CHAPTER XIV. TO-MORROW.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 409, 9 October 1889, Page 6

CHAPTER XIV. TO-MORROW.

To-morrow came, grey and overcasb. The fine weather which had lasted almose since their leaving New York showed signs o breaking uj>. Miss Stuart's ankle was s much better' that she was able to limp downstairs at eleven a.m. to breakfast' •and resume . her flirtation with Captain Hammond where it had broken off last night. Miss Darrell had a headache and did not appear. And, in the absence of ' his idol and day star, Sir Victor collapsed, and ate his morning meal in silence and sadness. Breakfast over, he walked to one of the windows, looking out at the rain, which was beginning to drift against the glass, and wondering, drearily, how he was to drag through the long hours without Edith. He might go and play billiards with the other fellows ; but no* he was too restless even for that. What was he to do to kill time ? It was a relief when a servant came with a message from his aunt. 'My lady's compliments', Sir Victor, and will you please step upstairs at once.' ' Now for the grand secret,' he thought ; 1 the skeleton in the family closet — the discovery of the mysterious woman in black.' The woman in black was nowhere visible when he entered his aunt's apartments. Lady Helena sat aloiie, her face pale, her eyes heavy and red as though with weening, but all the anger, all the excitement of yesterday gone. *My dear aunt,' the young man said, really concerned, • I am sorry to see you looking so ill. And — surely you have not been crying? 1 • Sit down,' his aunt replied. { Yes, I have been crying ; I have had good reason to cry for many years past. I have sent for you, Victor, to tell you all— at least, all it is advisible to tell you at present. And, before I begin, let me apologise if anything 1 may have said yesterday on fche subject of 3 r our engagement has wounded you.' ' Dear Lady Helena, between you and me there can be no talk of pardon. It was your right to object if you saw cause, and no doubt il is natural that Edith's want of birth and fortune would weigh with you. But they do not weigh with me, and I know the happiness of my life to be very near your heart. I have only to say again that that happiness lies entirely with her - that without her I should be the most miserable fellow alive "—" — to hear you withdraw every objection and take my darling to your arms as your daughter.' She sighed heavily as she listened. ' A wilful man must have his way. You are, as you told me yesterday, your own master, free to do as you please. To Miss Darrell personally I have no objection ; she is beautiful, well-bred, and, I believe, a noble girl. Her poverty and obscure birth are drawbacks in my eyee, but, since they are not so in yours, I will allude to them no more. The objections ] made yesterday to your irarriage I would have made had \our bride been a duke's daughter. I had hoped — it was an absurd hope— that you would not think of marriage for many years to come, perhaps not at all. • But, Aunt Helena—' •Do I not say it was an absurd hope! The fact is, Victor, I have been a coward— a nervous, wretched coward from first te last. I shut my eyes to the truth. ] feared you might tall in love with this girl, but I put the fear away from me. The time has come when the truth must be spoken, when my love for you can shield you no longer. Before you marry you must know all. Do you remember, in the heat ol my exitement yesterday, telling you .yon had no right to the title you bear ? In one sense I spoke the truth. Your fathershe gasped and paused. ' My father '(] he breathlessly repeated. ' Your father is alive.' He sat and looked at her— stunued. What was she saying ? His father alive, after all those years ! and he not Sir Victoi Catheron ! He half rose— ashen pa'e. ' Lady Helena, what is this ? My fathei alive— my father, whom for twenty years— since I could think at all— l have though! dead. What vile deception is here ?' * Sit do,vn, Victor ; you shall hear all. There is no vile deception— the deception such as it is, has been by his own desire Your father lives, but he is hopelessh insane.' J He sat looking at her, pale, stern, almosl confounded. ' He— he never recovered from the shock . of his wife's dreadful death,' went on hei , -adyship, her voice trembling. ' Health re turned after that terrible brain-fever, bui not reason. We took him away— the besi medical aid everywheie w.as tried— all ir vain. For years he was hopelessly, utterly insane, never violent, but mmd and memory a total blank. He was incurable— he woulc never reclaim his title, but his bodily healtl was good, and he might live for many years. Why then deprive you of youi right 3, since in no way you defrauded