WAITING
They were growing uneasy at the castle. There was a forced cheerfulness
about the small party that testified to the nervous tension that held
them. For some years now there had been a tacit understanding on the
subject of punctuality. Such a thing was necessary when any moment might
precipitate the next catastrophe. The mere fact of anybody being late
for five minutes sufficed to put the rest in a fever. And Geoffrey had
not come in to tea at all.
The thing was almost in itself a tragedy. Geoffrey was always so
considerate of others. Nothing in the world would have induced him to
stay away without first saying he was going to do so or sending a
message. And tea had been a thing of the past for a good hour. What
could have become of him?
Nobody asked the question, but it was uppermost in the minds of all.
Vera was chattering with feverish gayety, but there was a blazing red
spot on her ghastly white face, and her eyes were wild and restless.
Marion had slipped away. The only one who betrayed no anxiety was Ralph.
He sat sipping his chilled tea as if he had the world to himself and
there was nobody else in it.
Presently, with one excuse or another, all slipped away until Vera was
alone with Ralph. He was so quiet that she had almost forgotten his
presence. When she thought herself alone she rose to her feet and paced
the room rapidly.
She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples.
"God spare him," she whispered, "spare him to me! Oh, it is wicked to
feel like this and so utterly selfish. But if Geoffrey dies I have
nothing to live for."
The tears rose to her eyes, tears of agony and reproach and self-pity.
Ralph crossed the room silently. He was upon the girl ere she had heard
the soft fall of his footsteps. He laid a hand on Vera's arm.
"Geoffrey is not going to die," he said.
Vera suppressed a scream. She might have cried out, but something in the
expression of Ralph's face restrained her.
"Are you sure of that?" she asked.
"As sure as one can be certain of anything, child. We are alone?"
"There is nobody else here, uncle."
"One cannot be too careful," Ralph muttered. "Then Geoffrey is safe."
"Thank Heaven. You have sent him somewhere, uncle?"
"No, I have not sent him anywhere. And you are not to ask any questions.
I have told you so much to spare you the agony and suspense that will
overtake the others. I tell you because had you not known, the mental
strain might have broken you down," continued Ralph.
"Before long it will be proved almost beyond a demonstration that
Geoffrey has become a victim to the family foe. There will be evidence
to convince a jury, but all the time Geoffrey will be safe."
Vera said nothing. She could only gasp. Ralph's hand lay on her shoulder
with a grip that was not devoid of pain.
"You are not to show your feelings to any one," he croaked. "You are not
to betray your knowledge by a single sign. Ah, if I could tell you how
much depends upon your courage, reticence, and your silence!"
"I think you can trust me, Uncle Ralph."
"I think I can, dear. I like the ring of your voice. You are to be quiet
and subdued as if you were unable to comprehend the full force of the
disaster. Much, if not everything, depends upon the next few hours. Now
go, please."
Ralph slipped away into the grounds. A little later he was making his
way along the cliffs toward the village. For a brief time Vera stood
still. She was trying to realize what Ralph had said.
"What did it mean?" she asked herself again and again. But she could
find no answer to the puzzle. Still Geoffrey was safe. Whatever
sensation the next few hours might produce Geoffrey had come to no harm.
It would be hard to see the others suffer, hard to witness their grief
and not lighten it by so much as a sign.
But Ralph had been emphatic on this point. Had he not said that
everything hinged upon her reticence and silence? Vera went slowly to
her room, her feet making no sound on the thick pile carpet. A flood of
light streamed through the stained glass windows into the corridor. In
the big recess at the end a white figure lay face downward on the
cushions.
Vera approached softly. She saw the shoulders rise and fall as if the
girl lying there were sobbing in bitter agony. It was Marion. Marion the
ever cheerful! Surely her grief must be beyond the common?
"Marion," Vera whispered. "Dear Marion."
She bent over the prostrate figure with heartfelt tenderness.
