A Terrible Secret Part 8

She swept from the room, with eyes that blazed, and voice that rang.

And Jane Pool, the nurse, thinking she had heard a little too much, softly opened an opposite door and stole out.

"Good Lor'!" she thought, "_here_ be a pretty flare up! Ain't Miss Inez just got a temper though. I wouldn't stand in my lady's shoes, and her a-hating me so; no, not for all her money. I'll go down and get my supper, and call for Master Baby by and by."

Mrs. Pool descended to the servants' hall, to narrate, of course in confidence, to her most particular friends, the scene she had just overheard. There was Welsh rabbits for supper--nurse was particularly fond of Welsh rabbits--and in discussing it and Miss Inez's awful temper half an hour slipped away. Then she arose again to see after her charge.

"Which he should have been undressed and tucked away for the night half an hour ago, bless him," she remarked; "but I could not make up my mind to face my lady after _that_ row. Poor thing! It does seem hard now she can't be mistress in her own 'ouse. It's a pity Sir Victor can't turn Turk and marry 'em both, since he can't abear to part with neither."

Mrs. Pool made her exit and wended her way to the nursery. She tapped at the door--there was no reply--she opened it and went in--my lady had quitted it, no doubt.

No--to her surprise my lady was still there. The window still stood wide open, the white, piercing moonlight streamed in. An arm-chair stood near this window, and lying back in the arm-chair was my lady, fast asleep.

Fast asleep. Jane Pool tiptoed over to make sure. She was pale as the moonlight itself. Her lips quivered as she slept like the lips of a hurt child, her eyelashes were yet wet with tears. Sitting there alone she had cried herself to sleep.

"Poor thing!" Jane Pool said again. She was so young, so pretty, so gentle, that all the household loved her. "Poor dear thing! I say it's a burning shame for Sir Victor, so fond as he is of her too, to let Miss Inez torment her. _I_ wouldn't stand her hairs and her 'aughtiness, her temper and her tongue; no, not to be ten baronets'

ladies, ten times hover!"

In his pretty blue silk, white lace, and carved rosewood nest, Master Victor lay still, sleeping also. Mrs. Pool softly folded a shawl around her lady's shoulder, lifted babe without awakening him, and stole softly out. The night nursery was an upper room. Jane Pool carried him up, disrobed him, fed him, and tucked him up for the night.

He fell again asleep almost instantly. She summoned the under nurse-maid to remain with him, and went back to the lower regions.

Half an hour had pa.s.sed since she left; it struck the half hour after eight as she descended the stairs.

"I'm sore afraid my lady will catch cold sleeping in the night air.

I do think now I ought to go in and wake her."

While she stood hesitating before it, the door opened suddenly and Miss Catheron came out. She was very pale. Jane Pool was struck by it, and the scarlet shawl she wore twisted about her, made her face look almost ghastly in the lamplight.

"_You_ here?" she said, in her haughty way. "What do you want? Where is baby?"

"Baby's asleep, miss, for the night," Jane answered, with a stiff little curtsey; "and what I'm here for, is to wake my lady. Sleeping in a draught cannot be good for anybody. But perhaps she is awake."

"You will let my lady alone," said Miss Catheron sharply, "and attend to your nursery. She is asleep still. It is not _your_ place to disturb her. Go!"

"Drat her!" Nurse Pool exclaimed inwardly, obeying, however; "she's that 'aughty and that stuck up, that she thinks we're the dirt under her feet. I only hope she'll be sent packing to-morrow, but I has my doubts. Sir Victor's afraid of her--anybody can see that with half an eye."

She descended to the servants' regions again, and encountered Ellen, Lady Catheron's smart maid, sociably drinking tea with the housekeeper.

And once more into their attentive ears she poured forth this addenda to her previous narrative.