him ; The word was given to uu lerstand he was dead, and you, as you grew up, took hi= place as though the grave had indeed closed over him. But legally, as you see for yourself, you have no claim to it.' Still he sat gazing at her— still he sat silent, his hps compressed, waiting for the end. ft * Of late years, e-leams of reason have re turned, fitfully and at uncertain times. On these rare occasions he has spoken of you has expres>ed the desire that you should still be kept in ignorance, that be shall evei be to the world dead. You perceive, therefore, though it is my duty to tell you this, it need in no way alarm you, as he will never interfere with jour claims.' Still he sat silent— a strange, intent listening expression on his face. ' You recollect the lady who came here yesterday, she continued. 'Victor looking far back into the past, have you no re collection of some one, fair and young, -whe used to bend over you at night, hear you say your baby prayers and sing you te sleep? Try and think.' y He bent his head in assent. ' I remember,' he answered. 'Do you recall how she looked— has hei face remained in your memory ?' 'She had dark eyes and hair, and was nandsome. I remember no more. ' She looked at him wistfully. •Victor, have you no idea who that woman was — none ?' ' None,' he replied coldly. ' How could I, since she was not my mother. I never heard her name. Who wad she ?' ' She was the lady you saw yesterday.' ' Who was* that lady I saw yesterday?' Sho paused a moment, then replied, still wifch thafc wistful glance on his face :

'What?' Again he half-started to his feet. '•The woman who waa my mother's rival and enemy, who made her life wretched; who was concerned in her murder 1 Whom yon aided to escape from Chesholm gaol ! The woman who, directly or indirectly is guilty of her death!' 1 Sir Victor Catheron, how dare you 1' Lady Helena also started to her feet, her face flushing with haughty anger. • I tell you Inez Catheron has been a martyr —not a murderess. She was your mother's rival as she had a right to be — was she not your father's plighted wife long before he ever saw Ethel Dobtt? She was your mother's rival. It was her only fault, and her whole life has been spent in expiating it. Was it notatonement sufficient, bhab for the crime of another, she should be branded with life-long infamy, and banished for ever from home and friends V 1 If guile was not hers it was her brother's, and she was privy to it,' the youner man retorted, with sullen coldness. ' Who are you, that you should say whetherit wasor not ? The aesassin is known to Heaven, and Heaven has dealt with hitr. Accuse no one— neither Juan Catheron nor his sister -all human judgment is liable fco err. Of your mother's death Inez Catheion is innocent-^-by it her whole life has been blighted. To your father, that life has been consecrated. She has been his nurse, his companion, his more than sister or mother all these years. I loved him, and I could not have done what she has done. He used her brutally— brutally I say — and her revenge has been life-long devotion and sacrifice. All those years she has never left him. She will never leave him until he dies. ' ' She sankrbaok in her seat, trembling:, exhausted,.!, .Hastened in growing wonder. ' You believe .jne V she demanded imperiously. •*?'•. ' I believe you,' he replied sadly. 'My dear aunt, forgive me. I believe all you have said. Can I not see her and thank her too?' ' You shall see her. It is for that she has remained. Stay here ; I will send her to you. She deserves your thanks, though all thanks are but empty and vain for such a life-long martyrdom as here.' She left him hastily. Profound silence fell. He turned and looked out at the fustfalling rain, at the trees swaying in the fitful wind, at the dull, leaden sky. Was he asleep and dreaming ? His father alive \ He sat half dazed, unable to realise it. ' Victor !' He had not heard the door open, he had not heard her approach, but she stood beside him. All in black— soft, noiseless black, a face devoid of all colour ; large, sad, soft eyes, and hair white as winter snow — that was the woman Sir Victor Catheron saw as he turned round. The face, with all ics settled sadness and pallor, wa3 still the face of a beautiful woman, and in weird contradiction to its youth and beauty were the smooth bands of abundant hair— white as the hair of eighty. The deep, dusk eyes, once so full of pride and fire, looked at him with the tender, saddened light, long, patient suffering had wrought ; the lips, once curved in haughtiest disdain, had taken the sweetness oJ years of hopeless pain. And so, a'ter three-and-twenty years, Victor Catheron saw the woman, whose life his father's falsity and fickleness had wrecked. 