Even Alexander Junior, more than preoccupied by his hopes and fears in regard to the will, was profoundly shocked by the news of Walter Crowdie’s sudden death. Doctor Routh, as a friend of the family, took it upon himself to notify all the relations of what had taken place in the night, for during the first hours Hester had been incapable of any thought. He had undertaken to inform Hester’s mother, and he wrote to the Lauderdales and the Ralstons at once, in order that they might not learn the news from the papers and accidentally.

No one of the family had ever liked poor Crowdie, but all of them had been fond of Hester at one period or another of her life, though she had never seemed to possess the power of keeping upon terms of intimacy with more than one of them at a time, and never with any for very long. The fact that the loss was hers softened every judgment of the man who was gone, and in the first anxiety which every one felt to show a sympathy which was genuine, Alexander Junior was perhaps the only one who remembered that Mr. Allen was coming at eleven o’clock to open the document which had been found, before the eyes of the whole family. With a delicacy which might be attributed to the implacability of circumstances, but for which he was afterwards willing to take more credit than he got, he sent a message down town, explaining what had happened, and putting off the meeting until the afternoon. Alexander spent his morning in making sure that every one could be present, except Mrs. Bright. Hamilton would represent his mother and sister.

It seemed heartless to Katharine that no one—not even Hamilton Bright himself—should have suggested putting off the reading of the paper at least until the next day, and once more the ruthlessness of humanity was thrust upon her so that she could not help seeing it. It was true, she admitted, that in reality Crowdie had been the husband of a very distant cousin, and in theory neither the Lauderdales nor the Ralstons would be expected to suspend a curiosity which concerned the fate of a colossal fortune, for the matter of a death which hardly touched them. Yet Katharine thought that in practice people might show some feeling in such a case. What she saw was that the first shock was real and startling, but that half an hour after hearing the news her father and mother were discussing Crowdie’s character with about as much consideration as though he had been a dead Chinaman, or a foreign prime minister. She registered another bit of strong evidence against the efficacy of professed religion, and shut herself up in her room for the morning, for the mere satisfaction of being alone and of asking herself what she had really thought of Crowdie.

She had detested him. She had no doubt of that. When she recalled a certain smile of his, and thought of the redness of his lips, she shivered and was disgusted. She did not like to remember his undulating, womanish gait, nor the pallor of his face. Everything about him had repelled her intensely. And yet, when she thought of him lying dead at that moment, she felt a sharp pang, which was very like what she might have felt if she had really missed him. She could not understand that. Then she remembered his voice, and the enchantment of his singing on that night at the Brights’ the song of Lohengrin—the song of the swan, she thought, as it had turned out to be in truth, so far as she was concerned. She wondered whether it were his voice that she was really thinking of with regret. For she certainly felt the little pang. It came again when she remembered that he was dead. She tried it two or three times. It came once more, then very faintly, then not at all, try as she might to think of him as he probably looked. She had never seen any one dead except old Robert Lauderdale, but that was a recent memory. All the details of death were fresh in her mind, and she could picture to herself the quiet household, the subdued voices, the darkened rooms, the flowers. The faint smell of them came back to her. She wondered whether the smell had been so peculiar, and faint, and sickening, because they had been almost all white. But there was no pang of ‘missing’ when she thought of the old man. Yet she had been fond of him, and she had detested Crowdie. She did not understand, as she sat all alone thinking about it. She came to the conclusion that when people die they are missed in proportion to their vitality by those who have not really loved them. Perhaps she was right. The nature and causes of those sudden thrusts which ordinarily sensitive people feel have been very little studied.

But Katharine was sincerely sorry for Hester. She did not know whether to go to her at once, or to wait until the next day. Her impulse was to go immediately, though she asked herself whether Hester could possibly wish to see her, and she tried to put herself in Hester’s place. But the thought that John Ralston might die brought such a burst of pain with it that she rose from her seat and walked about the room, breathing a little faster. Then, having risen, she went downstairs and consulted her mother.

“If I were you, I should go,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “I’ll go with you, if you like. You’ve always been her best friend. I’m sure she’s been much nearer to you than your sister ever was, hasn’t she? Of course she has. It can’t do any harm to go and ask for aunt Maggie, and if Hester wants to see you, you can go up and I’ll come home alone, or stay downstairs with aunt Maggie until you’re ready.”

“That sounds very sensible,” said Katharine. “I’ll get ready.”

