It was all dark, the blinds closed, the curtains drawn, dark and deserted, as it had been since that fatal night. Nothing had been changed, absolutely nothing. There stood the baby ba.s.sinet, there the little table on which the knife had lain, there beneath the open window the chair in which Ethel, Lady Catheron, had slept her last long sleep. A hush that seemed like the hush of death lay over all.

Edith stood silent and grave--not speaking. She motioned him hastily to come away. He obeyed. Another moment, and they stood together under the blue bright sky.

"Oh!" Edith said, under her breath, "who did it?"

"Who indeed? And yet Lady Helena knows."

His face and tone were sombre. How dare they let her lie in her unavenged grave? A Catheron had done it beyond doubt, and to save the Catheron name and honor the murderer had been let go.

"Lady Helena knows!" repeated Edith; "it _was_ that wicked brother and sister, then? How cruel--how cruel!"

"It was not the sister--I believe _that_. That it must have been the brother no doubt can exist."

"Is he living or dead?"

"Living, I believe. By Heaven! I have half a mind yet to hunt him down, and hand him over to the hangman for the deed he has done!"

"An ancient name and family honor are wonderful things on this side of the Atlantic, a couple of million dollars on ours. They can save the murderer from the gallows. We won't talk about it, Sir Victor--it makes you unhappy I see; only if ever I--if ever I," laughing and blushing a little, "come to be mistress of that big, romantic old house, I shall wall that room up. It will always be a haunted chamber--a Bluebeard closet for me."

"If ever you are mistress," he repeated. "Edith, my dearest, when will you be?"

"Who knows? Never, perhaps."

"Edith--again!"

"Well, who can tell. I may die--you may die--something may happen. I can't realize that I ever will be. I can't think of myself as Lady Catheron."

"Edith, I command you! Name the day."

"Now, my dear Sir Victor--"

"Dear Victor, without the prefix; let all formality end between us.

Why need we wait? You are your own mistress, I my own master; I am desperately in love--I want to be married. I _will_ be married. There is nothing to wait for--I _won't_ wait. Edith shall it be--this is the last of May--shall it be the first week of July?"

"No, sir; it shall not, nor the first week of August. We don't do things in this desperate sort of hot haste."

"But why should we delay? What is there to delay for? I shall have a brain-fever if I am compelled to wait longer than August. Be reasonable, Edith; don't let it be later than August."

"Now, now, now, Sir Victor Catheron, August is not to be thought of. I shall not marry you for ages to come--not until Lady Helena Powyss gives her full and free consent."

"Lady Helena shall give her full and free consent in a week; she could not refuse me anything longer if she tried. Little tyrant! if you cared for me one straw, you would not object like this."

"Yes I would. n.o.body marries in this impetuous fashion. I won't hear of August. Besides, there is my engagement with Mrs. Stuart. I have promised to talk French and German all through the Continent for them this summer."

"I will furnish Mrs. Stuart a subst.i.tute with every European language at her finger-ends. Seriously, Edith, you must consider that contract at an end--my promised wife can be no one's paid companion. Pardon me, but you must see this, Edith."

"I see it," she answered gravely. She had her own reasons for not wishing to accompany the Stuart family now. And after all, why should she insist on postponing the marriage?

"You are relenting--I see it in your face," he exclaimed imploringly.

"Edith! Edith! shall it be the first week of September?"

She smiled and looked at him as she had done early this eventful morning, when she had said "Yes!"

"As brain-fever threatens if I refuse, I suppose you must have your way. But talk of the willfulness of women after this!"

"Then it shall be the first of September--St Partridge Day?"

"It shall be St. Partridge Day."

CHAPTER XIII.

HOW CHARLEY TOOK IT.

Meantime the long sunny hours, that pa.s.sed so pleasantly for these plighted lovers, lagged drearily enough for one young lady at Powyss Place--Miss Beatrix Stuart.

She had sent for her mother and told her the news. Placid Aunt Chatty lifted her meek eyebrows and opened her dim eyes as she listened.

"Sir Victor Catheron going to marry our Edith! Dear me! I am sure I thought it was you, Trixy, all the time. And Edith will be a great lady after all. Dear me!"

That was all Mrs. Stuart had to say about it. She went back to her tatting with a serene quietude that exasperated her only daughter beyond bounds.

"I wonder if an earthquake would upset ma's equanimity!" thought Trix savagely. "Well, wait until Charley comes! We'll see how he takes it."

Misery loves company. If she was to suffer the pangs of disappointment herself, it would be some comfort to see Charley suffer also. And Trix was not a bad-hearted girl either, mind--it was simply human nature.

Charley and the captain had gone off exploring the wonders and antiquities of Chester. Edith and Sir Victor were n.o.body knew where.

Lady Helena had a visitor, and was shut up with her. Trix had nothing but her novel, and what were all the novels in Mudie's library to her this bitter day?

The long, red spears of the sunset were piercing the green depths of fern and brake, when the two young men rode home. A servant waylaid Mr.

Stuart and delivered his sister's message. She wanted to see him at once on important business.

"Important business!" murmured Charley, opening his eyes.

But he went promptly without waiting to change his dress.

"How do, Trix?" he said, sauntering in. "Captain Hammond's compliments, and how's the ankle?"

He threw himself--no, Charley never threw himself--he slowly extended his five-feet-eleven of manhood on a sofa, and awaited his sister's reply.

"Oh, the ankle's just the same--getting better, I suppose," Trix answered, rather crossly. "I didn't send for you to talk about my ankle. Much you, or Captain Hammond, or any one else cares whether I have an ankle at all or not."

"My dear Trix, a young lady's ankle is always a matter of profound interest and admiration to every well-regulated masculine mind."

"Bah! Charley, you'll never guess what I have to tell!"