"She is a wonderful woman," he said to himself; "a noble creature. As powerful in mind as she is lovely in person. What a pity that I should make myself the enemy of this woman for the sake of such a mean-spirited hound as Reginald Eversleigh! But my interests compel me to run counter to my inclination. It is a great pity. With this woman as my ally, I might have done greater things than I shall ever do by myself."
Victor Carrington mused thus while Honoria Eversleigh sat on the edge of the broken wall, at a few paces from him, looking calmly out at the purple sky.
She fully believed that she had fallen into the power of a maniac.What, except madness, could have prompted such conduct as that ofVictor Carrington's?
She knew that there is no defence so powerful as an appearance of calmness; and it was with tranquillity she addressed her companion, after that interval of deliberation.
"Now, Mr. Carrington," she said, "since it seems I am your prisoner, perhaps you will be good enough to inform me why you have brought me to this place, and what injury I have ever done you that you should inflict so deep a wrong on me?"
"You have never injuredme, Lady Eversleigh," replied Victor Carrington; "but you have injured one who is my friend, and whose interests are closely linked with mine."
"Who is that friend?"
"Reginald Eversleigh."
"Reginald Eversleigh!" repeated Honoria, with amazement. "In what manner have I injured Reginald Eversleigh? Is he not my husband's nephew, and am I not bound to feel interest in his welfare? How, then, can I have injured him?"
"You have done him the worst wrong that one individual can do another—you stand between him and fortune. Do you not know that, little more than a year ago, Reginald Eversleigh was the heir to Raynham and all its surroundings?"
"I know that; but he was disinherited before I crossed his uncle's pathway."
"True; but had younotcrossed Sir Oswald's path, there is no doubt Reginald would have been restored to favour. But you have woven your spells round his kinsman, and his only hope lies in your disgrace—"
"My disgrace!"
"Yes, Lady Eversleigh. Life is a battle, in which the weakest must be trodden down; you have triumphed hitherto, but the hour of your triumph is past. Yesterday you were queen of Raynham Castle; to-morrow no kitchen-wench within its walls will be so low as you."
"What do you mean?" asked Honoria, more and more mystified every moment by her companion's words.
For the first time, an awful fear took possession of her, and she began to perceive that she was the victim of a foul and villanous plot.
"What do you mean?" she repeated, in accents of alarm.
"I mean this, Lady Eversleigh—the world judges of people's actions by their outward seeming, not by their inward truth. Appearances have conspired to condemn you. Before to-morrow every creature in Raynham Castle will believe that you have fled from your home, and with me—"
"Fled from my home!"
"Yes; how else can your absence to-night—your sudden disappearance from the pic-nic—be construed?"
"If I live, I shall go back to the castle at daybreak to-morrow morning—go back to denounce your villany—to implore my husband's vengeance on your infamy!"
"And do you think any one will believe your denunciation? You will go back too late Lady Eversleigh."
"Oh, villain! villain!" murmured Honoria, in accents of mingled abhorrence and despair—abhorrence of her companion's infamy, despair inspired by the horror of her own position.
"You have played for a very high stake, Lady Eversleigh," said the surgeon; "and you must not wonder if you have found opponents ready to encounter your play with a still more desperate, and a still more dexterous game. When a nameless and obscure woman springs from poverty and obscurity to rank and riches, she must expect to find others ready to dispute the prize which she has won."
"And there can exist a wretch calling himself a man, and yet capable of such an act as this!" cried Honoria, looking upward to the calm and cloudless sky, as if she would have called heaven to witness the iniquity of her enemy. "Do not speak to me, sir," she added, turning to Victor Carrington, with unutterable scorn. "I believed a few minutes ago that you were a madman, and I thought myself the victim of a maniac's folly. I understand all now. You have plotted nobly for your friend's service; and he will, no doubt, reward you richly if you succeed. But you have not yet succeeded. Providence sometimes seems to favour the wicked. It his favoured you, so far; but the end has not come yet."
She turned from him and walked to the opposite side of the tower. Here she seated herself on the battlemented wall, as calm, in outward seeming, as if she had been in her own drawing-room. She took out a tiny jewelled watch; by that soft light she could perceive the figures on the dial.
It was a few minutes after one o'clock. It was not likely that the man who had charge of the ruins would come to the tower until seven or eight in the morning. For six or seven hours, therefore, Honoria Eversleigh was likely to be a prisoner—for six or seven hours she would have to endure the hateful presence of the man whose treachery had placed her in this hideous position.
Despair reigned in her heart, entire and overwhelming despair. When released from her prison, she might hurry back to the castle. But who would believe a story so wild, so improbable, as that which she would have to tell?
Would her husband believe her? Would he, who had to all appearance withdrawn his love from her for no reason whatever—would he believe in her purity and truth, when circumstances conspired in damning evidence of her guilt? A sense of hopeless misery took possession of her heart; but no cry of anguish broke from her pale lips. She sat motionless as a statue, with her eyes fixed upon the eastern horizon, counting the moments as they passed with cruel slowness, watching with yearning gaze for the first glimmer of morning.
Victor Carrington contemplated that statuesque figure, that pale and tranquil face, with unalloyed admiration. Until to-night he had despised women as frail, helpless creatures, only made to be flattered by false words, and tyrannized over by stronger natures than their own. Among all the women with whom he had ever been associated, his mother was the only one in whose good sense he had believed, or for whose intellect he had felt the smallest respect. But now he beheld a woman of another stamp—a woman whose pride and fortitude were akin to the heroic.
"You endure the unpleasantness of your position nobly, Lady Eversleigh," he said; "and I can find no words to express my admiration of your conduct. It is very hard to find oneself the enemy of a lady, and, above all, of a lady whose beauty and whose intellect are alike calculated to inspire admiration. But in this world, Lady Eversleigh, there is only one rule—only one governing principle by which men regulate their lives—let them seek as they will to mask the truth with specious lies, which other men pretend to believe, but do not. That one rule, that one governing principle, is SELF-INTEREST. For the advancement of his own fortunes, the man who calls himself honest will trample on the dearest ties, will sacrifice the firmest friendships. The game which Reginald Eversleigh and I have played against you is a desperate one; but Sir Oswald rendered his nephew desperate when he reduced him, in one short hour, from wealth to poverty—when he robbed him of expectations that had been his from infancy. A desperate man will do desperate deeds; and it has been your fate, Lady Eversleigh, to cross the path of such a man."
He waited, with his eyes fixed on the face of Sir Oswald's wife. But during the whole of his speech she had never once looked at him. She had never withdrawn her eyes from the eastern horizon. Passionless contempt was expressed by that curving lip, that calm repose of eye and brow. It seemed as if this woman's disdain for the plotting villain into whose power she had fallen absorbed every other feeling.
