CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

The morning dawned over Powyss Place--dawned in wild wind and driving

rain still--dawned upon Edith, deserted more strangely than surely

bride was ever deserted before.

She had darkened her chamber; she had forced herself resolutely to

sleep. But the small hours had come before she had succeeded, and it

was close upon ten when the dark eyes opened from dreamland to life.

Strange mockery! it was ever of Charley and the days that were forever

gone she dreamed now.

For hours and hours she had paced her room the evening and night

before, all the desolation, all the emptiness and loss of her life

spread out before her. She had sold herself deliberately and with her

eyes open, and this was her reward. Deserted in the hour of her

triumph--humiliated as never bride was humiliated before--the talk,

the ridicule of the country, an object of contemptuous pity to the

whole world. And Charley and Trixy, what would _they_ say when they

heard of her downfall? She was very proud--no young princess had ever

haughtier blood coursing through her royal veins than this portionless

American girl. For wealth and rank she had bartered life and love, and

verily she had her reward.

She suffered horribly. As she paced up and down, her whole face was

distorted with the torture within. She flung herself into a seat and

tried to still the ceaseless, gnawing, maddening pain. In vain! She

could neither sit still, nor think, nor deaden her torment. And when

at last she threw herself face downward on her bed it was only to

sleep the spent sleep of utter exhaustion. But she was "pluck" to the

backbone. Next day, when she had bathed and made her toilet, and

descended to the breakfast-room, the closest observer could have read

nothing of last night in the fixed calm of her face. The worst that

could ever happen had happened; she was ready now to live and die game.

Lady Helena, very pale, very tremulous, very frightened and

helpless-looking, awaited her. A large, red fire burned on the hearth.

Her ladyship was wrapped in a fluffy white shawl, but she shivered in

spite of both. The lips that touched Edith's cheek were almost as cold

as that cold cheek itself. Tears started to her eyes as she spoke to

her.

"My child," she said, "how white you are; how cold and ill you look.

I am afraid you did not sleep at all."

"Yes, I slept," answered Edith; "for a few hours, at least. The

weather has something to do with it, perhaps; I always fall a prey to

horrors in wet and windy weather."

Then they sat down to the fragrant and tempting breakfast, and ate

with what appetite they might. For Edith, she hardly made a pretence

of eating--she drank a large cup of strong coffee, and arose.

"Lady Helena," she began abruptly, "as I came out of my room, two of

the servants were whispering in the corridor. I merely caught a word

or two in passing. They stopped immediately upon seeing me. But from

that word or two, I infer this--Sir Victor Catheron was here to see

you last night."

Lady Helena was trifling nervously with her spoon--it fell with a

clash now into her cup, and her terrified eyes looked piteously at her

companion.

"If you desire to keep this a secret too," Edith said, her lips

curling scornfully, "of course you are at liberty to do so--of course

I presume to ask no questions. But if not, I would like to know--it

may in some measure influence my own movements."

"What do you intend to do?" her ladyship brokenly asked.

"That you shall hear presently. Just now the question is: Was your

nephew here last night or not?"

"He was."

She said it with a sort of sob, hiding her face in her hands. "May

Heaven help me," she cried; "it is growing more than I can bear. O my

child, what can I say to you? how can I comfort you in this great

trouble that has come upon you?"

"You are very good, but I would rather not be comforted. I have been

utterly base and mercenary from first to last--a wretch who has richly

earned her fate. Whatever has befallen me I deserve. I married your

nephew without one spark of affection for him; he was no more to me

than any laborer on his estate--I doubt whether he ever could have

been. I meant to try--who knows how it would have ended? I married Sir

Victor Catheron for his rank and riches, his title and rent-roll--I

married the baronet, not the man. And it has ended thus. I am widowed

on my wedding-day, cast off, forsaken. Have I not earned my fate?"

She laughed drearily--a short, mirthless, bitter laugh.

"I don't venture to ask too many questions--I don't battle with my

fate; I throw up my arms and yield at once. But this I would like to

know. Madness is hereditary in his family. Unworthy of all love as I

am, I think--I think Sir Victor loved me, and, unless he be mad, I

can't understand _why_ he deserted me. Lady Helena, answer me this,

as you will one day answer to your Maker--Is Sir Victor Catheron sane

or mad?"

There was a pause as she asked the dreadful question--a pause in which

the beating of the autumnal rain upon the glass, the soughing of the

autumnal gale sounded preternaturally loud. Then, brokenly, in

trembling tones, and not looking up, came Lady Helena's answer:

"God pity him and you--he is not mad."

Then there was silence again. The elder woman, her face buried in her

hands and resting on the table, was crying silently and miserably. At

the window, the tall, slim figure of the girl stood motionless, her

hands clasped loosely before her, her deep bright eyes looking out at

the slanting rain, the low-lying, lead colored sky, the black trees

blown aslant in the high October gale.

"Not mad?" she repeated, after that long pause; "you are quite certain

of this, my lady? Not mad--and he has left me?"

"He has left you. O my child! if I dared only tell you all--if I dared

only tell you how it is _because_ of his great and passionate love

for you, he leaves you. If ever there was a martyr on this earth,

it is my poor boy. If you had seen him as I saw him last night--worn

to a shadow in one day, suffering for the loss of you until death

would be a relief--even _you_ would have pitied him."

"Would I? Well, perhaps so, though my heart is rather a hard one. Of

course I don't understand a word of all this--of course, as he said in

his letter, some secret of guilt and shame lies behind it all. And yet,

perhaps, I could come nearer to the 'Secret' than either you or he

think."

Lady Helena looked suddenly up, that terrified, hunted look in her

eyes.

"What do you mean?" she gasped.

"This," the firm, cold voice of Edith said, as Edith's bright, dark

eyes fixed themselves pitilessly upon her, "this, Lady Helena Powyss:

That the secret which takes him from me is the secret of his mother's

murder--the secret which he learned at his father's deathbed. Shall I

tell you who committed that murder?"

Her ladyship's lips moved, but no sound came; she sat spellbound,

watching that pale, fixed face before her.

"Not Inez Catheron, who was imprisoned for it; not Juan Catheron, who

was suspected of it. I am a Yankee, Lady Helena, and consequently

clever at guessing. I believe that Sir Victor Catheron, in cold blood,

murdered his own wife!"

There was a sobbing cry--whether at the shock of the terrible words,

or at their truth, who was to tell?

"I believe the late Sir Victor Catheron to have been a deliberate and

cowardly murderer," Edith went on; "so cowardly that his weak brain

turned when he saw what he had done and thought of the consequences;

and that he paid the penalty of his crime in a life of insanity. The

motive I don't pretend to fathom--jealousy of Juan Catheron perhaps;

and on his dying bed he confessed all to his son."

With face blanched and eyes still full of terror, her ladyship looked

at the dark, contemptuous, resolute speaker.

"And if this be true--your horrible surmise; mind, I don't admit that

it is--would _that_ be any excuse for Victor's conduct in leaving

you?"

"No!" Edith answered, her eyes flashing, "none! Having married me, not

ten thousand family secrets should be strong enough to make him desert

me. If he had come to me, if he had told me, as he was bound to do

before our wedding-day, I would have pitied him with all my soul; if

anything could ever have made me care for him as a wife should care

for a husband, it would have been that pity. But if he came to me now,

and knelt before me, imploring me to return, I would not. I would die

sooner!"

She was walking up and down now, gleams of passionate scorn and rage

in her dark eyes.

"It is all folly and balderdash, this talk of his love for me making

him leave me. Don't let us have any more of it. No secret on earth

should make a bridegroom quit his bride--no power on earth could ever

convince me of it!"

"And yet," the sad, patient voice of poor Lady Helena sighed, "it is

true."

Edith stopped in her walk, and looked at her incredulously.

"Lady Helena," she said, "you are my kind friend--you know the

world--you are a woman of sense, not likely to have your brain turned

with vapors. Answer me this--Do you think that, acting as he has done,

Sir Victor Catheron has done right?"

Lady Helena's sad eyes met hers full. Lady Helena's voice was full of

pathos and earnestness, as she replied:

"Edith, I am your friend; I am in my sober senses, and, I believe in

my soul Victor has done right."

"Well," Edith said after a long pause, during which she resumed her

walk, "I give it up! I don't understand, and I never shall. I am

hopelessly in the dark. I can conceive no motive--none strong enough

to make his conduct right. I thought him mad; you say he is sane. I

thought he did me a shameful, irreparable wrong; you say he has done

right. I will think no more about it, since, if I thought to my dying

day, I could come no nearer the truth."

"You will know one day," answered Lady Helena; "on his death-bed; and,

poor fellow, the sooner that day comes the better for him."

Edith made an impatient gesture.

"Let us talk about it no more. What is done is done. Whether Sir

Victor Catheron lives or dies can in no way concern me now. I think,

with your permission, I will go back to my room and try to sleep away

this dismal day."

"Wait one moment, Edith. It was on your account Victor came here last

night to talk over the arrangements he was making for your future."

A curious smile came over Edith's lips. She was once more back at the

window, looking out at the rain-beaten day.

"My future!" she slowly repeated; "in what possible way can my future

concern Sir Victor Catheron?"

"My child, what a question! In every way. You are honest enough to

confess that you married him--poor boy, poor boy--for his rank and

rent-roll. _There_, at least, you need not be disappointed. The

settlements made upon you before your marriage were, as you know,

liberal in the extreme. In addition to that, every farthing that it is

in his power to dispose of he intends settling upon you besides. His

grandmother's fortune, which descends to him, is to be yours. You may

spend money like water if it pleases you--the title and the wealth for

which you wedded are still yours. For himself, he intends to go

abroad--to the East, I believe. He retains nothing but what will

supply his travelling expenses. He cannot meet you--if he did, he

might never be able to leave you. O Edith, you blame him, you hate him;

but if you had only seen him, only heard him last night, only knew how

inevitable it is, how he suffered, how bitterer than death this

parting is to him, you would pity, you would forgive him."

"You think so," the girl said, with a wistful, weary sigh. "Ah, well,

perhaps so. I don't know. Just now I can realize nothing except that

I am a lost, forsaken wretch; that I _do_ hate him; that if I were

dying, or that if he were dying, I could not say 'I forgive you.'

As to his liberality, I never doubted that; I have owned that I

married him for his wealth and station. I own it still; but there are

some things not the wealth of a king could compensate for. To desert a

bride on her wedding-day is one of them. I repeat, Lady Helena, with

your permission, I will go to my room; we won't talk of my future

plans and prospects just now. To-morrow you shall know my decision."

She turned to go. The elder woman looked after her with yearning,

sorrowful eyes.

"If I knew what to do--if I knew what to say," she murmured helplessly.

"Edith, I loved him more dearly than any son. I think my heart is

breaking. O child, don't judge him--be merciful to him who loves you

while he leaves you--be merciful to me whose life has been so full of

trouble."

Her voice broke down in a passion of tears. Edith turned from the door,

put her arms around her neck and kissed her.

"Dear friend," she said; "dear Lady Helena, I pity _you_ from the

bottom of my heart. I wish--I wish I could only comfort you."

"You can," was the eager answer. "Stay with me, Edith; don't leave me

alone. Be a daughter to me; take the place of the son I have lost."

But Edith's pale, resolute face did not soften.

