with more eagerness than the others, dated London, beginning "My Dear Aunt," and signed "Inez." While she sat absorbed over it, in deep and painful thought evidently, there came a tap at the door; then it opened, and her nephew came in.
She crumpled her letter hurriedly in her hand, and put it out of sight. She looked up with a smile of welcome; he was the "apple of her eye," the darling of her life, the Benjamin of her childless old age—the fair-haired, pleasant-faced young baronet.
"Do I intrude?" he asked. "Are you busy? Are your lettersveryimportant this morning? If so—"
"Not important at all. Come in, Victor. I have been wishing to speak to you of the invitations for next week's ball. Is it concerning the driving-party this afternoon you want to speak?"
"No, my dear aunt; something very much pleasanter than all the driving-parties in the world; something much more important to me."
She looked at him more closely. His face was flushed, his eyes bright, a happy smile was on his lips. He had the look of a man to whom some great good fortune had suddenly come.
"Agreeably important, then, I am sure, judging by your looks. What a radiant face the lad has!"
"I have reason to look radiant. Congratulate me, Aunt Helena; I am the happiest man the wide earth holds."
"My dear Victor!"
"Cannot you guess?" he said, still smiling; "I always thought female relatives were particularly sharp-sighted in these matters. Must I really tell you? Have you no suspicions of my errand here?"
"I have not, indeed;" but she sat erect, and her fresh-colored, handsome old face grew pale. "Victor, what is it? Pray speak out."
"Very well. Congratulate me once more; I am going to be married."
He stopped short, for with a low cry that was like a cry of fear, Lady Helena rose up. If he had said "I am going to be hanged," the consternation of her face could not have been greater. She put out her hand as though to ward off a blow.
"No, no!" she said, in that frightened voice; "not married. For God's sake, Victor, don't say that!"
"Lady Helena!"
He sat looking at her, utterly confounded.
"It can't be true," she panted. "You don't mean that. You don't want to be married. You are too young—you are. I tell you I won't hear of it! What do boys like you want of wives!—only three-and-twenty!"
He laughed good-humoredly.
"My dear aunt, boys of three-and-twenty are tolerably well-grown; it isn't a bad age to marry. Why, according to Debrett, my father was only three-and-twenty when he brought home a wife and son to Catheron Royals."
She sat down suddenly, her head against the back of a chair, her face quite white.
"Aunt Helena," the young man said anxiously, approaching her, "I have startled you; I have been too sudden with this. You look quite faint; what shall I get you?"
He seized a carafe of water, but she waved it away.
"Wait," she said, with trembling lips; "wait. Give me time—let me think. Itwassudden; I will be better in a moment."
He sat down feeling uncommonly uncomfortable. He was a practical sort of young man, with, a man's strong dislike of scenes of all kinds, and this interview didn't begin as promisingly as he had hoped.
She remained pale and silent for upward of five very long minutes; only once her lips whispered, as if unconsciously:
"The time has come—the time has come."
It was Sir Victor himself who broke the embarrassing pause.
"Aunt Helena," he said pettishly, for he was not accustomed to have his sovereign will disputed, "I don't understand this, and you will pardon me if I say I don't like it. It must have entered your mind that sooner or later I would fall in love and marry a wife, like other men. That time has come, as you say yourself. There is nothing I can see to be shocked at."
"But not so soon," she answered brokenly. "O Victor, not so soon."
"I don't consider twenty-three years too soon. I am old-fashioned, very likely, but I do believe in the almost obsolete doctrine of early marriage. I love her with all my heart." His kindling eyes and softened voice betrayed it. "Thank Heaven she has accepted me. Without her my life would not be worth the having."
"Who is she?" she asked, without looking up. "Lady Gwendoline, of course."
"Lady Gwendoline?" He smiled and lifted his eyebrows.
"No, my dear aunt; a very different person from Lady Gwendoline. MissDarrell."
She sat erect and gazed at him—stunned.
"Miss Darrell! Edith Darrell—the American girl, the—Victor, if this is a jest—"
"Lady Helena, am I likely to jest on such a subject? It is the truth.This morning Miss Darrell—Edith—has made me the happiest man inEngland by promising to be my wife. Surely, aunt, you must havesuspected—must have seen that I loved her."
"I have seen nothing," she answered blankly, looking straight before her—"nothing. I am only an old woman—I am growing blind and stupid, I suppose. I have seen nothing."
There was a pause. At no time was Sir Victor Catheron a fluent or ready speaker—just at present, perhaps, it was natural he should be rather at a loss for words. And her ladyship's manner was the reverse of reassuring.
"I have loved her from the first," he said, breaking once more the silence—"from the very first night of the party, without knowing it. In all the world, she is the only one I can ever marry. With her my life will be supremely happy, superbly blessed; without her—but no! I do not choose to think what my life would be like without her. You, who have been as a mother to me all my life, will not mar my perfect happiness on this day of days by saying you object."
