Mark Ventmore repeated his statement three times before anybody seemed
to comprehend the dread meaning of his words. The shock was so sudden,
so utterly unexpected by the majority of the people there. Of course
nobody in that brilliant throng had the least idea of the bride's
feelings in the matter, most of them were privileged guests for the
reception. They had been bidden to a festive afternoon, a theatre had
been specially chartered for the evening, with a dance to follow. This
was one of the smart functions of the season.
And now death had stepped in and swept everything away at one breath.
People looked at one another as if unable to take in what had happened.
There was a strange uneasiness that might have been taken for
disappointment rather than regret. Perhaps it partook of both. Somebody
a little more thoughtful than the rest gave a sign to the organist who
had begun to fill the church with a volume of triumphal music. The
silence that followed was almost painful.
Then as if by common consent, every eye was fixed upon the bride.
Beatrice had turned and walked down the altar steps in the direction of
Mark, who advanced now without further opposition. Beatrice stood there
with her hand to her head as if trying to understand it all. She was
terribly white, but absolutely composed.
"Did you say that my father was dead?" she asked.
"I am afraid so," Mark stammered. "He--he has been dead for hours. I
came on here as fast as I could, hoping to be in time to----"
He paused, conscious of the fact that he was about to say something
terribly out of place. Just for an instant Mark had forgotten that he
and Beatrice were not alone. He was looking into her beautiful, dilated
eyes, oblivious to the fact of the spectators. He was going to say that
he had hurried there in the hopes of being in time to stop the ceremony.
And Beatrice had divined it, for she flushed slightly. It seemed a
terrible thing, but already she had asked herself the same question. The
shock of her father's death had not quite gone home to her yet, and she
could still think about herself. Was she really married to Stephen
Richford? Was the ceremony legally completed? The thought was out of
place, but there it was. A mist rose before the girl's eyes, her heart
beat painfully fast.
"Don't you think we ought to do something?" Mark asked.
The question startled Beatrice out of her stupor. She was ready for
action. It was as if a stream of cold water had been poured over her.
"Of course," she cried. "It is wrong to stand here. Take me home at
once, Mark."
It was a strange scene strangely carried out. The bridegroom stood
irresolute by the altar, feeling nervously at his gloves, whilst
Beatrice, with all her wedding finery about her, clutched Mark by the
arm and hurried him down the aisle. The whole thing was done, and the
strangely assorted pair had vanished before the congregation recovered
from their surprise.
"Come back!" Richford exclaimed. "Surely it is my place to----"
Long before Richford could reach the porch, his wife and Mark had
entered a hansom and were on their way to the _Royal Palace Hotel_. The
story had got about by this time; people stopped to stare at the man in
tweeds and the bride in her full array in the hansom. To those two it
did not seem in the least strange.
"Did you manage to see my father, after all?" Beatrice asked.
"No, I tried to do so; you see, I had to wait for him. He was very late,
so I fell asleep. It was after eleven to-day when I awoke to find Sir
Charles had not left his room. I ventured to suggest that he had better
be roused or he would be too late for your wedding. Nobody could make
him hear, so the door was broken in. He was quite dead."
Beatrice listened in a dull kind of way. There was no trace of tears in
her eyes. She had suffered so terribly, lately, that she could not cry.
The horrible doubt as to whether she was free or not could not be kept
out of her mind. Yet it seemed so dreadfully unnatural.
"He died in his sleep, I suppose?" Beatrice asked.
"That nobody can say yet," Mark said. "The doctor we called in was very
guarded. Nobody seems to have been in the bedroom, though the
sitting-room adjoining is not locked, and last night I saw a lady come
out of it, a lady in grey."
"A lady in grey!" Beatrice cried. "What a singular thing, Mark! Do you
mean to say it was the same lady who sat next to you in the Paris
theatre?"
"Well, yes," Mark admitted. "It was the same. I have not told anybody
but you, and it seems to me that nothing will be gained by mentioning
the fact."
Beatrice nodded thoughtfully. She could not identify the grey lady, the
Slave of Silence, with anything that was wrong. And yet it was strange
how that silent woman had come into her life. She must have been known
to Sir Charles or she would never have ventured into his sitting-room.
If she was still staying in the hotel, Beatrice made up her mind to seek
her out. There was some strange mystery here that must be explained. It
was uppermost in Beatrice's mind as she descended from the hansom and
passed through the curious group of servants into the hall.
The fine suite of rooms was ready for the festive throng; in the
dining-room a banquet had been spread out. The scarlet flush of red
roses gave a warm note to the room; the sun came streaming through the
stained-glass windows, and shone upon the silver and glass and red glow
of wine, and on the gold foil of the champagne bottles. In the centre of
the table stood a great white tower that Beatrice regarded vaguely as
her wedding cake. A shudder passed over her as she looked at it. She
longed for something dark and sombre, to hide her diamonds and the sheen
of her ivory satin dress.
The place was silent now; the very bareness and desolation of the scene
sickened Beatrice to the soul. No guests were here now--they were not
likely to be. A polite manager was saying something to the bride, but
she did not seem to heed.