"To-morrow we will settle all this," was her reply. "Wait until

to-morrow."

Then she was gone--shut up and locked in her own room. She did not

descend to either luncheon or dinner--one of the housemaids served her

in her dressing-room. And Lady Helena, alone and miserable, wandered

uneasily about the lower rooms, and wondered how she spent that long

rainy day.

She spent it busily enough. The plain black box she had brought from

New York, containing all her earthly belongings, she drew out and

packed. It was not hard to do, since nothing went into it but what had

belonged to her then. All the dresses, all the jewels, all the costly

gifts that had been given her by the man she had married, and his

friends, she left as they were. She kept nothing, not even her

wedding-ring: she placed it among the rest, in the jewel casket,

closed and locked it. Then she wrote a letter to Lady Helena, and

placed the key inside. This is what she said:

* * * * *

"DEAR FRIEND: When you open this I shall have left Powyss Place

forever. It will be quite useless to follow or endeavor to bring me

back. My mind is made up. I recognize no authority--nothing will

induce me to revoke my decision. I go out into the world to make my

own way. With youth, and health, and ordinary intelligence, it ought

not to be impossible. The things belonging to me when I first came

here I have packed in the black box; in a week you will have the

kindness to forward it to the Euston station. The rest I leave

behind--retaining one or two books as souvenirs of _you_. I take

nothing of Sir Victor Catheron's--not even his name. You must see that

it is utterly impossible; that I must lose the last shred of pride and

self-respect before I could assume his name or take a penny belonging

to him. Dear, kind Lady Helena good-by. If we never meet again in the

world, remember there is no thought in my heart of you that is not one

of affection and gratitude. EDITH."

* * * * *

Her hand never trembled as she wrote this letter. She placed the key

in it, folded, sealed, and addressed it. It was dark by this time. As

she knelt to cord and lock her trunk, she espied the writing-case

within it. She hesitated a moment, then took it out, opened it, and

drew forth the packet of Charley Stuart's letters. She took out the

photograph and looked at it with a half-tender, half-sad smile.

"I never thought to look at you again," she said softly. "You are all

I have left now."

She put the picture in her bosom, replaced the rest, and locked the

trunk, and put the key in her purse. She sat down and counted her

money. She was the possessor of twelve sovereigns--left over from Mr.

Stuart, senior's, bounty. It was her whole stock of wealth with which

to face and begin the world. Then she sat down resolutely to think

it out. And the question rose grim before her, "What am I to do?"

"Go out into the world and work for your daily bread. Face the poverty

you have feared so much, through fear of which, two days ago, you sold

yourself. Go to London--it is the centre of the world; lose yourself,

hide from all who ever knew you. Go to London. Work of some kind can

surely be had by the willing in that mighty city. Go to London."

That was the answer that came clearly. She shrank for a moment--the

thought of facing life single-handed, poor and alone in that great,

terrible, pitiless city, was overwhelming. But she did not flinch from

her resolve; her mind was made up. Come woe, come weal, she would go

to London.

An "A. B. C." railway guide lay on the table--she consulted it. A

train left Chester for London at eight o'clock, A. M. Neither Lady

Helena nor any of her household was stirring at that hour. She could

walk to Chesholm in the early morning, get a fly there and drive to

the Chester station in time. By four in the afternoon she would be in

London.

No thought of returning home ever recurred to her. Home! What home had

she? Her step-mother was master and mistress in her father's house,

and to return, to go back to Sandypoint, and the life she had left,

was as utter an impossibility almost as though she should take a rope

and hang herself. She had not the means to go if she had desired, but

that made no difference. She could never go back, never see her father,

or Charley, or Trixy more. Alone she must live, alone she must die.

The flood-gates were opened; she suffered this last night as women of

her strong, self-contained temperament only suffer.

"Save me, O God! for the waters are come into my soul!" That was the

wild, wordless prayer of her heart. Her life was wrecked, her heart

was desolate; she must go forth a beggar and an outcast, and fight the

bitter battle of life alone. And love, and home, and Charley might

have been hers. "It might have been!" Is there any anguish in this

world of anguish like that we work with our own hands?--any sorrow

like that which we bring upon ourselves? In the darkness she sank down

upon her knees, her face covered with her hands, tears, that were as

dreadful as tears of blood, falling from her eyes. Lost--lost! all

that made life worth having. To live and die alone, that was her fate!

So the black, wild night passed, hiding her, as miserable a woman as

the wide earth held.

* * * * *

The gray dawn of the dull October morning was creeping over the

far-off Welsh hills as Edith in shawl and hat, closely veiled, and

carrying a hand-bag, came softly down the stairs, and out of a side

door, chiefly used by the servants. She met no one. Noiselessly she

drew the bolt, opened the door, and looked out.

It was raw and cold, a dreary wind still blowing, but it had ceased to

rain. As she stood there, seven struck from the turret clock. "One

long, last, lingering look behind"--one last upward glance at Lady

Helena's windows.

"Good-by!" the pale lips whispered; then she passed resolutely out

into the melancholy autumn morning and was gone.

PART III

CHAPTER I.

AT MADAME MIREBEAU'S, OXFORD STREET.

Half-past four of a delightful June afternoon, and two young ladies

sit at two large, lace-draped windows, overlooking a fashionable

Mayfair street, alternately glancing over the books they hold, and

listlessly watching the passers-by. The house was one of those big

black West-End houses, whose outward darkness and dismalness is in

direct ratio to their inward brilliance and splendor. This particular

room is lofty and long, luxurious with softest carpet, satin

upholstery, pictures, flowers, and lace draperies. The two young

ladies are, with the exception of their bonnets, in elegant carriage

costume.

_Young_ ladies, I have said; and being unmarried, they are young

ladies, of course. One of them, however, is three-and-thirty, counting

by actual years--the peerage gives it in cold blood. It is the Lady

Gwendoline Drexel. Her companion is the Honorable Mary Howard, just

nineteen, and just "out."

Lady Gwendoline yawns drearily over her book--Algernon Swineburne's

latest--and pulls out her watch impatiently every few minutes.

"What can keep Portia?" she exclaims, with irritation. "We should have

been gone the last half-hour."

The Honorable Mary looks up from her Parisian fashion-book, and

glances from the window with a smile.

"Restrain your impatience, Gwendoline," she answers. "Here comes Lady

Portia now."

A minute later the door is flung wide by a tall gentleman in plush,

and Lady Portia Hampton sweeps in. She is a tall, slender lady, very

like her sister: the same dully fair complexion, the same coiffure of

copper-gold, the same light, inane blue eyes. The dull complexion

wears at this moment an absolute flush; the light, lack-lustre eyes an

absolute sparkle. There is something in her look as she sails forward,

that makes them both look up expectantly from their books.

"Well?" Lady Gwendoline says.

"Gwen!" her sister exclaims--absolutely exclaims--"_whom_ do you

suppose I have met?"

"The Czarina of all the Russias, Pio Nino, Her Majesty back from

Osborne, or the Man in the Moon, perhaps," retorts Lady Gwendoline.

"Neither," laughs Lady Portia. "Somebody a great deal more mysterious

and interesting than any of them. You never will guess whom."

"Being five o'clock of a sultry summer day, I don't intend to try.

Tell us at once, Portia, and let us go."

"Then--prepare to be surprised! Sir Victor Catheron!"

"Portia!"

"Ah! I thought the name would interest you. Sir Victor Catheron, my

dear, alive and in the flesh, though, upon my word, at first sight I

almost took him to be his own ghost. Look at her, Mary," laughs her

sister derisively. "I have managed to interest her after all, have I

not?"

For Lady Gwendoline sat erect, her turquoise eyes open to their widest

extent, a look akin to excitement in her apathetic face.

"But, Portia--Sir Victor! I thought it was an understood thing he did

_not_ come to England?"

"He does, it appears. I certainly had the honor and happiness of

shaking hands with him not fifteen minutes ago. I was driving up St.

James Street, and caught a glimpse of him on the steps of Fenton's

Hotel. At first sight I could not credit my eyes. I had to look again

to see whether it were a wraith or a mortal man. Such a pallid shadow

of his former self. You used to think him rather handsome, Gwen--you

should see him now! He has grown ten years older in as many months--his

hair is absolutely streaked with gray, his eyes are sunken, his cheeks

are hollow. He looks miserably, wretchedly out of health. If men ever

do break their hearts," said Lady Portia, going over to a large mirror

and surveying herself, "then that misguided young man broke his on his

wedding-day."

"It serves him right," said Lady Gwendoline, her pale eyes kindling.

"I am almost glad to hear it."

Her faded face wore a strangely sombre and vindictive look. Lady

Portia, with her head on one side, set her bonnet-strings

geometrically straight, and smiled maliciously.

"Ah, no doubt--perfectly natural, all things considered. And yet, even

you might pity the poor fellow to-day, Gwendoline, if you saw him.

Mary, dear, is all this Greek and Hebrew to you? You were in your

Parisian pensionnat, I remember, when it all happened. _You_ don't

know the romantic and mysterious story of Sir Victor Catheron, Bart."

"I never heard the name before, that I recall," answered Miss Howard.

"Then pine in ignorance no longer. This young hero, Sir Victor

Catheron of Catheron Royals, Cheshire, is our next-door neighbor, down

at home, and one year ago the handsome, happy, honored representative

of one of the oldest families in the county. His income was large, his

estates unincumbered, his manners charming, his morals unexceptionable,

and half the young ladies in Cheshire"--with another malicious glance

at her sister--"at daggers-drawn for him. There was the slight

drawback of insanity in the family--his father died insane, and in his

infancy his mother was murdered. But these were only trifling spots on

the sun, not worth a second thought. Our young sultan had but to throw

the handkerchief, and his obedient Circassians would have flown on the

wings of love and joy to pick it up. I grow quite eloquent, don't I?

In an evil hour, however, poor young Sir Victor--he was but

twenty-three--went over to America. There, in New York, he fell in

with a family named Stuart, common rich people, of course, as they all

are over there. In the Stuart family there was a young person, a sort

of cousin, a Miss Edith Darrell, very poor, kept by them out of

charity; and, lamentable to relate, with this young person poor Sir

Victor fell in love. Fell in love, my dear, in the most approved

old-fashioned style--absurdly and insanely in love--brought the whole

family over to Cheshire, proposed to little missy, and, as a matter of

course, was eagerly accepted. She was an extremely pretty girl, that I

will say for her"--with a third sidelong glance of malice at her

_passee_ sister--"and her manners, considering her station, or,

rather, her entire lack of station, her poverty, and her nationality,

were something quite extraordinary. I declare to you, she positively

held her own with the best of us--except for a certain _brusquerie_

and outspoken way about her, you might have thought her an English

girl of our own class. He _would_ marry her, and the wedding-day was

fixed, and Gwendoline named as chief of the bridemaids."

"It is fifteen minutes past five, Portia," the cold voice of

Gwendoline broke in. "If we are to drive at all today--"

"Patience, Gwen! patience one moment longer! Mary most hear the whole

story now. In the Stuart family, I forgot to mention, there was a

young man, a cousin of the bride-elect, with whom--it was patent to

the dullest apprehension--this young person was in love. She accepted

Sir Victor, you understand, while this Mr. Stuart was her lover; a

common case enough, and not worthy of mention except for what came

after. His manners were rarely perfect too. He was, I think, without

exception, the very handsomest and most fascinating man I ever met.

