Awdrey laughed.
"Why, she has gone," he said, glancing round. "Who do you think my companion was?" he continued, glancing at Margaret. "None other than an old acquaintance—pretty little Hetty Armitage. She has some other name now, but I forget what it is. She said she came up to town on purpose to see me, but I could not induce her to come to the house. What is the matter, Mrs. Everett?"
"I should like to see Hetty Armitage. Did she give you her address?"
"No, I did not ask her. I wonder why she hurried off so quickly; but she seemed in a queer, excitable state. I don't believe she is well."
"I want to see her again," continued Mrs. Everett. "I may as well say frankly that I am fully convinced there is something queer about that woman—a very little more and I should put a detective on her track. I suspect her. If ever a woman carried a guilty secret she does."
"Oh, come," said Margaret, "you must not allow your prejudices to run away with you. Please remember that Hetty grew up at Grandcourt. My husband and I have known her almost from her birth."
"A giddy little thing, but wonderfully pretty," said Awdrey.
"Well, never mind about her now," interrupted Margaret, a slight touch of impatience in her manner. "Please, Robert, tell me exactly what Dr. Rumsey ordered for you."
"Nothing very alarming," he replied; "the doctor thinks my nerves want tone. No doubt they do, although I feel wonderfully better this morning. He said something about my leaving England for a time and taking a sea voyage. I believe he intends to call round this evening to talk over the scheme. Now, little man, are you ready for your walk?"
"Yes," said the child. He stamped his sturdy feet with impatience. Awdrey took his hand and the two went off in the direction of the Serpentine. Mrs. Everett and Margaret followed slowly in the background.
Awdrey remained out for some time with the boy. The day, which had begun by being mild and spring-like, suddenly changed its character. The wind blew strongly from the north—soon it rose to a gale. Piles of black clouds came up over the horizon and covered the sky, then heavy sleet showers poured down with biting intensity. Awdrey and the child were quite in the open when they were caught by one of these, and before they could reach any shelter they were wet through. They hurried into the first hansom they met, but not before the mischief was done. Awdrey took a chill, and before the evening was over he was shivering violently, huddled up close to the fire. The boy, whose lungs were his weak point, seemed, however, to have escaped without any serious result—he went to bed in his usual high spirits, but his mother thought his pretty baby voice sounded a little hoarse. Early the next morning the nurse called her up; the child had been disturbed in the night by the hoarseness and a croupy sensation in his throat; his eyes were now very bright and he was feverish. The nurse said she did not like the look of the little fellow; he seemed to find it difficult to breathe, and he was altogether very unlike himself.
"I'll send a messenger immediately for Dr. Rumsey," said Margaret.
She returned to her bedroom and awoke her husband, who was in a heavy sleep. At Margaret's first words he started up keen and interested.
"What are you saying, Maggie? The boy—little Arthur—ill?"
"Yes, he seems very ill; I do not like his look at all," she replied. "It is I know, very early, but I think I'll send a messenger round at once to ask Dr. Rumsey to call."
"We ought not to lose a minute," said Awdrey. "I'll go for him myself."
"You!" she exclaimed in surprise. "But do you feel well enough?"
"Of course I do, there's nothing the matter with me."
He sprang out of bed, and rushed off to his dressing-room, hastily put on his clothes, and then went out. As he ran quickly downstairs Margaret detected an almost forgotten quality in his steps.
"Why, he is awake again," she cried. "How strange that this trouble about the child should have power to give him back his old vigorous health!"
Rumsey quickly obeyed Awdrey's summons, and before eight o'clock that morning he was bending over the sick child's cot.
It needed but a keen glance and an application of the stethoscope to tell the doctor that there was grave mischief at work.
"It is a pity I was not sent for last night," he said. Then he moved away from the cot, where the bright eyes of the sick baby were fixing him with a too penetrating stare.
He walked across the large nursery. Awdrey followed him.
"The child is very ill," said the doctor.
"What do you mean?" replied Awdrey. "Very ill—do you infer that the child is in danger?"
"Yes, Awdrey, he is undoubtedly in danger. Double pneumonia has set in. Such a complaint at his tender age cannot but mean very grave danger. I only hope we may pull him through."
"We must pull him through, doctor. Margaret," continued her husband, his face was white as death, "Dr. Rumsey says that the child is in danger."
"Yes," answered Margaret. She was as quiet in her manner as he was excited and troubled. She laid her hand now with great tenderness on his arm. The touch was meant to soothe him, and to assure him of her sympathy. Then she turned her eyes to fix them on the doctor.
"I know you will do what you can," she said. There was suppressed passion in her words.
"Rest assured I will," he answered.
"Of course," cried Awdrey. "Listen to me, Dr. Rumsey, not a stone must be left unturned to pull the child through. You know what his life means to us—to his mother and me. We cannot possibly spare him—he must be saved. Had we not better get other advice immediately?"
"It is not necessary, but you must please yourselves," answered Rumsey. "I am not a specialist as regards lung affections, although this case is perfectly straightforward. If you wish to have a specialist I shall be very glad to consult with Edward Cowley."
"What is his address? I'll go for him at once," said Awdrey.
Dr. Rumsey sat down, wrote a short note and gave it to Awdrey, who hurried off with it.
Dr. Rumsey looked at Mrs. Awdrey after her husband had left the room.
"It is marvellous," he said, "what a change for the better this illness has made in your husband's condition."
Her eyes filled slowly with tears.
"Is his health to be won back at such a price?" she asked—she turned once again to the sick child's bed.
"God grant not," said the doctor—"rest satisfied that what man can do to save him I will do."
"I know that," she replied.
In an hour's time the specialist arrived and the two doctors had their consultation. Certain remedies were prescribed, and Dr. Rumsey hurried away promising to send in two trained nurses immediately. He came back again himself at noon to find the boy, as he expected, much worse. The child was now delirious. All during that long dreadful day the fever rose and rose. The whole aspect of the house in Seymour Street was altered. There were hushed steps, anxious faces, whispered consultations. As the hours flew by the prognostications of the medical men became graver and graver. Margaret gave up hope as the evening approached. She knew that the little life could not long stand the strain of that all-consuming fever. Awdrey alone was full of bustle, excitement, and confidence.
"The child will and must recover," he said to his wife several times. When the night began Dr. Rumsey resolved not to leave the child.
"A man like Rumsey must save him," cried the father. He forgot all about his own nervous symptoms—he refused even to listen to his wife's words of anxiety.
"Pooh!" he said, "when children are ill they are always very bad. I was at death's door once or twice myself as a child. Children are bad one moment and almost themselves the next. Is not that so, doctor?"
"In some cases," replied the doctor.
"Well, in this case? You think the boy will be all right in the morning—come now, your honest opinion."
"My honest opinion is a grave one, Mr. Awdrey."
Awdrey laughed. There was a wild note in his merriment.