4 Victor !' She held out her hand to him shyly, wist fully. The ban of murder had been upor her all these years. Who was to tell that m his inmost he irt he too might not brand her as a murderess? But she need not havedoubted. If any suspicion yet lingerer! in bis mind, it vanished as he looked ai her. • Miss Catheron !' He grasped her hand, and held it between both his own. • I have but just heard all, for the first time, as you know. That my father lives— that to him you have nobly consecrated your life. He has not deserved it at your hands ; let ray father's son thank you with all his soul !' • Ah. hush,' she said softly. ' I want no thanks. Your poor father ! Aunt Helena has told me how miserably all his life has bean wrecked— a life once so full of promise.' ' She has told me all, Miss Catheron.' •Not Miss Catheron, 1 she interposed, with a smile that lit her worn face into youth and beauty; 'not Miss Cathoron, surely— lnez, Cousin Inez, if you will. It is twenty-three years— do you" know it?— since anyone has called me Miss Catheron before. You can't fancy how oddly it sounds. He looked at her in surprise. ' You do not bear your own name ? And yy t ®n i mi ? hfc have known it, lying as you still do — ' Under the ban of murder.' She shuddered slightly as she said it. < Yes, when tied that dreadful nighb from Chesholm prison, and made my way to London, I left my name behind me. I took at first the name of Miss Black. I lived in dingy lodgings mthat crowded part of London, Lambeth ; and for the look of the thing took in sewing. It was of all those years the most dreary, the most miserable and lonely time of my probation. I lived there four months : then came the time of your fathers complete restoration to bodily health, and, confirmation of the fear that his mind was entirely gone. What was to be done with him ? Lady Helena was at a loss to know. There were private asylum-, but she disliked the idea of shutting him up in one." He was perfectly genty, perfectly harmless, perfectly insane. Lady Helena came to see rrc, and I, pining for the sight of a familiar face, Pick and weary to death of the wretched neighbourhood in which 1 lived, proposed the plan that has f ever since been the plan of my life. Let ; Lady Helena take a house, retired enough to be safe, sufrciently suburban to be healthy; let her place Victor there with me ; let Mrs Marsh, my old friend and housekeeper at Catheron Royals, become my housekeeper once more ; let Hooper the Sf, take charge of us, and let us all live together I thought then, and I think still, rLT a L Mf b th L ng for him and for «c that could have been suggested. Aunt Helena acted upon it at once ; she found a house, on the outskirts of St. John's Wood -a large house, set in spacious grounds, and enclosed by a high wall.called « Poplar Lodge. It suited us in every way; ifc combined all the advantages of town and country. She leased it from the agent for a long term of years, for a "Mr and Si mur n uI let Q r> " ]V f, rVicfcorbei^ in ™* poor ionl f * Se T bly and by n * ht we removed your father there, and since the night of his entrance he has never pas&ed the gates From the first-in the days of my youth and my happiness-my life beloved to him ; it will belong to him to the end. nd Marsh are w *h me still, old and feeble now ; and of late years I don't think I have been unhappy.' B She sighed and looked out at the dull vain-beaten day. The young man listened in profound pity and admiration. Not un Jappy ! Branded with the deadliest crime I man can commit or the law punish-an exile, a recluse, the life-long companion of an insane man and two old servants ' No wonder that at forty her hair was grey-no XS h' / Hfe , and COl ° Ur had dfid Jut of f eves toff h? f Wreaw ago. Perhaps h?s !hf fco .7* her what was passing in his mindshe smiled and answered that look. ' I have not been unhappy, Victor - T *«nt you to believe it. fs£ fffj

always more to me than all the world be r aide— he ia so still. He is .bub' the wreck of the Victor I loved, and yet I would rather spend my life by his side than elsewhere on earth. And I was not quite forsaken. Aunt Helena often came and brought you. It seems but yesterday since I had you in my arms rocking you asleep, and now — and now they tell me you are going to be married.' The sensitive colour rose over his face for a second, then faded, leaving him very pale. 4 1 was going to be married, 5 he answered slowly, 4 but she does not know this. My | father lives -the title and inheritance are his, not mine. Who is to tell what she may cay now ?' The dark, thoughtful eyes looked at him earnestly. ' Does she love you?' she asked; * this Miss Darrell? I need hardly inquire whether you love her.' 4 I love her so dearly that if I lose her - ' He paused and turned his face away lrora her in the grey light. '1 wish I had known this from tlie first ; I ought to have known. It may have been' meant in kindness, but I believe it was a mistake. Heaven knows how it will end now.' • You mean to say, then, that in the hour you lose your title and inheiitance you also lose Miss Darrell ? Is that ib ?' 