You would never dream--never!--that he was an American. Gwendoline

will tell you the same. The sister was thoroughly trans-Atlantic,

talked slang, said 'I guess,' spoke with an accent, and looked you

through and through with an American girl's broad stare. The father

and mother were common, to a degree; but the son--well, Gwen and I

both came very near losing our hearts to him--didn't we, dear?"

"Speak for yourself," was Gwen's ungracious answer. "And, oh! for

pity's sake, Portia, cut it short!"

"Pray go on, Lady Portia!" said Miss Howard, looking interested.

"I am going on," said Lady Portia. "The nice part is to come. The

Stuart family, a month or more before the wedding, left Cheshire and

came up to London--why, we can only surmise--to keep the lovers apart.

Immediately after their departure, the bride-elect was taken ill, and

had to be carried off to Torquay for change of air and all that. The

wedding-day was postponed until some time in October; but at last it

came. She looked very beautiful, I must say, that morning, and

perfectly self-possessed; but poor Sir Victor! He was ghastly. Whether

even then he suspected something I do not know; he looked a picture of

abject misery at the altar and the breakfast. Something was wrong; we

all saw that; but no explanation took place there. The happy pair

started on their wedding-journey down into Wales, and that was the

last we ever saw of them. What followed, we know; but until to-day I

have never set eyes on the bridegroom. The bride, I suppose, none of

us will ever set eyes on more."

"Why?" the Honorable Mary asked.

"This, my dear: An hour after their arrival in Carnarvon, Sir Victor

deserted his bride forever! What passed between them, what scene

ensued, nobody knows, only this--he positively left her forever. That

the handsome and fascinating American cousin had something to do with

it, there can be no doubt. Sir Victor took the next train from Wales

to London; she remained overnight. Next day she had the audacity to

return to Powyss Place and present herself to his aunt, Lady Helena

Powyss. She remained there one day and two nights. On the first night,

muffled and disguised, Sir Victor came down from town, had an

interview with his aunt, no doubt told her all, and departed again

without seeing the girl he had married. The bride next day had an

interview with Lady Helena--her last--and next morning, before any one

was stirring, stole out of the house like the guilty creature she was,

and never was heard of more. The story, though they tried to hush it

up, got in all the papers--'Romance in High Life,' they called it.

Everybody talked of it--it was the nine-days' wonder of town and

country. The actors in it, one by one, disappeared. Lady Helena shut

up Powyss Place and went abroad; Sir Victor vanished from the world's

ken; the heroine of the piece no doubt went back to her native land.

That, in brief, is the story, my dear, of the interesting spectre I

met to-day on the steps of Fenton's. Now, young ladies, put on your

bonnets and come. I wish to call at Madame Mirebeau's, Oxford Street,

before going to the park, and personally inspect my dress for the

duchess' ball to-night."

Ten minutes later and the elegant barouche of Lady Portia Hampton was

bowling along to Oxford Street.

"What did you say to Sir Victor, Portia?" her sister deigned to ask.

"What did he say to you?"

"He said very little to me--the answers he gave were the most vague.

I naturally inquired concerning his health first, he really looked so

wretchedly broken down; and he said there was nothing the matter that

he had been a little out of sorts lately, that was all. My conviction

is," said Lady Portia, who, like the rest of her sex, and the world,

put the worst possible construction on everything, "that he has become

dissipated. Purple circles and hollow eyes always tell of late hours

and hard drinking. I asked him next where he had been all those ages,

and he answered briefly and gloomily, in one word, 'Abroad.' I asked

him thirdly, where, and how was Lady Helena; he replied that Lady

Helena was tolerably well, and at present in London. 'In London!' I

exclaimed, in a shocked tone, 'my dear Sir Victor, and _I_ not know

it!' He explained that his aunt was living in the closest retirement,

at the house of a friend in the neighborhood of St. John's Wood, and

went nowhere. Then he lifted his hat, smiled horribly a ghastly smile,

turned his back upon me, and walked away. Never asked for you,

Gwendoline, or Colonel Hampton, or my health, or anything."

Lady Gwendoline did not reply. They had just entered Oxford Street,

and amid the moving throng of well-dressed people on the pavement, her

eye had singled out one figure--the figure of a tall, slender,

fair-haired man.

"Portia!" she exclaimed, in a suppressed voice, "look there! Is not

that Sir Victor Catheron now?"

"Where? Oh, I see. Positively it is, and--yes--he sees us. Tell John

to draw up, Gwendoline. Now, Mary, you shall see a live hero of

romance for once in your life. He shall take a seat, whether he likes

it or not--My _dear_ Sir Victor, what a happy second rencontre, and

Gwendoline dying to see you. Pray let us take you up--oh, we will

have no refusal. We have an unoccupied seat here, you see, and we all

insist upon your occupying it. Miss Howard, let me present our nearest

neighbor at home, and particular friend everywhere, Sir Victor

Catheron. The Honorable Miss Howard, Sir Victor."

They had drawn up close to the curbstone. The gentleman had doffed his

hat, and would have passed on, had he not been taken possession of in

this summary manner. Lady Gwendoline's primrose-kidded hand was

extended to him, Lady Gwendoline's smiling face beamed upon him from

the most exquisite of Parisian bonnets. Miss Howard bowed and scanned

him curiously. Lady Portia was not to be refused--he knew that of old.

Of two bores, it was the lesser bore to yield than resist. Another

instant, and the barouche was rolling away to Madame Mirebeau's, and

Sir Victor Catheron was within it. He sat by Lady Gwendoline's side,

and under the shadow of her rose-silk and point-lace parasol she could

see for herself how shockingly he was changed. Her sister had not

exaggerated. He was worn to a shadow; his fair hair was streaked with

gray; his lips were set in a tense expression of suffering--either

physical or mental--perhaps both. His blue eyes looked sunken and

lustreless. It was scarcely to be believed that ten short months could

have wrought such wreck. He talked little--his responses to their

questions were monosyllabic. His eyes constantly wandered away from

their faces to the passers-by. He had the look of a man ever on the

alert, ever on the watch--waiting and watching for some one he could

not see. Miss Howard had never seen him before, but from the depths of

her heart she pitied him. Sorrow, such as rarely falls to the lot of

man, had fallen to this man, she knew.

He was discouragingly absent and _distrait_. It came out by chance

that the chief part of the past ten months had been spent by him in

America.

In America! The sisters exchanged glances. _She_ was there, no doubt.

Had they met? was the thought of both. They reached the fashionable

modiste's.

"You will come in with us, Sir Victor," Lady Portia commanded gayly.

"We all have business here, but we will only detain you a moment."

He gave her his arm to the shop. It was large and elegant, and three

or four deferential shop-women came forward to wait upon them and

place seats. The victimized baronet, still listless and bored, sat

down to wait and escort them back to the carriage before taking his

departure. To be exhibited in the park was the farthest possible from

his intention.

Lady Portia's, dress was displayed--a rose velvet, with point-lace

trimmings--and found fault with, of course. Lady Gwendoline and the

Hon. Mary transacted their affairs at a little distance. For her elder

ladyship the train did not suit her, the bodice did not please her;

she gave her orders for altering sharply and concisely. The deferential

shop-girl listened and wrote the directions down on a card. When her

patroness had finished she carried robe and card down the long room

and called:

"Miss Stuart!"

A voice answered--only one word, "Yes," softly spoken, but Sir Victor

Catheron started as if he had been shot. The long show-room lay in

semi-twilight--the gas not yet lit. In this twilight another girl

advanced, took the rose-velvet robe and written card. The light

flashed upon her figure and hair for one instant--then she

disappeared.

And Sir Victor?

He sat like a man suddenly aroused from a deep, long sleep. He had not

seen the face; he had caught but a glimpse of the figure and head; he

had heard the voice speak but one little word, "Yes;" _but_--

Was he asleep or awake? Was it only a delusion, as so many other

fancied resemblances had been, or was it after all--after all--

He rose to his feet, that dazed look of a sleep-walker, suddenly

aroused, on his face.

"Now, then, Sir Victor," the sharp, clear voice of Lady Portia said,

at his side, "your martyrdom is ended. We are ready to go."

He led her to the carriage, assisted her and the young ladies in. How

he excused himself--what incoherent words he said--he never knew. He

was only conscious after a minute that the carriage had rolled away,

and that he was still standing, hat in hand, on the sidewalk in front

of Madame Mirebeau's; that the passers-by were staring at him, and

that he was alone.

"Mad!" Lady Portia said, shrugging her shoulders and touching her

forehead. "Mad as a March hare!"

"Mad?" Miss Howard repeated softly. "No, I don't think so. Not mad,

only very--very miserable."

He replaced his hat and walked back to the shop-door. There reason,

memory returned. What was he going in for? What should he say? He

stood still suddenly, as though gazing at the wax women in elegant

ball costume, swinging slowly and smirkingly round and round. He had

heard a voice--he had seen a shapely head crowned with dark, silken

hair--a tall, slender girl's figure--that was all. He had seen and

heard such a hundred times since that fatal wedding evening, and when

he had hunted them down, the illusion had vanished, and his lost love

was as lost as ever. His lost Edith--his bride, his darling, the wife

he had loved and left--for whom all those weary, endless months he had

been searching and searching in vain. Was she living or dead? Was she

in London--in England--_where_? He did not know--no one knew. Since

that dark, cold autumn morning when she had fled from Powyss Place

she had never been seen or heard of. She had kept her word--she had

taken nothing that was his--not a farthing. Wherever she was, she

might be starving to-day. He clenched his hands and teeth as he

thought of it.

"Oh!" his passionate, despairing heart cried, "let me find her--let me

save her, and--let me die!"

He had searched for her everywhere, by night and by day. Money flowed

like water--all in vain. He went to New York--he found the people

there he had once known, but none of them could tell him anything of

her or the Stuarts. The Stuarts had failed, were utterly ruined--it

was understood that Mr. Stuart was dead--of the others they knew

nothing. He went to Sandypoint in search of her father. Mr. Darrell

and his family had months ago sold out and gone West. He could find

none of them; he gave it up at length and returned to England. Ten

months had passed; many resemblances had beguiled him, but to-day

Edith was as far off, as lost as ever.

The voice he had heard, the likeness he had seen, would they prove

false and empty too, and leave his heart more bitter than ever? What

he would do _when_ he found her he did not consider. He only wanted

to find her. His whole heart, and life, and soul were bound up in

that.

He paced up and down in front of the shop; the day's work would be

over presently and the work-women would come forth. Then he would see

again this particular work-woman who had set his heart beating with a

hope that turned him dizzy and sick. Six o'clock! seven o'clock! Would

they never come? Yes; even as he thought it, half mad with impatience,

the door opened, and nearly a dozen girls filed forth. He drew his hat

over his eyes, he kept a little in the shadow and watched them one by

one with wildly eager eyes as they appeared. Four, five, six,

seven--she came at last, the eighth. The tall, slender figure, the

waving, dark hair, he knew them at once. The gaslight fell full upon

her as she drew her veil over her face and walked rapidly away. Not

before he had seen it, not before he had recognized it--no shadow, no

myth, no illusion this time. His wife--Edith.

He caught the wall for support. For a moment the pavement beneath his

feet heaved, the starry sky spun round. Then he started up, steadied

himself by a mighty effort, and hurried in pursuit.

