“You are rather late,” the young man said, smilingly, as Camille came
up to him for a caress.
“I had a new novel, and I was so interested in it that I could scarcely
put it down to dress,” she replied, and just then the dinner-bell rang.
Norman gave his arm to his beautiful wife, and she went with him to the
elegant dining-room, where they dined _tête-à-tête_, for the elder Mrs.
de Vere had had her own meals served upstairs ever since she had been
nursing the little invalid.
Never had Norman’s proud, beautiful wife been more charming than
to-night. She was restless, brilliant, and more fond of her husband
than she had ever seemed before. Her hazel eyes shot gleams of passion
as they rested on the handsome face opposite her, and she seemed to
realize more fully than ever the strength of her love for the husband
who adored her, although he had had to bear so much at her capricious
hands.
Despite her jealousy, despite her caprice, Camille adored her young
husband; and as the thought of what had happened awhile ago rushed
over her mind, and she realized how nearly she had lost him, she did
not regret the terrible deed she had done. She rejoiced rather in the
cleverness with which she had rid herself of her terrible foe.
Now and then, in the pauses of their talk, there came to her a thought
of Robert Lacy, and she wondered if his dead body would ever be found.
Would Lord Stuart ever know what had become of his servant? for such
she had gathered from his words he was. She shuddered violently at
thought of the danger she had been in at the hotel. Well, it was all
over now. She was free--safe! The swirling river was swiftly bearing
away all evidence of her ghastly crime. Oh, God! how cruelly she had
hated the man whom she had sent to his death; yet she would not have
had his death on her hands could she have helped it.
“But there was no other way.” She shuddered over and over as she lay
sleepless by her beloved’s side through the long hours of the night,
for the horror of bloodshed was upon her. She would never sleep sweetly
again. She would wake trembling many a time with the sound of the river
soughing in her ears, to live over in memory that scene beneath the
cypress-trees; to see the dark, fiendish face of Robert Lacy; to feel
him struggle in her arms as she struck the knife into his breast; to
sicken as the hot blood spurted into her face and deluged her dress.
She would remember always how much water it had taken to wash the
stains away, and how guiltily she had stolen home in the twilight
gloom, thankful for once that Finette was gone, and that she had no
prying maid to take notice when she crept into her own room of the wet
and draggled clothes she wore, and of the shivering fit that seized her
as she fell on the floor, moaning faintly:
“Oh, God, I did not think I would ever be a murderess! I betrayed him
to the vigilantes, I know, but their hands drew the fatal rope, not
mine. I believed him dead so long that even his memory had grown dim
in my mind till I saw and knew him again. But I would not have killed
him if I could have bought him off. It was his own fault--brutal and
relentless ever, he brought his fate on himself. I--I--did not let
Finette murder that child, much as I hated her. It seemed too horrible.
But sin has fallen on me, anyway. Ah! now I know why Lord Stuart’s
face was so strangely familiar. He was in the crowd around the
gallows-tree. I wonder if he saw my face there? But, thank Heaven! no,
for I remember that I fled from the scene as if pursued by fiends, and
soon made good my escape to my father.”
From those wild mutterings she had to drag herself up to dress and meet
her husband, who was coming straight from the presence of innocent
Little Sweetheart, to meet the wife who had rushed wildly from that
terrible scene by the river, with blood-stained hands, to his embrace.
She spared no pains to make herself beautiful--she placed a strong
guard upon her feelings. Never had she been more charming, but she was
glad when the strain of the evening was over and she could put her head
down on her pillow in the friendly darkness and let the lying smile
fade from her lips.
The slow hours of the night wore on, bringing the morrow--the morrow,
and what?
Would the river give up its dead? Perhaps--but surely there could be no
clew connecting her with the secret of the murder. Why should she keep
on thinking of that? It was impossible.
Ah, if only she could sleep! If only to-morrow did not haunt her so! At
last, just before the faint dawn-light crept into the eastern sky, the
tired lids dropped and she slept heavily--so heavily that hours went by
unheeded and the sun was high when she awoke again. To-morrow was here,
and with it sensational tidings. A dead man had been found in the river
a mile below Verelands--a murdered man, and he had been identified as
Robert Lacy, the valet of Lord Stuart.
Norman himself told her this when she came down to a late breakfast,
and she asked eagerly, with an appearance of interest:
“Murdered? Who could have done it?”
“That is the strangest part of it. There is not the slightest clew to
the murderer. The man was a stranger here. He had made no friends nor
enemies in the place so far as known. An inquest will be held to-day,
and if any one knows anything it will probably come out there,” he said.
“What does Lord Stuart think? What does he say?” she inquired, eagerly.
“He thinks it may be a case of suicide. He says the man was morose and
unhappy. It would have been quite natural for him to tire of his life
and throw it away.”
“Of course,” she said.
Her heart throbbed with relief. She blessed Lord Stuart for his clever
thought.
“I am going now to attend the inquest,” Norman continued.
“Oh, pray do not! How can men have the heart to care for such horrible
things?” cried Camille.
But all her blandishments could not keep him away.
“I will come back as soon as possible and tell you all about it,” he
said, as he kissed her and went away.
Camille flung herself upon a sofa and waited in wild suspense for his
return. Presently some callers came in. They could talk of nothing but
the murder of Lord Stuart’s handsome valet. She was glad when they went
away. It was so hard to keep up an appearance of careless interest when
her head was burning and her feet and hands were like ice.
Oh! when would Norman come back? She longed yet dreaded for him to
return with the verdict of the coroner’s jury.
Suddenly he appeared before her, pale and with a troubled light in his
dark eyes.
“Camille, they have sent me for you. You are wanted as a witness at
the inquest,” he said, abruptly, and a low cry of alarm burst from her
ashen lips.
“But I know nothing about it--I have never even seen the man!” she
exclaimed, hoarsely.