And so on the following day Angela and Pigott returned to the Abbey House, but they both felt that it was a sad home-coming. Indeed, if there had been no other cause for melancholy, the sight of Philip’s face was enough to excite it in the most happy-minded person. Not that Angela saw much of him, however, for they still kept to their old habit of not living together. All day her father was shut up in his room transacting business that had reference to the accession of his property and the settlement of George’s affairs; for his cousin had died intestate, so he took his personalty and wound up the estate as heir-at-law. At night, however, he would go out and walk for miles, and in all weathers — he seemed to dread spending the dark hours at home.
When Angela had been back about a month in the old place, she accidentally got a curious insight into her father’s mental sufferings.
It so happened that one night, finding it impossible to sleep, and being much oppressed by sorrowful thoughts, she thought that she would read the hours away. But the particular book she wanted to find was downstairs, and it was two o’clock in the morning, and chilly in the passages. However, anything is better than sleeplessness, and the tyranny of sad thoughts and empty longings; so, throwing on her dressing-gown, she took a candle, and set off, thinking as she went how she had in the same guise fled before her husband.
She got her book, and was returning, when she saw that there was still a light in her father’s study, and that the door was ajar. At that moment it so happened that an unusually sharp draught coming down one of the passages of the rambling old house, caught her candle and extinguished it. Making her way to the study-door, she pushed it open to see if anybody was there previous to asking for a light. At first she could see nobody. On the table, which was covered with papers, there stood two candles, a brandy-bottle, and a glass. She was just moving to the candle to get a light, when her eye fell on what she at first believed to be a heap of clothes huddled together on the floor in the corner of the room. Further examination showed that it was a man — she could distinctly see the backs of his hands. Her first ideas was that she had surprised a thief, and she stopped, feeling frightened and not knowing what to do. Just then the bundle straightened itself a little and dropped its hands, revealing to her wondering gaze her own father’s face, which wore the same awful look of abject fear which she had seen upon it when he passed through the hall beneath her just before Isleworth broke into flame on the night of her marriage. The eyes appeared to be starting from the sockets in an effort to clearly realize an undefinable horror, the hair, now daily growing greyer, was partially erect, and the pallid lips, half-opened, as though to speak words that would not come. He saw her too, but did not seem surprised at her presence. Covering up his eyes again with one hand, he shrank further back into his corner, and with the other pointed to a large leather arm-chair in which Pigott had told her her grandfather had died.
“Look there,” he whispered, hoarsely.
“Where, father? I see nothing.”
“There, girl, in the chair — look how it glares at me!”
Angela stood aghast. She was alarmed, in defiance of her own reason, and began to catch the contagion of superstition.
“This is dreadful,” she said; “for heaven’s sake tell me what is the matter.”
Philip’s ghastly gaze again fixed itself on the chair, and his teeth began to chatter.
“Great God,” he said, “it is coming.”
And, uttering a smothered cry, he fell on his face in a half faint. The necessity for action brought Angela to herself. Seizing the water-bottle, she splashed some water into her father’s face. He came to himself almost instantly.
“Where am I?” he said. “Ah! I remember; I have not been quite well. You must not think anything of that. What are you doing down here at this time of night? Pass me that bottle,” and he took nearly half a tumbler of raw brandy. “There, I am quite right again now; I had a bad attack of indigestion, that is all. Good night.”
Angela went without a word. She understood now what her father had meant when he said that he was “accursed;” but she could not help wondering whether the brandy had anything to do with his “indigestion.”
On the following day the doctor came to see her. It struck Angela that he came oftener than was necessary, the fact being that he would gladly have attended her gratis all year round. A doctor does not often get the chance of visiting such a patient.
“You do not look quite so well today,” he said.
“No,” she answered, with a little smile; “I had bad dreams last night.”
“Ah! I thought so. You should try to avoid that sort of thing; you are far too imaginative already.”
“One cannot run away from one’s dreams. Murder will out in sleep.”
“Well, I have a message for you.”
“Who from?”
“Lady Bellamy. You know that she is paralysed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she wants you to go and see her. Shall you go?”
