Until the following morning Marianne did not know, or care, which of Lady Annabelle's pets had given her such a fright. She was awakened by a small head pushing against her chin and claws kneading her chest. She opened her eyes. The face confronting her had a pink nose, blue eyes, and white fur.
"Fluffy," Marianne said drowsily.
Fluffy meowed. She jumped off the bed and marched to the door, where she meowed again and stared demandingly at Marianne. The girl lost no time in responding; she was well aware of Fluffy's delicate constitution, and did not want to be responsible for any untoward accidents.
She let the cat out and watched it saunter down the hall, its tail waving.
The room was so dark she thought it must be very early, but when she looked at her watch she saw that it was after eight o'clock. The sounds she had heard in the night had not been the product of nightmare after all; the wind still howled around the eaves and drove rain against the windowpanes. The air felt damp and chilly. Marianne hopped back into the warm bed and gave the bellpull a determined yank. She had let Annie off often enough; this morning she wanted hot tea and hot water and a hot fire.
Annie was in no hurry to respond, however. The warmth of the blankets and the monotonous, soothing beat of the rain made Marianne drowsy. She was remembering her nocturnal fears and smiling at her own fancies when a thought occurred to her – one that should have occurred long before. How had the cat gotten into her room?
That alarming question dispelled the last vestiges of drowsiness. She could not remember whether she had locked her door, but it had most certainly been closed. Or had it? Perhaps the latch had not caught and the cat had pushed the door open. Marianne found that hard to believe, though. The doors were several inches thick, of wood so hard it was almost petrified. Fluffy was not a massively muscled cat like Horace, she was one of the smaller of Lady Annabelle's pets. Furthermore, Marianne realized, the door had been firmly shut that morning; she had had to twist the knob to open it for Fluffy. There seemed no way around the conclusion that at some time during the night the door- or a door – had been opened by a human hand.
She was about to ring the bell again when Annie finally came. Amusement mingled with Marianne's annoyance when she saw that Annie's companion was the same stalwart young footman. He was carrying an armful of firewood as well as a bucket of steaming water. Annie had a breakfast tray, which she handed Marianne at arm's length.
After the fire was blazing, Marianne asked the young man his name. He started as if she had shouted at him, but managed to answer that his name was John.
"Thank you, John," Marianne said. "You may go now. I want to talk to Annie."
Annie's eyes opened so wide the white showed all around her dilated pupils. Twisting her hands in the folds of her apron, she backed off until she was as far from Marianne as she could get without actually leaving the room.
"Stop being so silly, Annie," Marianne said impatiently. "You look as if you expect me to sprout horns and a tail. I am only human, like yourself. Why are you afraid of me?"
"They say…" Annie began. Words failed her.
"They? Who? The other servants? Who is spreading wild stories about me?"
Annie shrugged, her eyes rolling wildly, and Marianne realized it was useless to try to get anything coherent out of her. If those who listen to rumors were capable of analyzing their origins, they would not believe them in the first place.
"The Duchess has been conducting seances for years," Marianne persisted. "You aren't afraid of her. Why me?"
Annie knew the answer to that one. "You're his daughter, miss. The wizard's daughter."
"No, I am not!" The vehemence of the statement startled Marianne almost as much as it did Annie. It was the first time since the suggestion had been made that she had denied it with perfect conviction. She went on, "I am a poor orphan from Yorkshire whom the Duchess has befriended – not so different from you, you see. I would like to be your friend."
"Yes, miss." Annie continued to crumple her neat white apron, but she appeared less nervous.
"All right, you may go," Marianne said with a sigh. She had done all that she could. "I am sure your sweetheart is still waiting for you outside, to protect you from me."
"Oh, miss, he's not my sweetheart." Annie giggled.
"If he is not, it is your fault; I saw how he looked at you. Run along, now."
Annie bobbed a curtsy and obeyed. Cheered by what appeared to be at least moderate success in overcoming the girl's fear, Marianne ate her breakfast with good appetite and then washed and dressed. She put on one of her old dresses, for she had a project in mind.
It was possible that someone had opened her door during the night, allowing the cat to slip in. The sighing of wind and rain would have concealed any sound. But there was another possibility. As she knew from her reading, old castles were replete with secret passages, hidden rooms, and other such features. Indeed, young Henry had bragged of his familiarity with the passageways that honeycombed the castle walls.
