When Horace returned to Harliflax it was night--too late even for an
accepted lover to gain admittance to the widowed house of Mrs.
Stenhouse, and Horace was not even an openly accepted lover. These ten
days had changed him greatly. This monstrous crime had indeed germinated
in his mind from the very hour of his return from London; but that
passion of temptation was very different from the horror of unbearable
suspense and anxiety which consumed him now. While he was still only
about to do it, his mind was buoyed up by a hideous fascination, which
carried him over time and space as though upon a devil's wings. Now that
he had done it, every hour was a staring, wide-eyed Medusa, watching
and petrifying; and still, through the cold, creeping silence, there
came no sound; no cry of the death-agony which he had contrived, nor
shout of the avenger of blood behind; no sobbing forth of the dear life
shed by his hands, and no cry of Murder! Murder!--only a convulsive
whisper of the word among the grass and leaves, and secret spies of
nature, which pricked him into madness, and turned the blood in his
veins to fire. He was changed, imperceptibly to himself, but in the
strangest way. Every day of this week in which he had been compassing
his father's death had made him more like his father. His face had lost
its colour and roundness--the soft outline of youth was gone; and in its
place had come a sharpened distinction of feature, unusual at his years.
His hair, which, to his great wonder, came out in handfuls when he
dressed it, fell lank, like that of the recluse at Marchmain; and even
his dress took the same resemblance, and flew back from his figure, as
he went, with his restless haste of motion, from street to street. But
the sneer and the disdain had almost gone out of Horace's face: he
could no longer afford these light emotions. His whole soul was burnt up
with passions more intense--self-horror--anxiety, more acute and
devouring than ever was the anxiety of love, to know his father's fate;
and, above all, that overpowering certainty of personal guilt, which all
the world and all its powers could never again loosen from his
self-convicted heart.
It was night, and nobody saw him. Few knew him, besides, in these
streets of Harliflax. He rushed to his lodgings, and found there were no
letters there; then out again, and did not draw breath till he stood in
the dark, on the opposite side of the way, looking into the bright
moonlight at the house where Amelia Stenhouse slept the untroubled sleep
of youth. There he stood in the depth of the night-shadow, looking how
the night-radiance and illumination of that weird moon brought out the
long, lofty line of terrace, the line of great houses of which Harliflax
was proud. The night was so bright, and the air so still, that one slow
figure, gliding along there in front of the high, silent houses, was
caught and wrapped in a silvery mantle, and drawn along noiselessly,
like a pigmy, in the great flood of silent light. So white on that side
of the road--so black here where he stood, among the shadows where the
devils and lovers of darkness congregate. But, Amelia, which was she? He
raised his eyes to the window which he knew was Amelia's, and tried to
think of all the glories before him; fortune past counting, youth,
love--nothing left out that was worth having, but--But!--that one
miserable step out into the light across the blackness of darkness--the
step which, God help his miserable brain, he was not about to take, but
_had taken_, be the consequences what they might. When he thought of it
there, opposite Amelia's window, standing in the darkness, his head swam
and his tongue clove to his mouth. He had done it; he was not
projecting, nor discussing, nor entertaining his subtle mind with the
temptation; the temptation, with all its thrills of intoxicating
excitement, its fascinations of fierce and hostile fancy--its wild
impulses of passion--was over for ever, and for ever, and for ever!--and
the victim, disenchanted, stood cold, looking always into the blanched
face of the deed which he had done. And Horace could no longer think of
Amelia; not of the delight of marrying, and carrying away, and making
his own property of the beauty; not of the boundless wealth he should
have to bestow on her one day; not of the thousand a-year which he
believed would induce her to marry him immediately, and which for that
sole reason, and no other, he had wrung out of Mr. Pouncet. He had pled
his cause warmly with herself, and his love had blazed about her not so
many days ago when he was at Harliflax; but he could not turn his
thoughts to her now; he could not warm his torpid mind with remembering
her beauty; he could not rouse his fierce animal passion. Something
black and cold stood first in his mind between him and his
fortune--between him and what he called happiness. Murder had
overshadowed love, and killed it. He had no longer any thoughts to
spare save for that horrible hag whom he had taken into his heart!
As he stood, however, thinking his own thoughts, it soon became vaguely
visible to Horace that all was not entirely at rest in the house he was
gazing at. Scarcely visible in the great flood of moonlight, there still
was now and then the gleam of a light showing for a moment from one
floor to another, as somebody went or came downstairs; and sounds began
to be audible in the extreme stillness even where he stood. Shortly
afterwards Stevens came to the door rubbing his eyes, and went down the
street, with a sort of reluctant rapidity, to the doctor's house at the
corner. Horace comprehended it as well as though he had been within and
knew all. Edmund was ill. Death was not to be defrauded of that little
victim: Edmund was going to die. When the servant came back with the
doctor, Horace crossed the road and entered with them, nobody observing
him in the excitement--entered he scarcely knew why, with a morbid
craving after death and suffering. He was anxious to see how that child
would meet the last adversary; curious to observe how the family would
arrange itself around the deathbed of the little heir; the poor little
heir! who had enjoyed for so short a time his childish importance, his
eager liberality of intention. But Horace had no pity to spare for
Edmund, or for any other person in the world.