Victor Carrington waited in vain for some reply from those scornful lips; but none came. He took out his cigar-case, lighted a cigar, and sat in a meditative attitude, smoking, and looking down moodily at the black chasm below the base of the tower. For the first time in his life this man, who was utterly without honour or principle—this man, who held self-interest as the one rule of conduct—this unscrupulous trickster and villain, felt the bitterness of a woman's scorn. He would have been unmoved by the loudest evidence of his victim's despair; but her silent contempt stung him to the quick. The hours dragged themselves out with a hideous slowness for the despairing creature who sat watching for the dawn; but at last that long night came to an end, the chill morning light glimmered faint and gray in the east. It was not the first time that Sir Oswald's wife had watched in anguish for the coming of that light. In that lonely tower, with her heart tortured by a sense of unutterable agony, there came back to her the memory of another vigil which she had kept more than two years before.
She heard the dull, plashing sound of a river, the shivering of rushes, then the noise of a struggle, oaths, a heavy crashing fall, a groan, and then no more!
Blessed with her husband's love, she had for a while closed her eyes upon that horrible picture of the past; but now, in the hour of despair, it came back to her, hideously distinct, awfully palpable.
"How could I hope for happiness?" she thought; "I, the daughter of an assassin! The sins of one generation are visited on another. A curse is upon me, and I can never hope for happiness."
The sun rose, and shone broad and full over the barren moorland; but it was several hours after sunrise before the man who took care of the ruins came to release the wretched prisoner.
He picked up a scanty living by showing the tower to visitors, and he knew that no visitors were likely to come before nine o'clock in the morning. It was nearly nine when Honoria saw him approaching in the distance.
It was after nine when he drew up the bridge, and came across it to the ruined fortress.
"You are free from this moment, Lady Eversleigh," said the surgeon, whose face looked horribly pale and worn in the broad sunlight. That night of watching had not been without its agony for him.
Honoria did not condescend to notice his words. She took up the plumed hat, which had been lying among the long grass at her feet. The delicate feathers were wet and spoiled by the night dew, and she took them from the fragile hat and flung them away. Her thin, white dress was heavy with the damp, and clung round her like a shroud. But she had not felt the chilling night winds.
Lady Eversleigh groped her way down the winding staircase, which was dark even in the daytime—except here and there, where a gap in the wall let in a patch of light upon the gloomy stones.
Under the archway she met the countryman, who uttered a cry on beholding the white, phantom-like figure.
"Oh, Loard!" he cried, when he had recovered from his terror; "I ask pardon, my lady, but danged if I didn't teak thee for a ghaist."
"You did not know, when you went away last night, that there was any one in the tower?"
"No, indeed, my lady. I'd been away for a few minutes look'n' arter a bit of peg I've got in a shed down yander; and when I keame back to let down th' drawbridge, I didn't sing out to ax if there wur any one in th' old too-wer, for t'aint often as there be any one at that time of night."
"Tell me the way to the nearest village," cried Honoria. "I want to get some conveyance to take me to Raynham."
"Then you had better go to Edgington, ma'am. That's four miles from here—on t' Raynham ro-ad."
The man pointed out the way to the village of which he spoke; and LadyEversleigh set forth across the wide expanse of moorland alone.
She had considerable difficulty in finding her way, for there were no landmarks on that broad stretch of level turf. She wandered out of the track more than once, and it was one o'clock before she reached the village of Edgington.
Here, after considerable delay, she procured a carriage to take her on to Raynham; but there was little chance that she could reach the castle until between three and four o'clock in the afternoon.
If Honoria Eversleigh had endured a night of anguish amid the wild desolation of Yarborough Tower, Sir Oswald had suffered an agony scarcely less terrible at Raynham. He had been summoned from the dinner-table in the marquee by one of his servants, who told him that a boy was waiting for him with a letter, which he would entrust to no one but Sir Oswald Eversleigh himself.
Mystified by the strange character of this message, Sir Oswald went immediately to see the boy who had brought it. He found a lad waiting for him under the trees near the marquee. The boy handed him a letter, which he opened and read immediately.
The contents of that letter were well calculated to agitate and disturb him.
The letter was anonymous. It consisted of the following words:—
"If Sir Oswald Eversleigh wishes to be convinced of his wife's truth or falsehood, let him ride back to Raynham without a moment's delay. There he will receive ample evidence of her real character. He may have to wait; but the friend who writes this advises him to wait patiently. He will not wait in vain.
A fortnight before, Sir Oswald would have flung such a letter as this away from him with indignant scorn; but the poison of suspicion had done its corroding work.
For a little time Sir Oswald hesitated, half-inclined to despise the mysterious warning. All his better feelings prompted him to disregard this nameless correspondent—all his noblest impulses urged him to confide blindly and unquestioningly in the truth of the wife he loved; but jealousy—that dark and fatal passion—triumphed over every generous feeling, and he yielded to the influence of his hidden counsellor.
"No harm can arise from my return to Raynham," he thought. "My friends yonder are enjoying themselves too much to trouble themselves about my absence. If this anonymous correspondent is fooling me, I shall soon discover my mistake."
Having once arrived at this determination, Sir Oswald lost no time in putting it into execution. He ordered his horse, Orestes, and rode away as fast as the animal would carry him.
Arrived at Raynham, he inquired if any one had asked for him, but was told there had not been any visitors at the castle throughout the day.
Again and again Sir Oswald consulted the anonymous letter. It told him to wait, but for what was he to wait? Half ashamed of himself for having yielded to the tempter, restless and uneasy in spirit, he wandered from room to room in the twilight, abandoned to gloomy and miserable thoughts.
The servants lighted the lamps in the many chambers of Raynham, while Sir Oswald paced to and fro—now in the long drawing-room; now in the library; now on the terrace, where the September moon shone broad and full. It was eleven o'clock when the sound of approaching wheels proclaimed the return of the picnic party; and until that hour the baronet had watched and waited without having been rewarded by the smallest discovery of any kind whatever. He felt bitterly ashamed of himself for having been duped by so shallow a trick.
"It is the handiwork of some kind friend; the practical joke of some flippant youngster, who thinks it a delightful piece of humour to play upon the jealousy of a husband of fifty," mused the baronet, as he brooded over his folly. "I wish to heaven I could discover the writer of the epistle. He should find that it is rather a dangerous thing to trifle with a man's feelings."
Sir Oswald went himself to assist at the reception of his guests. He expected to see his wife arrive with the rest. For the moment, he forgot all about his suspicions of the last fortnight. He thought only of the anonymous letter, and the wrong which he had done Honoria in being influenced by its dark hints.