4 1 have said nothing of the kind. Edith is one of the noblest, the truest of women ; bub can't you see— ib looks as though she had been deceived, imposed upon. The loss of title and wealth would make a difference to any woman on earth.' ' Very little to a woman who loves, Victor. I hope — I hope— this young giil loves you ?' Again the colour rose over his face — again he turned impatiently away. ' She will \ovq me,' he answered; 'she has promised it, and Edith Darrell is a girl to keep her word.' 'So,' Miss Catheron said, softly, and sadly, • it is the old French proverb over again, " There is always one who loves, and one who ia loved." She has owned to you that she is not in love with you then ? Pardon mo, Victor, bub your happiness is very near to me.' 4 She has owned it,' he answered, l with the rare nobility and candour that belongs to her. Such affection as mine will win its return—" love begets love," they say it VlltrSt.' ' Nob always, Victor— ah, not always, else what a happy woman I had been ! But surely she cares for no one el?e ?' 4 She cares for no one else,' he answered, doggedly enough, but in his inmost heart that never-dying jealousy of Charley Stuart rankled. 'Shecarea for no one else — she has bold me so, and she is pride, and trubh, and purity itself. If I lose her through this, then bhis secret of insanity will have wrecked for ever still another life.' 'If she is what you picture her,' lnez said steadily, ' no loss of rank or fortune would ever make her give you up. But you are nob to 10-e eibher — you need nob even tell her, if you choose.' •I can have no secrets from my plighted wife— Edith must know all. But the secret will be as safe wich her as with me.' •Very well,' she said quietly; 'you know what the result will be if by any chance "Mrs Victor" and Inez Catheron are discovered to be one. Bub it shall be exactly as you please. I'our father is as dead, to you, to all the world, as though he lay in the vaults of Chesholm church, by your mother's aide.' 'My poor mother ! My poor, murdered, unavenged mother ! Inez Catheron, you are a noble woman — a brave woman ; was : it well to aid your brother to escape ? — was it well, for the sake of saving the Catheron honour and the Catheron name, to permit a most cruel and cowardly murder to gc unavenged ?' What was ib that looked up at him outoj her eyes? Infinite pity, infinibe sorrow, infinite pain. 4 My brother,' she repeabecl softly, as if te herself ; ' poor Juan ! he was the scapegoat of the family always. Yes, Sir Victor, it was a cruel and cowardly murder, and jet I believe in my soul we did right to screen the murderer from the world. Ib is in the hands of the Almighty— there let ib rest.' There was a pause— then : ' 4 1 shall return with you to London and see my father,' he said, as one who claimt a right. 4 No,' ?he answered, firmly ; •it is impossible. Stay. Hear me oub— ib is your fabher's own wish.' 'My father's wish. But—' 'He cannot express a uish, you would say. Of labe years, Vicbor, ab wide intervals, his reason has returned for a brief space — all the worse for him.' 'The worse for him.' The young man looked ab her blankly. ' Miss Catheron, do , you mean to say ib is better for him to be mad?' ' Much better — such madness as his. He does not think — he does nob suffer. Memory to him is torture ; he loved your mobhei, Victor— and he lost her— terribly lost her. With memory returnn the anguish and despair of thab loss as though it were but yesterday. If you saw him as I see him, you would pray as I do, that his mind may "be blotted out for ever. ' ' Good Heaven ! This is terrible.' ' Life is full of terrible things— tragedies, secrets— this is one of them. In these rare intervals of sanity he speaks of you— it is he who directed, in case of your marriage, that you should be told this much— that you are not to be brought to see him, until — She paused. ' U.i til— ' 4 Until he lies upon his death.bed. That day will be soon, Victors-soon, soon. Those brief glimpse* of reason and memory have shortened life. What he suffers in these intervals no words of mine can tell. On his death bed you are to see him— nob before • ana then you shall be told the story of sour mobher's death. No, Victor, sparemenow— all I can tell you I have told. I return home by the noonday 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 >ou nob fetch her by some pretence or other beneath zb, that I may look and judge for myself?' • 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 ia nob necessary she should know you are his keeper.' • VT hab -.