CHAPTER XLI
WAITING
They were growing uneasy at the castle. There was a forced cheerfulnessabout the small party that testified to the nervous tension that heldthem. For some years now there had been a tacit understanding on thesubject of punctuality. Such a thing was necessary when any moment mightprecipitate the next catastrophe. The mere fact of anybody being latefor five minutes sufficed to put the rest in a fever. And Geoffrey hadnot come in to tea at all.
The thing was almost in itself a tragedy. Geoffrey was always soconsiderate of others. Nothing in the world would have induced him tostay away without first saying he was going to do so or sending amessage. And tea had been a thing of the past for a good hour. Whatcould have become of him?
Nobody asked the question, but it was uppermost in the minds of all.Vera was chattering with feverish gayety, but there was a blazing redspot on her ghastly white face, and her eyes were wild and restless.
Marion had slipped away. The only one who betrayed no anxiety was Ralph.He sat sipping his chilled tea as if he had the world to himself andthere was nobody else in it.
Presently, with one excuse or another, all slipped away until Vera wasalone with Ralph. He was so quiet that she had almost forgotten hispresence. When she thought herself alone she rose to her feet and pacedthe room rapidly.
She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples.
"God spare him," she whispered, "spare him to me! Oh, it is wicked tofeel like this and so utterly selfish. But if Geoffrey dies I havenothing to live for."
The tears rose to her eyes, tears of agony and reproach and self-pity.Ralph crossed the room silently. He was upon the girl ere she had heardthe soft fall of his footsteps. He laid a hand on Vera's arm.
"Geoffrey is not going to die," he said.
Vera suppressed a scream. She might have cried out, but something in theexpression of Ralph's face restrained her.
"Are you sure of that?" she asked.
"As sure as one can be certain of anything, child. We are alone?"
"There is nobody else here, uncle."
"One cannot be too careful," Ralph muttered. "Then Geoffrey is safe."
"Thank Heaven. You have sent him somewhere, uncle?"
"No, I have not sent him anywhere. And you are not to ask any questions.I have told you so much to spare you the agony and suspense that willovertake the others. I tell you because had you not known, the mentalstrain might have broken you down," continued Ralph.
"Before long it will be proved almost beyond a demonstration thatGeoffrey has become a victim to the family foe. There will be evidenceto convince a jury, but all the time Geoffrey will be safe."
Vera said nothing. She could only gasp. Ralph's hand lay on her shoulderwith a grip that was not devoid of pain.
"You are not to show your feelings to any one," he croaked. "You are notto betray your knowledge by a single sign. Ah, if I could tell you howmuch depends upon your courage, reticence, and your silence!"
"I think you can trust me, Uncle Ralph."
"I think I can, dear. I like the ring of your voice. You are to be quietand subdued as if you were unable to comprehend the full force of thedisaster. Much, if not everything, depends upon the next few hours. Nowgo, please."
Ralph slipped away into the grounds. A little later he was making hisway along the cliffs toward the village. For a brief time Vera stoodstill. She was trying to realize what Ralph had said.
"What did it mean?" she asked herself again and again. But she couldfind no answer to the puzzle. Still Geoffrey was safe. Whateversensation the next few hours might produce Geoffrey had come to no harm.It would be hard to see the others suffer, hard to witness their griefand not lighten it by so much as a sign.
But Ralph had been emphatic on this point. Had he not said thateverything hinged upon her reticence and silence? Vera went slowly toher room, her feet making no sound on the thick pile carpet. A flood oflight streamed through the stained glass windows into the corridor. Inthe big recess at the end a white figure lay face downward on thecushions.
Vera approached softly. She saw the shoulders rise and fall as if thegirl lying there were sobbing in bitter agony. It was Marion. Marion theever cheerful! Surely her grief must be beyond the common?
"Marion," Vera whispered. "Dear Marion."
She bent over the prostrate figure with heartfelt tenderness.
