Chapter 64
Glyddyr stood looking after him as the doctor walked away, and a fit of trembling came on.
"He was pumping me, and he is suspicious," thought Glyddyr. "Curse him!
These doctors have a way of reading a man, and seeing through you. But he could only suspect; and what is suspicion where they want certainty?"
"What could he say," he thought; "and how does it stand? He gave him chloral; Gartram took it himself, and if a little more was given, well, what could they prove unless they saw?"
"No; unless I betray myself, I am safe," he muttered, as he walked up to the princ.i.p.al entrance and rang; but as the loud clangour of the bell ran through the place, the s.h.i.+ver of dread returned, and he was conscious from his sensations that he must be looking ghastly, and that his lips be white and cracked.
The door was opened by one of the maids.
"Ask Miss Gartram if she can see me for a few minutes," he said, in a voice he hardly knew as his own.
The maid drew back for him to enter, and showed him into the drawing-room, where the yellow gloom of the light pa.s.sing through the drawn-down blinds seemed to add to the oppression from which he suffered. Then, as he stood there, his hot eyes fixed themselves upon the chair which had been occupied by Claude when he was there the previous night; and he found himself wondering what he should say to her; and then a singular feeling of confusion came over him as he asked himself why he had come.
A footstep in the hall made him tremble, and he felt as if he could have given anything to be away from the place, for now, in its full force, he felt the terror of the interview he had to go through with the child of the man he had murdered, and who must now be lying still and stark not many yards away, while in the spirit, where was he?--perhaps about to be present to guard his child.
"If I only had more strength of mind!" groaned Glyddyr, as he vainly tried to string himself up. Then the door was opened, and he was face to face with Mary Dillon.
He drew a breath of relief, and his brain began to grow clearer, as if a mist had been wafted away, and, recovering himself, he advanced with extended hand.
"Will you be seated, Mr Glyddyr?" said Mary, ignoring the extended hand, and sinking wearily on the couch to half close her eyes and wrinkle up her brow.
"Thank you," he said in a whisper; "I ought to apologise for coming, but--at such a time--dear Claude must--"
His words began to trail off slowly into silence, and he sat gazing at Mary helplessly, as if he could not command the flow of that which he wished to say.
"It is very good of you to come," said Mary slowly, as if she were repeating a lesson when her thoughts were far away. "But poor Claude is completely prostrate. She cannot see you. It is cruel of you to ask for such a thing."
"Yes, I suppose so," he said meekly. "But, occupying the position as I do--she in such distress--I felt it a duty, let alone my own warm feelings. Miss Dillon, is there nothing I can do?"
He stopped short now, wondering at his own words, for they had come quickly, and sounded thoroughly natural in their ring.
"No," said Mary, looking at him piercingly now; but he seemed nerved by the instinct of self-preservation, and the knowledge that everything depended upon him being calm.
Mary paused, and appeared to be struggling with her
"No," she said, in clear firm tones. "My cousin is seriously ill, Mr Glyddyr. Broken-hearted at our terrible loss, and anyone who feels respect for her, and wishes to be helpful at such an hour as this will leave her in peace till time has done something toward blunting the agony she is in."
"Yes," said Glyddyr, "you are quite right."
He stood for a moment undecided, and as if he were about to go; but as he looked straight before him at the door, he saw mentally Gartram's study; and a vision of wealth greater than any of which he had ever dreamed, appeared to be lying there waiting for him to call it _mine_; and the dazzling prospect began to drive away his terrors, and strengthen him in his belief that he was safe. No, he could not go back now, he felt, even if the figure of the dead were to rise up before him in defence of his h.o.a.rds.
The dead tell no tales, he fancied he heard something within him say; and then--can the dead know?
Mary was looking at him inquiringly, and as he became conscious of this, he turned to her sadly and gravely.
"Yes; you are right," he said, "it must be the kindest treatment to leave her to herself. It was my love for her that brought me here.
Tell her, please, from me that my heart bleeds for her, and that I will wait until she can see me. I can say no more now. I trust you to be my faithful messenger. Good-bye."
He held out his hand, and for a few moments she ignored his action, but as he stood there with his fingers outstretched, she felt unable to resist, and at last she placed her own within his, and he raised them to his lips.
The next minute she listened to his retiring steps as he went along the granite terrace, talking to himself.
"I did not think I could have done it," he said; "but I have only to keep on, and the rest will come easy. I am too much a man of the world to be frightened at shadows after all."
"It was perfect," thought Mary Dillon, as she stood alone in the darkened drawing-room, "nothing could have been better, but I hate him and distrust him. Somehow he makes me shrink away with horror. But its only prejudice for poor Claude's sake. I'd kill him first. He'd break her heart, and spend her money, and--yes, I'd kill him before he should do all that."
She went slowly out into the hall, and stood hesitating for a few minutes. She appeared to be listening, and there was a curious weird look in her fine eyes as she glanced quickly here and there before drawing a long breath, and going across to the study door.
Here she paused on the thick wool mat, and tapped softly, but only to utter a faint hysterical cry, and press her hands to her lips, as if to keep back more, for the act had been one to which she was accustomed, and a thrill ran through her as she realised what she had done, and that the familiar, harsh voice could never again call to her "Come in."
She turned the handle, and entered the darkened room to walk firmly across to where Gartram lay, and she stood for some minutes gazing at the dimly-seen figure covered by a white sheet, through which the prominent features of his face stood out.
For a moment she looked as if she were about to raise the white linen cover to gaze upon the face of the dead, but she did not stir, only remained there as if turned to stone, as, from out of the gloom, a low groan arose, and for the moment it seemed to her that the sheet moved and the body heaved.
Mary Dillon felt her heart throb as if it had burst the bond which regulated its slow action; a terrible feeling of fear paralysed her, and for a time her sufferings were acute.
Then reason came to her aid.
"He is not dead," she said; and trembling violently, she ran to the window to draw aside the curtain, looking over her shoulder in a frightened way; but before light could s.h.i.+ne in upon the solemn chamber she stopped short.
"Woodham!" she exclaimed, "you here!"
There was a quick rustling sound, and the startled occupant of the room rose from her knees by the dead man's side, and stood shrinking from her questioner, and looking as if she was about to flee from the room.
For a few moments the only sounds heard were those of quick breathing and the low hissing wash of the sea among the rocks, for the tide was well in now beneath the walls of the Fort. Then Mary Dillon recovered from her surprise, and went to the woman's side, and laid her hand upon her arm.
"Come away," she whispered.
Sarah Woodham jerked herself free, and stood as if at bay, her eyes in the gloom flas.h.i.+ng with anger; but with quiet firmness Mary Dillon followed her, took hold of her wrist, and led her from the chamber of death, and out across the hall to the drawing-room.
"Why, Woodham!" said Mary, gently, "what does this mean?"
The woman looked at her fiercely, as if resenting the question, and half turned away.
"Don't be angry with me for asking," said Mary gently. "It was so strange."
"Is it strange for a woman to pray, Miss?" was asked in solemn tones.
"No, no, of course not; but I could not help feeling surprised to see you kneeling there."
"We all need forgiveness, Miss, for the sins we commit."
Mary Dillon winced and looked angrily at the woman, for it sounded to her like an insult to the dead for this woman, their servant, to take upon herself so sacred a duty.
"Yes, Miss, we all need forgiveness for what we have done. Don't keep me, please, I cannot hear to talk now."
"I am sorry if I have said anything to wound you," continued Mary. "I ought to have been pleased; I am sure my poor cousin will for your sympathy and thoughtful ways."