Dr. Rumsey's patient

Hetty dragged herself wearily home—she had waited to see the young Squire in a state of intense and rapt excitement. He had received her news with marvellous indifference. The excitement he had shown was the ordinary excitement which an outsider might feel when he received startling and unlooked for tidings. There was not a scrap of personal emotion in his manner. Was it possible that he had forgotten all about the murder which he himself had committed? Hetty was not a native of Grandcourt without knowing something of the tragedy which hung over the Court. Was it possible that the doom of the house had really overtaken Robert Awdrey? Hetty with her own eyes had seen him kill Horace Frere. Her own eyes could surely not deceive her. She rubbed them now in her bewilderment. Yes, she had seen the murder committed. Without any doubt Awdrey was the man who had struggled with Frere. Frere had thrown him to the ground; he had risen quickly again. Once more the two men had rushed at each other like tigers eager for blood—there had been a scuffle—a fierce, awful wrestle. A wrestle which had been followed by a sudden leap forward on the part of the young Squire—he had used his stick as men use bayonets in battle—there had come a groan from Frere's lips—he had staggered—his body had fallen to the ground with a heavy thud—then had followed an awful silence. Yes, Hetty had seen the whole thing. She had watched the terrible transaction from beginning to end. After he had thrown his man to the ground the Squire had struck a match, and had looked hard into the face of the dead. Hetty had seen the lurid light flash up for an instant on the Squire's face—it had looked haggard and gray—like the face of an old man. She had watched him as he examined the slender stick with which he had killed his foe. She observed him then creep across the Plain to a copse of young alders. She had seen him push the stick out of sight into the middle of the alders—she had then watched him as he went quickly home. Yes, Robert Awdrey was the guilty man—Frank Everett was innocent, as innocent as a babe. All day long Hetty's head had been in a mad whirl. She had kept her terrible knowledge to herself. Knowing that a word from her could save him, she had allowed Everett to be arrested. She had watched him from behind her window when the police came to the house for the purpose, she had seen Everett go away in the company of two policemen. He was a square-built young fellow with broad shoulders—he had held himself sturdily as an Englishman should, when he walked off, an innocent man, to meet an awful doom. Hetty, as she watched, crushed down the cry in her heart—it had clamored to save this man. There was a louder cry there—a fiercer instinct. The Squire belonged to her own people—she was like a subject, and he was her king—to the people of Grandcourt the king could do nothing wrong. They were old-fashioned in the little village, and had somewhat the feeling of serfs to their feudal lord. Hetty shared the tradition of her race. But over and above these minor matters, the unhappy girl loved Robert Awdrey with a fierce passion. She would rather die herself than see him die. When she saw Everett arrested, she watched the whole proceeding in dull amazement. She wondered why the Squire had not acted a man's part. Why did he not deliver himself up to the course of justice? He had killed Frere in a moment of mad passion. Hetty's heart throbbed. Could that passion have been evoked on her account? Of course, he would own to his sin. He had not done so; on the contrary, he had gone to a picnic. He had been seen walking about with the young lady whom he loved. Did Robert Awdrey really love Margaret Douglas?

"If that is the case, why should not I give him up?" thought Hetty. "He cares nothing for me. I am less than the thistle under his feet. Why should I save him? Why should Mr. Everett die because of him? The Squire cares nothing for me. Why should I sin on his account?"

These thoughts, when they came to her, were quickly hurled aside by others.

"I'd die twenty times over rather than he should suffer," thought the girl. "He shan't die, he's my king, and I'm his subject. It does not matter whether he loves me or not, he shan't die. Yes, he loves that beautiful Miss Douglas—she belongs to his set, and she'll be his wife. Perhaps she thinks that she loves him. Oh, oh!"

Hetty laughed wildly to herself.

"After all, she doesn't know what real love is. She little guesses what I feel; she little guesses that I hold his life in my hands. O God, keep me from going mad!"

It was dark when Hetty re-entered the Inn. The taproom was the scene of noisy excitement. It was crowded with eager and interested villagers. The murder was the one and only topic of conversation. Armitage was busy attending to his numerous guests, and Mrs. Armitage kept going backward and forward between the taproom and the little kitchen at the back.

When she saw Hetty she called out to her in a sharp tone.

"Where have you been, girl?" she cried. "Now just look here, your uncle won't have you stealing out in this fashion any more. You are to stay at home when it is dark. Why, it's all over the place, it's in every one's mouth, that you have been the cause of the murder. You encouraged that poor Mr. Frere with your idle, flighty, silly ways and looks, and then you played fast and loose with him. Don't you know that this is just the thing that will ruin us? Yes, you'll be the ruin of us Hetty, and times so bad, too. When are we likely to have parlor lodgers again?"

"Oh, Aunt, I wish you wouldn't scold me," answered Hetty. She sank down on the nearest chair, pushed her hat from her brow, and pressed her hand to it.

"Sakes, child!" exclaimed her aunt, "you do look white and bad to be sure."

Mrs. Armitage stood in front of her niece, and eyed her with a critical gaze.

"It's my belief, after all, that you really cared for the poor young man," she said. "For all your silly, flighty ways you gave him what little heart you possess. If he meant honest by you, you couldn't have done better—they say he had lots of money, and not a soul to think of but himself. I don't know how your uncle is to provide for you. But there, you've learned your lesson, and I hope you'll never forget it."

"Aunt Fanny, may I go upstairs to my room?"

"Hoity toity! nothing of the kind. You've got to work for your living like the rest of us. Put on your apron and help me to wash up the dishes."

Hetty rose wearily from her chair. The body of the murdered man lay out straight and still in the little front parlor. Many people had been in and out during the afternoon; many people had gazed solemnly at the white face. The doctor had examined the wound in the eye. The coroner had come to view the dead. All was in readiness for the inquest, which was to take place at an early hour on the following day. No one as yet had wept a single tear over the dead man. Mrs. Armitage came to Hetty now and asked her to go and fetch something out of the parlor. A paper which had been left on the mantelpiece was wanted by Armitage in a hurry.

"Go, child, be quick!" said the aunt. "You'll find the paper by that vase of flowers on the mantelpiece."