^ Uch T y ou ma y tell her— it is her right. When I have seen her, come to me and say good-bye.' ■• I shall nob say good-bye until I say ib at Chester Station. Of course, I shall see you off. W aib here ; if Edibh is able to come oub you shall see her. She kepb her room this morning- with headache.' He left her, half -dazed with what he had heard. He went to the drawing-room -the btuartsand Captain Hammond were there — not Edith. 'Has Edith come down Vhe 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 lor headache ; or perhaps she's looking for you? He hardly waited 'to hear her out.betore he started in pursuit. As if favoured by fortune, he cau«hb a glimpse, qf Edith's

purpje dress among the trees in: ,the distance. She had, no umbrella-, and was wandering about pale and listless in the ram. ' 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 wdifterently. I always liked to run out in the rain ever since I wus a child. I must be an amphibious sort of animal, I think. Besides fcho damp air helps my headache.' Ho drew her hamJ within his arm and led her slowly in the duoction of the window whore the watcher stodtl 'Edith, 1 he began abruptly, C I have news for you. To call ib bad news would sound inhuman, and yot'ifc has half-stunned me. It is this— my father is alive.' • Sir Victor !' •Alhe, Edith — hopelessly insane, but alive That is the news Lady Helena and one other have fcold mo this morning. It .has stunned me ; I lepoat—is ib any wonAll those years I have thought him dead, and to day I discover that Irom first to last. I have been d ceived.' kShe stood mute with surprise. His father alive— madness in the family Truly it would have been difficult lor ' Sir Victor or .anyone olsc to call this q od new-. They were directly beneath the window. He glanced up— yes, a pale face pU uimxl from behind the curtain, gazing down at that other pale face by Sir Victor's side. Very pale, very set just now. i j •Then if your father is alive, he is Sir Victor and nob you ?' Those were the first words she spoke her tone cold, her glance unsympathetic. Hijs heart contracted. ' He will never interfere with my claim— they^assuro me of that. Alivo in reality, he is dead to the world. Edith, would it make any difference— if I lost title and estate, would J also lose you <' The beseeching love in his eves 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 sott of girl, Sir Victor,' she answered steadily. 'T am almost too practical and worldly, perhaps. And I must own ib 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, li 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 creabnre as I am, and if you leave me ib will only be serving me ri^ht. 1 don't wanb 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 te speak. No oi.e will be readier than I te own that it serves me right.' He looked and listened, pale to the lips. •Edith, in Heaven's name, do you icish me to give you up ?' ' No, I wish nothing of the sort. I have promised to marry you, and lam ready to keep that promise ; but if you expect love or devotion from me, I tell you irankly I have neither to give. If you are willing still to take me, and '—smiling — ' I see you & i'e — I am still ready to be your wife — your true and faithful wite from" the first— your loving wife, I hope, in the end.' They paid no more. He led her back to the house, then left her. He hastened to Miss Catheron, moro sombre even than when he had quitted her. 1 Well,' he said briefly, 'you aaw her?' 'I saw her. It is a beautiful face, a proud face, a truthful face, and yeb— ' 'Go on,' he said impatiently. 'Don't try to spare me. lam growing aecuatomed 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— bhab 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, s you must go at once. It is a long drive from this to the station. The I brougham is waiting— shall I accompany I you V 'I willaocompauy her,' said Sir Victor. ' You had better return to our guests. They I will begin to feel themselves neglected.' j\Hps Catheron left the room. In five j 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 passed before the drawing-room windows, Miss Stuart uttered an exclamation : ' Oh ! I say ! whore is Sir Victor going in the rain, and who is the dismal-looking lady in black? Edith, who is it? Yoto 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 1 have to say is that when I'm engaged I hope the object of my affections will keep no secrets from mo.' '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 nob 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 tlew 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.