"You and Cowley can't be up to much if between you you can't manage to keep the life in a little mite like that," he said.
"The issues of life and death belong to higher than us," answered the doctor slowly.
Awdrey looked at him again, gave an incredulous smile, and went into the sick-room.
During the entire night the father sat up with the boy. The sick child did not know either parent. His voice grew weaker and weaker—the struggle to breathe became greater. When he had strength to speak, he babbled continually of his playthings, of his walk by the Serpentine the previous day, and the little ships as they sailed on the water. Presently he took a fancy into his head that he was in one of the tiny ships, and that he was sailing away from shore. He laughed with feeble pleasure, and tried to clap his burning hands. Toward morning his baby notes were scarcely distinguishable. He dozed off for a little, then woke again, and began to talk—he talked now all the time of his father.
"'Ittle boy 'ove dad," he said. "'Ittle Arthur 'oves dad best of anybody—best of all."
Awdrey managed to retain one of the small hands in his. The child quieted down then, gave him a look of long, unutterable love, and about six in the morning, twenty-four hours after the seizure had declared itself, the little spirit passed away. Awdrey, who was kneeling by the child's cot, still holding his hand, did not know when this happened. There was a sudden bustle round the bed, he raised his head with a start, and looked around him.
"What is the matter? Is he better?" he asked. He looked anxiously at the sunken face of the dead child. He noticed that the hurried breathing had ceased.
"Come away with, me, Robert," said his wife.
"Why so?" he asked. "Do you think I will leave the child?"
"Darling, the child is dead."
Awdrey tottered to his feet.
"Dead!" he cried. "You don't mean it—impossible." He bent over the little body, pulled down the bedclothes, and put his hand to the heart, then bending low he listened intently for any breath to come from the parted lips.
"Dead—no, no," he said again.
"My poor fellow, it is too true," said Dr. Rumsey.
"Then before God," began Awdrey—he stepped back, the words were arrested on his lips, and he fell fainting to the floor.
Dr. Rumsey had him removed to his own room, and with some difficulty the unhappy man was brought back to consciousness. He was now lying on his bed.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"In your room, on your bed. You are better now, dearest," said Margaret. She bent over him, trying valiantly to conceal her own anguish in order to comfort him.
"But what has happened?" he asked. He suddenly sat up. "Why are you here, Rumsey? Margaret, why are your eyes so red?"
Margaret Awdrey tried to speak, but the words would not come to her lips.
Rumsey bent forward and took Awdrey's hand.
"It has pleased Providence to afflict you very sorely, my poor fellow," he said, "but I know for your wife's sake you will be man enough to endure this fearful blow with fortitude."
"What blow, doctor?"
"Your child," began the doctor.
"My child?" said Awdrey. He put his feet on the floor, and stood up. There was a strange note of query in his tone.
"My child?" he repeated. "What child?"
"Your child is dead, Awdrey. We did what we could to save him."
Awdrey uttered a wild laugh.
"Come, this is too much," he exclaimed. "You talk of a child of mine—I, who never had a child. What are you dreaming about?"
CHAPTER XV.
On the evening of that same day Awdrey entered the room where his wife was silently giving way to her bitter anguish. She was quite overcome by her grief—her eyelids were swollen by much weeping, her dress was disarranged, the traces of a sleepless night, and the fearful anguish through which she was passing, were visible on her beautiful face. Awdrey, who had come into the room almost cheerfully, started and stepped back a pace or two when he saw her—he then knit his brows with marked irritation.
"What can be the matter with you, Margaret?" he cried. "I cannot imagine why you are crying in that silly way."
"I'll try not to cry any more, Robert," she answered.
"Yes, but you look in such dreadful distress; I assure you, it affects me most disagreeably, and in my state of nerves!—you know, don't you, that nothing ever annoys me more than weak, womanish tears."
"It is impossible for me to be cheerful to-night," said the wife. "The pain is too great. He was our only child, and such—such a darling."
Awdrey laughed.
"Forgive me, my dear," he said, "I really would not hurt your feelings for the world, but you must know, if you allow your common sense to speak, that we never had a child. It has surely been one of our great trials that no child has been given to us to carry on the old line. My poor Maggie," he went up to her quite tenderly, put his arm round her neck, and kissed her, "you must be very unwell to imagine these sort of things."
She suddenly took the hand which lay on her shoulder between both her own.
"Come with me, Robert," she said, an expression of the most intense despair on all her features, "come, I cannot believe that this blight which has passed over you can be final. I'll take you to the room where the little body of our beautiful child is lying. When you see that sweet face, surely you will remember."
He frowned when she began to speak; now he disengaged his hand from her clasp.
"It would not be right for me to humor you," he said. "You ought to see a doctor, Maggie, for you are really suffering from a strong delusion. If you encourage it it may become fixed, and even assume the proportions of a sort of insanity. Now, my dear wife, try and restrain yourself and listen to me."
She gazed at him with wide-open eyes. As he spoke she had difficulty in believing her own ears. A case like his was indeed new to her. She had never really believed in the tragedy of his house—but now at last the suspected and dreaded blow had truly fallen. Awdrey, like his ancestors before him, was forgetting the grave events of life. Was it possible that he could forget the child, whose life had been the joy of his existence, whose last looks of love had been directed to him, whose last faltering words had breathed his name? Yes, he absolutely forgot all about the child. The stern fact stared her in the face, she could not shut her eyes to it.
"You look at me strangely, Margaret," said Awdrey. "I cannot account for your looks, nor indeed for your actions during the whole of to-day. Now I wish to tell you that I have resolved to carry out Rumsey's advice—he wants me to leave home at once. I spent a night with him—was it last night? I really forget—but anyhow, during that time he had an opportunity of watching my symptoms. You know, don't you, how nervous I am, how full of myself? You know how this inertia steals over me, and envelops me in a sort of cloud. The state of the case is something like this, Maggie; I feel as if a dead hand were pressed against my heart; sometimes I have even a difficulty in breathing, at least in taking a deep breath. It seems to me as if the stupor of death were creeping up my body, gradually day by day, enfeebling all my powers more and more. Rumsey, who quite understands these symptoms, says that they are grave, but not incurable. He suggests that I should leave London and at once. I propose to take the eight o'clock Continental train. Will you come with me?"
"I?" she cried. "I cannot; our child's little body lies upstairs."
"Why will you annoy me by referring to that delusion of yours? You must know how painful it is to listen to you. Will you come, Maggie?"
"I cannot. Under any other circumstances I would gladly, but to-night, no, it is impossible."
"Very well then, I'll go alone. I have just been up in my room packing some things. I cannot possibly say how long I shall be absent—perhaps a few weeks, perhaps a day or two—I must be guided in this matter by my sensations."
"If you come back in a day or two, Robert, I'll try and go abroad with you, if you really think it would do you good," said Margaret.
"I'll see about that," he replied. "I cannot quite tell you what my plans are to-night. Meanwhile I find I shall want more money than I have in the house. Have you any by you?"
