Читать книгу A Terrible Secret - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 20

Half an hour's rapid gallop had brought Edwards, the valet, to Powyss Place. The stately mansion, park, lawn, and terraces, lay bathed in the silvery shower of moonlight. From the upper windows, where the sick man lay, lights streamed; all the rest of the house was in deep shadow.

In one of those dimly lighted rooms Sir Victor Catheron lay upon a lounge fast asleep. He had remained for about two hours by the sick man's bedside; then, persuaded by his aunt, had gone to lie down in an inner department.

"You look pale and ill yourself," she had said, tenderly; "lie down and rest for a little. If I need you, I will call you at once."

He had obeyed, and had dropped off into a heavy sleep. A dull oppression of heart and soul beset him; he had no mind to slumber—it had come upon him unawares. He was awakened suddenly by some one calling his name.

"Victor! Victor!" the voice called, "awake!"

He sat up with a bewildered face. Was that his aunt's voice, so hoarse, so strange? Was this his aunt with that white, horror-struck face?

"Victor!" she cried, the words a very wail. "Oh, my boy! my boy! how shall I ever tell you? Oh, why did I send for you this dreadful night? Ethel"—her voice choked.

He rose to his feet, staring at her blankly.

"Ethel!" he repeated. "Ethel—"

She covered her face with her hands and burst into a hysterical outbreak of tears. Edwards, standing behind her in the doorway, made a step forward.

"Tell him, Edwards," said Lady Helena. "I cannot. It seems too horrible to tell or to believe. Oh, my poor Victor! my poor, poor boy!"

Edwards came forward reluctantly, with a very pale, scared face.

"It's dreadful news, Sir Victor—I don't know how to tell you, but my lady, I'm afraid she—she's dead."

"Dead!"

He repeated the word dully, staring almost stupidly at the speaker.

"Dead, Sir Victor!" the man repeated, solemnly. "I'm sore afraid, murdered!"

There was a sudden, headlong rush from the room; no other reply. Like a flash Sir Victor passed them both. They heard him clear the stairs, rush along the lower hall, and out of the house. The next instant the valet and Lady Helena were in pursuit.

He was mounted on Edwards' horse and dashing furiously away, before they reached the court-yard. They called to him—he neither heard nor heeded. He dashed his spurred heel into the horse's side and flew out of sight like the wind.

"Follow him!" Lady Helena cried, breathlessly, to the groom. "Overtake him, for the love of Heaven! Oh, who can have done this awful deed? Edwards, you are sure there is no mistake? It seems too unnatural, too impossible to believe."

"There is no mistake, my lady," the man answered, sadly. "I saw her myself, the blood flowing where they had stabbed her, cold and dead."

Lady Helena wrung her hands and turned away.

"Ride for your life after your master!" she said. "I will follow you as soon as I can."

She went back to her husband's side. He was no worse—he seemed if anything, better. She might leave him in her housekeeper's charge until morning.

She ordered the carriage and rapidly changed her dress. It was about one in the morning when she reached Catheron Royals. The tall turrets were silvered in the moonlight, the windows sparkled in the crystal light. The sweet beauty and peace of the September night lay like a benediction over the earth. And, amid all the silence and sweetness, a foul, a most horrible murder had been done.

She encountered Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, in the hall, her face pale, her eyes red with weeping. Some dim hope that up to this time had upheld her, that, after all, there might be a mistake, died out then.

"Oh, Marsh," she said, piteously, "is it true?"

Mrs. Marsh's answer was a fresh burst of tears. Like all the rest of the household, the gentle ways, the sweet face, and soft voice of Sir Victor's wife had won her heart from the first.

"It is too true, my lady—the Lord have mercy upon us all. It seems too horrid for belief, but it is true. As she lay asleep there, four hours ago, in her own house, surrounded by her own servants, some monster in human form stabbed her through the heart—through the heart, my lady—Dr. Dane says one blow did it, and that death must have been instantaneous. So young, so sweet, and so lovely. Oh, how could they do it—how could any one do it?"

Mrs. Marsh's sobs grew hysterical. Lady Helena's own tears were flowing.

"I feel as though I were guilty in some way myself," the housekeeper went on. "If we had only woke her up, or fastened the window, or anything! I know the monster, whoever he was, got in through the window. And, oh, my lady!"—Mrs. Marsh wiped her eyes suddenly, and lowered her voice to an excited whisper—"I wish you would speak to Jane Pool, the nurse. She doesn't dare say anything out openly, but the looks she gives, and the hints she drops, are almost worse than the murder itself. You can see as clear as day that she suspects—Miss Inez."

