AT POPLAR LODGE.
Half an hour had passed and Sir Victor did not return. Edith still
remained at the piano, the gleam of the candles falling upon her
thoughtful face, playing the weird "Moonlight Sonata." She played so
softly that the shrill whistling of the wind around the gables, the
heavy soughing of the trees, was plainly audible above it. Ten minutes
more, and her lover did not return. Wondering a little what the
telegram could contain, she arose and walked to the window, drew the
curtains and looked out. There was no moon, but the stars were
numberless, and lit dimly the park. As she stood watching the trees,
writhing in the autumnal gale, she heard a step behind her. She
glanced over her shoulder with a half smile--a smile that died on her
lips as she saw the grave pallor of Sir Victor's face.
"What has happened?" she asked quickly. "Lady Helena's dispatch
contained bad news? It is nothing"--she caught her breath--"nothing
concerning the Stuarts?"
"Nothing concerning the Stuarts. It is from London--from Inez Catheron.
It is--that my father is dying."
She said nothing. She stood looking at him, and waiting for more.
"It seems a strange thing to say," he went on, "that one does not know
whether to call one's father's death ill news or not. But considering
the living death he has led for twenty-three years, one can hardly
call death and release a misfortune. The strange thing, the alarming
thing about it, is the way Lady Helena takes it. One would think she
might be prepared, that considering his life and sufferings, she would
rather rejoice than grieve: but, I give you my word, the way in which
she takes it honestly frightens me."
Still Edith made no reply--still her thoughtful eyes were fixed upon
his face.
"She seems stunned, paralyzed--actually paralyzed with a sort of
terror. And that terror seems to be, not for him or herself, but for
_me_. She will explain nothing; she seems unable; all presence of
mind seems to have left her. No time is to be lost; there is a train
in two hours: we go by that. By daylight we will be in London; how
long before we return I cannot say. I hate the thought of a death
casting its gloom over our marriage. I dread horribly the thought of a
second postponement--I hate the idea of leaving you here alone."
_Something will happen_. All along her heart had whispered it, and
here it was. And yet the long tense breath she drew was very like a
breath of relief.
"You are not to think of me," she said quietly, after a pause. "Your
duty is to the dying. Nothing will befall me in your absence--don't
let the thought of me in any way trouble you. I shall do very well
with my books and music; and Lady Gwendoline, I dare say, will drive
over occasionally and see me. Of course _why_ you go to London is
for the present a secret?"
"Of course. What horrible explanations and gossip the fact of his
death at this late date will involve. Every one has thought him dead
for over twenty years. I can't understand this secrecy, this
mystery--the world should have been told the truth from the first. If
there was any motive I suppose they will tell me to-night, and I
confess I shrink from hearing any more than I have already heard."
His face was very dark, very gloomy, as he gazed out at the starlit
night. A presentiment that something evil was in store for him weighed
upon him, engendered, perhaps, by the incomprehensible alarm of Lady
Helena.
The preparations for the journey were hurried and few. Lady Helena
descended to the carriage, leaning on her maid's arm. She seemed to
have forgotten Edith completely, until Edith advanced to say good-by.
Then in a constrained, mechanical sort of way she gave her her hand,
spoke a few brief words of farewell, and drew back into a corner of
the carriage, a darker shadow in the gloom.
In the drawing-room, in travelling-cap and overcoat, Sir Victor held
Edith's hand, lingering strangely over the parting--strangely
reluctant to say farewell.
"Do you believe in presentiments, Edith?" he asked. "I have a
presentiment that we will never meet again like this--that something
will have come between us before we meet again. I cannot define it. I
cannot explain it. I only know it is there."
"I don't believe in presentiments," Edith answered cheerfully. "I
never had one in my life. I believe they are only another name for
dyspepsia; and telegrams and hurried night journeys are mostly
conductive to gloom. When the sun shines to-morrow morning, and you
have had a strong cup of coffee, you will be ready to laugh at your
presentiments. Nothing is likely to come between us."
"Nothing shall--nothing, I swear it!" He caught her in his arms with a
straining clasp, and kissed her passionately for the first time.
"Nothing in this lower world shall ever separate us. I have no life
now apart from you. And nothing, not death itself, shall postpone our
marriage. It was postponed once; I wish it never had been. It shall
never be postponed again."
"Go, go!" Edith cried; "some one is coming--you will be late."
There was not a minute to spare. He dashed down the stairs, down the
portico steps, and sprang into the carriage beside his aunt. The
driver cracked his whip, the horses started, the carriage rolled away
into the gloom and the night. Edith Darrell stood at the window until
the last sound of the wheels died away, and for long after. A strange
silence seemed to have fallen upon the great house with the going of
its mistress. In the embrasure of the window, in the dim blue
starlight, the girl sat down to think. There was some mystery,
involving the murder of the late Lady Catheron, at work here, she felt.