Hetty obeyed, never thinking of what she was to see. There was no artificial light in the room. On the centre-table, in a rude coffin which had been hastily prepared, lay the body. It was covered by a white sheet. The moon poured in a ghastly light through the window. The form of the dead man was outlined distinctly under the sheet. Hetty almost ran up against it when she entered the room. Her nerves were overstrung; she was not prepared for the sight which met her startled eyes; uttering a piercing shriek, she rushed from the room into her Aunt Fanny's arms.

"Now, whatever is the matter?" said the elder woman.

"You shouldn't have sent me in there," panted Hetty. "You should have told me that it was there."

"Well, well, I thought you knew. What a silly little good-for-nothing you are! Stay quiet and I'll run and fetch the paper. Dear, dear, I'm glad you are not my niece; it's Armitage you belong to."

Mrs. Armitage entered the parlor, fetched the required paper, and shut the door behind her. As she walked down the passage Hetty started quickly forward and caught her arm.

"If I don't tell somebody at once I'll go mad," she said. "Aunt Fanny, I must speak to you at once. I can't keep it to myself another minute."

"Good gracious me! whatever is to be done, Hetty? How am I to find time to listen to your silly nonsense just now? There's your uncle nearly wild with all the work being left on his hands."

"It isn't silly nonsense, Aunt Fanny. I've got to say something. I know something. I must tell it to you. I must tell it to you at once."

"Why, girl," said Mrs. Armitage, staring hard at her niece, "you are not making a fool of me, are you?"

"No. I'll go up to my room. Come to me as soon as ever you can. Tell Uncle that you are tired and must go to bed at once. Tell any lie, make any excuse, only come to me quickly. I'm in such a state that if you don't come I'll have to go right into the taproom and tell every one what I know. Oh, Aunt Fanny! have mercy on me and come quickly."

"You do seem in a way, Hetty," replied the aunt. "For goodness sake do keep yourself calm. There, run upstairs and I'll be with you in a minute or two."

Mrs. Armitage went into the taproom to her husband.

"Look here, John," she sad, "I've got a splitting headache, and Hetty is fairly knocked up. Can't you manage to do without us for the rest of the evening?"

"Of course, wife, if you're really bad," replied Armitage. "There's work here for three pairs of hands," he added, "but that can't be helped, if you are really bad."

"Yes, I am, and as to that child, she is fairly done."

"I'm not surprised. I wonder she's alive when she knows the whole thing is owing to her. Little hussy, I'd like to box her ears, that I would."

"So would I for that matter," replied the wife, "but she's in an awful state, poor child, and if I don't get her to bed, she'll be ill, and there will be more money out of pocket."

"Don't waste your strength sitting up with her, wife, she ain't worth it," Armitage called out, as his wife left the room.

A moment later, Mrs. Armitage crept softly upstairs. She entered Hetty's little chamber, which was also flooded with moonlight. It was a tiny room, with a sloping roof. Its little lattice window was wide open. Hetty was kneeling by the window looking out into the night. The moment she saw her aunt she rose to her feet, and ran to meet her.

"Lock the door, Aunt Fanny," she said, in a hoarse whisper.

"Oh, child, whatever has come to you?"

"Lock the door, Aunt Fanny, or let me do it."

"There, I'll humor you. Here's the key. I'll put it into my pocket. Why don't you have a light, Hetty?"

"I don't want it—the moon makes light enough for me. I have something to say to you. If I don't tell it, I shall go mad. You must share it with me, Aunt Fanny. You and I must both know it, and we must keep it to ourselves forever and ever and ever."

"Lor, child! what are you talking about?"

"I'll soon tell you. Let me kneel close to you. Hold my hand. I never felt so frightened in all my life before."

"Out with it, Hetty, whatever it is."

"Aunt, before I say a word, you've got to make me a promise."

"What's that?"

"You won't tell a soul what I am going to say to you."

"I hate making promises of that sort, Hetty."

"Never mind whether you hate it or not. Promise or I shall go mad."

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Armitage, "why should a poor woman be bothered in this way, and you neither kith nor kin to me. Don't you forget that it's Armitage you belong to. You've no blood of mine, thank goodness, in your veins."

"What does that matter. You're a woman, and I'm another. I'm just in the most awful position a girl could be in. But whatever happens, I'll be true to him. Yes, Aunt Fanny, I'll be true to him. I'm nothing to him, no more than if I were a weed, but I love him madly, deeply, desperately. He is all the world to me. He is my master, and I am his slave. Of course I'm nothing to him, but he's everything to me, and he shan't die. Aunt Fanny, you and I have got to be true to him. We must share the thing together, for I can't keep the secret by myself. You must share it with me, Aunt Fanny."

Up to this point, Mrs. Armitage had regarded Hetty's words as merely those of a hysterical and over-wrought girl. Now, however, she began to perceive method in her madness.

"Look here, child," she said, "if you've got anything to say, say it, and have done with it. I'm not blessed with over much patience, and I can't stand beating round the bush. If you have a secret, out with it, you silly thing. Oh, yes, of course I won't betray you. I expect it's just this, you've gone and done something you oughtn't to. Oh, what have I done to be blessed with a niece-in-law like you?

"It's nothing of that sort, Aunt Fanny. It is this—I don't mind telling you now, now that you have promised not to betray me. Aunt Fanny, I was out last night—I saw the murder committed."

Mrs. Armitage suppressed a sharp scream.

"Heaven preserve us!" she said, in a choking voice. "Were you not in bed, you wicked girl?"

"No, I was out. I had quarrelled with Mr. Frere in the parlor, and I thought I'd follow him and make it up. I went straight on to the Plain—I saw him running. I hid behind a furze bush and I saw the quarrel, and I heard the words—I saw the awful struggle, and I heard the blows. I heard the fall, too—and I saw the man who had killed Mr. Frere run away."

"I wonder you never told all this to-day, Hetty Armitage. Well, I'm sorry for that poor Mr. Everett. Oh, dear, what will not our passions lead us to; to think that two young gentlemen should come to this respectable house, and that it should be the case of Cain and Abel over again—one rising up and slaying the other."

Hetty, who had been kneeling all this time, now rose. Her face was ghastly—her words came out in strange pauses.

"It wasn't Mr. Everett," she said.

"Good Heavens! Hetty," exclaimed her aunt, springing also to her feet, and catching the girl's two hands within her own—"It wasn't Mr. Everett!—what in the world do you mean?"