If he could have met his wife at that moment, when every impulse of his heart drew him towards her, all sense of estrangement would have melted away; all his doubts would have vanished before a smile from her. But though Sir Oswald found his wife's barouche the first of the carriages, she was not in it. Lydia Graham told him how "dear Lady Eversleigh" had caused all the party such terrible alarm.
"I suppose she reached home two hours ago," added the young lady. "She had more than an hour's start of us; and with that light vehicle and spirited horse she and Mr. Carrington must have come so rapidly."
"My wife and Mr. Carrington! What do you mean, Miss Graham?"
Lydia explained, and Reginald Eversleigh confirmed her statement. Lady Eversleigh had left the Wizard's Cave more than an hour before the rest of the party, accompanied by Mr. Carrington.
No words can describe the consternation of Sir Oswald. He did his best to conceal his alarm; but the livid hue of his face, the ashen pallor of his lips, betrayed the intensity of his emotion. He sent out mounted grooms to search the different roads between the castle and the scene of the pic-nic; and then he left his guests without a word, and shut himself in his own apartments, to await the issue of the search.
Had any fatal accident happened to her and her companion?—or were Honoria Eversleigh and Victor Carrington two guilty creatures, who had abandoned themselves to the folly and madness of a wicked attachment, and had fled together, reckless alike of reputation and fortune?
He tried to believe that this latter chance was beyond the region of possibility; but horrible suspicions racked his brain as he paced to and fro, waiting for the issue of the search that was being made.
Better that he should be told that his wife had been found lying dead upon the hard, cruel road, than that he should hear that she had left him for another; a false and degraded creature!
"Why did she trust herself to the companionship of this man?" he asked himself. "Why did she disgrace herself by leaving her guests in the company of a young man who ought to be little more than a stranger to her? She is no ignorant or foolish girl; she has shown herself able to hold her own in the most trying positions. What madness could have possessed her, that she should bring disgrace upon herself and me by such conduct as this?"
The grooms came back after a search that had been utterly in vain. No trace of the missing lady had been discovered. Inquiries had been made everywhere along the road, but without result. No gig had been seen to pass between the neighbourhood of the Wizard's Cave and Raynham Castle.
Sir Oswald abandoned himself to despair.
There was no longer any hope: his wife had fled from him. Bitter, indeed, was the penalty which he was called upon to pay for his romantic marriage—his blind confidence in the woman who had fascinated and bewitched him. He bowed his head beneath the blow, and alone, hidden from the cruel gaze of the world, he resigned himself to his misery.
All that night he sat alone, his head buried in his clasped hands, stunned and bewildered by his agony.
His valet, Joseph Millard, knocked at the door at the usual hour, anxious to assist at his master's toilet; but the door was securely locked, and Sir Oswald told his servant that he needed no help. He spoke in a firm voice; for he knew that the valet's ear would be keen to mark any evidence of his misery. When the man was gone, he rose up for the first time, and looked across the sunlit woods.
A groan of agony burst from his lips as he gazed upon that beautiful landscape.
He had brought his young wife to be mistress of this splendid domain. He had shown her that fair scene; and had told her that she was to be queen over all those proud possessions until the day of her death. No hand was ever to rob her of them. They were the free gift of his boundless love! to be shared only by her children, should heaven bless her and her husband with inheritors for this ancient estate. He had never been weary of testifying his devotion, his passionate love; and yet, before she had been his wife three months, she left him for another.
While he stood before the open window, with these bitter thoughts in his mind, he heard the sound of wheels in the corridor without. The wheels belonged to an invalid chair, used by Captain Copplestone when the gout held him prisoner, a self-propelling chair, in which the captain could make his way where he pleased.
The captain knocked at his old comrade's door.
"Let me in, Oswald" he said; "I want to see you immediately."
"Not this morning, my dear Copplestone; I can't see any one this morning," answered the baronet.
"You can seeme, Oswald. I must and will see you, and I shall stop here till you let me in."
A loud knock at the door with a heavy-headed cane accompanied the close of his speech.
Sir Oswald opened the door, and admitted the captain, who pushed his chair dexterously through the doorway.
"Well," said this eccentric visitor, when Sir Oswald had shut the door, "so you've not been to bed all night?"
"How do you know that?"
"By your looks, for one thing: and by the appearance of your bed, which I can see through the open door yonder, for another. Pretty goings on, these!"
"A heavy sorrow has fallen upon me, Copplestone."
"Your wife has run away—that's what you mean, I suppose?"
"What!" cried Sir Oswald. "It is all known, then?"
"What is all known?"
"That my wife has left me."
"Well, my dear Oswald, there is a rumour of that kind afloat, and I have come here in consequence of that rumour. But I don't believe there's a word of truth in it."
The baronet turned from his friend with a bitter smile of derision.
"I may strive to hoodwink the world, Copplestone," he said, "but I have no wish to deceive you. My wife has left me—there is no doubt of it."
"I don't believe it," cried the captain. "No, Oswald Eversleigh, I don't believe it. You know what I am. I'm not quite like the Miller of Dee, for I do care for somebody; and that somebody is my oldest friend. When I first heard of your marriage, I told you that you were a fool. That was plain-spoken enough, if you like. When I saw your wife, I told you that had changed my mind, and that I thought your folly an excusable one. If ever I saw purity and truth in a woman's face, I saw them in the face of Lady Eversleigh; and I will stake my life that she is as true as steel."
Sir Oswald clasped his friend's hand, too deeply moved for words. There was unspeakable consolation in such friendship as this. For the first tame since midnight a ray of hope dawned upon him. He had always trusted in his old comrade's judgment. Might he not trust in him still?
When Captain Copplestone left him, he went to his dressing-room, and made even a more than usually careful toilet, and went to face "the world."
In the great dining-room he found all his guests assembled, and he took his seat amongst them calmly, though the sight of Honoria's empty place cut him to the heart.
Never, perhaps, was a more miserable meal eaten than that breakfast. There were long intervals of silence; and what little conversation there was appeared forced and artificial.
Perhaps the most self-possessed person—the calmest to all appearance, of the whole party—was Sir Oswald Eversleigh, so heroic an effort had he made over himself, in order to face the world proudly. He had a few words to say to every one; and was particularly courteous to the guests near him. He opened his letters with an unshaking hand. But he abstained from all allusion to his wife, or the events of the previous evening.
He had finished breakfast, and was leaving the room, when his nephew approached him—
"Can I speak to you for a few moments alone?" asked Reginald.