"But I do object!" Lady Helena exclaimed, with sudden energy and anger. "More—I absolutely refuse. I say again, you are too young to want to marry at all. Why, even your favorite Shakespeare says: 'A young man married, is a man that's marred.' When you are thirty it will be quite time enough to talk of this. Go abroad again—see the world—go to the East, as you have often talked of doing—to Africa—anywhere! No man knows himself or his own heart at the ridiculous age of twenty-three!"
Sir Victor Catheron smiled, a very quiet and terribly obstinate smile.
"My extreme youth, then, is your only objection?"
"No, it is not—I have a hundred objections—it is objectionable from every point. I object tohermost decidedly and absolutely. You shall not marry this American girl without family or station, and of whom you know absolutely nothing—with whom you have not been acquainted four weeks. Oh, it is absurd—it is ridiculous—it is the most preposterous folly I ever heard of in my life."
His smile left his face—a frown came instead. His lips set, he looked at her with a face of invincible determination.
"Isthisall?" he demanded. "I will answer your objections when I have thoroughly heard them. I am my own master—but—that much is due to you."
"I tell you she is beneath you—beneath you!" Lady Helena said vehemently. "The Catherons have always married well—into ducal families. Your grandmother—my sister—was, as I am, the daughter of a marquis."
"Andmymother was the daughter of a soap-boiler," he said with bitterness. "Don't let us forgetthat."
"Why do you speak to me of her? I can't bear it. You know I cannot. You do well to taunt me with the plebeian blood in your veins—you, of all men alive. Oh! why did you ever see this designing girl? Why did she ever come between us?"
She was working herself up to a pitch of passionate excitement, quite incomprehensible to her nephew, and as displeasing as it was incomprehensible.
"When you call her designing, Lady Helena," he said, in slow, angry tones, "you go a little too far. In no way has Miss Darrell tried to win me—'tis the one drawback to my perfect happiness now that she does not love me as I love her. She has told me so frankly and bravely. But it will come. I feel that such love as mine must win a return. For the rest, I deny that she is beneath me; in all things—beauty, intellect, goodness—she is my superior. She is the daughter of a scholar and a gentleman; her affection would honor the best man on earth. I deny that I am too young—I deny that she is my inferior—I deny evenyourright, Lady Helena, to speak disparagingly of her. And, in conclusion, I say, that it is my unalterable determination to marry Edith Darrell at the earliest possible hour that I can prevail upon her to fix our wedding-day."
She looked at him; the unalterable determination he spoke of was printed in every line of his set face.
"I might have known it," she said, with suppressed bitterness; "he is his father's son. The same obstinacy—the same refusal to listen to all warning. Sooner or later I knew it must come, but not so soon as this."
The tears coursed slowly over her cheeks, and moved him as nothing she ever could have said would have done.
"For Heaven's sake, aunt, don't cry," he said hurriedly. "You distress me—you make me feel like a brute, and I—really now, I don't think you ought to blame me in this way. Miss Darrell is not a Lady Gwendoline, certainly—she has neither rank nor wealth, but in my sight their absence is no objection whatever. And I love her; everything is said in that."
"You love her," she repeated mournfully. "O my poor boy, my poor boy!"
"I don't think I deserve pity," Sir Victor said, smiling again. "I don't feel as though I did. And now tell me the real reason of all this."
"The real reason?"
"Certainly; you don't suppose I do not see it is something besides those you have given. There is something else under all this. Now let us hear it, and have done with it."
He took both her hands in his and looked at her—a resolute smile on his fair blonde face.
"Troubles are like certain wild animals," he said; "look them straight in the eye and they turn and take to flight. Why should I not marry at twenty-three? If I were marrying any one else—Lady Gwendoline for instance—would my extreme juvenility still be an obstacle?"
"You had much better not marry at all."
"What! live a crusty old bachelor! Now, now, my good aunt, this is a little too much, and not at all what I expected from a lady of your excellent common-sense."
"There is nothing to make a jest of, Victor. Itisbetter you should not marry—better the name of Catheron should die out and be blotted from the face of the earth."
"Lady Helena!"
"I know what I am saying, Victor.Youwould say it too, perhaps, if you knew all."
"You will tell me all. Oh yes, you will. You have said too much or too little, now. I must hear 'all,' then I shall judge for myself. I may be in love—still I am amenable to reason. If you can show me any just cause or impediment to my marriage—if you can convince me it will be wrong in the sight of Heaven or man, then, dearly as I love her, I will give her up. But your proof must be strong indeed."
She looked at him doubtfully—wistfully.
"Would you do this, Victor? Would you have strength to give up the girl you love? My boy, my son, I don't want to be hard on you. I want to see you happy, Heaven knows, and yet—"
"I will be happy—only tell me the truth and let me judge for myself."
He was smiling—he was incredulous. Lady Helena's mountain, seen byhiseyes, no doubt, would turn out the veriest molehill.