"What I say, Aunt Fanny—the man who killed Mr. Frere was Mr. Awdrey. Our Mr. Awdrey, Aunt Fanny, and I could die for him—and no one must ever know—and I saw him this evening, and—and he has forgotten all about it. He doesn't know a bit about it—not a bit. Oh, Aunt Fanny, I shall go quite mad, if you don't promise to help me to keep my secret."

"Sit down, Hetty, and keep yourself quiet," said Mrs. Armitage.

Her manner had completely changed. A stealthy, fearful look crept into her face. She went on tiptoe to the door to assure herself over again that it was locked. She then approached the window, shut it, fastened it, and drew a heavy moreen curtain across it.

"When one has secrets," she said, "it is best to be certain there are no eavesdroppers anywhere."

She then lit a candle and placed it on the centre of the little table.

Having done this, she seated herself—she didn't care to look at Hetty. She felt as if in a sort of way she had committed the murder herself. The knowledge of the truth impressed her so deeply that she did not care to encounter any eyes for a few minutes.

"Aunt Fanny, why don't you speak to me?" asked the girl at last.

"You are quite sure, child, that you have told me the truth?" said Mrs. Armitage then.

"Yes—it is the truth—is it likely that I could invent anything so fearful?"

"No, it ain't likely," replied the elder woman, "but I don't intend to trust just to the mere word of a slip of a giddy girl like you. You must swear it—is there a Bible in the room?"

"Oh, don't, Aunt, I wish you wouldn't."

"Stop that silly whining of yours, Hetty; what do your wishes matter one way or the other? If you've told me the truth an awful thing has happened, but I won't stir in the matter until I know it's gospel truth. Yes, there's your Testament—the Testament will do. Now, Hetty Armitage, hold this book in your hand, and say before God in heaven that you saw Mr. Robert Awdrey kill Mr. Horace Frere. Kiss the book, and tell the truth if you don't want to lose your soul."

Hetty trembled from head to foot. Her nature was impressionable—the hour—the terrible excitement she had just lived through—the solemn, frightened expression of her aunt's face, irritated her nerves to the last extent. She had the utmost difficulty in keeping herself from screaming aloud.

"What do you want me to do?" she said, holding the Testament between her limp fingers.

"Say these words: 'I, Hetty Armitage, saw Mr. Robert Awdrey kill Mr. Horace Frere on Salisbury Plain last night. This is the truth, so help me God.'"

"I, Hetty Armitage, saw Mr. Robert Awdrey kill Mr. Horace Frere on Salisbury Plain last night. This is the truth, so help me God," repeated Hetty, in a mechanical voice.

"Kiss the Book now, child," said the aunt

Hetty raised it to her lips.

"Give me the Testament."

Mrs. Armitage took it in her hands.

"Aunt Fanny, what in the world do you mean to do now?" said the girl.

"You are witness, Hetty; you are witness to what I mean to do. It is all for the sake of the Family. What are poor folks like us and our consciences, and our secrets, compared to the Family? This book has not done its work yet. Now I am going to take an oath on the Testament. I, Frances Armitage, swear by the God above, and the Bible He has given us, that I will never tell to mortal man the truth about this murder."

Mrs. Armitage finished her words by pressing the Testament to her lips.

"Now you swear," she said, giving the book back again to her niece.

Hetty did so. Her voice came out in broken sobs. Mrs. Armitage replaced the Testament on the top shelf of Hetty's little bookcase.

"There," she said, wiping her brow, "that's done. You saw the murder committed; you and I have sworn that we'll never tell what we know. We needn't talk of it any more. Another man will swing for it. Let him swing. He is a nice fellow, too. He showed me the photograph of his mother one day. She had white hair and eyes like his; she looked like a lady every inch of her. Mr. Everett said, 'I am her only child, Mrs. Armitage; I'm all she has got.' He had a pleasant smile—wonderful, and a good face. Poor lad, if it wasn't the Family I had to be true to I wouldn't let him swing. They say downstairs that the circumstantial evidence is black against him."

"Perhaps, after all, they cannot convict him, Aunt."

"What do you know about it? I say they can and will, but don't let us talk of it any more. The one thing you and I have to do is to be true to the Family. There's not a second thought to be given to the matter. Sit down, Hetty; don't keep hovering about like that. I think I had better send you away from home; only I forgot, you are sure to be called upon as a witness. You must see that your face doesn't betray you when you're cross-examined."

"No, it won't," said the girl. "I've got you to help me now. I can talk about it sometimes, and it won't lie so heavily on my heart. Aunt Fanny, do you really think Mr. Awdrey forgets?"

"Do I think it? I know it. I don't trouble to think about what I know. It's in their blood, I tell you. The things they ought to remember are wiped out of their brains as clean as if you washed a slate after using it. My mother was cook in the Family, and her mother and her mother before her again. We are Perrys, and the Perrys had always a turn for cooking. We've cooked the dinner up at the Court for close on a hundred years. Don't you suppose I know their ways by this time? Oh, I could tell you of fearful things. There have been dark deeds done before now, and the men who did them had no more memory of their own sin than if they were babies of a month old. There was a Squire—two generations back he was—my grandmother knew him—and he had a son. The mother was—! but there! where's the use of going into that. The mother died raving mad, and the Squire knew no more what he had done than the babe unborn. Folks call it the curse of God. It's an awful doom, and it always comes on just as it has fallen on the young Squire. There comes a fit of passion—a desperate deed is done or a desperate sorrow is met, and all is blank. They wither up afterward just as if the drought was in them. He'll die young, the young Squire will, just like his forefathers. What's the good of crying, Hetty? Crying won't save him—he'll die young. Blood for blood. God will require that young man's blood at his hands. He can't escape—it's in his race; but at least he shan't hang for it—if you and I can keep him from the gallows. Hetty, put your hand in mine and tell me all over again what you saw."