She had gained upon him over thirty yards. She was always a rapid

walker, and he was ailing and weak. His heart throbbed now, so thick

and fast, that every breath was a pain. He did not gain upon her, he

only kept her in sight. He would have known that quick, decided walk,

the poise of the head and shoulders, anywhere. He followed her as fast

as his strength and the throng of passers-by would let him, yet doing

no more than keeping her well in sight.

Where Oxford Street nears Tottenham Court Road she suddenly diverged

and crossed over, turning into the latter crowded thoroughfare. Still

he followed. The throng was even more dense here than in Oxford

Street, to keep her in sight more difficult. For nearly ten minutes he

did it, then suddenly all strength left him. For a minute or two he

felt as though he must fall. There was a spasm of the heart that was

like a knife-thrust. He caught at a lamp-post. He beckoned a passing

hansom by a sort of expiring effort. The cab whirled up beside him; he

got in somehow, and fell back, blinded and dizzy, in the seat.

"Where to, sir?" Cabby called twice before he received an answer; then

"Fenton's Hotel" came faintly to him from his ghostly looking fare.

The little aperture at the top was slammed down and the hansom rattled

off.

"Blessed if I don't think the young swell's drunk, or 'aving a fit,"

thought the Cad, as he speeded his horse down Tottenham Court Road.

To look for her further in his present state, Sir Victor felt would

be useless. He must get to his lodgings, get some brandy, and

half-an-hour's time to think what to do next. He had found her; she

was alive, she was well, thank Heaven! thank Heaven for that!

To-morrow would find her again at Madame Mirebeau's at work with the

rest.

At work--her daily toil! He covered his wasted face with his wasted

hands, and tears that were like a woman's fell from him. He had been

weak and worn out for a long time--he gave way utterly, body and mind,

now.

"My darling," he sobbed; "my darling whom I would die to make

happy--whose life I have so utterly ruined. To think that while

I spend wealth like water, _you_ should toil for a crust of

bread--alone, poor, friendless, in this great city. How will I

answer to God and man for what I have done?"

CHAPTER II.

EDITH.

The last light of the July day had faded out, and a hot, murky night

settled down over London. The air was stifling in the city; out in the

suburbs you still caught a breath, fresh and sweet scented, from the

fragrant fields.

At Poplar Lodge, St. John's Wood, this murky, summer night all the

windows stood wide. In the drawing-room two women sat together. The

elder reading aloud, the younger busy over some feminine handicraft.

A cluster of waxlights burned above them, shining full on two pale,

worn faces--the faces of women to whom suffering and sorrow have long

been household words. Both wore deepest mourning--the elder a widow's

weeds, the hair of the younger thickly streaked with gray. Now and

then both raised their eyes from a book and needlework, and glanced

expectantly at the clock on the mantel. Evidently they waited for some

one who did not come. They were Lady Helena Powyss and Inez Catheron,

of course.

"Eight," the elder woman said, laying down her book with a sigh as the

clock struck. "If he were coming to-night he would be here before now."

"I don't give him up even yet," Inez answered cheerfully. "Young men

are not to be depended on, and he has often come out much later than

this. We are but dull company for him, poor boy--all the world are but

dull company for him at present, since _she_ is not of them. Poor boy!

poor Victor! it is very hard on him."

"I begin to think Edith will never be found," said Lady Helena with a

sigh.

"My dear aunt, I don't. No one is ever lost, utterly, in these days.

She will be found, believe me, unless--"

"Well?"

"Unless she is dead."

"She is not dead," affirmed Lady Helena; "of that I am sure. You

didn't know her, Inez, or you wouldn't think it; the most superb

specimen of youth and strength and handsome health I ever saw in my

life. She told me once she never remembered a sick day since she was

born--you had but to look into her bright eyes and clear complexion

to be sure of it. She is not dead, in the natural course of things,

and she isn't one of the kind that ever take their lives in their own

hands. She had too much courage and too much common-sense."

"Perhaps so, and yet suffering tells--look at poor Victor."

"Ah, poor Victor indeed! But the case is different--it was only her

pride, not her heart, that bled. He loved her--he loves her with a

blind, unreasoning passion that it is a misfortune for any human

creature to feel for another. And she never cared for him--not as much

as you do for the sewing in your hand. That is what breaks my heart--to

see him dying before my eyes for love of a girl who has no feeling for

him but hatred and contempt."

Inez sighed.

"It is natural," she said. "Think how she was left--in her very bridal

hour, without one word of explanation. Who could forgive it?"

"No one, perhaps; it is not for that I feel indignant with her. It is

for her ever accepting him at all. She loved her cousin--he would have

married her; and for title and wealth she threw him over and accepted

Victor. In that way she deserved her fate. She acted heartlessly; and

yet, one can't help pitying her too. I believe she would have done her

best to make him a good wife, after all. I wish--I wish he could find

her."

"She might be found readily enough," Inez answered, "if Victor would

but employ the usual means--I allude, of course, to the detective

police. But he won't set a detective on her track if she is never

found--he persists in looking for her himself. He is wearing his life

out in the search. If ever I saw death pictured on any face, I saw it

in his when he was here last. If he would but consult that German

doctor who is now in London, and who is so skilful in all diseases of

the heart--hark!" she broke off suddenly, "here he is at last."

Far off a gate had opened and shut--no one had a key to that

ever-locked outer gate but Sir Victor, and the next moment the roll of

his night-cab up the drive was heard. The house door opened, his

familiar step ascended the stairs, not heavy and dragging as usual,

but swift and light, almost as it used to be. Something had happened!

They saw it in his face at the first glance. There was but one thing

that _could_ happen. Lady Helena dropped her book, Inez started to

her feet; neither spoke, both waited breathless.

"Aunt! cousin!" the young man cried, breathless and hoarse, "she is

found!"

There was a cry from his aunt. As he spoke he dropped, panting and

exhausted with his speed, into a chair and laid his hand upon his

breast to still its heavy, suffocating throbs.

"Found!" exclaimed Lady Helena; "where--when--how?"

"Wait, aunt," the voice of Inez said gently; "give him time. Don't you

see he can scarcely pant? Not a word yet Victor--let me fetch you a

glass of wine."

She brought it and he drank it. His face was quite ghastly, livid,

bluish rings encircling his mouth and eyes. He certainly looked

desperately ill, and more fitted for a sick-bed than a breathless

night ride from St. James Street to St. John's Wood. He lay back in

his chair, closed his eyes, struggled with his panting breath. They

sat and waited in silence, far more concerned for him than for the

news he bore.

He told them at last, slowly, painfully, of his chance meeting with

Lady Portia Hampton, of his enforced visit to the Oxford Street

dress-maker--of his glimpse of the tall girl with the dark hair--of

his waiting, of his seeing, and recognizing Edith, his following her,

and of his sudden giddy faintness that obliged him to give up the

chase.

"You'll think me an awful muff," he said; "I haven't an idea how I

came to be such a mollicoddle, but I give you my word I fainted dead

away like a school-girl when I got to my room. I suppose it was partly

this confounded palpitation of the heart, and partly the shock of the

great surprise and joy. Jamison brought me all right somehow, after

awhile, and then I came here. I had to do something, or I believe I

should have gone clear out of my senses."

Then there was a pause. The two women looked at each other, then at

him, his eager eyes, his excited, wild-looking, haggard face.

"Well," he cried impatiently, "have you nothing to say? Is it nothing

to you that after all these months--months--great Heavens! it seems

centuries. But I have found her at last--toiling for her living, while

we--oh! I can't think of it--I dare not; it drives me mad!"

He sprang up and began pacing to and fro, looking quite as much like a

madman as a sane one.

"Be quiet, Victor," his aunt said. "It is madness indeed for you to

excite yourself in this way. Of course we rejoice in all that makes

you happy. She is found--Heaven be praised for it!--she is alive and

well--thank Heaven also for that. And now--what next?"

"What next?" He paused and looked at her in astonishment "You ask what

next? What next can there be, except to go the first thing to-morrow

morning and take her away."

"Take her away!" Lady Helena repeated, setting her lips; "take her

_where_, Victor? To you?"

His ghastly face turned a shade ghastlier. He caught his breath and

grasped the back of the chair as though a spasm of unendurable agony

had pierced his heart. In an instant his aunt's arms were about him,

tears streaming down her cheeks, her imploring eyes lifted to his:

"Forgive me, Victor, forgive me! I ought not to have asked you that.

But I did not mean--I know _that_ can never be, my poor boy. I will

do whatever you say. I will go to her, of course--I will fetch her

here if she will come."

"If she will come!" he repeated hoarsely, disengaging himself from

her; "what do you mean by _if_? There can be no 'if' in the matter.

She is my wife--she is Lady Catheron--do you think she is to be left

penniless and alone drudging for the bread she eats? I tell you, you

_must_ bring her; she _must_ come!"

His passionate, suppressed excitement terrified her. In pain and fear

and helplessness she looked at her niece. Inez, with that steady

self-possession that is born of long and great endurance, came to the

rescue at once.

"Sit down, Victor!" her full, firm tones said, "and don't work

yourself up to this pitch of nervous excitement. It's folly--useless

folly, and its end will be prostration and a sick-bed. About your

wife, Aunt Helena will do what she can, but--what can she do? You have

no authority over her now; in leaving her you resigned it. It is

unutterably painful to speak of this, but under the circumstances we

must. She refused with scorn everything you offered her before; unless

these ten past months have greatly altered her, she will refuse again.

She seems to have been a very proud, high-spirited girl, but her hard

struggle with the world may have beaten down that--and--"

"Don't!" he cried passionately; "I can't bear it. O my God! to think

what I have done--what I have been forced to do! what I have made her

suffer--what she must think of me--and that I live to bear it! To

think I have endured it all, when a pistol-ball would have ended my

torments any day!"

"When you talk such wicked folly as that," said Inez Catheron, her

strong, steady eyes fixed upon his face, "I have no more to say. You

did your duty once: you acted like a hero, like a martyr--it seems a

pity to spoil it all by such cowardly rant as this."

"My duty!" he exclaimed, huskily "Was it my duty? Sometimes I doubt

it; sometimes I think if I had never left her, all might have been

well. Was it my duty to make my life a hell on earth, to tear my heart

from my bosom, as I did in the hour I left her, to spoil her life for

her, to bring shame, reproach, and poverty upon her? If I had not left

her, could the worst that might have happened been any worse than

that?"

"Much, worse--infinitely worse. You are the sufferer, believe me, not

she. What is all she has undergone in comparison with what _you_

have endured? And one day she will know all, and love and honor you

as you deserve."

He hid his face in his hands, and turned away from the light.

"One day," they heard him murmur; "one day--the day of my death. Pray

Heaven it may be soon."

"I think," Inez said after a pause, "you had better let _me_ go and

speak instead of Aunt Helena. She has undergone so much--she isn't

able, believe me, Victor, to undergo more. Let me go to your wife; all

Aunt Helena can say, all she can urge, I will. If it be in human power

to bring her back, I will bring her. All I dare tell her, I will tell.

But, after all, it is so little, and she is so proud. Don't hope too

much."