"I don't know what to do," she answered, in agitated tones. "I promised her to tell you if this day ever came, and now it is here and I—oh!" she cried out passionately, "Ican'ttell you!"
He grew pale himself, with fear of he knew not what.
"You can, you will—youmust!" he said resolutely. "I am not a child to be frightened of a bogy. What terrible secret is there hidden behind all this?"
"Terrible secret—yes, that is it. Terrible secret—you have said it!"
"Do you, by any chance, refer to my mother's death? Is it that you knew all these years her murderer and have kept it secret?"
There was no reply. She covered her face with her hands and turned away.
"Am I right?" he persisted.
She rose to her feet, goaded, it seemed, by his persistent questioning into a sort of frenzy.
"Let me alone, Victor Catheron," she cried. "I have kept my secret for twenty-three years—do you think you will wring it from me all in a moment now? What right have you to question me—to say I shall tell, or shall not? If you knew all you would know you have no rights whatever—none—no right to ask any woman to share, your life—no right, if it comes to that, even to the title you bear!"
He rose up too—white to the lips. Was Lady Helena going mad? Had the announcement of his marriage turned her brain? In that pause, before either could speak again, a knock that had been twice given unheard, was repeated a third time. It brought both back instantly from the tragic, to the decorum of every-day life. Lady Helena sat down; Sir Victor opened the door. It was a servant with a note on a salver.
"Well, sir," the baronet demanded abruptly. "What do you want?"
"It's her ladyship, Sir Victor. A lady to see your ladyship on very important business."
"I can see no one this morning," Lady Helena responded; "tell her so."
"My lady, excuse me; this lady said your ladyship would be sure to see her, if your ladyship would look at this note. It's the lady in mourning, my lady, who has been here to see your ladyship before. Which this is the note, my lady."
Lady Helena's face lit up eagerly now. She tore open the note at once.
"You may go, Nixon," she said. "Show the lady up immediately."
She ran over the few brief lines the note contained, with a look of unutterable relief. Like the letter, it was signed "Inez."
"Victor," she said, turning to her nephew and holding out her hand, "forgive me, if in my excitement and haste I have said what I should not. Give me a little time, and everything will be explained. The coming of In—this lady—is the most opportune thing in the world. You shall be told all soon."
"I am to understand then," Sir Victor said coldly, "that this stranger, this mysterious lady, is in your confidence; that she is to be received into mine—that she is to be consulted before you can tell me this secret which involves the happiness of my life?"
"Precisely! You look angry and incredulous, but later you will understand. She is one of our family—more at present I cannot say. Go, Victor; trust me, believe me, neither your honor nor your love shall suffer at our hands. Postpone the driving-party, or make my excuses; I shall not leave my rooms to-day. To-morrow, if it be possible, the truth shall be yours as well as mine."
He bowed coldly—annoyed, amazed, and went. What did all this mean? Up to the present, his life had flowed peacefully, almost sluggishly, without family secrets or mystifications of any kind. And now all at once here were secrets and mysteries cropping up.Whatwas this wonderful secret—whowas this mysterious lady? He must wait until to-morrow, it appeared, for the answer to both.
"One thing is fixed as fate," he said to himself as he left the room, "I won't give up Edith, for ten thousand family secrets—for all the mysterious ladies on earth! Whatever others may have done, I at least have done nothing to forfeit my darling's hand. The doctrine that would make us suffer for the sins of others, is a mistaken doctrine. Let to-morrow bring forth what it may, Edith Darrell shall be my wife."
As he descended the stairs he encountered Nixon and a veiled lady in black ascending. He looked at her keenly—she was tall and slender; beyond that, through the heavy crape veil, he could make out nothing. "Mysterious, certainly!" he thought. "I wonder who she is?" He bowed as he passed her; she bent her head in return; then he hastened to seek out Edith, and tell her an important visitor had arrived for Lady Helena, and that the excursion to Eastlake Abbey would be postponed. He was but a poor dissembler, and the girl's bright brown eyes were sharp. She smiled as she looked and listened.
"Did you know I could tell fortunes, Sir Victor? Hold out your hand and let me tell you the past. You have been upstairs with Lady Helena; you have told her that Edith Darrell has consented to be your wife. You have asked her sanction to the union, and have been naturally, indignantly, and peremptorily refused."
He smiled, but the conscious color rose.
"I always suspected you of being an enchantress—now I know it. Can you tell me the future as truthfully as the past?"
"In this instance I think so. 'You shall never marry a penniless nobody, sir.' (And it is exactly Lady Helena's voice that speaks.) 'Your family is not to be disgraced by a low marriage. This girl, who is but a sort of upper servant, hired and paid, in the family of these common rich American people, is no mate for a Catheron of Catheron. I refuse to listen to a word, sir—I insist upon this preposterous affair being given up.' You expostulate—in vain. And as constant dropping wears the most obstinate stone, so at last will her ladyship conquer. You will come to me one day and say: 'Look here, Miss Darrell, I'm awfully sorry, you know, but we've made a mistake—I'vemade a mistake. I return you your freedom—will you kindly give me back mine? And Miss Darrell will make Sir Victor Catheron her best curtsey and retire into the outer darkness from whence she came."