"I have twenty-five pounds."
"Give it to me; it will be quite sufficient. I have about fifteen pounds here." He touched his breast-pocket. "If I don't return soon I'll write to you. Now good-by, Maggie. Try and conquer that queer delusion, my dear wife. Remember, the more you think of it, the more it will feed upon itself, until you will find it too strong for you. Good-by, darling."
She threw her arms round his neck.
"I cannot describe what my feelings are at this awful moment," she said. "Is it right for me to let you go alone?"
"Perfectly right, dearest. What possible harm can come to me?" he said with tenderness. He pushed back the rich black hair from her brow as he spoke.
"You love me, Robert?" she cried suddenly—"at least your love for me remains?"
He knit his brows.
"If there is any one I love, it is you," he said, "but I do not know that I love any one—it is this inertia, dearest"—he touched his breast—"it buries love beneath it, it buries all emotion. You are not to blame. If I could conquer it my love for you would be as full, as fresh, and strong as ever. Good-by now. Take care of yourself. If those strange symptoms continue pray consult Dr. Rumsey."
He went out of the room.
Margaret was too stricken and stunned to follow him.
A few days later a child's funeral left the house in Seymour Street. Margaret followed her child to the grave. She then returned home, wondering if she could possibly endure the load which had fallen upon her. The house seemed empty—she did not think anything could ever fill it again. Her own heart was truly empty—she felt as if there were a gap within it which could never by any possibility be closed up again. Since the night after her child's death she had heard nothing from her husband—sometimes she wondered if he were still alive.
Dr. Rumsey tried to reassure her on this point—he did not consider Awdrey the sort of man to commit suicide.
Mrs. Everett came to see Margaret every day during this time of terrible grief, but her excited face, her watchful attitude, proved the reverse of soothing. She was sorry for Margaret, but even in the midst of Margaret's darkest grief she never forgot the mission she had set before herself.
On the morning of the funeral she followed the procession at a little distance. She stood behind the more immediate group of mourners as the body of the beautiful child was laid in his long home. Had his father been like other men, Margaret would never have consented to the child's being buried anywhere except at Grandcourt. Under existing circumstances, however, she had no energy to arrange this.
About an hour after Mrs. Awdrey's return, Mrs. Everett was admitted into her presence.
Margaret was seated listlessly by one of the tables in the drawing-room. A pile of black-edged paper was lying near her—a letter was begun. Heaps of letters of condolence which had poured in lay near. She was endeavoring to answer one, but found the task beyond her strength.
"My poor dear!" said Mrs. Everett. She walked up the long room, and stooping down by Margaret, kissed her.
Margaret mechanically returned her embrace. Mrs. Everett untied her bonnet-strings and sat by her side.
"Don't try to answer those letters yet," she said. "You are really not fit for it. Why don't you have a composing draught and go to bed?"
"I would rather not; the awakening would be too terrible," said Margaret.
"You will knock yourself up and get really ill if you go on like this."
"It does not matter, Mrs. Everett, whether I am ill or well. Nothing matters," said Margaret, in a voice of despair.
"Oh, my poor love, I understand you," said the widow. "I do not know in what words to approach your terribly grieved heart—there is only one thing which I feel impelled to say, and which may possibly at some time comfort you. Your beautiful boy's fate is less tragical than the fate which has fallen upon my only son. When Frank was a little child, Margaret, he had a dreadful illness—I thought he would die. I was frantic, for his father had died not long before. I prayed earnestly to God. I vowed a vow to train the boy in the paths of righteousness, as never boy had been trained before. I vowed to do for Frank what no other mother had ever done, if only God would leave him to me. My prayer was answered, and my child was saved. Think of him now, Margaret. Margaret, think of him now."
"I do," answered Margaret. "I have always felt for you—my heart has always been bitter with grief for you—don't you know it?"
"I do, I do—you have been the soul of all that could be sweet and dear to me. Except Frank himself, I love no one as I love you. Ah!"—Mrs. Everett suddenly started to her feet—the room door had been slowly opened and Awdrey walked in. His face was very pale and more emaciated looking than ever—his eyes were bright, and had sunk into his head.
"Well," he said, with a sort of queer assumption of cheerfulness, "here I am. I came back sooner than I expected. How are you Maggie?" He went up to his wife and kissed her. "How do you do, Mrs. Everett?"
"I am well," said Mrs. Everett. "How are you, are you better?"
"Yes, I am much better—in fact, there is little or nothing the matter with me."
He sat down on a sofa as he spoke and stared at his wife with a puzzled expression between his brows.
"What in the world are you in that heavy black for?" he said suddenly.
"I must wear it," she said. "You cannot ask me to take it off."
"Why should I ask you?" he replied. "Do not excite yourself in that way, Maggie. If you like to look hideous, do so. Black, heavy black, of that sort, does not suit you—and you are absolutely in crêpe—what does all this mean? It irritates me immensely."
"People wear crêpe when those they love die," said Margaret.
"Have you lost a relation?—Who?"
She did not answer. A moment later she left the room.
When she did so Awdrey got up restlessly, walked to the fire and poked it, then he approached the window and looked out. After a time he returned to his seat. Mrs. Everett sat facing him. It was her wont to sit very still—often nothing seemed to move about her except her watchful eyes. To-day she had more than ever the expression of a person who is quietly watching and waiting. Awdrey, inert as he doubtlessly was, seemed to feel her gaze—he looked at her.
"Where have you been, Mr. Awdrey?" she asked gently. "Did you visit the Continent?"
He favored her with a keen, half-suspicious glance.
"No," he said. "I changed my mind about that. I did not wish the water to divide me from my quest. I have been engaged on a most important search."
"And what was that?" she asked gently.
"I have been looking for a stick which I missed some years ago."
"I have heard you mention that before," said Mrs. Everett—the color flushed hotly into her face. "You seem to attribute a great deal of importance to that trifle."
"To me it is no trifle," he replied. "I regard it as a link," he continued slowly, "between me and a past which I have forgotten. When I find that stick I shall remember the past."
As he spoke he rose again and going to the hearth-rug stood with his back to the fire.
At that moment Margaret re-entered the room in white—she was in a soft, flowing, white robe, which covered her from top to toe—it swept about her in graceful folds, and exposed some of the lovely contour of her arms. Her face was nearly as colorless as her dress; only the wealth of thick dark hair, only the sombre eyes, relieved the monotony of her appearance. Awdrey gave her a smile and a look of approval.
"Come here," he said: "now you are good—how sweet you look. Your appearance makes me recall, recall——" He pressed his hand to his forehead. "I remember now," he said; "I recall the day we were engaged—don't you remember it?—the picnic on Salisbury Plain; you were all in white then, too, and you wore somewhat the same intense expression in your eyes. Margaret, you are a beautiful woman."