"It is so little," he murmured again, his face still hidden; "so

little, and there is so much to tell. Oh!" he broke forth, with a

passionate cry, "I can't bear this much longer. If she will come for

nothing else, she will come for the truth, and the truth shall be

told. What are a thousand promises to the living or the dead to the

knowledge that she hates and scorns me!"

They said nothing to him--they knew it was useless--they knew his

paroxysm would pass, as so many others had passed, and that by

to-morrow he would be the last to wish to tell.

"You will surely not think of returning to St. James Street to-night?"

said Inez by way of diversion. "You will remain here, and at the

earliest possible hour to-morrow you will drive me to Oxford Street. I

will do all I can--you believe that, my cousin, I know. And if--_if_

I am successful, will"--she paused and looked at him--"will you meet

her, Victor?"

"I don't know yet; my head is in a whirl. To-night I feel as though I

could do anything, brave anything--to-morrow I suppose I will feel

differently. Don't ask me what I will do to-morrow until to-morrow

comes. I will remain all night, and I will go to my room at once; I

feel dazed and half sick. Good-night."

He left them abruptly. They heard him toil wearily up to his room and

lock the door. Long after, the two women sat together talking with

pale, apprehensive faces.

"She won't come--I am as sure of it as that I sit here," were Lady

Helena's parting words as they separated for the night. "I know her

better than he does, and I am not carried away by his wild hopes. She

will not come."

Sir Victor descended to breakfast, looking unutterably pallid and

haggard in the morning light. Well he might; he had not slept for one

moment.

But he was more composed, calm, and quiet, and there was almost as

little hope in his heart as in Lady Helena's. Immediately after

breakfast, Miss Catheron, closely veiled, entered the cab with him,

and was driven to Oxford Street. It was a very silent drive; she was

glad when it was over, and he set her down near the shop of Madame

Mirebeau.

"I will wait here," he said. "If she will come with you, you will take

a cab and drive back to Poplar Lodge. If she does not--" he had to

pause a moment--"then return to me, and I will take you home."

She bent her head in assent, and entered the shop. Her own heart was

beating at the thought of the coming interview and its probable

ending. She advanced to the counter, and, without raising her veil,

inquired if Miss Stuart were come.

The girl looked inquisitively at the hidden face, and answered:

"Yes, Miss Stuart had come."

"I wish to see her particularly, and in private, for a few moments.

Can you manage it for me?"

She slipped a sovereign into the shopwoman's hand. There was a second

curious look at the tall, veiled lady, but the sovereign was accepted.

A side door opened, and she was shown into an empty room.

"You can wait here, ma'am," the girl said. "I'll send her to you."

Miss Catheron walked over to the window; that nervous heart beat

quicker than ever. When had she been nervous before? The window

overlooked busy, bright Oxford Street, and in the distance she saw

the waiting cab and her cousin's solitary figure. The sight gave her

courage. For his sake, poor fellow, she would do all human power could

do.

"You wish to see me, madame?"

A clear, soft voice spoke. The door had quietly opened and a young

girl entered.

Inez Catheron turned round, and for the second time in her life looked

in the face of her cousin's wife.

Yes, it was his wife. The face she had seen under the trees of Powyss

Place she saw again to-day in the London milliner's parlor. The same

darkly handsome, quietly resolute young face, the same gravely

beautiful eyes, the same slender, graceful figure, the same silky

waves of blackish-brown hair. To her eyes there was no change; she

had grown neither thinner nor paler; she had lost none of the beauty

and grace that had won away Sir Victor Catheron's heart. She was very

plainly dressed in dark gray of some cheap material, but fitting

perfectly; linen bands at neck and throat, and a knot of cherry

ribbon. And the slim finger wore no wedding-ring. She took it all

in, in three seconds; then she advanced.

"I wished to see you. We are not likely to be disturbed?"

"We are likely to be disturbed at any moment. It is the room where

Madame Mirebeau tries on the dresses of her customers; and my time

is very limited."

The dark, grave eyes were fixed upon the close veil expectantly. Inez

Catheron threw it back.

"Edith!" she said--and at the sound of her name the girl recoiled--"you

don't know me, but I think you will know my name. I am Inez Catheron."

She recoiled a step farther, her dark face paling and growing set--her

large eyes seeming to darken and dilate--her lips setting themselves

in a tense line. "_Well_?" was all she said.

Inez stretched out her hands with an imploring gesture, drawing near

as the other retreated.

"Oh, Edith, you know why I have come! you know who has sent me. You

know _what_ I have come for."

The dark, deep eyes met hers, full, cold, hard, and bright as

diamonds.

"I don't in the least know what you have come for. I haven't an idea

who can have sent you. I know who you are. You are Sir Victor

Catheron's cousin."

Without falter or flinch she spoke his name--with a face of stone she

waited for the answer. If any hope had lingered in the breast of Inez

it died out as she looked at her now.

"Yes," she said sadly; "I am Victor Catheron's cousin, and there could

be but one to send me here--Victor Catheron himself."

"And why has Sir Victor Catheron given you that trouble?"

"Oh, Edith!" again that imploring gesture, "let me call you so--need

you ask? All these months he has been searching for you, losing health

and rest in the fruitless quest--wearing himself to a very shadow

looking for you. He has been to New York, he has hunted London--it has

brought him almost to the verge of death, this long, vain, miserable

search."

Her perfect lips curled scornfully, her eyes shot forth gleams of

contempt, but her voice was very quiet.

"And again I ask why--why has Sir Victor Catheron given himself all

this unnecessary trouble?"

"Unnecessary! You call it that! A husband's search for a lost wife."

"Stop, Miss Catheron!" she lifted her hand, and her eyes flashed. "You

make a mistake. Sir Victor Catheron's wife I am not--never will be.

The ceremony we went through, ten months ago, down in Cheshire, means

nothing, since a bridegroom who deserts his bride on her wedding-day,

resigns all right to the name and authority of husband. Mind, I don't

regret it now; I would not have it otherwise if I could. And this is

not bravado, Miss Catheron; I mean it. In the hour I married your

cousin he was no more to me than one of his own footmen--I say it to

my own shame and lasting dishonor; and I thank Heaven most sincerely

now, that whether he were mad or sane, that he deserted me as he did.

At last I am free--not bound for life to a man that by this time I

might have grown to loathe. For I think my indifference then would

have grown to hate. Now I simply scorn him in a degree less than I

scorn myself. I never wish to hear his name--but I also would not go

an inch out of my way to avoid him. He is simply nothing to

me--nothing. If I were dead and in my grave, I could not be one whit

more lost to him than I am. Why he has presumed to search for me is

beyond my comprehension. How he has had the audacity to hunt me down,

and send you here, surpasses belief. I wonder you came, Miss Catheron!

As you have come, let me give you this word of advice: make your first

visit your last. Don't come again to see me--don't let Sir Victor

Catheron dog my steps or in any way interfere with me. I never was a

very good or patient sort of person--I have not become more so of

late. I am only a girl, alone and poor, but," her eyes flashed

fire--literally fire--and her hands clenched, "I warn him--it will not

be safe!"

Inez drew back. What she had expected she hardly knew--certainly not

this.

"As I said before," Edith went on, "my time is limited. Madame does

not allow her working-girls to receive visitors in working hours. Miss

Catheron, I have the honor to wish you good-morning."

"Stay!" Inez cried, "for the love of Heaven. Oh, what shall I say, how

shall I soften her? Edith, you don't understand. I wish--I wish I

dared tell you the secret that took Victor from your side that day! He

loves you--no, that is too poor a word to express what he feels; his

life is paying the penalty of his loss. He is dying, Edith, dying of

heart disease, brought on by what he has suffered in losing you. In

his dying hour he will tell you all; and his one prayer is for death,

that he may tell you, that you may cease to wrong and hate him as you

do. O Edith, listen to me--pity me--pity him who is dying for you!

Don't be so hard. See, I kneel to you!--as you hope for mercy in your

own dying hour, Edith Catheron, have mercy on him!"

She flung herself on her knees, tears pouring over her face, and held

up her clasped hands.

"For pity's sake, Edith--for your own sake. Don't harden your heart;

try and believe, though you may not understand. I tell you he loves

you--that he is a dying man. We are all sinners; as you hope for pity

and mercy, have pity and mercy on him now." With her hand on the door,

with Inez Catheron clinging to her dress, she paused, moved,

distressed, softened in spite of herself.

"Get up, Miss Catheron," she said, "you must not kneel to me. What is

it you want? what is it you ask me to do?"

"I ask you to give up this life of toil--to come home with me. Lady

Helena awaits you. Make your home with her and with me--take the name

and wealth that are yours, and wait--try to wait patiently to the end.

For Victor--poor, heart-broken boy!--you will not have long to wait."

Her voice broke--her sobs filled the room. The distressed look was

still on Edith's face, but it was as resolute as ever.

"What you ask is impossible," she said; "utterly and absolutely

impossible. What you say about your cousin may be true. I don't

understand--I never could read riddles--but it does not alter my

determination in the least. What! live on the bounty of a man who

deserts me on my wedding-day--who makes me an outcast--an object of

scorn and disgrace! I would die first! I would face starvation and

death in this great city. I know what I am saying. I would sweep a

crossing like that beggar in rags yonder; I would lie down and die in

a ditch sooner. Let me go, Miss Catheron, I beg of you; you only

distress me unnecessarily. If you pleaded forever it could not avail.

Give my love to Lady Helena; but I will never go back--I will never

accept a farthing from Sir Victor Catheron. Don't come here more--don't

let _him_ come." Again her eyes gleamed. "There is neither sorrow

nor pity for him in my heart. It is like a stone where he is

concerned, and always will be--always, though he lay dying before me.

Now, farewell."

Then the door opened and closed, and she was gone.

CHAPTER III.

HOW THEY MET.

Miss Stuart went back to the workroom, and to the dozen or more young

women there assembled. If she was a shade paler than her wont they

were not likely to notice it--if she was more silent even than usual,

why silence was always Miss Stuart's forte. Only the young person to

whom Miss Catheron had given the sovereign looked at her curiously,

and said point blank:

"I say, Miss Stuart, who was that? what did she want?" And the dark,

haughty eyes of Miss Stuart had lifted from the peach satin on which

she worked, and fixed themselves icily upon her interrogator:

"It was a lady I never saw before," she answered frigidly. "What she

wanted is certainly no business of yours, Miss Hatton."

Miss Hatton flounced off with a muttered reply; but there was that

about Edith that saved her from open insult--a dignity and distance

they none of them could overreach. Besides, she was a favorite with

madame and the forewoman. So silently industrious, so tastefully neat,

so perfectly trustworthy in her work. Her companions disliked and

distrusted her; she held herself aloof from them all; she had

something on her mind--there was an air of mystery about her; they

doubted her being an English girl at all. She would have none of their

companionship; if she had a secret she kept it well; in their noisy,

busy midst she was as much alone as though she were on Robinson

Crusoe's desert island. Outwardly those ten months had changed her

little--her brilliant, dusk beauty was scarcely dimmed--inwardly it

had changed her greatly, and hardly for the better.

There had been a long and bitter struggle before she found herself in

this safe haven. For months she had drifted about without rudder, or

compass, or pilot, on the dark, turbid sea of London. She had come to

the great city friendless and alone, with very little money, and very

little knowledge of city life. She had found lodgings easily enough,

cheap and clean, and had at once set about searching for work. On the

way up she had decided what she must do--she would become a nursery

governess or companion to some elderly lady, or she would teach music.

