A Terrible Secret Part 63

It was--awfully bloodless, awfully corpse-like, awfully like the face of a dead man; but the face of the man whose bride she had been ten months ago--the face of Sir Victor Catheron.

She leaned heavily against the counter, feeling giddy and sick--the place swimming around her. Was he dead? Had he met his death trying to save her? "Blessed if I don't think he's dead and done for," said the chemist. "It ain't such a bad cut neither. I say! does anybody know who he is?"

n.o.body knew. Then the keen eyes of X 2001 fell upon Edith, pale and wild-looking, with evident terror and recognition in her face.

"I say, miss, _you_ know, don't you?" Bobby suggested politely. "It was reskying you he got it, you know. You know this 'ere gent, don't you, miss! Who is he?"

"He is Sir Victor Catheron."

"Oh," said Bobby. "Sir Victor Catheron, is he? I thought he was a heavy swell." And then his eyes took in Edith's very handsome face, and very plain dress, and evident station, and he formed his own surmise. "Perhaps now, miss, you knows too, where he ought to be took?"

"No," she answered mechanically; "I don't know. If you search his pockets, you will most likely find his address. You--you, don't really think he is dead?"

She came a step nearer as she asked the question--her very lips colorless. An hour ago it seemed to her she had almost wished for his death--now it seemed too horrible. And to meet it saving her too,--after all her thoughts of him. She felt as though she could never bear that.

"Well, no, miss, I don't think he is dead," the chemist answered, "though I must say he looks uncommon like it. There's something more the matter with him than this rap on the 'ead. Here's his card-case--now let's see: 'Sir Victor Catheron, Bart. Fenton's 'Otel.'

Fenton's 'Otel. Bobby, I say, let's horder a cab and 'ave him driven there."

"Somebody ought to go with him," said X 2001. "I can't go--_you_ can't go. I don't suppose now, miss," looking very doubtfully at Edith, "_you_ could go nuther?"

"Is it necessary?" Edith asked, with very visible reluctance.

"Well, you see, miss, he looks uncommonly like a stiff 'un this minute, and if he was to die by the way or hanythink, and him halone--"

"I will go," interposed Edith, turning away with a sick shudder. "Call the cab at once."

A four-wheeler was summoned--the insensible young baronet was carried out and laid, as comfortably as might be, on the back seat. Edith followed, unutterably against her will, but how was she to help it? He was her worst enemy, but even to one's worst enemy common humanity at times must be shown. It would be brutal to let him go alone.

"Don't you be afraid, miss," the chemist said cheerfully; "he ain't dead _yet_. He's only stunned like, and will come round all right directly."

"Fenton's, Bill," and the cab rattled off.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW THEY PARTED

That ride--all her life it came back to her like a bad nightmare. She kept her eyes turned away as much as she could from that rigid form and ghastly face opposite, but in spite of herself they would wander back. What Miss Catheron had said was true then--he was dying--death was pictured in his face. What if, after all, there was some secret strong enough to make his conduct in leaving her right? She had thought it over and wondered and wondered, until her brain was dazed, but could never hit on any solution. She could not now--it was _not_ right. Whatever the secret was, he had known it before he married her--why had he not left her then--why in leaving her after had he not explained? There was no excuse for him, none, and in spite of the white, worn face that pleaded for him, her heart hardened once more--hardened until she felt neither pity nor pain.

They reached the hotel. Jamison, the valet, came down, and recoiled at sight of his master's long lost wife.

"My lady!" he faltered, staring as though he had seen a ghost.

"Your master has met with an accident, Jamison," Edith said calmly, ignoring the t.i.tle. How oddly it sounded to her. "You had better have him conveyed to his room and send for a surgeon. And, if Lady Helena is in town--"

"Lady Helena is in town, my lady. Will--" Jamison hesitated, "will you not come in, my lady, and wait until her ladys.h.i.+p comes?"

Again for a moment Edith hesitated and thought. It would be necessary for some one to explain--she could not go away either without knowing whether the injury he had received were fatal or not, since that injury was received in her service. She set her lips and alighted.