Marianne set about the search with the optimism born of ignorance that is characteristic of the young. An older, wiser person would have told her she had little chance of success. Even if such devices existed, a certain degree of expertise was necessary to discover them. Older, wiser persons are constantly annoyed by the unwarranted success of the young and ignorant; and such was the case in this instance. Since the entire room was paneled, the search took quite some time and Marianne was beginning to be bored when one of the Tudor roses on a panel by the fireplace yielded to the pressure of her fingers and the panel itself slid quietly to one side.
More excited than frightened, Marianne lighted a candle and thrust it into the aperture that had opened before her. The light showed the beginning of a flight of stone steps leading sharply downward. The steps were less than six inches wide and so steep that only a cat could have used them comfortably.
She was not a cat – or a careless, agile, small boy; the steep pitch of the stairs was more than she cared to attempt. Furthermore, she had no idea where the steps led. She might find herself in some cul-de-sac from which exit was impossible. And what if the door closed and she was unable to discover the catch that would release it? Marianne shivered dramatically, picturing herself pounding desperately on the locked panel until lack of air finally overcame her and she sank into a deathly sleep. This contingency was, of course, most unlikely. The Duke could not be the only one who knew the network of secret passages, and if she turned up missing, a search would certainly be thorough and immediate. All the same, Marianne was not inclined to risk it. Even a few minutes in imprisoning, dusty darkness and she would scream herself into a fit. No, she would not explore. But she could try to make sure no one else used that entrance.
With some difficulty she dragged a table in front of the panel and put a bowl of flowers on top of it. If someone tried to come in, table or bowl or both would fall, and the crash would awaken her.
Complacently pleased with her morning's work, she changed her dusty frock and went to see how the Duchess was doing.
The long day dragged. Since it was too wet to ride, Marianne spent most of the time with the Duchess, reading and talking and embroidering. The doctor had forbidden card games as being too exciting. Dismissed while the Duchess napped, Marianne was so bored she even went looking for Henry, thinking she might offer to play a game with him. The schoolroom was deserted; one of the servants told her His Grace was with his mother.
She did not look for Carlton. She went to the library thinking she might find an entertaining book, and peeped into the billiard room – solely out of curiosity, to see what it was like – not looking for Carlton. When one of the footmen, mistaking her intentions, informed her that the gentlemen had gone out, Marianne replied haughtily that she had no interest in the whereabouts of the gentlemen. She went into the music room and relieved her feelings by banging out a series of emphatic polonaises and marches.
By the time she finished practicing, the gentlemen had returned, or so she was told by another overzealous servant. Marianne told him that she had not the slightest interest in the subject. She returned to the Duchess's room, hoping that the vicar might have been moved to make another pastoral call. But apparently the rain had dampened his ardor, for he never came.
The Duchess urged her to join the gentlemen for dinner. She refused, feeling that if she could not be amused she might as well be useful, but she was glad to be dismissed when the doctor came up to sit with his friend. She was so bored she was even beginning to think regretfully of the seances. They had been alarming, but they had not been dull.
Moving aimlessly around her room in search of something to occupy her mind, she picked up her writing portfolio and sat down with it on her lap. She was sorry she had not kept a diary, as so many young ladies did; at least she would have more interesting things to write about than who danced with whom at the last ball, and what color ribbons she had selected for her new gown. But perhaps, she reflected, the only people who have time to write in their diaries are the ones to whom nothing ever happens.
The rain hissed against the windows. It was just the sort of night to write a long, intimate letter to a friend. But she had no such friends. The only girls she knew were casual acquaintances, daughters of the squire's friends and neighbors.
Marianne yawned. Tomorrow was Sunday. She could look forward to that, at any rate. She wondered whether Lady Violet meant to go to church with her. The next move was certainly up to the lady; it would be rude of her to press further.
Absently she opened the portfolio, and there before her, like a scrap of her conscience that had taken visible form, was the letter from Mrs. Jay, which she had crumpled and hurled at the fire.
Her receptivity toward suggestions of the uncanny was now so keen that she stared at the paper with dilating eyes. Then common sense asserted itself. So her aim had not been as good as she thought. The letter had fallen to the floor, Annie had found it, had smoothed it out and put it neatly away. That was the explanation, of course.
Still, the reappearance of the letter was a salutary reminder of her duty. She owed Mrs. Jay an explanation that would relieve the old lady's fears and justify her own behavior. She had been wrong to respond to its criticism with anger. Mrs. Jay was moved solely by concern for her, she knew that.