"Certainly. I am going to the library to write my letters. You can go with me, if you like."
They went together to the library. As Sir Oswald closed the door, and turned to face his nephew, he perceived that Reginald was deadly pale.
"What is amiss?" he asked.
"You ask me that, my dear uncle, at a time when you ought to know that my sympathy for your sorrow—"
"Reserve your sympathy until it is needed," answered the baronet, abruptly. "I dare say you mean well, my dear Reginald; but there are some subjects which I will suffer no man to approach."
"I beg your pardon, sir. Then, in that case, I can tell you nothing. I fancied that it was my duty to bring you any information that reached me; but I defer to you entirely. The subject is a most unhappy one, and I am glad to be spared the pain involved in speaking of it."
"What do you mean?" said the baronet. "If you have anything to tell me—anything that can throw light upon the mystery of my wife's flight—speak out, and speak quickly. I am almost mad, Reginald. Forgive me, if I spoke harshly just now. You are my nephew, and the mask I wear before the world may be dropped in your presence."
"I know nothing personally of Lady Eversleigh's disappearance," said Reginald; "but I have good reason to believe that Miss Graham could tell you much, if she chose to speak out. She has hinted at being in the secret, and I think it only right you should question her."
"I will question her," answered sir Oswald, starting to his feet. "Send her to me, Reginald."
Mr. Eversleigh left his uncle, and Miss Graham very speedily appeared—looking the very image of unconscious innocence—and quite unable to imagine what "dear Sir Oswald" could want with her.
The baronet came to the point very quickly, and before Lydia had time for consideration, she had been made to give a full account of the scene which she had witnessed on the previous evening between Victor Carrington and Honoria.
Of course, Miss Graham told Sir Oswald that she had witnessed this strange scene in the most accidental manner. She had happened to be in a walk that commanded a view of the fir-grove.
"And you saw my wife agitated, clinging to that man?"
"Lady Eversleigh was terribly agitated."
"And then you saw her take her place in the gig, of her own free will?"
"I did, Sir Oswald."
"Oh, what infamy!" murmured the baronet; "what hideous infamy!"
It was to himself that he spoke rather than to Miss Graham. His eyes were fixed on vacancy, and it seemed as if he were scarcely aware of the young lady's presence.
Lydia was almost terrified by that blank, awful look. She waited for a few moments, and then, finding that Sir Oswald questioned her no further, she crept quietly from the room, glad to escape from the sorrow-stricken husband. Malicious though she was, she believed that this time she had spoken the truth.
"He has reason to repent his romantic choice," she thought as she left the library. "Perhaps now he will think that he might have done better by choosing a wife from his own set."
The day wore on; Sir Oswald remained alone in the library, seated before a table, with his arms folded, his gaze fixed on empty space—a picture of despair.
The clock had struck many times; the hot afternoon sun blazed full upon the broad Tudor windows, when the door was opened gently, and some one came into the room. Sir Oswald looked up angrily, thinking it was one of the servants who had intruded on him.
It was his wife who stood before him, dressed in the white robes she had worn at the picnic; but wan and haggard, white as the dress she wore.
"Oswald," she cried, with outstretched hands, and the look of one who did not doubt she would be welcome.
The baronet sprang to his feet, and looked at that pale face with a gaze of unspeakable indignation.
"And you dare to come back?" he exclaimed. "False-hearted adventuress—actress—hypocrite—you dare to come to me with that lying smile upon your face—after your infamy of last night!"
"I am neither adventuress, nor hypocrite, Oswald. Oh, where have your love and confidence vanished that you can condemn me unheard? I have done no wrong—not by so much as one thought that is not full of love for you! I am the helpless victim of the vilest plot that was ever concocted for the destruction of a woman's happiness."
A mocking laugh burst from the lips of Sir Oswald.
"Oh," he cried, "so that is your story. You are the victim of a plot, are you? You were carried away by ruffians, I suppose? You did not go willingly with your paramour? Woman, you stand convicted of your treachery by the fullest evidence. You were seen to leave the Wizard's Cave! You were seen clinging to Victor Carrington—were seen to go with him,willingly. And then you come and tell me you are the victim of a plot! Oh, Lady Eversleigh, this is too poor a story. I should have given you credit for greater powers of invention."
"If I am guilty, why am I here?" asked Honoria.
"Shall I tell you why you are here?" cried Sir Oswald, passionately, "Look yonder, madam! look at those wide woodlands, the deer-park, the lakes and gardens; this is only one side of Raynham Castle. It was for those you returned, Lady Eversleigh, for the love of those—and those alone. Influenced by a mad and wicked passion, you fled with your lover last night; but no sooner did you remember the wealth you had lost, the position you had sacrificed, than you repented your folly. You determined to come back. Your doting husband would doubtless open his arms to receive you. A few imploring words, a tear or so, and the poor, weak dupe would be melted. This is how you argued; but you were wrong. I have been foolish. I have abandoned myself to the dream of a dotard; but the dream is past. The awakening has been rude, but it has been efficacious. I shall never dream again."
"Oswald, will you not listen to my story?"
"No, madam, I will not give you the opportunity of making me a second time your dupe. Go—go back to your lover, Victor Carrington. Your repentance comes too late. The Raynham heritage will never be yours. Go back to your lover; or, if he will not receive you, go back to the gutter from which I took you."
"Oswald!"
The cry of reproach went like a dagger to the heart of the baronet. But he steeled himself against those imploring tones. He believed that he had been wronged—that this woman was as false as she was beautiful.
"Oswald," cried Honoria, "you must and shall hear my story. I demand a hearing as a right—a right which you could not withhold from the vilest criminal, and which you shall not withhold from me, your lawfully wedded and faithful wife. You may disbelieve my story, if you please—heaven knows it seems wild and improbable!—but you shall hear it. Yes, Oswald,you shall!"
She stood before him, drawn to her fullest height, confronting him proudly. If this was guilt, it was, indeed, shameless guilt. Unhappily, the baronet believed in the evidence of Lydia Graham, rather than in the witness of his wife's truth. Why should Lydia have deceived him? he asked himself. What possible motive could she have for seeking to blight his wife's fair name?
Honoria told her story from first to last; she told the history of her night of anguish. She spoke with her eyes fixed on her husband's face, in which she could read the indications of his every feeling. As her story drew to a close, her own countenance grew rigid with despair, for she saw that her words had made no impression on the obdurate heart to which she appealed.