He laughed. Her imitation of his own slow, accented manner of speaking was so perfect. Only for an instant; then he was grave, almost reproachful.
"And you know me no better than this!" he said. "I take back my words; you are no seeress. I love my aunt very dearly, but not all the aunts on earth could part me from you. I would indeed be a dastard if a few words of objection would make me resign the girl I love."
"I don't know," Miss Darrell answered coolly; "it might be better for both of us. Oh, don't get angry, please—you know what I mean. Iama nobody, as your somebodies go on this side. My Grandfather Stuart was a peddler once, I believe; my Grandfather Darrell, a schoolmaster. Not a very distinguished descent. My father by education and refinement is a gentleman, but he keeps a boarding-house. And I am Miss Stuart's paid companion and poor relation. Be wise, Sir Victor, while there is time; be warned before it is too late. I promise not to be angry—to even admire your common-sense. Lady Helena has been as a mother to you; it isn't worth while offending her for me—I'm not worth it. There are dozens of girls in England, high-born, high-bred, and twice as handsome as I am, who will love you and marry you to-morrow. Sir Victor Catheron, let us shake hands and part."
She held it out to him with a smile, supremely careless and uplifted. He caught it passionately, his blue eyes afire, and covered it with kisses.
"Not for ten thousand worlds! O Edith, how lightly you talk of parting, of giving me up. Am I then so utterly indifferent to you? No; I will never resign you; to call you wife is the one hope of my life. My darling, if you knew how I love you, how empty and worthless the whole world seems without you! But one day you will, you must—one day you will be able no more to live without me than I without you. Don't talk like this any more, Edith; if you knew how it hurts me you would be more merciful, I am sure. Life can hold nothing half so bitter for me as the loss of you."
She listened in a sort of wonder at his impassioned earnestness, looking at him shyly, wistfully.
"You love me like this?" she said.
"A hundred times more than this. I would die for you, Edith. How empty and theatrical it sounds, but, Heaven knows, I would."
She passed her hand through his arm and clasped the other round it, her bright smile back.
"Don't die," she said, with that smile, and her own rare, lovely blush; "do better—live for me. Ah, Sir Victor, I don't think it will be such averyhard thing to learn to like you!"
"My darling! And you will talk no more of parting—no more of giving me up? You don't really wish it, Edith, do you?"
"Most certainly not. Would I have accepted you, if I did? I'll never give you up while you care for me like this. If we ever part, the parting shall be your doing, not mine."
"Mydoing—mine?" he laughed aloud in his incredulity and happiness. "The days of miracles are over,belle amie, but a summer breeze could more easily uproot these oaks than that. And lest you should think yourself fetterless and free, I will bind you at once." He drew from his pocket a tiny morocco box. "See this ring, Edith: it has been worn by women of our house for the past two centuries—the betrothal ring of the Catherons. Let me place it on your finger, never to be taken off until I bind you with a golden circlet stronger still."
Her dark eyes sparkled as she looked at it. It was a solitaire diamond of wonderful size and brilliance, like a great drop of limpid water, set in dull red gold.
"There is some queer old tradition extant about it," he said, "to the effect that the bride of a Catheron who does not wear it will lead a most unhappy life and die a most unhappy death. So, my dearest, you see how incumbent upon you it is for your own sake to wear it religiously."
He laughed, but she lifted to his, two deep, thoughtful, dark eyes.
"Did your mother wear it, Sir Victor?"
He started, the smile died from his face, his color faded.
"My mother?" he answered; "no. My father married her secretly and hastily after six weeks' courtship, and of course never thought of the ring. 'Lead an unhappy life, die an unhappy death,'" he said, repeating his own words; "she did both, and, to the best of my belief, she never wore it."
"An odd coincidence, at least," said Edith, her eyes fixed on the diamond blazing in the sunshine on her hand.
A priceless diamond on the hand of Edith Darrell, the brown hand that two months ago had swept, and dusted, and worked unwillingly in the shabby old house at home.
"Don't let us talk about my mother," Sir Victor said; "there is always something so terrible to me in the memory of her death. Your life will be very different from hers—my poor mother."
"I hope so," was the grave reply; "and in my case there will be no jealous rival, will there? Sir Victor, do you know I should like to visit Catheron Royals. If we have had love-making enough for one day, suppose we walk over?"
"I shall never have love-making enough," he laughed. "I shall bore you awfully sometimes, I have no doubt; but when the heart is full the lips must speak. And as to walking—it is a long walk—do you think you can?"
"As I am to become a naturalized Englishwoman, the sooner I take toEnglish habits the better. I shall at least make the attempt."
"And we can drive back in time for dinner. I shall be delighted to show you the old place—your future home, where we are to spend together so many happy years."