But it was one thing to resolve, another to do. There were dozens of

nursery governesses and companions to old ladies wanting in the

columns of the _Times_, but they were not for her. "Where are your

references?" was the terrible question that met her at every turn.

She had no references, and the doors of the genteel second and

third-rate houses shut quietly in her face.

Young and pretty, without references, money or friends, how was she

ever to succeed? If she had been thirty and pock-marked she might have

triumphed even over the reference business: as it was, her case seemed

hopeless. It was long, however, before her indomitable spirit would

yield. Her money ran low, she pawned several articles of jewelry and

dress to pay for food and lodging. She grew wan and hollow-eyed in

this terrible time--all her life long she could never recall it

without a shudder.

Five months passed; despair, black and awful, filled her soul at last.

The choice seemed to lie between going out as an ordinary servant and

starving. Even as a housemaid she would want this not-to-be-got-over

reference. In this darkest-hour before the dawn she saw Madame

Mirebeau's advertisement for sewing girls, and in sheer despair

applied. Tall, handsome girls of good address, were just what madame

required, and somehow--it was the mercy of the good God no doubt--she

was taken. For weeks after she was kept under close surveillance, she

was so very unlike the young women who filled such situations--then

the conviction became certainty that Miss Stuart had no sinister

designs on the ruby velvets, the snowy satins, and priceless laces of

her aristocratic customers--that she really wanted work and was

thoroughly capable of doing it. Nature had made Edith an artist in

dressmaking; her taste was excellent; madame became convinced she had

found a treasure. Only one thing Miss Stuart steadfastly refused to

do--that was to wait in the shop. "I have reasons of my own for

keeping perfectly quiet," she said, looking madame unflinchingly in

the eyes. "If I stay in the shop I may--though it is not likely--be

recognized; and then I should be under the necessity of leaving you

immediately."

Madame had no wish to lose her very best seamstress, so Miss Stuart

had her way. The sentimental Frenchwoman's own idea was that Miss

Stuart was a young person of rank and position, who owing to some

ill-starred love affair had been obliged to run away and hide herself

from her friends. However as her hopeless passion in no way interfered

with her dressmaking ability, madame kept her suspicions to herself

and retained her in the workroom.

And so after weary months of pain, and shame, and despair, Edith had

come safely to land at last. For the past five months her life had

flowed along smoothly, dully, uneventfully--going to her work in the

morning, returning to her lodgings at night--sometimes indulging in a

short walk in the summer twilight after her tea; at other times too

wearied out in body and mind to do other than lie down on the little

hard bed, and sleep the spent sleep of exhaustion. That was her outer

life; of her inner life what shall I say? She could hardly have told

in the after-days herself. Somehow strength is given us to bear all

things and live on. Of the man she had married she could not, dare not

think--her heart and soul filled with such dark and deadly hatred. She

abhorred him,--it is not too much to say that. The packet of treasured

letters written in New York so long--oh, so long ago! it seemed--became

the one spot of sunshine in her sunless life. She read them until the

words lost all meaning--until she knew every one by heart. She looked

at the picture until the half-smiling eyes and lips seemed to mock her

as she gazed. The little turquoise broach with the likeness, she wore

in her bosom night and day--the first thing to be kissed in the

morning, the last at night. Wrong, wrong, wrong, you say; but the girl

was desperate and reckless--she did not care. Right and wrong were all

confounded in her warped mind; only this was clear--she loved Charley

as she had never loved him before she became Sir Victor Catheron's

bride. He scorned and despised her; she would never look upon his face

again--it did not matter; she would go to her grave loving him, his

pictured face over her heart, his name the last upon her lips.

Sometimes, sitting alone in the dingy London twilight, there rose

before her a vision of what might have been: Charley, poor as he was

now, and she Charley's wife, he working for her, somewhere and

somehow, as she knew he gladly would, she keeping their two or three

tiny rooms in order, and waiting, with her best dress on, as evening

came, to hear his step at the door. She would think until thought

became torture, until thought became actual physical pain. His words,

spoken to her that last night she had ever spent at Sandypoint, came

back to her full of bitter meaning now: "Whatever the future brings,

don't blame _me_." The future had brought loneliness, and poverty,

and despair--all her own fault--her own fault. That was the bitterest

sting of all--it was her own work from first to last. She had dreaded

poverty, she had bartered her heart, her life, and him in her dread

of it, and lo! such poverty as she had never dreamed of had come upon

her. If she had only been true to herself and her own heart, what a

happy creature she might have been to-day.

But these times of torture were mercifully rare. Her heart seemed

numb--she worked too hard to think much--at night she was too dead

tired to spend the hours in fruitless anguish and tears. Her life

went on in a sort of treadmill existence; and until the coming of

Inez Catheron nothing had occurred to disturb it.

Her heart was full of bitter tumult and revolt as she went back to her

work. The dastard! how dared he! He was dying, Inez Catheron had said,

and for love of her. Bah! she could have laughed in her bitter

scorn,--what a mockery it was! If it were true, why let him die! The

sooner the better--then indeed she would be free. Perhaps Edith had

lost something--heart, conscience--in the pain and shame of the past.

All that was soft and forgiving in her nature seemed wholly to have

died out. He had wronged her beyond all reparation--the only

reparation he could make was to die and leave her free.

Madame's young women were detained half an hour later than usual that

evening. A great Belgravian ball came off next night, and there was a

glut of work. They got away at last, half fagged to death, only to

find a dull drizzling rain falling, and the murky darkness of early

night settling down over the gas-lit highways of London. Miss Stuart

bade her companions a brief good-night, raised her umbrella, and

hurried on her way. She did not observe the waiting figure, muffled

from the rain and hidden by an umbrella, that had been watching for

her, and who instantly followed her steps. She hurried on rapidly and

came at last to a part of the street where it was necessary she should

cross. She paused an instant on the curbstone irresolute. Cabs,

omnibuses and hansoms were tearing by in numbers innumerable. It was a

perilous passage. She waited two or three minutes, but there was no

lull in the rush. Then growing quite desperate in her impatience she

started to cross. The crossing was slippery and wet.

"I say! look out there, will you!" half a dozen shrill cabbies called,

before and behind.

She grew bewildered--her presence of mind deserted her--she dropped

her umbrella and held up her hands instinctively to keep them off. As

she did so, two arms grasped her, she felt herself absolutely lifted

off her feet, and carried over. But just as the curbstone was reached,

something--a carriage pole it appeared--struck her rescuer on the

head, and felled him to the ground. As he fell, Edith sprang lightly

out of his arms, and stood on the pavement, unhurt.

The man had fallen. It was all the driver of the hansom could do to

keep his horse from going over him. There was shouting and yelling and

an uproar directly. A crowd surrounded the prostrate man. X 2001 came

up with his baton and authority. For Edith, she stood stunned and

bewildered still. She saw the man lifted and carried into a chemist's

near by. Instinctively she followed--it was in saving _her_ he had

come to grief. She saw him placed in a chair, the mire and blood

washed off his face, and then--was she stunned and stupefied still--or

was it, _was_ it the face of Sir Victor Catheron?

It was--awfully bloodless, awfully corpse-like, awfully like the face

of a dead man; but the face of the man whose bride she had been ten

months ago--the face of Sir Victor Catheron.

She leaned heavily against the counter, feeling giddy and sick--the

place swimming around her. Was he dead? Had he met his death trying to

save her? "Blessed if I don't think he's dead and done for," said the

chemist. "It ain't such a bad cut neither. I say! does anybody know

who he is?"

Nobody knew. Then the keen eyes of X 2001 fell upon Edith, pale and

wild-looking, with evident terror and recognition in her face.

"I say, miss, _you_ know, don't you?" Bobby suggested politely. "It

was reskying you he got it, you know. You know this 'ere gent, don't

you, miss! Who is he?"

"He is Sir Victor Catheron."

"Oh," said Bobby. "Sir Victor Catheron, is he? I thought he was a

heavy swell." And then his eyes took in Edith's very handsome face,

and very plain dress, and evident station, and he formed his own

surmise. "Perhaps now, miss, you knows too, where he ought to be

took?"

"No," she answered mechanically; "I don't know. If you search his

pockets, you will most likely find his address. You--you, don't really

think he is dead?"

She came a step nearer as she asked the question--her very lips

colorless. An hour ago it seemed to her she had almost wished for

his death--now it seemed too horrible. And to meet it saving her

too,--after all her thoughts of him. She felt as though she could

never bear that.

"Well, no, miss, I don't think he is dead," the chemist answered,

"though I must say he looks uncommon like it. There's something more

the matter with him than this rap on the 'ead. Here's his

card-case--now let's see: 'Sir Victor Catheron, Bart. Fenton's 'Otel.'

Fenton's 'Otel. Bobby, I say, let's horder a cab and 'ave him driven

there."

"Somebody ought to go with him," said X 2001. "I can't go--_you_ can't

go. I don't suppose now, miss," looking very doubtfully at Edith,

"_you_ could go nuther?"

"Is it necessary?" Edith asked, with very visible reluctance.

"Well, you see, miss, he looks uncommonly like a stiff 'un this

minute, and if he was to die by the way or hanythink, and him

halone--"

"I will go," interposed Edith, turning away with a sick shudder. "Call

the cab at once."

A four-wheeler was summoned--the insensible young baronet was carried

out and laid, as comfortably as might be, on the back seat. Edith

followed, unutterably against her will, but how was she to help it? He

was her worst enemy, but even to one's worst enemy common humanity at

times must be shown. It would be brutal to let him go alone.

"Don't you be afraid, miss," the chemist said cheerfully; "he ain't

dead _yet_. He's only stunned like, and will come round all right

directly."

"Fenton's, Bill," and the cab rattled off.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW THEY PARTED

That ride--all her life it came back to her like a bad nightmare. She

kept her eyes turned away as much as she could from that rigid form

and ghastly face opposite, but in spite of herself they would wander

back. What Miss Catheron had said was true then--he was dying--death

was pictured in his face. What if, after all, there was some secret

strong enough to make his conduct in leaving her right? She had

thought it over and wondered and wondered, until her brain was dazed,

but could never hit on any solution. She could not now--it was _not_

right. Whatever the secret was, he had known it before he married

her--why had he not left her then--why in leaving her after had he

not explained? There was no excuse for him, none, and in spite of the

white, worn face that pleaded for him, her heart hardened once

more--hardened until she felt neither pity nor pain.

They reached the hotel. Jamison, the valet, came down, and recoiled at

sight of his master's long lost wife.

"My lady!" he faltered, staring as though he had seen a ghost.

"Your master has met with an accident, Jamison," Edith said calmly,

ignoring the title. How oddly it sounded to her. "You had better have

him conveyed to his room and send for a surgeon. And, if Lady Helena

is in town--"

"Lady Helena is in town, my lady. Will--" Jamison hesitated, "will you

not come in, my lady, and wait until her ladyship comes?"

Again for a moment Edith hesitated and thought. It would be necessary

for some one to explain--she could not go away either without knowing

whether the injury he had received were fatal or not, since that

injury was received in her service. She set her lips and alighted.

"I will remain until Lady Helena arrives. Pray lose no time in sending

for her."

"I will send immediately, my lady," answered Jamison respectfully.

