"She's got enough to answer for, she has."

Terrible indeed was the consternation, which reigned that day at Raynham Castle. Already Sir Oswald's guests had been making hasty arrangements for their departure; and many visitors had departed even before the discovery of that awful event, which came like a thunderclap upon all within the castle.

Few men had ever been better liked by his acquaintances than Sir Oswald Eversleigh.

His generous nature, his honourable character, had won him every man's respect. His great wealth had been spent lavishly for the benefit of others. His hand had always been open to the poor and necessitous. He had been a kind master, a liberal landlord, an ardent and devoted friend. There is little wonder, therefore, if the news of his sudden death fell like an overwhelming blow on all assembled within the castle, and on many more beyond the castle walls.

The feeling against Honoria Eversleigh was one of unmitigated execration. No words could be too bitter for those who spoke of Sir Oswald's wife.

It had been thought on the previous evening that she had left the castle for ever, banished by the command of her husband. Nothing, therefore, could have exceeded the surprise which filled every breast when she entered the crowded hall some minutes after the discovery of Sir Oswald's death.

Her face was whiter than marble, and its awful whiteness was contrasted by the black dress which she wore.

"Is this true?" she cried, in accents of despair. "Is he really dead?"

"Yes, Lady Eversleigh," answered General Desmond, an Indian officer, and an old friend of the dead man, "Sir Oswald is dead."

"Let me go to him! I cannot believe it--I cannot--I cannot!" she cried, wildly. "Let me go to him!"

Those assembled round the door of the library looked at her with horror and aversion. To them this semblance of agony seemed only the consummate artifice of an accomplished hypocrite.

"Let me go to him! For pity's sake, let me see him!" she pleaded, with clasped hands. "I cannot believe that he is dead."

Reginald Eversleigh was standing by the door of the library, pale as death--more ghastly of aspect than death itself. He had been leaning against the doorway, as if unable to support himself; but, as Honoria approached, he aroused himself from a kind of stupor, and stretched out his arm to bar her entrance to the death-chamber.

"This is no scene for you, Lady Eversleigh," he said, sternly. "You have no right to enter that chamber. You have no right to be beneath this roof."

"Who dares to banish me?" she asked, proudly. "And who can deny my right?"

"I can do both, as the nearest relative of your dead husband."

"And as the friend of Victor Carrington," answered Honoria, looking fixedly at her accuser. "Oh! it is a marvellous plot, Reginald Eversleigh, and it wanted but this to complete it. My disgrace was the first act in the drama, my husband's death the second. Your friend's treachery accomplished one, you have achieved the other. Sir Oswald Eversleigh has been murdered!"

A suppressed cry of horror broke simultaneously from every lip. As the awful word "murder" was repeated, the doctor, who had been until this moment beside the dead man, came to the door, and opened it.

"Who was it spoke of murder?" he asked.

"It was I," answered Honoria. "I say that my husband's death is no sudden stroke from the hand of heaven! There is one here who refuses to let me see him, lest I should lay my hand upon his corpse and call down heaven's vengeance on his assassin!"

"The woman is mad," faltered Reginald Eversleigh.

"Look at the speaker," cried Honoria. "I am not mad, Reginald Eversleigh, though, by you and your fellow-plotter, I have been made to suffer that which might have turned a stronger brain than mine. I am not mad. I say that my husband has been murdered; and I ask all present to mark my words. I have no evidence of what I say, except instinct; but I know that it does not deceive me. As for you, Reginald Eversleigh, I refuse to recognize your rights beneath this roof. As the widow of Sir Oswald, I claim the place of mistress in this house, until events show whether I have a right to it or not."

These were bold words from one who, in the eyes of all present, was a disgraced wife, who had been banished by her husband.

General Desmond was the person who took upon himself to reply. He was the oldest and most important guest now remaining at the castle, and he was a man who had been much respected by Sir Oswald.

"I certainly do not think that any one here can dispute Lady Eversleigh's rights, until Sir Oswald's will has been read, and his last wishes made known. Whatever passed between my poor friend and his wife yesterday is known to Lady Eversleigh alone. It is for her to settle matters with her own conscience; and if she chooses to remain beneath this roof, no one here can presume to banish her from it, except in obedience to the dictates of the dead."

"The wishes of the dead will soon be known," said Reginald; "and then that guilty woman will no longer dare to pollute this house by her presence."