They set off. It was a delightful walk, that sunny day, across fields, down fragrant green lanes, where the hedges in bloom made the air odorous, and the birds sang in the arching branches overhead. A long, lovely walk over that quiet high-road, where three-and-twenty years ago, another Sir Victor Catheron had ridden away forever from the wife he loved.
With the yellow splendor of the afternoon sunlight gilding it, its tall trees waving, its gray turrets and towers piercing the amber air, its ivied walls, and tall stacks of chimneys, Catheron Royals came in view at last. The fallow deer browsed undisturbed, gaudy peacocks strutted in the sun, a fawn lifted its shy wild eyes and fled away at their approach. Over all, solemn Sabbath stillness.
"Welcome to Catheron Royals—welcome as its mistress, my bride, my love," Sir Victor Catheron said.
She lifted her eyes—they were full of tears. How good he was—how tenderly he loved her, and what a happy, grateful girl she had reason to be. They entered the house, admitted by a very old woman, who bobbed a curtsey and looked at them with curious eyes. Two or three old retainers took care of the place and showed it to strangers.
Leaning on her lover's arm, Edith Darrell walked through scores of stately rooms, immense, chill halls, picture-galleries, drawing-rooms, and chambers. What a stupendous place it was—bigger and more imposing by far than Powyss Place, and over twice as old. She looked at the polished suits of armor, at battle-axes, antlers, pikes, halberds, until her eyes ached. She paced in awe and wonder down the vast portrait-gallery, where half a hundred dead and gone Catherons looked at her sombrely out of their heavy frames. And one day her picture—hers—would hang in solemn state here. The women who looked at her from these walls lay stark and stiff in the vaults beneath Chesholm Church, and sooner or later they would layherstark and stiff with them, and put up a marble tablet recording her age and virtues. She shivered a little and drew a long breath of relief as they emerged into the bright outer day and fresh air once more.
"It's a wonderful place," she said; "a place to dream, of—a place such as I have only met before in English books. But there is one room among all these rooms which you have not shown me, and which I have a morbid craving to see. You will not be angry if I ask?"
"Angry with you?" Sir Victor lifted his eyebrows in laughing surprise."Speak, Edith, though it were half my kingdom."
"It is—" a pause—"to see the room where your mother—Ah!" as he shrank a little, "I beg your pardon. I should not have asked."
"Yes, yes, you should. You shall visit at once. I am a coward about some things, I confess—this among others. Come."
They went. He took from a huge bunch he carried the key of that long-locked room. He flung it wide, and they stood together on the threshold.
It was all dark, the blinds closed, the curtains drawn, dark and deserted, as it had been since that fatal night. Nothing had been changed, absolutely nothing. There stood the baby bassinet, there the little table on which the knife had lain, there beneath the open window the chair in which Ethel, Lady Catheron, had slept her last long sleep. A hush that seemed like the hush of death lay over all.
Edith stood silent and grave—not speaking. She motioned him hastily to come away. He obeyed. Another moment, and they stood together under the blue bright sky.
"Oh!" Edith said, under her breath, "who did it?"
"Who indeed? And yet Lady Helena knows."
His face and tone were sombre. How dare they let her lie in her unavenged grave? A Catheron had done it beyond doubt, and to save the Catheron name and honor the murderer had been let go.
"Lady Helena knows!" repeated Edith; "itwasthat wicked brother and sister, then? How cruel—how cruel!"
"It was not the sister—I believethat. That it must have been the brother no doubt can exist."
"Is he living or dead?"
"Living, I believe. By Heaven! I have half a mind yet to hunt him down, and hand him over to the hangman for the deed he has done!"
"An ancient name and family honor are wonderful things on this side of the Atlantic, a couple of million dollars on ours. They can save the murderer from the gallows. We won't talk about it, Sir Victor—it makes you unhappy I see; only if ever I—if ever I," laughing and blushing a little, "come to be mistress of that big, romantic old house, I shall wall that room up. It will always be a haunted chamber—a Bluebeard closet for me."
"If ever you are mistress," he repeated. "Edith, my dearest, when will you be?"
"Who knows? Never, perhaps."
"Edith—again!"
"Well, who can tell. I may die—you may die—something may happen. I can't realize that I ever will be. I can't think of myself as Lady Catheron."
"Edith, I command you! Name the day."
"Now, my dear Sir Victor—"
"Dear Victor, without the prefix; let all formality end between us. Why need we wait? You are your own mistress, I my own master; I am desperately in love—I want to be married. Iwillbe married. There is nothing to wait for—Iwon'twait. Edith shall it be—this is the last of May—shall it be the first week of July?"
"No, sir; it shall not, nor the first week of August. We don't do things in this desperate sort of hot haste."
"But why should we delay? What is there to delay for? I shall have a brain-fever if I am compelled to wait longer than August. Be reasonable, Edith; don't let it be later than August."