She forced herself to finish the part of the letter she had left unread. It was more of the same – lectures on the evils of spiritualism. Mrs. Jay did not use the vicar's arguments. Hers was a robustly rational attitude that deplored the activity because it was a denial of the quite adequate and comforting explanations offered by traditional religion. Naturally she said this at much greater length, and it was not until the very end of the letter that she added a single sentence that caused Marianne to uncurl her pretty mouth (a gesture she had unconsciously acquired from Carlton) and pay close attention.
"I find myself not so well as I would like; but at my age, Marianne, one must expect some infirmities."
To do Marianne justice, this statement made her feel bad for a full thirty seconds. To do her even more justice, she would have been thoroughly overcome if she could have seen Mrs. Jay, or known the hours of agonized debate that had resulted in that single understated comment. Mrs. Jay had finally concluded that the shock to her darling's sensibilities might be lessened if she received a well-chosen hint about the event that could not now be far away. But the words conveyed nothing of the physical pain or mental distress that had prompted them; and perhaps Marianne cannot be blamed for dismissing the sentence with a shrug. To be sure, Mrs. Jay was no longer young. Some infirmities had to be expected…
However, she was moved to pick up her pen and dash off a few lines of reassurance. The letter was a skillful blend of candor and tactful omissions. She admitted that the Duchess dabbled in spiritualism, but did not mention her own participation. She assured Mrs. Jay that she herself had not the slightest belief in that pernicious doctrine. She described the vicar at length without going into detail about his reasons for condemning table turning, for some instinct told her that Mrs. Jay would be as disgusted by demons as she was by spirits. All in all, Marianne was pleased with the letter when she read it over. She added a final sentence. "I do hope your rheumatism is better; you must take care of yourself and not do too much."
With a pleasant consciousness of duty done, she prepared for bed. Whether it was the idea of the approaching Sabbath – when no evil spirits are allowed to walk abroad – or the thought of her good old friend, she felt a peace of mind that had been foreign to her for many days. Still, she did not neglect to lock her door and, after a moment of silent debate, to leave a candle burning. The small, valiant flame dipped and swayed in the draft. Its vagrant movements were the last thing she saw before she fell asleep.
She woke with a start to find the room in darkness. At first she thought the unpleasantness of a bad dream must have roused her. It had been a horrid, confused mixture of the varied miseries she had suffered since arriving in London. In it she had seemed to pass, with the swift, unhindered movement of a bodiless spirit, through a dreadful twilight country of bare twisted trees and half-seen monsters, all wearing human faces:
Mrs. Pettibone and her sadistic son; Bagshot, mouthing curses; Wilson, the sinister manager of the supper club; and, worst of all, dear Mrs. Jay, who had shaken her fist and shrieked out threats of hellfire and eternal damnation.
This last terrible vision lingered even after she awoke. The limp white hands of her old friend still hovered above her head.
Marianne felt the bedclothes pressing down on her. She was awake… and the hands still hung luminous in the darkness. A clammy sweat dampened her brow. She was too frightened to move or scream.
A low, wavering moan sounded, mounting to a scream. It came again, louder and more peremptory; and then, all at once, Marianne was fully awake and furious. With a lunge she sat up and snatched, not at the pale spectral hands, but at a point just beyond where they ended in darkness. Her fingers closed over a solid, human arm. She pulled with all her strength.
The moan ended in a yelp of surprise and pain, and something fell heavily across her lap. In fumbling for a better hold, Marianne lost her grip on the intruder, who immediately rolled off the bed. She heard him blundering around the room, but made no attempt to recapture him. Instead she found her candle and struck a light.
She had known, as soon as her fingers touched the thin, boyish wrist, who her tormentor was. The flaring candlelight caught the young Duke on his way to the hidden passage. It gaped open. The table she had placed before it stood to one side, and Marianne cursed her own stupidity; anyone coming by way of the stairs would naturally carry a light, and as soon as the panel slid to one side he would see the obstacle.
Remembering the boy's propensity to fall into a fit when he was startled, Marianne did not shout at him, as she wanted to do, but spoke in a firm, quiet voice.
"You are fairly caught, Henry. Sit down, if you please."
Henry hesitated long enough to make her wonder what on earth she would do if he fell to the floor frothing and writhing. Then, with a sullen swagger, he threw himself into a chair, crossed one leg over the other, and stared at her defiantly.
