It may seem strange that my influence upon the soul of Hugh Fraser
should follow upon such a situation as I have just described; but
everything connected with my life, since the day when I met the grey boy
by the burn, has been utterly strange, utterly abnormal. My treachery,
one would have thought, must have led Fraser to hate me. I had wrecked
his happiness. I had done him the deepest injury one man can do to
another, and at first he hated me. When he had wrung from me a promise
to marry Kate, he left me, and I did not see him again until after the
wedding. But then, it seemed, he could not keep away from her. For he
forgave us the wrong we had done him; and, after a while, wrote a
friendly letter in which he suggested that we should all forget the
past.
"Why should I not see you sometimes?" he concluded. "I only wish you
both good, there is no longer any evil in my heart."
Poor boy! It was to be, I suppose. The Tsar of the empire of my soul set
forth his edict, and one winter day carriage wheels ground harshly upon
the gravel sweep, and Hugh Fraser was my guest at Carlounie. I welcomed
him upon the very spot where those light footsteps paused that black
night of Doctor Wedderburn's dreary end. And the faint sound of the burn
mingled with our voices in greeting and reply.
The boy was changed. He had aged, grown grave, heavier in movement,
fiercer in observation, less ready in speech. But his manner was
friendly even to me, and it was plain to see that Kate still had his
heart. They met quietly enough, but a flush ran from his cheek to hers
as they touched hands. Their voices quivered when they spoke a
commonplace of pleasure at the encounter. So the wheels of Fate began
slowly to turn on this winter's day.
I must tell you that my fortunes had greatly changed before Hugh Fraser
came to Carlounie. I was grown rich. My investments, my speculations had
prospered almost miraculously. The mine I have spoken of was proving a
gold mine to me. All worldly things went well with me--all worldly
things, yes.
Now, I believe that all mighty circumstances are born tiny, like
children, at some given moment. As a rule, they usually seem so
insignificant, so puny at the birth, that we take no heed of the fact
that they have come into being, and that, in process of time, they will
grow to might, perhaps to horrible majesty. Only, when we trace events
backwards do we know the exact moment when their first faint wail broke
upon our mental hearing. Generally this is so. But I affirm that I felt,
at the very time of its first coming, the presence of the shadow, the
tiny shadow of the events which I am about to describe. I even said to
myself, "This is a birthday."
Among many improvements on my estate I had built a new Manse, in which,
of course, our new minister lived. The old habitation of Doctor
Wedderburn stood empty and deserted among its sycamores. One winter's
day Hugh Fraser, Kate, and I, in our walk, passed along the lane by the
now ragged privet hedge through which I had so often observed the
doctor's agonies. It was a black and white day of frost, which crawled
along the dark trees and outlined twig and branch. The air was misty,
and distant objects assumed a mysterious importance. Slight sounds, too,
suggested infinite activities to the mind. As we neared the Manse, Hugh
Fraser said to me:--
"Who lives in that old house?"
"Nobody," I replied.
Hugh glanced at me very doubtfully.
"Nobody," I reiterated.
"Really," he rejoined. "But the garden?"
"Is deserted."
"Hardly," he exclaimed, pointing with his hand. "Look!"
"Yes," said Kate, as if in agreement.
And she grew duskily pale.
I looked over the privet hedge, seeing only the rank and frost-bitten
grass, the wild bushes and narrow mossy paths. Then I stared at my two
companions in silence. Their eyes appeared to follow the onward movement
of some object invisible to me.
"The old man makes himself at home," Hugh said. "He has gone into the
summer-house now."
"Yes," Kate said again.
There was fear in her eyes.