She stood close to him—he did not offer to kiss her, but he laid one emaciated hand on her shoulder and looked earnestly into her face.
"You are very beautiful," he said; "I wonder I do not love you." He sighed heavily, and removed his gaze to look intently into the fire.
Mrs. Everett rose.
"I'll come again soon," she said to Margaret. Margaret took no notice of her, nor did Awdrey see when she left the room.
After a moment Margaret went up to her husband and touched him.
"You must have something to eat," she said. "It is probably a long time since you had a proper meal."
"I don't remember," he replied, "but I am not hungry. By the way, Maggie, I recall now what I came back for." His eyes, which seemed to be lit from within, became suddenly full of excitement.
"Yes," she said as gently as she could.
"I came back because I wanted you."
Her eyes brightened.
"I wanted you to come with me. I do not care to be alone, and I am anxious to leave London again to-night."
Before Margaret could reply the butler threw open the door and announced Dr. Rumsey. The doctor came quickly forward.
"I am glad you have returned, Awdrey," he said, holding out his hand as he spoke. "I called to inquire for your wife, and the man told me you were upstairs."
"Yes, and I am better," said Awdrey. "I came back because I thought perhaps Margaret—but by the way, why should I speak so much about myself? My wife was not well when I left her. I hope, doctor, that she consulted you, and that she is now much better."
"Considering all things, Mrs. Awdrey is fairly well," said Rumsey.
"And she has quite got over that delusion?"
"Quite." The doctor's voice was full of decision.
Margaret shuddered and turned away.
Rumsey seated himself at a little distance from the fire, but Awdrey remained standing. He stood in such a position that the doctor could get a perfect view of him. Rumsey did not fail to avail himself of so excellent a moment for studying this queer case. He observed the wasted face of his patient; the unnaturally large and bright eyes; the lips which used to be firm as a line, and which gave considerable character to the face, but which had now become loose and had a habit of drooping slightly open; the brows, too, worked at times spasmodically, and the really noble forehead, which in old times betokened intelligence to a marked degree, was now furrowed with many lines. While Rumsey watched he also made up his mind.
"I must tear the veil from that man's eyes at any cost," he said to himself. He gave Margaret a glance and she left the room. The moment she did so the doctor stood up.
"I am glad you have returned," he said.
"How strange of you to say that," answered Awdrey. "Do you not remember you were the man who ordered me away?"
"I do remember that fact perfectly, but since I gave you that prescription a very marked change has taken place in your condition."
"Do you think me worse?"
"In one sense you are."
Awdrey laughed.
"How queer that you should say that," he said, "for to tell you the truth, I really feel better; I am not quite so troubled by inertia."
"I must be frank with you, Awdrey. I consider you very ill."
Awdrey started when Rumsey said this.
"Pray speak out, doctor, I dislike riddles," he replied.
"I mean to speak out very plainly. Awdrey, my poor fellow, I am obliged to remind you of the strange history of your house."
"What do you mean?" said Awdrey—"the history of my house?" he continued; "there is a psychological history, which I dislike to think of; is it to that you refer?"
"Yes, I refer to the queer condition of brain which men of your house have inherited for several generations. It is a queer doom; I am forced to say it is an awful doom. Robert Awdrey, it has fallen upon you."
"I thought as much," said Awdrey, "but you never would believe it before."
"I had not cause to believe it before. Now I fully believe it. That lapse of memory, which is one of its remarkable symptoms, has taken place in your case. You have forgotten a very important fact in your life."
"Ah, you are wrong there," said Awdrey. "I certainly have forgotten my walking-stick. I know well that I am a queer fellow. I know too that at times my condition is the reverse of satisfactory, but with this one exception I have never forgotten anything of the least consequence. Don't you remember telling me that the lapse of memory was not of any moment?"
"It was not, but you have forgotten something else, Awdrey, and it is my duty now to remind you of it."
"I have forgotten?" began Awdrey. "Well, speak."
"You had a child—a beautiful child."
Awdrey interrupted with a laugh.
"I do declare you have got that delusion, too," he said. "I tell you, Dr. Rumsey, I never had a child."
"Your child is no longer with you, but you had a child. He lived for four years but is now dead. This very afternoon he was laid in his grave. He was a beautiful child—more lovely than most. He died after twenty-four hours' illness. His mother is broken-hearted over his loss, but you, his father, have forgotten all about it. Here is the picture of your child—come to the light and look at it."
Rumsey strode up to a table as he spoke, lifted a large photograph from a stand, and held it before Awdrey's eyes.
Awdrey favoured it with a careless glance.
"I do not know that face," he said. "How did the photograph get here? Is Margaret's delusion really so bad? Does she imagine for a moment that the little boy represented in that picture has ever had anything to do with us?"
"The photograph is a photograph of your son," repeated Rumsey, in a slow, emphatic voice. As he spoke he laid the picture back again on its ebony stand. "Awdrey," he continued, "I cannot expect impossibilities—I cannot expect you to remember what you have absolutely forgotten, but it is my duty to tell you frankly that this condition of things, if not immediately arrested, will lead to complete atrophy of your mental system, and you, in short, will not long survive it. You told me once very graphically that you were a man who carried about with you a dead soul. I did not believe you then. Now I believe that nothing in your own description of your case has been exaggerated. In some way, Awdrey, you must get back your memory."
"How?" asked Awdrey. He was impressed in spite of himself.
"Whether you remember or not, you must act as though you remembered. You now think that you never had a child. It is your duty to act as if you had one."
Awdrey shrugged his shoulders.
"That is impossible," he said.
"It is not. Weak as your will now is, it is not yet so inert that you cannot bring it to bear upon the matter. I observe that Mrs. Awdrey has taken off her mourning. She must put it on again. It would be the height of all that is heartless for her to go about now without showing proper respect to your beautiful child. You also, Awdrey, must wear mourning. You must allow your wife to speak of the child. In short, even though you have no belief, you must allow those who are in a healthy mental condition to act for you in this matter. By doing so you may possibly arrest the malady."
"I see what you mean," said Awdrey, "but I do not know how it is possible for me to act on your suggestions."
"For your wife's sake you must try, and also because it is necessary that you should show respect to the dead heir of your house."
"Then I am to put a band on my hat and all that sort of thing?"
"Yes."
"It is a trifle, doctor. If you and Margaret wish it, I cannot reasonably refuse. To come back to myself, however, you consider that I am quite doomed?"
"Not quite yet, although your case is a bad one. I believe you can be saved if only you will exert yourself."
"Do wishes go for anything in a case like mine?"
"Assuredly. To hear you express a wish is a capital sign. What do you want to do?"
"I have a strange wish to go down to the Court. I feel as if something or some one, whether angel or demon I do not know, were drawing me there. I have wished to be at the Court for some days. I thought at first of taking Margaret with me."
"Do so. She would be glad to accompany you. She is a wife in a thousand."
