sured him that the game in Mrs. Wade’s case was very nearly ended, and that death was certainly about to checkmate vital force? Yes, he would let them proceed. But, as the carriage rolled away, the barrister looked after it somewhat uneasily.
Was Mr. Horton at home?
He was. The neat-handed Phillis took the barrister’s card from his hand, and ushered him upstairs. The house was one of those quiet and unpretending but excellently built and comfortably warm houses common forty years ago. It was not half so elegant as a much smaller house would be now. There were no fern cases at the staircase window, nor flowers in the vases of the rooms; yet everywhere cleanliness and neatness, order and arrangement, were visible enough.
The drawing-room, on the first floor front, was furnished plainly; and the furniture was carefully covered up—even to the tassels of the bell-ropes—with brown holland. A huge square sofa, a round centre table, two armchairs, and about half a dozen others, furnished the room. In one corner was a glass case full of gay butterflies, arranged in the shape of a great star, brilliant with spread wings of dazzling colours; in the i opposite one, a pendant was found in another case full of British birds. Over the mantelshelf, a handsome square glass—a Vauxhall looking-glass, with bevelled edges —reflected some ormolu candlesticks with diamond-cut lustre-drops, and two Chelsea china figures of a shepherd and shepherdess, leaning against white china trees, the foliage of which was formed of coloured flowers stuck against the branches. On the wall opposite the fireplace and the Vauxhall glass, in its plainly moulded gilt frame, innocent of elaborate carving, hung two large water colours, from the sombre but excellent pencil of old Nicholson—a waterfall being one, and a woodland scene the other; between them, a convex mirror, and a deep gold frame with an eagle in gold perched on the top, reflected the form of the barrister, as he stood with his back to the fire warming himself—for the October evening was chilly—and awaiting Mr. Horton. His busy mind, although it might have pleaded other occupation, took in all these details, and remembered them, as if they were important.
Mr. Horton came at once, and had some talk with the barrister—who, to his surprise, found that the magistrate was by no means unwilling to believe in Lord Wimpole’s innocence. But he was anxious to get away, and he assented to all Mr. Horton surmised, merely gathering from him the result of his inquiries. He had promised to call there, and he performed his promise methodically; but even while the magistrate was talking, and he was listening, looking at the case of butterflies with an absorbed interest, his heart was in the sick room with Mrs. Wade. With a few complimentary words he arose and left, and walked hurriedly round to Queen Anne-street.
The carriage was not before the door. The coachman, with the tender care of his animals usual to him, was quietly walking the steeds up and down, to prevent them chilling in the cold evening air. Edgar Wade had some hope that his too intrusive visitors had left; but it was soon dissipated.
He let himself in by his key, and walked upstairs softly. He had a quiet, careful step, which he seemed to have cultivated.
When he reached the landing outside the door of the invalid, he waited for a time and listened. His ears were preternaturally acute. He noted a pause, as if the conversation had been interrupted—a soft rustling, and the undertones of the doctor, and— heavens!—the voice of Mrs. Wade.
Softly turning the handle of the door, he entered softly—so softly, that no one of those so intently listening to the sad shrift of the speaker heard him.
But the invalid, finely strung, felt his presence, although her eyes were unopened.
Her whole frame shuddered, and seemed dilated with an angry agony. She rose forward, and concluded what she was saying— which had been some guarded statements of a proposition made by her son—and said—
“He is here. I feel his presence. He is my bane, my punishment. He is a Murderer!"
- s2 ##