"You weren't frightened at all," he said. "How did you know it was me?"
"It was I," Marianne corrected. "I wasn't frightened, but I might have been; it was a cruel, malicious thing to do. Why did you do it?"
"I thought it would be fun."
"And how did you evade M. Victor? He should not allow -"
"He has gone out. I suppose he is down at the Devenbrook Arms, getting drunk, as usual."
"Getting…" Marianne decided not to pursue this line of investigation. Curiosity got the better of her, and she inquired rather ingenuously, "How did you do that?"
"Gloves, coated with phosphorus," Henry answered readily. He pulled these objects from his pocket and dangled them from his hand. In the gloom they had a perceptible glow; but, like all enlightened viewers of a conjurer, Marianne wondered how she could ever have been deceived by such a simple trick.
"I got the idea from A Young Person's Guide to Science," Henry went on. "There are lots of other good things in that book. Would you like to see it?"
"Yes, I would." Marianne was decidedly interested; but seeing that Henry was now quite at ease, and indeed rather proud of his ingenuity, she thought she had better not encourage him any more. Returning to her lecturing tone, she asked reproachfully,
"What would your dear mama say if she knew you had done this?"
A singularly unpleasant, unchildlike smile came over Henry's face. "She would like it. She hates you."
"Hates me? You must be mistaken. Why should she hate me?"
"You are very pretty," Henry said. "And the vicar admires you."
Marianne was silenced momentarily. Consternation, lingering anger, pleasure at the compliment, and hurt – for she had really hoped that the unhappy Lady Violet would be her friend – gave way to an overwhelming pity.
"I am sorry if she doesn't like me," she said gently. "I like her very much, and would like to be of service to her. And to you, Henry. I know it is dull for you here. I am bored too, sometimes; perhaps we could do things together. I am very good at playing ball, and marbles."
"Girls can't play ball," Henry said.
"I can. Before I had to become a proper young lady I played with Billy Turnbull and Jack Daws, at home. Why don't we make a pact? I won't tell anyone about this if you will try to be my friend."
Henry was wise enough to see that this offer was to his advantage, since it committed him to nothing specific.
"All right," he said ungraciously. "Can I go now?"
"Yes. But if you ever use that passageway again I will not hold my tongue."
Henry departed as he had come, without further comment; but the last glance he gave Marianne held an inquiring, almost wistful quality that gave her hope that some good had been done. She had deliberately refrained from questioning the boy about any other tricks he might have played. If she could gain his confidence he might confide in her of his own free will.
To Marianne's surprise Carlton accompanied her to church next morning. He was waiting for her in the hall when she came down and handed her into the carriage with a solemn air perfectly suited to a Sunday morning. It was still raining.
"So Lady Violet changed her mind," Marianne said.
"No; she remained of the same mind. She never intended to go."
"I am sorry."
"You have been reading too many tracts," Carlton said. "You earnest Christians seem to feel that a single noble gesture from you should bring about instant conversion, and you become highly indignant when there is no such result. A long-seated timidity like that of the Lady Violet is not to be overcome in a day; if you really wanted to befriend her you would persist and not be discouraged by lack of immediate success."
"And what makes you suppose I will not persist? You do have a poor opinion of me!"
"Now you are becoming angry," Carlton said gravely. "Tut, tut, Miss Ransom. Try to adopt an attitude more becoming to the day and the occasion."
So Marianne had to swallow her wrath. "Why is not Dr. Gruffstone with us?" she asked. "I hope the Duchess is not worse."
"No, she does quite well. Gruffstone is a rational deist, or some such thing; he does not approve of organized religion, except for the lower classes."
Marianne had no comment to make on this absurd statement. With Carlton she could never be sure whether he was reporting a fact or embroidering it in his own peculiar way.
Going down the aisle of the church on Carlton's arm was almost as much of an ordeal as going alone; her self-possession was not improved when he said out of the corner of his mouth, "Practice, Miss Ransom, for the day of your nuptials. Aren't you glad the groom will be someone else?"
Nor was the sermon soothing. To be sure, the vicar was as handsome as ever, and he seemed to smile directly at her; but the text was the famous exhortation that had led to the hideous deaths of thousands of innocents: "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Naturally St. John did not advocate such a fate for those who dabbled in forbidden arts, but by the time he had finished painting a vivid picture of the flames singeing the screaming sinners, Marianne was almost inclined to think that being burned alive would be preferable. At least it had an end, whereas according to St. John the fires of Hell never went out.