"I can't bear to go over it again, Aunt Fanny—it seems burnt into me like fire. I can think of nothing else—I can think of no face but Mr. Awdrey's—I can only remember the look on his face when he bent over the man he had killed. I saw his face just for a minute by the light of the match, and I never could have believed that human face could have looked like that before. It was old—like the face of an old man. But I met him this evening, Aunt Fanny, and he had forgotten all about it, and he was jolly and happy, and they say he was seen with Miss Douglas to-day. The family had a picnic on the Plain, and Miss Douglas was there, with her uncle, Sir John Cuthbert, and there were a lot of other young ladies. Mr. Awdrey went back to Cuthbertstown with Miss Douglas. It was when he was returning to the Court I met him. All the world knows he worships the ground she walks on. I suppose he'll marry her by and by, Aunt—he seemed so happy and contented to-night."

"I suppose he will marry her, child—that is the best thing that could happen to him, and she's a nice young lady and his equal in other ways. He's happy, did you say? Maybe he is for a bit, but he's a gone man for all that—nothing, nor no one can keep the doom of his house from him. What are you squeezing my hand for, Hetty?"

"I can't bear to think of the Squire marrying Miss Douglas."

"Stuff and nonsense! What is the Squire to you, except as one of the Family. You'd better mind your station, Hetty, and leave your betters to themselves. If you don't you'll get into awful trouble some day. But now the night is going on, and we've got something to do. Tell me again how that murder was done."

"The Squire ran at Mr. Frere, and the point of his stick ran into Mr. Frere's eye."

"What did he do with the stick?"

"He went to a copse of young alders and thrust it into the middle. Oh, it's safe enough."

"Nothing of the kind—it isn't safe at all. How do you know they won't cut those alders down and find the stick? Mr. Robert's walking-stick is well known—it has a silver plate upon it with his name. Years hence people may come across that stick, and all the county will know at once who it belonged to. Come along, Hetty—you and I have our work to do."

"What is that, Aunt Fanny?"

"Before the morning dawns we must bury that stick where no one will find it."

"Oh, Aunt, don't ask me—I can't go back to the Plain again."

"You can and must—I wouldn't ask you, but I couldn't find the exact spot myself. I'll go down first and have a word with Armitage, and then return to you."

Mrs. Armitage softly unlocked the door of her niece's room, and going first to her own bedroom, washed her ashen face with cold water; she then rubbed it hard with a rough towel to take some of the tell-tale expression out of it. Afterward she stole softly downstairs. Her husband was busy in the taproom. She opened the door, and called his name.

"Armitage, I want you a minute."

"Mercy on us, I thought you were in bed an hour ago, wife," he said. "Why, you do look bad, what's the matter?"

"It isn't me, it's the child—she's hysterical. I've been having no end of a time with her; I came down to say that I'd sleep with Hetty to-night. Good-night, Armitage."

"Good-night," said the man. "I say, wife, though," he called after her, "see that you are up in good time to-morrow."

"Never fear," exclaimed Mrs. Armitage, as she ascended the creaking stairs, "I'll be down and about at six."

She re-entered her niece's bedroom and locked the door.

"How did you get out last night?" she asked.

"Through the window."

"Well, you're a nice one. This is not the time to scold you, however, and you and I have got to go out the same way now. They'll think we are in our bed—let them think it. Come, be quick—show me the way out. It's a goodish step from here to the Plain; we've not a minute to lose, and not a soul must see us going or returning."

Mrs. Armitage was nearly as slender and active as her niece. She accomplished the descent from the window without the least difficulty, and soon she and Hetty were walking quickly in the direction of the Plain—they kept well in the shadow of the road and did not meet a soul the entire way. During that walk neither woman spoke a word to the other. Presently they reached the Plain. Hetty trembled as she stood by the alder copse.

"Keep your courage up," whispered Mrs. Armitage, "we must bury that stick where no one can find it."

"Don't bury it, Aunt Fanny," whispered Hetty. "I have thought of something—there's the pond half a mile away. Let us weight the stick with stones and throw it into the pond."

"That's a good thought, child, we'll do it."

The village never forgot the week when the young Squire came of age. During that week many important things happened. The usual festivities were arranged to take place on Monday, for on that day the Squire completed his twenty-first year. On the following Thursday Robert Awdrey was to marry Margaret Douglas, and between these two days, namely, on Tuesday and Wednesday, Frank Everett was to be tried for the murder of Horace Frere at Salisbury. It will be easily believed, therefore, that the excitement of the good folks all over the country reached high-water mark. Quite apart from his position, the young Squire was much loved for himself. His was an interesting personality. Even if this had not been so, the fact of his coming of age, and the almost more interesting fact of his marriage, would fill all who knew him with a lively sense of pleasure. The public gaze would be naturally turned full upon this young man. But great as was the interest which all who knew him took in Awdrey, it was nothing to that which was felt with regard to a man who was a stranger in the county, but whose awful fate now filled all hearts and minds. The strongest circumstantial evidence was against Frank Everett, but beyond circumstantial evidence there was nothing but good to be known of this young man. He had lived in the past, as far as all could tell, an immaculate life. He was the only son of a widowed mother. Mrs. Everett had taken lodgings in Salisbury, and was awaiting the issue of the trial with feelings which none could fathom.

As the week of her wedding approached, Margaret Douglas showed none of the happy expectancy of a bride. Her face began to assume a worn and anxious expression. She could hardly think of anything except the coming trial. A few days before the wedding she earnestly begged her lover to postpone the ceremony for a short time.

"I cannot account for my sensations, Robert," she said. "The shadow of this awful tragedy seems to shut away the sunshine from me. You cannot, of course, help coming of age on Monday, but surely there is nothing unreasonable in my asking to have the wedding postponed for a week. I will own that I am superstitious—I come of a superstitious race—my grandmother had the gift of second sight—perhaps I inherit it also, I cannot say. Do yield to me in the matter, Robert. Do postpone the wedding."

Awdrey stood close to Margaret. She looked anxiously into his eyes; they met hers with a curious expression of irritation in them. The young squire was pale; there were fretful lines round his mouth.

"I told you before," he said, "that I am affected with a strange and unaccountable apathy with regard to this terrible murder. I try with all my might to get up sympathy for that poor unfortunate Everett. Try as I may, however, I utterly fail to feel even pity for him. Margaret, I would confess this to no one in the world but yourself. Everett is nothing to me—you are everything. Why should I postpone my happiness on Everett's account?"

"You are not well, dearest," said Margaret, looking at him anxiously.

"Yes, I am, Maggie," he replied. "You must not make me fanciful. I never felt better in my life, except——" Here he pressed his hand to his brow.