"I do not ask you if you believe me," she said, when her story was finished. "I can see that you do not. All is over between us, Sir Oswald," she added, in a tone of intense sadness—"all is over. You are right in what you said just now, cruel though your words were. You did take me from the gutter; you accepted me in ignorance of my past history; you gave your love and your name to a friendless, nameless creature; and now that circumstances conspire to condemn me, can I wonder if you, too, condemn—if you refuse to believe my declaration of my innocence? I do not wonder. I am only grieved that it should be so. I should have been so proud of your love if it could have survived this fiery ordeal—so proud! But let that pass. I would not remain an hour beneath this roof on sufferance. I am quite ready to go from this house to-day, at an hour's warning, never to re-enter it. Raynham Castle is no more to me than that desolate tower in which I spent last night—without your love. I will leave you without one word of reproach, and you shall never hear my name, or see my face again."
She moved towards the door as she spoke. There was a quiet earnestness in her manner which might have gone far to convince Oswald Eversleigh of her truth; but his mind was too deeply imbued with a belief in her falsehood. This dignified calm, this subdued resignation, seemed to him only the consummate art of a finished actress.
"She is steeped in falsehood to the very lips," he thought. "Doubtless, the little she told me of the history of her childhood was as false as all the rest. Heaven only knows what shameful secrets may have been hidden in her past life!"
She had crossed the threshold of the door, when some sudden impulse moved him to follow her.
"Do not leave Raynham till you have heard further from me, Lady Eversleigh," he said. "It will be my task to make all arrangements for your future life."
His wife did not answer him. She walked towards the hall, her head bent, her eyes fixed on the ground.
"She will not leave the castle until she is obliged to do so," thought Sir Oswald, as he returned to the library. "Oh, what a tissue of falsehood she tried to palm upon me! And she would have blackened my nephew's name, in order to screen her own guilt!"
He rang a bell, and told the servant who answered it to fetch Mr. Eversleigh. His nephew appeared five minutes afterwards, still very pale and anxious-looking.
"I have sent for you, Reginald," said the baronet, "because I have a duty to perform—a very painful duty—but one which I do not care to delay. It is now nearly a year and a half since I made a will which disinherited you. I had good reason for that step, as you know; but I have heard no further talk of your vices or your follies; and, so far as I can judge, you have undergone a reformation. It is not for me, therefore, to hold sternly to a determination which I had made in a moment of extreme anger: and I should perhaps have restored you to your old position ere this, had not a new interest absorbed my heart and mind. I have had cruel reason to repent my folly. I might feel resentment against you, on account of your friend's infamy, but I am not weak enough for that. Victor Carrington and I have a terrible account to settle, and it shall be settled to the uttermost. I need hardly tell you that, if you hold any further communication with him, you will for ever forfeit my friendship."
"My dear sir, you surely cannot suppose—"
"Do not interrupt me. I wish to say what I have to say, and to have done with this subject for ever. You know I have already told you the contents of the will which I made after my marriage. That will left the bulk of my fortune to my wife. That will must now be destroyed; and in the document which I shall substitute for it, your name will occupy its old place. Heaven grant that I do wisely, Reginald, and that you will prove yourself worthy of my confidence."
"My dear uncle, your goodness overpowers me. I cannot find words to express my gratitude."
"No thanks, Reginald. Remember that the change which restores you to your old position is brought about by my misery. Say no more. Better that an Eversleigh should be master of Raynham when I am dead and gone. And now leave me."
The young man retired. His face betrayed conflicting emotions. Lost to all sense of honour though he was, the iniquity of the scheme by which he had succeeded weighed horribly upon his mind, and he was seized with a wild fear of the man through whose agency it had been brought about.
* * * * *
The brief pang of fear and remorse passed quickly away, and Reginald went out upon the terrace to look upon those woods which were once more his promised heritage; on which he could gaze, as of old, with the proud sense of possession. While looking over that fair domain, he forgot the hateful means by which he had re-established himself as the heir of Raynham. He forgot Victor Carrington—everything except his own good fortune. His heart throbbed with a sense of triumph.
He left the terrace, crossed the Italian garden, and made his way to the light iron gate which opened upon the park. Leaning wearily upon this gate, he saw an old man in the costume of a pedlar. A broad, slouched hat almost concealed his face, and a long iron-grey beard drooped upon his chest. His garments were dusty, as if with many a weary mile's wandering on the parched high-roads, and he carried a large pack of goods upon his back.
The park was open to the public; and this man had, no doubt, come to the garden-gate in the hope of finding some servant who would be beguiled into letting him carry his wares to the castle, for the inspection of Sir Oswald's numerous household.
"Stand aside, my good fellow, and let me pass," said Reginald, as he approached the little gate.
The man did not stir. His arms were folded on the topmost bar of the gate, and he did not alter his attitude.
"Let me be the first to congratulate the heir of Raynham on his renewed hopes," he said, quietly.
"Carrington!" cried Reginald; and then, after a pause, he asked, "What, in heaven's name, is the meaning of this masquerade?"
The surgeon removed his broad-brimmed hat, and wiped his forehead with a hand that looked brown, wizen, and wrinkled as the hand of an old man. Nothing could have been more perfect than his disguise.
The accustomed pallor of his face was changed to the brown and sunburnt hue produced by constant exposure to all kinds of weather. A network of wrinkles surrounded the brilliant black eyes, which now shone under shaggy eyebrows of iron-grey.
"I should never have recognized you," said Reginald, staring for some moments at his friend's face, completely lost in surprise.
"Very likely not," answered the surgeon, coolly; "I don't want people to recognize me. A disguise that can by any possibility be penetrated is the most fatal mistake. I can disguise my voice as well as my face, as you will, perhaps, hear by and by. When talking to a friend there is no occasion to take so much trouble."
"But why have you assumed this disguise?"
"Because I want to be on the spot; and you may imagine that, after having eloped with the lady of the house, I could not very safely show myself here in my own proper person."
"What need had you to return? Your scheme is accomplished, is it not?"
"Well, not quite."
"Is there anything more to be done?"
"Yes, there is something more."
"What is the nature of that something?" asked Reginald.
"Leave that to me," answered the surgeon; "and now you had better pass on, young heir of Raynham, and leave the poor old pedlar to smoke his pipe, and to watch for some passing maid-servant who will admit him to the castle."
Reginald lingered, fascinated in some manner by the presence of his friend and counsellor. He wanted to penetrate the mystery hidden in the breast of his ally.
"How did you know that your scheme had succeeded?" he asked, presently.
"I read my success in your face as you came towards this gate just now. It was the face of an acknowledged heir; and now, perhaps, you will be good enough to tell me your news."
Reginald related all that had happened; the use he had made of Lydia Graham's malice; the interview with his uncle after Lady Eversleigh's return.