The congregation found this sermon much more to its taste than the last one had been. Several of them were beginning to sway and groan in chorus by the time St. John finished with a thundering condemnation.
Carlton, who had sat with folded arms and impassive face throughout, did not comment until they had squelched through the mud and taken their places in the carriage.
"Ah, the comforts of religion. It is as well Her Grace was not well enough to attend. I fully expected some of the elderly faithful to suffer heart attacks on the spot."
"He would not have delivered that sermon if the Duchess had been there," Marianne said.
"No doubt you are right. He has enough self-interest to avoid such an error."
"Compassion, you mean."
"No, that is not what I mean. But you and I will never agree on that subject; enough of it. Have you given any thought as to what you will do a few days from now, when the Duchess calls on you to summon up the spirit of David Holmes?"
The seemingly abrupt change of subject left Marianne momentarily at a loss for words. It was not, in fact, a non sequitur; the fiery sermon had revived her distaste for spiritualism and reminded her of something she had tried not to think about.
"She may not ask it of me."
"Don't cherish that illusion. She lives for that moment. Indeed," Carlton added, his expression thoughtful, "I think she lives only for that moment. If she believes that Holmes waits for her on the other side…"
"Are you by any chance suggesting that I invent a message to that effect?"
"Little Miss Innocent is not quite so naive as she appears," Carlton jeered. "I was not about to suggest that, no; but don't be too surprised if the doctor comes to you with some such request."
"He would never do such a thing!"
"Don't be too sure. However, I admit that you are in a devilish difficult position. If there is no contact at all, the disappointment might literally break her heart. If Holmes greets her with the usual vague meandering about flowers and sunshine and peace on the other side, she may decide to join him forthwith. In fact, if you are considering a literary invention along those lines, I suggest you say that, while Holmes is happy to see her, he does not expect to meet her in heaven for many years to come."
"I could not do that," Marianne said wearily. "Even if I wanted to, I would not know how to make it convincing."
Carlton's hand, resting on his knee, clenched into a fist, as if he were trying to keep it from making a gesture foreign to his will.
"Something must be decided before the day comes," he said. "I cannot – I will not! – endure a repetition of what happened the last time."
"Which of the doctor's theories do you follow?" Marianne asked. "No doubt you have decided, despite the evidence of your own eyes – and hands – that I was responsible after all."
She thought Carlton flushed faintly at the reference to his fumbling at her skirt, but in the dim light it was hard to tell. Certainly his voice held no trace of embarrassment as he replied, "I have as yet reached no conclusion. But I am working on the problem, make no mistake about that."
Marianne was tempted to tell him about her nocturnal visit from Henry. However, it seemed unworthy to try to lift suspicion from herself by casting it on another. Besides, she had given her word not to tell.
Carlton said no more, and when they reached the castle he went off with only a brusque nod of farewell. Marianne went up to change her damp shoes. When she opened her door the first thing she saw was Henry, comfortably curled up in a chair by the fire.
"You were a very long time," he remarked. "I've been waiting for hours."
"You have no business being here at all," Marianne replied. "I thought I told you never to come into without knocking."
"I did knock."
Marianne could not help laughing. "Then let me amend my statement. You must not come in unless I answer your knock."
"I'm sorry." The apology, which she had not expected, and the ingratiating tone, warned Marianne not to pursue the lecture. "You said you would play something with me," Henry went on.
"Yes, but this is Sunday."
"Please. You said you would."
Marianne's childhood was not so far in the past. She could well remember the appalling dullness of Sunday afternoons, after Mrs. Jay had taken over her education. She could also remember the squire's foul temper on the mornings after all-night drinking sessions with his cronies, and she imagined that Victor was in no state to be useful to his pupil – assuming, of course, that the boy's account of his tutor's Saturday-night amusements was correct.
After all, she told herself recklessly, I am probably doomed to Hell anyway. What does one more small sin matter?
"Very well. Wait outside for me while I change."
Henry obeyed so promptly and with such a beaming face that she realized what a nice boy he could be, under the right circumstances. She put on her oldest gown, suspecting it would probably sustain some damage.
The dress was certainly not improved by the activities of the succeeding hours. First she was taken to admire Henry's new velocipede, which he was allowed to ride indoors on wet days. The old castle had plenty of abandoned corridors suitable to this exercise, and it amused Marianne to think how shocked the former dukes would have been to see the boy racing at full speed along the passages where they had paced in solemn dignity. She even took a turn on the velocipede herself, with Henry shouting encouragement.