"Except?" she repeated.

"Nothing really—I have a curious sensation of numbness in the back of my head. I should think nothing at all about it but for the fact——"

Here he paused, and looked ahead of him steadily.

"But for what fact, Robert?"

"You must have heard—it must have been whispered to you—every one all over the county knows that sometimes—sometimes, Maggie, queer things happen to men of our house."

"Of course, I have heard of what you allude to," she answered brightly. "Do you think I mind? Do you think I believe in the thing? Not I. I am not superstitious in that way. So you, dear old fellow, are imagining that you are to be one of the victims of that dreadful old curse. Rest assured that you will be nothing of the kind. I have a cousin—he is in the medical profession—you shall know him when we go to London. I spoke to Dr. Rumsey once about this curious phase in your family history. He said it was caused by an extraordinary state of nerves, and that the resolute power of will was needed to overcome it. Dr. Rumsey is a very interesting man, Robert. He believed in heredity; who does not? but he also firmly believes that the power of will, rightly exercised, can be more powerful than heredity. Now, I don't mean you to be a victim to that old family failing, so please banish the thought from your mind once and for ever."

Awdrey smiled at her.

"You cheer me," he said. "I am a lucky man to have found such a woman as you to be my wife. You will help to bring forward all that is best in me. Margaret, I feel that through you I shall conquer the curse which lies in my blood."

"There is no curse, Robert. When your grandfather married a strong-minded Scotch wife the curse was completely arrested—the spell removed."

"Yes," said Awdrey, "of course you are perfectly right. My father has never suffered from a trace of the family malady, and as for me, I didn't know what nervousness meant until within the last month. I certainly have suffered from a stupid lapse of memory during the last month."

"We all forget things at times," said Margaret. "What is it that worries you?"

"Something so trifling that you will laugh when I tell you. You know my favorite stick?"

"Of course. By the way, you have not used it lately."

"I have not. It is lost. I have looked for it high and low, and racked my memory in vain to know where I could have put it. When last I remember using it, I was talking to that unfortunate young Frere in the underwood. I wish I could find it—not for the sake of the stick, but because, under my circumstances, I don't want to forget things."

"Well, every one forgets things at times—you will remember where you have put the stick when you are not thinking of it."

"Quite true; I wish it didn't worry me, however. You know that poor Frere met his death in the most extraordinary manner. The man who killed him ran his walking-stick into his eye. The doctors say that the ferrule of the stick entered the brain, causing instantaneous death. Everett carried a stick, but the ferrule was a little large for the size of the wound made. Now my stick——"

"Really, Robert, I won't listen to you for another moment," exclaimed Margaret. "The next thing you will do is to assure me that your stick was the weapon which caused the murder."

"No," he replied, with a spasm of queer pain. "Of course, Maggie, there is nothing wrong, only with our peculiar idiosyncrasies, small lapses of memory make one anxious. I should be happy if I could find the stick, and happier still if this numbness would leave the back of my head. But your sweet society will soon put me right."

"I mean it to," she replied, in her firm way.

"You will marry me, dearest, on the twenty-fourth?"

"Yes," she answered, "you are first, first of all. I will put aside my superstition—the wedding shall not be postponed."

"Thank you a thousand times—how happy you make me!"

Awdrey went home in the highest spirits.

The auspicious week dawned. The young Squire's coming of age went off without a flaw. The day was a perfect one in August. All the tenants assembled at the Court to welcome Awdrey to his majority. His modest and graceful speech was applauded on all sides. He never looked better than when he stood on a raised platform and addressed the tenants who had known him from his babyhood. Some day he was to be their landlord. In Wiltshire the tie between landlord and tenant is very strong. The spirit of the feudal times still in a measure pervades this part of the country. The cheers which followed Awdrey's speech rose high on the evening air. Immediately afterward there was supper on the lawn, followed by a dance. Among those assembled, however, might have been seen two anxious faces—one of them belonged to Mrs. Armitage. She had been a young-looking woman for her years, until after the night of the murder—now she looked old, her hair was sprinkled with gray, her face had deep lines in it, there was a touch of irritation also in her manner. She and Hetty kept close together. Sometimes her hand clutched hold of the hand of her niece and gave it a hard pressure. Hetty's little hand trembled, and her whole frame quivered with almost uncontrollable agony when Mrs. Armitage did this. All the gay scene was ghastly mockery to poor Hetty. Her distress, her wasted appearance, could not but draw general attention to her. The little girl, however, had never looked more beautiful nor lovely. She was observed by many people; strangers pointed her out to one another.

"Do you see that little girl with the beautiful face?" they said. "It was on her account that the tragedy took place."

Presently the young Squire came down and asked Mrs. Armitage to open the ball with him.

"You do me great honor, sir," she said. She hesitated, then placed her hand on his arm.

As he led her away, his eyes met those of Hetty.

"I'll give you a dance later on," he said, nodding carelessly to the young girl.

She blushed and pressed her hand to her heart.

There wasn't a village lad in the entire assembly who would not have given a year of his life to dance even once with beautiful little Hetty, but she declined all the village boys' attentions that evening.

"She wasn't in the humor to dance," she said. "Oh, yes, of course, she would dance with the Squire if he asked her, but she would not bestow her favors upon any one else." She sat down presently in a secluded corner. Her eyes followed Awdrey wherever he went. By and by Margaret Douglas noticed her. There was something about the childish sad face which drew out the compassion of Margaret's large heart. She went quickly across the lawn to speak to her.

"Good-evening, Hetty," she said, "I hope you are well?"

Hetty stood up; she began to tremble.

"Yes, Miss Douglas, I am quite well," she answered.

"You don't look well," said Margaret. "Why are you not dancing?"

"I haven't the heart to dance," said Hetty, turning suddenly away. Her eyes brimmed with sudden tears.

"Poor little girl! how could I be so thoughtless as to suppose she would care to dance," thought Margaret. "All her thoughts must be occupied with this terrible trial—Robert told me that she would be the principal witness. Poor little thing."

Margaret stretched out her hand impulsively and grasped Hetty's.

"I feel for you—I quite understand you," she said. Her voice trembled with deep and full sympathy. "I see that you are suffering a great deal, but you will be better afterward—you ought to go away afterward—you will want change."

"I would rather stay at home, please, Miss Douglas."