"Good!" exclaimed Victor; "good from first to last! Did ever any scheme work so smoothly? That was a stroke of genius of yours, Reginald, the use you made of Miss Graham's evidence. And so she was watching us, was she? Charming creature! how little she knows to what an extent we are indebted to her. Well, Reginald, I congratulate you. It is a grand thing to be the acknowledged heir of such an estate as this."
He glanced across the broad gardens, blazing with rich masses of vivid colour, produced by the artistic arrangement of the flower-beds. He looked up to the long range of windows, the terrace, the massive towers, the grand old archway, and then he looked back at his friend, with a sinister light in his glittering black eyes.
"There is only one drawback," he said.
"And that is—"
"That you may have to wait a very long time for your inheritance. Let me see; your uncle is fifty years of age, I think?"
"Yes; he is about fifty." "And he has an iron constitution. He has led a temperate, hardy life. Such a man is as likely to live to be eighty as I am to see my fortieth birthday. And that would give you thirty years' waiting: a long delay—a terrible trial of patience."
"Why do you say these things?" cried Reginald, impatiently. "Do you want to make me miserable in the hour of our triumph? Do you mean that we have burdened our souls with all this crime and falsehood for nothing? You are mad, Victor!"
"No; I am only in a speculative mood. Thirty years!—thirty years would be a long time to wait."
"Who says that I shall have to wait thirty years? My uncle may die long before that time."
"Ah! to be sure! your uncle may die—suddenly, perhaps—very soon, it may be. The shock of his wife's falsehood may kill him—after he has made a new will in your favour!"
The two men stood face to face, looking at each other.
"What do you mean?" Reginald asked; "and why do you look at me like that?"
"I am only thinking what a lucky fellow you would be if this grief that has fallen upon your uncle were to be fatal to his life."
"Don't talk like that, Carrington. I won't think of such a thing. I am had enough, I know; but not quite so bad as to wish my uncle dead."
"You would be sorry if he were dead, I suppose? Sorry—with this domain your own! with all power and pleasure that wealth can purchase for a man! You would be sorry, would you? You wish well to the kind kinsman to whom you have been such a devoted nephew! You would prefer to wait thirty years for your heritage—if you should live so long!"
"Victor Carrington," cried Reginald, passionately, "you are the fiend himself, in disguise! Let me pass. I will not stop to listen to your hateful words."
"Wait to hear one question, at any rate. Why do you suppose I made you sign that promissory note at a twelvemonth's date?"
"I don't know; but you must know, as well as I do, that the note will be waste-paper so long as my uncle lives."
"I do know that, my dear Reginald; but I got you to date the document as you did, because I have a kind of presentiment that before that date you will be master of Raynham!"
"You mean that my uncle will die within the year?"
"I am subject to presentiments of that kind. I do not think Sir Oswald will see the end of the year!"
"Carrington!" exclaimed Reginald. "Your schemes are hateful. I will have no further dealings with you."
"Indeed! Then am I to go to Sir Oswald, and tell him the story of last night? Am I to tell him that his wife is innocent?"
"No, no; tell him nothing. Let things stand as they are. The promise of the estate is mine. I have suffered too much from the loss of my position, and I cannot forego my new hopes. But let there be no more guilt—no more plotting. We have succeeded. Let us wait patiently for the end."
"Yes," answered the surgeon, coolly, "we will wait for the end; and if the end should come sooner than our most sanguine hopes have led us to expect, we will not quarrel with the handiwork of fate. Now leave me. I see a petticoat yonder amongst the trees. It belongs to some housemaid from the castle, I dare say; and I must see if my eloquence as a wandering merchant cannot win me admission within the walls which I dare not approach as Victor Carrington."
Reginald opened the gate with his pass-key, and allowed the surgeon to go through into the gardens.
* * * * *
It was dusk when Sir Oswald left the library. He had sent a message to the chief of his guests, excusing himself from attending the dinner-table, on the ground of ill-health. When he knew that all his visitors would be assembled in the dining-room, he left the library, for the first time since he had entered it after breakfast.
He had brooded long and gloomily over his misery, and had come to a determination as to the line of conduct which he should pursue towards his wife. He went now to Lady Eversleigh's apartments, in order to inform her of his decision; but, to his surprise, he found the rooms empty. His wife's maid was sitting at needlework by one of the windows of the dressing-room.
"Where is your mistress?" asked Sir Oswald.
"She has gone out, sir. She has left the castle for some little time, I think, sir; for she put on the plainest of her travelling dresses, and she took a small travelling-bag with her. There is a note, sir, on the mantel-piece in the next room. Shall I fetch it?"
"No; I will get it myself. At what time did Lady Eversleigh leave the castle?"
"About two hours ago, sir."
"Two hours! In time for the afternoon coach to York," thought Sir Oswald. "Go and inquire if your mistress really left the castle at that time," he said to the maid.
He went into the boudoir, and took the letter from the mantel-piece. He crushed it into his breast-pocket with the seal unbroken—
"Time enough to discover what new falsehood she has tried to palm upon me," he thought.
He looked round the empty room—which she was never more to occupy. Her books, her music, were scattered on every side. The sound of her rich voice seemed still to vibrate through the room. And she was gone—for ever! Well, she was a base and guilty creature, and it was better so—infinitely better that her polluting presence should no longer dishonour those ancient chambers, within which generations of proud and pure women had lived and died. But to see the rooms empty, and to know that she was gone, gave him nevertheless a pang.
"What will become of her?" thought Sir Oswald. "She will return to her lover, of course, and he will console her for the sacrifice she has made by her mad folly. Let her prize him while he still lives to console her; for she may not have him long. Why do I think of her?—why do I trouble myself about her? I have my affairs to arrange—a new will to make—before I think of vengeance. And those matters once settled, vengeance shall be my only thought. I have done for ever with love!"
Sir Oswald returned to the library. A lamp burned on the table at which he was accustomed to write. It was a shaded reading-lamp, which made a wide circle of vivid light around the spot where it stood, but left the rest of the room in shadow.
The night was oppressively hot—an August rather than a September night; and, before beginning his work, Sir Oswald flung open one of the broad windows leading out upon the terrace. Then he unlocked a carved oak bureau, and took out a packet of papers. He seated himself at the table, and began to examine these papers.
Among them was the will which he had executed since his marriage. He read this, and then laid it aside. As he did so, a figure approached the wide-open window; an eager face, illuminated by glittering eyes, peered into the room. It was the face of Victor Carrington, hidden beneath the disguise of assumed age, and completely metamorphosed by the dark skin and grizzled beard. Had Sir Oswald looked up and seen that face, he would not have recognized its owner.
