King of the Castle

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 hoards.

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 shine 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 flashing 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.”

“You think I was praying for him, Miss Mary?”

The girl nodded her head quickly, and remained silent, for she could not trust herself to speak.

Sarah stood gazing before her in a strangely absent way, and went on muttering softly —

“Isaac, poor husband, you can rest now. If you can see all from where you are, look down upon me. You must feel content – you must be content, and forgive me for keeping you waiting so long.”

“Woodham,” said Mary gently, after standing watching the strange, weird face before her, and catching a word here and there, “you are ill; the shock of poor uncle’s death has been too much for you. There, try and be calm.”

“Miss Mary,” said the woman hoarsely, and her eyes glowed with her great excitement, “what do you mean? Have I been talking, like, in my sleep?”

“Yes,” said Mary, smiling in her troubled face, and trying to soothe her.

“Yes! What did I say? Quick; tell me. I didn’t say anything aloud?”

“Yes, you did. I heard parts of what you spoke.”

“Tell me!” cried the woman, excitedly. “Quick! What did I say?”

“You talked about prayer and forgiveness, and spoke about your poor husband. There, there; try and be calm. This has been too much for you, and has brought up all your old sorrows. You want rest and a good long sleep.”

“What else did I say?”

“Oh, I don’t remember much more.”

“You must,” cried the woman angrily; “I will know.”

“Very little else. I think you said that you hoped your husband was looking down upon you, or words to that effect. There, don’t let us talk about it any more. Go and lie down, and when you are well rested come and help me again. We have so much to do. My poor cousin is completely prostrate.”

“Yes,” said the woman, looking at her searchingly. “Poor Miss Claude! Broken-hearted. He worshipped her, in his way – in his way.”

“Come,” said Mary, gently, as she tried to lead her from the room, for the woman seemed to her as one distraught.

“Tell me again; try to recollect. What did I say?”

“Surely I have told you enough,” said Mary. “There, you are ill.”

“Yes, ill – sick at heart – sick with horror,” whispered the woman, clinging to her with convulsive strength. “I came in and looked at his poor appealing face, and it was like seeing Isaac – my husband, again – snatched away so suddenly, just when he was so strong and full of what he meant to do; and it was as if master’s eyes were staring at me and read my heart, and knew everything – everything, and it was too horrible to bear.”

The woman burst into a passionate fit of hysterical weeping, and sank upon her knees, covering her face with her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and bending lower and lower, till her arms were upon her knees.