"Well, I won't worry you. Here is Mr. Awdrey. You have not danced once, Hetty. Would you not like to have a dance with the Squire, just for luck? Yes, I see you would. Robert, come here."

"What is it?" asked Awdrey. "Oh, is that you, Hetty? I have not forgotten our dance."

"Dance with her now, Robert," said Margaret. "There is a waltz just striking up—I will meet you presently on the terrace."

Margaret crossed the lawn, and Awdrey gave his arm to Hetty. She turned her large gaze upon him for a moment, her lips trembled, she placed her hand on his arm. "Yes, I will dance with him once," she said to herself. "It will please me—I am doing a great deal for him, and it will strengthen me—to have this pleasure. Oh, I hope, I do hope I'll be brave and silent, and not let the awful pain at my heart get the better of me. Please, God, help me to be true to Mr. Robert."

"Come, Hetty, why won't you talk?" said the Squire; he gave her a kindly yet careless glance.

They began to waltz, but Hetty had soon to pause for want of breath.

"You are not well," said Awdrey; "let me lead you out of the crowd. Here, let us sit the dance out under this tree; now you are better, are you not?"

"Yes, sir; oh, yes, Mr. Robert, I am much better now." She panted as she spoke.

"How pale you are," said Awdrey, "and you used to be such a blooming, rosy little thing. Well, never mind," he added hastily, "I ought not to forget that you have a good deal to worry you just now. You must try to keep up your courage. All you have to do to-morrow when you go into court is to tell the entire and exact truth."

"You don't mean me to do that, you can't," said Hetty. She opened her eyes and gave a wild startled glance. The next moment her whole face was covered with confusion. "Oh, what have I said?" she cried, in consternation. "Of course, I will tell the exact and perfect truth."

"Of course," said Awdrey, surprised at her manner. "You will be under oath, remember." He stood up as he spoke. "Now let me take you to your aunt."

"One moment first, Mr. Robert; I'd like to ask you a question."

"Well, Hetty, what is it?" said the young man, kindly.

Hetty raised her eyes for a moment, then she lowered them.

"It's a very awful thing, the kind of thing that God doesn't forgive," she said in a whisper, "for—for a girl to tell a lie when she's under oath?"

"It is perjury," said Awdrey, in a sharp, short voice. "Why should you worry your head about such a matter?"

"Of course not, sir, only I'd like to know. I hope you'll be very happy with your good lady, Mr. Awdrey, when you're married. I think I'll go home now, sir. I'm not quite well, and it makes me giddy to dance. I wish you a happy life, sir, and—and Miss Douglas the same. If you see Aunt Fanny, Mr. Robert, will you tell her that I've gone home?"

"Yes, to be sure I will. Good-by, Hetty. Here, shake hands, won't you? God bless you, little girl. I hope you will soon be all right."

Hetty crept slowly away; she looked like a little gray shadow as she returned to the village, passing silently through the lovely gardens and all the sweet summer world. Beautiful as she was, she was out of keeping with the summer and the time of gayety.

Against Awdrey's wish Margaret insisted on being present during the first day of the trial. Everett's trial would in all probability occupy the whole of two days. Awdrey was to appear in court as witness. His evidence and that of Hetty Armitage and the laborer who had seen Frere running across the plain would probably sum up the case against the prisoner. Hetty's evidence, however, was the most important of all. Some of the neighbors said that Hetty would never have strength to go through the trial. But when the little creature stepped into the witness-box, there was no perceptible want of energy about her—her cheeks were pink with the color of excitement, her lovely eyes shone brightly. She gave her testimony in a clear, penetrating, slightly defiant voice. That voice of hers never once faltered. Her eyes full of desperate courage were fixed firmly on the face of the solicitor who examined her. Even the terrible ordeal of cross-examination was borne without flinching; nor did Hetty once commit herself, or contradict her own evidence. At the end of the cross-examination, however, she fainted off. It was noticed afterward by eye-witnesses that Hetty's whole evidence had been given with her face slightly turned away from that of the accused man. It was after she had inadvertently met his eyes that she turned white to the very lips, and fell down fainting in the witness-box. She was carried away immediately, and murmurs of sympathy followed her as she was taken out of the court. Hetty was undoubtedly the heroine of the occasion. Her remarkable beauty, her modesty, the ring of truth which seemed to pervade all her unwilling words, told fatally against poor Everett.

She was obliged to return to court on the second day, but Margaret did not go to Salisbury on that occasion. After the first day of the trial Margaret spent a sleepless night. She was on the eve of her own wedding, but she could think of nothing but Everett and Everett's mother. Mrs. Everett was present at the trial. She wore a widow's dress and her veil was down, but once or twice she raised it and looked at her son; the son also glanced at his mother. Margaret had seen these glances, and they wrung her heart to its depths. She felt that she could not be in court when the verdict was given. She was so excited with regard to the issue of the trial that she gave no attention to those minor matters which usually occupy the minds of young brides.

"It doesn't matter," she said to her maid; "pack anything you fancy into my travelling trunk. Oh, yes, that dress will do; any dress will do. What hats did you say? Any hats, I don't care. I'm going to Grandcourt now, there may be news from Salisbury."

"They say, Miss Douglas, that the Court won't rise until late to-night. The jury are sure to take a long time to consider the case."

"Well, I'm going to Grandcourt now. Mr. Awdrey may have returned. I shall hear the latest news."

Margaret arrived at the Court just before dinner. Her future sisters-in-law, Anne and Dorothy, ran out on the lawn to meet her.

"Oh, how white and tired you look!"

"I am not a bit tired; you know I am always pale. Dorothy, has any news come yet from Salisbury?"

"Nothing special," replied Dorothy. "The groom has come back to tell us that we are not to wait dinner for either father or Robert. You will come into the house now, won't you, Margaret?"

"No, I'd rather stay out here. I don't want any dinner."

"Nor do I. I will stay with you," said Dorothy. "Isn't there a lovely view from here? I love this part of the grounds better than any other spot. You can just get a peep of the Cathedral to the right and the Plain to the left."

"I hate the Plain," said Margaret, with a shiver. "I wish Grandcourt didn't lie so near it."

Dorothy Awdrey raised her delicate brows in surprise.