At the house in Lafayette Place everything seemed familiar to the young girl. It was just as she had anticipated. The blinds were drawn down. Old Fletcher, the butler, shuffled and looked red and lachrymose, as he opened the door. There was a strong smell of white flowers.

Presently Mrs. Bright appeared, pale and very grave, in a black frock which was too tight for her and rather old-fashioned—the last one she had worn in her long mourning for her husband. They went into the little room which had been the scene of the trouble on the previous evening. The drawing of old Robert Lauderdale still lay upon the table, where Crowdie had placed it; only the little tea-table was gone. Again Katharine felt that thrust at her heart which she could not explain. It all seemed so near, and yet what was upstairs made such a great difference.

They talked together in subdued tones for a few minutes. Aunt Maggie said that Hester was behaving very strangely, and that she was anxious about her. Walter had always seemed to possess a strange influence over her. Mrs. Bright could not understand it. She herself had never quite approved of the match, and Walter had never endeared himself to her, in spite of his talent and apparent devotion to his wife. Hester was acting very strangely. She was not wild now, She did not scream nor throw herself about. On the contrary, she was so calm that her quiet was positively terrifying. The people—by which term aunt Maggie meant the undertakers—could do nothing without her. She would hardly let them touch poor Walter—she wanted to do everything herself. She must certainly break down, and perhaps lose her reason. People sometimes went mad in that way, but it would be a pity—especially for such a man as Crowdie. No. Walter had never endeared himself to Mrs. Bright.

Katharine looked at the kind-hearted, stout, elderly woman, with her refined face and her air of superiority over the common herd, and wondered whether she had any real feelings. She hardly made a pretence of regret for the young life that had been cut short, though she seemed really anxious for her daughter. She was like the rest of them, thought Katharine, and she really had no heart. That was clear. She asked whether Hester would be willing to see her.

“Really,” answered Mrs. Bright, “she’s behaving so strangely, poor child, that there’s no knowing what she may do. She may be angry if I don’t tell that you’re here. She’s insisted on having him carried into the studio. Poor darling! I let her do as she pleases. But I’ll go and ask her if she’d like to see you. It can’t do any harm, at all events.”

Aunt Maggie left the room, walking on tiptoe and listening before she actually went out, after opening the door.

“Mother, is everybody as heartless as that?” asked Katharine when she was gone, in a tone which seemed to expect no answer.

“Heartless?” repeated Mrs. Lauderdale. “I don’t think she’s heartless. She’s dreadfully anxious about Hester.”

“Yes; but about poor Mr. Crowdie—she doesn’t seem to care in the least.”

“Oh, no—she never liked him. Why should she? Take care, though! somebody might hear us talking.”

Katharine sighed and was silent. Her mother did not seem to understand what she meant any more than any one else. After the first shock they all appeared to be perfectly indifferent. Crowdie was dead. Bury him! Doubtless they were already wondering whether Hester would marry again, and if so, when. Yet Katharine knew that they would all be shocked if Hester wore mourning less than three years. It was her business to mourn; it was theirs, in the interest of society, to see that she mourned long and decently for a man whom they had all disliked.

Before long Mrs. Bright returned, softly as she had gone, shut the door noiselessly behind her, and looked round the room as though she thought that some fourth person might be present and listening. Then, with an air of secrecy, she spoke to Katharine.

“My dear, she’ll see you if you’ll come upstairs.”

“Certainly,” answered Katharine. “I’ll go at once.”

“But you mustn’t be surprised by anything she does,” said Mrs. Bright, anxiously. “She’ll want you to see him, I think. She’s looking very quiet, but she’s very strange. Humour her, Katharine—humour her a little.”

Katharine nodded, but said nothing.

“She’s waiting for you on the landing outside the studio,” added Mrs. Bright. “I needn’t go up with you, need I? I’ve just been up all those stairs.”

“Of course not,” Katharine answered.

As she went something oddly like fear got hold of her, and her heart fluttered unexpectedly. She was conscious that she was pale as she ascended to the top of the house. Probably, she thought, it was the idea of seeing the dead man’s face that affected her unpleasantly. She nerved herself to make an effort and went on, wondering that it should be so strangely hard to go.

As she began to go up the last flight of stairs she was conscious that Hester was standing at the top, waiting for her. She wished that she had not offered to come. Then she looked up and met the deep eyes, and saw the ghastly face turned towards her. Hester was excessively pale, and even her lips were colourless. Her slight figure looked taller than usual in the straight loose gown of black, and her hands, clasped together upon the banister, had the emaciated, nervous look of some hands in pictures by the early painters. Exhaustion, in some people, shows itself in the hands before it appears in the face.