"Now, now, now, Sir Victor Catheron, August is not to be thought of. I shall not marry you for ages to come—not until Lady Helena Powyss gives her full and free consent."
"Lady Helena shall give her full and free consent in a week; she could not refuse me anything longer if she tried. Little tyrant! if you cared for me one straw, you would not object like this."
"Yes I would. Nobody marries in this impetuous fashion. I won't hear of August. Besides, there is my engagement with Mrs. Stuart. I have promised to talk French and German all through the Continent for them this summer."
"I will furnish Mrs. Stuart a substitute with every European language at her finger-ends. Seriously, Edith, you must consider that contract at an end—my promised wife can be no one's paid companion. Pardon me, but you must see this, Edith."
"I see it," she answered gravely. She had her own reasons for not wishing to accompany the Stuart family now. And after all, why should she insist on postponing the marriage?
"You are relenting—I see it in your face," he exclaimed imploringly."Edith! Edith! shall it be the first week of September?"
She smiled and looked at him as she had done early this eventful morning, when she had said "Yes!"
"As brain-fever threatens if I refuse, I suppose you must have your way. But talk of the willfulness of women after this!"
"Then it shall be the first of September—St Partridge Day?"
"It shall be St. Partridge Day."
Meantime the long sunny hours, that passed so pleasantly for these plighted lovers, lagged drearily enough for one young lady at Powyss Place—Miss Beatrix Stuart.
She had sent for her mother and told her the news. Placid Aunt Chatty lifted her meek eyebrows and opened her dim eyes as she listened.
"Sir Victor Catheron going to marry our Edith! Dear me! I am sure I thought it was you, Trixy, all the time. And Edith will be a great lady after all. Dear me!"
That was all Mrs. Stuart had to say about it. She went back to her tatting with a serene quietude that exasperated her only daughter beyond bounds.
"I wonder if an earthquake would upset ma's equanimity!" thought Trix savagely. "Well, wait until Charley comes! We'll see how he takes it."
Misery loves company. If she was to suffer the pangs of disappointment herself, it would be some comfort to see Charley suffer also. And Trix was not a bad-hearted girl either, mind—it was simply human nature.
Charley and the captain had gone off exploring the wonders and antiquities of Chester. Edith and Sir Victor were nobody knew where. Lady Helena had a visitor, and was shut up with her. Trix had nothing but her novel, and what were all the novels in Mudie's library to her this bitter day?
The long, red spears of the sunset were piercing the green depths of fern and brake, when the two young men rode home. A servant waylaid Mr. Stuart and delivered his sister's message. She wanted to see him at once on important business.
"Important business!" murmured Charley, opening his eyes.
But he went promptly without waiting to change his dress.
"How do, Trix?" he said, sauntering in. "Captain Hammond's compliments, and how's the ankle?"
He threw himself—no, Charley never threw himself—he slowly extended his five-feet-eleven of manhood on a sofa, and awaited his sister's reply.
"Oh, the ankle's just the same—getting better, I suppose," Trix answered, rather crossly. "I didn't send for you to talk about my ankle. Much you, or Captain Hammond, or any one else cares whether I have an ankle at all or not."
"My dear Trix, a young lady's ankle is always a matter of profound interest and admiration to every well-regulated masculine mind."
"Bah! Charley, you'll never guess what I have to tell!"
"My child, I don't intend to try. I have been sight-seeing all the afternoon, interviewing cathedrals, and walls, and rows, and places, until I give you my word you might knock me down with a feather. If you have anything preying on your mind—and I see you have—out with it. Suspense is painful."
He closed his eyes, and calmly awaited the news. It came—like a bolt from a bow.
"Charley, Sir Victor Catheron has proposed to Edith, and Edith has accepted him!"
Charley opened his eyes, and fixed them upon her—not the faintest trace of surprise or any other earthly emotion upon his fatigued face.
"Ah—andthat'syour news! Poor child! After all your efforts, it's rather hard upon you. But if you expect me to be surprised, you do your only brother's penetration something less than justice. It has been an evident case of spoons—apparent to the dullest intellect from the first. I have long outlived the tender passion myself, but in others I always regard it with a fatherly—nay—let me say, even grandfatherly interest. And so they are going to 'live and love together through many changing years,' as the poet says. Bless you," said Charley, lifting his hand over an imaginary pair of lovers at his feet—"bless you, my children, and be happy!"
And this was all! And she had thought he was in love with Edith himself! This was all—closing his eyes again as though sinking sweetly to sleep. It was too much for Trix.
"O Charley!" she burst forth, "youaresuch a fool!"
Mr. Stuart rose to his feet.
"Overpowered by the involuntary homage of this assembly, I rise to—"
"You're an idiot—there!" went on Trix; "a lazy, stupid idiot! You're in love with Edith yourself, and you could have had her if you wished, for she likes you better than Sir Victor, and then Sir Victor might have proposed to me. But no—you must go dawdling about, prowling, and prancing, and let her slip through your fingers!"