"Marsh! Great Heaven!" Lady Helena cried, recoiling in horror. "Miss

Inez!"

"Oh, my lady, I don't say it—I don't think it—Heaven forbid!—it's only that wicked, spiteful nurse, Pool. She hates Miss Inez—she has hated her from the first—and she loved my lady. Ah! who could help being fond of her—poor, lovely young lady!—with a sweet smile and pleasant word for every one in the house? And you know Miss Inez's high, haughty way. Jane Pool hates her, and will do her mischief if she can. A word from you might check her. No one knows the harm a babbling tongue may do."

Lady Helena drew herself up proudly.

"I shall not say one word to her, Marsh. Jane Pool can do my niece no harm. The bare repetition of it is an insult. Miss Catheron—that I should have to say such a thing!—is above suspicion."

"My lady, I believe it; still, if you would only speak to her. You don't know all. She saw Miss Inez coming out of the nursery a quarter of an hour before we found Lady Catheron dead. She wished to enter, and Miss Inez ordered her away. She has been talking to the police, and I saw that Inspector Darwin watching Miss Inez in a way that made my blood run cold."

But Lady Helena waived the topic away haughtily.

"Be silent, Marsh! I will not hear another word of this—it is too horrible! Where is Miss Inez?"

"In her own room, my lady. And—I beg your pardon for alluding to it again—but I think she suspects. She seemed dazed-like, stupefied at first; she is more like herself now. Will you not go in and see her, poor soul, before you go to Miss Inez? Oh, my lady, my lady! it breaks my heart when I look at her—when I look at Sir Victor."

For a moment Lady Helena shrank.

"Sir Victor is in there—with her?" she faltered.

"Yes, my lady—like a man all struck stupid. It frightens me to see him. If he would only speak, or cry, or fly out against the murderer—but he just sits there as if turning to stone."

His aunt covered her face for an instant with both hands, heart-sick with all these horrors; then she looked up, and moved forward.

"Where is she?" she asked—"in which room?"

"In the white drawing-room, my lady; the doctors brought her there.

Sir Victor is with her, alone."

Lady Helen slowly advanced. At the door she paused a moment to nerve herself for what she must see; then she turned the handle and went in.

It was one of the stateliest rooms in the house—all white and gold, and dimly lit now by wax tapers. Lying on one of the white velvet sofas she saw a rigid figure, over which a white covering was drawn; but the golden hair and the fair, marble face gleaming in the waxlights as beautiful as ever in life.

He sat beside his dead—almost as motionless, almost as cold, almost as white. He had loved her with a love that was akin to idolatrous—he had grudged that the eye of man should rest on his treasure—and now he sat beside her—dead.

If he heard the door open, he neither moved nor stirred. He never once looked up as his aunt came forward; his eyes were riveted upon that ineffably calm face with a vacant, sightless sort of stare that chilled her blood.

"Victor!" she cried out, in a frightened voice; "Victor speak to me.

For pity's sake, don't look like that?"

The dull, blinded eyes looked up at her, full of infinite, unutterable despair.

"She is dead," he said, in a slow, dragging sort of voice—"dead! And last night I left her well and happy—left her to be murdered—to—be—murdered."

The slow words fell heavily from his lips—his eyes went back to her face, his dulled mind seemed lapsing into its stupefied trance of quiet. More and more alarmed, his aunt gazed at him. Had the death of his wife turned his brain?

"Victor!" she exclaimed, almost angrily, "you must rouse yourself. You must not stay here. Be a man! Wake up. Your wife has been murdered. Go and find her murderer."

"Her murderer," he replied, in the same slow tone of unnatural quiet; "her murderer. It seems strange, Aunt Helena, doesn't it, that any one could murder her? 'I must find her murderer.' Oh," he cried, suddenly, in a voice of anguish; "what does it matter about her murderer! It won't bring her back to life. She is dead I tell you—dead!"

He flung himself off his chair, on his knees by the couch. He drew down the white satin counterpane, and pointed to that one dark, small stab on the left side.

"Look!" he said, in a shrill, wailing voice, "through the heart—through the heart! She did not suffer—the doctors say that. Through the heart as she slept. Oh, my love, my darling, my wife!"

He kissed the wound—he kissed the hands, the face, the hair. Then with a long, low moan of utter desolation, he drew back the covering and buried his face in it.

"Leave me alone," he said, despairingly; "I will not go—I will never go from her again. She was mine in life—mine only. Juan Catheron lied, she is mine in death. My wife—my Ethel!"

