At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Brooke, on the point of entering the room, paused suddenly as her eyes took in the scene before her. "Gerald!" she exclaimed in a frightened voice, and then her gaze travelled from her husband to Karovsky. The latter, with his eyes still resting on the bowed figure at the table, pronounced in low clear accents the one word, "Remember!" Then he bowed low to Mrs. Brooke, and next moment was gone.
[CHAPTER V.]
Ten weeks, had come and gone since the memorable visit of M. Karovsky to the master of Beechley Towers. It was a pleasant evening towards the end of June. There had been a heavy shower a little while ago; but since then the clouds had broken, and the sun was now drawing westward in a blaze of glory. In the same pleasant morning-room in which we first made their acquaintance, Mrs. Brooke and her aunt, Miss Primby, were now sitting. The latter was dozing in an easy-chair with a novel on her lap, the former was seated at the piano playing some plaintive air in a minor key. The glad light, the light of a happiness that knew no cloud, which shone from her eyes when we saw her first, dwelt there no longer. She looked pale, anxious, and distraits, like one who is a prey to some hidden trouble. She had spoken no more than the truth when she said that her happiness was too perfect to last.
As the last sad note died away under her fingers she turned from the instrument. "I cannot play--I cannot work--I cannot do anything," she murmured under her breath.
At this juncture Miss Primby awoke. "My dear Clara, what a pity you did not keep on playing," she said. "I was in the midst of a most lovely dream. I thought I was about to be married; my wreath and veil had been sent home, and I was just about to try them on; when you stopped playing and I awoke."
"If I were to go on playing, aunt, do you think that you could finish your dream?"
"No, my dear, it's gone, and the chances are that it will never return," said the spinster with a sigh.
Clara crossed the room, and sat down on a low chair near the window, whence she could catch the first glimpse of her husband as he came round the clump of evergreens at the corner of the terrace.
"I wish you would not mope so much, and would try not to look quite so miserable," said her aunt presently.
"How can I help feeling miserable, when I know that Gerald has some unhappy secret on his mind, of which he tells me nothing. He has been a changed man ever since the visit of M. Karovsky. He cannot eat, he cannot rest; night and day he wanders about the house and grounds, like a man walking in his sleep."