"Mr. Marius is talking to you," Mark said. "He wants to know if he can
do anything."
"Mr. Marius is very kind," Beatrice said wearily. "I should like to see
the doctor. I suppose that he is still here? May I see him at once?"
The doctor had not gone yet. Mark procured a small plate of dainty
sandwiches and a glass of port wine which he forced Beatrice to take. To
her great surprise she found that she was hungry. Breakfast she had had
none; now that the crisis had passed, her natural healthy appetite had
returned. The feeling of faintness that she had struggled against for so
long passed away.
The doctor came in, rubbing his hands softly together. He regretted the
unfortunate occasion, but when he had been called in, Sir Charles was
long past mortal aid. Evidently he had been dead for some hours.
"You are in a position to be quite sure of that?" Beatrice asked.
"Oh, quite," Dr. Andrews replied. "One's experience tells that. Sir
Charles was quite stiff and cold. I should say that he had been dead
quite four hours when the door was broken down."
Just for an instant the doctor hesitated and his easy manner deserted
him.
"I must see Sir Charles's regular medical man before I can be quite
definite on that point," he said. "I have no doubt that death was caused
by natural means, at least I see no reason at present to believe
anything to the contrary. Indeed, if any doubt remains after that, there
must be a _post mortem_, of course. But still I hope that such a course
will not be necessary."
In a vague way Beatrice felt uneasy. If this gentleman was not actually
concealing something, he was not quite so satisfied as he assumed to
be.
"I should like to see my father, if I may," Beatrice said quietly.
The doctor led the way to the bedroom and closed the door softly behind
the girl. His face was a little grave and anxious as he walked down the
stairs.
"You appear to be a friend of the family," he said to Mark as he stood
in the hall. "There are symptoms about the case which frankly I don't
like. There was no occasion to lacerate Miss Darryll's feelings unduly,
but I must see the family doctor at once. It is just possible that you
may happen to know who he is."
Mark was in a position to supply the desired information, and Dr.
Andrews drove off, his face still very grave and thoughtful. Meanwhile
Beatrice found herself alone with the dead body of her father. He was
only partially undressed; he lay on the bed as if he had been overcome
with a sudden illness or fatigue. The handsome boyish features were
quite composed; there was a smile on the lips, and yet the expression on
the face was one of pain. Sir Charles appeared to have died as he had
lived--gay, careless, and easy to the last. Always neat, he had placed
his studs and tie on the dressing-table; by them stood a little pile of
letters which had evidently come by a recent post. They had been
carefully cut open with a penknife, so that Beatrice could see they had
been read.
There were tears in the girl's eyes now, for Beatrice recalled the time
when Sir Charles had been a good father to her in the days before he had
dissipated his fortune and started out with the intention of winning it
back in the city. Those had been happy hours, Beatrice reflected.
There was nothing further in the room to call for notice. On the
carpet, in contrast to the crimson ground, lay what looked like a
telegram. It was half folded, but there was no mistaking the grey paper.
If there was anything wrong here, perhaps the telegram would throw a
light on it. Beatrice picked up the message and flattened it on her
hand. Then she read it with a puzzled face. Suddenly a flash of
illumination came upon her. Her hand clenched the paper passionately.
"Is it possible," she muttered, "that he could have known? And yet the
date and the day! Why, that coward _must_ have known all the time."
A glance at the dead, placid face there recalled Beatrice to herself.
Hastily she thrust the message in her corsage and quietly left the room.
Some time had elapsed since Beatrice entered the hotel, but as yet the
man she called her husband had not returned. It seemed strange, but
Beatrice said nothing. She stood regarding her wedding finery with some
feeling of disgust.
"I must have a room somewhere and change," she said; "it seems horrible
to be walking about like this when my father is lying dead upstairs.
Mark, my woman is here somewhere. Will you try and find her and send her
to Lady Rashborough for something black and quite plain? Meanwhile, I'll
go to a bedroom and get some of this finery off. The mere touch of it
fills me with loathing."
Beatrice's maid was discovered at length, and despatched in hot haste to
Lady Rashborough's. Beatrice had scarcely entered before Stephen
Richford drove up. He looked anxious and white and sullen withal, and he
favoured Mark with a particularly malevolent scowl. Richford knew the
relationship that had existed at one time between Mark and Beatrice.
"I suppose you must be excused under the circumstances for racing off
with my wife in this fashion," he said hoarsely. It seemed to Mark that
he had found time to drink somewhere, though, as a rule, that was not
one of Richford's failings. "Where is she?"
"She has gone to change," Mark said. "This is a very unfortunate
business, Mr. Richford."
Richford shrugged his shoulders with an assumption of indifference. His
hand trembled slightly.
"Sir Charles was getting on in years," he said; "and Sir Charles had not
troubled to give very great attention to the question of his health. In
fact, Sir Charles had gone it steadily. But it seems now to me that so
long as the doctors are satisfied as to the cause of death----"
"I am not at all sure the doctor is satisfied," Mark said significantly.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing," Richford stammered. "Nothing more than a twinge of
that confounded neuralgia of mine."