Angela thought a little, and answered,
“Yes, I think so.”
“You must be prepared for some bitter language if she speaks at all. Very likely she will beg you to get her some poison to kill herself with. I have been obliged to take the greatest precautions to prevent her from obtaining any. I am not very sensitive, but once or twice she has positively made me shiver with the things she says.”
“She can never say anything more dreadful to me than she has said already, Dr. Williamson.”
“Perhaps not. Go if you like. If you were revengeful — which I am sure you are not — you would have good reason to be satisfied at what you will see. Medically speaking, it is a sad case.”
Accordingly, that every afternoon, Angela, accompanied by Pigott, started off for Rewtham House, where Lady Bellamy still lived, or rather existed. It was her first outing since the inquest on George Caresfoot had caused her and her history to become publicly notorious, and, as she walked along, she was surprised to find that she was the object of popular sympathy. Every man she met touched or took off his hat, according to his degree, and, as soon as she had passed, turned round and stared at her. Some fine folks whom she did not know — indeed, she knew no one, though it had been the fashion to send and “inquire” during her illness — drove past in an open carriage and pair, and she saw a gentleman on the front seat whisper something to the ladies, bringing round their heads towards her as simultaneously as though they both worked on a single wire. Even the children coming out of the village school set up a cheer as she passed.
“Good gracious, Pigott, what is it all about?” she asked, at last.
“Well, you see, miss, they talk of you in the papers as the ‘Abbey House heroine’— and heroines is rare in these parts.”
Overwhelmed with so much attention, Angela was thankful when at last they reached Rewtham House.
Pigott went into the housekeeper’s room, and Angela was at once shown up into the drawing-room. The servant announced her name to a black-robed figure lying on a sofa, and closed the door.
“Come here, Angela Caresfoot,” said a well-known voice, “and see how Fate has repaid the woman who tried to ruin you.”
She advanced and looked at the deathly face, still as darkly beautiful as ever, on which was fixed that strange look of wild expectancy that it had worn when its owner took the poison.
“Yes, look at me; think what I was, and then what I am, and learn how the Spirit of evil pays those who serve him. I thought to kill myself, but death was denied me, and now I live as you see me. I am an outcast from the society of my kind — not that I ever cared for that, except to rule it. I cannot stir hand or foot, I cannot write, I can scarcely read, I cannot even die. My only resource is the bitter sea of thought that seethes eternally in this stricken frame like fire pent in the womb of a volcano. Yes, Angela Caresfoot, and like the fire, too, sometimes it overflows, and then I can blaspheme and rave aloud till my voice fails. That is the only power which is left to me.”
Angela uttered an exclamation of pity.
“Pity — do not pity me; I will not be pitied by you. Mock me if you will; it is your turn now. You prophesied that it would come; now it is here.”
“At any rate, you are still comfortable in your own house,” said Angela, nervously, anxious to change the subject, and not knowing what to say.
“Oh! yes, I have money enough, if that is what you mean. My husband threatened to leave me destitute, but fear of public opinion — and I hear that he has run away, and is not well thought of now — or perhaps of myself, cripple as I am, caused him to change his mind. But do not let us talk of that poor creature. I sent for you here for a purpose. Where is your lover?”
Angela turned pale and trembled.
“What, do you not know, or are you tired of him?”
“Tired of him! I shall never be tired of him; but he has gone.”
“Shall I tell you where to find him?”
“You would not if you could; you would deceive me again.”
“No, oddly enough, I shall not. I have no longer any object in doing so. When I was bent upon marrying you to George Caresfoot, I lashed myself into hating you; now I hate you no longer, I respect you — indeed, I have done so all along.”
“Then, why did you work me such a bitter wrong?”
“Because I was forced to. Believe me or not as you will, I am not going to tell you the story — at any rate, not now. I can only repeat that I was forced to.”
“Where is Arthur?”
“In Madeira. Do you remember once telling me that you had only to lift your hand — so — ah! I forgot, I cannot lift mine — to draw him back to you, that no other woman in the world could kee............