Katharine reached the top of the flight and stood still, looking at her, wishing to speak but not finding words just then. They had parted almost, if not quite, as enemies, on the previous day. Katharine went a step nearer. Her face showed well enough the deep sympathy she felt, but Hester did not exactly look at her face, but only into her eyes, with a fixed stare that made the young girl feel uneasy. That stare alone would have justified Mrs. Bright in saying that her daughter was behaving strangely. The transparent hands unclasped one another, but they fell straight to her sides. As Katharine extended her own, Hester drew back, the stare became more fixed, the eyes opened more, till they were very wide, the finely pencilled brows were raised haughtily, and the shadowy figure seemed to grow taller. Then she spoke, slowly and distinctly, in a voice that did not tremble.

“I wanted to see you. Come with me.”

She turned and opened the door of the studio, leading the way. Katharine was startled by what she saw. The great room had been darkened as much as possible by drawing all the thick shades, which had been made to keep out the sun in summer, and a great number of candles were burning with a dim, yellow light. The air was thick with the smoke of burning perfumes, which rose in tall, straight, grey plumes, from two censers placed upon the hearth before the huge chimney-piece. In the absolutely still atmosphere the smoke rose to the height of a man before it broke and opened, hanging then like draped grey curtains in the heavy air. The strange, cool smell of burning myrrh predominated, but in spite of it the drowsy, overpowering odour of frankincense reached Katharine’s nostrils. She stood still and stared through the smoke.

In the middle of the room Crowdie lay dead, clothed in a long garment of stuff that was soft and dark. The couch was covered with a silken carpet which hung down to the floor. The pale light of death softened and beautified the repulsive features, in their solemn calm, to a degree which Katharine would not have believed possible, had she been capable of thought just then. But she was taken by surprise; she was a little frightened, and she was dazed by the glare of the many candles, and dizzy with the sudden breathing of the perfume-laden air. She stood still at a little distance from the couch and looked at the dead face, stretching her head forward with a sort of timid curiosity, holding her body back with the instinctive dread of death which the young feel in spite of themselves.

Hester did not stand beside her. With slow steps, as though she were moving with a solemn procession to the rhythm of a funeral march, sweeping her long black gown noiselessly behind her, she passed to the other side, and came up to the couch and stood over her husband’s body, facing Katharine. In the shadowy smoke of the incense, with the flaring light of the wax candles upon her, she was like a supernatural being. She might have been the freed soul of the dead man, come back to look once more at Katharine’s face.

“Come nearer to me,” she said, in deadly calm, without a tremor.

An older woman might not have obeyed the summons, and might have realized that Hester Crowdie was to all intents and purposes mad, since it could not be supposed that she had planned a tragic scene, with a theatrical instinct nowhere at fault, even in a single detail. But there was something really terrible and grand in it, as it struck Katharine; and there was the grim reality of death lying there and vouching for the widowed woman’s sincerity. To those not familiar with the dead, nothing can seem like comedy in their silent presence. To those for whom death has lost all horror, there is scarcely anything but comedy, anywhere.

Katharine obeyed and went nearer, but not as near as Hester herself. Instinctively she held back her skirts, as though fearing even the contact of the carpet on which Crowdie lay. Her right hand she still carried in a scarf.

Hester’s fixed gaze met her again, and she was conscious that her own eyes were uncertain. There was an irresistible something which drew them to the dead man’s face. But when Hester spoke again the young girl looked at her.

“Katharine Lauderdale, this is your doing, and this is what you have done to me.”

The words came clearly, like those she had spoken before, monotonously and distinctly, as though she had learned them by rote. Katharine started at first, and opened her eyes wider, as though doubting whether she were in her senses. But she found no word to say, though her lips were parted.

“You have killed my husband. You have destroyed my life. I have brought you here to see what you have done.”

Katharine did not start this time, but she drew back a little, with an indescribable horror that was not fear.

“You must be mad,” she said, in a low voice, keeping her eyes on Hester’s.

A strange, fantastic smile played upon the pale lips, and looked more than unnatural in the yellow glare of the candles.

“I wish I were mad,” she said.

In the long silence which followed, Katharine glanced at the dead man’s face. Its set, waxen smile was like Hester’s, and the girl felt a creeping shudder in her shoulders. She bent her body a little.

“He cannot hurt you,” said Hester, holding her with inexorable eyes. “He knows that you have killed him, but he cannot hurt you. If he could, he would—for my sake. Come close to him and look at him.”