"Why, the Plain is the charm of Grandcourt," she exclaimed. "Surely, Margaret, you are not going to get nervous and fanciful, just because a murder was committed on the Plain."

"Oh, no!" Margaret started to her feet. "Excuse me, Dorothy, I see Robert coming up the avenue."

"So he is. Stay where you are, and I'll run and get the news."

"No, please let me go."

"Margaret, you are ill."

"I am all right," replied Margaret.

She ran swiftly down the avenue.

Awdrey saw her, and stopped until she came up to him.

"Well?" she asked breathlessly.

He put both his hands on her shoulders, and looked steadily into her eyes.

"The verdict," she said. "Quick, the verdict."

"Guilty, Maggie; but they have strongly recommended him to mercy. Maggie, Maggie, my darling, what is it?"

She flung her arms round his neck, and hid her trembling face against his breast.

"I can't help it," she said. "It is the eve of our wedding-day. Oh, I feel sick with terror—sick with sorrow."

Arthur Rumsey, M.D., F.R.C.S., was one of the most remarkable men of his time. He was unmarried, and lived in a large house in Harley Street, where he saw many patients daily. He was on the staff of more than one of the big London hospitals, and one or two mornings in each week had to be devoted to this public service, which occupies so much of the life of a busy and popular doctor. Rumsey was not only a clever, all-round man, but he was also a specialist. The word nerve—that queer complex word, with its many hidden meanings, its daily and hourly fresh renderings—that word, which belongs especially to the end of our century, he seized with a grip of psychological intensity, and made it his principal study. By slow degrees and years of patient toil he began to understand the nerve power in man. From the study of the nerves to the study of the source of all nerves, aches and pains, joys and delights, the human brain, was an easy step. Rumsey was a brain specialist. It began to be reported of him, not only in the profession, but among that class of patients who must flock to such a man, when he had performed wonderful and extraordinary cures, that to him was given insight almost superhuman. It was said of Rumsey that he could read motives and could also unravel the most complex problems of the psychological world.

Five years had passed since Margaret Douglas found herself the bride of Robert Awdrey. These five years had been mostly spent by the pair in London. Being well off, Awdrey had taken a good house in a fashionable quarter. He and Margaret began to entertain, and were popular from the very first, in their own somewhat large circle. They were now the parents of one beautiful child, a boy, and the outside world invariably spoke of them as a prosperous and a very happy couple.

Everett did not expiate his supposed crime by death. The plea of the jury for mercy resulted in fourteen years' penal servitude. Such a sentence meant, of course, a living death; he had quite sunk out of ken—almost out of memory. Except in the heart of his mother and in the tender heart of Margaret Awdrey, this young man, whose career had promised to be so bright, so satisfactory, such a blessing to all who knew him, was completely forgotten.

In his mother's heart, of course, he was safely enshrined, and Margaret also, although she had never spoken to him, and never saw his face until the day of the trial, still vividly remembered him.

When her honeymoon was over and she found herself settled in London, one of her first acts was to seek out Mrs. Everett, and to make a special friend of the forlorn and unhappy widow.

Both Margaret and Mrs. Everett soon found that they had a strong bond of sympathy between them. They both absolutely believed in Frank Everett's innocence. The subject, however, was too painful to the elder woman to be often alluded to, but knowing what was in Margaret's heart she took a great fancy to her, always spoke to her with affection, took a real interest in her concerns, and was often a visitor at her home.

Four years after the wedding the elder Squire died. He was found one morning dead in his bed, having passed peacefully and painlessly away. Awdrey was now the owner of Grandcourt, but for some reason which he could not explain, even to himself, he did not care to spend much time at the old place—Margaret was often there for months at a time, but Awdrey preferred London to the Court, and a week at a time was the longest period he would ever spend under the old roof. Both his sisters were now married and had homes of their own—the place in consequence began to grow a little into disuse, although Margaret did what she could for the tenantry, and whenever she was at the Court was extremely popular with her neighbors. But she did not think it right to leave her husband long alone—he clung to her a good deal, seeking her opinion more and more as the months and years went by, and leaning upon her to an extraordinary extent for a young and clever man.

Awdrey had grown exceptionally old for his age in the five years since his marriage. He was only twenty-six, but some white streaks were already to be found in his thick hair, and several wrinkles were perceptible round his dark gray eyes. He had not gone into Parliament—he had not distinguished himself by any literary work. His own ambitious dreams and his wife's longings for him faded one by one out of sight. He was a gentle, kindly mannered man—generous with his money, sympathetic up to a certain point over every tale of woe, but there was a curious want of energy about him, and as the days and months flew by, Margaret's sense of trouble, which always lay near her heart, unaccountably deepened.

The great specialist, Arthur Rumsey, was about to give a dinner. It was his custom to give one once a fortnight during the London season. To these dinners he not only invited his own friends and the more favored among his patients, but many celebrated men of science and literature; a few also of the better sort of the smart people of society were to be met on these occasions. Although there was no hostess, Rumsey's dinners were popular, his invitations were always eagerly accepted, and the people who met each other at his house often spoke afterward of these occasions as specially delightful.

In short, the dinners partook of that intellectual quality which makes, to quote an old-world phrase, "the feast of reason and the flow of soul." On Rumsey's evenings, the forgotten art of conversation seemed once again to struggle to re-assert itself.

Robert Awdrey and his wife were often among the favored guests, and were to be present at this special dinner. Margaret was a distant cousin of the great physician, and shortly after her arrival in London had consulted him about her husband. She had told him all about the family history, and the curious hereditary taint which had shown itself from generation to generation in certain members of the men of the house. He had listened gravely, and with much interest, saying very little at the time, and endeavoring by every means in his power to soothe the anxieties of the young wife.

"The doom you dread may never fall upon your husband," he said finally. "The slight inertia of mind which he complains of is probably more due to nervous fear than to anything else. It is a pity he is so well off. If he had to work for his living, he would soon use his brain to good and healthy purpose. That fiat which fell upon Adam is in reality a blessing in disguise. There is no surer cure for most of the fads and fancies of the present day than the command which ordains to man that 'In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread.'"

Margaret's anxious eyes were fixed upon the great doctor while he was speaking.