"I really think," she said, dismounting, "that I had better go and see if the Duchess needs me for anything."
"Oh, not yet!" Henry snatched her hand. "There are lots of things we haven't played. I want to show you my room."
Marianne was unable to resist his shining face. Besides, she was enjoying herself.
They climbed the endless flights of stairs that led to the upper regions, where the young were tucked away in the pious hope that they would be neither seen nor heard. It occurred to Marianne that M. Victor's room must be near that of his pupil. She hoped she would not see him. She did not mean to let the fear of such a meeting deter her, however; after all, she was the injured party.
Henry showed off his rooms with pardonable pride. They contained every comfort, and most of the luxuries, that money could provide. The night nursery was a cozy little chamber with a quaint turreted roof, hung all around with tapestries to keep off the chill. The former day nursery, which Henry preferred to call his schoolroom, had a pair of desks and a bookcase in one corner, but playroom might have been a better term, for the rest of the long, lofty chamber was crowded with an assortment of expensive toys, including the latest mechanical windup trains and fire engines. A huge wooden Noah's Ark contained almost as many pairs of animals as the original must have done; and Marianne was child enough to be enchanted with a large toy theater with curtains of real red velvet and enough wooden figures for an entire repertoire of Shakespeare. She wanted to play with this, but Henry dragged out boxes of lead soldiers and proposed a battle. They were in the middle of the last charge at Waterloo (Marianne, of course, had to take the French side) and she was so absorbed in avoiding Wellington's assault that she failed to hear the door open. Looking up through her tumbled hair she saw M. Victor.
Marianne scrambled to her feet. Victor stepped forward to offer his hand; she ignored it. The smile faded from the tutor's face, to be replaced by a singularly ugly look Marianne wondered how she could ever have thought him pleasant or amusing. He showed all the signs of the dissipation Henry had accused him of: sunken eyes, pasty complexion, and a perceptible tremor in the hand he now withdrew.
"What do you want?" Henry demanded. "We are busy. Go away."
"I am sorry to interrupt Your Grace in such an edifying Sunday activity," said Victor, with a sneer. "But Miss Ransom is wanted."
"I want her!"
"Sure, and you'll not be the only one! I was referring," Victor explained, smirking at Marianne, "to her noble Grace. Now you can't be letting her wait, can you?"
"Certainly not," Marianne said coldly. "Henry, I have enjoyed this. Tomorrow, after your lessons, perhaps we can finish the battle. This time the French may win after all!"
Henry's sulky look was replaced by a smile. "No, they won't."
"We shall see. Thank you for letting me come."
She walked straight toward Victor, whose outstretched arm barred the door. At the last possible moment he stepped aside and followed her out into the hall.
"Will you not wait a tiny little minute? It's wanting to speak with you I am."
"I have nothing to say to you," Marianne snapped, continuing on her way.
"Have you not then? Yet we could be the best of friends, I'm thinking; having so much in common, one might say."
Trotting along beside her he put out his hand with what he obviously believed to be an ingratiating smile.
"We have nothing whatever in common," Marianne replied. "And as for being friends, that is not only ludicrous, it is insulting. I warn you" – as he seemed to be about to take her by the arm – "if you touch me I will complain at once, not to Her Grace, who must not be troubled with such things, but to Mr. Carlton. He will see that you are dismissed, and possibly thrashed."
Victor looked as if he might have said more, but Marianne did not wait to hear it. Increasing her pace, she went on as rapidly as she could. The tutor did not follow.
Once she was out of sight, she paused for a few moments to compose herself, since she did not want the Duchess to ask the cause of her flushed lace. She was half tempted to carry out her threat of telling Carlton. Surely the tutor was not the right person to be in charge of a boy like Henry. Yet she hesitated to complain of him. It seemed so mean-spirited.
When she reached the Duchess's room she found Dr. Gruffstone pacing along the corridor, glancing impatiently at his watch.
"Is something wrong?" Marianne asked. "I came as soon as I could."
"No, no. Her Grace simply wondered what had become of you, and since she is not to suffer the slightest worry I sent the servants to look for you. Will you sit with her awhile? She has been resting and now wants to be amused. You may even play a game of backgammon if you promise to lose badly, so there will be no suspense to the play."