"But on second thoughts," continued Awdrey, "if I am obliged to listen to her bitter distress over the death of a child who never, as far as I can recall, existed, I should prefer not having her."
"Very well then, go alone."
"I cannot go alone. In the condition which I am now in, a complete vacuum in all my thoughts may occur, and long before I reach the Court I may forget where I am going."
"That is possible."
"Then, Rumsey, will you come with me?"
The doctor thought a moment. "I'll go with you this evening," he said, "but I must return to town early to-morrow."
"Thanks," said Awdrey. "I'll ring the bell. We shall be in time, if we start at once, to catch the five o'clock train."
"Remember, Awdrey, that I shall treat you as the child's father. You will find all your tenantry in a state of poignant grief. That dear little fellow was much loved."
Awdrey pursed up his lips as if he would whistle. A smile dawned in his eyes and vanished.
CHAPTER XVI.
At a late hour that evening Rumsey and his patient arrived at Grandcourt. A telegram had been sent to announce their visit, and all was in readiness for their reception. The old butler, Hawkins, who had lived in the family for nearly fifty years, came slowly down the steps to greet his master. Hawkins' face was pale, and his eyes dim, as if he had been indulging in silent tears. He was very much attached to little Arthur. Awdrey gave him a careless nod.
"I hope all is in readiness, Hawkins," he said, "I have brought my friend, Dr. Rumsey, with me; we should like supper—has it been prepared?"
"Yes, Mr. Robert—I beg your pardon, Squire—all is in readiness in the library."
"We'll go there after we have washed our hands," said Awdrey. "What room have you got ready for Dr. Rumsey?"
"The yellow room, Squire, in the west wing."
"That will do nicely. Rumsey, you and I will inhabit the same wing to-night. I suppose I am to sleep in the room I always occupy, eh, Hawkins?"
"Yes, sir; Mrs. Burnett, the housekeeper, thought you would wish that."
"It does not matter in the least where I sleep; now order up supper, we shall be down directly. Follow me, doctor, will you?"
Dr. Rumsey followed Awdrey to the west wing. A few moments later the two men were seated before a cheerful meal in the library—a large fire burned in the huge grate, logs had been piled on, and the friendly blaze and the fragrance of the wood filled the room. The supper table was drawn into the neighborhood of the fire, and Awdrey lifted the cover from the dish which was placed before him with a look of appetite on his face.
"I am really hungry," he said—"we will have some champagne—Hawkins, take some from"—he named a certain bin. The man retired, coming back presently with some dusty-looking bottles. The cork was quickly removed from one, and the butler began to fill the glasses.
Supper came to an end. Hawkins brought in pipes and tobacco, and the two men sat before the fire. Awdrey, who had taken from two to three glasses of champagne, was beginning to feel a little drowsy, but Rumsey talked in his usual pleasant fashion. Awdrey replied by fits and starts; once he nodded and half fell asleep in his chair.
"You are sleepy," said Rumsey suddenly; "if you go to bed now you may have a really good night, which will do wonders for you—what do you say?"
"That I am quite agreeable," said Awdrey, rising as he spoke—"but is it not too early for you, doctor?"
"Not at all—an undisturbed night will be a treat to me."
"Well, then, I'll take you to your room."
They went upstairs together, and a moment later Rumsey found himself in the palatial chamber which had been prepared for him. He was not really sleepy and decided to sit up for a little. A fire burned in the grate, some books lay about—he drew his easy-chair forward and taking up a volume of light literature prepared to dip into it—he found that it was Stevenson's "Treasure Island," a book which he had not yet happened to read; the story interested him, and he read on for some time. Presently he closed the book, and laying his head against the cushion of the chair dropped fast asleep.
The events of the day made him dream; all his dreams were about his queer patient. He thought that he had followed Awdrey on to the Plain—that Awdrey's excitement grew worse and worse, until the last lingering doubt was solved, and the man was in very truth absolutely insane.
In the midst of his dream the doctor was awakened by a hand being laid on his shoulder—he started up suddenly—Awdrey, half-dressed and looking ghastly pale, stood before him.
"What is it?" said Rumsey. "Do you want anything?"
"I want you," said Awdrey. "Will you come with me?"
"Certainly—where am I to go? Why are you not in bed?"
Awdrey uttered a hollow laugh. There was a ring of horror in it.
"You could not sleep if you were me," he said. "Will you come with me now, at once?"
"In a moment or two when you are better—sit down, won't you—here, take my chair—where do you want me to go?"
"Out with me, doctor—out of doors. I want you to accompany me on to the Plain."
"All right, my dear fellow—but just allow me to get on my boots."
The doctor retired to a back part of the room to change his house shoes. While he was doing so, Awdrey sank down on a chair and laid his hands on his knees, took no notice of Rumsey, but stared straight before him into the centre of the room.
"I wish you'd be quick, doctor," he said at last. "I don't want to go alone, but I must follow it."
"Follow what?" said Rumsey.
"It—the queer vision—I have told you of it before."
"Oh, yes, that bad dream you are subject to. Well, I am at your service now."
Awdrey rose slowly. He pointed with one of his hands.
"Do you see that?" he said suddenly.
Rumsey following the direction of his eyes perceived that he was staring into the part of the room which was in deepest shadow.
"I see nothing, Awdrey," he replied in a kind and soothing voice, "but I perceive by your manner that you do. What is it?"
"I wonder you cannot see it," replied Awdrey; "it is plain, too plain—it seems to fill all that part of the room."
"The old thing?" asked the doctor.
"Yes, the old thing but with a certain difference. There is the immense globe of light and the picture in the middle."
"The old picture, Awdrey?"
"Yes, yes, but with a difference. The two men are fighting. As a rule they stand motionless in the picture, but to-night they seem to have come alive—they struggle, they struggle hard; one stands with his back to me. The face of the other I can recognize distinctly. It is the face of that young fellow who stayed a few years ago at the inn in our village. Ah! yes, of course, I know his name, Frere—Horace Frere. He has met some one on Salisbury Plain. It is night; the moon is hidden behind clouds. Ha! now it comes out. Now I can see them distinctly. Dr. Rumsey, don't you hear the blows? I do. They seem to beat on my brain. That man who stands with his back to us carries my stick in his hand. I know it is mine, for the whole thing is so intensely plain that I can even see the silver tablet on which my name is engraved. My God! the man also wears my clothes. I would give all that I possess to see his face. Let us get on the Plain as fast as we can. I may be able to see the reverse side of the picture from there. Come with me, come at once."
"Poor fellow! matters get worse and worse," thought the doctor. "Well, I must see this thing out."
Aloud he said:
"How soon did this vision come to torment you to-night?"
Awdrey rubbed his eyes.
