XXVI.
THE WHITE POWDER.
It was nine o'clock in the morning, and Hermione stood in the laboratorywindow overlooking the street. Pale from loss of sleep and exhaustedwith the fever of anxiety which had consumed her ever since she haddespatched her letter to Mr. Etheridge, she looked little able to copewith any disappointment which might be in store for her. But as sheleaned there watching for Frank, it was evident from her whole bearingthat she was moved by a fearful hope rather than by an overmasteringdread; perhaps because she had such confidence in his devotion; perhapsbecause there was such vitality in her own love.
Her manner was that of one who thinks himself alone, and yet she wasnot alone. At the other end of the long and dismal apartment glided thesly figure of Huckins. No longer shabby and unkempt, but dressed with aneatness which would have made his sister Cynthia stare in amazement ifshe could have risen from her grave to see him, he flitted about withnoiseless tread, listening to every sigh that escaped from his niece'slips, and marking, though he scarcely glanced her way, each turn of herhead and each bend of her body, as if he were fully aware of her reasonsfor standing there, and the importance of the issues hanging upon theoccurrences of the next fifteen minutes.
She may have known of his presence, and she may not. Her preoccupationwas great, and her attention fixed not upon anything in the room, butupon the street without. Yet she may have felt the influence of thatgliding Evil, moving, snake-like, at her back. If she did she gave nosign, and the moments came and went without any change in her eagerattitude or any cessation in the ceaseless movements with which hebeguiled his own anxiety and the devilish purposes which were slowlyforming themselves in his selfish and wicked mind.
At length she gave a start, and leaned heavily forward. Huckins, who wasexpecting this proof of sudden interest, paused where he was, andsurveyed her with undisguised eagerness in his baleful eyes, while thewords "She sees him; he is coming" formed themselves upon his thin andquivering lips, though no sound disturbed the silence, and neither henor she seemed to breathe.
And he was right. Frank was coming down the street, not gayly and withthe buoyant step of a happy lover, but with head sunk upon his breastand eyes lowered to the ground. Will he lift them as he approaches thegate? Will he smile, as in the olden time--the olden time that wasyesterday--and raise his hand towards the gate and swing it back andenter with that lightsome air of his at once protecting andjoy-inspiring? He looks very serious now, and his steps falter; butsurely, surely, his love is not going to fail him at the crisis; surely,surely, he who has overlooked so much will not be daunted by the littlemore with which she has tried his devotion; surely, surely---- But hiseyes do not lift themselves. He is at the gate, but his hand is notraised to it, and the smile does not come. He is going by, not on theother side of the street, but going by, going by, which means----
As the consciousness of what it did mean pierced her heart and soul,Hermione gave a great cry--she never knew how great a cry--and, staringlike one demented after the beloved figure that in her disordered sightseemed to shrink and waver as it vanished, sank helpless upon the windowsill, with her head falling forward, in a deadly faint.
Huckins, hearing that cry, slowly rubbed his hands together and smiledas the Dark One might smile at the sudden downfall of some doubtfulsoul. Then he passed softly to the door, and, shutting it carefully,came back and recommenced his restless pacings, but this time with anapparent purpose of investigation, for he opened and shut drawers, notquietly, but with a decided clatter, and peered here and there intobottles and jars, casting, as he did so, ready side-glances at thedrooping figure from which the moans of a fatal despair were now slowlybreaking.
When those moans became words, he stopped and listened, and this waswhat he heard come faltering from her lips:
"Twice! twice! Once when I felt myself strong and now when I feel myselfweak. It is too much for a proud woman. I cannot bear it."
At this evidence of revolt and discouragement, Huckins' smile grew inits triumph. He seemed to glide nearer to her; yet he did not stir.
She saw nothing. If she had once recognized his presence, he was to hernow as one blotted from existence. She was saying over and over toherself: "No hope! no hope! I am cursed! My father's hate reaches higherthan my prayers. There is no escape; no love, no light. Solitude isbefore me; solitude forever. Believing this, I cannot live; indeed Icannot!"
As if this had been the word for which he was waiting, Huckins suddenlystraightened up his lean figure and began himself to talk, not as shedid, in wild and passionate tones, but in low, abstracted murmurs, as ifhe were too intent upon a certain discovery he had made to know or carewhether there was or was not any one present to overhear his words.
And what did he say? what could he say at a moment like this? Listenand gauge the evil in the man, for it is deep as his avarice andrelentless as his purpose to enjoy the riches which he considers hisdue. He is standing by a cabinet, the cabinet on the left of the room,and his hand is in a long and narrow drawer.
"What is this?" (Mark the surprise in his tone.) "A packet labelled_Poison_? This is a strange thing to find lying about in an open drawer._Poison!_ I wonder what use brother Cavanagh had for poison?"
He pauses; was it because he had heard a moan or cry break from the spotwhere Hermione crouched against the wall? No, there was silence there, adeep and awful silence, which ought to have made the flesh creep uponhis bones, but which, instead, seemed to add a greater innocence to hismusing tones.
"I suppose it was what was left after some old experiment. It is verydangerous stuff. I should not like to drop these few grains of whitepowder upon my tongue, unless I wanted to be rid of all my troubles.Guess I had better shake the paper out of the window, or those girlswill come across it some day, and may see that word Poison and be movedby it. Life in this house hasn't many attractions."
Any sound now from that dim, distant corner? No, silence is there still;deadly silence. He smiles darkly, and speaks again; very low now, butoh, how clearly!
"But what business is it of mine? I find poison in this drawer, and Ileave it where I find it, and shut the drawer. It may be wanted forrats, and it is always a mistake for old folks to meddle. But I shouldlike to; I'd like to throw this same innocent-looking white powder outof the window; it makes _me_ afraid to think of it lying shut up here ina drawer so easily opened---- My child! Hermione!" he suddenly shrieked,"what do you want?"
She was standing before him, a white and terrible figure.
"Nothing," came from her set lips, in a low and even tone; but she laidone hand upon the drawer he had half shut and with the other pointed tothe door.
He shrank from her, appalled perhaps at his work; perhaps at herrecognition of it.
"Don't," he feebly protested, shaking with terror, or was it with ahideous anxiety? "There is poison in that drawer; do not open it."
"Go for my sister," was the imperious command. "I have no use for youhere, but for her I have."
"You won't open that drawer," he prayed, as he retreated before her eyesin frightened jerks and breathless pauses.
"I tell you I do not need you," she repeated, her hand still on thedrawer, her form rigid, her face blue-white and drawn.
"I--I will bring Emma," he faltered, and shambled across the threshold,throwing back upon her a look she may have noted and may not, but whichif she had understood, would certainly have made her pause. "I will gofor Emma," he said again, closing the door behind him with a touch whichseemed to make even that senseless wood fall away from him. Then helistened--listened instead of going for the gentle sister whose presencemight have calmed the turbulent spirit he had just left. And as helistened his face gradually took on a satisfied look, till, at a certainsound from within, he allowed his hands the luxury of a finalcongratulatory rub, and then gliding from the place, went below.
Emma was standing in the parlor window, fixed in dismay at the sight ofFrank's going by without word or look; but Huckins did not
stop to giveher the message with which he had been entrusted. Instead of that hepassed into the kitchen, and not till he had crossed the floor andshambled out into the open air of the garden did he venture to turn andsay to the watching Doris:
"I am afraid Miss Hermione is not quite well."