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Updated: May 23, 2025
A low, hushed murmur ran through the church at sight of the silver-shining figure of the bride. How handsome, how stately, how perfectly self-possessed and calm. Truly, if beauty and high-bred repose of manner be any palliation of low birth and obscurity, this American young lady had it. An instant passes she is kneeling by Sir Victor Catheron's side.
She stood, the paper still clutched in her hand, her cheeks redder than the crimson velvet carpet. His astonished eyes fell upon it he who ran might read the Chesholm Courier in big, black letters, and in staring capitals, the "TRADGEDY OF CATHERON ROYALS." The smile faded from Sir Victor Catheron's lips, the faint color, walking in the chill wind had brought, died out of his face.
Right and wrong were all confounded in her warped mind; only this was clear she loved Charley as she had never loved him before she became Sir Victor Catheron's bride. He scorned and despised her; she would never look upon his face again it did not matter; she would go to her grave loving him, his pictured face over her heart, his name the last upon her lips.
The dagger shown, would inflict the wound that caused Lady Catheron's death. In his opinion, but one blow had been struck and had penetrated the heart. Death must have been instantaneous. A strong, sure hand must have struck the blow. The policeman who had found the dagger was called, and testified as to its discovery among the brake, on the evening succeeding the murder.
"We were all very sorry to hear of Sir Victor Catheron's death," Charley resumes gravely. "Hammond told us; he writes occasionally. Heart disease, wasn't it? poor fellow! I hope Lady Helena Powyss is quite well?" "She is quite well."
The gas was lit, and the dressing-bell ringing, before the last coat-tail disappeared. As the young ladies, yawning drearily in each other's faces, turned to go up to their rooms, a servant entered, bearing two pasteboard boxes. "With Sir Victor Catheron's compliments, Miss Beatrix, and brought by his man." Each box was labelled with the owner's name. Trix opened hers with eager fingers.
"You will never utter another beneath this roof. To-morrow you leave it! I am Sir Victor Catheron's wife, the mistress of Catheron Royals, and this is the last night it shall ever shelter you. Go!" She threw open the nursery door. "When my husband returns either you or I leave this house forever!" The nurse was absolutely forgotten.
Miss Catheron's short, scornful upper lip, curled with the old look of contempt. "The Catheron brain was never noted for its strength. I shall not be surprised at all. Poor wretch!" She turned away and looked out into the darkness. "It does seem hard on him." "Who can have done it?" The question on every lip rose to Lady Helena's, but somehow she could not utter it.
Two policemen are sent quietly in search of it through the grounds. It isn't likely they'll find it, still it will do no harm to try. He finds out which are Miss Catheron's rooms, and keeps his official eye upon them. He goes through the house with the velvet tread of a cat.
"A decent, intelligent young woman," said the Chesholm Courier, "who gave her evidence in a clear, straightforward way that carried conviction to every hearer." "I am Jane Pool. I am nurse to Sir Victor Catheron's infant son. Early in August I entered the service of the deceased Lady Catheron in London; the first week of September I accompanied them down here.
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