CHAPTER I.

A CHANGE CAME O’ER THE SPIRIT OF MY DREAM.

That calm delight which Lucius Davoren had hitherto felt in the society of his betrothed, and his happy expectation of a prosperous future to be shared with her, were now clouded over with new doubts and fears. His mind had been weighed down by the burden of a dreadful secret, from the moment of that discovery which had showed him that the man he had killed and the father of the girl who loved him were one and the same. Those calm clear eyes which looked at him so tenderly sometimes wounded him as keenly as the bitterest reproach. Had she but known the fatal truth—she who had always set the memory of her father above her affection for himself—could he doubt the result of that knowledge? Could he doubt that she would have turned from him with abhorrence, that she would have shrunk with loathing from the lightest touch of his blood-stained hand?

Vain would have been all argument, all attempt to justify his act, with the daughter who clung with a romantic fondness to her lost father’s image.

‘You killed him.’ She would have summed up all arguments in those three words. ‘You killed him. If he was wicked, you gave him no time for repentance; you cut him off in the midst of his sin. Who made you his judge: who made you his executioner? He was a sinner like yourself, and you thrust yourself between God and His infinite mercy. You did more than slay his body; you robbed him of redemption for his sin.’

He could imagine that this girl, clinging with unreasonable love to that dead sinner’s memory, would argue somewhat in this wise; and he felt himself powerless to reply. These thoughts weighed him down, and haunted him even in the company of his beloved. Yet, strange to say, Lucille did not remark the difference in her lover, and it remained for Lucius to perceive a change in her. His own preoccupation had rendered him less observant than usual, and he was slow to mark this alteration in Lucille’s manner, but the time came when he awakened to the fact. There was a change, indefinable, indescribable, but a change which he felt vaguely, and which seemed to grow stronger day by day. The thought filled him with a sudden horror. Did she suspect? Had some circumstance, unnoticed by him, led the way to the discovery he most dreaded, to the revelation of that secret he hoped to hide from her for ever? Surely no. Her hand did not shrink from his, the kiss he pressed upon that pure young brow evoked no shudder. Whatever the trouble was that had wrought this change in her, paled the fair cheek and saddened the sweet eyes, the perplexity or the sorrow was in herself, and had no reference to him.

‘Lucille,’ he said one evening, a few days after his interview with Geoffrey Hossack, as they paced the garden together in the dusk, ‘it seems to me that we are not quite so happy as we used to be. We do not talk so hopefully of the future; we have not such pleasant thoughts and fancies as we once had. Very often when I am speaking to you, I see your eyes fixed with a strange far-off look; as if you were thinking of something quite remote from the subject of our talk. Is there anything that troubles you, dear? Are you uneasy about your grandfather?’

‘He does not seem so well as he did three weeks ago. He does not care about coming down-stairs now; the old weakness seems to have returned. And his appetite has fallen off again. I wish you would be a little more candid, Lucius,’ she said, looking at him earnestly. ‘You used to say he was improving steadily, and that you had great hopes of making him quite himself again before very long; now you hardly say anything, except to give me directions about diet.’

‘Do you wish me to speak quite plainly, Lucille,’ asked Lucius seriously; ‘even if what I have to say should increase your anxiety?’

‘Yes, yes; pray treat me like a woman, and not like a child. Remember what my life has been—how full of care and sorrow. I am not like a girl who has lived only in the sunshine. Tell me the plain truth, Lucius, however painful. You think my grandfather worse?’

‘I do, Lucille, very much worse than I thought him three weeks ago. And what is more, I am obliged to confess myself puzzled by his present condition. I can find no cause for this backward progress, and yet I am watching the symptoms very closely. I have this case so deeply at heart, that I do not believe any one could do more with it than I. But if I do not see an improvement before many days are over, I shall seek advice from wider experience than my own. I will bring one of the greatest men in London to see your grandfather. A consultation may be unnecessary or useless, but it will be for our mutual satisfaction.’

‘Yes,’ answered Lucille, ‘I have the strongest faith in your skill; but, as you say, it might be better to have farther advice. Poor grandpapa! It makes me wretched to see him suffer—to see him so weak and weary and restless, if not in absolute pain, and to be able to do so little for him.’

‘You do all that love and watchfulness can do, dearest. By the way, you spoke of diet just now. That is a thing about which you cannot be too careful. We have to restore exhausted nature, to renovate a constitution almost worn out by hard usage. I should like to know all about the preparation of the broths and jellies you give your grandfather. Are they made by you, or by Mrs. Wincher?’

‘Wincher makes the broth and beef-tea in an earthenware jar in the oven; I make the jellies with my own hands.’

‘Are you quite sure of Wincher’s cleanliness and care?’

‘Quite. I see her getting the jar ready every morning when I am in the kitchen attending to other little things. I am not afraid of working in the kitchen, you know, Lucius.’

‘I know that you are the most domestic and skilful among women, and that you will make a model wife, darling,’ he answered tenderly.

‘For a poor man, perhaps,’ she answered, with the smile that had been rare of late, ‘not for a rich one. I should not know how to spend money, or to give dinner-parties, or to dress fashionably.’

‘That kind of knowledge would come with the occasion. When I am a famous doctor you shall be a lady of fashion. But to return to the diet question. You are assured that there is perfect cleanliness in the preparation of your grandfather’s food—no neglected copper saucepans used, for instance?’

