"Amelia!"
"Say something."
"Ask him to
sit down."
Thus addressing one another
in whispers, the three stepdaughters
of Lady Winwood stood bewildered
in their own drawing-room, helplessly
confronting an object which appeared
before them on the threshold
of the door.
The date was the 23d of December.
The time was between two and
three in the afternoon. The occasion
was the return of the three sisters
from the Committee meeting of
the Sacred Concerts' Society.
And the object was Richard Turlington.
He stood hat
in hand at the door, amazed
by his reception. "I
have come up this morning from
Somersetshire," he said. "Haven't
you heard? A matter of business
at the office has forced me to
leave my guests at my house in
the country. I return to them
to-morrow. When I say my guests,
I mean the Graybrookes. Don't
you know they are staying with
me? Sir Joseph and Miss Lavinia
and Natalie?" On the utterance
of Natalie's name, the sisters
roused themselves. They turned
about and regarded each other
with looks of dismay. Turlington's
patience began to fail him. "Will
you be so good as to tell me
what all this means?" he said,
a little sharply. "Miss Lavinia
asked me to call here when she
heard I was coming to town. I
was to take charge of a pattern
for a dress, which she said you
would give me. You ought to have
received a telegram explaining
it all, hours since. Has the
message not reached you?"
The leading spirit of the three
sisters was Miss Amelia. She
was the first who summoned presence
of mind enough to give a plain
answer to Turlington's plain
question.
"We received the telegram this
morning, "she said. "Something
has happened since which has
shocked and surprised us. We
beg your pardon." She turned
to one of her sisters. "Sophia,
the pattern is ready in the drawer
of that table behind you. Give
it to Mr. Turlington."
Sophia produced
the packet. Before she handed
it to the visitor,
she looked at her sister. "Ought
we to let Mr. Turlington go," she
asked, "as if nothing had happened?"
Amelia considered silently
with herself. Dorothea, the third
sister (who had not spoken yet),
came forward with a suggestion.
She proposed, before proceeding
further, to inquire whether Lady
Winwood was in the house. The
idea was instantly adopted. Sophia
rang the bell. Amelia put the
questions when the servant appeared.
Lady Winwood had left the house
for a drive immediately after
luncheon. Lord Winwood--inquired
for next--had accompanied her
ladyship. No message had been
left indicating the hour of their
return.
The sisters looked at Turlington,
uncertain what to say or do next.
Miss Amelia addressed him as
soon as the servant had left
the room.
"Is it possible for you to
remain here until either my father
or Lady Winwood return?" she
asked.
"It is quite
impossible. Minutes are of
importance to me to-day."
"Will you give
us one of your minutes? We
want to consider
something which we may have to
say to you before you go."
Turlington, wondering, took
a chair. Miss Amelia put the
case before her sisters from
the sternly conscientious point
of view, at the opposite end
of the room.
"We have not found out this
abominable deception by any underhand
means," she said. "The discovery
has been forced upon us, and
we stand pledged to nobody to
keep the secret. Knowing as we
do how cruelly this gentleman
has been used, it seems to me
that we are bound in honor to
open his eyes to the truth. If
we remain silent we make ourselves
Lady Winwood's accomplices. I,
for one-- I don't care what may
come of it--refuse to do that."
Her sisters
agreed with her. The first
chance their clever
stepmother had given them of
asserting their importance against
hers was now in their hands.
Their jealous hatred of Lady
Winwood assumed the mask of Duty--duty
toward an outraged and deceived
fellow-creature. Could any earthly
motive be purer than that? "Tell
him, Amelia!" cried the two young
ladies, with the headlong recklessness
of the sex which only stops to
think when the time for reflection
has gone by.
A vague sense of something
wrong began to stir uneasily
in Turlington's mind.
"Don't let me hurry you," he
said, "but if you really have
anything to tell me--"
Miss Amelia summoned her courage,
and began.
"We have something very dreadful
to tell you," she said, interrupting
him. "You have been presented
in this house, Mr. Turlington,
as a gentleman engaged to marry
Lady Winwood's cousin. Miss Natalie
Graybrooke." She paused there--at
the outset of the disclosure.