"At first when I went to my room I was sleepy," he said. "I began to take off my things. Then I saw a globe of light in the further end of the room. At first it was merely light with no picture in the centre. Then faint shadows began to appear, and by slow degrees the perfect and intensely clear picture which I am now looking at became visible. I stared at it quite motionless for a time. I was absorbed by the deepest interest. Then a mad longing to see the face of the man who stands with his back to us, came over me. I walked about the room trying hard to get even a side view of him, but wherever I went he turned so as to keep his face away; wherever I went the face of Frere was the only one I could see. Then in a sort of despair, almost maddened in fact, I rushed from the room.
"Did you not leave the vision behind you?"
"Not I—it went straight in front of me. When I reached your room and opened the door it came in before me. I know now what I must do. I have been always standing more or less to the right of the picture. I must get to the left. I am going to follow it on to the Plain—I am going to trace it to the exact spot where that murder was committed. Will you come with me?"
"Yes, only first you must return to your room, and get into the rest of your clothes. At present you are without a coat."
"Am I? And yet I burn with heat. Well, I'll do what you want. I will do anything which gives me a chance of seeing that man's face."
A few moments later Rumsey and his patient found themselves in the white moonlight of the outer world. Awdrey was now quite silent, but Rumsey noticed that his footsteps faltered once or twice, and that he often paused as if to get his breath. He appeared to be like a man in a frantic hurry; he gazed straight before him, as if he were looking intently at one fixed object.
"It goes before me, and guides me to the spot," he said at last, in a choking voice. He panted more violently than ever. Heavy sighs came from him—these seemed to be wrung from his very heart.
In about ten minutes the men got upon the borders of the Plain. Awdrey then turned abruptly to his left; each moment he walked faster and faster; the doctor had now almost to run to keep up with him. At last they reached the rise of ground. A great clump of alder-trees stood to the left; at the right, a little way off, was a dense belt of undergrowth. On the rising ground itself was short grass and no other vegetation. A little way off, nearly one hundred feet lower down, was a pond. The light of the moon was fully reflected here; across the smooth surface of the pond was a clear path as if of silver. When they reached the brow of this slight elevation, Awdrey stood still.
"There—it was done there," he said, pointing with his finger. "See, the picture does not move any more, but settles down upon the ground. Now we shall see the whole thing. Good God, Rumsey, fancy looking at a murder which was committed five years ago! It is going on there now all over again. There stand the two men life-size. Can't we stop them? Can we do nothing?"
"No, it is only a vision," said the doctor; "but tell me exactly what you see."
"It is too marvellous," said Awdrey. "The men move, and I hear the sound of the blows. It is extraordinary how that fellow keeps his back to me. I can't see his face if I stand here. Come, let us go downhill—if we get near the pond we can look up, and I shall get a view of him in another position."
"Come," said Rumsey. He took Awdrey's arm, and they went down the slope of ground until they almost reached the borders of the pond.
"Now is it any better?" asked the doctor. "Can you see the man's face now?"
"No, he has turned; he still keeps his back to me, the scoundrel. But oh, for God's sake see—he fights harder than ever. Ha! He has thrown Horace Frere to the ground. Now Frere is up—what a strong chap he is! Now the other man is down. No, he has risen again. Now they both stand and fight, and—Dr. Rumsey, did you see that? The man with his back to us uses his stick, straight in front of him like a bayonet, and—oh, my God!"
Awdrey covered his face with his shaking hands. In a moment he looked up again.
"Can't you see for yourself?" he cried. "Frere is on his back—in my opinion he is dead. What has happened?"
Awdrey swayed from side to side. His excitement was so intense that he would have fallen if Dr. Rumsey had not caught him. The night was a chilly one, but the terrified and stricken man was bathed in perspiration.
"Come, Awdrey, you have told me everything, and it is fully time to return home," said the doctor.
"I vow I won't go back until I see that man's face, Dr. Rumsey. What name did they give him at the trial? Frank—Frank Everett—was he the man convicted of the murder?"
"Yes, of course, you must remember that—he is serving his time now in Portland."
Awdrey faced round suddenly, and looked into the doctor's eyes.
"It is all a mistake then," he said, in a queer sort of whisper. "I swear that before God. I saw Everett once—he was a thickly made man—that fellow is slighter, taller, younger. He carries my stick and wears my clothes. Why in the name of Heaven can't I see his face? What are you saying, doctor?"
"Only that I must take you home, my good fellow. You are my patient, and I cannot permit this excitement any longer."
"But the murder is still going on. Can't you see the whole thing for yourself? That fellow with his back to us is the murderer. He uses his stick as a bayonet. What did I once hear about that? Oh that I could remember! There is a cloud before my mind—oh, God in Heaven, that I could rend it! Do not speak to me for a moment, doctor, I am struggling with a memory."
Awdrey flung himself on the ground—he pressed his hands before his eyes—he looked like a demented man. Suddenly he sprang to his feet.
"I have it," he said with a laugh, which sounded hollow. "If I look in the pond I shall see the man's face. His face must be reflected in it. Stay where you are, doctor, I'll be back with you in a minute. I am getting at it—light is coming—it is all returning to me. He uses his stick as a bayonet, prodding him in the mouth. Old, old—what am I saying?—who told me that long ago? Yes I shall see his face in the pond."
Awdrey ran wildly to the edge of the water. He paused just where the silver light fell full across the dark pond. Rumsey followed him in hot haste. He knew that his patient was in the condition when he might leap into the pond at any moment.
Catching on to an alder-tree, Awdrey now bent forward until he caught the reflection in the water—he slid down on his knees to examine it more carefully.
"Take care, Awdrey, you'll slip in if you are not careful," cried Rumsey.
Awdrey was silent for a moment—his own reflection greeted him—he looked straight down at his own face and figure. Suddenly he rose to his feet: a long shiver ran through his frame. He went up to Rumsey with a queer unsteady laugh.
"I have seen the man's face," he said.
"It was your own face, my dear fellow," said the doctor. "I saw it reflected distinctly in the water."
"I am satisfied," said Awdrey, in a changed and yet steady voice. "We can go home now."
"Well, have you really seen what you wanted to see? Who was the murderer?"
"Frank Everett, who is serving his time in Portland prison. Dr. Rumsey, I believe I have been the victim of the most horrible form of nightmare which ever visited living man. Anyhow it has vanished—the vision has completely disappeared."
"I am glad to hear you say so, Awdrey."
"I do not see it any longer—I know what I wanted to know. Let us go back to the Court."
CHAPTER XVII.
"Well, Het, what do you say to a bit o' news that'll wake you up?" said Farmer Vincent one fine morning in the month of May to his young wife.
Hetty was in her dairy with her sleeves turned up busily skimming cream. She turned as her husband spoke and looked up into his face. He was a roughly built man on a huge scale. He chucked her playfully under the chin.
"There are to be all kinds of doings," he said. "I've just been down to the village and the whole place is agog. What do you say to an election, and who do you think is to be put up for the vacant seat?"
"I don't know much about elections, George," said Hetty, turning again to her cream. "If that's all it won't interest me."
"Ay, but 'tain't all—there's more behind it."