Katharine came forward again, more because she was brave and would not even seem afraid, than for any other reason.

“My dear Hester,” she said, trying to speak naturally, but in a low voice, “you’re beside yourself with grief. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know what I am saying,” answered the widowed woman, solemnly. “You shall listen to all I have to say. Then you shall go, and I will never see you again until you are dead. Then I will come and look at you, for his sake. You tried to steal him from me while he was living. He is mine now, to keep forever. You cannot get him. Look at him, for he is mine. The last words he ever heard me speak were cruel, unkind words. Then he fell. He did not speak afterwards. I gave him the morphia. I told you my story once—but it was not the true story. It killed him. It was my hand that killed him, through your soul, and your soul shall pay me. I am not mad. You have done this to me. You know it now. You made me speak those last words he heard.”

Katharine listened in silence—chilled with a sort of horror of which she had never dreamt. There was an unnatural terror for her in the woman’s deadly calm. There was no passion in the voice, no hatred, no jealousy. It was as though she were possessed by an unseen power that used her mouth to speak with, and controlled her, and against which she could do nothing.

“Have you heard? Do you know now?” she asked after a pause.

Still Katharine did not speak. A new sensation of fear crept upon her. She began to think that the dead man’s lips moved and that the quiet lids trembled, and she could not take her eyes from the face.

“You have no heart,” said the voice. “You are the worst woman alive to-day, anywhere in the whole world. You said you were my friend, and you have done this thing to me. You have done it. No one else has done it. It is all your fault. You pretended that you loved me like a sister, and you came often, and he saw you. You are more beautiful than I am, and he saw that you were. But he did not love you. Oh, no! He loved me. You pleased his eyes as everything beautiful pleased him. He did not know how bad you were. But I made him say that he hated you,—he said it twice before he died,—and you had only pleased his eyes. But now they are closed, and you cannot please him any more, because he cannot see you.”

Katharine looked up slowly, realizing that the woman was insane. She had never seen an insane person, and it had been hard to understand at first. She did not know what to do. Her blood froze at her throat—she could feel the cold at her collar. Still the monotonous voice went on speaking, while the incense and the myrrh sent up their straight plumes of smoke into the cloudy air, and the heavy perfumes grew more and more oppressive and stupefying.

“You pleased him so much that he broke his promise to me, and it was almost the only promise I had ever asked of him. He sang to you, because you pleased him so much. I will not forgive you. I never will. But he is dead now. See! I kiss him. He does not open his eyes as he used to do when I kissed him softly.”

The dark figure bent down and Hester kissed the dead face, and again her unnatural smile seemed to be reflected in it.

“He smiles,” she said. “But he cannot kiss me. And he cannot sing to you any more. You made him do it once. He will not do it again. Once you made him break his promise. He will not break it again. He will keep it. The dead keep their promises, and he has promised to be mine always now. I am not so sorry that he is dead, because he will be always mine. He smiles, you see. He knows it. He does not want you, because you cannot please him now that his eyes are shut so fast. He does not want you now. Go away, Katharine Lauderdale. Walter does not want you.”

There was no rising intonation in the voice that spoke, no emphasis, no authority. But the calm, unchanging tone was far more terrifying than any passionate outburst could have been. Katharine shrank back, and then stood still a moment.

“Why do you stay?” asked the voice. “We hate you. Go away. You see that we want to be alone together. We do not want you.”

Katharine felt herself growing white with the horror of it all. She bowed her head in silence and went to the door, turning a moment to look back as her hand was on the spring. She felt as though she were in some mysterious tomb of ancient days, where the living and the dead were buried together—the rigid dead upon his couch, the living beside him, flexible, mad, dangerous with the overstrain of an incredible, inexpressible grief.

The dark figure stood erect with dropped and folded hands. The white face stood out luminously pale against the grey smoke-clouds of the incense and myrrh, the yellow flaming candles flickered still from the draught of Katharine’s dress as she had passed and threw an uncertain, moving light upon the motionless mask of the dead man.

“Leave us alone together. We want to be alone together. Go away and never come back to us again.”

Katharine was going, but her terror suddenly overcame her, and she opened the door, went out, and closed it behind her in a flash, gasping for a breath of unscented air. She reeled as she came out, under the clear daylight of the glass roof which covered the staircase, and she steadied herself against the door-post, stupidly staring at the tapestry on the opposite wall. She felt sick and faint, and for a moment she knew that she could not get downstairs without falling. She felt that she was full of the perfume-loaded air she had breathed, that it clung to her like a blanket, and hindered her from drawing a full breath. She raised her left arm to her face mechanically, and smelled it. The stuff was full of the incense, and she threw her head back with parted lips, to draw in freshness if she could.