"Prowling and prancing! Good Heaven, Trix! I ask you soberly, as man to man, did you ever see me prowl or prance in the whole course of my life?"
"Bah-h-h!" said Trix, with a perfect shake of scorn in the interjection. "I've no patience with you! Get out of my room—do!"
Mr. Stuart, senior, was the only one who didnottake it quietly.His bile rose at once.
"Edith! Edith Darrell! Fred Darrell's penniless daughter! Beatrix Stuart, have you let this young baronet slip through your fingers in this ridiculous way after all?"
"I never let him slip—he never was in my fingers," retorted Trix, nearly crying. "It's just my usual luck. I don't want him—he's a stupid noodle—that's what he is. Edith's better-looking than I am. Any one can see that with half an eye, and when I was sick on that horrid ship, she had everything her own way. I did my best—yes I did, pa—and I think it's a little too hard to be scolded in this way, with my poor sprained ankle and everything!"
"Well, there, there, child!" exclaimed Mr. Stuart, testily, for he was fond of Trix; "don't cry. There's as good fish in the sea as ever were caught. As to being better-looking than you, I don't believe a word of it. I never liked your dark complected women myself. You're the biggest and the best-looking young woman of the two, by George!" (Mr. Stuart's grammar was hardly up to the standard.) "There's this young fellow, Hammond—his father's a lord—rich, too, if his grandfatherdidmake it cotton-spinning. Now, why can't you set your cap forhim? When the old rooster dies, this young chap will be a lord himself, and a lord's better than a baronet, by George! Come downstairs, Trixy, and put on your stunningest gown, and see if you can't hook the military swell."
Following these pious parental counsels, Miss Trixdidassume her "stunningest" gown, and with the aid of her brother and a crutch, managed to reach the dining-room. There Lady Helena, pale and preoccupied, joined them. No allusion was made at dinner tothetopic—a visible restraint was upon all.
"Old lady don't half like it," chuckled Stuartpere. "And no wonder, by George! If it was Charley I shouldn't like it myself. I must speak to Charley after dinner—there's this Lady Gwendoline. He's got to marry the upper-crust too. Lady Gwendoline Stuart wouldn't sound bad, by George! I'm glad there's to be a baronet in the family, even if it isn't Trixy. A cousin's daughter's better than nothing."
So in the first opportunity after dinner Mr. Stuart presented his congratulations as blandly as possible to the future Lady Catheron. In the next opportunity he attacked his son on the subject of Lady Gwendoline.
"Take example by your Cousin Edith, my boy," said Mr. Stuart in a large voice, standing with his hands under his coat-tails. "That girl's a credit to her father and family, by George! Look at the matchshe'smaking without a rap to bless herself with. Now you've a fortune in prospective, young man, that would buy and sell half a dozen of these beggarly lordlings. You've youth and good looks, and good manners, or if you haven't you ought to have, and I say you shall marry a title, by George! There's this Lady Gwendoline—she ain't rich, but she's an earl's daughter. Now what's to hinder your going forher?"
Charley looked up meekly from the depths of his chair.
"As you like it, governor. In all matters matrimonial I simply consider myself as non-existent. Only this, Iwillpremise—I am ready to marry her, but not to court her. As you truthfully observe, I have youth, good looks, and good manners, but in all things appertaining to love and courtship, I'm as ignorant as the child unborn. Matrimony is an ill no man can hope to escape—love-makingis. As a prince in my own right, I claim that the wooing shall be done by deputy. There is her most gracious majesty, she popped the question to the late lamented Prince Consort. Could Lady Gwendoline have any more illustrious example to follow? You settle the preliminaries. Let Lady Gwendoline do the proposing, and you may lead me any day you please as a lamb to the slaughter."
With this reply, Mr. Stuart, senior, was forced for the present to be content and go on his way. Trix, overhearing, looked up with interest:
"Wouldyou marry her, Charley?"
"Certainly, Beatrix; haven't I said so? If a manmustmarry, as well a Lady Gwendoline as any one else. As Dundreary says, 'One woman is as good as another, and a good deal better.'"
"But you've never seen her."
"What difference does that make? I suppose the Prince of Wales never saw Alexandra until the matter was cut and dry. You see I love to quote lofty examples. Hammond has described her, and I should say from his description she is what Barry Cornwall would call 'a golden girl' in everything except fortune. Hammond speaks of her as though she were made of precious metals and gems. She has golden hair, alabaster brow, sapphire eyes, pearly teeth, and ruby nose. Or, stay—perhaps it was ruby lips and chiselled nose. Chiselled, sounds as though her olfactory organ was of marble or granite, doesn't it? And she's three-and-thirty years of age. I found that out for myself from the Peerage. It's rather an advantage, however, than otherwise, for a man's wife to be ten or twelve years the elder. You see she combines all the qualities of wife and mother in one."