"What was Miss Inez doing in there?" demanded the maid; "no, good, I'll be bound. She hates my lady like poison; Sir Victor jilted her, you know, and she's in love with him yet. My lady _shall_ be woke up in spite of her; she'd like her to get her death in the night air, I dare say. I've an easy missis and a good place, and I mean to keep 'em. I ain't afraid of Miss Inez's black eyes and sharp tongue; _I'll_ go and wake my lady up."

She finished her tea and left. She reached the nursery door and rapped as Nurse Pool had done. There was no reply. She turned the handle softly and went in.

The large, crystal, clear moon was high in the sky now; its chill brightness filled the room. The arm-chair still stood under the window; the small figure of my lady still lay motionless in it.

"My lady," Ellen said gently, advancing, "please wake up."

There was no reply, no stir. She bent closer over her.

"Please, my lady, wake up; I'm afraid you'll catch your death of--"

The words ended in a shriek that rang through the house from end to end--a woman's shrill, ear-splitting shriek. She had laid her hand upon my lady's bosom to arouse her; she s.n.a.t.c.hed it away and sprang back in horror. Asleep! Yes the sleep that knows no waking. Sir Victor Catheron's pretty young wife lay there in the moonlight--dead.

Dead! There is blood on the white dress, blood on the blue shawl, blood on Ellen's hand, blood trickling in a small red stream from under the left breast. Ethel, Lady Catheron, lies there before her in the moonlight stone dead--foully murdered.

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE NURSERY.

She stands for a moment paralyzed--struck dumb by a horror too great for word or cry. Then she rushes to the door, along the pa.s.sages, into the midst of the startled household like a mad creature, shrieking that one most awful word, "Murder!"

They flock around her, they catch hold of her, and keep her still by main force. They ask her questions, but she only screams still that ghastly word, "Murder!"

"_Who_ is murdered? Where--what do you mean? Good Lord! young woman,"

cries Mr. Hooper, the butler, giving her a shake, "do come out of these hysterics if you can, and speak! _Who's_ murdered?"

"My lady! Oh, my lady! my lady! my lady!"

She is like a creature distraught. There is blood on her right hand; she sees it, and with a gasping cry at the grisly sight, and before they know what she is about, she falls down in a faint in their midst.

They lift her up; they look into one another's pale faces.

"My lady!" they repeat, in an awe-struck whisper. "_Murdered_!"

"Here!" cries Mr. Hooper, his dignity coming to his aid, "let us investigate this here. Lay this young woman flat on her back on the floor, sprinkle her with water, and let her come to. I'm going to find out what she means."

They lay poor Ellen stiffly out as directed, some one dashes water into her face, then in a body, with Mr. Hooper at their head, they march off to investigate.

"She was in the day-nursery," Nurse Pool suggests, in a whisper, and to the day-nursery they go.

On the threshold for a second or two they halt, their courage failing.

But there is nothing very terrifying. Only the solemn moonlight, only the motionless little figure in the arm-chair. And yet a great awe holds them back. Does death--does murder stand grisly in their midst?

"Let us go in, in the name of Providence," says Mr. Hooper, a tremble in his voice; "it--it can't be what she says. O good Lord, no!"

They go forward on tiptoe, as if afraid of awakening that quiet sleeper whom only the last trump will ever awake now. They bend above her, holding their breath. Yes, there it is--the blood that is soaking her dress, dripping horribly on the carpet--oozing slowly from that cruel wound.

A gasping, inarticulate sort of groan comes heavily from every lip.

Old Hooper takes her wrist between his shaking fingers. Stilled forever, already with the awful chill of death. In the crystal light of the moon the sweet young face has never looked fairer, calmer, more peaceful than now.

The old butler straightens himself up, ashen gray.

"It's too true," he says, with a sort of sob. "O Lord, have mercy on us--it's too true! She's dead! She's murdered!"

He drops the wrist he holds, the little jewelled, dead hand falls limp and heavy. He puts his own hands over his face and sobs aloud:

"Who will tell Sir Victor? O my master! my dear young master!"