Marion raised her face at length. It was wet with tears and her eyes
were swollen. At first she seemed not to recognize Vera.
"Go away," she said hoarsely. "Why do you intrude upon me like this? Am
I never to have a minute to myself? Am I always to carry the family
troubles on my shoulders?"
She spoke fiercely, with a gleam in her eyes that Vera had never seen
before. She drew back, frightened and alarmed. It seemed incredible that
gentle Marion could repulse her like this. But she did not go.
Marion was beside herself with grief; she did not know what she was
saying. It was impossible to leave her in this condition.
"You are grieving for Geoffrey," she said. "He will come back to us."
"Geoffrey is dead," Marion wailed. "He will never come back. And I----"
She paused; she had not lost control of herself entirely. But the look
in her eyes, the expression of her face, the significant pause told Vera
a story. It burst upon her with the full force of a sudden illumination.
"Marion," she whispered, "you love him as well as I do----"
So her secret was known at last! And Marion was only a woman, after all.
The selfishness of her grief drove away all other emotions.
"As you do?" she cried. "What do you with your gentle nature know of
love? You want the wild hot blood in your veins to feel the real fire of
a lasting, devouring affection.
"I tell you I love him ten thousand times more than you do. Look at me,
I am utterly lost and abased with my grief and humiliation. Am I not an
object of pity? Geoffrey is dead, I tell you; I know it, I feel it. Love
him as you do! And you stand there without so much as a single tear for
his dear memory."
Vera flushed. The words stung her keenly. How cold and callous Marion
must think her! And yet Marion would have been equally cold and
self-contained had she known. And it was impossible to give her a single
hint.
"My heart and soul are wrapped up in Geoffrey," she said. "If anything
happens to him I shall have nothing to live for. But I am not going to
give way yet. There is still hope. And I shall hope to the end."
Marion sat up suddenly and dried her tears.
"You are a reproach to me," she said with a watery smile. "Not one word
of reproof has passed your lips, and yet you are a reproof to me. And to
think that you should have learned my secret! I could die of shame."
Vera kissed the other tenderly.
"Why?" she asked. "Surely there is no shame in a pure and disinterested
affection."
"From your point of view, no," said Marion. "But if you could place
yourself in my position you would not regard it in the same light. I
have cared for Geoffrey ever since I came here; all along I have loved
him. I knew that he was pledged to you, and knew that he could never be
anything to me and still I loved him. Who shall comprehend the
waywardness of a woman's heart? And now he is dead."
Once more the tears rose to Marion's eyes; she rocked herself to and fro
as if suffering from bitter anguish.
"I do not believe that Geoffrey is dead," said Vera. "Something tells me
that he will be spared. But why go on like this? Anybody would imagine
that you had something to do with it from the expression of your face."
Marion looked up suddenly.
"Something to do with it?" she echoed dully, mechanically.
"I wasn't speaking literally, of course." Vera went on. "But your
curious expression----"
"What is curious about my expression?"
"It is so strange. It is not like grief, so much as remorse."
Marion broke into a queer laugh, a laugh she strangled. As she passed
her handkerchief across her face she seemed to wipe out that strange
expression.
"I hope remorse and I will remain strangers for many a long day," she
said more composedly. "It is so difficult to judge from faces. And I
must try to be brave like yourself. I have never given way before."
"I believe you are the bravest of us all, Marion."
"And I that I am the greatest coward. I have even been so weak as to
allow the secret of my life to escape me. Vera, I want you to make me a
most sacred promise."
"A dozen if you like, dear."
"Then I want you to promise that Geoffrey shall never know of your
discovery. At no time are you to tell him. Promise."
Marion looked up eagerly and met Vera's eyes. They were clear and true
and honest; they were filled with frankness and pity.
"I promise from my heart," she said. "Not now nor at any time shall
Geoffrey know what I have learned to-day."
Marion blessed the speaker tenderly.
"I am satisfied," she said. "He will never know."