After laying aside the document he had read, Sir Oswald began to write. He wrote slowly, meditating upon every word; and after having written for about half an hour, he rose and left the room. The surgeon had never stirred from his post by the window; and as Sir Oswald closed the door behind him, he crept stealthily into the apartment, and to the table where the papers lay. His footstep, light always, made no sound upon the thick velvet pile. He glanced at the contents of the paper, on which the ink was still wet. It was a will, leaving the bulk of Sir Oswald's fortune to his nephew, Reginald, unconditionally. Victor Carrington did not linger a moment longer than was necessary to convince him of this fact. He hurried back to his post by the window: nor was he an instant too soon. The door opened before he had fairly stepped from the apartment.
Sir Oswald re-entered, followed by two men. One was the butler, the other was the valet, Joseph Millard. The will was executed in the presence of these men, who affixed their signatures to it as witnesses.
"I have no wish to keep the nature of this will a secret from my household," said Sir Oswald. "It restores my nephew, Mr. Reginald Eversleigh, to his position as heir to this estate. You will henceforth respect him as my successor."
The two men bowed and retired. Sir Oswald walked towards the window: and Victor Carrington drew back into the shadow cast by a massive abutment of stone-work.
It was not very easy for a man to conceal himself on the terrace in that broad moonlight.
Voices sounded presently, near one of the windows; and a group of ladies and gentlemen emerged from the drawing-room.
"It is the hottest night we have had this summer," said one of them."The house is really oppressive."
Miss Graham had enchanted her viscount once more, and she and that gentleman walked side by side on the terrace.
"They will discover me if they come this way," muttered Victor, as he shrank back into the shadow. "I have seen all that I want to see for the present, and had better make my escape while I am safe."
He stole quietly along by the front of the castle, lurking always in the shadow of the masonry, and descended the terrace steps. From thence he went to the court-yard, on which the servants' hall opened; and in a few minutes he was comfortably seated in that apartment, listening to the gossip of the servants, who could only speak upon the one subject of Lady Eversleigh's elopement.
* * * * *
The baronet sat with the newly-made will before him, gazing at the open leaves with fixed and dreamy eyes.
Now that the document was signed, a feeling of doubt had taken possession of him. He remembered how deliberately he had pondered over the step before he had disinherited his nephew; and now that work, which had cost him so much pain and thought, had been undone on the impulse of a moment.
"Have I done right, I wonder?" he asked himself.
The papers which had been tied in the packet containing the old will had been scattered on the table when the baronet unfastened the band that secured them. He took one of these documents up in sheer absence of mind, and opened it.
It was the letter written by the wretched girl who drowned herself in the Seine—the letter of Reginald Eversleigh's victim—the very letter on the evidence of which Sir Oswald had decided that his nephew was no fitting heir to a great fortune.
The baronet's brow contracted as he read.
"And it is to the man who could abandon a wretched woman to despair and death, that I am about to leave wealth and power," he exclaimed. "No; the decision which I arrived at in Arlington Street was a just and wise decision. I have been mad to-day—maddened by anger and despair; but it is not too late to repent my folly. The seducer of Mary Goodwin shall never be the master of Raynham Castle."
Sir Oswald folded the sheet of foolscap on which the will was written, and held it over the flame of the lamp. He carried it over to the fire-place, and threw it blazing on the empty hearth. He watched it thoughtfully until the greater part of the paper was consumed by the flame, and then went back to his seat.
"My nephews, Lionel and Douglas Dale, shall divide the estate between them," he thought. "I will send for my solicitor to-morrow, and make a new will."
* * * * *
Victor Carrington sat in the servants' hall at Raynham until past eleven o'clock. He had made himself quite at home with the domestics in his assumed character. The women were delighted with the showy goods which he carried in his pack, and which he sold them at prices far below those of the best bargains they had ever made before.
At a few minutes after eleven he rose to bid them good night.
"I suppose I shall find the gates open?" he said.
"Yes; the gates of the court-yard are never locked till half-past eleven," answered a sturdy old coachman.
The pedlar took his leave; but he did not go out by the court-yard. He went straight to the terrace, along which he crept with stealthy footsteps. Many lights twinkled in the upper windows of the terrace front, for at this hour the greater number of Sir Oswald's guests had retired to their rooms.
The broad window of the library was still open; but a curtain had been drawn before it, on one side of which there remained a crevice. Through this crevice Victor Carrington could watch the interior of the chamber with very little risk of being discovered.
The baronet was still sitting by the writing-table, with the light of the library-lamp shining full upon him. An open letter was in his hand. It was the letter his wife had left for him. It was not like the letter of a guilty woman. It was quiet, subdued; full of sadness and resignation, rather than of passionate despair.
"I know now that I ought never to have married you, Oswald," wrote Lady Eversleigh. "The sacrifice which you made for my sake was too great a one. No happiness could well come of such an unequal bargain. You gave me everything, and I could give you so little. The cloud upon my past life was black and impenetrable. You took me nameless, friendless, unknown; and I can scarcely wonder if, at the first breath of suspicion, your faith wavered and your love failed. Farewell, dearest and best of men! You never can know how truly I have loved you; how I have reverenced your noble nature. In all that has come to pass between us since the first hour of our miserable estrangement, nothing has grieved me so deeply as to see your generous soul overclouded by suspicions and doubts, as unworthy of you as they are needless and unfounded. Farewell! I go back to the obscurity from whence you took me. You need not fear for my future. The musical education which I owe to your generous help will enable me to live; and I have no wish to live otherwise than humbly. May heaven bless you!"
This was all. There were no complaints, no entreaties. The letter seemed instinct with the dignity of truth.
"And she has gone forth alone, unprotected. She has gone back to her lonely and desolate life," thought the baronet, inclined, for a moment at least, to believe in his wife's words.
But in the next instant he remembered the evidence of Lydia Graham—the wild and improbable story by which Honoria had tried to account for her absence.
"No no," he exclaimed; "it is all treachery from first to last. She is hiding herself somewhere near at hand, no doubt to wait the result of this artful letter. And when she finds that her artifices are thrown away—when she discovers that my heart has been changed to adamant by her infamy—she will go back to her lover, if he still lives to shelter her."
A hundred conflicting ideas confused Sir Oswald's brain. But one thought was paramount—and that was the thought of revenge. He resolved to send for his lawyer early the next morning, to make a new will in favour of his sister's two sons, and then to start in search of the man who had robbed him of his wife's affection. Reginald would, of course, be able to assist him in finding Victor Carrington.
While Sir Oswald mused thus, the man of whom he was thinking watched him through the narrow space between the curtains.