Grief for the loss of his wife might have driven Sir Victor Catheron
mad, but why make such a profound secret of it? Why give out that he
was dead? Why allow his son to step into the title before his time? If
Juan Catheron were the murderer, Juan Catheron the outlaw and Pariah
of his family, why screen him as though he had been the idol and
treasure of all, and let the dead go unavenged? Why this strange
terror of Lady Helena's? why her insufferable aversion to her nephew
marrying at all?
Yes, there was something hidden, something on the cards not yet
brought to light; and to the death-bed of Sir Victor Catheron the
elder, Sir Victor Catheron the younger had been summoned to hear the
whole truth.
Would he tell it to her upon his return, she wondered. Well, if he did
not, she had no right to complain--she had _her_ secret from him.
There was madness in the family--she shrank a little at the thought
for the first time. Who knew, whether latent and unsuspected, the
taint might not be in the blood and brains of the man to whom she was
about to bind herself for life? Who was to tell when it might break
forth, in what horrible shape it might show itself? To be the widowed
wife of a madman--what wealth and title on earth could compensate for
that? She shivered as she sat, partly with the chill night air, partly
with the horror of the thought. In her youth, and health, and beauty,
her predecessor had been struck down, the bride of another Sir Victor.
So long she sat there that a clock up in the lofty turret struck,
heavily and solemnly, twelve. The house was still as the grave--all
shut up except this room where she sat, all retired except her maid
and the butler. They yawned sleepily, and waited for her to retire.
Chilled and white, the girl arose at last, took her night-light, and
went slowly up to bed.
"Is the game worth the candle after all?" she thought. "Ah me! what a
miserable, vacillating creature I am. Whatever comes--the worst or the
best--there is nothing for it now but to go on to the end."
Meantime, through the warm, starry night, the train was speeding on to
London, bearing Sir Victor Catheron to the turning point of his life.
He and his aunt had their carriage all to themselves. Still in dead
silence, still with that pale, terrified look on her face, Lady Helena
lay back in a corner among the cushions. Once or twice her nephew
spoke to her--the voice in which she answered him hardly sounded like
her own. He gave it up at last; there was nothing for it but to wait
and let the end come. He drew his cap over his eyes, lay back in the
opposite seat, and dozed and dreamed of Edith.
In the chill, gray light of an overcast morning they reached Easton
station. A sky like brown paper lay over the million roofs of the
great Babylon; a dull, dim fog, that stifled you, filled the air. The
fog and raw cold were more like November than the last month of summer.
Blue and shivering in the chill light, Sir Victor buttoned up his
light overcoat, assisted his aunt into a cab, and gave the order--"St.
John's Wood. Drive for your life!"
Lady Helena knew Poplar Lodge, of course; once in the vicinity there
would be no trouble in finding it. Was he still alive, the young man
wondered. How strange seemed the thought that he was about to see his
father at last. It was like seeing the dead return. Was he sane, and
would he know him when they met?
The overcast morning threatened rain; it began to fall slowly and
dismally as they drove along. The London streets looked unutterably
draggled and dreary, seen at this early hour of the wet morning. The
cab driver urged his horse to its utmost speed, and presently the
broad green expanse and tall trees of Regent's Park came in view. Lady
Helena gave the man his direction, and in ten minutes they stopped
before the tall, closed iron gates of a solitary villa. It was Poplar
Lodge.
The baronet paid the man's fare and dismissed him. He seized the
gate-bell and rang a peal that seemed to tinkle half a mile away.
While he waited, holding an umbrella over his aunt, he surveyed the
premises.
It was a greusome, prison-like place enough at this forlorn hour. The
stone walls were as high as his head, the view between the lofty iron
gates was completely obstructed by trees. Of the house itself, except
the chimney-pots and the curling smoke, not a glimpse was to be had.
And for three-and-twenty years Inez Catheron had buried herself alive
here with a madman and two old servants! He shuddered internally as he
thought of it--surely, never devotion or atonement equalled hers.
They waited nearly ten minutes in the rain; then a shambling footstep
shambled down the path, and an old face peered out between the
trellised iron work. "Who is it?" an old voice asked.
"It is I, Hooper. Sir Victor and I. For pity's sake don't keep us
standing here in the rain."
"My lady! Praise be!" A key turned in the lock, the gate swung wide,
and an aged, white-haired man stood bowing before Lady Helena.
"Are we in time?" was her first breathless question. "Is your master
still--"
"Still alive, my lady--praise and thanks be! Just in time, and no
more."
The dim old eyes of Hooper were fixed upon the young man's face.
"Like his father," the old lips said, and the old head shook ominously;
"more's the pity--like his father."
Lady Helena took her nephew's arm and hurried him, under the dripping
trees, up the avenue to the house. Five minutes brought them to it--a
red brick villa, its shutters all closed. The house-door stood ajar;
without ceremony her ladyship entered. As she did so, another, door
suddenly opened, and Inez Catheron came out.