"I do not fear, Reginald Eversleigh," answered Honoria, with sublime calmness. "Let the worst come. I abide the issue of events. I wait to see whether iniquity is to succeed; or whether, at the last moment, the hand of Providence will be outstretched to confound the guilty. My faith is strong in Providence, Mr. Eversleigh. And now stand aside, if you please, and let me look upon the face of my husband."

This time, Reginald Eversleigh did not venture to dispute the widow's right to enter the death-chamber. He made way for her to pass him, and she went in and knelt by the side of the dead. Mr. Dalton, the lawyer, was moving softly about the room, putting seals on all the locks, and collecting the papers that had been scattered on the table. The parish doctor, who had been summoned hastily, stood near the corpse. A groom had been despatched to a large town, twenty miles distant, to summon a medical man of some distinction. There were few railroads in those days; no electric telegraph to summon a man from one end of the country to another. But all the most distinguished doctors who ever lived could not have restored Sir Oswald Eversleigh to an hour's life. All that medical science could do now, was to discover the mode of the baronet's death.

The crowd left the hall by and by, and the interior of the castle grew more tranquil. All the remaining guests, with the exception of General Desmond, made immediate arrangements for leaving the house of death.

General Desmond declared his intention of remaining until after the funeral.

"I may be of some use in watching the interests of my dear friend," he said to Reginald Eversleigh. "There is only one person who will feel your uncle's death more deeply than I shall, and that is poor old Copplestone. He is still in the castle, I suppose?"

"Yes, he is confined to his rooms still by the gout."

Reginald Eversleigh was by no means pleased by the general's decision.

He would rather have been alone in the castle. It seemed as if his uncle's old friend was inclined to take the place of master in the household. The young man's pride revolted against the general's love of dictation; and his fears--strange and terrible fears--made the presence of the general very painful to him.

Joseph Millard had come to Reginald a little time after the discovery of the baronet's death, and had told him the contents of the new will.

"Master told us with his own lips that he had left you heir to the estates, sir," said the valet. "There was no need for it to be kept a secret, he said; and we signed the will as witnesses--Peterson, the butler, and me."

"And you are sure you have made no mistake, Millard. Sir Oswald--my poor, poor uncle, said that?"

"He said those very words, Mr. Eversleigh; and I hope, sir, now that you are master of Raynham, you won't forget that I was always anxious for your interests, and gave you valuable information, sir, when I little thought you would ever inherit the estate, sir."

"Yes, yes--you will not find me ungrateful, Millard," answered Reginald, impatiently; for in the terrible agitation of his mind, this man's talk jarred upon him. "I shall reward you liberally for past services, you may depend upon it," he added.

"Thank you very much, sir," murmured the valet, about to retire.

"Stay, Millard," said the young man. "You have been with my uncle twenty years. You must know everything about his health. Did you ever hear that he suffered from heart-disease?"

"No, sir; he never did suffer from anything of the kind. There never was a stronger gentleman than Sir Oswald. In all the years that I have known him, I don't recollect his having a day's serious illness. And as to his dying of disease of the heart, I can't believe it, Mr.

Eversleigh."

"But in heart-complaint death is almost always sudden, and the disease is generally unsuspected until death reveals it."

"Well, I don't know, sir. Of course the medical gentlemen understand such things; but I must say that _I_ don't understand Sir Oswald going off sudden like that."

"You'd better keep your opinions to yourself down stairs, Millard. If an idea of that kind were to get about in the servants' hall, it might do mischief."

"I should be the last to speak, Mr. Eversleigh. You asked me for my opinion, and I gave it you, candid. But as to expressing my sentiments in the servants' hall, I should as soon think of standing on my head.

In the first place, I don't take my meals in the servants' hall, but in the steward's room; and it's very seldom I hold any communication whatever with under-servants. It don't do, Mr. Eversleigh--you may think me 'aughty; but it don't do. If upper-servants want to be respected by under-servants, they must first respect themselves."

"Well, well, Millard; I know I can rely upon your discretion. You can leave me now--my mind is quite unhinged by this dreadful event."

No sooner had the valet departed than Reginald hurried from the castle, and walked across the garden to the gate by which he had encountered Victor Carrington on the previous day. He had no appointment with Victor, and did not even know if he were still in the neighbourhood; but he fancied it was just possible the surgeon might be waiting for him somewhere without the boundary of the garden.

He was not mistaken. A few minutes after passing through the gateway, he saw the figure of the pedlar approaching him under the shade of the spreading beeches.