“I have no doubt my uncle appreciates your endeavors,” returned Gertrude, with civil uncordiality, as she halted back of his chair, “but he is not equal to gayeties today; last night’s excitement was quite a shock to him, as it was to all of us.”
“Yes,” agreed Judithe; “we were just speaking of it.”
“Phil Masterson tells me the men will be here some time today for Captain Monroe,” continued Gertrude, still speaking from the back of his chair, over which she was leaning. “Phil’s orderly just returned from following the spy last night. Caroline made us think at first it was the guard already from the fort, but that was a mistake; she could not see clearly because of the storm. And, uncle, he came back without ever getting in sight of the man, though he rode until morning before he turned back; isn’t it too bad for––”
Something in that strange silence of the man in the chair suddenly checked the speech on her lips, and with a quick movement she was in front of him, looking in his face, into the eyes which turned towards her with a strange, horrible expression in them, and the lips vainly trying to speak, to give her warning. But the blow of paralysis had fallen again. He was speechless, helpless. Her piercing scream brought the others from the sitting room; the stricken man was carried to his own apartment by order of Dr. Delaven, who could give them little hope of recovery; his speech might, of course, return as it had done a year before, after the other paralytic stroke, but––
Mrs. McVeigh put her arm protectingly around the weeping girl, comprehending that even though he might recover his speech, any improvement must now be but a temporary respite.
At the door Gertrude halted and turned to the still figure at the book case.
“Madame Caron, you––you were talking to him,” she said, appealingly, “you did not suspect, either?”
“I did not suspect,” answered Judithe, quietly, and then they went out, leaving her alone, staring after them and then at the chair, where but a few minutes ago he had been seated, full of a life as vindictive as her own, if not so strong; 369 and now––had she murdered him? She glanced at the mirror back of the writing desk, and saw that she was white and strange looking; she rubbed her hands together because they were so suddenly cold. She heard some one halt at the door, and she turned again to the book-case lest whoever entered should be shocked at her face.
It was Evilena who peered in wistfully in search of some one not oppressed by woe.