The fixedly pale face, could by no possibility grow paler--could by no
possibility change its marble calm. But the deep, dusk eyes looked at
the young man, it seemed to him, with an infinite compassion.
"We are in time?" his aunt spoke.
"You are in time. In one moment you will see him. There is not a
second to lose, and he knows it. He has begged you to be brought to
him the moment you arrive."
"He knows then. Oh, thank God! Reason has returned at last."
"Reason has returned. Since yesterday he has been perfectly sane. His
first words were that his son should be sent for, that the truth
should be told."
There was a half-suppressed sob. Lady Helena covered her face with
both hands. Her nephew looked at her, then back to Miss Catheron. The
white face kept its calm, the pitying eyes looked at him with a gentle
compassion no words can tell.
"Wait one moment," she said; "I must tell him you are here."
She hurried upstairs and disappeared. Neither of the two spoke. Lady
Helena's face was still hidden. He knew that she was crying--silent,
miserable tears--tears that were for _him_. He stood pale, composed,
expectant--waiting for the end.
"Come up," Miss Catheron's soft voice at the head of the stairs called.
Once more he gave his aunt his arm, once more in silence they went in
together.
A breathless hush seemed to lie upon the house and all within it. Not
a sound was to be heard except the soft rustle of the trees, the soft,
ceaseless patter of the summer rain. In that silence they entered the
chamber where the dying man lay. To the hour of his own death, that
moment and all he saw was photographed indelibly upon Victor
Catheron's mind. The dim gray light of the room, the great white bed
in the centre, and the awfully corpse-like face of the man lying among
the pillows, and gazing at him, with hollow, spectral eyes. His
father--at last!
He advanced to the bedside as though under a spell. The spectral blue
eyes were fixed upon him steadfastly, the pallid lips slowly opened
and spoke.
"Like me--as I was--like me. Ethel's son."
"My father!"
He was on his knees--a great awe upon him. It was the first time in
his young life he had ever been in the presence of death. And the
dying was his father, and his father whom he had never seen before.
"Like me," the faint lips related; "my face, my height, my name, my
age. Like me. O God! will his end be like mine?"
A thrill of horror ran through all his hearers. His son strove to take
his hand; it was withdrawn. A frown wrinkled, the pallid brow.
"Wait," he said painfully; "don't touch me; don't speak to me. Wait.
Sit down; don't kneel there. You don't know what you are about to hear.
Inez, tell him now."
She closed the door--still with that changeless face--and locked it.
It seemed as though, having suffered so much, nothing had power to
move her outwardly now. She placed a chair for Lady Helena away from
the bed--Lady Helena, who had stood aloof and not spoken to the dying
man yet. She placed a chair for Sir Victor, and motioned him to seat
himself, then drew another close to the bedside, stooped, and kissed
the dying man. Then in a voice that never faltered, never failed, she
began the story she had to tell.
* * * * *
Half an hour had passed. The story was told, and silence reigned in
the darkened room. Lady Helena still sat, with averted face, in her
distant seat, not moving, not looking up. The dying man still lay
gazing weirdly upon his son, death every second drawing nearer and
more near. Inez sat holding his hand, her pale, sad face, her dark,
pitying eyes turned also upon his son.
That son had risen. He stood up in the centre of the room, with a
white, stunned face. What was this he had heard? Was he asleep and
dreaming?--was it all a horrible, ghastly delusion?--were they mocking
him? or--O gracious God! was it _true_?
"Let me out!" They were his first words. "I can't breathe--I am
choking in this room! I shall go mad if you keep me here!"
He staggered forward, as a drunken man or a blind man might stagger,
to the door. He unlocked it, opened it, passed out into the passage,
and down the stairs. His aunt followed him, her eyes streaming, her
hands outstretched.
"Victor--my boy--my son--my darling! Victor--for the love of Heaven,
speak to me!"
But he only made a gesture for her to stand back, and went on.
"Keep away from me!" he said, in a stifled voice; "let me think! Leave
me alone!--I can't speak to you yet!"
He went forward out into the wet daylight. His head was bare; his
overcoat was off; the rain beat unheeded upon him. What was this--what
was this he had heard?
He paced up and down under the trees. The moments passed. An hour went;
he neither knew nor cared. He was stunned--stunned body and soul--too
stunned even to think. His mind was in chaos, an awful horror had
fallen upon him; he must wait before thought would come. Whilst he
still paced there, as a stricken animal might, a great cry reached him.
Then a woman's flying figure came down the path. It was his aunt.
"Come--come--come!" she cried; "he is dying!"
She drew him with her by main force into the house--up the stairs--into
the chamber of death. But Death had been there before them. A dead man
lay upon the bed now, rigid and white. A second cry arose--a cry of
almost more than woman's woe. And with it Inez Catheron clasped the
dead man in her arms, and covered his face with her raining tears.
The son stood beside her like a figure of stone, gazing down at that
marble face. For the first time in his life he was Sir Victor Catheron.