What he suffers in these intervals no words of mine can tell. On his death-bed you are to see him--not before; and then you shall be told the story of your mother"s death. No, Victor, spare me now--all I can tell you I have told. I return home by the noon-day train; and, before I go, I should like to see this girl who is to be your wife. See, I will remain by this window, screened by the curtain. Can you not fetch her by some pretence or other beneath it, that I may look and judge for myself?"
"I can try," he said, turning to go. "I have your consent to tell her my father is alive? I will tell her no more--it is not necessary she should know _you_ are his keeper."
"That much you may tell her--it is her right. When I have seen her, come to me and say good-by."
"I shall not say good-by until I say it at Chester Station. Of course, I shall see you off. Wait here; if Edith is able to come out you shall see her. She kept her room this morning with headache."
He left her, half-dazed with what he had heard. He went to the drawing-room--the Stuarts and Captain Hammond were there--not Edith.
"Has Edith come down?" he asked. "I wish to speak to her for a moment."
"Edith is prowling about in the rain, somewhere, like an uneasy ghost,"
answered Trixy; "no doubt wet feet, and discomfort, and dampness generally are cures for headache; or, perhaps, she"s looking for _you_."
He hardly waited to hear her out before he started in pursuit. As if favored by fortune, he caught a glimpse of Edith"s purple dress among the trees in the distance. She had no umbrella, and was wandering about pale and listless in the rain.
"Edith," Sir Victor exclaimed, "out in all this downpour without an umbrella? You will get your death of cold."
"I never take cold," she answered indifferently. "I always liked to run out in the rain ever since I was a child. I must be an amphibious sort of animal, I think. Besides, the damp air helps my headache."
He drew her hand within his arm and led her slowly in the direction of the window where the watcher stood.
"Edith," he began abruptly, "I have news for you. To call it bad news would sound inhuman, and yet it has half-stunned me. It is this--my father is alive."
"Sir Victor!"
"Alive, Edith--hopelessly insane, but alive. That is the news Lady Helena and one other, have told me this morning. It has stunned me; I repeat--is it any wonder? All those years I have thought him dead, and to-day I discover that from first to last I have been deceived."
She stood mute with surprise. His father alive--madness in the family.
Truly it would have been difficult for Sir Victor or any one else to call this good news. They were directly beneath the window. He glanced up--yes, a pale face gleamed from behind the curtain, gazing down at that other pale face by Sir Victor"s side. Very pale, very set just now.
"Then if your father is alive, _he_ is Sir Victor and not you?"
Those were the first words she spoke; her tone cold, her glance unsympathetic.
His heart contracted.
"He will never interfere with my claim--they a.s.sure me of that. Alive in reality, he is dead, to the world. Edith, would it make any difference--if I lost t.i.tle and estate, would I also lose _you_?"
The beseeching love in his eyes might have moved her, but just at present she felt as though a stone lay in her bosom instead of a heart.
"I am not a sentimental sort of girl, Sir Victor," she answered steadily. "I am almost too practical and worldly, perhaps. And I must own it would make a difference. I have told you I am not in love with you--as yet--you have elected to take me and wait for that. I tell you now truthfully, if you were not Sir Victor Catheron, I would not marry you. It is best I should be honest, best I should not deceive you. You are a thousand times too good for so mercenary a creature as I am, and if you leave me it will only be serving me right. I don"t want to break my promise, to draw back, but I feel in the mood for plain speaking this morning. If you feel that you can"t marry me on those terms--and I don"t deserve that you should--now is the time to speak.
No one will be readier than I to own that it serves me right."
He looked and listened, pale to the lips.
"Edith, in Heaven"s name, do you _wish_ me to give you up?"
"No, I wish nothing of the sort. I have promised to marry you, and I am ready to keep that promise; but if you expect love or devotion from me, I tell you frankly I have neither to give. If you are willing still to take me, and"--smiling--"I see you are--I am still ready to be your wife--your true and faithful wife from the first--your loving wife, I hope, in the end."
They said no more. He led her back to the house, then left her. He hastened to Miss Catheron, more sombre even than when he had quitted her.
"Well," he said briefly, "you saw her?"
"I saw her. It is a beautiful face, a proud face, a truthful face, and yet--"
"Go on," he said impatiently. "Don"t try to spare me. I am growing accustomed to unpleasant truths."
"I may be wrong, but something in her face tells me she does not love you, and," under her breath, "never will."
"It will come in time. With or without love, she is willing to be my wife--that is happiness enough for the present."
"You told her all?"
"I told her my father was alive and insane--no more. It will make no difference in our plans--none. We are to be married the first of September. The secret is safe with her."
The door opened, and Lady Helena came hastily in.
"If you wish to catch the 12.50 train, Inez," she said, "you must go at once. It is a long drive from this to the station. The brougham is waiting--shall I accompany you?"
"I will accompany her," said Sir Victor. "You had better return to our guests. They will begin to feel themselves neglected."
Miss Catheron left the room. In five minutes she reappeared, closely veiled, as when he had met her on the stairs. The adieux were hastily made. He gave her his arm and led her down to the close brougham. As they pa.s.sed before the drawing-room windows, Miss Stuart uttered an exclamation:
"Oh! I say! where is Sir Victor going in the rain, and who is the dismal-looking lady in black? Edith, who is it? _You_ ought to know."
"I don"t know," Edith answered briefly, not looking up from her book.
"Hasn"t Sir Victor told you?"
"I haven"t asked Sir Victor."
"Oh, you haven"t, and he hasn"t told? Well, all I have to say is, that when _I"m_ engaged I hope the object of my affections will keep no secrets from me."
"As if he could!" murmurs Captain Hammond.
"I declare, he is going off with her. Edith, do come and look. There!
they are driving away together, as fast as they can go."
But Edith never stirred. If she felt the slightest curiosity on the subject, her face did not show it.
They drove rapidly through the rain, and barely caught the train at that. He placed her hurriedly in an empty carriage, a moment before it started. As it flew by he caught one last glimpse of a veiled face, and a hand waving farewell. Then the train and the woman were out of sight.
Like a man who walks in his sleep, Sir Victor Catheron turned, re-entered the brougham, and was driven home.
CHAPTER XV.