The atmosphere of the dining-room that night seemed one of curious quiet and reserve. Lord Skene appeared to ruminate, rather than discuss the good fare with his usual honest relish; his lady only trifled with her food; Miss Christmas was not present. We talked desultorily of things, obviously the remotest from our mind hauntings. I put it all down to the glamour of the fatality which was obsessing my own brain. It seemed right, somehow, that I should exhale a spirit of omen and unrest. But there was a reason for it beyond my knowledge. Minister of retribution as I considered myself, I could hardly have had the heart to pursue my purpose at the moment, had I guessed. The child was ill, and the shadow of his trouble lay upon the household. All other shadows were become as nothing in it.
Why did they not tell me? Had he, my little brother as they thought him, no claim upon my sympathy? Was no right mine to share the burden of their disquiet? As they denied me, so was I justified in my purpose—doubly, trebly justified. And yet I might have taken him into my arms, and wept to hold him so, and kissed and kissed some measure of my own exuberant strength into his little flower of a soul. But they held me, held me always as a thing apart; and on their heads lie the issue!
I had been apprehensive that Lord Skene, anxious to probe me further in the matter we had last discussed, would welcome our being left alone together; but, rather to my surprise, he made no effort to detain me when her ladyship withdrew, and appeared to sink at once absorbed in his own reflections. It gave me the opportunity I desired—that was enough for me—and I availed myself of it instantly.
She was standing at the foot of the stairs, preparing to ascend, when I accosted her.
“Lady Skene, may I have a word with you?”
She turned, with such a sudden terrified look as I could hope never to awaken on her face again.
“With me? Not now? O, Richard!” she whispered.
The name, the significance and agony of its utterance, pierced me to the heart. But I had put my hand to the plough, and must go forward.
“Yes, now,” I said. “There is nothing can be gained by temporising.”
She seemed to totter a moment; her white jewelled hand caught at the banisters. But almost with the act she had recovered herself.