A sudden change of expression
passed over Turlington's face,
which daunted her for the moment. "We
have hitherto understood," she
went on, "that you were to be
married to that young lady early
in next month."
"Well?"
He could say that one word.
Looking at their pale faces,
and their eager eyes, he could
say no more.
"Take care!" whispered Dorothea,
in her sister's ear. "Look at
him, Amelia! Not too soon."
Amelia went on more carefully.
"We have just returned from
a musical meeting," she said. "One
of the ladies there was an acquaintance,
a former school-fellow of ours.
She is the wife of the rector
of St. Columb Major--a large
church, far from this--at the
East End of London."
"I know nothing about the woman
or the church," interposed Turlington,
sternly.
"I must beg
you to wait a little. I can't
tell you what I want
to tell you unless I refer to
the rector's wife. She knows
Lady Winwood by name. And she
heard of Lady Winwood recently
under very strange circumstances--circumstances
connected with a signature in
one of the books of the church."
Turlington
lost his self-control. "You
have got something against my
Natalie," he burst out; "I know
it by your whispering, I see
it in your looks! Say it at once
in plain words."
There was no trifling with
him now. In plain words Amelia
said it.
* * * * * * * * *
There was silence
in the room. They could hear
the sound of
passing footsteps in the street.
He stood perfectly still on the
spot where they had struck him
dumb by the disclosure, supporting
himself with his right hand laid
on the head of a sofa near him.
The sisters drew back horror-struck
into the furthest corner of the
room. His face turned them cold.
Through the mute misery which
it had expressed at first, there
appeared, slowly forcing its
way to view, a look of deadly
vengeance which froze them to
the soul. They whispered feverishly
one to the other, without knowing
what they were talking of, without
hearing their own voices. One
of them said, "Ring the bell!" Another
said, "Offer him something, he
will faint." The third shuddered,
and repeated, over and over again, "Why
did we do it? Why did we do it?"
He silenced
them on the instant by speaking
on his side. He came
on slowly, by a step at a time,
with the big drops of agony falling
slowly over his rugged face.
He said, in a hoarse whisper, "Write
me down the name of the church--there." He
held out his open pocketbook
to Amelia while he spoke. She
steadied herself, and wrote the
address. She tried to say a word
to soften him. The word died
on her lips. There was a light
in his eyes as they looked at
her which transfigured his face
to something superhuman and devilish.
She turned away from him, shuddering.
He put the
book back in his pocket, and
passed his handkerchief
over his face. After a moment
of indecision, he suddenly and
swiftly stole out of the room,
as if he was afraid of their
calling somebody in, and stopping
him. At the door he turned round
for a moment, and said, "You
will hear how this ends. I wish
you good-morning."
The door closed on him. Left
by themselves, they began to
realize it. They thought of the
consequences when his back was
turned and it was too late.
The Graybrookes! Now he knew
it, what would become of the
Graybrookes? What wou ld he do
when he got back? Even at ordinary
times--when he was on his best
behavior--he was a rough man.
What would happen? Oh, good God!
what would happen when he and
Natalie next stood face to face?
It was a lonely house--Natalie
had told them about it--no neighbors
near; nobody by to interfere
but the weak old father and the
maiden aunt. Something ought
to be done. Some steps ought
to be taken to warn them. Advice--who
could give advice? Who was the
first person who ought to be
told of what had happened? Lady
Winwood? No! even at that crisis
the sisters still shrank from
their stepmother--still hated
her with the old hatred! Not
a word to _her!_ They owed no
duty to _her!_ Who else could
they appeal to? To their father?
Yes! There was the person to
advise them. In the meanwhile,
silence toward their stepmother--silence
toward every one till their father
came back!
They waited and waited. One
after another the precious hours,
pregnant with the issues of life
and death, followed each other
on the dial. Lady Winwood returned
alone. She had left her husband
at the House of Lords. Dinner-time
came, and brought with it a note
from his lordship. There was
a debate at the House. Lady Winwood
and his daughters were not to
wait dinner for him.
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