Marion raised her face at length. It was wet with tears and her eyeswere swollen. At first she seemed not to recognize Vera.
"Go away," she said hoarsely. "Why do you intrude upon me like this? AmI never to have a minute to myself? Am I always to carry the familytroubles on my shoulders?"
She spoke fiercely, with a gleam in her eyes that Vera had never seenbefore. She drew back, frightened and alarmed. It seemed incredible thatgentle Marion could repulse her like this. But she did not go.
Marion was beside herself with grief; she did not know what she wassaying. It was impossible to leave her in this condition.
"You are grieving for Geoffrey," she said. "He will come back to us."
"Geoffrey is dead," Marion wailed. "He will never come back. And I----"
She paused; she had not lost control of herself entirely. But the lookin her eyes, the expression of her face, the significant pause told Veraa story. It burst upon her with the full force of a sudden illumination.
"Marion," she whispered, "you love him as well as I do----"
So her secret was known at last! And Marion was only a woman, after all.The selfishness of her grief drove away all other emotions.
"As you do?" she cried. "What do you with your gentle nature know oflove? You want the wild hot blood in your veins to feel the real fire ofa lasting, devouring affection.
"I tell you I love him ten thousand times more than you do. Look at me,I am utterly lost and abased with my grief and humiliation. Am I not anobject of pity? Geoffrey is dead, I tell you; I know it, I feel it. Lovehim as you do! And you stand there without so much as a single tear forhis dear memory."
Vera flushed. The words stung her keenly. How cold and callous Marionmust think her! And yet Marion would have been equally cold andself-contained had she known. And it was impossible to give her a singlehint.
"My heart and soul are wrapped up in Geoffrey," she said. "If anythinghappens to him I shall have nothing to live for. But I am not going togive way yet. There is still hope. And I shall hope to the end."
Marion sat up suddenly and dried her tears.
"You are a reproach to me," she said with a watery smile. "Not one wordof reproof has passed your lips, and yet you are a reproof to me. And tothink that you should have learned my secret! I could die of shame."
Vera kissed the other tenderly.
"Why?" she asked. "Surely there is no shame in a pure and disinterestedaffection."
"From your point of view, no," said Marion. "But if you could placeyourself in my position you would not regard it in the same light. Ihave cared for Geoffrey ever since I came here; all along I have lovedhim. I knew that he was pledged to you, and knew that he could never beanything to me and still I loved him. Who shall comprehend thewaywardness of a woman's heart? And now he is dead."
Once more the tears rose to Marion's eyes; she rocked herself to and froas if suffering from bitter anguish.
"I do not believe that Geoffrey is dead," said Vera. "Something tells methat he will be spared. But why go on like this? Anybody would imaginethat you had something to do with it from the expression of your face."
Marion looked up suddenly.
"Something to do with it?" she echoed dully, mechanically.
"I wasn't speaking literally, of course." Vera went on. "But yourcurious expression----"
"What is curious about my expression?"
"It is so strange. It is not like grief, so much as remorse."
Marion broke into a queer laugh, a laugh she strangled. As she passedher handkerchief across her face she seemed to wipe out that strangeexpression.
r /> "I hope remorse and I will remain strangers for many a long day," shesaid more composedly. "It is so difficult to judge from faces. And Imust try to be brave like yourself. I have never given way before."
"I believe you are the bravest of us all, Marion."
"And I that I am the greatest coward. I have even been so weak as toallow the secret of my life to escape me. Vera, I want you to make me amost sacred promise."
"A dozen if you like, dear."
"Then I want you to promise that Geoffrey shall never know of yourdiscovery. At no time are you to tell him. Promise."
Marion looked up eagerly and met Vera's eyes. They were clear and trueand honest; they were filled with frankness and pity.
"I promise from my heart," she said. "Not now nor at any time shallGeoffrey know what I have learned to-day."
Marion blessed the speaker tenderly.
"I am satisfied," she said. "He will never know."