She was so strong that she did not faint, but stood erect against the door-post until she could trust herself to walk. She listened at the door for a moment to hear whether the mad woman were still talking over her dead husband, or whether, perhaps, the madness had suddenly yielded to the merciful tide of tears. But there was no sound. They were alone together, as Hester had said that they wished to be.

Katharine pressed her hand to her eyes with all her might, as though to crush out the memory of what she had seen. Then she went forward at last, and began to go down the stairs.

She heard a man’s footstep, swift, nervous and strong, coming up from below, and as she reached the first landing she came face to face with Paul Griggs. His weather-beaten face was so grey and drawn that she should hardly have known him in a crowd, and the weary, dark eyes that met hers had something in them which she could not understand. He stood aside to let her pass, but would have said nothing had she not spoken.

“She’s alone with him, up there,” she said in a sort of scared whisper. “She’s going mad—it’s dreadful.”

Griggs looked as though he would have gone on without answering, though he did not actually make a step. His dark eyes were dull and glassy, and his jaws were set, as though he were in great pain.

“Can’t you do something for her?” asked Katharine, hesitating. “Shouldn’t we send for Doctor Routh? He might give her something.”

She made the suggestion vaguely, as women do. There is something pathetic about their blind faith in medicine, though they may have seen it fail a hundred times.

“If you like,” answered Griggs, in a far-away tone, as though he scarcely knew what she was saying. “Send for him if you like. I don’t care.”

Katharine stared at him in surprise. He was sometimes a little absent-minded, but she could not understand his being so at that moment. She laid her left hand upon his arm with a gesture half of appeal, half of authority.

“Something must be done,” she said. “She’s really going mad. She mustn’t be left alone with it any longer.”

“I don’t think she’ll go mad,” Griggs answered. “But I shall,” he added, with an unnatural smile, which recalled Hester’s.

“You!” exclaimed Katharine, in a sudden astonishment which made her forget everything else for an instant. “Why? I know you liked him—”

“Liked him!” repeated Paul Griggs, in a voice that was almost loud, and the dull eyes flashed for a moment, and then became glassy again. “I can’t talk now,” he said, rapidly. “Forgive me—I can’t stop!”

Without waiting for her to go down, he sprang up the stairs. Katharine looked after him with wonder. A moment later she heard the door of the studio open and shut quickly, and she was sure that she heard one word, a name—Walter—spoken in the broken accent of a man’s despair.

Again she paused before she went downstairs, and hesitated, not as to what she should do, but as to what she should think. At least, she felt that her friend Griggs was not without heart, whatever the true ground of his extraordinary emotion might be. She had stumbled upon one of those mysteries which lie so near the dull surface of society around us, and had seen a human soul at that moment of all others when it would not have been seen. As she thought of it, she felt at the same moment the instinct to tell no one, not even Ralston, of the few words she had exchanged with Griggs on the stairs. The resolution formed itself in her mind unintentionally, as a natural prompting of honour against the betrayal of a secret accidentally learned. What the secret could be she could not guess, and it was long before she knew, but she did not break the promise which had formulated and pledged itself. Long afterwards, when she learned the strange story of Griggs’ life, which no one had ever suspected, she wondered that on that day he had not killed her with his hands rather than be delayed the smallest fraction of an instant on his way up those stairs. In his place, woman as she was, she would have been less merciful, and she would not have been courteous at all.

But she knew nothing of the wanderer’s existence, save that he had of late strayed into her own, and that he had seemed oddly attached to a man who was almost universally disliked without any well-defined reason. Her intuition told her that he had something to conceal, and her faith in him, such as it was, led her to believe that it was something not wrong, but sacred almost beyond anything imaginable.

She went quietly downstairs, and many things happened to her, good and bad, before she saw the face of Paul Griggs again. She found her mother and Mrs. Bright sitting side by side, and aunt Maggie was holding Mrs. Lauderdale’s hand, and admiring her bonnet. A death which does not come too near to them draws certain types of women together. As Katharine entered the room and saw the two together, she wondered whether the death of Walter Crowdie was to have the effect of reconciling the Lauderdales and the Brights.

“Well, child, have you seen her?” asked Katharine’s mother, with a considerable show of interest.