"Thompson," to a waiter, "show this lady to a parlor at once."

And then Edith found herself following a gentlemanly sort of man in

black, down a long hall, up a great staircase, along a carpeted

corridor, and into an elegant private parlor. The man lit the gas and

went, and then she was alone.

She sat down to think. What a strange adventure it had been. She had

wished for her freedom--it seemed as though it were near at hand. She

shuddered and shrank from herself.

"What a wretch I am," she thought; "what a vile creature I must be. If

he dies, I shall feel as though I murdered him."

How long the hours and half hours, told off on the clock,

seemed--eight, nine, ten,--would Lady Helena never come? It was a

long way to St. John's Wood, but she might surely be here by this

time. It was half past ten, and tired out thinking, tired out with

her day's work, she had fallen into a sort of uneasy sleep and fitful

dream in her chair when she suddenly became half conscious of some one

near her. She had been dreaming of Sandypoint, of quarrelling with her

cousin. "Don't Charley!" she said petulantly, aloud, and the sound of

her own voice awoke her fully. She started up, bewildered for a

second, and found herself face to face with Lady Helena. With Lady

Helena, looking very pale and sorrowful, with tear-wet eyes and

cheeks.

She had been watching Edith for the past five minutes silently and

sadly. The girl's dream was pleasant, a half smile parted her lips.

Then she had moved restlessly. "Don't Charley?" she said distinctly

and awoke.

It was of him then she was dreaming--thoughts of him had brought to

her lips that happy smile. The heart of the elder woman contracted

with a sharp sense of pain.

"Lady Helena!"

"Edith!"

She took the girl's hand in both her own and looked kindly at her.

She had liked her very much in the days gone by, though she had never

wished her nephew to marry her. And she could hardly blame her very

greatly under the circumstances, if her dreams were of the man she

loved, not of the bridegroom who had left her.

"I--I think I fell asleep," Edith said confusedly; "I was very tired,

and it all seemed so quiet and tedious here. How is _he_?"

"Better and asleep--they gave him an opiate. He knows nothing of your

being here. It was very good of you to come, my child."

"It was nothing more than a duty of common humanity. It was impossible

to avoid coming," Edith answered, and then briefly and rather coldly

she narrated how the accident had taken place.

"My poor boy!" was all Lady Helena said, but there was a heart sob in

every word; "he would die gladly to save you a moment's pain, and yet

it has been his bitter lot to inflict the worst pain of your life. My

poor child, you can't understand, and we can't explain--it must seem

very hard and incomprehensible to you, but one day you will know all,

and you will do him justice at last. Ah, Edith! if you had not refused

Inez--if only you were not so proud, if you would take what is your

right and your due, he _might_ bear this separation until Heaven's

good time. As it is, it is killing him."

"He looks very ill," Edith said; "what is the matter with him?"

"Heart disease--brought on by mental suffering. No words can tell what

he has undergone since his most miserable wedding-day. It is known

only to Heaven and himself but it has taken his life. As surely as

ever human heart broke, his broke on the day he left you. And you, my

poor child--_you_ have suffered too."

"Of that we will not speak," the girl answered proudly; "what is done,

is done. For me, I hope the worst is over--I am safe and well, and in

good health as you see. I am glad Sir Victor Catheron has not met his

death in my service. I have only one wish regarding him, and that is

that he will keep away from me. And now, Lady Helena, before it grows

any later, I will go home."

"Go home! At this hour? Most certainly you will not. You will remain

here all night. Oh, Edith, you must indeed. A room has been prepared

for you, adjoining mine. Inez and Jamison will remain with Victor

until morning, and--you ought to see him before you go."

She shrank in a sort of horror.

"No, no, no! _that_ I cannot! As it is so late I will remain, but

see him--no, no! Not even for your sake, Lady Helena, can I do that."

"We will wait until to-morrow comes," was Lady Helena's response; "now

you shall go to your room at once."

She rang the bell, a chambermaid came. Lady Helena kissed the girl's

pale cheek affectionately, and Edith was led away to the room she was

to occupy for that night.

It was certainly a contrast in its size and luxurious appointments to

that she had used for the last ten months. She smiled a little as she

glanced around. And she was to spend the night under the same roof

with Sir Victor Catheron. If anyone had predicted it this morning, how

scornfully she would have refused to believe.

"Who can tell what a day may bring forth!" was Edith's last thought as

she laid her head on her pillow. "I am glad--very glad, that the

accident will not prove fatal. I don't want him or anyone else to come

to his death through me."

She slept well and soundly, and awoke late. She sprang out of bed

almost instantly and dressed. She could but ill afford to lose a day.

Before her toilet was quite completed there was a tap at the door. She

opened it and saw Miss Catheron.

"I fancied you would be up early, and ordered breakfast accordingly.

Aunt Helena awaits you down stairs. How did you sleep?"

"Very well. And you--you were up all night I suppose?"

"Yes. I don't mind it at all, though--I am quite used to night

watching. And I have the reward of knowing Victor is much

better--entirely out of danger indeed. Edith," she laid her hands

on the girl's shoulders and looked down into her eyes, "he knows you

are here. Will you be merciful to a dying man and see him?"

She changed color and shrank a little, but she answered proudly and

coldly:

"No good can come of it. It will be much better not, but for my own

part I care little. If he wishes to urge what you came to urge, I warn

you, I will not listen to a word; I will leave at once."

"He will not urge it. He knows how obdurate you are, how fruitless it

would be. Ah, Edith! you are a terribly haughty, self-willed girl. He

will not detain you a moment--he wishes to make but one parting

request."

"I can grant nothing--nothing," Edith said with agitation.

"You will grant this, I think," the other answered sadly. "Come, dear

child, let us go down; Lady Helena waits."

They descended to breakfast; Edith ate little. In spite of herself,

in spite of her pride and self command, it shook her a little--the

thought of speaking to _him_.

But how was she to refuse? She rose at last, very pale, very stern and

resolute looking--the sooner it was over and she was gone, the better.

"Now," she said, "if you insist--"

"I do insist," answered Inez steadily. "Come."

She led her to a door down the corridor and rapped. How horribly thick

and fast Edith's heart beat; she hated herself for it. The door

opened, and the grave, professional face of Mr. Jamison looked out.

"Tell Sir Victor, Lady Catheron is here, and will see him."

The man bowed and departed. Another instant and he was again before

them:

"Sir Victor begs my lady to enter at once."

Then Inez Catheron took her in her arms and kissed her. It was her

farewell. She pointed forward and hurried away.

Edith went on. A door and curtain separated her from the inner room.

She opened one, lifted the other, and husband and wife were face to

face.

He lay upon a low sofa--the room was partially darkened, but even in

that semi-darkness she could see that he looked quite as ghastly and

bloodless this morning as he had last night.

She paused about half way down the room and spoke: "You wished to see

me, Sir Victor Catheron?"

Cold and calm the formal words fell.

"Edith!"

His answer was a cry--a cry wrung from a soul full of love and anguish

untold. It struck home, even to _her_ heart, steeled against him and

all feeling of pity.

"I am sorry to see you so ill. I am glad your accident is no worse."

Again she spoke, stiff, formal, commonplace words, that sounded

horribly out of place, even to herself.

"Edith," he repeated, and again no words can tell the pathos, the

despair of that cry, "forgive me--have pity on me. You hate me, and

I deserve your hate, but oh! if you knew, even you would have mercy

and relent!"

He touched her in spite of herself. Even a heart of stone might have

softened at the sound of that despairing, heart-wrung voice--at sight

of that death-like, tortured face. And Edith's, whatever she might say

or think, was not a heart of stone.

"I do pity you," she said very gently; "I never thought to--but from

my soul I do. But, forgive you! No, Sir Victor Catheron; I am only

mortal. I have been wronged and humiliated as no girl was ever wronged

and humiliated before. I can't do that."

He covered his face with his hands--she could hear the dry sobbing

sound of his wordless misery.

"It would have been better if I had not come here," she said still

gently. "You are ill, and this excitement will make you worse. But

they insisted upon it--they said you had a request to make. I think

you had better not make it--I can grant nothing--nothing."

"You will grant this," he answered, lifting his face and using the

words Inez had used; "it is only that when I am dying, and send for

you on my death-bed, you will come to me. Before I die I must tell

you all--the terrible secret; I dare not tell you in life; and then,

oh surely, surely you will pity and forgive! Edith, my love, my

darling, leave me this one hope, give me this one promise before

you go?"

"I promise to come," was her answer; "I promise to listen--I can

promise no more. A week ago I thought I would have died sooner than

pledge myself to that much--sooner than look in your face, or speak

to you one word. And now, Sir Victor Catheron, farewell."

She turned to go without waiting for his reply. As she opened the

door, she heard a wailing cry that struck chill with pity and terror

to her inmost heart.

"Oh, my love! my bride! my wife!"--then the door closed behind

her--she heard and saw no more.

So they had met and parted, and only death could bring them together

again.

She passed out into the sunshine and splendor of the summer morning,

dazed and cold, her whole soul full of untold compassion for the man

she had left.

CHAPTER V.

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

Edith went back to the work-room in Oxford Street, to the old

treadmill life of ceaseless sewing, and once more a lull came into

her disturbed existence--the lull preceding the last ending of this

strange mystery that had wrecked two lives. It seemed to her as she

sat down among madame's troop of noisy, chattering girls, as though

last night and its events were a long way off and a figment of some

strange dream. That she had stood face to face with Sir Victor

Catheron, spent a night under the same roof, actually spoken to him,

actually felt sorry for him, was too unreal to be true. They had said

rightly when they told her death was pictured on his face. Whatever

this secret of his might be, it was a secret that had cost him his

life. A hundred times a day that pallid, tortured face, rose before

her, that last agonized cry of a strong heart in strong agony rang

in her ears. All her hatred, all her revengeful thoughts of him were

gone--she understood no better than before, but she pitied him from

the depths of her heart.

They disturbed her no more, neither by letters nor visits. Only as

the weeks went by she noticed _this_--that as surely as evening came,

a shadowy figure hovering aloof, followed her home. She knew who it

was--at first she felt inclined to resent it, but as he never came

near, never spoke, only followed her from that safe distance, she

grew reconciled and accustomed to it at last. She understood his

motive--to shield her--to protect her from danger and insult,

thinking himself unobserved.

Once or twice she caught a fleeting glimpse of his face on these

occasions.

What a corpse-like face it was--how utterly weak and worn-out he

seemed--more fitted for a sick-bed than the role of protector. "Poor

fellow," Edith thought often, her heart growing very gentle with pity

and wonder, "how he loves me, how faithful he is after all. Oh, I

wonder--I wonder, _what_ this secret is that took him from me a year

ago. Will his mountain turn into a mole-hill when I hear it, if I

ever do, or will it justify him? Is he sane or mad? And yet Lady

Helena, who is in her right mind, surely, holds him justified in what

he has done."

July--August passed--the middle of September came. All this time,

whatever the weather, she never once missed her "shadow" from his

post. As we grow accustomed to all things, she grew accustomed to

this watchful care, grew to look for him when the day's work was

done. But in the middle of September she missed him. Evening after

evening came, and she returned home unfollowed and alone. Something

had happened.

Yes, something had happened. He had never really held up his head

after that second parting with Edith. For days he had lain prostrate,

so near to death that they thought death surely must come. But by

the end of a week he was better--as much better at least as he ever

would be in this world.