Edmund Stenhouse was dying (as they thought) in the warm parlour where
he had lived. He had been worse than usual for a day or two, and was
laid there upon a sofa, so that he might not have the fatigue of
removal; but though propped up with pillows, for the sake of his painful
and hard breathing, he looked very little different from his usual
condition. He was shouting out eagerly for pen and paper when Horace
passed in at the door. He did not want the doctor; he would not be
blistered any more, whatever the doctor said. He wanted somebody out of
papa's office; he was going to make his will, and die.
"I tell you, mamma, I'm not going to take any more physic!" cried the
poor child, thrusting aside with his hasty, feeble hand the glassful of
some stimulating mixture which the anxious woman held to him. "I'm going
to die! I tell you I've made up my mind!--what's the use of sending for
doctors and stuff? Send for Scarsdale, or somebody. I'm going to make my
will--I'm going to die!"
"I don't believe he is, though," said Horace, involuntarily coming
forward, without very well knowing what he did. He was desperately
interested, somehow, in this dread death which he had invoked. He was
curious to see its workings, and how it approached; but he could not
recognize that awful presence here.
Mrs. Stenhouse turned round with a little cry of recognition. There was
a gleam of gratitude in her eyes: she could almost have taken into her
arms the stranger who did not believe that Edmund was dying, and forgave
Horace his former offences on the moment. "Oh, Mr. Scarsdale!--then you
_don't_ see a great difference in him?" cried the poor woman, with a
flutter at her heart. She could take courage even from that feeble
flicker of hope.
"Oh, here's Scarsdale," said Edmund, with a gasp of hard-drawn breath.
"I want you to write out my will directly--directly, do you hear?
because I'm going to die; you're to put it all down about me, Edmund
Stenhouse, like papa's--I'd do it myself, only I can't write as well as
a grown-up man; and I want to leave everything--except plenty of money
for my mother and a little for the girls--to my brother Roger. Make
haste, do you hear? because I'll die first if you don't be quick, and
then what's the good of your coming here?"
"Humour him," said the doctor under his breath.
"Oh, doctor, is he so very, very bad?" cried poor foolish Mrs.
Stenhouse, losing the morsel of heart she had picked up from Horace's
words.
"He is very much excited--humour him," said the doctor authoritatively;
"just now do exactly what he says. Thank heaven, there can't be much
harm done in this way even by a spoiled child. The law don't recognize
testators of ten years old."
"Doctor, go home to bed, and don't come if mamma should send for you
again," said little Edmund; "I can die all the same without you looking
at me; but first I'll make my will; I shall--and then I'll die; doctor,
go home to bed."
"Thank you, I will," said the doctor, yawning; "but don't you be so very
sure about dying, my young hero. I'll see him to-morrow, Mrs. Stenhouse.
Mind what I say, _humour_ him--he's very much excited, but he's no
worse. Get him to sleep as soon as you can. Good night."
The doctor went away, and the unnecessary commotion subsided a little.
The lingering housemaid went to bed, feeling somewhat defrauded of her
tears, and tragically disappointed that the end was not coming to-night
to poor little Edmund's tragi-comedy of life. So did Stevens, moralizing
and very much disgusted at the interruption of his rest--"three nights
all a-running!" said that injured man to himself, "and master, from he
was took bad till he died, was only twenty-four hours;" while in the
meanwhile a strange scene was taking place in the invalid's parlour.
There, in the close stifling atmosphere and under the subdued sick-room
light, sat Horace writing--Horace with murder in his heart and a
personal burden too overpowering to allow him to remember the share he
had taken in his employer's fraud, setting down mechanically, scarcely
alive enough for a gleam of derision, the impotent will from the lips of
that innocent, imperative, despotic child. Amelia herself had glanced
into the room and withdrawn again contemptuously, without her lover
perceiving her; but the youngest and gentlest of the three sisters was
with Mrs. Stenhouse, to help her in her watching, and had already begun
to slumber peacefully in a chair. The mother herself sat at the foot of
the sofa watching her boy, with eyes enlarged and dilated by many a
vigil, and by that constant fear and scrutiny of his face; while,
propped up among his pillows, Edmund half sat, half lay, dictating, with
many a digression, his arbitrary, generous intentions. The will was
still incomplete, when sleep stole over the would-be testator. He
drooped back among the cushions, and could no longer keep his fiery
little eyes open. Was he dying with that last flutter of words, "my
brother Roger," about his lips? No, only falling safe into the restless
sleep of a sick child. When his sharp little voice had died away, and
all was silent in the room, the two by his bedside looked strangely into
each other's faces. What brought you here with your black thoughts, oh!
dangerous, guilty man? He rose up alone in the still house inhabited of
women, feeling for an instant a vague sensation of that power and
freedom which the strong, unfettered by either law or virtue, may feel
among the weak. What was to hinder him from ending by a touch that frail
child's life?--he could have done it. What was to hinder him from going
up in the darkness, and lifting out of her safe rest that beautiful
Amelia? He stood looking for a moment at the timid woman before him,
with a hundred suggestions and possibilities of additional guilt
pricking him into life. What was it to him now what he did, he who had
made the plunge and done the deepest crime of nature? But he only looked
at her a moment, with a savage consciousness of his power to outrage and
devastate; and then laughed a short wild laugh, and went out as suddenly
as he had come. Poor Mrs. Stenhouse stole out to fasten the door after
him, with a momentary sensation of relief, as though she had escaped
from a wild beast; and, coming back again, relapsed into an anxious
study once more of Edmund's little pale sharp face. Edmund's will,
magnificent and powerless, his last toy and plaything, lay on the table
beside him. Was Edmund to live or to die?