"I will remain until Lady Helena arrives. Pray lose no time in sending for her."

"I will send immediately, my lady," answered Jamison respectfully.

"Thompson," to a waiter, "show this lady to a parlor at once."

And then Edith found herself following a gentlemanly sort of man in black, down a long hall, up a great staircase, along a carpeted corridor, and into an elegant private parlor. The man lit the gas and went, and then she was alone.

She sat down to think. What a strange adventure it had been. She had wished for her freedom--it seemed as though it were near at hand. She shuddered and shrank from herself.

"What a wretch I am," she thought; "what a vile creature I must be. If he dies, I shall feel as though I murdered him."

How long the hours and half hours, told off on the clock, seemed--eight, nine, ten,--would Lady Helena never come? It was a long way to St. John's Wood, but she might surely be here by this time. It was half past ten, and tired out thinking, tired out with her day's work, she had fallen into a sort of uneasy sleep and fitful dream in her chair when she suddenly became half conscious of some one near her. She had been dreaming of Sandypoint, of quarrelling with her cousin. "Don't Charley!" she said petulantly, aloud, and the sound of her own voice awoke her fully. She started up, bewildered for a second, and found herself face to face with Lady Helena. With Lady Helena, looking very pale and sorrowful, with tear-wet eyes and cheeks.

She had been watching Edith for the past five minutes silently and sadly. The girl's dream was pleasant, a half smile parted her lips.

Then she had moved restlessly. "Don't Charley?" she said distinctly and awoke.

It was of him then she was dreaming--thoughts of him had brought to her lips that happy smile. The heart of the elder woman contracted with a sharp sense of pain.

"Lady Helena!"

"Edith!"

She took the girl's hand in both her own and looked kindly at her.

She had liked her very much in the days gone by, though she had never wished her nephew to marry her. And she could hardly blame her very greatly under the circ.u.mstances, if her dreams were of the man she loved, not of the bridegroom who had left her.

"I--I think I fell asleep," Edith said confusedly; "I was very tired, and it all seemed so quiet and tedious here. How is _he_?"

"Better and asleep--they gave him an opiate. He knows nothing of your being here. It was very good of you to come, my child."

"It was nothing more than a duty of common humanity. It was impossible to avoid coming," Edith answered, and then briefly and rather coldly she narrated how the accident had taken place.

"My poor boy!" was all Lady Helena said, but there was a heart sob in every word; "he would die gladly to save you a moment's pain, and yet it has been his bitter lot to inflict the worst pain of your life. My poor child, you can't understand, and we can't explain--it must seem very hard and incomprehensible to you, but one day you will know all, and you will do him justice at last. Ah, Edith! if you had not refused Inez--if only you were not so proud, if you would take what is your right and your due, he _might_ bear this separation until Heaven's good time. As it is, it is killing him."

"He looks very ill," Edith said; "what is the matter with him?"

"Heart disease--brought on by mental suffering. No words can tell what he has undergone since his most miserable wedding-day. It is known only to Heaven and himself but it has taken his life. As surely as ever human heart broke, his broke on the day he left you. And you, my poor child--_you_ have suffered too."

"Of that we will not speak," the girl answered proudly; "what is done, is done. For me, I hope the worst is over--I am safe and well, and in good health as you see. I am glad Sir Victor Catheron has not met his death in my service. I have only one wish regarding him, and that is that he will keep away from me. And now, Lady Helena, before it grows any later, I will go home."

"Go home! At this hour? Most certainly you will not. You will remain here all night. Oh, Edith, you must indeed. A room has been prepared for you, adjoining mine. Inez and Jamison will remain with Victor until morning, and--you ought to see him before you go."

She shrank in a sort of horror.

"No, no, no! _that_ I cannot! As it is so late I will remain, but see him--no, no! Not even for your sake, Lady Helena, can I do that."

"We will wait until to-morrow comes," was Lady Helena's response; "now you shall go to your room at once."