"Victor," his aunt would cry out, "I wish--I _wish_ you would consult

a physician about this affection of the heart. I am frightened for

you--it is not like anything else. There is this famous German--do

go to see him to please me."

"To please you, my dear aunt--my good, patient nurse--I would do

much," her nephew was wont to answer with a smile. "Believe me your

fears are groundless, however. Death takes the hopeful and happy,

and passes by such wretches as I am. It all comes of weakness of

body and depression of mind; there's nothing serious the matter.

If I get worse, you may depend upon it, I'll go and consult Herr

Von Werter."

Then it was that he began his nightly duty--the one joy left in his

joyless life. Lady Helena and Inez returned to St. John's Wood. And

Sir Victor, from his lodgings in Fenton's Hotel, followed his wife

home every evening. It was his first thought when he arose in the

morning, the one hope that upheld him all the long, weary, aimless

day--the one wild delight that was like a spasm, half pain, half

joy--when the dusk fell to see her slender figure come forth, to

follow his darling, himself unseen, as he fancied, to her humble

home. To watch near it, to look up at her lighted windows with eyes

full of such love and longing as no words can ever picture, and then,

shivering in the rising night wind, to hail a hansom and go home--to

live only in the thought of another meeting on the morrow.

Whatever the weather, it has been said, he went. On many occasions

he returned drenched through, with chattering teeth and livid lips.

Then would follow long, fever-tossed, sleepless nights, and a morning

of utter prostration, mental and physical.

But come what might, while he was able to stand, he must return to

his post--to his wife.

But Nature, defied long, claimed her penalty at last. There came a

day when Sir Victor could rise from his bed no more, when the heart

spasms, in their anguish, grew even more than his resolute will could

bear. A day when in dire alarm Lady Helena and Inez were once more

summoned by faithful Jamison, and when at last--at last the infallible

German doctor was sent for.

The interview between physician and patient was long and strictly

private. When Herr Von Werter went away at last his phlegmatic

Teuton face was set with an unwonted expression of pity and pain.

After an interval of almost unendurable suspense, Lady Helena was

sent for by her nephew, to be told the result. He lay upon a low

sofa, wheeled near the window. The last light of the September day

streamed in and fell full upon his face--perhaps that was what

glorified it and gave it such a radiant look. A faint smile lingered

on his lips, his eyes had a far-off, dreamy look, and were fixed

on the rosy evening sky. A strange, unearthly, exalted look

altogether, that made his aunt's heart sink like stone.

"Well?" She said it in a tense sort of whisper, longing for, yet

dreading, the reply. He turned to her, that smile still on his lips,

still in his eyes. He had not looked so well for months. He took

her hand.

"Aunt," he said, "you have heard of doomed men sentenced to death

receiving their reprieve at the last hour? I think I know to-day

how those men must feel. My reprieve has come."

"Victor!" It was a gasp. "Dr. Von Werter says you will recover!"

His eyes turned from her to that radiant brightness in the September

sky.

"It is aneurism of the heart. Dr. Von Werter says I won't live three

weeks."

* * * * *

They were down in Cheshire. They had taken him home while there was

yet time, by slow and easy stages. They took him to Catheron

Royals--it was his wish, and they lived but to gratify his wishes now.

The grand old house was as it had been left a year ago--fitted up

resplendently for a bride--a bride who had never come. There was one

particular room to which he desired to be taken, a spacious and

sumptuous chamber, all purple and gilding, and there they laid him

upon the bed, from which he would never rise.

It was the close of September now, the days golden and mellow,

beautiful with the rich beauty of early autumn, before decay has

come. He had grown rapidly worse since that memorable interview

with the German doctor, and paralysis, that "death in life" was

preceding the fatal footsteps of aneurism of the heart. His lower

limbs were paralyzed. The end was very near now. On the last day

of September Herr Von Werter paid his last visit.

"It's of no use, madame," he said to Lady Helena; "I can do

nothing--nothing whatever. He won't last the week out."

The young baronet turned his serene eyes, serene at last with the

awful serenity that precedes the end. He had heard the fiat not

intended for his ears.

"You are sure of this, doctor? _Sure_, mind! I won't last the week

out?"

"It is impossible, Sir Victor. I always tell my patients the truth.

Your disease is beyond the reach of all earthly skill. The end may

come at any moment--in no case can you survive the week."

His serene face did not change. He turned to his aunt with a smile

that was often on his lips now:

"At last," he said softly; "at last my darling may come to me--at

last I may tell her all. Thank God for this hour of release. Aunt

Helena, send for Edith at once."

By the night train, a few hours later, Inez Catheron went up to

London. As Madame Mirebeau's young women assembled next morning,

she was there before them, waiting to see Miss Stuart.

Edith came--a foreknowledge of the truth in her mind. The interview

was brief. She left at once in company with Miss Catheron, and Madame

Mirebeau's establishment was to know her no more.

As the short, autumnal day closed in, they were in Cheshire.

It was the evening of the second of October--the anniversary of the

bridal eve. And thus at last the bride was coming home. She looked

out with eyes that saw nothing of the familiar landscape as it

flitted by--the places she had never thought to see more. She was

going to Catheron Royals, to the man she had married a year ago.

A year ago! what a strange, terrible year it had been--like a bad

dream. She shuddered as she recalled it. All was to be told at last,

and death was to set all things even. The bride was returning to

the bridegroom like this.

All the way from the station to the great house she never spoke a

word. Her heart beat with a dull, heavy pain--pity for him--dread

of what she was to hear. It was quite dark when they rolled through

the lofty gates, up the broad, tree-shaded drive, to the grand

portico entrance of the house.

"He is very low this evening, miss," Jamison whispered as he admitted

them; "feverish and longing for her ladyship's coming. He begs that

as soon as my lady is rested and has had some refreshment she will

come to him at once."

Lady Helena met them at the head of the stairs, and took the pale,

tired girl in her arms for a moment. Then Edith was in a firelit,

waxlit room, lying back for a minute's rest in the downy depths of

a great chair. Then coffee and a dainty repast was brought her. She

bathed her face and hands, and tried to eat and drink. But the food

seemed to choke her. She drank the strong, black coffee eagerly,

and was ready to go.

Lady Helena led her to the room where he lay--that purple and gold

chamber, with all its dainty and luxurious appointments. She shrank

a little as she entered--she remembered it was to have been _their_

room when they returned from their bridal tour. Lady Helena just

opened the door to admit her, closed it again, and was gone.

She was alone with the dying man. By the dim light of two wax tapers

she beheld him propped up with pillows, his white, eager face turned

toward her, the love, that not death itself could for a moment

vanquish, shining upon her from his eyes. She was over kneeling by

the bedside, holding his hands in hers--how, she could never have

told.

"I am sorry--I am sorry!" It was all she could say. In that hour,

in the presence of death, she forgot everything, her wrongs, her

humiliation. She only knew that he was dying, and that he loved

her as she would never be loved again in this world.

"It is better as it is," she heard him saying, when she could hear at

all, for the dull, rushing sound in her ears; "far better--far better.

My life was torture--could never have been anything else, though I

lived fifty years. I was so young--life looked so long, that there

were times, yes, Edith, times when for hours I sat debating within

myself a suicide's cowardly end. But Heaven has saved me from that.

Death has mercifully come of itself to set all things straight, and

oh, my darling! to bring _you_."

She laid her face upon his wasted hand, nearer loving him in his

death than she had ever been in his life.

"You have suffered," he said tenderly, looking at her. "I thought

to shield you from every care, to make your life one long dream of

pleasure and happiness, and see how I have done it! You have hated

me--scorned me, and with justice; how could it be otherwise? Even

when you hear all, you may not be able to forgive me, and yet,

Heaven knows, I did it all for the best. If it were all to come

over again, I could not act otherwise than as I have acted. But,

my darling, it was very hard on you."

In death as in life his thoughts were not of himself and his own

sufferings, but of her. As she looked at him, as she recalled what

he had been only a year ago, in the flush and vigor and prime of

manhood--it seemed almost too much to bear.

"Oh, Victor! hush," she cried, hiding her face again, "you break

my heart!"

His feeble fingers closed over hers with all their dying strength--that

faint, happy smile came over his lips. "I don't want to distress you,"

he said very gently; "you have suffered enough without that. Edith, I

feel wonderfully happy to-night--it seems to me I have no wish left--as

though I were sure of your forgiveness beforehand. It is joy enough to

see you here--to feel your hand in mine once more, to know I am at

liberty to tell you the truth at last. I have longed for this hour

with a longing I can never describe. Only to be forgiven and die--I

wanted no more. For what would life have been without you? My dearest,

I wonder if in the dark days that are gone, whatever you may have

doubted, my honor, my sanity, if you ever doubted my love for you?"

"I don't know," she answered, in a stifled voice. "My thoughts have

been very dark--very desperate. There were times when there seemed

no light on earth, no hope in Heaven. I dare not tell you--I dare

not think--how wicked and reckless my heart has been."

"Poor child!" he said, with a touch of infinite compassion. "You

were so young--it was all so sudden, so terrible, so incomprehensible.

Draw up that hassock, Edith, and sit here by my side, and listen. No,

you must let go my hand. How can I tell whether you will not shrink

from it and me with horror when you know all."

Without a word, she drew the low seat close to the bed, and shading

her face with her hand, listened, motionless as a statue, to the

brief story of the secret that had held them apart so long.

"It all begins," Sir Victor's faint, low voice said, "with the night

of my father's death, three weeks before our wedding-day. That night

I learned the secret of my mother's murder, and learned to pity my

unhappy father as I had never pitied him before. Do you remember,

Edith, the words you spoke to Lady Helena the day before you ran

away from Powyss Place? You said Inez Catheron was not the murderer,

though she had been accused of it, nor Juan Catheron, though he had

been suspected of it--that you believed Sir Victor Catheron had

killed his own wife. Edith, you were right. Sir Victor Catheron

murdered his own wife!

"I learned it that fatal night. Lady Helena and Inez had known it

all along. Juan Catheron more than suspected it. Bad as he was, he

kept that secret. My mother was stabbed by my father's hand.

"Why did he do it? you ask. I answer, because he was mad--mad for

weeks before. And he knew it, though no one else did. With the

cunning of insanity he kept his secret, not even his wife suspected

that his reason was unsound. He was a monomaniac. Insanity, as you

have heard, is hereditary in our family, in different phases; the

phase it took with him was homicidal mania. On all other points he

was sane--on this, almost from the first, he had been insane--_the

desire to take his wife's life_.

"It is horrible, is it not--almost incredibly horrible? It is true,

nevertheless. Before the honeymoon was ended, his homicidal mania

developed itself--an almost insurmountable desire, whenever he was

alone in her presence, to take her life. Out of the very depth and

intensity of his passion for her his madness arose. He loved her

with the whole strength of his heart and being, and--the mad longing

was with him always, to end her life while she was all his own--in

short, to kill her.

"He could not help it; he knew his madness--he shrank in horror

from it--he battled with it--he prayed for help--and for over a

year he controlled himself. But it was always there--always. How

long it might have lain dormant--how long he would have been able

to withstand his mad desire, no one can tell. But Juan Catheron

came and claimed her as his wife, and jealousy finished what a

dreadful hereditary insanity had begun.