"Of course," Marianne said, returning his smile. "I will go in to her at once."
She found the room in semidarkness and at first thought the Duchess had gone to sleep. However, she roused when Marianne tiptoed in. In a dazed, drowsy voice, she said, "I have had the most beautiful dream… At least Horace would call it a dream. David… He smiled at me and held out his hands and called me 'Honor.' He was the only one who ever called me that."
"Dreams can be very real," Marianne said gently. "Would you like to sleep again?"
"It was not a dream. I saw him as plainly as I see you." Marianne did not point out that in the shadowy twilight she must appear insubstantial and ghostly too. The Duchess went on, "I could even make out the furnishings of the room where he was. It was a shabby, homely little place, a bedchamber of some kind. There was rain pouring down the windowpane. Blue hangings on the bed… Or were they gray?" The Duchess sighed. "It is fading now, but it was very real."
A superstitious shiver ran down Marianne's limbs.
"It is cool here," she said. "Shall I put more wood on the fire, and light the lamps? What can I do to amuse you? The doctor says we may play backgammon if you would like."
"What, on Sunday?" The Duchess laughed. "Horace is a frightful old pagan, but I know better. Yes, light the lamps if you will, child. Tea will be coming up shortly."
Marianne poked up the fire and lighted all the lamps she could find. With the curtains drawn the room took on a warm, cheerful look that was much more to her taste.
The Duchess also seemed more cheerful, though she complained, half jokingly, of having a hard time keeping her eyes open.
"It must be the weather. The sound of rain always makes one sleepy. Never mind, a cup of tea will wake me up. Tell me what you have been doing all day."
Marianne gave her a spirited account of the battle of Waterloo and the activities that had preceded it. The Duchess laughed aloud at her description of herself on the velocipede, her knees high, scraping first one wall and then the other as she raced.
"I know I should not have allowed the Duke to play on Sunday," she said apologetically. "But I did want to be friends with him, and he seemed at loose ends -"
"And that wretched Irishman sleeping off his overindulgence," the Duchess broke in. "Don't look so surprised, child; I am not incompetent yet! I began to question his influence over Henry last time I was here, and what I have seen on this visit confirms my feelings that he must be replaced. Don't apologize for breaking the Sabbath. You committed a minor sin in doing an act of kindness, which is much more important. Now tell me… Ah, here is Rose with our tea."
Marianne was happy to see that the tray the maid carried appeared to be heavily laden. She had worked up an appetite playing with Henry.
All at once the maid came to a dead stop, her eyes bulging. The cups and saucers on the tray rattled. Marianne jumped up and seized it as it tilted; she was just in time to prevent the contents from sliding off onto the floor.
She put the tray on a table. "What on earth is the matter. Rose?" she asked.
The maid tried to reply. The muscles of her throat bulged, but no sound came from her parted lips. Her staring eyes were fixed on some object behind Marianne.
Marianne turned, following the gaze, which was almost as explicit as a pointing finger.
The wall between the windows blazed with letters of fire. A large oil lamp on the table below them allowed her to read the message they spelled.
"The time is near. Come to me then."
The maid began to scream. Marianne swayed, not through faintness, but through indecision. She did not know whether to run to the Duchess, or silence the shrieking maid, or summon help, or seize the nearest cloth and wipe out the fiery letters… assuming they could be wiped out by something so ordinary as a cloth.
Before she could decide, the door burst open and Dr. Gruffstone appeared. She had never admired his quickness so much; a sudden bound took him to Rose; he slapped her briskly on the cheek. Her shrieks stopped. Then the doctor turned to his patient.
"It is all right, Horace," the Duchess said calmly. "I am happy. I am at peace."
Indeed she looked quite beautiful. Smiling, flushed, except for her snow-white hair she might have been a young girl.
Gruffstone turned to Marianne.
"Watch that fool woman," he snarled, gesturing at Rose. "She is about to swoon. Get her into the next room, don't let her talk to the others." As she spoke he pulled his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and with one vicious sweeping gesture removed the first line of the glowing inscription. The second followed, just as a rush of footsteps heralded the arrival of Carlton.
"What in heaven's name -"
Rose proved the doctor a true prophet by collapsing into an untidy heap on the floor. Marianne bent over her.
"What -" Carlton began again.
"My smelling salts are in the cabinet," the Duchess said calmly. "Do what you can for her, Horace, and then please join me in a cup of tea."