"Well, do speak out and tell the news. I'm going down to see aunt presently."
"I wonder how many days you let pass without being off to see that aunt of yours," said the farmer, frowning perceptibly. "Well, then, the news is this. Squire and Mrs. Awdrey and a lot of company with them came back to the Court this evening. Squire and Madam have been in foreign parts all the winter, and they say that Squire's as well as ever a man was, and he and madam mean to live at the Court in future. Why, you have turned white, lass! What a lot you think of those grand folks!"
"No, I don't, George, not more than anybody ought. Of course I'm fond of Squire, seeing I know him since he was a little kid—and we was always great, me and mine, for holding on to the Family."
"I've nothing to say agin' the Fam'ly," said farmer Vincent, "and for my part," he continued, "I'm glad Squire is coming to live here. I don't hold with absentee landlords, that I don't. There are many things I'll get him to do for me on the farm. I can't move Johnson, the bailiff, one bit, but when Squire's to home 'twill be another matter. Then he's going to stand for Grandcourt. He's quite safe to be returned. So, Het, what with an election and the Fam'ly back again at the Court, there'll be gay doings this summer, or I'm much mistook."
"To be sure there will," said Hetty. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket as she spoke and wiped some moisture from her brow.
"You don't look too well, my girl. Now don't you go and overdo things this morning—the weather is powerful hot for the time o' year, and you never can stand heat. I thought it 'ud cheer you up to tell you about Squire, for any one can see with half an eye that you are as proud of him and the Fam'ly as woman can be."
"I'm very glad to hear your news, George," replied Hetty. "Now if you won't keep me any longer I'll make you some plum duff for dinner."
"That's a good girl—you know my weakness."
The man went up to her where she stood, and put one of his great arms round her neck.
"Look at me, Hetty," he said.
"What is it, George?" She raised her full, dark eyes.
He gazed down into their depths, anxiously.
"Are you a bit better, lass?" he asked, a tender intonation in his gruff voice. "Pain in the side any less bad?"
"Yes, George, I feel much better."
"Well, I'm glad of that," he said slowly. "Now you look well at me. Don't you take your eyes off me while I'm a-speaking. I've been counting the days. I mark 'em down on the back of the fowl-house door with a bit of chalk; and it's forty days and more since you gave me the least little peck of a kiss, even. Do you think you could give me one now?"
She raised her lips, slowly. He could not but perceive her unwillingness, and a wave of crimson swept up over his face.
"I don't want that sort," he said, flinging his arm away and moving a step or two back from her. "There, I ain't angry; I ain't no call to be angry; you were honest with me afore we wed. You said plain as girl could speak, 'I ain't got the least bit of love for you, George,' and I took you at your word; but sometimes, Het, it seems as if it 'ud half kill me, for I love you better every day and every hour."
"I know you're as good a fellow as ever breathed," said Hetty; "and I like you even though I don't love you. I'll try hard to be a good wife to you, George, I will truly."
"You're main pleased about Squire, I take it?"
"I am main pleased."
"'Tw'ere a pity the little chap were took so sudden-like."
"I s'pose so," said Hetty.
"You are a queer girl, Hetty. I never seed a woman less fond o' children than you."
"Well, I ain't got any of my own, you understand," said Hetty.
"I understand." The farmer uttered a huge laugh. "I guess I do," he said. "I wish to God you had a child, Hetty; maybe you'd love it, and love its father for its sake."
With a heavy sigh the man turned and left the dairy.
The moment she found herself alone, Hetty flew to the door and locked it. Then standing in the middle of the spotless room she pressed her two hands wildly to her brow.
"He's coming back," she said aloud; "back to live here; he'll be within a mile of me to-night. Any day or any hour I may see him. He's coming back to live. What do folks mean by saying he is well? If he is well, does he remember? And if he remembers—oh, my God, I shall go mad if I think much of that any longer! Squire back again at the Court and me here, and I knowing what I know, and Aunt Fanny knowing what she knows! I must go and speak to aunt to-day. To-night, too, so soon; he'll be back to-night. My head is giddy with the thought. What does it all mean? Is he really well, and does he remember? Oh, this awful pain in my side! I vowed I'd not take another drop of the black medicine; but there's nothing else keeps me steady."
Glancing furtively behind her, although there was not a soul in sight, Hetty opened a cupboard in the wall. From a back recess she produced a small bottle; it was half full of a dark liquid. Taking up a spoon which lay near she poured some drops into it, and adding a little water, drank it off. She then put the bottle carefully back into its place, locked the cupboard, and slipped the key into her pocket.
"In a minute, dreams will come, and I'll be much better," she said to herself. "It seems as if I could bear anything a'most after I'd taken a little of that black stuff; it's a sight better than gin, and I know what I'm doing all the time. I'll go and see aunt the minute I've swallowed my dinner; but now I must hurry to make the plum duff for George."
She ran briskly off to attend to her numerous duties. She was now bright and merry; the look of gloom and depression had completely left her face; her eyes shone with a contented and happy light. As she bustled about her kitchen opening and shutting her oven, and filling up the different pots, which were necessary for cooking the dinner, with hot water, her white teeth gleamed, and smiles came and went over her face.
"To think of Aunt Fanny's toothache mixture doing this for me," she said to herself. "Aunt Fanny 'ud put a bit on cotton wool and put it into the hole of her tooth, and the pain 'ud be gone in a jiffy; and now I swallow a few drops, and somehow it touches my heart, and my pain goes. Aunt Fanny wonders where her toothache cure is; she ain't likely to hear from me. Oh, it's quite wonderful how contented it makes me feel!"
Hetty was a good housewife, and there was nothing slatternly nor disorderly about her kitchen.
The dinner, smoking hot and comfortable, was upon the table when Vincent came in at twelve o'clock to partake of it. There was a great piece of bacon and some boiled beans. These were immediately followed by the plum duff. The farmer ate heartily, and Hetty piled up his plate whenever it was empty.
"You scarcely take a pick yourself, little girl," he said, seizing one of her hands as she passed and squeezing it affectionately.
"I ain't hungry, George."
"Excited 'bout Squire, I guess."
"Well, p'raps I am a bit; you don't mind if I go and talk it all over with aunt?"
"That I don't; when you smile at me so cheerful like that there's nought I wouldn't give yer. Now you look here, Griffiths, the steward, is going to get up a sort of display at the Court, and the villagers are going; there is talk of a supper afterward in the barns, but that may or may not be. What do you say to you and me going into the avenue and seeing Squire and Madam drive in. What do you say, Het?"
"Oh, George, I'd like it."
"You would not think of giving a body a kiss for it, eh?"
"Yes, that I would."
She ran behind him, flung her soft arms round his neck, and pressed a kiss against his cheek just above his whiskers.
"That won't do," he said. "I won't take yer for that—I must have it on my lips."