‘There is not such a thing as a copper saucepan in the house. What made you ask the question?’

‘Mr. Sivewright has complained lately of occasional attacks of nausea, and I am unable to account for the symptom. That is what makes me anxious about the preparation of his food.’

‘Would it be any satisfaction to you if I were to prepare everything myself?’

‘A very great satisfaction.’

‘Then I will do it, Lucius. Wincher may feel a little offended, but I will try and reconcile her to my interference. It was a great privilege to be allowed to make the jellies.’

‘Never mind if she is vexed, darling; a few sweet words from you will soon smooth her ruffled feathers. I shall be glad to know that you prepare everything for the invalid. And I would not do it in the kitchen, where Wincher might interfere. Have a fire in the little dressing-room next your grandfather’s room, and have your saucepans and beef-tea and so on up there. By that means you will be able to give him what he wants at any moment, without delay.’

‘I will do so, Lucius. But I fear you think my grandfather in danger.’

‘Not exactly in danger, darling. But he is very ill, and I have been thinking it might be better for you to have a nurse. I don’t say that he requires any one to sit up at night with him. He is not ill enough for that. I am only afraid that the care he requires may be too much for you.’

‘It is not too much for me, Lucius,’ answered the girl eagerly. ‘I would not have a stranger about him for worlds. The sight of a sick nurse would kill him.’

‘That is a foolish prejudice, Lucille.’

‘It may be; and when you find I nurse him badly, or neglect him, you may bring a stranger. Till then I claim the right to wait upon him, with Jacob Wincher’s assistance. He has been my grandfather’s valet—giving the little help his master would ever accept—for the last twenty years.’

‘And you have perfect confidence in Jacob Wincher?’

‘Confidence!’ exclaimed Lucille, with a wondering look. ‘I have known him all my life, and seen his devotion to my grandfather. What reason could I have to doubt him?’

‘Little apparent reason, I admit,’ answered Lucius thoughtfully. ‘Yet it is sometimes from those we least suspect we suffer the deepest wrongs. These Winchers may believe your grandfather to be very rich; they may suppose that he has left them a good deal of money; and might—mind, I am only suggesting a remote contingency—they _might_ desire to shorten his life. O, my dearest,’ he cried, pained by Lucille’s whitening face, ‘remember I do not for a moment say that this is likely; but—as I told you a few moments ago—there are symptoms in the case that puzzle me, and we cannot be too careful.’

Lucille leaned upon him, trembling like a leaf, with her white face turned towards him, a look of unspeakable horror in her eyes.

‘You don’t mean—’ she faltered; ‘you cannot mean that you suspect, that you are afraid of my grandfather being poisoned?’

‘Lucille,’ he said tenderly, sustaining the almost-fainting girl, ‘the truth is always best. You shall know all I can tell you. There are diseases which baffle even experience; there are symptoms which may mean one thing or another, may indicate such and such a state, or be the effect of a condition exactly opposite; there are symptoms which may arise alike from natural causes or from a slow and subtle poison. This is why so many a victim has been done to death under the very eye of his medical attendant, and only when too late the hideous truth has dawned upon the doctor’s mind, and he has asked himself with bitter self-reproach, “Why did I not make this discovery sooner?”’

‘Whom could you suspect?’ cried Lucille. ‘I am confident as to the fidelity of Mr. and Mrs. Wincher. They have had it in their power to rob my grandfather at any moment, if gain could have tempted them to injure him. Why, after all these years of faithful servitude, should they attempt to murder him?’

This was said in a low tremulous voice, terror still holding possession of the girl’s distracted mind.

‘The thought is as horrible as it appears impossible,’ said Lucius, whose apprehensions had as yet assumed only the vaguest form. He had never meant to betray this shadowy fear, which had arisen only within the last twenty-four hours; but he had been led on to say more than he intended.

‘Let us speak no more of it, dearest,’ he said soothingly. ‘You attach too much importance to my words. I have only suggested care; I have only told you a well-known fact, namely, that the symptoms of slow poisoning and of natural disease are sometimes exactly alike.’

‘You have filled me with fear and horror!’ cried Lucille, shuddering.

‘Let me bring a nurse into the house,’ pleaded Lucius, angry with himself for his imprudence. ‘Her presence would at least give you courage and confidence.’

‘No; I will not have my grandfather frightened to death. He shall take nothing but what I prepare for him; no one shall go near him but I, or without my being present.’

‘By the way,’ said Lucius thoughtfully, ‘you remember that noise I heard the evening we went up to the loft together?’

‘I remember your fancy about a noise,’ Lucille answered carelessly.

‘My fancy, then, if you like. I suppose nothing has ever happened since to throw a light upon that fancy of mine?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You are quite sure that no stranger could obtain admission to those up-stairs rooms, or to any part of this house?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘In that case we may rest assured that all is safe, and you need think no more of anything I have said.’

He tried with every art he knew to soothe away the fears which his imprudent words had occasioned, but could not altogether succeed in tranquillising her, though he brought the Amati violin into requisition, and played some of his sweetest symphonies—melodies which, to quote Mrs. Wincher, ‘might have drawed tears out of a deal board.’

Nothing could dispel the cloud which he had raised; and he left Cedar House full of trouble and self-reproach, beyond measure angry with himself for his folly.