"Shall it be to-night?" thought Carrington. "It cannot be too soon. He might change his mind about his will at any moment; and if it should happen to-night, people will say the shock of his wife's flight has killed him."
Sir Oswald's folded arms rested on the table; his head sank forward on his arms. The passionate emotions of the day, the previous night of agony, had at last exhausted him. He fell into a doze—a feverish, troubled sleep. Carrington watched him for upwards of a quarter of an hour as he slept thus.
"I think he is safe now—and I may venture," murmured Victor, at the end of that time.
He crept softly into the room, making a wide circle, and keeping himself completely in the shadow, till he was behind the sleeping baronet. Then he came towards the lamp-lit table.
Amongst the scattered letters and papers, there stood a claret jug, a large carafe of water, and an empty glass. Victor drew close to the table, and listened for some moments to the breathing of the sleeper. Then he took a small bottle from his pocket, and dropped a few globules of some colourless liquid into the empty glass. Having done this, he withdrew from the apartment as silently as he had entered it. Twelve o'clock struck as he was leaving the terrace.
"So," he muttered, "it is little more than three-quarters of an hour since I left the servants' hall. It would not be difficult to prove analibi, with the help of a blundering village innkeeper."
He did not attempt to leave the castle by the court-yard, which he knew would be locked by this time. He had made himself acquainted with all the ins and outs of the place, and had possessed himself of a key belonging to one of the garden gates. Through this gate he passed out into the park, climbed a low fence, and made his way into Raynham village, where the landlord of the "Hen and Chickens" was just closing his doors.
"I have been told by the castle servants that you can give me a bed," he said.
The landlord, who was always delighted to oblige his patrons in Sir Oswald's servants' hall and stables, declared himself ready to give the traveller the best accommodation his house could afford.
"It's late, sir," he said; "but we'll manage to make things comfortable for you."
So that night the surgeon slept in the village of Raynham. He, too, was worn out by the fatigue of the past twenty-four hours, and he slept soundly all through the night, and slept as calmly as a child.
It was eight o'clock next morning when he went down the steep, old-fashioned staircase of the inn. He found a strange hubbub and confusion below. Awful tidings had just been brought from the castle. Sir Oswald Eversleigh had been found seated in his library, DEAD, with the lamp still burning near him, in the bright summer morning. One of the grooms had come down to the little inn, and was telling his story to all comers, when the pedlar came into the open space before the bar.
"It was Millard that found him," the man said. "He was sitting, quite calm-like, with his head lying back upon the cushion of his arm-chair. There were papers and open letters scattered all about; and they sent off immediately for Mr. Dalton, the lawyer, to look to the papers, and seal up the locks of drawers and desks, and so on. Mr. Dalton is busy at it now. Mr. Eversleigh is awfully shocked, he is. I never saw such a white face in all my life as his, when he came out into the hall after hearing the news. It's a rare fine thing for him, as you may say; for they say Sir Oswald made a new will last night, and left his nephew everything; and Mr. Eversleigh has been a regular wild one, and is deep in debt. But, for all that, I never saw any one so cut up as he was just now."
"Poor Sir Oswald!" cried the bystanders. "Such a noble gentleman as he was, too. What did he die of Mr. Kimber?—do you know?"
"The doctor says it must have been heart-disease," answered the groom. "A broken heart, I say; that's the only disease Sir Oswald had. It's my lady's conduct has killed him. She must have been a regular bad one, mustn't she?"
The story of the elopement had been fully discussed on the previous day at the "Hen and Chickens," and everywhere else in the village of Raynham. The country gossips shook their heads over Lady Eversleigh's iniquity, but they said little. This new event was of so appalling a nature, that it silenced even the tongue of gossip for a while.
The pedlar took his breakfast in the little parlour behind the bar, and listened quietly to all that was said by the villagers and the groom.
"And where is my lady?" asked the innkeeper; "she came back yesterday, didn't she?"
"Yes, and went away again yesterday afternoon," returned the groom."She's got enough to answer for, she has."
* * * * *
Terrible indeed was the consternation, which reigned that day at Raynham Castle. Already Sir Oswald's guests had been making hasty arrangements for their departure; and many visitors had departed even before the discovery of that awful event, which came like a thunderclap upon all within the castle.
Few men had ever been better liked by his acquaintances than Sir OswaldEversleigh.
His generous nature, his honourable character, had won him every man's respect. His great wealth had been spent lavishly for the benefit of others. His hand had always been open to the poor and necessitous. He had been a kind master, a liberal landlord, an ardent and devoted friend. There is little wonder, therefore, if the news of his sudden death fell like an overwhelming blow on all assembled within the castle, and on many more beyond the castle walls.
The feeling against Honoria Eversleigh was one of unmitigated execration. No words could be too bitter for those who spoke of Sir Oswald's wife.
It had been thought on the previous evening that she had left the castle for ever, banished by the command of her husband. Nothing, therefore, could have exceeded the surprise which filled every breast when she entered the crowded hall some minutes after the discovery of Sir Oswald's death.
Her face was whiter than marble, and its awful whiteness was contrasted by the black dress which she wore.
"Is this true?" she cried, in accents of despair. "Is he really dead?"
"Yes, Lady Eversleigh," answered General Desmond, an Indian officer, and an old friend of the dead man, "Sir Oswald is dead."
"Let me go to him! I cannot believe it—I cannot—I cannot!" she cried, wildly. "Let me go to him!"
Those assembled round the door of the library looked at her with horror and aversion. To them this semblance of agony seemed only the consummate artifice of an accomplished hypocrite.
"Let me go to him! For pity's sake, let me see him!" she pleaded, with clasped hands. "I cannot believe that he is dead."
Reginald Eversleigh was standing by the door of the library, pale as death—more ghastly of aspect than death itself. He had been leaning against the doorway, as if unable to support himself; but, as Honoria approached, he aroused himself from a kind of stupor, and stretched out his arm to bar her entrance to the death-chamber.
"This is no scene for you, Lady Eversleigh," he said, sternly. "You have no right to enter that chamber. You have no right to be beneath this roof."
"Who dares to banish me?" she asked, proudly. "And who can deny my right?"
"I can do both, as the nearest relative of your dead husband."
"And as the friend of Victor Carrington," answered Honoria, looking fixedly at her accuser. "Oh! it is a marvellous plot, Reginald Eversleigh, and it wanted but this to complete it. My disgrace was the first act in the drama, my husband's death the second. Your friend's treachery accomplished one, you have achieved the other. Sir Oswald Eversleigh has been murdered!"
A suppressed cry of horror broke simultaneously from every lip. As the awful word "murder" was repeated, the doctor, who had been until this moment beside the dead man, came to the door, and opened it.