She gave him a shy peck something like a robin. He caught her suddenly in his arms, squeezed her to his heart, and kissed her over and over again.
"I love thee more than words can say," he cried. "I am mad to get your love in return. Will the day ever come, Het?"
"I don't know, George; I'd like to say so to please you, but I can't tell a lie about a thing like that."
"To be sure, you can't," he said, rising as he spoke. "You'd soon be found out."
"I'd like well to love you," she continued, "for you're good to me; but now I must be off to see Aunt Fanny."
Vincent left the kitchen, and Hetty hurried to her room to dress herself trimly. Ten minutes later she was on her way to the village.
The pretty little place already wore a festive air. Bunting had been hung across the streets, flags were flying gayly from many upper windows. The shop-keepers stood at their doors chatting to one another; several of them nodded to Hetty as she passed by.
"That you, Hetty Vincent?" called out one woman. "You've heard the news, I guess."
"Yes, about Squire and Madam," said Hetty.
"It has come unexpected," said the woman. "We didn't know until this morning that Squire was to be back to-night. Mr. Griffiths got the letter by the first post, and he's been nearly off his head since; there ain't a man in the village though that hasn't turned to help him with a will, and there are to be bonfires and all the rest. They say Squire and Madam are to live at the Court now. Pity the poor child went off so sudden. He were a main fine little chap; pity he ain't there to return home with his father and mother. You look better, Hetty Vincent—not so peaky like. Pain in the side less?"
"Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't," answered Hetty; "it's much better to-day. I can't stay talking any longer though, Mrs. Martin, for I want to catch Aunt Fanny."
"Well, you'll find her at home, but as busy as a bee, the whole place is flocking to the inn to learn the latest news. We're a-going up to the Court presently to welcome 'em home. You and your good man will come, too, eh, Hetty?"
"Yes, for sure," answered Hetty. She continued her walk up the village street.
Mrs. Armitage was cooling herself in the porch of the little inn when she saw her niece approaching.
Hetty hurried her steps, and came panting to her side.
"Aunt Fanny, is it true?" she gasped.
"True? Yes, child, it's true," said Mrs. Armitage. "They're coming home. You come along in and stand in the shelter, Hetty. Seems to me you grow thinner and thinner."
"Oh, aunt, never mind about my looks just now; have you heard anything else? How is he?"
Mrs. Armitage looked behind her and lowered her voice.
"They do say that Squire's as well as ever he wor," she remarked. "Why, he's going to stand for Grandcourt. In one way that's as it should be. We always had Awdreys in the House—we like to be represented by our own folk."
"Will any one oppose him?" asked Hetty.
"How am I to say? there's nothing known at present. He is to be nominated to-morrow; and that's what's bringing 'em home in double quick time."
"Are you going to the Court to-night, aunt?"
"I thought I'd run round for an hour just to see the carriage roll by, and get a glimpse of Squire and Madam, but I must hurry back, for there'll be a lot to be done here."
"Shall I come and help you and uncle to-night?"
Mrs. Armitage looked her niece all over.
"That's a good thought," she said, "if your man will spare you."
"Oh, I can ask him; I don't think he'll refuse."
"Well, you're spry enough with your fingers and legs when you like. I can't stay out here talking any more, Het."
Hetty came up close to her aunt, and lowered her voice to a whisper.
"Aunt Fanny," she said, "one word afore you goes in—Do you think it is safe, him coming back like this?"
"Safe," echoed the elder woman in a tone hoarse with a queer mixture of crossness and undefined fear. "Squire's safe enough ef you can keep things to yourself."
"Me?" echoed Hetty. "Do you think I can't hold my tongue?"
"Your tongue may be silent, but there are other ways of letting out a secret. Ef ever there was a tell-tale face yours is one. You're the terror of my life with your aches and your pains, and your startings, as if you saw a shadow behind yer all the time. It's a good thing you don't live in the village. As to Vincent, pore man, he's as blind as a bat; he don't see, or he won't see, what's staring him in the face."
"For God's sake, Aunt Fanny, what do you mean?"
"I mean this, girl. Vincent's wife carries a secret, and she loves one she ought not to love."
"Oh! Aunt Fanny, you rend my heart when you talk like that."
"I won't again," said Mrs. Armitage, "but I had to speak out when you came to-day. It was my opportunity, and I had to take it. Queer stories will be spread ef you ain't very careful. You've nought to do with the Squire, Hetty. Go and see him to-night with the rest of 'em, and then be satisfied. You keep quiet at the farm now he's at the Court; don't you be seen a-talking to him or a-follerin' him about."
"I won't, I won't."
"Well, I thought I'd warn yer—now I must get back to my work."
"One minute first, aunt—you know there ain't a soul I can speak to but you, and I'm near mad with the weight of my secret at times."
"You should take it quiet, girl—you fret o'er much. I really must leave you, Hetty; there's your uncle calling out to me."
"One minute—you must answer my question first."
"Well, well—what a girl you are! I'm glad you ain't my niece. Coming, Armitage. Now, Hetty, be quick. My man's temper ain't what it wor and I daren't cross 'im. Now what is it you want to say?"
"It's this Aunt Fanny. Ef Mr. Robert is quite well—as well as ever he wor in his life—do you think he remembers?"
"Not he. He'll never remember again. They never do."
"But, aunt, they never get well, either."
"That's true enough."
"And they say he's quite well—as well as ever he was in all his life."
"Well, Hetty I can say no more. We'll see to-night—you and me. You keep alongside of me in the avenue, and when he passes by in the carriage we'll look at him straight in the face and we'll soon know. You noticed, didn't you, how queer his eyes got since that dark night. It'll be fully light when they drive up to the Court, and you and me we'll look at him straight in the face and we'll know the worst then."
"Yes, Aunt Fanny. Yes, I'll keep close to you."
"Do, girl. Now I must be off. You can sit in the porch awhile and rest yourself. Coming, Armitage."
Hetty stayed down at the inn through the remainder of the day.
In the course of the evening Vincent strode in. She was in the humor to be sweet to him, and he was in high spirits at her unwonted words and looks of affection.
The village presented a gayer and gayer spectacle as the hours went by. High good humor was the order of the day. Squire and Madam were returning. Things must go well in the future.
Griffiths was seen riding up and down altering the plan of the decorations, giving orders in a stentorian voice. At last the time came when the villagers were to assemble, some of them outside their houses, some along the short bit of road which divided the village from the Court, some to line the avenue up to the Court itself.
Hetty and Mrs. Armitage managed to keep together. George Vincent and Armitage preceded them at a little distance. They walked solemnly through the village street, Armitage pleased but anxious to return to the inn, Vincent thinking of Hetty, and vaguely wondering by what subtle means he could get her to love him, Hetty and Mrs. Armitage weighed down by the secret which had taken the sunshine out of both their lives. They made straight for the avenue, and presently stationed themselves just on the brow of a rising slope which commanded a view of the gates on one side and of the Court itself on the other.