And then Charley sauntered away to the whist-table to join his father and mother and Lady Helena. He had as yet found no opportunity of speaking to Edith, and at dinner she had studiously avoided meeting his eye. Captain Hammond took his post beside Miss Stuart's invalid couch, and made himself agreeable and entertaining to that young lady.
Trixy's eyes gradually brightened, and her color came back; she held him a willing captive by her side all the evening through. Papa Stuart from his place at the whist table beamed paternal approval down the long room.
A silken-hung arch separated this drawing-room from another smaller, where the piano stood. Except for two waxlights on the piano, this second drawing-room was in twilight. Edith sat at the piano, Sir Victor stood beside her. Her hands wandered over the keys in soft, dreamy melodies; they talked in whispers when they talked at all. The spell of a silence, more delicious than words, held the young baronet; he was nearing the speechless phase of thegrande passion. That thereisa speechless phase, I have been credibly assured again and again, by parties who have had experience in the matter, and certainly ought to know.
At half-past ten Lady Helena, pleading headache, rose from the whist-table, said good-night, and went away to her room. She looked ill and worn, and strangely anxious. Her nephew, awaking from his trance of bliss, and seeing her pale face, gave her his arm and assisted her up the long stairway to her room. Mrs. Stuart, yawning very much, followed her example. Mr. Stuart went out through the open French window to smoke a last cigar. Captain Hammond and Trix were fathoms deep in their conversation. Miss Darrell, in the inner room, stood alone, her elbow resting on the low marble mantel, her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the wall before her. The twinkle of the tapers lighted up the diamond on her hand, glowing like a miniature sun.
"You have been so completely monopolized all evening, Dithy," said a familiar voice beside her, "that there has been no such thing as speaking a word to you. Better late than never, though, I hope."
She lifted her eyes to Charley's face, Charley looking as he ever looked to her, "a man of men," handsome and gallant, as though he were indeed the prince they called him. He took in his, the hand hanging so loosely by her side, the hand that wore the ring.
"What a pretty hand you have, Edie, and how well diamonds become it. I think you were born to wear diamonds, my handsome cousin, and walk in silk attire. A magnificent ring, truly—an heirloom, no doubt, in the Catheron family. My dear cousin, Trix has been telling me the news. Is it necessary to say I congratulate you with all my heart?"
His face, his voice, his pleasant smile held no emotion whatever, save that of kindly, cousinly regard. His bright gray eyes looked at her with brotherly frankness, nothing more.
The color that came so seldom, and made her so lovely, rose deep to Edith's cheeks—this time the flush of anger. Her dark eyes gleamed scornfully; she drew her hand suddenly and contemptuously away.
"It is not necessary at all, Cousin Charley. Pray don't trouble yourself—I know how you hate trouble—to turn fine phrases. I don't want congratulations; I am too happy to need them."
"Yet being the correct thing to do, and knowing what a stickler you are forles convenances, Edith, you will still permit me humbly to offer them. It is a most suitable match; I congratulate Sir Victor on his excellent taste and judgment. He is the best fellow alive, and you—Iwillsay it, though you are my cousin—will be a bride even a baronet may be proud of. I wish you both, all the happiness so suitable a match deserves."
Was this sarcasm—was it real? She could not tell, well as she understood him. His placid face, his serene eyes were as cloudless as a summer sky. Yes, he meant it, and only the other day he had told her he loved her. She could have laughed aloud—Charley Stuart's love!
On the instant Sir Victor returned. In his secret heart the baronet was mortally jealous of Charley. The love that Edith could not give him, he felt instinctively, had long ago been given to her handsome cousin. There was latent jealousy in his face now, as he drew near.
"Am I premature, Sir Victor, in offering my congratulations?" Charley said, with pleasant cordiality; "if so, the fact of Edith's being my cousin, almost my sister, must excuse it. You are a fortunate man, baronet. It would be superfluous to wish you joy—you have an overplus of that article already."
Sir Victor's brow cleared. Charley's frankness, Charley's perfect good-humor staggered him. Had he then been mistaken after all? He stretched forth his hand and grasped that of Edith's cousin.
She turned suddenly and walked away, a passion of anger within her, flashing as she went a look of hatred—yes, absolute hatred—upon Charley. She had brought it upon herself, she had deserved it all, but how dared he mock her with his smiles, his good wishes, when he knew, heknewthat her whole heart was in his keeping?
"It shall not be in his keeping long," she said savagely, between her set teeth. "Ingrate! More unstable than water! And I was fool enough to cry for him and myself that night at Killarney."
It was half-past eleven when she went up to her room. She had studiously avoided Charley all the remainder of the evening. She had demeaned herself to her affianced with a smiling devotion that had nearly turned his brain. But the smiles and the brightness all faded away as she said good-night. She toiled wearily up the stairs, pale, tired, spiritless, half her youth and beauty gone. Farther down the passage she could hear Charley's mellow voice trolling carelessly a song:
"Did you ever have a cousin, Tom?And could that cousin sing?Sisters we have by the dozen, Tom,But a cousin's a different thing."