No one speaks--a spell of great horror has fallen upon them. Murdered in their midst, in their peaceful household--they cannot comprehend it.
At last--
"_Where is Miss Catheron_?" asks a sombre voice.
No one knows who speaks; no one seems to care; no one dare reply.
"Where is Inez Catheron?" the voice says again.
Something in the tone, something in the ghastly silence that follows, seems to arouse the butler. Since his tenth year he has been in the service of the Catherons--his father before him was butler in this house. Their honor is his. He starts angrily round now.
"Who was that?" he demands. "Of course Miss Inez knows nothing of this."
No one had accused her, but he is unconsciously defending her already.
"She must be told at once," he says. "I"ll go and tell her myself.
Edwards, draw the curtains, will you, and light the candles?"
He leaves the room. The valet mechanically does as he is bid--the curtains are drawn, the waxlights illumine the apartment. No one else stirs. The soft, abundant light falls down upon that tranquil, marble face--upon that most awful stain of blood.
The butler goes straight up to his young lady"s room. Wayward, pa.s.sionate, proud Miss Inez may be, but she is very dear to him. He has carried her in his arms many a time, a little laughing, black-eyed child. A vague, sickening fear fills him now.
"She hated my lady," he thinks, in a dazed, helpless sort of way; "everybody knows that. What will she say when she hears this?"
He knocks; there is no reply. He knocks again and calls huskily:
"Miss Inez, are you there? For the dear Lord"s sake open the door!"
"Come in!" a voice answers.
He cannot tell whether it is Miss Inez or not. He opens the door and enters.
This room is unlit too--the shine of the moon fills it as it fills that other room below. Here too a solitary figure sits, crouches, rather, near the window in a strange, distorted att.i.tude of pain. He knows the flowing black hair, the scarlet wrap--he cannot see her face, she does not look round.
"Miss Inez!"--his voice shakes--"I bring you bad news, awful news.
Don"t be shocked--but--a murder has been done."
There is no answer. If she hears him she does not heed. She just sits still and looks out into the night.
"Miss Inez! you hear me?"
He comes a little nearer--he tries to see her face.
"You hear me?" he repeats.
"I hear you."
The words drop like ice from her lips. One hand is clutching the arm of her chair--her wide-open black eyes never turn from the night-scene.
"My lady is dead--cruelly murdered. O Miss Inez! do you hear?--_murdered_! What is to be done?"
She does not answer. Her lips move, but no word comes. An awful fear begins to fill the faithful servant"s heart.
"Miss Inez!" he cries out, "you _must_ come--they are waiting for you below. There is no one here but you--Sir Victor is away. Sir Victor--"
His voice breaks; he takes out his handkerchief and sobs like a child.
"My dear young master! My dear young master! He loved the very ground she walked on. Oh, who is to tell him this?"
She rises slowly now, like one who is cramped, and stiff, and cold.
She looks at the old man. In her eyes there is a blind, dazed sort of horror--on her face there is a ghastliness no words can describe.
"Who is to tell Sir Victor?" the butler repeats. "It will kill him--the horror of it. So pretty and so young--so sweet and so good.
Oh, how could they do it--how could they do it!"
She tries to speak once more--it seems as though her white lips cannot shape the words. Old Hooper looks up at her piteously.
"Tell us what is to be done, Miss Inez," he implores; "you are mistress here now."
She shrinks as if he had struck her.
"Shall we send for Sir Victor first?"
"Yes," she says, in a sort of whisper, "send for Sir Victor first."
The voice in which she speaks is not the voice of Inez Catheron. The butler looks at her, that great fear in his eyes.
"You haven"t seen her, Miss Inez," he says. "It is a fearful sight--but--will you come down?"
He almost dreads a refusal, but she does not refuse.
"I will go down," she answers, and turns at once to go.
The servants stand huddled together in the centre of the room. _It_ lies there, in its dreadful quiet, before them. Every eye turns darkly upon Miss Catheron as she comes in.
She never sees them. She advances like a sleep-walker, that dazed, dumb horror still in her eyes, the whiteness of death on her face. She walks over and looks down upon the dead mistress of Catheron Royals.
No change comes over her--she softens neither into pity nor tears. So long she stands there, so rigid she looks, so threatening are the eyes that watch her, that Hooper interposes his portly figure between her and them.
"Miss Inez," he says, "will you please give your orders? Shall I send for Sir Victor at once, or--"
"Yes, send for Sir Victor at once." She arouses herself to say it.
"And I think you had better send to Chesholm for a doctor and--and the police."
"The police!"
"A murder has been committed," she says, in a cold, hard voice; "the murderer must be found."
Something of her old calm, stately haughtiness returns as she speaks.