He started up as suddenly as he had flung himself down, his ghastly face flaming dark red.

"Leave me alone, I tell you! Why do you all come here? I will not go! Leave me, I command you—I am master here!"

She shrank from him in absolute physical terror. Never over-strong at any time, her worst fears were indeed true, the shock of his wife's tragic death was turning Sir Victor's brain. There was nothing to be done—nothing to be said—he must be obeyed—must be soothed.

"Dear Victor," she said, "I will go. Don't be hard with poor Aunt

Helena. There is no one in all this world as sorry for you as I am.

Only tell me this before I leave you—shall we not send for her father

and mother?"

"No," he answered, in the same fierce tone; "they can't bring her back to life—no one can now. I don't want them. I want nobody. Ethel is mine I tell you—mine alone!"

He motioned her imperiously to leave him—a light in his eye—a flush on his face there was no mistaking. She went at once. How was it all to end she wondered, more and more sick at heart—this mysterious murder, this suspicion against Inez, this dreadful overthrow of her nephew's mind?

"May Heaven help us!" she cried. "What have we done that this awful trouble should come upon us!"

"Aunt Helena."

She looked round with a little cry, all her nerves trembling and unstrung. Inez stood before her—Inez with dark, resolute eyes, and stony face.

"I have been waiting for you—they told me you were there." She pointed with a shudder to the door. "What are we to do?"

"Don't ask me," Lady Helena answered, helplessly. "I don't know. I feel stunned and stupid with all these horrors."

"The police are here," Miss Catheron went on, "and the coroner has been apprised. I suppose, they will hold an inquest to-morrow."

Her aunt looked at her in surprise. The calm, cold tone of her voice grated on her sick heart.

"Have you seen him?" she asked almost in a whisper. "Inez—I fear—I fear it is turning his brain."

Miss Catheron's short, scornful upper lip, curled with the old look of contempt.

"The Catheron brain was never noted for its strength. I shall not be surprised at all. Poor wretch!" She turned away and looked out into the darkness. "It does seem hard on him."

"Who can have done it?"

The question on every lip rose to Lady Helena's, but somehow she could not utter it. Did Inez know of the dark, sinister suspicion against herself? Could she know and be calm like this?

"I forgot to ask for Uncle Godfrey," Inez's quiet voice said again. "Of course he is better, or even at such a time as this you would not be here?"

"He is better, Inez," she broke out desperately. "Who can have done this? She had not an enemy in the world. Is—is there any one suspected?"

"There is," Inez answered, turning from the window, and facing her aunt. "The servants suspect me."

"Inez!"

"Their case isn't a bad one as they make it out," pursued Miss Catheron, cooly. "There was ill blood between us. It is of no use denying it. I hated her with my whole heart. I was the last person seen coming out of the room, fifteen minutes before they found her dead. Jane Pool says I refused to let her go in—perhaps I did. It is quite likely. About an hour previously we had a violent quarrel. The ubiquitous Mrs. Pool overheard that also. You see her case is rather a strong one."

"But—Inez—!"

"I chanced to overhear all this," still went on Miss Catheron, quietly, but with set lips and gleaming eyes. "Jane Pool was holding forth to the inspector of police. I walked up to them, and they both slunk away like beaten curs. Orders have been issued, that no one is to leave the house. To-morrow these facts are to be placed before the coroner's jury. If they find me guilty—don't cry, Aunt Helena—I shall be sorry for you—sorry I have disgraced a good old name. For the rest, it doesn't much matter what becomes of such a woman as I am."

She turned again to the window and looked out into the darkness. There was a desperate bitterness in her tone that Lady Helena could not understand.

"Good Heaven!" she burst forth, "one would think you were all in a conspiracy to drive me mad. It doesn't matter, what becomes of you, doesn't it? I tell you if this last worst misery falls upon us, it will kill me on the spot; just that."

The girl sighed drearily.

"Kill you, Aunt Helena," she repeated, mournfully. "No—we don't any of us die so easily. Don't be afraid—I am not likely to talk in this way before any one but you. I am only telling you the truth. They will have the inquest, and all that Jane Pool can say against me will be said. Do you think Victor will be able to appear?"

"I don't think Victor is in a condition to appear at an inquest or anywhere else. Ah, poor boy! he loved her so dearly, it is enough to shake the mind of a stronger man."

But Miss Catheron was dead silent—it was evident her feelings here were as bitter as ever—that even the tragic death of her rival had not softened her.

"He will survive it," she answered, in the same half-contemptuous tone.

"Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love."