"Your husband must make the best of his circumstances," he continued, in a cheerful tone. "Crowd occupation upon him; get him to take up any good intellectual work with strength and vigor. If you see he is really tired out, do not over-worry him. Get him to travel with you; get him to read books with real stuff in them; occupy his mind at any risk. When he begins to forget serious matters it will be time enough to come to the conclusion that the hereditary curse has descended upon him. Up to the present he has never forgotten anything of consequence, has he?"

"Nothing that I know of," answered Margaret. Then she added, with a half-smile, "The small lapse of memory which I am about to mention, you will probably consider beneath your notice, nevertheless it has irritated my husband to a strange degree. You have doubtless heard of the tragic murder of Horace Frere, which took place on Salisbury Plain a few weeks before our wedding?"

Rumsey nodded.

"On the night of the murder my husband lost his favorite walking-stick. He has worried ceaselessly over that small fact, referring to it constantly and always complaining of a certain numbness in the back of his head when he does so. The fact is he met the unfortunate man who was murdered early in the afternoon. At that time he had his stick with him. He can never recall anything about it from that moment, nor has he seen it from then to now."

The doctor laughed good-humoredly.

"There is little doubt," he said, "that the fear that the doom of his house may fasten upon him has affected your husband's nerves. The lapse of memory to which you refer means nothing at all. Keep him occupied, Mrs. Awdrey, keep him occupied. That is my best advice to you."

Margaret went away feeling reassured and almost happy, but since the date of that conversation Rumsey never forgot Awdrey's queer case. He possessed that extraordinary and perfect memory himself, which does not allow the smallest detail, however apparently unimportant, to escape observation, and often as he talked to his guest across his dinner table, he observed him with a keenness of interest which he could himself scarcely account for.

On this particular evening more guests than usual were assembled at the doctor's house. Sixteen people had sat down to dinner and several fresh arrivals were expected in the evening. Among the dining guests was Mrs. Everett. She was a tall, handsome woman of about forty-five years of age. Her hair was snow-white and was piled high up over her head—her face was of a pale olive hue, with regular features, and very large, piercing, dark eyes. The eyebrows were well arched and somewhat thickly marked—they were still raven black, and afforded a striking contrast to the lovely thick hair which shone like a mass of silver above her brow.

Everett's mother always wore black, but, curious to relate, she had discarded widow's weeds soon after her son's incarceration. Before that date she had been in character, and had also lived the life of an ordinary, affectionate, and thoroughly amiable woman. Keen as her sorrow in parting with the husband of her youth was, she contrived to weave a happy nest in which her heart could take shelter, in the passionate love which she gave to her only son. But from the date of his trial and verdict, the woman's whole character, the very expression on her face, had altered. Her eyes had now a watchful and intent look. She seemed like some one who had set a mission before herself. She had the look of one who lived for a hidden purpose. She no longer eschewed society, but went into it even more frequently than her somewhat slender means afforded. She made many new acquaintances and was always eager to win the confidence of those who cared to confide in her. Her own story she never touched upon, but she gave a curious kind of watchful sympathy to others which was not without its charm.

On this particular night, the widow's eyes were brighter and more restless than usual. Dr. Rumsey knew all about her story, and had often counselled her with regard to her present attitude toward society at large.

"My boy is innocent," she had said many times to the doctor. "The object of my life is to prove this. I will quietly wait, I will do nothing rash, but it is my firm conviction that I shall yet be permitted to find and expose the man who killed Horace Frere."

Rumsey had warned her as to the peril which she ran in fostering too keenly a fixed idea—he had taken pains to give her psychological reasons for the danger which she incurred—but nothing he could say or do could alter the bias of her mind. Her fixed and unwavering assurance that her boy was absolutely innocent could not be imperilled by any words which man could speak.

"If I had even seen my boy do the murder I should still believe it to be a vision of my own brain," she had said once, and after that Rumsey had ceased to try to guide her thoughts into a healthier channel.

On this particular night when the doctor came upstairs after wine, accompanied by the rest of the men of the party, Mrs. Everett seemed to draw him to her side by her watchful and excited glances.

There was something about the man which could never withstand an appeal of human need—he went straight now to the widow's side as a needle is attracted to a magnet.

"Well," he said, drawing a chair forward, and seating himself so as almost to face her.

"You guessed that I wanted to see you?" she said eagerly.

"I looked at you and that was sufficient," he said.

"When can you give me an interview?" she replied.

"Do you want to visit me as a patient?"

"I do not—that is, not in the ordinary sense. I want to tell you something. I have a story to relate, and when it is told I should like to get your verdict on a certain peculiar case—in short, I believe I have got a clue, if only a slight one, to the unravelling of the mystery of my life—you quite understand?"

"Yes, I understand," replied Dr. Rumsey in a gentle voice, "but, my dear lady, I am not a detective."

"Not in the ordinary sense, but surely as far as the complex heart is concerned."

Dr. Rumsey held up his hand.

"We need not go into that," he said.

"No, we will not. May I see you to-morrow for a few minutes?"

The doctor consulted his note-book.

"I cannot see you as a patient," he said, "but as a friend it is possible. Can you be here at eight o'clock to-morrow morning? I breakfast at eight—my breakfast generally occupies ten minutes—that time is at your disposal."

"I will be with you. Thank you a thousand times," she replied.

Her eyes grew bright with exultation. The doctor favored her with a keen glance and moved aside. A few minutes later he found himself in Margaret Awdrey's vicinity. Margaret was now a very beautiful woman. As a girl she had been lovely, but her early matronhood had developed her charms, had added to her stateliness, and had brought out many new and fresh expressions in her mobile and lovely face.

As Rumsey approached her side, she was in the act of taking leave of an old friend of her husband's, who was going away early. The Doctor was therefore able to watch her for a minute without her observing him—then she turned slightly, saw him, flushed vividly, and went eagerly and swiftly to his side.

"Dr. Rumsey," said Margaret, "I know this is not the place to make appointments, but I am anxious to see you on the subject of my husband's health. How soon can you manage——"

"I can make an appointment for to-morrow," he interrupted. "Be with me at half-past one. I can give you half an hour quite undisturbed then."

She did not smile, but her eyes were raised fully to his face. Those dark, deep eyes so full of the noblest emotions which can stir the human soul, looked at him now with a pathos that touched his heart. He moved away to talk to other friends, but the thought of Margaret Awdrey returned to him many times during the ensuing night.